Month: August 2017

*Scene 01* 9:35 (Laura and Christie)

Laura and Christie rode side by side over the hill and down into the valley beyond.

Laura had been quiet for the first half-hour of the ride.

“I guess you think I’m being a selfish coward about this,” she spoke low, looking at the road ahead, “Leaving you and all the others and abandoning whatever is going on here.  Just a big baby, or something.”

Christie smiled and turned slightly to her, “Laura, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let me tell you something, Laura.  You can ask me what I think and give me a chance to answer, or you can go on thinking you can guess what someone else is thinking.  But you know what I’ve found out?”

“What is that?”

“You will get a whole lot farther by asking, rather than assuming.  And you might find out that most people are not thinking as many negative thoughts as you might assume they are.  It is okay to be direct.  I didn’t come with you because I thought you needed mothering.”

“No?”

“Not at all.”

“Then why did you come?”

“Because I knew you need someone to just be your friend.”

Laura was silent for several minutes after.  Christie could not see her face, but she suspected the girl was trying to keep the tears from showing.

Finally, she spoke up.

“I don’t have many friends.”

“You seem to be a fairly attractive girl.  What about boyfriends?”

“Well, not really.  Boys are kinda…  You know.  Goofy, immature, full of themselves and interested in…well, that.”

Christie snorted, “Yep.  They are.”

“I just don’t think there is all that much in their head.  They just want girls to be all into them, and I just can’t find myself doing that. I’m not sure how to say this, but I sorta need to find out if I am enough without one.”

“What about your girlfriends?  Is there anyone you can talk to?  Trust or rely on back there?”

“I’m not…,” she sighed, “well, y’know, popular or anything.  Girls can be mean, too.”

“Yes, they can.”

“Besides, I don’t want to end up like my mom.  My dad was her crush in high school.  She had no other life but him, and he treated her like dirt.  But she was pretty once, and it must’ve fed his ego, cause he married her and they went to parties and had this supposedly fabulous social life until she got pregnant with me.  I was their killjoy.  Momma blamed me for dad losing interest in her.  But I didn’t ask to be born.  Wish I hadn’t been.  Dad started coming home late.  Usually drunk.  I think he hated me for being there.  If that was gonna be my future, I wanted no part of it.  I just wanted to grow up and get out of there as fast as I could.”

“Wow,” Christie said, “That is so sad.  I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be.  It’s not your problem.  I guess it is just my rotten luck.  Didn’t mean to dump it on you.  I just thought if you knew, you might realize that I am not going back because I like it better there.  It is just that I’ve got to work it out for myself.  I am not a baby.  I’ve been through enough hard stuff.  I’m learning the rules there, and I don’t know what the rules are here.”

“None of us really do, Laura.  Sometimes we just go along trying to figure them all out by ourselves.”

Laura was silent once more.  Somehow that resigned admission left her feeling all alone again.  Still she was grateful for the company.

“So what about you?” Laura asked, “What is your life like back in the…you know…Surface World?”

The two women had descended into the interceding valley, passing the hill that hid the old bungalow where they had sheltered two days prior.

“Oh.  I am a mom.  Have two kids.  Both of them grown now.  Boy and girl.  Well, I should say a young man and young lady, but it kinda feels like missing time saying that.  They grew up so fast.  Too soon.”

“What about their dad?”

“Uh.  He’s…” Christie sighed, “Kinda out of the picture.  Not a subject I prefer to dwell on.”

“Sorry,” Laura shrugged.

“Don’t be.  It’s kinda like you said.  Not your problem.”

The road twisted downward into a declivity, which had a footpath running alongside a shallow brook which fed into a larger stream.

“Hey, wanna check on that man that we saw the other night?  See if he’s okay?”

Christie slowed her trotting horse and turned it toward the trampled path.

Laura hesitated, “You don’t think we might run into another troll or anything do you?”

“We’ll be quick.  Just in and out.”

The wind through the valley began to pick up, rustling leaves, sighing through the tall grasses along the banks of the stream.

The overcast sky began to darken with the threat of rain.

“It’s getting cold out here.  I wonder if he’ll have the fire going.”

As they rode down further, the purling water of the stream began to shear off into spray as the strengthening gusts blew across its surface.  By the time they reached the wild, untended garden, they knew that this place was not the same as when they had left it.

Both of the women dismounted and led their horses cautiously up to the weathered front of the cabin.  Dried vines covered its face, and hid the doorway under the mass and tangle.

Laura wrapped herself with her free arm and stood close to the mare, “How did he get in there?”  She gripped the reins tighter, ready to swing back up into the saddle.

“I don’t know. There must be some other way in. Let’s go around to the window.”

Christie walked through the tall grass, rounding the corner of the hovel.  Laura waited out front.

“What can you see?”

Christie answered from the side, “Not much.  The panes are so dusty and there is no fire inside like we saw the other night. I still don’t see how the man got in there and out unless there is another passage under the hill.”

“He probably wants to be left alone.  I think we should go.”

Christie came back around from the curved corner of the cabin, and her horse snorted uneasily, waving it and angling.

“Woah, girl. Easy there.”

“Think she smells something?”

“Not sure.  I think she’s nervous about the change in the weather.  Those clouds are stacking up,” Christie nodded towards the eastern horizon, “A storm’s coming.”

Large building swells of bluish-white and grey mounted up over the brow of the hill that led down to the beach.

“What will we do?” nervousness threaded Laura’s voice and lifted its pitch.

“We’ve got to take cover until it blows over.  The hill there will block some of it if it’s a seaborne storm.  Looks like we don’t have much choice.  We either turn back and try to outrun it and go back to the others at the Inn, or we hunker down here.”

Thunder crackled and the darkened hillside lit up under the strobing flash of lightning. The lines of light etched and splintered through the building cloudbank.

“I am scared.”

“Me too, honey,” Christie responded, watching the sky pensively.

“Me too,” she said again, quieter and more to herself than to Laura.

*Scene 02* 8:41 (Shadowing the Women)

Two observers scanned the rise leading down to the village of Crowe.  They had ridden around the outskirts of the town up from the wheat field bearing the sunken scar and had spotted the two women riding down the road toward the eastern sea.

A large, powerfully-built man, had watched them carefully, wondering what could have given these two women the fearless daring to travel alone in country claimed and patrolled by the brutal Xarmnian Overwatch.  To his left, a masked figure, with a much smaller frame, armed with a longbow, sat astride a dark horse with shoulders back, spine straight, signifying the confidence and the proud-bearing of one in leadership.  Though the masked figure did not exude the latent brute strength of the former, its qualities of poise and inner strength seemed to be an attribute to which the more powerful man gave deference.

“What do you think?” the man asked quietly.

“Something is up.  Women do not travel uncovered in Xarmnian claimed country alone, so these two must be strangers here,” the masked figure spoke and the timbre of the voice behind the covering was female.  “How well I know,” she added thoughtfully, fingering the cloth mask that covered her own face.  “And we are already spread thin as it is.”

Her head tilted, pondering, and then, at last, she raised it, squaring her shoulders back, signifying that she had reached a decision.

“Stay out of sight, but follow them.  See where they go.  I have instructed Garrett and the others meet us at the armory.  The family are a safe distance away by now, but the Overwatch is too close.  They will be expecting to meet with the tracker teams they lost to the digging monster.  When they don’t show, they will search for them, and spread out.  Possibly torture the people in the nearby towns for answers they cannot provide.  This area is about to be lit up.  And if those two are caught unawares…”

There was nothing more to be said.  Both could soberly imagine the brutality that the Xarmnians were capable of from the confirmed atrocities already done.

“Where will you go?” the man asked.

“If Begglar, Nell and Dominic have not left by now, this is the time to do so.  I promised Corimanth.”

“What concerns you and he with the affairs of that Inn keeper?”

The masked woman, known only in open country by her title ‘Storm Hawk’, regarded him a moment, and then answered quietly, “Nell is Corimanth’s sister.  He has charged me to look out for them.  Begglar and I once rode together when I first came, but he did not go then by the name he bears today.”

“Why then do you work through agents to receive reports of them. Why not visit them directly?”

“It is too dangerous for us to be seen together.  Xarmni has a long memory.  We have worked at arm’s link only, through Shimri as the local town contact for the Underground.  Begglar’s situation does not fit with the man they expect him to be, so he blends in under their noses.  Their Xarmnian arrogance makes them blind, and it is fitting that it works to our advantage.”

“Were you two once…?”

“No,” she interrupted, “It was never like that. Nothing like that.”

She cleared her thoat, stiffening in mild irritation, then continued.

“I will join the other Lehi in gathering Begglar’s horses. If what Shimri says is true, members of my world may have already arrived in the Mid-World, and they will not be made welcome.  Every seven years since they learned of our arrival they have watched the coastline.  But they cannot spare enough to watch it all.  And they fear the fogs.”

“So I am to follow these women?  For how long?”

The figure scanned the darkening sky.  “Just long enough to get a sense of why they may be headed towards the sea.  There is a sea storm gathering to the east.  If you cannot stay ahead of it, turn back.  Do not follow them into it.  I have a feeling if we saw them, there may be others interested in their naïve journey as well. I do not wear this mask for comfort you know.”

The man chuckled, “And it is a pity too.  You are quite fetching, young lady.”

“And it is best that you cannot see my response to that rather forward observation! I am a married woman, you know.  Happily so.”

“Then why have you not returned to the Surface World?  To him?”

“That is another story which I am still piecing together.  If I had had my choice, I would have left here years before.  But one must be in the moments in which they find themselves.  To do the good they can while there still is light enough to do it.”

The man pondered those words and nodded, “I am sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

“It is forgiven,” Stork Hawk returned, “Have you tracked those Harpies?”

“Two disappeared into the tree line on the crest near Begglar’s Inn.  I suspect they are observing them, but one cannot be too careful.  It is hard to know where their loyalties lay.  Some have been seen consorting with Xarmni, but that could be mere rumor.  The monster in the deep woods to the north keeps a tight rein upon his kind.  They have always despised humankind and kept to the wilds.”

“A truth I learned a hard lesson from…and still bear those scars.  These are not the kinds from my old life.  This avian mix of bird and man is unnatural. Perhaps these blendings only occur here in the Mid-World, but there were engineered chimeras in the labs of The Surface World.  Abominable experiments done.  If they could but see these tormented and violent creatures…crazed by their disordered minds which do not follow instinctive natural patterns or behaviors…” Storm Hawk trailed off, realizing again her projection of her own assumptions were clouding her judgement.  She returned with, “I suspect the vestiges of human vices that remain in them do not sit well with blend of the instinctive animal.”

“These beings have been present here from of old.  They are not newly come from your world,” the man observed, watching the storm clouds gather ahead.

“As I told you, time here and time there are not necessarily linked.  The Walker and I had long talks about that.  It is why I am free to do here what needs to be done with you and the others.  My husband will experience no time lost, while I am present here. I expect to be able to go back to him in the moment I departed. If these women are from where I suspect they came from, I think they are going back to an Oculus.  It would be good to know where it landed.  I miss my husband and something or someone else, that I cannot quite bring to mind.  The fog walls took it from me.”

“I will do what needs to be done. Don’t let it trouble you further,” the man gripped the reins of his mount, about to urge the horse into duty, but he paused, and looked back at Storm Hawk. “We will miss you, my lady.  The Lehi riders were your idea.  It has been an honor serving with you.”

“Meet us in Azragoth in three days. Go, quickly.  Stay safe.”

*Scene 03* 6:11 (The Testing Place)

The horses pulling the wagon champ their bits and hesitate, stepping from side to side, as Begglar urges them forward with a flick of the tracers.  The beasts smell the lingering touch of death and decay.  They are wary and restless.  Their eyes roll in uneasiness.  At last, the horses stop, unwilling to go any further.

The large hill is festooned with broken rock, scree. The area is littered with bone fragments, white ashes and a dark, rich and blackened soil beneath, yet green patches of grass peek through and then climb the steep hill to its crest.  The thick thorn bushes surrounding the bottom of the rise are new to me.  I never remembered them being there before.  The hill is aerated by the pecks and stabs of the beaks of the birds.  Fertilized by them, and seeded as well.  A spray of white flowers covers its domed brow, here and there.  Most likely edelweiss.  I vaguely remember coming here in the days before, but this…

“Surely, this is not the same place?”

Begglar gestured towards the thick brush at the bottom.

“The briar bushes were brought in to discourage travelers from approaching the hill. There is one way through them, but it is narrow, and we must go up single file.  A veritable crown of thorns, it is. It’s been hard keeping the local flocks of sheep away from it. If a lamb gets tangled up in those thickets, a shepherd is going to bloody himself, getting it out of there.”

Nothing in my memory could have prepared me for this stark change.  I sit there transfixed and amazed, horrified and bewildered, yet strangely feeling a certain inexplicable solemn sort of sobered peace.

Begglar dismounts the buckboard, and he and his son help their wife and mother down to the rocky ground.  He turns to me and says, “Are ya comin’ or no?”

In a strange sort of dazed feeling, I find myself on the ground standing next to him, not sure exactly when I rose or remembering climbing down from the wagon once again.

Everyone there could sense it.  Terrible deeds had been done at this site.  This abattoir of martyrdom should have been attenuated with melancholy and despair.  Instead, it stirred a sense of awe and tragic wonder in me.  Beckoning my soul to feel something that the surviving people of these lands had lost.

Hope.

Nell and their son, Dominic led the way through the thorny path, winding this way and that taking care to keep us from the long, wicked thorns that clawed and waved angrily at us along the path.  We were led up to a gathering of rocks and pebbles near the sharp incline of the largest hill.  Dominic began to remove large covering slate stones and dig through the pile of rocks and several of the others baled in to assist.

Something within, me felt like Abraham must have ascending Mount Moriah, on his way to take the life of his son in sacrifice to the One who called him ‘Friend’.  This was a place of testing.  A place where others’ faith had been seen or shattered.  A place that would reveal to me and those I was called to lead what sort of man I really was.

And I was terrified.

Begglar stood to my left, and just out of my eye line.  When he spoke quietly to me, I was slightly startled.

“How well, do you trust these friends of yours?”

I cleared my throat. “I don’t know them yet,” I answered. “I haven’t pressed them to give me their names or asked much about them.  So far, I’ve just had to trust that they were called to be here for a reason. I’m just trusting in that.”

Begglar raised an eyebrow and cocked his head at me.

“Aye,” he said nodding slightly, “and how well do they know you?  Have you told them yet?”

I cleared my throat again, this time to cover my annoyance at the general drift of his line of questioning.

As I started to walk down to the others I answered his question…kind of.

“All will be made clear to them soon.  First things first.  We need to see The Marker.”

This was my fear.  I could not ask them who they were, without allowing them to ask me who or what I was.  But deep down, I knew I had no other choice. This place would test me before them, just as it had those martyred here under the cruel hand of the Xarmnians.

*Scene 04* 7:05 (Shimri’s Reflections)

Shimri, a short man of about sixty seasons, stood contemplating the pinkish hue blushing upon the distant hill road that led up to Begglar’s Inn.  His home had served as a temporary shelter for the family Begglar had brought to him through the fog, three nights prior.  The place was obscured by trees from the main road, but its evening lights could still be glimpsed through the darkness from the upper corner window of Begglar’s Inn.  Signal lights, that Begglar and he had worked out together to alert each other in dire times such as these.

The moonpath he and Begglar and young Dominic had constructed together, between their two houses had taken several years to put in place, going to and fro back from the shores of the eastern sea.  The man had been a veritable wealth of sea lore and knowledge.  A vital resource for allowing the resistence to continue as it had and thrive despite the late increase in Xarmni’s militant presence.  Xarmnian ire and its more directed efforts of breaking the back of resistence had been focused primarily on the shorelines of the great fjords lake chain country near Cascale, but as setbacks increased they detected more pockets of resistence shifting more towards the eastern highlands.

Perhaps, it had been too foolish to have Storm Hawk and her raiders operating with increasing frequency so far from the western lands.  Xarmni had noticed the shift, and had become interested in its direction and proximity to the buried Stone they hated so much.

“Out of the east will come your Champion.  Out of the east, your Soverign King.” A statement of promise that he and the others in The Resistence had once used in secret greeting among there own, to comfort each other, as the seeds of war began to rise from the grounds of the Mid-World.

A verse from the inscriptions on the Ancient Stone rose again to Shimri’s mind that he had contemplated with curiosity of late.

“But tidings out of the east and out of the north shall trouble him: therefore he shall go forth with great fury to destroy, and utterly to make away many.” [Daniel 11:44 KJV]

Xarmni would come again.  And their considerations of the shift in resistance activities might lead their minds to reflect on their most miserable defeat in the buried town of death and disease, the merchant city of Azragoth, just over twenty years ago, which they had mischaracterized as a decisive victory.  Though their losses were great and severe, and their forces fled the battlefield in terror of contagion, it was almost laughable how they twisted historical accounts to make themselves the victor in every outcome.

Still, he was saddened to hear that Begglar and Nell were finally leaving.  The Inn had been a fixture of the town of Crowe and had always been a place of welcome from before Xarmni had extended its reach.  From the early days when Begglar opened his bakery and strategically placed it at the top of the hill, everyone in the small town below awakened to the heavenly smell of freshly baked bread wafting down the hill from Begglar’s ovens.  Travelers coming from the southern road were willing to make the effort to walk through town and up the hill to the top, just to sample the wares from Begglar’s bakery.  The Inn had originally built as a dining hall, but was expanded to offer ten rooms to traveling lodgers, in addition to the main living quarters and the stables and barns needed to service the Inn and its supporting stock.  The bakery merely shifted to the large kitchen servicing the Inn.

Now no aromatic scents decended from the hillside.  No sounds of scurrying chickens, no mooing of their cows impatiently awaiting their milking time, no nickering or exuberant whinnying of their horses waiting to be unstabled and released to a pasture run.  No glimmer of the sun’s rays peeked over the upper brow of the hillside shedding light upon the gray morning.  Only the rise of the stacking clouds, slightly illumined and reddened by the veiled sun buried in the sky behind it gave a semblance of what the day might bring.

“Red sky in the morning…sailor take warning,” Shimri muttered as he looked to the vacated hill where his longtime friend once lived.

A compatriot took him out of his dire contemplation of the ominous scene, and asked him again. “What do we do with this Xarmnian?”

“Has Mikai been taken back to his mom?”

“Yes. The Storm Hawk and her riders saw to that personally.  They informed his widow, Dora, and left provisions for her and the boy.”

“Did you extend our offer to take them to Azragoth?  We could still get word to Garrett and the other Lehi.”

“Dora said their leaving suddenly might draw further suspicion.  When the Xarmnian hunters come, she could not bear the thought of not being there to stand with her friends and family.  She and Mikai want to stay and do anything they can to help us.  She said they need to do this.  To be able to do something to see to it that Xarmnian evil does not easily visit violence on other families as well.”

“I wish there more people were of her mindset.  You’ve done well, Johanan.”

“What about the Xarmnian? He is beligerent. We have had to keep three men to watch him. He cannot be trusted.”

“You are correct. Confine him in the shed with the troll we caught yesterday.”

“They’ll kill each other.”

“If they do, that is one less miscreant that we have to watch over. Either way, I expect the one that survives will be more inclined to cooperate afterwards.”

*Scene 05* 8:39 (Entering the Abattoir)

Buried under the skirting pile of stones was a clever sort of levered locking mechanism that released a hidden counter-weight and caused one of the larger rocks at the base of the hill to pivot outward, revealing a slight declining tunnel behind it.  The tunnel angled down slightly and then leveled off, revealing a rocky entrance to the passages under the hillside.

The passage was dark, low and narrow, a gaping maw that threatened to swallow completely all who dared enter.

My mind briefly drifted to the words of Dante Alighieri, in Inferno, Canto III, and the inscription over the entrance to “The Gate of Hell”:

“Through me, you go to the grief wracked city; Through me, you go to everlasting pain; Through me, you go a pass among lost souls. Justice inspired my exalted Creator: I am a creature of the Holiest Power, of Wisdom in the Highest and of Primal Love. Nothing, till I was made, was made, only eternal beings. And I endure eternally. Abandon all Hope — Ye Who Enter Here“

The crowd gathered around the open passage.

“You want us to go in there?” one of the young men asked.

“It seems to be the only way to get to The Marker Stone,” I answered, “We all need to go in.”

“All of us?!” a young girl with dark hair looked at me with wide eyes.

“Yes, we…”

“I’m not. I can’t. I won’t!” the young girl balked, backing away from the dark entrance.

The tall blonde woman, who had been identified to me as Cheryl, came to the girl’s aid and turned an accusatory glare at me.

“Surely, you are not going to make the young ones go into that death hole, are you?  What kind of a man are you, frightening children like this?”

Others had begun to gather around us and it appeared that the situation was rapidly getting out of hand.

Miray had scrambled down from the buckboard and pushed through the gathering.

“Well, I’m going in there, Mr. Brian!” she said coming to my side and taking my hand. “I’m not a baby!”

The dark-haired girl seethed and was about to lunge at Miray, but Nell intervened before she could advance.

“Perhaps, I should keep the young ones out here, Mister…,” he eyes shifted questioningly to her husband and Begglar supplied.

“O’Brian.  Mister O’Brian,” he said, with the slightest hint of a green glimmer in his dancing eyes, barely masking his mirth in doing so.

I gave him a withering glare, but his Blarney guard was already up and beaming at me.

Seeing no help from Begglar, I raised my hands placatingly, “Look, I had no idea it had been buried. When I was here last, we could walk up to it…”

“Aye,” Begglar interjected, “Tis of a truth, he speaks.  But O’Brian’s been a bit tardy in his return, so the Xarmnians fetched us to hide their embarrassment.”

I glared openly at his, and he feigned innocence, and then winked at me.

Irish blarney, indeed.

“But ye no be worryin’ yer little bonnet, lassie!  She’s as safe as a mother’s bosom.”

Nell raised an eyebrow at that, and Begglar blushed, rubbing his hand over his forehead, “Beggin’ your pardon, Sweet Lamb.”

“I’ll keep the girls out here with me.  Dom will guide you all with the light, until it is not needed.  Run along now.”

Cheryl, glanced from Nell to the dark-haired girl and said, “Perhaps, I’d better…”

Nell interrupted her, “Perhaps you’d better follow, lass.  There is a bit of importance to why you’re here in there.  T’would be a shame if you missed out, because of the bairns.  Go along now.”

Miray tugged at me, “But I don’t want to stay out here.  Becca’s going to get me.”

“I’ll see to it that they behave themselves,” Nell assured me.  “I’ve parted my share of roughhousing brawlers in my time, O’Brian.  Mind you that.  We run an Inn with rough customers.  Be fine.”

Miray looked from me to Nell and then back at me for assurances.  I nodded consent to Nell, and Miray’s brow creased in disappointment, but she conceded.  Becca eyed Miray as she climbed back up into the bed of the wagon, and then her defiant stare fixed on me as she raised her chin in an air of contempt.  Miray peeked over the side rail panel of the wagon and stuck her tongue out at Becca, but ducked down behind it when the girl wheeled sensing my gaze shift toward Miray, as I tried to hide a small grin.

In the meantime, a torch was lit and Begglar’s son, Dominic held it forth, leading us through the small narrow aperture into the very heart of an abyss.

Many hesitate at the doorway.  Looking to me for some sort of assurances, but I can give them none.  This walk into the heart of the hill requires courage that I barely have, at most, a tenuous grasp on.  There is a small ante-chamber inside.  Its walls formed of an assemblage of rock fitted together, yet uncut and unmortared.  The compression and weight of the rock and earthen mound above held it in place.  Every once in awhile, we saw through the rock the more grisly mortise pieces of crushed skulls and bones joining the earthen worked hill, but the air was dry within and had the musty smell of lime about it.  The torchlight flickers but continued to burn, casting jumping shadows with every step and movement into the recesses of the hill.  Great stone monoliths leaned and supported and distributed the crushing weight above, forming a sort of triangular ceiling in some parts of the tunnel and a domed barrel vault in others.  The passages were cramped and angular, working a sort of zig-zag pattern further into the interior.

Feeling a bit anxious and claustrophobic, I pressed pass Dominic, feeling a sort of disoriented panic to find the way to the center quickly so that we could hasten our exit back out.  And then I saw it…

Just up ahead.  I had progressed beyond the torches, my eyes not fully acclimated to the dark, but still I could see it distinctly.

Beyond me, about twenty feet or so, the passage took a hard turn to the right, and the interior was glowing of its own light.

I did not realize I had stopped until the others pushed behind me into the narrow passage.  I glanced at Dominic, and he smiled knowingly, glad at last to share the mystery his family must have had to keep secret for many years now.

We proceeded cautiously forward, yet in awe of this strange illumination, fearful, yet desirous to see the source of it.  Begglar crowed forward and together we entered the central main chamber.

Before us there stood over fifteen to twenty feet tall a large black stone with golden letters engraved and shining brightly upon its polished black surface.  The rest of our party entered and gathered about us in amazement gazing up at the ancient burning letters shining and illuminating the cavern around it.

*Scene 06* 1:56 (Xarmnian Hunters)

In the distance, six lightly-armored Xarmnian horsemen topped the hill of the highland mesa and found the winding road leading up to The Inn in the small village of Crowe.  They had tracked the family of four, two adults and two children up through the western pass, winding up through the woods just as the light snow started falling.  It had been of some annoyance to them that the tracks were being covered by the snowy blanket, but they were certain this fleeing family would not get too far ahead without seeking shelter.  The children were small and frail.  They wouldn’t last as the temperatures dropped and the wet and cold seeped into their ragged clothing.  If these were fool-hardy enough to go much farther, they might be overtaken before the snow-filled in their evidence of passage.

The little troublesome scribbler would never make trouble again.  And his children, if they survived, would be given the curative Elixir that their father refused to write favorably of.

They were perplexed when the advanced company of trackers did not return to their gathering place, but be that as it may, they suspected where both the family and their compatriots might converge.  The Inn at the hilltop, overlooking the small township.  The man they had marked and given leave to oversees their stock and provide them service whenever they were in the vicinity.  He and his woman.  The woman they had decided should be watched.  There was something familiar about her.  A resistence that still gleamed in her eyes, whenever they had come to call.  That was why they had sent the Trolls.

Trolls which never reported back.

And they were coming to find out why.

*Scene 07* 14:30 (The Marker Stone)

In the illumined chamber of the Hill of Skulls the golden letters seemed to swim and dance before our eyes, moving in sparkling light that warmed and cooled us at the same time.

“This is what you all needed to see,” I muttered, but my words carried and seem to circulate around the chamber walls.

“What is this?” a tall man in our company asked.

“This is The Marker Stone.  It is the fulcrum of all that exists here.  The mystery of this land.  Both its spine and its heart.”

The letters continued to shift and curve, and pit and straighten, almost as if the text written were the pulse of the heart of the stone.

One of the members of our team, a middle-aged, Middle eastern man moved forward and his eyes widened,  “This text is in Pharsi.”

Another moved foward, and examined the moving letters and contradicted him, “No, this is an ancient language.  I see Greek letters.”

A woman shook her head vigorously, “Ahh, you loco gringos. The is espanol!”

I spoke up, “Actually, you all are correct. And anyone who speaks or reads any language in a native language will be able to read these words in their first language or any language that is intelligible to them.”

“How is this possible?” a young woman asked.

“To answer that, you need to know that this very stone is transcendent.  It occupies spaces both in this Mid-World, and in the world we came from, the world we all share in common: The Surface World.”

Reluctantly, all eyes turned towards me briefly, and then their gaze shifted back to the The Marker Stone.

“This Stone is a monument here, but also an oracle of legend and prophecy.  In our world, it appears in two instances recorded in the Ancient Text of our faith, the Holy Scriptures.  If you read closely you will find that most of the text that appears here on the stone are also passages from that very same source.  One particular passage is very telling indeed.  What you may not be able to see from here is the crown of the stone has seven faces on it, and at the top of each face is an eye.”

“That’s creepy,” a teen girl remarked.

“It is how I recognized this stone when reading about it in the Ancient Text,” I countered.

“What passage are you referring to?” the tall man asked.

“In the book of Zechariah the third chapter at verses eight and nine, The One calls Zechariah’s attention to a high priest whose name is Joshua, and tells him to pay close attention to the imagery and symbol he is about to show him.  It is a messianic prophecy of One who is to come who will be called The Branch.  The prophecy says this:

Hear now, Joshua the high priest, thou and thy fellows that sit before thee — for they are men of portent — for behold, I will bring forth my servant the Branch. For behold, the stone that I have laid before Joshua — upon one stone are seven eyes; behold, I will engrave the graving thereof, saith Jehovah of hosts, and I will remove the iniquity of this land in one day. [Zechariah 3:8-9 DBY]”

“So that was the stone with the seven eyes?” one asked.

“It is more than that.  Who is it that will be engraving upon the stone with the seven eyes?”

I heard several gasp. “You mean that…?”

“This Marker Stone is in many places at once.  It is not just here in this reality, but in every reality where a person have trusted in and given their heart to the message that they read upon the Stone.”

“Are you saying God Himself is writing these golden letters?” Cheryl asked.

“It is the only explanation that fits,” I replied.  “The letters are words written that transcend every tongue every spoken by mankind.  When the apostles preached God’s message to a mixed crowd of international travelers upon the day of Pentecost, every person heard the words in their native language.  When the book of John refers to The Word being made flesh, he was speaking of The Branch that is paired with this stone’s imagery in the book of Zechariah.  This Stone is the sources of all power here in the Mid-World, but it is both feared and reviled by many of the occupants of this land.  The crown and the virtue stones that hold this land’s future are connected with this Stone monolith and the power it represents.  The temporary kingdoms of this world fear this Stone.  But it is this Stone’s prophecy which will free it ultimately to become the land of healing it was intended to be.”

I then turned to the golden letters that, to my sight formed into the letters of my English alphabet.

“Here read the words of the Prophecy of The Marker:

“Do not fret because of evildoers, Be not envious toward wrongdoers. For they will wither quickly like the grass And fade like the green herb. Trust in the LORD and do good; Dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness. Delight yourself in the LORD; And He will give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the LORD, Trust also in Him, and He will do it. He will bring forth your righteousness as the light And your judgment as the noonday. Rest in the LORD and wait patiently for Him; Do not fret because of him who prospers in his way, Because of the man who carries out wicked schemes. Cease from anger and forsake wrath; Do not fret; it leads only to evildoing. For evildoers will be cut off, But those who wait for the LORD, they will inherit the land. Yet a little while and the wicked man will be no more; And you will look carefully for his place and he will not be there. But the humble will inherit the land And will delight themselves in abundant prosperity. The wicked plots against the righteous And gnashes at him with his teeth. The Lord laughs at him, For He sees his day is coming. The wicked have drawn the sword and bent their bow To cast down the afflicted and the needy, To slay those who are upright in conduct. Their sword will enter their own heart, And their bows will be broken. Better is the little of the righteous Than the abundance of many wicked. For the arms of the wicked will be broken, But the LORD sustains the righteous. The LORD knows the days of the blameless, And their inheritance will be forever. They will not be ashamed in the time of evil, And in the days of famine they will have abundance. But the wicked will perish; And the enemies of the LORD will be like the glory of the pastures, They vanish–like smoke they vanish away. The wicked borrows and does not pay back, But the righteous is gracious and gives. For those blessed by Him will inherit the land, But those cursed by Him will be cut off. The steps of a man are established by the LORD, And He delights in his way. When he falls, he will not be hurled headlong, Because the LORD is the One who holds his hand. I have been young and now I am old, Yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken Or his descendants begging bread. All day long he is gracious and lends, And his descendants are a blessing. Depart from evil and do good, So you will abide forever. For the LORD loves justice And does not forsake His godly ones; They are preserved forever, But the descendants of the wicked will be cut off. The righteous will inherit the land And dwell in it forever. The mouth of the righteous utters wisdom, And his tongue speaks justice. The law of his God is in his heart; His steps do not slip. The wicked spies upon the righteous And seeks to kill him. The LORD will not leave him in his hand Or let him be condemned when he is judged. Wait for the LORD and keep His way, And He will exalt you to inherit the land; When the wicked are cut off, you will see it. I have seen a wicked, violent man Spreading himself like a luxuriant tree in its native soil. Then he passed away, and lo, he was no more; I sought for him, but he could not be found. Mark the blameless man, and behold the upright; For the man of peace will have a posterity. But transgressors will be altogether destroyed; The posterity of the wicked will be cut off. But the salvation of the righteous is from the LORD; He is their strength in time of trouble. The LORD helps them and delivers them; He delivers them from the wicked and saves them, Because they take refuge in Him. [Psalm 37:1-40 NASB]

 If these truths be not upheld, your lands will be ravaged and its peoples suffer for a time, but you have been granted this day a remedy and a hope for the fulfillment of this future promise and prophesy.

“Behold, a king will reign righteously And princes will rule justly. Each will be like a refuge from the wind And a shelter from the storm, Like streams of water in a dry country, Like the shade of a huge rock in a parched land. Then the eyes of those who see will not be blinded, And the ears of those who hear will listen. The mind of the hasty will discern the truth, And the tongue of the stammerers will hasten to speak clearly. No longer will the fool be called noble, Or the rogue be spoken of as generous. For a fool speaks nonsense, And his heart inclines toward wickedness: To practice ungodliness and to speak error against the LORD, To keep the hungry person unsatisfied And to withhold drink from the thirsty. As for a rogue, his weapons are evil; He devises wicked schemes To destroy the afflicted with slander, Even though the needy one speaks what is right. But the noble man devises noble plans; And by noble plans he stands. Rise up, you women who are at ease, And hear my voice; Give ear to my word, You complacent daughters. Within a year and a few days You will be troubled, O complacent daughters; For the vintage is ended, And the fruit gathering will not come. Tremble, you women who are at ease; Be troubled, you complacent daughters; Strip, undress and put sackcloth on your waist, Beat your breasts for the pleasant fields, for the fruitful vine, For the land of my people in which thorns and briars shall come up; Yea, for all the joyful houses and for the jubilant city. Because the palace has been abandoned, the populated city forsaken. Hill and watch-tower have become caves forever, A delight for wild donkeys, a pasture for flocks; Until the Spirit is poured out upon us from on high, And the wilderness becomes a fertile field, And the fertile field is considered as a forest. Then justice will dwell in the wilderness And righteousness will abide in the fertile field. And the work of righteousness will be peace, And the service of righteousness, quietness and confidence forever. Then my people will live in a peaceful habitation, And in secure dwellings and in undisturbed resting places; And it will hail when the forest comes down, And the city will be utterly laid low. How blessed will you be, you who sow beside all waters, Who let out freely the ox and the donkey.”

[Isaiah 32:1-20 NASB]

Do not abandon Hope.  When the time is right, and Evil has had its season, the Truth of these words will be made manifest and will come to you to bring you Salvation from the wicked oppressors and powers unseen that rule and reign over these lands.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. For by it the men of old gained approval. [Hebrews 11:1-2 NASB]

Keep the Faith.  Though the darkness is deep, the morning is coming.

*Scene 08* 1:57 (Hindered)

Deep below the rising hill, in a burrowed chamber of pitch-blackness, the monstrous creature that had breached the worlds and had entered the Mid-World following the Surface Worlders, raged and thrashed in the darkness. Rocks and debris crackled and chinked as its massive body cut and scraped along the tunnel it had made. Its furious forward digging had come to an end. Its powerful ramming and thrusts, and iron-like claws had no effect on the rising curve of stone that now blocked its path. It had reached the accursed land horn.  The anchor that could neither be uprooted nor torn asunder.  It would have to surface and expose itself to the light.  And doing so would risk giving an awareness to the one it pursued.

Its tenuous hold upon the one called to lead, the one it pursued from between the world of the Surface and this Mid-World was growing weaker.  It sensed that the other who had barely slipped through its grasp on the beach was becoming more of a problem.

“The child,” its voice rumbled from below, each word accompanied by a flash of electric light arcing from within a pool of striated blue, lit up the darkness, silhouetting a massive horned-head bristling with silver spikes.

“You must hinder the child.”

Above, a quiet voice answered the distant beast rumbling its commands from below, “I know. I shall.”

The repondent whispered voice was aged and tremulous, characteristically that of an older woman.

*Scene 09* 5:46 (Being Read)

Standing in the hush of the Golden Letters we watched as the text splintered into personal messages to each of us.  It was then that, incredibly, I realized that we weren’t just reading the words that appeared upon the face of the Stone, but that the Stone itself was reading us and communicating to us.  It had been so long, I had forgotten.

My imagining of the words of Dante over the portal of Hell to “Abandon all Hope, Ye Who Enter Here” had been met with The Stone’s response “Do not abandon Hope”–followed by the Ancient Text’s reminder of what Faith is.  That message was personal to me. And clarifying.

I had thought that our role here was to be observers only.  To take note and measure the journey and the stories we encountered in our travels, to somehow find the virtue stone and complete the quest I had betrayed.  I had thought this journey required stealth and secrecy.  To raise no alarm as we kept to the shadows and stole back what was lost to the horned monster in the dark forest.

To avoid Xarmian entanglements.  To avoid the piracy and smuggling that had once been necessary to aid and assist those willing to resist the subversive kingdoms that were vying for the power and place that the Stone once held in the cultural center of this Mid-World.

But I was wrong.  Passivity may seem to be a safe course in a world filled with dangers, but it is not what we were called here for, and deep down I knew it.  Felt it.

Something was already alerted to our entry into The Mid-World.  Something deep and dark.  Angry and threatening.  It follows us, in every step we make forward, though it moves in large part unseen.

But with the encounter of the Troll, I knew that was not where it would end.  As vile and as cruel as that creature was, it failure to report back to whomever it served would bring others.

The Mid-World was a war zone.  And I knew that we may be forced into the fight to gain our passage through it.

Sometimes when it comes down to it, you must be willing to do whatever it costs to uphold the good. To preserve and protect and defend it even if it cost you the ultimate sacrifice to do it. The Ancient text says:

35 And He said to them, “When I sent you out without money belt and bag and sandals, you did not lack anything, did you?” They said, “No, nothing.” 36 And He said to them, “But now, whoever has a money belt is to take it along, likewise also a bag, and whoever has no sword is to sell his coat and buy one. 37 “For I tell you that this which is written must be fulfilled in Me, ‘AND HE WAS NUMBERED WITH TRANSGRESSORS’; for that which refers to Me has its fulfillment.” [Luke 22:35-37 NASB]

Some journeys require only simple provisions. And others may require a sword.

Beforehand we needed only simple provisions, but now it’s different.

The weight of that knowledge threatened to keep me silent, but that would be unfair.  I could feel the warmth of The Stone arising within me.  A taste of something sweet arose in my mouth, which I knew would be bitter in telling and consumption of it.

“We are going to need to learn to fight.  We will need more than just food and supplies.  We will need weapons and armor.”

I had spoken of this to Begglar, and as I glance toward him, he nodded in agreement.

“I had expected as much.  We have a hidden cache from collected over time from the armory and I think you’ll find all that we need.”  He then added, “The lassies took the only two traveling stock I have on hand besides these wagon horses.  We will need more horses, and the only supply in the area are from the soldier’s stables, but that place is heavily guarded.  I have made contacts with the Lehi riders working with the resistance.  They have agreed to cover for us if we move towards the stables and will fight for us to subdue the guards, but so far no overt action has ever been taken on that stockade or its paddocks.  If the Lehi move against it, Xarmni will learn of it.  They will know the resistance still has a presence here in the outerlands.”

“What are you saying?”

“So far, my family and I have only assisted you in your plans, which would merit us a severe reprimand, if found out.  But what we’re about to do, in Xarmnian minds rises to the level of treason for which there is but one penalty. Death for me and my family. If we do this, I need to know that you are committed to seeing this through.”

The others began to assure him of their sincerity, but Begglar shook his head. “I wasn’t talking to you folks. I was talking to him.”

And in case there was doubt in anyone’s mind, his finger was pointing straight at me.

*Scene 10* 2:30 (Conspirators)

Two figures lingered in the darkness, outside of the chamber ahead that housed The Marker Stone.

They refrained from moving towards the innermost chamber when they saw the golden light shining around the dark corner of the buried corridor.

Three days they had waited on the beachhead of the eastern sea. Three days while the Occulus had swirled hundreds of yards from the sea shore.  Light bending around its vertical ring. Sea foam rising from the swelling sea then spraying outward as the water eclipsed its ominous threshing wheel of turning.  Before the hired mercenary had delivered them to the site, they had not understood the danger of their mission, nor what these interloping Surface Worlders might be like.  Their job had only been to see and observe and report back to the factions within the underground network of The Resistance.  To blend in and act as one of them for as long as that might last.  Once their duty was done, their families would be taken to a safe place beyond Xarmnian reach.

It was agreed among the more cautious faction of the Resistance that “The Stone quests” were dangerous.  They offered Mid-Worlders only a fool’s hope, but exacted a dangerous toll.  Outsiders could not be trusted with the pursuit of legends, however mysterious the Ancient Stone might be.

“Tobias was afraid of this,” a male voice in the darkness said in a low whisper, “This Mister O’Brian will bring the Xarmnians down on our heads.”

“What are we to do?” a female voice responded.

“We cannot let them stir them up,” the male said, urgency rising in his tone, “If we see an opportunity to slow this group down, we take it.  It may be harsh, but what is a stake is far too dangerous to let these Surface Worlders meddle in it and them return to their own world and leave us with the consequences.”

“How will we know when the time is right?”

“We wait and go along.  There will be something. We just have to watch for it.”

*Scene 11* 16:15 (Storm Shelter)

“We’ve gotta take cover,” Christie said as the wind rose in strength, gusting down into the valley, whipping through the bulrushes growing wild along the nearby stream.

“What’ll we do with the horses?” Laura asked, trying to raise her voice over the hiss of the wind.

Christie gestured ahead, “Follow me.  I noticed a structure around the bend when we were leaving the other day.  This vine-covered cabin is just part of this homestead.  That old ruined garden had to have been plowed, rather than just hoe cut. These rural places almost always have at least one or two cows or goats. There’ll have to be a place for where they were kept.”

Laura and Christie gathered their reigns and led their antsy horses around the hill-cut cabin, past the grotto where they had camped a few days before into a cruck house structure built into the hill-recess.  The long, open-front enclosure appeared to be the crumbling remains of an old sod-bricked stable patched with waddle and daub plaster with a dusty manger and a series of open troughs and short stalls for feeding a small group of livestock.  It was clear the rudimentary stable had not housed a domesticated animal in many years.  The straw was dried and grey and crumbled under the feet of the horses as the two women led them into the stalls, but it was still dry in there and formed a crude windbreak from the storm gathering strength outside.

Old boards, with blackened patches of dry-rot, creaked and clattered with an irregular staccato as the wind whistled through the breaks and gaps in the plastered wall and woven thatch.  An old crossbeam cut from a dried log creaked and groaned as the atmosphere grew heavy and seemed to press down on the old arthritic skeleton of the structure.   The horses neighed and rumbled their displeasure, and the women rubbed them, trying to soothe them as best they could.

“Woah. Woah, easy girl,” they whispered.

“Give them something to eat. They’re scared. We’ve gotta keep ’em calm. Can’t have them running off in the storm. There should be something in the packs.”

Christie busied herself with getting the horses into the stalls turning them away from the flash of the storm outside and pulling the old gate slats through the stall-fence support beams to keep them secure.  The structure was old and if the horses spooked they were more than capable of getting out.

Begglar and Nell had provided the women with an oat bag for each of their horses and gave them a pouch of a kind of molasses and grain baked biscuits to reward them with a treat the horses were particularly fond of.

“I’m scared too,” Laura said, digging through the saddle bags, at last locating the wrapped horse biscuits.

Thunder rumbled and cracked in explosive concussions, punctuated with blinding flashes that paled all surfaces inside and outside the cruck house stable. The horses twitched, and their felt skin trembled, as the girls stroked their muzzles and hand fed them the hard biscuits, speaking soothing and soft words to them.  Somehow the action of calming the animals, helped calm them as well, in spite of the storm.

“How long do you think it’ll be before that storm passes?” Laura asked, trying not to raise her voice in such a way that would affect the horses.

Christie squinted out at the darkening sky and blowing bits of grass and straw as they whipped by carried by the gusts that shuddered the bones of the structure sheltering them and their animals.

“I don’t know, but that wind is moving pretty fast. I can smell the salt in the wet air, so I am sure this is coming from the sea beyond those hills. Whoever built this stable has neglected it a long time, but it was smart to build it in the brow of the hill. I don’t think it would have lasted this long, if it hadn’t been. Especially, if these kinds of storms are common.”

“What do you think happened to the man we saw the other night? The one in the cabin,” Laura clarified.

“I really don’t know. That cabin does not look like it has been lived in for an awfully long time. He could have been a squatter, sheltering for the night. O’Brian didn’t seem too concerned about him. In fact, he seemed to want to change the subject, every time one of us brought him up.”

“Do you think he knew him? Perhaps recognized him from sometime before?”

“Not sure. We really don’t know that much about Mr. O’Brian. There seems to be many things he’s keeping back from us. Perhaps he has his reasons. But I really don’t like it when men keep too many secrets.”

“Yeah,” Laura agreed, thoughtfully considering her personal experiences with men other than the mysterious and inscrutable, Mr. O’Brian.

The air had grown moist as drops of rain began to unpack themselves from the roiling dark clouds and plink and hiss as they fell. A mist arose from the distant river, creating a low-lying fog that spread along the ground and crawled up the riverbanks weaving its way into the tall grass. Fat drops of rain fell through the patchworked ceiling, spattering the women in their hair and running rivulets down their cheeks and neck as they tried to talk through the pelting hiss. Anything to take their mind off the raging storm.

Christie adjusted the horse’s bridle, removing the bit so the animal could eat.

“So tell me about what life is like for you, back…y’know.”

Laura sighed.

“Not much different than many others, I guess. Broken home, parents divorced. O’Brian didn’t tell you any of this?”

“Nope. And I didn’t ask. I figured if you wanted to tell me, you wouldn’t want my hearing it from others. Besides, didn’t we just say O’Brian was a secretive man?”

Laura laughed, “Yeah, I guess we did. I just wasn’t sure he was a man to keep my secrets.”

“Well, I guess we can’t fault him for doing that, can we?”

“No, I guess not.”

“I’m not pressing you to tell me anything, understand,” Christie said, “Just whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”

“Oh, I know,” Laura shrugged, “Guess there is not much else to do except wait out this storm.”

“Might as well.”

“Well, here goes, but remember, you asked for it.”

“That’s alright. Shoot, I’ve always been a good listener. You’ll see.”

“Well, my mom and dad, from what I heard, used to be socialites. Dad had been quite successful back in the days before I came along. Mom was the eye-candy. Shopping, fancy cocktail parties, social bee, y’know the type. Daddy had always been the stronger of my two-parent household. The dominant and ambitious one, gregarious to a fault, often funny, mostly a good-natured leader in the family, before the job loss, and long days following seemingly endless unemployment and the subsequent drinking changed him.

“I had often wondered what life would have been like if I had gone with my father that night he left us for “the floozy”. Before mom began to fall again into the final footsteps dad had taken the last leadership in. The path towards chemical dependency, the social drinking that became the hidden alcoholism, and ultimately the breakdown and utter devastation of our once traditionally-modeled family.

“Mom took longer at it, but she grew to resent and later despised me. I haven’t spoken to her in over a year.

“I think if I had gone with him that night, I wouldn’t be such a timid and fearful person as I am now. I might’ve even chosen to stay here with you guys, in spite of the troll.

She laughed hollowly.

“Daddy always said, ‘Life deals you blows, little-girl.‘ He always called me “little-girl” when he had what he thought of as fatherly wisdom to impart.

“‘Life’ll deal you blows, Little-girl. But you got to see ’em as opportunities to get what is yours. If it hits you. You hit back harder. Turn the situation around. Get what is yours to get out of it, and walk away like you don’t care. You gotta toughen up, pumpkin. Suck those tears in. Don’t give’em an in to see that they rattled you.’

“But all that was before. When life dealt him a blow, he failed to take the advice he’d given me.  It is easier to tell a child what to do than to show a child what should be done.

“Dad and I still talk on the phone from time to time. He always calls on my birthday, so somewhere inside, I think he still cares about me.”

She took a breath, and huffed, “I can forgive the horrible things he said.”

“It was just the alcohol talkin’,” she forced an embarrassed laugh, feeling the need to give it a, somewhat, mitigating explanation.

“I know that now,” she added in a whisper, barely audible.

She sighed heavily and looked over at Christie, “I think I would have been better off if I’d gone with him that night. It was rough having them splitting up like that, but mom’s turning was worse somehow. She was jealous of me, I think. Wishing she’d aborted me.”

Then with a note of bitterness, added, “Said so, often enough.” Staring vacantly off, “And she was often cold sober when she said that.”

A long silence followed and then, Laura continued.

“Mom took a long time to get over what happened. She tried working but never could stick with a job long enough. I went to work after school and on weekends. Didn’t make much, but we managed to barely squeak by. I think mom, resented me even more after that. I coulda let her starve for being such a..”

Laura blushed, refraining from saying the word that she would normally have spit out, but sighed and said, nonchalantly, “I’d catch her going into my purse to get money at night. I pretended I didn’t know what she was doing. Faked ignorance. Waiting for the second until I could legally rent my own place and get away. She was clearly drinking up the money she stole, but it kept her outta my hair. She drank in private, thinking I didn’t know.”

Christie had been following Laura’s story but also watching the storm outside of the stable. It had not abated and was only growing stronger.  The temperature was dropping and she could feel the pressure rising.  She knew if they waited too much longer the storm would worsen and they might be trapped without the opportunity to stay warm or dry.  She could wait no longer, but she did not want to alarm Laura.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but can you hold that thought for a moment and do me a favor?” Christie asked.

“Sure,” Laura nodded.

“Keep the horses company while I check out the cabin. Y’know to see if there is a light in the window.”

“You’re going out there?!” Laura’s voice rose in alarm, and the horse wagged its head from side to side, responding to her tone.

“Shhh!” Christie warned, “I am just going to check the cabin. I’ll be back in a minute. If the man showed up, perhaps he will give us some shelter ’til this passes. If not, there might be something we could use inside to start a fire in the fireplace. Get dry and warm up a bit.”

