Stuff

FIC: 'Dancing Cheek to Cheek' (Sam/Dean)

Thu, 03 Dec 2009 22:23:05 GMT

Another little fic for spn_30snapshots . Now if I could only get the song I took the title from out of my head I'd be a very happy woman.

Title: Dancing Cheek to Cheek
Author: katiebugs18
Character(s)/Pairing: Sam/Dean
Theme: #9 in All the Pretty Pictures
Prompt(s): Fries and Pies
Word Count: 536
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, the boys or any other character therein.
Summary: Sam never thought he’d get into heaven.
Warnings/Author Notes: The title comes from Sinatra’s song ‘Cheek to Cheek’ but I blame Alistar and his singing.

Sam honestly didn’t think he’d get into heaven. He thought for sure that St. Peter would laugh in his face and just push him off the white fluffy cloud straight to hell.

But…

But here he is. No St. Peter to get by or pearly white gates to walk through, just a small, one road town with a few deserted shops. There’s the record store that has actual vinyl records, not CDs or MP3 players but real vinyl records. There’s an Apple store that looks whiter and sleeker than any Sam’s ever seen. Across the street there’s a huge bookstore with floor to ceiling bookshelves crammed full of first editions. Off to the side a bit, there’s an auto garage, tricked out with everything a car aficionado could ever want. And, at what looks to be the town square, there’s a huge Victoria house complete with wrap around porch and turrets.

And of course there’s a small town dinner. It looks like nearly every dinner Sam has been forced to eat in his entire life except it’s clean and has a little outdoor seating area. It looks nice, cute and homey and based on the huge “Fresh Fries & Pies” declaration on the front window Sam has a feeling he’s in the right place.

Inside the lighting is dim but Sam can make out the typical diner set up: high counter, kitchen window, bench seats bordering the walls. And at one of those bench seats Sam finds what he’s been looking for ever since he found himself standing at the end of the town’s two lane road.

“Hey Sammy.”

Dean’s lounging on his bench seat like always. He’s got a plate full of French fries and another with a big slice of pie on it, both sitting in front of him along with two cups of coffee.

“Been waitin.”

Dean nudges the plate of fries a bit, over toward the other side of the table. Sam slides into the booth, sitting in his usual spot: back to the door and across from Dean.

“Dean.”

“Best fries in the whole universe Sammy. Best pie too. Better eat em before they get cold.”

Sam’s too busy staring at his brother to eat. Dean looks…Dean looks amazing, unnaturally beautiful and completely at peace. And between shoveling in bites of pie and stealing Sam’s fries Dean’s smiling that soft shy smile meant only for Sam.

It’s so…normal. Like countless other meals they’ve shared and Sam thinks that yes, this is how it’s suppose to be, just him and Dean sitting in a diner eating pie and sharing fries and bickering about nothing here in this place made specifically for them.

He feels happy, content and so very very free, finally able to relax against the back of his seat and start in on his fries. He smacks at Dean’s hand the next time it reaches out to steal some.

“Stop stealing my fries man.”

Dean’s smile is blinding. “Hey man, you weren’t eating them.”

“Well I am now.” He gives Dean an annoyed exasperated look just for form’s sake.

“Whatever. See if I share my pie.”

Sam grabs the ketchup and thinks yeah, this, this is perfect.

This is heaven.

Table for Three (spn_30snapshots) Sam/Dean

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 23:45:57 GMT

For spn_30snapshots ...'Table for Three'

Title: Table for Three
Author: katiebugs18
Character(s)/Pairing: Sam/Dean
Theme: #23 in Table 10: All the Pretty Pictures
Prompt(s): Kiddy table
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, the boys or any other character therein.
Summary: Thanks to that damned well the boys have to fulfill Audrey's wish.
Warnings/Author Notes: I made a slight change to cannon…tossing another coin to fulfill a wish isn’t necessary. The spell holds until the wish is fulfilled. Also, this is my first attempt at humor within the SPN universe. Be kind.

Sam’s done a lot of crazy shit in the name of the job but this…this might top the list. The entire case is bat shit crazy – ridiculously good-looking chicks with weird looking guys, invisible kids loitering in the women’s…okay so that’s not too crazy (teenage boy ogling naked women, nope, not crazy) but a real live wishing well that is currently forcing them to grant Audrey’s wish and a manic depressive teddy bear? That’s just fucking nuts.

And now this.

“Um…Audrey, you know having a tea party and playing dress up are two different things right?” Sam’s doing his best to avoid the little make-up brush but the wall’s behind his head and Audrey – all 3.5 feet 50 pounds of her – has him blocked in, stuck in a stupidly small chair.

“I know. But you can’t have a tea party without dressing up and mommy says that this is how you show off pretty eyes.” And then she comes at him with an insanely sharp eye pencil.

Sam’s about to say good-bye to his right eye when Dean comes back from the kitchen, arms loaded with tea party necessities: a bag of cookies, silverware, a jug of milk, a tea pot, a Tupperware container and, yeah, that’s a bouquet of flowers.

Dean dumps everything on Audrey’s absurd purple table and turns to Sam and Audrey. His face goes from startled to horrified to gleeful as he takes in the blue eye shadow caked up to Sam’s eyebrows and the blush Audrey’s painted across his cheeks.

Dean manages about ten seconds before he starts laughing.

“Dean! You have to sit down.” Audrey’s got a dangerous glint in her eyes but Dean’s still too busy laughing to notice.

“Okay…” Dean does his best to sit on the small white chair but, like Sam, he’s more kneeling on the ground than sitting. “Why am I sitting? Is it time for tea?”

“No silly, it’s your turn.”

Audrey pulls something small and pink from her mother’s make-up bag, letting out a triumphant ‘yes’ when she does. Dean looks horrified when she advances on him, pulling back hard and fast, bashing his head into the wall.

“No. Audrey, no. Absolutely not.” Dean sounds a bit desperate. He’s remarkably good with kids – a million times better than Sam is – and he’s been nothing less than amazing with Audrey but even Dean has his limits.

“But everyone with sexy lips has to wear lip gloss. It’s the rules.” Audrey’s pouting as she grabs Dean’s chin and starts applying the gloss. It’s mostly clear with a tint of pink, glossy and wet looking and does ridiculous things to Dean’s already ridiculously kissable lips.

“Now, rub them together and…” Audrey’s lips make an exaggerated POP when she separates them. Dean grimaces when he does the same. He looks so uncomfortable Sam can’t help laughing. Dean just glares at him.

“Laugh it up. Samantha.” Yeah, should have seen that coming.

***

Sam honestly didn't think the day could get any worse when, just as Audrey's pouring "tea" for Dean, the sound of a shotgun going off causes everyone to jump. Sam and Dean are out of their seats so fast they upend the table, sending cookies and tea cups and the rest flying as they race across the hall to Audrey’s room.

Where they find Teddy.

Where they find Teddy with a hole through his head cursing the heavens for not ending his life. It's a particularly disturbing scene, what with white stuffing floating everywhere and Teddy's pathetic suicide note. Not to mention the 8-foot living, breathing stuffed animal with a hole through its head. Yeah. It's fucked up.

Sam has absolutely no idea what to do and Dean looks too confused to be of any use so they just...stand there. It's not like there's a whole lot they can do anyway right? It's not like Teddy's dead seeing as how he's still cursing his existence and while they're both experts with a needle and thread neither of them is actually much of a sewer (Dean tried once when they were kids and Sam ripped his favorite shirt and...epic failure). And is there even enough of Teddy's head to patch back up?

Audrey slips past them before they can stop her, takes one look at Teddy, the gun and the massive hole in the back of Teddy's head and starts sobbing and yelling.

“You’re terrible teddy bear doctors!”

Dean steps forward in an attempt to comfort her but Audrey throws herself at Teddy, crying into his big tummy, refusing to let go even as Teddy tries desperately to dislodge her.

Figuring now would be a good time to run away Sam backs out of the door slowly, Dean close behind him. Back in the relative safety of Audrey’s play room Dean rights the little table while Sam picks up what he can (pocketing the lip gloss for later…you saw what it did to Dean’s lips right?) before they both fall back into those ridiculously tiny chairs. They sit there, both trying to digest the events of the day. Dean sums it up nicely. “Dude.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean…dude.”

“Yeah.” ‘Cause really, what else can they possibly say? Except apparently…

“But hey, day’s not a total waste.”

“Yeah? How’s that Dean?”

Dean pulls off the tupperwear lid with a flourish, smile bright and happy as can be, “There’s pie.”

Sam buries his face in his hands. Because apparently, the day’s not a complete disaster, ‘cause “Yeah Dean, there’s pie.”

And lip gloss.

All the Pretty Pictures (Prompt Table)

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 04:58:57 GMT

*Depending on your browser or computer (in my case my Mac vs. my work PC) the table's format may be messed up. However, all the links will be correct and I'll be posting the prompt picture in with the fic so you'll definitely know which pic inspired each fic.

1. 11. 21.

     FIc Link                                                            Fic Link                                                            Fic Link

2.     12. 22.

     Fic Link                                                             Fic Link                                                           Fic Link

3.      13.      23.

     Fic Link                                                            Fic Link                                                            Table for Three

4.      14.      24.

     Fic Link                                                            Fic Link                                                            Fic Link

5.      15.      25.

     Fic Link                                                             Fic Link                                                           Fic Link

6.      16. 26.

     Fic Link                                                            Fic Link                                                            Fic Link

7.      17.      27.

     Fic Link                                                            Fic Link                                                            Fic Link

8.      18.      28.

     Fic Link                                                            Fic Link                                                            Fic Link

9.      19.      29.

   Fic Link                                                            Fic Link                                                            Fic Link

10.     20.     30.

      Fic Link                                                           Fic Link                                                           Fic Link

In This Time And Place: Master Post

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 18:38:05 GMT

Title: In This Time And Place
Author: katiebugs18
Artist: _afterism
Genre: SPN
Pairing: Sam/Dean pre-slash
Rating: PG: 13
Word Count: 37,469
Warnings/Spoilers: Multiple character deaths (but don't worry, it's not permanent. Trust me)
Disclaimer: The boys do not belong to me. Nor does the Colt. Or any of the girls. None of it belongs to me.
Summary: "Well, there are other generations." Azazel has a plan that spans centuries and Sam is always chosen. But Dean has a destiny too and he finds his way to Sam every time. Because no matter which life they're living, there is always Sam and there is always Dean.
Notes: OMG afterism's art is amazing! Go there. NOW! Why haven't you gone yet?! Okay, it's spoilery so you might want to wait till after you've read. And then GO!

Witch Hunt Westward Expansion Westward Expansion (b) Spiritualism Spiritualism (b)

Spiritualism (c) Spiritualism (d) World War Two World War Two (b) Now (Epilogue)

In My Time And Place: Part 5

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 17:48:09 GMT

“Sam, Sammy, you’re my favorite.”

Azazel to Sam ‘All Hell Breaks Loose, Part 1’

“I always tried to protect you. Keep you safe…It was just always my responsibility. It’s like I had one job. One job.”

Dean to Sam: ‘All Hell Breaks Loose, Part 2

***

When Dean Winchester first lays eyes on Sam Winchester he’s four years old, a big brother for the first time ever and so excited he can barely contain himself. He’s four and something inside him shifts, clicks into place and while it’ll take Dean years to completely understand what happens in those moments, what that shift and click means, he knows, deep down in his little boy bones what his purpose in life is; that Sam belongs to him, is his responsibility and that he’ll do everything and anything to keep him safe.

Dean has no idea what life holds for him and Sam but a thought, random and unbidden filters through his mind: maybe this time.

End

***

Notes, Translations and Author’s Notes

Translations for Kanza words used in Chapter 2:

David’s Kanza names:

Ishta Toho – Green Eyes

Ehna Mayi – Walks Alone

His parent’s names:

Gaboje Mi – Fine snow is falling

Ishta Leda – Hawk Eyes

Language:

Dable – hunt, go on a hunt

Akida – warrior

Nage – run as an animal does

wanáⁿghe – spirit, ghost

You can find out more about the tribe that gave Kansas its name here and their cool language project that I used.

Chapter 3: Spiritualism

Miss Emma Hardinge Britten was a real medium in the 1800’s and I have no reason to believe she was a terrible no good fraud like Donald believed. My apologies to her for using her in that fashion. Please don’t haunt me.

Chapter 4: World War 2

I fudged the timeline for the real unit Douglas was in, which in reality was an offshoot of the Kansas National Guard. However, they really did storm Omaha Beach and really did enter Bastogne with Patton’s 3^rd Army.

Richard’s nickname ‘Trig’ is short for Trigger. And Andrew doesn’t have a nickname because for the life of me I could not think of one.

Author’s Notes:

When this started over a year ago it was just suppose to be a bunch of short paragraphs that dealt with Dean (and Sam) throughout various periods of history. But they just wouldn’t stay short, they kept growing and than I was rewatching ‘All Hell Breaks Loose’ and Azazel mentioned the “other generations” and it all started to click. When I discovered Big Bang I though why the hell not and that’s when I really started writing.

This is the longest anything I’ve ever written and I’m embarrassed by how proud of that I am. This has been an incredible experience from start to finish and I can’t thank the mods enough for all their hard work and support, especially Wendy who seems to have taken the brunt of my silly questions.

_afterism did some amazing art for this that I couldn’t be more excited and pleased with. Emily, thank you so much all these wonderful pieces. They’re gorgeous. Seriously, I'm full of uncontrollable glee. You have to go tell her how wonderful her work is!

And a special shout out to my friend Reed who has never seen a ‘Supernatural’ episode in his life and still inadvertently became my one and only beta. Dude, I could not have done this without you. Thank you for putting up with my endless panicking and freak outs. I owe you.

And of course, thank you all for reading.

In My Time And Place: Part 4b

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 17:28:16 GMT

Things don’t get easy they just become normal and Douglas finds himself becoming immune to so many things that months, weeks, days before would have terrified him, made him freeze in his tracks. He thinks nothing of sleeping on the ground or shitting in a hole; killing a man has become almost instinctual: see target, lift gun, aim, fire. Easy. Thoughtless.

Normal.

The first time Douglas is injured his immediate thought is that he’s going to die. His next is that he wants his mother. The next is that he needs a medic. Andrew is the first to reach him and starts screaming for the medic while he drags Douglas to lean against a nearby house before putting pressure on the bleeding. By the time Doc. Lee arrives the pain is manageable and fading. Doc rips his pants open above the wound and takes a look, dumping sulfa to disinfect the wound before applying pressure to staunch the bleeding. It’s a superficial leg wound, a deep gouge thanks to a piece of shrapnel blown off the very house he’s leaning against. Doc patches him up, a quick field dressing before he and Andrew help Douglas to his feet and Doc orders Andrew to take him to the aid station.

Doc forces Douglas to stay behind and let his leg heal. Douglas refuses and only Trig – finally down from his sniper’s perch now that the town is theirs – and Andrew browbeating him into submission gets him to stay. Douglas lasts three days before he’s hobbling after his unit, loathed to be away from the guys any longer. He catches a ride with a jeep delivering ammunition and is back with the unit a few hours later being greeted with back slaps and handshakes. Doc scolds him for going AWOL from the aid station but lets Douglas stay anyway.

After that Douglas resolves not to get wounded again. It’s not just the pain of being wounded – though that’s certainly not pleasant – it’s that he doesn’t want to be away from the unit, doesn’t want to be separated from the guys. Douglas knows it’s not really up to him but after that first wound he only gets the usual nicks and scratches that are normal to all soldiers.

Which makes him exceptionally lucky because nearly everyday his unit looses someone. Some they lose from bullets – some a single bullet to the brain others are riddled through, their bodies left full of holes – others they lose to artillery – if they’re lucky there’s a semblance of a corpse for their families to bury, the rest are nothing but bits. The lucky ones they lose to wounds too great to heal quickly or limbs lost completely. Compared to all this Douglas is blessed. He knows it and he never stops being thankful.

***

It’s been over a year since Douglas left home, since he boarded a train that took him from Kansas out into the big wide world, took him to war. The unit is barely recognizable thanks to all the new guys who come in to replace those they lose to injury and death. Of course the rookies need to be replaced themselves thanks to lack of training and stupid rookie bravado. Douglas doesn’t bother learning their names. He sticks close to Trig and Andrew, afraid to let them out of his sight for too long. They’ve managed to survive this long and he has every intention of getting them through this. They’re all going home damn it.

***

They entered Bastogne two weeks ago with Patton’s 3^rd Amy. Their objective is to provide relief for a bunch of pretty boy paratroopers who are barely holding the line and they’ve been stuck there ever since. Douglas has seen more of the world than he could ever have hoped to if war hadn’t forced him to enlist and he’s seen more death and destruction than he cares to remember. But this, this is by far the worst.

It’s winter in Belgium and they’re freezing, stuck in their foxholes with no way to keep warm, snow covering the cold hard ground. He’s numb everywhere, the cold having seeped deep into his bones, his body aching from constant shivering and Douglas isn’t sure he’ll ever feel his fingers again. They move around when they can, trying to find some semblance of warmth, trying to keep the blood flowing, but there’s no where to go and the constant barrage of artillery makes being out of your foxhole a risky proposition.

The woods they’re holed up in is a mess, worse than any battlefield Douglas has seen before. There’s hardly a tree left standing that hasn’t had its uppermost branches torn off, blown to kindling by German artillery. It’s a miracle the trees are even standing.

The current barrage is the worst yet, trees exploding sending branches and pine needles flying, kindling and slivers raining down like shrapnel as barrage after barrage of German artillery pounds the area. He, Trig and Andrew huddle together in their foxhole, faces lit by the exploding artillery, eying each other, waiting. There’s nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait it out – again – and hope a stray shell doesn’t find its way to their foxhole. Douglas can think of worse ways to die than splattered all over his foxhole but not many.

The onslaught ends as suddenly as it began and everything is silent for a few glorious seconds before the sounds of explosions are replaced by the cries of the wounded. Douglas refuses the cigarette that Trig is passing around before he hops out of their foxhole to go check on the rest of the unit. He’s not sure how it’s possible but it’s even colder out of the foxhole than in it. His legs tingle painfully, the blood recirculating after sitting so long in one position. He runs foxhole to foxhole, staying low, checking on the men, making sure that everyone made it through, that they’re as secure as possible and that no one’s doing anything stupid.

He’s giving away his last cigarette when the bombing starts again. The ground is frozen solid, covered in snow and pine and shattered branches making it nearly impossible for his boots to get traction. He’s running for the nearest foxhole when his feet slip out from under him.

Douglas hits the ground hard, jarring his head as his helmet rolls off along the ground. There’s a soldier lying next to him, probably trying to make it to a foxhole as well. He calls out to the guy, trying to be heard over the sound of artillery exploding above them. Douglas tugs at the guy’s shoulder to get his attention and the guy roles onto his back, his head lolling to the side, shockingly green eyes staring blankly at Douglas.

It’s only then that Douglas realizes that the guy’s right leg is nearly gone, flesh flayed back to bone, foot twisted the wrong way. The boy’s side is shredded and his throat looks like a wild animal took a chunk out of it. The ground is soaked red with the kid’s blood. It’s as direct an artillery hit as possible without destroying the body completely.

The kid’s face is young. Too young. Poor bastard probably wasn’t even eighteen, probably lied about his age so he could enlist, too eager to join up. Those shockingly green eyes probably sparkled with youth and excitement at the prospect of being a soldier, going to war, being a hero. And now his guts are hanging out, his eyes going milky, his blood spilled all over, body cold…it’s all suck a fucking waste. And all too familiar a sight for Douglas. The kid’s dog tags rest atop his uniform, surprisingly bright against the bloodied green material. He doesn’t think the kid was part of his unit, doesn’t recognize the face or the name – Stanley Wexler – but he grabs the dog tags anyway, yanks them off and shoves one in the kid’s boot to ensure the continued identification of the body. Douglas keeps the other to turn over to a medic to hand off to the proper unit, maybe a friend to return them to the kid’s family.

An artillery blast gets him moving again. He needs to get to a foxhole; staying out in the open like this is asking to be hit. His boots are slipping, traction nearly impossible with all the snow and tree fragments and blood slicking the ground. Artillery explodes above him, one after the other after the other, like the fireworks finale on the 4^th of July. There’s a foxhole a few yards away and Douglas digs his feet in, runs towards it, breathing hard, adrenaline pumping, propelling him forward.

And then he’s staring up at the sky, vision hazy, explosions blurry, head ringing, befuddled. He blinks his eyesight back to normal, confusion fading, Douglas realizes he’s staring up at the exploding tree tops from the ground instead of from inside a foxhole. The cold is starting to get to him, seeping into him, making everything feel sharper including the pain that’s flaring up, going from a dull ache to a strong fierce pain that radiates out from his gut through his entire body until the only thing he’s aware of is the blinding agony engulfing his body.

He tries to lift his head to look at the spot the pain is coming from, forces his hands to go there. They’re warm and wet when he touches his belly, blood pouring out the unnatural hole that he can see in his gut. Douglas presses down, putting pressure on the wound, trying to stop the blood, trying to keep his insides from being on the outside.

He might be whimpering a bit, might be screaming, might pass out from the pain when suddenly there’s another set of hands over his, someone else applying pressure with him.

“Oh jesus fuck. Shit Lashes. You stupid fuck. Shit.” Trig is kneeling beside him, screaming for the medic and yelling at Douglas, trying to explain in detail what a stupid fucking piece of shit he is for getting hit. It’s stupid for Trig to be out of their foxhole. He should go back. Douglas tells him so.

“You should…foxhole Trig.” At least he tries to tell him.

“Damn right I should be in my foxhole. But you had to go and get hit your stupid hick. Had to go and get me out of my nice warm bed to come save your worthless ass. Now shut the fuck up and help me. And stop moving you idiot, I’m trying to stop the bleeding.” Douglas does his best to stay still but its hard when it feels like Trig is trying to push his guts out his back instead of keeping them inside; it’s hard when it hurts so much. His blood is still pooling out of his body and getting all over his uniform.

“Trig…got a letter for mom in…” He doesn’t finish the sentence which is probably for the best because Trig looks absolutely furious.

“You shut the fuck up. You’re gonna send that letter yourself you hear me!” Douglas wants to explain that he knows he’ll mail the letter himself; he just doesn’t want it getting covered in blood before he has a chance to finish it and send it. He’s sent his parents too many letters that have specks of his blood on it, he doesn’t want to send one drenched in it. But Trig’s too busy muttering to himself about stupid idiots and Douglas doesn’t have the energy; he’s too busy trying to stay conscious and not scream.

It’s a relief when Doc arrives a few seconds later. After a quick look under Trig’s hands Doc stabs Douglas with a morphine surret and everything dulls to a whimper.

“Alright Doug, you’re gonna be just fine. We’re gonna get you outta here and get you patched up.” It’s the best news Douglas has heard in a long time, the ground is really cold.

He watches Doc and Trig work to stop the bleeding, watches them start to get hazy as the morphine does its job. He feels himself start to slip under when there’s a fresh jolt of pain that shocks him awake and forces a pathetic groan out of him. He’s being moved onto a stretcher and put on a jeep for transport to the field hospital. Trig is squeezing his hand. “You’re gonna be just fine Lashes. Lucky bastard they’re probably gonna ship you home. But I’ll see you okay? Andrew and I’ll see you before you ship out. Okay?”

Douglas tries to squeeze Trig’s hand, thinks he manages a smile and a nod before Doc is telling Trig to get his ass back in a foxhole before he’s being carted away too.

The ride is bumpy, jarring, but the morphine is doing its job and he’s starting to get sleepy, starting to feel almost warm. Everything is hazy and soft, almost comfortable despite the pressure Doc is still putting on his wound. Douglas hates to leave the guys, hopes he heals fast, and doesn’t even acknowledge the part of him that wants to go home. Because damn does he really want to go home. As soon as possible.

Which means he’s gotta heal fast and get back out there to help end this godforsaken war. Because Douglas will be damned if he came all this way, worked this hard to keep his guys alive to see it all end here.

Because he’s gonna survive. He’s gonna survive this hell and go home, all in one piece and he’s going to live and die on the farm (with maybe a stint at a garage in Kansas City in between). But he’s going to go home, take over the farm when James gets to old to get up every morning; maybe get married and give his mother grandkids to dote on; he’s going to get up every morning with the sun, raise his crops, and go to bed every night listening to the crickets. And he’s going to do it everyday till he dies.

But first Douglas is going to lay here and let Doc take care of him. His body is tired, eyes falling shut, limbs heavy, mind hazy. The morphine is dragging him into a fog of warmth and comfort he hasn’t known since before he shipped out. It’s easy to give in to it especially when his body needs to sleep. Douglas figures he’s earned a little rest.

He figures its okay to let himself relax, let himself go so Doc can work without his body reacting to the poking and prodding. Douglas just wants to rest, just wants to sleep for a little while, figures there’s no harm in it right now, so he takes a deep breath and just…lets go.

Just for a little while.

Part 5: Now

In My Time And Place: Part 4

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 17:23:06 GMT

“Why do you think you are here? This is a competition. Only one of you crazy kids is going to make it out of here alive.”

Azazel to Sam: ‘All Hell Breaks Loose, Part 1’

***

Its sort of a requirement to growing up on a farm but Douglas really doesn’t mind getting up early. Morning has always been his favorite time of day and his body stopped needing the natural alarm of the rooster or the mechanical one provided by the family chime clock a long time ago. It’s not unusual for Douglas to be up earlier than necessary so he can go out and watch the sun rise over the fields. He loves the moment the sun breaks the horizon, how it bathes the growing wheat in light, making it bright and rich and warm, its already golden stalks growing even more vibrant in the early morning light.

Douglas loves looking out over the endless fields of wheat and corn that grow towards the sky every summer, as if it’s reaching for the sun, the blue sky standing out in sharp contrast against the earthy gold. He loves watching everything wake up with the sun, as if the earth itself is waking up with the farm.

He stands on the porch and watches till his mother finds him and shoos him off to collect the eggs from the chicken coop and milk the cows so she can make breakfast.

It’s memories like that that make getting up in the barracks all the more difficult, knowing there’s no farm waiting for him outside, no mother to send him off for morning chores. Here the morning brings nothing but miles upon miles of running and mindless PT all before training maneuvers and lessons in soldiering.

