Brina the Victorious

We read often

as the scholars best know how to write

of old songs by our forlorn ancestors

from the lost epoch.

Some of war, some of grief,

some of mirth and glee

some of adventure and deceit

and some of jokes and ribaldry

and many of enchantment.

In the far north this song was written

In a time of kings and roving barbarians

composed among frozen mountains

discovered in frost bitten ruins.

Of all these old songs I can tell maybe some

but not all.

But Listen, true lords and noble ladies!

I will tell you of “Hemford and Brina the Victorious”.

Hemford was known from the deserts of ebony to the coasts of Ivory

An adventurer ordained with a wealth of treasures, knowledge, and wisdom.

From a miner’s camp he started, but only in wandering, never in work, did he find his greatest pleasures. Great deeds spreads by mouth gossip of slayn giants, drowned sea monsters, and fallen castles to the south. Taken by his hand alone.

In the far countries deep inland, they whispered of famined villages' soil revitalized

by his invention. Of crumbling bridges reconstructed, of clean water filtered from brackish, soiled water.

But few know of his later years when he grew disenchanted of questing for idle things like riches or reputation, and became enamoured with a deep yearning to share his wealth and experiences among great mountains and open skies, maps of lost cities, tombs of ancestors, this is what compelled him to take a journey to the cold land. Up a northern path he treaded. His greatest days long  passed.

His flesh sagged from the bone. Brittle hairs hid his scars. He moved slower. The slope lifted over tree tops. The hawks watched the old adventurer. But he stood up straight in his chainmail. An axe on his hip. He entered a hamlet along the road as the sun dropped among four shacks in the middle of feeble fields of frosted dirt and runt crops budding with a single leaf. The peasants returned home from the fields in a group, and as they passed they recognized Hemford by his attire and fabled weapon. The fur cape and the Shield-Splitter. They flocked around him, some begging, some holding their children for a blessing, some asked for stories of the outside world.

some offered him gifts- money, daughters, livestock, all of which he rejected without casting a noticing glance. Apart from a cloak provided to him by a small child to cover his bald head from the falling snow.

Hemford denied his fame, claiming that travelers and songsingers over time exaggerated his greatest glories- but that he would tell the true stories to anyone that might accommodate him for a night and he only wanted to stay with whoever was the hardest worker in the village.

Many lived collected under four sod longhouses. A scant minority lived in shackles around the outskirts of the village. The town appeared leaderless, without a smith, without a healer, without a jarl or landlord.

Brina, son of Arnhoir the Honest, boasted to the embarrassment of his father, that it was he that  works from before the sun rises to well past its descent. Arnhoir grabbed the boy, his face red and ashamed. Arnhoir the Honest, the smallest property of the village- a mere shack with frigid dirt flooring, goats as housemates, a humble fire pit, with hay for the small clan to sleep on in the corner. He farmed a weak plot. Yet he and his sole son worked hard to cultivate the land. Hemford read the hardship in their color drained faces, the worn and tired eyes, the deep wrinkles and hardened flesh, and recognized the misery from his own time in and among poverty.

Hemford pointed his battle toughened finger at Arnhoir and asked him the name of his clan. Arnhoir admitted that his clan had no name. His wife died of madness, two first sons died of plague. Arnhoir pulled his only son to his side to declare that the boy was the only thing he had, and thus was not worthy to host such a legendary idol.

But Hemford already made his decision, and he declared thus:  “Anyone who labors  hard is a hero to me”.  Arnhoir's son smiled as a great joy ignited in his heart.

Hemford entered their shamble of a shack. He ate there, and retold stories of his adventures, companions, enemies until the wolves howled at the emerging moon. Hemford showed them the scars on his body, the knicks taken out from his armour, and where he found the weapons he decorated his belt with. Never once did Hemford purchase any of these- he either made them himself or recovered them from the tomb of a long dead tyrant. Brina's eyes lit up like lighting following a passing storm. The boy stood again proud and as tall as he could make himself, and implored Hemford to adopt him as a colleague, perhaps a squire- anything that Hemford needed, Brina claimed to possess the ability to do. Polish armor, sharpened weapons, saddle horses, tell jokes, sing songs- but Arnhoir recoiled in horror. He ordered his son to be quiet, and turned to Hemford, petrified to see the old adventurer with an expression of deep consideration. Arnhoir explained to Hemford: “If you had any children you would understand. He can't leave. He doesn't know what's out there. Doesn't know of the dangers. He doesn't even have a sword, or armour! And I'm too poor to provide him with any equipment.”

Hemford slapped his knee. “Then I shall! There is no expense too great for me. Your son is at the age when I first set out to find fortune. I'd hate to be the one who might refuse such a chance to experience the miracles of our world.”

“Where are you off too?” asked Arnhoir.

“To find the ruins of AzkurKoatza, sire.”

“Nay! I will never submit my only son to such an errand. No one knows if that

city even exists.”

“I found this map on the body of a crusader floating down the river. If the map is accurate, then it shows the way to the ruins.”

He showed Arnhoir the map. He studied it, but handed it back admitting to Hemford that he was not literate. Hemford pointed to the scribbles, showing him the village they currently rested in, and then showing him the path northwards just under the cliffs of the frozen coast. Some forty miles away.

“What if your wrong, and it isn't there?”

“A warlock in the desert wrote a book about the lost cities, and in this book he tells that the city is lost under the glaciers of the frozen coast. Something is there, and I'm going to find it.”

“I've never been apart from my son, sir. I don't know if I can go without him for long.”

“If that's your decision, sire.” Hemford said, but felt crushed as the Brina's lightning eyes sunk, and he slumped defeated.

Hemford went off the next morning, waking up just as light appeared over the horizon. He noticed Brina absent from the shack, but he took his leave believing the boy to be working as he claimed to. However as he crossed from the town and crossed over the fence of mountains, the young Brina intercepted him. Hemford asked him to explain how he caught up so fast, and Brina explained that he never went to sleep, and left once his father and Hemford dozed off he took his leave, knowing from the map which way Hemford would travel.

Hemford shook his head, though deeply impressed with the boy's determination, expressed his wish that Brina mind his father, as the farmer was right. Dangers are abound in this world. But Brina refused to listen. He began to emotionally plead with Hemford, asking him to take him from the back breaking work that never amounts to a thing, from the small hamlet of daily routine that he could only escape through imaginary treks. For years, he claimed, he wanted to see the frozen coasts, for years, he longed for his chance to depart from the hamlet and never return.

Hemford took the boy by the collar, looked at him with conviction, and told the Brina: “We stop at the city on our way, and get you a weapon and something to protect yourself. We go to the frozen coasts, and I take you back. What your father does to you or me is up to him.”

