“Hey, E, you’re into that weird stuff, right?” He didn’t use the word ‘stuff,’ but that was the kind of fellow he was.

Oh, I could argue the point, because there was a lot of “weird stuff” I certainly wasn’t into, but this was before the internet was quite as pervasive, and for what Jonath meant it was probably something I could at least give an opinion on, even if it was only, “That’s some weird stuff.”  And I wouldn’t use the word ‘stuff,’ either.

Jonath pulled me over to look at his computer screen.  “What do you make of that?”

It took a moment for me to make sense of the sight.  First, it wasn’t porn, which was what Jonath was normally using his screen to view.  The lack of bare flesh was its own distraction.  It was a picture of a couple of everyday normal guys, one standing in front of a doorway, the other in front of a piece of furniture I couldn’t be bothered to give a name to…okay, the word escaped me for a moment, but it was some kind of cabinet.  The kind of picture with very little interest to people who aren’t somehow related, kind of like a good deal of the credits to a movie.

Then I caught the weird stuff.

The gentleman on the left, in the doorway, seemed to fade out, and the gentleman on the right, you could see his hand through the one on the left.

“Overexposure?” I asked.  “One of those photography terms.”  It kept my attention.

“Digital.  None of the other photos show it, nothing weird on the lens.”  He shrugged.  “These were photos I took on the trip to see my family. What do you  make of it?”

“That was what, four months ago?”

“Eh, I forgot about downloading them until Mom nagged,” he shrugged.  “But that’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.  That’s some weird stuff.”

I went and sat back on the bed, going back to my comics.  To make conversation, I asked, “Where was that taken?”

“Oh, that’s my mom’s new place.  It’s huge, and really kind of weird.  Lady lives there, buries her pets in the yard, wanders up at night chanting and stuff.   Real Stephen King, what was it?  Pet Seminary?”

“Cemetary, I think.  I don’t read a lot of horror,” I lied, trying not to laugh at the idea of a place pets went to become priests.  I stood up and went back over to behind Jonath’s chair.  “You have any other pictures of the place?”

“Oh, sure, here’s the grave in the front yard.  Here’s one in the back.”  He shifted through a few other photos.  “Here’s this ancient telephone.  Still works,” he showed me a couple of other photos, some of his family.

I wanted to ask a lot of questions, but finally, just shrugged.  “That’s a restless place.  Things aren’t being left to their regular entropy.”

“We have replaced their regular entropy with new Folger’s crystals?”

“Well,” I considered it, “the idea of spiritual caffeine is an amusing one,” I admitted.

“Huh,” he grunted.  “Weird stuff, right.”

There are thoughts that open portals, because with most people (maybe not Jonath) thoughts lead to actions on both a physical and mental level.   When you make a decision, it is an action, if only of will.

“Your mom doesn’t live in the state, does she?”  That was an act of will, too.

“Uh, no.”

I swore silently.  I didn’t use the word, “Stuff,” either.  This was my theory as to why wizards weren’t pictured reading newspapers.  With great power and all that.  Really, it’s true of any specialist, although at least I wasn’t the kind of doctor who got cornered at parties to look at someone’s rashes.  (Well, once, and it led to the term “spackle demons,” so it was kind of a story to be told, but not relevant.)  How far did my responsibility cover?  Did I have some kind of territory?   It’s not like I got some kind of per diem to pit my will against the Bumps in derNite.

Maybe it’s because my rule of thumb is that if you ask “Is this somebody else’s problem?” it is officially a moral dilemma.

I went back to my comic books.   Jonath moved back in with his mom when he couldn’t complete the school year.  I’ve not heard from him since.

[postnote: Thanks to D. Thornton for the bones.]

When everyone present, the veche, the prince, and the rich merchants, had eaten and drunk all they desired, they began to boast and oh! the braggarts told tales that would make fodder for many fine witticisms of any a bard for long years to come!

That’s a classic line from these types of tales.  It fits with the aftermath of the announcement.  Cake was brought out, and the many friends of the bride and groom enjoyed the frosting and some of them had never had ice cream before, a story probably worth telling in itself by a storyteller better than I, and then the game began in earnest.

We will call the two teams Koshchey, the dwarf’s team, because it amuses me, and Claire, for Kievan’s friend.

“Why would they take my drink?” Claire asked.  “That doesn’t make any sense, because I could just get another.”

Sadko, her sylphic (as opposed to sylphan, because that sounds like sylvan, and is thus confusing to the ear) friend smiled.  “If it were of value, would you not fear it was stolen?”

“She said someone else would have it on the other team.”  She paused. “I did notice that the glasses are all quite different, so I should be able to find it.”

“No, we must confer with our teammates and negotiate its release.”

“Oh, I hope no one spit in it!”

Sadko knew it would not be so, and merely smiled.

Roo asked her partner, “What is it that we have lost?”

“It could be innocence, but it would be sheer impropriety to have losses so vulgar or of such notoriety,” her companion, who we name Nora laughed.  “However I overheard the words of one who made an exaggerated boast that it’s quite obvious our loss: the name of our host.”

“That is madness.  We were invited!”  Roo frowned.  “It is on the tip of my tongue.”

For yes, Vasilisa is a wise wizard.  That the invitation was remembered was to keep the trouble to a minimum, but the name, a name is less mutable, and can be hidden, but only until said.

“Is it an insult, or is it crass, that the other team asserts we took a glass?” Nora asked.

“Were it ambrosia, I would call it crass,” Roo suggested.  “But everyone knows the Gods drink `highly caffeinated carbonated colas’ these days.  Do we know what it looks like?”

“A pale indigo but not violet in hue, with cream coloured liqueur that turns it to blue.  Tall like a vase, but more like a square, a handle to lift it, but no real burden to bear.”

Have you caught your breath yet?  Good.  I have an idea of where to look next.

“Those people are…weird.”  Claire had tried for a number of synonyms that made her sound less, well, she was afraid she sounded like some kind of bigot, because she knew they were unusual, but all the ways you say that about someone end up sounding like you’re judging them.  Claire was, however, very frustrated.  She had tried to find another drink, only to be told they were out of glasses, or while she was searching for her own (she remembered it was a tall “adult milkshake” in a kind of rectangular blue mug) she’d keep almost seeing it but it would turn out to be someone else’s beverage. 

