Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black)

by R. M. Ridley

  “Wendell, I would be deeply grateful if you could bring me a cigarette and one of the bottles of Bourbon,” Jonathan groaned.

  The using had started to overwhelm even the high of the usage. The White Dragon was a powerful and wild creature. Riding it took its toll. Yet, he wanted nothing other than to summon more energy through him, to reach as deep as he could and pull from the unknown all that it hid.

  His legs had cramped from kneeling on the bookshelf. His stomach ached from being compressed. His throat burned from speaking the spells. He became convinced someone had attached his bones to a bed of razor wire and turned the magic fingers machine to supersonic.

  Jonathan grinned.

  Outside, the Sluagh swirled, gibbered, shrieked, and screamed. Jonathan sincerely hoped some of the sounds were because the revolting carcasses were in pain. He could still see the occasional flicker of green within the swarm.

  The cigarette passed to him was already lit and the bottle open. Wendell managed, with his long arms, to remain inside the circle and reach Jonathan without risking himself.

  The nightmare horde outside surged forward when his arm extended over the edge of the protective circle. The interest was short-lived, and not one Sluagh came close enough to the window to be hit by a yardstick.

  Jonathan took deep satisfaction in feeling a different sort of burn coat his throat. The bourbon sent a warmth radiating out from his center. He dragged deep on the smoke.

  Staring at the Sluagh swarming and creeping closer once more, he knew he had to solve the riddle of how to keep them out on a more permanent basis.

  “Okay, if I’m right, and the Sluagh are the souls of those burned within the Wickermen, and the reason they couldn’t enter the houses wasn’t that the windows were shuttered, but because of the wood of the shutters—what wood?”

  He thought about Wickerman, how modern ones were made, how they were literally woven together with the center being hollow.

  “Long, flexible branches—what wood would supply that on the British Isles?”

  He took another drag, trying to make his neurons fire more accurately.

  “Willow.” He continued to banter with himself. “There are plenty of willows growing in the region. Their long, thin branches would work perfectly for weaving such a structure.”

  Jonathan started to get up to retrieve the willow switches he had in the closet when the Sluagh came streaking towards the window en mass.

  “Shit. Think they’ve figured out I can’t keep it up long enough to stop them.”

  He heard the assault hit the other window hard. The next second, the creatures were driving themselves through the net once more, while under them, the window rattled in its frame.

  Jonathan crushed the cigarette in his hand, the brief burning sensation unnoticed as he drew once again on his reservoir of energy.

  Once the first fiery orb had left his hand, Jonathan yelled at Wendell to get the willow. A moment later, the first row of Sluagh fell away, burning, only to be replaced by more.

  Jonathan heard Wendell yell out that he didn’t know what willow looked like.

  “Gods have mercy,” Jonathan muttered. “Long, thin branches. Look for something you wouldn’t want to be whipped with, and that’s it!”

  He summoned a second orb. It burned less brightly, the flames not as voracious. He was reaching the end of what he could do and the strength of the swarm had not been diminished to any perceptible degree.

  “Think I found it!” Wendell’s voice came to him from the closet.

  Trying to conserve the little energy he had remaining, the next Fire of Life Jonathan summoned was half the size of the previous ones.

  In relief, he saw it still forced those Sluagh against the window to fall away. The downgrade in size would only gain him five, maybe seven, minutes. If he had to do something with the willow to increase the natural effectiveness of the wood itself, it may be less.

  The next moment, Wendell’s voice came from closer by but had lost much of its enthusiasm. “Ah, Jonathan? Most of the stuff you put on this window is—gone.”

  “All the more reason to get those willow branches to me,” he replied as calmly as he could, knowing Wendell dealt with this new affront to his reality as best he could. Actually, he was doing remarkably well.

  “Right,” Wendell answered.

  Jonathan began to draw the last of his reserve so he could lob another green flame at the vile swarm, when he had a realization.

  “Wait! No. No one would use willow to build shutters. That’s not right. Think, Alvey, think. What wood would you build shutters out of?”

