| |
––––––––
“There is a mouse,” Jadus said, eyes down, “that guards the boundaries of what is known.”
I chugged another tankard of well-crafted ale, one of the creations from the brewmasters at Overhaul House. Jadus and I loved to explore pubs that were dedicated to personal improvement.
“A mouse!” I guffawed, working up a burp to relieve my distension, the stiff roundness of my belly. I did so, belching out the first seven letters of the alphabet. Then I brashly relieved a niggling itch upon my nuggets.
“Yes, indeed,” murmured Jadus, as if my boorish display had sparked his memory. My man was concentrating, holding his forehead over bent elbow, mulling a puzzle that combined clues and intersected words, the latest thing to hit Bardelve’s most whimsical periodical, which was to say, the flaming gossip of the Recurrent Rubdown, printed on wax tablets.
“What’s a twelve-letter word for ‘totally lacking in truth’?” Jadus asked me, still engrossed.
“What-Jadus-say,” I replied, rather glibly. “A mouse at the edge of the world, indeed.”
“I thought we were past that, but yes, a mouse,” Jadus said, even more ponderous and distracted. “There is one hint I’ve just read here about cute little critters. It wafted past my memory, a derelict tale of children’s lore.” I stared at the top of Jadus’ head and saw luscious brown skin under the blackest hair, my sweet man, my lover, strange guardian of wayward fables. Before I could drunkenly contemplate the figurative ramifications of such bizarre allegory, a rodent’s role inside a myth, Gregor the Ineffable strode into the place, our boss, the driver of the slaves, us.
He looked larger, darker, hairier, and much more sweaty than usual in unseasonal all-black garb. His thigh-high boots smacked the floorboards, much too much for summer. As we knew, his evil visage and broad black beard were only a harsh veneer that facilitated the more heinous of his deeds. In truth, he was only forty-nine percent villain, the rest of him a mess of bubbling impertinence, low-throttled rage, and inchoate desires. All his hugeness came within range, swollen muscle, and foul fume.
“I thought you diddleweeds were supposed to leave yesterday,” Gregor spat.
Jadus didn’t even look up.
“My lovely man here is rather submerged in his word puzzle. For myself, I am plodding inexorably towards the full measure of intoxication.” I gave myself another good scratch. “But be assured that we are moving out in the morning.”
“Kalvus, you are certainly consistent,” Gregor said. “As it happens, it’s lucky I caught you. I have one more tidbit on the Megaliths of Monstrosity.”
Those stone monuments were our new objective, the lingering construct of a long-dead and near-forgotten empire. The ring of rocks was also the rumoured burial site of Carmino Eleganto, great warrior-prince of antiquity and wanderer of every fanciful realm. According to the foggy inventions of legend, Carmine bore a magical chariot that flew, a blue diamond spear of sorcerous power, and a remarkable bronze whistle that summoned a thousand-thousand canaries, together to pull his vehicle cross the skies. None of that seemed to Jadus and me more than whimsical hyperbole, but Gregor the Insatiable always wanted astonishing stuff. He was utterly obsessed with so many fantastic, amazing things, and it was forever up to us to go and fetch.
“I was playing cards the other night at the Ribald Room and Fandango the wizard was there, attempting to make good on his tab,” Gregor explained.
“Fandango’s not much of a wizard,” Jadus said, finally turning his eyes up, only to illustrate his contempt.
Gregor huffed and countered, “He’s not a wizard at all. ‘Wizard’ isn’t even a real thing. You know just as well as I.” He made those quote marks with his hands. “But Fandango does know a bit about ill-conceived magic as it relates to gambling. Since he’d wagered his naval on the dice, I’d figured I’d finger in there for a piece of the action.”
I pondered this. I thought to ask. I let it go.
“Since the dice came up as a hard eight, he lost, and I won, four on the floor and holes bored for more,” our boss said, holding his arms and elbows.
“And?” I asked.
“Either I got to bugger his bellybutton, or the equivalent in compensation,” Gregor explained. “He forked out many secrets.”
“What’s an eight-letter word for nonsense and exaggeration?” I offered. Whenever I was drunk, I assumed myself to be quite clever.
“Exactly,” said Gregor. “But from all he spewed, I got something useful. Late last year, Fandango funded his own expedition, sending a trio of raiders to the Megaliths. Two of them never returned. Like us, they were seeking the remains of Prince Carmine. The one dude who made it back claimed his two buddies disappeared into nothing.”
“A portal?” I asked.
“Another dimension?” Jadus conjectured, palm returning to chin.
