The red brick road led John up the mountain in a slight but steady incline. And the road cut into the mountain, zigzagging up the slope in a series of sharp switchbacks. Stately ponderosa pines lined one side of the road and a precipitous drop down the mountain comprised the other side. And had he turned and looked down the mountain at the poppy field, John would have seen that an army of Chellovecks were gathering below. He would have seen that his children and the children of Joad and Santiago were stirring and being helped back to consciousness by Joad and Three Tooth’s men. But John’s eyes were locked on the fortress above and he was drawn forward on the road to the castle.
John’s steady and determined march up La Montaña Sagrada never faltered. But, occasionally Alf stumbled over roots that grew up through the red brick road. Sometimes the donkey sat and wheezed away a brief attack of asthma or worked to bring up a hairy bezoar. When that happened, John plopped down on the bricks beside Alf and waited for the ailment to resolve itself (as it always did with Alf). Although John was compelled to move toward the top of the mountain, he did not rush the donkey, nor did he leave Alf behind. When the burro recovered, John walked again and Alf followed.
And the road cut into the mountain and across ridges, switching back again and again. Dark caves appeared along the side of El Camino de la Muerte as the road rose higher and higher on the great hill. A complete absence of sound thrummed from the caves, sapping those parts of the road of noise and echoes. John did not talk to Alf the Sacred Burro as they passed the caves. He felt that if he did, the words would drop, stillborn, from his mouth. And a weight pushed on his chest at those parts of the road, making it a chore to draw in breath. But the caves not only affected the sound and John’s respiration, they also muted his emotions, leaving only a deep depression and anger. Once they passed the caves, John breathed easier and the pressure on his chest abated. His ability to feel returned and the anger and depression evaporated, leaving him with a healthy balance of emotions. He talked to Alf, once clear of the caves, saying, “Those caves don’t seem right to me,” and felt relief at the sound of his voice. In response, Alf just rubbed his head up against John’s hand for a scritching. And John always obliged.
The forest of ponderosa pines gradually thinned as they ascended the mountain, until the tall, proud trees grew no more and were replaced by stunted, densely matted bushes. And the air became dry and thinner, making the ascent difficult. But John and Alf the Sacred Burro did not stop walking until they found themselves standing at the tall iron front door of Android Lovethorn’s mountain fortress, Abaddon. Alf plopped his posterior on the ground and looked at John, as if to say, “What now?”
And John realized that he was meant to enter the fortress alone. “Go back down the mountain,” he said to Alf. “Go back to our friends in the flowers.”
But Alf the Sacred Burro did not move. He plopped his rear end down on the red bricks and whinnied at John, asking to stay with him. Alf did not want to leave his friend. And he did not want to walk past the silent caves again. Milky, cataract-afflicted eyes begged John to take Alf with him.
“Go now,” said John, regretfully ordering his donkey friend back down the mountain. He pulled the saddlebags from Alf and flung them over his own shoulder. “We’ll see each other again. And when we do, I’ll feed you all of the bloodfruits a donkey could want and scratch your head for you.”
Alf did not want to go. But he did reluctantly turn and slowly walk away from John. Once several cubits away, the sacred burro turned one last time and gave a pleading look.
John did not acknowledge the sad gaze and merely said, “Be gone now, donkey. Be gone and be glad. For the next time we see each other, it will be as old friends celebrating a victory.” And then Alf the Sacred Burro disappeared from John’s thoughts and sight. John turned toward the imposing iron door of the fortress and studied it, considering his next move.
Mounds of mountain dirt clung to girthy Asherah poles like prolapsed rectums on unlubricated phalli. The carved poles stood sentinel to the front door of Android Lovethorn’s mountain fortress and stretched upward, outreaching the top of the stony walls by cubits. Twin turkey vultures, plump and sluggish, lurked at the top of the poles, hunched over and looking down for the food that always fell to the ground right in front of the fort. Instead of the dead meat that the birds preferred, they saw a long-haired, bearded man dressed in clean, white, freshly twisted linens, standing before the fortress with his hand poised to knock on the door.
