Fellowship Fantastic

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  “Then set it down, slowly, on the dresser and put them up.”

  Michael knows what he has to do, knows what Jake is going to do. He wants out of this room almost as badly as he wants out of Nebraska. The only question is if he could make it.

  Jake turns and starts setting the box on the dresser. Michael senses the tightening of his muscles as he prepares to heave the box at the farmer—the box with the coins and his future!—and he moves without thinking.

  He stumbles sideways, his body slamming into Jake’s, and grasps the box.

  “Don’t move!” the farmer yells.

  Michael keeps moving, trying not to think about what he is doing, how scared he is.

  “What the—?” Jake manages even as he feels himself being propelled toward the farmer by Michael’s shove.

  The shotgun fires, the blast so loud in the small room that Michael’s ears ring. He doesn’t look back as he dives out the door, still clutching the box in his hands.

  He hears Jake’s body hit the floor, the farmer’s cursing, his wife’s scream of panic. She must have still been asleep the whole time, he thinks wildly. He hits the floor with a grunt and scrambles to his feet.

  Behind him, he hears the sound of the farmer coming after him, and he knows he can’t stop moving. He runs for his life, going down the stairs three at a time, and feels the pellets pass his head as he clears the last three steps. The sound of the shotgun in the stairwell is even louder the second time.

  “Goddamn it!” the farmer shouts.

  “Bill!” Michael hears the woman call. “Get in here and help me with this boy! I think he’s dead.”

  Michael never looks back. He runs out of the house, past the dogs and the fields . . . and he keeps on running.

  He runs until there was no running left to do and then he hides himself away, with a new name in the high desert of Arizona.

  But in his mind he knows the truth: he’d left a friend behind—had caused a friend’s death. And he’d never really stopped running.

  The man—his name is Donner now, Donner Smith—awakes in the chair sometime after midnight. The room is still quite warm from the stove. His eyes adjust and he sees the ghost. It is on the far side of the room, waiting calmly, not moving or making a sound.

  “Hello, Jake,” Donner says. “I knew you’d come.”

  He hears the reply in his mind. “I bet you did, Michael.”

  “I’m not Michael anymore. Donner is the name I use now. Been using it a long time.”

  “It’s a cheap costume. A shield to hide behind.”

  “You’re right,” Donner says. “But it’s still mine. I earned the name. I’ve earned the right to some peace, damn it. I’ve lived a good life.”

  “Earned?!” Jake’s voice wails in his ear. “You have earned nothing! You left me to die.”

  Donner shakes his head. “No, Jake. I left you to live. I’m sorry.”

  “You shoved me in front of you, shoved me toward that crazy old farmer with his shotgun and took the money and ran!”

  Jake’s ghost floats closer and now Donner can see that his eyes are glaring and angry. What Jake said was true enough.

  “I won’t deny it,” Donner says. “You’d have done the same.”

  “Never!” the ghost declares. “We were a team!”

  Donner shakes his head. “We were boys, Jake. Young boys without a lick of sense between us. What were we thinking, sneaking into that farmer’s house to steal his only valuables to finance our dreams?”

  “We were thinking of escape, remember? But only one of us got to go. You, Michael! You got to leave, while I got to stay behind and die. Gasping like a fish on that farmer’s bedroom floor. And it was cold . . . so cold.”

  “Why now, Jake?” Donner asks. He feels strangely unafraid. What difference does it make what Jake’s ghost wants or can do to him? His life here is over, his wife gone, his kids grown up. Likely, only the horses and the dogs would miss him, and then only until someone else fed them.

  “Because I couldn’t manifest until you were ready,” Jake says.

  “Ready for what?” Donner asks.

  “To face the past . . . and to die for your sins!”

  Donner shrugs and gets to his feet. “All right, Jake,” he says. “Then I guess I’m ready. You don’t frighten me and the past is something that I’ve had to live with so long that death will be a welcome relief. I’m sorry for what I did, sorry for what happened.”

  “Sorry?!” Jake wails. “Sorry won’t bring me back to life, won’t give me the chance you took from me.”