“Something,” Gregor the Speculative agreed. “Just make sure you don’t do the same. I want that whistle.”
I giggled, rather infused with bewilderment. I asked, “Of the three grand things we’re after, you desire to summon a thousand-thousand birds?”.
“Yeah. I want to impress a girl,” Gregor said.
“If we summon a thousand-thousand canaries, just for some woman, you’re going to need an awful lot of seed,” Jadus supposed.
“That’s the idea,” said Gregor.
––––––––
We had crossed an immense and sweeping plain of grass to seek the Monstrous Megaliths. A notable thing about a formation of immense standing rocks, we understood, was the dearth of hills. My horse appreciated the sure footing and the lack of incline, but my eyes regretted the vacant look. As far as the end, there was only beige, yellow and green, swaying in the summer breeze. It seemed all the grass listened to a powerful ballad, waving altogether with the stink of rot offset by wildflowers.
Later, as the air came more still, the landscape became swept with drifting pollen, which irritated my nose and was aiming to make my horse choke, so thick it was. There were masses of fluff appearing as miniature clouds, floating goldenrod, ready to induce a sneezing fit and entice the rubbing of itchy eyes unto madness.
Jadus had not the sensitivity I did, and he only chortled to see me hack and snort, the trickle of snot running over my lips. My chin was sopped with the outpouring of goo. I halted my mount and stepped down into a field that was lush, long blades and spikelets reaching my chest. The plants were so thickset that a lion could have sprung out unseen and unheard. For my suffering nose I could have been eaten alive and called it relief.
“Here. Overdose on limes,” Jadus told me. He bent down to hand me a clutch of green citrus, four in one hand. “Something in these works against sneezing,” he said. “Go ahead. I packed us the gimlet limes that grow at Zaris’ Cathedral of Compassion.”
Brilliant. I began to tear the limes apart, desperate for a panacea. The goddess Zaris was a mischievous seraph of mercy, and her fruits would be infused with blessings, likely mixed, but I could not care. The juice of any old lime could blind and sting, but these fruits were ambrosia to my swollenness. I ate them and smeared the peelings over all of my head. The space behind my nose drained out in a whoosh.
“Now you smell like polished furniture,” Jadus joked.
“Or late-summer pie with cream for the top,” I agreed.
“Um, your cream is suddenly not on the top,” my boyfriend said with a grin.
I felt my face. Oh, Zaris! The limes had cured me but transformed me. It had happened all at once. My hair was lengthened to curl past my shoulders, my skin softened to velour, my boots two sizes too big. I was not of my maleness at all as my waist pulled in and my chest pushed out. In moments, I could identify myself no longer. I hesitated to reach about and down, to ascertain whatever was for certain. For sure, my clothes were loose, and perhaps I was as well. I would absolutely need new shoes, in any case, several pairs.
Before I could think any further, the grasses moved, the sign showing more than just wind. A gnarl was heard, movement, something fast. I twisted my head, trying to catch up with the flashing and dashing.
“Climb your horse!” Jadus ordered, thinking to save our mounts. As I put my foot in the stirrup, something spoke.
“Terrible twosome is here,” it whispered, a sweet and sinister voice.
“You’ve obviously played backgammon with us before,” I said, sounding eerily like my older sister. I had an immediate urge to find a bathroom and hog it all to myself. Instead, I removed my dainty grip off the horn and cantle and let my foot down. I looked about, having no good guess at location.
“Speak again, sprite of the grass,” Jadus said, tilting his neck from his saddle.
I reached for my dagger, for all that I would likely poke out my eye or impale my newly delicate hand.
“Don’t,” said Jadus.
“I’m the one down here, loverman,” I said, again with a foreign and gentle lilt. I shook my head in disbelief of myself, only to see traced lines atop the grass, making so many fronds sway. I tingled. We were not alone. Death always comes as a secret, strong enough for a modified man.
“No. No. No!” the voice hissed. It was close, the sound of something diminutive. I imagined an imp, some devilish spirit that would dance on my shoulder before biting off my bottom lip. Instead, it appeared near my boot on the trampled grass, a chubby thing with a squarish head and huge pointed ears. It was green and yellow and furry, like a short and rotund otter-monkey without a tail. My horse was spooked when the fat little fairy thing tickled its leg. The mount bucked and nearly kicked me in the chin before it ran off, a near miss that would have knocked me to oblivion. Wavered, I hit the ground with a thud, only to see Jadus run off, chasing my horse with his own. It was difficult to observe my shallow place on the priority list in real time.
