Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  From darkness and dizziness, to forest and light; Lucas lay stomach down on a thick layer of oak leaves, which had cushioned his short fall. He remained there, unmoving, waiting for something to happen. Only the wind, rustling the leaves around him, made sound. He looked back to the Gate, waiting for Wenlann. No one else came through.

  No! he wanted to scream, but grief was seizing his voice. She had to make it! They couldn't have gotten her. They . . .

  Lucas fought back a wave of tears, and when he wiped at them with a dirty hand, he got something in his eye. The pain suddenly distracted him from his grief, and he spent several long moments blinking the debris out.

  He sat amid a thick forest of oak and pine, with little sunlight penetrating the cathedral ceiling of green. A spot or two of light touched the ground around him. This was not New Mexico, but at least it was somewhere on Earth, or so he thought. Hell, if I have to I'll fly Northwest home! If I can remember dad's Master Card number . . .

  Lucas got to his feet, discovering a few bruises and aches, but otherwise found himself intact. Beneath the Gate was a smaller slab of granite. Then he considered the creatures who were after him, and supposed they might yet follow him through this thing.

  She said to run. To keep running, he thought, torn between waiting for her to make it through, and leaving the area in case she didn't, and something else made it through instead.

  Out of here, he finally decided. Getting caught by those things again would be no help to her. I still don't know where here is.

  He started walking away from the Gate, looking for a path or any sign of civilization, while suspecting the search would be futile in this pristine land. As his feet rustled among the fallen leaves, he felt as if he were the first person to ever walk here.

  "You idiot. Not only did you leave our 'steeds behind, you've brought us back to Avalon," Japhet said, standing at the crest of a hill. Nargach, who had set the paralyzed Wenlann down on the ground, joined him to see for himself. From her skewed position, Wenlann saw beyond the hill the top of the new Castle, some distance away.

  Hope soared. They didn't mean to come here. She prepared herself to send a message to the King.

  As if reading her mind, Nargach promptly lay a broad shield around them, increased its strength, then lay another one atop that.

  "Dismiss this Gate," Japhet said, to the doorway they had just stepped from. "We don't want the others to follow."

  From her limited perspective, Wenlann had determined that Petrus and Odras had indeed followed them to the Unformed, and had taken out the three Unseleighe warriors, leaving only Japhet and Nargach. This could be good, or bad: good, because the odds were even more against the Unseleighe. Bad, for the same reason, because Japhet would now be desperate. A desperate Japhet is an unpredictable Japhet. And they still had her firmly imprisoned.

  "It's a permanent Gate," Nargach calmly replied. "I would need vast energies to rid ourselves of it, and if I so much as looked for these resources any mage in the castle would sense it." The mage approached the other, lowered his voice, and added, "Unlike our little band of outlaws, Avalon has more than one mage. Their King is a mage, and there are more. Do I really need to remind you of this?"

  Wenlann had expected the usual angry retort from Japhet, but other things appeared to be occupying his mind, such as how the hell do I get out of this jam?

  "We should return through the Gate," Nargach said, turning away from the hill. "Where we can retrieve our valuable elvensteeds."

  Before he could say any more Japhet laughed sardonically, stopping him short. "I think not! No, this place will be fine, for now. Who would think to look for us in their own backyard? We should find somewhere to make camp. Somewhere away from this," Japhet said, gesturing toward the Gate. "Then we can concentrate on a plan."

  Cautiously Wenlann tried probing Japhet. Nargach was deep in thought on other matters, she surmised as her probe went unnoticed. She recoiled at the dark cesspool of paranoia and hate she found in Japhet's mind, then embraced his dark feelings as if they were clay, something she could mold into whatever shape she wished.

  Here goes. . . .

  In spite of the existing uncertainty swimming about in the Unseleighe's mind, it was not a simple task. She was, after all, doing this literally under the nose of an experienced mage. Her work was as subtle as she could make it, while keeping it strong enough to be effective.

  Nargach is going to defeat you, Wenlann sent, gradually at first, then increasing the thought in strength, and repeating it. What's to stop him? Why should he follow you? He is a great and mighty mage!

  Though she could not see Japhet, the two of them suddenly stopped walking.

  "What is it?" Nargach said. "You wish to carry her for a time?"

  "No, I don't. It's nothing . . ." he said, sounding annoyed. They resumed their walk. Wenlann restrained her elation, knowing she had accomplished her task.

  Now, to work on him some more. My, this could get rather entertaining.

  Wolf's red Indian dropped a half foot to a new land, a new dimension, as Petrus had so dramatically put it. The bike's massive shocks took the impact with ease, as if they were brand new. Well, Wolf thought, pulling up on the handlebars to keep it upright, it kind of is.