“You are not incorrect,” Sadko said, hiding his amusement as best he could.  “But do you have a specific in mind?”  He liked Claire.  She was like many mortals, oblivious to wonder but still in search of it. 

I see that this raises an argument for you.  We can speak of it later.  Let me finish this tale. 

“I don’t understand what they are looking for – do they really not know whose party they’re attending?  I would think Kievan would throw out this many crashers.”

“Crashers?  There has been no violence.”  Sadko chose his words carefully because violence was always a possibility, especially with some of those he saw represented.

“Party crashers.  What,” Claire smiled, somewhat distracted for a moment, “you never went anywhere without an invitation?”

Sadko’s eyes widened.  “That would be a serious breach of Hospitality.”   Yes, there was a capital ‘H’ in there.

Claire laughed. “You make it sound serious.  Not that I haven’t been to a few parties that could have used bouncers,” she shivered, instinct telling her that those at this gathering best suited for the idea were perhaps a little more careless with mortality than she would want to know.  “Honestly,” she changed the subject, “I didn’t know Kievan had so many weird friends.  Maybe they’re friends of the girl he married.”

“Perhaps,” Sadko agreed, with a sad smile.

“It’s the edge of a kingdom,” Thomas said.

“It’s a crosswalk,” I responded.

“Strangely enough, we are both stating the truths obvious to us in apparent disagreement, but these truths, however self-evident, can in a declaration exist simultaneously.  This is a crosswalk, but it is also the edge of a kingdom.”

“I suppose like many governmental maps, it’s an artificial boundary, but why have you dragged me to the corner of Colfax and,” I looked up at the street sign, “Monaco, to talk about kingdoms?”

“Rather, I have dragged you to the eight corners of Colfax and Monaco,” Thomas corrected.

“I guess you could count it that way, if you wanted to be specific and not just `self-evident.’  Was the question not direct enough, or do I need to repeat it in a less appropriate manner to get an answer?”  It wasn’t that talking to Thomas was a challenge so much as that he seemed to take the most difficult path.  It was a kind of verbal bureaucracy, and, well, words mean things, but they don’t mean the same things to everyone.

“I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

“Not the one with the snakes?” I checked.  I have been known to get a little nervous around snakes, even if I’m generally alright with them.

“No, Adelina is busy tonight.”  He laughed.  “I’ll pass on that you remembered her, though.  It will tickle her.”

“It’s nice to have fans,” I suggested.  “However, it’s cold, it’s the witching hour, and the police have been by twice already to make sure we’re not making trouble.”

“If, by trouble, you mean they’re checking that we’re not having illicit gay sex on the sidewalk, and we’re not buying or selling drugs or women no matter how many offers we get.”  He sighed and watched another potential merchant pass with a shake of his head.

“If you weren’t such a pretty boy, you’d get less of them,” I laughed.

“The last one asked me how much you cost,” he noted with a half-snarl, half-grin.

“Hey, I could use a little cash,” I bantered.

“I’ll be sure to sell you as cheaply as you estimate yourself,” he sighed.  “Look over there.”

He pointed at the set of corners directly opposite.  A shadow of a man stood there, waiting for the light.  The shadow was probably, well, eight feet tall, and four feet wide, and humanoid.  As the light changed, it waddled across the street and became smaller and darker.  By the time he had crossed all of the streets, I saw a small man, maybe about four feet tall, in a dark trenchcoat, a soft black hat, and a cigarette.  The little skin that was revealed was blue.

“He’s a troll,” Thomas whispered.

“Quick and unsubtle to anger?” I asked.  I stared.  I’d seen some strange things on the streets.  A small blue man smoking a cigarette shouldn’t have been that weird.

“What’cha lookin’ at?” he grumbled under a waft of smoke.

“Potential lung disease, Sir Darius.”  Thomas seemed amused.

“Eh.  War or tobacco, I’m choosin’ the peaceful way.  ‘Sides, gotta run to hit my shift down at the station.  Gotta have an excuse to walk out of the box now and then.  Not everyone out this time of night, they don’t all have credit cards, y’know?”  He leaned up against the wall and began gathering a small aura of smoke.  “So, this your boyfriend?”  He gestured at me with an elbow.  His hands had remained in his coat pockets the whole time.

“Told you you were a pretty boy,” I said.

“This is the Portal Doctor,” Thomas said, ignoring me.

“Oh yeah, the one you mentioned to the King.”  He looked at me, but I still couldn’t tell you anything about his eyes.  I had the feeling they were dark and they glittered, but there was some kind of glamour involved that kept my vision just sliding off his face.

Or maybe it wasn’t his face.  Maybe he really was the 8 foot shadow I had seen before, which meant his blue navel was smoking.  This was odd, indeed.

Thomas waited to see if Sir Darius was going to say anything more, and then replied, “Yes.”

“Huh,” the troll knight said.  “If you could believe anythin’ a Mad Tom says, yer a wizard of some sort.  Kind of scrawny, really, but I guess you guys get yer exercise runnin’ demons and stuff down.”  He didn’t use the word “stuff.”

I would never consider myself scrawny, especially as I towered over the troll, but maybe he had different, far more Rubenesque standards.  “I’m not the athletic type,” I said, demurring.

“I don’t care what’cher boyfriend and you get up to,” Sir Darius suggested. “You’re no more ‘n a bite.  ‘Sall wizards are good fer, after.”

“After what?” I began to ask, but Thomas interrupted.

“He has not taken up your quest, Sir Darius.  He is here as an observer.”

“So yer goin’ do it?”  The troll sounded, well, more drunk than anything else.  “Thomas, m’friend, yer either Mad or True, and neither of those ever leave well.”

“Or leave well enough alone,” Thomas agreed.

“I serve a King of small things,” the troll said, looking at me.  It was the clearest utterance I had yet had from him.

“There can be big surprises in small packages,” I thought of a T-shirt I’d seen Binah wear once.

“Hoo hoo hoo,” the troll chuckled.  “Spoken like a wizard.  Look,” and for a moment, I could feel the immensity of the troll, as if he merely kneeled next to me, and spoke into my ear.  “Small kingdoms do not wage small wars.  I pass through seven boundaries merely to make a mortal’s time, and at that, my King is not seven boundaries small.”