“Don’t be long, please.”

Christie smiled at her and nodded as she rose to leave, “I won’t. Keep the horses calm as you can.”

“Christie!” Laura called, stopping her.

“What?” she turned, her hand on the stable posts, bracing herself before plunging out in the driving winds and pelting rain.

“Thank you for coming with me. I know you didn’t have to. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here and I got caught out in all this alone.”

She nodded at Laura reassuringly, and said, “Be right back.”

Christie dove into the wind and felt the sharp tingling impacts of horizontal rain. Each of the myriad darts of water pinning her T-Shirt to her body and saturating her blue jeans with drilling cold. Grit and straw blew into her face raking against her skin as she tried to move against the gusts that threatened to blow her over.

This might be a bad idea, she thought as she fought and stumbled her way forward, trying to lean against the gale and block her face from the stinging wet. But she had to try. If there was any help or supplies to be had, it might be found in the cabin at the far end of the small hill.

There was no sign that the storm was abating anytime soon. From the look and feel of it, it seemed to be gathering strength which did not bode well for the long hours ahead. The time to check the cabin was now or lose any opportunity until the storm passed over.

As she trudged past the grotto, leaning forward, fighting through the gale force winds, she raised her eyes, sheltering them with her hands to look ahead and not lose her bearings.

What met her gaze was a disturbing, nightmarish sight: Things that appeared to be long tendrils stretched out from the front of the cabin, twisting in the wind like the grasping fury of an angry squid attacking some invisible boat of fishermen. Not sure what she was seeing was real, she froze for two heartbeats, and then swiftly ducked back into the alcove.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, almost drowning out the sounds of the screeching winds. Her breathing was suddenly labored, coming in short gasps, almost to the point of hyperventilation.

Calm yourself, she struggled against the rising panic, It’s dark and stormy and the wind and rain make things appear not as they seem.

Closing her eyes, she counted quietly until her breathing deepened and came in more regular intervals. She gathered her courage and leaned out again, the wind pulling mercilessly at her long blonde hair.

Though she had tried to convince herself that what she thought she saw could not be, she knew that, in this strange place that Mister O’Brian referred to as The Mid-World, she had no degree of certainty anymore.

Laura was right. It would be hard staying here much longer if one did not understand more of the rules.

*Scene 12* 5:05 (As the Crowe Flies)

Further away, beneath the influence of the storm witnessed from a distance, wind-driven rain and a sleet-and-snow mix pelted the mounted Xarmnian patrol as they imperiously rode into the town of Crowe.  They had tracked the deserters to the edge of this little hamlet but were fairly confident that the general townsfolk would have shunned the man, his wife, and their children for the sake of their own. All except the Innkeeper and his wife. Their loyalty to the House of Xarm and their personal sense of self-preservation was still in doubt. They had given the man certain tolerances because of his past assistance, but it was known that the man was hiding something.  And that he had a son of age that had been overlooked for conscription into their armies.  The boy was very much alive, despite what the old man said to the contrary, but he had been useful to them so they did not press him further upon the matter.  But should the man be harboring these fugitives, all tolerance would be forgotten, and the dealings with him and his family would be severe indeed.

The Overwatch riders were dressed in molded and scraped-hide armor joined over a thick brigandine vest.  They wore thick woolen pants, sewn together with strips of tanned and molded hides, and their calves and feet were also bound and strapped with molded leather pieces joined in the form of crude boot wear.  The dark dried hides of their hardened helms and the furred edges of their cowled headgear, hid the glowering faces of the cruel men as they rode boldly through the muddied street, unimpeded.  Dark cloaks gathered, knotted, and affixed to the metal epaulets flowed from their thick brigandines,  draping their shoulders, and blanketing the tail and flanks of the powerful black horses upon which they rose.  Great gauntlets covered their hands as they rested one upon the hilt of a sword, sheathed along their hip and the other upon the pommel of their saddles, fisted with the reins guiding their mounts.

On prior occasions when the Overwatch had collected tribute from the village of Crowe, they would rouse the townsfolk from their thatched holes and expect them to present themselves for the inspection.  They made intimidating sport of any who they chose and hungrily looked over the women and young girls as if examining possible market-fare for an upcoming meal.

The humble and meager hovels made of rough-hewn timber and weathered shiplap barely concealed the cowering townsfolk as they peeked out from the shadows watching the dreaded riders waiting for the call that would force them out to stand shivering in the worsening weather. But no such call came.

Desperate to avoid being been sighted by the men, but conflicted and betrayed by their own morbid curiosity, then men watched these monsters approach and ride by their homes, each step away evoking an almost palpable relief, but also a growing sense of uncertainty.  This was unlike the Xarmnian Overwatch.

This time they merely rode silently through the gray main street, passed the town center, and then onward up the hill to the Inn where their Troll agent was last sighted.

The men and women of Crowe knew better than to show their faces, while the Overwatch rode their streets.  Their children were nowhere present, either behind the crack of a door or the pane of a fractured window, for the parents feared they would be snatched and taken back to the dark stone city if ever seen.  The last child these cruel men had taken had been casually pitched down a deep well, while their parents begged the heartless men to be allowed to let down the rope and dipping pail to save them.  The couple was held under the blade of a sword until the child ceased splashing and struggling and finally drowned.

When the dark horsemen approached the courtyard where the Inn lay, they called out to occupants they expected to be inside.  When no response came and no movement stirred from within, the lead rider dismounted, unsheathed his sword and strode angrily toward the doorway of the Inn.
“The old fool will bleed for this,” he growled, “Check the barn and stables.  Kill anything there that dares to draw breath.”

*Scene 13* 26:21 (Names Upon The Stone)

A wall of skulls gazed hollow and vacantly at me bathed in the shimmering golden light of the illumined words.  Before me the members of my Surface World travelers stood looking expectantly, unaware of the grisly wall behind them.  Begglar gazed at me unwavering, his visage stern and warning me not to succumb to fear or evasion.

I knew I could no longer escape what I had hidden and buried in shame and denial.  Not in this place.  The site of the Ancient Marker, now buried under a mound of martyrdom was not a place where lies persisted.  The judgment of the dead witnesses, represented in the bone-mortared wall, put me on the stand before their martyrdom.  Despite this, I felt the fear and shame rising within me, threatening to strangle my words from ever leaving my throat or crossing the threshold of my tongue and lips.

But with the fear and dread came the words of the Ancient Text again in my memory from Exodus 4:11–the words The One spoke to Moses when he too attempted to evade God’s calling and cloak himself in his own human inability.

An inner voice resonated within me asking, “Who gave human being’s their mouths?”

Backlit by the resonant letters, feeling the words surge through me live a wave passing out of The Marker Stone I suddenly felt the urge to remove my shoes, for the ground upon which I stood was the sacred abattoir of much slaughter.

“A blood more precious than these, has equipped you to bear My message. Sacraments and acts of abeyance profit little if you do not bare your feet on the Holy Ground I have cleansed within the Temple of your own Heart. Give ear to My Words. Your past deeds must be released into Me, by open confession.”

Though deep within its entombment of bloodied earth, under moldering skulls and pillars of rock, the words on the Ancient Marker Stone imbued with persisting Life and Power, undid me, stripping away all I had clung to concerning my own qualifications and abilities.  The only thing left to me was to follow The One’s prompting by openly confessing and acknowledging what I had done twenty-one years before in a previous company of travelers.

Begglar is right.  Though he confessed to me in private, he was not called to lead these The One had brought here, but I was.  With that responsibility, came an even greater accountability and an urgency of the moment was upon me.  Now is the time.

If Begglar moved ahead with us, he would be risking everything to do so.  There would be no going back to living unrecognized under the nose of the Xarmnian Overwatch.  The effrontery of having done so this far would bring particular outrage from the High Council of Xarm, and the Son of Xarm himself.

If memory served, the self-styled monarch of Xarm could not abide ridicule, for it penetrated his own sense of self-worth.  He was held prisoner to perception even as I was and still am.

Begglar and his family would be hunted down, mercilessly tortured, and executed publicly to serve as a brutal example to anyone considering defiance of Xarmnian authority.  The Xarmnians had done it before, much to my shame and nightmarish memory.  It had precipitated my abandonment of this Mid-World and the remaining members of my former company.  In so doing, I thought I was protecting them by leaving them to complete the quest I had betrayed with Jeremiah’s brother, Caleb.

Begglar has counselled me against it, but I could not be persuaded otherwise.  I had believed the threat of The Pan, and in so doing, had enabled his threat to come to fruition.

Begglar deserved an answer.  His courageous risk was standing upon the threshold, to pass through or turn back depending upon my response.

The confines of the burial chamber, for such it was, began to close in around us.  I knew my revelation would shock and disturb several of my traveling companions, and that this might very well be the moment we all parted ways.

Under the glowing light of the mysterious golden letters, I urged everyone else to come into the antechamber where The Marker stood and form a semi-circle around me facing the exposed face of The Stone Marker.  My breathing was growing labored, and I could feel my heartbeat rising and hear the pulse of my blood throbbing in my temples.  I felt something deep underground tug at me with an almost physical force that nearly made my knees buckle.

I cleared my throat and spoke again, “This is the place where confession is made.  This is the place where we must prepare for warfare…and I must confess and tell you truthfully who it is you are traveling with.” I eyed each of them carefully and then continued, “And that the danger that threatens this land is heighted now because of me.  My actions.  Seven from our prior company of fourteen Surface Worlders are now dead because of it.”

“Nine.” Begglar corrected, “And three of them died and are entombed here upon this very spot.  Well, what is left of them is, anyway.  Their skulls are here. Missing their jawbones.”

“And the others?”

“Four have remained here, including myself.  At least that I know of.”

“Why?”

“You very well know why.  Because we have given our names to this quest.  The Stone bears our names upon it, engraved for every Xarmnian and enemy of The Stone and its prophecy to read and hunt for us.  It is the primary reason, I was willing to have this covered up.”

That knowledge sent me reeling.  I felt the fear rising again.

Something powerful and strong seemed to be inside my head twisting and squirming like some alien tentacle frantically seizing upon my thoughts and mind to keep me from doing what I was about to.  Fears and self-doubt assaulted me, warning me, threatening me to keep silent, but I could not.  I had the odd feeling that I was being watched by large eyes from someplace deeper underground, seeing me through both an obsidian eye and a glacier blue eye.  I again smelled the scent of briny salt, and a sickly sweetened odor of decay and something akin to that of rotten fish.  Smells I had recognized upon arriving on the beach, but easily dismissed being under a burial mound of earth, flesh, and bones.  My mind churned with panic and confusion, and my legs felt as if they would no longer hold me up.  The ceiling of the cave seemed to press down upon me, almost crushing me in mind and spirit.

I stood silent, with my back to them for a moment, attempting to gather up the courage but failing.  I swayed on my feet, trying to keep my knees from buckling under me.  I stared up at the illumined letters, knowing that this confession was what I needed as much as anyone else in my company needed from me now.  And in looking upon the letters, the din of my inner turmoil began to fade.

I cleared my throat and turned again to them, “There is a reason, I’ve brought you all here before this hidden monument.  I knew we had to come here before going any further into the Mid-World.  This is the place of beginnings.  I knew you each had to see it to believe, as I once did.”

“The golden words you see upon this buried rock are living words.  They have a power in them and bear a promise to the faithful, and a condemnation to the wicked.”

“When I left this country before, this Marker was not buried as it is now, as we have said.  Rather, it was abandoned and ignored.  According to Begglar, only in more recent years has it become the site of such indignities and slaughter.  This is not because of The Stone itself, but because of the darkness within the inhabitants of this world and ours.  Those who have been made rulers and monarchs here, because the seats of power were left vacant and undefended.”

“What does all this have to do with you?” one of the listeners asked.

“I was originally part of an entrusted company of travelers as you are, tasked with the finding and delivering one of the virtue stones to the crown gate in the high mountains.  The quest failed because of a betrayal and a division of leadership.  When that company fell apart and disbanded, I tried leading a counterforce here in its wake, that was hunted, ambushed, and eventually driven out of this world.  I became discouraged and abandoned the quests entirely and have spent many years away, thinking I would never be allowed to return here and afraid of ever coming back.  For twenty-one years, I was solely absorbed in the affairs of my own life in the Surface World, until a few days ago.”

“The summoning came through to me again, shaking up my life in the Surface World and showing me that I couldn’t remain away from my calling here without it disrupting everything in all worlds.  Nothing lasting can be built without settling the foundational issues of existence.  The reason I have been called back here is because of this,” I gestured to the stone behind me.  “This Rock of Remembrance compels me to complete the journey I committed to back then.  This landmark pillar is called The Marker Stone because it has marked me.  This is the Ebenezer Stone of Creation.  It anchors all existence to it.”

A teen girl interrupted, “What’s an ebby-sneezer?”

One of the other boys answered, “Like Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol,” and a few of them tried to laugh, but the scene and the ethereal light of the letters, made them feel very uncomfortable doing so.

“Ebenezer.  It is a Rock of Remembrance.  A Stone of Help,” I answered quietly, “The Ancient Text speaks of it symbolically, but in this world, we perceive it as a Stone that cannot be marred or destroyed by the hand, tooth or claw of men or beasts.”

“This Indestructible Stone is the reason why these lands of the Mid-World exist.  This Marker Stone holds the key and bears the words of the Prophecy of this Land upon its polished surface.  It is the Axel upon which all wheels turn.  This Stone was also called The Land Horn, because the ancient nomadic people, herdsmen who kept flocks of goats and sheep, who first came to this land symbolized strength and authority using the figure of a ram’s horn.”

“They saw the power of rams, fighting to establish herd dominance and authority, using the striking power of their mighty horns.  When a ram died, they collected the horns of these powerful animals and made blowing instruments from them.  A ram’s horn was given to each family patriarch, and the head of each family would blow through their ram’s horn symbolizing a call of authority to rally their family to come to them and assemble before them for celebrations, feasts and for a call to war when faced with a threat.”

“The power and authority of this land, this Mid-World, was once anchored around communal gatherings at this prominent site upon the highlands.  The Stone itself is foundational to this land.  It is the core stone of every mountain here, and is the same type of stone that forms the mantle of the earth as we know it back in the Surface World.”

“Legends tell that at the base of this Stone, there once were three fist-sized gemstones.  A bluestone of brilliant sapphire lit with a cool inner fire called The Praesporous Stone.  A blood-red stone, like a massive ruby also with a red throbbing fire within called The Cordis Stone and a white pearlescent stone, like a perfect pearl formed from within the heart of the deep sea, called The Fidelis Stone.  At the top of this Marker Stone there once was a massive circlet, woven through with veins of the purest gold, that was almost translucent.  The circlet was a crown, and in it were three concave place-settings intended for the three large stones.  The three gemstones were cast down upon the ground but were intended to be restored back to their place-settings, but mankind lusted after them and longed to keep them for themselves to make themselves powerful, wise, and kings in their own right.  But a mutual distrust, made them agree to leave them here untouched and return to the site each year to see that the agreement was honored.”

“The crown was too large to rest upon the brow of any of them, but the stones were small enough to possess, and from the representative division of each were formed three kingdoms to rule these lands.  The Old Kingdom comprised of the earliest settlers from the Ancient World, the Eastern Kingdom, and the Western Kingdom.  The latter two Kingdoms by a series of conquest and overthrow eventually became what is today known as Xarmni and Capitalia.”

“Also at the base of the Marker stone, just peeking out of the ground around it were twelve conical stones, seemingly formed of both iron and granite.  These were called The Builder Stones, and it was learned that these had incredible power to lift up and tear down massive earthworks.  These were also divided up and taken by the tribal families and were used to clear the land and build the large cities of the Mid-World.  All of this was done over time.  For at the beginning, it was the Words written upon the Stone that held the most fascination to the travelers.  For each person saw them written in their own native language.  The words were a collective charge to the inhabitants of this gifted land, but also contained personal messages to each one who read them.”

“The words that you see here, upon the Marker Stone’s surface, are not always the same, though these words do recur from time to time.”

“The peoples of the ancient times honored this place and The One who had caused this Marker to rise from underneath its grounds.  The Marker is a rib of stone, that extends downward underground at an angle.  It is partially buried in the flesh of this Mid-World, but it is also buried in the flesh of the world from which we all come.  This Rib of Stone represents in a symbolic and real sense the formation of a Bride, for as the Ancient Texts recounts in the story of the first creation how the gift of a suitable companion was given to the first man, in the separation of a rib taken from his side and fashioned into a woman for him to love, honor as the gift of God and to cherish and provide for all of his days.  To be his companion and confidant in life and to join with him in rule over the earth.  The Mid-World is the companion to the physical Surface World–Its echoing existence.  Similar to it but different as well.  This exposed rib of stone represents that same relationship of companionship between the Surface World as we know it and the Mid-World as we are experiencing it now.”

“This place and all you see around you is a manifestation of the meta-physical joining between the physical body and the spirit, a link between the natures of both.  You, I and all of these gathered are here in a realm representative of the human heart and soul of a person who is in this company.  You have heard of a joining of hearts?  Well, this place is a nexus representing that very concept, but as a physical representation of it. Each of you has been called here for a reason. To join together here in this Mid-World plagued with the ravages of blight, warring kingdoms, and philosophies, and very real supernatural monsters bent on destroying this land and subduing it, so that it cannot thrive and allow the promised Kingdom to prevail and manifest itself outward into the physical Surface World from which we have come.”

“The words you see upon this Stone behind me are real and immutable.  They come from an Ancient Text written through fifteen centuries of human history, all compile into one Holy Book that has stood the test of time and has origins from a source outside of time for within it are prophecies given and prophecies fulfilled and prophecies yet to be fulfilled.  The Words you read upon this Stone come from the prophetic passages attributed to King David, the Prophet Isaiah, and the Apostle Paul to the Hebrews.  These words are not bound by the times and situations of earth history but are applicable to all places and times through which we move.  They are messages of guidance from The One Who Created All Things and Places and gives them their being.  And these are the words which I will share with you on our journey forward as they are spoken through my heart and memory.  I did not understand it before when I first came to this land, but these gifts of recalling the Ancient Text words are a gift given to the person given the task of leading a Stone Quest.”

Bathed within the golden light of the letters upon the Marker Stone, I could tell that those in my charge were having a hard time discounting what I was telling them, though I could tell for many it was a struggle.

A woman, seemingly in her early thirties, a brunette with long-shoulder length hair, and large, hazel-eyes that smoldered with the golden hearth fire of the illumined letters, spoke up, “Where are the other stones that were here before?  The large gemstones and crown you spoke of?”

“They were taken,” I replied, quietly, “And the crown was stolen and carried into the mountains far ahead of us.”

“Who stole them?” another man asked.  Speaking louder, with a degree of alarm rising in his voice.

“I will get to that all.  But our focus, right here and now is on finding one of the three gemstones.  They are our part of the quests.  The bluestone, the great sapphire, has already been recovered long ago.  It is called the Praesperos Stone.”

“Praesperos Stone?!” another exclaimed, “What is that?”

“Praesperos comes from the Latin, it can be translated as Hope, but from it also comes our English word Prosper.”

“How do you know that the Praesperos Stone is safe?”

“I did not say it is safe, I only said it was recovered and has been placed where the other two stones belong.”

“And where is that?”

“It is in the Crown of Gold, embedded in a doorway crevice up in the great mountains beyond the Xarmnian empire and its conquered lands.”

“Yeah, but, how do you know it’s there?”

“Because I’ve seen it.  And the Crown bears words of the Promise given when the Hope Stone was placed within the Crown’s setting.  The Words showed up, revealed in the golden letters in the same fashion as you see here.  We memorized them because we did not have much time.  They read:

The Hidden Kingdom is within The Door of Stone.  All who shall come to these lands from among the Surface World must seek first to return the King’s Jewels to the Crown of Life. So that the Land Between them shall be healed, and strongholds of powers, principalities and rulers of darkness be pulled down, and witness the coming Light of The One who longs to dwell with mankind again and establish His Kingdom Without End.

“The Hidden Kingdom – that is what we call Excavatia.  A Kingdom of Hope that must be Excavated, brought out of the Burial Tomb.  It has been buried by rumors, consigned to legend, hindered by wars and power-seekers, immersed in corruption and its promise maligned by the hatred and evil of mankind.”

“But how do you know those words are connected to this Stone?”

“Because they also appear on the other side of the Marker Stone.  The side facing the mountains beyond it.  Along with something else.”

Here I paused, not wanting to say too much, but knowing that I could not prove what I told them unless we had time to dig around the back of the monolith and allow them to see the other side for themselves.  But, unfortunately, that side was buried under tons of dirt, bones, and rock.  Begglar had told me there were some places that could not be covered, and they were still open to the air around the top and that there were places on the Marker where no other stone or timber could be laid against.

At the top of The Marker Stone, under the cairn hill, there were engraved seven representations of eyes.  Almond-shaped symbols that encompassed and encircled the top of the place in which its golden crown once rested.  The seven eyes were representative of the seven oculus portals, said to be within the Mid-World, each pointing outward from the seven faces of the stone.

The side facing the Eastern Horizon of the Mid-World Lands, facing the hills and the distant sea and beachhead from which we had come, also could not be covered as it bore the words of the Ancient Text.

“Can we go back there to see?” a young man asked, “Is there a tunnel around to the back of it?”

Begglar shook his head, “That side is buried.  This was the only side we could not cover.  Nothing set against The Marker’s eastward face stays.  The Stone resists covering on this side, and no darkness hides the letters written there.  Many a man has tried and failed.  That is why we had to build this open chamber and set stone pillars above it to hold a ceiling to bear the weight of the hill.  There is unexplained power in the Stone.  One that even the dark ones fear.”

“What else is on the other side, that you claim bears the message you saw on the Crown in the Mountains?”

“Names,” I said, almost in a whisper.

“What?”

“Names, laddie,” Begglar said, with more volume than I.

“The names of every Surface Worlder, who volunteers to join in the quest for the Crown Stones.”

“We have to volunteer?  I thought the very fact that we were brought here out of our Surface World lives, made us a part of this!” Cheryl spoke up.

Another interjected, “You’re only now telling us we have a chance to withdraw from this, whatever this quest thing is?

Before I could answer another jumped in, amid the rise of murmuring, “Did you volunteer for this? Does your name appear back there?!”

“Yes. Mine and those of us who came before.  Every Surface Worlder who commits themselves to seek to return the King Stones to the Crown in the Mountains, have their names appear on The Stone Marker.  The Stone Marks them.  Engraves their name forever upon its western surface.  Once the committed give their names in response to the Kingdom Calling, their names will appear there…and in the Crown itself.”

“That is why I have been hesitant to ask you all for your names.  I wanted to bring you all to see this Marker first.  You had to know something about what I know, before going further.”

*Scene 14* 4:40 (Brooding)

Nell had waited with the two young girls and the horses.

Young Miray sat in the far back end of the buck board wagon, her legs dangling off the back of the end gate swinging and kicking, humming to herself.

Nell locked the wheel pad lever, but young Becca sat next to her and occasionally swung her leg and shoe at the locking bar, as if she would like to give it a good whack and set it loose, allowing the team to jolt forward and give Miray a quick jolt and tumble off the back of the wagon.

Nell had tried to coax young Miray to come up and sit with her and Becca on the long bench seat at the front of the wagon, and she would teach both the girls how the wagon tracer reins worked, but Miray demurred, stating that she was perfectly happy back in the back.  She preferred boats, and wanted to imagine she was rowing one far away into the sea.

Becca seethed.

“She doesn’t like me,” she growled to Nell.

“Now you don’t know that, dearie,” Nell stated trying to sooth her temper.

“She hates me. She never liked me. Never gave me a chance. She’s a piglet!”

Miray went on humming as if she had not heard a thing, but Becca’s voice had raised to the volume with that last statement so that she would be sure to hear it.

Nell could see right away what Becca was trying to do, but she acted like she did not understand.

“Now that’s not a very nice thing to say.  Especially if you actually want her to like you, Miss Becca.”

“Nuts! Why would I care if a snotty…PIGLET…likes me!  Especially one that dotes along like a little snail after that Mister O’Brian.”

“Now what have ya got agin’, Mister O’Brian, now?” Nell coaxed.

“Nothing except he’s gonna get us all killed.  Bringing us to this…graveyard.  The creep!  He’s like the weird guy that hangs out in the kids’ park.  The kind that watches us play on the swings from the park bench, pretending he is reading something.”

“Now what kind of a talk is that from a wee gerl, I wonder?  What nonsense.”

“Sister, you have a lot to learn.  Where we come from, it’s just another day in the park.  Kids come. Kids go. Some make it home. So get cut up, bitten and buried in the bushes, by creepies like Mister O’Brian.”

Nell found herself at the juncture of a loss for words and in a boiling kettle of shock soup.  The girl was filled with a startling degree of cynicism and bitterness for someone so young.  Even living under the atrocities of the Xarmnians, she had never seen a child so morbid and tactiturn.  What little conversation she had been able to coax out of Becca had been laced with resentment and anger, a paranoia that had no clear explanation or source.

“Has someone tried to hurt you like that…before?” Nell ventured.

“What?! Me?!” Becca recoiled at the thought, “No! Never! Not without getting cut for it!” And something like a small smile played at the ends of her pressed lips, like she was reveling in a hidden thought.

Miray continued to hum, but a bit louder, as if oblivious to the two females who happened to be riding shotgun in her imaginary boat.

Suddenly, Becca turned and shouted, “Why don’t you shut up you little imbecile! You’re not fooling anybody!  I know what you’re doing!”

Miray did not turn but kept on humming as if she hadn’t heard a word.

Becca turned forward and kicked hard at the brake lever, but Nell leaned over and caught the post before it disengaged.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the gleam of a sinister look in the angry girl’s face, and noticed there was something familiar about it.

She had seen that look before.  Only the impression she had was a memory of someone she had know well a long time ago, and the person she was thinking of was not a little girl.

*Scene 01* 15:19 (The Girl is Leaving)

Begglar and I rounded the end of the property, made our way behind the stands of trees, crossed the road and traveled back upward towards the barnyard and stables where we had met the previous night.  The troll signs had petered out and were lost, but we suspected they could not have gone too far in the night.

As we came up the path, Nell and two of the other woman came in upon us standing under the eaves of the barn.

“Where have you two been?!” exclaimed Nell, her hands on her hips, her hair in a slight, but charming disarray.

“Just like a man, gabbing away just as easy as you please while there’s work to be done.”

Begglar, having unburdened himself of his heavy secrets, felt in better humor, now that there were no illusions between us.

He grinned sheepishly at Nell, wiped his hands on his legs and followed her back out into the daylight.  I could still hear Nell enumerating all of what still had to be done that day, and what share of those responsibilities would be entirely performed by Begglar.  I believe I also overheard quite a few “Yes, dears” and “I was just getting to its…” before he and she descended just out of earshot.  Begglar might still have a few issues with courage.

Christie, whom I had dubbed “the she-bear”, was watching me with a half-grin on her face, but also with a sort of chastising look as if I owned my own share in the supposed plot to shirk the day’s duties.  Something was troubling her, and I felt I knew what it might be.  Christie had been paired with the girl I spoke to the prior evening occupying one of the bedrooms in Begglar’s Inn for the night.

The other woman who had arrived with Christie and Nell, who I later learned was Cheryl, had left to announce to the others that we were found and that they could call off the frantic search.  Or something to that effect.

“Something bothering you?” I asked Christie, as she continued to lightly scold me with her half-amused, half- troubled expression.

“Did you know the girl I fought the troll for is planning to leave us?”

I nodded and cleared my throat.  “Yes, I did,” I answered quietly. “She told me last night.”

“And you’re just letting her go?”

I shrugged.  “I can’t keep her from doing whatever she wants to do.  No one is forced to stay here or has to follow in this journey.  As I’ve said many times, this quest is not for everyone.  I know that.  Whatever decision she, you or any of the others make, it has to be done of your own free will.”

She eyed me, and I continued, “That doesn’t mean I don’t want.. I mean…  I want you all to come, but I am by no means forcing any of you to do so.”

She looked at me with a shocked and partially puzzled look, as if she was not prepared for this sort of answer.

“Y’know, you could have left us all on the beach then. Why didn’t you?”

“Because I was told to invite you. To give you all the opportunity to follow.”

“You told us there was something dangerous in the fog.”

“There was, is….”

“Tell me, what would have happened in the fog?” she folded her arms.

“Look, it is so very hard to explain everything just now. The fogs roving the coastline are more than what they appear. They are to be avoided at all cost and I had to keep you all safe.”

“Safe. From. What?” she responded, enunciating each word.

“You saw the troll, what it was capable of. That ought to tell you that the things you encounter here are much different than they are in the Surface World we came from.”

She studied me a moment quietly.

“There’s a lot your not telling us,” she walked past me looking away and then turned again. “You are struggling to keep some things from us.  It is like you want to tell us, but are afraid to,” she said, reading me too well.

She let the accusing quiet hang between us for a moment, but then granted me a temporary reprieve.  “But all that aside.  Do you think it is safe for her to be traveling back alone?  Back into…The Surface World?” saying the last three words with raised finger quotes.

I sighed a bit, not sure if she was mistaking my being resigned to the idea as being uncaring or insensitive to the young girl’s plight or circumstances back in the Surface World.  She arched her eyebrow at me, quizzically, testing me.

“Look, there ARE dangers here. You’re right.  Much as I might like to, I cannot shield people from living their own lives and coming to their own discoveries in and through it.  Perhaps it is because…”  I gathered my thoughts and words for a moment, but Christie, the ever brave She-Bear, finished my sentence, startling me with her conclusion.

“…because you were never a parent.  Never knew what it was like to see a young innocent girl so traumatized by life that you feel compelled to come in and make that pain stop in some way.”

That statement shocked me.  It hurt in some ways, but dug deep in others. She had me in a very awkward and uncomfortable place.  Like most anyone else, I wanted–needed some people to think well of me.  For some reason, I wanted her to think well of me more than the others.

“I…,” still gathering my words, I sigh again in frustration.  “We are making arrangements for her safe travel back.  I spoke to Begglar just now.  There are horses stabled near here, within walking distance to the southwest and down in a declivity.  Begglar offered to provide her and anyone accompanying her with food and tack for a day’s journey.  We are not that far out from the portal.  We came overland because I wasn’t sure of the old road. On horseback, Begglar assured me, that she could make it back to the coast in far less time so the provisions should be more than enough.”

Christie shook her head at me in amazement, “I don’t believe this.  What are you thinking?!”

Puzzled, I asked, “What’s not to understand?”

As if I were the most thick-skulled dunder-head in the world, she came over and knuckled my skull.  “Hello!  Anybody home?  Why are you so clueless, fearless Leader?!”

That stung.

“I am…I must be,” I stammered.  “Please fill me in.  What am I missing?”

She clenched her fists and looked to the sky for help.  “Ugh!  Men!  Why don’t they get it?!  So frustrating having to always spell it out for them!”

A soliloquy I surmised but didn’t interrupt or say so.  There is danger in interjecting while one is asking a rhetorical question.

“Her feelings, you blockhead!  What about how she feels?”

“How can I help her feelings, Christie?” I sighed.  “I just don’t know how anything I could say to her would make what she has struggled through any better for her.”

That brought quiet.  And reflection.  Christie’s expression was thoughtful but inscrutable.

A good thing?  I thought. I don’t know.  Waiting here.  Should I say something?  Or not?

At last, she broke the silence with a sigh.

“I just…” she began and then, “That young girl is vulnerable. Something has scared her. Something the troll may have done to her. I don’t know. But I feel like she is making the wrong decision running away from whatever it was that scared her enough to leave.”

I ventured, “Her situation is out of my depth.  I want to help her.  Feel strongly compelled to, but sometimes a person’s pain cannot be fixed by some other person.  Sometimes,” I backed off of the word choice, “…well, most times if we are being honest, many problems are bigger than us.  There is a lot of past hurt in her.  I cannot undo her past.  Problems with her dad.  I don’t know what all she told you. But her dad left and there was a lot of personal pain connected with that. The troll sort of exploited that.  They are malicious that way. There is an unexplained meanness in them that comes with their ability to see our inner fears. That is why I did not want anyone to lock eyes with it. Somehow they can see into a person’s soul and pick at our pain points.”

“Uh!” Christie exclaimed, “And you let me charge that thing down, without knowing that?!”

“I could hardly have stopped you,” I countered. “There’s not much I can do.  I cannot go back in time and make her dad stay.  Make him love her the way he should have.  Make him honor his wife.  Make him faithful to the vows he made in the beginning of their life together. Perhaps she does need to go back. There are things much worse than Trolls in this world.” I gripped one hand in the other, and continued, “Her dad, from what she told me, is ever bit as cruel as one of these trolls. He should’ve been there for her. He probably shaped her view of men.  If I could find that guy, I would like to kick the snot out of him…”  I paused, “…but would any of that help her?”

Christie rejoined in a soft voice, “No.  No, it would not.  It would just make it worse.  You meddling in her personal life.  Indicating that she was inadequate to deal with it constructively.  You would just be causing her to feel worse about herself than she already feels now. Anger doesn’t solve things.”

There was a lot of wisdom in that concession.  Words I needed to reflect on and apply to my own life and situations. Things done and said in anger almost always turn out wrong.  That is why I was reminded of some passages in the Ancient Text that I struggle with personally, and I fail so often putting into practice:

“A wrathful man stirreth up strife: but [he that is] slow to anger appeaseth strife.” [Proverbs 15:18 KJV]

“[He that is] slow to anger [is] better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.” [Proverbs 16:32 KJV]

Anger leads to folly. But a cool head can reach clarity. I have hated myself for so long for what I did to those I had been a part of in the prior quest twenty-one years before. I knew what self-loathing could do to a person, and it made me feel so helpless to offer the girl anything more comforting than mere words.

Conviction sits on my front porch.  It practically camps there.  In fact, I don’t think it ever goes on a vacation, because its patient is so screwed up sometimes.

Christie broke in to my thought. “She doesn’t hate you, by the way.”

Startled, I asked, “What?”

“She said that you were the only male she’s known in her experience that ever just sat there and listened to her. It meant a lot to her, y’know.”

“Shall I try to talk to her again?”

Christie did not answer right away.  She was thinking and in a few moments, I could see that she’d reached a conclusion.

“No.  It’s not necessary.  You’ve done practically all you can do for her.  But there is something I can do.”

I perked up, “What is that?”

“I can go with her on her way back.  Be a friend to her.  She needs one right now.”

I cannot entirely admit that I had not hoped she would say that.  Make that offer of her own choosing.  Christie is clearly someone extra special.  Perceptive, thoughtful, and kind,…and quite capable of fully and completely kicking a Troll’s butt.  I knew I would be sorry to see her go, and I told her so.

“Thank you for doing this.  I could not ask you to do it, you know that.”

She elbowed me in the ribs as she passed by me on the way back to the Inn.

“Quit acting like it was your idea.”

I stood corrected and pleased to see something of her spunky spirit return.

“Besides, if you went, you would most certainly get her lost.  We all know how poor men are at asking for directions.”

I grinned, and said, “Hurry back as soon as you can.”

*Scene 02* 14:47 (Between Here and There)

My conversation with Christie about the girl who had decided to leave our company continued to weigh on my mind, long after we had returned into the small dining hall to help Begglar and his wife Nell clean up after the morning meal.

There was much to do.  The two cows had to be fed and milked.  Begglar had recently found his bull slaughtered and butchered by Xarmnian patrols in the open pasture, and had not had the means to buy or barter for a new one.

Nell organized others in the kitchen on the fine points of mixing and drying hardtack–a sort of flour, water, and salt mixture, flattened and pan dried into a hard biscuit that could be preserved and eaten over long journeys when other food was scarce.  These she apportioned out as a staple to be wrapped in corn husks and be added to our collective food stores.  Small hunks of hard cheeses were cut from a large cheese wheel stored in a cold cellar, and these were then dipped into warmed wax and tallow, then dried and set out for each of us, to add to our carried supplies.

The scrawniest gathering of barnyard chickens had to be fed the rationed handfuls of grains and cornmeal to supplement their natural diet of bugs and worms which were ever-present in scattered straw and dung in the stables.  Eggs were carefully collected from the nests, leaving only enough to allow for the faintest hope of their posterity to hatch and maintain the struggling line.  The rather lean pigs had to be slopped from the meager leavings of the morning’s meal.

The remaining stock, (horses, and a few spindly goats), were to be watered and fed, with a mix of hulled oats and barley grains from a barrel bin that was getting scratched and worried by the claws and teeth of rats hungrily trying to get inside.

Normally, the woven linens and bed coverings would have been hand-washed and hung out to dry, but Nell and Begglar seemed to have other things on their mind and whispered animatedly to each other as they gathered household items and seemed to be bundling and storing several of their kitchen items, personal belongings, and provisions for a journey.  They showed our travelers how to bundle and wrap their traveling items within their knapsacks, making the best usage of the space, arranging the items for dryness, food preservation, back comfort, and better weight distribution for carrying these packs on long trip overland through various weather conditions.

Begglar and his boy arranged some supplies and horses for Christie and the young woman’s return to the journey back to the portal near the sea cliffs to the south. Begglar told them, “Just to set the horses free at the cliffs to range and feed.”

“Leave the saddles and tack,” he tells them, describing a special cache location for which he gives them specific landmarks and directions to find.

We are assured that there is a friend of his that maintains some local stables near the seaports and the horses are trained to come to him before dusk to be fed further and be stabled for the night.

The young woman is worried as she strokes the mare she has been given to ride, “Are you certain they’ll be alright?  I don’t think I can just leave them that way?  What if they don’t go to the right place, or if they are caught?”

“Don’t you worry, lassie.  These are mountain horses.  They got a bit of spit and spirit in them yet, though they may not look it.  If they decide to return, they know where home is better than any person could. Have no worries about the horses. They’ve made the journey many times. They are rotation stock. I feed, water, and shelter those my friend sends and he returns the favor until each is returned”, says Begglar.

We say our goodbyes and wish them good health and safety on the journey.

“Still okay with this?” I ask Christie and she grins and exhales a huff.

“Oh yeah. I’ve ridden horses since I was a little girl back home. It’ll be its own small adventure and I’ll catch up to you all soon.” I nod and pat her knee as she mounts the grey gelding like a true cowgirl.

“Let the horse lead,” I say, “they have a nose for finding water and good instincts.”

“We’ll be fine,” she assures me.

“Just you don’t go getting mixed up with Trolls without me.”

“If it’s my choice to make, you can count on that. No fighting Trolls with my good friend Christie the She-Bear. It’s a deal.”

She grinned. Perhaps more to reassure me of her confidence in their safety than for anything else. After all, the Surface World contains far more unseen dangers than this Mid-World one could ever make visible.

I moved to the young woman, so fiercely determined in some ways, yet so fearfully vulnerable in others. She too had mounted her horse, a young, dun-colored mare.

I squeezed her hand reassuringly as it rested on the pommel of the saddle. She looked down at me with a brave effort and almost whispers an “I’m sorry” again before I stop her.

“I want you to remember something about this place when you go back to your life in the Surface World.”

“What is that?” she asked, unsure of where my words were leading.

“Here in the Mid-World, things are much clearer and more direct than they appear up in the Surface World.”

She interrupted, “Please don’t try to talk me out of this.  I just can’t stay here, knowing those Trolls are here and can hurt me like that.  I just…”

“I won’t try to talk you out of it, my dear.  It is not my place to make decisions for you.  As I said to the others, being here is a choice each of us has to make.  But I need you to understand something at the Mid-World that I don’t tell many others who are just starting to figure out what this place is in relation to where they’ve come from.”

“Okay,” she said quietly, “I’m listening.”

“What you may not realize, is that you presently are in both places at once.  You are in the Surface World, even now, but your consciousness is present here.  You do not lose anything of yourself by being here or there. You are what you are no matter how different you may pretend to be in each place.”

“I don’t understand,” she responded, her grip on the saddle horn tightening defensively, perhaps fearing that either I or she was going crazy.

“It is a hard thing to explain,” I said, “It has to do with conscious choices we make.  How we see our lives and how we view ourselves.  The Mid-World is a place inside each of us that blends the parts of us that we can see and the part of us that we cannot see into something else, for the purpose of experiencing a new way of living.  Not just by being born into the physical world, but by having a place within us where there is a working out of those parts of us that will either lead us to allow the Kingdom of Excavatia to be expressed or the remnants of our old life and its darkness and strongholds to rule and contain us.  You and I, and all of the others traveling with us have met in a nexus of this adjoined World between Worlds.  The portal we came through is just an expression of how we arrived here together.”

“Are you saying, this is an out of body experience?” she asked narrowing her eyes, looking down at me with suspicion.

“No.  Nothing like that.  As I said, you are in both places, but you are consciously here.”

“Am I asleep?  Having some sort of vivid nightmare I can’t get out of?”

“It is kind of like that.  A kind of dream, but with more reality to it.  It is both a vision and a dream.  It is not unprecedented in the Ancient Scriptures.  It happened to several of the prophets, and some of the apostles.  You have been given a rare glimpse inside of you.”

“I still don’t understand.  If this is me, what is the point in going back to the Beach where we first arrived?  Can’t I just wake up, or something?”

“That is not easily done.  Sometimes we have to make choices within the limits and rules of this place.  The vision doesn’t easily leave you.  Sometimes you must choose to go back through the portal that brought you here.  I don’t make those rules.  None of us do.  It is possible we move from here to there, without the memory of having been here.  But what makes going back through the portal important is that you will have a greater chance of remembering this place, when you go back through the doorway from which you came here.”

“And when I get there,” she spoke quietly, “How do I know the portal will still be there?”

I put my hand on hers, patting it encouragingly, “It’ll be there. As long as Surface Worlders are pursuing the call of the quests, the Sea Gate Oculus remains open. Yet it never leaves the water. It will come to you if you seek it. Just step into the water. You are not a prisoner of the calling to join this company. It is offered to you, but not obligatory. All of us were given the chance to be here for a good reason. When we are called by Him we are never lost or truly hidden from His sight. There is no place in life, whether here or in the Surface World that the One who loves us doesn’t know where we are at any given moment.”

“So you are saying, God brought me here?  Brought me so that I could meet that…that horrible Troll.”

I sighed, unable to help her understand.

“In a way,” I said slowly, “yes.  Yes, He did.  There is something in relation to your pain, that needs to be brought out to allow you to be healed.  To see what is going on inside you.”

“As I told you before,” she said, her lower lip trembling, “I am not ready to deal with that.”

“I know,” I said calmly, “I don’t want to push you.  As I said, you are free to make your own decisions.  That is the liberty and responsibility we are all given by the One.  But I do care that you are hurting, as He does.  He can heal that pain, but you must come to a place where you can choose to let Him.”

“The one important thing I do so very much hope you take back into the Surface World from your sojourn here is this. Trolls can only manipulate you with a lie that you believe to be true. When they hook into your mind like you experienced back there, Trolls can only pull forth the lies told to you. They have no power to use the truth against you. They cannot grasp it as a weapon against you. Please give that some consideration and time, and rethink what you were raised to believe about your value and intrinsic worth. You will be missed here. And if you should decide to come back, you will be welcomed and we will be glad to have you.”

She tried to hide the tears forming in her eyes.  And to prevent her from becoming embarrassed by them, I pretended not to notice. After a bit, she squeezed my hand too and cleared her throat.

“Thank you for that,” she said quietly. Then she paused, looked away to the south, up the path where we had come the day before.

Nell, Begglar and the others came out from their chores to wish the young women well, and tell her that they would miss her.  Begglar checked the saddles again, making sure they were secure and that the women were comfortable with their mounts.  He told them of each of their horse’s peculiar tendencies and what to do if.  He then rubbed and patted each animal affectionately, admonishing them sternly to “protect these lasses”, “hurry back” and “don’t be gettin’ inta mischiefs”, as if the horses were naughty children just waiting to get out from under their parent’s watchful eye.

When all had been packed and secured to her horse, the young woman looked at me one last time and smiled slightly and said, “Mister O’Brian.  You asked me a question the other night that I did not answer.  Well, I think I owe you an answer.  My name is Laura.”

And with that, she gathered her horse’s reins, goosed its flanks, and rode ahead to the top of the rise that then led down to the road winding towards the eastern sea.

Christie had been watching our quiet conversation while ostensibly “listening” to Begglar and Nell’s admonitions and directions for the journey. She grinned at me before taking the reins in one hand and made a clicking noise with her mouth to prompt her own horse to follow the mare and the young woman already a good twenty yards ahead.

‘Laura’, I said to myself, liking the simple and pure sound of her name. Come back soon to us, Laura. Your friends already miss you.

*Scene 03* 5:11 (Troll Sightings)

A lone farm dog barked somewhere in the distance, alerted to the noises coming through the lower woods near the road leading down into the hamlet of Crowe.

With the bundled burnt corpse tied between them, the two trolls, Grum-blud and Shelberd, galloped through the forest detritus like a pair of tragically conjoined orangutans.  They cursed at one another as they alternated their irregular gait between knuckled gallops and swinging stomps, hooking tree limbs and bustling through brush as fast as their panicked limbs could carry them. The blackened corpse of their unfortunate crispy comrade did not fare well as it flopped and swung from side to side.

At last the pair tumbled out of the undergrowth upon a deer path trail and fell to the ground, breathing heavily.

“Gaww, you idiot,” gasped Grum-Blud, “The Walker is not pursuing us. Me thinks he is set upon another path.”

“Why is he here?” whined Shelberd. “Of all times for him to return! Do you think he knows why we were interested in the Inn Keeper?”

“Haven’t a clue. But he seems to know what we are, at any rate,” Grum-Blud grumbled.

“What’re we doing with Pawgly, Grum? Why can’t we just let ‘im rot in peace?”

“Dead or not, he’s my brother, and I’ve a mind that he dark-eyed who brung him down. Soon as we get to a secluded hole, we’ll build a fire and peel his sunken gazers.”

“You can do that?!” Shelberd trembled, quaking at the thought of such a grizzly ritual.

“Just you wait and see, ” growled Grum. “Whoever did this will only wish they had left him be. The mind twist was only the beginning of what they will suffer, once I get a blade to ’em.”

“How much of the dark waters did you drink, when you became?” Shelberd wondered.

“Enough to know the lingering sight through dead eyes are still mirrored windows to the soul upon which they are last fixed.”

As he said this, Grum-Blud caught sight of two figures on horseback, sky-lined against the eastern horizon.

“Wuz dis?” he muttered.

Shelberd turned, following his gaze, squinting and then seeing the distant figures as they slowly trotted over the crest of the hill.

“Somepin’s up,” Grum-Blud growled groping in his slung pouch.  He slung the body of his brother off his shoulder laying it in the dust of the road, and retrieved a wooden loop with a large lens from out of a woolen sock.

Raising the lens to his eye he got a better look at the riders in the distance.

“Well, now…,” he mumbled, “what have we here?”

“Let me see,” Shelberd reached for the spyglass, and received a slap on his reaching hand for his trouble.

“Girlies goin’ ta sea. And the rumors of an Oculus sighting. Chance? I think not!”

“What we gonna do? They got horses?”

Grum-blud’s brow furrowed, “Travelin’ by the sea road. But there’s a quicker way through the valley near the old ruins of Bacia.  Jahazah’ll go easier on us if we have some intelligences of these goings on. So we’re gonna get ourselves some bleeding intelligences from these pretties.”

“Um, what?” Shelberd had been looking up at the darkening sky, while Grum-Blud had sole custody of the spyglass.

He did a double-take when he saw Grum-Blud had lowered the spyglass and was now scowling at him.

“What’d I do?!” clearly clueless.

“Idiot!” Grum-Blud growled and pocketed the glass. “Pick up Pawgly and let’s get movin’!”

“Where we goin’?”

“We’re taking the valley cut and going to Bacia.”

“Bacia? Who wants to go there? Just ruins there.  Huts and hovels, Nobody lives there anymore,” Shelberd complained. “Weren’t we suppose to wait to meet Helmer and the others in Crowe?”

“Change of plans.  With Pawgley dead, we got nothin’ for Jahazah, and I ain’t going back to Jahazah until we got somethin’,” Grum-blud growled. “Now grab your end of Pawgley and quit your mewlin’. Girls are getting too far ahead. Move it!”

*Scene 04* 4:50 (Partings)

“Where to now?” I am asked taking me back out of my quiet thoughts.

“We must first go down to see the Marker before we can go up,” I told the group as we packed up our own gear and climbed aboard the buckboard wagon with Begglar and his family.

Begglar has informed me, in no uncertain terms that he and his family are going with us on this quest of ours.  That the Inn has not turned a profit since the Xarmnian conquests began, and that it is not likely ever to again unless they are dealt with.  Once the Xarmnians find out that he had helped a fleeing family, then he and his family’s lives will be forfeit anyway.  Nothing holds them here if all is to be lost anyway.  Besides, for the prolonged journey, we are undertaking, we are going to need someone smart enough to be able to live off the land.  “Someone,” he paused, giving me a sidelong look, “…who can actually cook.  No offense given,” he says.

“And none taken”, I responded.

In our past travels together, Begglar had more than once, remarked upon my poor cooking skills.  I never claimed to be much into the culinary arts.  Under our prior sojourn, under the leadership of Jeremiah, we were each given a rotation of shared duties in our travels, cooking was one area of some contention with road-weary and hungry travelers.  When we encountered those among us with particular skills in certain areas, eventually those previously shared duties were apportioned more to where our natural abilities lie.  Something learned in shared travel experiences.

There was something in that.  A midpoint compromise that struck me as something unique about the calling of a body united by shared faith and mission when placed juxtapose to the opposing political philosophies of the two major powers here.

The Ancient Text says:

“If one part suffers, all the parts suffer with it, and if one part is honored, all the parts are glad. All of you together are Christ’s body, and each of you is a part of it.” [1 Corinthians 12:26-27 NLT]

Each of us is a unique part of one another.  Together we are the fellowship of one body with many different unique gifts and talents.  The collective good and the individual good are both given importance and value when thought of as being within a body of fellowship and faith.  In the exclusive extremes of both the Xarmnian and even the Capitalian political ideals lies the error that leads to division.