But Douglas can’t allow himself to think on it too hard, can’t let himself miss home too much because there was no other choice for him, no choice for him as an American and no choice for him as a Warren, just like there was no choice for the thousands of other men who signed up for service after Pearl Harbor.

The country needed protection and the war in Europe needed to end before it once again spilled onto American soil, which meant that Douglas was going to war.

***

He was out in the field with his father when the Japanese surprised Pearl Harbor, dropping bomb after bomb and forcing America out of its isolation and denial. His mother had called Douglas and his father in, calling out to them that they needed to come inside immediately.

Inside they sat around the table listening to the radio announcer describe the horrible events at Pearl Harbor. Douglas had to think for a minute to even remember where Hawaii was but then it didn’t matter how far away from Kansas Hawaii was, it was still part of the United States, part of his country. They listened in horrified silence and confusion about the sunken battleships and the fires across the military base and the bombs that fell from the sky and of course, the thousands of horrible deaths that resulted from it all. Douglas will never forget that day, never forget the anger that welled up inside him at a country he barely knew about, never forget the feeling of helplessness and the desire to do something, never forget his mother clutching his father’s hand, tears streaming down her face and never taking her eyes off of him.

***

The next day dawned just like any other and Douglas got up as he always did and went about his morning chores. But the knowledge of what happened yesterday and the feeling that something big was about to happen curled inside him.

When President Roosevelt came on the radio and announced that America was declaring war on Japan and joining the war in Europe his mother started crying again, slumping over and collapsing into his father who looked grim, resigned. No one spoke; there was nothing to say. A member on either side of his family had served in every conflict America had been involved in stretching back to the Revolutionary War. And now Douglas would enlist and do his duty to his family and his country.

His father went with to the nearest courthouse the next morning. When they leave Douglas is no longer just plain Douglas Warren of Warren Farm Kansas but Private First Class Douglas Warren, 35^th Division, 137^th Infantry United States Army with orders to report to Camp Rucker in Alabama for training. He leaves at the end of the week.

After Douglas signs the papers and they’re driving home, the Kansas farmland rushing past, sun bright, sky blue, a perfect day, his father’s voice breaks the comfortable silence, low and rough.

“I’m proud of you son.”

“Thanks Dad.” It’s been a long time since his father actually verbalized his affection though Douglas has never doubted his father’s love for him. He knows the words cost his Dad, knows James would rather slap him on the back or pat him on the shoulder than actually say the words and they mean even more to Douglas for that reason alone.

When they get home Margaret is on the porch shelling peas. She doesn’t look up when the truck pulls up to the house or when Douglas and James get out. She doesn’t look up when James calls her name, doesn’t look up as they walk up the steps, doesn’t look up until Douglas is standing in front of her, taking the bowl out of her lap and her trembling hands into his, pulling her our of the chair.

“Mom.”

“When do you leave?” She still won’t look at him but her voice is low and quivering, proof that she’s fighting tears.

“Sunday morning.” Margaret nods her head. It’s rough and jerky and Douglas pulls her to him. She hugs him tight, getting herself under control. His mother is kind and gentle, given to easy laughter and tears. But underneath she’s strong. Douglas hopes that foundation will help her through his time away.

When Margaret pulls back her eyes are red and puffy but dry. “We have some time at least.” She squeezes his hand before sitting back down in her chair and picking up the bowl of peas again. This time her hands don’t shake.

***

Douglas spends his last few days of freedom doing as much as his small town will allow. He’s not the only boy in town shipping out and together they squeeze in as much last minute carousing as they can. Usually it just involves hanging out at the swimming hole and drinking, sometimes it involves silly dares of cow tipping or letting the air out of tractor tires. It’s all silly stuff that boys do, boys on the cusp of manhood but boys nonetheless, harmless and easily fixed but wicked and exhilarating during the process.

One night he slips off to spend one last night with his girl. Lisa lets him go further than they ever have, lets him slip his hand under her sweater, lift it off over her head and nuzzle at her breast, slide her skirt up and over her hips, lets him kiss her neck, her chest her stomach, lets him remove her bra, her panties. She lets him slip inside her, break her open, lets him thrust up inside her till he spills out into her and she’s quivering beneath him.

After Douglas thinks he’s suppose to propose, ask her to wait for him. Instead he asks her to write him and she promises she will, kissing him sweetly with no recrimination or expectations.

Between the nights of carousing he still has days to help on the farm. Douglas has always loved the farm, loves the long backbreaking work, the moist dirt that clumps and sticks to his hand, the tall stalks of wheat and corn that grow towards the sky. And now, with his time limited Douglas throws himself into the farm. He can’t help feeling a bit guilty knowing he’s leaving it all to his father. He makes sure that all the equipment – tractors, huskers, chafers – are tuned up and working perfectly. The truck and the family car (a personal hobby and his pride and joy) get a complete overhaul – oil change, tire rotation, tuned carburetor, brakes checked. Douglas goes so far as to try and paint the house before his mother stops him, paint brush dripping in his hand.

Its not just his sense of responsibility that fuels his productivity but also the nervous energy that’s been running through him since the morning after Pearl Harbor. It’s only grown since he enlisted leaving Douglas jittery and anxious. Sometimes it’s a weird excitement that he feels, thoughts of valor and the romanticism of service drowning out his practical mind. But Douglas has never really left home, never really traveled outside the boundaries of town, only made a rare trip to Kansas City with his father on business. He can’t help being a bit excited about spreading his wing and seeing new places.

As his time dwindles down and his departure date nears all the emotions that jumble inside him grow, get stronger, fraying his nerves and making him jittery. By the time his departure date arrives Douglas is relieved; he was beginning to think he’d go crazy if he had to wait any longer.

***

On his last night at home Margaret pulls Douglas and his father in from the fields early. She’s prepared a feast for dinner, all of Douglas’ favorites laid out on the table waiting for them. The house smells amazing and for a moment Douglas is afraid he’ll miss his mother’s cooking more than her. But when he turns to thank her, sees her doing her best to mean her smile and not cry he knows that that would be impossible.

It doesn’t stop him from enjoying every bite. There’s fried chicken and green beans with brown sugar, mashed potatoes, buttermilk biscuits, meatloaf with ketchup and fresh corn on the cob. And after all that Margaret pulls out two freshly bakes pies – apple and cherry – and a peach cobbler. Its heaven and more food than the three of them can possibly eat though Douglas doe his best.

After dinner Douglas helps his mother clear the table and wrap up all the leftovers. His parents will eat well over the coming days. He takes over drying duty, standing with her at the sink, ignoring the way her hands shake when she hands him each dish.

They spend the rest of the night gathered in the family room, sitting close, talking about nothing, and simply enjoying each others company. No one mentions what tomorrow will bring.

***

In the morning they drive to the train station in silence, an air of melancholy filling the car. In the trunk is Douglas’ one piece of luggage: a single duffle bag stuffed with clothes, a few personal belongings and a lunch made of last night’s leftovers that his mother put together to see him through the ride to Alabama.

Douglas can’t stop his leg from bouncing up and down in anxiety and excitement. His mother sits in back with him, twisting her handkerchief and doing her best not to touch him, fix his collar or hold his hand, stop his leg from jumping. His father drives, James’ hands squeezing the wheel so hard his knuckles are white. Douglas can’t watch them. Instead he looks out the window, watches the land he loves fly by, farm after farm, row after row of corn and wheat stretching forever, disappearing into the bright blue sky.

Douglas isn’t the only one leaving for training that morning and the train station is crowded, full of families, mothers and wives crying, children timidly hiding behind their parent’s, fathers proud and stoic. They’re all there to say goodbye to their sons husbands fathers brothers and elicit a promise of their return. Douglas’ family is no different.

Saying goodbye is hard. It’s not something Douglas has ever had to do before and he finds he’s not very good at it, doesn’t like it. James is stoic, emotions safely tucked away, just under the surface but his red-rimmed eyes give him away. It’s unnerving to see his strong, capable father fighting back tears. They hug for the first time since Douglas was a little boy, his father holding tight and Douglas feels his throat start to tighten and his eyes wet with tears.

Margaret is doing a valiant job of not falling apart. She’s standing on her own, crying openly, her pretty face red and blotchy from the tears quietly falling. She hugs him so tightly, trying to cradle his tall frame against her chest but Douglas doesn’t mind, returns the hug just as fiercely. She’s small in his arms, so tiny that he practically lifts her off her feet when he hugs her back, tells her not to worry, he’ll be just fine.

When the final boarding whistle blows Douglas sets Margaret back down and, doing his best not to loss his self-control, picks up his duffle.

“I’ll write as often as I can. And I’ll be back before you know it.” It’s a lie and they all know it but it seems to help, lets Douglas smile, turn away and board the train. He forces his way to a window, squeezes in with all the other men who are crowding in to wave to their loved ones. His mother is nearly sobbing now, leaning against his father. When they spot Douglas leaning out the train window she starts waving, her handkerchief white against the blue sky, James raises his hand towards the sky, hand splayed. Douglas waves back, keeps waiving as the train moves forward and his parents become specks on the horizon.

***

Boot camp is intense, sometimes brutal and something Douglas wasn’t really prepared for. Growing up on a farm has conditioned him for the sun up to sun down hours and slinging heavy bales of hay have made him strong but he’s never run for runnings sake (first thing in the morning with a rifle, a heavy pack strapped to his back and unforgiving boots included) and he’s never done a push up in his life. Douglas and the other farm boys fare better than the few city boys in the unit but not by much. None of them, no matter what their background are prepared for the daily drilling the United States Army puts them through. They go to bed every night aching, legs and arms and feet and head, and they wake up every morning tired and sore. But it bonds them, makes them a solid unit willing to go the distance for each other, creating close friendships.

For Douglas that means Richard ‘Trig’ Spoken the unit’s sniper and Andrew Gleeson the unit’s comic relief. He and Trig bond over being two salt of the earth farm boys, both wanting nothing more than to work the farm they were born on and to die there. It’s Trig who teaches Douglas to shoot properly, improving his aim and resulting in Douglas becoming a much better shot than when he left the farm.

For Andrew (no nickname, just Andrew, nothing seemed to stick) the bonding started over a busted engine valve in a jeep and continued because of their mutual love of cars. Andrew told Douglas all about being a mechanic, working in a garage, fixing cars and trucks, all in the middle of a big city. He’s the first person to make Douglas think about maybe working in a garage for a few years before taking over the farm for good, actually getting paid for the hobby he loves.

Douglas isn’t sure what Trig and Andrew bond over but, like others in the unit, the three of them form their own special bond that extends beyond the other guys, most of whom Douglas likes and all of whom he’d fight beside. But it’s Trig and Andrew that he talks to about his homesickness and his aching feet and his excitement and fear about what’s before them. It’s nice, something he finds was missing in his life before this and he knows that he’d gladly take a bullet for them and they for him. They’re better friends than any Douglas has had before, as close as the brothers he never had.

***

From Alabama the unit travels to North Carolina and then onto New Jersey where they meet up with hundreds of other companies from across the country for the journey over to England. Douglas decides within minutes of boarding the ship that water is his least favorite way to travel. They’re all crammed on board like sardines, stacked on top of each other, barely any room to move and absolutely zero privacy. And worst of all, it’s boring; thousands of men with nothing but cards and idle chitchat to pass the time. It’s excruciating.

But when they disembark in England Douglas thinks the trip might have been worth it. He falls in love with England almost immediately, loves the lush rolling hillsides, the small fairytale like towns they pass through, the accent…everything. And when they get a free weekend and travel down to London Douglas is in awe. Its unlike any place Douglas has been, unlike any city he could imagine, even with the bombed out buildings and soldiers walking around, even with the civilian population staring out with a look of fear and stubborn bravery, London is incredible. It’s absolutely huge, a jungle of buildings and roads and so completely foreign. Douglas spends nearly his entire visit – from Victoria Station to the dance hall and girls at night – wide eyed and slack jawed.

But they’re not here to be tourists they’re here to train. And train. And train some more. Douglas is billeted with a family who already has two sons and a father over on the continent fighting. The mother – Rose – and her daughters – Elizabeth and Catherine – are kind and generous with their home, make Douglas feel welcome despite the loneliness and fear that has settled just below the surface.

Training is hard; intense in a way it wasn’t back in the States, war games instead of theory and drills, their last chance to prepare for the real thing. By now the unit is a well-oiled machine, comradery assured after nearly a year of training and at this point they’re very good.

And yet, despite all the training, all the drills and theories and games, nothing truly prepares them for the real thing. Their training had been precise, controlled, civilized; their pre-landing briefing points on a map, objective laid out before them clear and exact: start at point A and end at point B. But nothing prepares them for the chaos of landing on Omaha Beach and any prepared plan goes out the window in the absolute insanity of it all. It’s a circus of men and bullets, bombs and fires, sand and rain. The screams of men and shells providing the perfect soundtrack for the horror laid out before them.

Douglas has no idea how he actually makes it to land, boots sinking into the wet sands of France. He’s running, hard and fast, desperate for some kind of cover, terror the only thing he feels.

He hears his buddy Jacob shouting over everything, his ever present laugher obvious in his voice. “This is some pretty crazy shit huh Lashes!”

They’re running side by side, both moving forward towards something that looks like it could give them cover. He glances to his right, ready to agree that yeah, this is some fucking crazy shit when Jacob falls, just…drops to the ground and Douglas doesn’t think, just drops to his knee next to Jacob, grabs his shoulder to help him up. Except…except Jacob isn’t moving, isn’t breathing. There’s a hole in his helmet. A perfect circle and there’s blood pooling under Jacob’s head, seeping into the sand, his eyes blank.

Douglas is still gripping Jacob’s shoulder when Trig grabs him and pulls, screaming at him to get moving. “Doug! He’s dead Doug. Come on you stupid son of a bitch we’ve gotta find cover! Doug!”

He’s up on his feet letting Trig lead him away. They take cover behind a sand dune and start firing at whatever the hell is in front of them, hoping it’s the enemy.

Douglas knew he would see men die, knew death was an inevitable unavoidable part of war and that men he knew would die but…it was so sudden. One minute Jacob was smiling and laughing through his nerves and the next he was dead. Just…dead. No hint, no warning, no bleeding wound that a medic tried to mend, no nothing just alive one second and dead the next. It was Jacob who had given Douglas the nickname ‘Lashes’ because his eyelashes were, according to Jacob, ‘so pretty, just like a girl’; Jacob who just this morning had been cracking jokes, making Douglas laugh till he nearly cried. And now Jacob was dead on the wet sand just a few feet away.

After, after the bullets stop flying and the bombs stop falling and the Allies have miraculously taken the beach, Douglas looks around the blood soaked beach, trips over the poor bastards dead on the ground, looks war in the eye and feels that last piece of training fall into place. Feels the one thing the military couldn’t truly drill into him until he’d experienced the hell of battle. Everything that came before – all the training and drilling and games – combines with the killing and fighting of the last few days and Douglas finally knows what those stripes on the side of his uniform mean.

He’s a soldier.

***

Part 4b: World War Two

In My Time And Place: Part 4

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 17:11:07 GMT

“Why do you think you are here? This is a competition. Only one of you crazy kids is going to make it out of here alive.”

Azazel to Sam: ‘All Hell Breaks Loose, Part 1’

***

He stands on the porch and watches till his mother finds him and shoos him off to collect the eggs from the chicken coop and milk the cows so she can make breakfast.

The country needed protection and the war in Europe needed to end before it once again spilled onto American soil, which meant that Douglas was going to war.

***

After Douglas signs the papers and they’re driving home, the Kansas farmland rushing past, sun bright, sky blue, a perfect day, his father’s voice breaks the comfortable silence, low and rough.

“I’m proud of you son.”

“Mom.”

“When do you leave?” She still won’t look at him but her voice is low and quivering, proof that she’s fighting tears.

***

After Douglas thinks he’s suppose to propose, ask her to wait for him. Instead he asks her to write him and she promises she will, kissing him sweetly with no recrimination or expectations.

***

They spend the rest of the night gathered in the family room, sitting close, talking about nothing, and simply enjoying each others company. No one mentions what tomorrow will bring.

***

When the final boarding whistle blows Douglas sets Margaret back down and, doing his best not to loss his self-control, picks up his duffle.

***

Douglas has no idea how he actually makes it to land, boots sinking into the wet sands of France. He’s running, hard and fast, desperate for some kind of cover, terror the only thing he feels.

He hears his buddy Jacob shouting over everything, his ever present laugher obvious in his voice. “This is some pretty crazy shit huh Lashes!”

He’s up on his feet letting Trig lead him away. They take cover behind a sand dune and start firing at whatever the hell is in front of them, hoping it’s the enemy.

He’s a soldier.

***

Part 4b: World War Two

In My Time And Place: Part 3d

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 17:02:41 GMT

***

Ruby is as he left her: cradled by the big wingback chair, staring into the fire seemingly hypnotized by the jumping crackling flames. He takes the seat next to her, stares into the fire as well. They sit for a long time, both lost in their own grief. There are things he should be doing, preparations to make, but all Donald can think about is the ache in his chest and the years ahead of him without his friend. It’s the rustling of satin that brings him out of his thoughts as Ruby walks over to Stuart’s desk and pulls something out of one of the drawers. She brings it back, offering it up to him.

“He left this for you.” It’s an envelope, heavy and full with his name on the front. He pulls the letter out – three pages covered in Stuart’s elegant script – and begins to read.

D ~

I would apologize for my absence but I doubt you would accept. Not yet anyway.

I know you’re confused right now, and hurt. I’m selfish and at times arrogant but I don’t believe I’m wrong to say that right now, you’re in a considerable amount of pain. And beyond that, your brain is trying to reconcile the many thoughts fighting for dominance in your head. Let me make this a bit easier. Business first.

My solicitor knows my wishes and the papers have long been prepared. I’ve left everything to you save a small living for Jim and a stipend for Ruby if she wants it. I have no doubt that you will ensure that Jim is settled and that the rest of my staff is taken care of. You needn’t worry about Ruby. She’ll see to herself.

My library is yours but my hope is that you will continue its purpose and open it to those that have need of it.

As for my body – and this must be done so please don’t argue with anyone – take it out to a quiet field and burn it. Let my ashes scatter to the wind. Take Ruby and Jim with you. This isn’t something you should do alone. Its unconventional I know but it must be done. So please Donald, for my sake, burn my body.

And now…I told you in the beginning that any relationship between us would lead to pain though I cannot feel a moment of regret, no matter what hurt we may now feel. It’s selfish of me, as I know you alone bear the pain of our separation. But I hope you believe, as I do, that it’s worth it. That our friendship was worth it.

Your friendship has been the most important of my life. Just how important you will never know. I have no words to tell you how many times you saved me, grounded me, allowed me to continue on doing what destiny demanded of me.

It is because of you that I was happy. It is because of you that I lived a life I can be proud of and look back upon with fondness. I have never regretted my decision to not leave and never return. It was weak of me but a weakness I have never lamented.

This is not the place to rehash old arguments but I will restate my sorrow at not being able to share everything with you if only because it hurt you and I would have liked you to know all of me. But I stand by the decision – it will never be wrong. It kept you safe which is all that matters. I hope you will not seek any answers to old questions now that I’m gone. It will do you no good; bring you no resolution or peace.

All I want for you now is to try and be happy. Live life for the both of us. Do not mourn me too hard or too long. I know that is an unfair request and were I in your place…but please, try.

I am certain that we will see each other again. It is that knowledge and the joy I will feel at our reunion that makes this separation bearable for me. I take comfort in the knowledge that the universe is far from done with us; our souls are too strongly bound for us to ever be fully separated.

Until then, with the deepest love and affection

Your friend

- S

It’s all too much for Donald to take in and so he grabs onto the one thing that somehow sees solid, seems safe.

“He wants us to burn his body.”

Ruby just nods. It makes sense in some perverse contrary Stuart way. He was an orphan from childhood, had no family but the one he created for himself and a wanderlust that was never tamed. Donald noticed early on that Stuart never could stay still, always moving, always fidgeting in some way, always wanting to go go go.

The only time Donald had seen Stuart truly still was during a reading when he seemed anchored to the forces around him, like he was the center of some kind of power, holding him in place lest the strength of the connection weaken with movement.

So Stuart requesting that his ashes be scattered on the wind makes sense. Even if to Donald it feels like Stuart being carried away from him.

Ruby breaks him out of his thoughts, reminding him that he’s not alone in this, that there are others he needs to consider, who will help him with this particular task. Her voice is still quiet, as if she’s afraid to speak above a whisper and shatter the thin layer of composer she’s created for herself.

“We only returned so you could say goodbye. It should be done tonight. The longer we wait…” She doesn’t say that the longer they wait the longer Stuart will be in limbo before he can truly cross over that invisible barrier. Not to mention the body’s continual decay.

Donald nods in agreement. He doesn’t know if he has the strength to see this through but it’s Stuart’s last request, he’ll find the strength somewhere.

***

It’s a cool clear night, the stars pale, dimmed by the full moon climbing across the sky providing enough light to see while they work.

The carriage is too small for the coffin and a wagon would have brought too much attention so Donald cradles Stuart’s body to his while Ruby drives the short trip to the edge of town and beyond into an open field where Jim is waiting for them, guarding the large funeral pyre he’d gone ahead to build.

They arrange Stuart’s body atop the pyre while Ruby sprinkles something over the wood and then over Stuart. Donald doesn’t ask what or why accepting it as just another one of the many things he isn’t supposed to know.

Donald takes one last look before he touches the burning torch to the pyre. The fire catches quickly, burning bright, flaring up and licking towards the sky. The red and gold and white flames burn quick and true, eclipsing Stuart’s body. It consumes the wood quickly, creeping towards Stuart’s body before latching on and burning even brighter, stronger, cloth and flesh causing smoke to fill the air. The stench is unexpected, almost sweet, perhaps because of whatever Ruby sprinkled over the body. They stand there all night, side by side, the three people closest to Stuart. The three people who loved Stuart most.

The fire burns till dawn, petering out as the sky turns pink, the morning star twinkling into view, the air crisp and clean and all that’s left of Stuart is ash dancing through the air, carried away by a soft gentle wind.

***

The ride home is quiet, heavy with sorrow and loss. None of them have spoken since they arrived at the field last night. Donald isn’t sure he could speak if he needed to. Jim drives the carriage, his horse tethered to the rear. Donald sits in back, staring blankly out the window, Ruby seated next to him, lost in her own sorrow.

When they reach Stuart’s house – always Stuart’s house, always, no matter what some piece of paper says – Donald descends from the carriage to find Stuart’s faithful housekeeper Elly waiting beside a small stack of luggage.

Neither Jim nor Ruby have followed him and when he turns back to face the carriage Ruby is looking right at him. Her face is neutral as she watches him, only softening the smallest bit when the realization that she’s leaving immediately hits him.

“What will you do?” His voice is rough, dry from lack of use. He doesn’t ask if she wants the stipend Stuart left her, its obvious she’ll refuse it and he doesn’t ask her to stay. He knows she won’t.

“Head back south. I have…family down there.” Ruby’s smile is cold and bitter. “You needn’t worry about me Donald. Truly.”

She’s never used his name before, never been anything but utterly formal. It seems appropriate now that they’re saying good-bye. They’ve never really liked each other – an ugly jealousy on his part; thinly veiled annoyance on hers – but they tolerated each other for Stuart’s sake. But she’s been a constant in his life for nearly two years now and he’s surprised to find that he’ll miss her.

She must feel the same because she squeezes his hand before settling back into the carriage and nodding to Jim. Donald stands on the curb and watches the carriage till it rounds the corner and disappears from site. Donald knows he’ll never see her again.

***

The loss of Stuart is never more obvious than when Donald walks into the house. Even when Stuart was traveling his presence was always there, his essence somehow rooted deep into the foundations of the house, waiting for him to come home. But now the house feels empty – the servants hiding and Jim taking Ruby to the train station – as if the house itself knows Stuart will never walk through the door again.

Someone, probably Elly, has draped the house in mourning – curtains drawn, black sheets over the mirrors, lights turned down and all portraits and pictures taken off the walls. The house feels heavy, all sound muffled, all light drowned by the dark curtains covering the windows and mirrors. It settles in his chest till Donald feels like breathing is a chore and all he wants to do is fall into the nearest chair and slip into oblivion.

He forces himself to climb the stairs and find Stuart’s bedroom. It’s just as Stuart left it all those weeks ago – bed made, books left on the night table, journal on the writing desk, cufflinks tossed carelessly on the dresser. The comforter is cool when Donald slips onto the bed, the pillow soft and still smells of Stuart. He sinks into it, lets the softness of the mattress and the comfort of the familiar scent lull him into an exhausted sleep.

***

When he wakes, hours later, it’s like getting the news all over again. The realization somehow worse this time around now that he’s somewhat rested. The shock is dull but the pain is not. There’s nothing to dull it, nothing to lessen the agony of his new life. Donald’s been here before with the loss of Cassidy and he remembers that pain, all sharp and raw, right up on the surface. But this, this is different, deeper, like the pain has sunk into his bones, taken up residence and has no plans of leaving. There’s nothing to do, no way to fight it because it will always, always be there. It hurts to breathe, hurts to do anything other than curl in on himself, as tight as he can and let the tears come, let the pain wash over him as Donald lets his new reality in.

Eventually he drags himself out of bed, more exhausted than when he fell into it all those hours ago. But he can’t stay, not there, not now, not when everything screams of Stuart and loss and grief. He stumbles down the stairs and finds Jim waiting for him looking just as tired and lost. Besides him stands Richard, faithful Richard come to take him home.

Home. Where only half of everything reminds him of Stuart. Where, impossible as it seems now, there are memories that don’t belong to Stuart. Home, where he has to learn to live life all over again.

***

The last time Donald dreamed was the night Stuart died, since then there’s been nothing. It’s how he knows that the dream that woke him means something. Like all the ones before it the details are hazy, slipping back into his subconscious upon waking, all but the one detail that matters most, Stuart’s hazel green eyes shining with happiness.

In the thirteen years since Stuart’s death Donald has done his best to live a life Stuart would approve of and enjoy.

