Transfiguration

I moved through the night with as much silence and caution as I could manage. The woods of eastern Tennessee were silent around me, and the hiking trail was dark beneath the shadows of the trees. A half-moon lit the sky, and in places, my path as well, but for the most part I walked in darkness.

I could hear sounds from far ahead, and from time to time I caught a glimpse of firelight as well. My curiosity was piqued; who would build a fire so far out here in the woods, and on this of all nights? But I was not the only one who tended in this direction: two or three others had passed me already, moving easily through the woods beyond the path. So I continued on, drawn like a moth to the flames.

These nighttime walks had become a habit with me, else I might never have touched the Mystery. Alone and out of place, finished with my studies, dissatisfied with the company of my peers, I had taken to the woods that lay just outside of town. I would walk for hours, sometimes talking to myself, sometimes silent, as the tensions of the day eased within me. There, in the wilderness, I sought peace and serenity, sought something to sooth my troubled heart.

The noises became clearer as I neared their source, but they were still so soft as to vanish on the night breeze. I slowed my pace still further, moving with all the skill at my disposal, and approached behind the cover of a massive and ancient tree. Sliding my head into the light, I set my gaze upon them.

I had attended a fraternity party earlier in the evening, though I was not a member; it was an open party. In celebration of Hallowe'en, it had been a costume party: a roomful of humans masquerading as monsters, atmosphere provided by such technological miracles as a smoke machine, black lights, and glow-in-the-dark paint. The beer was dyed red with food coloring. I did not stay long.

Alone in my room, I had stripped myself of costume (I had gone as a ghost, white faced, with dark circles under my eyes, set off against the black cloth of my shroud) and spent an hour cleansing myself, to get the smell of smokes (stage, tobacco, marijuana) from my skin and hair. Finally, myself again, I had selected loose and comfortable clothing from my closet, laced up my boots, and gone out, thinking to celebrate the holiday alone with the moon.

But now, as the firelight pressed itself against my eyes, the Revelation came upon me: there was no need. I stood, I watched, unaware that I had moved away from the tree and now stood revealed by the flickering orange light. Miracles moved before me, dark and glittering; each one a naked singularity, though some few were human in appearance.

They danced in the light of three great bonfires, or stood aside in quiet conversation or simple communion. Two or three were drumming time for the dancers, an elegant and intricate rhythm, and as I watched the rhythm changed and the pattern of the dance changed with it. I saw eyes turned my way, but such was my awe that I never thought to flee: whatever was here, I could not escape it.

Then one of the dancers turned my way, eyes flashing orange with reflected firelight. Without missing a measure, she broke from the dance and another took her place. She approached me, black furred and graceful, humanoid and feline, woman and panther in one, a beast that walked like a human being. She smiled as she came, feral and wild, but I did not back away.

It's true, I thought. The stories, the legends, the fairy tales. True. It was my first coherent thought, for I was not in a rational frame of mind. I stared as she approached, transfixed by her nudity, by the strangeness of her anatomy. A wild excitement began to grow in me, an ecstasy born of terror and an almost religious awe. Almost imperceptibly, the clearing fell silent behind her.

"Would you come among us, then?" she asked me. Her voice was low and guttural. It seemed to reach into me, caressing my spine, and I shivered at its touch. "Would you join us, perhaps?"

I could not answer her; I did not trust myself to speak. The enormity of their existence – the possibilities it implied – that a miracle could speak so casually, that there was magic in the world: it filled me with wonder. It made me burn.

Slowly, the others gathered behind her, eyes calm as they studied me. Each was utterly unique, though I could recognize certain types among them: the auburn-haired vampire with her ice-colored skin, the tall, dark-haired warlock, the shade whose body was a dark and translucent reflection of the human form, the beasts and werebeasts and stranger things still. That things like this could exist in the world, and I have never known… I still could not speak, but my silence was answer enough.

"Come," she said, and reached forward to unbutton my shirt. I discarded my clothing quickly and easily; it lay in a pile behind me, like a snake's shed skin. "Throw it on the fire," she said quietly. "You won't need it any more." I shivered, for the night air was chill, but she took my hand and drew me towards the flames. Her touch was like the fire itself: it set my nerves to dancing, warmed me, lent me a tremendous sense of vitality. Impulsively, I laughed, and kicked my clothing to the edge of the flames.