I was face to face with the plump fey creature, less than two feet tall. At my range, I could see its weird and wonderful jade fur, bulbs of clarion yellow for eyes. I clamoured to lean on my hands, working to inhale a breath. On the ground, the area smelled of wet dirt, dying plants, and the work of worms.
“You’s bad lady, come here,” it said in a hiss. It appeared quite disturbed for something so cute, shielding its gaze with one hand and peeking. My newfound femininity was on shameless display through the plunge of my shirt. I grabbed my ample double front and held it together. As I tempered my modesty, I endured what was an odd moment of isolation and intimacy.
“Just who or what are you?” I asked of the thing, the little pudgy green humanoid-hominid. It was more than that, I could tell, from its faint scent of mint and an odd tingling aura.
“I is Hoobah, buckawn, spring leaf, grass land sentry,” it spoke. When I went to get to my knees, it pulled forth a tiny blade, a miniature point conjured as if from the air, and by the sharpness of it, bid me stay down. Nothing like being ordered about by the manifestation of a fable. I imagined I was a delinquent child about to be abducted or worse, some gruesome lesson to come. I swallowed a lump of warm embarrassment, sweat drizzling down my stupid head, the back of my neck, my dangling hair all about. For my hands holding my shirt, I couldn’t do a thing with it.
“Oh, grass lord Hoobah,” I said carefully, “you have cleverly startled my horse and left me at your mercy. What might I do for you here, to convey respect to you?”
“You’s shut yer tongue trap and says no more,’” it bade me with a scowl. I did. As I paused, I listened, trying to detect Jadus and the horses. There was nothing but the wind. I was alone and trapped with this little beast. I had been captured by a children’s toy, of the fluffy variety.
“You’s come to endless plains,” Hoobah said with his brows furrowed, offhand shielding his face. It was as if he was trying to be commanding but deftly avoiding the fullness of my gaze.
“Fer’s why?” Hoobah asked.
I considered lying, my default position. Instead, as an impulsive novelty, I experimented boldly with the truth.
“My man and I are headed to the Megaliths of Monstrosity,” I offered.
“Bah! Stupid name!” the buckawn spat.
“Uh, okay then,” I countered. “As it happens, I did not originate the name. I only repeat the moniker mentioned to me.”
“Rocks bigga bigga!” he said.
“I would argue that ‘rocks bigga bigga’ is also a rather silly and unfortunate name. Is that the official title of the boulders, or your own descriptor?”
“No! Dum-dum lady,” it said. “You’s think rocks smaller than they is.” Again, he only peeked to see me. When he did glance, his look changed each time. I did not very much understand, but assumed I was distinctly repulsive as a female of the species.
I shook my head and tried to focus. I wondered how far we were from the Megaliths. If this plump buckawn was a local denizen of these environs, he might know critical truths. He could possess the very keys to the burial place of Carmino Eleganto, in addition to knowing its precise location. Or I could merely be dealing with a stuffed plaything with a piss-poor attitude.
“Truly, my wee master,” I said, “we label the rocks Monstrous and believe them to be so. Might you tell me the last time you walked between them?”
He grunted. He looked again, once more not in total control of his faculties. He blinked, he sighed, his obstructed vision constraining his emotion. I realized then, quite suddenly, that I had it all backward. I was not disgusting at all, but strangely and strongly alluring, an entirely new feeling for me. Remarkably, I had been transformed into a gorgeous creature and Hoobah was trying mightily to be unaffected by my static comely charm. Believing this, I shifted strategy at once.
“Might you assist us, oh strong and vigilant Hoobah, with your great wisdom?” I asked, smiling sweet and as full as a mischievous feline on the branch of a tree. My new voice had a sultriness, a sand, a silk, and sure enough, Hoobah could not ignore it.
“You means tempt me, fool me,” Hoobah said sheepishly, trying and failing to brandish his small thin javelin. It appeared as a long needle for leather, strangely shiny, its razor point glinting.
“Not I, no. I would never. I only want to see those rocks with my own little eyes,” I said melodically. I held up one hand in a placating gesture of delicious fingers. Absently, I traced a line on my collar bone with one finger and wondered what the hell had come over me.
“Dem rocks gonna make you go gone! Gets you what you deserve!” He was suddenly quite enraged. This little lord of the fescue had a grudge against people, even if something of Zaris’ clever magic was captivating him. He rubbed his own cheeks, doing everything he could to keep his eyes away. For myself, I played delicately with the ringlets in my tresses.
“Stop dat!” he demanded.
I contemplated the stupid thing I was trying to do. Whatever it was, I believed I was struggling to make it look natural. Then again, I was brand spanking new at whatever gals do.