He leaves the house in Jim’s charge, knowing that between Jim, Elly and the rest of the staff it will be cared for as if Stuart were still alive. The library remains under Jim’s care; always open to those who come seeking its hidden knowledge.

Donald visits once in a while, when Stuart’s loss goes from a constant ache to a throbbing pain. There’s a kind of comfort there among Stuart’s belongings, the place he lived, built a life, infused with his presence. Donald knows that Stuart’s spirit isn’t hanging around, that there’s nothing of Stuart there beyond the memories and the comfort they give him. But it helps. It’s all he has.

He travels a bit, leaving the east coast and heading west, a direction Donald knows Stuart never traveled. He visits Kansas City on a perverse whim to see a place that still retains some of the rugged, pioneer feel. Donald’s surprised to find that he likes it there, likes the vast rolling land, open blue skies and the clean air. Breathing seemed easier out there where things were so wide and open, sparse.

He travels east, across the ocean to ancient cities full of ancient mysteries and ancient superstitions. Stuart would have loved it, would have felt completely at home walking the old cobblestone streets, listening to the old speak of their ghosts and their hauntings and their mysteries.

The travel is a change, a good change that Donald welcomes. Especially when society remains as tedious as ever – the seasonal happenings never more dull and boring without Stuart to mock them – and he has no interest in the parade of women who twitter and flirt and make the gossip fly. He has a few acquaintances that make the parties and rare theater visits bearable but the relationships are only ever superficial, merely someone to discuss the latest “news” and happenings with, no one Donald would confide in or call a friend.

Donald finds he’s most comfortable, as he always has been, in the company of Richard and now Jim. Jim who loved Stuart like a son and looked at Donald as his last link to Stuart. When Jim dies of old age just a few years after Stuart, Donald grieves deeply for the loss of his friend.

When Richard died last year it was like losing his father. It’s the last of his family and with Richard gone Donald is truly alone.

It’s why he secretly hopes the dreams portend what all the others have before: death.

Loss and sorrow have taken their toll and Donald’s tired; tired and ready for it all to be over. He’s been ready for a while – his will in perfect order, the books from Stuart’s beloved library gradually given to those in need rather than just lent out, the staff of both houses looked to – everything prepared for the inevitable.

Stuart promised him they’d see each other again, promised that there was more for them, that there was a future, a destiny waiting for him. But to get there Donald has to cross over, has to take the next step. Donald thinks he’s waited for Stuart long enough.

He’s ready.

Part 4: World War Two

In This Time And Place: Part 3c

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 17:00:09 GMT

They have a routine: Stuart will drop by for breakfast laughing at Donald’s sleepy grumpiness at the early hour before returning home so they can each spend the afternoon working before Donald will go to Stuart’s for the evening. Sometimes they’ll attend a dinner party or the theater and Donald is always present when Stuart performs a reading for someone or hosts a séance.

Stuart still travels for his work and Donald finds these times without his friend to be unbearably dull. Dinner parties and social engagements become tedious in their superficiality without Stuart’s sharp witty comments; work becomes mind numbing and in the evenings Donald finds himself falling back into isolated melancholy. Stuart’s return always result in long relaxing dinners complete with stories about his travels and the people he meets, often leaving Donald in stitches as Stuart exaggerates and mocks and generally lifts the weight of loneliness off Donald’s chest.

The one exception is the time Stuart brings back more than just his stories and his smile. Donald arrives for dinner, leaving his coat and hat with Jim before joining Stuart in his office. Like always Stuart greets him with a tight handshake, pulling Donald close in his excitement to see him, squeezing his shoulder with his free hand. Stuart looks especially excited tonight, his eyes a bit brighter as they wander Donald’s face, lingering on his lips for just a moment too long before releasing Donald and going to pour them a drink.

“You seem especially happy to be home. Bad trip?”

“On the contrary, it was another successful trip. I’m just glad to be home. If you think your evenings out while I’m gone are tedious, try it with a bunch of strangers. No, I much prefer your company.” Stuart’s smile is open and free and Donald feels his heart trip over, his breath catch in his chest at the look of pure contented happiness on Stuart’s face.

Then Stuart’s eyes shift to something behind Donald and his smile turns excited before turning back to Donald. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Donald turns and finds a young woman walking into the room. She’s beautiful, a small wisp of a thing clothed in a dark burgundy dress that highlights her small waist and delicate wrists, mountains of dark hair sit piled atop her head and she has dark almond shaped eyes that jump out at you from a round face with alabaster skin and soft pink lips.

“Donald, I’d like you to meet Miss Ruby Cruz. Ruby, Donald Wellstone.” It’s Ruby who steps forward and offers her hand to Donald. Her handshake is firm, professional and her face impassive, though Donald swears he sees something dark and unfriendly flash through her eyes.

“Mr. Wellstone, a pleasure.”

“Miss Cruz.” They’re all formality and forced politeness dulling what was a lighthearted reunion and Donald wants her out of the room immediately. Ruby must feel the same because as soon as he releases her hand she asks Stuart if he needs anything before she retires for the evening. Thankfully Stuart dismisses her.

“Good night then Sir.” Ruby dismisses Donald with a curt nod before giving Stuart a slight smile on her way out the door. Donald’s confused and perhaps, deep down, a bit concerned. He turns back to Stuart, his brow furrowed and eyebrow raised. Stuart laughs a bit at his expression.

“You’re always telling me I need a secretary.”

They sit down to dinner and while Donald is expecting Stuart to relate the circumstances that brought Ruby home with him Stuart doesn’t. He’s glad.

Donald knows he guards Stuart’s friendship closely, is selfish about it. Which is why, in his less becoming moments his thoughts regarding Ruby are less than gentlemanly, less than flattering. He wonders if they’ve become lovers. He can’t blame Stuart if they have, Ruby is beautiful and they clearly have some kind of connection. And while he’s not necessarily proud of it, he’s hardly been celibate either. A man’s carnal desires can only be held in check for so long before their needs must be met.

So he wonders; thinks about it sometimes, what they would look like together – Stuart’s golden skin and tall lean body hovering over Ruby’s tiny frame. He wonders if Stuart is romantic, if he kisses softly, makes sure she takes her pleasure first before finding his own. But such thoughts only drive him to a frustrating annoyance and there has never been any hint that Stuart and Ruby’s relationship is anything other than professional and Donald knows that Stuart’s friendship and affection for him has never wavered. His friendship is still the most important relationship in Stuart’s life, just as Stuart’s friendship is the most important thing in his.

Despite that, he’s glad that his contact with Ruby is rare and perfunctory.

***

“You could stay. It’s too late to be walking home.” It’s not the first time Stuart has made the offer, always slightly shy, cautious, as if he’s afraid of spooking Donald with such an offer. He finds Stuart’s hesitation endearing and it always has the effect of making him consider before politely refusing.

Tonight his refusal is no different even if Stuart’s reaction to it is. Donald thinks for a moment that he’s hurt his friend’s feelings when Stuart’s face crumples but then his face begins to lose color, the blood draining away and Stuart clutches his forehead, cries out in pain and doubles over.

Donald catches Stuart before he falls and holds Stuart tightly to his chest, calling for help. Stuart is still trying to curl in on himself, burrowing tighter into Donald, clutching the lapels of his jacket whimpering in pain. Donald’s never witnessed anything like this before and he’s terrified for his friend.

Ruby reaches them first, followed closely by Jim, both reaching for Stuart, telling Donald they’ll just take him upstairs to bed. But Donald refuses to relinquish Stuart, terrified that if he lets go, lets someone else care for him, something worse will happen. He snakes Stuart’s arm over his shoulder and speaking softly pleads with Stuart to move.

He follows Ruby up the stairs, Jim trailing after, giving Donald what help he can with Stuart’s tall, heavy frame. Together they manage to get Stuart upstairs and into bed. Ruby removes Stuart’s shoes while Donald removes his tie and unbuttons the top of his shirt. Stuart lets out a pained moan when Ruby forces him to take a few sips of water laced with laudanum. He’s mumbling something Donald can’t understand though Ruby seems to be able to make it out. It seems important to Stuart but Ruby just shushes him, tells him it can wait, that he needs to rest and she’ll take care of everything.

When she quiets Stuart she leaves the room giving Donald a look that clearly indicates he’s to follow her out the door. He’s debating whether to ignore her and stay or let Stuart sleep in private when Stuart grabs weakly at his sleeve. The laudanum is working, forcing Stuart into sleep but he manages to whisper one word before slipping into unconsciousness.

“Stay.”

At Stuart’s request Donald settles into the chair Jim has placed next to the bed, Stuart’s hand clasped in his. He has no intention of leaving.

***

He must have dozed off at some point because Donald wakes to find a blanket has been thrown over him and his head resting next to Stuart’s hip on the bed. He’s warm and comfortable except for the crushing hold Stuart has on his hand. Stuart’s murmuring in his sleep and when Donald looks, sleepily lifts his head off the mattress, it’s to find Stuart’s head thrashing back and forth on the pillow.

Donald wakes him as gently as he can, whispering his name and shaking his shoulders, trying to break Stuart out of whatever nightmare he’s lost in. It takes a minute but finally Stuart stills, his eyes flutter open, dimly focusing on Donald. “You stayed.”

“Yes. Yes I stayed. Go back to sleep.”

Never fully awake to begin with Stuart slips easily back into a dreamless sleep.

***

Stuart sleeps through the rest of the night and well into the afternoon. Donald is asleep when Stuart finally wakes, exhaustion from a night of constant vigilance taking its toll.

When he wakes Stuart and Ruby are talking quietly. Their heads are close together, foreheads almost touching, whispering so as not to wake Donald and making it impossible for him to make out their words. They stop speaking as soon as they realize he’s awake, Ruby taking her leave after promising Stuart she’ll take care of whatever it was they were talking about.

Stuart looks better, sitting up in bed, the color returned to his face, eyes clear. Only the dark smudges under his eyes hint at the events of the past twelve hours.

“How are you feeling?” Only Stuart would ask how someone else was feeling when he was the one who fell ill.

“Me? I’m fine. How are you?”

“Much better. Thank you. For staying.” Stuart’s hand reaches for his and squeezes. Donald doesn’t let go for a very long time.

***

Taking advantage of the guest bedroom Donald washes up and changes into one of Stuart’s clean shirts. Stuart’s unusual size makes the shirt big through the chest and hangs a bit longer than his shirts, the sleeves falling to his knuckles. But Donald doesn’t mind.

Stuart is waiting for him in the dinning room when he comes downstairs. Despite it being the middle of the afternoon Stuart’s cook has breakfast laid out on the table. Donald takes his seat across from Stuart, realizing for the first time just how hungry he is. They eat in silence for a while, content to concentrate on their meal, comfortable in the silence. Stuart’s cook is just as talented at breakfast as she is at dinner and Donald enjoys every bite.

“I have to go away for a while. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. Hopefully not too long but…it might be for some time.”

Donald’s appetite disappears with Stuart’s softly spoken words. “Where are you going?”

“I have a lecture up north. I’d completely forgotten but it’s been on my schedule for a while now.” For the first time that Donald is aware of Stuart lies to him, openly and to his face. He feels ill. They’ve never lied to each other, omitted and avoided yes, but never straight out lied.

“No it hasn’t. Your schedule is clear for another two months.”

“Donald…”

“Don’t.” He doesn’t want to hear whatever story Stuart makes up to cover the lie. Doesn’t want Stuart to even try.

“This has something to do with what happened last night doesn’t it? I assumed it was a migraine. But that wasn’t a migraine was it? It was something else. One of those things that I’m not supposed to ask about, pretend I never saw.”

He’s angry, so angry. Last night he’d practically carried an agonized Stuart upstairs, woke him from nightmares, stayed with him all night and Stuart has the nerve to lie to him, insult him. Donald’s angry and hurt and he can’t bear to look at Stuart. He practically knocks his chair over in his rush to get up, get out. He escapes to the far side of the room, rests his head against the cool glass of the window, trying to clear his head.

Stuart follows him, lays his hands lightly on Donald’s shoulders before squeezing. When Donald doesn’t react he steps even closer, slides into his space. “Donald. Donald, look at me. Please.”

He has no choice when Stuart uses that soft pleading voice. Donald’s anger deflates pathetically quickly. With a deep sigh he hangs his head in defeat before turning to face Stuart. There’s hardly any space between them, soft fathomless hazel eyes and pink lips all right there. Donald can feel Stuart’s breath ghosting across his face, feels the heat coming off his body.

He’s never been this close to another man before, hasn’t been this close to anyone really, not since Cassidy. It’s disconcerting to be looking up at someone, to be the one who feels small, sheltered. But it’s not unpleasant and Donald feels his chest constrict, his breath catch, his heart pound.

Stuart’s eyes – those golden hazel eyes – stare into him, draw him in, making it impossible to look away let alone move. Stuart’s hands slide from his shoulders over to his neck, his thumb rubbing Donald’s jaw before coming to rest on his erratically beating pulse.

“Please don’t be angry. I know it frustrates you and I’m sorry for hurting you but I can’t be sorry for keeping this from you. I can’t. You’re the most important thing in my life and I’m selfish so I can’t be sorry when keeping you in ignorance keeps you safe.”

Stuart’s voice is wrecked, his eyes shining with tears and Donald can’t help himself, he gives up, closes his eyes and leans into Stuart, resting their foreheads together.

Stuart takes a deep shuddering breathe before pulling him in a bit more, angling his head and touches his lips to Donald’s. It’s barely a kiss, just a brush of lips, but it’s intimate and sweet, almost perfect. It’s a shocking, clarifying moment because in that moment Donald realizes what it is between him and Stuart. Donald’s not naïve, he knows such men exist, but he’s never in all his life thought himself capable of such feelings for another man. But he knows now that this, this moment is what he’s been wanting, what he’s been waiting for since he met Stuart three years ago.

He pulls back, just a bit, unwilling, incapable of leaving Stuart’s warmth. He looks at Stuart with surprise, perhaps a bit of confusion. He expects to find Stuart’s reaction to be similar to his but Stuart doesn’t look surprised or uncomfortable or confused. Instead he looks serine, happy, beautiful.

“I have to go.” Stuart’s voice is soft, as if he’s afraid of spooking Donald or breaking the mood. He sounds sorry to be going, a feeling Donald shares. Stuart dips his forehead back to Donald’s, gently squeezes his neck and this time his voice is stronger, more sure, smile on his face. “I’ll be back. Soon as I can, I’ll be back.”

“Okay. Okay.” It’s the only word Donald can force out but it’s enough for Stuart who gives his neck one last squeeze and one last bump of their foreheads before he’s gone, walking out of the room. Donald does his best to ignore the sudden feeling of dread coiling in his stomach, chilling him to the bone.

***

Donald is used to Stuart being gone – long tedious stretches of time where Donald thinks he’ll go insane from boredom – but this time the wait is excruciating. Time seems to move more slowly, hours crawl into days that creep into weeks, and Donald thinks this time he really will go crazy before Stuart returns. Nothing holds his attention – not work, not reading, not company – all he can do is brood, restless and anxious, their goodbye a constant in his thoughts.

And the dreams, the dreams are only making things worse.

***

Nearly six weeks after Stuart’s departure Donald wakes gasping and terrified, damp from sweat and an odd smell mysteriously lingering. This isn’t the first time a nightmare has pulled him out of sleep these past few weeks but this one was by far the worst, full of fire and smoke, horrible screaming as bodies writhed in torment, a sickening laugh and glowing yellow eyes.

The return of his nightmares unnerve Donald more than he cares to admit. He hasn’t had nightmares since shortly after Cassandra’s death and terrible as those were they were never this bad. Never this terrifying.

His first conscious thought is of Stuart and the overwhelming need to see him. Something about the dream unsettles him, something specific that he can’t quite remember, something relating to Stuart.

He’s dressed and on Stuart’s doorstep less than an hour later the unsettling feeling in his gut urging him on. He’s raising his hand to knock when Jim opens the door as if he’s been sitting there, waiting for Donald to arrive. He looks old, tired, sadder than Donald has ever seen him. He follows Jim to Stuart’s study where he finds Ruby staring blankly into the fire. She’s wearing all black and when she turns to him there are tears in her blood shot eyes and Donald knows. Everything slows, stops as they stare at each other, both trying through force of will alone to make the next moment not happen.

He makes it to the nearest chair before his legs give out. He drains the whisky Ruby hands him in one go, welcoming the slow burn. Donald doesn’t have to ask before Ruby starts talking, her voice trembles only a little.

“Something happened to delay us. Something Stuart felt he had a responsibility to finish. He gave a reading to…someone, someone he shouldn’t have. Stuart should have known, maybe he did. The reading was too much, too powerful. He couldn’t handle it all. He fell unconscious and he never woke up.”

It hurts to hear and yet, it’s not a surprise. Deep down Donald always knew that this would kill Stuart in the end. “Where is he?”

Ruby just turns and stares at the sliding doors across the hall before returning her gaze to the fire.

The parlor looks exactly like it has nearly every other time he’s been in it – curtains open letting light pour in, vase of flowers on that familiar round table, a book left on the seat of Stuart’s chair – except for the open coffin sitting in the middle of the room, Stuart’s body lying inside looking grey and drawn.

Someone has tried to make the body presentable, done what they can to smooth out the wrinkles in Stuart’s suit and remove the dried blood from under his nose, folded his hands over his chest and smoothed back his unruly locks of hair.

Those unruly locks that were always a constant source of amusement between them and that Stuart refused to tame. Donald runs his hands through Stuart’s hair, doing his best to mess it up. He can’t stand to see it look so different in death than it did in life, can’t stand to see it any other way than how Stuart wore it – tousled and curled and falling into his face, framing his piercing cat eyes.

But all it does is highlight how grey Stuart’s skin looks, how pale and lifeless his face is against his dark hair. He can’t look, can’t see Stuart’s beautiful face like this. He takes Stuart’s hand in his. His friend’s hands that used to be so strong, that used to touch Donald with such surety and affection, now cold and frail cradled in his hand. He brings it to his lips, kisses it, feels the cold against his lips, tastes death against his skin.

It’s that coldness, that taste of death that makes all this real and Donald feels his legs start to give out. He leans forward, folds himself over to rest on his forearms, Stuart’s coffin taking all his weight, keeping him standing. Stuart’s hand is still clutched in his, pressed to his forehead, the cold seeping into him, down into his bones.

He realizes now, at the end, when it’s too late, what it was between them. The realization makes the loss of Stuart even more unbearable. The loss of Cassidy was the loss of youth, sharp and raw and dulled with time. But the loss of Stuart is the loss of age, deep and eternal and Donald knows he’ll never recover from it. The hollowness in his stomach, the ache in his heart will never leave him; he’ll die with this feeling. And when he does finally die, it will be with a broken heart.

***

Part 3 continued...again

In This Time And Place: Part 3b

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 16:41:35 GMT

Donald was right; his revelation about Miss Britten doesn’t stop other mediums from coming. The notoriety, the act…the money is too good. So they keep coming, three or four a year and Donald goes after every one of them. He earns a reputation as a skeptic and becomes a bit of a noteworthy subject throughout town. Someone to be talked and gossiped about at dinner parties, someone who makes it into the society section of the newspaper, especially after he gets done with the latest spiritualist to graces the city’s presence.

In the beginning uncovering a medium’s fraud is easy, they view him as simply another curious patron, willing to throw his money their way for a scare and a thrill. Donald attends lectures and gets invited to private séances, watching and learning at each event. He hires a secretary to help him with research and to serve as a witness and sometimes, a spy.

It’s surprising to learn that for all the bells and whistles of a séance, the methods of deception are relatively simple. Donald catches one medium using a false arm to hold hands with his neighbor, the real one needed to ring the bell used to indicate a spirit’s presence. He catches another using her toes to pull cords that control gas flow of the room’s lamps, flickering them with a twitch of her toe. And Donald has yet to attend a séance where the medium’s assistant was not hidden behind a false wall, providing the help needed to pull off a successful con whether it be through making noise or providing the folders full of research gotten through the bribing of servants.

But as his reputation grows things get more difficult. His reputation spreads, mediums know about him and prepare for him. They’ve grown smarter, trickier, and more aggressive. It becomes a game with some of them, a dare. One that Donald takes every time. He has no doubt that despite their improved methods he’ll out them eventually.

And so, two years after storming out of Miss Britten’s parlor Donald has a solid reputation and a list of successes he can be proud of. He’s part of a small network of fellow skeptics across the country all working to debunk the frauds within the Spiritualist movement. And while it’s nothing like what he imagined, Donald has somehow built a new life for himself. Even if it is cold and lonely, detached from anyone but his staff. He’s fine. Just fine.

***

The news that Stuart Wilson has taken a house sends the town’s social elite into an excited fit of gossip. While Stuart isn’t the most famous medium within the movement, he has a special reputation as one whose skill is unsurpassed. Even some within the skeptic community whisper that maybe, just maybe, Stuart is the real thing.

Donald does not share this belief and has every intention of following the same plan with Stuart that he has for every other medium that has crossed his path: attend the lecture, participate in one of the private séances and expose them. If Stuart is as good as the rumors say he is Donald’s willing to attend another event, perhaps even a second séance. But in the end the result will be the same – the revelation of a fraud and the prevention of his continuing to take advantage of people’s grief and willingness to be deceived.

On the night of Mr. Wilson’s first lecture Donald is hardly surprised to find that, like most mediums, Stuart is a natural showman. He’s comfortable on stage, putting on an excellent show and providing the audience with exactly what they paid for. He focuses on how, under the right circumstances, it is possible to breach the veil between this world and the next. That sometimes a soul is not ready to move on due to a violent death or fear of leaving their loved one alone. He mentions that sometimes, conversely, it is the one still alive that holds the spirit here, their grief making them unable to let go and move on with the healing process. It’s people who find themselves in this particular situation that Mr. Wilson claims to want to help the most.

The lecture is different from those Donald has heard before and while he doesn’t believe Mr. Wilson, he appreciates hearing something different; it prevents him from being bored. Donald leaves begrudgingly impressed and anxious to see what will happen next.

It’s during the séance that Donald realizes just how good Stuart is. The set up is the same – dark heavy curtains block out any external light, candles, crystals and a bible all sit on the table – with the only difference being that instead of an orb sitting in the middle of the table there is a simple wooden bowl filled with water. The presentation is the same as well – hand holding, contacting someone’s deceased loved one, parroting back information easily gotten from a willingly bribed servant – but none of the obvious tricks seem present, none of the optical illusions detectable.

Either Stuart has prepared for Donald or he’s created some new trick, found some new way to deceive those seeking their lost loved ones. Whatever it is, Donald is confident that he’ll figure it out. At least now he knows what he’s up against.

He decides to return the next day rather than wait for another séance. Stuart clearly knows about him and attending another party seems futile. And beyond that Donald has no desire to go through the social niceties that would be required of him were he to attend.

In the morning, despite his lack of invitation, Donald is met by the doorman and led into the drawing room. It’s the same room used the night before and in the light of day it’s warm and inviting, the curtains pulled open and sunlight pouring in. Stuart is sitting at the table he used for the séance, breakfast of toast and tea and poached egg in front of him. There’s a newspaper at his elbow and a book – something old from the looks of its dulled tattered cover and brown flakey pages – propped open behind his plate. All evidence from the séance is gone, except the bowl of water still sitting in the middle of the table.

Stuart rises to greet him, his tall lean body unfolding from the chair, rising to a height Donald finds almost indecent. The stress lines and look of concentration from last night are all absent this morning and Stuart looks healthy and content; his eyes are clear and bright, his unruly hair flopping across his forehead, his polite smile reveals dimples making him look much younger than his 34 years. “Mr. Wellstone. Good morning.”

Donald’s hand almost disappears when he shakes Stuart’s hand before taking the chair he had occupied last night. “Mr. Wilson. I apologize for calling so early.”

Donald has no desire to stay any longer than necessary but Stuart seems intent upon playing the perfect host, pouring him a cup of coffee with one sugar and a splash of cream. Just the way Donald likes it.

“No need to apologize. I had thought you would have stayed behind last night. Where the festivities not to your liking?”

Last night Stuart had called upon the spirit of Mrs. Thomas Snider’s late mother so that Mrs. Snider could inform her mother that she had a granddaughter named after her. And that she had been correct when she predicted that lace would soon fall out of fashion.

“Not at all, I found both your lecture and last night’s séance to be a wonderful act. You’re a consummate showman Mr. Wilson. Perhaps the best I’ve ever seen.”

For all that Donald has every intention of ruining Stuart Wilson’s reputation he means what he says. Stuart nods his head, accepting the compliment before Donald continues, unable to let Stuart think he’s going to make exceptions because of Stuart’s talent. “But everyone has a tell and I will discover yours.”

Stuart’s face changes from impassive to rueful, a slight smile gracing his lips. He nods his head as if Donald has said exactly what Stuart expected him to say. It’s a slight and Donald feels himself growing angry. “You don’t believe me.”

Last night was frustrating in its lack of real discovery and now this morning is proving to be equally frustrating. Stuart seems completely nonplused by Donald’s presence, his reputation or his threat. Instead he seems almost amused by Donald.

“I have no doubt that you believe I’m a fraud and that you will expose me.” Stuart’s voice is soft and a bit lulling, annoying Donald even more in its innocence.

Donald recognizes his anger growing and so, having said what he needs to say Donald returns his cup to its saucer and goes to stand up, his hand dragging off the table when Stuart’s arm flies out, grabbing Donald’s hand in his own. Startled Donald looks up making eye contact with Stuart for the first time. His eyes are wide, locked onto Donald’s and are such a deep hazel-green Donald thinks he could get lost in them, sucked to the bottom of a deep murky lake. It’s startling and a bit unnerving; Donald’s not used to noticing such details about those he investigates.

It feels like Stuart is trying to look into his soul and it makes him feel uncomfortable, vulnerable, but try as he might Donald can’t look away, can’t pull his hand free from Stuart’s surprisingly strong grip.

“There’s so much pain and loneliness within you.” Donald knows it’s an act, knows that Stuart is trying to rattle him, using information that by now is common knowledge. But it doesn’t stop his heart from seizing in his chest as though Stuart is reaching deep inside and pulling something out of him. He forces himself to break Stuart’s gaze and uses his free hand to pull from Stuart’s grasp.