As I watched both Christie and Laura ride away, I felt a deep sense of loss.  Like our company was losing the function of two important and unique limbs of our collective company.  Persons who, unbeknownst to them, were each a vital part necessary to our survival.  I had hoped that, as before, the fact that they had willingly given me their names before departing, that they would return to us again before this quest progressed too far.  They were needed more than they know, but in my heart, I knew it was not my decision or right to hold them here against their own will.  The One does not employ tyranny in His Calling.  I had to keep reminding myself of that, as hard as that might be for me.  I had painfully seen, too well what the folly of seeking my own way to accomplishing the quest was.  How much pain and danger and loss would come out of it.

I whispered a quiet prayer for the safety of two women as they and their mounts disappear from view over the eastern slope into the valley of the shadow beyond it.  I did not know how they would get back to us, but I had to leave that responsibility and outworking in hands bigger than mine.

Leadership, I was learning, is not so much in figuring out everything for everyone else and giving them direction, but in being humble enough to listen, learn, and follow.  To admit that I do not have all the answers and to learn from the gifts and talents of those given into my charge.  Each of them is here for a reason.

I ponder that, as I see the bright hopeful faces gathered about, preparing for the days ahead.

*Scene 05* 8:29 (Tainted Waters)

The large powerful man, widely known to the occupants of The Mid-World as “The Walker”, surveyed the gurgling water of the small stream running along the bottom of the Basian valley. Its silvery water course cut through the wide-swath fields of fertile grassland, drown out by the librarian hush of the booking valley winds.  The land used to be harvested by the local farmers, but now was left only to grow wild, for the Xarmnians had violently seized control of the land tracts by raising and burning the area towns, killing many of the townsfolk who used to work the local fields and farms as day laborers.  The headwaters of the mighty Trathorn river were fed by many of these smaller tributary streams running freshwater in from the valley snow melts and underground aquifers.

He had traveled from the seaport town of Skorlith, where the symptoms first started showing up. Something was happening to the townsfolk. A certain malaise arose blanketing in their normally impassioned character. Skorlithians were always known to be a boisterous, rowdy lot, in general. They loved their work, hauling in loads of fish from the fjord lakes and rivers. Cold water catches that had improved in the years following the slaying of the vile leviathan.

The Trathorn was just one of many rivers that fed into the great fjords of Lake Cascale, but it was from there that The Walker learned the cumulative effects were coming.

Only the villagers who drew their water from The Trathorn had the signs of the strange tainting. It tended to show up subtly at first: a dulling of the spirit, a weakening of natural resolve, indecision, aversion to risk, and a deep inner fear that beckoned the onset of a paralysis of passion.

The Skorlithians were the one group of the Mid-Landers that could always be counted on to resist the incursions of the Xarmnians into first-land towns. They had no lack to be exploited by the appeal of Xarmni traders.  Their present self-described “King” could gain no amount of leverage against a people who thrived on self-sufficiency and the bounty gained from their own sweat, blood, and ingenuity. A people who had no basic needs for the wares and production of Xarm were perceived as a threat by their king, and to be regarded with heightened suspicion. The Skorlithians were seafarers, boat people, more content on the water than ever on land.  They drew their living from the fresh waters of the massive chain of lakes between the lower end of the highland valley and the great stone forests of mountains to the western horizon. Shellfish, cold water crab, eels, seals, and a variety of edible fish comprised their main diets coupled with locally grown vegetables harvested from home gardens that flourished in the rich lakeside soils.

Neighboring Mid-Land communities further in towards the rising highlands supplied grassland grains for their breads and malts and cultured hives supplied them with miel and herds of goats, kept swine, sheep and cattle their occasional luxuriant fare of meats.

These trading relationships were solid and allowed no opportunities for the Xarmnians to disrupt the trade, for the Skorlithians were a proud and strong people and would savagely defend the inner towns against intrusions.

The mutually supplied towns of the great valley along the waterfronts were the places where the Xarmnians met their strongest resistance, so the Xarmnian king had withdrawn his forces and sought their supplies through conquering and terrorizing the smaller more remote communities further east where the Skorlithians could not prevent their brutal reign, and from these conquests they had gained their strength over time and eventually amass a sizable army of foot and horse soldiers to eventually move in against the lower coveted valley towns.  The king had a careful long-range plan to conquer the inner kingdoms in deceit, through dependency or failing those by swift and brutal might without raising the alarm of their distant kindred the Capitalians who dwelt beyond the fjord lakes among the stone mountains behind their massive wall.  If ever the Capitalians moved beyond their insulting barrier wall, the “Son of Xarm” wanted them to discover that all lands toward the east of their insulting boundary had now bowed and fallen in allegiance to their sworn enemy, the mighty Kingdom of Xarm.

The Walker knew their history and the contention and animosity that lie between these “Brother Kingdoms” and he knew their fraternal conflict would literally rip this Mid-World apart if it ever succeed into an outward war.

His family and those descendants of The Fire Prophet would be caught in the mix of this coming conflict, and the world beyond this Middle world would suffer the most as a result.

In the meantime, someone or something was poisoning the fresh waters of The Trathorn, and it was affected all of those who drew and drank from its waters.  Thousands would be affected by the tainting of those waters for The Trathorn was one of the purest rivers coming from the eastern highlands and the eastern sea.  The effects, he sensed were not a natural poison that most certainly would have been purged in the flow over its downward journey, but of an origin of something else more…supernatural.

Seeing the two Trolls on the outskirts of the small highland town of Crowe confirmed it.  Someone was collecting transformative waters and turning these unfortunates into these unnatural creatures. He had heard the rumors from the Xarmnian lands.  That these trolls were more amenable to the wildness of other dark creatures who also bore a curse in their flesh. The Xarmnians were planning something but may have also unwittingly and foolishly let loose other agents of darkness into the Mid-World against which they had no defense.

He had collected small strains of the black water, along his trek up the winding course of The Trathorn seeking the source of it.  The strands of the black water swirled angrily in the wax sealed glass vial he had collect them in.  He sensed a spiritual malevolence in the twisting threads of black that swirled continually and bumped aggressively against the confines of the glass tube.  In this world, the twisting filaments had a metaphysical form these strains were not used to. In this existence, they could be constrained and captured under something a simple as glass. In another world, however, their only constraint was by divine injunction against affecting and tormenting those persons against which they were not given permission.

*Scene 06* 3:45 (Watchers in the Woods)

Large, yellow-rimmed eyes watched, almost unblinkingly from the cover of the trees surrounding the property belonging to Begglar.  A light breeze brushed through the mane of the tall, dense foliage, but failed to comb out the tangled and twisted, heart beating beneath a feathered half-human breast.  It’s face was a dappled greyish-pink, fixed into a scowl, scored with the lapping shorelines of ages of waiting.  Her large black talons dug vise-like into the lacerated branch that held her weight.  Her shanks were covered in hammered metal collars that bore a wickedly sharp barb, arched downward, so that it would not cut her when she nested.  The metal bands, however, bore a red-dust, that made her powerful, thick claws appear bloodied, though they were presently dried.  The creature was quite pleased with the effect.

A susurration of wind stirred and sway the treetops covering her low warbling chirrups, as she both hummed and cackled at the oblivious gathering of the people below.  She craned her ruffled neck, spotting her sister perched three trees away to the south.

“They’ve come together, at last,” she observed. “From shore to sea.  The keeper of the Inn, appears to be with them. Where to? Where to? Next things.  Always next things.”

The shadowy feathered sister’s head bobbed in agreement, answering.  “Girls going east, they are. But the company lingers.  Wagon’s being loaded. Me thinks, they proceed to The Sacred Hill.  Shall we fly to the stone-halled king?”

“Wait and see,” the first one bid her, “Wait and see.”

Her aquiline nose sniffed the breeze blowing to the clap of thousands of tiny leafed-cymbals.  She could smell the salty brine of the sea upon its drafts, coming from the eastern horizon, and sense the degree of chill beginning to bite, and the air pressure drop in a slow but steady decline.  A storm was coming.  The girls were riding away into a sea borne storm. And the others, unwittingly into a storm of steel and blades.  The Xarmnians were coming for them.  An hour, maybe more and they would ride abreast through the hamlet of Crowe, and seize this party of interlopers and end what ever hope and intentions that had brought them here.  She couldn’t help but chuckle a little.  Such gullible simpletons, these full-men had become.  She was amazed that she had ever entertained the deep desires to become like them once again.

*Scene 07* 10:44 (Leaving the Inn)

The barnyard was clear.  The animals tended.  The stables filled with fresh straw, and ample feed poured into a gravity feeder to allow the stock to feed until other caretakers could come and spirit them away in the evening.

Begglar had told me the plan was to keep the Inn and its functions appearing as if nothing was out of the ordinary, when the Xarmnians finally did come.  The skeleton staff were to report that the proprietor and his wife had gone to the neighboring village of Cradlesbower to purchase supplies and food stuffs in preparation for the upcoming winter season.  They were to report that they should return any day now.  That the Xarmnians were free to wait and enjoy to hospitality of the Inn until they returned.  The hope was that the semblance of routine and normalcy might stall the Xarmnian pursuit for a few days, allowing us to get further along in our journey.

I help Begglar hitch the team of horses to the wagon: A rudimentary buckboard rig that appears to have seen better days.  Its wood is ash gray, weathered.  Polished smooth by the countless burdens it had no doubt transported in the commandeered service to Xarmnian supply. But it appears sturdy and tested.  Interior boxes along the side rails of the wagon bed served as storage compartments and a long bench seat box for riders too weary to walk or ride horses.  The doubled-slat floor, reinforced the wagon bed, allowing it to carry a large load of fine milled grain or shucked kernels of corn without losing the cargo through the sifting cracks between the hand lathed boards as it jostled over mountain roads.  Begglar said the Xarmnians often followed a loaded wagon, looking along the road for wastes and spills, and would deal severely with the wagon owner if they found trace evidence that he had not maintained the integrity of his wagon enough to their liking.  Any excuse to beat someone as an example to other haulers and drivers would serve.  As such, the end gate of Begglar’s wagon was double-reinforced with a carved trim that fit into a notch to prevent run-off through the edge of the gate hinges, when the wagon had to be pulled up a grade.  Flexible bows were also stored in the seat boxes, to allow the bed to be covered with a canopy, as well as length of rope to secure the oiled canvas over the bows with ties and sewn tie backs.  The wagon was a medieval-style marvel, born of necessity, reticent of the covered wagon trains utilized in the pioneer days of the early American west.  Begglar took great pride in its construction and showed me its many features in much the same way as a hobbyist auto-mechanic might while showing off his refurbished, embellished and restored classic car.

All tolled, Begglar had once had a harras of eighteen horses.  Six for the coaches, six for working stock, and six he loaned out to the local townsfolk, as they shared a rotation of their animals.  The two he had sent with Christie and Laura, named Zohar and Ardolpha, were ones he and Nell would typically ride over country, while they let Dominic drive the wagon.  Any one observing their usual patterns of their periodic re-stocking trips would expect to find those horses missing, if they came calling during the off-season of the Inn.  Their stock horse, Sable, he’d sent with the fugitive family, which his friend Shimri would return to his stable later.

“Amineh, this one,” he said rubbing the nose and neck of the mare he had hitched, “means ‘faithful’.” He secured the girth straps into the cinch ring, snugging it up with two swift tugs, and then rerouting the end through the padded loop, that fed the tracer reins.  He indicated the other mare that I was getting secured to the harness, “That one is Constantine.”

I raised an eyebrow, “You name your horse after the Christian emperor of Byzantium?”

“You might think so, but his name means ‘steady’. And if you ever worked under a Xarmnian taskmaster, these are the two horses you most want pulling your wagon,” he eyed me sidewise, making sure the wooden beam and tongue of the wagon hung evenly between the two horses, closest to the driver’s bench.

“But what we need is strength and speed, for what is ahead. So the lead horses provide that, in as much as they can.  Their names are Ryker and Antioch–strength and speed.  Since we will need both, they are the lead horses, and they are a competitive lot by nature.  So, when they get going, they get going. Understand?”

“You’re saying anyone riding in the wagon should hang on tight?”

“Like to a kite’s string in a gale.”

Begglar and I finished cinching and securing the straps, harnesses and tracers to the lead horses, as Nell organized the others in the dining hall. Dominic helped a few members of our party get into their traveling packs and taught them how to wear them to reduce chaffing and road fatigue.

Several milled about outside the Inn, packs secured and observed us finishing up with the wagon and the team.

We loaded the wagon and the seat boxes with the supplies Nell and Dominic said we would need for the road, along with other food stuffs and sacks of meal and grains that we were to provide to some of the needy in the local townships we would pass through.  Food stuffs, Begglar explained, were more valued than coinage in the open country, for they had immediate value to struggling communities, that gold and silver alone could not meet without brokerage.  Bartering and dickering had become the principle method of commerce in the outerlands, for Xarmni could not exact its onerous taxes and duties from it, and very little records were kept to reveal the honor system transactions.  No one expected to ever receive justice from one of the Xarmnian magistrates, so they avoided those kangaroo courts altogether.  Agreements were reached upon a handshake with two or three witness present from both parties to seal the bargain.  To signify the pacts made, each of the vendors and sellers put their hands upon the hilt of an honor sword belonging to the community, and the witnesses were also honorbound to ensure the secret bargain was kept, without involving Xarmni.

Once loaded we piled in to the wagon.  Some opted to walk along side it, as Begglar stated that we would going slow enough to ease the horses into the long journey, rather than demand their strength and speed too early.

The company seems generally happy to be moving again, though some looked wistfully back at the Inn and the wagon yard and stables growing smaller in the distance as we progress up the rising dirt road angling up to the top of the hill.

Perhaps they are remembering the comforts of a warm bed and fire, and a hot breakfast that will most likely be more sumtuous than anything we are bound to get out on the open road.  Or perhaps, the idea of finally going to The Marker Stone, as I have been alluding to, is somewhat disconcerting.  A few may have overheard a reference to a place called “The Hill of Skulls,” which, understandably, would give any sane person a sense of pause.  But I have kept certain truths to myself, thus far.  It is enough to know what I already know, and the changes made to the site, as told to me by Begglar, do give me a sense of uneasiness as well.  But still.  I know that this is where our journey must begin.  I also know that before The Stone is the best place to make any further confessions that need to be made.  So, I am admittedly nervous about that too.  This could be the place where many will turn away.  Where some may decide to take their cues from Laura’s decision to return back to the Surface World while there is still time.

As I look back to the east, I see a darkness gathering in the sky towards to sea.  I know that the fogs come there from time to time, but perhaps what I’ve done with asking and receiving the names of both of these young women will be enough since neither will be here to see The Marker Stone for themselves.  Sometimes commitments must come entirely by a faith in the unseen.

The journey to the Hill of Skulls is not far.  It is just over the rise, but with a wagon and plodding, horses fatigued by life, we have to wind our way up the side of the grade before cresting the rise.

Seeing the toil of the horses, made me doubt Begglar words of deliberate optimism with regard to his team of horses. I wondered if the names he had been telling me and their meanings were more aligned to his wishful thinking, or attributable to his characteristic Irish blarney, for which he was also so endeared among my former quest mates.

Below us, lay the fields of combat, that Begglar speaks of.  On the hillside just below is a series of mounds in succession, aligned as if they were the backs of great elephants walking down the valley floor to the foothills of the mountain ranges beyond.

Mountain roads formed by the passage of horses and many wagons bruise and scar the hillside with their rutted tracks of passage.  A very large mound is centered between two other mounds.  Its rounded hill is covered by speckled by birds, and large thorn briar bushes and brambles.  The effect of the sight before us is powerful and stirring.  All talk, between us, stills.  There is a reverent hush that we observe as we wind our way downwards.  Down towards its base where tragedy and promise meet.

*Scene 01* 4:25 (Daybreak)

It is early out, but the sun’s promise is lighting the distant peaks.  The persistent fog that covered the grounds last night had fled at the rising of the sun. It is still a few minutes before dawn. The night passed without further incident, though I was restless, reacting at every nocturnal sound.  The hayloft was chilly, but finally settling and burrowing into the straw, I was warm enough.  The fecund smell of earth, dead straw, just a hint of manure and general musty smells of the barn and its miserable four-legged occupants permeated the air and my traveling cloak and knapsack.  Whoever walks next to me, may want to do so upwind.

There is some activity in the inn as my fellow travelers awake to the smell of pan-fried bacon, sausages and a large skillet of scrambled eggs.  I see the Inn door open as Begglar tosses out a pan of sudsy wash water.  I am shocked to see him up this early.  After how he ended the evening I figured him to be in no condition for it.  His wife is there with him, and his boy.  Looks like they are getting ready for a big breakfast.  Despite the dealings of yesterday, Begglar seems different.  Almost like his old self again.

The bells are being rung.  Breakfast is ready.  Time to find out what is to become of this day.

We joined together over a hot, lavish and bountiful breakfast in the Inn’s dining hall. The air inside the dining hall is redolent with the mouth-watering flavors of smoked meat, the dry pinch and tang of pepper, the buttery-smell of warm bread. 

Grateful for the hospitality of Begglar and his small family, I offered to pay him as much as I could spare from my leather satchel.  But he refused the money, saying we might need whatever coinage we could spare for what lay ahead.  Besides the very imprint of the coins I offered would most likely get us killed.  The metal needed to be melted down into slag that could be recast into Xarmnian currency.  The old coins were evidence of prior loyalties, and they had been confiscated in the prior purge.

“You need ta understand somethin’, O’Brian.  The days of welcoming travelers, the fellowship of sharing tales from abroad, and general goodwill among men are over here.  Hope only comes here ta die.”

I am reminded by his words of my request and his comments from yesterday.

“Hope has not died yet,” I indicated the others still enjoying their breakfast and sharing and passing pewter plates of crisp bacon, and scraping hungrily at an amalgam of eggs fried and scrambled, with a light cream gravy, and crisp dark rye bread, “Take us to The Marker as you promised.”

Begglar clenched and unclenched his fists and finally, wiped them on his server’s apron.  He leaned in and further lowered his voice, “About that now.  I’ve been needing to speak to you in private.  Something has happened to the marker.”  Before I could protest, he hushed me and looked around himself, covering my arm before I could lift it and make any gesture that might cause unnecessary attention to be drawn our way.

He pursed his lips and then stood, giving me a nod to follow him to a more private place where we could speak without being overheard.

When I learned the truth of his shameful secret I was amazed, shocked, and angered.

*Scene 02* 3:05 (Xarmnian Dawn)

The first light was bloodshot within the great stone City of Xarmni.  The black stone and crenelated tops of the city walls rose upward like the bottom of a massive eyelid against the jaundiced sclera of the glaring sky.

Silhouetted against the forbidding dawn, thirty slacken shapes of various lengths, drooped and swayed in the wet chill of the morning from ropes dangling from the high ramparts.  Bodies. Ominous examples made to assuage the unchecked wrath and suspicions of a vengeful and paranoid monarch.

Some had been randomly selected by the soldiers from among people. Others specifically targeted by those seeking to avail themselves of certain privileges afforded by their untimely demise under the cover of following the king’s command.

The Son of Xarm had wanted all traitors dead–all who held any potential loyalty or secret hope in the prophecies concerning the Ancient Marker Stone to be cut off from the land of the living.

And the Xarmnian monarch’s orders were not to be denied.

The city walls were no longer protection from the threat of outside invaders but now served as the formidable boundaries of a prison wherein dwelt the insane and brutal regime that fed on the power derived from its captive subjects.

From a balcony above the paved parade ground, the Son of Xarm glared out at the striated pallor of the yellowing dawn.

He had dispatched a troop of men to move towards the eastern lands to see what had become of the invaders from the sea.

He brooded over disquieting thoughts that had kept him awake throughout the misty night.

He had presided over the hanging of those of his subjects who had been identified as traitors, but their deaths did little to set his mind at ease.

Some of those dangling from the ramparts had been those he would have sworn were loyal to him.  Others had been unknowns. Young and old, middle-aged, and of no distinction.  Blood for blood.

Still, there was no way of knowing what secrets had been held in each of their hearts.  Better to be safe than sorry.  Problem was…he still did not feel safe from that accursed Stone, high in the eastern hills towards the sea, so very far away.

*Scene 03* 3:14 (Creatures of the Night)

“The body is gone,” I told Begglar when we stepped outside.  “I checked the hillside early this morning.”

Begglar stopped and looked off in the distance.  I could see him scanning the horizon and the hillside warily.

“I heard voices on the hill last night. Before you came back. I think they took the body, but am not sure how they found it in the fog.”

Begglar grumbled and muttered, “Trolls almost never travel alone.”

Begglar strode ahead, moving up the hillside behind the inn.  I followed, trying to keep up with him, scrambling upward over loose gravel.

“You think they were Trolls also? How could they be? It was dark.”

Begglar harrumphed, “What does that matter?”

“Aren’t they diurnal? I thought they all slept at night?”

Begglar squatted where the burnt body had been.  There were scraping marks and bits of ash and flecks of charred cloth here and there, showing definite signs that the body had been partially dragged, partially hefted, and conveyed up the hill.

“You’ve been gone a long time. We’ve learned a lot more about Trolls since then.”

Begglar pointed to twisted rocks and partial knuckle prints.

“Aye,” he said raising off his haunches and dusting his hands from pawing at the ground, “They be two or perhaps three that were here. We’ll have to move soon, but there is still more to do before we go and much more to say.”

“What do you mean?!”

“Bagging and binding them used to work, but we didn’t realize what was happening before. I had wondered why you bagged this one, but I forgot you have been gone for twenty years.”

“Twenty-one.”

“Aye, but Trolls are much more prevalent now.  Darkness is when the infected ones hibernate.  Nightfall was a trigger altering them physically into what they will become during their sleep.  Body processes slow to use all their energy for the turning. This is why we were able to subdue them in the past. Turn out the lights and they hibernated into their becoming.”

“But now?”

“The older ones who have completed the change always keep to the shadows during daylight and are then fully creatures of the night. If it’s only Trolls, they’ll not be back till this evening. And we’d all better be long gone by then.”

*Scene 04* 2:45 (Cold)

Miray had followed Nell throughout the breakfast preparations and was now carefully carrying dishes into the kitchen, close behind her.

The words that the child had spoken in her restless dreams troubled Nell, and she allowed Miray to keep close to her during the morning’s chores, keeping her occupied and feeling useful.  In a roundabout way, she needed to ask the girl somethings about her dreams, and the name the girl had spoken with such dread and trembling.  A name the girl did not remember after waking.  The name spoken aloud seemed to create a resonant chill in the air, of both sound and temperature, and move outward like an ominously rolling ripple across the surface of a still water pond.  Nell realized that this perceptive sensation might be due to the attuning of her gifted sight.

When Nell and Miray were alone in the kitchen, she set some of the dishes down and took the plates from Miray.

“You’re such a big help, little one,” Nell smiled, gently patting the girl’s head. “Can I ask you something?”

“You betcha,” Miray grinned.

“You told us last night that you didn’t want to sleep in the same bed with the other little girl because she was cold.  What did you mean by that?”

Miray pursed her lips and shrugged.

“Well, she was cold and kept putting her hands on me. I asked her to stop, but she wouldn’t.”

“Perhaps she wanted to get warm,” Nell offered.

“She wasn’t warm. She never got warm. She only wanted me to get cold.”

“But how do you know?” Nell pressed.

“Her skin stays cold.  Her legs and arms are all cold. You an Sheryl didnent feel her. Sheryl got mad at me ’cause she thought I was being selfish, but I’m not!”

The level of distress from the prior night was returning, and Nell realized that if she pressed further, the little girl would withdraw trust from her as well.  Trust had to be earned. And the task of earning it would take time.

*Scene 05* 4:52 (Secret Defiance)

“Walk the perimeter with me,” Begglar said.  “There are some hard things you need to hear.”

I followed him as we carefully made our way up the rocky brow of the crescent hillside overlooking the back of the inn.  We tracked the scrabbled marks where the two prowlers had carried the body of their comrade over the summit and circled the grassy down-slope into the forest glade that ran along the roadside leading down into the township of Crowe.

We lost their trail sign as soon as it led into the woodland for the night winds had stirred the leafy detritus of the forest floor masking the transit of the two and their gruesome cargo.

We had barely made conversation as we move further from the inn, and I wondered how long it might take before Begglar’s reluctance to tell me the “hard things” he had alluded, gave way to the need for it.

When the sign petered out, Begglar crossed through the brush to an obscured animal pathway winding through the trees. We walked along the hoof-beaten path, lined with a series of half-buried stones.

“What is this?” I asked, curious as to why an animal path might have a stone border running along its edge.

“Moon path,” Begglar said simply.

“What’s a moon path?”

“We use it when we have to go out at night. It’s a smugglers’ trail.  Especially helpful on nights like the last, when the sea-fogs reach the highlands.”

“What do you mean?”

“The rocks glow when the mists come in.”

“How does that happen?” 

“They’re covered in road dust during the day. When they get wet, in rain or fog, the dust washes off and the minerals in them give off a soft light. You can ride close to them on horseback and make time.  This one runs from the wagon yard off the back of the inn to a branch of trails skirting the village.  We buried the stones low in the ground and keep the path in the thick of the woods, so they can’t be seen unless one is close enough or stumbles on them cutting across the forest trails.”

Begglar looked around, seeming to satisfy himself that we were far enough away from listening ears.

“But these are not all that’s been buried…”

“What do you mean?”

“Shortly after you left, Xarmni began its ‘Purge’ campaign. Villages were ransacked and pillaged. Brutal marauders from the north were brought in. Violent men.

“Xarmni has a new monarch–one of the bastard sons of Xarm–bent on avenging the death of his father and brothers.  He has no name.  Or rather, he has abandoned his given name and refers to himself merely by his title, and requires his subjects to address him as such, as if that will, somehow, give him legitimacy to the cruel throne upon which he sits as successor.” 

Begglar sighed as he began to tell me of terrors that followed and how The Marker had been buried under a hill of death, stone, and earthworks.

The name of that hill, I was told by Begglar, had come to be known as Blaosc Cnoc /‘Blee-isk knuk/.  A Gaelic phrase.

In English, it was translated, “The Hill of Skulls”.

“The name given to the place where the Marker resides is not merely a title…but more of a description.”  He let that sink in, then continued.

The location, he said, was just over the rise, at the top of a descending hill.  It used to be visible to all villages and cities occupying the valley beyond it.

“The place is a living graveyard. A great mound of earth and bones.  The Xarmnians could not touch The Marker Stone, so terrified they were of it.  So its burial fell to us.  We were forced to entomb it with the slain from the battlefields of their conquest.  And much to our shame, we did so.  Though not in the way they expected.  And that has been our secret defiance.  A secret that I must now share with you.”

*Scene 06* 30:38 (Begglar’s Burden)

It took a moment for me to realize what exactly he was saying.

“Buried?! You buried The Marker Stone?! How are we to get to it now?  To renew the Stone Quests that it called us here for?!  What had you done?”

Begglar steadied me with a hand on my shoulder as I swooned with the implications of what he was telling me.

Without access to the Marker Stone, all was lost. There was no point in being called back into the Mid-World.

“If you will but listen to me a moment, this is what I’ve been trying to tell you. How we defied the Xarmnian orders to bury the stone entirely. There’s still a way to access The Marker, though they believe it to be buried.”

“How?!” I said, folding my arms and shaking my head in despair.

“There are tunnels under Blaosc Cnoc.  Narrow corridors that form concentric rings leading to the inner room where The Marker still stands–like a central pillar to the man-made hill that surrounds it. There is but one model that comes from the Ancient Text, whereby a house can be built for such as this.”

“What are you saying?”

“We built a great ring of stones around The Marker. Like an outer courtyard, it was.  Comes from the design of the Tent of Meeting–and later Solomon’s Temple.”

“How?”

“There is…one builder stone unaccounted for.”

I eyed Begglar, at last comprehending what he was saying.

“It is still no excuse for what we did, but it was something we could do, for the Xarmnians still do not know what The Marker Stone is, and what it truly represents, or the nature of its mysteries.”

Begglar wrung his weathered hands, a profound and deep sadness in his downcast eyes.  He looked back towards the inn, yearning for the libation he had intended to guzzle down before retiring the previous night.  He visibly trembled, and I feared he might collapse, so I steadied him while he told me more of the truths.

“At first, I dinna know what it was all about.  The soldiers, the Protectorate, came in line after line, seeking to destroy the Marker.  They cleaved at it with swords and thrust countless spears at its words, but they could not chip its dark basalt surface, nor scar one tiniest mark of the lettering there.  Hours upon hours, the violent noises of the clanging and clashing of sword and spear, hammer and chisel went on and on into the night, under the angry glow firelight.  The soldiers and townsmen, craftsmen, and women tried and tried again to chip away at the prophecy, to mar even a single letter, but none could do it.  When those vandalous efforts were finally exhausted, they painted over the letters with tar and pitch, tinctures, and vinegar-like concoctions, but nothing could fade or entirely cover the letters. Exhaustion finally stilled the raging of the night assaults.  But in the morn, the golden letters still shone through as if nothing had soiled The Marker Stone’s surface.”

He eyed me quietly, and solemnly, and almost choked on the words he began to say next.

“Then they…,” tears, unwanted and unbidden formed in his eyes and began to spill quietly down his cheeks.  He swallowed, tried to continue, faltered, then began again.

“Then they began to pour blood on it.  So angry they were.”

“Night after night, we heard the screams–saw the long line of torches, as people were dragged and let up the valley slope in companies of soldiers.

“I hid Nell and my boy, in the stables under the straw in the hayloft.”

His eye pleaded, that I relieve him of continuing with this misery tale, but I quietly urged him to continue.

“There are more stables, just within a half hour’s walk from here.  There they keep their supply of horses.  The soldiers’ horses.  Warhorses.  The kinds that bear armor and are broken, built back up, and ridden in battle.  There is also the travelers’ stock.  Horses bred for speed and long distances over rough terrain.  These breeds were once shared with the postal service messengers.  But when the messengers quit running from the hinterlands, these horses were commandeered by the mounted armies of Xarmni.  Capitalia used to keep a herd of running stock there before the hostilities grew out of hand, but no more.  The Xarmnians took those over too,” he sighed trailing off in thought.

I waited.

Directly, he continued.

“Well, it was my job to see to the stock, and to see to it the hirelings did their job minding the duties of keeping these herds watered, sheltered against the night winds, and well-fed.”

He eyed me for a moment.

“The folks I brought into that service were starving.”

He cleared his throat, “They had once been good men.  But I had some trouble with them.  Stealing was what it amounted to.”

His gaze was distant again.

“They were given wages by the Xarmnians.  Precious little to survive on themselves, much less to feed a family with.  But the horses, on the other hand.  Well…”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sleeve and stared at it for a moment.

“The horses were treated ever so much better than the Xarmnian subjects were or those of the conquered peoples.  Sacks upon sacks of good dried corn and horse meal, milled and ground in the granaries of the valley below were sent upwards in wagons to fill the feed larders and troughs of these herds.  Grains and kernels of corn, golden and plenteous.  Stored in bag after bag in towering mounds within the locked barns adjacent to the stables and separating corrals.  Cows were kept in fields nearby to graze and were also stabled near the horses.  It was only natural to those men, to desire just a little of the wheat, barley, and corn to plant small gardens for their families in their off-hours.  Only the Xarmnian Protectorate Guards did not see it that way.  Examples were made of these thieves.  They were taken to open fields where the soldiers…”

He stopped, bringing a trembling hand to his mouth, staunching a cry of misery at the flood of memories.  He found a kerchief and dabbed at his eyes, taking in a shuddering breath.

“We were made to watch.  The soldiers making sport of them, practicing their valor and skill on mere subsistence farmers.  Nell and my boy, were made to stand there and watch it… as a lesson…to what could happen, if there were any more thefts from the grain barns.”

His eyes returned to me and he spoke quietly in a chilling distant whisper, “I never had trouble with the workers after that.  But of course, the Xarmnian leaders were not through teaching the subjects further lessons, now were they?  And that is where they came to the site of the Marker and their night schools, didn’t they?”

Begglar leaned against the gatepost of the stable and looked away into the pasture and to the horizon over the sloping rocky grade where the Troll had met its fiery demise.

“I have hidden my family for as long as I could.  When Nell and the boy were not present, I had almost made excuses for their absence, but I began running out of them and the soldiers were beginning to suspect.

“One night, I was roused and called to watch over the horses, as a woman was led before the stone marker many years ago.  Xarmnian leadership suspected her of sedition, so she was handed over to the guards and taken outside of the town, up the rise to the stone marker.  She was forced to kneel before it and told to spit at it and renounce the message she could read there on the Marker, flickering in the light of several torches.  She refused and was callously dispatch with a spear thrown through her back as she knelt and wept.

“Meanwhile, I later learned from Nell that some of the guards stayed back near the inn and were searching the rooms and came into the stables and were about to discover them hidden in the hayloft when the other guards returned from the execution.  Thankfully they abandoned the search but stayed just outside of the Inn for a while being sure before they rode off into the night, and I was allowed to return.

“Countless nights followed and I was not molested further or charged with keeping vigil over the horses until much later.  I am my family kept our distance and did not go over the rise to see the Marker again until much, much later.  Every night we could hear the screams and cries of war tearing through the country below, echoing in the mountains and hills beyond it.  Terrible sounds of great wooden war machines rumbling over the unsteady ground, siege engines and catapults hurling great boulders through arrayed lines of men and boys defending their cities against the arrayed attacks of their neighboring country.  The strike and clang of swords on shields made of pounded iron and think leather hides, great striking clangs of hammers both to build and to tear down.  The low distant buzzing of the fallen on the fields of battle crying out in their agony, moaning in their misery are scavengers and carrion birds picked from among them the choicest morsels of flesh.  And the flies.  Dark clouds of them creating false twisting shadows over the lands below.  The stench riding upon shifting winds was unbearable and we stayed in as much as we could manage it.

“Carrion birds circled the sky by the thousands, riding the mountain thermals with great outstretched black wings, just over the summit where beyond the basalt Marker lay.  From a distance, we couldn’t help but watch as Xarmnian wagon-load after wagon-load rocked and creaked up the rising grade to the area where the Marker stood, just out of our field of vision.

“Finally, the day came when the soldiers of the Protectorate returned to my house,–my inn–and bid me go with them to the Ancient site of the Marker. 

“When I hesitated, they looked over at my boy.  He had grown taller since they saw him last.  A worker’s build already turning his for from boy to man.  I was asked how old he was, to which I replied he was only thirteen seasons.  To my horror, it was clear they were considering him for a place in their army.  To their eyes, I flung away my reluctance and hesitancy and quickly prepared to go with them.  In my thoughts, however, I knew that I had trusted in a fool’s bargain and that once my Dominic came of age, these soldiers would be back to claim him for their ranks.  I had lied to them.  Dominic was fourteen.  Two years shy of being old enough to be forced into their conflict.  How stupid I was to ever believe that they might allow him to stay here and take my place in the care and upkeep of the Inn.  Dominic had seen me bow and scrape before them on countless occasions in fear.  He had never once seen me stand up to them, resist or defy them for the vile evil creatures they were.  I knew then that, in some way, that day would be different,…and because of that…it may be my last.”

Begglar looked at me more directly now.  His eyes clear and green as emeralds and focused on me.

“First, they took me to the southwest to gather the workmen and their stable wagons we had there for hauling grain and had us all get as many spades and digging tools as we could manage to find.  Then, they were loaded up once more and carried north around the rise where the Marker lay.  The area was much changed as you will soon see.  Two kinds of wagon groups were there and from the expanse, I could see the flickering light of much too many cook fires scattered up and down the rise.  Only they weren’t cook-fires, per se.  The Marker was still there standing solid and defiant in the hollow center a rapidly growing and encircling mound of…human skulls, boiled and dried clear of most of the flesh that would have identified the person they once had been in life.  As we were forced closer we could see that the jaw bone of each skull had been broken off and removed from the skulls making them symbolically mute in death in defiance of what they may have been in life.  The wagons closest to the Marker mounds were filled with mounds of dark earth.  So much that the ruts of their wheels cut deep furrows in the ground until it almost reached the bottom of their creaking axles.  Thousands of Xarmnians were hard at work, hammering loose those few skulls that still bore the unfortunate’s jaw bone.  These were collected in another wagon, hauled away, dumped in a pit and burned to ash.  Vultures and black scavenge birds swooped in great gyres over the sloping fields, hungrily surveying the cook fires and wagons full of human heads in various stages of decay.

“A guard grabbed me and shoved me to a large man, standing on the hillside with arms folded, in over watch duty.

“You there!” he said, “Procurator wants to speak with you.”

“I was taken before the man who stood with massive forearms bound with leather and steel bracer plates.  His body bore the scars of war.  Wounds healed and wounds that took a long time doing so.

“He pointed to the wagons of dirt just outside of the growing pile of skulls encircling The Marker.

“Our men are and women are needed in other duties.  We tire of boiling the heads clean, but cannot risk the possibility of sickness.  You and your men will cover the skulls with dirt which we will expect your men to unload and build up around the Rock.  They will deliver the boiled skulls first, then the rotting ones after.  Your job, until it is complete, is to bury that Rock in skulls and dirt until you have formed a great mound over it.  Xarmnians will not go near it, but you and your men most certainly will.  First, though, I need to know–that you have no interest or allegiance to what is written on the stone.  Follow me.  Those were his very words.”

“A soldier grabbed me by the cuff and shoulder, pressing his hard grip into the scar I bore underneath.  I was taken down before the stone’s inner circle and made to curse and spit on the stone three times.  I remember, vividly.  It was early morning, and in the distance a cock crowed as soon as I have denied any sympathy or attachment to the stone for the third time, swearing upon my life that I bore it or its message no confidence or allegiance.

Begglar trembled at the memory.

“The Overseer said it was enough and set us to the job of burying the Marker in dirt and gore.  For months we worked, in stench and filth beyond imagining.  The mound of skulls and wormy earth build up around the Rock in a semi-circle that eventually shadowed it away from the sky.  Both me and my men were still afraid to touch the stone, however, and the Xarmnians understood this for they shied away from it as well, both man and boy.  The hill built up over time, forming a hollowed-out center around the stone.  Just as I said. A walkway had been kept open, between the outer ring and the center stone, for despite the task, soldiers at night still brought people into the area and executed them if they would not dishonor The Stone and its message of a once hopeful prophecy.  Clearly, these were terrible times, and there has been no evidence that the words might ever be fulfilled in my lifetime or the next.  Still, it seemed such a terrible betrayal of the last vestige of hope, and in secret, I have wept over that more than I can bear repeat.  I remember so long ago when The Stone’s message was a curiosity that we before would regale visitors to the inn with, showing that there is still some unexplained mysteries let in this world and in these lands.  I once wholeheartedly believed that…

“Still do, actually.  There is something mysterious and wonderful about the Stone.  So ,quietly, my few trusted men and did something within the mound before we completely covered it up.  We left an opening.  A tunnel, beneath the weight of the earth and bones covering it.  A passage to the center where The Stone sits unmarked and entombed.  Despite the danger to ourselves, I am still very glad I did this one small act of resistance.  For it makes a very unlikely hiding place for my family when the soldiers come.

“And come they will.  My son is now eighteen.  Clearly past the age where boys are inducted and conscripted into the Xarmnian armies.  They will try to take him from me and my Nell.  But when they come, he has a place to hide now.  And I will lie to them as they lie to me, and say a fever took him from me.  An illness I infected him with as he and my most trusted men built the passage into the burial mound.  An ancient sort of cairn it is.  Like the ones in the country, I left long ago.  That illness that took my boy…well…let’s just call it ‘Courage.’  It was what made him see something in me that I had long forgotten and failed to practice.  It is what made by boy turn from being just a boy into the man he now is today.”

As Begglar finished speaking, I notice a change in him.  Something like finding again a piece of himself that he’d long since forgotten, and feeling that delight as fond memories flooded back into his mind while holding, once again, that newly recovered talisman of Hope.

*Scene 07* 4:12 (The Walker)

Three hundred and sixty-five days. The amount of ordered time it took for the eretz, The Earth, The Surface World to travel one complete circuit around the Greater Light once called Sol. That was the amount of years given for the man known as ‘The Walker’ to live upon that Ancient World.

The Walker was an enigma. A living riddle, shrouded in mystery and held in intimacy with it.

His son was the oldest man to have ever lived upon the Surface World–an incredible lifespan of nine hundred sixty-nine years of solar revolutions, yet his son had died BEFORE him.

The Walker’s oldest grandfather, seven generations earlier had been born without a mother.

But here–in the Mysterious Between Land, known as The Mid-World–that same man had walked for centuries.  Ever watching over the tragic decline of mankind and their inability to read the myriad symbols and signs of the coming and revealing…of The One of whom all prophecies foretold.

He had once been a great teacher.  His very name, in the first language ever spoke by human tongue, had that very meaning–Teacher.

From a young age, as far back as he could remember, he had wanted to learn and share his discoveries with him kindred. He felt it impressed upon his very soul to discover the meaning behind all things.  And in this, at the age of sixty-five of his total three hundred and sixty-five days, he was shown his Purpose by The One who had called him to be the first in an ancient line of Prophets.

A prophet who would be given the visions of what was to ultimately become of the races of men.

Both from within the future and from a perspective from outside of it.

For he was the first to be taken outside of Time–the fourth dimensional element of mankind’s binding realm–and see its serpentine coil stretching downward.

Time was not linear, but a spiral descent called forth out of chaos into the final refining judgement of The Holy Fire. A brazen, coiled serpent, lifted up on a crossbeam and central pole of redemption.

The broad shouldered, massive man stood silently in the forest shadows, watching as the two trolls slowly lifted themselves out of leafy graves, dragging a charred corpse behind them.

They moved frog-like, in rustling spurts, dragging and jerking the burnt remains across the crackling leaves with a “slush-slush” sound, until the lead troll halted and raised its eyes.

“What is it, Grum?” the smaller of them whispered.

The larger only gestured towards the shadowed figure standing tall and solid in the filtered light seeming to block out all sunlight behind.

A voice, deep and resonant, broke the silence, coming from the towering man, as if arising out of a deep well.

“You’ve drank from the waters of the vision pools,” he said quietly, though its effect on the two was as if the words had fallen on them from a thundering sky.

It was an observation. Not a question.

Terror filled the two quaking body bearers.  To their dark, little fiendish minds, there was nothing more frightening than a righteous man who had walked within the heart of The Marker Stone.

*Scene 01* 7:41 (Nell Remembers)

Begglar’s wife, Nell, was worried.

It had been so many years since other Surface Worlders had been seen in the Mid-World lands and never before in such numbers as these.  Begglar, her husband had been among the fourteen travelers from the mysterious Other Land, when she’d first met him.  She had heard that the first party of Other Land travelers had been only a party of seven, but that was many years before her time and before she or her brother had been born.

Her parents had lived in the “ghost town” at that time.  A town that was long dead now.  A place she had heard was being reborn in secret, but a place she wanted no part of because of the great tragedy that had stolen her parents from her.  At any other time, she and her brother might have gone with them there.  But if they had, she knew they both would have joined them in death.

Her life and her world had been crushed in the aftermath.  She had on many occasions wished she would have died with them, and not been trapped in Surrogate – “Sorrows Gate” as it was renamed.  A fitting title because it reflected her deepest pain.  Had it not been for the kindness of Noadiah taking her and her brother in, they might have starved to death when the Xarmnians came to take over their city and placed the quarantine edicts in the town’s square, forbidding anyone from going out to investigate what had happened with the dead city.

Her world had darkened, and her brother had taken their deaths hard as well.  In an instant, she had been thrust cruelly into blinking and stunned adulthood.  She had to do whatever was necessary to make provision for herself and her brother.

She had been raised in the family business of small-scale merchants.  Her parents had tried to raise them to one-day take over for them, but her brother, Corimanth, was not properly and consistently disciplined.  Indulged too much, he had proved a difficult problem to manage by herself.  He resented her, resented the tragedy of losing his parents at such a young age, and became belligerent and unmanageable.  He wanted to lash out but had no constructive way to do so, so he had gotten into frequent mischief.  At one point, he left for many days and did not return, and she had feared the worst.  She imagined that he had gone too far and had foolishly challenged the Xarmnians and had met with a swift and brutal death somewhere.

Noadiah had been kind to them–had given them work in her Inn–but something had broken deep within Nell’s heart.  She doubted that she would ever be able to feel much of anything again, so she became despondent but dutifully served Noadiah with the up-keep of her place: cooking, cleaning, attending to travelers of all types.  Rebuffing the advancements of lewd men, suffering the sneers and jests of bawdy women.  Until the strange group of sojourners from the north came–men from Capitalia, but not originally so.  Men who had a secret plan to defy the Xarmnian edicts–to challenge the brutal regime’s uncontested rule and dominance of their native lands.  They had arrived to start a rebellion.  And with the way she was feeling, she felt she had nothing to lose in secretly helping them with their cause.

And then the strange crew of Surface Worlders arrived.  And she met a tall, proud and broad-shouldered man among them.  And her heart had been smitten.  Perhaps, there was hope for breathing life into her wounded heart again.

Time and the man’s persistent and steadfast affections had won her over.

She loved this man, more now than she ever knew was possible.  They had been through a lot together, and time had taken a toll on both of them.  Weathered them to some degree, but the real ravager had been the constant strain of living under occupied hostility.  The Xarmnians had been brutal and gaining in strength, while the people they oppressed diminished and perished under their brutal thumb.  When Begglar had come to her and proposed and laid out his strange but clever plan, she had been fearful but trusting.  It would never work, she’d thought, but the chance to be with the man she had grown to love was a force that could not be denied.  She would risk it.  Once married, they could not live a full life on the run forever.  So, they had left Sorrow’s Gate and had moved to this small high village of Crowe.  “A fitting name”, Begglar had said, because it had reminded him of an author and the story, he’d once read in his Surface World life about hiding in plain sight.  Remarkably, Begglar’s ludicrous scheme had worked for many years now.  They had hidden right under the very noses of their oppressors.  They had enjoyed a modestly good life for a long season.

Their son’s arrival had been an unexpected blessing, a deepening of her understanding of love and the capacity for it in her own heart as it expressed itself lovingly towards delight in seeing him grow and become a similar yet unique blending of both her and her husband.

Akin to that, what disturbed her about this group of Other World travelers was now they had young children among them.  A disturbing development, indeed for the prior incidences around these quests, as Begglar and the others, had termed them, had been a path through violence and political turmoil.

Yet that was not what was troubling her most.  It was what their sudden presence here signified.  She had felt something stirring deep within her upon first seeing the Surface Worlders outside the Inn.  Something she had thought had faded and left her long ago.  The gift was awakening in her again.

Quietly she whispered, “Oh, no.  Why now?” feeling some rising degree of panic such that she had to steady herself, leaning against the wall.

Deeper still, within her spirit, a small and quiet voice, that she recognized was not her own responded kindly and gently, “Why not now?”

*Scene 02* 3:59 (Fiends in the Fog)

Two short figures skulked through the tall grass, trying to keep from making noise, but the grass rustled around them with their every step. They moved interchangeably on feet and the callused knuckles of their overlong arms, like a couple of restless and hairless orangutans, grunting like pigs.
“Pogsly better have a good reason for not coming back or Jehaza’ll rip him a new navel with a pike!” whined one.
“Shut yer gob, Shelberd!” the larger of the two rumbled, “Pog knows what he’s doin’. Somethin’ musta happened, or else he woulda been back by now.”
“I hate being out in fogs!” the smaller muttered, “Can’t smell nuffin. Can’t see nuffin.”
The larger figure cuffed the smaller with a hard, wet slap to the back of its head, causing him to bark out a surprised whelp.
“Didn’t see that one, did ya! Now shut up!”
The two moved up the back of a hillside that overlooked the foggy barnyard grounds of the inn where their missing companion had last gone. The rooftops of the inn and its barn were the only structures that barely peeked out of the white drifts in the moonlight. The small village of Crowe down below the rise was completely buried in a sea of stirring clouds. If not for the faint glow of drowning lights illuminating the crests of the foamy sea, any trace of its deep presence would have been swallowed entirely.
As the two figures ambled over the top of the hill, both caught a faint burnt odor coming from somewhere down below. They snorted in the moist breeze, their warm expelled breath chugging billows of vapor into the cold night air.
“What is that, Grum?” the smaller one asked.
The larger put his hand on the smaller, holding him back while he sniffed the air, moving slightly downward and ahead of him.
“Somethin’ burnt,” the larger muttered.
The younger guffawed, “Bad cooks?”
“Hush up!” the larger growled and moved lower down the hill continuing to sniff loudly turning his head from side to side.
From below, getting closer to the foggy drifts, the smaller heard the larger one grunt and mutter, “Smell’s stronger down here.”
The smaller trotted downward towards the fading figure of his cohort, gravel skittering down the hill at its gait, just as the larger stooped out of sight.
“Wuz this?” the large one grunted, from within the gray billows.
A silent moment passed while the larger one pawed at a charred shape lying hidden in shadow under the foggy darkness. A grumbled mewl came from out of the gray fog, and the other smaller figure found the larger pounding the ground with hard fists, breaking and dislodging small rocks, as it groaned and growled around the burnt body of their missing accomplice.

*Scene 03* 4:36 (Transfer in the Mists)

A lead line trailed from Begglar’s white horse into the misty night back to the black horse that held the family following just a few yards behind.  As long as the line was slightly taut, they knew Begglar and his lead horse was still ahead of them somewhere in the fog.

Begglar had them climb into the saddle with the youngest child in front, followed by the man’s wife and the older child between the two adults.  Begglar had lashed the man’s arms around his family and to the reins of Sable, the horse upon which they rode.  The black stallion was a large horse with a strong, broad back and thick muscled girth, accustomed to pulling hay wagons and timber sleds.  The family were extremely light by comparison to its daytime loads.

Begglar and Nell had outfitted the family in warm clothes that were overlarge and swallowed their small, starved frames, but at least they were warm and thick enough for the night ride.   The foggy air was moist and cold, but they had wrapped their faces in warm scarves to keep out the chill.  The younger child squirmed a little, but the women steadied the child between her arms and thighs, holding the him snugly against the pommel horn of the saddle.