“But great and glorious Hoobah, I only mean—"
Somehow, he resisted me and gathered himself.
“You’s the weirdest! Stoopid stoopid!” With that, he lunged forward, fast like a snake, and he stabbed me in the cheek, an inch below my right eye. His weapon plunged, hit bone, and bounced.
I howled and fell backward, reeling, clutching at my face for having been seriously stung. There were tiny footsteps as Hoobah ran and wove himself into the grass, giving forth fading cackles as I thrashed. I felt foul heat enter my blood. I peered through the clutch of my digits to view flattened grass alone, and I detected an emptiness to know that Hoobah was gone. Jadus trotted to appear right then, on his horse with mine in tow.
“You alright?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, feeling my lips grow fat, every bit of me having fire beneath the skin. Something malignant was in my veins and working to shutter my throat. My heart pounded hard like I was naked and ready, for an end much less pleasurable than usual. Despite my desperation, I instantly could not help but ponder that climax, torn between the acid in my face and the novel crack of possibility. Between pangs of pain, I thought of tulips for the briefest iota. Then I wept with unbeckoned emotion.
“The furry little bastard stabbed me!” I wailed to Jadus, holding my wounded cheek. My words were thick, my tongue expanding to dangerous proportion.
“You’re blowing up like a gas bladder,” Jadus said, eyes wide. He made quick to dismount.
“There’s irony,” I uttered, trying, and failing to stand. “Because this time, I set loose the truth instead of inflating lies.”
“You’ve never been very good at veracity,” I heard Jadus say. I saw my man turn to a blur as my eyes began to shut. I was plunging into thick blackness, where I expected no more chances, no more buttery dreams.
“My time as a woman appears to be at an end,” I uttered, as he to moved me, cradling my head upon his lap.
“That’s okay,” he said in a hushed tone. “I never cared much for innies, anyway.”
That was the last I heard, before my mind fell down a hole.
––––––––
By the sweetest angels of deception, I lived. In the fog of my terrible vision, I swore to never tell a true story again.
“Keep yourself still,” Jadus told me. He was only a grey form, blotting the sun. I was on my back on a hard surface, a stoney patch of ground by the feel on my hands. I was in waking coma of dull aching, all senses poorly arrayed.
“Where...” I began.
“Shhh.”
Jadus then explained to me details of what I’d missed. I only stayed recumbent and performed a self inventory. I felt my eyes on the verge of collapse, my nose useless, my body destroyed, my mouth full of goo. It was a vivid flashback to my tawdry youth, all the sad consequences of sensory abuse and none of the pleasant precursors. I appeared dressed just as then, which was to say, hardly at all.
Before I could ask a single question, a hum, a thrum, a vibration came to my notice and amplified in strength. Jadus stopped where he was and gasped. The air thickened with the sound, becoming so rich that I swore it was turning to liquid. I coughed, ready to drown. I froze, as if time was nothing. I could hear Jadus speak to me, but his voice was lost in the viscous atmosphere, nothing more than bubbles in a freaky transparent ocean. I believed I could see his words, his sounds, as floating effervescence suspended in gel, the bizarre space between us.
With a strange swiftness the grass around us grew, from a low landscape of which I was not aware, to huge mounds of it all about, tall tufts, long blades vacillating, submerged for moment in an all-flowing atmospheric river. Then, just as soon as the transformation began, it ended. The humming faded. We were once again in breathable air. I made a rough sound to expunge the mucus from my centre. With monumental effort and an old dame’s command, I made to stand. Internal air escaped me from the zenith and the nadir in a shameful show.
“Dammit all, Jadus,” I cursed. “You didn’t tell me I’d become more decrepit than dust.”
“Be careful,” he said, grabbing me, his nose ready for it. “Your body is still recovering from the buckawn’s poison and Zaris’ magic.”
“Ugh,” he continued with a shallow breath. “That’s some wet dust.”
I teetered and looked about. We were standing in the shadows of the Monstrous Megaliths, huge wide rectangles of epic bleakness that made me shiver. They were a circle of upright stones that towered the sky, nine rough obelisks of beige and cream, the extracted foundations of a mountain. Larger than anything possible, they hummed, I swore, low and ominous, threatening at a second to make the grass and air change again. On each flat boulder was a mass of symbols and runes, carved in deepest black, and each figure stamped in stone would have been bigger than my entire body. I felt small, smaller than usual, shrivelled as from a mid-winter bath in a lake of ice. Or so I thought. I remembered and at last reached for my box of gears. Instead, I found a hot potato salad.