We danced for hours as she led me through the steps. I pride myself on keeping in good physical shape, but her stamina was quite simply inhuman, and by the time we left the dance, I was staggering with exhaustion. She led me to where the food was arranged (one of the drummers gave me a grin as we passed) and we rested as we ate. Then she drew me to my feet again, and led me into the forest shadows, just beyond the reach of the firelight. There she pushed me down and mounted me, still moving to the rhythm of the drums. As she moved against me, I smelt the wood smoke that had worked its way into our skin and hair, perceptible even over the smell of our bodies and our passion.

I came back to myself by degrees, aware that she had moved off of me. I smelt the clean night air, and raised myself into a sitting position. There were leaves in my hair; I combed them out as best I could. Awareness of the other couples that surrounded us grew slowly in my mind, until I wondered how I could ever have been oblivious to them. Finally, then, as I came to my feet, I became aware of the warmth in my belly, a soft feeling of... Contentment? Belonging? I had no words for it, in the aftermath of our communion.

She was waiting for me by the fire. I approached her slowly, compelled by a sense – an intimate awareness – of her presence. The night seemed to deepen around us, the air alive and surging with the power of the creatures gathered here. A silence widened around me as I advanced, and from the corner of my eyes I saw these outsiders fall into attitudes of respectful attention. There was something ritualistic to the response; even the fires seemed to flicker in time to my steps.

I stopped when I reached her, glanced once at the thick-built masculinity of the drummer who stood at her left, once at the grey-skinned humanoid whose hair and eyes were flames and who stood to her right. Then I looked back to her, as seemed expected – even demanded – of me.

"Would you join us?" she asked softly, though her voice was audible to the entire company. I managed a nod. Then, after a moment's hesitation, I managed a question.

"What is the price?"

A ripple of quiet laughter swept the circle behind me, though the trinity who faced me did not seem to notice.

"To accept this power is to be touched by the Gods," she answered. "There is always danger in asking for their judgement. The price is different for each of us. Will you join us?"

I hesitated, wrestling with my doubts. I was afraid – she asked me to step onto a darkened trail, unable to see if it led over a cliff. Or if it would lead me home, for that matter. Yet there was no way to take this slowly; to hesitate would mean being left behind.

"Three times may I ask, and three times only," she said then. "This will be the last. Will you join us?"

I was silent for a long time, but the decision was already made. Somewhere deep within me, I already knew what I would do. This answer was a part of me, a part of who I was, and while the choice was entirely mine, on another level I had no choice at all. Eventually, I made my reply.

"The moon is set," said she, "and the dawn is almost upon us. You will become as we are, blessed above all other beings, touched by the divine. You will take a new name, and leave your old life behind you."

Gracefully, she extended one clawed hand. Magic danced in her palm like a shadowy fire, cool and dark and mysterious. To look at it was to be robbed of all my ideas of size and shape, substance and form. It was beyond the realm of description as it was beyond the constraints of physics, as all truly sacred things must be. "Take the fire from my hand," she said. "I give it to you freely."

I reached out, closed my hand around it, lifted it from her palm. It flickered and danced atop my hand for a moment. Then, slowly, it sank into my skin.

The sensation was beyond description, beyond anything I had ever experienced. Something like a mild electric shock ran up my arm, spreading through me along with a sense of warmth and power. The magic sank into meat and bone and blood, settled in heart and mind and deeper still. It ran riot through me, filled me to overflowing, and as it did so I was transfigured, reborn, utterly remade.

The others were already departing when the change-flame died away. I rose, shaking the dirt and leaves from my fur, the world screaming in my senses, and looked up to meet her gaze. She touched me once more, tracing the line of my skull beneath my fur: a valediction. Then she was gone, racing away though the woods as dawn began to gather in the east.

That first morning, I sought shelter in a cave, to rest and adjust myself to this sudden change. By evening, a hunger was upon me, and I left my newfound home to hunt. On my way, I greeted a small wood-sprite where he nested in the hollow of a tree, a tree that I had passed many times before in blind indifference. I thought again of the costume party of the night before, taking place on the one night of the year when the monsters gathered to be rid of their human costumes. Then I put the thought aside, for it was a piece of another life, and no longer part of mine.