They moved at a surprisingly quick trot, considering the lack of visibility. Both Begglar and the two animals seemed to instinctively know the route, never once allowing the line between them to grow taut or too slack.  The black dray stallion kept snorting, smelling the scent of the white mare ahead and the man realized that Begglar had employed a certain degree of horseman’s insight to get the two animals to coordinate through their blind nighttime run.

The moonlight above cast only a diffuse glow down into the fog, but its location in the vast panorama of the night sky was buried in billows beyond perception.  The effect was disorienting, so the man was glad at least their guide and the horses seemed to know where they were being led.

Suddenly the tie line went slack, and the black stallion snorted, bobbing its head, drawing nigh to the white haunch and silvered tail that materialized out of the gloom ahead.

“We are close,” came Begglar’s voice out of the fog. “Wait quietly. I will speak to our friends and they will take you all from here.”

The man spoke, his voice muffled by the scarf covering his mouth.  “How can we ever thank you?” he asked.

“By forgetting all you have seen and will see this night,” Begglar answered.

“Someday, if our paths ever cross again…”

“Only the One knows what will be,” Begglar interrupted, “Hang tight. There is still further to go. Hold onto your family.”

With that, Begglar disappeared into the fog, as the stallion nuzzled the white mare, that Begglar had vacated and had tied to an overhanging limb of a tree.

Low unintelligible voices arose quietly, nearby, speaking for a few minutes that seemed to stretch longer than the time actually taken.

The man stared into the misty night unable to see anyone or anything more than the horse they sat upon and the white mare and its bare saddle.  He held onto his wife and children, taking slight comfort in their close presence, hearing his wife speaking low and calmly to their two children.

He almost gave a startled cry when he felt a figure brush against his thigh, but Begglar’s voice followed the movement.

“They have agreed to take you all further, but you will need to be blind-folded for their safety. There is a rest stop not far from here where you will have beds and a warm fire and meals set out for you. The fog will provide cover for movements, but there is danger that a Xarmnian patrol might be coming to find out what happened to the party whose destruction you witnessed. Keep as quiet as you can. We are not sure who or what else might be out this night.”

*Scene 04* 3:37 (Listening to the Night)

As the temperature outside the inn fell and the fogs from below rose, the usual sounds of the night’s insectile instrumentation ceased. No night birds chirruped. No bats squeaked in nocturnal flight. No moon rays pierced the heavens with anything more than a barely discernible glow.

Blindly, I had managed to find my way across the short distance to the barn.  The fog was so thick that I barely made my way across the barnyard from the dining hall doorway.  I thought I had heard the sound of a horse’s approach from a distance, but I could not be sure of anything.

Finding my way through the stable into the thick straw, I followed the rough-hewn boards inside that led to the ladder up into the hayloft. I mounted the rungs and unlatched the upper loft door and cracked it open to get whatever view I could of the surrounding grounds of the inn, but it was of no use.  The wet chill of the night air, instantly made me regret leaving the warmth of the fire so soon after speaking to the young woman.
My taking the watch of the night was nothing more than a cruel and pointless joke.  Nothing could be seen in such as this.  So, thus blinded, I resolved to listen as much as I could for anything sounding out of the ordinary.

Only the noise of the high wind that had pushed the fog banks up the hill and the rustling of leaves in the surrounding trees dispelled the night’s ominous stillness. The night breezes seemed to conspire against my efforts to keep this dubious watch and cover and absorb anything else that might be heard stirring in the cloud-blanketed night.

From the upper loft’s doorway, I pulled my arms around me and drew my knees up close to my chest, holding in what little warmth I could, wishing that there was enough moonlight left to try and read the letter Begglar had given me.

On a miserable night such as this, a good story can be a comfortable distraction to occupy the mind away from focusing on the wet touches of the night.

As I sat there, in the quiet loft, hearing only the faint grunting of hogs that were no doubt huddled together in the straw deeper within the barn, I thought more of the sadness in the young woman I had spoken with, and of the remarkable courage of Christie whom I had dubbed “The She-Bear”, and of little Miray and the other unnamed persons comprising the group that had accompanied me from the sea shore.

I quietly prayed for each of them: for their safety, their openness to what lay ahead, and for wisdom and discernment to be able follow the quiet voice of the One who called me back here.  Fatigue pulled and tugged at me, as I whispered these supplications, and slumber almost took me into its arms, before I was startled by distant sounds of guttural groaning seeming to come from behind and above the back of the inn on the hillside.

*Scene 05* 6:10 (Who’s Out There?) )

The noises were unnatural, yet disturbingly familiar.

I was probably foolish going out into the fog, but I needed to know what was making the noise.  The imagination can conjure up some pretty terrifying specters, so I knew I would be better off discovering the true nature of any potential threat rather than awaiting its nasty surprises.

Besides, with Begglar no doubt incapacitated by drink, and the others being novices in this mysterious country, it was left to me to ascertain what dangers might come out of the darkness to threaten those sheltering within the inn.

With the thick moisture in the air, I knew it would be pointless trying to light a torch, and beside any light I might be able to carry would only give an alert of my approach to whoever or whatever was out there.

We had left the burned body of the troll exposed out on the hillside, so I suspected that whatever had made the sounds was more than likely some sort of scavenger.  The more I thought about that idea, the more I imagined sets of gleaming teeth and pairs of yellow glinting eyeshine awaiting my foolish curiosity to provide them with an additional garnish to their evening meal.

As I ventured out into the night, I felt the wetness of the fog condensate on my face and run icy cold rivulets down my chin and neck, under my collar and into my shirt.  Just great! I thought. The soggy scout. Cold, wet, sleepy and stupid.  What am I even doing?

Still, I plunged onward.  Heedless of my own self-admonishments.

With my hands outstretched I cautiously crept forward, not certain of where I was in proximity to the main building, but feeling like I was not that far from it.  A corral fence bordered one end of the property, and ran along the road side that sloped downward into the village of Crowe less than a half-mile away.  The hillside extended up behind the inn, and I knew it was only a matter of determining whether I was approaching an incline or a declivity, if I strayed off the area of the property.  The grounds were leveled out and the sea road from which we had come descended for a way into a valley before rising back up towards the distant ridge-line.   If I struck out following the angle from the barn that I had determined, I would soon either gain the hill or find the edge of the inn again.  One hundred paces give or take a few should let me know if I was headed rightly, or if I should give it up as a fool’s errand altogether.

The winds had swallowed the sounds, but I felt reasonably sure the hillside was where they had originated.  If the troll indeed had other parties involved, they would more than likely observe from a distance, but would be as blind as I was until the fog cleared.

I crept carefully along the ground, swinging my arms from side to side, groping for anything that might orient me.  The moistened ground was soft, but hard packed, and I could feel the ridges of coach and wagon ruts cut into it, so I knew I was safely in the open yard.  Once beyond the cuts, I knew the hillside or the fence line would meet me eventually.

After a few slow moments, I heard the faint sound of skittering rocks, and cautiously moved towards it.  I felt the ground slightly rise and I congratulated myself on blindly navigating to the hill.

The body was about thirty feet up the rise.  Whatever, or whomever had made the sounds, were within a few more paces, but I still could not see whether they were animal or man or otherwise. Visibility was still limited, but I thought I heard harsh whispering, so I froze in place, not knowing if they would descend or climb away from me.

After a moment, I heard a low voice come from the hillside above.

“Help me carry him!”

“But Grum…!”

“Shut up and do as your told!  Well find out who did this, and when we do…”

The threat trailed off, as another sound came from the left, approaching from the backwoods and the overland trail.  Hoof beats.  The sound of at least two horses, coming out of the fog at a steady trot.

I heard scrambling noises, as the two others I had heard speaking, crawled rapidly up the hill, their scurrying noises diminishing into the night.  The hoof beats increased as I heard the horses snort and give forth a throaty rumble, their breaths heaving in the night, blending with the fog.

I did not know whether to follow the two unknown voices up the hill, or try to make my way back to the barn and stable, and risk getting run down by the mysterious riders in the night.  Any attempt to climb the hill would reveal my location, as surely as it did that of the two who fled upward.  The loose gravel could not be avoided, so I resolved to take my chances with the horsemen.

I crouched and tried to move quickly, retracing my steps back to the barn.  I heard the horses, but could not exactly get a fix on them, but they were somewhere near.

A mere fifty more paces in and I could just make out the shadow of the barn and its dark interior.  As I quickened my pace, I reached the stable and was shocked to see two horses within the stall, and a man I knew too well, lifting a saddle off of the larger horse and hanging the horses’ tack on an interior peg.

*Scene 06* 9:16 (A Marked Man)

“Begglar?” I said, completely taken aback. “What is this?  I thought you were upstairs…didn’t you…?”

Begglar stared at me fixedly, clearly startled by my sudden appearance out of the fog.

“O’Brian,” he said simply, letting out a pent up sigh of frustration and relief, “I thought I passed a shadow out there.  Must’ve been you.”

“What are you doing up?”

“I might be askin’ you the same question,” he replied.

“I took the watch,” I said defensively, “You said there was room and hay in the loft.”

“There are rats in the loft too,” he muttered.  “Besides, on a night like this, what is there to see?”

“Evidently, something that might make you take horses out into this.”

He sighed heavily, was quiet a moment, and then said, “Help me get these saddles into the tack room. A lot has happened since you left here.  Many things that should not be spoken of, but one thing you need to know is that…I am a marked man.”

I came further in and helped him by hefting the second saddle off the cross bar of the waist high hitching post, that ran along the back end of the stable and feeding troughs.

Begglar led me down the breeze way past the loft ladder into the tack room, where he also kept the tools, crafted pitch forks and shovel boards for clearing and cleaning out the stalls.  The dark room smelled of dust, old straw and leather, with an undertone of dried manure and malted grains.

Begglar lit an oil lamp and the room’s darkness faded into a yellow cast glow from the flickering flame.

We stowed the saddles on two wooden saw trees fashioned by bound and stripped limbs.

As the interior came to light under the small flame, I could see stacks of ragged saddle blankets, brushes, leather tracer straps and dusty wooden barrels with thick lids, no doubt containing grains and stripped oats.

“I’ve had the devil of a time, keepin’ the rats out of here.” Begglar muttered. “They come through the ceiling, the walls, the floor boards, gnawing through everythin’–devourers.”

He then turned his eyes to me.  They seemed to hold in them the weight of many cares and fatigue.

“What has happened to you, my old friend?”

He cleared his throat and began, “I used to judge you for leaving us here. I confess it. What we were called to do was unfinished, and what you and Caleb did was…inexcusable.  But now… With all that I’ve done…”

I lowered my head, my shame threatening to press me down, but I felt Begglar reach out and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Can you ever forgive me?”

I raised my eyes to his to see…pleading in them.

“I do,” I whispered, “I have.”

“No,” he interrupted, “you don’t understand.”

And with that he moved me closer to the light.

“You need to see it, ” he said, loosening and stretching out his collar to reveal his bare shoulder. There, in a reddened, raised scar, he bore the image of a circle bearing an inverted Y in its center that touched the border of the circle on three points. And had a single line extending downward through the center of the Y to create a third juncture and bisection of the circular border.

“Who did this to you?!”

“The Protectorate.”

I studied the raised welts of the scar, gathered and stretched like dried celluloid. “It’s a peace symbol.”

Begglar jerked back and spat disgustedly.

“Nay! It is the betrayer’s mark! An symbol of pure evil.”

I looked puzzled.

“Aw come now, man.  It’s the violent mark of Saint Peter!  A curse burned into me that I can never forget.”

“I don’t understand.”

Exasperated, he balled his fists, almost as if he would strike me for being such a dunce.

“Have ya never heard of how Saint Peter was martyred?  Crucified upside down by his own request–not to be killed in the same manner as Our Lord?!”

He tugged at his shirt again, gesturing at the mark, “This–is the symbol of the inverted cross and the instrument upon which one of the most prominent followers of The One was put down to stifle the uprising!”

Spittle collected at the corner of Begglar’s lips like he had gone slightly mad with the grief over it, and then he added, “And I…rightly earned it too, by denying My Lord,…and helping the vile servants of darkness to cover it up. Hundreds, thousands were slaughtered and I covered it up ta save me own.”

Begglar trembled and his knees grew weak as he began to weep.

Through tears he went on to tell me how, he and his family had been warned, time and time again, not to meddle in the affairs of The Protectorate, or the affairs of Xarmni or its subjects.  They viewed his place, his inn as useful.  And as long as it remained useful to the greater good, he could keep it unmolested, and manage the place unharmed.  It was encouraged and considered wise that he remain cooperative and uninvolved to ensure that arrangement.

That arrangement, he told me, was sealed by the forcible branding. The wound had to be treated by his wife.   Eventually, the swelling eased, and its sensitive flesh quieted down to a healthier pinkish color many weeks later.

“They told me…when me boy came of age, he would receive his mark of protection as well,” he said with pleading, sorrowful eyes.  And then he added, “I never shouldn’t have glanced at my Nell, when they said this to me.”  He shuddered a moment, transported back to the instance of the memory as if it had been only yesterday.  Then his eyes refocused and looked hard at me, lowering his voice.

“The soldiers, they noticed it.  And that captain of theirs, he says ta me, ‘There’s ways of marking her that won’t leave a flesh scar.  Just you mind that.’  And he and the others rode away.  Off yonder.”

He gestured with the back of his hand towards the north and towards the mountains, almost spitting after them as he did so.

His eyes returned to me, watchful and saddened, clearly ashamed of himself for not being a better man than he was.  He saw no judgment in my returned gaze, only a deep sadness for him.  But that was only part of it.  Begglar, at last, composed himself and told me, “I’ve more to tell ye, but this is enough for one evening. Best be rested before breakfast.  Nell wont’t sleep until I’ve returned to the house, so for her sake, I’d best be wishin’ you a goodnight.”

*Scene 07* 5:39 (Whispers in the Dark)

Nell heard Begglar approach from the backstairs. His footsteps and unique gait were unmistakable to her.  She had grown so familiar with his subtle nuances, that she could recognize his approach from anywhere.  Twenty years of marriage not only bred intimate familiarity, but also caused two once separate people to naturally find a certain rhythm of togetherness if both were willing and open to it.

Something about his gait reminded her of his distant past life before they had built this new one together. A way placing his footing that made him walk steadier upon a rolling surface and a rising and pitching wooden deck.

She heard him sigh heavily on the stairs as he quietly moved the ingenious wooden locking combinations that unbolted the heavy oak door.  Something he had cleverly told her he had derived from the principle of a Chinese box mechanism.  He had taught both her and their son the complex combination for unlocking the hidden door, so they could be certain anyone discovering the hidden stair passage, would not be able to bypass the final obstacle and gain access to their upper apartments without one of them present.

The door closed quietly on well-oiled hinges, and she heard the soft clicks as the door’s locking mechanisms fell and slid back into place using clever weights and compression grooves.

Begglar moved quietly through the soft light, and Nell could hear him ease onto a bench and remove his boots.

Nell arose, gathered her thick nightgown about her and slipped on her house shoes, and padded into the small parlor area where her husband was removing his outer garments.

She whispered, “How did it go, Dear?”

“Their safely on their way,” he replied.

“We have a young guest, My Love.  Keep as quiet as you can. Be careful not to wake the child.  It took a while finally getting her to sleep.”

“What is this?” Begglar asked, lifting a taper candle off a sconce.

Under the low flickering candlelight, Begglar could see the small form of the child curled up in a woven blanket, her chest slowly rising and falling, in a restless, fitful dream. The candlelight shone in a wet gleam on her face, and it appeared the child had been crying. Her lips parted and she quietly seeming to mumble something in her sleep.

Nell moved quietly behind him, putting her arms around him, gazing down at the child.

“Remember when Dom was that young?”

Begglar was silent, watching her, transported back into his own memories.

“So young,” he said, “I wonder that The One would send such a wee bairn, here.”

The young girl trembled and curled up tighter, her hair mussed, yet framing her frailty, in the wavering yellow cast-glow.

“She’s not Becca!” the child mumbled, her face scrunching up, in a yawn.

“She’s not…” the sweet voice came again, in a dreamlike whisper, trailing off.

“What is she going on about?” Begglar gathered his wife’s arms about him.

“She’s been having some nightmare, off and on for the last hour or so,” Nell observed. “I have been afraid to wake her for it took time to get her calm. One of the women that came with O’Brian woke and heard her crying. She was with another little girl. I don’t know what the row was, but this little one refused to sleep in the same room with her.”

“Can’t ‘bermember,” the girl muttered, furrowing her forehead and scrunching her face up, “But I wrote it in the sand. Her name is…”

In another room, four doors down, in the upper galley of the inn, in the darkness, a figure sat upright in the bed, barely silhouetted by the cold wet grayness that illumined the outer window.

Someone, in the darkened stillness of the night, in one of the rooms had spoken aloud its real name.

*Scene 01* 8:10 (Searching for a Troll)

At the back of the Inn, we gathered behind the two extruded rock backings, forming the exterior face of the fireplaces fireboxes, extending upward toward the gables and the chimney stacks. The ash pit underneath the firebox had a cast iron dump door that was released by a lever from inside the inn. When the dump door extended, the cooled ash could be scraped down the door chute into an ashes pale and carried out for other uses around the barnyard and garden.

The ground just beneath when the ash chute extended was covered in a fine white powder where the spilled ash dust had poured around the ash bucket. The ground was marked by footprints where Begglar and his son had harvested the ash, so it was difficult to tell from the prints alone which sets might belong to them and which to the escaping troll.  However, I knew something about troll sign that would prove distinctive among the others. I squatted down studying the patterns in the dust.

“What are we looking for?” one of the others asked as they crowded around me.

“Knuckle prints,” I said and then I spotted them. Fat indentations that looked like a small bundle of chubby sticks had been pressed into the powdered ground.

I spotted another set of these a few feet to the right, but easily within reach of a the former.  The company had moved in and encircled me while I had squatted down, and in so doing, they obscured any further markings. My fault entirely. I should have kept them back, but they were understandably curious.

The initial bearing of the creature was north, but the ground beyond grew more rocky and hardened. My only hope was that the group had gathered tight enough in around me that they had not stepped over the further trail sign of the troll.

“I need you all to tread carefully. We need to find which way it headed. These things are cagey. It could be anywhere in the vicinity.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Yeah. How will we know it when we see it?”

“Trolls are almost always short and squat by stature. In whatever form it takes, it won’t get any taller.  They move about in a kind of a galloping waddle, interchangeably using their feet and thick knuckles as ballast.  That is why there will be knuckle prints all along side of their foot prints.  You might have seen chimpanzees who move similarly, though trolls do not possess such animal grace of movement nor fluidity either.  They can be fast only in short sprints before they become winded and start snorting like a hog.  They squeal like them too when they are surprised or threatened.  Loud, ear-splitting squeals that would make one think someone set the shaggy hair on their forearms on fire. They have piggish eyes, a crinkled bulbous nose that looks like an anemic turnip, and they suck in their chubby fat cheeks, and have a strong tendency to pucker their pouty fat lips. But the problem is, when they hide they will not appear like this.”

“We didn’t see anything like that, inside the inn.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.  Often times your expectation of what they should look like or where they should conceal themselves for spying will cause you to miss spotting them.  Like a chameleon, they blend in with their surroundings.  Their skin is pebbled with a sort of photo-optic pigment that seems to texturize and darken or fade at their will.  It is uncanny.  They are the gypsy moths of this sub-world.  Like prolonged immersion in water can crinkle your fingertips, their skin does this creepy puckering all over. They can look like rock or a piece of ground, anything that might seem natural from a distance.”

I could tell they were skeptical of my statements, but I knew the little vermin were adept in the art of camouflage.

“The best thing is to look for is visible signs of its passing.  There should be further evidence somewhere close.  A broken twig, crushed patches of mountain brome grass and yellow toadflax weeds or purple sage.  Bits of scattered ash on the ground further up.  Or pressed gravel or dislodged stones, or some stubby foot or knuckle prints.  Trolls have broad feet.  As I mentioned, trolls waddle and grope when they walk, so there should be a pivoting action when its back leg bears its weight in that twisting action.  Look to the ground. You may see half-turned rocks or disturbed circularly raked ground over which the little beastie has passed.  Evidence of that peculiar and unique pivoting gait.  Spread out about six feet from each other and try not to walk over the signs. Raise your hand if you spot something, but don’t say it out loud. Don’t get ahead of each other. We’re going to have to work the area in a grid, just to make sure it hasn’t shuffled off into the scrub brush and sage patches skirting the pasture behind the stables.  Most likely he is squatting somewhere watching us through the grass.”

As the others spread out, I softly took the arm of one of the girls holding her back. I quietly asked her to go down to the stable nearby and bring one of the large burlap sacks back to me.  The creature would be feisty and hard to control, so we needed something to confine it in.  She nodded and moved quickly away to fetch what I had asked for.

I knew a little bit more about trolls than I was comfortable telling, and there wasn’t time to explain fully.  The little snot had to be still within the area.  Rounding the corner we saw that the flue door swung slightly, revealing that the troll had surreptitiously exited the dining area and was in the process of absconding with its sneaky little secrets. It was in a rush and had not taken to time to fully close the ash hatch, so it might have made other mistakes in its haste.

One of the other disturbing things about troll is, they have a memory like a three-year-old.  Those little cauliflower-like fat ears on their heads pickup sound as efficiently as Soviet-era submarine radar.  That is what makes them the perfect spies in a few senses. If I said too much to the others, it would overhear and know we might have a fair chance to catch it.

For all of their ability to hear, trolls did have weaknesses.  They are chronically plagued with bad eye-sight.  They tended to squint in bright daylight, and at night…

Well, if past experiences count for anything, I had rarely, if ever, seen one active at night.  Despite what one might think, they slept more often than not.  If blindfolded, they would fall to sleep like a narcoleptic at a pillow convention.

Knowing that weakness I hoped we could bag it.  Turn out the lights and it’s nighty-night within a few moments.  They are slovenly.  And they snore.  Very loudly.  When traveling incognito, they spend the night in close proximity to pig farms so their night noises cannot be distinguished from grunting hogs.

It is a good thing for trolls that mountain folk are so fond of bacon, otherwise, they would have no place to sleep without being discovered by those they were sent to spy on and harass.

The creature could not have gotten too far in such a short time.

I scanned the field and rocky hillside extending behind the Inn, carefully observing each sector within my field of vision in a systematic grid pattern as I had advised the others to do.

Then I see him.  About twenty feet away, to the northwest about halfway up the rising slope.

His cover is not what I had expected.  Most observers would miss seeing him, but I happened to know something about these mountain passes in the sub-alpine climes.

Clever devil, but obviously ignorant about mountain flora.

*Scene 02* 10:34 (Cornering the Troll)

There is a barrel cactus jutting out of the northern slope, leaning northward.  Or it is what appears to be a barrel cactus.

A few things gave him away.  One, barrel cacti do not grow at this elevation this far up the mountain.  Two, the soil is too shallow, rocky and sloped here; barrel cacti typically grow in a desert wash or gravelly bajadas.  And three, there is too much wet between the snowmelt, mountain fogs, and rainfall in these upper regions.  Barrel cacti are an arid plant occupying both lower and high deserts and plains.  And lastly, this cactus was leaning towards the northern face of the hillside.  Barrel cacti are also known as the compass cacti because they almost always tend to lean towards the south or southwest to prevent burns from the sun.

From a distance, the nettled spines over its body seemed reason enough not to get too near it.  But I couldn’t risk that stopping us.

I raise my hand over my head signaling the call to bring my fellow travelers back, trying to give the appearance, from a distance, that we are giving up the search.

We gather in a huddle with most of our backs to the hillside.

I kneel down opening my pack again. Discarding the stick I had grabbed from the woodpile and instead pulling out the central length of wood from the pack.  Along side it is a corked bottle of oil, wax-sealed.
“Open your packs and pull out the torch you find in there.  The end is wrapped, but may need a little more oil to keep it lit.”

“Where is it hiding?”

“It is just up the hillside there.  About thirty to forty feet away. Torches first. Lay them out carefully. Huddle in so it can’t see what we’re doing here.”

They huddled closer, squatting down around me, and I carefully…carefully poured small amounts of oil on the wrapped rags of our torches.  The oil is too precious to waste.

“It has disguised itself as a barrel cactus”, I tell them in a whisper.  “There on the hillside.  It has some sort of shawl of thorns over its body.  Be careful of the thorns.  If they prick you and draw blood it will be a dirty wound that may take months to heal.  This troll must be far from home.  Or had once lived in the desert lowlands.  It probably heard us coming so it resorted to a quick cover it was most accustomed to.”

“What are we going to do with it?” I am asked.

“We’re going to circle it in a ring of fire.  That ought to warm it up.  If it fails to give up its thorny cloak, we light it up.  Those briars are dry and yellowed.  He’ll pitch it off in short order.”

Miray leaned next to me and said, “I’m afraid.”

“I know. I know. It is better if you stay back, my dear.  It is not safe to show these creatures any fear.  It is dangerous.  If you feel it coming, back out of the circle and we will close ranks around it.  If it thinks we are afraid of it, it will press that as an advantage. Hide your fear if you can.”

“And how do we do that?” one asked.

“Avoid any direct eye contact with it. That’s very, very important. Don’t let it lock eyes with you, whatever you do.”

At that very moment, the woman who I has sent on the errand, returned with the large burlap grain sack.

“Will this work?” she asked.

It is dusty and has pieces of straw stuck to it, but it has a good strong drawstring and no apparent rat holes chewed into the sides.  The burlap is thick and of a good strong waft and weave.

“Yeah.  This’ll do nicely.  Hang onto it for now. We will need it very soon. Time to light up your torches.”

We each have pieces of flint we draw against an ash-stone and directly our torches ignite one by one.

We fan out nonchalantly, edging our way up the slope.  Gravel and cracked slate crunch under our feet as we draw our circle inward towards the apparent…barrel cactus.

In moments, the troll realized the gig was up.

It rose up from its squatting place, its short stumpy legs, and thickly calloused feet breaking the illusion that it was only an out-of-place desert plant.

Turning this way and that, grunting in frustration seeing it was surrounded…it feinted and lunged, growling at the brightly burning torches, but together my friends hold him at bay.

Predictably, in a show of nastiness, the troll flips it spiny shroud off its back and swings it threateningly back and forth like a midget Matador beckoning and taunting a bull.  At that moment, we see its piggish black, seething eyes, fiery with hatred.  It thrusts out its lower lip revealing broken, yellow teeth, and an oddly placed tusk. A froth of drool drips over its blackened lower lip like a savage dog.  It’s ugly aspect and curious form draws eyes inexorably towards it like by-passers witnessing the aftermath of a car wreck.

In a guttural growl, it snarled, “Meddlers!  Push off, you pig piles!  Leave me be! Stay out of Xarmnian business!”

I can tell there is some hesitancy to move any closer to this pugnacious creature, but we must.

“Don’t speak to it,” I caution.  Creatures such as these cannot be placated. They will lure one into thinking they might be making some progress long enough to get the upper hand and turn that naiveté to their advantage.

“Well, now! Seems like you’re the spokesman of this group. If you won’t speak then listen, and listen well. You all are interfering in Xarmnian affairs. The suspicion of meddling alone gives me permission to kill you all. There are others not far from here that will hear me, and be here in moments, if I but raise an alarm. Back off now, and I may let you all live.”

“It is bluffing.  If its threat was credible, it would have already raised an alarm.”

But perhaps, its own self-interest and self-preservation instincts might distract it enough for one of our crew to throw the burlap bag over its head and confine it.

“No fear,” I remind them, meanwhile thinking to myself, That jagged tusk protruding from its mouth could just as easily rip open our guts as easy as an enraged feral hog would.

“I need you all to hold those torches together so you don’t give it an opening to run through.”  They are annoyed with me, I can tell.

Its forearms are muscled and powerful.  Knuckles calloused and hard as rock.

“Be careful, but don’t show fear.  Got it?”  But sometimes saying the very thing you should do causes the opposite to happen.

“Can you just shut up?!” a woman turned and wailed.

The Troll saw an opening and gambled.  He knuckle-crawled toward it, but thankfully a girl of about eighteen or nineteen thrust her torch into the opening saved the distracted woman from the assault.  The troll’s shawl of thorns brushed the flames and ignited.

Since the Troll could not stamp it out or smother the flame, he was forced to toss it away and turn his angry sneer on the torch bearer.

The women screams and starts to jump back, but one of the young men slash their flaming firebrand at the troll and he grudgingly flinches and moves sideways, on both his extended fists and short legs.

Having lost his immediate threat, the troll screeched and beat his head with both fists.  He then pauses and turns threatening and slowly toward the one who thwarted his escape attempt.  He champed his teeth crookedly and, with what passed as a nasty impish smile, he glared at the torch wielder.  He’s seen a spark of fear in the torch bearer’s eye and in the unguarded moment following the close call, she let her true fear shine through.

“I’m gonna get you for that!” he growled, making a knife cutting gesture across his jowly throat with a savage and wicked glee.

“Wait and see,” his voice dropped an octave lower to a guttural belly growl, as his lips curled again into that nasty, sinister smile, “Wait…and…see.”

*Scene 03* 6:21 (Dark Insight)

I can see, from across the way, the girl is visibly shaken.  The troll had locked eyes with her and in that moment her face pales in shock.

She has an ashen expression as her eyes ignite with horror.

She can hear him-in her head-plucking and pulling up painful memories. And the flame in her ignited eyes begin to douse that indignancy with a well of spilling tears.

The troll’s lips are moving rapidly in a quiet buzzing mutter, but none of us can hear what terrible things are being said to the girl.

Her grip on her torch begins to grow slack in her hands and waver.  Her cheeks flush red as she turns hurt and accusatory eyes my way, lifting them at last from the troll’s hold.

Her words came across the ring in a trembling whisper, each utterance slamming me with hard punches.

“F-For all your warnings and talk about these trolls, you failed to mention the most dangerous thing about them.”

A crushing look of betrayal enjoined her quiet charge.

“Why didn’t you tell me it could do that?!  How are we not supposed to be afraid if it can see into our memories, huh?!  If it can just pull out the most hurtful ones we suffered as children and beat us up with them?  This place is becoming too dangerous for me.  I don’t know where we are, but I can’t take this any longer.”

I swallowed hard, my tongue as dry as desert sand, trying to speak calmly to her without letting the fear I feel enter into my voice, but I am afraid it does anyway.

“Hold your torch.  Don’t give it any more opportunity to get into your head.  Don’t listen to it!  Remind yourself of Whose you are!  These creatures can only augment and regurgitate a lie planted in you by someone else’s cruel words.  If it has the ability to use it, the message it gathers from it is most certainly a lie, you have toyed with believing about yourself.”  My voice faltered.  Not because I am afraid for myself, but for her and that I will fail her and the rest of them as a guide on this shared journey to Excavatia.

I have never had to do this before–play the role of impromptu psychological counselor–but I cannot focus on that now.  The situation is becoming too dangerous.

The troll cocked its head and watched her earnestly for a few long seconds, its crooked smile broadening, but it also began to slowly turn his nasty fat face to me.

I should have taken my own counsel, but I too found myself drawn into its gaze.

Its malicious eyes did something strange.  One of its black eyes rotated and went wall-eyed, keeping a chameleon-like focus on my traveling companion, waiting for her torch to waver and sink lower, never losing its focus on her or her personal internal battle with fear and anxiety.

It continued to assault her with something far worse in her mind than what the Troll said to her openly.  In the half-turn, the Troll’s ratty, blackish other eye turned towards me and stabbed into my mind with a rush of hateful and cruel whispers from my own past in the Surface World.

The darkness rushing into my mind just got very personal.  Stabs of hateful words pounded my mind, threatening to peel my psyche apart.

In the distance, as my eyes watered and fluttered under the attack, I begin to see small flakes fall from somewhere far over our heads.

A connection is being made from the Surface World to this one, and there is a barely audible cracking noise, we can all hear, as more of the peeling ceiling above the clouds falls through.

I breathe in spite of the waves of darkness, pulsing behind my eyes, threatening to push me into despair. I swallow, and squeak out the words, “O God.”  Two words of a frantic prayer and plaintive plea for help.

A short breath comes to me and in that gasping moment I know I must gain focus.  This Troll is turning the tables on us.

*Scene 04* 10:35 (Mind Armor)

Only the girl and I, truly perceive the darkness coming from this ugly creature. I feel its grimy, unnatural reach claw into our minds seeking out and using the lies which have secretly wounded both of us.

It has been so long since I faced down such an enemy that I almost forget that the critical counter to any mental barrage of lies is the truth. I should have been better prepared, but the stropped edge of my sharpness had been dulled by the intervening twenty-one years.

Still the Ancient text stirs within me, in response to my gasped prayer.

Its truth is the only mental sword capable of penetrating to the mind fogs of Trolls or any of the other mind beasts prowling this place. But its power is best wielded in relationship, and that is the solid ground my teetering mind tells me to seek.

I reach for that mental stability. Think, will you? Relationship.  Whose am I?  To whom do I belong?  Who gave me this calling and in Whom do I trust?

Internal voices, sounding like my own, try to interfere, telling me I need to defend myself, but my unworthiness threatens to darken my mind again. And then I find a spark of hope. A verse rises from somewhere deep within me.

“For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life because of me will find it. [Matthew 16:25 CSB]

Don’t think to defend yourself. Think to defend the others. Speak forth the Word. Save the girl and you will save all.

I breathe deeply and then find myself speaking the words of The One Who is Faithful and True:

“He who calls you is trustworthy, and he will in fact do this.  [1 Thessalonians 5:24 NET]”

Looks of annoyance come at me from around the circle, but I blink away their disdain, and reach again for the Words of the Ancient, Living and Breathing Passages and find them springing from my memory into my heart. Their shafts of internal light penetrate the darkness I feel within, blocking the unrelenting dark-eye from further probing…grasping to take hold of every careless and thoughtlessly cruel word spoken to me in the Surface World, that I had secretly catalogued and collected, storing them in the shelves of my mind.

“A scoundrel plots evil, and on their lips it is like a scorching fire.” [Proverbs 16:27 NIV]

It is clear what this impish and cruel creature and others like it are trying to do to us both here in this moment and in other places at the same time.  Other places back in our lives in the Surface World haunt us here, especially here.

Thoughtless and unkind words there have ways of springing forth from mouth to mouth, burrowing into the hearts, minds, and memories of torchbearers and would-be torchbearers walking unaware of this realm in the Surface World above them.  They do not understand the danger of continuing to carry those harmful accusing words within themselves. Even though we secretly berate ourselves with these barbs and especially so when confronted with their own shortcomings and real-world failures, these jabs do not stay on their shelves gathering dust, but will eventually become projectiles of bitterness that will wound others within our circles.  Inevitably, those harmful words, if given the unwarranted status of being “possibly true“, will inevitably find a way to spring forth from our own lips aimed at someone we love and cherish and would never, knowingly, consciously wish to harm or damage in any way. Unkindness cannot be allowed to take root in us. Each of these word-woundings are handles by which Trolls can climb into our minds and inflict pain.

Another verse springs to my memory.  Because I have been somewhat more faithful in my former routine of gathering these weapons together in the Surface World,  I am now able to use them powerfully as defensive and offensive weapons in dangerous moments like these.

I speak it forth, reminding my fellow traveler of a truth of the source of all of their personal doubts and fears. “Remember what the Writer from Prison said. He thanks The One for this truth:

‘…So then, with my mind I myself am serving the law of God, but with my flesh, the law of sin. Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those in Christ Jesus, because the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has set you free from the law of sin and death.’ [Romans 7:25b to 8:1-2 CSB]

“Dear girl, I do not know your name yet. But The One who does is the same One who brought you here to find freedom from the chain this Troll is hurting you with now–The memories you are letting it hurt you with, by hanging on to them. Let go of them. Whatever it is that you have believed about yourself and your self-worth-Let go. You are a child of The One. Otherwise you would not be here.”

“I…,” tears poured from the girl’s eyes and she now held the burning torch in one hand, brushing the burn of the salt away from her cheeks with the other.

Her pupils were unusually dilated, and appear almost black, as if she were standing within a dark cave trying to catch the faintest of luminesce.

This overwhelming fear of release comes from the Enemy that occupies their imaginations and holds them back from being and doing everything they were called to and meant to be both here and in the Surface World.  This vicious word that each of you carries with you, even if they sprang from the lips of people present or in your past is not the truth.  They are used by and echoed by the vile pernicious ancient being who is in a futile and protracted battle to lie, deceive and accuse you because he cannot reach or strike the One who he really rages against.  His only way to hurt that One deeply is by unmercifully attacking you…the ones he can reach.

He is the true master of the monsters and creatures that live both here and in the world above us.  They do his bidding because he was cast out of a place of honor so very long, long ago.  He hates because he is consumed with his own hatred, and because of it, the first sin nested in him and cause him to foolishly believe a lie about himself that has sprung forth in dark, black, rivers of sewage ever since.  He whispered it into the ears of our first ancestors causing them to doubt who they were, and what they were called to do.  It caused them to doubt how perfectly they were loved and how doted upon and how pleased He was that He had breathed His Spirit into them and gave them a first birth to live in the joy of His delight and purpose and in a vast cosmos filled with undiscovered wonders He created just for them.

All of the substance of the Surface World, as we know it, its beauty, its microcosm, and its macrocosm its closeness and its vastness were designed for them, that they might have the promise of it and the dominion over it.  The bones of that Surface World remain healthy, its foundation was established for a forever, though its skin is threatened by a growing disease.  It has places both of inspiring beauty and places riddle and scorched with disease and blight.  Fear stalks that land and temporarily rules it until the King returns to it.  He will awaken the royal ones once again to who they are and remind them of their royal lineage.  It is a day we all hope and pray for.  A promise made, by One who has a record of always keeping His promises.  All of these thoughts, these pearls of truth, rally to me in an instant.  An instant that barely passes within this confrontation between we travelers and this Troll threatening us.  I share with you, my fellow companions, this revealing word from the Ancient Text that should help to rally you and your courage to confront this being.

“7 For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. 8 Be not thou therefore ashamed of the testimony of our Lord, nor of me his prisoner: but be thou partaker of the afflictions of the gospel according to the power of God;”  [2 Timothy 1:7-8 KJV]

Hold your heads up high.  Bring power to your moment from a source far greater than yourself.  Keep your gift of a sound mind.  Armor yourself with the truth.

*Scene 05* 9:44 (The Girl in the Fight)

I see the Troll pivoting, glaring at each one of my traveling companions, clearly seeking what lies they have been told in their minds so that he can use it against them, cause them to drop their torch and run.  His aspect is fierce and cunning, intimidating even though we all stand a good three to three and a half feet taller than he does.  He feints a rush at us, watching us flinch and almost…almost step back and widen the circle around him.  We are all uncertain what to do next, when one of my companions, who I charged with bringing the large burlap sack, burst through the circle and charges the Troll with the open end of the sack as soon as it faces one of the other travelers and turns its back on her.  I am not certain, but I think she has a special relationship to this traveler coming under the accusing eye of Troll.

In true mama-bear fashion, she screams, “Enough of this!  I’ll do it!” and she rush-tackles the Troll in its defensive posture knocking it to the ground…but first, she miraculously manages to slip the dirty burlap bag over its head and cover its shoulders.  Emboldened by her sheer act of bravery and remarkable courage, my fellow companions lay down their torches and join the fray.

The Troll is powerful, and it struggles and coughs in the dusty interior of the bag, dirt wafting into its critical eyes and broad nostrils.  It flings its powerful, overlong arms around it, seeking to dislodge her in her vise-grip as she struggles to pull the bag down even further over its fiercely flailing body.  Its legs are short but powerful.  Its hard feet stamping at her, threatening to crush unguarded toes.

Courageously, though perhaps thinking what she did was brazen and unwise, she clings onto the spinning troll as he batts at her with clawing fingers and tries to strike her and pummel her cruelly with hard, flat-calloused knuckles.  But it was and is not happening.  She has the Troll in a powerful hammerlock, holding on for dear life…it appears.  Her feet flail and drag and scuff as the angry Troll tries to pitch her off and rakes viciously at her forearm, but she is committed.  I can see a kind of ferocity in her eyes as well.

My companions, are wanting to help, but cannot seem to get close enough to do much good.  I think they are seriously considering stopping to take bets on the fight.  The clear odds-on favorite is the she-bear.

Suddenly, we all detect a move by the Troll, that we have not heretofore considered.  The Troll is armed with a weapon.  It is reaching to grab at a dagger scabbarded to its waist.  Normally it could get to it quickly enough, but the girl’s body makes that much more difficult, though not impossible.  Its fingers finally find purchase and it unsheathes the wicked looking black blade.  It begins to slash at her, but one of the men rushes forward and catches the Troll’s corded and muscled forearm before it can cut the girl’s hold.  The Troll has a powerful vise-like grip on the blade and its fingers cannot be pried loose from it.  The man underestimates the brute strength of the Troll and his shirt and skin suffer a nasty slash from it as a result.  A few inches closer and the cut would have been more than a grazing–and we would be burying one of them here.  One of the other women rush in also grabbing the Trolls arm, but she is flung away as it backhands her, with the other.  The men and women, boys and girls press in, trying to avoid the wicked slashing, but the Troll catches the back of a heel and threatens to fillet open the person’s calve.  Instead, in its blindness, it merely cuts into the person’s heel, cleaving off a part of their shoewear, but thankfully missing bone and flesh tucked safely within.

The Troll finally loses its balance, and in the midst of the fall, the she-bear manages to pull the burlap bag even further down to its waist, before they both strike the rocky ground with a thud.  She is abraded by the Troll’s slashing, but its upper arms are now more restricted by the bag over its head and shoulders.  The blade rings metallicaly against the stones as the Troll mewls and grunts in angered frustration.  “Kill you all!” it screams, thrashing and stabbing futilely.  “I’ll kill you all!  Wait and see!  You’ll all pay for this!”

The she-bear is fatigued, cut and scraped.  Her arms and back bleeding from the sharp gravel.  The Troll partially fell on top of her, pinning her leg beneath its body weight.  It knows she is near, as it struggles to stab her, without also stabbing itself.

“A little more help here would be nice, guys!” she pleads as her grip around the Troll’s enshrouded head begins to fail.  The others want to help, but the Troll’s knife is jabbing downward like the bobbin on a sewing machine.  Its blade scraping and clanging against buried stone and gravel.  They feint in, trying to grip the open bottom of the burlap sack, trying to pull it further down over the Troll’s bucking and heaving body.  If they can just get it down to its feet they might be able to pull the drawstring closed and bind the Troll.  But that wicked looking blade is stopping them.  They have to get that blade out of its fists first or it will cut the bag open and get free and all their efforts up to now–to capture and contain it–will have been for naught.

I should help.  I need to help.  But I am mesmerized by the spectacle. And I am ashamed that I have stood by here and done nothing other than talk and rally my companions into the teeth of danger.  To lead one must lead by example.  Never expect others to do what you are unwilling to do yourself.

So I pick up a stone and move forward.  The she-bear gives me a grateful, but an “it’s-about-time” look as I go to help her, and plan to smash the knife hand of the Troll until it gives up its blade, but another anticipates me and crawls forward in a pincer move to do the same as I had planned.  He gets the opportune moment before I could have.  At least that is what I tell myself.  Some guide I am.  Some hero.  A big joke is what.  I shouldn’t even be leading this team to Excavatia and on this crusade to save stories and inspire others.  I am ashamed of my own failures, how can I possibly speak anything worthy into their lives if I have my own obstacles and shortcomings?  If I hesitate when danger is present?  Am I a coward at heart?  That is not who I want to be?  Why do I doubt myself?  What am I even doing here, when I am so unworthy?  Again the reminder comes in a flash.

“He who calls you is trustworthy, and he will in fact do this.  [1 Thessalonians 5:24 NET]”

It is not my own strength, or even will that will give me courage for the days to come–the moments on this journey that stretch out ahead of us.  It is, merely, that I need to constantly remind myself that I was called to do this.  And in responding to that calling, I will find myself being equipped for it along the way.  We all learn from our journeys and our failings perhaps teach us the most important lessons of all.  Remember Who called you.  Remember that in that calling, the Purpose is always good and extends from the very Nature of the One who called you.  If you fail, it is only one of many battles you will face in the days ahead.  One battle does not make the summation of the war for victory, as long as one is willing to get up, brush off, attend to their inevitable cuts and bruises and be willing to learn from the painful experience and live to fight another day.

Though I know a lot about Trolls, I am not seasoned in combat against them.  They have beaten me a few times, and at some points in my Surface World confrontations with them, I have turned and ran.  I am not proud of those memories, but I will not let them be my final epitaph.  I serve under a higher calling.  The tasks given me, are doable through His empowerment, and not in my own strength.  I will meet with future failures, but that is part of the battles I must fight either alone or with the faithful few of you who remain with me and share this journey.

*Scene 06* 7:36 (Eternal Touch)

I see the knife finally clatter to the ground as the Troll’s pummeled fingers flex and clasp in pain.  The others rush forward to grab the Troll’s feet and pull the loosened bag over them and quickly draw in the slack.

The Troll lay quiet for a moment, its arms visibly trying to work their way up its body, but it could not get them high than its waist.  It let out a high-pitched, ear-piercing screech that seemed to reverberate and echo back from the surrounding hills.  It was a terrifying scream of frustration and rage, such that we wondered fearfully how long the bag would hold it.

“We need to shut it up.”  I am told.  “It will bring others down on us.  If the family inside is being pursued by theses Protectorate guards, they will have heard the noise it is making.”

Just wait for a moment, I tell them.  The Troll is in darkness trapped in that bag.  It cannot last much longer before it begins to get sleepy.  It will forget momentarily what we have done to it, and drift off as if night has fallen.  Remember what I told you about Trolls.  They are not particularly Nocturns.  Its own biological needs will win out.  It must sleep in the darkness and very soon.

We watch as the thrashing bag, imprisoning the Troll, falls silent and still.  Occasionally it tightens and twists, but that lessens too.

Just then, the innkeeper comes trundling up the hillside to where my friends and I are standing.

“What’s all this then?!” he shouts angrily.  “What’s this noise and who are all you folks?”

Then he spots me and frowns, shaking a, once meaty fist, at me.  “Is that you, O’Brian?!”

“Come back ‘ere to make trouble, are you?!”

I demur and grin at him.  “How are you, you old rascal?!  You are much changed from when I last saw you.”

He puts his hands to his hips and scrutinizes me with a suspicious look until the cobwebs clear from his memory and he sighs.

“Yes it’s me, Begglar.  And it’s just Brian, remember?”

“Oh,” he says.

“No.  Just Brian.”

He gives me a scowl missing the joke entirely.

“So you’ve come back, have you?” he growls.  “Be wanting some provisions and a place to bed down for your friends here, I’ll warrant.”

“That would be appreciated, if you could arrange it.”

He groused, “Times here ain’t what they used to be, O’Brian.”

He did so persist in calling me that, but I let it slide.

“Most of the travelers that come here, are of a different sort.  The kind’ll just as soon slit your throat as look at you.  These halls have no had good-natured fellowship and laughter in them for some time now.  There are evil creatures about and most of the worst ones are in man form.  Lookin’ as pleasant as you please and I pays ‘em I do.  I have too.  Not much cause they’re bleedin’ me dry of most of my savings.  I get a little now and then in trade.  I am paid for things I am mostly ashamed of.  But it keeps my family fed doesn’t it?  So there’s the devil’s bargain.  Shamed I am of it.  But my family’s fed, now aren’t they?  A man’s got to provide for his family, now doesn’t he?”

It seems as if Old Begglar was talking more to himself than to us, as a way of justifying in his own mind, something that deeply disturbed him.  His eyes were blood-shot.  It looked like he hadn’t had much sleep in day, months, perhaps very nearly years from the look of him.  His once black full head of hair was now only gray, wiry tufts stuck here and there around his balding head.  His skin was slack and sallow-complexioned.  The once laughter plow lines around his eyes, now sagged into deep furrow of worry, fatigue and fearfulness.  He winced under the sunlight.  His hands were gnarled and twisted with an arthritic swelling.

He looked just beyond us and then turned accusatory eyes towards me.

“Oy!  What you got sallied and gussied up in that feed sack there?!  You stealing one of my pigs?!”

We turned and that is when we noticed the Troll in the sack, quietly wriggling its way up the hillside.  Rocking from side to side trying to gain ground before we noticed its new attempt to evade us.

“It’s not a pig, Begglar.  We caught a Troll, fleeing from inside your tavern there.”

Begglar immediately went ashen.  “Oh, my heavens!  Not that!  Please not that!”

Begglar began to shaken and tug at his hair, panicking and in fright and dismay.

“How long’s it been here?  What has it heard?!  We are all dead.  They’ll come for us.  They could be coming even now.  There’s a family I took in.  The Protectorate!  They’ll be searching for them.  No one gets away from them for long.  What have you done to us?!  Why did you meddle with it?!”

Calm down, I reassure him, as my companions move up the hill to drag the bag back down and stand guard over the captured Troll.  Sensing their approach the Troll wriggles more violently, trying to evade them, but in so doing fails to see the sputtering and moldering torch nearby.  It rocks too near the flame and its bag and shroud catches fire.

There is nothing I or anyone can do about it.  The bag burst into flames and the Troll lets out a scream of rage. 

It is not a sound of pain, but pure seething anger.  It shrieks and curses and thrashes under the fire.  Raging with such hatred it is very hard for us to feel that it has any sense of terror or peril.  Water is too far away for anyone of us to save it in time.  The bag burns and the Troll–finally–stops thrashing.  It is over.

Begglar is stricken silent.  He appears as if he might fall over so I steady him and ask one of the others to help him back to the inn.  We are all silent.  Death is never easy even when it comes for an evil creature, no matter how much they may deserve its eternal touch.

*Scene 07* 6:01 (The She-Bear)

I walk silently after the others, next to the she-bear.  I glance at her, questioningly.

“You alright?”

She nods.

“I’ll be fine.  Just a few scrapes and bruises.  Nothing I couldn’t have gotten tussling with my brothers growing up.  I’ll manage,” she shrugs dismissively.

But I know different.  This was a turning point for her.  She took a stand of courage that all of us hesitated to take.  She should be proud of herself.

I know I am of her.

“What made you do that back there?”

She smiled to herself.

