Counsel of Voices

The momentary silence was welcome, a brief break in the onslaught of sound. And he just couldn't tune it out, the voices demanded his attention. Just about everyone was so vocal. All but John, most of the time. But when John did speak up, it was loud, immediate and demanded everyone's attention. John always got his way when he spoke.
Her words reverberated inside his skull. They were all stunned. Silenced in a way that no one had ever expected. He never expected her to turn on him in such a fashion. None of the voices had anything to say. The brief moment stretched further. She obviously was awaiting his answer. He had no idea what to say, he sat there like a deer in headlights, just waiting for the killing blow to follow.
John awoke in the silence with a fury. Before he knew what was going on, he had already left was halfway down the street. John, the fearful one, was in control, going who knew where. All the time muttering, "can't let them get close enough to hurt me..." over and over. John was always the one hurt, he took all the hurt, all the pain, and kept control of it. John was usually complacent to sit in the corner and absorb all the suffering. But occasionally, he seized control in a "flight-or-fight" mentality. And John was always ready to flee.
George raged in the background, he wanted to fight back, to strike back at her. To hurt her more than she hurt him. It was his self-preservation instinct honed to be battle-ready. He wanted to kill everyone and everything, before they could hurt him. George was a bit of a revenge-seeker.
Frederick tried to rationalize everything, to make sense of it all. He wanted reason and logic to rule. Especially considering the raw state of John's emotional outbursts. It left them all hurting and weak. Frederick knew that if he could find a way to offset the power of John's emotions, it would be the end of them all.

He grasped control from John and leaned against the wall. He simply couldn't allow anyone close, they always hurt him in the end. John cheered and George agreed. They finally had reached a unanimous agreement. Something they could all agree on.

Life wasn't so bad alone.

Droplets of Life

The steam swirled up in small clouds from the bottom of the shower. The water was steaming hot, so much so that it almost scalded. His skin was red. It felt so good, but it was unsustainable.

Turning the heat down slightly, he stepped fully into the cauldron of boiling water. There was nothing like the feel of hot water streaming down your naked body. He allowed himself to be enveloped by it, truly relaxing for the first time in days.

The water coursed through his hair, loosening the strands, freeing the water to stream down his face, dripping from his chin. The water droplets fell into the misty abyss below. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of a high cliff, with nothing below. The water poured down upon him.

This wasn't the way he had wanted things to go. This wasn't the life he had envisioned. Everything was spinning out of control. A top ready to topple. He had no idea what came next, how he was to survive. Every step was blind.

The water still flowed. He could feel his concerns lessened, being eked away by the running water. So strange such a simple thing like a shower could make such a difference. He knew that things would be waiting for him once he stepped out. But for now this moment, he was safe.

The water felt so good, he closed his eyes, transporting himself to a world where everything was perfect. No worries, no hurt, no stress. With a sigh, he slumped for the floor. His eyes opened, blurrily taking in everything. He saw no blood, but couldn't breathe. It was the end. His body had given out, it could take no more.

And his last thoughts were, "At least I don't have to worry anymore."

The Mystic Order of the Sunshine Princesses

Based upon a true story.