“Have the limes shown no signs of wearing off?” I asked.
“I had to apply more limes to relieve the effects of Hoobah’s mini-blade,” Jadus told me. I sighed.
“The sorcery of changing is even more profound,” he said, looking at me quite strange. He peeled his gawk away. “I’m sure it isn’t permanent,” he offered. “Forget all that. Focus instead on what’s before us.”
I looked out and upward at a mystery beyond my weak yet lithe body. I was dumbfounded. All these years I had been aware of these massive stones in the distant reaches of my memory, a construct the rough remnant of an ancient culture that worshipped the sun and stars. Many an inebriated tale had described mystic natural power and fertility rituals with nubile youth fitting all their delicate parts together. My thoughts abruptly imagined those details as I never could before. That penetrating mystery aside, I felt no humans could have constructed such an unfathomable cluster of standing stones.
“From a distance, the menhirs appeared no higher than three men, standing on each other’s shoulders...” Jadus said.
“Just how do those three balanced men keep themselves erect?” I asked, fingering a tall stalk of grass.
“Mind yourself, Kalvus.”
I looked above us, a big empty blue, not one cloud. The vault of the sky carried on, out to multitudinous horizons at every degree, for what we could observe for the sea of grass. Not one tree, not one bird. I listened, looked, and sniffed. I felt the air. There was not a single insect to intrude upon the landscape. No more buzz than a tavern of temperance.
“We are not at home,” I claimed, absent of breath. Jadus caught me from my near swoon. His hands felt odd, rough, different, strong. Right at that second, I had a warm inkling.
“You sure you aren’t curious?” I asked, squeezing at him from within his muscled grasp. We were alone in the great outdoors, but his was a snoozing snake.
“Mind your hands and keep yourself to the task at hand, girlfriend.”
“Aren’t I your darling? Don’t you love me anymore?” I asked, coy, my perfect chin upon my white shoulder. Jadus only lifted me to vertical and set me straight.
“Uh, yeah, you are, and I do. But you know what I like, Kalvus. It would be like trying to pick a lock with a small bit of rope. Those finer strokes, you can try yourself when you have a moment alone. We have work to do. Now get dressed.” I huffed and did. I stuffed my loose boots with grass for a snugger fit, no improvement for the janky look.
Jadus gathered up our few things. We found the horses amid the tallness of the stalks. Climbing on their backs, we saw more details of the surround. Amid the Megaliths were supernatural shadows, a black-grey shroud with eerie tendrils of electric flow, a conjuring of pure power or the colloquial aesthetic of another world. At that point, I knew I concurred with Jadus’ notions. He had told me that somehow, we had crossed over the unseen threshold of which Gregor the Augur had warned us. The Megaliths appeared twenty feet tall from some finite range and now, two hundred at least. We were inside some pocket plane, a strange facet of reality, and I had missed the moment of transition.
“Let us dare go to the clearing,” he said, pointing. There was an area of low grass within the circle of Megaliths where walking would be possible, and answers might be closer. Yet the horses were spooked as if ghosts were in their ears, near impossible to control, and when we reached the ring of the grand stones, we were forced to dismount. Even Jadus’ sweet touch could not ease them, and they bolted.
“We’re on our own now,” I said, warily.
“I didn’t believe we’d be riding home, anyhow,” Jadus agreed, somber.
We stepped forward, becoming aware of a flat circle of stone at the centre of the Megaliths, a measure of rock embedded and flush with the earth. We approached and were shocked when giant Hoobah emerged from behind the largest of the upright stones.
“Uzza-babah!” he said, his voice like thunder. His huge feet fell from his jump, shaking the ground for his great weight.
He was the same in proportion as I saw him before, but now twenty feet tall, his little razor point grown to an enormous sliver of radiant blue. It was clear. It was the diamond spear of Carmino Eleganto he bore. Jadus and I struggled to catch our breath. We held up our hands like petty criminals, quick to surrender.
“Oh, mighty Hoobah,” I said, dropping to my knees.
Jadus remembered the description from my previous encounter and submitted just the same. The hulking buckawn growled, his shape twisting with fierce muscle under his gold-green fur. Now he was a champion of nature, beyond question, a huge and fierce guardian. A stuffy doll he still was, but enormous, ready to stab, and to crush if the need arose.
“Somebody got the ball in the milk jug,” Jadus whispered. “Don’t let me die at the hand of some toy from a carnival.” I reached and clutched his hand, my own digits at half strength and so soft I could swear I’d soaked them in lotion. My velvet touch only gave Jadus the willies. He shuddered and as he did, I plotted to attempt my seductive moves again.