John stood in that spot, contemplating his situation. Iron rods barred an opening at eye level and gave him a limited view into the murky interior behind the door. And then he did the only thing that he could think to do. He rapped his knuckles on the iron door and the sound clanged off of the mountain and echoed down the road. Immediately, in response to the knocking, a face appeared behind the bars. An old man with a tiny head and a long, crooked nose gazed out at John. Beneath the man’s nose, a full white mustache, like that of an elderly walrus, sprouted and obscured his upper lip. And the mustache wiggled and wriggled like the whiskers of a prawn prodding the seafloor for food. Below the mustache, the puckered mouth spat out words.
“The master says to go away,” said the man behind the door, his mustache twitching and flicking erratically. And his right eye set to fluttering. “Go away says the master.”
“I cannot,” said John. “I am John the Revelator and I am here to see Android Lovethorn. He is expecting me. I need to see him.”
“Well, you can’t see him,” snipped the man, his whiskers twitching wildly. “Not nobody gets in to see Reverend Lovethorn. Not nobody. Not no how.”
“I demand to see Lovethorn,” commanded John. He balled up his hand and beat his fist against the door several times until the little man recoiled at the banging.
The doorkeeper turned and limped on a gimp leg into the darkness of the fortress, saying, “Not nobody gets in to see Reverend Lovethorn. Not nobody. Not no how.” And the clop-drag sound of his twisted gait carried the little man into the fortress and away from John.
“I will wait right here,” shouted John. “I will wait until you grant me admittance and I see Lovethorn.” So he dropped to the ground, crossed his legs, and leaned his back against the door. And because he had not a clue about what to do next, he sat there until the day turned to dusk, and dusk to night.
The river of fire flowed above in the sky and crashed into the top of La Montaña Sagrada, erupting in an explosion above the peak. The two full moons in the sky reflected the fierce red intensity of the sun. And the haze in the sky wreathed the moons with twisting, smoky halos that diffused the glow. Every so often John stood and beat his hands on the iron door, calling out for somebody inside to grant him entry. When nobody opened the door for him, John closed his eyes and spoke to the sky. And though he knew it was useless, he tried to summon lightning or wind or a pillar of fire to rip the door from its frame. But nothing that he did would cause the door to open. And he would not walk around the walls of the fortress to locate an entrance; the red brick road met the iron door and, John assumed, led right into the fortress. Should he leave the path, he would lose the path and be lost to the path.
So John sat again with his back to the iron door and pulled a wineskin from the saddlebag that Alf the Sacred Burro left him. The chicha choked him at first but then went down smoother than before. John found it far too easy to drink the drink, and before he knew it, it was hard to think. He drank the brew down to the dregs and tossed the empty wineskin down the side of the mountain. And he pulled two more wineskins from the saddlebags, pushing one through the iron bars on the front door as an offering to anyone willing to grant him entry, and tying it to the bars with the skin’s rawhide strap. The other skin he opened and drained down his throat, ignoring the burn and the stench and welcoming the numbness that would soon follow.
With his vision fogged from chicha, and his thoughts muddled and befuddled, John shut his eyes to put an end to the double vision. A
nd troubled sleep pounced on him, making him toss and turn on the red brick road. John dreamt that he was walking down a long hall with red brick walls that curved up to meet in a point. At the end a the hall an iron door, much like the front door of Lovethorn’s fortress, waited. No matter how far he walked, the door always loomed the same distance away. John tried to run toward the door but his body felt as if it were running in water. So he slowed his step and focused his eyes on the ever-distant door.
“You’re never going to get there like this,” said John’s voice. But the voice came from John’s fiery doppelganger, whom appeared at his side. “Take your gaze off of the door and turn it inward. That is where your strength lies. That is where you will find your power, not behind some door. Focus on yourself and the doors will come to you.”
“And why should I care about reaching the door?” said John. “Lovethorn wants to kill me.”
