I saw Banish streak down, leaving a temporary black scar upon the face of the sky. He sank straight down to the mounted general. I suppose he was invisible to the thousands of other onlookers, for no one looked up and pointed at the spectacle.
Banish reached his hand out to Edzer and with a touch absorbed the dream actor into himself. He settled into the finely crafted saddle as Kratos cut down the final obstacle standing between them.
"For the sake of this city, for the lives of my compatriots, I challenge you, Edzer, to a duel,” Kratos called out to Banish, his voice deep and resonant as it had ever been. “To whomsoever finds himself triumphant goes the battle. If it is I, then your forces leave this place, never to return. And if you, then you may claim this city as your own and do what you will with it."
Banish played out his role flawlessly. “I accept your challenge and your terms gladly. Let us waste no time; I am eager to see you dead.” He must have cast a glamour upon the warriors, for no one questioned the general's sudden alteration in appearance.
Kratos, holding his mid-sized shield close to his chest and his sword high, sprinted towards Banish and his armored steed.
"Come, creature, bitter cause of my exile, I have need of your assistance once again.” Banish's voice was soft, only audible to me and whatever he beckoned. I sensed a snarl coming from within his skull. His left eye blazed with the now-familiar black flames, and a shadowy, amorphous creature leapt forth. “I need you to act out the magics of this Edzer. Take the place of the angry spirits of dead warriors and have at that worthy hero."
The creature snarled again in assent and split itself into several sinuous filaments. The circuitous trails stopped at the bodies of the fallen and soon congealed into transparent spirits. The wights were only semi-tangible; they were solid enough to grab up the dead soldiers’ armaments, but too insubstantial for Kratos to harm them seriously.
The Eternal had fought their kind before and had come to this battlefield prepared for the attacks of the vengeful specters. He held a long sword he had named Iocus the Ironsplitter. It was a blade blessed by the touch of a dead god who had wished to protect the natural world from the technology of mankind. It had been granted the power to cut through any metal—be it shaped into swords, armor, axes, or anvils. Before Kratos had claimed the blade, it had belonged to Verdari, famed huntswoman and ranger. The sword had never been meant to leave the woods it had been created to protect; however, all weapons of worth seem to find their way to the battlefield in time.
The specters attacked Kratos with their metal weapons, slashing and stabbing repeatedly. He blocked each strike that was launched against him. The sword had no power to destroy the spirits. Yet, whenever he saw a break in the slew of attacks, Kratos slashed at them, disrupting their forms for a time. When they regained their shapes, the specters merely picked up the weapons of other fallen soldiers and continued their press.
These events were replayed until all available weaponry had been expended; bits and pieces of metal littered the blood-soaked earth and glinted in the rays of the setting sun. With all of the blades and shields broken and smashed, the Eternal at last saw a clear path before him.
With a hardy war cry, Kratos rushed forward. As the vengeful spirits attempted to waylay him, he whipped his sword back and forth, keeping them from congealing into a state that might impede his efforts. A hundred smoky coils swirled about Kratos as he closed upon Banish. The tendrils seemed to suck at my father's stamina, draining away his very life. I could not remember this debilitation occurring in the original battle. Nonetheless, mighty Kratos made the impressive jump, swiping at Banish's neck in mid-flight.
Having been forewarned, Banish ducked low at the last moment and avoided the fatal blow. The terrific momentum that carried Kratos up to his foe also took both men tumbling to the ground. Banish was pinned beneath the hero's significant mass. Kratos raised Iocus up, poised for the deathblow.
"Come to me now or we are both doomed,” Banish barked in desperation. Kratos did not show any sign of hearing the order.
The smoky creature that still clung to my father's body moved swiftly, swirling around its master's arms, lending them its own vigor. It sounded as if it were laughing at its master's dire situation, yet it was obviously not inclined to allow him to expire. With bolstered power, Banish freed his limbs, sending one to Kratos’ sword arm, holding it aloft. He pressed his free hand, cloaked in a black conflagration, against my father's forehead.
