by YS Pascal
The cockroach frowned even more. “Have not read of you. What is your book?”
“Where Angels Fear to Tread,” I mumbled. More loudly: “Unfortunately, not enough have read of me.” Or watched me, judging by the mediocre Season 1 ratings for our show, Singularity TV’s science fiction adventure Bulwark.
Spud stepped up beside me. “William Escott.”
There’s a smile. A grin, even. Never thought I’d see that on a cockroach.
“Yes, I have always believed that you are real, and not just a brilliant figment of the doctor’s imagination. I would love to pick your luminous brain. Figuratively, of course,” the giant cockroach cackled before turning to Robert and adding, “May I be the tin man?”
“I suppose you can,” the Frog returned warily. “But, don’t wait, we can’t be late.” He tugged at Spud and “John Galt”, pulling them forward down the road.
“I thought the tin man needed a heart,” I said to no one in particular, revving up my trot once again.
“You’re right,” said a tiny, pale, pointy-eared elf as he leapt onto my left shoulder from the adjacent grassy border. “NoOne at your service. I’m the one who needs a name.”
“What?” I pulled him into my palm so he wouldn’t fall off as I upped my jogging pace.
“Until I get a name, I answer to no one.”
I grinned. “You sound like me.” In genial Frank Baum mode, I yielded to my training in Catascope 101, Lesson 4: Go with the flow. “Okay, NoOne. Welcome to the team. Any idea where we’re headed?”
NoOne hesitated before answering. “The yellow brick road ends at the Gates of Hades. But I expect we’ll probably layover in Azgaror until we can finagle an invitation.”
‘Hades’ I remembered from my Academy Terran mythology uploads. The underground world where the souls of the dead languished. A slightly less painful version of Hell. Swell. And ‘Azgaror’ didn’t seem entirely unfamiliar either, but, I couldn’t place the reference. Damn! I was naked without my Ergal.
Forcing a smile, I gently placed NoOne in my jeans pocket, leaving his head and arms hanging over the rim so he could see, and set off to catch up to the others. “John Galt” and Spud were already in deep conversation; I overheard a few words about ‘analysis and synthesis’ as I passed. Spud seemed to have found a soulmate, much to the distress of Robert whose features expressed annoyance at their less than snappy pace.
“Are we going to Azgareur?” I asked our Frog leader, trying to mimic NoOne’s pronunciation.
Robert frowned. “Our path will not bend until we reach the end,” he replied as he hopped past us several yards.
“If it involves a wizard behind a curtain, I’m warning you, I’m done,” I grumbled.
“There are no wizards in Azgaror,” John Galt interjected. “Rather an overused literary trope recently. Along with vampires, zombies, and elves.” He frowned at NoOne. “No offense.”
“NoOne is offended,” the elf returned.
“In Norse mythology, the city of Azgaror is the location of the Valholler, where the Valkyries fly heroes slain in combat,” Spud added. “It is the divine abode of the god Odin.”
Show off. “So why would we care about that allusion?” I muttered.
“Because, Rush, Valhalla, the warriors’ promised land, is analogous to Level 3.”
My eyes met Spud’s. He nodded, and added, “And I should not be surprised to find traces of your brother, or, for that matter, of Theodore Benedict at its gates.”
Chapter 5
And The Beats Go On
Maryland—eight years ago
My brother John first took me camping in the Appalachians in the autumn when I was ten. Grandpa Alexander had died a few months earlier, and the atmosphere at home was still funereal. John had just turned 18, and, with help from Connie and George, had been tasked with raising the rest of us six. I’m close to his age today, and I couldn’t imagine taking on that kind of responsibility myself—not now, not ever.
My memories of the trip unfortunately aren’t as sharp as I hoped. I can visualize the lush, brilliantly colored foliage, with hundreds of shades red, orange, yellow, and green greeting us as we walked through the tree-lined trails. I also remember my having to run to keep up with John, taller than me by a foot, with his long, lanky legs. The sky through the trees was overcast, and the weather was nippy, even with my down jacket and corduroys to stave off wind chill. There was a faint pine scent in the air, air so clean it seemed to scrub my nostrils every time I breathed.