He smelled like smoke, and like asphalt, and like rock, and like old blood.

I nodded, as if I understood.

He pulled out a hand from the pocket of his trenchcoat and laid it on the back of my neck.  “‘Member this, ‘mancer.”  It felt like that literal ton of bricks that’s mentioned in passing now and again.  “Seven boundaries, and seven anchors.  Bound an eight time and small things will begin to leak out.”

“That would be bad,” I guessed.

He put his hand back into his pocket.  “Yer good friend will be walkin’ across the street with me, then I’m catchin’ a bus.  Get yerself home.”

“Seven streets?” I asked Thomas.

Thomas nodded.

I never saw Thomas again, but there’s a small set of places where I might, someday, go looking for him.

“…And this is Magdalena,” the object of, well, not my heart’s desire, but definitely the desire of something anatomical and inconveniently located offered a passel of other names for the girl she was introducing.  The names passed by me like so much exposition, and I smiled in vague attention, my focus on Binah, and her slightly exotic accent.  I passed one of the drinks I had just purchased over to her, on general principles.

“We’ve passed each other on campus,” Magdalena said, her voice perfectly modulated over the music and sound of the crowd.  She knocked back the shot and then extended her hand to me.  “Magda.  My mother’s side of the family adds the baggage, but since she also gave me the good looks, I tolerate it.”  I shook her hand on automatic, and took a moment to stop watching and listening to Binah as soon as our palms connected.  There was something…

She was fairly tall, but more importantly, most of it was leg.  She had on a pair of cargo shorts that showed them off, and a white tank top with a handful of gold necklaces that were a lot more subtle than anything that phrase should suggest of the 1970s.  Her hair was pressed back with some kind of ancient secret hair care product of which straight men are not meant to know.  She repressed a smile.

“A fellow artist,” she said, her other hand curling around mine.

I started to protest, as stick figures were high concept to me,  but then she wrote a symbol of light in the air between us.  I looked around, but she had been extremely, well, crafty, unlike my guilty glance.  She smiled, and I liked her lips.

“How do you know Binah?” I asked, blandly.

“Isn’t that my line?” she asked, releasing my hand with a certain grace.  “Honors Program, of course.  I’m looking to move to a Psychology degree, not convinced that this is the college to do it at,” she shrugged.   “And you?”

“Officially this is our first date,” I laughed.

“And you took her here?” she referred to the flashing lights and loud music.

“Her favourite local band,” I defended myself.

“What do you think?”

“Can’t stand them,” I shouted back, and Binah bumped back into me from talking to the other people she’d introduced me to, and I had just as quickly forgotten.

“What was that?” she yelled.

“Still trying to appreciate the music,” I yelled back at her.  Actually, to be honest, I didn’t think there was any music.  No melody, lots of screaming that had gotten louder in the last few minutes, and I was far away from the literal crush of people up near the front of the stage.  It was probably an acquired taste.

“It’s great, isn’t it?  They had an opportunity to get one of their songs on the radio,” she just about blasted my ear drums at that point, “but they stuck with their principles!  They’ll never sell out!”

“Great!” I responded, although I guess the ethics of the matter confused me because it sounded pretty idiotic, all things considered.  Still, Binah was bopping to what I guessed was the beat, and it was fabulous to watch all the movement under her black t-shirt.  Her smile was a flash of white against the darkness of her skin, and I had to expend effort to hold back the images that brought to mind.

“Should we move up?” she asked at a volume that may have been discernible from a passing jet, yet still something I had to strain to hear from back here near the bar.

“Do you want to?” it would be suicide, my leather jacket being poor protection against that much in the way of muscle and metal spikes.  Still, a slow death being ground (literally) against Binah had potential compensation.

“I asked him to stay back with me,” Magda said, in a conversational tone.  Binah and I had no troubles hearing it.

“You moving in on my man?” Binah asked, without blinking, but still quite loudly.

“I’m using him as an umbrella,” Magda said back.

“Oh.”  I thought it sounded as confused as I felt, but it seemed to be fine with Binah.  “I think I see Dezi down in the front.  I’m going in after her,” she said.  She gave me a quick, almost professional kiss on the cheek, and then jumped into the fray, quite literally.  On both counts – the jumping, and the fighting.

“I wanted to talk to you some more,” Magda explained.

“I kind of guessed.  I’m not a…” I waved my hand in some lame gesture of Hollywood wizardry.

“But you knew what I meant.”

“I’m also not an idiot,” I can actually say that in sign language, but the ironic thing is, I wouldn’t understand the response, provided it wasn’t obviously vulgar.

“Are you preter or super?”

“What?” I tried to make it sound more indignant than confused.  I might have managed it.

“Or are you natural, meaning human?”

“Oh!  No, I’m not anything, um, I’m human.”  I figured “anything crazy” sounded kind of racist.

“So what do you do?”

“One trick pony, and this isn’t the sideshow, sister,” I said, finally, normal voice and frustration leaking out like any just-about-to-be-a-dropout slightly post-adolescent male.

“Isn’t it?” she smiled.  She gestured around us.

“Huh.”  I grunted.  “Bitter, much?”

“It’s the name, mister.  I’m a myrhhbearer.  Bitter and used for gifts and funerals.”

“Is that like a ringbearer?”

“There were more Disciples than Ringwraiths.”

“I never saw Sauron’s resurrection as particularly biblical.”

I didn’t remember walking out of the bar and down the road.  Bye, Binah.  Bye visions of her writhing over me, on top of me, pretty much wherever she wanted.  I was hooked on Magda, who while still pleasing to the eye was far more intriguing to me, maybe even despite the attitude.

“What about Gandalf’s?”

“I read Narnia just thinking that Aslan was one heck of a neat lion,” I had to admit.  “And the voyage of the Dawn Treader I somehow have mixed up with Darwin and the finches.”

“Stars and angels.  Whether it is a wrinkle for our time or maybe even just a Babylon 5 reference,” she sighed.  “Where do you stand?”

“I like to think I’m on the side of the angels,” I decided.

“Well, yeah, but have the ones around us fallen?” she asked, cynically.