The dark fire limned Kratos’ skull, but it did not burn his flesh nor singe a single hair. There was something, however, being consumed by the flames. My father's spirit, his mind, was being eaten by Banish, Banish's beast, or by the both of them.
Just before the fury in my father's eyes was snuffed completely, while there was still a trickle of life in the man, Banish's body flickered a few times and then was replaced by the form of Edzer. The leader of the armies of Vengeance had an expression of shock spread across his face. Kratos, finally free from the tethers that bound him, thrust Iocus deep into Edzer's chest. The blow cost my father what energy was left him. He slumped down, his hands falling free from the hilt of the Ironsplitter.
The morale of the enemy army was quashed by the sight of their leader gruesomely defeated; a gout of blood poured from his massive chest wound. Abiding by the terms of the duel, they marched away from the battlefield. They assumed Kratos was the victor. His death was not as explicit as that of their general.
The army of Viljir rushed to my father's body, quickly realized he had passed from this world, and raised the corpse high. They carried Kratos’ body back inside the shining walls one last time, a thousand tears flowing down a thousand battle-worn faces.
I was so emotionally devastated by the sight of my father's valiant death that I forgot that I was in a dream. It did not occur to me until far later how strange it was that the dream played on with the dreamer dead. I now believe that the dream continued because Banish had formed some link between my mind and my father's, and that I unwittingly continued the dream he had begun.
* * * *
When I awoke, sunlight streamed through the window of my father's room, pouring over his body and blinding me. Banish was nowhere to be found. He and his demon likely had other services to render. There was a note beside me on the floor. I read it rapidly, my eagerness counteracting the pain in my head and heart.
"I have done what you asked, and your father has been freed from his torments. You know that your trust in me was not misplaced. I ask you to trust me once more. There is a keen dagger beside this note. I beg you to use it on your own body as you see fit. In my attempt to tear Kratos’ soul from his body, I learned many things. One of these was the reason for his telling no one the nature of his immortality, and the importance he placed on having at least one of his offspring survive him. I hope you can repay your debt to me in the future. Some day I may have need of someone to set in writing my own stories. Farewell, Sofi."
As confused by the note's meaning as I was by its author, I picked up the dagger. Groggy from the remnants of the soporific still creeping through my veins, I pricked gingerly at my palm with the dagger's point, hoping the physical pain would relieve the emotional agony buried in my breast. Yet there was no pain, no wound, and no blood. I pressed more firmly on the grip, but still there was no damage.
As the impossible truth began to dawn on me, I looked over at my father's face, more peaceful in death than it had been for so long in life. I wished he had lived long enough to verify my suppositions. I closed my eyes, braced myself, and stabbed the dagger at my open palm. The point refused to pierce my flesh.
I understood then that my father's longevity had not died with him. It had been passed on. Surely it would be a grand gift and a terrible burden to bear. I knew instantly that, had I possessed any remote amount of foreknowledge, I would not have helped Kratos in his search for death.
This story must not be told until I am ready to take up my father's mantle, until
I am ready to admit to our city, Viljir of the Shining Walls, that it may yet have a hero. I can only hope that the creature known as Banish is as long-lived as I now am. I hope that when I tire of this existence, he is still available to lend me his weird magics and help me end it.
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Where Water Fails by Rusty Barnes
Richard guesses Maggie is at it again. He hears the steady yammer of a mallet in the kitchen as she pounds meat against the rattly metal countertop. Once she'd gotten so mad at him she'd thawed out two entire freezer bags of venison tenderloin and beef steaks, beat them all into submission for hours. The next day she'd invited the Burnhams over for dinner, and she had made conversation about the latest shows, the church bazaar, but watched his face, covertly, every time he took a bite. She knew he'd noticed. When he asked her later why she was so fierce about it, she'd looked up at him sweetly and said, “Because it feels like I'm hitting you. Every time is one time I don't have to argue with you."