  “Oak?” Wendell offered as an answer.

  “It has to be. Oak is a powerful tree and sturdy hardwood. There are oak staves on the floor behind the trunk.”

  He heard Wendell turn, then a scrambling in the closet. A moment later came a grunt and Wendell called out, “What the hell do you keep in this trunk?”

  “Don’t ask. Use your whole body to push it aside and GET THOSE STAVES!”

  He heard the far window crack and saw a Sluagh had managed to get a whole hand past the net. It had lost a thumb in the process, but that wasn’t stopping it from reaching for Jonathan’s neck.

  Apparently, the dreadful dead had finally realized they would need to dispose of him first.

  One more soul to make the haul that much richer.

  “Richer. Wait! Wendell, stop.”

  He grabbed the hand, only barely being able to actually grasp anything, as the abomination was mostly spirit based. With a tug to the side, he severed the hand just above the wrist. Jonathan let it fall and it landed with a wet glop and a scattering of dry bone.

  “It wouldn’t be oak; oak wouldn’t work for the construction of the Wickerman. A common wood with versatile uses . . . oh, come on, I know this. Has to be an abundant, fast growing tree. Shit!”

  Jonathan’s curse incorporated a multitude of failings—his own memory, his energy level, the glass in the far window, and even the energy net he had woven which had already begun to tatter.

  He dredged up yet more power, tapping not only his own energy but reaching farther. He sought now something deeper, beyond, and through even that, to the power that scared the sane and broke the strong.

  He splattered the putrefied faces and scorched fingers with another Fire of Life.

  “Something that grows fast and tall, that could also be used to weave sturdy structures.”

  “Birch?” Wendell questioned from across the room.

  Jonathan ignored his client.

  No matter how helpful he was trying to be, Wendell’s input only served to confuse his own thoughts.

  He called to mind the trees he knew grew on the isles. He pictured them, how they grew, and he found the answer.

  “Aspen! It’s aspen. Fast growing, long thin saplings, and used for building. Aspen, Wendell, we need aspen wood!” He proclaimed with a confidence bordering on giddiness. “Of course we do.”

  Jonathan marveled that it had taken him so long to see it.

  “Aspen has natural anti-theft properties. That’s what keeps you ugly, soul stealing bastards out, the natural property of aspen to repel thieves.”

  Jonathan tossed another ball of life fire. He couldn’t be happier he’d found the answer to block the Sluagh, for even tapping what he shouldn’t, what played over his fingers now had been reduced to a pathetic sputtering thing. It would hardly give him the space required to close the sash.

  He could seek out the shadowless energy behind all things again, but it was his own ability to channel the energy that had begun to fail now.

  “Shit,” Jonathan said again, as he mentally added another thing to the list. “We need aspen.”

  Jonathan racked his brain trying to remember if he had any aspen, anywhere, in the whole office.

  “Jonathan, this window’s cracking,” Wendell warned.

  Jonathan could hear behind Wendell’s tone a splintering resolve, the terror lurking there
.

  “I know, Wendell. Just—just get into the circle. They don’t want me,” he lied.

  He ran past Wendell as they switched places in the room.

  Jonathan began to toss his own closet, trying to find anything aspen.

  He found an urn made of ash, a small chest of yew, a love amulet carved from apple. Jonathan couldn’t even say for certain he wasn’t just wasting his time.

  He couldn’t even be sure he owned aspen. It had such limited uses, all of which could be covered by other plant life.

  Thinking about it that way, Jonathan grabbed the satchel of caraway seeds and stuffed them in the breast pocket of his shirt. He took a small tin full of juniper as well. Both contained the innate quality of anti-theft power, as Aspen did. As a bonus, they aided in protection spells.

  Jonathan felt he could use a lot of both of those properties just at the moment. He hoped it would work—he simply didn’t have any more time. If the caraway and juniper didn’t do it, they were screwed.

  He swept up the mortar, just managing to keep it upright so the pestle didn’t fall out, and dumped the lot onto Wendell’s lap.