I remember kissing her, then.  Her mouth was sweet, the taste of her breath somewhat bitter.

“Have hope,” I told her.

“Oh, I do,” she smiled, and I decided I liked what her smile did to her face.  “I do.”

My bedroom was the one with the moss green carpet.  Or was it olive drab?  It was this green-but-not-a-real-green-carpet (that’s cruel.) It was the first room on the left of the long hallway.  On the right was a bathroom and then my folks’ room, and there was a room for my sister and a guest room at the very end again on the left.

There was always something wrong about that last room on the left. Besides sounding like the name for an excrutiating drama (aren’t they all?) or horror flick, it started with a bad feeling.   Nothing specific, just a discomfort, like I wasn’t supposed to be there.  It was never off-limits, exactly (except to keep it nice for guests) but there was something wrong with it.

I tried, like a kid does, to tell my parents.  From your perspective, it makes sense, right?  You know, because you’ve been reading, that there are things Beyond that try to intersect with our world, our reality, and they really aren’t good for us.  Most people have at least one ghost story they can tell, and that’s my rule of thumb there.

So from the perspective of a kid, absolutely, let’s look into this.  Let’s get an exorcist in and let them do their thing, just in case.

Do you know what an exorcist costs?  You can get a lot of services over the internet, but you’re going to try to bargain-watch this one. Someone who is going to want you to give their organization a donation is probably your best bet, but remember the size of that donation should reflect the fact that they are pitting their soul (loaded word, remember) against the evils of what  is there.

Yeah, as a grown-up, you’re not so quick to listen to this.  Besides, you’ve been in that bedroom.  You’ve made the bed.  You’ve been in the closet.  There’s NOTHING THERE BUT YOUR  IMAGINATION, and why are you so worried about the guest room anyway?  Do you not want Grandma to come?  Is this some kind of bizarre repressed sibling rivalry?  Did you do something disgusting in there?  Do we have any clean sheets that fit that bed in the cupboard?  Go look in the cupboard for clean sheets.  I don’t believe you’re making me make the bed again and I have to go pick Grandma up from the airport and she’ll be waiting another fifteen minutes and she’s going to tell me all the stories about all the times I’ve been late in my life, and it’s all because of you.

As a kid, you’re not likely to make that mistake again. 

You could go all Frog Brothers, or even Monster Squad if you’ve got friends.  Or even just forget that cold chill your Grandma complains about every morning even though it’s 85 degrees before noon.  After all, it isn’t your problem.  Probably an overactive imagination, or so your school shrink says when you come visit on Wednesday afternoons because your 3rd grade teacher wasn’t so hot on your story about the vampires living in your basement.  (That one was totally made up, but it was good urban fantasy, and you don’t know why they confiscated the picture you drew with the best blood colour you were able to make with the bleak selection of coloured pencils you stole from the 6th graders doing their yearbook assignments.)

If it weren’t that you had bad dreams.  You really resonated with that line from Hamlet, and even though the shadows seem wrong (how can a place without much light have shadows?) you sneak into the guest room while Grandma is fussing about the kitchen with your mom.

Grandma has her own smell, but so does this room.  You like Grandma’s smell, it reminds you of visiting her and the little bathroom she had on the right with the National Geographic magazines and the crocheted toilet paper containers, and the funny saying on the wall that you didn’t get until you were older.  It reminds you of firm kisses on the cheek and that she’s always been nice to you.  The smell that competes with it is a dusty smell, even though you know your mom went crazy with the cleaning, and it smells like something old.  Grandma may be old, but she’s not like this smell.  Or maybe it’s the sound, the sound of slithering, if slithering was music that set your spine on edge.

It’s coming from the closet, of course.  You move around Grandma’s suitcase, careful not to touch anything in there.  You want to turn on the light, but you just have this feeling that if you do, you’re going to lose this tenuous connection with the wrongness, like light really chasing it away.  Your mom said you were too old for night lights, but you know this is why you want them, even if your sister says it just lets you see monsters better.

It’s that moment, the moment in your dream that you can’t turn away, that the veil is pierced. 

I can’t tell you I saw anything.  But I brushed aside Grandma’s coat, and there was a something there, a darkness within a darkness that sounded like sadness and tasted like neglect, and smelled like something forgotten so long that it no longer had a scent.  Something in it moved and I gave serious consideration to screaming or wetting my pants, but instead, I felt a flow of anger.  Anger comes from fear, and instead of flight, this once I chose fight.  It reached out from my left hand, and I gestured with the flow as if just closing a curtain, smoothing something down, wax-on, Daniel-san, a curiously non-obscene repudiation of the evil of the moment.

To my great surprise, it went quiet.  My hackles (wherever they are, just about the gills that turn green, I guess) lowered, and real silence, combined with the sound of mom yelling that she did too add the orange juice to the cranberries, and the smell of turkey roasting, and my sister laughing because of something on TV, and it all filled the room like it had been a vacuum.

The smell of Grandma.

I took a moment to breathe it in, and then made my way back out.  But I guessed then, even if I hadn’t known for sure.  It felt kind of like being a hero.  I had faced the darkness and won.

The laws of Hospitality are such that generally speaking, not having an invite to the party meant that the dwarf (for that is the word to best describe him in your mind) was no longer covered by the implied protection of the party’s hosts.  While Vasilisa had split most of the outright carnivores to strut and clash in the upstairs loft, Kievan’s struggling if valiant friends were left mostly to admire the art in the living area downstairs.  There was still some uncomfortable mingling around the dining room table.

“Hi, I’m Claire, I’m a friend of Kievan’s.”  Claire started talking to the tall woman with wet-looking, deep golden hair.  Claire would have described herself first as a vegetarian, then as a young woman complete with cat, and maybe mention that she hoped to make it big as a graphic artist despite feeling that she didn’t have much in the way of natural talent.

“I am Roo,” the woman said.  She smiled and flashed what might have been rows of sharp, pointy teeth.  She would have described herself as hungry.  She fiddled with a gold comb in her hair, after selecting a small hors d’oeuvres.

“Uh, hi.  So you must know Lisa.  I’m in the publications department where Kievan works.  What is it that you do?”  Claire was fascinated by something about the rusalka’s mouth; watching Roo nibble at a turkey roll was very disturbing.