Brina lost his dreary demeanor and danced like a merrymaker, and joked like a jester the whole week and a half it took them to reach the city gates. There, Hemford purchased for the Brina a bow and arrows so he could hunt for himself, a fishing pole to catch fish, a net to catch bugs if he became desperate for food. He took Brina to an armorer, and paid the man to make for Brina a cuirass of leather since iron he feared would be too heavy. He purchased also a barbuda helmet, the only pre made one small enough to fit the boy’s head. He then bought a saber for the boy to use. Hemford spent the rest of the journey sharing everything he know about the art of sword fighting, surviving in the wilderness, and ways to avoid death in general.

When they arrived to the frozen coasts, Brina was so amazed by the magnitude of the glaciers that Hemford worried that the boy stopped listening to his lesson. Hemford lead the way down the cliff, lowering himself down by rope, and Brina following just behind him. Once on the rocky shore, Brina looked determined and focused. He practiced all that Hemford taught him along their search. He dug out fish trapped in ice, he shot a big crab, and they ate its meat for days. Brina and Hemford dueled to keep their skills sharpened, and to Hemford's suspense Brina  kept up with him and even countered his strikes. They found each other laughing as they dueled, losing idle time as their practice became enjoyment.

After two weeks, Hemford showed Brina on the map where they were, and pointed to the cave before them. “That's it. It's what the warlock writes about. Looks just as he describes, and smells the same too. Be prepared, and stay close to me.”

The two went inside, Hemford leading and Brina behind. Glowing ice cycles illuminated the frost bitten walls. Vines of ivy hung from the ceiling. Rats squeaked, and water dripped into frigid puddle, freezing once it met contact. The deeper in they went, the darker the cave became. The glowing ice worked only where it met sunlight to absorb. Hemford lit a lantern and held it out. The oil smelled like whale and cast moving shadows onto the walls. Brina felt himself growing nervous and more nervous as the path tilted downwards into a stream of moist,warm air.

“Something is down here.” Hemford slid down and pulled Brina with him. They tumbled over rocks and frightened away the rodents with their clanking of equipment. Other sounds emerged from deeper in the cave. Ferral sighs and groans. Hemford pulled Brina up, and told him to be ready for anything. The lantern shattered, and the oil burned, revealing the rest of the way impassible due to a collapse. Hemford pushed against the blockage, removed loose stones, but he found that the blockage went on for miles and sealed the passage shut. The feral groans arose once more. Hemford came away from the earth rubble and told Brina to remain by the fire. Something came for them. A dozen groans darted along the walls, snarls and smacking of flesh as tiny eyes emerged in the fire light, holding small but sharp razors cut from unmeltable ice. The creatures pounced, and the two fought them back as they retreated back up the incline. Halfway up, Hemford looked around. Blood on his weapon, and dead feral creatures littering his path, but Brina was gone. Hemford hurried back down, slashing and hacking at the creatures . Brina's sword lay against a rock on the incline. His helmet down further way, and the rest of his supplies scattered down. At last he found Brina laying in the dirt, face down, arms and legs twisted, the creatures prodding his body with their spears. Hemford released a rage he thought only possible for a younger man, and cut the rest of the creatures into ribbons, chopping the little devils apart even after death before going to Brina with a heavy dread filling his heart.

He rolled Brina over, and saw the boy died when one of the creatures nicked his thigh. Brina probably didn't even feel it,or was too proud to say anything, and when he lost too much blood he tumbled down the incline. Hemford scooped the boy up, and carried him out of the cave.

Hemford lived for two more decades. In that time he refused to return to the far north, his memories and shame too great. However when an old companion from the northern city called on him, Hemford was compelled to head northwards once more. He took the same path as before over the mountains, but didn't stand up straight like a legendary adventurer- more as the old man he felt he had become. He pulled a hood over his head as he crossed through the hamlet. He hoped none would notice him, so he moved at night, silently, hiding his armour and weapons beneath a cloak. Unfortunately he forgot where he acquired the cloak, and one of the villagers recognized the gift they bestowed to the hero, and they cried to the rest of the hamlet- only fifteen people lived there then, and they all just as before assembled to once again meet the famous adventurer. They didn't ask him this time about his own journeys or stories, but about Brina- what became of Brina? And Hemford began to fill with tears, much to the grave concern of the villagers. Among the crowd stood Arnhoir the Honest. Hemford hung still, wordless, motionless, Hemford he dropped his head, swallowed, and turned to the hamlet. He told them about Brina- how the boy caught him as he travelled, about his resourcefulness in nature, and how the boy kept Hemford alive after the rope broke as they descended the cliffs. He told them that Brina nursed him, aided his healing, and searched for the cave as well as brought food to nourish Hemford until at last the boy came back to camp with the news of his discovery. Limping, and on crutches, they went into the cave, deep inside, only to be ambushed by monsters in the dark. The villages held their breaths. Arnhoir looked like a statue about to tip over. But Hemford told them if Brian hadn't been there with him, that he would have died in that cave or on the rocky beach, and that he was honored to have such a companion. The villages came closer. They wanted to hear more about their great hero, and so he told them all about the adventures and treasures recovered by the stalwart farmboy. How Brina slew more brutal monsters than he ever had, and braved far worse challenges than Hemford dreamed of accepting. Hemford looked above the villagers at the aurora burning in the night sky, and suggested that he believed Brina to be a king by now. These stories captivated the villager's imaginations for years to come, and as the generations developed, these stories became embellished- Brina the Victorious became a word greater than the entire life of the meager hamlet. Long after the village became a ghost's wail in the wind, the stories remained.

Hemford left the next morning, awaking from an old woman's chicken coup and moving on, but along the way out he saw Arnhoir the Honest toiling. Lifting a worn out hoe with a labored grunt over his back and wedging it in the cold, barren soil. He stopped to rest, looking tired, but with a light in his eyes. “I'm glad my son is out there doing great things, sir.” he said to Hemford. “But if you run into him, just tell him that his father wishes he would come visit. Just one time."