“No,” said Fire-John. “Lovethorn wants to hold you captive and suckle at your energy. He does not want you to die and he definitely does not want you to leave. He wants you alive and weak because that makes him stronger. You must meet him face to face and make him send you back. You must make him return you to yourself so that you can be complete. Otherwise, you die there, and you die here, and all is lost.”
“That just doesn’t seem right to me,” John argued. “I’ve grown strong here. I have power. And I don’t see how it is that I could die if I stay here. I don’t care about the other part of me dying. I don’t know that part. I don’t remember that part of me. And, from the little that I can tell, I was an awful person.”
“You were a wretch,” agreed the doppelganger. “And the only way to set things right is the reunion of your two halves. The good and the bad. And your light is now strong and will not be swayed by the dark. That is why you are here. That is why you split, so that you could plant the seed of goodness here and let it grow inside you. And that is what you have done. You are ready. When Lovethorn comes to you, meet with him and force him to send you back. Because you have the power and Lovethorn is the only one that can return you to yourself.”
“I don’t know…” said John.
But before John could finish his argument, the fiery doppelganger boomed, “I do know. And you must do as I say or all will be lost.” And, as if avoid any further argument, the fiery apparition ran toward the end of the hall and crashed into the door, knocking it from its frame with the concussion of his impact.
The blowback from the explosion knocked John to the ground and thumped his dream-head on the dream-bricks. And the flames from the explosion blazed through the door like the light of the red sun and burned John’s eyes closed.
And when John awoke and opened his eyes, he found himself laid out on the red brick road. Above him, two shriveled, shrunken heads looked down at his face, one grinning and one scowling. As his vision focused, he saw that the two tiny heads both sat on the same set of hunched-over shoulders. The shoulders shared the same thick, hunchbacked torso and the torso shared the same two legs. The grinning head on the left looked to the one on the right and, in a high-pitched voice, said, “I don’t know, Magog, I do believe he is the one. He’s the guy.”
“Come now, Gog. He can’t be the guy,” said the scowling head, his voice slurring but also shrill. “Just look at him with his tangled hair and face. Look at his crusted, dull eyes. He is not the one.” The right hand of the shared body lifted the wineskin that John left hanging from the door, and slopped a snootful of chicha into Magog’s mouth.
“Is,” said Gog, his voice clear and his enunciation sharp.
“Is not,” said Magog. The left hand tried to grab the wineskin from the right. But the right hand held it out of reach and the left flailed ineffectually at the air. Magog laughed in Gog’s face, and the hand under Magog’s control kept the wineskin out of Gog’s reach.
“Give me that skin,” said Gog.
“Won’t,” slurred Magog. “It’s mine.”
“Give now,” snapped Gog.
“Can’t,” said Magog, laughing again.
And Gog’s left hand shot out for the wineskin. But the right hand, under control of Magog, pulled away. “Give,” shouted Gog. “Won’t,” replied Magog. Gog’s hand chased Magog’s and their shared body spun, an ungainly flailing top in that spot, until the conjoined twins grew dizzy and fell to the ground. And while Magog tried to clear his head of the titling, swirling vertigo, Gog snatched the wineskin (now mostly drained) and flung it down the side of La Montaña Sagrada.
John rubbed the drunken, crusted sleep from his eyes and watched Gog and Magog argue. The scene intrigued him to the extent that he did not even realize that the door to the fortress hung wide open behind him. He could not tear his eyes away from the altercation happening right in front of him.
“You’re a fool,” screamed Magog. “That was the spit of the gods and I was obtaining enlightenment.”
“Were not,” said Gog. “You were obtaining a state if idiocy.”
“Was not,” said Magog. “‘Twas enlightenment.” And his fist swung up and back, crunching Gog’s mouth.
“You swine,” said Gog through a fattened lip. “You pus-infected cum bubble. You bloodstained undergarment. You pusillanimous pinhead. I’ll rip your head off and fuck it with our dick.” And Gog looped a left hook around and smashed Magog’s nose to the side of his face.