“Back in my life in the Surface World, I am a mom. I couldn’t bear to watch that troll torment that girl any longer so I just did what I would do for one of my own. I love my kids, Brian or O’Brian. Whatever you’re called. Is that what the man running this Inn called you?”

“Yeah,” I answered in a clipped annoyance, not directed at her.

She nodded and continued, “I fight for my kids everyday.  I’ve keep them relatively safe.  Clothed, fed, and managed to keep a roof over our heads.”

“It’s tough y’know? Makes you tough.”

I nodded, but having no relatable experience, could do no more than that.

“It’s just me in their lives now.  Sometimes I have to be hard on them.  Show them that I am not their friend, but am something so much more than that.  I’m their mom.  I don’t want them believing any of the lies they’ve been told in their lives.  I want so much more for them than I’ve ever had.  Their good kids.  They need to know their mom has their back.  I’m not perfect, you know.  Things I may have said to them in frustration I’m not proud of.  I wish I could erase those moments.  Their good kids.  They do not deserve to have the pain they had to go through.”

“Momma-bear,” I muttered, with a hint of a grin.

“What was that?” she asks.

“You’re a she-bear.  Don’t mess with you cubs.”

She looked thoughtful a moment and then smiled a beaming smile.

“I like that,” she pondered the statement again for a moment, tasting it and savoring the idea.  “She-bear,” she said finally, “I never thought of it that way.  Don’t mess with my cubs.  I like that.”

She swallowed, touched by the thought in some deeper way that I could not discern, “Thank you for that.”

I could see the edge of a tear beginning to form, but I did not wish to embarrass her.  She was tough but tender underneath and there was no point in calling attention to that since I was still a stranger to her.  

To lighten the moment, I added, “So, next time we encounter a troll.  Do you mind if I stand beside you?”

She grinned in thought, “You think I need protecting?”

“No,” I offered, “I think I do.”

She laughed and the moment was lifted by my awkward attempt at levity.

“I haven’t ask this of any of the others yet, but I am going to ask you now.  You don’t have to answer yet if you don’t want to.”

She looked at me and said, “Sure, go ahead and ask.”

“Do you mind telling me your first name?  In these lands, we do not use last names here.  It is not in vogue here.  But I would like to know your name, if you don’t mind sharing it.”

She smiled that radiant smile again,  “Sure, my name is Christie.”

“Courage has a name, and today its goes by Christie. I am very pleased and honored to meet you, Christie,” I offered my hand and she shook it with a surprisingly strong grip.  “Your name is fitting.  Reminds me of another name.”

“Honored to meet you to.  You remind me of someone I once knew in the Surface World long ago.  I can’t quite make it out, but,”she shrugged, “…there it is.”

“You do know you saved us all back there, don’t you?  If that Troll had mesmerized us any further, it could have been really bad.”

She smiled again and crinkled her brow and nose, “Did I?  I didn’t see it that way.  It felt more like I was saving a part of myself than anyone else.  And the girl, I guess.”

“Yep,” I quipped, “Just like a She-bear.”

*Scene 08* 6:45 (Libation)

We came around to the front of the inn.  The others had procured a bottle of whiskey from the innkeeper’s storage.  Inside, Begglar sat at one of his own tables nursing a glass of the amber liquid trying to settle his nerves.  It was not something I would have recommended, but in that moment he appeared to need it.

We came in from the shadowed doorway, and I approached Begglar as he took another swallow from his drink.  The whiskey was of the kind one would normally take in small shot glasses, but he had poured a large draft glass of it. He scowled and winced at the burn of the potent drink and then caught my eye, tapped the side of the glass and muttered, “Medicinal purposes.”

I nodded, not sure of its particular qualities to make him any better, only that it might dull the sharpness of the fear he visibly felt at the moment.

“Where’s the family that was here?” one of the others asked.

“Saw them, did you?  Well, no matter now.  I gave them a room upstairs and locked ‘em in it.  They’re in danger, sure enough.  We all are.  But it felt right.  Yes it did.  ‘Bout time I did something that felt right,” he muttered to himself and took a long drink from the glass.

I sat down next to him at the table, and put my hand on his shoulder.  I could feel the hard bone of his scapula jutting out, much different indeed.  His back used to be solid and thick.  Muscled.

He had been a large man, solid as the large oak table that he now slouched forward on.

Begglar could once give you a bear hug that would’ve made you turn red in the face and the veins stand out on your forehead. Now he looked like he’d seen too many harsh winters, and the stout oak had aged and grayed.

“Begglar, I need to take them to the Stone Marker.  To see the prophecy of this land.  But I don’t remember where it is.  I need your help finding it.”

Begglar ignored my question, and muttered, “There’s a letter come for you.  Had it in my possession some many months now.  Back when the last post rider came through,” he gestured up to the cabinet near the kitchen.

“A Ranger said you might be by one day, through these parts again, but you’ve been a long time coming and I almost forgot about it until just now.”

He pushed himself up from the table with effort and a groan.  I offered to get it for him, but he waved me away, irritated.

“Best get this off my person.  If the Protectorate guards find it…,” he paused thoughtfully frowning.

“Anyway, tis your business what to do with it.  ‘Tis one of them tales, you and those like you been seeking out for years.  Sent from one of the guests, used to frequent here.  A tale of her country far away.”

He reaches for the cupboard and cabinet door, sees us watching and pauses.

“D’ya mind turnin’ t’other way a bit.”

We look away, to humor him, while he rummages through the bins muttering to himself.

“Ah!  Here tis!” he pronounces, the sound of doors and drawers being closed is heard, and he comes back around to me presenting me with an ornately boarders envelop, with a wax seal, broken and the flap slightly opened.  I look up at him, and he shrugged.  “I dinna know when you’d be by an you must admit, its been a very long while.  Couldna make heads or tail of why you’d want a simple fairy tale, but that’s your business not mine.”

I took the cream-colored, ornate envelop from him and tucked it into my traveling coat pocket to read later.

“Now about the stone marker,” I began.  But Begglar’s hands went to his ears and he stamped his foot.

“Do ya have ta go there now?!  You’ll no be finding it.  I done a terrible thing.  Helped em do it, anyways.  Please don’t press me about it any further tonight!  Ya ken help yerselves to that larder.  Nine ta ten rooms upstairs.  Well’s outside for water.  There’s hay in the loft.  It’s not necessarily clean, but it is warmer than the night winds’ll be.  Sorry I canna be too much help to ya.  If you’re bound and set on findin’ the marker, I’ll lead ya to it in tha mornin’.  More’s the pity.  But now I’ll be takin’ this here,” he picked up an old bottle from behind the counter, and that there, he grabbed another and tucked it under his arm, “And I’ll be sayin’ good night to yee.  There’s a tapped barrel over there in the corner, if you’ve a mind for a little libation yerselves, and your welcome to it.  Good night!”

And with that he grabbed the newel post of the stairway, grabbed his grimy apron and determinedly marched up the stairs and out of sight.  A moment later, a door slammed.  Rather loudly.

My friends turned to me, eyes questioning.

I waved the saddening scene away, trying to make light of it.

“Do you think it wise to let him go off like that and get drunk?”

“Leave him be,” I said.  “The poor fellow is beating himself up with guilt already as it is.  No need to pile on any more.  I’m not here to judge him.  Poor fellow is doing enough of that himself.  Let him sleep it off and we’ll gather again soon to find out what he is talking about.”

With that I help my fellow travelers prepare for the night.  The winds will be cold, up here in the seaside highlands.  Storm clouds gather darkly on the horizon.  There will be much more to do in the days ahead and we will need to be rested for it.

*Scene 09* 2:40 (Upstairs)

Begglar slammed the hall doorway using the sound as a cover to signal to Nell that the noises from outside they had feared did not constitute an immediate threat.  He stowed the two bottles of whiskey into a wall cabinet used to service the upstairs and cover a clever block and pulley system to raise and lower service trays between the kitchen and the upper gallery of guestrooms.

Nell cracked opened the door to the guestroom on the far end of the hallway, the only above ground room with secret access to the back stairway.
“Have they gone?”

“Nay, they’ve just arrived and at long last the prodigal returns.”

Nell pursed her lips feeling the moment of dread pass through her with a long awaited release, “Then it was not the Overwatch?”

“The Stone quest has begun again.  O’Brian is back in the Mid-World and has twenty-three guests with him.  Twenty-three,” he stressed, “There should be no more than twenty, besides O’Brian.  The other three are unknowns. Your gift of perception is needed.  You were right.”

Nell stepped out of the room and quietly closed the door behind her, “Where is Dominick?”

“He has gone to alert Shimri. The fog below is rising.  They should be able to take the family from us tonight.”

“This family is not ready to travel. They’ve barely had even food to feed a squirrel. Did you see how weak the woman is? And the children are so small.”

“Canna be helped. Our time has come. It is the time we prepared for. We have only a day or two left before they come for us.”

“What do we do with the others below?”

“Go down to them. Get Aytama to help you. They will need rooms for the night. Some will have to pair up.”

“What about you? Will they wonder where you are?”

“I’ll get the family ready. Those below believe I’ve gone to get drunk and sleep it off. I doubt they suspect I’d be in any other condition to do otherwise. I’ll meet Dominick and we’ll get these ones out under the cover of the fog.  It is going to be a long night yet.”

*Scene 10* 13:50 (Hidden Wounds)

Begglar’s wife, Nell came down from the upstairs and helped us all get a late meal, get situated in the rooms upstairs, and stow our belongings.  I saw no sign of Begglar the rest of the evening, so I assumed he had gone off to drink privately or had gone on to bed.

There was some trouble getting Miray settled down with one of the other girls, but Nell and one of the women eventually worked out an arrangement.

I opted to sleep in the hayloft, as Begglar had suggested, and to keep the first watch of the night. Nell stoked the fire in the fireplace and recommended that I get warmed up before going out into the wet and damp, foggy night, so I sat at one of the long tables and drank some of the warm black tea she had brewed for me.

When she and her maidservant retired for the night and most of the others had settled into the guestrooms, the girl, whom the Troll threatened, came quietly down from the upstairs to the table where I was sitting.

Her head was down, and she could not seem to look at me for more than a brief glance.  It is clear she wants to say something but can’t seem to find the proper words to do it.  She paces a moment and then finally, she sat down across from me and put her hands on the table, one palm over the other.  I looked up at her and smiled gently, “It’s okay if you want to leave.  I do understand and I won’t hold it against you.”

With tears brimming in her eyes, she faltered and then swallowed and began, “It’s just that it wasn’t like what I expected it to be.  There is something more here that I did not bargain for.  That thing out there…”  She broke off, gathering her courage, but never truly find it.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, “I’m not ready to take on this quest.  I can’t face another situation like that.  I’m not strong enough yet.  It hurts too much…”

She broke down and wept.  Long, deep, waves of pain and memory washing over her.  Her head down and her hair covering her face as the dam of long-held emotion broke and the hurt washed out in pressure waves built up over far too long a time.

I put my hand over her hand and just let her cry.  Tears are healing.  We need them for release.  She had carried these burdens and wounds far too long by herself.  No words came to mind that could help her.  She just needed someone to be there while she cried.  Someone who didn’t judge her for it.  Someone who would just listen.

After some time, she lifted her tear-stained eyes, her cheeks brighten in the firelight from the hearth.

“I’m so sorry,” she said once more, and the silent tears continued to rain as she struggled to catch her breath and composure.  She half laughed and almost broke again when she said, “Back there with the Troll, memories I had pressed down and never dealt with suddenly came back to me.  And I couldn’t…”

Her hand went to her mouth, covering her trembling lips, again try to hold back the sobs.

“I haven’t dealt with it.  I wouldn’t…deal with it.  But now I’ll have to.  Won’t I?” again with a defensive laugh.

“Only I can’t do it here.  I can’t do it now.”  She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“I understand,” I assured her again, “No one here judges or condemns you if you don’t continue.  There will be another time for you.  If not here, somewhere where you can feel safe.”

She laughed at me, with a nervous and cynical sound full of doubt, yet wanting to believe it.

“There is no place safe enough for that,” she wiped her mouth and looked away into the firelight, taking in a few shuddering breaths.

“That thing out there.  What is it exactly?  How can it do what it does?”

I sighed and slightly shook my head.

“No one truly know the how about things that happen here.  We say we do, but in some way, we are deceiving ourselves into some semblance of security.  Are we safe?  I don’t know that we are either here or back in our lives in the Surface World.  What I do know is that, wherever we might be, we are loved, and wanted and uniquely special to a perfect Father.”

“Father!” she fidgeted with her fingers.  Her eyes growing distant and narrowing, as she seemed to be transported back into a memory she looked at with a certain defensive disconnectedness.

She dug at her fingernails abstractly, narrowing her eyes.

“That is what the Troll zeroed in on.  My relationship with my father.  I want to believe what you say about this all loving and all caring Father, but I can’t.  I can’t get past the prosaic reality and image of my own father.”

She was silent a moment.  Continuing to dig at her nails and brushed a wing of her hair out of her face where it hung against her cheek.

Finally she said, “Daddy said I’d never amount to much.  Said I’d probably be pregnant by sixteen and living on the street.  Never hold a decent job and be passed around from man to man.  That was his assessment of me at the age of seven years old.  That my life would be just some dirty joke told in a smoky pool hall.  That my phone number would be written somewhere on a bathroom wall for pervert to call me and ask me for a date.  That was what he told me before he left us for some floozy in Florida.”

She swallowed back her tears, shivered a bit, and seemed to find a certain calm.  Her eyes grew distant again as her sight probed and sifted through piles of buried memory.  She wiped her eyes as she raised her head again.

“It was raining the night he left us,” she said quietly.

“You know that verse that says, the rain falls on the just and the unjust?”

I cleared my throat and nodded.

“Well, it was sure falling that night.  Coming down in sheets.”

She sniffed.

“Mom, acted like she never saw it coming.  Her entire world came crashing down on her, when he told her.  She begged him to stay.  Said he could keep his new girlfriend, if only he wouldn’t abandon us.  That was to moment I lost all respect for my mom.  Crying and watching them fight through the window on the front lawn as he packed up our only vehicle.  I saw mom grab his arm as he dragged her through the dirt.  I saw when he cuffed her in the side of the head, and punched her in the stomach.  Later, my mom would tell me that it was my fault that he left.”

She said all these things in a detached calm that was eerie to listen to and gut wrenching to hear it so quietly told as if none of it mattered.

“My last image of my father was him driving away in our only car, my mother doubled over in pain on the front lawn for all of the neighbors to see and do nothing.  And all of this, while the rain continued to pour down.”

She was silent again, her eyes unfocused and now unreadable.  She stared vacantly at her hands on the table before us.  My comforting hand still over hers.  She took in a long breath, and at last, her eyes raised to mine.

“So.”

“So?” I asked.

“So, I need to leave here.  Back to the real world, where there are no such things as Trolls that make you divulge your deepest, darkest secrets to strangers who can do nothing for you.  My problems are my problems.  Yours are yours.  Back to the ‘Big Girl’ world.  Back to another day of proving my “father” wrong.”

It hurts so much to see the shroud of toughness and bravery be pulled back over her wounds like a winter sweater.  I don’t know exactly what to say to her.  I have had no context for such pain and any words I could muster would seem so empty now that she has put the tough-girl exterior back on.

Quietly I ask her, “Do you mind if I ask you your name?”

She stares at me for a hard moment and pulls her hands away, wrapping herself in them as if feeling a sudden chill in the air.

“Why?” she asks, with challenging eyes.

I flatten my hands on the table as if smoothing out an imaginary tablecloth, feeling the wood grain beneath.  I almost say something, then hesitate and check myself.

“Alright.  No need for names.  I just want you to know and remember, as you return to the Surface World tomorrow that there are people here that imperfect as they may be, do want to have you as a friend and could care about you, if you ever gave us a chance.  Fair enough?”

Her arms were still folded as she slowly stood up and watched me for a moment, measuring my words.

“You are welcome to come back anytime.  I’ll have one of the others provide an escort back in the morning.  Be sure and keep your torch.  It is yours to light at any time, should you wish to return.  No one will judge you for leaving.  And if you one day come back here, your arrival will be celebrated by all.”

Quietly she turned to go up the stairs to one of the upper rooms she would share with one of the girls.

At the bottom of the stairs, she turned once again, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”  And then quickly and quietly ascended the stairs.

*Scene 11* 4:21 (Millstones)

It was late, and I went and tamped down the fire, thoughtfully poking at it with a poker.  I would keep the first watch of the night, and one of the others would spell me in a few hours.  I would sleep in the barn loft, with the moon shining through the hayloft door.  It would be a long night.  Much had happened.  I was so saddened to see this wounded soul go.  So much pain.  So many burdens she carried all alone, and she is so defensive and mistrusting of everyone who would be her friends.

Bad people abound out in the world.  They may not have started out that way, but for various reasons, they get there and cruelly abuse others in both word and selfish deed.  Maybe they too suffered abuse from someone else they trusted.  But there is no cause to perpetuate cruelty.  To darkly pay it forward.  At some point, the pain must be dealt with.  They will have to seek Someone greater than themselves to trade all of that hurt, for healing.  But to do so they must be willing to make themselves vulnerable yet once again and trust the Healer.

For those whose definition of father, mother or friend has been so tainted, they must learn that there is another reality to those terms.  That those cruel incarnations are poor substitutes for the real thing.  I think in each person’s own heart they wish to know this.  There is a part of them that still desperately wants to know that they are loved, and can be loved, and even deserve to be loved, and valued and cherished.  Old definitions gained by harsh experiences are extremely hard to displace.

As I settle down for the night, I watch the moon above paint the lonely road ahead with silver light.  Fog is growing around us, so not much can be seen of it.

I think of the blessing of my own father and mother, not what I deserved, but what every child born of mankind would wish they could be born into.  Nurturing, loved, accepted. Praised and cheered on. Given the tools to make sense of life, and thrive in spite of it.  Being pointed to The Hope which drives me on this ongoing quest.  Knowing that I am both loved imperfectly and love perfectly at the same time.  That, at least, those definitions I learned were not so far off the mark of what was intended in the Ancient text that renews and sustains me.

And I remember again a moment in the Perfect Father’s life where he took small trusting children in His lap and spoke a warning to all of the adult parents and men and women gathered to hear His message.

“6 But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and [that] he were drowned in the depth of the sea.” [Matthew 18:6 KJV]

By my reckoning, there are too many stiff and selfish necks out there in the Surface World, lately, and not enough millstones.

*Scene 12* 4:20 (Rider in the Night)

The fingers of fog crawled along the grounds of the inn, up from the lower road that extended down through the small village of Crowe.

A figure on horseback rode through the rising, foggy drifts up to the back of the inn and dismounted. It cautiously approached the back of the inn moving quickly on light feet, silent as a shadow.

The horse was secured to an adjoining fence post with a slipknot and the figure then ducked low and proceeded into the skirting brush to an obscured and angled cellar door.

The fog was slightly luminous from the muted glow of moonlight, shining high above the scudding clouds.

The figure produced a small key from a pocket and unlocked the cellar, leaving the horse to graze in the damp evening light, while he descended below.

The underground was dark and the air inside the cellar passage was musty and stale.

“Da?”

A soft click from inside, indicated an interior door bolt was pulled back and Begglar’s face peered through the narrow aperture, faintly revealed by flickering candlelight.

“Shimri and the others are not far behind me. Are the travelers ready?”

“Just bundling up. Help me gather the supplies.  Is Sable tied nearby?”

“To the corner fence. Father, Shimri told me they’ve capture a Xarmnian scout and one of the local farm boys.  The scout was terrified when he was captured. Not from our men, but from something that had attacked his company earlier this morning.  They could not get much out of him, but it backs up to story this man told.  Something new has come into the Mid-World and it is moving underground.”

“Not new, son. One of these has come here before, long before you were born. I believe this one is here now because of the other guests that have joined us. One of these others are leading it.  We all must be very careful.”

Begglar handed one of the bundled packs to the young man, and carried two others under his arms. They quietly moved through the short underground passage and ascended the stairs emerging out into the diffuse moonlit night.  Billows of fog roiled around them, making the silver view difficult to see beyond a few feet, but the two knew the grounds well enough to walk through it blind.

They tied the bundled packs to saddle of the dark horse, now hidden completely within the fog bank. The stallion quietly nickered and a low rumble came from its throat, but the younger man calmed the horse by caressing the horses velvety nostrils allow the stallion to smell his familiar scent.

Begglar, turned and spoke quietly to the wispy shadow of his son.

“Now go get the man and his family. Remember, no names.  We don’t know them and they don’t really know us. It is safer that way if they are ever captured.”

“Should I get Zohar from the stable?”

“I have already attended to that. Bring the family out quietly.  Then go back inside and help your mother. I will take them on to meet Shimri and the Storm Hawk and the Lehi.  You’ve done enough for this evening. Go get warm. Your mother and Aytama saved you some supper, but you’ll have to eat it upstairs.”

“Father, this damp air is not good for you. If you catch a chill…”

“Nonsense! I’ve weathered a good many cold and much wetter nights in my time, than you, so be quick about it. I’ll be back in a few hours. Stick to the plan we agreed to. We knew this day would come. Now be off with you.”

Reluctantly, the boy turned and retreated again into the feathered whiteness to do as he was told.

*Scene 13* 2:37 (Underground)

Deep underground. Seismic level shifts crashed and crushed large amounts of earth and rock, as an incredible ramming force plunged into the dark fathoms of the Mid-Worlds substrate.  A pounding, pulsing of beaded flesh, coiled mountains of muscle, gristle and bone, tore savagely at the ground tunneling its own cave system.  A bellows of breathy force and champing teeth ate into the earth, funneling plumes of dust through pounding gills that coughed out a sinuous froth that melted the ground around its prodigious bulk.  It twisted and writhed, coiled and canted, side to side leaving a viscous glowing ooze in its driving wake.  A tangled net of phosphorescence striated the freshly cut tunnel, pouring out of the monstrous scales as the beast from the sky and shore–Sheol–A worm of consumption–A subterranean funeral train, moving at the speed of a railed locomotive, dug its way further in and further onward towards the vector of the one whom it sought most to devour. The smoke of its violent travel signified and swirling with a burial shroud of dust, filled the tunnels masking the monster’s vigorous pursuit.

A guttural thunder of barely intelligible words, sifted out of it’s lunging maw, around the grit and powder of poured and vented earth…
I’m coming…I am coming…I am coming…I am coming…for you traitorous leader.  I am the darkness…I am Sheol…I am the power of the grave waiting to eat your body…soul…and spirit!

*Scene 14* 8:15 (Finder in the Fields)

Fogs covered the lowlands, beneath the rise to the small village.  From a steppe plain, down a declivity but still above the highland valley the fog merely formed a low shrouded ceiling. A rider on horseback waited in the shadows, astride a tall black mare, she, in fact, called “Night Mare.”  The horse was lean and strong.  Iridescent black and polished silver by the wet of the night.  Chilled but taut, champing and ready for action.  The rider surveyed the vague moonglow, reading the night sky and scanning the dark treeline for movement.

The field of wheat bore an unlikely scar. An oblong trench, dialogonally cut across its golden rows that urged a constant funereal hushing “shhh, shhh” under the influence of the night winds.  The trench was a subterranean death mark.  What she had feared was true.  Another monster was now present in the Mid-World. 

They had captured a wayward Xarmnian scout, devoid of his mount yet retaining his characteristic bravado.  He had a small lad with him that he had cuffed and struck numerous times until the rider had commanded one of her men to apprehend the assault, and lash the brute, before he killed the boy.

“All dead!” the delirious man raged, when the rider’s sentry wrapped the end of his bullwhip around the man’s raised fist before he could use it again against the cowering boy.

The Xarmnian had seemed confused when the whip restricted his raised hand, and twisted him bodily away from the lad.  A boot to the man’s face broke his nose and caused him to stumble and fall to the ground, pulled by the whip, coiled over the saddle horn of the intercessor’s mount.

The soldier cursed through his bloodied face and twisted nose, spraying blood on the ground. “You dogs’ll pay for this!” he growled, and the man was pulled further, his arm popping as if it was being wrenched from the socket.

The whipbearer responded in a strong commanding voice, though muzzled slightly behind his kerchief scarf, “Who are you, Xarmnian?!  And what are you doing to this boy?!”

The Xarmnian laughed over bloodied lips and spat, “Who are you to demand anything of me, masked dog?!”

He glared up at the masked man who had him bound with the end of the whip.  He tried to jerk free, but the mounted man’s horse backed away, further pulling the Xarmnian off balance.

“I am here on the King’s business, which is none of yorn. Let me be!”

The masked man was silent and glanced back at his party of other riders and the one smaller rider whom they seemed to defer to.

The smaller rider moved forward, its face fully masked with only the eyes and bridge of the nose showing.

The voice issuing forth was calm and soft spoken, and the Xarmnian was perplexed by the incongruity of it with his own expectation.

“Why are you alone? Xarmnian patrols only ride in company.  Where is your team?”

The Xarmnian was sullen but thoughtful, he did not meet the eyes of his questioner when he answered under muttered breath, “Dead.  All of them. The ground opened up and something took them.  Took them all, save I and the whelp there.” he nodded, gritting his teeth at the boy.

“What business does Xarmni have with the eastern highlands to the sea?”

The Xarmnian raised his chin in defiance, blood trails streaking his beard and chin, his nose now purple and swollen.  “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

it was clear they would get no further cooperation out of the defiant man, so the smaller rider, gestured to two other riders towards him.

“Take him. Bind him.” the leader gestured, “Bring the boy.”

The young lad had fallen to the ground and looked warily from each of the riders, fearing that their intentions might also bring him further harm.

One of the riders dismounted and kneeled down and held his hand out to the boy, who raise his arm again, red with welts and bruising, fearing a further strike.

“It’s alright, son. We are not here with this man. Quite the opposite.”

The flare of distrust and fear in the boy’s eyes gradually softened as the masked man kneeling before him continued to hold out his open hand toward him.

Finally, the boy spoke, through a cut lip.  The Xarmnian had been cruel in his own fear, taking the loss out on the boy.

“They came and killed my Dah,” he spoke painfully, tears spilling from his eyes.  “Just stabbed him for no reason.  And then…”

Fear deepened again, causing the boy to tremble.

“What’s your name, son?” the kneeler asked gently, trying to keep the traumatized boy’s focus.

The boy regarded him as if he had not understood the question.

Gently, the man asked again, “How are you called, son?”

“Amichai, but Dah…,” tears welled, “Dah called me Michai.”

“Michai, then,” the kneeling one spoke calmly, “can you ride with us? Show us if what this Xarmnian says is true?”

The boy nodded, glanced fearfully at the Xarmnian, now bound hand and feet by one of the other riders who had him secured.  The Xarmnian glared at the boy, gritting his teeth threatening the boy to keep silent.  But the gesture had the opposite effect than what he’d intended.

The boy nodded, shifting his eyes back to the kneeling masked one’s outstretched hand, and took it, allowing himself to be raised to his feet.

“I will show you where it happened.  It is not far from here.”

The boy stood, steadying himself on shaky and brusied legs.

The smaller leader drew her reins, about to turn her horse away, but the boy spoke up.

“Are you who they say you are?”

The leader paused, turning the horse back towards the boy, addressing him in a quick response.

“And who do they say I am?” the oddly calm and softer voice queried.

“The Storm Hawk,” the boy stood up just a little straighter, raising his chest to seem more bolder than he had been. “The one who flys in a turns the storms away from towns like ours.”

The lead rider only gave the boy a slight nod, before turning her horse again and riding away towards the tree line.

The Xarmnian glowered, but it was clearly a pretense of bravado.  He knew the title, and the tales of the riders who followed the one called “Storm Hawk”.  If this was who these interlopers where, that now took him captive, he was in very real danger indeed.

*Scene 01* 8:28 (The City of Xarm)

Three dead horses later Shihor, the Xarmnian Scout, rode quickly through the massive stone gates of the capitol city of the Xarmnian empire.  He did not stop to greet the gatehouse guard, nor acknowledge anyone young or old in the cobblestone streets of the dirty city, but rode through them hard, his present horse’s hooves pounding a warning upon the drums of the street, for anyone lingering there to move swiftly out of his way or get run over and trampled.

The horse breathed foam from its lips and nostrils, its eyes darting wildly as its cruel rider held the hard steel bit and reigns, keeping it from rebelling or turning in a direction its unrelenting taskmaster did not wish to go.

Finally, the rider, pulled back, causing the beast to skid and fight to keep its iron-shod hooves from slipping on the oily, grimy stone pavements.

The soldier dismounted, staggered a moment and then drew out a long wicked dagger.  He approached a barred portcullis and shouted to the guard inside.

“Dargun! DARGUN!” he shouted angrily, “Why aren’t you at your post?! Open this gate, Dargun!”

A muffled crash and stirring noises came from inside the adjacent gatehouse, followed by a muttered oath.

When the guard did not respond fast enough, the soldier pounded on the gate.

“Hurry up, you lazy cur, or I’ll carve out your fat liver and feed it to those groveling street urchins in the alley I just passed.”

The door beyond creaked opened, and a red-faced man emerged, fumbling with a clinking ring of keys. He squinted in the sunlight, and teetered towards the iron portcullis gate.

“What is this, Shihor?!” he came towards the gate groggy-eyed and sputtering, “Aren’t you supposed to be out on eastern patrol?”

“Shut your gobbler, you fat slob and open this gate immediately!  Call Captain Jahazah and have him meet me at the high court.  Where is the Son of Xarm?”

“You can’t just…!”, Dargun leaned in too close to the flat iron bars, separating him from his impertinent, and insulting comrade, regretting it instantly.

Shihor’s hand flashed through the bars, caught Dargun by the front of his shirt, and jerk-slammed his face into the iron-grid.

“Open this gate, you idiot, or I will start carving!” Shihor snarled, his fierce eyes glaring into Dargun’s now bleeding face and forehead.

Dargun felt the blade of the wicked knife being pressed against the fat of his belly through the grill.  Wincing in pain at the cold sting of the blade, but holding himself in check, he knew he dare not look down at the knife or shift his eyes from Shihor’s.

“Open the gate!” he grunted to someone from within, and the gate chain began to clink and draw the iron-grid upward, such that Shihor withdrew the blade and his hold on Dargun.

When the gate was high enough, for Shihor to duck under it, he did so, walking brusquely past the heavily breathing Dargun, grabbing the key ring from him.

“I need access to the Treasury. Which key is it?”

“Now wait a minute…” Dargun sputtered, but Shihor flashed the blade at him in a dangerous warning.

“Impede me further, and those little urchins will be eating sooner, than the hour of their daily ration.  I asked you a very simple question and you have not answered me,” Shihor growled raising the knife.

“What is it you wish to know?” Dargun winced, fearing his slow-wit might bring on further anger.

“Where–is—the Son–of Xarm?” he said slowly, deliberately drawing out the words while capping a very thin top layer over his smoldering frustration with the man.

“He is in the great hall and has some of those creatures with him.  They are meeting in council and supposedly forming some sort of arrangement to ensure that The Pan keeps to the terms of their treaty.”

Shihor thought that over a moment, and then muttered, “I suspect that The Pan has already breached that bargain.  We never should have negotiated with The Half Men in the first place.  They will never quiet the wildness inside them.  First the Builder Stones and now this.  It would not surprise me if the Capitalians weren’t in on this too.”

He then took in the sight of Dargun with registering further disdain with a contemptuous look.

“Which of these keys is for the Treasury door?”

“The King’ll slaughter me in the public square if you take anything…”

“I am not going to take anything. I need to go in to see if anyone else did, though it would not surprise me seeing as how this gate is so poorly guarded.”

Dargun hesitantly indicated which was the key to the Iron door that led to the Treasury rooms, and Shihor turned and headed into the covered hallway towards the Treasury in the Keep, with Dargun following a short but cautious distance behind.

When Shihor approached the Treasury gate two large guards stepped out of the shadows to impede him, but Dargun called out to them from behind.

“Let him pass.”

The two armed sentries stepped back into the shadowy nooks, as Shihor inserted the key into the large iron-plated door.

He strode into the darkness of the room and down the corridor to where “it” had been kept since the beginning of their kingdom, long before he was even born.

Dargun and his other attendant guards, heard the shout of rage and the banging and crash of things being thrown about in fury as Shihor discovered to his dread what he had suspected all along in his furious ride back to Xarmni from the coastal lands.

When Shihor emerged from the inner Treasury rooms he was deadly calm, but in a very dangerous mood, and spoke low to Dargun.

“Assemble the Overwatch.  Have a detachment meet me in the Great Hall as soon as you can.  I think the Son of Xarm will have great need of them very soon.  Do it now.”

And with that, he strode out portcullis gate into the narrow alleyway, walked up to his panting mount, withdrew his dagger and stabbed the sweat lathered animal repeatedly until the beast collapsed heavily onto the street.  Without another word to the shocked guards, he turned towards the northern end of the alleyway and said over his shoulder.

“Go feed those street urchins this dead creature.  Lure them in with the smell of meat.  We’re gonna need some Trolls to meet this upcoming crisis.  Bring the elixirs and douse the flesh with it.  Let their hunger be slaked with its marinated flesh.  Hurry.”

*Scene 02* 4:11 (The Outer Inn)

We approached the back of a roadside inn.  A traveler’s way-station consisting of a small stable, a dining hall, and about eight upper rooms. The inn was situated on the eastern edge of the village. What few road-weary travelers there were, even in good times did not often stay long, just enough to get a few hours to rest and a place to lie down before they pressed on.  For the most part, the villagers were suspicious of travelers and of late fearful of them. So the one and only inn was relegated to to town’s edge.

The innkeeper had fallen on hard times.  His inn was not in the most pristine shape, to say the least.  Not much like it was in the old days when more people traveled towards the eastern sea. Xarmnian patrols has stifled travel and cut off trade to the outer rural communities. They had yet to establish jurisdictional control of the outer periphery communities, however they did not want them supplying any insurgent counter-strikes.  Xarmnian power centers were in the large cities and they suspected the rural lands of fostering and harboring the unrest and resistance to Xarmnian rule.

The interior of the wayside inn’s commons area was bordered with thick rough-hewn and exposed wooden beams and stonewashed slate to hold the heat in.  Staid and solid benches served wooden tables made of thick planks with weathered bark still on the underside.

The road, like the inn, had suffered under harsh winters and unseasonable rains.  The soil in front of the inn was often a deep thick mud and the Inn keeper’s boy had to extend boards out to the coaches when they arrived, to assist the travelers in getting through it.  Not that the keeper cared so much that a dainty lady’s petticoat might get soiled, but more so that the travelers with their few meager pieces of coveted coinage, might not track more mud in upon the dining hall floor that he had labored through about five minutes of backbreaking misery to finally sweep.

There is no carriage in front of the Inn, but it does have some guests inside.  The stables only contain the inn keeper’s few nags and an anemic looking cow.  There is not much grass growing on the edge of the winter season.

The only travelers we can see from our vantage point, appear to be a family on foot.  No carriage awaits them at the livery, where it typically would be parked for the night. They have carried what meager belongings they could and walked overland, for if they had booked passage, their belongings would have already been brought up to their rooms for they night, but these are within reach as they are seated over meager fare in the commons area.  By the look of them through the window, huddled over small bowls of porridge, it seems they each could use a hot bath and a long night’s sleep. It is out of the usual custom, for the host to treat paying guests this way, so it follows that these pitiful souls are merely passing through with no other means than to appeal to charity.

The Innkeeper, once more corpulent and congenial in happier days when his inn saw more frequent guests, looks furtively out the front windows to the dirt roads beyond.  A friend, he is. Or at least once was, for my part.

From what I can tell, his expression is annoyed and dour.  He is much changed from when I last saw him. The rounded cheeks, easy smile, and laugh lines with which he once greeted his guests have faded with age and time.  His trousers are gathered in and his apron ties are slack about his shrinking frame.  The fare he is serving this family, may very well be a spartan portion of what he has left to feed his own family. It is clear he has a desire to at least feign kindness to these folk, but it is clouded by his fear for himself and his own family.

*Scene 03* 8:32 (Unwelcome News)

When Shihor entered the great hall, he at once noticed the winged-creepy woman creature, conversing with the Son of Xarm.  Its eyes were as black as coals and it glared out at him with a crone’s scowl.  It was missing one of its large grey talons and stood, propped up by some kind of makeshift affixed peg to account for the shortened length of its foot.

Two large halberd blades impeded Shihor’s forward progress into the great vaulted room.  Shihor looked wild and haggard.  His long hair hung in sweaty matted ropes from his unhelmed head.  Blood from the slaughtered horse spattered his body and gauntlet gloves, still slick with an oily sheen dancing wetly with the glow from the chamber’s firelight braziers.

“My liege, I  have urgent news from the coastlands.  May I speak with you,” he paused looking cautiously at the owlish old woman creature, ” in private?”

He noticed the back of the room shift as older faces, moved out of the shadows.  Armed guards nervously stood at attention, their plated armor slightly chinking in the open vaulted room, their scabbard, and spears brushing the floor with a soft clack.

Startled by the realization that a full assembly was housed in the great room, he faltered a bit, and then stood more rigid, awaiting his Lord’s pleasure.

The Son of Xarm, was a corpulent man.  He shifted in the great iron chair where he had been conversing with the strange half-bird, half-woman creature and stared fixedly at him.

“Can this wait?” he growled, “As you see, I am in council with the Dame of her peoples.  We were negotiating some assurances related to our mutual friend.  As you are very well-aware this is of pressing concern.”

Shihor bowed respectfully, keeping his eyes on the floor ahead of him in deference.

“My Lord, I would not breach your protocols lightly, if this were not pressing and pertinent.”

The Son of Xarm regarded him silently for a moment, studying him and his posture quietly, allowing the man to remember and consider his place and station.

Finally, he raised his hand, palm facing inward and slightly beckon him forward with the tips of his fingers.  The halberd, curved blades held by the two sentry guards on either side of Shihor lifted, and Shihor watched the shadows of the two moon arcs lift from the floor before him.  Slightly raising his head, he cautiously moved towards the raised head table and the iron thrones at the back of the room.

The Son of Xarm leaned over and spoke quietly to the old creature, who nodded and lifted one of her black-feathered wings towards the creatures of her kind standing within the shadows.  A kind of chirruped murmur passed among the group, as their matron lifted herself from the seat, and moved slowly from the table towards her kind, the wooden stump scraping across the paver-stones of the grand hall as she went.

Shihor stood at the bottom step of the dais and kneeled.

The Son of Xarm sighed heavily.

“You fool,” he leaned forward scowling at the man, “Do you expect me to arise and come down there to you to speak in private?!  Up here!  And this news had better be worthy of the interruptions or you will bleed for it!”

Shihor cautiously approached, and knelt down before his master.  The Son of Xarm fingered a wicked looked crook-blade dagger, under his splayed fingers, whose blade-shape resembled a crawling serpent.

“The news?” he beckoned.

“Someone has summoned the gate, sire.  From a distance, we saw the Oculus opening.  I rode back as hard as I could and have just confirmed it. The Fidelis stone is missing from the Treasury.  I suspect there is a traitor in our midst who would see you dethroned.  The Surface Worlders will soon be called back to complete that which was started.”

The Son of Xarm’s splayed fingers closed into a hard fist around the handle of the wicked-looking dagger as he leaned back, recoiling from the horrible message relayed to him.  His other hand raised to his beard and he unconsciously tugged fiercely on it.

His eyes shifted malevolently around the room as if seeking the betrayer in close proximity.  He stared hard and angrily at his men and the courtier ladies who were present in the back.  He then cast eyes towards the old Matron of the creatures whom he had been conferring with and making some encouraging progress with their mutual assurance plans.  He wondered if the offer had been a ruse, and he was being mocked in his own court.  Every face before him seemed to hold some form of betrayal and deception, and his angry jaw flexed and unflexed with building rage.

At last, he noticed the wicked dagger held tightly in his trembling hand, his fisted knuckles white with fury.

“No!” he began quietly before he even knew he had spoken the word aloud.

“NO!” the second word increased in volume, beginning the shatter the relative quiet of the grand hall.

“NO! NO! NOOOO!” he thundered, punctuating each word with a downward stab, of the swerving blade into the wood of the head table before him.

“EXCAVATIA IS A MYTH!  IT DOES NOT, CANNOT, NOR WILL IT EVER EXIST AS LONG AS I AM KING!”

He drove the blade deep into the wood of the tabletop the tip of the blade extending through so that it could not easily be pulled out from it.

“GUARDS!” he roared to the soldiers in the room, “Roundup and kill any man, woman, and child who dares to say different or holds any belief in the ridiculous ancient prophecy.  I want them all dead.  All traitors dead!  Destroy the remnants of that accursed stone.  Let no one live who defies my orders!  This world will be mine, or I will baptize it in oceans of their blood!”

He then stood and pointed his finger at the delegation group of winged woman creatures and their grand Matron.

“I will hold you to your word, Harpy Delilah!  You will receive your iron shanks, as I promised, only do not go back on our agreement.  We have an accord, do we not?”

“We do,” the old creature nodded, as she was able.

“Then have your kind fly to the coast lands and gather me some intelligence of what transpires there.  My knight here tells me that the Oculus has opened again, and we all know what that means.  The Surface Worlders will be back.”

*Scene 04* 20:47 (The Family Who Fled)

We ducked deeper beneath the Inn’s eastern corner eave, pressing closer to the side of the building so we could listen. Begglar showed me this spot, once before. He sometimes would busy himself in the yard, when soldiers came through and forced him out of his dining hall so they could hold private meetings.

Unbeknownst to them, Begglar had anticipated this, so he had secretly had the corner cornice hollowed out and a mirror hidden under the eave, so he could both see and hear what went on inside the hall. He had stacked the cordwood pile alongside the building, ostensibly for convenience, however there was a shielded passage behind it that allowed him to duck away to listen without being seen from the open yard.

In this way, he had gathered intel over the years, passing it along through secret connections operating in what still remained of the underground resistance.

I am sure he never thought I might have need of it to listen in on him, but we could not be too cautious. Anyone could have been inside. Xarmnian or otherwise. I was reluctant to expose Begglar’s secret listening post to the others, however it could not be helped. It would be too conspicuous trying to step away from my company, so I had to let them follow me into the passage behind the wood pile.

Entering the narrow passage, we overhear snatches of a low conversation, at first.  I silently indicated the hidden mirror angled above us and we all looked up, clearly seeing the interior layout and present occupants of the hall.

Given the scene before us, this might be a very bad time to intrude upon Begglar, but at this point I am not sure where else to turn. I had so very few friends here when I left. Begglar at least tried to understand why I had to leave, or pretended to, at least. We were both being sought after by the Xarmnian Patrols, and the creatures in league with The Pan. They needed to be sure we were dealt with. That what we sought to do, would never be attempted again. Begglar, at least, was able to sufficiently alter his appearance and hide who he had once been, by becoming something improbable. Creating an entirely new persona. Though not as improbable as some would assume who knew the real Begglar behind all of his former bravado. It was the perfect disguise, and he relished in the role for a long time. But things had definitely changed for him. I had never seen him look so bothered and fearful as he appeared now. Worry had taken a toll on his demeanor and his body. I had no idea what could have brought about so many changes in him, from the last time we met, but whatever it was, it must have happened during the intervening twenty-one years since we parted.

From snatches of the conversation, the best I can make out is that the traveler and his family have recently fled the City of Xarmni, the great stonewalled capital city of the Xarmnian Kingdom.

As we gathered near the raised window port above, we can hear them more clearly.  The man is talking.  The Innkeeper bids him continue, assures him he is listening while he watches the road trying to see through the haze of a building fogbank down the road.

“We were told to get as far as we could. To go to the southeast, and up the Brideshead Pass. To follow the river, and find the stone staircase switchback and take it up the plateau until we reached the forest road that led to the township of Crowe. We were told we would find this inn at the top of the hill on the far eastern side of the town, following the road that eventually leads to the eastern sea. We were told you might help us make connections with the Resistance.”

“And who told you this?” Begglar asked, his voice much harder and gruff than I remembered it.

“Someone who told me not to tell you his name, but said he knew your wife very well. And that you could be trusted. He also gave me a name that you would know, if you did not respond to the first password. The word I gave you was the secret password. He said you would know what it meant and would do what was needed. What does it mean anyway?”

Begglar responded, “Never you mind about that. Don’t repeat that word again. There are others not so friendly, who might figure it out and would kill you and your family for any knowledge of it. Leave that word aside. I will give you a new word to use. The days when that other word meant something more are long gone. Just you and your wife and little ones eat your meal there. It’s not much, but times have been hard for all of us, and it was all I could spare for now. My wife will get you all tucked away in a nice warm bed for the night, and you and the missus can have a bath and basins drawn to wash up. My boy’s heating the water and will fetch it up. Just fill your bellies while you can. If a Patrol is coming, we’ll need to get you on your way sooner, but if there’s time then you’d best settle a bit while you can.”

“We were almost caught a couple of times, along the way. Early this morning, we had to cross a field of tall grass. There were soldiers there, sleeping. We almost ran into them before something cut through and swallowed them up.”

“Swallowed them up?”

“Yes. The ground seemed to open up, and something we could not see… something large and terrible…distorted the air and attacked the soldiers in the camp. We were able to slip away unnoticed, and I had to keep my children from looking back, but we ran. There was screaming and a horrible roar, and savage, brutal sounds of the attack. But if it wasn’t for the beast, we would have been captured.”

Miray tugged on my sleeve and cupped her fingers to her mouth. I leaned down, not sure what she wanted, but from her words, she appeared to have been listening closely as well.

“The monster we heard. I betcha that’s what it was,” she whispered almost conspiratorially.

Of course. The noises we heard before, I reasoned, may have been an attack by one of the monsters prowling the trail but misdirected to one of the outer Xarmnian guard patrols.  If this family had approached from the southeastern grade, they could have skirted the road up through Crowe and joined it from the overland pass. A course we almost followed, had we not taken the old sea road.

In fact, the attack was just enough of a distraction to allow this family to sneak by the guards fighting the beast, not to mention keeping them from crossing our path as well, since they would most certainly be heading in our direction. 

For us, we’d heard the noises only a few hours ago, so it was clear that these pitiful travelers had only just arrived.

This family was bundled and wrapped for the cold, but the wet had likely seeped through their wrappings. If they had kept to forest cover they would have crossed the road coming up from the valley and then skirted the western edge of the town and moved into tall grasses of the abandoned fields.

The man was clearly not accustomed to overland travel, and less so his small family, from the looks of them. They must have been walking overland and the younger ones were struggling to keep up.  They were cold in spite of the warming hearth fire, and still all visibly shivered, as the mountainside had become stormy and wet with light snow, intermixed with the cold rain.  It was certainly the season for it. An improbable time of year for foot travel, without ample supplies and an experienced guide. I was surprised that they even made it this far.

“That may be,” Begglar cautioned, “but I suspect there are more Protectorate Guards and they won’t be long in coming. Best keep you and your family out of sight. No telling how many spies might’ve seen you coming up the road here. The Guards of The Overwatch are not ones to give up. It’s a matter of pride with them. They won’t rest until they’ve run you down.”

The man’s wife spoke up, the trembling in her voice evident, “But we had at least two days head start.” 

“Two days on foot makes little difference to men of dangerous intent on horseback,” Begglar answered over his shoulder, staring fixed out of the window at the road that descended into the town below.

The woman swallowed and made a muffled, terrified groan, as she reached and gathered her two trembling children under her arms.

A woman’s voice from somewhere in the back of the room, near the bar and kitchen entrance, spoke up, “Honey, stop it! You’re frightening these children and their mother!”  I surmised that the speaker must be Nell, Begglar’s wife. They had only been married shortly before I left the Mid-World, and I had not been around enough to fully remember her.

“Best they know what’s coming,” Begglar muttered and then turned back to the window.

In an effort to draw the man out a little more and redirect the conversation away from their present fear, Nell spoke up again, “Tell us what you did in that big city? The Resistance needs more skillful men in the trades. What was your profession there? It’ll help knowing where to find a safe enough place for you and your family.”

“I was a press writer, doing a story on that very plague affecting our youth.  I believed they were becoming something else.  Something other than human. So my job, my assignment, was to write about it.  Our apothecaries were tasked with figuring out a remedy. Some kind of medicine that would prevent the disturbing turning, we were witnessing. So we looked to the state physicians for answers. And they developed an elixir that was said to curb the effects of the transition. To prevent the loss of life, and to allow them to be given back to us, once they had undergone a full recovery. Each day I met with our apothecaries, and doctors on this new elixir that was being developed and on how well it was working. I wrote stories of those interviews and encouraged other parents to allow the city physicians to take their children into their treatment center, upon any sign of the changing illness. My articles were praised by my superiors.  I was given accolades and a commendation.  No change in family portion-size at the rectory, but even so, they seemed to appreciate my work.  Until, that is, the day that I stumbled on the truth.”

Begglar turned and studied the man a moment, as the man’s eyes were fixed upon his suspended soup spoon, and a look of despair clouded his face. He looked more like a parishioner giving a particularly shameful confession before a scolding priest, rather than a starving man gratefully savoring a long overdue meal.

At last, he sighed, and with a downcast face he said, “Xarmni produces trolls.”

The man paused and continued between small bites of warm porridge, “It’s been happening for some time now.  Almost all of the children Xarmnian units produce now eventually become trolls.  My wife and I are among the few two-parent family units left in the capital city. We are despised for choosing to remain so. Children are not so easily separated under such a unit, and the “disease” spreads less among that family structure. I tried writing about that but the story was buried. It was labeled offensive and insensitive to the others. I could not advocate for our family structure, no matter what advantages I found in it. We had to placate the public sentiment, not shame it. Meanwhile, the changing “disease” spread and there was no way to curb what would be.  We had to rely on our leaders to provide the cure. Rally the people to do what was being asked of them. Follow and trust them…blindly without question. The greater good was at stake.”

The man looked like he would start weeping at any moment. Such shame and regret pressed visibly down on his shoulders. His wife silently reached over and touched his hand and he clasps it gently, but with restrained desperation that could be felt.

Nell spoke up again, “What made you finally decide to come here?”