"Blah". That was how she felt. The sights of the city in ruins made her weep silent tears. She was unaware of them streaming down her face. Her nose turned a little pink as it ran.
It was all just a little much. The places she had grown up in, the world she was knew was virtually gone. The people, the culture, vanished in an instant of Mother Nature’s destruction. It was almost unfathomable how they would carry on. It was an almost insurmountable task that lay before her people. The task of rebuilding.
The streets rolled by, one after another. Houses in some blocks were entirely gone, while in others seemingly untouched. Her mind had trouble understanding everything she saw. As they moved into more inhabitable areas, she started to see signs of life. People were returning to their homes, accessing the damage and starting to make repairs. Neighbors were helping others. She started to see signs of the spirit that ruled this great city.
The truck slowed to a stop outside of an eatery that was open. The line was out the door and almost to the corner. People were desperate for food, but content to wait their turn. It was the only way that people could survive. If you broke the line, disrupted the order of things, then chaos ruled, these were a proud people that had come together as a community to support each other. Violence would not be tolerated.
She lifted her head from the cool glass window of the truck. It was expected of her to go inside, talk to people. She was so disheartened by the sights she had seen, she just wanted to mull it all over in her mind. She didn’t want to speak to people. Everyone was saying the same things, telling tales of woes and despair followed by vows to rebuild and be ready for the next time. It was saddening and inspiring at the same time. But it was also a huge emotional drain; one that she simply couldn’t deal with right now.
Stepping from the truck, she told her friend, the driver that she wanted to take some air, and walk just a little. Nodding his understanding, he let her go about her ways. He needed to speak with people inside, planning meetings were underway. No one was going to bother her here. She would be safe.
Idly walking down the street, she turned at the cross street and just walked for a while. This neighborhood hadn’t been untouched, yet there didn’t seem to be a lot of disaster here. She saw people in their yards, cleaning up. She also saw the houses where no one was cleaning, where no one had come back to; where people might not ever come back to.
Making a short loop, she soon found herself coming back to the eatery. So much blight, it was hard to imagine ever being able to rebuild this desolation. She found herself shaking her head, wondering what she could do to help. You could see the high water marks on nearly every house she passed. It had flooded deep here. She thought of all the toxins and bacteria that now infested the soil. She could already see signs of plants dying from the toxicity. Such travesty, that.
She wiped the tears from her eyes as she came near the establishment. Now was not the time for tears. Now was the time for kind words and helpful attitudes. People wanted to see concern on her face, not misery. They wanted to see a smile, even if it was a sad smile; they still wanted to see that smile. It gave them hope.
Greeting people with kind words, she entered the establishment. Soon she found her way to her friend, as he stood talking with the owner. The place was utter chaos. The tables for eating were converted into a meeting room, where aid was dispensed. The walls were covered in maps depicting variety of things, from clean, running water to electricity, to health concerns to areas still being searched for remains. Phones rang, and there was a din of people talking rapidly, taking calls and placing them. It was a beehive of activity.
But this was only the dining area. The kitchen was in full service doing to-go’s only. The people were paying however they could. If they had money, they paid money. If they had materials such as tools (paint brushes, hammers, saws, etc) that they could part with, that was taken too. She even saw birdseed in a corner. Passing by the corner, she paused, “That is a lot of sunflower seeds,” she thought.
Standing there looking at the hundreds of pounds of sunflower seeds, she found herself thinking of the properties of sunflower seeds. The memory came of a classroom, where she was studying botany. The instructor was pontificating the benefits of the sunflower, telling the history and the properties. She remembered him saying then that the sunflower would draw toxins out of the soil.
With almost a staggering effect, it hit her. She knew what she could do to make the city better. She knew how she could help. With a purpose, she turned towards her friend, a step in her stride now. She approached, and greeted the owner. After a few minutes of listening to how things were going, she steered the conversation to the method of payment for the food.
“Yes,” the business owner said, “I am helping people however I can. I have to pay for the food, so I can’t just give it away, but I will take what people have. They bring money, or tools they don’t need – but we do, they bring food in the freezer that they can’t cook, and will go bad. We take whatever form of payment they offer. As long as we can reuse it.”
She smiled at the owner, and commended him on the job he was doing. There were just not enough people doing things like this. Then she asked about the birdseed in the corner. He laughed, and told her how this one guy just brought it by. He had it left over, no longer having a pet bird, and didn’t want it anymore. The guy thought it would come to good use.
Her friend was watching her intently; he knew that something was going on with her. She rarely showed this much interest in something unless it was important. She turned to the birdseed while the owner was speaking, and then turned back and looked him the eye. Smiling sweetly, she offered to take the seed off his hand. She said she knew where it could be used to great benefits. The owner acquiesced graciously, glad for it to be gone from his store.
Later, after the seed was loaded, and their bellies filled, they drove off. Her friend turned and looked at her. “What is it you plan to do with the seed?” he asked. She smiled, and told him to take the next right. A few minutes later, they pulled up before an empty lot. One of the most devastated areas of this neighborhood. Getting out, she walked back to the back of the truck and pulled out the seeds. With a quick twist she opened the bag and started tossing the seeds out into the vacant lot. He watched her for a moment, and then climbed out to help her.
She stopped him from tossing more seeds. “No.” she said softly, “we must spread this sunshine around the city. Soon, the people that left will be allowed to return. They must not come back to complete desolation. We must spread the seeds so that they come back to fields of gold.” He nodded. She always made sense in these matters.
The next few days were a blur. She enlisted the help of a few of her friends and they dubbed themselves “The Sunshine Princesses”. Every time it seemed that the Princesses were going to run out of seeds, more seeds always seem to make themselves available. They drove all over the city spreading their seeds.
Weeks later, seas of sunflowers started appearing. The officials were baffled by it. They attributed it people’s birdfeeders being strewn about during the storm. It was if there were oceans of gold flowers everywhere. She drove throughout the city. A smile beaming on her face; this was her doing. She had accomplished something no one would believe.