This is an old piece of my writing - dating back to when I was, I don't know, eighteen or nineteen years old. I have firmly resisted the urge to edit or rewrite it; you're reading it exactly the way I wrote it back then.

Filler: Under my skin...

Because, honestly, this song is all kinds of stalkerish-creepy, and because the muppets are awesome.


There's another story going up tonight...

The Whispering Beneath

I'm going to tell you a story. You're going to think I made this up just to scare you, but I didn't. This is true.

I first met Elijah when I was in seminary. We had some classes together, along with Jesse and Franklin, and after a while we all got to be friends. Studied together, hung out together, talked about sports and politics and personal goals. I don't know if you've ever had a group like that, but it can really help. You all sort of pull each other along, cover each other's weak spots. It makes a big difference, especially when you hit the rough spots - and seminary has plenty of rough spots. They're different for everybody, but they're always there.

Elijah, though... He was a just a big, friendly guy - curly blond hair, round face, round build. He wasn't fat, exactly, though he always sort of looked like he should be. In fact, he was actually pretty muscular. It was just a very rounded sort of muscular. And he had this big, goofy grin, and a sort of ease about him that helped put everyone else at their ease. He wasn't lazy, though; he was smart, and he studied as hard as any of us.

And then, in our final year, he just sort of... dropped out.

There was an accident. He was on his way back from visiting some family (up in Crosby, I think) hit a patch of black ice, and wound up in one of the lakes. He was clinically dead when they fished him out, and had been for a while; nobody was sure just how long. He stayed in a coma for at least four days... and then suddenly he woke up and asked to go home.

He wasn't the same after that. He was... I don't know... quieter, for one thing. Didn't ask questions in class, didn't talk much out of class. He lost that easy, relaxed way of moving and talking; what replaced it was something more watchful, more wary, more worried. He went into counseling, but it didn't seem to help; it just seemed to make him more nervous. And then one day he just wasn't in class any more. Professor said he'd withdrawn from the program. I talked to him on the phone once or twice after that - he'd gone to visit his parents - and I know Jesse and Franklin did, too. We were all just so busy finishing up, trying to get ready for the next stage of our lives, though. By the time we entered the ministry, we'd lost touch with Elijah completely.

And that was nearly it. I thought about Elijah off and on for years, then mostly forgot about him... and then technology caught up with us: email, message boards, blogs, social networking sites.

He found me on Facebook.

After I got over the shock, we spent some time catching up. I'd been putting in my time in a couple of different parishes here in Minnesota, and it looked like I might finally get my own church; I was pretty excited about that, but I was nervous, too. Elijah had moved around a lot, and finally wound up working for the Forestry service up in Alaska - manning an isolated tower in a nearly uninhabited region. I asked him how he liked it, and he said it was lonely... but it was what he needed.

Now, as it happened, I had some money set aside for a vacation, and I could afford to take a week or two off. The priesthood doesn't pay very well, but I'd never had trouble saving; I never married, and I didn't have any expensive hobbies. So I offered to come up and visit him - maybe bring some beer and catch up in person. Father Fogarty could spare me for a bit, and if I did get my own church I'd be very busy with it - so this was the best chance I was likely to get for quite a while.

Elijah was thrilled, so I notified Father Fogarty and started making arrangements.

I got off the plane in Anchorage, rented a car, and drove out to Elijah's place. (He'd told me it was on the outskirts of town, but it looked like wilderness to me.) It was mid-sized house, cozy, with three bedroom and a large central living room; apparently Elijah had gone in on it with a couple of guys from work, so they'd have a place to stay when they weren't out at their towers.

It was... well, let's just say that it was quite a reunion. We were three beers in - apiece! - when Elijah turned to me and announced that he had a favor to ask. "I'd like you," he said carefully, "to come out to the tower and try an exorcism."

That stopped me cold. Exorcism isn't something that the Episcopal Church much goes in for - and certainly not on something that sounded suspiciously like a lark. Elijah knew that as well as anyone; he'd been in seminary with me, even if he hadn't finished.