The Crawlspace

The real estate developer stopped his truck on the side of the road. The Nissan Titan he drove still smelled like new car. The paint still shined like fresh glue. He set the brake. The vehicle adjusted with a clank. He opened the door, shielding his eyes from the unchallenged tyranny of the sun. Dusty wind blew thin hair over his sunburned scalp. He wondered about moving his car. He looked up the road and down, but saw nothing but simmering heat waves. He left the door open, and checked out a rusted shiloh nested by wild animals before the field. The land smelled arid and of kindling. Tall yellow grass swayed from neglected irrigation ditches. Dirt mounds piled up around the fossils of dead trees. No path led to the hamlet. As he stepped closer through the bush a flock of Sandhill Cranes flocked from the grass. A garter snake ran between his shoes. Pieces of foliage and burrs stuck to his pant legs. The heat waves over the town subsided as he came nearer. He kept his eyes shielded. The sun punished the land, and all who live on it. His gut swayed past his belt. His thighs rubbed together. He looked at his watch. Less than ten minutes and sweat dripped down his back and soaked his neck. He wiped sweat away from his forehead, and squinted to make out the town in front of him. The smallest place he ever saw. Three roads assembled in the shape of a C-clamp. Buildings with signs that faded long ago with wooden siding and roof shingles that peeled from structure. Dark windows stared lifelessly. Abandoned cars wasted away beneath crumbling lean twos. The scars of a railroad long since removed impressed the dirt. A church stood at the far end, its walls gone, leaving only the bell tower, the pews, the pulpit on top of small gardens of re emerging weeds. Dark birds sat on these buildings and squawked at the land developer. He tossed his coat over his shoulder and tugged at his collar. A single power line strung over the lake of grass to the town. He saw the line connect to a single building. An iron fence impeded him. He hopped over the top into an alley filled with trashed signs, broken glass, and pieces of building. He peeked through holes in the wall, noticing it completely deserted. Pushing away from the wall and surveying the building. An iron ladder with loose bolts led to the roof where he could see over the land. The ladder shifted and adjusted against his feet. The land developer's sweaty palms slid against the iron bars. Once at the top, he watched the power line go on over the field to a roof one mile away. He followed the power line from the building to a lonely house. The black birds lifted from their watch towers and glided along towards the house. Some settled on the roof, others in the branches of a twisted ash tree.

The land developer's heart pounded and his ankles ached. He stopped in the shade, leaning on the trunk. Taking a minute to breath, he lifted an eyebrow and looked back to the hamlet as if someone called his name. He then looked back at the house, as if it fell from the sky. A fresh, untarnished coat of pink paint covered the siding. Fogged designs of butterflies and flowers stained the windows. The land developer stomped up to shade of the porch, he wiped sweat from his brow and peered through the windows of the front door. Hard wood floors, deep red paint, flooded with sunlight. The land developer took the knob and twisted it. Through a small crack he called for any residents. No one responded but his echo. He didn't know what to expect. The county office insisted the property was unowned and for sale. Yet the paperwork he saw in that office implicated that someone lived there.

He looked back towards the yard. Tall grass, wild weeds, but no vehicles or tire impressions. Biting his tongue he pushed open the door and entered, walking on the balls of his feet. Grains of dust floated through the window light like bugs. The interior welcomed him. It looked finished and sharp. Clean, and well maintained. He entered, feeling alone, taking heavy, confident steps. From the main room he looked to his left. No door covered the kitchen. To the right, he could see the banister of the parlor above a fireplace. Ashes scattered in the bed. He went in. Glass doors hung open, the compartments along the walls empty. Staples from a carpet removed poked from the floor into his shoes. He knelt before the fire place, holding his palms above the black ashes. He sensed no heat. With a pen from his pocket he poked the ash but the substance burned away long ago. The ash came apart into brittle flakes. He leaned in and looked up the chimney. He squinted to see in the dark but with a light from his phone he saw the limestone maintained its white luster without marks of smoke or heat. He exited the parlor and entered the kitchen.

Faded stains marked where the appliances once stood. Only the sink remained. The land developer tried the water but nothing ran. In the cupboards he found patches of shedded fur, but nothing else. He looked in the pantry. No food. But he heard something. It sounded distant, and quiet. He lost interest and went back to the main room. He ascended the staircase. Each step creaked and whined but to his relief nothing collapsed from under him. He tried a light switch at the top of the stairs but the buttons effected nothing. A hallway ran down from the top of the stairs with two bedrooms and another bathroom. He inspected both bedrooms but sighed, finding nothing but old blankets and moth eaten suits stored away in the closet. He felt bad for the house. Such a pretty little gem in the dust of Sioux county. But places like this didn't sell. Not like what he planned to build.

He turned down the stairs deciding not to waste anytime getting the bulldozers running. His fat fingers dialed the digits, but he stopped in the main room. A library of curiosities struck. A door stood in the corner. He felt certain that he checked all over. Something inside him wound like stretching tendons. The land developer took the knob, but a lock kept it in place. A horrendous odor seeped from under the door. He liked it at first. Sweet like blueberry syrup. But it became too sweet for even his appetites.He preparred to exit, with the knob dropped to the floor and the door swung open.

He told the demolition manager about it in the air conditioning of the foreman's trailer. They came in together, covered in dust. The room temperature chilled them like a deep freezer. Through the window both could continue monitoring progress. The backhoe used its scoop to pull down flooring on the second floor. A bulldozer pushed away what came down.

“So that's where the old man was hiding? Poor old bastard. What did you tell the police?”

“Same thing anyone would tell them. Got my project delayed by two days for what it's worth.”

“It's really a shame.” The demolition manager watched from the window. “it was a lovely home. Don't see much woodwork on houses nowadays. Can't believe you wouldn't find a buyer.”

“Of course I could get a buyer. But I prefer to look at the big picture.”

“What do you think he was doing in the closet?”

“I don't know. Old man went in to change the light, had a stroke or something.”

“Or someone killed him and stuffed him in there.”

“I like to think he went in there happy. Maybe he wanted to die in the closet.”

The southern wall collapsed. A cloud of dust swallowed the machinery but wind blew the cloud away. The machines roared. Bit by bit they broke the house apart and swept the lot clean.

“Looks like this is going faster than anticipated. We might be able to start construction tomorrow if we can get the land all cleared today.”

“Good.” The land developer said.

The machines finished. A flat, dirt lot now rested where the house and the overgrown grass did before. The land developer went to bed early, but his mind raced. The home in his mind excited him. He turned on a lamp, and sketched page after page of his architectural fantasies. This stimulated him further. He looked at the clock. He told the crew he wanted construction to begin at six am. A few hours away. He climbed out of bed, slid into baggy jeans and threw on a golf polo. He got into his luxury truck, and took it to the hamlet. The bulldozers flattened a path through the grass which he followed to the square lot of dirt. He took the keys out of the ignition, shut door and entered the gentle warmth of a summer night. He looked up at the stars. A flurry more than what can be seen in Omaha. In truth he hated that polluted jungle of poverty, crime, and worst of all- concrete. He stepped onto the dirt wishing he lived out in the open air, but his feelings halted. A familiar sound. The land developer put his soft hand by his ear, and he listened. It took a bit of concentration. He tried to remember where, and then he recalled hearing this faint sound in the pantry of the farm house. He stepped further into the dirt. The sound developed. He couldn't mistake it. A woman cried. He looked around, and called out for anyone that might need help. No one responded. He walked deeper. The crying sounded muffled, like behind a locked door. In the dark his foot found a block of concrete. The land developer cussed and knew for certain because he personally oversaw the process that everything was cleared. The moon shined through the clouds and revealed something that he failed to notice when he first saw the farm house. A cellar door. He took hold of the handle. The sobbing vibrated against the plywood. The door budged, but something caught it. Squatting low, and using his thighs, the door opened with a pop. The crying emitted from beneath. He stood above the short stairway. Cold air pushed up his pant legs. Nails stabbed through support beams where the stairs left the pale impressions on the wood. The land developer hollered into the dark, asking if anyone needed help but the weeping darkened into grinding of vocal cords, choking on tears. With light from his phone, he inspected the bottom. Rubble of the stairs piled in a dangerous heap. As if the steps collapsed on top of each other all at once. He dropped himself down, sitting on the ledge and lowering his body and watching the dirt disappear behind the limestone wall.