“Will not,” screeched Magog in a warbling falsetto. Blood bubbled from the squished pulpy glob that was his nose. “I will rip your head off and shove it up our ass, you dog-humping, finger-sniffing, microcephalic moron.”
Gog and Magog thrashed about and struck at the small targets of each others’ heads. And they kicked up dust from the road and cast aspersions like stones until John could not tell which head was flinging which insults. The barbs and threats shot out in a random, jumbled mess while fists flew and feet kicked. “You anal-dwelling felch bucket…fanny-diddling queef huffer…I’ll rape your throat and make you eat feces…rotten corpse-loving semen demon…I’ll rip open your face and fill it with diarrhea so that it stinks for ages…I’ll fistfuck your dirty whore mouth…choke on cock, bitch-hole…”
Gog’s fist pulled up short and close and walloped Magog directly on the chin. At the exact same moment, Magog looped around with a full-force swing and smashed Gog in the ear. And for just a second, the shared body dropped to the ground and both heads flopped back. The grey static of disconnect from consciousness buzzed in their apple-sized noggins. Then, Gog and Magog shook their heads, and their body raised up on its elbows. And as if the blows had reset their brains, Gog and Magog looked at each other and smiled.
“It looks like we’ve done it again Brother, doesn’t it?” said Gog, rubbing his hand on his ear.
“Does,” agreed Magog, the unhinged joints of his jaw clicking with his words. His hand gripped his chin and pushed it back into position. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
And when they looked back to the spot where they first discovered John, he was gone. And the door to the fortress was closed behind him.
“How now, Brother?” said Gog, pointing at the closed door. “It looks as if he is on the path. He is the one. He is the guy.”
“How now, yourself, you fool,” said Magog. “He’s gone on by himself and we were supposed to put him to the scales. Lovethorn will put us to the wheel if we don’t catch him.”
“Well, we better intercept him then,” said Gog.
Gog-Magog lunged at the door and found that John did not lock it behind himself. They ran into the dark halls, flung open doors, and scampered through a labyrinth of low-ceilinged, low-lighted, low-level tunnels until they reached the room.
With his pupils constricted to pinpoints from the chicha hangover and unable to adjust to the almost nonexistent light in the tunnels, John fumbled blindly through the dark halls of Abaddon, fleeing the strange two-headed man, and hoping that he was on the path to Android Lovethorn. The walls jumped out at him, scuffing his elbo
ws and sides, and doors unexpectedly blocked his way. John opened the doors and walked on down the hall. He stumbled along, trusting his gut that he was still following the proper path.
And then he came to a door that did not want to open. He kicked at the door and heard the latch that held it on the other side loosely jangling as if it were not securely fastened. He backed up and charged the door, leading with his shoulder. Along with the flare of pain that flooded his shoulder and arm, the door burst open and John crashed into the room, falling to the floor.
Before he could stand, the men were on him, pinning his body to the ground. Gog and Magog hovered over John and looked down at his face.
“That’s him,” said Gog.
“It is,” agreed Magog.
Gog said to the men on top of John, “Strap him to the scale and then be gone.”
The short, muscular guards wore bronze helmets and breastplates and back plates. They lifted John to his feet. They kept a tight hold on each arm and wrist and led John to a seat positioned at the middle of a large beam. And the beam rested on a center-situated triangular fulcrum and held a gold plate at each end. The men quickly bound John’s arms and legs, strapped him snug to the seat on the scale, and fled the room.
“Such is the way of the wanderer,” said Gog, hocking a glutinous loogie into an earthen bowl filled with grit and gunk. Dipping his left hand into the bowl, he rubbed burnt ashes between his fingertips and smiled at John. Smudging the soot and slobber and smoot between his fingers, he said, “This is the way. The way is the truth. And truth is not knowledge. Knowledge is not wisdom. Wisdom is not beauty. Beauty is not love. Love is not music. Music is the best.” Gog smeared the ash on John’s face and neck. And from somewhere beyond, the clear, powerful voices of a castrati choir pierced the walls of the room.
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