“Oh, Hoobah,” I called. He looked at me with his big yellow eyes and postured with the flow of rage.
“You’s come to rocks bigga bigga!” he shouted, all sinew and fury, occupying the entire diameter of the flat round stone beneath.
“We have,” I said. “I survived your little stab to the head, when we were still in the world that I call home. I am quite lucky.”
“I exist many places!” the greater version of Hoobah howled. The sky seemed to echo him with thunderous discontent. He was a wee thing in my home plane, but a giant for the moment, commanding the very essence of the land, the Megaliths, the grassland.
“I’s try to keep you away!” Hoobah exclaimed. “I’s try to keep you back. People’s like you never listen.”
He was certainly correct on that account. Nature never gave a warning that humans did not ignore.
“Don’t you’s look at me! You’s deal with da mouse!” Hoobah said, pointing to the ground, the broad stone circle upon which he stood. The tip of the bright spear lingered with its point over something we could not see.
“What in the world,” I muttered, still on my knees.
“Oh my,” Jadus breathed. His eyes seemed to see something move. We waited for just a beat.
Then, a tiny mouse appeared at the edge of the stone and stared up at us with knowing eyes. He was gray with black eyes, a little tail, impossibly cute and banal in every way. Except—
“Hello there,” said the mouse.
Jadus gave a little giggle. I tittered as well, to half recollect I’d been told when I was fully in the wind, two and three-quarters sheets.
“Shut up and show’s da respect!” demanded Hoobah, with a ferocious shake.
“Excuse me,” the mouse said, standing on its rear legs. “If we could, I might trouble you both to take a moment to converse with me.” Its voice was tiny, perfect, and polite, much like an erudite scribe or scholar.
To hear the wee rodent talk, we both settled, more reverential in our posture, whereupon Hoobah let down his weapon and stood back, leaving us in audience.
“My apologies, Mister mouse. We have come here accidently, in some manner of speaking. We mean no disrespect,” offered Jadus.
“Never you mind,” said the mouse, “and you need only call me ‘mouse’. Many men do come here, this wondrous place between places. Most to adventure, some to innocently pass through. I must say though, we’ve never yet had a married couple.”
I laughed uproariously at that, jiggling my new twin frontage with bold shakes. Even Jadus could not help himself and laughed along. Then we both calmed and apologized to the mouse for our incongruous mirth.
“I am so sorry for my assumption,” Mouse asserted, smoothing his composure.
“Not at all,” said Jadus, his chuckles fading. “We are both still single, I’m afraid.”
The mouse gave an ahem and returned to the full measure of its dignity.
“Nonetheless, you have arrived here, and it is my task to govern this place, and make sure all remains well and intact. You mean to travel to some far along destination?” With this, the mouse pulled forth a beautiful and miniscule notebook, no bigger than the nail on my little finger, and the tiniest marker of charcoal, the size of a three-day whisker on my cheek, when I did possess such. From nowhere at all he conjured the cutest pair of spectacles and placed them down on his little snout.
“From here, you may go absolutely anywhere. In place, or even in time,” Mouse added.
As for exactly what to say, lying smoothly and succinctly was probably the thing to do, but Jadus jumped in and caught me off guard with legitimacy.
“We seek the tomb of Carmino Eleganto, warrior-prince of antiquity.”
“Ah,” said Mouse, “I understand.”
“You do?” Jadus asked.
I was surprised and pleased altogether, just to be following along. I was tingling for whatever might happen next.
“Of course, I do,” replied Mouse, scrawling notes with a casual paw. “Many men, bandits, or looters have come for the same, all disappointed. You see, this is indeed Mister Eleganto’s resting place, yes, but he entrusted all the knowledge, wealth, and artifacts of his dying society to allow for the continuance and guardianship of this stone circle, these grand monuments around you.”
Jadus asked the mouse to elaborate. As the little vermin patiently did so, Hoobah eyed us suspiciously, as if gnawing on grit.
“As such,” Mouse explained, “when you crossed the remnant of the cursus, and entered the territory proper of the henge, you did cross over, transcending the bounds of your temporal world to enter the mystical environs of the long barrow devoted to our Carmine. Foremost, it is his resting place for eternity, and importantly, the nexus between so many realities. But since you have come here not as wanderers and instead as would-be pillagers of the past, we cannot help you.”
“No?” Jadus asked.
“No, I am afraid. Over the centuries, many want-to-be thieves have come. All such uncivil wants have been refuted. All rude ambitions swiftly quashed. You will be no exception. We shall have you dispatched forthwith.”