With the connection broken Stuart seems to return to the present, return from rummaging through Donald’s soul. He’s furious that Stuart would dare try such an act on him and he has every intention of telling Stuart just that except that the tears shining in Stuart’s eyes stop him. There’s so much sorrow written on his face, in his eyes that search Donald’s face.

“You should stay away from me. You should leave and never come back. There’s nothing for you here but pain.” Stuart’s voice is nothing more than a whisper and Donald can’t be sure he heard Stuart correctly.

He isn’t given a chance to ask because Stuart practically flees the room, leaving Donald stunned, confused and no closer to the discoveries he vowed to make.

***

Donald spends the rest of the day and well into the evening thinking about his meeting with Stuart Wilson. He progresses from confusion to anger, convinced in the end that Stuart was threatening him should Donald expose him for the fraud he is. Donald is not necessarily a brave man – he’s never so much as struck another man – but he’s no coward either and he will not be threatened by a lying conniving excuse for a human being.

By the end of the night Donald is resolved to return in the morning and confront Stuart about his threat and explain what Donald plans to do about it. He goes to bed feeling calm and relieved, the disconcerting feeling that’s been plaguing him all day finally settling to the point that Donald can ignore it.

The problem is that when Donald knocks on Stuart’s door the next morning no one answers. After nearly ten minutes of knocking the door still hasn’t been answer and Donald finally leaves for the day. It takes three days of knocking before the door is answered and Donald is led, rather reluctantly if the butler’s displeased face is any indication, into a spacious den.

A large fireplace dominates one wall and, with the exception of the room’s windows, the other three are covered in floor to ceiling bookshelves. They’re nearly overflowing with books that, upon closer inspection are old and brittle and some look like they might be written in languages Donald has never seen before. A large desk sits in front of a window; its curtains keeping out the morning sun. Papers and books, ink and pens are scattered across the desktop like someone has been working for days and couldn’t be bothered with keeping the desk organized. The entire room looks similarly well used and cluttered.

Stuart is sitting in one of the chairs near the fireplace and despite the lack of invitation Donald enters the room, standing next to the chair across from Stuart. It’s surprising but Stuart looks worse than he did when he ran out of the drawing room three days ago. He looks exhausted, hair lanky, eyes blood shot, skin pasty, almost gray. Donald is at a loss as to what could cause such a drastic transformation.

“You should not have come back.” Even Stuart’s voice sounds rough.

“I don’t take kindly to threats Mr. Wilson. You’re a liar and a fraud and I will expose you no matter what you threaten.” Having said what he came to say Donald has every intention of leaving but Stuart seems insistent on engaging him in debate.

“I’m sorry if you thought I was threatening you. I was only trying to warn you of the inevitable outcome of any association between us.”

“With due respect Sir, I have no intention of there being any kind of acquaintance between us once I have exposed you.”

Stuart seems to collapse back into his chair a bit, watching Donald, studying him before asking Donald with genuine curiosity “Is there any way you would believe? Anything that could make you reconsider your position?”

“No.”

“Because you allowed yourself to believe and were betrayed.” Stuart says it more to himself than to Donald, nodding his head in understanding before focusing on Donald again. “May I at least try?”

He’s taken aback that Stuart would make the offer, would give Donald the chance to expose him so readily, so easily. But he has and Donald is not about to refuse the offer. He nods and Stuart smiles faintly.

“Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow.”

This time it’s Donald who leaves the room first.

***

“Don’t you need…something?” Donald gestures to the table, trying to keep his sarcasm to a minimum. The table is empty – no bible, no crystals, no candles – free of the usual props used during a séance, free of the very props Stuart had used the other night.

“You know they’re just props used for the audience.” Stuart’s answers surprises Donald, he’s not used to honesty from mediums.

The mid morning sun spills into the drawing room giving everything a bright cheerful feel. Donald feels almost familiar with the room by this point, his third time inside it. They’re sitting at the same table Stuart used to perform his séance and where Donald first confronted him.

When Stuart asks he places both his hands in Stuart’s, lets Stuart stare into him. It makes him feel oddly small to have his hands cradled in Stuart’s strong, large hands; feel small under Stuart’s gaze that refuses to let him look away.

“You saw your first medium in order to reach your wife Cassandra. You wanted to apologize for what you believe is your role in her death. You want to tell her you’re sorry and that you miss her; that you love her.”

This is all common knowledge; nothing Stuart is saying is a secret. It’s all information he could have gotten from conversations with his various party guests, from the very article Stuart himself first wrote. It doesn’t prove anything and Donald will not let Cassandra be used in this manner. He tries to pull his hands free but Stuart refuses to let go, keeps talking in that soft soothing voice of his.

“The woman you went to was a fraud. But even if she had been a true seer she would not have been able to contact your wife. Cassandra died with a clear heart and a clear conscious. Even your love, strong as it was, would not have kept her here. Cassidy loved you but she moved on. And you need to move on as well.”

Donald is out of his chair and across the room before he realizes it. His chest is tight and he’s having trouble breathing. None of what Stuart said proves anything, it’s all a logical conclusion given the information he has. And yet Donald can’t breath. He can’t breath and he can’t stop this weird flipping feeling in his stomach.

“That doesn’t…none of that is a secret. It doesn’t prove anything. It doesn’t mean anything.” He’s gasping a bit, curling in on himself, trying to breath, trying to stop feeling like this. He just needs to breathe, needs to get control of himself and breath. Needs to stop shaking and just…just breathe.

And then Stuart is there, his big hands closing over his shoulders forcing Donald to stand up straight, forcing him to look into Stuart’s soft hazel-green eyes. “You need to breathe Donald. Look at me. You need to calm down and breathe.”

He wants to look away, get away but Stuart won’t let me, forcing Donald to stay standing, to keep looking into his eyes and soon Donald finds himself matching Stuart’s steady in, out, in, out until he’s breathing normally again, until he’s regained his equilibrium.

He lets Stuart lead him back to the table and his abandoned chair, sinks into it gratefully and accepts the glass of water he’s offered. Once he’s settled Stuart sits across from him, just watching. When he’s finished the glass and is calm again he looks back at Stuart.

“There’s nothing I can do to prove myself to you, nothing I can say to change your mind if you’re determined not to believe. But I knew you would listen if I spoke of that night and, it might not be my place but it’s something you needed to hear. It’s far more important than reminding you that the scar on your right arm is the result of falling out of your Grandmother’s apple tree when you were seven.”

Donald knows it’s not really proof, that there are still one or two servants in the house who were around at the time of the accident. But it was just one scratch in the life of an energetic boy, one blended into many similar incidents, too many for it to really stand out and be retold.

“Not all of us are frauds.” After that Stuart is silent, letting Donald take it in, letting him try to reconcile what happened this morning with what he believes. They sit, Donald trying not to have the internal debate that’s growing inside him, and Stuart just watching. Finally Stuart gently suggests that Donald go home, get some rest.

He walks Donald to the door, offering his carriage, but Donald insists on walking. He hopes it will clear his head, help him sort things out. He feels Stuart’s eyes on him until he turns the corner and is out of sight.

***

As he has so often lately Donald spends the next 24 hours locked in an internal debate between what he’s believed for the last two years – that every medium is a liar and a thief and the entire movement is a scam – and what he’s feeling – that Stuart just might be real; that his abilities, his skills, his words are all real. He goes back and forth, fighting with himself until Donald finally gives up and falls into an exhausted sleep.

He wakes with the remnants of a dream clinging to his consciousness – Cassidy’s laugh and a pair of hazel-green eyes fading to yellow the only details he can grasp before the dream evaporates back into his subconscious.

He dresses slowly, takes his time at breakfast, enjoying his coffee and reading the paper from cover to cover before finally setting off once again to visit Stuart.

This time he finds Stuart in the den reading a book that looks so old it should be in tatters. Stuart doesn’t seem surprised to see Donald, simply motions for him to take the vacant chair in front of his desk. Donald waits for Stuart to close the book and put away his notes before asking the question he needs to ask, the question that he’s been obsessing over since yesterday.

“How do you do it?”

“I just…know. There’s no trick to it. It’s like seeing a series of images. Usually when a person comes to me the reason for it is clear, the first thing I see.”

“And if it’s not clear?” Donald has a feeling he’s not going to like the answer to this particular question.

“Than either they have no need of my services or I have to dig a little.” Donald nods a bit. It’s what he had assumed.

“You have no right to just riffle through people’s minds as if it were a newspaper.” While he appreciates Stuart’s honesty this is perhaps what Donald hates most about mediums – their arrogance. Their belief that they have a right to a person’s most cherished memories, their most private thoughts.

“People come to me for this. If I’m lucky I don’t have to invade their thoughts. Which is something I will only do if given permission. Privacy is sacred to me.”

Donald has a feeling that there’s an exception to Stuart’s privacy rule based on the way his eyes shift away from Donald’s but a knock on the door prevents him from pushing. Stuart’s housekeeper Elly enters carrying a tray of food and lays it on the table before leaving, returning Stuart’s friendly smile before she goes.

“Lunch?”

Donald knows a change in conversation when he hears it but he can’t help asking one more question while Stuart cleans the room’s table of its considerable clutter of books and papers. “Have you riffled through my mind?”

“No. Reading you has proven incredibly easy.”

It’s not the answer Donald wants to hear, not an answer he’s comfortable with. “Why?” Why would he be so easy to read?

Stuart pauses, refusing to meet Stuart’s eyes. “Some people are just easier to read than others.” Donald knows the answer is less than completely honest but he no longer feels comfortable pressing the issue with Stuart’s transition from professional to personal with the offer of lunch. It seems incredibly rude.

He stays through lunch and for a few hours after. They’ve reached some sort of truce, unsure exactly where they stand but neither willing to break the fragile peace they worked toward.

The conversation is easy and simple, nothing too personal and everything superficial but by the time he leaves Donald is surprised to realize that he enjoyed his time with Stuart. Which is why he accepts Stuart’s invitation to join the small dinner party he’s having the next night.

“It’s a small gathering and will include a reading. I thought you might like to join us considering the new information you’ve gathered.” Donald knows Stuart is referring to his evolving opinion on mediums, séances and Stuart in particular.

***

In what is becoming his new normal Donald spends the day alternating between burning curiosity and disbelief that he’s actually considering that Stuart really is a medium, that he really can read people’s minds, reach across the plains of existence and speak to those already gone. In Stuart’s presence with his earnest eyes and his perceived honesty, sincerity practically oozing off of him it’s easy to believe. But now, away from him Donald finds it more difficult to consider the possibility of Stuart’s authenticity.

In the end curiosity and propriety win out and he arrives at Stuart’s house at the appointed time. Stuart’s faithful butler (and friend) Jim recognizes Donald and greets him with the same wariness he did yesterday, ushering Donald into the parlor where the rest of the party is gathered. Stuart’s smile when he sees Donald is immediate, wide and open and Donald finds himself smiling back.

The evening progresses as these evenings generally do: sharing gossip and news, drinks and dinner all before adjourning to the sitting room. The table is set up as it was the first time Donald entered this room, all the props in their place. The Bible sits next to the bowl of water with a crystal resting on top, the heavy curtains are closed blocking all light and only candles light the room.

The reading that night is unique, different from any other Donald has attended. This time, without the obsessive focus of finding the mediums secret, discovering their tell, finding the tricks, Donald is able to truly watch. He sees, perhaps for the first time, the effort it takes Stuart to put on a show rather than just give out information, sees the skill it takes to enhance the experience, to mask his hard work. Donald sees the effect it has on the people gathered, how they seem truly taken, truly enrapt in Stuart, completely open to Stuart’s poking and prodding. Stuart is gentle, respectful of the private, emotional nature of the information he has and his audience reacts calmly because of it.

There are no overly dramatic scenes like at many of the séances Donald has attended. When Stuart reconciles a widow with her dead husband her reaction is relieved tears instead of hysterics. He allows a man dignity in his grief at reconciling with his long lost brother and, when he helps a mother lay to rest her guilt over the miscarriage of her child the woman’s tears of thanks are as restrained as her growing relief.

It’s humbling in a way that surprises Donald. Taken with the information he received yesterday afternoon there seems only one outcome for the considered acceptance growing in him. Though Donald isn’t quite ready to admit to himself what his subconscious seems to have already decided: that Stuart is real.

***

It’s a long evening and Stuart is clearly relieved when his guests have left. He hands Donald a glass of whiskey before settling onto the settee. They don’t speak, each lost in thought, comfortable in each other’s silence. It’s Donald who eventually ends the silence, voice soft, not wanting to break the mood.

“Does it bother you; the frauds masquerading, lying to people, and taking their money?”

“Perhaps, a little. But they make it easier for me to do my work. I can’t judge them too harshly.”

“The secretary of the first medium I went to, the one who convinced me that all mediums were frauds, she asked me if it mattered whether the woman was real or not when the comfort she gave was real. I said it did and I still believe that.”

“You have to remember that the people who come to them are willing participants, willing blind to the fraud. Human beings have an amazing capacity to believe what they want to believe. They convince themselves that the world is as they see it and not as it really is.”

“And what is the world, really?”

Stuart looks at him, face wistful. “The world is…complicated. Much more complicated than people realize.”

They lapse back into silence. It’s nice, comforting and Donald finds himself relaxing in a way he hasn’t in a very long time.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” Stuart’s voice is soft; as if he isn’t sure he wants Donald to hear him. The announcement surprises him, makes his heart jump in his chest and an odd feeling flare up in his stomach.

“Leaving?”

“I have an engagement upstate.” He knew Stuart’s visit was temporary, a limited engagement like all mediums.

“Will you be back?”

When Stuart doesn’t answer for a long time, just sits there, swirling his whiskey, staring down at the amber liquid, Donald thinks he knows Stuart’s answer. He’s surprised to find that the thought of Stuart not returning is disappointing. It’s why when Stuart finally does reply the answer is a bit of a relief.

“I don’t know.”

***

Stuart is gone a total of eight days and in that time Donald goes about his business: attending the necessary functions required of someone within his social circle, researching a new medium rumored to be coming to town in a few weeks, running errands about town…and through it all he can’t quite banish Stuart from his mind.

It’s not intentional, it’s not something he consciously thinks about but Stuart pops into his thoughts at the most random of times: listening to Mrs. Reed gossip about Mrs. Burroughs’s shocking uses of satin; discussing the town’s modernization with the Mayor; debating politics with Richard; reading the morning paper…It doesn’t hit him till the day before Stuart returns that Donald is hoping Stuart will return. And soon. He can’t help it, he’s curious, intrigued by this man who got him to reconsider two years of bedrock thinking.

When Stuart turns up on his doorstep nine days after he last saw him Donald is surprisingly happy. Stuart seems a bit subdue, tired, but truly pleased to see him. They settle comfortably in Donald’s office and Stuart regales him with stories from his trip that have Donald chuckling. It eases the small knot in Donald’s chest that’s been there since he last saw Stuart.

“I almost didn’t come back.”

“Why did you?”

“I’ve decided that any acquaintance, any friendship between us will more than outweigh any consequences.”

“You said something similar before. What possible consequences could there be from our acquaintance?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Stuart’s smile is reserved but genuine and Donald finds himself smoothly changing the subject. He’s had enough brooding and if Stuart doesn’t want to talk about it that’s fine with Donald. He’d much rather just enjoy Stuart’s company.

***

For the first time in a long time, since before Cassidy, Donald has a friend. A true friend, someone whose company he enjoys, someone he likes talking to, someone he can rely on and confide in. He revels in it. Looks forward to seeing Stuart, doesn’t mind going to social events knowing that Stuart will be there, deals with work quicker in order to join Stuart for a drink at the end of the day. He’s surprised at how quickly and easily he settles into the friendship though it probably has more to do with Stuart than him. Stuart is a remarkably easy person to be around, someone so completely comfortable in his own skin it puts everyone else at ease. Someone who is always available for a chat or to just sit with when there’s nothing to say.

That’s not to say that things are perfect. There are topics on which they disagree, situations where their differences show and Donald still holds a bit of himself back, saves it for himself. And while Stuart talks freely about his past, answers questions readily and shares without hesitation, Donald knows there are big pieces of Stuart that he doesn’t know, bits of Stuart he’s not getting, some part of him that’s closed off, protected.

It’s not so obvious that Donald notices it on a regular basis, and not so blatant that he would ever be offended by it. But every now and then Donald knows that Stuart is holding back, not telling him the whole truth, retaining information or simply changing the subject.

There are also the headaches, terrible, horrible headaches that result in Stuart not leaving his room for a day or two at a time.

And there are the men – strange, grungy men who come to the house at all hours of the day, indifferent to social niceties or propriety – who Stuart always welcomes into his home and always meets with. Every single time, regardless of guest or time or Donald, Stuart meets with them. Donald walked in on such a meeting once, interrupting Stuart handing over one of his precious books to a dirty, travel worn, uncouth man. He’d felt awkward and intrusive and Stuart looked caught and slightly guilty. The man paid him no mind, thanked Stuart for the book and swore its return before sauntering out of the room leaving Stuart to deflect Donald’s questions.

He starts trying to hide these meetings but Donald knows and one day insists Stuart stop avoiding his questions, stop lying to him and just tell him who these men are and why Stuart constantly invites them into his home, sees them whenever they want, give them books and information from his beloved library.

Stuart deflates, he’s just met one of those strange men, slipping out into the backyard to hand off a book and he looks tired, slightly devastated when Donald confronts him for an explanation. He seems to deflate, his tall strong frame shrinking back against the fireplace, leaning against it as if the mantle is the only thing holding him up. It’s the first time Donald has seen his friend as anything but strong, confident, animated.

“Please. Please don’t ask.”

“Stuart…” He’s willing to push this time, get some kind of answer but then Stuart takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, determination settling on his face.

“Donald, please, trust me.”

Stuart’s soft hazel eyes plead with Donald to believe him, to trust him and Donald realizes he has no real choice. He never asks about it again.

***

Part 3c

In This Time And Place: Part 3

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 16:32:04 GMT

“You know the truth, right? About Sammy?”

Azazel to John ‘In My Time of Dying’

***

The thing that brings Donald Wellstone to visit his first psychic isn’t curiosity or true belief, nor is it a dinner party to celebrate the growing fad that’s taking over the upper class in which he moves. No, what brings Donald to his first seer is desperation and grief over the loss of his wife Cassidy in childbirth. Cassidy had been the one truly good thing in a life of familial obligation and social boredom and now with her gone Donald is lost. Cassidy is gone and it’s his fault.

After her first pregnancy had resulted in a miscarriage that nearly killed her, the doctors had told them another pregnancy would be too dangerous. But Cassidy had wanted to try again, believing that they were meant to have children, that Donald was meant to be a father.

And Donald had never been able to deny her, even when he knew better than to give in. So they had tried. One miscarriage followed by a rough pregnancy and birth only for the baby – a beautiful baby girl with Cassidy’s dark curls and Donald’s green eyes – to die after six months had left Cassidy’s body weak. But she had begged Donald to try one last time and he had said yes.

It took so long for Cassidy to get pregnant that Donald started to believe nature had decided for them and spared Cassidy. But he had never been that lucky. She came to him one day – her eyes shining, her smile ecstatic – and told him

“I’m pregnant.”

“Cassidy…Are you sure?”

“I’m already three months along. I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure.” She was so happy, giddy as a schoolgirl. She looked him right in the eye and said, “It’s going to be okay. You’ll see Donald, this time it’s all going to be okay.”

He didn’t want her to see the terror filling him up so he pulled her into his arms and held her till he could breath again.

***

Cassidy was blissfully happy, walking around the house glowing, a hand constantly resting on her growing belly; going to dinner parties in loser and loser corsets, her dresses expanding with her. Every day she would tell him what she was feeling, how the baby was growing, always promising that she was healthy, that the baby felt perfectly fine growing inside her, that this time, this time everything was going to be all right and soon they’d have a beautiful baby with more in the future.

And every day, as month after month passed without complications, against his better judgment and instincts Donald felt his fear ebbing away and tendrils of hope taking its place. He started to believe that everything would work out just as Cassidy had said, that they would have a son (or a daughter) of their own. That perhaps there would be more children and that he and Cassidy would grow old together.

Which is why, after all those months of letting himself believe, Cassidy’s death was such a sudden and unbearable surprise. He had been out, making one of his monthly trips to the family factories when the servant had come running, breathless and full of fear, calling him home immediately. When he asked she said Cassidy had felt a slight twinge in her stomach when she woke, refused breakfast and lunch, had tried to walk it off but then, around one o’clock in the afternoon she had sent for the doctor.

By the time he arrived Cassidy was in bed, moaning in agony while the doctor tried to coax the baby out of her a month early. He refused to leave the room, ignoring propriety to stay with Cassidy and hold her hand, forcing himself to be there as she grew paler, as her grip grew weaker from extreme blood loss. He began praying the moment the servant came for him but when Cassidy started bleeding his prayer changed, an unforgivable prayer that he would never regret, that God would spare Cassidy, that God would take the child and spare Cassidy. The doctor struggled on and Donald clung to one last shred of hope because Cassidy kept saying that everything was going to be okay, that he would see, everything was going to be okay.

Cassidy gave birth to a stillborn baby girl around ten o’clock that night. The baby was a little thing, ill formed and apparently dead for a few weeks by the time Cassidy’s body decided to expel it. Cassidy was near delirious with blood loss and though she asked to see her daughter Donald refused to tell her their baby was dead. He would always be thankful Cassidy died believing their child was alive.

It was terrible looking into her eyes and lying but Donald didn’t care, too busy glancing between Cassidy’s nearly transparent face and the doctor working desperately to stop her bleeding. He begged her to hold on, to stay with him, his tears falling onto her ashen face. Cassidy just smiled softly and kept saying everything was going to be okay.

Cassidy died at 11:46pm.

Donald held her well into the night, mindless of the blood soaked sheets, her skin turning grey, lips blood and body cold, crying tears of grief and anger, disbelief, fear and unfairness.

It takes Richard – faithful Richard whose been with the family since he was a boy and is as close to a father as Donald has know for years – to drag him out of Cassidy’s room. He’s exhausted, barely conscious when Richard puts him to bed. For months after Richard is the only person Donald can stand to be around, the only one who can get through to him.

Propriety demands there be a viewing and Cassidy’s body lay in their parlor so others could come pay their respects. For two days Donald is forced to sit in the parlor while others traipse in and out of their home. He can’t bear to look at Cassidy’s body laid out in the ornate coffin wearing her wedding dress. Can’t bear to hear people’s condolences, other people’s sorrow that is nothing compared to his.

The doctor took care of the baby. Donald never knew what happened to her. Nor did he care.

They buried Cassidy two days later and only Richard’s strong steady presence kept Donald upright as the coffin lid closed and Cassidy’s face was lost to him forever, kept him from throwing himself on the coffin and letting the dirt cover him as well. It wasn’t until the other mourners had departed and all six feet of dirt had been returned to the ground that Donald was finally able to bring himself to walk away.

***

Donald spends the next five months in a fog of grief and pain. He can barely make it through the day, aimlessly roaming the house, pain blossoming anew every time he comes across a reminder of Cassidy – her knitting basket by the fireplace, a glove left on the sideboard, her stationary littering the desk – that hasn’t been tactfully removed and hidden away. Her picture stays on his dresser and their wedding portrait remains tacked up in the drawing room. Her room is untouched, the door firmly closed, never to be opened again.

Richard is the only one who dares nudge Donald out of his paralysis, coxing him into eating, getting him out of bed then gradually out of the house for short walks. But all his efforts end with Donald back in his room, curled up in bed staring at Cassidy’s picture on his nightstand.

He starts dreaming after Cassidy’s death, different dreams every night but each one horrible and painful. One night he dreams of Cassidy standing at the end of his bed calling for him, begging him to come to her; in another she’s lying in bed, belly slit open from where the baby was ripped out, blood everywhere, Cassidy asking him why, why he let this happen; and in yet another it’s Donald writhing in Hell for his sins, for causing Cassidy’s death and the death of their children. Every night Donald wakes covered in sweat, tears leaking from his eyes, throat raw from his silent screams.

The nightmares are bad but the worst, the worst, the worst are the dreams that resemble memories, the one’s where Cassidy is whole and alive and smiling at him, laughing with him, making love to him. Those are the ones that cause him to wake in tear followed by an entire day of feeling like his heart has been newly ripped out of his chest.

It’s always after these dreams that Donald feels a desperate need to talk to Cassidy just one more time, tell her he loves her, that he’s sorry for not listening to his instincts and beg for her forgiveness, ask her how he’s suppose to go on without her.

These are the dreams that drive Donald to his first seer.

***

The arrival of Emma Hardinge Britten – one of the most celebrated and successful Spiritualists in the world – sends the city’s elite into a frenzy of excitement. The articles heralding her arrival provide the details necessary for those with the connections and financial means to attend her lecture and the few private events she will be hosting.

Donald has the connections and the financial means and, for the first time in months, the desire to venture beyond his front door. If anyone can connect him to Cassidy, give him the chance to apologize, to tell her he loves her and misses her it’s Emma Hardinge Britten.

***

The theater is full to capacity and Donald feels twitchy and uncomfortable around all these people, claustrophobic after month in the house with just himself and the servants. But its worth it to hear Miss Britten talk about Spiritualism, about how the spirits of the dead can be reached, to hear how the living can learn from them or how they can serve as guides for those they left behind; how loved ones are never truly lost if one knows how to reach them. He listens as Miss Britten relates story upon story of how she’s contacted those beyond the veil, how she’s connected with great leaders and deceased loved ones and how she’s given the living a chance to reconcile with those already passed. Donald is captivated when she goes into a mild trance, calling upon any spirits present to speak with her and is shocked and awed when one does – a beloved grandmother of one of the audience members who, Miss Britten assures him, is so proud of her grandson, though she doesn’t like the way her pearls look on his wife. The man bows his head to hide his tears while his wife clutches her neck as if the spirit is going to rip off her necklace and reclaim her pearls. The man admits to Miss Britten how he loves and misses his grandmother and that he is ever grateful for all she did for him in life.

When Donald had arrived at the theater he was skeptical of Miss Britten and the movement she represented, not truly believing that there was such a thing as a veil separating those living and those deceased let alone that someone could break through and speak to those gone. But he’d desperate and here, now, watching the man in the audience, watching Miss Britten give this man a chance to tell his grandmother that he loves and misses her, Donald is convinced.