Creeping

I could see him from far off, intent upon the book in his hand. Such a normal scene for this setting, it was a gorgeous park with plenty of sunlight and shade. It was a perfect day for lazing around reading a book, or putting thoughts to paper. It was an ordinary sight, it shouldn't have set me on edge, but it did.
Having drawn my attention so, I puzzled to figure out why this figure should pique my curiosity. I studied the man as I walked closer. His clothing did not seem out of the ordinary. While it was a beautiful spring day, the air still had enough a chill to warrant a long sleeve shirt on a cold-natured person. Myself, I was wearing a t-shirt and shorts, enjoying the coolness on my walk.
The man wore no hat, his shirt was a normal button-down shirt, the kind worn by most college students. He sat by himself on a bench, with his schoolbag resting beside him; not unlike so many of his peers who were out enjoying the weather. His pants were khakis of some kind, keeping with his scholarly appearance. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary about him. So why did he warrant all of my attention? Why did my eyes keep going back to him, apprehensive?
His hair, while long, was trimmed and his beard manicured. His features were normal. He could have fit in anywhere. Maybe that was what it was. The fact that he was too normal, too contemporary made him seem out of place, it made him stick out. All the attempts to blend in producing the opposite result.
I watched his pen scratch out a shape as he sketched something in the lower part of his book. My attention completely focused upon him, I was burning with curiosity to see what he was writing. I wanted to delve into his notes, bury myself in his subconscious. I wanted to learn him from the inside out, know what made him tick, what motivated him.
As I drew closer, I found my path drifting closer to this unaware stranger. A path that would bring me close enough to reach out and take the book should I choose, or I could simply catch a glimpse of the page he was working on. As I walked, I debated my course of action. Should I sneak a peek? Or should I go for the whole enchilada and snatch the book?
Ten feet, seven feet, five feet. I was fast approaching the moment of no return. What was I going to do? And in the instant before I had to make a decision, the man looked up. He looked me directly in the eye, and time stood still. In that instance, I made a connection with him. It was as if I suddenly understood everything about him, knew what was going, and without thinking, I stopped.
Looking down at his drawing, I found myself asking him to see his drawing. I found myself admiring it, and words coming out of my mouth. I was no longer in control. Something greater than myself was in control. Finishing my monologue, unaware of what I had said to the man, I stared at the man in silence; I was unsure what would happen next. The man looked at me and smiled.
"Now you are finally understanding." he said.
And with that, he walked away, leaving me standing there holding his notebook. All the answers to my unspoken questions in my hand. I stared around in confusion, unsure what had just happened.
Looking down, I found myself holding a blank notebook. There was nothing inside, just blank pages.

Hungry eyes

The smell of fire filled the air, filling his nostrils, choking and inflaming his lungs. In a mighty effort for breathe, he started coughing violently. It shook his massive frame causing him to bend over and drop to one knee. "No," he thought. "NOW was not the time dior this." He knew he had to keep going, keep moving. To stop now was to quit, to die. The fire would get him, it would stop him. They would all die.

Looking up, he could see the layer of smoke on the ceiling. That is what had gotten him, it was thick now. No more running, it was time to crawl. Gasping shallow breaths of the hot smoky air, he took stock of the situation. The last thing he could afford to do was to panic, here, now. In this.

Four more doors, he just had to crawl four doors to his daughters room. She was young and wouldn't know how to get out. He had to save her. He was sweating through his shirt, the fire was getting hot.

Soon, he reached her door, now to get her out. He reached for the knob and hesitated before opening it. "Was it hot?" he wondered. His survival instinct kicking in, his subconscious taking control. Gently, taking precious seconds he knew he didn't have, he touched the handle. It didn't burn him. Sighing with relief, he should hear his daughter crying over the sound of the fire alarm. It's incessant beeping had deafened him.

With a hurried effort, he opened the door. Only to be greeted with a parent's nightmare. His daughter sat huddled in the corner, crying, with a wall of flame between him and her. The roof was burning and had fallen through. He would have to cross through the fire to get her, and then back out.

He gathered a deep breath and never hesitated. The fire burned for a moment and then he was through. He grabbed his daughter into his arms, and hugged her tight. Then grabbing her blankie from her bed, he wrapped it around her and rushed for the door. It hurt a little bit more, but then he was through.

Once he reached the hallway again, he crouched down to catch his breath. Gazing towards the outside door, he could see that things had gotten worse in his absence. The fire had spread. It was going to be a hot escape. He knew he was going to get burned badly doing this. But it was their only chance of escape. And if he waited any longer, they wouldn't have that.

Gathering his sobbing daughter, he lunged for the door. The fire burned so bad, but he never stopped. Finally, he hurled himself through the burning door, back first and out into the cold night. He hit the ground hard, his daughter coming free. Instinctively, he rolled around on the ground making sure HE wasn't on fire.

Once satisfied that he was no longer burning, he looked for daughter. She sat a few feet away, her blankie smoking, but unharmed. He heard his wife running up to them, screaming their daughter's name.

And then everything went black.

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Only the Devil knows

Chap 1

He gazed up at the Hunter’s Moon. Back home, his family was out hunting the large elk to prepare for the winter. These few days of the Full Moon were crucial to the survival of their clan in the coming winter months. Yache (jack) ached for his home, for the beautiful valley that his clan ruled. He longed for the majestic peaks rising above him; he yearned for the crisp clean mountain water as it fell from the waterfall.

Yache lowered his eyes back to the land before him. He gave his eyes a minute to adjust to the shadows, the Hunter’s moon was providing enough light to see, but it was still night. As his eyes adjusted, Yache listened intently. The sounds of night remained the same. Nothing moved, nothing stirred, at least nothing out of the ordinary. He could hear the insects buzzing, the birds rustling around, the flap of a bat’s wings, but nothing that sounded amiss. That is, until, Stefan spoke, his voice breaking Yache’s concentration.

“How long are we going to wait here?” Stefan demanded. Stefan’s first instinct was to rush in swinging, subdue the enemy, and then to interrogate the survivors to find out what they knew. A typical soldier, Stefan was ready to rush into a situation blindly, ready to give his life. Yache would never understand this homicidal tendency of soldiers.  Yache was a warrior, not a soldier. He hunted to survive, but knew he could fight when needed.  “Soon.” was his quiet response to Stefan.