We set up a tent in a small clearing next to a rocky ledge that gave us a view of the green valley below. John lit a campfire, and I do remember lying next to the flames, enveloped in warmth, my head on his knee, gazing up at the night sky and the constellations in space. Awed by the panorama of the heavens above us, I asked John, “Is that where Grandpa Alexander is?”
John didn’t respond for what seemed like a very long time. “I’d like to think so,” he finally whispered, “but more likely there’s nothing but a vast darkness surrounding our Earthly oasis which sadly can’t nourish our souls.”
“But what about the stars,” I protested.
“Brimstone and Fire,” John said with a faint smile.
“Then where is Heaven?”
“That, Shiloh, is a question for the ages,” John admitted. “If you ask me,” he tapped his temple gently with his index finger, “heaven is right here.”
“On Earth?”
“Sometimes,” he said softly, as he turned to stoke the campfire. “Have you ever eaten s’mores?”
* * *
On the Yellow Brick Road—present day
“Now what do we do?” NoOne’s voice was an octave higher than its usual high pitch.
The pine scent was fading as our Frog leader walked back towards us. “No time for fear, we can’t stay here.”
Our winding path had brought us to the rim of a thick forest. The entrance to the woods that stretched before us was dimly lit by the light of a trio of moons. Beyond loomed only darkness. No tall redwoods to blaze our trail, no leafy maples to cushion our tired soles. Just twisted brambly branches sporting violaceous leaves, taunting us as we tentatively inched closer. I took a quick look around, expecting Tim Burton to pop out of the shadows and yell “Cut!”.
“Aha!” cried John Galt, startling us all. “Just in time. Nothing more boring than reading interminable stretches of text describing scenic journeys without confrontations and crises,” he added. “We are not avatars in a travelogue.”
“Don’t be so sure,” NoOne piped in from my hips.
“Will everybody stop going meta!” I cried. “Please. If we continuously ponder the meaning of our existence we will never get anywhere.” Seeing John Galt open his labrum again I raised a hand in protest. “You’ve read the book, J.G.. Robert is right. We have to charge forward already.”
A tap on my shoulder. Spud leaned into my ear and whispered. “Without Ergals or stun guns, we may be at a disadvantage up ahead. Catascope 101, Lesson 3. Should we not pause to gather some defensive weapons? Just in case.
I grinned, “Hey, I’ve read the book, too. But, I think we’ll be all right. Remember, we’re the heroes, and they’re the red shirts,” I nodded at our traveling companions. “If they’re okay with pressing on…”
“Actually, our uniforms on Bulwark are burgundy,” Spud protested, referring to the costumes he and I wear as space agents on our TV series. “That is a shade of red.”
But I had already surged ahead. Taking Robert by his webbed hand, I started chanting a marching song I had learned as a child from John, stepping one foot in front of the other in cadence to the rhythm of the words.
“Left, right, left. Beat, Left, right left. Beat. I left my wife and 48 kids and an old gray mare and a peanut stand and I do right, right, right from the country from where I came from, right foot, left foot, skip by jingo, left, left.”
* * *
My own voice had dropped to a whisper after we ha
d proceeded about a mile into the forest. I could hear few sounds except the crackling of our footsteps and an ominous throbbing that seemed to be growing louder and louder as we plunged deeper into the darkness.
Robert had stepped aside and let John Galt and his compound eyes take the lead, as his vision was the most penetrating in the gloom. Having a giant cockroach as your front man was probably not a bad defense strategy either against who- or what-ever might attack us.
The yellow bricks under our feet looked grayish in the dark; a contrast to the twisted tree trunks that stood guard like a black fence on both sides of the road, vibrating with ever greater intensity. My adrenaline levels were at max, my heart beating out of my chest in sync with the din, as we tiptoed through the forest, ducking our heads to avoid frequent low-hanging branches that we feared would come alive and grab us by the hair. Or in John Galt’s case, the antennae.
After another torturous mile, J.G. spotted a clearing up ahead, lit by the moons through a gap in the trees. As we approached, the throbbing sound increased to a deafening booming that forced me to clutch at my ears to block out the agony. A musical sting worthy of an epic film score crescendoed around us, and, at its peak, I opened my mouth to scream.
