The mind was a formidable foe. Whenever the host’s psyche was in defense mode, death became a real plausibility in Wonderland, ethereally and otherwise.
If there was another way to die psychically, Chris didn’t know it. When younger, before he’d become more atheistic than not, he believed that if he were to ever perish in someone’s mind, he would never get to heaven because his soul—the interloper—would already be dead. But he’d since learned that it hadn’t been his eternal soul traipsing all these years through Wonderland, but rather its sibling; a kind of temporal step-sister that died with the physical body. Every man, woman, and child had one, but only a very select few were ever given permission to use it. When someone needed to be hooked up, the “intangibles” would call upon Chris and his talents. This communication could come in any form, be it voices routing themselves through his refrigerator, a stinky old bag lady, or a talking stained glass window.
He liked to think of himself as a younger, if not leaner, version of Maytag’s lonely repairman, calmly devoted to fixing the telepathically challenged. However, he was more partial to mastiffs than he was pouting basset hounds.
Strangely, his least worry was the dreamer being suddenly awakened from deep sleep for whatever reason. That would only catapult him back into his spaceship, or whatever contrivance he was using at the time, with nothing more than a migraine. Happened all the time.
Sure, he could just barge straight in—what he called a “No-Knock,” in honor of the kind of warrants SWAT teams used when making house calls. No costumes or guises or psychic software of any kind; just him and the dreamer squaring off. In his younger days, No-Knocks had been challenging. He didn’t know then about hooking people up, was just there for the pure thrill of it. Now, to go in for nothing but kicks was just plain reckless.
Descending the access ladder, he jumped the last two rungs to a grated walkway below. He had to manually shut off the engines, and they were located in the rear of the ship. As he turned, he saw that the space to his right—a place where the hull should have been—was nothing but a gaping hole of interstellar matter. As he started walking, the vacancy filled itself in with stark white paneling, flashing control panels, something that might have been a fire extinguisher...And as he continued down the corridor, other omissions quickly infused with twenty-fourth century decor. To mentally picture lush, rolling hills, dense forests, a star-filled cosmic night—those were easy to maintain. But to keep a three-dimensional image fully intact of something as complex as a space ship—something entirely fictional—that was hard. To do so for any good length of time was impossible.
To patch Juanita into her special gift, he’d opted for the organ. This was part of the software he’d downloaded earlier. Once he played “Mary Had A Little Lamb,” Juanita would be soldered to the ethereal plane, and could then—without the use of her rosary—eject people’s psyches and souls from their bodies and slam them into stained glass windows with much more confidence and better aim.
He disengaged the engines from the hyperdrive coil, allowing the ship to coast toward a deep red nebula. The doorway into Juanita Santiago’s mind.
“Where no man has gone before,” Chris intoned, and thought that was probably an accurate guess, given her ugly mug and holier-than-thou disposition. He kicked on the thrusters, shaking his head. “Bible thumpers.”
As the ship entered the nebula, passing through its web-like dross, Chris closed his eyes and recalled the church he’d attended while growing up in San Diego. It was Lutheran, not Catholic, but he figured it would be close enough for government work. Any conflicting aesthetics would be negligible to the point where Juanita would either overlook them or simply change them without becoming suspicious. And there was certainly not going to be a sermon, because Chris wasn’t going to summon a pastor. He’d had plenty of evangelizing for one lifetime, thank you very much, not to mention enough wine and unleavened bread to choke a platoon of disciples. But if Juanita did decide to whip up a priest, a congregation, and an inspirational oration, then God could ransom her guilt, and she could fill the collection plates to her heart’s content. Not a problem.
Just as long as she didn’t retain an organist.
Exhaling slowly, he pictured himself standing by the organ.
The image was crystal clear.
2.
Chris opened his eyes.
Bricks of differing size, drooling mortar from their seams, composed the high, narrow passageway before him. From their iron cradles, torches licked soot upon the crude masonry, and shadows pranced to the susurrant sounds like gypsies around a campfire.
Directly behind him was a structure rising so high that the top was not visible from his perspective. If he didn’t know any better, he would swear that it was the main tower of a castle. He’d played enough Dungeons and Dragons to know a donjon when he saw one.