He must have seen something in my expression, because he said: "I'm not kidding. I need this, and you're the only one I can ask."

Well, I was still feeling guilty about the way we'd all just let him go in our final year of study. And I remembered what Elijah was like; I trusted him. Also, I'd just had my third beer, which meant that in our first hour together I'd drunk three times as much as I usually had in an evening. So, cautiously, I agreed to try it. "Why?" I remember asking. "Do you think the place is haunted?"

He shook his head at that. "It isn't that simple," he told me, "and I can't explain it. Could you just... trust me?"

I nodded. I could; I did.

So the next day we drove out there. The trip took half the morning, but it would have been worth it just for the landscape. We spent the time exchanging stories, and for a while it felt like we'd never parted. But when we got to the tower, Elijah suddenly became serious; he asked if I could go ahead and start the rite.

You have to understand, I'd never performed an exorcism before. I actually had to look up the instructions online before we left. I'd also never seen any evidence of genuine demonic activity. I felt the presence of God, of course, in my heart and in my life; but His touch was gentle, subtle, and natural. I saw His work manifest in the actions of people and the mundane events of daily life. The idea of evil spirits directly causing harm to people seemed... I don't know. Garish. Ludicrous. Out of place in the world of God's Creation.

But in a sense, that didn't really matter. Even if, as I suspected, there wasn't a single evil spirit around, it didn't matter. I could see just how important this was to Elijah. So I offered a quick and silent prayer that, whatever the situation, this would help him. And then I performed the first and only exorcism of my career.

When it was done, Elijah stood waiting - his back straight, his head slightly cocked. He stayed that way for almost half a minute.

And then he sagged, and I could see the disappointment on his face. "They're still there," he said. "It didn't work. They're still there."

"What's still there?" I asked, as gently as I could manage.

"The whispers," he replied. "Can't you hear them?" Then his mouth snapped shut and he glared at me suspiciously.

I waited, doing my best to look accepting. Whatever was going on, I hoped he would talk to me about it... but he didn't. Instead, he came over and put a hand on my shoulder and said, "Thanks for trying." Then he went over to his Jeep and opened the driver's door.

Not having much of a choice, I followed. We rode in silence for about fifteen minutes. Minute flickers of expression crossed Elijah's face; he was having some sort of internal argument, it seemed. I was deeply curious, but decided not to pry; it might do more harm than good.

Finally, he turned his head to look at me. "It's been like this ever since the wreck," he said quietly. "You remember?"

"I remember the wreck," I told him, hoping I was answering the right question.

He nodded. "I heard them when I woke up. I think I heard them when I was out. I've heard them ever since."

"What do you hear?"

"Whispers," he said. "Whispers in the ground." He checked the road, then looked at me again. "They're nonsense, mostly. A word here, a sentence or two there. Sometimes I'll hear... rants, accusations, pieces of argument... but there's no sense to it. No message. Or not for me, anyway, and they don't hear each other."

"Ghosts?" I asked, frowning slightly - not disbelief, but puzzlement. I really wasn't sure what to make of this, except that Elijah was absolutely sincere.

"It's not that simple," he said. "It's... they're... the dead. Not ghosts, just... the dead. Or maybe I'm crazy. Can't forget that; maybe something in my head is broken, and I only think I hear them. Nobody else can hear them, so how can I be sure."

I didn't know what to say, so I waited.

"It wasn't so bad, at first. It was just whispers, here and there. I didn't even know where it was coming from." Elijah frowned, remembering. "Once I realized it was loudest around the graveyards, I started putting it together. By then it was louder, and I was hearing more and more of them - even in places where nobody thought they were. I had to get out of the cities, and then the smaller towns, but... you know how hard it is to find a place where nobody has died? The dead are all around us, right down there in the dirt. I had to get way out in the middle of nowhere, and even there... there's this one spot, this one guy. I hear him. He's down at the bottom of a ridge somewhere."

I considered that. "Why don't you move him? Just dig him up and put him somewhere else?"

Elijah made a little sound that was half-laugh, half-gasp. "I can't. I don't dare. It's getting to where I don't dare talk. I mean, I can hear them - can they hear me? And what happens if I wake them up?" He drew a ragged breath. "It doesn't matter anyway. I've started hearing the animals too. Further and further back. I don't even recognize some of the sounds, anymore. Bird calls and growls and... how long ago did they live, if they don't even sound like real birds?"