Later he’ll realize what an easy mark he made.

***

Getting an invitation to one of Miss Britten’s private gatherings proves more difficult than Donald had expected. But then he’s not the only one who has the money and the connections to score such an invite and all those who do are anxious to be one of the lucky few to be able to brag at parties and salons that they were in attendance when Miss Britten contacted famous so-and-so over the great beyond.

But it’s personal for Donald in a way its not for most of those seeking an invitation and with the right word said to the appropriate person and a substantial addition to Miss Britten’s fee (and of course a little luck) Donald is able to secure an invitation for the last gathering Miss Britten holds.

The few days he has to wait for the party are slow and painful. Donald spends them torturing himself, trying to think of the perfect thing to say to Cassidy, trying to find the right words, the quickest way to say the countless things he needs to tell her.

On the night of the party Donald arrives promptly at 9pm just as the invitation states. It’s been a while since he’s been out in public let alone attended a diner party and he’s nervous. The butler leads him into a large drawing room where the rest of the guest are already gathered, the women gossiping, the men conversing. Donald finds he’s rusty, out of practice at being sociable. He’s not interested in most of the topics of conversation and not informed enough on the rest to truly be able to participate. But a lifetime of training helps him fake it well enough to last till they’re called to dinner. He only has to accept the belated condolences and friendly scolding for his social absence twice, once from the men in the party and once from the women.

Miss Britten finally joins them at dinner, apologizing for not being able to greet them properly, claiming professional privilege as she was finishing the final preparations for the night’s festivities. Donald finds himself growing increasingly impatient throughout dinner, anxious to get to the real reason he’s here, sick of listening to the pointless conversation and gossip flying across the table. He watches Miss Britten throughout the meal, doing his best not to appear rude. She’s a small woman with dark hair and brown eyes set in a plain face that could be considered attractive but never beautiful. She remains quiet throughout most of the meal, offering comments here and there but mostly just watching, listening, seemingly enjoying that her guests are having a good time.

By the time dessert is removed from the table Donald can barely stay in his seat. The relief he feels when Miss Britten rises from the table and invites everyone to join her in the drawing room is tremendous, though it does little for the nerves he feels at the prospect of what’s to come.

The drawing room is small and dark. Heavy curtains hang over the windows blocking any external light and helping, along with the tick carpet, to muffle sound. What little light there is comes from the few candles lit along the walls in place of the room’s gas lamps. There’s a round table in the middle of the room, large enough to seat all six of them, with some kind of large global ball in the center.

They take their seats and Miss Britten asks everyone to take their neighbor’s hand. Donald is seated between two of the city’s most celebrated hostesses and the feeling of Mrs. Taylor’s gloveless hand – the first he’s touched since Cassidy – sends a quick ache to his heart.

The air is full of giddy anticipation. Miss Britten waits for everyone to settle down, requesting that they all take a deep breath and remain quiet unless she speaks directly to them. The dark room amplifies the silence, makes the air heavy around them. At a nod from Miss Britten a maid blows out the candles, plunging the room into complete darkness. Surprised by the unexpected darkness the guest shift, trying to regain their bearings, jarring the table. Miss Britten waits again for everyone to settle before she begins speaking, imploring any spirits present to make themselves known.

“We here present call into the great beyond. Spirits, hear me. We wish you no harm, only to commune with you in peace and respect. We seek a relative of one here present. If you are with us please inform us of your presence. Please, join us.”

Nothing happens for a few very long minutes but then a soft pulsing glow comes from the orb at the middle of the table, growing brighter until the table is completely illuminated and Donald can just make out the faces across from him. A few gasps emit from around the table and Donald feels one of his neighbors squeeze his hand.

“They have accepted our invitation.” Miss Britten tells the table. She’s calm in direct contrast to the table’s excitement. “Now let’s see if we can identify the spirit.”

Almost as one the table leans forward as Miss Britten asks a series of questions, trying to divine who is in the room with them.

“The spirit appears to be that of a child. A little girl who died in a tragic accident.”

The woman across from Donald, the mayor’s wife, gasps. “Mary?”

“Yes. Mary. Your sister I believe.”

“Yes. She died when I was twelve. We were vacationing on the shore. I was suppose to be watching her but…” Mrs. Cramer starts crying, whispering ‘I’m sorry’ over and over again, leaning into her husband for support.

Miss Britten seems to have sunk into a deep trance, her face blank, her eyes staring unblinking at the orb in the center of the table, her body completely still. The next time she speaks her voice is different, softer and younger.

“She wants you to know that she forgives you. That it wasn’t your fault. She should have listened to you when you told her not to go into the water.”

Seeing Mrs. Cramer crying, staring at the glowing orb at the center of the table where her sister’s spirit seems to be contained, calling for her, Donald is immensely grateful that he was able to talk Miss Britten’s secretary into allowing him a private session after the party. This is something he would never want others to see, something he would never want to share. If he is so fortunate as to be able to connect with Cassidy it’s something he wants to do in private.

Miss Britten keeps speaking, relaying messages from beyond the grave. “She wants you to know that she’s safe and happy. It wasn’t your fault and she doesn’t blame you. She’s glad for the life you’ve lived. And she loves you.”

As soon as Miss Britten finishes speaking the orb’s light fades out plunging the room into darkness. Mrs. Cramer’s sobs are the only sound in the room.

***

A maid relights the room’s candles, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The heightened energy and suspense in the room breaks with the returned light and everyone sits back in their chairs, blinking and reorientating themselves.

Mrs. Cramer is still crying, softly now, her husband – despite his embarrassment – is doing his best to comfort her, looking deeply uncomfortable at the public display of affection required of him. The table politely looks away instead focusing on Miss Bitten who is slumped in her chair, breathing deeply, coming back to herself from whatever trance she entered when the spirit communicated through her.

Once composed Miss Britten rises from the table followed by the rest of her guest. Donald is one of the last to rise, unsure if he should follow everyone out of the room for a drink before leaving or waiting for Miss Britten to speak with him. When she doesn’t acknowledge him Donald follows the rest of the party into the living room. Drinks are passed around and the evening is discussed in hushed tones, as if the guests still can’t believe what they just saw but excited nonetheless. Mrs. Cramer is doing her best to regain some composure though her face is still tear stained and pale and the Mayor is already on his second glass of scotch. Miss Britten walks around, answering questions and doing her best to settle everyone.

Thirty minutes later, as the guests begin drifting towards the door, waiting for cloaks and wraps to be brought, Miss Britten’s secretary leads Donald back into the drawing room assuring him that Miss Britten will join him as soon as she says goodnight to her other guests.

Gas lamps now light the room, giving it a less atmospheric feeling. A small table that seats only two has replaced the circular table. He’s relieved for the chance to compose himself, prepare for what he hopes will soon happen.

When Miss Britten finally joins him Donald is as prepared as he can be though, despite what he just witnessed, he has no real idea of what to expect from a séance with just himself and Miss Britten.

“Mr. Wellstone, thank you for waiting. You requested a private meeting this evening. You wish to contact someone?”

Donald clears his throat, accepts the invitation to sit at the table. “Yes. My wife. Cassandra.”

Miss Britten nods, lays her hands lightly over his, closes her eyes and begins. “I seek the spirit of Cassandra Wellstone. Cassandra Wellstone, we seek your presence. There is someone here that wishes to speak with you. Cassandra, if you can hear me, if you are with us, please, give us a sign.”

The lamps go out plunging the room into darkness and the lone candle in the center of the table flickers to life. Miss Britten’s gaze is locked on the candle’s flame; back in the trance she’d been in earlier. Her hands that were merely covering his now grab hold, squeezing once.

Donald squeezes back hoping, praying they’ve been successful. “Cassidy?”

“Donald.” Miss Britten’s voice is nothing like Cassidy’s, but still it’s soft, kind, like Cassidy’s always was. For Donald, it’s close enough. So much so that for a few moments he doesn’t know what to say, where to start, and he fears that Cassidy will leave before he gets to say what he needs to so he says the first thing that comes to mind, the thing that’s always occupying his thoughts, the one constant in his life now.

“I miss you. So much. And I’m sorry Cassidy. I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I never should have…I should have insisted that…it wasn’t worth it. Cassidy…I’m not sure how to live without you.”

He feels self-conscious saying such personal, heartfelt things to a complete stranger but, he reminds himself, Miss Britten is just a channel, a mouthpiece for Cassidy who is here, with him, in this room though he can’t see her. And Cassidy deserves to hear this from him.

“Donald…I miss you too but, you have to let go. It wasn’t your fault. And to me, it was worth it. I wanted to give you a family. Wanted our son to grow up to be just like you.”

Startled, Donald looks up from the flame he’s been staring into and focuses on Miss Britten.

“Son? Cassidy, the baby was a girl. You know that. I told you that before…it was girl. Cassidy?”

For a very long moment there’s no response, a moment that has Donald wondering the longer it lasts. “Cassidy, on our wedding day, what did you wear that belonged to your mother?”

This time Miss Britten’s voice is all wrong, too high and too girlish. She sounds almost nervous.

“I wore her veil. You said I looked beautiful that day.”

The answer makes Donald’s heart sink. “Cassidy did look beautiful that day. But she didn’t wear anything that belonged to her mother, she couldn’t have. Her mother’s wedding dress was lost on her parent’s voyage over from England Miss Britten. And Cassidy would know that.”

Donald rips his hands out of Miss Britten’s and the woman’s eyes fly open, immediately finding his. Even in the dark Donald can see her look of shock, annoyance and perhaps, a bit of fear. “Mr. Wellstone I…”

He’s not interested in what she has to say, too angry to listen to any possible explanation she might have.

“You’re a fraud, aren’t you? There is no way to communicate with the dead. This, all of this, is an act. You put on this play, make people believe they’re talking to their loved ones but all the while you’re lying to them and taking their money.”

“Mr. Wellstone, there’s no need…”

“There’s every need. You make people believe! You made me believe!”

He’s standing now, pacing. Miss Britten stands and unwisely takes a step towards him, trying to sooth him.

“Mr. Wellstone. I assure you, I have only the best intentions. Whether people unburden themselves to me or to their loved ones is irrelevant, the comfort I offer is very real.”

“That’s not for you to decide! They come to you…they pay you, not to unburden themselves to you but to their loved ones. You’re lying to them. Hurting them all over again.” They stare at each other, Donald furious and nearly distraught, Miss Britten unrepentant, her head still held high, infuriating him even more. “I will not allow it to continue.”

Donald storms out of the room, ignoring Miss Britten’s pleas for him to come back, to be reasonable. He feels as though his heart has broken all over again. He’d put so much hope in the medium, in the chance of speaking with Cassidy just one more time. But now that hope was gone, along with any belief in the possibility of contacting the great beyond. The entire movement was fake and each and every so-called medium a fraud.

Miss Britten’s secretary tries to stop him, begging him not to do anything rash, to think before he acts. “She was only trying to help you!” Her voice is desperate. “You’ll ruin her!”

“People don’t need her kind of help.” Her words won’t sway him and it takes all his restraint not to slam the door behind him as he walks out into the night.

He’s nearly a mile from home but the walk gives him a chance to thing, to plan. Donald knows now what he needs to do, knows that someone needs to step forward and stop these charlatans.

Someone needs to stop them from taking advantage of innocent people, hurting them in ways they themselves could never imagine. Miss Britten couldn’t give him Cassidy but Donald can thank her for giving him a purpose again.

He spends the rest of the night writing an editorial for the city paper. It should be difficult to write about Cassidy and the steps he went through to try and reach out to her, to share intimate details about his pain knowing it will be read by nearly the entire town, but it’s not. He needs to do this. Needs to warn others about the perils of people like Miss Britten, people who claim they have special abilities, who claim they can help you.

Donald sends a maid down to the newspaper office in the early dawn with the finished copy. It’s too late for the morning paper but should be printed in the evening edition and reprinted in Sunday’s edition.

By Sunday evening, less than 48 hours since he discovered the truth, Miss Britten is gone, having decamped in the middle of the night and the entire city is abuzz with the news that she may have been a fraud. Donald attends a dinner party that evening where he’s interrogated for more details about his confrontation with Miss Britten and later he hears the women gossiping about how shameful she is while the men debate the validity of the entire spiritualism movement.

Donald knows that this will eventually blow over and people will start to wonder again, believe again, knows that the revelation that one medium is a fraud isn’t going to stop others from coming and peddling their lies. But it’s a start.

***

Part 3 Continued

In This Time And Place: Part 2b

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 16:25:55 GMT

***

His first true hunt is a wendigo. A giant skeleton of what used to be a man hunting him instead of the other way around. It’s terrifying.

He’s not expecting it. He’s settling down for the night after a long day of hard riding – marking out protection symbols, laying down his blanket, lowering the fire – when it’s suddenly much too quiet in the lightly forested hillside. There’s no sound, no trees swaying or leaves rustling, no night creatures creeping around, no insects clicking. There’s nothing.

David shivers, skin prickling, his instincts telling him something isn’t right. His knife is light in his hand, the handle smooth and the blade honed, he listens hard to the silence surrounding him, trying to feel his surroundings, trying to find his quarry.

When the attack comes it’s swift and shocking, coming from the side, catching him off guard. Only a last second stab of his knife saves him from being gutted, the things claws cutting deep but not fatal. They face off, each bleeding, each circling. The low burning fire gives David a chance to see the creature in front of him.

It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen but he knows what he faces, the stories and legends of the tribe perfectly describing the thing in front of him. They grapple, knife cutting, claws slashing, blood flowing. The wendigo has height and speed on him but David has the fear and adrenaline of the first hunt.

The wendigo’s arms are long and gangly, leaving it vulnerable after it swings, its chest a perfect target. David gets lucky after one particularly vicious swing, burying his knife into its heart. But it keeps coming, not slowing down, and David trips in his retreat, lands on his back. He reaches blindly, feels the fire behind him and grabs one of the last burning sticks. He swings right as the wendigo lunges, embedding the stick into its side. The wendigo screams, a tortured unnatural screech as it goes up in a burst of flames, burning bright and fast.

When its nothing but ash David pulls his knife from the dust, staggers back to the fire and collapses.

***

It doesn’t get easier and there are times it’s worse than the first time but it does become familiar, something David knows he was born to do. His skills evolve, his knowledge broadens, his arsenal grows, his body molds stronger and his psyche hardens. He becomes the warrior foretold in his vision, his name and deeds precede him, become something to respect, to whisper and fear.

The prairie evolves along with him as more and more white folk travel west searching for land and opportunity, just like his family so many years ago. Settlements turn into towns and his people trickle further into the west despite the unspoken uneasy truce that’s been reached. He begins wearing the cloths of the white man: pants and shirts and boots. It makes it easier to travel between his two worlds; his white skin, no matter how tanned, gives him access to white settlements, his rusty English allows him to communicate. He begins carrying the white man’s bible and cross after discovering they help with his work; he starts consulting with ministers when he needs to and even learns a word or two of Latin. But he still wears his hair long and braided adorned with a feather and the beads his sister made for him, still carries his bow and knife along with his newly acquired guns.

***

He encounters his first demon in the body of a young boy, no more than fifteen, shortly after he’s slaughtered his entire family. There’s blood everywhere, splatter on the walls of the cabin, painting the grass where someone had tried to drag themselves to safety, coving the boy. He’s still standing over the body of his mother, knife in hand, waiting for David.

“Hunter.”

The boy’s eyes are black, freezing David in his tracks with horror and fear.

“You’re making quite a name for yourself. Shame you were too late for them folk.”

David’s got sage in his bag, the words of an exorcism on his tongue. He circles slowly, hoping the demon will enjoy taunting him too much to realize he’s pouring sage as he walks, entrapping it. The demon just keeps talking.

“They said you were pretty. Seems they were right. Too bad I’m going to rip your face to shreds.”

It takes three steps before it realizes it’s trapped and hears the words of the exorcism. It starts twitching. The boy’s face contorts in pain and furry, his voice screaming the demon’s words.

“You think killing me will make a difference? You think it matters? Storms coming and you can’t stop it! You’re not strong enough. You’re going to fail. You couldn’t save this family and you won’t be able to save him either!”

David stops walking, stops speaking. He can’t help it. He wants to ask, wants to find out exactly who it is he dreams of every night. Because that’s exactly the ‘him’ the demon is mocking him with. But demons lie and David won’t give it the satisfaction of his asking for information. He wouldn’t get what he needs from this one anyway.

He finishes the exorcism, sending the demon back to the dark below. It laughs, mocking and evil, even as the boy’s body convulses and vomits the demon up into the sky, disintegrating into mist as it goes. The boy doesn’t make it.

The demon’s laugh mocks him as he sages and burns the family. It mocks him as he rides away, the entire cabin burning down. It mocks him as he collapses in exhaustion and belated terror that night. It mocks him as he dreams of those hazel eyes.

***

He stays away from the tribe for nearly three years, returning only out of desperation and exhaustion. He doesn’t want to bring anything upon the tribe, doesn’t want the evil he hunts to follow him home. But he’s tired, down to his bones, and he needs a place to rest, a place that’s more than just the ground beneath him or a lumpy mattress in a new town. The tribe greets him with great excitement, respectful and full of love. His mother hugs him close, his father’s eyes shine with pride and tears, and his siblings look eager for stories.

David stays with the tribe for a little over a month before his dreams force him back onto his path. But for a month David can relax, breathe, enjoy his family and take pleasure in life. The tribe treats him with the utmost respect, honor him like a chief, ease his burden and remind him why he’s fighting. They refuse to let him work – though he would enjoy the normality of a buffalo hunt – and hold a great war ceremony in his honor. He paints his face and dons his feathers and dances around the bonfire, calling the god of war to him, asking for his continued blessing and protection. He sleeps on a bed of soft blankets in a warm tipi, only sees the sky when he wants to and never has to trudge through the muck and the mire of a rainy day. He meets his newest sister, two years old and beautiful.

His dreams during that month are simple, as if even the Great Spirit approves of this small break. He dreams of those he’s saved, of a possible future should he succeed and always, always hazel eyes that are smiling.

This time he says goodbye, can’t bear to leave without doing so. The entire tribe gathers to see him off. His mother presents him with a new blanket and his sisters gives him another necklace. When he says farewell to his father it’s with an ache in his heart; he knows, somehow they both know that this will be their final meeting, that should David ever return to the tribe his father will have joined their ancestors.

When, on his next visit seven years later, he finds his instincts were correct, his father has traveled on and his mother has passed into old age, helped along by grief. She’s an elder of the tribe now, honored for her wisdom and for her son’s place within the world. The tribe is suffering. The ever encroaching white man, with their permanent settlements and greed for more land than they need has driven the Kanza further west, chasing the buffalo the white man drives out.

It’s not the joyous visit that it was the last time but it still feels good to rest, to be sheltered by his people and free of his destiny if only for a fortnight.

When David leaves this time it’s with the signs of destruction growing more obvious and moving closer by the day. Something is approaching fast. His mother weeps at his leaving, cuts off a lock of her hair and braids it around his wrist, never to be removed. When he leaves he doesn’t look back. He knows that he will never see his tribe again, that he will pass into myth, a legend to be told around the campfires for generations to come.

***

The land of David’s childhood is shifting, changing. Each summer has brought more of the white men, driving the tribes off their land, chasing the buffalo further west. The white man bring their own evils for David to battle though in the end the white man’s evil proves no different than the rest. All it means is that there is more for David to hunt.

It feels as if he faces something supernatural every day. That evil is pouring into the world from every crack in the land and no matter how hard he fights to stem the tide the balance continues to shift. Evil is infecting the world, infecting the very people David was chosen to save. He sees fights breaking out in every town, hears of skirmishes across the land. The tribes are taking up arms against the settlers, settlers striking out against the tribes, the white man’s military spanning out across the land to the south battling with the tribe from another land.

It all points to one unavoidable conclusion: war is brewing and David begins to feel helpless to stop it. He puts down every evil creature he comes across, refusing to rest for even a day but he can’t stop the disease that is spreading or stop the sky from going dry, refusing to nourish the land resulting in fewer crops.

Something is coming.

He smokes and mediates, seeking guidance from the spirit world. But the great spirits remains silent forcing David to rely on the real world, seeking information where he can and reading what signs present themselves.

The signs point to something big, something more powerful than David has ever encountered before, something malicious and determined. Something he can’t kill. Every spirit he fights, every demon he exorcises herald its coming. His dreams become erratic, filled with possessions, rivers of blood and wild storms and always, always those hazel eyes. Hazel eyes that have started to bleed yellow.

His dreams get so bad that he stops sleeping, preferring the waking daze he falls into than the deep sleep full of horrible dreams that won’t let him rest. David hasn’t slept in two weeks when his body gives out on him, forcing him under. His dream that night is wild, disjointed and unreadable and ends with cold, hard yellow eyes and an explosion of deep, dark, blood red.

David wakes with a start, sweaty and uncomfortable in the cool night air. It’s late and the sky is endless in its darkness, the stars standing out stark in their brightness. They seem so close as if David cold reach up and grasp one in his hand. He’s just caught his breath when a bolt of light streaks across the sky, falling to earth. He’s never seen such a thing before, only heard of it in the stories the tribe tells, spirits falling from the sky, bestowing blessings or an omen. It calms him, gives him a sense of comfort, renewing his faith that even in their silence the Great Spirit is watching.

He slips back to sleep, exhausted, his body desperate for the rest. He goes willingly this time. For the first time in years he doesn’t dream.

***

When the great battle comes David isn’t a part of it. He isn’t even aware that it’s happening. But he’s there for the aftermath.

It’s been eerily quiet the past few weeks with fewer hunts, spirits seem to settle and there are barely any demons to exercise. David knows it’s merely the calm before the storm. He’s wandering between one new town and the next, alone for miles, the sun burning up the sky; the ground hard and dry below, heat simmers on the horizon. The heavy silence is shattered by a shot echoing across the prairie. Nage jolts, the sound unexpected in the oppressive silence. David turns her in a circle, trying to find the source of the shot. The blurry horizon makes it difficult, he can’t trust his eyes. But there’s a slight discoloring to the west, a dark mist that seems to be dissipating in the heat. It’s the only thing out of place. He wheels Nage around and gallops towards it.

He sees the horse first, saddle empty, reigns hanging down; it’s nudging a lump on the ground. The horse doesn’t spook when he rides up, reigning Nage to a walk. There’s the body of a man lying on a ground, clearly dead, his face slack and his eyes staring out at nothing with only a bullet wound in his thigh. The wound shouldn’t have killed him and yet there he is, dead.

The lump the horse is nudging turns out to be another body, another man, and David is shocked to discover that he’s alive, even if just barely. He looks like he’s been mauled; his shirt is in tatters revealing deep gashes across his torso, blood still steadily flowing from his wounds, running down his arms, soaking the shirt and dripping onto the ground below him. His gasping breath is damp and full of pain.

David kneels next to him and as gently as he can pulls him onto his lap, cradles him. Up close the guy looks more like a kid than a grown man, far far too young to be bleeding to death out here in the middle of the plains. The kid groans and twitches, feebly trying to pull away from David, trying to get away from what he views as a threat.

“Hey. Hey kid. Easy there.” David pulls out his canteen, gives the kid some water. He ends up chocking on it, coughing it back up along with more blood than David is comfortable with. It’s clear now that whoever or whatever did this to him left the kid for dead. There’s nothing David can do, the wounds are too much.

He tries to wipe some of the blood off the corner of the kid’s mouth, tries to make his face look less horrid. The kid stops coughing, calms under his touch before he looks up at David, looks him right in the eye and David feels his heart stop. Hazel eyes stare back at him, into him. Eyes he’s dreamed about since he learned his destiny.

“Hey.” The kid’s voice is wrecked but awed. “It’s you. Knew you’d find me. Before…”

He’s cut off by another coughing fit but David can finish the rest. And the rest is that the kid knew David would find him before he died. Poor kid probably didn’t realize it’d be this early in life.

“Name’s Seth.”

“David. My name’s David.” He doesn’t know what to say, feels bereft in some odd way. All these years dreaming of hazel eyes, knowing this person was out there, knowing that they were connected somehow, subconsciously searching for him only to find him now, like this, minutes from death. It seems horribly appropriate given David’s life, the world he inhabits.

The kid manages a weak smile and an even weaker laugh. “Fate’s got a sense of humor.”

“Yeah. Yeah it does.” Of course it does. The kid starts coughing again, his body convulsing, blood still slowly dripping out of him, getting on David’s pants, covering his hands.

“He killed me. Honestly didn’t think he would. Was prepared but…didn’t think. Guess I really pissed him off.”

“Who is he?” David really should tell the kid to stop talking but Seth seems determined and its information David wants to know. Information he needs to know.

“The yellow eyed demon. He wanted…but I wouldn’t and…” It’s getting hard for Seth to breath. David can feel his heart slowing, feel him getting heavier in his arms but still Seth keeps going.

“Go to Wetstone, find Robert…owns the saloon…tell him…he’ll explain.” Seth takes another shaky hollow breath. It’s painful for David to watch, knows it hurts Seth to breathe, his lungs getting tight and struggling. He tries to adjust Seth, make him a little more comfortable, tries to relieve some of the weight on his lungs. David pulls Seth up a bit, cradles him to his chest. Seth whimpers pitifully but it seems to help a bit.

“I thought this was made for me. But now, I think, it was meant for you.” Seth drags his arm off the ground his hand clutching a gun, drops it atop his chest, his arm too weak to hold the weight. David takes it gently, inspects it slowly. It’s a revolver, a Colt if he’s not mistaken, clearly specifically made with protections carved into the barrel - non timebo mala – and a pentagram carved into the handle. It’s a beautiful weapon. Powerful.

“It’s the only thing that can kill him.” Him being the demon. Him being the thing David will hunt. The thing David will kill.

“I’m sorry.” Seth looks distraught. His hand clutches David’s sleeve.

“Don’t be. Don’t be sorry. You done good.” He tries to sooth the kid, doesn’t want him upset for something that’s not his fault. It’s not Seth’s fault that he didn’t kill the demon and it’s not his fault that his hunt is now David’s. He knows Seth would have finished the job if that was his destiny.