As he scanned the landscape, searching for anything out of the ordinary, Yache thought about the unlikely circumstances that brought him here, now, and with Stefan. Yache’s life had been going exactly the way he wanted it to. He wasn’t the best hunter of his clan, but Yache wasn’t bad at it either, he had many trophies to boast of his prowess. Yache loved his life, his clan and his home.  “So, why was he here on this island?” he thought. All of this because of a good deed, all because Yache had been trying to help the old woman.

Out stalking some white-tailed deer one day, Yache had heard a woman’s cries for help, and a low guttural voice. Not entirely sure he wanted to get involved, Yache quickly made his way to the sounds of distress. As he approached, he saw a marauder shove an old woman down harshly and steal her bag up. Just as Yache was surveying the situation, deciding his course of action, the marauder spied Yache and spun away. The marauder sprinted away into the forest, his actions deciding Yache’s mind, and causing him to race after the marauder in fast pursuit.

The marauder had a good head start on Yache, and was strong and powerful as the people of his race tended to be, but was no match for the fleet-footed Yache.  Not only was he built to move quickly around the forest, being lithe and agile, but Yache had spent years hunting this very forest and knew how to move like the wind. It didn’t take him long to catch the gargantuan marauder. As Yache approached, he could see how truly gigantic the marauder was, standing nearly 7 feet tall and twice as wide as Yache. “This is truly a giant.” Yache thought in amazement, and then focused his energy on stopping the giant. The marauder’s size was obviously going to play into his favor in a one-on-one combat, so Yache was determined to avoid this.

Passing the marauder by, Yache turned to head off the marauder, hopefully catching him by surprise. Yache’s plan was to startle the juggernaut and force him to change his direction towards the Cliffs of Insanity. Hiding behind a large tree, Yache gathered his breath, and looked behind him. The marauder was pounding ahead, but starting to slow. While behemoth, these titans had no endurance, no stamina. Calculating the precise instance, Yache freed his bow and got ready to lose some arrows at the marauder. He knew that they would make little difference against the armor and tough hide of the marauder, but Yache was counting on it being just enough of a hindrance to force the juggernaut to change directions.

Gathering his courage, Yache burst out in front of the marauder at the precise instant he planned. His arrows went flying as planned, the marauder reacted in surprise. Just not the way Yache had planned, the marauder turned, but not before launching the sack, the one the marauder had stolen from the old woman. It hit Yache right in the chest knocking him to the ground. The marauder never slowed, but continued on, leaving Yache lying on the ground trying to regain his breath. Absolutely sure the marauder would come back; Yache leapt up and prepared himself for the onslaught.

Seconds turned into minutes, Yache peered around nervously. He could hear the marauder getting fainter and fainter. Yache knew the juggernaut had to stop, he knew he needed rest. Yache was sure the giant would be coming back soon, and Yache didn’t want to be anywhere around when that happened. Snatching the sack up, and fastening his bow, Yache set out for the old woman. He hoped she wasn’t hurt too badly; Yache hadn’t had any thoughts for her safety before now.

Finding her slumped in the same spot Yache had left her, he feared for the worst. As he approached, Yache felt a deep sense of guilt. He might have been able to save her had he not gone chasing the marauder. Just as he was about to fall on his knees and ask the god’s forgiveness, Yache saw her chest rise. Quickly, he knelt and gently lifted the old woman into a sitting position, nestling her in the depths of the roots of the massive knuckle tree she had fallen against. Once Yache had her resting in a sitting position, he checked her pulse. It was weak and fluttering, but it was there.

Slightly relieved, Yache made quick work of gathering some sleeping moss from the knuckle tree and placing it around the old woman. She had seemed so cold when Yache had touched her; he just knew this was the best decision. Finally satisfied that the old woman was as comfortable as he could make her, Yache settled down and looked at the woman intently. He had never seen anyone with features like this. The old woman had high cheek bones and a chin that jutted out proudly, but it almost resembled the face of a raven. Her clothes were strange as well. At first, when everything had started, Yache had assumed the old woman was wearing rags, but upon closer inspection, Yache could see that what seemed like rags were the dusty remains of a once fine ball gown. It seemed grey and black from stains. Who was this woman? Yache knew his imagination could play tricks on him, but it was hard not to see what was in front of his eyes.

Gathering his energy around him, and pulling a bit more from nature, Yache leaned in to place his fingers on old woman’s temple and see what was ailing her. Yache’s people were blessed with such healing properties; it was part of what gave them such long lives. Before he could make contact, the woman’s eyes flew open and her hands shot up, grabbing both of his hands in hers. The energy he had been collecting had formed a slight greenish glow around his hands. When she grabbed his hands, he felt paralyzed, locked into staring into her eyes.  As their minds melded, she spoke one commandment to him. “Take the skull to island. You will know what to do when you get there. Only you can do this, Yache. It is what you were meant to do.” And then everything faded into black.