“Dispatched?” Jadus asked with a gulp.
“Forthwith!” exclaimed Mouse.
The mouse then snapped his book shut with a measure of finality. This meant disaster if not expiration, I sensed, from the mouse’s tone and noble angle of its jaw. From whatever one reads of the countenance of mice.
“But surely we have done no wrong in merely seeking out the grave, the tomb?” Jadus asked, trying to make sense of just how we had offended.
“You have to understand,” said Mouse, “that I grow so weary of explaining these things time and again.”
“Our apologies, oh refined and ravishing mouse at the union of the worlds,” I finally chimed in. With much feminine grace, I thought. The strange sweetness of my worlds surprised myself and the mouse together. I saw the small thing flinch like it had been hit by a miniature hammer, but to it, an unquestionable blow. It reeled, deeply shook, and from that I was much inspired. I then flickered the lids of my eyes, quite evincive and purposeful, to finally see if what the writers claimed in fairy tales held a single drop.
The mouse cleared its throat. It wiggled, distinctly uncomfortable. I could not believe such nonsense had an effect, but instantly it did.
“Quit that immediately,” said Mouse.
“What’s that?” I asked, quite coy. I ran my tongue across my lips, not fully wanton but of course, not entirely pure. I sensed I was doing a much better job than my previous attempts with Jadus and Hoobah. Then again, neither of them was a talking small animal, the perfect target.
“You know damn well what I mean,” Mouse said.
“Whatever would that be?” I cooed. I might have seduced a swordless man with my sugary fluttering. Next, I carefully chose the delicate angles of my form. The artifice felt foreign, but one must utilize the tools one has in the box.
“You cannot enthrall me just because you are a girl,” Mouse said, angry, trying to sneer yet trembling all the same. “You are no princess, no virgin, no untouched lass of lore.”
I was no princess; the mouse spoke true.
“Oh, but am I not? Am I not innocent, Mister mouse?” I asked, mawkish and syrupy, the lilt of my voice like the petal of a flower floating on the upturn of the air. Certainly, I had never been besmirched, my crockpot barren of a pickle or a tickle, only for the lack of time, but still.
The mouse only quivered, quite shaken, adjusting his spectacles repeatedly, and appearing to perspire, if a mouse can do such. My ridiculous attempt was working. Hoobah saw his rodent master struggling and stepped forward, wielding the diamond spear to stab flesh through. The mouse only grabbed at his own chin and raised a teeny paw. It called out.
“No! I am fine. Hoobah, stay there. I am... just fine.”
Hoobah stopped where he was, a ripple of fury in the grand muscles under his fur. He growled low. The mouse looked back to me with wary eyes. I only played carelessly with the sweep of my locks, curious as they were, and adjusted the idle measure of my sultry yet virtuous look. To exert radiating beauty was intoxicating, evidently not just to my mind, but to the tilting emotions of the mouse.
“This lass, this lady,” Mouse struggled, “this fine young woman... means only to ask us a small favour.”
The mouse paused and bit its tongue. Hoobah then saw me too, with all of himself. I widened my eyes as big and as open as they could go, and Hoobah’s whole face went soft and empathetic. I was doing nothing but win.
“A favour only, I wish, Mister mouse. As I am lonely and all alone in this fierce world, needing only the help of you sweet brave souls to make my way unfettered. Help me and I will go off to fulfill my innocent destiny.”
“A bit much, don’t you think?” Jadus whispered.
“What’s a five-letter word for a sly bit of business?” I whispered back.
The mouse shook, as if I wielded an irresistible allure. Hoobah, as well, was moved by my helplessness, touched from my gentle sway. I thought for a moment they might each craft me a dress or string me a necklace of pearls, merely at the asking.
“Well, then, young lady,” Mouse suggested, “tell us what you need, and we shall get you to the temple on time.”
––––––––
Overhaul House provided Jadus and I the finest masseuses in all the land, one of each of the three varieties. I watched my lover enjoying the therapeutic and the spiritual at once, four strong hands erasing every stress. The scent of lemongrass and cherub oil suffused the room, twin odors of gratification.
Through the skylight, I saw Gregor, deftly hanging on for dear life, a thousand-thousand canaries yanking him ferociously across an otherwise blank blue sky. We did hear his fretful cries and could only smile. It was a fitting end to see our boss so satisfied.
For myself, I hadn’t lasted long as a lady. From the strange and quick transport home, there were two days in Bardelve where I had barely left my room. Then, finally, came seventeen massages of the third and happiest style. I knew the magic of a lime, but not a cucumber until then. Within that stretch, it happened so sudden. My hair shrunk, my full frontage disappeared, and my outie was back with a violent pop that startled the man with the rough grip on my body. That was number sixteen, with one more on my own, just to regrip the past.