“The elixir. Barrels and barrels of a kind of water were being brought into the city from someplace upriver. The city’s water supply was becoming contaminated, they said. There had been no rains for a very long time. Crops were failing. Storehouses were being emptied and rationed. Portions were becoming smaller. We were ridiculed because there were four of us. Four hungry mouths in one family unit, taking more than our fair share. The water supply was being supplemented by the barrels they brought in. But even under all of this we stayed and waited, and trusted all would eventually be worked out. Even though I was required to write that this was the plan, I quit believing it. We had to leave Xarmni. Life was becoming unbearable and my wife and I could see…signs of turning in our own children and they had not been given the elixir.  We refused it.  Our children were healthy.  The disease was made up, manufactured, and the elixir…was not an inoculation against it, but a change agent for it.  The Xarmnian government had a diabolical use for trolls because they had the ability to blend in and not be seen. And The Pan would…,” he broke off mid-sentence, deciding to change the subject.

He sighed heavily, releasing just a modicum of the internal tension with the expelled breath.

“I remember that day in my editor’s office.  The chilling words I heard from him.  I told him what I had found and how it was connected and he dismissed it.  He said “that sort of writing” was not what I was given this position for.  He told me that I was to continue writing about the growing epidemic and that the apothecaries and alchemists would then introduce the elixir they had been working on and the science writer would take over the story and I would be put on others.  I could not help myself.  In an unguarded moment, I raised my voice and my eyes to my superior.”

“‘But it’s not true!’ I told him. And then he got very quiet and would not look at me. It was as if I had suddenly been dismissed as even present in the room.  Recognizing that I had dared raise an opposing viewpoint, I realized that my days in that office were now numbered. When he finally spoke to me, his words were measured but chilling. I could feel his anger seething, but he kept his voice low. He had stuck his neck out for me in the past, and I had before then considered him a friend, but that day and that moment all of it changed.

He said–and these were his exact words, and I will never forget them–‘You keep using that term incorrectly!  ‘Truth’ is what WE make of it.  In a society of suspicion, all you need is plausibility to create your own truth.  Do that!  Write it and print it.  Make it sound plausible, and in most people’s minds it will become truth to them!’ I knew whatever I said to the contrary would end me there, or allow me to keep my position for whatever few days I had left to make a plan of escape.

That day, I raised no other challenge, but quietly…meekly…completed my daily article on “The Epidemic” and walked home through the village.”

“I thought you said you lived in Xarm, the capital? How can you call a massive sprawling stone city a village?” Begglar asked, confused.

“We call it that, but it really is much larger than any village ever was.  Another lie we persist in upholding for the ‘greater good.’  The idea is that the concept of a village is a small, tightly-knit, and rural community of neighbors and friends.  The concept of “smallness” being the most important.  If there is the idea that our community of neighbors is few in number, then it is reasonable to think that sharing among ourselves won’t overtax our generosity.  Feeding five friends as opposed to feeding fifty is a big deal and cost to any one of us.  While, if we struggle and save we might be able to feed the five, we could never afford to feed the fifty.  Not on what we make.  Not even adding what we secretly have to grow in soil boxes tucked away in our houses.  Few of us have roofs strong enough to hold sun growing plants, so we have to make do with mushrooms.  You can grow them in the dark, you know? Lots of mushrooms.  I used to actually like mushrooms…”

*Scene 05* 13:00 (The Son of Xarm)

When the company of attendants had filed out and the Harpy creatures had flown from the assembly hall, the soldiers, along with Shihor, and the military captains repaired to the war room and the grand maps to await the king while he freshened up.

It had been a long taxing morning.

The Son of Xarm withdrew from the receiving hall attended only by his personal body guards to his private chambers. When the guards were stationed outside of the chamber doors, the king bolted the inner doors and moved further within the room, unlocking a mechanism in the golden canopy of his canopied bed headboard to revealing a  secret side room, behind the stone wall where he kept a very private shrine.

Lifting a tapered candle from a sconce, he lit the secret chamber’s stone interior. His flickering shadow flapped like black shadowy wings on the cold stone walls in the wavering light from the flames.  He waited a few seconds to allow his eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness of the low lit room.

A carafe of red wine, in a crystal decanter, with a single cut glass cup, lay upon a silver serving platter, next to long tapered red candles of tinted tallow.  He struck a flint and lighted the two candles revealing in the wan and growing light a large gilded-framed portrait of a formidable man, with a fierce glowering aspect, bearing some slight resemblance to his facial features yet commanding a more solid figure, a proudly raised chin, and self-assurance that he had daily envied to the point of angry obsession.  Even in the painted portrait, the figure seemed to glare its disapproval down at him under thick-shadowy brows and a wide proud forehead.

“Hello, Father,” he whispered quietly to the large portrait, daring not raise his eyes to it until he had poured the glass decanter and filled the singular cup.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored sheen of the silver platter, even though it was edged with a blackish tarnish.  Yellow fire-sprite reflections danced a smoky dervish around his unflattering twin in the metal. A piggish jowl beneath his beard amplified by the curve in the plate caused him to frown deeper in its mockery. He sucked air in through his clenched teeth with a slight hissing noise.

His was a more corpulent form. A vestige of his matronly mother which curse him with a certain feminine plumpness to his hips, softer lips that lacked the harsh edge of his primogenitor, and puffiness about his eyes that he attributed to a chronic lack of sleep.

He hated his physical differences from his father.  The prevalence of these were a constant threat to his legitimacy. His father had many times tortured him with the prospect that he was someone else’s bastard, as a means of dangling his natural succession to the throne before him. He both hated and loved his father, even while venerating his carried-on legacy.  He had tortured himself to the point that he had spurned his own name, and required his subjects to refer to him by his title alone–Son of Xarm.

He raised the filled glass, slightly swirling the dark crimson liquid inside, catching the growing light of the two flames.

He raised his eyes at last to the large portrait and remembered back…to the beginning.

The Mid-World lands had been lush and fertile. The mountains of the land rose to the sky on good and solid stone. But they had found the valleys already occupied by a people living in large but modest communities. Nothing as powerful as the sprawling cities of stone that would be built, but still a significant number of peoples who would not easily to succumb to their rule.  The brothers were divided on what should be done. Some in his immediate family had proposed to ride in and conquer the towns, but his father had cautioned them against it. He had favored cunning over might for the first wave but was insistent on subjecting these lands, nonetheless. He brothers had scorned his notion of rule and had insisted that there was room enough in the Mid-World for them all to live along side of the others who dwelled there. His father had assured them all that one day they would come regret their decision not to conquer the peoples. But they would not listen to him, and he had agreed to go along with the wishes of the group, for the time being. But when they had been taken by the resident people to the cursed land horn, they had coveted the stones of power that they had found there. When the Traveler had shown up, he had told them of the properties of the conical gray builder stones arrayed around the land horn. He had told the brothers to leave the three crown stones untouched for they were the possession of the land’s king and its king’s crown. But they had not listened and they took the red Cordis stone, and the pearled Fidelis stone, but the blue Praesporous stone was too heavy for them to bear, even though it appeared no larger than the others. Xarm had suspected there was a power in the virtue stones that was dangerous and would not be wielded by one man alone. To keep the phantom king from returning, he had proposed that the virtue stones be locked away and forever be held separate. For whatever beast or force had taken the golden crown into which the stones had been set, would eventually come back for these precious stones.

Thinking back, the Son of Xarm, raised his glass to his lips again and toasted his father’s image.  He would have been right, too, had it not been for the foolishness of his disowned and accursed brethren, the Capitalians.  They had betrayed his father, and he would never forgive them for that.  They never should have surrendered the bright-blue crown stone to The Traveler who came through the Occulus.

They had been deceived by the sorcery in the Traveler’s hands.  Bewitched into believing that there was yet a kingdom beyond the one they could all see, touch, feel and smell.  Excavatia.  A hated fairy-tale.  But a dangerous one, if believed.  And an even more terrible one, if by chance the place really did exist.

The Son of Xarm gazed deeply into his glass, his angry thoughts swirling with the spinning dark ruby libation within.  Carefully he set the glass back down on the silver server tray, obscuring his reflection.

He slowly rolled up his long sleeve, the crimson and black cloth bunching up around his elbow, revealing an arm full of pink and red shallow scar marks.

He raised his knuckled hand, twisting the top of his father’s golden signet ring of authority.  The small metal emblem of an engraved coiled serpent, twisted from an inner groove within the ring and he carefully lifted the imprint and slide it aside on a tiny hinge, revealing the short-spiked metal post beneath.  Making a pumping action with his fist, his bare and scarred arm bulged with darkening veins as he waited.  Finding a higher place of smooth plump flesh, as yet unmarked, was difficult for the lattice of scars ran the cross-length of his arm.  With his hands clenched, tightly, one a victim, one a victimizer crowned with the royal authority of the signet ring, he jabbed the exposed post into the waiting flesh of his other arm, wincing and breathing heavily as he gouged a new scar in the site.  He closed his eyes with the sting of it, but leaned forward, allowing the fresh line of blood to drip from his arm into the open well of his wine glass.

Drop after drop, he waited until the pain numbed him and he was again able to shallow his heavy breathing.  The blood formed an oily miasma of colors as it sprinkled into the top of the open and waiting, ceremonial wine glass.

The Son of Xarm dipped his signet ringed hand into a shallow basin of water to his left of the shrine.  And with tiny streams of blood running between his fingers of the wounded arm he brought his ringed hand under it and closed the seal back over the sacramentally rinsed wounding post of the golden signet ring.

He lifted the blackening lid of another tarnished silver serving bowl, revealing under the flickering candlelight, a yellow-powdery substance.  The handle of a small silver spoon rest in a recessed notch, dipping bowl down and embedded in the powder.  He lightly lifted the spoon scooping up a small measure of the yellow powder into its tiny rounded cup.  He then sprinkled the yellow substance on the exposed wound of his victimize arm, taking in short seizing breaths of pleasure as he did so.  The yellow substance caked in the drawn veins of blood and then flaked off dissolving as they fell to the floor between his feet.  He gasped and moaned as the yellow substance entered the cut of his exposed flesh, and a golden light seemed to emanate and pulse from within the dark widened pupils of his eyes.  In a manner of seconds, the fresh wound on his arm closed up around the powder, and his flesh turned a bright red under the newly made scar.

He trembled in pleasure as the power of the yellow powder entered his bloodstream, Leaning forward, he gripped the edge of the rounded shelf to steady himself under the spastic shudders, bowing his head before his father’s glowering and judgmental portrait.

When the rush of adrenaline finally stopped, he, with trembling hands reached for the bloodied wine, with both hands and carefully lifted it to his lips.

“I am your only remaining son, Father,” he said with bowed head, before touching his lips to the drizzled cup, “And you alone are the only god of this world. Favor me once more and let me not bring shame to you any further.  There is no other god but you.”

And with those words, he drank deeply of the bloody wine emptying its remains completely and raising his eyes, at last, to fix then on the gaze of the eyes in the portrait.

“Your blood in me is my glory.  I will destroy the land horn of the old god who holds this world prisoner.  Give me your wisdom and might to do so and it shall be as you desired.”

Moments later, the Son of Xarm left the secret room and carefully locked the hidden panel closed from the inner sanctum.  He’d given his generals, warlords and the scout time to assemble in the hall of the war room.  They would all be waiting upon his divine word.

*Scene 06* 4:10 (The Stone Spy)

Huddled and hidden under the outside eave of the inn, I realized with growing alarm that we were not the only beings overhearing the interior conversation between Begglar, his wife and this small fleeing family. The man’s words made me increasingly uneasy.

As I carefully scanned the angled mirror, I spotted something at the back of the dining room near one of the unlit fireplaces that serviced the lengthy hall. A part of the stone hearth moved slightly closer to the flue and the ashes hatch.  Stone should not move. The yellow flames flickering orange light and crackling shadows on the inn’s rustic walls masked the furtive movement.  It might have gone completely unnoticed, had I not been looking at the particular spot at the moment it happened.  I kept my eye fixed on the place and waited, trying to avoid looking directly at the fire nearby and retain the clarity of my night vision.  It moved again, and what looked like a stumpy gray hand made of rock reached for the lever that would open the ashes hatch.

I gathered my companions to me and said, “Come with me around back…and be quick about it.”

“What’s going on?” one of the travelers asked.

 Trying to avoid the question, I merely responded cryptically, “I think there are enough of us here to overpower it. The little things are powerful, noisy and they are biters.”

“What are biters? What are you talking about?” another asked.

I grabbed a piece of wood, using it as a club and tugged a large burlap sack from my pack, “You may not believe me until you see it for yourselves. Be careful now and do exactly as I tell you. We are going to need our torches.  There is one in each of your packs. When it spots us it will hide from us rather than run. These creatures are not fast enough to outrun us.”

“What did you see in the inn? I only saw the Innkeeper and this family in there. I did not see a creature.”

I sighed, “You have to know how to look, and even then you might miss seeing them. This one is crawling out from behind the fireplace inside there. It will be around the back where the stone protrudes behind the inn. It is climbing through the ash hatch. We can’t let it get too far. If this family is fleeing a Xarmnian Protectorate troop they will be nearby. If they find out we Surface Worlders are back in the Mid-World, they will hunt us down and kill all of us. Our very presence in the Mid-World represents a threat to all who presently rule here because they will know we were brought here to continue the stone quests and be enjoined the fulfillment of the Marker Stone’s prophesy.  We cannot have this creature bringing his masters here. We catch this thing, we save ourselves and buy this family a little more time to get further away.”

“But what is it?” Miray asks.

“We’re going to capture a troll,” I said, letting that strange word sink in.

“A troll?!”

“Yes, you heard me right.  A troll. We haven’t much time to get it before it gets away. You all are going to have to see it for yourselves if it is not already too late. I know I told you all I thought we were supposed to be observes here, but that was only if we are not discovered. If that troll gets away, we most certainly will be. Their monster dogs will find us and we have no horses or any place to hide safely without them running us down. We’ve got to contain this situation. Now follow me and keep your wits about you.  Be careful and don’t let it bite you.  You’ll get the sickness it carries like a mangy dog carries fleas.”

*Scene 07* 04:23 (The Harpy Delitch)

A creature, bird-like in form, but with the scowling face of an old woman and a wild array of tangled grey hair, flew high over the canopy of the smoky wood towards the dark Moon Kingdom.  The meeting with the human king in the great stone city had gone well and she had much to report to The Pan.

The factions were growing between the two sister covens of her aerial clan, and the old dame Delilah had finally made her move against the wishes of the king of the Half-Men for the price of fifty or so human crafted iron battle bracelets.

Armament that she knew would only partially serve in their secret war against the treacherous Dryad nymphs, nesting in the haunted man-forests of Kilrane.

The Matron Delilah harbored such hatred for the foliaged fiends and could barely see beyond her fury of losing her missing claw. But such hatred could be used, if properly prompted and directed for more long term alliances.

Dellitch had almost been given the same name as the Matron Queen of the Harpies, but it had been altered to allow her a path of her own, rather than living in the shadow of her aunt’s rulership, subject only to the horned ram king.

Dellitch. Dell meant nobility. And Itch… Well, itch could mean only one or two things.  An uneasy irritating sensation that must be scratched…or a restless desire and craving.

Her body was thick and powerful, ten times the girth of a large owl, a thick feathered ruffle covering prodigious matronly breasts.  Mocking reminders of their kind’s inability to have children, now bearing a tinge of herbicidal lactation. Poisonous milk sure to wither the saplings of dryad infants. Her face was aged but aquiline. An assemblage of both avian and human features. A hard hooked nose, grey eyebrows lined her brow above two sunken caves bearing yellow-irised eyes. Her thin, age-lined lips and wrinkled jowls quivered with each soaring down stroke of her massive wings. Gathering and pushing. Pulling and stretching in a rhytmic whomp-whomp-whomp as the high winds whistled around her powerful body.

The sky was darkening. The clouds laden with the grey scent of rain.

The Pan would want to know the news that the Surface Worlders,…after all this time…had finally returned to The Mid-World, and they would be seeking the stone he had taken from the two men foolish enough to challenge him in his own dark domain.

Shadows thickened as Dellitch soared, over tree tops and across stone littered valleys, trailing a misshapen darkling twin along the ground and canopy beneath her.  The Pan’s Kingdom was not far now.  It lay ahead in swirling mists, with ancient trees of darkened bark, rotting with parasitic spores and fungi, their thick limbs raised in twisted supplications going forever unheard.

A forest alive, yet not. A covering of blackened watery pools, filled with poisonous liquid magic that allow the denizens of the Half-Men kingdom to see into an ancient world and whisper into dreams.

*Scene 01* 6:22 (Xarmnian Fleas)

The field of tall, yellowed grass, rustled and sighed in dry protest at the rush of the early morning wind passing through it. Cross breezes rolled in lapping waves across the slopes in regular patterns making the land seem alive with rippled golden fur stretched over the ribs of a rapidly, panting dog. Early morning mists fled at the hush and push of the stirrings of the coming dawn.

Concealed deep among the field’s heaving golden pelt, a company of large, brutal men lay hidden and nestled within. Dark human fleas, sniffing for blood, sharpening their knives, waiting in a carefully planned ambush, conceived by their chieftain, Helmer, a Bergenian of the mountains.

A subversive herald, scribbling chronicler of the Xarmnian capitol news, had dared to steal away unauthorized from the capitol city, taking his small nuclear family with him.

They had tracked the man for days through the forests, choosing not to simply impede and accost him, but rather to let him think that he had evaded them. Waiting to see where he might go and to whom he might talk.

The whispered rumors of a nascent insurgency, rising up from the ashes of the one they had brutally quelled in the past had reached them. This man’s timely flight offered Helmer an excellent opportunity, though the man did not know it, to quell the uprising in it cradle. It was time to expose and make an example of this man and his family to all who might try to follow in the man’s footsteps. It was finally time to gain the gratitude and notice of the dread sovereign whom he served for years in anonymity.

“People too often forget what is good for them,” Helmer had told his band, raising his blade to gleam in the midday sun, pulling it clean through the oily cloth now caked in grime and gore, “That is why it is our fortunate job to remind them from time to time.”

A dead farmer lay in the grass at Helmer’s feet–his vacant yet terrified eyes stared blindly and unblinking into the bald and naked sky. Dark crimson spread and faintly siphoned through a vicious gash in the man’s chest, where Helmer’s knife had entered the man’s lung and heart. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. As had the whimpering child they found hiding in the golden grass, now bound and gagged into silence, awaiting its unknown and austere future of servitude in a Xarmnian Labor camp.

The new generation of subjects would have the lesson instilled fresh upon their minds, and–if the fame Helmer sought was to be realized–the brutality of the lesson would also live in their nightmares.

If they were to uncover the spies in the outer lands merely by waiting a few days to move in, so much the better, Helmer had reasoned.

The man would surely rue the day he had ever dared write more than he was told to. What he would soon be forced to witness being done to his own wife and children, would leave an indelible and terrifying mark upon his mind that would sear Xarmnian terror into his psyche like a fiery brand burning into his very soul.

“Carvis,” Helmer grunted. “Take the farmer’s whelp up the road a ways. Take one of the horses and tie it to the saddle. Wait for us. I don’t want to risk it making any noise and giving our position away, before the scribbler and his brood try crossing this field. It is clear now that he is making his way towards the village of Crowe. I have my suspicions, but I think I already know who the man was coming to see. We’ll drag the man into the township and make our example of them there. The high plains peoples have been neglected for too long. It is time they have an incident that make the wider news circuits of the outer lands.”

The crushed footpaths into the field were made sporadically and stealthily by the now hidden troop of individual Xarmnian soldiers who had deliberately fanned out around the perimeter and then converged upon the central point where they had agreed to lay in wait. The idea being that a walking path of a grouped company trampling through would appear more suspicious to anyone attempting to evade capture. The various stirrings and furtive movements in the field grasses, however, had attracted the attention of the farmer and his whelp to the trespassers on their land, but their voices of their potential alarms were now forever silenced.  But the open field stirrings had also attracted another’s interest as well. And the interested third waited impatiently in a rapidly dug tunnel not more than fifteen to twenty feet from below their feet to hear the quiet voices of these coming brutal invaders rising in a sonic crescendo of sudden alarm.

*Scene 02* 3:53 (Attack from Below)

The attack began with a small hidden fissure, moving silently beneath the grasses, at the base of the  dried yellow stalks, cutting a jagged path through their tangled roots like a pair of shears. The men above did not know what was happening to them when suddenly the sky and land around them seemed to cant and tilt and the ground below them crumbled into a gaping trench, an oblong death arena defined by fault lines.

Those along the edges, frantically clung to clumps of grass, unsheathing their knifes, stabbing them into the ground, reaching for the flailing arms and legs of their comrades, doing all they could to keep from sliding into the opening and deepening darkness below.

Sand and dirt poured into the widening trench, filling the air with powdered grit and the blowing stir of dried husks. The wind sighing through the grass above had picked up, hissing in breathy fury. The land of the yellow field buckled, heaved and shifted, as more islands of the fissured-land began to topple and lean into the breaking and falling shelved ground below.

In the swirl of rising dust and gaping grey darkness, some large behemoth moved swiftly across the gaping chasms, tunneling rapidly through the subterranean gulf, causing more of the ground around them to shift, sink and crumble away into the deep.

Large spines, of what look like a jagged row of up-ended slate stones, tore into the land like a buried chainsaw, rising and cutting its supports away. As the creature thrashed and roared, its full-throated-fury and rock-breaking impacts echoed ominously through the hollows of freshly-cut underground caverns. And, as if in response to the bass rumble of the beast’s terrible exhalations, a series of high-pitched treble notes answered the percussive sounds in trumpeted furbelows and glissandos. The deep sang its mortal symphony.

Helmer felt the sinking and wrenching of his gauntlet grip on the twisted stalks of yellow grass and the twisting of his dug blade in the canted ground. He numbly realized that his legs were quickly being crushed by the collapsing ground, and that the higher pitched sounds below were the screams of pain and terror coming from his fellow Xarmnian warriors. He winced, trying to shut out the image of their limbs–arms and legs that have served at his side and marched to his command–being torn from their bodies in the crushing maw of a surging and thrashing, subterranean monster.

His leg had fallen into a fault line and had twisted, as the buckling ground closed back suddenly and heaved buried rocks against it, before it crumbled away. The burning pain overcame him and his tenuous grip faltered.  The light of the coming dawn, and the rim of golden grasses slowly retreated from him. As he slid feebly away into the gaping darkness, he smelled the wretched scent of rotting fish. In the suffused light, between the clouds of swirling dust, he saw the terrifying gleam of two massive eyes–one ice-blue, the other the color of night, both the size of table plates–move swiftly towards his broken body, eager to welcome him into his eternal grave.

*Scene 03* 12:08 (Leaving Camp)

“We need fresh water,” I said, “One can go several days without eating, but not without fresh water. We’ve got to stay alert and hydrated. Your packs have a leather bladder in them. Pull it out and follow me.  There is a footbridge over that river about 500 feet from here.  Keep your heads down below the embankments.  A few trolls have been known to lurk hereabouts.  They are servants of the beasts and would love to see us made helpless before the monsters that have caused such terror and destruction.  They love to create a ruckus and rouse the creatures to descend upon the unsuspecting victims.  They will see you hiding and get the monster’s attention and draw it to your hiding place.”

“Trolls?!” one of the company asked, startled.

“A relatively recent development, I’m told, but yes.  Those things are here too.”

When they hesitated, I lost patience again.

“Quickly now!” I barked at the others still lingering, as I led those closer to me down towards the brook to quickly fill their water-pouches.

“What about those noises?!”

“I did warn you there are savage beasts here, did I not?” I turned back, “Well, there is no beast so savage as dying of thirst or hunger. Besides, if we get further down the road without water, whatever is out there will soon overtake us as we begin to suffer for the lack of it.”

We wind our way down from long hill leading back up to the story bearer’s shack, to the stream and carefully cross the planked bridge to the other side of the river.  The stream is a cut tributary, and the river widens up ahead.

Remembering the man’s predicament, I searched my memory deciding that it must be where the story-teller was confined and recently loosed.  Great slabs of rock overhang the river’s embankment.  We can see the place where a large slab tore into the river as it slid from its precarious perch on the hillside.  Then we see the torn branch.  One end was twisted and chewed.  A smaller rock is embedded near the place that the large boulder once lodged.  The thick branch was used as a lever.  Sobered by that realization, we look around us and sniff the air for any signs of the beast or malefactors who would have done this.  Whatever was here did its cruel deed and has long since gone.  There is a disturbing sense of some collusion here, though.  An implication of both mankind and monstrous beasts working together for some dreadful yet unknown purpose.

We knelt at the stream quietly, listening to see if the terrible noises would continue, but they did not.  An eerie quiet settled in the aftermath—disturbing and portentous.  Silent…  Dare I say it?  …as a graveyard.

When each of our party had filled their water skins, I demonstrated how to twist off the top and secure it with the strap loop for carrying over the shoulder and along their side.

When anyone was tempted to speak, I placed two fingers over my lips, indicating that it was not yet safe to do so.  I could tell Miray wanted to say something, but she pursed her lips, drew a finger across them, made a pinching sign with her small fingers, and tucked something “invisible” away into her dress pocket.  With an emphatic nod afterward and a thumbs-up sign, I knew we understood one another.

We had journeyed away from the bungalow cabin and its scrub garden and the small brook, doing our best to keep low and between the wild hedgerows and chaparral bushes.  We skirted the shadowy areas, trying to keep out of the open as much a possible.

We travel onward…across a partially irrigated plain and some farmland pastures.

Landmarks I once knew are now barely recognizable. I search for familiarity in the face of the terrain but see only its aging stranger. It has been such a long time since I have traveled this back country. Most of it is overgrown with wild rye and sage scrub. The wheat-colored grasses, once short and green, are now long and thick, combed out by the salty sea breezes that climb over the brow of the cliffs. The land is yellow, gray, and dusty. Loose sand, stripped of vegetation, from the sea beyond has blown inland. In some places it formed dunes that rise out of the swales and collected in heaps filling the rain gullies, displacing the freshwater. The farmlands are abandoned, and the once cultivated field rows are now choked with weeds from years of neglect. Gray, jagged, rock juts out from the landscape, reminding me that the bones of the land are weathered and protruding, becoming more angular, as the once fat fertility of the land is stripped naked with time.

I do not remember the walking distance to the sea road to be as far as it seems now. My uncertainty and hesitation must be evident for and I can hear the low murmurs of the company following me. I see their furtive glances at each other, as I have to stop from time to time to scan the layout, to be sure that I am remembering the way. As I said, it has been a long time.

I lead them up through a ravine and we climb a switchback rise that I am certain leads to the cut road on the shelf-ledge above that allows wagons to pass carrying their freights to the coast land. The road used to be far more traveled, and its placement was fairly evident from a distance, for merchants and families used to frequent the path perennially. But now, its foot-hoof-and-wheel-packed surface is hard to discern. The land is growing wild, covering its old scars with ragged weeds. I locate the bare tracings of the road indentations of wagon and carriages wheels long since passed. I point to them, showing the others the outlined remnant of the road which I believe will lead us to the wayside Inn ahead.

I think of the words of the Ancient Text, and see the evidence of its fulfillment all around me:

Highways are empty, there are no travelers. Treaties are broken, witnesses are despised, human life is treated with disrespect. [Isaiah 33:8 NET]

If the roads are this far gone, Begglar’s Inn, if it even remains, cannot be faring so well. Fear threatens the edge of my mind, as I realize that this in-country walk, upon which I am leading these travelers, may merely be a reminiscent and haunted tour through old graveyards and tombs.

I try to shake the thoughts away. How can a journey even begin if it starts with such a failure to find hope and a despair of ever reaching a destination? At some point, I need to climb to a high place to see if the Praesporos Stone still gleams, but the sky above is too clouded, and there are few places here where such a vantage point is even possible.

But I do know of one that is not too far from here. The place where The Eternal Marker Stone stands. Begglar will know its location, even if my sense of its place has faded. That is where we need to begin. I feel a certainty and assurance of that thought stir within me. That is where any further progress into this Mid-World always should begin. It is the place from which all journeys start. All journeys, even those thought to be occurring solely in the Surface World, though few there are now who are truly aware of it.

After about an hour or so of such travel, I gathered the group to me.

“Those noises we heard in the distance may be all for tonight.  We should keep moving.  There is a small village ahead, that I would like us to get to before full sunrise.”

“What was that back there?!”

“What are you not telling us?”

“Are we safe out here alone?”

“Do we do nothing to stop these whatever they are?”

So many questions, that I did not know which to answer, so I just focused on what our goal was, “Our mission here is to recover that which was stolen, to carry it through dangerous territory to the gate in the mountains without getting killed in the process, and to rescue the stories that are being held prisoner in these environs.  Other than that, we are only passing through. The less engagement we have with either man or beast living here, the better.”

“Passing through?  What kind of a quest is this?!” one asked feeling indignant over my answer.

“Mister Brian, I don’t know what you mean about rescuing stories. It sounds so odd. What do you mean by that?”

I had hoped to throw the most complex part of our being here into the mission mix, without fanfare, but the woman seized upon it and cornered me.

I sighed, “I wish you hadn’t asked me that, just yet. There is a better place to hold that discussion–to give it more clarity and weight–but not here. It will all make more sense to you when we get there. There is something I need to show you first, and it has to do with each of us personally. The why’s of each of you specifically being called here. Suffice it to say, for now, that what I refer to as ‘Story’ is an essential part of ‘Being’. I know that sounds cryptic, but again, we are not yet where we should be, to fully understand what is meant by it.”

“‘Being’, huh?” she folded her arms. “As in human beings?”

“The man we…,” she emphasized with raised finger quotes,” tuned into…in that cabin back there, he had a story, and we just left him there and offered no help.  Is that the kind of non-engagement you mean? How exactly is that saving him, I’d like to know? You can’t just walk through an unknown place and not engage with its people.”

Whether she knew it or not, this woman was striking at one of my most vulnerable points. In the back of my mind I could still hear The Pan’s threat, and I knew, all too well, the toll it had taken on me.

It was hard telling them what I did not think they were prepared yet to understand, so I doubled-down, “Our main goal for being called here is to find our way through the badlands to the fabled gate of Excavatia.   We are not to directly engage the enemy in combat, if we can avoid it.  The more involvement we have with the people here, the more we endanger them.  We are outsiders. There are militant groups, literal kingdoms, here that will punish them severely for any involvement with us. Though we may defend ourselves, we are not coming to these moments as soldiers for the oppressed.  We are not ready to join their internal conflicts.  There may be a time for that, but right now we have one very specific mission.  The days of this land are numbered too.  This world is under extreme pressure from the Surface World above it.  The internal problems of the oppressed here are connected to problems we face up in our world in ways few can comprehend, but to serve them all we must not be distracted from our purposes for being here.”

“Well that’s encouraging!” a young woman threw up her hands, “Can you believe this guy?!”

I sighed, exasperated and tried to explain, what I knew was going to sound even more bizarre to them.

“Look,” I said searching the area above us to see if there was something I could point to, but the cloud cover was thick and formed a low ceiling, “Parts of the Surface World are leaking through into this sub-country.  The ceiling of this world, while invisible to the untrained eye, is fissured.  Occasionally, strips of it crack and flake off and spin to the ground of this Mid-World, like peeling paint.  Every time it happens, something from the Surface World gets lost here. Or I should say, buried here. Eventually the whole of the Surface World will come crashing down here, if we don’t open the gate to Excavatia soon.”

“Peels off?” a man asked.

“Yes. It looks like a kind of snowfall, but it is not wet or cold.  Some of the mountainous shoulders of this land are covered in a kind of…” I broke off, but he and the expectant look of the others, made it clear that I had to complete the statement.

I closed my eyes for a brief second, knowing this was going to come out wrong, but I had no other immediate thought that fit, so I continued, “…well…dandruff.”

“Now I’ve heard it all!” one huffed and gestured exasperatedly with the backs of his hands at me.

“Wait a minute,” another said, “White stuff from the sky.  Do you mean like Old Testament kind of Exodus stuff…  Uh!  What was that called?!”

“Nope.  Sorry folks.  This stuff ain’t manna.”

“Manna! That’s the word I was thinking of!” he pointed.

“Manna literally meant: What is it? But as ambiguous as it may be, when you actually see it, you’ll agree it is not something you might want to try and taste. It curls and flakes, like overstretched plastic.  If you see bits of the sky fall to the ground, know that it has been happening for a very long time here and no one I know of has ever identified it as a food source. It is more like what I said. Dandruff…or to be a little more direct about it, very much like dead flakes of skin.”

“Ewww!” one of the girls recoiled. “Cool!” one of the boys remarked.

“This is just so gross, I can’t even…” a young woman said, holding her stomach and looking like she might choke up what little remained of her last meal.

Another turned on me, incredulous scorn on his face.

“Why would the ‘sky’,” he emphasized with finger quotes, “fall to the ground? Pray tell us, Chicken Little.”

Others chuckled and I sighed and smiled, bemused at the jab, knowing this all would be very confusing to them.  It was to me too until I was given the contextual lens from which to view it.

I thought I might just try a different tact.

“This space of imagination is being crushed,” I answered, when the giggling had died down, “If you have a belief in the Creator, you should know that the words we speak are containers for more than just concepts. They can have a presence. They can make you feel, they can teach you, they can hurt you, they can do a great many things good and bad, but even with all of that capability, there are some things they cannot adequately do or express.  Words are unwieldy vessels when the concepts and whatever else they are meant to contain get too large for them. This is what we term to be ineffable. These are the things that must either be demonstrated, if possible or accepted by faith. A faith that requires an openness to imagination, but also an ability to perceive the truth of something that can only be approached by concept.”

“You all wanted to know something about the Mid-World, and only this much I can tell you for now.  The ultimate fate of this place determines whatever happens in the Surface World above it, but at times that seen world collides with this one and during those collisions there are breaks and bridges between the two.  Experiences here give some drift to what happens there. So, for now, our focus has been brought here and this is why you experience what is happening here in a way more vividly than that of any dream.”

“You and I, we all are travelers here upon one of those bridges of collision. But we aren’t the only beings that have used it to cross over. And about those others, you will need to be warned.”

*Scene 04* 3:59 (Aftermath)

In the aftermath of the attack, the oblong trench reeked of death.

The screaming had stopped, but the smell and tang of the recent slaughter still lingered in the stilled morning air.

A man, his wife and two small children, mere moments from discovery before the ground ahead erupted into chaos, now huddled together in the yellow hay field, not more than twenty meters from the almond-shaped crater that had been torn into the ground, suddenly swallowing up the hidden band of Xarmnian soldiers that had been lying in wait for them.

The man covered his small family with his body. His two children tucked tightly between himself and his wife, curled into Nautilus-shaped fetal positions.  They had lain there, shaken and terrified by the terrible sounds erupting all around them, as the ground heaved and descended, engulfing the men in violent carnage. Yet, whatever had attacked the soldiers from beneath, had not come out into the field above or into the light of the rising sun. The man and his family had no way of knowing whether the beast still lurked below, or if more of the Xarmnian soldiers would soon follow and discover them hiding there. Movement through the grass would be heard if they rose up to make a run for it, and they were pretty sure the children would have the hardest time of it. There was no way to know for sure that they wouldn’t be spotted by a horse patrol, so the only thing they could think of is to lay still and keep quiet for as long as they could and wait and listen.

They listened for a long time-to the echo of distant screams, to the rumble of falling rock and debris, to the hiss of the rising wind moving through the grassland around them. No sound of hoof-beats, no further shouts of alarm or of the footfalls of walking men, moving stealthily through the field.  After a long while, they could also hear strange fluttering and flapping noises coming from the trench.

From above, the almond wound in the golden field appeared strikingly like a giant eye, with a dark black iris and pupil in its center. Upon closer inspection, the black, striated iris and dark pupil were composed of hundreds of carrion birds that had swooped in and gathered within it to join the feast of leavings by the subterranean monster who had finally quitted the area, and descended back into its carved abyss.

Though the beast had descended deeper into the underground, savoring the terror and flesh of the men it had pulled down into its abattoir, it could still hear the rapidly beating hearts and pumping blood of the family of four several meters above it.

It hungered for them as well, but they were beyond its savage reach, separated by an impenetrable barrier shelf of stone that impeded its ability to create an even wider crater to engulf them as well. To reach them, the beast would have to surface from the underground, and emerge under the growing light of the new dawn. And it was not ready to endure the burning such exposure might cause for a few more meager morsels.

*Scene 05* 6:17 (Co-Located)

The group began to draw closer to me and Miray as we walked overland, skirting the old dirt road from a distance that allowed us to seek cover in the low scrub and trees that bordered the way.

“I have always believed it was important that the world above be kept separate from this world beneath it, but sometimes whether we wish it or not, there is a blending.”

“I told you all to remember that we are only passing through.  The portal we used to get here only opens at certain times in the supernatural history of the Surface World.  This may seem confusing, but whether you acknowledge it or not, we are both there and here at the same moment, but our awareness is presently here.  That is the best explanation I can offer you for now.”

“Are you saying we are not actually here?”

“No.  I am not saying that.  What I am saying is that you, I, we are all metaphysically here.  Co-located, if you will.”

“Woah!” a teenager exclaimed, “that is… that is awesome.”

“So we’re not just dreaming this?” a girl asked shyly and in a wavering voice.

“Does it feel like a dream to you? How often do you register feelings of hunger or thirst in a dream? So many of the mundane things human’s experience in waking, are present here. These natural things are not merely conjured up by chemical processes in the brain attempting to make cognitive sense of an imaginary experience. It shares qualities with a dream and is like one in many ways, but it is so much more than that. Think about it. When have you had any other dream where you actually notice the feel warm sand or the wetness of water?”

They pondered that, but one of the younger boys in the group smirked.

“You’re not asking us to confess to incontinence?”

I frowned and others groaned at that, but did not dignify it with a response. The guy was nervous, and I could tell he was the type that coped with discomfit using the cover of ill-timed humor, but I saw no point in calling him out on it, so I continued.

“Dimensionality is kind of confused and blended here.  Something extremely heavy up there must be passing overhead…and honestly it makes me very nervous. Sometimes things fall through.”

Though I did not speak it aloud, I remembered.

In the times when I saw it happen before, I remembered feeling like Fiver the Rabbit, in Richard Adam’s very fine novel Watership Down, hiding and shivering in an underground burrow with something that sounds like an armored convoy of tanks rumbling and growling above threatening to crush us all in our warren.  The very air feels heavier and almost stale where once it was crisp, cool, and bracing.

“You be sure and tell us if that is about to happen.  Now, what about these things making those noises that had us all scared to death.  What are they?”

“Before you are shocked, I need to prepare you and warn you about the dangerous beasts that walk between the worlds.  There is one creature that causes such terror and trepidation to all the “stories” that occupy these lands.  Its name…I shudder to say it out loud here…is Hollywood.”

“You gotta be kidding me!”

I raised my hands trying to placate them a bit, “There is a twisted reason for its name down here in the Mid-World, but that too will be explained later.  There are supernatural beings in the between worlds that pass around life unseen in the Surface World, and they are tied to certain activities among mankind.  They are active there, but not in a direct physical sense, but more in a moral sense, and at times do manifest themselves in part but never in full.  They are confined to the in-between of this world and ours, unless…”

“Unless?” another asked.

“Unless some of us come through a portal, and then they are permitted the jurisdiction of pursuit. For there is some part of each of us that draws them.”

They were all quiet, looking from one to the other.  This was all a little much for the first day of our journey together, but they had pressed me into it.

“This thing you said was…Hollywood.  Is it some sort of animal?  Monster?  What?  How is what is here and what is there connected?”

“There is a duality with these particular creatures that connects to each of us, that I can best relate in a sort of parable if you will bear with me.  The One, in His days in the Surface World, used this method of explanation as well when the concepts had larger meanings.”

I judged that we were far enough away from where the terrible noises had come from to relay it safely.  I then told them the tale of Hollywood…

*Scene 06* 15:24 (The Torches in the Holy Wood)

The Torches in The Holy Wood – Story #2

“Long before my first time here in the Mid-World, there was a mystical forest within these lands known as ‘The Holy Wood’.  There is a large beast that is half-human that presently has jurisdiction over that ancient and mysterious forest, and it is heavily guarded by the half-man, half-beast creatures that are under his rule.  It is from the darkness of this mystical wood that the violent creature known now as Hollywood emerged.  Legend has it that the beast was summoned into the Mid-World out of a portal pool within the ‘Holy Wood’.  That forest is full of mystical pools with waters that mirror haunted areas of the Surface World where the Enemy of all has supernatural strongholds.  Some are connected to people and others to places and events in Surface World history.”

“That vile, pernicious creature called Hollywood here is not just a beast, it has sentience and is a sadist.  Under its crushing elephantine feet and piercing claws stories die horribly prolonged deaths.  With Hollywood, the phrase “Death by a thousand cuts” is more than just a cliché.  Hollywood does not just let its victims die a quick and easy, merciful death.  Oh no!  It revels in their agony.  That is the Mid-World version, but the Surface World version reveals its evil sentience.  The iterations of this creature are mirror images of each other, only like a concave or convex mirror the source appears differently depending on the place in which it occupies.  The Surface World image is clearer (think of the reflection in the flat-surfaced mirror) in its malevolent intentions, than is its Mid-World image.  So, it is better if I describe the Surface World version in terms of a parable.  Its Surface World version is a kind of collective monster that delights in dangling hope and the promise of financial freedom before its victims and then dashing those hopes…over…and over…and over again.  A collective monster here in the Mid-World is represented by physical mass, but there it moves behind the scenes of daily life as we know it.  You have got to understand that the Surface World and the Mid-World are not as far removed from each other as you may think they are.  There in the Surface World, it operates as a creature of deception offering a birthright trade and a sucker’s bargain to its human prey.  That conniving beast is very powerful and influential in the Surface World.  We’ve yielded it too much power over the years. There it wears a thousand glamorous faces airbrushed and lighted to perfection.  Here it is just a nasty, putrefying giant with skin that looks like the gnarled wood bark of a blighted tree.  Its sweat is acidic.  You will smell it long before you ever see it.  The odor alone will make you heave and your eyes water.  Suffice it to say the closest approximation I can give for it would be…if you even can…to imagine a gym bag full of sweaty workout clothes, left in the toilet stall of a steamy locker room in a puddle of coagulating and congealed urine for about a month.  Imagine what a pair of socks moldering in that bag in fermented sweat and BO might smell like to the janitor who discovers the bag and foolishly opens the zipper to see if the said owner of the bag left any evidence of that ownership within.  Such an unfortunate experience might make the most sedate, sleepy-eyed, good-natured, prim and proper person let fly some series of shocking expressions that might sunburn the backs of your earlobes in a dark room.  You may think this is just hyperbole.  That a few discreet smears of Vick’s Vapor Rub under each nostril might mask such an incredibly foul stench.  You would be wrong to take that wager or risk.  In the Surface World, that carefully cloaked fiend is saccharine scented.  Its voice–mellifluous.  It is attended by a slavish retinue of self-important sycophants.  These lead representatives live in lofty urban towers high above the “unwashed masses”.  They are invested in illusion.  That is their livelihood.  They step on scarlet walkways to and from chauffeured conveyances and claim to be an advocate of the greater good of the people.  Where have we heard that before, I wonder?  At least, in these lands, the beast they serve above shows so much more of its truer self while hunting in these lands.  Here, the creature is a raging brute.  It has no apparent friends or followers here.  Its stench ensures that the populace here give it a wide berth, and make every effort to avoid it if possible.  Hollywood, however, pursues the same driving obsession in these lands that it gorges itself in on the Surface World.   Admiration, adulation and a kind of worship.  Its frustration to find such similar awe here drives and fuels its brutal and destructive rages.  It must have its desires appeased.  It demands it.  Here it uses the tools of fear and terror to gain a degree of its insatiable need.  It is only when it reaches such levels of infuriated frustration that it inadvertently kills its victims.  Once dead, the victimized story can no longer beg it for mercy.  Its mangled body is to Hollywood merely a broken toy that the monster can no longer play with.  Petulantly, it must stomp away to seek another “plaything”.  Strangely enough, Hollywood does the same thing on the Surface World.  It seeks a creator, a torchbearer in that dark world.  It promises the torchbearer an offering of fame and great fortune if it will lend its light to Hollywood for the opportunity to project it to the awe and amazement of the masses.  If the torchbearer yields the light of its burning story, the beast smiles.  It offers the bearer a codified writ of promise enumerating the benefits to the bearer for an exchange of the light.  It seals the deal by wining and dining the bearer.  Assuring them that they have done the right thing…for the greater good.  The light is taken away for prepping for the grand projection moment.  In the meantime, the room grows perceptibly darker in the absence of the torch.  The bearer’s name is barely inked upon the codified writ before the torturing begins.  The arguments for taking away this,…altering that,…adding a visual effect to enhance the projection of the brightly burning torch…begins.  When next the torchbearer sees their firebrand ensconced in a metal brazier, the flame is barely flickering.  The darkness around it is almost palpable.  The smiling beast proudly flourishes their artistic and interpretive work of diminishing the brightness of the light.   After all, brightness might offend the sensitivity of viewers who are averse to its intensity.  In the waning sputtering light, the torchbearer sees his name engraved on the handle of the torch as an acknowledgment of his role in bringing the flame forth.  Sickened by the engraving that he clearly did not carve, he begins to protest.  That sweetly saccharine smile returns on the broad face of Hollywood, only this time, the teeth displayed seem to have a pointed quality.  Its eyes seem feral, with almost a luminous yellow tint to them.  In such moments the creature walking between both worlds does not seem so unlike its appearance when it walks these lands.  Slowly it raises the codified writ, only this time the paper is etched in a sort of colored iron, under an ornate and felt-lined frame of gilded gold.  The glass is tempered and thick, magnifying sections of micro-sized text which allow the bear to make significant alterations and affix the perpetual use of the torchbearer’s name to the result.  To the torchbearer, it is the first of many cuts and further indignities to follow.  When the light is finally projected to shine before the masses, it is only a mere silhouette of the sickly glow that surrounds it enough to shamefully illuminate the torchbearer’s name as the creator of such brilliance.  Sadly, that cut deepens with each public showing until finally, the other beast called Obscurity, who also stalks this world, mercifully swallows it up.  A more recent indignity has been devised, however, and may perhaps be far worse than the first wound given.  As in the other world, Hollywood hates to give up a toy.  So it has invented something to allow it to find Obscurity’s latest purge and keep playing with the story’s digested heap in a recycled form.  This pernicious practice is simply called…“The Re-Boot.”

“It is said that the creature, Hollywood, has a hidden Museum of IP.

“I. P.  (That’s Intellectual Property, for those who may not know.)  It contains a particular wing kept for the most part in pitch darkness.  The wing of that Museum is ironically called “The Hall of Torches”.  Some have been unfortunate enough to see it.

“Over time, Hollywood has collected many torches from Torchbearers.  The Hall, when illumined, has a large thick red carpet running down its center gallery.  The walls are lined with those gilded and framed codified writs in engraved colored plates.  Before each ensconced frame, there is a stone pillar-pedestal containing the blackened torch in a hermetically sealed half globe.  The globe ensures no air may get to the dead torch so that it is preserved and may never be used again as a source of light.  That is terrible enough but at the base of each glass-globe is a golden eye-ring and a golden manacle.

“Clutched cruelly in the manacle is what remains of the torch bearer’s severed hand.  It is a grisly spectacle to be sure.  Like a serial killer’s sick fetish, this “Museum”, so-called, is actually a Mausoleum.  A pride wall of grisly and decaying collectibles.

“I was told that torchbearers get manacled shortly after signing the codified writs.  That’s when they discover that they are chained to the gilded frame.  They are dragged to The Gallery.  The frame is hung in the nearest vacant light-box on the wall.  Their now sealed torch is riveted to the top of each pillar-pedestal before it and torchbearer is shackled to the eye-ring anchored in the stone column.

“They are left that way to shout and protest, plead and beg for days in utter darkness until they are once again visited by Hollywood touring and admiring his private gallery.  The torchbearer can barely see as the hidden motion lights in the ceiling only illumine the progress of Hollywood like a pagan deity.  A few days in the Mausoleum would unnerve anyone.  The smells there are diffuse but slightly pungent and sickly sweetened by decay.

“Upon encountering the Torch Bearer propped against the base of the column, arm slackly hung from the shackle above him, the beast asks them if they desire to leave their tour of the gallery.  Most all nod a weakened assent, whereupon the sycophant legal attendant, trailing Hollywood in shadow, steps forward brandishing a large scimitar. They seize the Torch Bearer by the outstretched arm and promptly remove the Torch Bearer from his manacle…and his hand.

“The Torch Bearer is given a tourniquet to staunch the flow of blood from his severed arm.  His mouth is gagged to muffle his agonized cries and he is literally tossed out of the building onto the street beyond the gates of the grand studios.

“He or she, for Hollywood, does not discriminate in stealing from Torcher Bearers of any gender, race, ethnic origin or religion, is left with the choice to either slink off into their old life or learn to make use of their remaining appendages.  Some choose to find a way back to Torch Bearing again.  Some are simply unmotivated to do anything but to mourn the loss of their limb and torch.  These are the ones that the other beast called Obscurity lurks in the shadows for.  At the right time, they will become MIA from friends and family and all who might possibly recognize their one-handed attempt to seek the gilded glow of fame and fortune.  And in that unguarded moment, Obscurity will step out of the shadows, seize them and they will be eaten by it.”

*Scene 07* 17:39 (Trading Torch Lights for Darkness)

“Boy, I’ll bet you are a riot reading your kids’ bedtime stories.  What a gruesome tale!”

“These are troubled times, and gruesome or not, the danger is real. Hollywood here is an obvious corruption of the place name from which the Mid-World’s monster emerged, but it is an even darker corruption than it might seem. Many things created for good are corrupted. This monster’s name trivializes something that has brought true redemption to mankind, namely the symbol of The Cross. That is why the creature’s iteration here is truly vile in all aspects of its physical form in this world.”

“Wait a minute. I’m not sure I understand. What is the relationship between the collective ‘Hollywood’ of our world and the disgusting monster here?”