Chap 2

At first, when Yache woke, he thought he was back home in his own bed. It was so comfy and warm, but when he opened his eyes, Yache found the forest gazing back at him. He sat up and surveyed his surroundings. Yache sat nestled in the roots of the knuckle tree, swallowed by the bed moss. At his feet sat the sack that he had retrieved from the marauder, Yache stood slowly, crouching and looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, the animals were moving normally, everything seemed normal. Yache looked back down at the moss; there was no trace of the old woman. Yache quickly moved the moss around looking for clothing, “Surely, there must be SOMETHING!” Yache thought to himself. But after a short intensive search, he found nothing. Stumbling over to the bag and falling down, Yache stared at the bag. “What the hell is going on?” he mumbled.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was really only a few seconds, Yache reached out and pulled the bag towards him. Sitting up, he stared at the bag. Yache knew he should open it, but was hesitant. “A lot of stuff has happened because of this bag,” he pondered, Yache wasn’t sure he really needed to open it. For a long moment, he considered just digging a hole and burying the whole damn thing here and being done with all of this. No one would know but himself. Yache could try to forget, but inside, he knew he couldn’t.

Slowly, with trepidation – hoping there wasn’t a dismembered head inside, Yache opened the bag. When the only things he saw were a box, a book, and some fabric, Yache breathed a deep sigh of relief. No dismembered anything. He slumped back against the root in relief. Sometimes, Yache knew, his imagination would run wild. Gathering the sack back up, Yache decided it was time to find a safer place to hide out.

Jerking his mind back to the present, Yache peered around. Nothing had moved. He had been sitting here long enough for the rabbits to have decided he wasn’t a threat, and was quietly grazing around him. Yache could sense the impatience of Stefan. Stefan would have charged in a long time ago. Turning his head to look at Stefan, Yache almost burst out in laughter. Stefan was tapping his foot in impatience, staring holes into Yache. The funny part was that Stefan was tapping his foot through a rabbit. It was so comical that Yache almost lost it. Stefan forgot he was a ghost quite often, but rarely in such a way as this.

Taking a deep breath and looking away, Yache chuckled to himself. It was the little things in life that kept him going. Yache surveyed the path. As much as he hated being so exposed, the granite slopes made for hard going any other way. This left only the path. He looked back at Stefan. “I figured this out hours ago,” came Stefan’s irritated response, “while you were sleeping with your eyes open.” Stefan REALLY didn’t like waiting. Yache smiled, “Patience is a virtue. One you REALLY need to learn.” Stefan stared daggers at Yache. Yache turned his attention back to the path. He knew there was an ambush somewhere ahead. That was why he had surveyed for so long. Yache was looking for that miss-step, the one goof that always gives away someone hiding. You learned such patience stalking deer in the forest. Yache had spent years being so still that animals forgot he was there. It was the only way to survive back home. They had to follow the path down to the beach. From there, all they had to do was get across the lake to the island. Stefan knew it was coming, and was anxious; he wanted the freedom it was to bring. Yache was still unsure about the whole thing. It still seemed so exotic.

Finally satisfied that it was as safe as it was going to be, Yache was preparing to move when he saw it. A slight movement halfway down the path, a quick flash of light, Yache froze. He knew that he had seen it. He sank slowly back behind the rock. Yache looked towards Stefan. Stefan had seen it too, and after a second of meeting Yache’s gaze, Stefan lowered his eyes. Yache’s point had been made.

They stared intently down the slope; Yache could make it out this time. Tents, many of them, in rows, they were camouflaged so well that they blended into the slope in the moonlight. They were made so well that Yache wasn’t sure if they wouldn’t blend in during the daytime as well. Yache counted the tents. They weren’t large, made small for concealment, big enough for only one man. A dozen, a dozen men that he would have to dispatch, Yache had to reach the beach. Soon enough, the sun would rise, and Yache had to be on the island before then. He only had one more night of the Hunter’s moon.

Gathering up his bow, Yache moved with all the stealth he could muster down the hillside. He moved like ancient ninjas of old. A shadow among shadows, Stefan was no-where to be seen. Back inside his skull, Yache assumed correctly. While Stefan was a valuable source of information, that was the extent of his help.  Stefan couldn’t manifest physically, he could only create a scepter.

Chap 3

Settled back at his base camp, Yache pulled the contents out of the bag. There wasn’t much to look at, nothing more than he originally saw - an old book, cracked and dusty; an empty box with strange engravings on it; and a large swath of fabric. Yache pulled out the fabric, entranced by the strange coloring of the cloth. The cloth was deep dark black with an iridescent sheen. As Yache lifted the cloth, he was surprised at the weight of the cloth. “This doesn’t seem right,” Yache mumbled. A cloth this delicate in looks couldn’t possibly weight that much, Yache decided.

Slowly unwrapping whatever was inside, Yache soon found himself face to face with what he had feared. While it wasn’t a dismembered head, it was pretty darn close. The object wrapped so gently in that elegant fabric was a human’s skull. But it wasn’t just a plain, out of the science lab skull. No, this skull had all sorts of strange markings on it, writing in languages that Yache had never seen before. While Yache was by no means a scribe, he remembered some of his early schooling from the scribe his father had retained.