“Do you think Gregor will finally be happy?” Jadus asked, face downward. He was making sure not to groan, which would always freak a masseuse out, even though they know exactly what they are doing.
“I’m not sure,” I breathed. “At least he finally has the chance to soar.”
“So did you,” Jadus joked.
“That’s not quite what I did, Jadus,” I said. “But it’s certainly what I am.”
CONTRIBUTORS
––––––––
Colton Scott Saylor is a writer and literary scholar. His non-fiction work on race and horror has been published in journals such as Multi-Ethnic Literature of the United States and Journal for the Study of Radicalism. He lives with his wife in San Jose, CA, where he teaches literature at San Jose State University.
Colombian-born, Jhon Sánchez arrived in NYC seeking political asylum, where he is now a lawyer. His most recent literary publications are “Handy,” (Teleport Magazine and Baseline Feed Podcast), “The Chocolate Doll Cake,”(Landing Zone Magazine), and “On WriNting” (the other side of hope), and “United Tombs of America,” (Midway Journal). He was awarded the Horned Dorset Colony for 2018 and the Byrdcliffe Artist Residence Program for 2019. In 2024, New Lit Salon Press will publish his collection of short stories, Enjoy a Pleasurable Death and Other Stories that Will Kill You. For updates, please visit the Facebook page @WriterJhon, Instagram jhon_author,Twitter@jhon_author. https://muckrack.com/jhon-sanchez/articles.
Cassandra O’Sullivan Sachar is a writer and associate English professor in Pennsylvania. Her horror writing has appeared in publications including Ink Stains: A Dark Fiction Literary Anthology, The Horror Zine, The Stygian Lepus, Wyldblood Magazine, and Tales from the Moonlit Path. She holds a Doctorate of Education with a Literacy Specialization from the University of Delaware and is working toward an MFA in Creative Writing at Wilkes University. She is the current fiction editor at River and South Review. Read her work at https://cass-andraosullivansachar.com/.
Will Lennon is a writer and researcher based in Washington D.C. While freelancing for The Daily Beast, he filed some of the first breaking stories on the January 6 attack from the lawn of the U.S. Capitol. He holds a bachelor’s degree in journalism from George Washington University, and is currently pursuing a Master’s in Public Policy focused on International Security and Economic Policy. He is also an avid reader and writer of sci-fi, fantasy, horror and magical realism. His latest novelette, entitled Skip Tracer, is slated for publication in November.
Wayne Kyle Spitzer is an American writer, illustrator, and filmmaker. He is the author of countless books, stories and other works, including a film (Shadows in the Garden), a screenplay (Algernon Blackwood’s The Willows), and a memoir (X-Ray Rider). His work has appeared in MetaStellar—Speculative fiction and beyond, subTerrain Magazine: Strong Words for a Polite Nation and Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History, among others. He holds a Master of Fine Arts degree from Eastern Washington University, a B.A. from Gonzaga University, and an A.A.S. from Spokane Falls Community College. His recent fiction includes The Man/Woman War cycle of stories as well as the Dinosaur Apocalypse Saga. He lives with his sweetheart Ngoc Trinh Ho in the Spokane Valley.
Eleanor Mourante spends her time creating mythology and writing about faraway places. She's currently working on a series of interconnected novels and novellas about psychopomps and those fighting to save the living from the creatures of the hereafter. She's ND and disabled and can occasionally be found on twitter @eatthesouls.
Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in more than eighty reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. U6 Stories: Vienna Underground Tales is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor and layout grunt for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. Author website: https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/
Diana Olney is a Seattle based fiction author, and words are her world. Her stories have appeared in several independent publications, and her debut novella was released last year in a collaborative book. She is also a two-time winner of Crystal Lake Publishing's monthly flash fiction contest. Currently, she is writing her first full length novel, half a dozen short stories, and a comic book series entitled Siren’s Song that will be released later this year. Her newest tale, “Pretty on the Inside,” is based on a true story. Visit her at dianaolney.com for updates on her latest nightmares.
Nathaniel Barrett is a rising High School Senior in the state of New Hampshire. His work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and will be published in the online magazine, Bewildering Stories. He writes primarily fiction, particularly in the genres of Science Fiction, Magical Realism, and just plain Realism. Whenever he is not writing, you will find him either reading, running, or spending time with his friends and family.
D.G. Ironside is an emerging Canadian author, content creator and persistent Improviser.