by Dyrk Ashton
“Remember when I said no more slipping until we’ve had time to discuss it?”
“Yes.”
“And you swore not to?”
“Sorry I did that, back at the house. I won’t do it again.”
“I haven’t brought it up.”
“You’ve been pretty busy.”
“This is true, but I also assumed you’d have enough sense not to do it while in the plane.”
“Right. It didn’t even occur to me. But still, I promise not to do it again.”
“Nonetheless.”
Zeke stops. “You don’t trust me?”
“That’s not it at all. Most of us have the best of intentions, and we believe them, but as you’ve already experienced, dire circumstances can force one to do foolish things, even break promises. Best you know the dangers of slipping before that happens again. Reduce the level of foolishness, and possibility of death. I’d recommend you not do it at all, but I release you from your promise. The time may come when you have no choice—though you have seen what awaits on other worlds, and experienced its peril.” Peter pauses. “Edgar tells me your arm slipped into a wall, but you were able to remove it without harm.”
“Yeah, but—”
“You should have died.” Zeke balks. “Or at least lost your arm. The odds of you surviving something like that, and whole, are slim, especially for a human. If you have to do it again, you must know the rules. All of them. Otherwise you could die, or kill someone who slips with you. Even Firstborn. Especially a young Firstborn.”
“I get it,” Zeke says, knowing he means Fi. “I need to take this seriously.”
“Very.”
“I will. I promise. For real.”
“I can teach you the basics, but only experience will make you proficient and safe. However, that you were able to do what you did with Fi and Edgar, and then return directly to a previously visited world to rescue Molossus, is remarkable.”
Peter sits on a nearby rock, beckoning Zeke to sit on another, facing him. Fintán comes closer. “Slipping is a tricky business, even for the most experienced Firstborn. It’s a rare talent, and I’ve found no reason why it manifests in some and not others. Only a few dozen have been able to do it. Most are dead.”
Fintán says, “I am impressed you can do it at all.” Zeke’s dumbfounded. Horus is impressed with him. “Only one human we know of has been able to slip, and not even Pater is certain he was truly human.” Peter shoots a look at Fintán.
“Who was it?” Zeke asks.
Peter says, “That’s not something we’ll be discussing at this juncture.” Fintán nods in acquiescence, but Zeke sees the tension between them. Then the moment is past. “There may have been others with the ability, Firstborn and human alike, but for them to slip on their own they must accompany me on a slip first. For that reason, the gift is nearly always discovered by accident.”
“Except for The Ravens,” Fintán adds. “Troublesome when chicks. Slipping from the nest before they learned to fly.”
“Troublesome is an understatement,” says Peter. “Hugin and Munin were their names. You likely know of them from your studies of Norse mythology.”
Zeke says, “They belonged to Odin. Their names often translated as ‘thought’ and ‘memory.’ They whispered happenings of the world in his ear.”
“They were with me for quite some time. Except they didn’t ‘belong’ to me, of course. They were my sons, like all male Firstborn.”
“Oh man. Are they still alive?”
Fintán says, “Hugin betrayed us during the Second Holocaust and was brought down by an arrow. I thought I may have glimpsed Munin once since then, during the Deluge, but I can’t be certain.”
Zeke thinks, the Deluge. The Great Flood. “That really happened too...”
Fintán says, “Yes,” throwing it out as if he’s been asked the most mundane question. But there’s something in his demeanor that makes it clear it’s not a pleasant memory. It takes all Zeke’s willpower not to ask more.
“As far as I know, Munin still lives, though I don’t know where,” says Peter. His look is of reminiscence, both happy and sad. Then he snaps out of it in his mercurial manner and continues as if the thought is gone completely. “As I said, for someone to slip of their own accord, they must first be shown by me. I’ve apparently always had the ability, though it took me over an aeon to discover it. Still, if you don’t have the innate talent—a specific genetic trait inherited from me, I assume—it doesn’t matter how many times I show you, you simply can’t do it. Even The Prathamaja Nandana, with all her age, wisdom, and other talents, can’t slip.”
“But Kleron can,” Zeke interjects.