Yache stared intently at the skull. The writing was hypnotizing Yache, he kept turning the skull around and around and over, examining every visible inch of the writing. Yache found that he recognized a few of the markings, but nothing to be sure. He set the skull down on top of the pile of fabric, and turned his attention back to the box and the book.  The box was empty when opened it, but had a large symbol finely carved into the wood on the top of the box. Yache was sure that it had some sort of significance, but he was clueless as to what it might be.  However, the book wasn’t far from being empty; most of the pages inside the book were filled with what seemed to be recipes in an angular hand, but in writing Yache had only seen in one other place – the skull.

Yache set the book down, and set about getting his dinner together. It had been a rough day and Yache wanted to settle back and relax some. Soon he had a fire going and a hot tea in his hand.  Soup for the night’s dinner was bubbling in its pot. Yache settled back and looked at the four items he had found today. A book –filled with writing he couldn’t read, a box – empty, yet important enough to save, and a large symbol of power in the center, a large interesting piece of fabric – unlike any Yache had ever seen before, and a skull. A skull full of questions. Yache hated questions without answers.

Picking up the skull and looking over it once more, Yache found himself staring at the runes on the very top of the skull. There were 4, but he only recognized 3. “Nacht gruen Viden”; life’s eternal power – at least which is Yache seemed to remember from those classes long ago. Tracing the runes with his fingers, Yache said it aloud, in the language of the God’s. All of the sudden there was a rush of wind, a sound of muted screams and a flash of light!

Yache fell over backwards and leapt to his feet, his side arm drawn in anticipation. He stared around anxiously, but saw no one. Still somewhat uneasy, Yache slowly sank back to the ground. Just as he sat down, he heard a voice. “Who are you? Where am I? Did you summon me?” Stefan demanded. Yache discharged his weapon all 6 times, spraying lead in all directions. “Surely, whomever had snuck up on me must be dead.” Yache thought. He stood, shaking the empty casings from his revolver, and silently began reloading.

Just as he finished, Yache heard that voice again, “That really has no effect on me.” Yache spun and pointed his pistol at the voice and fired 3 more times. As the smoke cleared, Yache saw Stefan walk past him laughing to himself. Turning, Yache realized he was face to face with a spirit. A member of the underworld, Yache wasn’t sure whether to run or to hide.

Chap 4

Approaching the tree line, Yache checked his weapons. He knew better than rush in unprepared. Yache was armed to the teeth. He carried an AK-47 assault rifle, had an automatic 12 gauge shotgun slung over his shoulder, had two fully automatic Glock 45’s with extended clips in shoulder holsters, and his trusty Colt 45 six shooter at his hip. Yache also carried a variety of throwing knives tucked away discreetly, and a katana strapped to his back.”You just never knew what you would come across.” was his motto, Yache liked to be prepared.

Slowly chambering a round into the AK, Yache peered out into the moonlight. After this, he would be visible, but hopefully not to the twelve men waiting for him. Yache knew that there were probably more soldiers ahead, but he had to get to the beach, there were only a few more hours of darkness. He knew he needed to be on the island come daybreak.

“You know this is suicide, right?” Stefan voiced his opinion, materializing beside Yache. “Of course it is,” came Yache’s reply, “but do you have any other ideas?” Yache didn’t want to do this, but he just couldn’t see any other way. “As a matter of fact, I do.” Stefan responded. Yache turned, and stared at Stefan. This was so uncharacteristic of him, every other violent encounter that the two of them had come across on this journey Stefan had wanted to run in swinging. Now, Stefan had something to say.

“You will never be able to kill all of them, not in time, and not before someone shoots you. The odds are simply in their favor. This isn’t television you know.” Stefan had a plan. “What is television?” Yache asked. Yache had never heard of this, Stefan was always referencing something from his life. “Never mind,” Stefan continued, “I’m not saying you aren’t a skilled fighter, I’m just saying that the odds are not in your favor.” Yache nodded, and waited for Stefan to continue.

“You need to cause a distraction and slip by in the midst of the confusion. If you have to fight anyone after that, you can use that giant knife of yours. Keep it quiet, sneak through like a ninja and be gone before they know what hit them.” Stefan’s plan seemed solid. Yache found himself nodding, he was very proficient with his katana, and it really was his weapon of choice. Yache liked the plan, but the only problem he had was, “And how do I create such a distraction?” he asked Stefan.

Stefan looked him in the eyes, and then gazed around. Turning his head back to Yache with a smile, Stefan asked, “How good of a shot are you with that AK?” Yache stared at Stefan for a second, and then Stefan turned his head to look above the camp to the top of the slate cliff face. Yache’s eyes followed Stefan’s, there at the top of the cliff; above the camp was a mound of large rocks. The weather had eroded the cliff face to leave these perching precariously atop.  Yache could see that if one shot in the right place, you could cause a tremendous avalanche; just the sort of distraction that Yache needed, but one full of all sorts of problems.