The weeping sunk into the limestone and muffled bashing slapped against the rocks. The land developer touched the wall and let his hand guide him to the first corner. Hushed. He stayed close to the wall and bent his knees to spring away if need be. Cobwebs covered the adjacent corner. He felt the voice vibrate against the wall. The structure changed. His fingertips slid across smooth stone to rough, red brick. A centipede crawled from a gap between bricks and crawled over his hand. He shook it off, and when his palm came away from the wall the intensity of the bleating enhanced. It sounded violent. Fearful anticipation… a harrowed gasp- as if recoiling from attack, then dumbfounded mumbles and suicidal moans- interrupted by the muffled bashes that sounded sweeter, and meatier each time the vibration startled the brick. The voice rose again to the peak of beastial alarm- this time the land developer heard the crack of bone. The wall tensed like a cramped muscle. It felt like the handle of a push mower. He thought he would be sucked inside. He figured where the source came from. The power behind the wall told him as much. He rose the light and it revealed the crawlspace. A rectangular window, wide as a bench, tall as the wheels of a Saturn. The space blasted the sound like a speaker. The land developer took hold of the edge. He wondered if something inside waited for a chance to bite him. He put his phone in his mouth with the light source facing down. He wished he brought a flashlight as he took the end with his free hand and kicking against the cracks he elevated himself to the crawlspace. He inserted his head. The wretching agony crushed his ear drums like headphones. All other sounds muted. He heard the stretching of the windpipe and the tearing of the lingual frenulum. A crow must be crawling up their throat, the land developer thought. He stuck his hand in and took hold of cracks in the cement and pulled his bovine gut inside. He crawled until he could squeeze his fat knees in. Saliva gargled. He could hear it boil in the throat. Tilting his head up he could see with one eye beyond the phone. He moved slow, and the sound of the crying slowed too. Drawn out, so that each tremble of vocal chords became its own song. The gust of despair rose on a draft. The land developer took slow breaths. The air tasted like mold. Spit dripped from the corners of his mouth. He crawled further until his hands left the cement and found raw earth. Roots tickled his forehead, and swept into his eye. He paused to turn the phone to the other side of his mouth. He tilted his head downward. A shallow halo of light cast down the tunnel. He made out words from the strained cries. “What have you done... what have you done...”. He crawled further. He felt the roots brush his back. He panted. Sweat poured down the side of his head. The musk of his arm pits smothered his breathing. A sweater of heat covered him. His bladder pressed against his pelvis. His slow breathes. Faster breathes made him anxious as if a giant rat crawled in behind him with its plagued teeth. His palms landed in what felt like syrup. The tunnel heated up. Everything he touched felt sticky. The light revealed a curve. The tunnel twisted. His shoulders brushed against dirt. When he moved his head dirt crushed his nose. Dirt filled his nostrils until he sneezed. He stopped for a minute fearing the ceiling gave way behind him. The crying ordered his attention. The ceiling pressed against his spine. He dropped the arch in his back. His spine popped. A few meager feet forward, the ceiling constricted further until he could feel moist soil filled in the valley of his spine. He dropped to a prone position. Swaying his hips, he moved inch by inch. The crying warred. Like a jet flying overhead. His ear drums rang. His elbows cut through dirt like hoe blades. His wrists crossed under his chin. His gut dragged over every sharp rock waiting for him. Dirt soaked in sweat caked his navel. His lungs starved. A vacuum stuffed down his throat sucked up the oxygen. Inch by inch he crawled.The crying exploded.
The sweater steamed into a suit of armor. His bladder filled up. His phone shoveled dirt. He snaked over a curve. A root scraped ribs. He felt bitter grains on his tongue. His skin, every inch, suited in earth. Moving forward. His rib cage peeling against the limits of the tunnel. Pieces of the ceiling sprinkled down. The lamenting paused, as if they heard him coming and wanted to speak to him, but only nonsense emitted from the end of the tunnel. Progress slowed. His hips felt screwed into the walls. His shoes flapped without space to stretch. His knees only bent when he crossed his feet, and putting both feet together like a fin, he kicked from the curving wall and pulled with claws forward. His bladder felt like a cracking dam. His teeth bit into the phone screen. Deeper. Deeper.

Something scratching at his leg, and delicate pods began beating up his pant leg, and over his back. A mouse. The rodent scampered further down, and jumped into a hole. The land developer wanted to go backwards, but to have one of his buildings put over a trapped person enticed a harrowing feeling. He clawed further to the mouse hole. The sobbing halted. They held their breath. Played dead. The land developer crawled closer to the hole locating the source of weeping and to his revulsion once the light revealed it, he found not a mouse hole but the empty pits of a skull with a mouse tail dangling out, like a tear. He tried to move backwards. But a crash erupted and dusty air filled the tunnel. The stream of cold air behind him stopped. He shook, feeling like the most foolish thing living on this planet. He dialed on his phone. He tried to explain his problem, but tortured cries interrupted him. He tapped the hang up key, but the crying kept on. As did a skeletal hand over the glowing screen, crushing it, and leaving the land developer in darkness. He screamed and kicked. The crying began self satisfied giggles. He pounded against the tunnel with his fat hands. Breath becoming short, he stopped, saving his air. He wanted to sleep. Never did a nice, long sleep appeal to him, but he understood what falling asleep meant. He kept thinking to himself. The crew will find the cellar. They will rescue me. Until the roar of machinery began to shake the ground. He started to cry, his weeping going from pitiful to fanatical.

The workers got started. The sun just rose. The music of power tools, and trucks carrying supplies. The crane stood by. The manager looked at his watch. “He should be here by now.” he told the foreman. “oh well. He'll show up eventually.”

Enochian Blood

Bancroft sat in the chair hidden in a niche of shadow between two gleaming windows. He watched the surgeon sleeping. A snore emerged every three breathes with a flare of his nasal cavity. The morning light reached the bed and rose to the sheets. Bancroft leaned forward into the light. Any minutes now. The world was awakening. A smoky haze hunger over the bluffs. The wind came through the crack in the window and brushed the curtains. It reeked of funeral pyre. Grass fires torched the Midwest. No one determined the cause for the magnitude. Patches of fire across Iowa, South Dakota, Illinois, Colorado- Kansas was ablaze and no people crossed from state lines- Nebraska however remained untouched by the flame. So far. Many strange things occurred lately. Unbelievable things. But none of it mattered to Bancroft. He wanted to resume his search. And he had only one place left to look. Once he finished his work.