  “No, it won’t,” Donner admits. “Nothing will. I did all I could to make it right, but you may as well have been haunting me every night of my life, Jake.” He puts another log in the stove and pumps the bellows a couple of times. “I guess the truth is that I’m glad you finally showed up. I’m glad I got to say I’m sorry to you face-to-face.”

  “What did you do with the coins?” Jake asks. “Before I touch you, before I bring you into this cold place, that’s what I want to know. What did you do with the coins?”

  “The only thing I could,” Donner says. “After you’d died, and I got out of Nebraska on a freight car in Kearney, I took work at a ranch over in Colorado.”

  “You spent them, didn’t you?” Jake accuses. “Every last one!”

  Donner shakes his head. “No, Jake, I didn’t. I couldn’t. I could barely touch them because they felt like blood in my hands.”

  “What did you do with them?”

  Donner shrugs again. “For a long time, nothing. I kept them hidden away. About a year after you died, I took ten of them and mailed them to your mom—enough to pay for your funeral and then some. The rest . . . I mailed back to the farmer.”

  “You . . . you gave them back?” Jake asks. “Why? I died for nothing, then!”

  “Jake,” Donner says, sitting down in his chair again. He picks up his coffee, realizes it had gone cold and sets it back down. “Jake, you died because we were young and stupid. You died because I shoved you before you could shove me. You died because a trigger-happy farmer was trying to protect what was his and he was just as scared as we were. You died for a lot of different reasons, but the coins were . . .” his voice trails off as he notices Jake’s ghost growing slowly dimmer, less substantial.

  “They were what?” Jake asks. Now his voice, which before had been full of ice and rage, is more subdued, quiet.

  “Just props,” Donner finishes. “Like my name all these years. The coins were just part of the setting.”

  “Props?” Jake asks, fading faster.

  Donner looks at the ghost of his old friend. His dead friend. “I think maybe that even if the coins hadn’t existed, Jake, we’d have found something else, somewhere else. A wallet full of money. A jewelry box filled with rings. It doesn’t matter, my friend.”

  “My death doesn’t matter?”

  Donner shakes his head as he realizes that Jake’s ghost hadn’t come of its own will. It had come of his. “Everything happens as it’s supposed to, Jake,” he says. “Your death, the coins, my name. We’re all just players on God’s stage.”

  The ghost says nothing, but Donner hears its soft, sad wail of mourning.

  “Go back to your rest, Jake,” Donner whispers. “Everyone goes in their time. Sooner or later, everyone pays for their crimes.”

  The ghost fades, swirls and then vanishes. Exhaustion washes over Donner as he leans back in his chair. It had taken him too many years to realize the truth. A lot of wasted time in there, years of guilt and self-doubt and recrimination. He’d paid back the coins, then kept on paying long after everyone involved had moved on or died. He’d paid with his soul.

  For the first time since that night, Donner felt himself truly relax. The debt was paid. He had scars enough to prove it.

  The fire pops once and outside, he hears the horses call to each other.

  Tomorrow will be new and different, he thinks to himself as he drifts into sleep.
Tomorrow, he’ll move on with whatever remained of his life.

  Sleep was coming fast now, and one final bit of sudden knowledge came to him. In his life, he’d been almost as much of a ghost as Jake, he’d been almost as dead.

  Now, finally, he could live with the scars. His last apology to a friend long dead was enough to make life, whatever it would hold, possible again.

  CONCERNING A GAMBIT OF FRATERNITY

  Steven E. Schend

  “Cyrus is bringing his new acolyte. Hungarian lad, I’m told. Be sure to clue him into the scheme of things, will you, Sam?”

  Oscar picked up his valise and his silver-headed cane from the floor of the cab as Sam leaned forward to pay the driver. Oscar stepped onto the curb, his dark suit still impeccably pressed and dust-free despite the hot summer day. His white hair and pale skin stood out sharply in the bright morning sun.

  “Yeah, sure, Oscar. Want me to put a scare into the rookie, or just show him the score?” Sam was dressed more sensibly for the weather in his loose-fitting tank top and cargo shorts. Tattoos covered much of his exposed flesh save his neck and face. Sunglasses, a full but neatly trimmed beard, and loose shoulder-length hair made Sam an unlikely associate on the face of things. Still, he fell in with the older man, stepping ahead to place his palm flat on the door ahead of both of them. Sam whispered a few phrases and grabbed the door handle, turning to the old man and nodding. “Ready.”