Lowering his eyes, Yache looked at Stefan, “If I make that shot, all the rocks will fall down. It will make it almost impossible to cross and there will be survivors to deal with. Of course all the other soldiers will come running.” Yache pointed out. Stefan nodded and grinned crookedly, “I didn’t say it was an easy plan. But it will draw all the other soldiers here, freeing you up to get to the beach and quietly steal a boat and be on your way. “

Stefan made sense. Yache stared out over the valley. He was quick, he could easily beat the avalanche to the camp and then through. Stefan’s plan solved a lot of problems, it wasn’t the way that Yache normally did things, but he felt that it was going to be the best way to go about this. Yache nodded his head, “You’re right. This is the best way to do it.” Stefan just kept grinning, and replied, “Once you take that shot, you need to be ready to run. The report is going to echo all over the valley. They are going to be looking for where it came from. You need to be ready to shoot and run.”

Checking his weapons, making sure everything was in place and squaring his gear pack in place, Yache raised his AK to his shoulder and sighted down the scope. This was his favorite hunting weapon, Yache felt he was a sure shot, but he needed the grace of the god’s to make this shot. It was the longest Yache had ever shot, and never before had so much ridden on the accuracy of one’s shot. This wasn’t for food, but life and death.

Bracing himself, Yache took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled, squeezing the trigger. “KOW!!!” came the report. Yache saw a clump of dirt fly into the air. He wasted no time waiting to see what was going to happen. Yache was already sprinting down the path heading straight to the camp, which was starting to mill about like an ant farm when kicked. 

As Yache quickly and silently approached, the soldiers spilled out of their tents, weapons raised, looking for the source of the sound. Unable to locate it, the men were peering around confused when they heard the sounds of the avalanche. Almost in unison, they turned to see the hillside come crashing down upon them. Some turned to flee, some remained frozen in place; of those turning to flee, and some of the soldiers saw Yache and started trying to make a stand against him. It mattered not to Yache. He reached the camp just as the first boulders started to bounce their way through. Yache nimbly leaped past the hurdling rocks and pulled his katana free. He made quick work of the few soldiers standing to face him, the boulders doing the rest. Yache flowed through the soldiers like air, slicing and cutting, never pausing to see if the man lived or died, just moving forwards. Within seconds, Yache was out of the camp on the other side running flat out down the path towards the safety of the coastal forest.

Yache never paused, never turned back to look. He could hear the screams and sound of rock slamming into rock. After a few minutes, Yache was safely in the darkness of the forest. Stopping to catch his breath, Yache looked back behind him. The camp had been obliterated, nothing remained, not even the path. “No going back that way,” Yache muttered. Taking one last deep breath, Yache melted into the darkness of the forest. He could hear a few screams from the survivors, but more importantly, he could hear the quick response of the other soldiers pouring towards the avalanche in an effort to determine what was going on. Now was his chance.

Like a shadow flitting on a moonbeam, Yache made his way through the forest to the coast. Once there, Yache found two guards standing watch over four boats. “Stupid,” Yache mumbled. They were standing watch by the glow of two large lanterns. They would never see him approach. Like the wind, Yache rushed towards them.

 Yache made short work of dispatching the guards left for the boats. Standing over the dead bodies, the blood pooling under them, steam rising in the cool night air, Yache looked at the four boats, he only needed one, but he couldn’t leave the others functional. Trying to decide what to do with them, Stefan appeared and made a good suggestion, “Set them on fire”. Yache knew all the other soldiers were back at the avalanche, or searching through the woods for him. By the time they found the boats, they would be unusable. Nodding his head, Yache soaked the boats in the oil from the lanterns and then set them on fire and shoved them adrift.  Taking the boat he had kept for himself, Yache started paddling out towards the distant isle. Looking at the moon, Yache felt he would make it just fine. But it was still too early to tell.

Chap 5

As Yache got further and further out, the lights of the burning boats got smaller and smaller. Soon, Yache was out in open water, paddling steadily towards the island. He was making good time, and should be there soon.

It was quiet out on the water, just Yache and his thoughts. He didn’t have to worry about Stefan; Stefan couldn’t materialize over open water. Stefan. Yache’s thoughts traveled back to that fateful meeting between the two. The meeting that was to change Yache’s life forever.

As Yache was recovering from the shock of seeing a supernatural being, he sat on the floor staring dumbfounded at Stefan. The spirit stood over him looking at him for the longest time. Finally, he spoke, his words sending a chill of impending doom up Yache’s spine. “You are no magician. I can tell, but you do have the potential. How did you come by my skull? Where is Marie? What have you done with her?” Stefan was demanding an answer of Yache, but he was still shell-shocked. All Yache could think about were the words of warning spoken to him by the Shaman at his last telling. Those faint, whispery words came floating into Yache’s subconscious, “You fate is clouded, son of Atan. You will be faced with a tremendous decision; its outcome will alter the course of history. Are you prepared to make that decision?” Yache had asked the old man what he was talking about, but the old man couldn’t seem to recall what he had said, and left very shortly after that. In Yache’s culture, one didn’t pressure the Shamans. It was bad juju.

Yache looked up to find Stefan standing directly over him, peering intently into Yache’s eyes. “Yes,” he said, “I can sense it now. It is hidden deep inside, work of your shaman no doubt. Tell me, boy, have you ever heard of Magick?” Yache nodded. Everyone knew of Magick. The storytellers were always telling stories of the evil magicians that destroyed the world, forcing them into the world they lived in now. A world of strange things and beings, a world of war-lords and armies; yes, Yache had heard of Magick. Stefan frowned. “I don’t mean those tells that your people told you, I mean the life-power of nature, the Earth’s blood that flows all around us and through us.” Stefan was cupping his hands together. Inside of them, a faint light started to glow. Stronger and stronger the light grew until it was almost blinding. Then with a quick flick of his hands, Stefan launched the light at Yache.