  If this was where those other two Unsaylee had taken Wenlann, they were nowhere in sight. He stopped the bike on loose, sandy gravel, wondering briefly if he were back home in the desert. A quick glance at the horizon confirmed that he was nowhere near home, or perhaps not even on Earth. The forest that began a short distance away at first looked like stands of tall cactus. They were trees of some sort, maybe a succulent plant, but they were enormous. The branches were green and round, stuck out from the main trunks at right angles, with round, green shoots coming out from them, also at right angles. It reminded him of a picture of ancient conifers that were around at the time of the dinosaurs. With no leaves, the strange trees looked like dog's fur from a flea's point of view, the long stalks reaching for the sky like the spiky remnants of a forest fire.

  The Gate he had just dropped out of hovered over a marble pedestal, carved in the ancient Greek style. On examining the ground around it, he found nothing besides his own tire tracks. His heart, and hopes sank, realizing the mistake he'd made.

  Odras said they could go off into different areas, he thought. This, obviously, is not where Wenlann went!

  The Avalon pendant hung heavily around his neck, reminding him of another blunder he'd made. The only way they found her in the first place is that they used this to key in on her location! And now they don't even have this to use.

  His next move seemed simple: Ride back through the Gate and get back where he was. I'm sure as hell not doing any good here.

  From the forest behind him came a loud chittering sound, from neither bird nor mammal, at least from any he recognized. He looked and saw nothing, absolutely nothing, that could have made the sound; unless the trees did. Another reason to get out of here. This place is truly weird.

  He turned his back on the forest, and prepared to mount the Indian; the pedestal beneath the Gate would be difficult to negotiate, but he had ridden up steps on his old Harley that were taller than this. Just as long as I have enough momentum, I can get up anything.

  Just as he was preparing to sling his right leg over the seat, he heard the sound of a sailing projectile, which was immediately followed by the projectile's landing square between his shoulder blades.

  The impact threw him forward, then landed him on his face. The dirt tasted strange, as if it were laced with cinnamon. He couldn't have been down for long; he'd just been whacked hard by something small and heavy. No serious damage.

  No big deal, right? he thought, rolling over.

  There were at first glance twenty or thirty of them, but they were packed so tightly in a broad circle around him and the motorcycle that this was only a guess; the forest of legs that presented itself to him at ground level indicated many more. As he stirred the chitter
ing started all over again, sweeping through the excited crowd like a gust of wind.

  The reptilian creatures were not particularly tall, but given their vast numbers this was no consolation. Humanoid lizards with arms and legs circled around him in an excited huddle, large black macaw-like beaks snapping in agitation. Around half of them held slingshots in the form of long, leather thongs with rock-filled pockets; this explained what hit him in the back. And given the range and accuracy needed for such a hit, these guys must be really good with them. That, coupled with the massive parrot beaks that looked like they could crush a leg bone, added up to a rather iffy situation.

  He might have made a dash for the Gate if the lizard folk hadn't blocked his way. The Indian stood unmolested, and the critters kept a healthy distance from it, for which he was grateful. They must think it's alive.

  Wolf sat up, slowly, ignoring the pain in his back as much as possible. He took one long look at the assembled, and once he knew he had their undivided attention, cleared his throat.

  "Say," he said, summoning instant silence. "Do one of you guys know how to Madison?"

  He found a deeper, shaded area of forest, where the trees seemed to be twice their normal size. Lucas held up a Black Jack oak leaf, and spread his fingers against it, with leaf to spare. Both palms would fit within its borders.

  The Gate had receded far behind him as he made his way through the woods, and the strange elven creatures who had been pursuing him, even if they'd passed through to this world, were now a distant threat. The journey yielded no clues as to who might live here, or to how he might return home. But the farther he advanced into the forest, the safer he felt. The suggestions of wildlife told him he might be able to stay here if necessary, and the prospect was more comforting than he would have guessed.

  As he entertained these notions he came across a clearing, with a broad circle of rocks and a tiny log shelter with a thatched roof. With a start, he saw he was no longer alone.

  She sat on a low bench, facing another low bench the size and shape of a coffee table; in the center of the circle was a fire pit with the charred remains of wood, but nothing presently burning. The young lady wore a long white robe, and an ocean of curly red hair cascaded down her shoulders and back. She turned to look at him; at first she seemed vaguely surprised, then charmed, by Lucas' standing there.

  "Come closer, little one," she beckoned. Lucas frowned inwardly, feeling like he was being addressed like a little kid, but at this distance that's probably what he seemed to be. "You're safe, here."

  He walked closer, hesitating at the circle, feeling like it was sacred and that walking across it would profane it. She seemed to sense his reason for hesitating, and smiled appreciatively.

  "The circle is not cast," she said softly. "Until then, it is only a rock garden. Please, come over here," she said, patting the vacant spot on the bench beside her.