Peter’s brow furrows. “Yes. Though we discovered it by accident when he was young.” He looks thoughtful once again, but then it’s gone too. “There are rules of slipping even I’m beholden to. We can call them rules, but they’re more like inexplicable laws of nature even I can’t explain. Are you listening?”
“Oh, yes sir,” says Zeke, fascinated.
Peter gets to his feet and paces, gesturing with his hands while he speaks, like a professor lecturing on one of his favorite subjects.
“First, as you know, you must be careful you don’t end up inside something solid. This should be deadly to a human or any non-Firstborn, like wampyrs and werewolves, and as I said, possibly even young Firstborn. To avoid it you need to ‘feel out’ to a nearby world by concentrating, and sense what may be there. Some slippers are better at this than others, and experience makes all the difference. With enough concentration, you can even perceive what kinds of life are nearby. Remember the locusts?”
“How could I forget?”
“You want to avoid them, obviously. I can’t imagine how many there must be or what their origin is, but Kleron had them placed on every world near my home, knowing we might attempt to slip away. I want you to try to sense them now.”
Zeke closes his eyes, letting the memory of the locusts fill his mind. Vague, fuzzy, super-imposed images of landscapes seem to project themselves on his eyelids—shadows of the geography—and locusts. He hears the buzz of their wings, clicking of their mandibles and claws.
“I see them,” he says.
“Excellent. Now, one cannot always know precisely what world they are slipping to unless they’ve been there before. Slipping is not an exact science, even for the most skilled. And even I can’t slip directly to far-away worlds. Though “far” doesn’t mean far in distance, since all the worlds essentially occupy the same ‘space,’ but far in relation to how long ago they appeared in a splitting, or doubling, of this world. Worlds that came into existence in a splitting of earths long ago are harder to get to than those that split recently. The more recent the split, the “closer” the world, so to speak. The safest and surest way to travel to far away worlds is to slip successively across worlds, from nearest to farthest, like crossing a river on stepping stones. More practiced or proficient slippers can skip worlds, even many at a time, and if they’ve been to a world before, it’s easier to find it and get there in later travels.”
“Okay, that makes sense. I guess,” says Zeke—but of course it doesn’t. None of it makes sense in a real and normal sense of ‘sense.’
“As you also know,” Peter continues, “you can take others with you, as long as you have hold of them. Clasping hands is the most reliable, but even holding a belt or piece of clothing will do, as long as you are pulling on it at the time of the slip. But also, they must go willingly. The easiest way to know that is to ask, but if someone truly trusts you, as Fi, Edgar, and even Molossus obviously did, you can do it without permission. For this reason, someone like Kleron can’t simply pop to one world, snatch someone, and slip away, which is fortunate. And neither can I.
“You can take anything with you that you or anyone else you are slipping can carry, push, or pull, as long as they’re doing so at the moment of slipping. Even a large group of people and equipment can be moved in thi
s manner. The most amazing feats of this sort occurred when entire armies were transported from Asgard to Midgard for the final battle of the Second Holocaust. That was carried out by Hugin and Munin, the most accomplished slippers to ever live. I doubt even I could transport such a multitude, let alone at a full run onto a field of combat, as they did. Not safely, anyway.”
“Wait, Asgard is real too? Home of the Norse gods?”
“Of course it is,” Peter answers curtly, wanting to move on.
“And Midgard. The world of humans. That’s our world? This world?”
“It’s one name, yes.”
“And that battle was Ragnarök? It really did already happen?”
“Yes, yes, yes, but I’ll tell you about that another time if you like. Right now you have to focus.”
“Right, sorry.”
“You apologize often, and you don’t need to.”
“Sorry,” Zeke says quickly. Fintán grunts in amusement. “I mean, not sorry.”
“Now, pay attention. You’ll always slip to the same geographic position on the next world from where you departed. Where you slip from, you slip to. There’ve been only rare exceptions. The Ravens, for example, could slip from anywhere on one world to anywhere on another.”
“Like teleporting.”
“Exactly.”
“That would be amazing.”