There’s blood leaking from Seth’s mouth and his breaths are just short gasps. David can barely feel his heart beating. He’s trying to speak, one last thing, and David has to rest his forehead against Seth’s to hear his whispered last words. “I…maybe next time.”

David stares into those hazel eyes, watches as they stare back, slowly dimming, slowly going vacant, till they’re sightless. David feels as if his own heart is trying to stop, squeezing so tightly in his chest, his own breath painful in his lungs, his gut strangely empty. He doesn’t realize he’s crying till his tears drop onto Seth’s still face.

***

He burns the body of the other man right there in the desert, feels nothing for the dead man the demon possessed. But he won’t leave Seth here in the middle of nowhere. He deserves a proper funeral pyre. David gently drapes Seth over his horse’s saddle before climbing onto Nage and setting off for Wetstone.

The town of Wetstone is like nearly every other new settlement rising from the Kanza land of his childhood. It’s full of wood plank buildings and dirt streets, horses and wagons and people with a layer of dust over their simple clothes, all with a look of slight desperation drowning out their hope.

The saloon is easy to find, the largest and one of the oldest buildings in town. He leaves the horses out back, not wanting to leave Seth’s body out front for everyone to see and anyone to touch. Inside is typical of all saloons, darkness trying to hide the dirt and the shabbiness of the furniture, every surface dusty, the few patrons keeping to themselves, faces focused down on their drinks. But there’s a feeling of comfort mixed in with the tension helping to hide the desolation that drives most people to seek the comfort of a bottle and perhaps a loose woman. Not that David sees any women, loose or other wise.

He does see a crucifix and an iron horseshoe above the door. The ceiling beams make a cleverly constructed pentagram that no one would notice unless they knew what they were looking for. And David knows what he’s looking for, which is why he notices the sigils carved into the wood at various points in the room and what David’s sure is holy water in a jug behind the bar. It’s obvious what kind of man this Robert is and what kind of people would be drawn to this saloon. It’s obvious why Seth sent him here.

All eyes turn to David when he walks in, wary of the newcomer, gauging his presence for any threat before dismissing him and returning to their drink. The only one who doesn’t dismiss him is the man standing behind the bar only one hand in view, the other David is sure holds a gun aimed at him under the bar. David feels confident that this is the man he’s been sent to see.

Robert turns out to be typical of men who have moved west – calloused and mistrustful and the phrase ‘Seth sent me’ gets David a look of apprehension and a shot of holy water before he brings his other hand into view and leads David to the end of the bar so they can talk.

He doesn’t know what to say, where to start. Not really. He’s grateful when Robert starts for him. “You said Seth sent you.”

“Yes. Said you’d help. Said you’d explain everything to me. Everything have’n to do with this.”

David sets the Colt down on the bar. Robert’s eyes widen in surprise then close in understanding. His body sags a bit as if the news David’s just delivered is too much to bear.

“Where is he?” Robert’s voice is soft, devastated, his eyes suspiciously glassy.

“Out back. Didn’t seem fitten, leaving him in the middle of the prairie. Figured he deserved it’d be done proper.”

They burn Seth’s body under a full moon that blots out the stars. The flames reaching for the sky. They’re both quiet, alone with their thoughts, David giving Robert the space he needs to morn, ignoring the tears that streak down the man’s face. It’s only when the fire dies down and Seth’s body is nothing but ash that Robert speaks.

He tells David of a boy doomed from infancy; a destiny refused, a mother dead before her son was a year old, a father who lost his way and a yellow eyed demon who wanted the boy’s soul. He tells David of raising Seth after his father drank himself to an early grave, teaching him to survive, to hunt, before watching him go off to avenge his family and change his destiny. He tells David of sheltering Seth when he needed a place to lay his head and heal his body. Tells how the demon wanted Seth’s loyalty, his skill, his soul; wanted him to lead the army that would bring the end of days. Robert tells David how Seth always said he would die first.

“Looks like he held true to that.” David’s voice is soft, respectful and awed.

“Saved this godforsaken world. But that don’t mean it’s over. Demon ain’t just gonna up and stop. Seth gave you that there gun for a reason. He’s expecting you to kill that son of a bitch. Reckon I am too.” Robert’s voice is quiet but David feels it deep in his bones, feels this new expectation settle in him.

“That’s what I aim to do.” Seth may have given David the gun but David’s been walking this path since he was born. This is his destiny. This is what the spirit was talking about all those years ago in his vision. This – killing the yellow eyed demon, ending the war – is what he was born to do.

“Good.” Robert nods his head. It’s settled.

***

Things seem to have evened out, returned to normal after Seth’s death. David feels some of the tension bleed out of the world, the excess evil slipping back to where it came from. He finds that there are fewer demons but still plenty of other creatures to hunt.

David spends the rest of his life searching for the yellow eyed demon but the bastard never shows himself. So instead David kills everything in his path. He’s thirty-one when he encounters a pack of black dogs that have been terrorizing the surrounding settlements. There are more of them than he originally thought and they’re vicious. He’s outnumbered and in the middle of nowhere, no hope of back up.

He goes down fighting, the Colt clutched in his hand.

There are five bullets left.

Part 3: Spiritualism

In This Time And Place: Part 2a

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 16:20:16 GMT

“Because they got in the way of my plans…My plans for you Sammy.”

Azazel to Sam in ‘Devil’s Trap’

***

David has never had an easy life. He never expected one. Not since that horrible moment he lost both his parents on their journey west. He’d been eight years old, traveling across land newly annexed into the United States through the 1803 Louisiana Purchase. They’d traveled alone, one covered wagon for the three of them with two horses and a cow for company. David’s father Jacob didn’t want to wait for a guide or a group of fellow settlers, said they were moving west to work their own land, to eke out a new life for just the three of them and so it should be just the three of them who traveled.

He was so excited, a real adventure, a chance to see a real explorer and maybe some red skins. Everyday David ran alongside the wagon, pretending to be a scout, checking the endless horizon for danger. He imagined he wore his father’s gun, carried the rifle tucked behind the wagon seat, whispered to the horses to stay steady and the cow to keep up. His mother Martha had laughed and his father ruffled his hair. When he got tired Jacob would lift him up into the wagon and he’d sit beside his mother watching the wide open fields slowly pass by or he’d crawl into the back of the wagon and curl up on the grain sacks to nap.

In the evening his mother would make them supper while David helped his father put the animals down for the night. After they would lay in the cool sweet grass and stare up at the endless night sky with its countless twinkling lights until David feel asleep curled under his blanket, nestled between his parents.

The journey was hard but they were happy. The endless land and open sky laid out in front of them and only them, full of his father’s plans and his mother’s dreams. Their entire future stretching before them.

And then, suddenly, with no warning or provocation, on a day like any other with the sun shining and the blue sky full of clouds everything changed. There was no warning, no sign of illness or trouble, but on that random day Jacob went mad, attacking Martha with a brutality David had never imagined possible.

He had been running ahead of his father and the horses when Jacob had stopped walking, halting the wagon before turning and walking back to the wagon where Martha sat, confused, waiting for Jacob to explain the sudden stop. Instead he reached up and grabbed Martha by her hair, dragging her down from her seat before flinging her to the ground.

David stopped running when he heard his mother’s startled cry, turned back in time to see his father hit her as she tried to get up. It startled him, made him nervous and confused. He’d never seen his father this angry, never seen him treat his mother with anything but affection. And now, now he was ignoring her pleas and cries as he forced her to stay on the ground one fist at a time.

He wanted to stop it, wanted to stop his father and protect his mother but he didn’t know how. Instead David hid under the wagon, behind a wheel hoping it would all stop. But his father didn’t stop, taking his knife from his belt and cutting into his mother’s calico dress, cutting her deep, making her bleed before slicing into his own hand, blood spilling down, soaking his hand before dripping into the ground.

It didn’t make any sense, nothing Jacob was doing made any sense and it scared David. Scared him to watch his father stomp on his mother’s dress as she tried to crawl away, grabbing her arm, gripping tight, smearing their blood together. David knows it had to hurt. He knows how strong his father is, how strong his hands are. His mother’s cry of pain is shrill, watery and full of shock. She’s cowering from Jacob, trying to curl up into a tight ball but Jacob keeps his hold on her arm, keeps bleeding on her, won’t let go no matter how hard Martha tries to pull her arm free.

David can’t watch anymore, can’t stand to let it keep going. He runs at his father, crashing into his legs, hitting as hard as he can, screaming at his father to stop. But all it does is turn his father’s attention from Martha to David. Jacob stares down at him with such anger and hate in his eyes that David wonders if the man in front of him really is his father because his father isn’t capable of such anger, such violence.

His father reaches for him, nearly has him, bloodied fingers brushing against his shirt before Martha grabs Jacob’s leg and orders David to run.

And he does. David runs and runs and runs as fast and as far as his young legs will carry him. Runs until he can’t breath and his legs won’t carry him any further and he collapses onto the soft green grass.

He’s run up a soft hill and from his perch atop the small incline, in the middle of the vast prairie with nothing to obscure his view David can still see the wagon, can still make out his parents, can still hear them yelling at each other, until they’re suddenly quiet and all David can hear is the gunshot that echoes across the plains.

David stays exactly where he is.

***

David sits atop that small hill all day, in the exact spot he had fallen when his legs gave out. But dusk is settling in – the sun setting in brilliant colors that paint the sky as far as the eye can see – and it gets cold out on the plains at night. He’s scared. Scared of the complete emptiness surrounding him, scarred of the dark that is coming, scared of his father, scared to go back to the wagon.

But the wagon has blankets and food and maybe dad…maybe mama would let him sleep with the fire burning instead of just embers. Maybe everything is okay now. David forces himself to go back to the wagon. He walks slowly, trying to be quiet, his legs prickly and weak from having sat so long.

What David finds back at the wagon will stay with him forever. His mother beaten and bloody, her golden hair red with blood, dress in tatters, face barely recognizable. His father lying nearby, knuckles cracked and hands bloody, black soot surrounding a neat clean hole at his temple where the bullet had entered. David doesn’t want to see where it exited. The gun his father used to kill himself lies in the grass by his head.

It scares him, all the blood and his parent’s dead bodies. David doesn’t know what to do. He’s alone. Out in the middle of unsettled land, nothing but grass and sky all around him, going on forever with only two horses, a cow and a covered wagon. He doesn’t know how to go back and he doesn’t know the way forward, doubts he could drive the wagon if he did.

There’s nothing to do but crawl up into the wagon and hide, take a blanket, curl up into a ball and pray that when he wakes up in the morning it will all be a terrible dream.

***

The sound of voices whispering in a language David doesn’t understand is the first thing he hears in the morning. He didn’t hear anyone approach, hadn’t heard horses ride up. He curls up tighter under his blanket. Prays they won’t find him. Prays they’ll go away and leave him alone.

He stays as still and as quiet as he can, biting his lip when the wagon dips and sways, someone climbing into it. He hears someone looking through the supplies, talking in that strange language. David can’t see through the blanket, can’t see who’s taking his family’s belongings. And he doesn’t care. He just wants them to go away. He repeats it over and over in his head ‘go away go away go away’ even as the person comes closer stopping right next to him. He must have moved, made a sound because suddenly it’s incredibly still.

The blanket is pulled back quickly and David can’t stop the shriek that comes out, wants to scream when he sees a man standing over him, knife out and ready to strike. The man is a red skin, the first David has ever seen. His head is shaved save a long strip of shining black hair adorned with colorful feathers; his sun burnt skin covered in weird designs and symbols; strong muscular torso naked and deer skin leggings. It’s terrifying.

David and the red skin stare at each other. David scared but curious, unable to look away; the red skin surprised, confused before his expression becomes one of understanding and sympathy.

The red skin sheaths his knife, crouching down to David’s level, trying to appear safe. He motions David to come to him but David just curls further into the bed, clutching the blanket tighter. But the further David squirms back the more the man moves forward, slowly, gently and when David has nowhere else to go the man scoops him up as if David weighs nothing. David fights, pounding his small fists into the man’s chest, shouting ‘no no no’ and ordering the man to put him down. The red skin ignores him, simply carrying David out of the wagon and into the bright morning sun.

David keeps fighting, kicking and hitting and trying to bite but the man just holds him tight trying to keep from dropping David. David manages to squirm enough to turn in the man’s arms and there, right in front of him, right where he had found them last night are his parents. Still lying there, bloody and bruised and pale. Still dead.

At the sight of them David stops fighting, starts trying to breathe, his body shaking uncontrollably and suddenly he’s sobbing into the strange man’s smooth ink covered shoulder.

***

David goes with them; sits atop the horse of the man who found him, held him while he sobbed. They ride for a long time, following a trail only they know over the endless land towards the horizon. The sun follows them across the sky and David watches the clouds skim across the bright blue before he’s lulled into a doze by the steady movement of the horse beneath him.

He’s awake to see a small cluster of huts come into view. Teepees and lodges dot the green landscape, smoke curls up to the sky, animal skins dry on wooden racks, people go about their lives. The return of the horses is greeted by children shouting and playing, laughing. After so much time with just his parents the sight and sound of so many people is unsettling and David shrinks back into the man’s chest. The children stop shouting and laughing when they notice him and instead stare at him with curiosity. The horse keeps moving through the village and people look up, see David and whisper to their neighbors, follow the horses to the big teepee set in the middle of the cluster.

Another red skin comes out; he’s older with long whiter hair and more clothing than just the leggings the men who found him wear. He looks David over, touches him, look deep into his eyes while David’s rescuer explains how they came to find this small frighten child of the white man.

Finally the old man nods and speaks to David in the language he doesn’t understand. He tells David that he will stay with them, that this place of tepees and lodges will become his home and the men, women and children will become his family. He tells David they are the Kanza, people of the wind and he will become one of them.

***

David is taken in by a young couple with no children of their own yet. David’s new mother’s name is Gaboje Mi and she couldn’t look for different from Martha. Gaboje Mi has black eyes that match her long raven black hair that shines in the sun but in their manners, his mothers are the same: gentle and kind with loving eyes. His new father, Ishta Leda, is a warrior; big and strong with marked skin and a hard face but kind eyes.

The loss of his birth parents is a constant ache and it takes David time to adjust to his new parents. He’s sullen and withdrawn, scared of Ishta Leda’s stern face, uncomfortable with Gaboje Mi’s affection. Everything is unfamiliar except for the open land that surrounds the settlement and David spends as much time outside the boundaries of the camp as he can, running through the long grass.

His parents are patient giving David the time and space he needs to adjust. Soon enough David begins responding to their efforts to engage him, learning their language, wearing their clothes and eventually playing with the other children, integrating himself into the tribe.

He grows to love his surrogate parents. They love him and raise him well, never letting him doubt he belongs with them, make him happy. And while he’ll never forget where he comes from, David grows proud of his new family, proud to be Kanza. Proud to be given a Kanza name, one that’s unique to him thanks to his grass green eyes, proud to be called Ishta Toho.

***

Ishta Leda raises David to be a warrior. Teaches him to hunt and fight, to ride and use the bow, how to wield a knife and grapple. David is a quick study, loves the training, finding it almost easy. He excels at it, outpacing the other boys and taking to weapons and tracking like he was born to it. The elders watch him closely, speaking to his father on occasion and David feels a mixture of pride and elation whenever his father’s face softens with pride. At the age of ten David is allowed to shadow Ishta Leta and the other men when they go hunt. At twelve he’s allowed to participate.

At fifteen the time comes for him to enter the sweat lodge and face the test that will make him a man.

The sweat lodge is stifling, the air heady and thick. Its difficult to breathe the air is so heavy with the scent of sage and smudge, of bodies and sweat. It makes him dizzy. Inside the tent sits the tribe elders, men of age and wisdom, experience and knowledge. And at the center of them all sits the tribe’s Shaman. They sit around a fire, prepared to witness David’s trials. Each of them watching him, waiting, expecting.

David sits, closing the circle. The Shaman packs a pipe and passes it down till it reaches David. The pipe is heavy in his hands, the gaze of the shaman heavier still. He’s waiting for David to smoke, waiting for him to embrace the ritual and begin his journey.

The wood is smooth against his lips, tastes mellow and earthy. David inhales deeply, holds the smoke in, feels it curl within his mouth and burn his lungs before he gently exhales and pushes it out. It tastes of earth and leaves and dried wood, reminds him of wet fall days hunting deer along the riverbanks.

The smoke floods his senses, gets into his head, makes his eyes water and his fingers tingle. He’s tired. So very tired. His body is loose and supple, sinking into the blankets below him. It’s the drugs pulling him under, taking him to meet his spirit guide and seek his path and David doesn’t fight it. He feels his body fall back onto the soft fox pelt behind him, feels his head loll to the side; his vision blurs as he watches the Shaman call the spirits with his chant. And then David sinks below the soft velvety darkness that is waiting.

***

He wakes, head clear, breath easy. It’s night. The sky above is full of stars, no moon to dull their sparkle. The grass below him is sweet and cool. The air is clean and crisp and David takes deep cleansing breaths, filling his lungs to capacity. He’s in the middle of the prairie, endless miles of tall grass and soft rolling hills. David recognizes this as the northern land, the land of the Kanza’s ancestors, the land that they return to every summer for the rich earth below and the strong sun above.

It’s quiet. No breeze to rustle the trees, no water babbling in a brook; even the animals are silent. Everything is still. The only light comes from the stars above and a mysterious flare of light near the horizon where the black sky bleeds into the dark land. It lures David in, drawing him forward towards its light.

David walks, the light growing the closer he gets. It’s a short walk compared to the vastness around him. He walks slowly, quietly, his training and instincts serving him well. The land rises, a gentle hill in the middle of flat land and at the top the light, a flame, a campfire.

The view from the top is endless, a blending of stars and earth and forever in all directions. Were it not for the man sitting next to the fire David would feel as if he were the only person in the world.

David sits next to the fire, hands resting on his crossed legs mirroring the man across from him. He can’t make out the man’s features with his face bowed and hidden by the shadows thrown by the flames. David waits, watching the flames jump and dance, sneaking glances at the man, the spirit, his guide, across from him.

“A child of the white man comes before me seeking his path.”

The voice is ageless, sounding somehow hollow, deep and yet it’s a voice David’s heard before, somewhere in his past. The voice holds him, the words washing over him and David listens as the man lays his path out in front of him. Tells him his destiny.

“We’ve waited many summers for you to return dable. Many winters. You return in a desperate time. The balance has shifted; the darkness is spreading.

Once again we call upon the akida, chosen soul of the Great Spirits, marked since the Master of Life separate the earth and the sky.

You among all others can shift the scales; bring balance to the universe. Perhaps end the eternal war between those above and those below.

It is your path. It is your life. It will be your death.”

The fire flares bright and full, the flames reaching for the sky and the man lifts his head. For the first time David can see his face. It’s a face from a different life, a different time, a face that is both loved and feared. The white skin and blonde hair are surprising but his eyes, his eyes are green, David’s eyes and David stares into them seeking the father he knew so long ago. His father stares back, unblinking, drawing David into his ageless bottomless green eyes and David falls.

***

Images flash before him quick and jumbled. He sees his father killing his mother, eyes crazed, face twisted in rage before the anger vanishes and Jacob kills himself in grief. He sees himself in the middle of a forest, running, chasing, hunting something. He sees a woman, her eyes black as night, laughing at him, taunting, her words not her own. He watches as a child, helpless and fragile transform into a vicious wolf, sees it rip out the heart of its little sister. David sees himself aging, his body littered with scars, his face tired and worn, old.

He sees a face, a young gentle face with hazel eyes shot full of yellows and greens and greys, eyes that look into him, see his soul, eyes that make David’s breath catch and his heart beat; eyes in a face he knows, if only he could grasp the memory.

***

David wakes with a gasp, bolts upright, his heart hammering in his chest, his breath coming quick and hard. His head is still hazy, lost in that other world, lost in the vision. Remembering those eyes.

The tent is empty save for the Shaman, waiting for him, watching him. David drinks the water he’s handed, desperate for it. It’s cool and refreshing, helps clear his head a bit, helps him regain his bearings. The sweat lodge is still hot, still stuffy but the heady scent is gone making it easier to breath.

There’s too much in his head. Too much to process, too much to acknowledge. There’s all this new information in his head, all this new knowledge that he wants to take, each piece, one at a time, lay it all out so it makes sense. Except he feels this need, deep in his bones, to just go. Leave. Get on a horse and ride across the prairie until he finds something, anything to fight, to hunt. To kill.

But not yet. Not yet. There’s plenty of time for that. There are things to do first. He’ll be off soon enough.

***

The Shaman is still watching David, his gaze steady, as if he’s trying to read him. David feels it, knows he’s there but it doesn’t bother him, doesn’t affect him. He knows what comes next and he’s ready. He’s ready for all of it.

They sit there quietly, patiently, each waiting for the other. Finally the Shaman speaks, laying out what David already knows.

“You found your path.”

“Yes.”

“You are dable. Akida. The one we have been waiting for.”

He doesn’t answer. Just meets the holy man’s eyes. David respects this man, knows there’s much he can learn from him but there’s no longer a sense of awe, a slight fear. The Shaman breaks eye contact first acknowledging their new relationship.

“From now on you will be Ehna Mayi.”

The name is prophetic, speaks of the future, and will one day match the man he will grow to be. David nods. Accepts that this is who he is. This is what he will become.

David follows the Shaman out of the tent and is surprised to find that the sun is well on its way towards setting. He’s been in the sweat lodge for much longer than he thought. For much longer than is normal. The entire tribe has gathered, is waiting for him, for the Shaman to tell them David’s future. His parents stand up front, eyes only for him. He waits, curious to see his people’s response.

“The Master of Life has spoken. He is akida, a dable. He is Ehna Mayi.”

***

The tribe treats him differently now. Only his parents and the shaman treat him the same. From everyone else there’s a slight wariness, a sense of awe when they approach him, when they speak to him. If they speak to him.

His mother coddles him when she can and his father hovers from a distance. They vacillate between pride at their son’s destiny and parental fear. He’s their son, their first, a gift from the Great Spirits. A man now in the eyes of the tribe. But he’s still just fifteen.

David moves into a hut at the edge of the village giving himself space to meditate, adjust to the new knowledge within him, begin taking the first steps on his new path. He trains at night, hunting alone with only one of his knives, forcing himself to grapple with his prey. He trains to the limits of his endurance and strength and forces himself beyond them. He was strong before, a skilled hunter, more capable with a bow or a blade than anyone in the tribe. But now his visions have awoken strengths deep inside making him sharper, reflexes honed, senses alive and sensitive. He becomes more comfortable with the night than the day. Enjoys the dark quiet solitude, the vast blankness stretched out before him.

In the day David visits the women of the tribe, the ones old enough to know the secrets passed down through generations. They teach him about herbs and roots, medicine and tonics, how to unlock the secrets of the earth. They tell him stories as they work, stories told to them by their mothers who learned them from their own mothers, generation upon generation of legend and myth on the tongues of wise women. They’re stories he needs to know, legends and myths that will help him.

From the shaman David learns about vision questing and dream walking. He learns how to block off his mind from those that would enter it and steal his thoughts, how to protect the parts of himself that are vulnerable to more than just a physical weapon. They teach him everything they know. The rest he’ll have to learn on his own. But it’s a start.

At night when he returns from his hunts David dreams. He always dreams now. Dark dreams; dreams of hunting and pain and exhaustion, dreams of fighting and blood and death. And always, always, David dreams of hazel eyes staring into his soul. He has no idea what it means, if they’re an omen, good or bad; if they portend evil or salvation. All he knows is that these eyes see him in ways no one else ever has. He wakes, achy and yearning, his heart fluttering and his belly full of a low thrumming heat. And in his mind, a lost memory just tickling his conscious.

***

When David leaves months later it’s moments before dawn, the eastern sky bleeding from inky blackness to deep purple to a soft buttery pink. He brings only a few essentials: a blanket for the ground, some dried food, his water pouch, a few feathers his father plucked for him, some beads his sisters have strung and a few herbs picked for him by the shaman’s wife. He keeps his knife and bow and quiver close, strapped to his leg and resting on his back. The rest are within easy reach.

His most prized possession is his horse Nage, a filly that he’s had since he learned to ride. She was a pony when he got her and they grew up together. She’s beautiful, strong, her black hide soft and shiny in the sun. She knows him intimately, knows his tricks, and follows his every command, comfortable with him on her back, sure in her step and fast, so very very fast. David loves her as she loves him.

He doesn’t say goodbye. Knows it would be too painful. He slips out quietly before the sun crests the horizon and only looks back once, takes in the sleeping village that has been his home for most of his life before kicking his heels to Nage and riding west, chasing the night.

It’s time.

***

His first hunt, his very first hunt, back when he was still at the village, is a wanáⁿghe, a spirit. Not evil, not hurting anyone, just a restless spirit who needs to be put to rest.

It’s the spirit of a young woman and he comes across her while he’s hunting. She watches him for a while, follows him while he stalks a small herd of buffalo. When David finally sees her he freezes, fear at his first sight of something truly supernatural rooting him in place. She comes to him, her image flickering in and out of focus, the temperature around David drops till he can see his breath. She stops in front of him and just looks, seeming more curious than anything.

He follows when she turns away. She seems to know he’s following, a tiny smile on her face as she leads him away form the herd. They walk, the spirit not making a sound as her feet slip through the grass. When they finally stop she turns back to him and just stares. David doesn’t understand what she’s doing, what she’s asking. She seems to realize his confusion, pointing down to the ground where he can just make out the tatters of an old deer skin pouch, the leather dry and cracked, disintegrating over the years.

He drops to his knees, fingering what’s left of the pouch before he notices pieces of what was once clothing. He thinks he understands now as he takes his knife and digs into the dry earth, cutting down the tall grass as he goes. He doesn’t have to dig far before he comes across bones.

David thinks that some time in the past she must have gone out onto the prairie and gotten lost, maybe got hurt or killed by an animal, something to prevent a proper burial by those who loved her. It’s desperately sad and David can’t help wondering if he will end the same way. He gathers the bones and says a prayer, reburies them with what remains of her belongings. She watches the entire time, slowly fading as each word of prayer falls from his lips. When he finishes there’s a brilliant eagle’s feather where the spirit of the woman had stood.

