The life of a vagrant was neither glamorous nor comfortable. Charles warmed his hands by the fire, sharing a spot with fellow drifters by the tracks. They passed the pipe back and forth, puffing rings and clouds, as that sweet stench of weed wafted through the cold, night air. If the stoner couldn’t part with food, he’d donate some of his stash.
No one said a word, for nothing needed to be said.
Charles was fortunate. He chose this path of slumming and soul-searching. These wayward souls were not so lucky. Just a bunch of twenty year olds going on fifty, left to rot by society, dirty little secrets brushed under the rug. With the groove of hash came an escape from tomorrow’s threats, a moment’s respite. Who was he to deny these people a few hours of bliss? Sometimes, the best thing was to share a little silence.
Slowly, weed took its course, and time meant a little less. Charles crossed his legs and reflected on the flat mirror of his journey. He’d seen some shit. From his psychedelic descent to the dives of Yoshiwara, normalcy was always within reach, only to be snatched away by jackboots and murder mysteries. With a fistful of friends as his anchor, the stoner drifted in the shadow of giants. Beatrice was a rebel with a social justice streak. Victor was practically Jesus on the spectrum. As for Charles? Comic relief. The number two, if that. Tagging along like the team mascot. Of course, he wasn’t exactly Jiminy Cricket.
Can’t be an extra in my own life….
One day, Charles lost his mojo. His reason to care. Victor had cracked under the pressure and got himself crucified. Beatrice still clung to a lost cause. He couldn’t go back after that. It wasn’t the same. Something had to give. So here he was, warming his hands over dying embers as a pastel dawn crawled over the strange world. Time began to flow again. Birds chirped, welcoming Charles to blinding sobriety. The others had gone.
#
Hitchhiking was never the safest way to travel, but given everything Charles had witnessed, it was no different than jaywalking. Raising a thumb by the sprawling black pavement, the aging hipster felt the wind shuffle his long, silver hair. The Kingdom of Lumiere was one of hills and green fields, sliced into parishes by rivers and plots of farmland. Beyond the odd hamlet, Charles was alone on the highway. One after the other, steam cars sputtered by without so much as a glance. The next town was over thirty miles away.
Hours passed. It was getting dark.
Eventually, Charles took a seat by a stray cinder block, if only to alleviate the nagging pain in his legs. He lowered his head, watching ants crawl about a dead scrub jay, carrying morsels of flesh back to the hill. Against the far side of dusk, a pair of headlights breached the dimness as an automobile began to slow down. The driver greeted him with shades and a toothless grin. Howling wolves pierced the silence. With nothing but a knapsack, sword, staff, and spliff kit, Charles couldn’t afford to be picky.
“Where to?” asked the toothless driver.
“Saint-Salers,” Charles said, “or whatever inn we pass on the way.”
“Just you?”
Charles stared at the man’s bulbous mole. “Uh, yeah.”
“Heading there myself.” The doors unlocked with a sharp click. “Hop in, laddy.”
Charles took a deep breath and took the passenger side. The driver’s breath reeked of brandy and a tooth infection as the car swerved on its course. Off-kilter silence passed as the monstrous moon hung low in the bitter night sky, looming over the Bonaparte Mountains. Charles’s papers crinkled in his dry fingers as he rolled a spliff over a tin tray. The stoner stifled a chuckle of self-pity, mulling over how, just a week ago, he played second-fiddle to Victor, his best friend and surrogate little brother, an apostle to a broken messiah. The kid was his one anchor. His reason to give a shit. And now, the kid was gone. Just like that. Suicide. By his own hand. Funny how one bad day could change the entire world.
“So,” the driver asked, “what’s your story?”
“Just your average hippie on a road trip,” Charles lied. He glanced over his bony shoulder, noticing a heap of crates in the back—explosives by the look of it. Maybe fireworks for some local festival. Or maybe mortar shells and bombs for the Western Front. Both were possible. Regardless, Charles fiddled with his lighter. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Only if you spare one.”
“Fair enough.”
With a spliff at hand, Charles flopped his arm out the open window, flicking ash onto the passing pavement. “Nice evening, huh?”