“The monster, like us, occupies a co-locality. It is there and here, depending on its focus. All the accolades it achieves there, do not offset its constant reviling here. In the Surface World, one cannot easily see its form, but think of it like a living spiderweb. It has tendrils, web-like strands that reach and connect its agents of deceptions throughout the world. The people it uses and manipulates may not even be aware that they are connected to it, but a black elixir feeds all of its agents causing them to have an unnatural hunger to corrupt all signs of innocents it finds. It’s dark, pulsating heart is pumping these toxins into them through each connection, driving them into addictions and madness until all it touches ultimately succumb to its poisons.”

“Surely, you are not saying everything connected with Hollywood in our world is bad?”

“I cannot conclusively say that. No. There are a few workers in the network that resist the monster’s influence, and have squeezed of the flow of the monster’s black blood, but they are rapidly being found out and hunted by the Hive Mind. The monster is not averse to severing its own limb of connection, anymore than its is averse to cutting the hand off of a Torch Bearer.”

“Torch Bearer,” one of them said, “What do you mean by that?”

“Anyone with a creative gift bears a light into the darkness of our world. Creatives are reflections of The Master Creator. The works of their hands and minds are like lighted torches in the darkness, and our Hollywood has made it its mission to diminish or snuff out those lights of creation.”

“But what if we are not creative?” a young man asked, “Are we immune to it?”

“Not in the slightest. All are susceptible to it. In one fashion or another. Every human in all creation have been given unique gifts by The Master Creator. It is in your very being to express it, though some do not find out how. There is something in each of you, that the dark things want kept in the darkness. But the Master Creator is looking to make you shine.”

There is a passage from the Ancient Text that says this:

“For behold, the darkness shall cover the earth, And deep darkness the people; But the LORD will arise over you, And His glory will be seen upon you.”  [Isaiah 60:2 NKJV]

“You are intended to reflect the lights of glory. So it is important for you to understand the nature of what these beings are.  What drives them. They are actively trying to diminish all lights of imagination and to redefine all truth about your being. They set up myriad substitutes to distract people from ever finding real transforming truth. These dark creatures are every bit creatures of the mind, but here in The Mid-World they have form.”

“So how do we fight a mind creature?”

“You must fight it with the truth, and learn not to let its form deceive you or dissuade you from personally seeking that truth. At the start of your sojourn here, I reminded all you that you each have a light to bear and your own torch to carry through the dark places. You found an torch in each of your packs that I’ve given you. Let that be a physical reminder of that fact. You were brought here for a purpose. You were called to find out more about yourselves than you may have ever thought to ask. This journey, if you learn to walk it by faith, will reveal that to you and so much more.”

“Now that you understand what I mean by a Torch Bearer, think of the fire by which you light that torch as your own personal story. There is something about you and your story that will bring light to others. If no one else chooses to do so, you do have a story of your own to light your torch with.  Don’t be deceived or lured by silvery lights that glisten and promise fortunes for you.  It was not a life of leisure and ease which gave you the stories you could tell.  Don’t fall victim to the beasts between the worlds.  They want to snuff your light into meaninglessness. Keep creative control of the torch you bring to light.  It is your responsibility to bear it and determine where to illuminate the shadows in your world.”

“But I do not understand how anything in my life could bring light to others.”

“And that is why you must be very careful, because sometimes even your own light can be hidden from you. You cannot assess what you have experienced and who you are as a result, may affect another one who is seeking. That is where you must trust in The One who called you here, to reveal it to you. There is another verse that is important to remember. It is in the Ancient Book ascribed to the Prophet Daniel. He lived in a time of great sorrow and darkness, when he and his people were in captivity as slaves.  The One revealed many things of the future to him, and so he writes:

“He reveals deep and secret things; He knows what [is] in the darkness, And light dwells with Him.” [Daniel 2:22 NKJV]

“The beasts between both of our worlds are creatures of darkness. The Ancient Text also says:

“For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual [hosts] of wickedness in the heavenly [places].” [Ephesians 6:12 NKJV]

“These creatures may cloak themselves in the trappings of light, but it is their chief purpose to bring darkness and separate people from light.”

“Think about the decline in literacy, for example. There is a Surface World practice in the USA on August 9^th of each year on a day called ‘National Book-Lovers Day’, where people who are aware of the difference celebrate those torches once proudly lit and held forth to transfer light from one generation to the next.  Lights and torches closest to the source of their creation, shine the brightest in a long dark night.  But at any given moment, when I hear some people recommend such torches to others, I am brought to dismay to also hear a growing number decline to gather around those lights.

“‘No’, they say dismissively.  ‘I’ll just wait to see what Hollywood makes of it later as a projection.’  And so another light fades, crackles, smokes and darkens.”

“People are giving away their light to Hollywood’s interpretation, and so losing the experience of the brightness of the original light.  This world you are in now is the Meta-Physical echo of that Surface World. It looks different through the lens of experience, but if you learn how to see it, you will find that it is in many ways much the same.”

Miray raised her hand, she’d been listening intently to my story and our discussion, and I grinned wondering what her young mind might have made of all this.

I knelt down on my heels so she could see she had my full undivided attention.

“Yes, my dear.  What’s your question?”

“So macha-physical is like someone walking between mirrors, like at the carnival?”

“Meta-physical, yes.  Its perspective is called metaphysical realism and it is rooted in the idea that things, objects, and the truth exists independently of what we think of them.”

She regarded me with a puzzled look, so I tried to simplify it. I spied a small stone laying along the roadside, and reached to pick it up and held it out to her.

“It is like this. This rock was laying here, but only now, by me picking it up and holding it here in my hand, do we all notice it. If we had kept walking along, we might not have ever looked at it, like we are now. It has a smooth part here, and a rough side here,” I indicated with my finger.

“What color do you see?”

Miray reached and took it into her small hands and turned it over and over.

“It has some green here, but it looks like it is not part of the rock.”

“Very observant. That is called lichen. It is a kind of fungus that grows on trees and on rocks.”

“Fungus?” She wrinkled her nose, looking like she might pitch the rock away from her.

“Don’t worry. It’s not that kind of yucky fungus,” I smiled, and added, “Mushrooms are considered fungus too. What else do you see?”

She turned the rock again, moving her hand away from the green patches, and said, “There’s a kind of red on it, and the rest is white and grey.”

“The red is mostly likely a kind of rust, because there may be some traces of iron in the rock. The white part may have either some limestone or some chalk in it, I am not completely sure. Now tell me, in just what you have learned about this rock, did the rock have all of those traits before we picked it up to look at it?”

“I guess so,” she grinned at me.

“Did the rock exist here before we noticed it?”

“Yes.”

“And when we looked at this rock together, did you know that the green parts might be fungus and the red parts might have iron in them before I told you about it?”

“No,” she shook her head slowly.

“So when you looked at this rock you saw it one way and I saw it just a little bit differently. Yes?”

She nodded.

“So in your understanding, and in my understanding, even though we see a little differently, this rock remains the same as it was, even before we noticed it together. You saw it one way, and I saw it one way. But when we both shared our thoughts, we can now see this very same rock with an understand that both of us brought to it. And we both learn by sharing the way we see this rock. Yes?”

“Yes,” she grinned again and then said, “Can I put the rock down now?”

“Yes, you may.”

I then stood and turned to the group.

“What I just showed Miray is how each of us can view something that has its own external properties, but we may both see it slightly different, depending on our perspective.  The rock has its own characteristics that remain, even when we do not think to give it notice or consideration. The truth of the rock, exists, no matter how differently we may perceive it. That is what I mean by an external truth that does not depend on our viewpoint.  But our viewpoint, can be adjusted as we learn what we observe might mean with sharing and study.  This is a humble position, rather than an arrogant one. Truth is external to our perception. Grasping that gives us the ability to learn about something beyond our direct experience and come to an agreement about it with others.  Just like an object placed between two mirrors may reflect an image differently in each mirror surface, it does not necessarily mean that the true appearance of that object is accurately captured by what is seen by reflection.  There is a truth that exists outside of each reflection.  In some, it is distorted.  In others, it is diminished or revealed by the amount of light that is available when the reflection is cast.”

Miray tugged on my pant leg, wanting to join the discussion again.

“Like carnival mirrors.”

“What?” I knelt down again.

“In the carnival mirror.  So, I’m not really fat, short or stretched like a bean pole.  I am me, and it is the mirror doing those funny things.”

“Exactly!  You’re very sharp, kiddo!”

She beamed.  “I met a physical realism,” she said carefully as if tasting each word.

“That’s how I am going to ber’member it,” she announced emphatically, placing a small hand on her forehead, “’cause the pictures I once had here before are missing.  I’ll find ‘em.  Just got ta keep lookin’.”

I rose and turned to the others.

“There is a traveler’s inn just over the next rise.  It is at the upper end of a small village.  I know the innkeeper, or once did, if he is even still there.  We have to be careful though.  Much may have changed since I last saw him and his wife.  The condition of this road does not bode well. Much of it has been overtaken by the wild grassland. A road more traveled would not have as much overgrowth. So I would imagine that fewer people stop at the Inn now because it is evident that fewer people travel these parts.

“Still, we all need a rest from the journey so we will camp near it.  If he’s still there, perhaps, he will help us get provisions and a hot meal for the journey ahead.  He is a peaceable enough fellow now, but that wasn’t always so.  He was hunted by the Xarmnians, and had to redefine himself completely from what he once was to protect his family. He’s had a hard time of it and he has become more fearful and nervous.  Those qualities might not make him the most dependable person that he used to be, but perhaps he will still do us a good turn, for old time’s sake.  I don’t have much, but I will pay him what I have for his troubles.

“For a while he had a good thing going.  He used to share many stories in his inn, brought to him by travelers from many different places.  Countries far and wide would yield him their experiences and legends, fairy tales and myths.  You can tell a great deal about a place by listening to its folklore.  Perhaps we might meet one or more guests there if it proves safe enough.

“But as for those noises we heard before… well, just watch yourself.  If you are downwind of Hollywood, at least you will know it is coming.  If you are upwind of it…  Be prepared to get a firm grip on your torch and light it when told.  There should be enough of us by now that it will turn and flee if we shine together.”

As we continued our trek overland, I pondered the state of the Surface World’s version of Hollywood.

It is a shame.  Long ago, Hollywood was not the monster it has become today.  It didn’t smell that bad either.  Yes, it has always had at least the smell of a wet dog or some particularly stinky cheese, but it changed and devolved into the beast it is today when it discovered it had no way of igniting its own light.  It was a borrower before it became a thief.  It once enjoyed and appreciated the lights…before it became a collector of hands.  Is it cliché to say, “Keep your hands to yourself?”  I wonder…

*Scene 01* 1:05:00 (The Beginning Marks)

Ancient Mesopotamia – 3,374 B.C.

Adam stood at the water’s edge watching the waves lap quietly along the red sand of the shore.  The clay of the land, from which he’d been created and had been given his name, was now cursed and was slowly being covered by the pale sun-bleached grains of sand pushed up from the dark bottom of the seafloor.

Since being banished from the orchards of Eden, he had noticed that the waters of the great salt sea were mingling with the freshwater of the river Pison that flowed out of the source within the Garden that was now forbidden to them.  The further away from Eden that he ranged, the more salty and bitter the waters became.

His grandson, young Hanokh, had come to him and had asked to be shown the place where he had given the animals their names, but he had to find it again to be able to take him there. He doted upon that child, and there was not much he wouldn’t do for the boy.

For two and a half days he had walked along the river’s shore seeking the place where he had been given the ability to know the names that should belong to each of the animals that crawled upon the ground and flew upon the winds in the sky.

But the river’s shape had changed and had altered its course and was swelling upon the banks with the rise and inland push of distant tides from the great sea.

The place should not have been this far, he thought to himself, but he had learned how painful departing from places he had once known could be.

Thinking of those times brought a mixture of feelings.

He sighed in a sudden wave of sadness and emotion that made his eyes wet.

Separation.

He remembered the night in which they had parted from the Presence of The One Who Gave Breath, and the immense sadness in the Words spoken to him, “Through blood, your offspring shall be born. Through blood, your body shall live and in the shedding of blood, your body shall be separated from the life breathed into you as it returns again to the ground from which I raised you, for your Life is in the Blood. Your body is but a seed, that when separated from the Vine, must fall again to the ground from which it rose and be planted and buried in death. Ashes to ashes.  Dust to dust.”

Both he and the woman alone had been brought to awareness and life by the Power of The Breath.  He had not known the full meaning of the words spoken that night until the birth of his son, passing through the body of his bride. Such joy and pain that night. And much further understanding came with the death of his second son, at the hand of his first, and then it was only pain and grief.

Pondering these things again, he fell once more to his knees and wept bitterly.

“Through blood, you shall live and in the shedding of blood, your body shall be separated…” Adam whispered again the Words spoken by The One, who had loved them so greatly.

He remembered what further transpired that night of the parting. He had witnessed another separation that had clothed both he and the woman he called Havah, the mother of all living, in the death raiments of skin.

A Lamb had been slain.  Its body cut in half and separated in a pool of its draining blood.  The front half laid with its head towards the west and the back half lay to the east.

Both he and his wife were made to follow The One into the shallow red pool pouring out from the separated beast and stand as The Holy One fashioned for them the coverings of the lamb’s skin to hide their shame of being naked. They stood in and upon the blood that was shed for them.  They took the skin coverings of the Lamb that was slain because of their sin.

And from there they were taken out of the orchard of Eden to the eastern land beyond it and behind them, the way back to the ceremonial place was cut off from them in a swirl of holy fire.

Great creatures stood in charge of the fire, clothed in raiment of light, looking all about with a covering of swirling pools of eyes that flashed and spun, amid a flurry of six powerful wings.

A river of blinding fire rose up from the flashing of their limbs and the rods they bore before them blocked and forbade the way to the orchard and to the Tree of Life that overshadowed the ceremonial place where the Lamb had been slain for them and for their coverings.

They had walked along the grassy bank of the river Pishon flowing out of the Garden from a spring originating from beneath the Great Tree.

But now.  To see the fresh, sweet waters of the Pishon, mingling with the salt in the Great Sea was too much of a painful reminder of all that had been lost to them.

His third son, Seth, he’d let his wife name.  Seth was very much like him in stature and manner. He had grown so much and given him grandsons and daughters fair as their beautiful mothers.  But it was the seventh son that had given him the greatest delight.  The boy was so inquisitive and wanted to know everything that he could about what had gone before by talking with his fathers and their fathers.

But retelling the past, for Adam, was both bitter and sweet.  It was, to a mind as clear and vivid as Adam’s, essentially asking him to relive every nuanced and painful detail in stories.

But the child so loved the stories, and Adam, loving him as he did, could not deny him that delight, no matter how much personal pain might be involved.

He had told the stories to his children, and his children’s children, and as long as he walked upon the world, he knew he would continue to do so, so long as they would still listen.

And those days in which the children attentively listened had begun to change.

Adam’s own sons and daughters began to tire of hearing the stories. More and more of them failed to bring his grandchildren to see Havah and Adam because they did not want to endure hearing the tales over again.

Eventually, the attitudes of the children’s parents began to bear fruit in the attentiveness of their young. Whenever he tried to tell his grandchildren of the beginnings. The stories themselves began to be questioned and challenged.  The implications and significance of the stories began to be twisted and distorted.  More and more the children of his first son, Kayin, began to ask him, why The One had driven them all out of the Garden for merely eating a piece of fruit if all of the trees were given to them.

Adam had tried to explain to them that it wasn’t eating fruit, which caused them to have to leave, but because of choosing to eat the fruit of the tree that they had been commanded not to eat from.

But little Hanokh, delighted in the tales and would rebuke the other children for interrupting his grandfather.  He came often to see him and begged Adam to tell the tales again and again and to show him some of the places where they happened.

Upon the eighth year of the young boy’s awakening, he had asked Adam if he would take him to the places where he had named the animals and birds, and Adam had hesitantly agreed to do so if the area was still outside of the gates of fire.

The other children took Adam’s apparent reluctance to mean that Adam was not being fully honest with them about the story, and they went away laughing at little Hanokh, because he had believed the babblings of an aging old man.

When Adam heard of this, he was saddened by the cruelty of his other grandchildren and he went and found Hanokh, playing by himself.

He asked the boy why it was so important to him to see that place, and the boy had responded that he wanted to see the marks the animals had made in the ground when each had come up to him.

When asked why this was important, the boy said he wanted to know the marks that matched the names they were taught to be able to recognize each animal that had passed on the trails where he played.  He said he found that each animal had, not only a name by which it was called but a mark as well, made by its footprints.  He told Adam that he had made a game of being able to name each of his friends, who had passed him when his eyes were closed, simply by remembering their footmarks in the ground, and he wanted to be able to do that with the animals too.

Smiling upon the memory and his own amazement of the child’s inquisitive reasoning, Adam,  at last, rounded a bend on the riverbank and saw the place.  The area was covered in tracks and impressions.  Amazingly each animal had come to a stopping place as he walked down the line of the river, leaving their distinctive prints in the dried mud of the riverbank.  From what he could tell, not one of them had obscured the final prints of the others.  The thoughts returned to him–images of that moment in time–as animals of all shapes and sizes came forward to see what they were to be called. Hanokh would be delighted by the sight of this place. He had spoken the names but had not looked down at their tracks at the time.  Carefully, he now studied each one as he walked down the edge of the shore committing them to his slowing and aged memory.  Death truly had entered both he and Havah, when they had eaten of the forbidden fruit. The threat of imminent memory loss and a fading of his clarity of mind was just one of the many signs of it.

He had believed, that if Evil continued its way further into the Hearts of Men, then the loss of their means of wielding authority and dominion should mercifully be stripped away by a dulling of the sharpness of their rebellious minds. Wickedness should not be rewarded with power. If aging alone, weakened both the mind and the flesh, then the maturing of evil and rebellion were being mercifully contained by that loss of functionality and diminishment. The weakened and frail could not wield so much power over the young and strong, so its season of darkness was shortened. There was power in knowing the names of each being, an authority to summon them, a way to foster an understanding of them.

But still, there was wisdom in preserving these authoritative utterances for an unborn generation that would realize them and employ that authority for good in service back to The Giver. Only those who revered The One, and feared His coming judgments could possibly be entrusted with such knowledge.

Hanokh was one of those. Or would be, if the measure of his maturing continued to show such reverence. He looked around at the printed ground, wondering at the wisdom of placing such a high degree of responsibility upon one so young. Yet, he could almost see the joy and wonder shining in young Hanokh eyes at the joy of seeing this.  The boy showed great promise and wisdom. Perhaps his children’s children held the promise of what he had once hoped and believed would be fulfilled through Kayin’s line.

He’d made so many mistakes with Kayin. He had told the lad of the Life-Giver’s promise, and both he and Havah had raised him to believe he would be the chosen one to fulfill the crushing of the serpent’s head. But that hope failed when he’d killed his younger brother, Havel.

Kayin had fled for a time. No one knew where he had gone until many years later.

When he’d finally returned and confessed to what he’d done, he was a much different man than before.

Fearful. Less head-strong and confident, irritable, and neglectful of his family. Even the birth of his own son, could not keep him from wandering for several seasons in the wilderness alone. He’d been granted forgiveness, but he’d never really given up his frustration and hatred of himself over what he’d done. The neglect of Kayin’s family and his long seasons of self-imposed solitude was bearing bitter fruit in the lives of his own children. They resented his absence, and they largely believed The One was responsible for it. They had seen The Mark that they were told that The One had placed upon his forehead to preserve his life. An ancient mark formed by two intersecting lines. A mark they believe represented a curse, rather than a blessing. A stain upon them as his children, and upon all their children who would follow after. So it was that they became resentful of the old stories and rebelled against the warnings given in each tale.

Even now, as Kayin’s rebellious children grew into adulthood, they were using the authority of the dominion given to all of Adam’s line, to abuse the land and cruelly manipulate the animals by their callings.

But the stroke of death would eventually work its way into their minds and steal the memory of those first callings from the unlearned, and unteachable. Their inattentiveness showed in their faltering ability to pronounce the names correctly. Adam had resolved to let the lessons and the names lapse, but Hanokh persisted in trying to persuade him that the distinctive marks should be joined to the sound of their names. And if such marks could bring thoughts to men’s minds that was a good thing indeed.  It was time that these sounds and marks be used for remembrance.

Deep down, Adam knew Hanokh was right in wanting to do this.  But the names themselves should also be kept secret. He would caution the boy in this.

Hanokh wanted to use the marks and sounds to preserve the legacy of the stories he had tried to share with his recalcitrant children. If memories would eventually fade, the marks would preserve their spoken utterances against such a loss. There would be no hope for mankind if they never returned as individuals to give all honor and fear due to The One. The separation would become an ever-widening gulf between The One and His creation and even the promised hope of a redeemer may eventually become lost, without memory of the stories.

If the rebellious ones would not learn early the lessons of their fathers by the cautions given, eventually the pain of their own experiences would drive them back to seek it again.

If the children of Kayin ceased to listen to the old stories and faithfully teach them to their own generations, then the histories and the lessons would be lost to all those coming after.

The stories must be preserved, and he would do everything in his power to help young Hanokh to make the signs to ensure they always would be.

The hidden stories of their old life with The Breath-Giver may one day prove to be the very key to unlock the dying minds of mankind. And eventually set them free from their own entombment within the prison halls of their covenant with death.

*Scene 2* 4:16 (The Old Hillside Cabin)

It took us longer than expected to work our way up from the beachfront. Two hours of traveling in the twilight, but we are beyond the reach of the sea fogs. I remember making the trip in much less time in my younger days, but then I was not the one leading a company. Jeremiah was.

Thinking of the days of journeying with him, I felt shamed for my prior arrogance in second-guessing his decisions when I was not the one bearing the responsibility of followers. My perspective now is much different from this side. Perhaps a lot of the suspicion in the group is only natural, but still, it feels threatening and like the payback I well deserve for my part in undermining him those many years ago.

After another hour or so, I recognize the route to the abandoned property I had once known well. It lay just off the silver road, about a quarter of a mile in, near the stream and among some of the low hills.  A series of rocky mounds, really. There had once been a small hamlet or village within walking distance, but back then it was only comprised of about four or five farming families. Their lands and fields bordered each other, but there is little to be seen of that now.

There is a stillness that lies like a shroud over the area. I hear only a huff of a mournful breeze and the slight gurgling noise of a nearby river or brook singing a quiet dirge into the night.

The dugout cabin I am interested in is just ahead. Always build near a clean water source, my father had said.

As we get closer, I can just make out a sod roof and a mossy stone chimney with what seems to be the slightest curl of silver smoke twining its way upwards.  Probably just rising river mists drifting along the hill creating the illusion. But it is still there.  Just where I remember it being.  A small, weathered stone and waddle cottage, built into the brow of a hillside. The hillside cabin in the valley is partially swallowed by embankments.  There may be two or three more dugout hovels huddled into the shoulder of the hillside. But it is hard to tell in the gloom.

I vaguely remember it in more pleasant times.  One might even imagine that we are approaching the peaceful village of Hobbiton, happily situated in the sunken green valley of The Shire until they get a little closer.

My heart sinks as the shadows of the moving clouds above, part to bathe it in a pale wash of ghostly moonlight.

The place is falling apart.  Barely liveable.  But twenty-one years of neglect will do that.

Weathered grass occludes the path to it, barely visible now under the lingering silvery moonlight. It was never more than a hermitage-sort of existence. Nothing fancy. But functional. Sturdily built. Kept the rain off and the cold out. Not much more than one might ask for.

I had not expected visitors and I was pretty sure none of this company would be impressed by it. The cabin was barely large enough for me, much less anyone else.

If we crowded, it might serve for two or three of the girls, but not much else. We’d mostly have to shelter in the grotto around the bend, or the old cruck house stable, but the latter was always prone to attract rats and other vermin. The grotto would have to do.

The window is caked with ages of dust, but there is an odd, but faint flickering light within. The light smoke curl I saw coming out of the chimney was more than mist.

I was stunned for a moment, but I guess I should have expected it though.

Some squatter must have taken up residence there in my absence.

“What are we doing here, Mr. Brian?” a voice asks, startling me.

“Coming home,” I mutter, “Sort of, anyway.”

*Scene 3* 8:27 (Haunted Occupant)

“What is this place?”

“Long ago, it was called Bacia. Now it has no name.”

Memories lingered of how the place used to be, before the event that finally drove me away from the Mid-World. Creeper vines now covered most of the cabin, sending their chute roots into the cracks within the stone and into fissures in the waddle of the walls. I had planted a grapevine and originally planned to cover the outerwall with a trellis to camouflage it from the distance, but what I had failed to accomplish in my design planning, nature accomplished in the space of time through my stalled neglect. The creeper vines, however were a mix of wild ivy, thornbriar and kudzo, neither of which bore any fruit.

“Is that a light inside that old shack?”

The light on the dusty pane suddenly brightened, casting a warm yellow glow out into the gloomy night. Whoever was inside had likely moved away from blocking the hearth fire, allowing it to cast is full radiance towards the cabin’s sole window.

“Shouldn’t we see who is inside? Maybe they can recommend a good hotel.”

A light chuckle followed, but I turned and urged the group to keep quiet.

“Let me check it out. Please keep quiet for all of our sakes. There are residents here in the Mid-World that one does not safely meet in the night.”

“What is this Mid-World place?  What’s it in the middle of?”

“Middle of nowhere is what I’d say,” someone muttered.

“Uh! Do you have to be such a tool?!” one of the girls turned on the speaker.

“Hey, get off my case!” the respondent shot back, “It’s the middle of the night and we are tired and cold, and this guy knows something and hasn’t given us any explanations for what we are all doing here and why.”

“All of this will be explained in time,” I said trying to placate them for a bit longer, “Give me a chance to see who’s in the cabin. It may be okay, but I need you all to wait right here and keep quiet so we don’t rouse him unnecessarily.”

One of the taller men of the group came to my aid.

“I’ll keep them quiet. Go check it out. We’ll all be right here. We’ve nowhere else to go anyway.”

I slightly grip his arm in gratitude, thankful for any offer of assistance.

Miray tugged my pant leg, and whined plaintively, “I want to go with you.”

“I know you do, Miray. But I need you to stay with the others right now. Let me make sure it’s safe first.”

“Awright,” she conceded grudgingly with a short pout on her face.

I then turned and stealthily approach the cabin window in an ambling crouch.

It may have been a mistake to build the window on the southside corner of the cabin, but that was the only place where one could see the trail through the hills from the inside. Enemies roved these lands,  so it was not good to be caught complete unaware. The stone construction of the cabin and its backing was rooted into the hillside. The door had been reinforced and was make of solid and thick oak, mounted on hammered metal hinges. Costly in these lands, but worth it. The beams holding the ceiling were of stout timber fitted into carved tongue and groove notches. The cabin appeared humble and impoverished from the outside, by design, but it was as stout a structure as I could make in these lands, and its smallness added to its hidden strength. The window was mullioned, but comprised of a thick-paned glass, forged, melted and molded from the fine-grained sands of the very same seashore we had just quitted earlier in the day.

In daylight, the sun’s light never glinted off the glass. But at night, the hearth fire shown like a lighthouse beacon into the misty night. I was never one for adding frills and décor, but at last, I realized the practicality of having curtains and shutters. An oversight on my part, that was moot now.

My new erstwhile tenant appears to live like a prisoner in the home.  The old yard appears overgrown with brush and weeds.  Neglected, but towards the end of my stay I did the same, so I couldn’t very well fault him for it. There is but the faint remnants of a garden growing wild with weeds and thorn bushes.  A rat scurries and forages furtively seeking the remnants of long rotted vegetables and fruits that the garden once yielded in more prosperous and safer times.  A broken gate and crumbling stone wall barely outline the property’s borders.  There is a flagstone path with dusty footprints leading down the embankment to the river.  No grass grows upon that patch of blighted soil, scattered with ash, and withered by heat and fire.

As I quietly approach the small window near the edge of the house and lean forward to peer inside, I notice I am not alone. Despite what the tall man had assured me, the others had broken ranks and followed behind me up to the edge of the house.  They crowded around me now as we leaned up to peer through the dusty window.

Inside, there is what appears to be a man.  I say that because not all appearances here are truly what them seem to be. His back is facing us.  He is sopping wet from head to foot.  His shoulders are wrapped in a tatter and moth-eaten blanket and he sits before a small fire in the hearth.  We can just see the flickering glow around his body and through a jagged hole in the blanket between his arms.  He shivers slightly for the night outside is cold.  It does not appear much warmer in the cabin for the fire in the stone hearth is small. The flickering firelight reflects in the wet puddles that trail from the hard-packed cabin floor stool where the man sits near the cabin door.  He must’ve just come in from a plunge in the nearby gurgling river we were hearing a moment ago.  It does not look like it was a deliberate swim for his clothes, what we can see of them, appear to be that of a day laborer.  His mud-caked boots lay crumpled next to the fireplace on the left in a slowly evaporating mirror of water.  Under such circumstances, I would think he would be miserable and disgusted with himself for foolishly falling in, but he is not.  He is humming quietly to himself.  The humming has a pleasant, magical quality about it.  It is rustic and pleasant but melancholy.  Reflective, as is the flickering firelight.

The domestic tableau appears strikingly familiar to me. Only the perspective is radically different. Then I noticed that the edges of the room inside the cabin seemed to have a liquid ripple and I draw in a gasping breath.

Oh no. Not now! Not now! Not now! My mind races.

I suddenly wished none of the others had followed. That the tall man had been able to keep them all back. But I realized that to do so, they would have to gain a little more trust in my good intentions for them than I taken the time to show.

They were about to be thrust into their second shocking immersion of this day, without warning or explanation, and I was not ready to explain it even on a good day.

A rude and disturbing quirk of the mysterious nature of the Mid-World. A fracture in the linear sequencing, or even moreso, a bending curl in it, compliments of The Marker Stone.

It had come as quite a shock to us on our first experience of it, but at least we had been warned what to expect.

Jeremiah and many of the others had called the effect a glimpse or a temporal projection.

It only happened with Surface Worlders. Or I should say, Surface Worlders who had committed to the calling of the Stone Quests by voluntarily giving their own names to it.

I simply called the phenomenon…a ripple in the time pool.

*Scene 4* 14:01 (The Man Under the River)

Something that felt like an invisible rogue wave passed through the glass and engulfed us and washed over us. Lifting and shifting us into a kind of mental connection with the cabin’s occupant.

With in any other place but the Mid-World reach, that was not possible.  I say that with no degree of certainty, but I cannot exclude the strong possibility that it is more prone to happen within the legendary country of Excavatia, The Hidden Kingdom.  It is even probable that it happens here because the effect comes from the hidden connections with and flowing influence from that mysterious kingdom.

It is rare to experience it in the Surface World at such strength as it occurs in the Mid-World. And if the wave comes from Excavatia, it is liable to be that much more stronger felt there. There is an acient Greek word that approximates it:

κοινωνία – pronounced /koi – non- eeuh/ koinonia.

As the wave and the mental ties that bind us together form, my companions and I look at each other in shock.  We can hear the man’s thought, speaking through his experience in memory as if he is the defacto narrator.

It comes into us as a first-person narrative as if we are there with him in that recently past series of moments leading up to this time we are observing through the panes of glass.

He seems strangely disconnected from the experience like he is recounting a dream as both participant and observer.  Yet we are immersed in it, experiencing it with him as vicarious and unwitting captives within his own body.

His story begins thus…

The Man Under the River – Story #1

I am chained to a boulder at the bottom of a deep river.  With each convulsing spasm I take in a little more of the river, and watch yet a little more of my failing breath escape my lips and nostrils;  Fleeing away from me in ascending bubbles to the marbled ceiling of water in motion under twinkling twilight.  I feel compelled that I must breathe in the river and let go, but I cannot.  I panic as death’s enshrouded hand beckons me, through the wavering waves.  Surrender to the inevitable.  Succumb to the silence and the deep.  You will never be found.  Sleep.  Sleep and all will be quiet soon.  The pearling water above soothes me, entices me to close my eyes against the grainy wet sanding my skin.  To let my own tears mingle with the water unnoticed, and fade to oblivion…Elysium.  So close to it.  Minutes and seconds away.  I relax against the chains, feeling slightly buoyant against the river’s tugging.  Then I see the slight glimmer of the golden key, inches from my manacled hand.  Grains of sand swirl around it.  Trying to obscure its sheen from catching the purling light on the water’s surface several feet above.  Had my eyes closed I would never have seen it.  That chance gleaming.  That whisper of light among settling silts and feathered green.  I stretch and reach where it might have been, feeling only the wet muck, and moss, and liquid sound of muffled stones scraping against others.  I grope blindly among wet clicks and chinks of current driven stones, and rising swirls of silt but…Nothing.

All is lost, all is…wait.  A flat surface, grooved ridges and a short set of teeth with no bite.   The key is in my fingers, in my hand.  I carefully cup and close my hand around it.  My fist tightens, my breath escapes a little more.  Seconds to the final dark and cool silence.  I feel along my manacles searching for the pad lock.  What if the key is only a mere twig or stick, teasing my oxygen starved mind with false hope?  What if it is a key, but it does not belong to this family of locks.  Angered to energy I think, then I shall MAKE this fit.  My fingers ache around this key, I have fisted them into numbness, and I shall never be able to find the key hole, much less turn the locking mechanism with this darkness closing in.  My other hand finds the metal knuckle holding me in chains with its own iron fisted grip.  Carefully I unclasp my aching hand.  Darkness outlines my watery vision.  The palm is in shadow, I cannot see if my treasured hope is golden or wooden.  Cold.  My fingers feel numbed and cold.  The currents begin to lift the thing from my hand to bury this treasure once again beyond my reach.  I close and clasp it between two parts of me that I believe to be my fingers, yet I can no longer feel them.  I am dizzy from this swirling, wet grainy darkness engulfing me.  I draw my hands together with weak spasms.  The water enters my lung, and my ears pound and throb.  The promise of quiet is a lie.  By some miracle the blind fumbling hands clasp the hope of the key and the ominous lock together into a last prayer…that is answered.  The piece I hold in my fingers finds peace.  It enters the tomb of the lock.  It turns the insides of sure death out of its once sure resting place.  Each groove disturbs its smug metal confidence that its hold upon my chains are forever and certain.  Its grasp upon them is wrenched free with a muffled pop, though silent to anyone near, has the effect of a watery explosion in my throbbing temples.  The bolt turns and the first link drops free.  I cough in water.  Light flares behind my eyelids.  Water fills my nostrils.  My sinuses ignite with inner unseen fire.  Death no longer tempts or beckons.  It seizes me with bony hands to flow down into its stygian crossing.  The faint sounds of metal links rattling against the rocks, give a staccato to my dance with death.  At last surrender compels me and I drift toward it.  Down…up?  I’ve lost all sensation of direction.  My limbs trail my torso, and I join the flotsam of the river.  I feel its cold clasp.  My body spins listlessly.  The water’s skin separates.  The night of my death is cold and windy…and so like that of my birth.  The wind…is…cold.  The wind.  The Ruach stirs me.  My head and my body land upon the Rock.  I am where I wasn’t.  Where I couldn’t have been.  The river leaves me in a series of wet grainy coughs that both hurt and heal.  In the light of the moon I begin to feel the clasp of my hands and fingers and toes again.  The wind is warming the wet away.  The river flows down to trickling brooks and springs from my hair and clothes.  The reflective light of the lunar surface shines silver upon me, and my eyes blink tears, salt and silt, as I stare at the silver cross pen clasped between my cold fingers and I know at last what I am meant to do.

The puddles on the floor are drying now as the story-teller leans forward to add more kindling to the fire.  He is holding something small in his hands.  Turning it over and over, but we cannot clearly see what it is, because his body blocks us.  His clothes are drying slowly but measurably and it won’t be but a moment before he turns and sees the collection of voyeurs peering in at him through the dusty window.  Quickly but stealthily we retreat from the cabin to resume our nightly journey.  We do not want to scare the man after his ordeal in the river, but we do need to know and remember his brief account for consideration.

When we reach a far enough distance, the tall woman who had gone back and walked with the little dark-haired girl, asked me, “What just happened to us, back there?!  How is it even possible to see what that man experienced?  Shouldn’t we help him in some way?”

“There is a lot of experiences you will find to be different here.  This place has its own rules about what is possible, and rules for what we Surface Worlders can and cannot do.  He is exactly in the place he needs to be right now, without our interference.”

“Interference?! What…I don’t know how you can even say that?!  Don’t you even care what he’s been through?”

“More than you could possibly even know.  And what I know…from experience…is that the timing of any help we may be able to offer him is just as critical as anything we could say or do for him.  Sometimes you just have to leave them be and let them work things out for themselves.  You cannot be a substitute savior for everyone you encounter.  There is wisdom in the waiting.”

“I don’t understand you…  Brian, is it?”

“Yes,” I responded quietly.

“You will in time.  Be patient.”

She sighed, shaking her head.

I then turned to the group, “We’ve all had a long tiring walk.  It’s cold and we are still wet from being in the surf.  I imagine we could all use some rest, but we needed to get this far to be beyond the reach of the sea fogs.  The night wind pushes over the grade and this declivity is a little warmer under the brow of that crest.  There is a short gulley around the garden—a place where we can shelter for a bit and a hidden cache of supplies we will need for the journey ahead.  Follow me, and I will tell you what the man’s story means in context, while we catch a breather.  Perhaps we can get some warmer clothes and get a small fire going.  It’s not much further now.”

Miray had lagged back a little when we approached the cabin, but she came forward and took my hand now, signifying again her readiness to brave the journey and support my leadership in it.  I whispered a silent prayer of thanks to The One for giving me such a comfort in the unpretentious trust of this precious little red-haired angel.

*Scene 5* 7:06 (The Buried Beast Below)

The subliminal wave, thought only to have been localized within the vicinity of the hillside cabin, descended downward through layers of dirt, granite and limestone, penetrating the Mid-World substrata like a seismic tremor in the aftershock of an earthquake. The digging Beast, far below, felt its effect slam into its form and disorient its senses until it could no longer feel the pull towards the called one. Its ice-blue eye blinked into the darkness. Its mental view of the landscape above darkled, and dimmed, as its connection with its walking agent lost power.

It recognized the cause.

Koinonia. The divine fellowship of knowing another, even as one is known.

Only the presence of Surface Worlders, walking upon the Mid-World grounds above could have inadvertently brought and evoked such stressors with them. They did not belong here. They did not know what power might flow through them at any given moment from the far land of Excavatia and from The Throne of The One.

Their awareness of this middle-ground place was unwanted and dangerous. Insight and introspection were anathema, to the dark kingdoms who ruled here. Better to be left alone to allow the natural parasitic influence to grow and gain strength. This was the ceded right of dominion given to all Princes of The Fallen. They gave it away to The Shining One ages ago.

Surface Worlders were unwitting and meddling agents of a potential Parallax in this place.

Parallax – A word derived from the Ancient Greek παράλλαξις (parallaxis), meaning ‘alternation’. A shift in viewpoint. A tearing away from the worldviews of the natural state, which would secure them to their certain damnation, toward the risk of an illumined and elevated view tinted by the shine of Hope in the promise of that Hidden country, Excavatia.

A worldview that, if truly grasped, would upend all of the Kingdoms of The Dark.

So mankind, and all like him should always be cowed into silence and ignorance. From time’s beginning, that had been the one primal directive.

Darken the minds of men. Turn them away from the light, and so darken their lives until they could be swallowed up by him and the Princes like him. All creatures who collectively bore the name of Sheol-The Waiting Grave.

The wave had left the Beast in shock and weakened. It could no longer dig forward, without first gaining strength from sustenance. What was given to it in the cave upon the beach was sweet and invigorating, but it was only a small morsel considering its relative bulk and size.

It needed human blood. Lots of it. For the life of The Breath was infused within the blood of mankind and very few of them even recognized it. Their tiny, frail, and insignificant bodies bore the myriad touches of The Breath of The One. Their blood was rich in the effects of It. Each pin-pricked drop was imbued with sacred power that beckoned the Heart of The One who gave them its infusion. And that infusion gave Life that resisted Death’s war campaign within them, so long as those creatures breathed and did not consciously close the doors of opportunity to find Excavatia.

Excavatia, that land from which they had been banished, these ungrateful flesh-creatures still had a connection to and, if they were willing, they had a path back towards Hope. Its resentment of this fueled its hatred of them, and its growing hunger.

It lifted it’s thorn-spired head, raking the ceiling of its tunnel, shifting its muscular neck from side to side, allowing sand and rock to fall down and shear off either side of its razor-edged scales, and bony spine.

Its senses slightly sharpened.

It was feeling other sensations from the surface ground not connected with the group it had been pursuing.

It’s rock-rimmed nostrils, behind its plow-curved and hooked beak, flared, sensing the salts of human sweat and could hear the vibrations of the furtive movements of others far above it. Quite footfalls, rustling through dried grass. Of humankind but not those of the Surface World.

It perceived them with a supernatural smell not limited to the miasma of fragrances bore along upon the air currents.  It could recognize the characteristic stink of humans even through the black vacuum of space. The taste of rotted, worm-ridden human flesh, it had savored and salivated over long ago, when it had been given its leave to burst from beneath and seize the families of Korah, Dathan and Abiram below the layered sediment track of the Negev desert in the Amorite wilderness of Zin, near Hormah, when it had dwelling in the Surface World.

The called leader and his brother then had been off-limits, then to. When it had tried to rise and take the Holy incense, the Breath of The One had resisted it and scorched it with Holy Fire, banishing it into the Void between worlds.  (See Nu. 16:23-35)

With a rumbling growl, boiling out from the bellows of its inner fires, it shifted in frustration. Its senses were growing acute and agitated. Its massive, fang-rigged jaws thrust and sawed upward. Its pulsing hide suppurated an oily substance from between its countless, glistening scales that would soften the ground, and ease its massive passage through the tunnel it was boring towards the insufferable sound of the amplified footsteps, and the pulsing sounds of pumping human blood and beating hearts growing louder, taunting its tastes for it. There was only one way to make the noises cease and slake its raging hungers–and it determined to do something about that.

*Scene 6* 17:35 (Parallax at the Grotto)

I lead them to a small grotto and produce an old key from my pocket, that I had secretly palmed from along the window sill while we were watching the man within.  Along the edge of the shallow grotto cupola cave, there was a gathering of dried tumbleweed-like plants, appearing as if they had been blown there and collected in the notch.  I thrust my hand into the dried brush and found a lever-release within and lifted an old wooden panel, with the brush affixed to it.  Inside the alcove was a padlocked strongbox, with rope handles that I had the stouter boys and men help me drag out into the open.  With some effort, I unlocked the rusty padlock and sprung the catch.

Inside the box were thirty dusty packs, sort of rucksacks, that could be carried by a strap over a person’s shoulder.  I handed them out to the group one by one, leaving some remaining within the box for another time and purpose.  With those distributed, I directed them to an area in the center of the grotto cupola and we lifted a large flat slate-stone that had been buried by dust over time.  Beneath the stone was a shallow-dug bowl pale white with dried ash and coals long dead.

When we had all settled down and a campfire had been coaxed into the dug bowl out of dead sticks and hastily gathered, dried scrub-grass, I began to connect the man’s experience with a much more ancient tale.

“Long ago there was a man named Paul.  He was given the name Saul by his parents which he wore into manhood and into prominence as a member of the highly educated and respected group of leaders in the community called Pharisees.  Something would happen to him on a dark, lonely road to Damascus that would forever change his life.  He would be blinded and then have his sight miraculously restored by one of a heretical sect whom he had sworn to expose and bring to justice.  Throughout the course of his ministry, he would be placed under house-arrest for 2 years, beaten repeatedly by opposing groups, dragged outside of the city and stoned and left for dead after which he rose up, dusted himself off and continued with his mission.  He would be dragged into courts with a death sentence of heresy hanging over his head.  He would be hauled before a Roman court as a seditionist.  He would be shipwrecked, swim to an island only to be bitten by a poisonous serpent.  He would be repeatedly thrown into dark stone prisons under both Jewish and Roman guards.  He would be flogged with whips just stopping short of killing him.  He would be mocked, ridiculed, falsely accused, betrayed by trusted friends, disappointed and abandoned by fellow ministers, spat on and called on to become his own defense attorney against a stacked court and a king hostile to his cause.  He would travel far from his homeland and suffer harsh weather conditions and scorching heat and thirst and ultimately beheaded for his new and radical calling.  Modern scholars pontificating on his writing ignorantly scoff at him as a sexist, bigot, advocate of slavery.  They smugly do not investigate the context of his society nor the radical manner of elevating others (man, woman, Jew and Gentile) to equal status before a Holy, Creator God who gave each person significance.  They fail to see his radical arc of change from a person rooted in myopic tradition and slavish follower of “holy” men to the Divine perspective that all have fallen short of the glory and standards of God.  That there is only One who has been and forever will be holy and pure and blameless and without error.  And that by virtue of His sacrifice for our terminal state we can have that exchanged to a new life where we receive payment for our death sentence.  His qualities can then be imbued upon us when we let Him live through us.  A radical departure from the hubris of believing that by self-effort we can become holy.

“It strikes me, however, that much of the writings we have surviving antiquity that has become part of the canon of Scripture were penned during Paul’s incarceration in a badly lit, prison cell, smelling of decaying straw, human sweat, excrement and piss.  Clearly, not an ideal setting for writing anything or conducive to positively impacting others living in relative freedom many miles away.  It is ironic that Paul’s attitude was continually thinking of others and the furtherance of his calling to act as an ambassador to Christ.  He certainly had enough causes, humanly, for us to understand feeling sorry for himself and unenthusiastic about his effectiveness.  But he didn’t.  He sang praise songs in the darkness of his cold prison cell of sub-human conditions.  Though shackled by cold metal chains, hand, and feet to a cold prison floor, he was a man whose soul had become free of his former chains of self-importance.  Despite the outward appearance and the abuse he suffered, he was a man whom no human could completely contain, silence or imprison again.

“So, the thought comes to me, considering both stories of these men, what is my own calling.  What is yours?  Do you feel like you are drowning at the bottom of a passing river of time, chained to a figuratively submerged boulder of your own circumstances?  What is it that weighs you down, that keeps you from expressing your voice or lending your talents to your calling?  Are the conditions not ideal for you or the timing just not right for your pursuit of the dream that calls you to act?  To take that first step of obedience?  Do you feel overwhelmed by the thoughts and wonder if you should just surrender yourself to the river?  To meekly open your mouth and swallow and be swallowed by oblivion and a life lived with no purpose?  I don’t.  I will not surrender to the surroundings of my encroaching circumstances.  I will not let the river of time steal my last few gulps of air or let the smell and stench of the prison cell so diminish my hopes that I can never see outside of the stone walls that presently confine me.  I do have a gift and am given talents that are tools to be used for a higher calling.  I must learn to see outside of my confinement.  Learn to write under the smallest beam of moonlight that somehow made its way through the small open-air window at the top of my prison cell.  Most of the Apostle Paul’s writings of Scripture were done under much more abysmal conditions than I could ever imagine.  Each person here has been given a gift, a skill, an aptitude, and a talent to do something well.  You were entrusted with that gift as an equipping for your life’s calling.  If you are not using that gift, you may feel that you are imprisoned and bound under a rapidly moving river of time passing all around you.  You may feel close to surrendering hope of ever expressing yourself through that gift and feel compelled to just be drowned by the river around you.  Don’t.  Resist it.  Conditions will never be ideal as long as you continue to use them as an excuse for inaction.  There are enemies and monsters in this world and in the surface world who have a stake in your failure.  Don’t let them win.  This is just one of the many battles you need to fight.  The war is not limited only to the battles you have lost so far.  It is time for you to take up your armor.  To strap on each piece with a fierce determination to not let those creatures of impediment win this day.  Your gift was given to help set you free.  To be expressed.  To be honed and polished and sharpened into a razor’s edge.  Your gift was meant to be used under your calling from the Highest Authority.  You are equipped by your willingness and your obedience to that calling.  The One who gave you that gift has a purpose for you in doing so.

“Faithful [is] He that calleth you, who also will do [it].”  [1Thessalonians 5:24]

“Did you get that?  Do not look at yourself as the one who by their own efforts must make your gift lead to success in your calling.  The “Writer from Prison”, St. Paul, wrote:

“12 And I thank Christ Jesus our Lord, who hath enabled me, for that he counted me faithful, putting me into the ministry;” [1Ti 1:12 KJV]

“Who hath saved us, and called [us] with an holy calling, not according to our works, but according to his own purpose and grace, which was given us in Christ Jesus before the world began,” [2Ti 1:9 KJV]

“17 God uses it to prepare and equip his people to do every good work.” [2 Timothy 3:17 NLT]

“21 may He equip you with all you need for doing his will. May he produce in you, through the power of Jesus Christ, every good thing that is pleasing to him. All glory to him forever and ever! Amen.” [Hebrews 13:21 NLT]

“29 That’s why I work and struggle so hard, depending on Christ’s mighty power that works within me.” [Colossians 1:29 NLT]

“Did you catch a recurring theme here?  God equips those He calls.  God empowers those who actualize those gifts by being obedient to that calling for which they were given.

“If you are reconciled to Christ, you are then given what no person, on their own efforts, can achieve.

“19 For God in all his fullness was pleased to live in Christ, 20 and through him God reconciled everything to himself. He made peace with everything in heaven and on earth by means of Christ’s blood on the cross. 21 This includes you who were once far away from God. You were his enemies, separated from him by your evil thoughts and actions. 22 Yet now he has reconciled you to himself through the death of Christ in his physical body. As a result, he has brought you into his own presence, and you are holy and blameless as you stand before him without a single fault.”  [Col 1:19-22, NLT]

“You are made perfect, righteous and holy.  You are called, equipped, gifted and prepared for the journey ahead of you.  Actualize it by taking the first step.