  He stepped over the circle of rocks, but whether it was cast or not, he felt like he'd stepped into another world. The turmoil of Panic and the weird Damien, the imprisonment, the bloodied room, the skulls, and the escape from the elf critters he'd just pulled off was now far away, light years away. In the few days after his suicide attempt, he had intuited a world or path he knew was to be his, but it was a vague feeling, twisted apart by his own internal chaos. Without having the words to describe it, he felt the mystery he had been looking for was right here, in this circle, and this beautiful lady held the key.

  He wanted to ask, what is this place? but a part of him knew the answer.

  "I'm lost," Lucas finally said after a moment of awkward silence. He sat down beside her before what he now perceived to be an altar, with one large unlit candle on a pewter base, in the center. A single thin vase with a cut rose, petals, stem and thorns all black as ebony, to the right of it. On the left lay a pillow of black velvet, holding a crystal ball.

  "And you have been found," she replied, turning to him. For the first time he saw the headpiece she wore, and nearly fled in terror. It was the pentagram, the symbol the Satanists used.

  "What's wrong?" she asked, apparently sensing his alarm.

  "That symbol. Are you a devil worshiper?"

  Her look of astonishment turned to amusement, but it wasn't embarrassing, as such a look would normally be from an older girl. "This symbol," she said, indicating the headpiece, "is very old. Those who have used this symbol in the name of evil do not understand it. It is a symbol of peace, of harmony, of love for other beings, human or non. Plant or animal, or spirit. It's been perverted by others, in whatever position. One point up, for the Goddess. Two points up, for the God. But nothing can contaminate its true meaning."

  This was all starting to fit, and unlike the Satanists he'd recently fled he was believing her, without being whacked out on drugs. He also knew, sitting beside her in this strange and beautiful forest, that spray-painting tombstones in the light of a full moon would be an alien, criminal act to her.

  There are better things to do in the light of a full moon, he heard in his mind, knowing the words were hers. She reached over for the little black pillow with the crystal ball on it.

  Much better things.

  She held it forward, and he held his hands beneath hers, and when they connected a stream of images passed beyond the crystal, as if the black pillow were a movie screen and the ball was the lens of the camera; he saw the fire burning bright, with people dancing around it, wearing loincloths if they wore anything at all. Some jumped over the fire, some held drums to it, warming and tightening the heads, then returned to the outer circle where the drummers were, pounding a rhythm that was the heartbeat of the planet. Others danced in a spiral beyond the circle, then weaving back, toward the fire, to witness the rite. An old man wearing a headdress made from a wolf skin, fur coming down over his face as a mask. The wolf was the hunter, but this time he was also the sacrifice, as some of the younger braves danced after him, thrusting spears at him, mimicking the hunt. The wolf fell, but from the fallen wolf came the man, as if reborn. They were calling him chakka . . . chakka . . . chakka . . .

  And among the dancers, standing out like a pearl on black sand, was the white, red-headed woman, the lady who sat before him now, whose hands he held in his own.

  The vision shattered like broken glass, and he sat up, suddenly, and with a start, sucking in a deep breath; at some point during the vision he had forgotten to breathe.

  "Now I know who you are," the woman said. "You're Lucas."

  Lucas caught his breath, then looked up at the lady, who had a different look about her. "Who are you, then?" was all he could think to ask.

  "My name is Margot Jameson," she said, "And I am a High Priestess of the Chaniwa tribe. At least, that's who I was before I passed on, to the other side." She paused, and for a moment her image became translucent, and Lucas knew then that she was a ghost, reviving his earlier guess that this land had not been walked upon by any human. There's more to the universe than flesh and bone, he was beginning to realize.

  "Does 'Chaniwa' mean anything to you? Do you know Wolf, the Chakka?"

  Lucas shook his head. She was making no sense at all.

  "Dear me," she said, sounding resigned. "But your vision. It does explain why you are here, and how you got here. Fast Horse told the story to Wolf before they killed him. This is your journey, to find your path."

  It sounded simple, but Lucas knew there had to be more to this than finding a trail in the woods.

  "Well," Lucas said, peering into the forest. "Do you know where it is?" When she answered his question with a vaguely amused smile, he saw what she meant. And he could have kicked himself. My path means my spiritual path, you dummy. It was something you felt the moment you came here!

  "I was looking for the path when I met the Satanists," he said finally, knowing it would do no good to leave anything out. "And for a while I thought I had found it. But everything I did, everything I agreed to, I did because I was stoned or high on whatever. I wanted to be a pa
rt of something too."

  "These things you did, while you were 'stoned,' as you say. Are these things you would have done otherwise?" Margot asked softly.

  "Of course not," Lucas replied, without hesitation. "They were stupid things. When I wanted to leave them they wouldn't let me do it. I think they were into killing people, and they were going to kill me before I got away. They weren't fooling around." He stared at his hands, remembering all the things he had done in their company, all of which he regretted now. "There wasn't anything to what they said, was there?"

  "They may worship the god of their choosing, but they have no right to do harm. And they were doing a great deal of harm. To you, and to many others. I think you chose well to escape. And to think, you ended up here afterwards. Most interesting."