This pounding of meat. What has he done this time? He thinks back over the last twelve hours: nothing out of the ordinary, nothing at all. Waking, work, home.
The front-porch refrigerator is open, and a twelve-pack of soda still ringed in plastic sits on the concrete floor. Maggie usually fills the fridge, but why would she leave it open? He de-rings the soda, puts it in, and closes the door. It becomes more mysterious, this whole thing. He notices the mudroom light is off and the living-room curtains are closed against the fading sunlight. There is no whir of washing machine or dryer. Lunchbox by the door, boots next to the lunchbox, hat and overshirt hung up. Still no singsong hello. No kiss.
When he sorts through the mail, he notices all the bills have been opened, looks at the desk where they rest in a deliberate fan. Maggie's made a grocery list of sorts: disposable camera, Ben-Gay, staples for the industrial-size gun he uses on the rabbit hutches, tampons. Underlined. He counts back in his head without really thinking about it. Maybe she's going through irregular periods. It's about that time, he figures.
Through the window, he can see the rabbits hopping around in their hutches. It's getting to be time to butcher some, before they begin to crowd each other out. He's had rabbits since he was a kid, when his father's wrecked VW van had gotten towed into the backyard. It'd been useless for anything else, so his father had welded the doors shut and given him two rabbits, two males which he'd promptly named Buffy and Carol. They'd never had babies, though he'd expected them. He'd opened the rear hatch of that van to feed them for years. The shit had built up and up until his father had had the thing towed out on its rims.
He struggles with a different kind of shit now: eating the rabbits is fine, fancy restaurants buying them is better, but someone has to kill them. Richard will have to give it up some day.
Maybe it's a midlife crisis. He remembers hearing that fat TV doctor say that women go through it too. Empty nest syndrome, middle-aged gone-to-hell something-or-other. He tries to be good to her, has not gone off and bought a Firebird, nothing like that. He washes his hands and walks into the kitchen to plant a kiss on the top of her head. Before he can get there, she turns to face him, mallet poised, but something shifts in her face and she slaps him, hard across the face, with her bloody hand.
"That's a hell of a thing to come home to.” He steps back.
"I'm pregnant,” she says. The right reaction, he thinks. Find it. Can't.
"Shit.” The word comes to mind, slips out, and he wishes it back into his mouth.
"Shit is right. What am I going to do about it?” She's waiting for an answer, and he has to find the right one. She's forty-four years old. They have never spoken about this. She has always been on the pill.
"What happened? Hell. It don't matter. I guess we need to go down to Elmira.” He thinks a moment. “Do regular doctors do them anymore?"
"Do wha—?” He sees the dark truth of it come over her face. It's the right thing to do. She knows it. He knows it. They don't want children. He watches her face change, watches her become three women at once: the girl he knew, flipping her hair at him, the woman she is, bloody mallet and raw meat, the old lady she will become, finger-bowed and rocker-bound. He realizes all of it, and maybe the fear shows on his face too, because she pushes past him and out the kitchen door, running.
He follows her out, but she's much smaller and quicker. She runs past the rabbit hutch and flips the door open. Why? Why she would do that he can't figure, and—crazily—he sees the long grass underneath and thinks he ought to cut it, and already rabbits are out and sniffing at the air. There's money there, and he starts to scoop the accepting animals up and stuff them back into the hutch. One, the white one, is determined not to get back in, and it follows Maggie toward the back field, legs pumping madly over the pile of raw lumber and fencing he has stacked there for another hutch. By this time Richard is out of breath, and he pauses. He's said the wrong thing. He knows this. But how could she want a baby after all this time. How could he have lost his innate sense of what she needs to hear? It's all so confusing. Her confusion is contagious—if she's confused, that is.