The drone of semis down the highway devoured the songs of the meadowlarks. It reminded Bancroft of a time before- back a decade or even more. Bancroft rubbed his sharp chin and shifted his head towards the light. A highway junction diner one midnight in Missouri.

That night Bancroft ate a steak. Rare. And smoked a cigarette. He scribbled on a pad. Taking notes, drawing diagrams, making lists and scratching away possibilities- figuring where he ought to begin searching. The counter lady distracted his concentration. “You can't smoke in here.” she pointed to a sign.

“You don't get paid enough.” He told her.

Her attention drifted to a tired stranger with long legs, short fingers, with elbows that axed out like yield signs. He came in, passed the row of empty seats, and dropped into the stool adjacent to Bancroft. Half of his face leathery and scaled. Bancroft knew right away. A truck driver. One of his eyes oozed with infection. A band aid covered a spot on his throat. He smiled at the counter lady. His open mouth exposed so much gum that it grew over one of his front teeth. Before any sentence he hummed like a motorboat, collecting his thoughts. He asked for a plate of crackers and a glass of water.

He leaned over to peek at Bancroft's project.

“Mmm...What are you looking for?”

“none of your business.” Cigarette ash smeared across the page.

“Can I bum a smoke?”

“No.”

“Just one?”

“Then I must give one to everybody.” Bancroft meditated on how to get away with his next murder.

“You aren't a nice guy. Been hauling since '92 and not met a single nice person out there.”

Bancroft snorted and pretended to watch the TV. The news reported on police recovering a body from an old dryer abandoned in the bed of a creek. The truck driver snickered.

“Hey.” he nudged Bancroft. “Hear about her before?”

“Not my problem.”

“Have you?” his enthusiasm rose. “Have you?”

Bancroft smashed the cigarette out on his plate. “Why do you insist on bothering me?”

“Because I knew you the minute I saw you that we’d be friends. Mmm...You’re going to like what I have to say. That girl went missing two months ago. I had her in the back of my truck.”

“You're sleep deprived.”

“No-No. I got pictures-” he took out his wallet and took a folded parchment from a hidden sleeve “had her in my truck for two months.”

He unfolded the parchment. A Polaroid of the girl on the TV. She wore a woman’s dress that awkwardly drooped over her. Stood crew footed in heels too small for her feet. With red palms held up to plead. She stood on a weed garden growing out from rotting floor boards. Vines hung from holes in the roof, no walls behind her. Only open country. Her emaciated features sharpened.

“Ain't she a dime.” Bancroft stuck the dead cigarette back in his mouth.

“I move all over the country. By the time they find a body I'm gone. They can search my truck, but she’s gone too!”

“You’re worse than an ape.” Bancroft pressed a finger into the truck driver's chest. “A mindless mongoloid.”

Bancroft paid his bill and walked out. The truck driver sat with his plate of crackers. Crestfallen. Bancroft walked among the junction. Storage garages, a sanitation center, a cigar shop, and a keno bar. The sanitation center looked cleaner and better maintained than the rest. Iron bars impeded windows to the cigar shop. The garages smelled of urine and burned out aspiration. Black letters dropped from the keno bar's sign. It read Fri Kor Night. A vagabond dug through a dumpster. He peeked from the receptacle when he heard Bancroft's boots pass. Bancroft paid no mind. He stared at the pad in his hands. The search looked like it would take a lifetime. At his car he put the pages in his back pocket. He took out keys and unlocked the door. He paused. Steps encroached behind him. A heavy hand clasped his shoulder and swung him around. The truck driver's trembling, tear filled face looked into Bancroft's beady eyes.

“Please, don't tell no one what I said! Please,-”

Bancroft took the hand from his shoulder, and pressed his thumb into a magic button between the truck driver's two middle fingers. He squealed in pain and dropped to his knees. Bancroft only pressed harder.

“Listen here. I've killed more more people than you've met.”

Bancroft dropped the hand, climbed into his car and drove into the night. He would’ve broken the man's arm but he admired the truck driver for his success over the years. He understood the photo meant that he kept other photos and the police don't need to find a body in the truck if they can find a photograph. Bancroft spent the rest of the night thinking of how he would get away crimes of the truck driver. He knew how to get away with such crimes. He did it before. But wolves don’t teach ferrets how to hunt.

Bancroft took his thoughts back to the present, but wondered if one of those trucks came from that junction in Missouri. Bancroft looked back from the window. The surgeon stirred, his pale arms reaching out from under the sheets and stretching out as he lifted his head from the pillow. Weariness sealed his eyes shut. He dropped his head back down, rubbed his eyes, arched his back, rolled his hips around and cracked his back. He sat up and opened his eyes. Confusion snapped across his face, and then a frozen concern paralyzed him. Bancroft stretched his legs out into the light, crossed them, and watched like a burned out scientist waiting for results. The surgeon swung his head to the empty glass, and gasped. “Who sent you?”

“None of that now.”

“You remember me don’t you?”

“No.”

“We went to Creighton together. Don't you remember?”

“I already poisoned you. There’s no talking your way out of this.”

“I remember you!” Sweat dripped into his eyes. “Bancroft Malum! Remember when we shaved all the cadavers and we thought Doctor Gupta was going to eat us alive? You said you didn't care because you really wanted to be a vet!”

“It doesn't matter, anyhow. I already spent the money.”

“but why... why?” veins in his neck throbbed. He clutched at his chest and groveled in agony. He curled up and dug his fingers into his chest as if to scrape the poison out. Foam spilled over pale lips as his limbs spasmed out of his control. Bancroft leaned forward, checked his watch, and smiled like a child on Christmas Eve peeking into the presents. He concocted his own poisons, waited all night, and the serum took effect exactly when he predicted. His stomach growled. Bancroft didn't care. Finishing his search occupied his mind. Once the surgeon died.

In his last moments the surgeon lifted with a bolt of life and tumbled from the bed, grabbing hold of his sheets, the white fabric flowing on top of him as he dropped with a mild crash. Bancroft stood up.
He lifted the sheet away from the stone face of his target. Felt his neck. No pulsation. Bancroft whistled a melody he no longer remembered the name of. The only lyrics he remembered: There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Immanuel's veins, And sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains. Bancroft stuck his hands into his pockets and stood up to leave. He walked with his shoulders pinched and his upper body perched forward. His steps echoed like heart beats.