“It is, and useful, but also extremely dangerous. The Ravens have lost a few passengers in their travels.”
Yikes.
“And as Fintán mentioned, Hugin turned on us during the Second Holocaust, with nearly disastrous results.”
Zeke’s trying to process everything he’s hearing. The Norse myths say nothing about Hugin being a traitor. There’s so much that isn’t written. So much to learn.
Peter claps his hands. “All right then, let’s try it.”
Zeke takes a deep breath as he stands, and says “Okay.” Peter moves to his side and Fintán takes position on the other. Zeke takes their hands, feeling the roughness and strength in their grips, holding him gently so as not to crush him.
Peter says, “Take us to a world without locusts.”
Zeke closes his eyes, shutting out the sights of this world. Almost immediately the sounds and smells of the Scottish Highlands melt away. He envisions the shadowy impressions of other worlds. A world without locusts, he thinks, a world without locusts. He takes a small step. “Slip—”
* * *
—And they’re surrounded by locusts.
“Shit!”
The creatures spy them and swarm in. Peter growls, a guttural sound pressed hard from his lungs. The air bows out around them, its surface swirling with color, like a bubble blown by a child. The locusts crash into it, unable to penetrate.
“You’ve failed your first lesson.” Peter speaks as if also trying to hold his breath. He appears to be flexing every muscle in his body.
“Sorry!”
“This time I accept your apology.” He looks around at the barrier he’s created. “As I continue to recover from the patermentia, my power is returning. I can remake reality here to hold them back, but not for long.”
“Okay, okay,” Zeke says, nearly freaking out at the swarm scrabbling to get at them from only feet away—but also at what else he sees. They’re in a decimated urban setting that goes on as far as the eye can see in every direction. Fintán leans closer to the shield to get a better look at the locusts, the first time he’s seen them.
“Try again, Zeke,” says Peter.
Zeke closes his eyes and concentrates. “Okay, I’ve got this.” He slips—but at the last moment, Peter lets go of his hand.
* * *
Zeke and Fintán stand in a windswept desert. “What did you do?” Fintán asks, seeing Peter isn’t with them.
“Nothing,” Zeke replies, mortified. He whips around, looking for Peter. “He just let go!”
Then Peter appears several feet away.
“Oh my God,” says Zeke. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Good,” Peter replies.
Zeke plans a retort, but says, “Okay. I deserved that.”
Peter takes in their surroundings. “This is much better. Well done.”
“How did you find us?”
“I could feel your intended destination before I let go. You’ll be able to do it too, in time.”
Peter holds up something and studies it. The head of one of the locusts. The neck shell is cracked and broken, inky blood dripping from tendrils of cord, but other than that it’s in perfect shape.
Fintán says, “Are all the populated worlds swarming with these creatures?”
“From what I can tell, yes,” Peter answers.
“There would have to be billions of them.”
Peter’s silence implies agreement. Then he says, “They appear to be engineered, grown,” he taps on the locust’s chrome-like helmet, “with Astra-class armor and claws.” He fingers one of the long antennae. “We need to find out as much as we can about them. I’ll give this to Pratha and Myrddin Wyllt to study. Maybe they can tell us something.”
Zeke can see Peter and Fintán are worried, and that frightens him more than the locusts themselves. Peter hands the locust head to Fintán, who puts it in a pack secured to his waist. Then Fintán catches sight of something in the distance. “They’re here as well,” he says, pointing off into the sky.
Zeke can’t make it out at first, then he sees a dark wisp, high among the clouds, moving of its own accord. “Why don’t they attack?”
It takes a moment for Peter to answer. “I believe they’re watching.” They stand in silence, observing the locusts, then Peter takes Zeke’s hand. “Come, Zeke, let’s practice.”
* * *
The truck trudges along the glen floor, which winds through the rugged terrain. The removable top of the truck’s cab has been left off and stowed in the back, and the windshield is latched forward to the hood. Edgar drives, navigating around rocks and washed-out ravines, some dry, some trickling with water.
For the time being, Mol prefers running along with them to riding. He zigzags in front, investigating crannies in the rocks here, lapping water there, as well as scaring up mountain hares and grouse as he finds them.