“13 I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.” [Philippians 4:13 KJV]

“Do not be surprised, though when in taking that first bold step, you are challenged by opposition.  There are people in your life that might resent your calling.  They will falsely accuse you of being selfish.  Not faithfully attending to their needs, wants and desires because you dare to do something, they did not give you permission or encouragement for.  The hardest part of that challenge will be if you suddenly discover that the very people you thought would be supportive of you and cheer you in courageously pursuing your calling, instead view it as foolishness.  But remember Who it was that gave you your gifts and consequently the calling that goes with it.  The choice is yours.  Do you obey the One ready to equip you, or do you let others stand in your way and consign you back to the boulder you were once chained to under the river of your life experiences?  You can only please and serve one master.  There is only one capable of empowering you and sustaining you.  The next step on the journey will require courage and define what you will be. Listen again to the “Writer from Prison”:

“10 But you, Timothy, certainly know what I teach, and how I live, and what my purpose in life is. You know my faith, my patience, my love, and my endurance. 11 You know how much persecution and suffering I have endured. You know all about how I was persecuted in Antioch, Iconium, and Lystra–but the Lord rescued me from all of it. 12 Yes, and everyone who wants to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will suffer persecution. 13 But evil people and impostors will flourish. They will deceive others and will themselves be deceived. 14 But you must remain faithful to the things you have been taught. You know they are true, for you know you can trust those who taught you.” [2 Timothy 3:10-14 NLT]

The group pondered these words silently, each thinking about them in a personal way.

One raised his hand tentatively, a little less of the bravado showing than that he’d demonstrated on the road.

“Mister Brian, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but is this what we are to expect going forward?  Some sort of Bible study devotional kind of thing as we go on this quest you tell us about?”

One of the others cast the young man an annoyed look, but I nodded and spoke softly, “It’s a fair question.  I do that from time to time.  I do beg your patience with me.  I’m new to this kind of helping in these quests.  I tend to see connections with things I cannot pass up.  This quest is as much a challenge to who I am and how I perceive myself as it will be to any of you choosing to go further.  My worldview and perspective come from my faith in God, and I’ve found that this view is the only one that grounds me while walking through this Mid-World place.   You all are welcome to have a different view, but I would hope you would allow whichever one you arrive at, at the end of the journey, to be seasoned by open-mindedness and experience.   I do have experience here.  A history of being part of another quest many years ago.  I was just as new to this world as you are now and a lot of it did not make any more sense to me then as I may be making to you now.  If you will indulge me, though, I will try to help all of you as I can.  I do not view myself as any better than any of you, but what I do have here is history.  Fair enough?”

The young man nodded and said, “Fair enough,” and the others nodded their assent as well.  It wasn’t a full-on commitment, but at that point, I was willing to take the concession gratefully.

They each began to explore the rucksacks I had given them, and many pulled out a thick, rolled blanket-like cloak from inside.  With the chill seeping over the hillside and adding a bite in the air, they were grateful for the warmth its thick woolen weave provided, even though it had taken on a bit of a musty smell in storage.  They found a short torch within the sack, with wrapped oiled-rags on one end and a smooth shaft rounded at the bottom on the other.  Other sundry items were provided, but many had degraded over time and had to be discarded.

“Do the people here in this place eat much?” another young man asked me after rummaging around in his sack, finding nothing he could hope to munch on.

“They do,” I assured him, “but there is not much out here in the wilds of the coastal lands.  There is a place I hope to take you all to tomorrow.  We can get more supplies there and perhaps a very good meal and a few beds.  The man is a friend of mine.”  Then I muttered something that I perhaps should have kept to myself, “At least, I still hope he is.”

I caught him staring at me and I shrugged.

He leaned back with a sigh, “Great.  Just great.”

*Scene 7* 8:57 (The Sound and Fury)

The trip overland had taken a toll on the group. They were hungry, confused and exhausted. I couldn’t blame them. Not a good combination for beginning any lengthy and grueling endeavor, but I had no choice but to hold the revelations that would need to be made until I could bring them first to The Marker Stone. The place and the circumstances we found ourselves in together all seemed to make more sense there, standing before its massive stone face and seeing the living words written in it.

We slept for a few hours.

The campfire, at last gaining enough of the fed fuel to warm up the inner circle of our younger travelers, while the older ones lay in the outer ring, still chilled but warmed enough by the cloaks we had unpacked.

It had been no more than six hours give or take when, in the distance, we hear a terrible noise echoing in the foothills beyond us.

I assumed that one of the legendary monsters known to lurk in these wild lands must have captured another victim.

The plaintive cries are pitiable and the savage roars were terrible. The hauntingly resound over the hillsides, rebounding in canyons and arroyos and through the streets of abandoned homesteads and ghostly townships, over dried and weedy fields and through vacant crumbling and weather-worn stone structures. Despite who the victims may be or the terrible deeds they might have done in life, hearing those sounds of such brutality and the dying screams of the victims are almost too horrible to bear.

This journey to through the Mid-World to find the gates of Excavatia is not one for the faint of heart.

I start to rouse the others, but a quick survey showed that they had been awakened by the terrible noises too. Anxious glances were cast from side to side, seeking the source of the conflict, but the echoes of it came from all around us.

Miray scampered across from her sleeping place and hung fiercely to me, burying her head in to my shoulder as I took her up into my arms.

“What IS that?!” asked one, twisting her head from side to side, trying to discover which direction the sounds were coming from.

“What’s going on?!” asked another bolting upright.

Some of the younger men and girls gathered some of the stowed firewood, and brandished them as makeshift weapons, ready to ward off whatever was making such terrible noises.

“Did something hurt that man from last night?!” the tall, blonde woman asked, throwing an accusing look my way.

I gave her a measured look, and said, “He’s quite safe for now. Don’t worry about him. I am more concerned that something may have followed inland us from the shore.”

I could not tell them more than that. My speculation was mere conjecture at this point, though not an unprecedented occurrence. Just a nagging feeling I had, from the past experiences. In either case, it was an strong indicator that we needed to get moving and quickly.

If what I suspected was over that rise, I had encountered something of its kind before, and this crew of travelers was not ready for it. I hadn’t been either, but that tale is for another time.

There was no way to tell them that beasts they would encounter here were not what they might expect to find back in the Surface World.  There were many dangerous fiends to choose from. Some of which were not entirely animal, and that distinction made them even more dangerous than just that of any man-killing brute beast.  The half-animal in them did not behave in a predictable nature, nor did the deadly intelligence behind their bestial visage.

This thing was not some wild creature protecting its territory or driven to confront man because of the mere hunger for meat and blood, of that I was certain. These things fed on fear and I could not give in to that now, or I knew I would be drawing it right to us. We had to get moving. We had to get to the place that would make what I had to tell them clearer. Those who followed me needed a miraculous sign to compel them to consider the possibility of something beyond their human experience. They need to see The Marker.

“What are we gonna do?” one of the men asked, “Can we stand together and fight it?”

“We need to stay calm and get moving,” I said, “This is no place to make that kind of stand. We need to get the young ones to safety.”

“Where are we going?!” one asked.

“I cannot tell you that just yet. You’ll have to follow me. I have an old friend that lives in a small village just beyond the valley, I mentioned him last night. We should make it there before mid-day, sooner if we can avoid the Xarmnian patrols and the others.”

I began to quickly gather and stow the items I had pulled from the rucksack I had taken for myself.

“Others?!  What ARE these others?!  Why are you being so mysterious?”

“Please, I need you to pack quickly. Gather anything you have pulled out of the rucksacks I gave you. You can either follow me or find your way back to the beach. It’s your choice. But staying here is not an option, I would recommend.”

“You must be out of your mind!!” an older man spat angrily, “Go back?! Where can we go? We left the beach and whatever it was that brought us here. I am staying right here until we figure out what that noise is?”

I sighed, exasperated, and trying hard to rein in my temper, knowing that each minute wasted in argument and rising tension would draw the creatures we heard in the distance right to us.

I set Miray down on her feet and said, “Go get your pack. Hurry!”

“Brian, we need answers! We need them right now!”

I stood and turned, facing the man, “The sea fog has passed. They never stay too long in the daylight hours. The road we took in is just over the rise there. If anyone told you that it would be safe coming here, that being part of a quest would be all adventure and thrills. They were or are lying to you. These are dangerous lands. What is happening here is difficult to explain with giving you more context and evidence for what this place truly is. I myself am terrified too. But I am committed to seeing this quest through.”

“Seriously dude, we just want to know what’s going on back there.”

“You will have to trust me. It is too soon. If it sees you, locks eyes with you, that could be the last nightmare image you see before your mind shuts down.”

“You are welcome to stay the course with me, as I value your company. But you must be up for it. I will tell you all that is at stake at the appropriate time and place, but right here and right now is neither. In a crunch situation, I need to know now whether I can count on you or if you will turn and run to save your own skin. The start of this journey was not that long ago, so if you choose you should be able to find your way back. But as for me, I’m pressing on. The main road is that way,” I pointed towards the south which would join the road heading back to the eastern sea and the oculus gate.

“But I will be headed that way,” I pointed forcibly to the northwest and the sloped hill rising up to the highlands, “Come with me now…or you will soon see what is causing that noise, and by then it will be too late to decide.”

They were stunned by my sudden loss of patience, but I could not help it. I was angry with myself for what I was unable to tell them and frustrated by their understandable lack of trust. But I knew we could delay no longer.

I came over and helped Miray with her sack and cinched up the top and placed it over her shoulder, crossing the leather ties in front, hoping it would not be too heavy for her to carry and move quickly.

The others finally followed suit and we snuffed out the campfire, moved the slate stone back over the fire-pit and scattered dust and sand over it as quickly as we could.

We’d pushed the strongbox back into the alcove and pulled and lock the bush camouflaged panel back down in the evening, so it was one less thing we had to do before resuming our journey.  A light wind was blowing down the slope and the loose dust and gravel around our hastily exited campsite would hopefully be erased in short order.  There were many of both mankind and beast here in the Mid-World who would not be very happy to know that Surface Worlders had returned to walk their lands.  For reasons not clear to me, our kind in transit through the oculus portals often unwittingly unleashed some dangerous, supernatural guests from a kind of inter-dimensional prison as well.

When we were all geared up and ready, two of the young men stood with folded arms in my path.

“You need to tell us what is out there before we go any further.”

I headed between them, holding Miray’s hand as she followed looking with large eyes at both of them as we passed.

“I will.  But not here.”

*Scene 01* 4:44 (The Betrayal in the Prior Quest)

Love never fails.  I had always believed that to be true in principle.  Until a fateful night when I witnessed its sacred quest stone fail, and leave my friend Caleb to die at the brutal hands of hybrid monsters.  While their cruel bestial king took possession of the stone we had foolishly believed would protect us.

Those woods were dark and dead. No sunlight pierced their tangled, twisted veil or ever touched the stone cold ground. Its floor was gray with ash where ancient fires had once found fuel in that accursed forest.  For centuries, the place had lain in a perpetual night under a burial shroud of shadows.

Only torches carried into its forbidding darkness ever illuminated its winding footpaths, but they were soon snuffed out by the beings still moving within it.

I dare not say that these dark inhabitants were living, for though they all moved, spoke, and breathed, they continually abided in death.

It had been foolish for Caleb and me to ever think we could subdue the beast that had anointed himself king over this kingdom of dead creatures. But we believed in the power that ruled The Cordis Stone, and in our minds, there was a strong enough chance we could end this king’s terrible reign once and for all.

But nothing went as planned. That night of death became a living terror that has even followed me into The Surface World.

I can still hear the voice of that Beast King echoing through my waking dreams, resonating and vibrating out of the blackness of those dead woods.

“Yes! Run for your life, O man,” it bellowed laughing from the darkness, “Everything you love will be stripped from you.”

It’s booming laughter pounded my body with sonic fists, striking me from out of the darkness. I turned, trying to fend off the invisible blows, but could still see him in the distance, bathed in a throbbing red glow, standing powerfully upon a rocky outcropping, mocking my terror. 

Below him, in mosh pit silhouettes, a sea of his dark shadowy servants celebrated the savage delight of their king with barks, grunts, hisses, and chortling. Their hundreds of pairs of scintillating eyes turning towards us. 

“Your betrayal has given me the key to your most precious treasures. And the means….,” he growled, lifting the fiery red stone he had wrested from Caleb’s hand, bathing his monstrous face, and dead eyes in a swirling wash of red light,”…to find and destroy them.”

Only then, had I realized, in the stumbling confusion of our panicked flight, that the King of The Half-Men, the one his hybrid creatures called ‘The Pan’, had not spoken to both of us.

Though we both had fled together, Caleb had fallen. And they had taken him into the darkness.

And The Pan’s haunting, threatening words would be painfully proven right.

“Everything you love will be stripped from you. Your betrayal has given me the key…and the means…”

*Scene 2* 2:13 (The Memory Bridge Crossing)

I foolishly believed I could break the power of The Pan’s spoken curse, by resolving not to allow myself to love again. By closing myself off, walling myself in, and guarding myself against that vulnerability. But I was wrong.

That night of my betrayal and the subsequent death of my friends had been twenty-one years ago,…and after so long living in my resolve to remain only in the Surface World, I had begun to believe it had all been a dream.

Until now.
The recurring nightmare no longer ends with me awakening in a cold sweat, screaming. I feel a change this time. An inner door within the dream has opened and suddenly the world I now awaken to….is a surging sea.

I do not remember my body coming through the oculus portal, this time. Enduring the long airless passage between worlds for a mortal man is terrifying, so it is, perhaps, a good and merciful that I was spared that awareness.

It has been so long living out this nightmare on the Surface World. I was a fool to believe The Pan’s reach was so limited. I should have known better.

But I am here again, and that could only mean one thing.

That I, and the others I will soon meet, are preceded here…by a monster.

Only The One could have opened this doorway, and He never does so without a good purpose and reason.

*Scene 03* 7:33 (The Return to the Mid-World Beach)

By all accounts, it should be terrifying to find myself waking up, submerged underwater. But I am unafraid. This splash-down landing is familiar to me.

It is a baptism into a new world, one could not imagine existed unless they were called to see and experience it for themselves. But I feel this is just as it should be.

Like Peter, I fell under these surfeiting waves because I took my eyes off of the One who called me to walk these inner shores and the land beyond them by faith. But, be that as it may, I am back.

Mercifully, being awakened to a deeper place, once again.

The water here is fairly shallow–and I can almost touch the sandy bottom. I feel the roll and push of the tides, mimicking the rise and fall of heavy breathing. The sea around me is alive and I am held in it.

In a panic, I might’ve taken in a gasp and swallowed only liquid breaths, but I realize what is happening before fear steps ahead of me to dictate my solely physical reaction.

I flail slightly, and then with a strengthened downstroke, I emerge up from those watery depths into the spray and foam of a surging sea. I am thrust forward and at last gain strength in my legs.

My head pushes through the watery ceiling. As the water clears from my eyes, I find myself staring at a mysterious beach that was not there when I drifted off.

As odd and surreal as all this seems, I am not disoriented. This place, the sandy shore, the rising sea cliffs, the rolled dunes of sand are all familiar. I have a certain degree of clarity that I have not experienced in years.  

My feet find purchase in the submerged sand, below the heaving shallows. I steady myself and rise to stand, water shearing off of my body.

I look down and, as I once did so long ago, again find I am waist-deep in seawater.

I was brought to this very shore twenty-one years ago, as a traveler, in much the same way.  I joined a noble cause, followed a struggling leader into the interior, embarked on a failed quest for a season only to betray a friend, lose my closest companions, and ultimately lost my way. But that is for another time, and not what I would consider the start of my journey, but only a precursor to it. The most meaningful beginnings start not at the peak of our success, but in the deep valleys, at the very darkest admission of our failure. It is from there only that we arise from the dust. That we are given the buoyancy to float up from the depths.

Water was a part of my arrival, even as it was a part of my departure. Only, in the evening when I left–when I was last consciously parted from this place, the water was much deeper…and I was drowning.

The water vacillates between feelings of warmth and cold. The lower undercurrent chills and tugs at my feet–trying to pull me out to sea–while the froth-crested swell of the warm upper tide shoves me forward toward the sandy beach and the dunes and sea caves beyond.

Much would have changed in the time I spent away. But still, I remember. Though the shores are slightly altered, and the storm winds have scoured the cliffs, and deadened the sea-side vegetation, I know this is The Mid-World. A place connected between one realm of human perception and the next. But, for now, that is all I am permitted to say of it.

As the wonder of returning settles into the realization of it, a part of me is shocked that I was allowed to come back here. I thought after so long, that hope of my return had faded. It is an uncanny and unnerving feeling, being back. There is both a sense of dread and relief in it. Like one who is lost, terrified, and wandering through a deep forest might feel upon recognition of a familiar landmark. A sense of returning to a comforting place one knew well, long ago in their childhood, but finding it very much changed and desecrated. Devoid of the many aspects that once made the familiar place seem safe.

Behind me, there is a large twisting hole in the sky.  A great whirlpool, suffused in otherworldly light that distorts the horizon and warps time and space.  It glares at me like a great lidless eye.  The inner iris is opening, and partially closing with an aortic rhythm matching the rising breaths of the sea. Oculus. The strange word forms upon my lips even as recognition dawns. The Eye of The Sea. It is a mysterious portal transcending the expanse between the world of the seen and unseen. It is only one of seven rumored to be here in this mysterious place. The closest one to this area.

The portal swirls and spins, dipping into the waves and spraying seawater, as the brow of the sky folds and unfolds inward and outward.

If memory serves, there should still be an inlet cave around the next bend.

And if this arrival is anything like the previous one, I know it is just a matter of time before there will be others arriving here.  They will not know where they are, just as I didn’t when I first came.  But what they will learn here, if they are open to it, will change them forever.

What appears to be sea-fog gathers down the shoreline and will soon be upon us.  My pulse quickens as I remember the living fog and the terrors cloaked within it.  I have a particular dread of it for I know it will steal parts of my memory as it had done with me in the past.  Forgetting is very, very dangerous.  Especially in this place.

*Scene 04* 7:46 (Breathe It In)

Something pursued the little girl.  Something that she could not remember.  Its form was clouded in her mind, but the terror of those moments leading up to that lapse was real enough for Miray.  She could feel them fading, but the panic lingered.

The thing pinning her down smelled of dead fish.

“Your friend that was is dead,” it sneered and hissed, spitting hatefully into her face as it growled, pressing her writhing, struggling body into the thick sand of the seashore, “and by now her putrefying flesh is rotting in the belly of a powerful prince of the power of the air and sea.”

Miray’s eyes went wide in horror and shock.  Pools of terror threatened to blind her.  The form would not clarify, it appeared distorted and unfocused as if watching its twisted face through an oil-smeared glass.

“He was so disappointed that you did not come, but he will meet with you later on the road ahead,” the voice was garbled, cruel, multi-layered, and androgynous.

“He marked you and all of the company from your world that will follow,” mocking her into despairing of all hope, “But never mind all that, child.  You will forget everything but your own name.  All your fears packed into this moment will fade.”  It quietened to see if the girl might be tempted to trust that reassurance.

Miray flexed in defiance and the savage being leaned in, hissing with vehemence, “Now get ready to taste the fog.”  Its cruel, unyielding hand, gripped her cheeks and jaw, forcing her red-pink lips into an ‘O’, “It will heal you of this unpleasantness.  Breathe it in.  Long and deep.  Its name is Oblivion.  Say hello.  It is waiting to meet you, and you will not miss this meeting.”

It shoved a knuckle into her mouth, but Miray bit its fingers.  It raged and slapped her face again and again.

Miray tried to hold her mouth closed.  She clenched her teeth, but the smeared-image being pinched her nostrils closed and savagely pulled her hair back.  It flailed and reached for the flat stone it had set aside and forced it cruelly between Miray’s lips, prising her teeth and jaws apart.  Her face stung with the coarse sand, abraded and raw from the repeated slaps.

“Shush, shush, shush!”, it cooed cruelly, as Miray wept and tried to scream but could not.  Tears poured copiously from Miray’s eyes.  She gasped for breath but her teeth were clamped firmly upon the rock held in her mouth.  Sand grit was in her throat, and she gagged and coughed allowing more of it to fall deeper down her throat, threatening to enter her lungs.

“Shut up or I will shove this further into your throat, you brat!  The fog is almost here.  When it comes, you…will…breathe it in.”

The fog was much closer now and would soon envelop them in grey mists.

Miray tried to close her lips around the flat rock, but the smeared-thing twisted the rock in her mouth and forcibly pinched her nose shut.  “Keep your pretty little mouth open, you baby slut!”  Miray gasped and mewled in pain as the rock’s unyielding edge cut into her gums and lips.  Blood filled her mouth, and she gagged on it, choking.  The thing pulled her hand away from the girl’s nose and backhanded her with it.  “I would gut you with this rock, but there has to be twenty-one at the beginning, so I cannot bash your head in yet.”

Tendrils of the reaching sea-fog drifted by, and the creature closed its feral eyes in a euphoria.

“Now you will see what it is like to taste the wet of the wind, little Surface dweller.  Your nightmares are just beginning, you little meddler.  We will burrow them so far into you so that your doctors will never find us.”

The creature stood up, climbing off of Miray, as the fog swirled and grew thicker around them.

It stood up spreading its arms wide, twirling around and around with the curling mists,  shouting and laughing to the sky, “Breathe in the madness!”

When Miray felt the pressure of the creature’s body leave her she quickly turned over, unable to breathe anything.  She was disoriented.  Her face stung from the repeated blows.  She gasped, but choked on blood and sand, the hard stone had fallen out of her mouth when she rolled on her hands and stomach.

The fog surrounded her.  Blocked her in.  She could no longer see the smeared-thing.  The fog was dense and gray and smoky.  It did not feel like a landed cloud.  The way her father used to describe it.  She forcibly coughed against the glob in her throat finally expelling the sand and blood.  Her next breath was desperate and though badly needed, fearfully unwanted.  She could not help it.  It entered her flaring nostrils and her panting, parted lips unbidden.

She could feel her mind begin to surrender to the gray cloud and her last desperate thought was to do as she had always done when she felt danger.  She ran.  She ran with all her might until she collapsed on the beach.  Before she succumbed to the things clouding out her mind she wrote a single word in the wet sand beside her and then all within and without went dark.

*Scene 05* 0:59 (Watcher in the Cave)

From the recessed darkness of a sea cave, just beyond the dunes built up by the surge at the shore, large eyes witnessed with pleasure and delight the subduing of the little girl.  She was a threat that needed to be dealt with, before the coming of the others.  The hook had been placed in the mind of the Traveler.  He would not know it until it was too late.  For now, it must dig in and wait.  It must follow where the man would eventually lead it to uncover the past that threatened its very future.

*Scene 06* 3:40 (Awakening on the Beach)

When Miray awoke, she was alone, lying in the sand.  Her head throbbed.  Her cheeks were flushed and scraped raw.  Her dress was torn.  Her chest ached as if it had been pounded.  Her knuckles were bruised and she had blood in her mouth.  She pushed herself up on weak, trembling arms.  Frothy surf wet her dress legs and lower body.  The sea was trying to swallow her even as the graying darkness had.  It was silently receding from her now, making way for the splash of the building waves, pooling and rushing around her.  She glanced at her palms and the tops of her fingers peeking out of the shallow indentions in the rolled wet sand.  As the seafoam swelled through her fingers, she noticed a small pattern of shallowing, fading lines to the right of her palm puddles.  The pattern confused her for a moment, as the sea interceded again and wetly-erased the fading pattern away.

She was dazed.  Confused.  The sea salt in the water burned her cuts and abrasions.  Had she fallen overboard?  Why did her mind feel so foggy?  Her mouth taste so grainy and coppery?

She knew something was missing, but could not get her mind clear enough to know what she had forgotten.  She had a sense that there was something she had desperately intended to remember, but it was drowned somewhere within the fog.  Stolen from her.

Her mind had once been so bright, but now, in some places deep within, there was only dim darkness.  There were some very important fireplace pictures missing.  Images that she imagined she kept neatly arranged over the mantle of her mind and hearth.  She scrunched her eyes, crawling up on her bruised knees, putting her small gritty hands over her face as silent tears fell between her fingers.  She sniffled, “Mustn’t cry.  Mustn’t!”

Coughing away some of the sand, she lowered her hands and stood up as the foamy waves formed laces around her small feet and battered tennis shoes.

“Be a big girl,” she admonished herself, “You’ll find those pictures again.”

She blinked final tears away and watched the graying fog recede towards the southern bend of the beach and swirl around the edges of the seacliffs.

There was someone she was supposed to find.  She felt it as much as she somehow knew it.  Someone she had to meet that would help her find the missing pictures again.

*Scene 07* 7:18 (Meeting the Wandering Child)

The land before me and the rising swell of the sea behind me is much the same.  Twenty-one years have done little to alter it.

It is almost as if I had never left, but I know that is not the case.  A part of me abandoned it.

Though deep down, I know I carry this place with me always, I have not attended much to it.  Not as much as I should have…

Still, I am meant to be here.  Called, once again, to come back here.  To face what I fled from so long ago.

This is no accident.  My wandering sojourn has brought me back to the place where I departed and took the wrong turn before.

And more than anything, I cannot deny the knowledge that I have been brought back for a reason.  I have come around full-circle to the place of beginnings.  Twenty-one years of my circuits of the Sinai wilderness are complete.

The promised land still awaits.  A kingdom whose doorway lies somewhere to the east of here upon a precipice in the far mountains.  Guarded by a nightmarish beast who presently sleeps, but will awaken if one attempts to reach the door beyond.

I have unfinished business here.  I must undo what was done.

Words of the Ancient Text find my heart and mind, swirling in the cognitive storehouse of my conscious memory.  As I move forward in this mysterious land, I know that these grounding words will surface and meet my need at each juncture of decision, yet I still retain terrible doubts.

How much can I really see through the lens of my own harbored self-doubt?

I am fearful of what coming back here means for me.  Somehow, I must find the gate-stone we lost.

That I lost, rather, for I take full responsibility for what happened.  Perhaps that is why I was brought back, because I am the only one left of our prior company who can make it right.

I smell something within the tang and briny salt of the sea air.  Some kind of underlying rotten smell.  A kind of sweet sick decay and I am certain I have smelled it before.

Something else has come with me through the portal, yet I cannot see it.  But I know it is there.  At some point, it will manifest itself, but it is staying clear of me now.

As I slog forward, urged on by the press of the waves, I see the little girl wandering on the beach.

She is alone and lost.  Perhaps she is the first of the others.  She is probably scared.  I must not frighten her.

She sees me.  Our eyes meet.  And she begins to run…

Not away from me, as I expected she might,…but towards me like she was very glad and relieved to finally find someone else here besides herself.

She stopped a few feet from me and studied me a moment before putting her hands on her hips as if accusing me of hiding from her and running off.  She was about six or seven years of age.  A precocious, red-head with bouncing curls, a light dusting of freckles on her nose but otherwise very fair porcelain skin.  Her intelligent eyes danced as green jewels and she seemed to be taking in more of her surroundings and her quick assessment of me half-slogged, in a flash.

“I’m Miray,” she announced matter-of-factly, “And I can’t remember anything else.  Is that weird?”

No, I thought to myself, not here it isn’t.  I wanted to say, welcome to the Mid-World, my dear fellow Surface Worlder, but I didn’t.  All of that would be explained in time.

We heard other voices just down the beach from us, as I knelt down and made our introduction mutual.

I extended my hand and said, “Well, hello there, my dear Miray.  My name is Brian.”

She listened carefully and thoughtfully, whispering my name to herself with an inscrutable look on her face.

“It’s not you,” she muttered finally and then noticed my extended hand and looked at it curiously for a moment.

Seeming to decide at last in my favor, she reached out and shook it, one emphatic pump only, and then smiled crookedly and said, “I am not a deer.”

And I responded, “Well then, are you a rascal?”

She beamed, winked at me and said, “Maybe.”

“Is it just you or are there others who came with you?”

She scrunched up her nose and shrugged.

“I think it is just me, but it sounds like there are others ahead.  I don’t remember, but I’ll find out.  Do you know where we are?”

I attempted to wring water out of my wet shirt and nodded, “I do.  I came here before.  But I don’t know when we are.”

She puzzled that one over for a few seconds and then looked off in the distance, “Maybe there is someone ahead that can tell me who I forgot.  I’m gonna see.”

“Okay.  I’ll be right there.  Don’t go too far.  Now that I found you, I wouldn’t want to lose my only friend here.  I will tell you all more when we join the others.”

She grinned at me, obviously pleased with my answer and then she skipped away toward the sounds of the group to make other acquaintances.

*Scene 8* 0:50 (The Xarmnian Scouts)

From a notch in the ridgeline, several Xarmnian horsemen watched the distant beach with interest.  The meddlers would eventually pass through to the west of them, but they were given instructions to let them pass for now.  Shihor had given them strict orders.  The flying creatures were proving to be a fortunate ally, as long as their lord and the matron both shared common enemies.  The beachhead stretched for miles along the coastline and the creatures had led them to the perfect vantage point to intercept them.  Now the hardest part would follow–the waiting.

*Scene 9* 2:58 (Following the Child)

I move to follow while she runs eagerly ahead, oblivious to potential danger.  Her free-spirited steps displaying the exuberance and happy curiosity of a child.  Such precious innocence, I almost tear up.

I glance back down the sandy beach in the direction from which she came.  The fog and mists are building from the south.  There isn’t much time, and I didn’t want to scare the child.

As I begin to turn away, something else catches my eye.  There are two sets of small child-sized footprints in the sand, each track about six to eight feet apart, but I think nothing of it.

Clearly, Miray has passed this part of the beach before.  No telling how long she has been wandering these shores…only the small footprints appear to be heading in the same direction.  I pause, staring at the separate prints.

Of course, I thought, She must have gone further inland and then passed back this way.  I was just seeing the bottom loops of her searching circuitous path.

I shake my head and almost laugh at myself, and plod ahead, trying to keep the young girl in sight.  Perhaps I am a little disoriented and not as clear-headed as I first thought.

There is something I am forgetting.

Something very important.

We must move inland soon to reach the valley where the shadows in the foggy shore cannot follow.  Even now, I feel something in the air.  Moving within the distant sea fog coming behind us along the shoreline.  The light is odd here.  It darkles with some grayish luminescence.   I cannot risk losing sight of the little girl.

She is an absolute charmer.  Miray is her name.  Beyond that, she told me, she cannot remember much either.

A sea dune intervenes, like a pointed finger, between the turn at the edge of the shore and the frothy water stretching out to sea.  The edge of the portal seems to recede into the bruised sea-cloud, lying beaten, cast and scuttled along the beach like a shipwrecked sailor.

I follow the separate sets of small footprints up the side and over the sea dune and see the gathering of bewildered travelers below.  I see the small red-headed girl milling around between the people.  She speaks to a few and then moves quickly on to another queue, flitting from one to the next like a hummingbird sampling nectar from blossoms.

They must be very confused arriving here by the sea-gate portal, but fortunately, I know a deal more than they do, and it is time I made their acquaintance.

*Scene 10* 3:05 (Arrival of Others)

I attempt to count the people I see as I quietly approach the crest of the dune.  They, like me, are all wet from being in the surf.  I estimate there are about twenty people, give or take a few.  It is hard to tell from this distance and the sky is not as clear as I had hoped it would be to get the expected count.

There were fourteen of us total the last time I was here.  But this time…more.  I quiet my breathing and try to settle the worried pounding of my heart.

I tried to think of how should I begin, “Is everyone here?  Let’s call the roll, shall we?”

That would be unfair to them because they do not yet know the importance of sharing their names and revealing who they are or believe themselves to be.  That felt…off.

For the time being, they must remain strangers to me.  All will be explained in time.

Each of us is part of something larger than we can imagine.  A grand story, written by a Grand Designer.

Back in the Surface World, among my circle of friends we’ve lost some very precious people.  There are no words to assuage the grief caused by their untimely exit.

Their absence creates a reminder that life is but one breath away from loss.

They were unfinished stories.

I should have known that it would be these particular thoughts that would confront me upon my return here.

In my subconscious mind, I did know and that is why it has taken me so long to finally be willing to come back.

Running away from problems, or drowning them out with distractions, fillers and other illusions, never make the problems go away.

They only grow.

Larger and meaner and more deadly with time.

In the end, they breathe and become living and sentient monsters…

I mentally gather the weapons of warfare to me, that I have learned are most powerful in this strange land.  An Ancient Text which transcends space and time and becomes embodied in flesh and power.

*Scene 11* 6:07 (Sowing in the Seventh)

From atop the edge of the sea cliffs, the hidden mercenary stood with his hands resting upon the hilt of his sword. The metallic-gray clouds twisted into the sky forming a giant Gordian knot and silhouetting his shadowy form against their silvery light. He stood back beyond the edge of the cliff, so his form would not be seen from the beach skylined against the clouds. But he could still see the gray sands of the shore and the foaming lines of the sea clearly, and the wet, new arrivals.

The Oculus had appeared hours before. They had seen its glow from their small waiting camp in the early morning hours and had approached the cliffs. The Xarmnian patrols were rumored to be about, but The Storm Hawk and Lehi had kept them further back, running interference. Not fully knowing why The Resistance wanted them to, but were happy to assist when they received the request. The Storm Hawk was rumored to have once been one of the Surface Worlders, so the less she knew of his present mission the better.

The two infiltrators were in place.  They’d descended the cut into the slope, and soaked themselves in a tide pool just beyond the bend of a dune.  He saw them join the others on the beachhead below, and he knew at last his assignment was complete.  Now he would ride back and report to Tobias and the others, and get his double-portioned rations and sowing seed promised him. He would then take his family out and return to farming, far away from the towns.

The two agents were naive enough to have the chance of pulling this thing off. The Surface Worlders, on first arrival were never what one might have considered to be readied warriors anyway. They were exposed out here. Unprepared for the harsh realities of this world, because they were too much under the influence of the assumptions of this World being, too much, like their own. The two were fools. Naifs. But they would be fools among fools, so they would fit right in.

The Resistance knew that one day the Surface Worlders would be back, and they were more certain of it, than any of their sworn enemies.  There was some mystical influence coming from the old Marker Stone.  Those in the Resistance, at least, agreed upon that, but in many ways, to his mind, it could not be relied upon. There were certain useful truths in it, but there were also too many inconsistencies.

So, every seventh year, he brought the Resistances’ two delegates and they came to the eastern sea cliffs to watch for the opening of The Eye of the Sea and the entrance of the unwitting interlopers. The Resistance had once welcomed their arrival once before. Believed it to be a sign that the Prophecy of The Marker Stone was being fulfilled.

But that was before.

The Stone Quests were a failed hope. And finding Excavatia was only a dream of superstitious mystics. Stories only believed by children, before the hardships of life matured them into becoming realists and skeptics.

Though there were many faithful prophecy believers still within the Resistance, their influence was failing, and the Realists and Skeptics were steering the resistance efforts into a more pragmatic approach towards insurrection, and enticing the dormant, and smoldering embers of suspicion and nascent fratricidal war back into flame. But the Surface Worlders, naive as they were, still had to be watched and there was no better way to watch them than from within their company.

Though they never began with The Stones of Virtue in their possession, somehow, always, a Stone found its way to them.

Whatever these Surface Worlders were planning, it would not be good for the Resistance movement.  They would stir the Xarmnians up and then life would again become the hell it was before.  The Surface Worlders would leave and return to their own world, but the results of their meddling would ripple like waves across The Mid-World and impact all who lived here.

Noadiah had been a fool, but at last, she’d come to her senses and conceded to their plan.  Then she’d disappeared, leaving them without a Seer.

Tobias and Sanballat had then stepped in, and proposed a more feasible solution to throwing off the oppression. But a lot was riding on this plan.  The Capitalians would not appreciate being incited to return into the land beyond the wall, but they must.

And then the two brotherhoods would finally destroy each other upon a final field of battle.

Yes, he and his family would be long gone before that happened. Far away, sowing his own seed and reaping his very own harvest, away from the winds of war.

*Scene 12* 3:56 (Memories of the Past Beginning)

As I stand upon the large brow of the sea dune, contemplating and looking down upon the new arrivals below, I notice they are looking up at me, wondering, since I do not immediately descend.

By now the little girl has told them about our brief encounter. That I may know something about this place they find themselves in, and what secrets it holds for why they are here.

I once stood where they are standing now. Bewildered. Unsure and afraid of what might be happening. I fully sympathize with what they may be feeling, but I also know I must be careful with what I say.

I remember the voice of the man who led us and his admonishments like it was only moments ago rather than years.

“Listen carefully to what you hear. Measure and consider what the people of this land say. Apply sound principles you have known from past experiences. Aligned to the Truth Codex all you perceive on this journey. Strive to be a studied person of wise counsel. There are many deceptive illusions in this place.  Be a considerate companion of your fellow travelers. We need wise counselors.”

Had I heeded these words of wisdom; my friend would still be alive and that once-human monster, The Pan, would not have in his possession what he does…

In view of that, I wonder if I should ever be forgiven.  Jeremiah was perfectly justified in…

Already, I have almost said too much.

I am supposed to lead these newcomers into the interior. But I am fearful of revealing too much too soon. This place, this Mid-World, is like and unlike the world, we all left behind on the other side of the sea-gate. I am fearful that I will not be able to gain their trust, yet the compelling of the call still rests on my shoulders and heart. Fear of rejection has too often been an impediment to action in my life, but the One still calls me to obey and leave the results up to Him. As hard as it is, I must trust the call because of who it is that called me.

I sigh heavily, surrendering the tension I feel and mentally committing my will to His quiet voice. “I am coming, Lord. Give me the courage I need,” I pray quietly as I move forward.

I have been stalling. Delaying the inevitable. I can feel the urgency. Like there is a danger far worse than that of the fog rolling toward us.

I descend the far side of the dune and all eyes turn toward me.

“Here goes…,” I mutter.

The small group is coming this way. It is time they came to know me and I them. The journey to the gate is long, and the path to get there is uncertain.

*Scene 13* 7:50 (Welcome to the Mid-World)

“You, there!” one of the men calls out to me, “This little one, says you may know something of where we are.  What’s the story?”

Others are following, gathering.

“Welcome to the Mid-World, my friends,” I say raising my hands to encompass and indicate the group should draw near.

“That remains to be seen,” another muttered, “This place does not seem all that welcoming.  We’re all wet and cold.”

“I have been sent to collect you all and lead you into the interior.  There is a storm coming and we need to get further inland before it hits these shores.”

“What about this thing we came through?  I’m not sure I want to leave the only entrance to wherever this is if I cannot get back to where I came from.”

“Despite what you may think, you are not all assembled here by accident.”

“You mean someone did this to us?” asked one.

“Who?” another asked.  “Can’t we get back?”

Questions came at me from all sides, tumbling over each other, but I chose to respond to only the ones clearly heard by the group.

“You can.  But aren’t you even curious to find out why you are wanted and needed here?”

“Where is here?  Are we dead or something?”

“If you where you would not be wondering where here is.  You would already know for sure.”

“You are talking in riddles, sir.  How do we know we even can trust you?  We don’t even know you, or anyone else here for that matter.”

“Now that is the first and most important question you all have asked me.  It is critical that you start asking these kinds of questions if you are to participate in a quest in the Mid-World.”

“Quest?” one said, almost laughing incredulously, “What a nut job!”

“I think someone drugged us and is playing mind games,” one whispered loudly to another.

“I knew I should not have had that third vodka martini, before bed.  These are the kind of freak dreams I get…” another muttered.

“I doubt this is a dream.  I feel wet and cold and the sand and salty air feel real enough.”

“Perhaps we’re in one of those sensory deprivation tanks, somewhere. Or aliens have abducted us,” the questioner then turned an accusatory finger at me.

“Dude, are you an alien or some head shrink researcher or something?!”

“No.  It is more complex than that.  I’m none of those things,” I answered defensively.

“What kind of a quest?  Why should we bother?”

“Because you very lives back in the places where you have come from depends on it.”

“How melodramatic of you to say that.”

I bow slightly to the speaker.

“Allow me to present myself.  My name is Brian.  I am, like you, from the world, you all came from.  Because that place is the locus of creation, we refer to it as the Surface World.  So, I too am a Surface Worlder.”

“I’ll bet he’s one of those dufuses that lives in his parents’ basement, sits in his underwear and a white cotton T-shirt smeared with Cheetos stains, playing video games all day.”

A few chuckled at the mental image, and I knew, with this crowd I was not getting off to a good start as their designated leader.

This is the very thing I feared the most.  The mockery.  If I did not get them to take this seriously soon, we were all going to die here.

“Oh, God,” I silently prayed, “What do I do to convince them?  To gain their trust before it is too late?  I can’t lead these people.  I wish You had picked someone else.  I am the worst person to do this.  You know what I did the last time.  I am too afraid.  Please pick someone else, God.”

I then felt a small hand grab mine, I looked down and saw a crown of deep red curls, and a pretty face scrunched up and looking at me intently.

“I believe you Mister Brian,” she said simply, “Tell them it’s real.  You must tell them even if they don’t believe.  If I knew what I forgot, I would tell them, but I am still missing it.  Please tell them.”

“Precious and blessed child,” I said, gently squeezing her encouraging hand.

“For you, I would do almost anything,” convicted that what I was fearful to endure for The One, I was more than willing to do for this sweet little girl.

I took in a deep breath and then boldly faced the muttering and suspicious group, unconscious of where the determination of strength came from as I spoke to them further.

“Believe what you will.  But there is danger coming to us all if we remain much longer.  That sea fog, coming in from around the bend will be on us soon.  We must move inland and get beyond the sea cliffs to the descending valley on the other side.  You can follow or stay.  It is your choice.  But we…,” I looked down at Miray and smiled at her, and she wrinkled her nose and smiled up at me, “…we are going forward.”

As Miray and I turned to walk past them, I saw another little dark-haired girl, about Miray’s age or a little older, scowl and her eyes flashed daggers at Miray.  She clearly was not happy, but one by one the others followed us up the shoreline, winding up a switchback sandy grade and over the hill overlooking the sea.  Reluctantly she followed the group at last, as an older girl came back and took her hand.  She smiled at the girl who came back and they seemed to chat quietly as we wove between sea-weathered rounded boulders, and made our way down into a shadowy valley below.  For some reason, I knew the sea fog would not follow us there.  That it would move along the shore and skirt the ridge, but not pour over it into the valley beyond.  We were somehow safe in the shadow.

As we walked down, I heard some of those following behind speaking low among themselves, thinking I could not overhear.

“What do you think of this Mister Brian?”

“I think he’s full of crap, but we’ve nowhere else to go and there is no way I’m sticking around back there getting stuck in that fog.”

“Where do you think this place is?”

“I don’t know, but somehow I think I came here once before with my dad.”

Stunned, I stopped in my tracked and turned around to see if I could spot the speaker.

They all looked so innocent, but some blushed, realizing I had been aware of what they were saying.  I could not discern who the speaker might have been, so I turned back around facing the front.

“What’s wrong?” Miray asked, a concerned look on her face.

“Nothing,” I lied, “Nothing at all.”

*Scene 14* 1:08 (Going Inland)

The sun is, even now, at our backs.  The road stretches out ahead of us into the fading and darkening horizon.  The starlight above us begins to sharpen as the day yields its cooling place to the night.

Ascending the hillside leading up from the beachhead, I am almost as wary of the looming shadows, as I was of the sea fogs below.

I know it is not safe to be traveling at night, but we have no choice.  We have to get to the road and then to the valley beyond it.  The fog bank on the seashore now obscures the entire coastline.  Fogs here are dangerous.  Not all of them, but enough to make one avoid them.  There is something in them that makes people forget.  We’ve walked a fair piece, but there is a much farther place that we have to go to.  I say further, but that is not entirely true.  In some ways, it is very close.

By the time we reach the crest of the hillside, it is almost daybreak.  The sun’s glow gives a gilded edge to the mountain peaks in the distance.  The dawn is still a few hours away, but we feel the promise of it.  With the daybreak, comes the hopeful promises.  The chance to make those wishful dreams that linger in fading memory a work in progress towards fulfillment.

I sometimes use the term “Friend” the way John Wayne used it famously in the opening scenes of the classic western “Big Jake”.  Like most people, the word can mean something very important to those we have known for a very long time, but to others, it is merely a suggestion based upon the charitable benefit of the doubt at the start of an acquaintance before it matures with familiarity.  If you remember the famous scene in the movie, John Wayne and his Dog approach two men in the process of lynching a Scottish “sheep farmer”.  They kick the man’s son away when he desperately tries to intervene.  Wayne, aka Jacob McCandles, observing from a distance reluctantly hails them and addresses the two erstwhile gallows men as “Friend”.  The scene is tense.  The men, though addressed with the convivial term, do not necessarily feel “friendly”.  They are suspicious and bristle at his interference.

Too often, we make the mistake of assuming the people we meet along life’s shared journey are friends.  It’s an assumption only in our desirously civil minds, if not in theirs.  People only enter that true meaning of the term “Friend” when they show themselves to be friendly both in word and in deed.

So in my blog’s inaugural postings, just because I may refer to my readers as “Friends” the term can mean no more than just the surface understanding of who I optimistically hope they are.  I am under no illusions.  There are bad people in this world.  Some who take pleasure in doing others harm whether physically or by impugning their character unjustly.  Some people who, in our modern social media context we’ve designated as…Trolls.  The hecklers, who have nothing better to do with their lives than mock and ridicule others just to pass the time, rather than producing or contributing something positive to the world.  To those, I would say at the start of this journey through my house of ideas, “Don’t take the message on the Welcome Mat at the front door as obligatory or binding.”  To strangers standing there giving some solicitation pitch, it is merely a suggestion for you to keep it brief and don’t wear out what you are standing on.  The interior back side of my front door they may never see.

I’ve often wanted to get a chilling but reciprocal mat, placed just so, on the porch step under the door at the back of my house, bearing a very different message.  In true literary humor, it might read something like the following:  Congratulations!  You’ve made it this far.  Most of the others didn’t.  What that tells me is that you declined the offer to tour the wine cellar just below the house’s foundation.  It’s a shame though.  The Amontillado was a particularly good year.  Good luck surviving the booby traps hidden throughout the backyard just ahead and have a very nice day! 😉

Ah, the look on some people’s faces would be priceless.  Literary aficionados, not dressed in the evening’s garish motley garb with bells on, will get the joke and have a good laugh.  All others can go straight to Poe.  Edgar Allen, that is.

The journey ahead to Excavatia is meant to inspire and uncover some insights that we as fellow travelers can share along the way.  Some people at random may stumble upon this shared journey of friends exchanging ideas and inspiration and attempt to sully that repartee.  Some are just passing through and following their own journey and we may never meet again.  I get it.  In Tyler Perry’s brilliant comic style, he, in the character of Madea, relays a brilliant understanding of people who create problems for other people, and good people who fail to understand that corrosive people should not be chased after.  He says, “Let them go.”  That is important to learn the differences of certain behaviors of people by the evidentiary content of their character.  He uses the illustration of the parts of a tree.  Leaves, branches, and roots.  Learn to recognize those types of people that are transitory and fall with the slightest breeze.  Leaf people.  Seasonal people who are green and tender only when the season is favorable.  Branch people are more stable but when strong winds come or the storms of life twist you, they break and fall away.  Branches can wither, or get so overloaded that they cause the tree trunk to bend towards them.

We often blame ourselves for this, but I am reminded of the time in when the only perfect person to walk the face of the earth, Jesus Christ was also deserted by fair weather friends.

“At this point many of his disciples turned away and deserted him.” [John 6:66 NLT]

It is telling that Jesus referred to Himself as The Vine and his disciples as the branches.

“Yes, I am the vine; you are the branches. Those who remain in me, and I in them, will produce much fruit. For apart from me you can do nothing.” [John 15:5 NLT]

Later in the biblical account when the worst storm of his 33 years upon the earth came, he was abandoned by the very closest of His inner circle of friends.  The one who vowed never to leave His side and committed himself to fight for Him, denied he even knew Him three times when the crunch time came to stand.  Interestingly that man’s name was called Cephas (little rock) [John 1:42] but was later changed to Peter (or Petra) in [Matthew 16:18 NLT] “Now I say to you that you are Peter (which means ‘rock’), and upon this rock I will build my church, and all the powers of hell will not conquer it.”

The point of this being, that those who start with you on your journey may not always be the ones still with you when you face untold challenges along the way or finally reach your destination.  This journey is not one for the faint of heart if the goal is worthwhile.  People will lose faith in you, and some will break faith with you.  You must be willing to embark and commit to this personal journey even if you are harangued by trolls along the way or your friends desert you in your determined pursuit of the dream and hope of finding and succeeding in Excavatia.  Some of those you begin with might even be villains.  So be careful and wary.  Be focused and not dissuaded.

Despite what we might desperately want to believe there are very real dangers around us.  Evil does not need to masquerade in a red satin suit, with a pitch fork and horns.  It is the stain upon the human races soul which marks us for inevitable destruction.  Often evil can present a cherubic face and seemingly wide-eyed innocence in our presence.  A nursery worker might discover that the colicky baby that cries throughout the church service had another nefarious cause that prompted its continual weeping.  To her shock she reviews a nursery video showing that one of the two-year-olds, seeming to playfully romp around the room as if riding an imaginary horse, has discovered to his savage delight what fun he might have with a push pin each time he passes the annoying baby that seems to get more attention from the nursery workers than he does.  After all, he is special.  There is no one in the world better than him.  His mom tells him so, and all these other grown-ups should lavish on him the attention and care that they give too much to that stupid, noisy baby.

Like the purloined letter (E.A. Poe again), evil hides in plain sight of us.  We just have grown so accustomed to its presence that we fail to see it.  We expect it to have the look of something else and so fool ourselves into not recognizing it until it does something so shocking and disturbing that we trick ourselves into believing that there was always something odd about the perpetrator that we in our prescient connectedness to vibes were picking up on before the shocking reveal.  We convince our foolish selves once again that we will know and sense evil if we just pay more heed to our mystical sixth sense.  After all, we are special.  Our mommas told us so.

So be careful not to become a villain yourself.  Dangers there will be.  Setbacks should be expected.  Be true to your calling and be careful not to be too trusting where caution is needed.  Be sober and vigilant, dear friend.  This road is fraught with perils as well as surprises.  If your heart is faint, stay home.  If your heart and commitment are stout and you are up to the challenge, follow on…

 

John Wayne – Big Jake

https://youtu.be/3opoCWqrEPI

Tyler Perry – Madea

Reference:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yw0aAInXibA

Sandra Bullock

Reference: https://www.facebook.com/goalcast/videos/1501949219882263/

Stay Away From Negative People

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o3LOP9FO2_M

“Honesty and Sharing It All” – Blog Post of Rachael

https://acceptingthepeace.wordpress.com/2017/10/06/honesty-and-sharing-it-all