“I am a dancer,” Roo suggested.

“Really?  Are you with the ballet?” Claire tried.

Roo put a lovely pale hand on Claire’s arm.  “Would you like to see a performance?” she asked.

Claire stared at the slightly damp hand on her arm.  She noticed how it had an almost greenish tint, and at the same time, a translucency that reminded one no less of the water in a fish tank gone mostly to algae.  She looked up at Roo’s fiery green eyes and backed away.

In the back of her mind, Claire knew she would never go swimming again.

Not all of the encounters were those between predator and prey, however.  There were a group of sylph musicians who took on all requests.  There’s nothing like listening to Tool being played on a sylphic viola, but you will have to trust that my tale of byliny is true.  Such music can drive men mad.

So there was drinking, and dancing, and general socializing continued until Vasilisa got tired of her little ploy to avoid the dwarf, and instead suggested they play a game.

“We will split into two groups.  I recommend you play with someone you haven’t met before, as this is the type of game where everyone wins, but especially those who meet someone new.”  Her wisdom knew that couching it in the terms of a game, no matter how frivolous could mean it was a sacred rite, and thus those in the competition were protected from inadvertent hungers.  Kievan’s friends moved quietly into the room and slowly two groups sorted themselves out.

The dwarf unknowingly found himself on the other side from Vasilisa.  This was a piece of her wisdom working.  Some powers are driven by will, and some wrapped up in fate, or destiny if you would have it be so.  She is what she is, but then, so are most wizards.  I don’t claim to understand them, for to do so takes a wizard.  I am the son of a lesiye, and that is enough for any one man to manage.

The dwarf did find himself on the same side as Kievan.  This was also on design, because while Vasilisa may be wise, that does not mean she is never a little petty.  She considered it a good lesson against Kievan trying to surprise her again.

“The rules of the game are simple.  One of you has lost something, perhaps a purse, or a host,” she smiled directly at the dwarf, “or even a small piece of jewelry.  It has not been stolen, but you must ask questions of the person you pair up with of its identity, and then each team needs negotiate its release with the other team, for someone on the other team may unknowingly have it on his or her person.”

This had been easy enough to arrange, and may even have come up in conversation throughout the night.  Now, those without the birthrights or sight are not concerned.  Things lost are never lost forever, and things stolen would be an insult worth injury, so they did not complain.  Those of the modern world are more attached to the things they think they must own, and there was some muttering as women went back down to the gallery to check their purses, and touch their ears where they wore jewelry, and men checked their back pockets for wallets and eyed their hosts a bit suspiciously.

Of course there was no theft, and they quieted quickly, some being quite eager to play the game.

Claire had chosen to be partnered with one of the sylph musicians.  In her mind she tried not to finish the sentence with, “Anybody but Roo,” but it was still true.  This was the sylph who played what looked to be a bass made of light, but which Claire thought must have been a very expensive and experimental new plastic.

“I have brought only this,” her new friend Sadko said, referring to his instrument.

“I have my purse,” Claire suggested, but a quick dive into the organized insides showed no loss.  “I have my keys, my wallet, my earrings,” she touched her earlobes in a way that the sylph found amusing.   She looked around.    “But I have misplaced my drink,” she decided.

“I am no gusli player,” Artur explained, “but let’s catch our breath here in the raskovnik, and I’ll see if I can tell you the story.”

I sat up, ready to protest.  “Do we have time for this?”

Artur raised a bushy eyebrow.  “Either she’s dragonchow, or she’s fine and Nellie is waiting for something else.  A negotiation, because just biting down on someone else’s magic is likely to give you several different kinds of indigestion.  I think she’s waiting for us.  Ivan had to have told her somehow.”

I didn’t like the idea but he had a point.  Either we were too late, and we were just going to get et ourselves, or we were a pivot of sorts.  Peredur had just about said it, so now that we had played with the Watcher on the Threshold, we had a few minutes.  Of course, if I’d known that, I’d go catch a shower, maybe a last meal… listening to the lesiye boy in a field that if it had been in our world would have given me allergic reactions, while a spell that was turned into a dog came over to have its ears scritched…well, this wasn’t likely to be the most surreal thing that had or would happen to me.

He seemed to take my consideration as assent.  “So, once upon a time in a land, far, far away… or, to be more precise, about three years ago in New York City…”  He had gone from the sing-song beat of tradition to something I knew to be a translation, but while there was still a trace of attitude, Artur was no longer “Sullen Boy” to me.  I only hoped I had grown up a little in his eyes, too.

I paid attention to the story.

“Vasilisa the Wise was recently married to a young computer programmer we’ll name Kievan for the sake of the story, and, really, to kind of give him the benefit of the doubt.  Kievan and his father are born to this country, but his mother was an immigrant and told him tales of Grandmother Yaga scary enough to make him kind to old women and suspicious of cabins where he can’t find the front door.  Two important things to teach a young boy.

“Vasilisa was going by the name Lisa this decade, and I forget what she does for money, but I think she supplements with writing advice columns on the internet.  Still, she is a wizard, if not zduhaći,” he paused.

“Hence `the wise,'” I nodded.

“And it means her social group is similarly somewhat curbed.”  He gave me a Look.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I grumbled.  I could meet normal people.  I do, every day I go out and work, but maybe I need to rethink my bigotry when it comes to my attitude about the fey; even for me, non-practitioners do seem to fall into the background.  I mean, some friends stand out, like Ed, who knows what I am, but for some of the echelons above me, telling people your little secrets about how you view the world poses its own risks.

He nodded.  “I really do have a girlfriend,” he said, defensively.

I didn’t know what to say, but “I believe you,” sounded patronizing, and “I did,” sounded pathetic, so I didn’t say anything, and just nodded, instead.

“When he wanted to hold a small reception for their friends, she had to tell Kievan something.  She had learned from her time as a frog, another story about her, to be careful in advertising her relationships.  Kievan, of course, expected her to have a great number of friends.”

“I sense a geek social fallacy coming on,” I sighed. Artur didn’t seem to catch it, so I continued.  “Sounds like a number four, `All my friends will be friends, too.'”

“That’s…” he thought it over, “dangerous.  Wisdom suggests otherwise,” he said, carefully.