He paused. "I was hoping you could help. I was hoping an exorcism would, I don't know, settle them down. Make them sleep a little deeper, maybe. Keep them quiet for a while. But it didn't work."

I nodded. That wasn't really what an exorcism was for. But then, Elijah probably knew that, even if he'd let himself forget or just gotten his hopes up anyway.

"I'm sorry," he said at last. "I'll try to be normal. Be your friend. And I'll be okay. It's not so bad when I'm working."

"It's okay," I said. "You are my friend. I'm sorry I couldn't help."

And that's the end of my story. Or maybe the end is six months later, when Elijah killed himself. He never found anyone else who could hear what he heard; I know that much. But what it was that he heard... that, that I don't know at all. Maybe it really was some sort madness, some damaged tissue or chemical imbalance in his brain that gave him progressive auditory hallucinations. Or maybe he heard something that's been there all along; maybe the rest of us are just... congenitally deaf. I don't know.

But I do know that they're down there, all around us: the dead. Layer on layer of them; years, centuries, millenia of them; laid down across the long, bloody history of the world, from the first faint stirring of life to the present day. The ground is saturated with them. We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. So maybe they're just... waiting.

Fear the Morning!

Okay, so: I have a story that I'm hoping to put up tonight. To hold you until then, here are some Halloween bits, starting with one of my all-time favorite zombie films.



Join us below the cut (muwahahahahaha!) for more...

Harduk the Slayer and the Prison Cell of Doom

Harduk woke to find himself manacled to a wall. This wasn't the first time he'd awakened so, and probably wouldn't be the last; though usually he had fewer bruises and more of a hangover. The familiar weight of Frostblight was missing from his back; he noticed that before he felt the weight of the chains or smelled the cold dampness of the stone.

Nearmis Oddbottom was standing in front of him. "Do you know who sent you after me? If you tell me now, it will save us both a great deal of time and trouble."

Harduk raised his head until he could look the wizard in the eye. "You're mad," he said. "Nobody sent me. I drifted here after my boat sank."

"No." The wizard's denial was absolute. "One of my projects, even two or three, I could accept as coincidence. But you... every time you set foot outside a city, you stumble into some of my ruins. Someone has set you to trouble me, and I will discover them."

Harduk sagged in his chains. The wizard had clearly been breathing too much of the black lotus. There was no arguing with him. "Do your worst," he suggested.

"Later," said Nearmis Oddbottom. "I have builders to supervise. But once they rest..." He studied Harduk a moment longer, then turned and left. He took the single torch with him, leaving his prisoner in darkness.

Harduk waited until he could no longer hear the wizard's footsteps; then he waited longer. When he was certain he was alone, he tugged against his bonds. The manacles were heavy iron, and set firmly into the stone wall at his back. No amount of tugging would loosen them. Resigned to waiting, he settled back against the wall.

He had been there only a short time before a new voice reached his ears, this one husky but unmistakably female. "Harduk?"

"I am here," he called.

Sound and light reached him, drew closer: footsteps, and a lamp. Blinking, Harduk beheld a woman in a simple dress of gray silk. She was nearly his own height, well-formed and pretty despite an unfortunately prominent nose. Her study of him was as immediate and intense as his study of her.

After a moment she nodded. "I'm called Nissa," she said. "I need you to rescue me."

Harduk turned his head, confirming that he was still manacled to the stone wall.

"If you swear to take me with you, I'll set you free," she said.

"I swear it," Harduk said immediately.

"And you must promise to marry me."

Harduk choked and began to cough.

The woman hurried forward, pressed a hand against his mouth. "If I am betrothed, my father can no longer claim authority over me. I can go my own way, live my own life."

Harduk got his breathing under control. After a moment, he nodded. She removed her hand, and he said: "Yes."

She nodded again, sharply, and the chains fell away.

Harduk shook himself, rolled his shoulders, clenched and unclenched his fists. "I must find Frostblight."

"No time," she said. "We must find a boat."

"It is the sword of my people," Harduk insisted.

"I'll make you another."