Bancroft exited the bedroom, closing the door soundlessly behind him. A gallery of photos hung on the walls. Mountains. Fish. The surgeon shaking hands with other white coats. He came into the parlor and stopped before the stairs that led to the front door. He smelled coffee. He turned his head to a door barely open. Dishes clanged, a tap ran. Tender humming of flat notes. The running water stopped. The door opened. Bancroft stood exposed in the light spilling in from the balcony. A young lady halted in the doorway. Her eyes snared onto Bancroft as if a grizzly bear stood before her. She didn't see the nocturnally pale skin tone of Bancroft nor the flowing coattails of his suit. She saw a hideous idol emerging from noxious artillery shell smoke with wings scraping the walls. Tangles of hair impaled on barbed finger tips with one hand outstretched as if intending to tear out the heart of heaven. Igniting eyes that burned with the intensity to drill through quartz. The monster she saw seethed like a meteor striking the ocean-

Bancroft stood frozen. He reached for his weapon, and remembered that he left it behind in his vehicle. But he didn’t need a gun. He cocked his tongue. The whistling stopped. He shifted his eyes to the photographs on the mantel. One of the girl, her homely features asymmetrical like disjointed woodwork. He smirked.

“You must be the daughter. Wasn't expecting any visitors.” He walked forward.

“I was s-s-surprising him…” Tears build up in her eyes. His heartbeat-steps struck like hammers on a hot blade. His eyelashes pointed at her like a row of archers.

“Not today. You know there’s one nerve in your body- the nervus radialis in your brachial plexus- it is the most painful nerve in your body. But we won’t need to find that out, will we? I’m willing to forget all about this,” He took the coffee from her. “If you just get in your car, drive back home, climb into bed, and forget that you ever came here.”

“I'm just here to s-see my dad.”

“Smart. Now, I’d like to bring you to him.”

He went down the stairs and the daughter followed. Bancroft whistled the rest of his song. They went out the front door, across the porch, and to the well across the property. Bancroft lifted the lid, and looked down. Dark fluid shimmered along the sandy bottom. His head cut against the glaring reflection. Mist poured from the trees. Forest animals scampered. Grassy dew soaked through his shoes.

“Look below.”

“I’m afraid to. As a little girl I thought mons-s-s-sters would pull me down.”

“The monsters are up here with us.”

She tilted her head to see. Her eyes popped out of thin eyelids. She stared and for a second she thought she saw the arachnid legs of her nightmares crawling up with ferocious hunger for daylight. A nail at the tip of the leg grabbed a coil of hair. The hollow wail of the well walls constrained her gasps, her deep voice moaning disfigured cries. Her head dropped and her waist followed. The water splashed at the bottom. The sound rose like smoke. Bancroft recovered the well. The semi trucks droned over the sound of the waking world but vanished in the distance as Bancroft walked back to where he left his Mercedes.

Bancroft walked across the lawn. Dew soaked through his socks. Summer mornings pleased him. The killer heat is dormant. The air feels almost springlike. As he exited the property, an acute pain picked at his brain. Silver aura blinded his left eye, and along with acute pain. Bancroft rubbed his temples. The pain only increased. Nausea boiled his stomach. A red hot coal burned in his skull. The silver aura widened. And from the silver he thought he saw cloaked shadows. Flat ground splitting apart, and jet towers erecting. A cult of monsters stood around a plateau. There stood a creature in black armour beneath a cape of royal purple. Four arms, with a pair of man legs beneath its waist and a shrunken pair of wolf legs from the sides of it's hip bone, Bancroft almost fell over. The silver loomed over him... the scene right in front of him, feeling as real the air breathed. Feathers covered the flesh of the creature. It took hold of the helmet it wore. Bancroft panicked and dropped to the ground. The silver aura shrunk and seeped into the grass. Bancroft climbed up. He felt fine brushing grass off his chest and legs. Dehydration, he figured. He tried to remember last time he ever suffered from any migraine, let alone one so pronounced. Sleep deprivation, he lamented.

A police cruiser idled at a crossing of the country road. His gut toughed. The windshield reflected the bleach sky. But remained still. Even as Bancroft paused and looked at it through the cross hairs of his squinting eyelids. A strange curiosity enticed him. The police cruiser looked to be thirty years old. A sedan. Black with white doors. The lights on top broken. The headlights broken too. Rust ate away at the vehicle. Bullet holes riddled the hood. Bancroft approached. The gravel from the road dusted his pant legs and caked his damp shoes. The water irritated his feet. The cruiser parked diagonally. Cracks crossed the windshield. Bancroft peered inward. He found no one inside. A scoped rifle locked into place on the dash. The back seats smeared with dry blood. A glove lay with the fingers drooping over the seat. He readjusted his headwear, and went back to his own vehicle.

Bancroft entered his Mercedes, took out the map, and marked where he needed to be with an X. He removed his coat, unbuttoned his shirt, took his shoes off, and unpeeled the socks from his feet. Waiting the night away drained his strength. His thighs and shoulders ached. He yawned until his jaw popped. He started the car up. He wished for an 8-ball. Anything to stimulate his journey out of Nebraska. He hated this place. The heat feels more personal. As if the land intended to kill anything living on it. Not because it wants nothing to live there, but because power is its own excuse. Bancroft just needed to cross over the west.

He drove to the highway and turned on the radio. A gospel station played music from the 40's. The kind of music that his grandfather liked. Bancroft liked the scratch of old records, the ghostly recordings of easy going voices behind pipe organs. He wished for Christmas time. For the snowy weather, but most of all for the Christmas songs. He rolled the window down. The earth warmed up. The air rushed in and stunk of pesticide. The plains cut into rows of tiny sprouts. Bancroft noticed. No others cars joined him on the highway. Not ahead of him. Not behind. Only the haze of smoke. He pressed the accelerator. The rivets on the pedal impressed the sole of his foot. He shifted to fifth gear. The station's morning show started. Bancroft reached to change the station, but what they said surprised him. An earthquake in Iowa. 6.8 magnitude. Only minutes ago. Damage so grievous that president Duke was due to make a rare public appearance. Bancroft wondered if anyone would try to shoot the president again. After that ended a new show began. Bancroft listened at once, his attention snared. He couldn't believe what he heard. He turned up the volume. A spiritual guru addressed calls from distressed old ladies. Bancroft couldn't be sure, but he started giggling, wondering if it could be... the caller asked him something. The spiritual leader hummed like a motorboat as he collected his thoughts. Bancroft exploded in laughter. The truck driver. After all these years! He slapped his thigh. Laughed until his ribs ached. He struggled to breath. Each time he tried to halt it only became funnier. His cheeks burned, and his side cramped. He glanced back to the road, and a glimpse of shadow slipped from a patch of high grass. He lost concentration. He laughed until a cramp sealed his right side and it hurt enough to cause him to lose his voice and choke out silent laughter. The shadow in the road developed and as he sped nearer he saw definitions of a dumbstruck kid- Bancroft caught these details and cried “By God!” as he slammed the brakes. The wheels screeched, but the hood devoured the boy. All the same. The car stopped. Bancroft broke from the car and ran across pavement to the twisted body. One look made it clear. Bancroft swore and stomped the road. An easy wind pushed by carrying small cyclones of dust. He checked each way with his arms on his hips. Grassy plains filled with space between bean fields. A barn with the roof caved in beyond some trees. No houses. No witnesses. Bancroft looked back to the kid. Straight black hair matted with blood. Glasses now in pieces, and forged into what's left of his face. A bag in his possession. Bancroft took it and undid the tie. A pillow. A blanket. A pack of Chesterfields. The kid was a runaway. Bancroft stuffed the smokes in his pocket. Took the blanket out, covered the body and rolled the runaway up. He bent down and hoisted up the body. Not hard work. Weighed 90 pounds at the most, but pieces of the runaway stuck to the road as the body lifted. Bancroft chastised the dead runaway as he took him to the trunk. “Little cretin! Look where you're walking next time. Now look what I have to do! Any idea how much time this costs me? How much trouble this is?”