“It’s an easy thought, after all, they all have you in common, and you like them, so why wouldn’t they like each other?  Of course, then you find out that your best friend slept with your other friend’s wife’s sister, and it’s been Word War Three ever since that patio party last summer… but anyway.”

Artur grinned.  “Except with wizards there are the occasional assassination attempts, and don’t forget the sacred quests.”

“I can’t forget the sacred quests.  Every time I go to the grocery store I feel geased to make sure I have bread, milk, butter, AND eggs.”

He chortled, and continued his story.  “So Kievan, not being given the nom de plume `the Wise,’ continues to push in the classic way fairytale spouses are known to do, until Vasilisa relents and agrees that she will invite some of her friends.  She does, of course, have to avoid known eaters of mortals, and those who are not yet comfortable with this century.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“I thought I told you I watched a lot of television.  It makes the transition easier.  Anyway, so Vasilisa goes over the guest list a couple of times.  It does not occur to her that she needs to cross the ones she doesn’t want sent out, or that her husband’s plan was to make it a bit of a surprise party.”

“That’s some contact list,” I interjected.

Artur looked confused.

“I mean, don’t most wizards have, `Arachne, address: any silver spider web under the full moonlight,’ and `Troll, bridge over troubled waters,’ kind of in their personal Rolodex?”

“How would you expect them to get their mail?  They take the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes very seriously in some places.”

I looked for signs to see if Artur was joking, but he kept a straight face as he went on with the story.  “She was wise, and many of the names were in code, but Kievan was not discouraged by the lack of contact and the many envelopes that came back returned.  It had, however, gotten notice in a certain segment of those who share our knowings that there was a party to be held.  You may have noticed in this day and age…”

“That there’s a certain lack of balls… um, dancing and big parties with lots of unusual creatures… so to speak?”

“That the festivities have gotten much tamer, yes.”  Artur pinched his nose, trying not to laugh.  I’d say his face went a bit wooden, but I’ve been trying to avoid the pun.

“What about the thirteenth fairy?” I asked.

“The…?” he shook his head.

“Comes in and curses the maiden because her invite was lost?  Briar Rose, Sleeping Beauty and all that?”

“I always thought Malificent had it won if it weren’t for the stupid analogue of the Lancelot situation.”

“Yeah, one asbestos shield didn’t a dragon-repellent make.  I’m with you there, but good has to defeat evil, and all that.”

“Well, she had some pretty incompetent hirelings, too.  I did wonder what she was wearing under the robes, though.”

“Nothing,” I said, quickly.  “That makes her wicked, and she was certainly that.”

He chuckled. “Agreed.  And in this case, there were a few people who figured on stopping by, invite or not.  After all, the wording was done by her husband, and he wanted it to be as open-ended as possible, wanted to meet her friends, and don’t tell her because it’s a surprise, well, you see the kind of disaster it started to be.

“So, Vasilisa is wise, and not at all outside the loop entirely, but as wise as she is, she is still somewhat hampered by the fact that you have to deal with imperfect interpersonal relationships, and she really doesn’t feel she can confront her husband.”

“I can imagine the conversations.  `Um, honey, you remember that surprise party?  Do you think it was a good surprise to invite both my blood sucking cousin Harry and your virgin sister?'”

“It’s just not done, really.  Some immortals are really the worst feminists.”  Artur shrugged, and it sounded like wood creaking.  “So she makes some plans to counteract all of it, and, day of the party, it’s working.”

“Logistically speaking, that must have been one huge cups-and-ball trick.”

“She’s a wizard, and that one is famous all over the world.”  He pauses.  “But then there’s a problem.    There is an uninvited guest.”

“A party crasher.  Heard about it from a chatty sylph and thought he’d score some chicks, right?  Brought some kegs of pilfered Vanir mead and a smile?”

“Who’s telling the story?” it was a guffaw, this time.  “Close enough.   And he kept calling out for Vasilisa.  The problem is, he kept refering to Vasilisa as the man of the house.  Which, of course, gave her an idea…”

We landed.

You know how I go on, so you’re probably surprised in that I really don’t want to talk about it.  Maybe that says a lot about the way we landed.  The words, “In the event of a water landing,” may now be triggering for me.

On the other hand, I can now say with confidence that the lake being was pretty darn male, because there was at least five seconds (more than adequate time while gliding) of total crotch scenery.

See?  Now we can share some scars.  Don’t go and get yourself tattoo’d with anything, but I’ve heard that shared pain is lessened.  I feel so much better now knowing I can use the correct pronoun.

Artur reverted to tree-thing as we ran down the hill.  Nikolai made a yelp-like sound and joined us at a run.  This pleased me, as I had worried about what had happened to the hound.

I mentally added a monthly gym cost to my slim bank account.  You know what would be cool?  A gym set up kind of like the library.  Um, I’m busy running so I can’t explain what I mean by that, but if they’re concerned about obesity in this country, they should make health a heck of a lot cheaper.  [Without being political, of course. Practitioners have the regular run of political variety, but there was a symposium a few years ago I attended that considered why there were so few in public office (all jokes about pacts with the infernal aside.)  I was unsurprised to find out that few cared about “mortal law,” and disappointed to see how few were registered to vote.  Honestly, I don’t think we’re a big enough franchise to move numbers across the board, but politicians don’t really cater to our demographic.  Besides, what kind of issues do we have that are specific to our needs?  More troops to guard our metaphysical borders?  A citizen can dream, can’t he?]

“That was the throne.  The entrance is directly across, just not in the same scale,” I managed.  If that indicates I wasn’t running as fast as I could because I could spit words out, that had more to do with the fact that in text it looks a lot more like a coherent sentence.  It was more of an exaggerated William-Shatner-reading-breathy-porn delivery.

Although, really, that whole seven-league-step thing kind of made our adrenaline-hyped dash quite silly in retrospect.  I think mostly it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Artur grunted – he could make more distance in each stride, but I was pleased to point out that while it moved him quickly, my feet rose and fell more so we were fairly well matched.  Nikolai was dashing, but he had four feet to ours, so as long as he had the stamina, we wouldn’t have to sacrifice him to whatever was following.