It’s the perfect introduction to his destiny: safe, easy and successful. The thought makes him laugh during his next hunt.

Part 2 continued

In This Time And Place: Part 1

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 16:06:17 GMT

“Well, there’s other generations.”

Azazel to Sam in ‘All Hell Breaks Loose Part 1’

***

When Daniel Winster is four years old he watches his mother – a confirmed and condemned witch – burn. The image of her death is seared into his memory: her loose white shift, once long blond hair shorn close to her scalp, hands tied behind her back pinning her body to the stake, the flames hot and bright flicking around her body. He remembers her praying, remembers her looking out into the crowd desperately searching for him, remembers her face pale and drawn, remembers her mouthing ‘I love you’. It took forever for her to burn. The dry wood burned fierce, the smoke and gunpowder hanging around her neck killing her blessedly quick but her body, her body burned for hours and Daniel remembers every moment.

Orphaned by fire and his father’s soldiering in the king’s latest war, Daniel is brought up by uncompromising Dominican monks who tell him he owes a debt, that he is damned for the sins of his parents but that he can repay and repent by doing God’s work. They don’t tell Daniel that he’ll be paying in blood and gore and pain.

He learns the names of every saint and every demon; he learns every exorcism and holy spell; he memorizes the Malleus Maleficarum; he becomes an expert with a sword, a dagger, a bow; he learns different herbs and medicines; he learns to survive. He learns that there is evil in the world and that in order to fight it he must become a sword for God. He must pay for his Mother’s crimes and the priests’ charity. He must ignore earthly concerns and earthly pleasures, become a warrior in the ancient, ongoing war between God and the Devil.

Of all the evil in the world witches become Daniel’s personal crusade. He despises them, these women whose deeds are all the more cruel because of their deception of those nearest to them. They’re cruel, selfish and spiteful, lustful and cunning. Mothers and wives who destroy the lives of those they claim to love. He hunts them down with a single mindedness that borders on obsession, determined that no one should suffer from their curse.

He follows rumor and signs – unusual weather, an uncommon number of cattle deaths, a too long drought, a sudden rise in deaths – across Europe. He has neither home nor family, nothing but his cache of weapons, his horse and his mission. His reputation precedes him, earned through years of successful hunting. Eventually Daniel finds himself following the rumors of cattle deaths and freak storms to a village in west France, a village relieved to have Daniel Winster arrive to solve their supposed witch problem. He’s 26 and far too old for his age, with a record and a reputation that God would be proud of. If God was really paying attention. Some days Daniel has his doubts.

He’s 26 and his life is about to be irrevocably changed. Again.

***

The village is nondescript, like nearly every other village Daniel has been to in his life – buildings clustered together, the public ones easily identifiable, a blacksmith, a tavern doubling as an inn – small and insular, not used to strangers or strange events occurring in their little town. And at the center of it all, the church.

Its a simple building but easily the largest and richest – expert masonry and stain glass windows – reinforcing the power of Rome and the authority, both secular and spiritual, of the local priest.

Like all sons of the Church Daniel is accorded a room and board for both himself and his horse Mercury. The inside of the church is as simple but rich as the outside – stone floor and high vaulted ceiling, ornate alter with rich tapestries and ornaments. The stain glass windows filter the sun giving the interior a hazy, filtered brightness. Its beautiful in its simplicity but, like with all churches, Daniel feels uncomfortable, too many memories of rigid, scolding sermons and hours spent on his knees to make him feel at home in a church. The church is empty and his footsteps echo off the stone floor as he walks up the aisle towards the front. He sees the bible resting on its stand off to the side where the priest gives his sermons and goes over to it. He’s carefully looking through its beautifully illustrated pages when the priest emerges from a side door.

“Can I help you my son?”

The priest – Father Lambert – greets him with barely contained excitement and respect when Daniel gives his name. All local priests are excited at Daniel’s arrival, the fervor in their eyes igniting, happy to have another true believer, happy to have someone do the brutal work of weeding out the hidden evil in the parish’s midst. Both human and supernatural.

Daniel’s hardly the kind of true believer they think he is and their exuberance has always made him a bit uncomfortable. But it’s better to have their backing and support than not. It makes things easier, let’s him do his job saving people, hunting things, and for that he let’s them believe whatever they want.

***

He’s in town for two days and finds…nothing.

The weather is unpredictable but not strange, the cows all seem to have died of natural causes, there is no drought. He would consider it a case of an overzealous priest except for the feeling deep in his gut, the feeling that tells him there’s something here. And Daniel has learned to never ignore his instincts.

***

Daniel wakes on the third day feeling strangely invigorated, as if something is going to happen, as if he’s been waiting for this day for a long time. It scares him a bit. He learned a long time ago not to expect anything, be excited by anything.

He ignores the feeling. Pushes it down deep, doing his best to ignore it. It makes him jittery, anxious. Halfway through another unsuccessful search of the surrounding fields Mercury throws a shoe giving Daniel an excuse to finish the day.

He follows the sound of clanging iron to the center of town. The workshop is big; open aired and hot, fires burning and bellows working, forging iron and steel into more than just metal. The blacksmith is friendly enough, telling Daniel that he needn’t worry, that his son-in-law will put a new shoe on Mercury.

“Simon!”

Daniel follows the blacksmith’s gaze to the unusually tall man working over one of the forges. The man looks up at the mention of his name, glances at the blacksmith before looking at Daniel. Their eyes meet and Daniel feels that nagging feeling he’s been having ever since he arrived explode inside him, burning hot and bright. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before and he has no idea what it means, only that this must be what he’s been searching for.

***

Male witches are rare. Men are much less susceptible than woman, much more in control of there bodies and their minds, less corruptible, less sexually deviant; which means that Daniel has less experience dealing with male witches than female ones. Regardless, if Simon is a witch than it’s Daniel’s duty to bring him to justice and rid the village of his wickedness.

Except.

Except Daniel can found no evidence that Simon is a witch or evil in any regard. For two days Daniel watches Simon rise in the morning, work through the day – pausing only to steal kisses from his young wife Jessamine – and laugh with friends, before retiring for the evening. For two days Daniel watches him live his life and with each passing hour Daniel finds it impossible to believe that Simon could ever be evil. He doesn’t know why he’s drawn to Simon or why the feeling in his gut flares each time Daniel looks at him. His instincts have never been wrong before and Daniel has no idea what to make of all this.

He doesn’t know what to do except to keep doing his job, which is why Daniel finds himself tucked up in the hayloft of a barn across from the blacksmith’s workshop. The loft gives him the perfect view of the workshop and the home where the family lives.

It’s the third night that Daniel’s watched Simon sit down to dinner, the third night in a row that he’s watched the three of them – the blacksmith, Jessamine and Simon – relax and laugh, be a family. It’s the third night in a row that Daniel has watched Simon and Jessamine slip into their room and fall into bed, into each other. Just like the last two nights.

Three days and two nights of near constant vigilance start to take their toll and Daniel can’t help nodding off a bit, fatigue and boredom getting the better of him. The house is dark and quiet and nothing, absolutely nothing is happening. He’s dozing when the steady thrumming he’s been feeling in his gut suddenly flairs, hot and strong. He’s awake and reaching for his dagger before the feeling fades back to the low constant it’s been ever since he laid eyes on Simon. It leaves him tense, cautious, the night’s too quiet, unnaturally dark even for this time of night.

His eyes adjust slowly finally focusing on Simon and Jessamine’s room and the figure standing at the end of their bed. He watches in horror as the figure raises its hand and Jessamine flies up out of bed. The sound her body makes when it hits the ceiling wakes Simon. Daniel watches him scramble out of bed and lunge towards the figure only to be thrown back against the wall. The sight of Simon flying through the air has Daniel dropping down from his perch, running across the street and into the house. There are flames coming out of the bedroom window by the time he smashes through the front door and starts running up the stairs.

He hears Simon screaming, begging, begging for Jessamine’s life, begging for it to stop. Simon’s still pinned to the wall when Daniel barges in, Jessamine still up on the ceiling, blood dripping from where that thing gutted her, her golden hair fanning out across the ceiling fueling the flames that are about to engulf her.

Daniel takes one step towards the man and finds himself held in place by a pair of evil yellow eyes. A demon.

It’s a demon. And it’s smiling at him.

“Hunter.”

Its voice is smooth, deceptively lulling. But nothing can drown out Simon’s screams and the crackling sound of timber burning. Daniel blinks and the demon is gone. Simon falls to the floor, feet barely touching before he’s reaching for Jessamine, trying to pull her down from the ceiling. It’s useless, she’s held there by powers no mortal can repel. But Simon keeps trying, keeps begging her to come to him, to stay with him, to be alive.

The room is engulfed in flames and soon the rest of the house will be too. The blacksmith runs into the room calling for his daughter and Simon. His yells turn to screams when he sees what’s happening. He starts screaming at Simon to save her, to save his daughter. Daniel has to drag him out of the room and push him down the stairs, hoping that he gets himself out of the house that is quickly being destroyed by the fire. The roof beams start buckling, falling and Daniel knows they only have a few moments till the entire house collapses.

Simon is still trying to pull Jessamine down from the ceiling, clutching the hand he’s managed to free. But Jessamine doesn’t budge and her body is quickly being eaten by the fire, body charred, flesh peeling off as Simon tugs desperately. She’s long dead but Simon refuses to let go, his own hands and arms burning, filling the room with the scent of burning flesh.

Simon fights when Daniel tries to drag him from the room, refuses to let go of Jessamine’s hand. He’s stronger than Daniel, years working a forge and shaping iron giving him an unusual strength in addition to his height. But Daniel’s strong too and he wants to live, wants Simon to live, so he holds on tighter, pushes harder, keeps pushing till he gets them out of the room, down the crumbling stairs and out of the house.

Simon fights him the entire way.

There’s a crowd outside, brought by the flames and smoke, thinking they could help put out the fire. A crowd that has been listening to the blacksmith scream for his daughter, scream about her burning on the ceiling, ranting about Simon standing beneath her, baptized in his daughter’s blood.

And Simon is covered in blood, blood that is bright and thick, blood that mats his hair and clings to his eyelashes. He’s still struggling against Daniel, desperate to get back in the house, desperate to try and save Jessamine. Only when the roof completely collapses does he stop.

Then he too collapses, dragging Daniel down with him.

***

Daniel wakes slowly, eyes heavy and grainy, sight blurry. Everything is hazy, his mind fuzzy. His entire body hurts. There’s a throbbing in his arms and hands, each breath is a sharp pain in his chest, his throat raw. He’s stiff and uncomfortable and his arms itch.

He lets out a small groan, unable to hold it in as he tries to move, turning his head to take in his surroundings. His eyes begin to focus and the room comes into view – white walls and a table with a crucifix on the wall. Daniel recognizes it as the room he was given by Father Lambert when he first arrived though he hasn’t slept here for the past three nights.

He has to get up, has to find out what’s happening. How did he get here, how long has he been unconscious, what’s been happening since…the fire. Where’s Simon. What happened to Simon? He has to find out what happened to Simon. Make sure he’s ok. Make sure he’s safe. He has too…

Small gentle hands, a woman’s hands, stop him from his struggle to sit up, push him gently back onto the mattress. “Please Sir. You have to rest. You arms…”

Daniel looks down at his arms and sees that they’ve been bandaged, white linen wrapping his hands and arms up to the elbow. He doesn’t remember being burned when he was in the house. Doesn’t remember any pain. All he remembers is the demon and the fierce need to protect Simon, to pull him out of the fire.

“You were burned in the fire. Not bad, you’ll heal quickly. The bandages should be able to come off in a day or so. You also breathed in a lot of smoke. You have to rest. Here.”

He drinks from the cup she brings to his lips, drinks greedily, soothing his throat with the cool liquid. He lets her lay him back down onto the soft mattress and smooth his hair back. He tries to speak, ask how long he’s been unconscious but nothing but a gasped whisper comes out. She hushes him again, tells him to rest. And suddenly he’s tired again, so tired, his eyes closing, body slipping under regardless of his fight against it. It occurs to him as he slips into sleep that she must have put something in his drink. Something to help him sleep.

He can’t fight it, slips under staring up at this woman’s pretty face, but all he really sees is Simon and his hazel eyes.

***

When Daniel wakes for the second time he knows where he is. His body stills hurts but now it’s merely aches and stiffness from lying too long. He’s alert and ready to go. Ready to get up and find out what’s going on. Find out where Simon is.

The woman from before is sitting next to his bed, a bowl of water on the floor next to her and fresh bandages in her lap. She smiles at him, simple and kind but she still pushes Daniel back when he goes to sit up. He tries to brush her off but she won’t let him and her voice is stern when she scolds him. “At least let me check your arms first.”

She takes his arm and begins removing the bandages revealing tender pink flesh with a few sores scattered across them. They hurt, throb a bit and feel too raw in the open air. But he’ll heal.

“Who are you?” This time his voice cooperates though it’s scratchy and low and hurts his throat.

“Rebecca, the town’s midwife. Father Lambert asked me to tend to you after…after the fire.” She doesn’t look at him, just keeps tending his arm, dabbing a wet cloth over the sores before applying a salve. As a rule Daniel doesn’t like midwives, too susceptible to witchcraft, too easily seduced by the Devil. But he’s not dealing with a witch here. He’s dealing with a demon.

“How long?” He needs to know.

This time she does glance up, quickly, almost involuntarily before darting away again, back to his arms. “Three days.”

Three days! He’s up and off the cot without thinking, nearly knocking Rebecca out of her chair, heading for the door before she grabs his arm and squeezes. The pain is sharp, forces him to stop, focuses his attention on her. “Let me finish.”

She meets his gaze, her eyes fierce and determined, as if she’s trying to tell him something but he doesn’t know what. Daniel lets her lead him back to the cot, her bandages scattered on the floor by the chair. He needs her to hurry. He’s been unconscious for three days. Three days where anything could have happened. Three days where the demon could have returned and killed Simon. Or worse, taken him. Three days where the demon could have returned and gone after the entire village. Three days that Simon’s been alone and in pain, in danger.

Rebecca wraps his arms but leaves his hands free. They’re still pink and tender but there are no sores, just raw skin. She ties off the last bandage, leans down and drags his boots over next to him and starts collecting her things. He’s at the door when her voice stops him. She’s looking at him again with that same determined expression, her eyes meeting his.

“Be careful.”

***

He finds Father Lambert in his private quarters and he’s not alone. There’s another man sitting at the table with him, a man Daniel doesn’t recognize. Given the situation it makes Daniel uncomfortable.

“Master Winster. It’s good to see you out of bed. You look quite recovered.”

“Yes thank you.”

“Ahh, you haven’t met. Master Winster, please allow me to present his Excellency Bishop Thaddeus. Your Excellency, it is Master Winster we have to thank for weeding out the evil in our midst.”

Bishop Thaddeus stands, his robes now visible and immediately recognizable. He inclines his head towards Daniel, his face blank, his eyes sharp, watching.

“M’lord.” Daniel bows, years of deference to the Church hierarchy engrained in him.

“We were most fortunate that the Bishop choose to visit on a tour of his diocese. The Bishop’s arrival allowed us to move forward despite your incapacity.” Father Lambert sounds especially pleased with himself and the attention now focused on him and his parish.

“I’m sorry…move forward?” Surely they don’t mean…

“Yes. His Excellency thought and the Sheriff and I agreed that it was important to deal with this unfortunate situation as soon as possible. The boy has been tried and found guilty of course. His sentence is to be carried out tomorrow.”

Daniel’s not sure he understands. “Guilty of what?”

“Witchcraft of course.”

Daniel’s heart seems to drop into his stomach, his breath caught in his throat. It doesn’t make sense.

“Witchcraft?”

“Should he have been tried for something else?”

“No. He should not have been tried at all. He’s innocent.”

Father Lambert looks at him as if he just said the world was flat and the Earth revolved around the sun. “Master Winster, the evidence states and the witnesses all agree that Simon pinned Jessimine to the ceiling and set fire to the house through his touch. What else could this be but witchcraft?”

“Many things. And if you had waited to ask me instead of a bunch of ignorant villagers I could have given testimony to that effect!”

“Sir! We may not have been privy to the same education as you but we know what we saw Sir.”

“You know nothing!” Daniel knows he’s yelling, knows he’s handling this all wrong, knows his anger and frustration are getting the better of him but this small minded, insignificant parish priest refuses to listen. “There was a demon…”

“Father Lambert!” The Bishop’s voice, deep and commanding, silences him. “Would you excuse Master Winster and I for a moment.”

“Of course Your Grace. Please, excuse me.”

The Bishop remains seated, looking almost at ease on the low bench watching Daniel try to reign in his anger. “Daniel…”

“He’s innocent.”

“You say there was something else in the room with you.”

“It had the shape of a man but I couldn’t faithfully make it out. Except for its eyes. It had yellow eyes and it knew me.”

He watches the Bishop look away, his attention turned completely inward, before taking a deep breath and nodding to himself.

“You believe me.” He knew the Bishop did.

“It’s possible. But Daniel…” and now he’s looking at Daniel, looking straight into his eyes, holding them to his, not letting go. “You know as well as I that if this demon has marked Simon than he will never let go. The demon will hunt him until it kills him or worse, until Simon gives in and gives himself over to the demon. Either way, we are doing the boy a mercy.”

***

They go back and forth for a time, Daniel arguing that Simon is innocent and to put him to the fire would be murder. The Bishop’s response had been to scoff at him.

“Don’t pretend to be naïve Daniel, you know that sometimes we have to do things for the greater good. You’ve done it yourself. Of all the witches you’ve sent to the fire, is there not one that might have been innocent?”

Daniel knows it was possible but it’s always been theory, never fact and at the time of each trial, each burning he’d been absolutely certain. Now, now he knows Simon is innocent and the Bishop is asking him, telling him it didn’t matter, telling him they were saving Simon by putting him to the flames.

“If Simon is truly innocent than better we save him now, purge his sins and send him to God for his reward than let him languish here, guilt ridden and vulnerable. An easy target for evil.”

And that was it. Daniel had lost, as deep down he knew he would. The Bishop’s word was law and while Daniel disagreed, it made some sort of sick sense. There was nothing more he could do. Simon would burn.

***

The jail is small, dark and damp and horribly depressing. Daniel has been in plenty of jails – it’s his job to interrogate accused witches – but it’s the first time he notices how really and truly depressing they are.

He knows he shouldn’t do this, knows it will only make things more difficult, make him feel more guilty than he already does, but he knows he’ll never forgive himself if he doesn’t.

The Sheriff leads him to the cell were Simon is spending the few hours he has left. Daniel finds him on the floor curled up against the bars, staring at the wall, seemingly unaware of his current surroundings. He looks unbelievably small and young.

“He’s not spoken since he was brought from the house. Not even at the trial.”

The Sheriff refuses to let Daniel in the cell but does leave him alone with Simon. Daniel drops to his knees next to where Simon is curled and gets a good look at him. Jessamine’s blood is still matted in Simon’s hair, his shirt brown and stiff where the blood has dried. Someone has made a halfhearted attempt at cleaning the blood off of Simon’s face but three days worth of tears have done a better job of washing away the crusted brown flakes. They haven’t bothered dressing the burns that extend from Simon’s hands to his elbows and what skin is left is raw, cracked and clotted, stinking of burned flesh and puss from infection. Only years of watching bodies burn prevents Daniel from gagging.

Simon still hasn’t acknowledged his presence and Daniel is starting to wonder if Samuel is even conscious. He feels helpless knowing there’s nothing he can do and the guilt and sorrow is almost overwhelming. The village is convinced that Samuel is a witch and they will have their revenge.

He should leave. He should leave and never think of this again. But he can’t leave, not yet.

“I’m sorry. I tried but…I’m sorry.”

Simon starts at his words, comes out of his daze and turns his bloodshot eyes to Daniel, holding Daniel in place.

“The fault is mine. I failed her.” His voice is barely a whisper, cracked from disuse and inhaled smoke but his words are clear and Daniel can hear him.

“I dreamed of fire and a man with yellow eyes and yet I did nothing. I refused to believe they were naught but night terrors.”

“Simon…” It’s a startling revelation, one that almost causes Daniel to reevaluate Simon’s innocence. But one look in Simon’s anguished eyes solidifies Daniel’s belief in Simon’s innocence. Simon would have died before giving in to the demon now or in the future. It makes Daniel even more desperate about the unfairness of the Bishop’s decision.

Daniel grips the bars so hard the metal digs into his skin, nearly breaking it. He’s so consumed with his own guilt that to hear Simon speak again is a surprise, what he says even more so.

“Swear to me that you will find this demon and destroy it. That you will avenge her murder. That you will avenge me. Swear.”

Simon wraps his hands around Daniel’s on the bars and that feeling, that low constant feeling that Daniel’s had since he laid eyes on Simon, that flared when the demon showed up, that cut through him when he heard of Simon’s sentence, that feeling bursts open and floods through him at Simon’s touch, settling deep into his bones. It’s a feeling of possession and a fierce need to protect, a deep ache within that could be love if Daniel knew what love was.

It fills Daniel with a new purpose, a new resolve, the knowledge that what he does is so much more than just duty and a search for salvation. Makes him believe, for the very first time that he has a purpose, a destiny.

He stares at Simon, sees his eyes wide with shock, knows he’s feeling something similar. They’re bound now and there’s only one response Daniel can give.

“I swear.”

***

The Sherriff sends Daniel away some time after midnight, when one day turns over to another, refusing to let him sit out the rest of the night with Simon. The moment their hands separate Simon goes back to staring blankly at the wall, as if Daniel had never been there, resigned to his fate. Welcoming it. Daniel allows himself one last look before leaving.

Finding Rebecca’s house is easy even in the dark. He feels a momentary remorse for banging on her door in the dead of night but Daniel’s desperation eclipses the guilt and he continues, knowing that she’ll help him in the end.

His fist bangs against the wood, echoing into the night and reverberating into the house. It takes a bit, his fists repeating his call every few minutes until he hears the lock unlatch and the door creaks open a sliver. Rebecca peers out into the night, her eyes fearful even after she recognizes him and even then only opens the door a bit more.

“Do you have hemlock?”

He doesn’t mean to bark at her, is probably scaring her more by doing so, but he’s a bit desperate and he needs to know. She doesn’t answer, instead seems to shrink into herself. She was hardly afraid of him earlier when she was healing him, but now, to have someone with his job and his reputation banging on your door in the dead of night; it’s no surprise that she’s scared. It chastises him, forces him to take a deep breath and calm down.

“Rebecca. Do you have hemlock?”

She refuses to look at him, glancing up before her eyes quickly dart away. She’s more leery than scared now that he’s calmed down but she’s still not telling him what he needs to know.

“I’m not interested in whatever else you might have. It doesn’t concern me and I don’t care.” She’s relaxing a bit but still not looking at him and definitely not letting him in. He pitches his voice even lower, head resting close to hers on the doorframe and he finally catches her darting gaze. “Rebecca, I don’t care. Please.”

She sighs deeply opening the door enough for him to slide through before bolting it shut. Her home is really just one big room, all that a widow can afford, but it’s warm and looks comfortable. She has jars or elixirs, flower clippings bundled together, herbs drying from the ceiling; there’s most likely a garden out back that she tends faithfully. It’s the home of a healer. Or a witch.

Daniel watches Rebecca take a dried stalk of hemlock down from where it’s hanging on the low rafters, watches her grind it down to a fine powder before she strains it into a thin vial.

“It’s dry and therefore has lost some of its potency and Simon is a big man but…this should be enough. At the very least, he won’t feel…” She doesn’t finish but Daniel doesn’t need her to. At the very least Simon won’t feel the fire and he’ll die from the smoke. At the most the hemlock will kill him before the fire even reaches him. It’s all Daniel can hope for.

Taking the vial and tucking it into his pocket he thanks Rebecca, more grateful than he can say. He wants to ask why she’s helping him, if she suspects Simon is innocent, but he doesn’t. Some questions are better left unasked.

***

The town begins to gather after their morning chores. Everyone from the smallest child to the most worthless whore comes to see the blacksmith get his revenge and watch a witch burn. Daniel’s seen it at every burning: execution as entertainment. It’s always seemed fitting, that the town suffering from a witch should come see her burn, see proof that their troubles were over and that God would smile on them once again. It was fitting that they should participate in the meeting out of justice.

But this, this isn’t justice. And it certainly shouldn’t be entertainment.

Daniel watches as Simon is practically dragged from the prison, the hemlock he’d slipped into Simon’s water and gotten him to drink clearly doing its job. He’s nearly dead already and will feel no pain. The wood is dry and the fire should burn hot and quick, ending this mercifully fast.

The Sheriff and his deputy tie Simon to the stake – hands behind his back, legs and chest secured. If it weren’t for the ropes Daniel doubts Simon would be able to stand. But he does manage to life his head once, eyes scanning the crowd till they land on Daniel. Their eyes meet briefly before Simon’s strength gives out and his head falls back to rest on his chest.

Bishop Thaddeus stands next to the Sheriff while the charges are read and the sentence confirmed. Father Lambert addresses the crowd, speaking of God’s glory and might, reminding his congregants that they should repent and be thankful for God’s mercy this day, that He has saved them from wickedness. Daniel feels his anger at the Priest renewed but forces himself not to move from his spot at the back of the crowd. There’s nothing he can do to prevent what comes next and confronting Father Lambert, proclaiming Simon’s innocence will only get him in trouble. He must stir though because Bishop Thaddeus’s eyes find him. He nods to Daniel before approaching Simon and speaking to him softly, making the sign of the cross on Simon’s forehead. In all his years Daniel has never seen a priest give a blessing to the condemned. Daniel knows it’s the Bishop’s doubts that prompt the action. He just hopes this doesn’t help alleviate any guilt the Bishop might feel.

The fire catches easily, eating up the dry kindling quickly. Simon hasn’t moved since the Sheriff mentioned Jessamine’s name while reading the charges and Daniel hopes he’s already dead.

Watching it all chills Daniel to his core. He’s been here before, a time just like this, when his heart was squeezing in his chest and breathing hurt. When he thought he’d die from the pain of watching. He can’t help remembering 22 years earlier, white shift eaten by flames, his mothers eyes on him the entire time, her whispered ‘I love you’. It’s a memory Daniel had banished come back to haunt him.