  “The basics will suffice, though I trust your discretion on how you communicate them to the boy.” Oscar winced at the loud traffic noise of downtown Manhattan, then breathed out slowly. “I shall be glad to put this cacophony behind us, at least for the day.” He traced a pattern on the sidewalk with the silver tip of his cane, then let the cane tip drag as he stepped forward and crossed the threshold. No passersby seemed to notice, but Sam saw that the slight silver trail of energy linked the Wall Street sidewalk on one side of the door . . . with the snug interior of a pub.

  Sam smiled, hearing rain on the roof and noting the pub’s windows were darker. The smells of old wood, lingering smoke, and a menagerie of spirits welcomed him. He nodded to the man behind the bar, the only other person in the place, who returned Sam’s nod. The barkeep smiled at Oscar and said, “Early this time,” as he continued to wipe out a beer mug. “Good. Your tab or his, this time, Mr. Kharm?”

  “I believe it is mine this time, Colin. Is everything in readiness?” Oscar walked briskly down the length of the bar toward the doors at the back of the pub. His cane neither made a sound nor rose off the floor. The glistening line of silver continued unbroken.

  “Aye, sir. Just about. Your room’s ready, goblets and all.” Colin gestured toward the door on Oscar’s right, tucked into the shadowed corner of the pub. “Just let me know when you’ll be wanting your meals, and I’ll have ’em ready for you.”

  Oscar said, “Colin, thank you. I hope this hasn’t inconvenienced you greatly. I’ll start with my usual, please.”

  “Not a’tall, sir,” Colin said, “The folk hereabouts can handle the occasional closed pub. Glad to be of service to you and to the guilds, sir. Least we could do, what with you wizards keeping things a-keel for us.”

  Oscar smiled, and then turned to his aide. “Sam, make sure Cyrus brings no tricks with him this time, hmm? I’ll meet him in the chamber.” With that, Oscar disappeared into the back room.

  Sam went back to the door, spit into his hands, and rubbed them together. After a moment, he traced a series of sigils around the door frame and threshold.

  Colin watched and asked, “You’re not putting spells on me regulars, are you, Sammie?”

  Sam snorted, finished tracing a sigil in the bottom right corner of the door frame, and stood up. “Nah, just doing the bidding of our own, eh? Those won’t last long, but they keep him from bringing anything hostile in nature with him, other than what’s agreed and allowed, by compact and creed.”

  “The magus won’t like that, laddie,” Colin chuckled, “but it serves him right. Took me three weeks to clean up after the fire he started last time he were here.”

  Sam sat down at the bar and extended his left arm. The two men gripped each other’s forearm and shook. “Damn. Good to see you, Colin. How’ve you been? And how’s Mae?”

  “We’re both doin’ fairly. Cleaner living than you’ve been up to, boyo, apparently. What’s all this ink doing under your skin? Rings of sigils around your neck, holly around one arm, oak around t’other. You selling your skin to advertisers over there across the pond?” Colin slid a pint glass under the tap and poured Sam an ale. “Or is this something getting in touch with the primal?”

  Sam rolled his eyes and said, “Yes and no. They’re just my protections. Can’t be too careful with this business, for myself and for others. Besides, my power animals suggested this was the best way to manifest my vows and what I’ve learned.”

  “Showy, to be sure. What’s with the antlers across the back there?” Colin leaned forward, and Sam shrugged back his shirt to show a bit more of his back. Colin asked, “Is that what I’m thinking it is back there?”

  “Most people don’t get the significance, man. It’s an icon, yeah. A mixed aspect of whom I worship—Herunos is Herne the Hunter and Cernunnos the Horned God as One.” Sam explained in low tones. “He’s got my back—literally—and I’ve got his in a few ways. It’s . . . complicated.”

  Colin whistled and then chuckled. “You’d best be careful, making deals with those old gods, lad. They bite, you know . . . and not just for messing with their names.”