Which was…nothing.  Apparently the splashing we had heard was a matter of the lake king deciding to go back to sleep.  Frankly, I didn’t know whether or not to be chuffed about it.  I mean, he could have crushed us with tons and tons of water at any point, but I would have preferred all that running to have been for a reason.

We slowed down after a few minutes and turned around.  I decided to flop back on my back for a moment and just breathe loudly.  Nikolai kept sniffing around.  He actually moved away in order to shake off some of the water, so I was only hit by a fine mist.

“In answer to your question,” Artur wheezed, “I thought the area between the cliffs was a good choice.”

“Oh.  So that’s why we,” hack, cough, wheeze, sit up, lay back down, “headed that way.”

“And it was the only way out…”

“Practical.  What was that thing?”

“I think it was a son of the Morskoi Tsar.”  He translated for me.  “The Water King.”

“Oh.”  I was ready to put the name into my phone, and then sat up with a curse.  “I hope Prince Lake Monster didn’t just void the warranty with his shower,” I grumbled.  I was soaked, but I had worn my jacket, and the phone seemed to be fine, and my pockets waterproof.  Not bad for a thrift store find.  I was getting kind of low on battery, but I expected that.

“So.  Not the way to the dragon.”  I sighed.  “Did Ivan lie?”

“Pravda?” Artur laughed.  I remembered the word from elementary social studies classes, so I followed his meaning.  “He’s a sorceror.  Therefore, he lies.”

“Bigot,” I called him on it.

“How many sorcerors have you known?” Artur asked.

“Irrelevant, but I will agree that this hasn’t been a good example for the group.”  I frowned.  “I liked him.”

“Of course you do.  He is like Jack.”

I caught myself before I said I didn’t know Jack.  “Which Jack?”

“All the Jacks.  He is an Ivan, and Ivans are clever and likable.  They are also butchers of friends.  There should be a saying.  `It is easier to be butcher of friends, for goats are more suspicious.'”

I laughed until I coughed some more.  “I will try to remember that and use it someday.”   I finished coughing and stood back up.  Artur had somehow rooted into the ground, and was looking fairly refreshed.  “What are you, anyway?  Some kind of ent?”

He seemed put out.  “I’ve lived in the U.S. most of my life.   I watch at least four hours of television a day.  But what do we talk about?  The things that make me different.  My father was not an elderberry bush.”

“So your mother wasn’t a hamster.  What, do you want to talk about sports?”

“I’m a Broncos fan.”

“Uh, football, right?”  I grinned.  “Now that I can breathe again, how about how we are going to find this dragon?  I don’t suppose you know the Questor, do you?”

“Oh, sure, but I have a better suggestion.”  He sighed.  “We’re going to have to talk with Vasilisa the Wise.”

“Where can we find him?”

Artur just chuckled.  “That reminds me of a story…”

If I put just enough swagger and move my eyebrows like a muppet I might be able to deliver the line, “I could tell you about big,” ignoring the kind of gravitas that the moment deserved.  My eyebrows are distinctly unmuppet, at least in this stage of my evolution, and I’m not the swaggering type.

Let me put it this way: I had been thinking small.   Not so small that I could describe the naiad as some kind of lymphocyte small, but small in that the creature that represented Ivan in the gate transfer (Ivan wasn’t a small man, if you recall) could quite easily eat a me and my lost simulacrum for a snack and still want a couple dozen pizzas before its belly stopped complaining.

And it worked for the gate requirement.  I was happy about that – only Doloise has broken my personal rules, and she had a reason.  I mean, I had wanted to mention that the mountains were far larger than molehills, but since I’m from Colorado I try not to brag.  There’s only a few groups of people who understand why we stay in the state (and not just because we’re addled from the altitude) for the mountains.  Going just about anywhere else, and you get, you know, hills.  Soft rounded things that don’t have the presence our part of the range does.  So I hadn’t been impressed with the shiny mountains and their purple flowers, but again, it’s all about how you describe the environs.  Artur in the trollish form he showed in the kitchen of the restaurant was big, bigger than Ivan, but this thing (and I really wanted a name for it and an entry in some kind of Monster Manual to know its capabilities) put Artur and the lesiye’s ent-like ways to shame.

I was feeling kind of small for a moment.  And wet from splashback as the island creature (too human to dub it Krakoa) shook itself loose, catching me in a giant hand (oh, call it three quarters my size) before I fell back into the water.

“Hmmmm?” it asked.  I think it was hmmmming, at any rate.   Its head still kind of looked like a cave, and the scales looked very much like living water.   It had caught the naiad in its other hand, and seemed to ignore Artur and Nikolai completely.  Apparently, the second obstacle was a necklace.  You know, the usual kind of fire charm you’d give your sentient lake boyfriend.

I really did not want to speculate on what that made the first obstacle.  Alas, my brain does not always obey my every whim, but this time it kind of went crazy and suggested it was um, a familiar.  Like a parrot on a pirate’s shoulder.

I would like to state for the record that I did not pee my pants, but honestly, it would have been completely reasonable to do so.  I did not mostly because my body had seized up in a fashion that decided any additional moisture would have to be Enemy.

Air whooshed around me, and the roaring of a giant waterfall all but made the “Hmmmm?” sound like a cavern taking a deep breath.  I was soaked now just from the ambient water in the air.

I hate it when my socks get wet.  But it’s not like you can go all over the universe in adequate footgear without  life sometimes just handing you giant island men.  Or women – but “humanoid” only goes so far, you know? And I’d like to say it saved me from having to take another shower as soon as I got home, but “ambient” only goes so far, too.  I couldn’t find a way to ask for soap in “giant island thing language.”

“It wants to know who and what you are,” the naiad shouted.  Besides the necessary volume, she was looking completely relaxed in the thing’s hand.

“It first!” I wanted to shout back, but my better sense actually blocked it.  Of course, I wasn’t getting anything better prepared than, “I am me!” but that’s fine, because Artur showed up again, doing something to the hand of the creature like a special pressure point and having it release both of us.

Falling wasn’t “fine,” by any means.  I’m not afraid of heights (but I don’t test it, either) but falling, falling wasn’t getting me to my happy place.  I had complete and total empathy for Bilbo Baggins and his wanting a good hot breakfast after a night’s rest in his own bed.  Well, except for the part of me that was screaming, “We’re going to die!”