Richard watches the rabbit as it reaches the rock wall. He can follow the sound of Maggie's tears as she runs crashing down into the back field toward the crick. The rabbit hops once, tests the air with its nose, and—quick as water fills an empty hole—is gone, and he follows it over the rock wall and into the back field, where the tiny vista he can claim as his own opens onto the green hats of spruce, the gray and slim poplars, the let-go apple orchard, the tangle of briars from where he has let the land run unchecked. Maggie has forced her way through; the path is easy to follow. He knows he's supposed to walk where it leads, but he can't bring himself to do it immediately. He finds himself walking anyway, in short steps like a martyr's.
Maggie slapped him when he was expecting a closed fist, so that's something. He holds it close to him like a promise as he navigates down the slight incline. He can see her black head out in the middle of the field give a familiar shake and he is filled with love for her despite the pressure, thinks of her naked and shivering, of what it feels like to slip into her tense body, but he thrusts the thought away with most of the force he can muster. This is not the time. This is not an affliction. She disappears by the bed of the feeder crick.
When Richard reaches the main branch, he can see her sitting on a rock in the middle of the stream. Her pants are neatly folded before her and she is sitting cross-legged, dragging a stick through the thin runnels of water in the mostly dry bed. She puts out her flat palm to stop him before he can get to her.
"Baby,” he says. “Why you got your pants off?” If the crick was running it might make sense. He steps toward the rock she's perched on.
"Don't you dare say that word to me.” Maggie's shirtsleeves are hanging over her thighs, bending gently in the breeze like clothes on a line.
"I didn't mean—"
"If you think it's nothing. If you think.” Her voice is calm between the hiccupping word think.
"I don't think nothing. I mean, whatever you want to do.” Richard would spread his hands and give her something if he could only figure what it was she wanted.
"If you think it's nothing. You come do it.” She strips stray branches from the stick in her hand and spreads her legs, offers the stick to him with one hand. It looks like a knitting needle. Richard can feel his breath come harder. “You come fucking do it."
"I don't want to do it, Mags.” Richard spreads his empty hands, hands with no gift. I come in peace. “I thought that's what you wanted. Not a baby."
"But you didn't ask. Nobody ever asked me. You ‘t ask me.” Maggie is trembling now too. He wonders what he takes from this; it all seems like some monstrous joke, like the way they baldfaced kid each other by saying more and more horrible things until one of them breaks out laughing and the two of them slide deeper beneath the covers.
"Well. I'm asking now."
"No. I don't want to.” She stands quickly
, and there is a shower of tiny butterflies across the creek, tumbling madly through the air to her side, and if ever there was a sign, Richard thinks he sees it then. She curses once softly and reaches down for her pants, then pauses, her hands in front of her stomach, formed like a shallow bowl or cup. It's as if she is asking him for a drink. But he has nothing wet. There is none around, the whole fucking world is dry, and he holds his hand out to her as if it is water, and she just looks at him.
Is it him she's thinking of or something, someone else who looms larger—he just doesn't know—and he's shocked when, through the tears in her eyes, she takes his hand and squeezes.
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Dialogue with the Hollows of Your Body by Benjamin Buchholz
When I am blind and very near to you
in the vesper stillness of a cell, small and veiled from the street, through shiver, heat, arch of back and hips, pressure placed by the flat of your palms against the flat of my palms: speak.
Tell me how the Black Sea smelt sharp in the slight sheen of sweat cooling that hollow at your neck's nape, the caught smoke from a dancehall evocative of the smoke shadows on the walls of the ruins of Nessebar.
Tell me from how far the base note resounding in those Ibiza nights could be felt through the felt pulse of that hollow at the base of your wrists white and flashing as birds in my hair: the syncopation, the stutter concordance of a pulse overlaid on a pulse as if they have invented their own patois within this speech.
Tell me how hungry the Irish soup and no roll could be in the growing out of a shell, by the shell of skin smooth on the hard updrift of your hips, my hands on either side holding the great distance of green and fog and full glasses brushing over old woodwork where you catch them and drink.
GUD Magazine Issue 0 :: Spring 2007 Page 15