Soon the smell of burning flesh sends most of the town running but Daniel stays and watches till the end. Watches the flames consume flesh till there’s barely a body left. Watches till there’s nothing but ashes left to scatter on the wind.

***

After…He has nothing to say to Father Lambert or Bishop Thaddeus though the Bishop watches him saddle Mercury. He doesn’t say anything and Daniel misses the small, bittersweet smile on his face, the slight hope in his eyes. Daniel rides out of town as fast as Mercury will carry him.

He’s got a demon to hunt.

Part 2: Westward Expansion

Terminator Salvation - Not Bad But Not Good Either... (Quick and spoiler free)

Fri, 22 May 2009 21:27:13 GMT

Which is probably worse than it being just plain bad. As it stands TS is sloppy (the editing in the beginning is amateurish), the plot full of holes (more character motivation/history please), and unnecessary plot devises (cute little girl but why exactly is she there?) that could have been done in another fashion that wouldn't have detracted and overloaded the plot (who exactly are those guys in the sub and why are they in charge?). McG has an eye for action to be sure but he needs someone who knows how to tell a story standing next to him to deal with the plot. With the exception of one or two moments the acting is solid which makes it impossible to completely dismiss the movie but ultimately, unless you really want to see this right now on the big screen you might as well just wait for the DVD.

Lee and Kara...so beyond awesome!!

Sat, 07 Feb 2009 05:36:04 GMT

A few quick thoughts on ‘Blood on the Scales’ which I will now and forever refer to as ‘The Return of Bassass Lee Adama”.

Lee was just…OMGS FLAIL!! Lee was so beyond awesome I can’t even begin…there are no words for his awesomeness this episode. And the hotness. The whole knife thing and not pulling the pin and taking charge and totally planning on staying with Kara until she ordered him to go…it’s all just…OMGS!!!

And Kara was awesome while with Lee: bashing the guy’s head in while Lee just hangs out and watches…totally awesome (heehee). Then we had to deal with Sam getting shot so they can do the whole ‘can the FF die’ thing. And while I didn’t view anything shippy about her reaction to his being shot I hope that gets wrapped up early next episode and we get a nice little K/L scene to follow up on the whole kiss thing. Cause that’s still hanging out there and they were so perfectly in tune with each other and it was just all kinds of S2 goodness.

I’m so beyond over A/R. Seriously, just, over it. Actually, I’m kinda over Adama in general.

For the fist time ever I was really really really uncomfortable with Adama and Tigh. I’m all on board for the bromance but this…this was beyond that and I just cannot ship them. I just can’t.

So…are we ever going to find out what the secret between Baltar and Gaeta was? And what is Gaeta? Did I miss something somewhere?

Speaking of Gaeta…I felt they made him a bit too naïve for a character that was always portrayed as the smartest man in the fleet behind Baltar. I just didn’t believe that he didn’t know Zarack would behave this way. That and his slight schizophrenia aside I was actually rather moved by him at the end. Those last two scenes were very poignant. Great job by Alessandro.

And I think killing the Quorum settled it…Zarack is a bit insane. That was completely unnecessary. Keep them locked in the room, you don’t have to kill them. Especially if you believe you you’ll win.

Kelly’s (I’m pretty sure it’s Kelly) transition, while a bit convenient worked for me. It was a good example of how things are much harder to act upon than to just think about. And Romo kinda kicked ass this episode.

Overall, really happy with this episode. Granted it wasn’t by any means perfect but it’s far superior than what we were getting. Two quality episodes in a row…I don’t know what to do with myself. And that damn ember of hope just keeps on flaring up brighter and brighter. This better be what the rest of the series is like because I’m really quite pleased with tonight. So, in conclusion: More Kara and Lee AWESOMENESS!!!

Now That's a Bit More Like It...

Sat, 31 Jan 2009 06:12:45 GMT

‘The Oath’

While I don’t agree with some of the character’s characterizations (well hello to the return of Lee’s plot convenient anti-Cylon views, good to have you back since the plot called for it) I thought this episode was much better than last weeks and had the feel of episodes from earlier seasons: high pace, good action, political intrigue. Good stuff. And it works even better on a second watch. Everything feels tighter, more focused. Anyone know if this was the first episode written after the writer’s strike? Ya know, after Ron Moore apparently took a look at 4.0 and realized it was off the rails? It really feels like a turning point back to the quality we’re used to. I really really hope it is.

Random Thoughts:

-    Really enjoyed Roslin in this episode. It felt like the kick ass Roslin of old.   And while I thought she was a bit crazy to think the Fleet would listen to her, it makes sense once you realize that they’re all just a bunch of sheep and her getting to them first just might work.
-    Gaeta still seems a bit all over the place and again, you’d think he’d have learned his lesson the first time he got involved in politics. ‘Cause seriously…what the hell did he expect?
-    Speaking of Gaeta…there’s a secret between him and Baltar? That was one of the WTF moments of the episode. Thankfully it was one of very few.
-    Baltar’s hair! OMGs, it took me a moment to notice but it looks so good. All that hair and beard did James Callis a great disservice. He looks great. It’s also a physical representation of Baltar’s renewed nonbelief. It’s nice to see the “old” Baltar back, the one who only cares for and looks out for himself. I actually missed him.
-    Anyone else think Kara and Lee going up the shaft at the end and Roslin gazing at Adama through smoke was all very Star Wars? I half expected an ‘I love you’ ‘I know.’ from them.
-    Also, that scene…a wee bit uncomfortable. I’m with Lee, I don’t want to watch either (though hey, confirmation of stepmommy).
-    LOVE LOVE LOVE kick ass Kara and Lee fighting side by side. It made me all warm and fuzzy. Very reminiscent of Kobol. These are the characters I recognize and love. Kara is clearly ecstatic at having something to do and some way to direct her angst and some things just don’t leave ya do they Lee? But you’d think he’d want to lose the jacket…and the shirt, that’d be nice too.
-    While I’m thrilled to get a kiss it was weirdly unsatisfactory the first time around though it worked better the second time. But I couldn’t help thinking that she’d have kissed anyone in that moment given her whole ‘feeling alive’ thing. I do love how, even in the middle of a coup, Lee goes to cradle her face and calls her on it. And I do like that she’s all about just the two of them. So yeah, I’m thrilled that we got that moment but…well, it needs follow up for me to feel really good about it.

Thankfully we got a TBC in 'Blood on the Scales'.

Stupidly Stupid

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 22:26:23 GMT

So I need to talk about the new Renee Zellweger movie ‘New in Town’ for a minute. Have you seen the trailer? If you haven’t and you a) want to know what I’m talking about or b) want to torture yourself go here: www.imdb.com/video/imdb/vi1554121497/

So apparently whoever wrote this movie thinks women are retarded. Specifically women who live in cities. That’s the only explanation for this movie. Which, for full disclosure, I have not seen nor do I have any intention of seeing it. Because I have a functioning brain and want to keep it that way.

And why would this movie destroy brain cells and actively make me stupid? Because apparently the main character – Lucy Hill – is retardedly stupid. So stupid that she doesn’t seem to realize that there’s life outside of Miami (apparently she’s never watched a movie before in her life) and therefore seems to think that Minnesota, of all places, is just like Miami where she can cavort around in tight skirts and stiletto heels, where the weather isn’t an issue and where everyone will act and behave exactly like people who live in Miami. Now, to be fair, we could blame her company – where she’s trying to make Vice President – for not having someone prep her for her business trip but it’s not like Minnesota is a foreign country no matter what the movie would like us to believe and all she had to do was, oh I don’t know, have a brain, to realize that Minnesota isn’t Miami and perhaps she should do a bit of research if she’s going to be living there for a bit.

But the kicker, the real kicker is that Lucy is apparently so stupid she didn’t know that during winter, up north, it gets cold. And Minnesota is up north. Way up north. Where things freeze and it snows. A lot. And that when she walks out of the airport it’s going to be really cold in her skirt and heels. I guess googling the weather channel was just too much for her.

Inaugural Wrap-Up...

Wed, 28 Jan 2009 15:44:28 GMT

or, as I like to call it, Surviving the Cluster Fuck of 2009. A week late but...I put it below the cut because it got a bit long.

My Inaugural festivities kicked off on Saturday the 17th with a reception at the American History Museum in honor of Governor Dean. Of all the events I attended this party ended up being the best, which is a shame as it was the first rather than the last. But it was a wonderful way to kick off a very busy but exciting week. Because it was just DNC staff and “extended family” (ie. All of Congress and the Senate were invited) it was small enough to be intimate and allow everyone to find their friends. Which is what I spent the night doing. Also, being in a museum after hours is beyond cool even if I didn’t take advantage of the exhibit we had access too. I was too busy running around being social, enjoying the champagne and having a great time with friends.

Thanks to T and her many connections we attended an event on Sunday for Impact Film Fund. T worked her magic and got us in the VIP section where we saw:

-    Maria Shriver (who needs to gain some weight, her face is even more scary in person...those cheek bones)
-    Jeffrey Wright (is just as cool in person…I had no intention of bothering him, poor guy just wants to chill, but somehow he and T made eye contact and the next thing I know I’m shaking his hand and making a fool of myself. But he was totally cool about it so yeah; I like him even more now.)
-    Jessica Alba (looked extremely bored and on her way out when we arrived)
-    Actors from CSI (Jorga Fox & Archie Kao were both totally cool, joking around with us and just hanging out. I told Jorga I loved her hat and she said I could have it if I stole it and Archie - whose name is also Archie on the show...ya know, the cute tech guy - was just adorable the entire night.)
-    One of the guys from Run DMC (don’t know which and don’t really care)
-    Ludacris and Nelly (both performed at some point)
-    Maroon 5 (Adam Levine is actually not the best looking guy in the group)
-    Sarah Silverman (didn’t actually see her but I heard her voice and personally, that’s enough)
-    And I think, I <i>think</i> Joe Francis was there - ya know, the Girl's Gone Wild douchebag - and it's only because I wasn't 100% sure it was him that I didn't throw my drink in his face.

Mom and J arrived Monday night and as soon as Mom was safely ensconced at my place I met T for yet another event that she got us into: MoveOn.org’s art show with work inspired by Obama. The more abstract work was the best, the one's that had his face blown up or merged with Lincoln's were kinda scary. Once again T worked her magic and got us into the celebrity filled VIP section:
-    Tim Robbins (he’s really tall and alas, no Susan)
-    Adrian Grenier (looks exactly like he does on Entourage…boring)
-    Heather Graham (insanely tiny)
-    Rider Strong (Cute guy from Boy Meets World...just as cute in person in that funky disheveled way)
-    Rosario Dawson (busy back stage drinking vodka and cranberry and so much better looking in person than on screen)
-    Josh Lucas (chilling back stage, minding his own business, leaning against the coat racks)

Which leads us to Tuesday, the main event. And it was as big a mess as I predicted it would be. Actually, it might have been an even bigger mess. It wouldn’t have been so bad if a) it wasn’t freezing (what idiot thought having such an important event take place out doors during the one month a year that DC is freezing?) and b) there was some form of guidance or person who knew what was going on. As it was there was no one to guide the thousands of people who were trying to enter the mall and take their place for the swearing in. The purple section – which is the section we had tickets for – was basically a mob of people all trying to figure out where the gate was and why we weren’t being let in. When I tell you there were thousands of people all pressed in on each other trying to figure out when we were suppose to be entering and, once we found the entrance, trying to squeeze into some semblance of a line I am not exaggerating. When they finally started letting people in the space was no bigger than double French doors. I’m sure you can imagine it made things extremely difficult and frustrating. There were many people who, ticket or not, did not get in. If you saw someone getting interviewed on the news about how disappointed they were because they didn’t get in, it’s safe to assume they were from the purple section.

Once we got inside we were able to find a great location (we were located to the left the Capitol steps in front of the rotunda) to watch the proceedings…except for the tree in front of the jumbo screen. With enough contorting and the tree’s leaves gone we were able to see Biden, then Obama take the oath of office.

I know it sounds like I'm whining and all bitching and messes aside, we were still there and it was awesome to experience this historic event in person, with family, friends and 1-2 million other excited people from across the country.

Getting home proved to be it’s own challenge but thankfully work was close enough that we hung out there for a bit - mostly getting warm – and then had lunch before walking to a metro stop that wasn’t flooded with tourists 4 blocks back. Once we got home T and I had to scramble to get ready for the Youth Ball. Getting there was easy, the hard part was waiting outside in the freezing cold to get through security. We were beyond stupid and didn't bring coats, mistakingly thinking that we'd be waiting for security inside the hotel, not outside. So yeah, a stapless "ball gown", 20 degree weather and a little black wrap...awesome. Once inside – and defrosted – we made our way to the side of the stage (which was mercifully not crowded and full of secret service...and don't be fooled, those guys are fun when the principles aren't around). MtV started braodcasting at 10pm and while Kid Rock performed at some point (really? Kid Rock? yeah...not sorry I missed him), Kanye West (whose ego shockingly fit into the building) "opened" the show and did a short but decent set and Fall Out Boy (who are shockingly tiny...like pocket sized) closed the show with a decent show. Of course the main event was the arrival of President and Michelle Obama for their traditional dance. They stayed for about ten minutes, gave their speech and danced before leaving to go do the same at yet another ball. I imagine that inauguration night is exhausting for the 1st couple…especially Michelle, who has to do everything Barack does, only backwards and in heels.

Wednesday night brought everything to a close with the Obama staff ball. It was a nice way to end the festivities and both the Bidens and the Obamas showed up to thank all the staffers in person. Then we all rocked out to Jay-Z (who I realized I only like when Linkin Park is involved) until they kicked us out.

It was a fun and exciting four days that I'm so very fortunate to have been able to experience the way I did.

I'm Sorry but...What the Frak is Going On?

Sun, 25 Jan 2009 02:40:09 GMT

Seriously, that sense of hope I had last week...gone. Because I spent half the episode going WTF and the other half giggling. And not in a good way. Sorry folks, but that's the way I'm seeing it.

I mean, I get the basic plot points and they make sense but how they're being put into play

First of all, and perhaps this was the problem, I will never understand nor will I be comfortable with Tigh and Six. Especially when it suddenly goes from abuse and transference to almost lovey-dovey. I get that Six is excited about the baby and what it means for the Cylon race, I found her response to the ultrasound to be completely within character. And I guess Tigh's was to in a way ('I still can't see it.' did have me giggling) but what's with the hand holding? What's with the fawning? It's not that I find it gross or anything I just don't get it. It makes no sense to me. So, definitely not a good way to start the episode from my POV.

Second, we know RM & Co forgot about Hera and her importance as the only hybrid baby when they made Chief a Cylon. This oversight is, to me, the most blatant example of RM pulling the FF out of his ass. While I get Chief and Tigh and I called Ellen all the way back before the start of S4.0 I've never been behind Sam and specifically Tori. I've always believed that these were last minute decisions RM made (especially Sam and Tori) and the fact that Chief didn't uphold their mythology in this one pretty important instance is proof of that. They clearly hadn't chosen the FF when they gave Chief and Cally a kid back in S3. Oh and Hot Dog? Really?!

-Moving on...Maybe it's because I haven't watched the webisodes but Gaeta's behavior is puzzling to me. It seems very out of character. I know Gaeta's bitter and understandably so. I'd be pissed too if a hothead Cylon caused me to lose my leg and he wasn't even punished. But...well, it seems forced. And you would think he would have learned his lesson about politicians the first time he got involved in politics.

-Speaking of Gaeta's attitude feeling forced Kara's seems even more fake. Like they realized there hadn't been a "badass" Kara moment in a while so they better write one.

-Exactly where does the tylium ship think it's going to go? And way to screw everyone. Not just TPTB but everyone.

-So you're telling me that we get Laura and Adama fraking (and thank the gods it's just the aftermath) but we can't get anything between Kara and Lee? Last week was nice and a big step for her but...what? We're going to pretend it didn't happen?

- I like that Chief was having trouble with pronouns. It was real and kinda funny.

- Zarek's nefarious deeds seems rather sudden and convenient don'tcha think?

- I guess Baltar no longer being a religious nut job was just a pipe dream

- My overall hope at this point is that it all comes together at the end and that watching the episodes back to back will make everything work better. That said, I'm still keeping my fingers crossed.

OMG BSG...OMG OMFG!!!!!

Sat, 17 Jan 2009 06:42:21 GMT

Oh my gods you guys...I think RDM just proved me right! OMG!!! I'm SO EXCITED!!

I called Ellen as the 5th Cylon way back on April 3, 2008! Unless I get proven wrong next week...OMG! YEAH!! I'm ridiculously excited about this.

'Sometimes a Great Nation'

So this episode left us with more questions than answers and a lot of WTF. But at least we got answers and a sense of plot and progression that 4.0 was severely lacking. I'm cautiously optimistic with the hope that things only get better. It's too early to say if RDM & Co. refound their footing and realised the mistakes of 4.0 but after this episode I'm willing to give them a bit more leway and allow myself to hope a little more. Because I was excited about this episode, excited by this episode and am excited for next week's episode. A feeling I did not have during 4.0. Things are definitely moving in the right direction. So, lets talk...

- Kara...oh my darling girl, what the fuck are you? I never believed Kara was the 5th Cylon and unless they're fucking with us (which is entirely possible) and the whole Ellen thing is a big ol fake out than it's cannon that she's not the 5th. But if she's not a Cylon than what the hell is she? Her rebirth is now more than just symbolic, it's literal. Kara litterally died, crashed on Earth after going through the maelstrom but...Kara's alive. THE Kara, our Kara is right there and clearly not human. And if Leobon, fraking Leobon who believes in Kara like no one else, is walking away from her in fear than she's clearly not something that the Cylons know or are comfortable with. The burning of her body was creepy and while I'd say it was nice symbolism what exactly is she burning? She already shed her old self when she died the first time. They've been playing around with Aurora for a while now, it seems to be a fan favorite and it would be one of the only things to make sense at this point, but then again she could be something else completely. Whatever she is she's not human.

-The whole Lee/Dualla thing was...well I was moaning and groaning during the entire thing but now...well jesus. Their making nice/"date" was a way to humanize Dee and heighten the emotional impact later and I have to say...it worked. Not because I was surprised that she killed herself, especially given her behavior in the Raptor on the way back from Earth, but because of when she did it, right after saying she wanted to hold onto that feeling of happiness. Peversley it's the perfect time to end it, when you're happy and your last moments have been good. But it was still shocking. And everyone's reaction, especially Gaeta's was rather devestating. I never really liked Dee but this is a rather tragic ending and she's a good character to stand in for the feelings that the fleet as a whole are experiencing.

-Kara and Lee...their moment was just incredible for them. It was a huge moment in their relationship. For Kara to come in, needing to talk to Lee, wanting to talk to Lee, going to him first says a lot about where she is and how she views Lee and their relationship. But what says even more is that she sees that he's dealing with something, stops and puts him first, asks him what's wrong, lets him tell her without interruptions and doesn't belittler or ignore what happened and what he's feeling. She's being his partner, not his shipmate, not his lover, but his partner and it's just an amazing thing to see.

- I've never been so glad to see Baltar in a labcoat in my life. It makes sense that he'd shift back into scientist mode and I hope that he stays that way. His storyline during 4.0 was one of the ones I had the most issues with. It was out of control, not furthering the plot and frankly I can only take so much of him fraking everything that moves and spouting BS. So seeing him in a labcoat being Mr. Brillant Scientist was just a breath of fresh air. It's how I like him best.

-EJO needs to play drunk better or tone it down because he's chewing up the scnerey something fierce. He should take a page out of MM book about how to play emotional exhaustion and devestation without nearly making a fool out of his character. Laura is beyond devestated, she put her entire faith in Pythia and Earth and to find it devestated and uninhabitable...it's only natural for her to just give up and MM is doing is with subtlty and grace. EJO is just going nuts.

-I don't blame Deanna for not wanting to be out in space wandering around with Cavel.

-So here's the biggie - Earth. And here is where we get more questions than we know what to do with. Because apparently Earth was inhabited by Cylons, both skin jobs and toasters, suffered some kind of nuclear holocaust just like New Caprica approx. 2,000 years ago and four (presumably five) Cylons either survived or were "reborn" on New Caprica. But if Earth was inhabited by Cylons, who created them? While they didn't dig nearly deep enough to actually reach 2,000 years down into the soil - something I'm sure we're suppose to just handwave away - there seems to be no human skeletons but in Galen's "flashbacks" we see a market full of people. People who don't look like any of the Cylons we know. So where there more models on Earth? Were there humans on Earth as well? Did they create the Cylons? Did the humans and cylons breed? Did they both exudous off of Kobol and evolve seperately but parallel to each other? Because if they're the 13th tribe than clearly humans knew about them in the past in order to have created the myth of the 13th tribe. There are just so many questions and I'm really looking forward to getting the answers.

-The fours are experiencing some kind of flashback/memory specific to them, triggered by touching things that seemed to have belonged to them. While it's rather convenient that Chief, Sam and Tigh all find pieces of their previous life right around each other it's interesting to get these tiny glimpses. Chief looks pretty bad in civvies and worse in glasses. Tori has a shared memory (and I could care less...can she die now?) And ladies and gentlemen, this universe's Dylan...Samuel Anders. But of course the most interesting, the most important, is Tigh's memory because not only is it a memory it's a revelation (unless RDM snatches it back). Because it's this flashback that tells us who the final Cylon is - Ellen Tigh. I wrote out my entire theory as to why I believed the 5th Cylon would be Ellen here, add to that her comment that 'it's all been prepared' (or something to that effect), that 'they'll be born again, together' and it looks like Ellen Tigh is the 5th of the five. And that's pretty huge. Now we just have to wait and see where and when she'll reemerge.

At this point, my feelings...bring it on!

Next Week: 'A Disquiet Follows My Soul'

Are you Fucking Kidding Me?!...Again

Thu, 08 Jan 2009 20:40:07 GMT

So...'The Unborn'...a "horror" movie written/directed by David S. Goyer (co-writer of 'The Dark Knigh') and co-stars Gary Oldman (totally slumming) that I really wasn't paying much attention to (beyond wondering why Oldman took the role) and then I saw this:

And I'm just like...WTF? Seriously? Because I know horror movies are famous for the whole pretty girl in her panties and socks (probably running) thing but this, this is ridiculous. Way to make yourself look like a B horror movie that's nothing but "senery". Bad enough they gratuitously objectify women in the movie but now they do it on the poster? Fucking ridiculous.

Seriously...'Bride Wars'...WTF?

Wed, 07 Jan 2009 22:03:35 GMT

Every time I watch the 'Bride Wars' trailer I sit there for a few moments after just kind of...horrified. Because...well, I don't know any women like this, I don't want to know any women like this and if somehow I actually do know women like this I don't want to know them anymore. It's not as if the stereotyping of women as crazed backstabbing petty lunatics is new, it's an old Hollywood staple and a must for at least 75% of chickflick/female bonding movies. And I know about 'Bridezilla' on We network (and don't get me started on a show like that on a network that is suppose to be about female empowerment or whatever they claim they're all about) and yes I know weddings are insanely stressful and bring out the worst in a lot of people but...this seems worse for some reason. Probably because I cannot, for the life of me, understand the desire to play out these elaborate girlish fantasies of huge princess like weddings. I can understand wanting to have a public celebration of your committment and love but this whole "I've dreamed of this since I was a little girl" obsenely large flowers exploding pink gagging debutant dress me me me thing is something I don't understand. So when a movie takes it to this kind of extreme - though I have no doubt it'll end with the stars kissing, making up and probably having a dual wedding - I'm left baffled and slightly horrified. And makes me want to have a wedding even less than I want one now.

And now that I've probably insulted people, rant over. :)

Do you talk during movies?

Mon, 29 Dec 2008 06:56:39 GMT

So very glad I didn't see this article before seeing Frost/Nixon this evening. As someone who tends to speak during movies (in my defense, my commentary is often better than what's happening on screen) this is extremely distressing. And while its certainly one way to get the offender to shut up I'm not quite sure how it solves the bigger issue seeing as how a gun shot is rather loud and scares people, resulting in their fleeing the theater in a disorderly fashion and ultimately the police getting involved thus ending the movie experience for everyone, not just those inconvenienced by the person speaking.

As for 'Frost/Nixon'...a very good movie that I definitely recommend. Michael Sheen is quickly becoming one of my favorite actors and plays Frost as a man who both embraces and resents his reputation, bristling against the belief that's he's just a talk show host, not someone to be taken seriously. While not being blatant about it you feel his deep desire to prove to all those that don't take him seriously that he's a real person, a real member of the media, not just a playboy who has a pretty face and a talk show. It's this desire that drives him to fund the interviews himself and then spend the middle half of the movie desperately trying to find outside funding for the project so he himself doesn't go bankrupt. The desire to prove himself is something he shares with Nixon but while Frost just wants to prove himself Nixon wants to prove himself and then shove it in the face of all those who doubted him, the elitist that he believes he's fought against all his life. Frank Langella makes an excellent Nixon, acknowledging his great arrogance and complete conviction in his actions while giving him enough humanity and emotion as to not make him a caricature. There are times where you nearly empathize with Nixon and by the end you almost feel sorry for him. And yet the movie and Langella never let you forget Nixon's crimes and what he did to the country. The rest of the cast is solid. Sam Rockwell is unsurprisingly good as a liberal college professor who desperately wants to put Nixon on trial but never lets his convictions slip over into fanaticism. I adore Matthew Macfayen who can do barely any wrong and while the hair and glasses are a big issue here they don't take away from his acting. It's nice to see Oliver Platt doing serious work again and Kevin Bacon is his typical stoic self in the role of a man who eerily brings Karl Rove to mind.

Speaking of Rove...while I don't think the movie purposefully wants to make a parallel to current events it's impossible not to see the seeds of our current predicament being sown here. The belief that 'when the president does it it's not illegal', the wiretapping, complete belief in the need to show American military might, the utter belief that the ends justify the means all began with Nixon and were continued by Cheney, Rumsfeld and others who got their start with the Nixon administration. It doesn't explain the current actions of these men but it does give you an idea of how their beliefs began.

So if you're looking for a good movie with solid acting that spurs discussion without being overly serious go see 'Frost/Nixon'. You won't be disappointed.