To his immediate right stood a huge door, the wood planks running vertically and strengthened by long, thick ores of iron. The three clasps and hinges were massive and looked like ostracized coats of arms, painted black to expunge those clans from memory. The sand was dry and loose but bore no tracks.
Chris paused. Yes, he was now quite certain that this was not the Emmanuel Lutheran Church of his childhood, where he learned about Adam and Eve and Noah’s Ark and God smiting the heathens.
Staring down at his white Adidas, he bent at his knees, swung his arms, and jumped. As his feet landed, dirt clouds rolled away from his soles, surging like waves against the walls on either side. He watched with growing concern as the settlings evanesced in the dimness.
“Dude,” he said, slightly alarmed. The gravity here wasn’t right because it was too right. Although dreams were normally born with the standard laws of physics already preset, it was only a matter of moments before they began to deteriorate. That didn’t make them any less real, just more unstable. Chris knew that once the cataleptic curtain lifted for the director and his play, Sir Isaac Newton would be yanked from stage and his lead role usurped by a cute little thing from Detroit who didn’t know jack about physics, and even less about acting. Eventually and indubitably, the psyche would start taking liberties with the script, not to mention the cute little thing from Detroit, and pretty soon apples were falling up instead of down, statues crapping on birds instead of the other way around.
But Chris could find no corruption of Newtonian physics here; no atrophy, no decay. By the looks of things, Sir Isaac was not only still in character but bowing before a standing ovation. If this was Juanita’s dream, then she had one hell of a knack for keeping things fixed and focused.
He turned in a circle, searching for clues in the construction, in the ambience, looking for tell-tale signs that could confirm that the theater in which he now found himself was, in fact, mind-woven; rhapsodized.
No. Finally, no. The setting lacked that capricious, mercurial atmosphere so endemic of dreams. Parody, usually in abundant supply, was absent. Nothing faltered. Nothing changed.
“Where the fuck am I?” he said to the gloom.
Chris stepped to the door, grabbed the big metal ring, and pulled. As he had fully expected, the massive hinges heralded his entrance like a trio of lovesick banshees. Gusts of mildew-laden air swept past his neck and face like Chiffon ascots. He stepped through and found that he was, after all, inside a church, just one that predated good table manners. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised to find King Arthur’s name scribbled in the guest book.
The interior was huge, and although he’d only seen a fraction of the structure, Chris was already left with the impression that he was, indeed, in the midst of a fortress. A medieval castle.
Groin vaulting had apparently been the rage when the place was built, lending it an eerie, antediluvian resplendence. Torches clung to the groins, gibbering in tongues like reticent monks. Shadows became black, gossamer monkeys swinging from column to column. Candles were in ample supply, as was dust, thickly suspended in the sanctum’s cavernous light.
/> Chris stopped and listened to his own breathing. Had someone stirred the dust?
Very curious now, he strolled down the center aisle, looking for clues, anything that might help him understand what was happening. And then it occurred to him. Either he wasn’t in Juanita’s mind, or he was…but he wasn’t her only visitor. Maybe someone else was playing him at his own game; someone who had the ability to keep his or her psychic universe so intact as to make it analogous to waking reality. After all, these were not the blueprints he’d drafted.
Or, just maybe, this was a by-product of Juanita’s recent endowment. Yeah, that was probably part of the answer.
The marble altar was massive. He dragged a couple of fingers across the surface, leaving deep tracks in the dust and soot. The smell of smoldering wax was heavier here, although no candles were burning despite their abundance. To his left, at the far end of the altar beside some kind of round, clay vessel, a rat stared at him with golden eye shine.
Michael Jackson’s “Ben” started playing in his mind. He immediately canceled that selection and chose Elton John’s “Funeral for a Friend.” Fuck ’em, He thought. If they want atmosphere, I’ll give ’em atmosphere!
Most disappointing, however, was the absence of an organ. And given the apparent century, it wasn’t likely he would find one hidden elsewhere in the castle. That presented a problem. He’d already programmed Juanita to receive the connection via his (albeit one-fingered) rendition of “Mary Had A Little Lamb.” It didn’t really matter if he played the tune from inside this ancient church or the top of Pike’s Peak, just as long as he had an organ to play it on. And soon.