  “Believe me, I know.” Sam replied. “Still, I’ve learned quite a bit since we last saw each other. Enough to fend off the Wild Hunt from consuming everyone present at the last Burning Man festival.”

  Colin’s eyes widened, and he whispered, “Good on you, then.” Colin slid the ale in front of Sam, and raised a glass of his own. They clinked glasses as Colin toasted. “To thee and thine from me and mine, may the world stay strong beneath us, the heavens stay light above us, and magic and mystery work among us all, in health, happiness, and—”

  The pub door swung open and slammed against the wall, interrupting the toast. The door was held open by a bow-backed old man in a black duster. A gnarled oak cane dragged along in his right hand. The cane trailed an energy ribbon of red, and this interacted immediately with the silver line left by Oscar’s cane. The two lines now intermingled and bled into the stones and mortar of the pub floor as intricate Celtic knotwork.

  Cyrus fixed Colin and Sam with scowling eyes, and muttered, “Drinking as ritual. Decadent. Wasteful. Frivolous. Pointless.” He snapped his head around, realized he stood alone, and barked out, “Andor!”

  As if on cue, a skinny young man, clad in a black duster similar to his elder’s, stepped in through the pub door. Sam looked past them through the doorway and saw the sun was setting on Rome. The young man couldn’t be more than nineteen, and his eyes darted everywhere but on the old man. In his right hand, he carried a briefcase.

  Colin cleared his throat and set down his drink. Looking the old man in the eye, he said, “Bring no mischief on us, and be welcome, Magus.” He turned and nodded to the younger man. “Acolyte.”

  The boy seemed surprised to be acknowledged, and he flinched when the old man snatched the briefcase from him angrily. The pair moved into the pub slowly, letting the door close behind them. The old man glared at his assistant, who looked around the tavern, then shook his head.

  Cyrus turned back to Colin. “Is he back there, then?” Cyrus growled. “Vow you’ve not contrived some manner of revenge for past slights.”

  “No vows are necessary,” said Colin, “beyond those long ago sworn.”

  Sam interjected, “We’re on the up-and-up. Can the same be said of you?”

  “No picking fights, Sammie,” Colin added. “You’ll find all is ready, Cyrus, once you’ve settled accounts for damages and drinks from last time. If not, you go hungry and thirsty today.”

  “Bother me n
ot with trifles, innkeeper,” Cyrus said. “Andor, deal with them and make sure he sends back proper food and drink immediately!” With that, the crooked man lurched back into the back room.

  “Always a pleasure, Cyrus!” Sam called after him.

  “You got some trickster spirit in you now, Sam?” Colin asked. “Only reason I’d think you’d be crazy enough to provoke him.”

  “Maybe . . . or maybe I just think he’s always been a blowhard who needs to be reminded his shit stinks like the rest of ours.”

  Andor gasped, and his hands worked furiously, his brow angry and furrowed. His coat fell open to reveal an ornately stitched robe of midnight blue cloth.

  Without turning around, Sam said, “Finish that spell, and we’ll be picking your bones up from the floor, boy.”

  “It’s true, lad.” Colin said, gesturing him toward a barstool. “The only casting allowed in this pub must be benevolent in nature. Doing otherwise gives you a nasty backlash, as Cyrus was reminded last time he was here. Even if that weren’t true, you’re outclassed. Best come and drink with us, instead.” Colin slid a pint of ale in front of a stool. “I’m Colin, he’s Sam, and you’re Andor, right?”

  “Yes,” the boy replied in a thick accent. “Why are you not in ritual garb? Are these rites not sacred and powerful, those the wizards work tonight?”

  Colin and Sam looked at each other and grinned.

  “Andor, have you got a lot to learn . . .” Sam clapped him on the back, causing him to spill his first sip of ale.

  As always, the room was snug, barely fitting the square table and four chairs, one on each side. The niches set in the walls held candles and crystals in accordance to the cardinal points of north, south, east, and west. Cyrus grunted his approval that all had been cleansed and purified for their ritual. With his entrance, the red and silver knotwork spread quickly across the floor and up the walls and ceiling, adding more light.

  “So.” Cyrus said. “Been a while.” The vulturelike Magus took the chair to the left of the door, opposite Oscar who sat to its right.