Pleasantries were exchanged as the road bled into the woods. Charles flipped on his Walkman, not wanting to afflict the stranger with Jefferson Airplane or the Rolling Stones. Soon, they drove past a fork in the Old Road and took a left. Charles could’ve sworn Saint-Salers was on the right. Asphalt gave way to pitted cobbles and eventually dirt as the steam car rumbled over pebbles and the occasional stump. After a series of turns, caution gave way to concern.
“Where are we?” Charles asked.
“Basque Woods,” the driver said, “just a local detour.”
“Uh-huh,” Charles lay a hand on his dagger’s hilt, “gotcha.”
Take me down to bat country, why don’t you….
Moonlight shimmered through thick, leafy canopies. Wooden palisades and stakes flanked the Old Road, with rows of skulls half-buried in packed dirt. Hooded figures swayed from makeshift gallows, swaying in the acrid breeze as if the forest was haunted by the specters of war. Charles was reminded of the Mournweald and his misadventures in the Gridiron, where similar atrocities lay bare amidst fungal groves and vermin-infested grottos. And yet, the Basque Woods were rich and evergreen; atrocities had fertilized the soil, allowing trees to grow from mass graves, branches ringed with ribs and the occasional pelvis.
Such a world, born of a dear friend’s mind, was overflowing with terrors and oddities. For a moment, it could be almost normal; in the next, a cesspit fresh out of a nightmare. It was a lucid land without rhyme or reason, save the continuity of the moment. Suddenly, the automobile collapsed to the right, stumbling into a camouflaged pothole. Branches caved under sheer weight. Charles tore open the door and leapt out of the titled car, reaching for his sword and staff.
The pit wasn’t caused by erosion. Someone had dug it.
Motherfucker….
Not a sound cut the forlorn quiet save a rustling in the trees. Maybe a murder of crows taking flight. Regardless, he was stranded in far worse territory than the hinterlands.
“Hey,” Charles turned to the car, “you okay?”
The driver’s neck had snapped against the steering wheel. Dead. Poor bastard. There was nothing for it. What could he do? Bury him with the surrounding bodies? Charles was better off marching away from the smoking wreck. He couldn’t be far from Saint-Salers.
Hopefully not….
Charles planted his staff against the uneven earth, twisting a knob until its tip glowed with electricity, a flashlight in the old battlefield. Keeping to the side path, he eyed the abandoned tents and encampments for any sign of life. The cinders of a recent fire betrayed any notion of stealth. As did a steely click. Cold steel pressed against the back of his neck.
“Hands,” said a raspy voice.
A trio of brigands emerged from the thickets. They were clad in the tattered uniform of some forgotten mercenary unit, armored with scraps of chainmail—faces covered by leather hoods, each wearing a single, yellow glove. One clutched a rusty rifle while the others drew pistols and long knives. Charles had heard of the Yellow Hands, small-time punks and bandits on the wrong side of a lost cause. Probably using the woods to set up traps.
“Wallet and jewelry,” one spat from under his bandanna, “fast.”
Charles reached for his wallet. “Easy. No one needs to get hurt.”
“Then hurry up—”
Without warning, Charles drew his sword, snapping his electro-staff alive in a burst of sparks. Highway robbery was one of the risks. Nothing he couldn’t handle. Now, it was his turn to flip the mixtape; heavy metal would do the trick, riffs fresh out of a ‘90s score. Flicking the play button like a gunslinger, his lips curled into a savage smirk.
One of the brigands dove with twin shanks at hand, but Charles was too nimble to take the slashing strokes. With the swing of his sword, he felt his blade cut deep into a torso. The brigand howled in agony as he crumpled, bleeding, into the mud.
“You bastard—!”
Charles didn’t give the fusilier a chance to fire. With the snap of a wrist, the stoner sent one of his knives into the rifleman’s throat, watching him slump, bone splintering and protruding from his neck. Charles winced and soaked in the scene. He was necessarily proud of the stroke. Taking a life was not a subject of pride, but Charles still proved something to himself; he was capable of survival, even alone in the wilderness. As the last bandit turned tail into the woods, Charles lowered his arm and sighed. There wasn’t a reason to take him out. He refused to spill unnecessary blood. Something Victor would’ve appreciated once upon a time.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Charles mustered his wits and did what any sensible rogue would do—loot the bodies. Heavy coin purses, a few trinkets and baubles, a pro-Imperial pamphlet, but nothing of note. Maybe enough to get a drink or a night at an inn. Which was a blessing in itself, considering Saint-Salers was about a mile off. That is, if the battered signs were accurate. With a shuddering sigh, Charles took to the road once more.