Yache screamed in terror, or at least he started to. All Yache managed was to open his mouth before the light hit him and consumed him. Every fiber in his body thrummed with energy, and Yache found his eyes drawn to Stefan’s. As their eyes touched, Yache suddenly understood. He understood what Magick was, he understood where Stefan had come from, and Yache understood the gift within him, the latent powers that simply awaited awakening. Blinking his eyes, and breaking Stefan’s hold over him, Yache looked around. He was still back in his safe spot, it seemed like Yache had traveled millions of miles, through time and space, yet he remained where he had been sitting on the floor. Nothing had changed, nothing except for Yache’s understanding of the world around him. He now had the sight, nothing seemed the same; everything seemed to have a glow around it to Yache’s eyes. Especially Stefan. Yache could see the pure energy that Stefan was, and it scared him.

“Regardless of the power you contain, you still haven’t answered my first questions. How did you come by my skull? Where is Marie? Did you hurt her?” Stefan’s eyes were menacing, his voice ending in a guttural growl. Quickly, Yache explained what had happened, from the marauder to trying to heal Marie, to reading the words on the top of the skull. Stefan was quiet, intense, waiting for Yache to finish. Once done, Stefan nodded. “Yes, that seems about right, Marie was searching for you, this I knew. The K’Ael, or marauder as you called him, had been tracking us for almost a week. I had done everything I could to throw it off our sense, but somehow it still followed us. It would have caught us a lot sooner if not for my efforts, that I have no doubt of. “

Stefan paused and looked over his shoulder towards the door. Turning, he walked to the door, and started drawing runes on it. Yache couldn’t believe what was going on, he watched Stefan until he was done, and then uttered those exact words, “What is going on here?” Stefan looked at him, “No, you wouldn’t know.” And with that Stefan began to tell Yache his story, of how he came to be a skull, why Marie was looking for him, and what was going to happen next.

Death watches over us

Boris stood in the shade and looked out over the field. This was his domain, his kingdom. He ruled with an iron fist, everyone followed his words and did what he said. Life was good for Boris, it was good to be king.

The shade of the tree protected Boris from the sun's harsh rays. His tail flicked only slightly, it seemed that even the cow flies knew better than to bother the king. Boris looked out over his herd, surveying his subjects. As the bull, they all had to obey him. He led them where he wanted to go. Whether to the stream, or to the tree, they followed him. Maybe tomorrow he would go to the far corner of his kingdom. "Yes," he thought, "I want some of the sweet clovers that grow there." His herd would be in for a sweet treat tomorrow. He was such a good ruler.

Bending his head down to graze a little, he saw the shadows flick by. The bane of his existence. He tried to ignore them, maybe they would go away today. Although, he had his doubts. Boris knew that there was only a slight possibility of this happening, and yet he still hoped.

Sure enough, they didn't go anywhere. As Boris continued to munch on his cud, he heard them call out, "Oh, Kingie-Poo, How are you? Do you feel that old age creeping up on you?" Boris really wasn't old for a bull, but he wasn't young either. He was still fertile, managing 43 calves this season, with 23 bulls. Boris was proud of his prowess. Some of the cows were real cows, and it was all Boris could do to do his kingly duties and service them. But he didn't like it any. "Sigh, the duties of a king," he thought morosely.

But the taunting didn't end there, those vultures liked to draw blood, so to speak. Boris knew the taunting wasn't over, he was doing his best to ignore it. "Hey, Bull-King, don't eat so much, you will get fat and die from a heart attack. That will do us no good, we like a good heart!" Boris swallowed hard. "Damn," he muttered. Now he couldn't finish eating without more taunts about being fat.

Boris didn't think that he was fat, but he was real sensitive to criticism. Which is why those vultures taunted him. They knew it would piss him off eventually, and then they would roll in hysterics while he just got madder and stormed off. "And the problem with storming off," Boris thought, "was that the only place he could go in his kingdom where they wouldn't bother him was out to the arid land. The middle of his domain, where no trees grew and no water ran. The grass was always dry and brittle from the constant exposure to the sun and other elements. It was always so hot there, Boris' delicate skin just didn't do well with lots of sunlight. It got all dry and ragged. Which then became more fodder for those damn birds when he did retreat to the comfort of the shade. They would just taunt him endlessly.

Boris sat there, staring at the ground, listening to their jeers. The vultures were going on and on about how if Boris didn't eat, then he would waste away to nothing and die, and kind of meal that would be for them. Boris sometimes wished he was deaf, so he could just shut them out. You couldn't win with those two. If you did one thing you were wrong, but if you did the opposite, you were still wrong.

Boris wondered how he was going to get rid of those vultures. He lowered his head and ripped up a mouthful of grass. He pondered this issue as he chewed. "Oh," he whined inside, "if only I could get rid of those two, then life would be so much better."

To be continued....