He stuffed the runaway in the trunk. Shut the hatch. The heat intensified. Sweat ticked down behind his ear. Another migraine hit. He leaned against the car. The silver aura strobed, and pain chiseled between the hemispheres of his brain. The pain didn't bother him. He'd been mauled by dogs, stabbed with a rusted pitch fork, electrocuted by a car battery. But Bancroft shook in fear. The tower. The feathered creature before the congregation of ailing horrors. He never felt a fear so potent, as if the danger already ate away at him like a parasite. Bancroft vomited. What little his stomach contained. The runaway's blood soaked into the road. Bancroft looked to the blood, but a flash of light stabbed his eyes. He looked to the shade of a tree on a hilltop. The old rusted police car sat with sunlight reflecting in splashes of light. A scope. Bancroft climbed back into his Mercedes. Kept his head low, but surveyed the landscape. He drove further, pulled onto a country road, and followed it until he lost sight of the police cruiser. He took a towel from his things, and stopped to clean blood and pick pieces of boy from the grill. He lit the towel on fire and let wind blow the ashes away. Another migraine came and went back into hiding.

In the distance a tower of smoke rose from a ring of blackened stakes ranked from a halo of ash. Flakes of charred leaves floated from the crown of the tower of smoke. Insects popped against the windshield. The wipers smeared yellow guts across the glass. A grasshopper plopped onto the ridge of the rolled down window. It's wings folded into its body. Bancroft swatted at it. But it remained in place watching with bulbous eyes locked onto Bancroft. He flicked it out the window and rolled the window up. A wing stuck to the windshield. The wipers failed to scrape it off no matter how many times they passed over it.

Bancroft massaged his temples to alleviate the lingering migraine. Some pain numbed, but the pain that felt at the core of his brain hurt as much as ever. His left eye remained blind this time, but he felt it tremble. The cornea down to the stem, to the root of his brain.

A warm grasp fell over his shoulder. He thought something from the back fell over, but the warmth soon leaked down his shoulder. He took hold and his foaming nausea expanded to the base of his throat. A bloody hand of broken knuckles hung on his shoulder. In the rearview he clearly saw the collapsed face of the runaway he hit sitting up against the driver's seat. Metal rims imbedded into the bridge of his nose, glass in his eyes. Blood dripped. He sat quietly. Not breathing. His hand without pulse.

“You're no ordinary runaway.” Bancroft said. The rolling definitions of the smoke became clear.

The runaway tried to speak but his jaw hung fractured. He pointed to the smoke.

“What's there?” Bancroft's left eye closed. Tears leaked. He rubbed them away.

The runaway gestured with his twisted hands. A rifle.

“How far has he been following me?” Bancroft rubbed at his temples. The pain sunk enough for him to open his eye as the aura reduced to dimes hanging in the air. The runaway vanished from the back seat. The blood remained on his shoulder.

The gospel stopped. A medieval polyphony began. A hundred voices singing in a long dead language. Non latine, Bancroft thought. He turned the knobs. Nothing changed. He tapped the off key. Nothing changed. He listened. It's familiar... The tower of smoke looked clearer. Not in a single beam of smoke, but the smoke from each burned tree mixing into a singular cloud. The nearer he drove, the more insects plagued his view. Ash and bug guts fell like slow rain. He slowed, desiring to find a place to leave his car.

He left it on the side of the road by a mound of gravel. Put his shoes and coat back on, scooped up the body and walked towards the trees. Weeds tangled around his feet. Burrs clung to his ankles and mosquitoes bit his neck. Bugs flew over his head. Ash built up on his shoulders, and hair. He stumbled over a pit but remained balanced. The sun beamed through the overcast of smoke. The ground crunched beneath his feet. What remained of the trees radiated a mild heat. Specks of ash stuck to Bancroft's sweaty flesh. Wood crackled. Red embers glowed from inside fallen branches. He stepped around toppled trees. Through unscathed thorn bushes. Across a bridge over a creek bed. The stream ran like a sick snake. Colored a polluted green. The stream ran along a way, but stopped at a beaver dam. Bancroft followed the dry bed. A dragonfly whizzed past his ear headed for the sandbar of a quaint body of liquid swarmed with winged insects. The water looked unpolluted to Bancroft. Branches poked from the surface. Ripples echoed around them. The water looked dark, and smelled like fish. Frogs hiding in tall grass croaked. A layer of algae floated under a glaze of pond water. As Bancroft came nearer he saw no branches steaming from the surface, but outstretched hands grasping towards the sky. Noses and tips of boots protruded. A dragonfly rested on an erect ring finger, fluttered its wings, and lifted once more into the swarm. A cold wind from the surface of the pond reached beneath Bancroft's clothing. The runaway's hand dangled. With his shoes in the sand, the soles flush against the lip of the fluid, he noticed faces emerging from the water. Bloated, but eyes half pen, mouths filled with mud and weeds. He waded in , carrying the corpse. The water chilled his legs, his hips. His feet sunk into mud, but the body became easier to carry. Once the water cooled his naval, he let go of the body. The runaway floated in place. Bancroft grew nervous. He needed to sink the bastard. He looked around for a rock. But he didn't have to. Hands slid from the algae and grabbed hold of the runaway's clothes and hair and pulled him under. Bancroft reached for his gun, but realized he again left it behind. He splashed through the water. Stopping at the shore. Dripping wet. Shaken, resting in the sand, no longer knowing if anything he saw manifested into tangible fact anymore. He took out a cigarette, but found the pack soaked. The migraine returned. He realized the cause (because he loses focus of his mission!) He dropped the pack in the sand. A rifle cocked.

A trio stood on a tough of grass before the pond. The constable held the scoped rifle against his shoulder in one hand. Held two captives chained together in the other. His shirt splattered with mud and blood. His chest large, his legs thin and bent backwards like a mutt's. Fur exposed through the gaps of his misaligned buttons. The captives. One male. One female. Sordid couple. Both beaten, abused, neglected. Oozing scabs riddled their faces.