  “Put it all in and grind it up as fine as you can in the next thirty seconds.”

  Jonathan summoned what might just be the last Fire of Life he would be able to produce and tried to keep his eyes on both windows simultaneously.

  “Haven’t got any more time, Wendell. Pour in just enough bourbon to make a paste from it.”

  The windowpane in front of Wendell, the one that had taken more abuse from the start, split from one corner to the other, but it held.

  Jonathan knew that bit of luck wouldn’t last much longer. Already, the Sluagh tried to separate it with their overgrown nails and sharp bony fingers.

  “Come on, Wendell.”

  “Yeah. I’m afraid it might be too watery or bourbony, but—”

  Jonathan didn’t bother to check. He extinguished the green flame and grabbed the mortar from Wendell’s hands. He ran to the broken window, scooped out a portion of the mixture, and smeared it on the glass.

  He didn’t bother to see what effect it had, but vaulted onto the bookshelf so he could do the top sash. Groaning from the ripping pain in his stomach, he smeared the upper part just the same.

  The second window, splintered in numerous places, showed a nightmare kaleidoscope of death and decay. Jonathan smeared a glob of the mixture over the surface. He hissed through his teeth, as a shard of glass sliced across his fingers and the bourbon sank in.

  He clambered onto his chair and used the last of the mixture on the top pane before collapsing into his chair.

  He hoped, by the simple fact he didn’t hear Wendell screaming, and that the room smelled more of evergreen and booze then decay and scorched meat, the mixture worked.

  “Is that aspen?” Wendell asked hesitantly.

  “No, I’m still not sure I have any aspen. But both of the ingredients you ground together possess anti-theft properties, as well as protection.”

  “Will it hold them off?”

  “That’s the final Jeopardy question, Wendell.”

  Jonathan searched his desktop until Wendell asked if he was looking for his cigarette case.

  “Yeah, you still have it?”

  “Yes, sorry.” Wendell tossed it.

  Jonathan had a terrible image of it over shooting and sailing through the window behind him. He snapped it from the air with a sigh.

  “What say we don’t throw things?”

  “Right. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” Wendell said and walked the bourbon over. “Speaking of thinking, how did you figure it all out? I mean, all that information?”

  “Look about you, Wendell,” Jonathan said and swept his arm about the office, and all the books stacked randomly about. “I read. I read anthropology, mythology, accident reports, fairytales, newspapers, and anything else that might hold a kernel of truth.

  “Oh. And remember it as well, I guess. When it’s my ass on the line, I want to have all the information. Now, stop holding that bottle and pour me a drink.”

  Jonathan savored the first sip, allowing the rich taste to fill his mouth before he swallowed. As he followed this up with a drag from his cigarette, he listened to the howls of frustration from outside the window.

  Not so much as a single rattle had come from the broken panes since Jonathan had smeared them with the mixture.

  He looked at the smoke rising from the tip of his cigarette and told himself, once he finished the cigarette, he would set up the brazier and fill the room with the smoke of all the anti-theft herbs he had. He thought adding some for stopping the undead wouldn’t hurt, either.

  First, though—sit, drink, smoke.

  He felt cored out, burned in his bones, and watery in his aching joints. His brain tingled in a way that made him think of hitting his ‘funny’ bone.

  In case this wasn’t enough, his physical state could be summed up with two words—exhausted and abused. In short, Jonathan was eighty miles of rough road kill and he knew it would only get worse before it got better.

  The blooms in his head had begun rotting, the thorns tightening and he didn’t have the energy to wean slowly down.

  The impending crash would be hard and merciless, which made him all the happier he had another two bottles of bourbon in the filing cabinet.

  “Huh. I just remembered what’s made of aspen,” Jonathan mused as his brain began to shiver and crack. “The exterior of my humidor. It’s stained to look like cherry, but it’s really aspen.”

  “Is it large enough to cover the windows?”

  “No.”

  “Has it got cigars in it?”

  “Yes, indeed, Wendell, it does, and I like your thinking.”