Artur didn’t look worried.  Oh, he was pulling a Kyra.  It’s a “Dark Crystal” reference, and shouldn’t count as a spoiler anymore.  Well, the flying squirrel version of showing he had wings.  I didn’t know the limits of his transformations, but I was pretty impressed.

And pretty worried.  Why hadn’t he taken out Nellie?  I know this wasn’t a matter of “needing mortal blood” or any such silly ruling.  If she was more powerful than this son-of-a-lesiye, I better have something hidden like Zaphod in my brain and be able to pull out some kind of Heart of Gold improbability.

Of course, I’d been sitting on my living room couch with something that could all but obliterate Artur without much effort, and she, too, had been snatched by a Dragon.

See?  I would like to take this moment to refute the common refrain.  Size does matter.  Scale is important.

I wasn’t quite at the point that I cancelled my “I’m not dying from falling,” happy, but I was beginning to wonder if I could eat what we were biting off.  This wasn’t even at more than I could chew stage, this was, bigger than my giant island thing’s head.  When did I order the “mess with metaphysical things beyond my ken,” buffet?

I will not eat green eggs and dragon, no matter the size of the wash-it-down flagon.

When you’re worried about a comment someone has made, you ought to consider the one who is saying it.  I considered the source, and, well, wizards think differently than other people.  They’re not normal.

I tried not to chortle at the understatement.  Instead, I prepared myself for a run.  I did a little stretching, although I was never sure if I was doing the right kind or how much to do to warm up.  I did learn it in high school gym, and I’d never pulled a muscle (although I get enough stitches in my side to need a tailor.)  He nodded.

“Now.”

“Now” is like a magic word by itself – it signifies so much in the way of building pressure suddenly being relieved.  It features in a lot of porn, but even beyond that, it takes the idea of being ready, being prepared, and suddenly overcoming an obstacle.  In this case, it meant my running across with noises that weren’t quite splashes, and weren’t quite thuds.  More flappy-slappy noises.  I barred my mind from thinking of where I’d last heard similar sounds.

I recommend ignorance.  Ignorance is bleepin’ bliss.

Artur did not so much stride across the surface of the water as act as if he were wearing some kind of snow shoes.  I was moving too quickly to really see if he had accomplished this by fact of transformation of himself, or of another spell.  I had assumed he would run with me, but maybe he was ready to feed me to the sharks.

Sharks, of course, would be quite rare in freshwater ponds.  The only sharks I tended to run across were warm and buttery, which doesn’t lend itself well to fear.  It’s kind of hard to respect  something of whom you can use the same words to describe a cinnamon roll.

Nikolai just dove in after us, and paddled the way dogs are known to do.  Kind of iconic, really.

So, as I sailed blithely along with a kind of thuddy pace, it wasn’t until we were about a quarter of the way across that the first obstacle made itself known.

It wasn’t a shark, I’m glad to tell you.

I almost wish it had been.  The thing rose up with tendrils across our path, invisible except for the sheer mass of water it moved with it.  I couldn’t tell if it was a gelatin cousin of the Flying Spaghetti Monster or if it was just some sort of water weird.  It lashed out and I managed to duck underneath, getting soaked.  Nikolai barked, but was set on the whole swimming business.  I paused and started to sink.

At least it would be a slow, suffocating death, unless the elemental managed to pull me out of Artur’s spell to do whatever such a beast is raised to do.

The arc of electric light that left ozone behind it came from Artur.  Ah, wizards at play.  I wished for a seat on shore and some popcorn, because this magic was better than any industrial light show.  The creature, detecting something that was really a threat split in a kind of osmotic fashion, most of its bulk headed back towards Artur.

I remembered what I had in my pockets.

I was running faster as the creature dissolved in some agony, not unlike a slug when gifted with a shower of salt.  I had never stopped moving, which is what kept me from the quicksand effect.  It’s a lesson you can learn from video games, too, especially the dance kind.

I was rapidly running…out of energy.

Trust me, nothing inspires you to get to the gym like the release of a nifty gadget for tracking purposes or the wet sodden mass of a monster after you.  They’re both kind of high up on the list.

So I ran right into the second obstacle, and this one was brilliant.  It was a ring of fire, and I wasn’t a Johnny Cash fan, however you describe it.  It was like elemental lava, ignorant of the arguments water has had with fire.  It flowed from the water, and flames danced across its surface.

However, the designer of this obstacle had not anticipated Artur’s spell design.  I leaped over it with a prayer for my continued lucky streak of uncharred manhood and kept going.  This obstacle left Nikolai behind.

So, two of my party down.  I thought the rule was you only had to run faster than the halfling?  If there was a third obstacle, I was in trouble.

Of course there was a third obstacle.

She was beautiful, about my height, and her skin was faintly transparent.  She surfaced just like Venus from the clamshell.  She looked at me and smiled a mouth full of beautiful shark-like teeth.

I was ready for that, though.  I kept moving toward her, like I was some sex-obsessed sailor.

She wasn’t ready for the Doctor E punch.  Hey, I’d used it on Sylvia, so apparently I have a track record for knocking the breath out of pretty girls.  I don’t think I’d get away with it twice, but she was just solid enough, and I was just quick enough that I made it onto the island while she recovered.

Which at least left firm ground beneath me, so the danger of drowning was at least delayed.

The elemental was outmatched by Artur, but it was a close thing.  I took a moment to watch Artur’s legs as they moved through the water.  He had added bulk and height again, and his legs were more like two tree trunks, kind of ent-ish, really, as he moved through the lake.  He picked up Nikolai (who had swam back and had gotten a few tentacles with his doggish teeth) and gently tossed the dog over the obstacle of fire.

And then the naiad made landfall, on a gentle swell of water and I had to pay attention to my own problems.

“There is no welcome for you here.”

“So if I had a glossy, engraved invitation, you wouldn’t drown me?”

Again, that toothy smile.

I moved back a few steps.  The rules of portals, the ones I had made at least, said that I would enter in a place not unlike the one I had just left.  There’s a continuity.  What was the continuity between the throne set up Ivan had made and the mountains?

I felt the rumble as the so-called solid land beneath me began to awaken.