In the back, muted daylight enters through windows of clear flexible plastic along the sides, at the front, and through the open back flap above the lift gate. Their sundry gear is piled toward the front and the passengers sit on benches that line either side of the cargo bed, Fi farthest back against the tailgate, Mrs. Mirskaya at her side. Across from Fi is Pratha, and next to her, Baphomet. Myrddin Wyllt lounges further forward on the gear, having arranged a seating area for himself out of the packs. All remain cloaked in their human forms.
Baphomet’s head rests against a brace and his eyes are closed. Fi eyes the slim chains Pratha has used to fetter him at the wrists and ankles.
Mrs. Mirskaya observes Fi’s attention to The Goat. “Don’t worry, Fiona. Those chains will hold him.”
Fi says, “They don’t look very strong.”
Pratha smirks, which she does pretty much all the time. “If he tries to break them, exerts any undue pressure, or even attempts to take on his Trueface, they’ll constrict and cut off his hands and feet. Snip. Just like that.” Fi grimaces. “I could cast a spell to render him paralyzed, blind, deaf, and mute for a time, but this is more fun, don’t you think?”
“You have a strange idea of fun,” Fi replies.
“If you say so.”
Myrddin says, “You saw what he did to Idimmu Mulla. That is nothing compared to his past crimes, or what The Goat is truly capable of.”
“A quick death is better than Dimmi deserved. I waste no grief on that zver,” says Mrs. Mirskaya, using a Russian word for beast. “Baphomet may lie and cajole, but Dimmi had his eye on you, Fiona.” Her fists clench on her knees. “And that is a terrible, terrible thing.” She forces herself to relax. Not wanting Fi to think her overly cruel, she explains, “P
eople of Korea tell fables of the Yeoldaewang, lords of the underworld, leaders of the Jeoseung Chasa, ‘reapers of the dead.’ This comes from time of First Holocaust, 70,000 years ago.
“‘Jeoseung Chasa’ was a name for armies of Asura, and the Yeoldaewang was elite murder squad, designed to spread fear. They tortured humans and Firstborn alike, for information, or to set examples. Even their own Asura who failed in missions, disobeyed, or were suspected of being spies. Idimmu Mulla was not of high rank, but he was Yeoldaewang. His specialty was skinning victims, and rape. They called him Jingjang, The Shredder...” Mrs. Mirskaya pauses, her look introspective as she remembers the horrors she’s seen.
“I hope Dimmi’s timid nature did not fool you. He was two times older than Baphomet, who is older than me. And he was fierce. I would not fight him unless I had to. Baphomet could only kill him because he was wounded, and did not expect The Goat to attack. If Pratha and Peter were not with us, Idimmu Mulla alone could have killed the rest of us easily—but he would not. He liked a slow and painful death for his victims. And more screaming the better.”
Myrddin Wyllt’s gaze is far away. “Dimmi’s depravity and lust knew no bounds. I once came upon a field where the Yeoldaewang had herded the population of an entire village. People hung from trees at its edge, stripped of their skin. Others were being cooked over fire on spits. Men, women, children, even infants. Scores had been staked to the ground with spikes of bamboo through their hands and feet. All were flayed and dead when I arrived, except for one poor old woman. In plain sight, Dimmi was rutting on her, his claws piercing her eyes while he tore at her breasts with his teeth.”
Fi shudders at the image Myrddin’s description conjures. Mrs. Mirskaya speaks in an admonishing tone. “Myrddin Wyllt.”
Myrddin snaps out of his reminiscence, looking to Fi with regret. “I beg your pardon.”
Pratha says, “No. Our new little sister should know these things. Only then will she truly understand what we’re up against.” She turns to Fi. “As well as the cost of losing, or capture. If you are frightened, you should be. Idimmu Mulla was not, is not, the worst of our enemies. The most abominable demons of human memory are real.” Fi sits wide-eyed. She swallows with discomfort. “The commander of the Yeoldaewang was known as Yeolsi,” Pratha continues, “‘he who judged.’ But we know him by his Truename. Baphomet.”