  Jonathan opened the drawer with a trembling hand, placed the humidor on the desk, and awkwardly removed two cigars from it.

  After flooding his system with nicotine and self-medicating with a couple of shots, Jonathan got the brazier going. They sat around, sipping their bourbon and puffing on the cigars. The room filled with a smell similar to burning fall leaves and the sweeter scents of larkspur and sandalwood for keeping evil spirits away.

  The Sluagh continued to circle and sweep past the windows. They had become silent in a way Jonathan found creepy and not at all comforting.

  Habitually, he checked out one of the few small spots not covered by the mixture. He always hoped the foul phantoms had moved on, but the base of his neck and the way his skin still crawled, told him better.

  The hideous limbs, horrid bodies, and haggard faces always remained only a few feet from his eye. Others had spread out, flying over the snow-dusted street. They twisted as if on nooses, swooped like vultures, and intertwined like maggots.

  Jonathan continued to check every ten minutes, lest he be caught unaware and should they decide to assault the windows once more.

  After an hour, when they still had done nothing, Jonathan had begun to wonder why they hadn’t tried to get in another way. There were windows below and above the office, yet they seemed unaware of them.

  Jonathan didn’t voice the question or even dwell on it long; he was too aware of fate to tempt it in that way.

  Wendell fell asleep two hours after the bombardment had stopped. Jonathan let him.

  Wendell’s dozing allowed Jonathan the chance to recoup from the spells without hiding the affect it had on him.

  It gave him the quiet to find the balance between need and desire, and it gave him the space to worry about what would come next.

  He had known of the Sluagh from his studies but not from any actual firsthand accounts. That worried him. He tried to think of other creatures of their ilk but could only liken it to picking a silver pin out of a steel-wool mountain.

  An hour after Wendell had finally closed his eyes, Jonathan looked out the small spot in the window and saw the Sluagh gather into a dense cloud.

  He watched as, at street level, they compressed tightly together. The consolidation of
their forms became so thick it blocked out the light from below including the streetlights. It appeared as though the street directly under the building was as dark as a hag’s eye.

  Suddenly, the swarm rose up.

  Jonathan swore under his breath and almost stepped back from the glass.

  However, instead of mounting a renewed attack, the abominations surged past him and up into the sky. A scorched column of putrid malignance, they circled once over the street and then flew off west. They again resembled a flock of dark birds.

  On the street below, from what he could see, not a single scrap of flesh remained behind.

  Jonathan surmised that the damaged ones had absorbed each other and the dead to make themselves ‘whole.’

  For fifteen minutes, he continued to watch the western sky, waiting for them to return. Even after he believed they were actually gone, he still checked regularly over the next hour to be sure.

  Dawn found Jonathan suffering from not only fatigue but from a body throbbing with aches and pains from head to foot. However, he had been in worse conditions in his life.

  Not much worse, he conceded, but he could take it.

  To counter the heavy feeling in his eyes, he had drunk a can of Red Bull followed by a can of Coke.

  Jonathan felt more alert by the time Wendell woke with the light of day hitting his face.

  He looked abashed that he had slept at all. “Are they gone?”

  “Yeah,” Jonathan nodded. “About an hour after you conked out they took off.”

  “Oh.” Wendell straightened in the chair. “Sorry about that.”

  “Wasn’t much happening; no reason you shouldn’t have slept,” Jonathan told his client. “All seems calm at the moment.” He rapped his knuckles lightly on the wood desk. “You should probably take the opportunity to use the facilities—such as they are.”

  Wendell turned his head towards the closet and seemed to debate it. With a shrug, he walked in and, pulling the door shut behind him, said, “Hey, you cleaned up in here.”

  “Yup, about five—six in the morning. I was getting a bit punchy and needed something to distract myself.”

  It wasn’t a lie. Nor was it the full truth.

  Jonathan had needed to do something, but it wasn’t because of boredom. The need, the bone-deep craving to perform more magic, had been gnawing on him with the cold determination of a crab on a dead sailor’s face.