But instead, silence. Once we stepped inside the clearing, the cacophony abruptly stopped. No music, no throbbing, no noises. All we could hear was the sound of our breathing and our pounding hearts. The rays of moonlight bathing us in luster were a welcome relief after our arduous trek in the gloom. This haven might in fact be a comfortable place for us to rest and spend the night.
I turned to the Frog. “Robert, how about we—AHHHHH!” The pain in my side was paralyzing. I looked down to see blood dripping down my leg, gushing from a small bite wound at my waist.
Spud’s cry was at a lower register, but just as loud. Brushing at my hip, I spun around to witness my partner being shielded by John Galt’s exoskeleton, then screamed, “Oh, my God!”, as the cockroach shouted, “Dinner! I love brains!” and sank his mandible and denticles into Spud’s bloodied blond hair. From the corner of my eye, I saw a flushed NoOne leap off my hip onto Robert’s warty back and start stabbing his vertebrae with vampire-sized canine teeth.
I had no time to ponder NoOne’s radical transformation into a demonic creature—Spud, even at six feet tall, was no match for a seven-foot vicious insect. Ignoring my own pain, I jumped onto John Galt’s vestigial wings and, planting both feet around his thorax, grabbed and pulled back his head. The cockroach released his grip on Spud and started bucking his body to try to throw me off. Spud collapsed to the ground, clutching his lacerated and oozing scalp, as I cried, “John Galt, we’re sentient creatures, please have mercy!”
J.G.’s harsh voice snapped at me as he tried to brush me off his back with his limbs. “Compassion is not in John Galt’s vocabulary. One has to eat. And NoOne does too.”
Tightening my grip, I hammered at his exoskeleton. “Why would an Elf want to hurt us?”
A cackle exuded from our tiny companion, followed by a raspy growl, “I am a Goblin, you mythist! And that’s what you get for picking up a stranger!”
“Mega!” The cry came from my feet, as a crouching Spud rolled over towards Robert.
Mega? How could I get bigger without my Ergal? J.G. bucked ferociously and I lost my balance, flying off his back and landing supine onto the hard ground under his torso. As the cockroach turned to face me, grinding his denticles as he lowered his abdomen onto my trapped body, it clicked. Of course, Spud was right, Robert could Mega. But our Frog guide was writhing on the ground, trying to escape the onslaught of NoOne’s teeth. Would Robert have the strength or the opportunity to come to our aid?
John Galt’s cold breath chilled my face as the predator opened his mouth wide for his first bite of Shiloh. His jaw snapped shut—and clipped the toe of my shoe. I now stood a hundred times his height. Thank you, Robert. Quickly, I lifted up my foot and stamped on John Galt’s exoskeleton, ashamed that I relished the crunch under the sole of my relatively giant shoe. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a red “ant” escaping from the clearing into the flora, literally leaving NoOne.
Robert’s enlarged but immobile green body lay prone on the ground, cushioned by trees shrunk so relatively small they were now the size of weeds. The weeping wounds on his back were flapping open with each gust of wind. A mega’d Spud lay next to him, the scalp bleeding staunched by a piece of cloth torn from his sleeve. “Robert, Robert, are you okay?” I cried, as I turned to my surviving companions.
Spud rolled over the unconscious Frog and felt in the neck area for a pulse. “His heart is beating, but I cannot perceive respiration.” Before I could respond, Spud tilted up Robert’s head, planted his lips on the Frog’s, and exhaled.
I gasped. The tortured olive dermis was began to morph into tanned humanoid skin, and we spied an elegant face with delicate features which was soon topped by a web of curly dark hair. The transition took only moments, but appeared to heal the dermal damage caused by NoOne in the process. Sitting up before us now was a very handsome young man, clothed only in brilliant gold vestments encircling his hips, who looked just a little older than Spud’s eighteen years.
Possibly a prince. Definitely a hunk. “Thanks for saving our lives,” I said as I reached out my hand and helped Robert up, marveling at the smoothness of his bare sculpted chest and back. “Your wounds?”