“I ordered Sister Act,” he groused, “and they fucking sent me Excalibur.”
Picturing a walnut organ with massive pipes directly in front of the altar, Chris strained to make the image as detailed as he could. If he was successful, it would answer the question of whether this was a waking place or a dream state. If only a dream, then he could probably conjure just about anything. If it was waking reality, then the only organ he’d be playing would be the one behind his fly.
He opened his eyes. The organ was there. But it was a ghost image, fading fast. Someone was interfering, trying to shut it down. He could feel it.
It was now obvious, however, he was in Wonderland. One of its unexplored continents, perhaps, but definitely Wonderland.
Had he finally entered a sandbox where someone else—someone just like himself—had already started working with pail and shovel? Highly unlikely.
He closed his eyes again, his face crinkling with concentration.
Afraid he might tear loose an embolism in his physical body, he finally relaxed. And there sat an organ. He rushed over and inspected it, top to bottom. It was so real he could smell the lemon wax.
“Perfect!” he said.
“Child’s play,” assured a suave voice.
Chris jumped. Behind him, sitting in the front pew, was a handsome gent in a gray tailored suit, burgundy shirt, and white silk tie. Slick as a greased doorknob. Beside him sat five naked little girls.
“Shit,” Chris whispered. He began scanning their minds…then stopped. A stench burgeoned in his being; a stink so unbelievably fetid, so utterly vile, that if he were in his physical body and had to endure that foulness for even a fraction of a second, he would have literally been driven to eviscerate his nose from his face with the dullest spoon available.
“You’re a disgrace to your uniform,” the man observed, referring to Chris’s surplice.
“I’m getting my ‘Deuteronomy’ badge next week,” Chris said.
“How wonderful for you. Your mother would be very proud.” He winked. “Personally, though, if I’d been your old lady, I would have gone with the Black and Decker portable space heater in the hallway. But I’m sure that’s just the handyman in me talking.”
The admission startled Chris. “Reading the obits is a sign of a sick mind, dude.”
The man chortled. “How would you know the health of my mind, friend? You just tried making its acquaintance, but couldn’t even get your feet wet. Afraid of the water?”
Chris just stared.
“Like your grandad?” the stranger continued. “I’ve got to tell ya, kid, for a guy who didn’t have rabies he sure was one hydrophobic son of a bitch.” He smiled. “But his fear of H2O is all better now. Why, I hear him screaming for it every day.”
Chris laughed. “Nice try, numbnuts, but I don’t scare very easy when I’m being threatened with bible stories.” But Chris was scared now; very scared. How did this asshole know about his grandfather? Chris hadn’t even thought about his grandfather in years.
“Yes, bible stories,” assured the tailored gent. “Because where you’re heading, son, ‘slake’ and ‘thirst’ are as likely to find wedlock as ‘Baskin’ and ‘Robbins.’”
Chris just laughed, albeit unpersuasively.
The man stood. “I haven’t formally introduced myself,” he said. “My name is Gamble.” He swept a hand toward the girls. “And these are my daughters.”
“That’s a relief,” Chris said. “I was thinking you were some kind of wacked-out pedophile pimp.”
“Yes, I’m afraid they can provoke the most libelous suspicions,” Gamble said. Then he stretched out his arms the way a realtor does when showing a spacious living room. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken some privileges with your church. It was lacking character, shall we say.”
Chris scowled. “It’s not like you put up new drapes, dude,” he said. “I mean, you went from Better Homes and Gardens to Knights of the Round Table.”
Gamble returned to the pew and sat. “Yes, well...” He crossed his legs and appeared to search the material for lint. “I’m going to make a deal with you, Mr. Kaddison. If you walk straight out that front door now, I’ll see that you and your little ship make it home before the rooster wakes. But if you so much as play one fucking note on that organ, I’ll rip a hole so wide in your ego that your id will need a colostomy bag.”
Chris brightened. “You’re the one who tried yanking the organ.”