#
It was ten at night by the time Charles had reached Saint-Salers—a walled settlement on the forest’s edge, punctuated by lanes of townhouses and white picket fences. Even the citizens, with their brass buttons and waistcoats, seemed fresh out of a children’s book, if not for the brandy on their breath, shambling to their colonial houses. The pubs closed early here. Between the acadian arches, smell of burnt ends, and sheer humidity, Saint-Salers was a southern town, its greenery encircling a wan plantation manor, looming as a tourist trap. A bronze statue sat square in the green, depicting a cantankerous man lounging on a sofa, its placard reading,
JEAN LUC DEBUSSY
HERO OF THE REVOLUTION
Charles scoffed, recognizing the prime minister from the Diet of Chimay, hardly a man to admire. To think the Basque Woods were infested with highwaymen, and yet, a certain tranquility pervaded the dimming lights, far from the industrial ghettos of Holy Gothica. A few propaganda posters were plastered on the notice boards with such trite gems as “KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON,” with a crimson vector of the Morgenshtern.
Cute little place….
Charles took a seat on a bench. His legs were numb from walking. With a deep breath, he walked past the tea shops and little cafes, wondering what the price for room and board was in one of those rustic flats. For now, he’d rest his eyes, not wanting to disturb the locals.
Never hurts to be considerate….
Slowly, sleep lay its soothing hand on his shoulder, but the murmurs of nightmares repressed lurked along the undertow of dreams. Monstrous grins shone from out of the darkness as slender nails plucked at his heartstrings. Echoes of synth and low bass throbbed in his thoughts while sentiments of resentment warped into grotesque figures. Cold sweats enveloped his body as if he’d plummeted into a pool of frigid water infested with leeches and lampreys, draining him of blood and strength. He tried to wade through the rippling water. Something was chasing him, laughing and jeering at his cowardice. He didn’t dare look back—
“Excuse me,” a voice breached his terror, “sir?”
Charles jolted awake, only to be greeted by a grim custodian armed with a billy club and handlebar mustache. “You can’t sleep here. District policy.”
“Uh,” the stoner lay his head in his hands, “okay…. W-where’d you like me to go? Anywhere I can stay for cheap?”
“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
Charles rolled his eyes. “Thanks….”
With that, the stoner turned to the alleys, searching for somewhere he wouldn’t be harassed. Just some cardboard boxes and a stray trolly. Nothing useful except for kindling a trash fire. The town had turned eerie after the nightmare, its charm stripped away by thickening mists. Out of the corner of his eye, Charles thought he saw a shadow stirring at the alley’s end.
What the—?
Just then, a neon sign flickered on, swaying in the fogbound breeze, reading, “MOTEL,” in tacky lettering. It looked open. He sighed in relief and crossed the worn threshold. The door shut behind Charles with a sudden draft, welcoming him with the scent of fresh bread and yeasty beers. The fireplace crackled and burned as he took a seat on a lobby side couch, relieved to feel plush cushions against his back. He cracked his neck and eyed the receptionist, a bored woman fiddling with a desk toy, watching steel balls as they bounced back and forth.
“Reservation?” she asked.
“Uh, no,” Charles managed, “just a walk-in.”
The receptionist didn’t bother to look up. “Party of one?”
“Yup.”
“One night?”
“Yup.”
“That’ll be fifty guilders,” she sighed, “cash or check?”
“Cash.” Charles reached into his pockets, digging out a handful of receipts and rolling papers, until he found a handful of blood money. Coin by coin, he counted out the total with just enough left over for a beer or two. The receptionist took the bloodstained copper with grave suspicion, fingers dancing over a phone, until he said, “Ran into some trouble getting here.”
She nodded slowly and handed him a ring of keys. “Your room is 308.”
“Groovy.”
The next thing Charles knew, he’d collapsed on the soft bed and a heap of feather pillows. As his eyes drifted shut, he heard a gentle aria in the air as he drifted into a familiar sanctum of another’s fantasy. Silver chandeliers swayed from the high rafters, illuminating the Opera House in pale light as the Impresario wheeled his way to the stage’s edge.