“You here to kill me?”

“That'd be no good.” The constable led the captives. Passed Bancroft, slowly. A walk in the park. Into the water. When one resisted, the constable pulled the chain and choked them both. Once deep enough, he lined them up and shot them. The bodies floated, and gradually sank as a cushion of red velvet water comforted their descent. The Constable walked back to the sand. “You're going to tell me where you're headed first.”

Bancroft's migraine drove railroad ties into his brain. Both eyes became blurry, bulleted with silver convection. Spots rising, disappearing, reappearing without pattern. Shadows of cloaked men behind each silvery hole burning in his corneas.

The constable discharged the shell. Steam simmered in the wet sand.

“By tomorrow it won't matter.” Bancroft said sitting up in the sand. His skull caught in a vice.

“I like it here. Would be nice if we could stick around longer...” he took a breath of the sulfuric air, and scowled as if his hopes dashed. “I'm not in the mood to sweet talk you.”

“Never.” Bancroft crawled backwards towards the water. The Constable rolled his eyes.

“You're just like your dad and his dad before him. When you're ready, we'll talk. Until then I'll just wait here for while you run out of air.”

Bancroft's coat submerged as his hands sunk into the water. Sand and grass wrapped around his arms. Water flowed over his abdomen and waist. The shining aura strobed between vacuum black and thunderous silver. It consumed the constable. Outlines of armored warriors emerged from behind the charred trees. Cold hooks took hold of Bancroft's collar and coat sleeves. The water froze his sweating neck and scalp. Something took hold of his hair in tough tangles and held him under as he took a mouthful of pond water into his lungs. Algae filtered through his teeth. Bitter mud kissed his lips. The daylight eclipsed. Bubbles escaped from his nostrils and open mouth. Slowed. Then stopped as he tensed his throat and stopped breathing.

A bolt ripped through the water and struck his thigh. Bancroft tasted his own blood in the water. The hands dropped him, and something else took hold of his ankle, propelling him back upwards, then lifting him from the water. The constable stood in the water, taking Bancroft by the collar. Bancroft heard his voice, but only saw the figures along the shore inching towards the water. Bancroft moaned in the fracturing pain in his head and thigh. The figures spoke- the same as on the radio.

“I can't go back.” the constable said. “Know how long I been there? How hard I worked to break free? I can't go back. You have to tell me. I must know.”

The figures stepped aside. Another shadow emerged.

“Not this- not this!” Bancroft cried. Its armour looked hand crafted, with ornamental etchings and designs of fearsome beasts. . The others all watching him as he passed. It's attention unbroken as it waded into the water. It's capes left trails in the water. It lifted its helmets, and the others followed, revealing multifaced monstrosities whose blasphemous appearances scarred Bancroft's memories in unforgettable ways. He grabbed for the rifle the constable held. The Constable claimed again and again “I'm staying here! I like it here, I'm staying!” The monstrosities reached with iron gauntlets and took the constable. He let go of Bancroft, and he sunk back into the pond as the constable fought the forces that he saw none of. Yet he recognized the pain of their hold. He screamed as they pulled him from the water. His boots dropped into the pond. His blood dripped moments later. The aura dissipated. The pain numbed in the cold, dark water. Bancroft writhed in confusion. He rose from the water, witnessing the constable suspended. Taking no chances he darted from the water, and raced away from the pond, a trail of ash blossoming with each step. The constable repeating himself. “I won't go back. I won't” until lightning cracks tore his body to pieces.

Only when Bancroft reached his mercedes did he recognize the language being chanted by the figures and the radio. Enochian. He hoped his keys remained in his pocket. They did not. He panicked, but found them in the cup holder. His heart flipped over. He put them into the ignition, but again saw the cloaked monstrosities lined up before him. Without the pain of the migraine, unveiled by the shining obstruction, as tangible and as real as his own car. They wielded halberds with red flags waving in the wind. He lost his breath.

They stood aside for him. Bancroft looked on down the road. They went for miles. As he passed them, they lowered to their knees.

The smoke grew thicker. The sky darkened at noon. The knights disappeared into the darkness. Their burning eyes guided Bancroft down the highway. The radio broadcasted static on each station. His wrists tingled. His sopping clothes reddened his flesh with irritation. He drove for hours, undistracted. His mind absolutely focused on his search. Suffer no migraines, he knew, so long as he kept on track. His clock stopped running, and clouds of smoke obscured the signs. His high beams cleared through enough that he could read. Only fifty miles. Only twenty five miles. Only ten miles. The road rocked and broke. Red lightning whipped across the bounding darkness, illuminating the plains with a purple brilliance. Clouds rolled and clashed. Rain fell. Summer heat cooled. Wind howled. The trees looked like marching porters along gatetops. Only five miles.Bancroft whistled the song again.

The sun returned, burning a hole in the clouds. At first it burned red, violet, orange, then broke through the cover of smoke. Cyclones twisted and hurled branches and small animals among pieces of torn crop and grass. Bancroft almost lost control of his mercedes. He slowed down, stopping. Under the calming, and warming hush of wind he relaxed with nowhere to go. At last he fell asleep.

He slept without dream. Awoke with the sun bleaching his fresh through the windshield. Blue skies for miles. No clouds. Bancroft sat up and rolled down his window. The air felt hot. Mud and sand caked his suit. He reeked of stagnant pond water. Dirt like warpaint covered his eyes.

A police officer stopped on the highway and approached Bancroft

“You're obstructing the road. Move on.”

“How close am I to the border?”

“See them red flowers along the hill? That's it. Better go now. We found two bodies in a mansion along the bluffs.” He winked at Bancroft. “They think the guy's coming this way. Gonna be a roadblock set up. I'd go right now if I were you.”

“Obliged.” Bancroft drove. He looked back. The officer watched him go. Fur sticking up from his collar.

The hilltop grew clearer. Bancroft could smell the castilleja linariifolia growing. He sped by a dead possum by the side of the road. When he saw it in his rear view, he slammed the brakes and reversed back to the dead creature. Its tongue out one eye knocked loose, its swollen belly squirmed like the fingers of a masseuse. Bancroft thought worms, but knelt down to inspect closer. He used a utility knife to cut the creature open with two incisions. It felt good, not the blood on his fingers or the smell, but to see that he could still make clean and straight cuts through flesh. He peeled back the flesh, and saw six pink little possums with their eyes closed. He dumped the contents of his suit case out and placed small stones around the corners. He placed a bottle of water inside with an incision cut so vapor could escape. Water spilled onto the towel. He cut fencing down from the field to hold the bottle and the stones in place. With a towel he scooped the little possums up and put them inside. He set the improvised incubator on the passenger seat. He rolled the windows up. Restarted the ignition. A Christmas song played on the radio. Bancroft entered the state. Smoke lingered behind him. A single spark. A welcomed fate.