“Nothing gets by you.”
“And you failed, dude,” Chris gloated, patting the shiny veneer top. “She’s right here, pretty as you please.” He poked his chest. “You’re looking at the best carpenter in Wonderland.”
“Really? Hmmm. I seem to recall another carpenter who thought himself pretty handy. You know, I’m beginning to fear that it might be something indigenous to your profession.”
Chris shook his head. “You’re wasting your time, dude. Like I said, I don’t subscribe to that magazine.”
“Regardless, I can still bill you as the main attraction for a stormy crucifixion. But if that’s not your cup of tea, then we can discuss other options. I’m privy, you see, to an illimitable number of ways to agonize the flesh. And the soul. But rather than go into them now, I’ll just leave you with my brochure. As for your undefeated title, Melchizedek, you’re forgetting that I’ve made you a prisoner of these ancient walls, strongholds which I’m sure you’ve noticed do not fade or bend or roll with uncertainty. I have forgotten more about your ‘Wonderland’ than you will ever know, so kindly remove that feather from your hat. As for Juanita, I refuse to permit the successful installation of her...whatever it is.” He waved a hand. “She’s not worthy.”
As Gamble spoke, Chris concentrated on removing a distant section of wall. He hoped that if the man wasn’t giving his full attention to the subterfuge (a rookie mistake, though Chris really didn’t believe this guy was a rookie), then he might be successful.
Nothing happened. Okay, so he couldn’t bring down the walls, but he could create within them. That was something.
“I’m staying,” Chris said, then flipped on the organ’s power switch.
Gamble stood. “You’ll be making a grave mistake. I’m almost sure of it.”
As soon as Chris sat down on the organ bench, a thought struck him: the girls! They’re bolstering the
dreamscape, jacking it up like a car so Gamble can lube it. The slick fuck. Okay, he needed a distraction. What could he pull out of his now-featherless hat that could capture and maintain the attention spans of five little girls, ages between nine and eleven? Snakes? Bugs? Wait…
Snails! Snails and puppy dog tails! Damned if he could remember how the rest of that went.
Instantly, five boys, all dressed in matching prep school uniforms, stood before the girls and began provoking them with sophomoric taunts and spit balls.
Gamble remained seated, indulging the scene with a carefree pose.
As the girls stood and confronted their attackers, Chris once again tried to make a portion of the farthest wall disappear. This time it worked, confirming his suspicions about the girls. But that wasn’t good, because that meant he wasn’t up against just one Cheshire Cat. He was up against a whole litter.
Who in the fuck are these people? he desperately wondered.
Just as the segment of wall vanished, all five boys began screaming.
“Not such a tough guy now, are you?” the closest girl said to her knavish suitor, who had hiked up his sweater and was now groping violently at his own abdomen. His tearing, panicked eyes pleaded for her to stop. Within moments, his short blond hair was imbued with sweat. Unable to control his hands, he gaped down in utter horror as his self-mutilation advanced to abominable levels. Pointing his nose at the ceiling, he shrieked like some forlorn crane on a moonlit marsh, then began to thrash his head. Orbs of sweat and spittle, amber in the torchlight, left his head like fireflies from a rattled bush. And the first trickle of what would quickly become a torrent of blood left his nose and stained his cracked lips. The excruciating pain began to bounce him like a Pogo stick as he dug deeper and deeper, screaming and jumping and gurgling, sounding like Pavarotti in a rumble seat down a washboard road. Then, as he ripped through the fatty tissue, he reached in with both hands and pulled back the skin, splitting himself and the immense room open with a wet, sucking sound. Each cough, each bray, each explosive scream was another interspersing of blood across the white, taut skin of the girl before him, who continued to watch with unbridled fascination. A length of intestine now hung from his avulsion like a giant watch chain, and a big, purple bulge said more was coming. All around him now, the dirt floor was sopping up the blood and fluids that were splashing from the open cavity. His face twisting in unbelievable pain, he then plucked out his own bladder and forcefully fed it to the boy on his right, who was already mashing his own shredded genitals into the next boy’s mouth, who himself had a pair of eyeballs for the one next to him, and down the line it went.
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