“Welcome back,” he said.
“Too much to ask for a good night’s sleep, huh?”
The Impresario chuckled. “It would seem so. I applaud your proactiveness in searching for the truth. However, wandering the land blindly will not bring you any closer to self-actualization. You must focus your efforts if you are to achieve enlightenment.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Charles said.
“How is this any different than when you spent your youth,” the Impresario raised an eyebrow, “traveling from coast to coast in a hipster’s caravan. Following nothing save for the smell of good hash under the guise of freedom.” He shook his head. “You are above such things now. You’d do well to not regress.”
Charles sighed. “I’m not gonna argue that.”
“I must ask,” the Impresario began, “why did you leave Beatrice and the others.”
“I,” the stoner stuttered, “you know it’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it?”
“C’mon, man,” Charles sighed, “I left because there’s no real meaning with following Beatrice and the others just ‘cause. Riding on their coattails is great and all, but it doesn’t serve any purpose beyond drifting. No different than what I’m doing now.”
The Impresario nodded. “No different whatsoever. What exactly are you looking for? What is worth abandoning them?”
“My own meaning. My own reasons for fighting.”
“You are brighter than Victor,” the Impresario smiled, “it would’ve taken him months to come to this conclusion alone.”
“Well, I had thirty plus years on the kid, so there’s that.”
The Impresario wheeled aside and snapped his fingers. Slowly, the velvet curtains began to lift, revealing the silver screen in all its theatrical glory. Flickering lanterns shone upon the smooth surface, counting down from ten until Charles’s geist was projected onto the screen. Bound to a coffin of a cabinet, the Magician Within was shackled under lock and key as an escape artist of days long gone. The geist itself was mummified in a straight jacket, save for his soul-piercing eyes, surrounded by pads of psychedelic prints.
The stoner gasped in awe. “Cesare? How did you—?”
“I am the maestro of the Music of the Spheres and, as such, I command and control the power of geist. Make no mistake, I am not the hand of God hovering from above. Your deeds are your own responsibility. I am, however, the proprietor of this cornerstone of the cosmos and capable of great clairvoyance. Should you desire my aid.”
“So, you’re the one who blessed me with Cesare?”
“I am merely the projector behind your own soul.”
“Huh,” Charles scratched the back of his head, “gotta ask though, why did you call me here? Just to nag and be cryptic?”
“Not quite,” the Impresario said. “You must know, without the Far Messiah himself, the world is doomed to a terrible fate. However, it is by your and your friends’ memories that keep the flame of his existence alive, if fleeting. There may be a way to resurrect him.”
Charles’s eyes widened in shock. He couldn’t believe it. Death was final. Thaddeus, Yuko, even Leng. There wasn’t a way to bring them back. Not as they were.
“Excuse me?”
“Victor currently exists in a state of limbo, neither dead nor truly alive, though the child you know is truly lost. His daemon still runs rampant as a scourge upon the world. Unfortunate as it may be, that creature is nevertheless a part of him.”
“Back up a sec,” Charles raised a hand, “you’re talking about Amadeus, right? Victor’s archnemesis. The motherfucking antichrist. What the hell am I supposed to do with him?” He recalled the destruction of Chimay, the extinguishing of untold thousands, and the pursuit which took him to the ruinous summit. Even if Amadeus was a part of Victor, he was a grotesque exaggeration, a parody made flesh and let loose upon mankind. The implications of the kid without a conscience were nothing short of horrific. And the world was suffering the consequences. “I mean, he’s only a mass murdering lunatic.”
The Impresario nodded, slowly. “I’ve never said otherwise. The fact of the matter remains, however, that as long as Amadeus is alive, so is Victor, in a perverse way.” He looked away. “Resurrection bends the laws of causality to their breaking point. Such a feat is to defy the natural order. Yet, given the alternative, I see no other option. Seek out the Ladies of the Moon. They possess more wisdom than I on such matters.” Fog enveloped the theater, enveloping Charles’s thoughts and soul. “I do not envy your task.”
The stoner woke to yet another sunrise, greeted by pale clouds in an off-green sky. The moon shone through the window, blinding, brighter than the sun, magnified by panes of glass. Charles was haunted by uncertainty, and yet, hope was a hell of a drug.
Ladies of the Moon, huh?