Harduk looked at her sharply.

"We must go," she said, grasping his hand and pulling him out of the cell.

The wizard's voice rolled down the stone hallway, clear despite the echoes: "What, already? Guards! Find him. I don't care how many of you he kills, I want him back in his cell."

Harduk nodded. Having Frostblight would be a great help. Searching for Frostblight could quickly lead to capture. She was right; the blade was not worth his freedom. Following the lady's lead, he turned and fled into the darkness.

A Pony For Her Birthday, Iteration 3

Confused? Iteration One is here.


"Max, what have you done?"

She could hear his surprise through the phone. "What do you mean, what have I done? I created a pony that is completely safe for Stacy to ride."

"Max, that's... not a pony. I don't know what it is, but it's not a pony."

"What? Of course it's a pony. A full seventy percent of its genetic base is--"

"I don't care about its genetic base, Max. It has wings."

"She wanted a pony with wings. That's also why it has a horn. It's not like it actually flies."

"That's true, it doesn't fly." Samantha took a deep breath, then let it out. "Okay, fine. It was meant to be a winged pony with a horn."

"...Which will not crash into things, and which our daughter will not fall off of. The tentacles were a very effective addition, were they not?"

"Well..." Samantha hesitated. "I'll grant you, I don't think there's any way Stacy can fall off her... present."

"So what's the problem?"

"Max, she has sucker-marks all up and down her legs. How I'm going to explain that to her teacher, I can't begin to imagine."

There was a momentary hesitation. "Well, yes, I suppose that could be a difficulty. Still, a proper set of riding pants should fix that. Is Stacy, at least, happy with her new pony?"

Samantha hesitated. "Yes," she admitted at last. "Stacy's happy with it, even if it isn't a pony."

"Why do you keep saying that? I've explained the wings. I've explained the horn. I've explained the tentacles. Why do you keep insisting that Stacy's new pony isn't a pony?"

"Because ponies don't slither, Max." Samantha took another breath, and waited to hear his response.

"Well," said Maximilian Savage in his most dignified tone of voice, "this one does."

I give up, Samantha thought. I'm never going to get him to see this my way. Relenting, she said, "I guess it doesn't matter. Stacy loves it, and that's what counts, right?"

"I would think so," Max replied stiffly. There was a long pause, and then he added: "Has she spoken to you about Christmas?"

"...What about Christmas?" Samantha asked warily.

"She's asked for a gene sequencer of her own, with a two-ton growth tank."

Samantha Woodman cradled the phone and let that thought sink in. There was, she thought, no way to escape. Finally, she shook her head. "Send me the specs. Maybe we can set it up in the barn or something."

"Thank you, Samantha." Max's voice was warm. "It means a lot to me. And it will mean more to Stacy."

"Yeah." Samantha chuckled. "I don't know if I can survive having two of you doing this stuff, but I guess I'd better start figuring out how."

Building the Hand Cannon

Firstborn has no shortage of toys. Oh, he doesn't get everything he wants - but if he really wants something, he can usually get it. Despite this, he occasionally decides to make his own, apparently for the sheer love of creation. Mostly, I do my best to encourage this... though I will confess to a faint bit of exasperation on the day I came home to find my bed completely buried in paper airplanes.

Last night, though, he surprised me. He's built things with Trio blocks before (including, on one memorable occasion, a facehugger Xenomorph and a Halflife Head Crab). And he's built toy pistols out of Trio before, too. So I really shouldn't have been surprised that he'd come up with another one, and I wasn't - except that this one, unlike its predecessors, actually shoots.

It's a hand cannon.

What he's done, basically, is take the little cannon from one of the castle playsets, and mount it on a pistol grip. So he has to press a button out at the end of the barrel in order to fire, but it actually does launch the little cannonball on the end.

From the front...

From the side...

A few weeks back, in the wake of the Paper Airplane Incident, he asked for some paper and a stapler. Despite our considerable trepidation, the Beautiful Wife and I handed them over. Some time later, he returned the stapler, and showed me what he'd been doing:

He'd been making an axe. And a shield. Out of paper.

Axe-forward pose...

Shield-forward pose...

Okay, so it's not the strongest shield I've ever seen. I was still impressed.