“The wheals, love heals,” he returned, still rhyming.
Oh well, nobody’s perfect.
Robert leaned down and kissed Spud’s scalp as my fellow catascope lay on the weeds, propped up on an elbow. Spud’s forehead laceration disappeared, replaced by a rare look of admiration directed at our guide. “Thank you, my friend, well done,” Spud said, jumping up, and clapping Robert on the back. “I am once again chipper.”
I was about to suggest that Robert tend to my hip wound in the same way, when I observed that Spud’s arm remained wrapped around Robert’s shoulders. Sighing, I stretched the hem of my blouse to cover the wound and compressed the oozing bite with a clenched fist. Guessing what would be coming up in the next act, I decided that now might be a good time for me to excuse myself for some beauty sleep.
A glance down at the path, now a thin, winding yellow line, showed it extending from our feet far towards the flat horizon. We would have a long journey again tomorrow. “Is there a place I can safely snooze around here?” I, stifling a yawn, hinted at Robert.
Robert nodded, and taking a small leaf from his pocket, laid it on the weeds, and, somehow, mega’ed it into the size of a pup tent. “No one will not bother you here, my dear. At all.”
He took a second leaf and enlarged it to fit two a few yards from mine. Putting his own muscular arm around Spud’s waist, he eased Spud over to the edge of the leaf and folded the remainder over their heads like a blanket, adding, “But if you need anything, just call.”
Waving weakly, I walked onto my leaf and folded part of it over my own head and weary body. I’d be on my own for the rest of the night. Spud usually chose intellectual pursuits, but once in awhile, he’d go “mad about the boy”. I’d long ago learned to get out of the way when Spud stumbled into some action. As his best friend, I was happy he’d hooked up. But how long had it been, I wondered, trying to ignore my twinge of guilt at my envy, since I’d gotten lucky? With anyone.
“One cannot reflect in streaming water. Only those who know internal peace can love.” That ethereal voice could only belong to Nephil Stratum. Startled, I peeked outside my leaf tent for traces of a fluffy cloud, but there was nary a wisp in the vicinity. Of course not. I must have imagined that’s what the Syneph would say if she’d been here: that until I’d rescued John, internal peace was beyond my grasp.
Airing out my wound, I laid down again in my leaf tent and closed my eyes, covering my ears with my hands to block out the ambient sounds, resolving to put aside my own thoughts of romance until I’d succeeded in my quest.
Chapter 6
&nb
sp; The Vizier of Az
On the Yellow Brick Line—present day
The night cycle on this planet was a good 14 hours, so I found myself waking up just as dawn’s light pierced my leafy cocoon, feeling well rested, pain-free, and refreshed after yesterday’s “skirmish” in the brambled forest. Clearly, Spud was equally refreshed, I noted when he stuck his head in my makeshift tent. I hadn’t often seen him grinning from ear to ear.
‘Chacun a son gout’, I teased as I rolled up the leaf. “Of course, ‘Je m’en fous’?”
Spud raised an eyebrow. Blushing, I turned away to avoid his gaze. Unlike Spud, I didn’t limit my attraction to one gender—or species, for that matter. I would’ve been open to exploring Robert’s assets myself. And Spud’s for that matter. But, Nephil Stratum—or was it my conscience—was right. I—we—had a job to do, and time was a-wasting. As Robert appeared, I pointed to the leaf and asked, “Ready to hit the road. We going to need these?’
Robert shook his head, and in a second, the leaf had micro’d and wafted away in the breeze. “Speed with all our might, in Azgaror before the night.”
I suggested we stay mega’d so we could cover the distance to Azgaror more quickly. In fact, if Prince Robert could mega us even more, we could grow big enough to theoretically reach our destination in a few steps. Alas, he reported we’d mega’d to the max, so it still took much of the day for us to arrive at the village.
As we jogged, Robert explained, keeping rhythm in in what Spud called dactylic hexameter, that he was the seventh son of the seventh son of Odius, the king ruling Valholler.
King Odius begat of Fyorgyn his son Thor
For Yule to cross the lake of Hargaror
And fly again to Freya’s hall of Sessrumnir