Volume
One: The Road Out
Chapter Four
Verse Four: And Her Son
"That's not what I was taught in
Sunday school," Maia said.
"I tend to agree with Maia on
this," Harley said," Praying is like giving Santa
Claus your wish list, as least the way I always heard it."
Agnes reached out and sharply flicked
Harley's ear, "You selfish child! True prayer isn't asking
for a present. True prayer is planting a seed and promising
tomorrow that you will water that seed until it grows to an
oak."
Harley rubbed his ear, "Okay, and
your point?"
"You are our seed to be planted.
The help we're giving you is our promise to the future. So
listen carefully, because this is important."
Harley stood just to Agnes' left with
Maia in front of him. Harley kept a hand on each of Maia's
shoulders as Agnes spoke, looking at the witch rather than the
mining site that Agnes had indicated was where Harley would fulfil
his end of their agreement. Agnes Bladder was a crone in the
classic sense: large nose and sharp eyes, a face that bore a
interstate roadmap worth of wrinkles and lines, hands warped and
gnarled like the branches of an ancient tree, all capped off by
a stooped back that made her posture look like a question mark.
"The first thing that you need to
understand to work in the story world is what is what and what
that means. People have been digging around in the Shadowlands for as
long as we've been people. Not just Homo Sapiens, our older
cousins and parents and grandparents- Homo Neanderthalensis and
Homo Erectus to name just two. Bone flute and burial mounds and
ochre body paint are found on ancient sites all over the world.
We've been talking to gods and using magic for as long as we've
be able."
Harley shook his head, "I don't
want to sound like a flat earth atheist here, because I'm not in
denial about the kind of world we're suddenly living in. But I
feel like I'm playing catch up, because I would have called
myself agnostic before this happened and I definitely wouldn't
have believed in ghost or old gods or magic prior to getting
swept up into the story, whatever the story is."
Agnes nodded, "Very sensible. Keep
those ideas in mind. You see, gods are a way of personifying
concepts. They are a way of giving form to ideas, building myth
from symbol. Magic is a system of explanation for things that we
can predict, things that we can use, things that we can reliably
observe, but which we cannot explain. Magic is how we explain
things for which we do not understand the underlying mechanism.
Theologians and critics call this the god of the gaps theory,
and generally as a pejorative, an insult. Which is nonsense.
Humans have been using since fire long before they understood
combustion. If humans were not willing to play with that magic
flame well it was still magic, cities wouldn't exist today. You
need to stop imagining that what you've seen somehow re-writes
physics or invalidates natural history or renders science
irrelevant. None of this conflicts with natural science, because
that is the Bonelands and this is the Shadowlands and the two
meet only in the telling of the story."
"You lost me," Harley
admitted, "I was hearing what you were saying and then,
poof."
"You're too rational, too
reasonable, to level headed to make the jump necessary on
intuition. I imagine that's what your boyfriend did."
"We aren't dating." Harley
said.
"That's a shame," one of the
other witches said, "You'd make a cute couple."
Harley turned and looked at her as she
spoke, trying to remember her name. He was fairly certain she
was called Phyllis Heart. There were a lot of them and Harley
was struggling to keep them straight in his head. Phyllis Heart
looked like all of the Golden Girls rolled impossibly into one.
She perfectly mimicked the prototypical sitcom grandmother with
a gentle face and a clever smile and hair wrapped into
ridiculous curlers.
"People trust little old ladies,"
Phyllis heart continued "Even people playing the game.
Which is foolish. I started playing this game when I was a young
girl. Does the game seem easy to you young one? Has the learning
curve been gentle on your bones so far?"
"No ma'am."
"And yet here I am, still playing
the game, still moving other people across the game board. For
decades now, I've held my title as witch. That sound easy?"
"No ma'am."
"And yet people underestimate me
every day. But you won't, will you young one? Not any more."
"No ma'am."
"And that's because I like you.
You're practical. So we're giving you a look behind the curtain
as gift. Hmph. That sounds vulgar, like I'm a dance hall girl. I
don't imagine a young thing like you would want that kind of
look from an old lady like me."
Harley had no answer.
"And now I've made you blush. I do
like you. Decent child at heart. I don't know that the game will
be kind to that decent soul though. I do wish you luck."
"Luck hasn't been readily abundant
thus far, ma'am."
"Don't be ridiculous. You've been
all kinds of lucky, or you wouldn't be alive. Do you know how
many people might be the Storytellers and never make past the
first vision?"
"I haven't had my first vision."
Harley said.
Mildred Spine piped up, "Or maybe
you just didn't recognize it when it first happened."
Harley turned in the opposite direction
to look at the new speaker. He had noticed that a lot of the
witches seemed to work in pairs. Mildred Spine always seemed to
stand near Margaret Rib. Mildred Spine stood straight and wore
jeans and a knit wool sweater. She looked practical and
indomitable and stood over six feet tall and very thin, but
looked in no way frail. She made football players look up when
she passed. Margaret Rib by contrast, though also tall and very
thin, looked as though a strong wind would blow her over if it
caught even her wispy long hair. She looked like a dying willow,
or a starving ostrich, with huge eyes and a sagging skin on her
face that hinted at her having been heavier in her youth.
Mildred Spine stared at Harley with
owl's hard glare, "You're an oak tree kid, you know that?
Your stronger than everything else around you, but you break
when you ought to bend."
Margaret Rib nodded, an act which
caused her whole frame to sway unsteadily, "There is
strength in embracing weakness dear. There will always be things
stronger than you. There are times when you have to roll with
the blows and let yourself fall. You remember that dear."
Agnes Bladder added, "He's having
trouble seeing this because he's too practical. That's the whole
of it."
"Or maybe he hasn't learned how to
apply his practicality to the new game is all," added the
witch called Lady Purge. Lady Purge was a tiny little lady who
had been scrunched down like a coiled spring by time and
gravity. She smelled of spoiled perfume and vinegar, and dressed
in traditional witches black with a a knitted black shawl
stained with tea and spotted with Biscuit crumbs,
"Look how long it took the Gees to
get a handle on how to make the magic work for them."
Genevieve Sole and Gertrude Hand,
referred to by the other ladies as The Gees we childhood friends
who wore their silver hair in matching high rise beehive hairdos
and dressed as though they had never left the Sock hop. They
wore too much make up and smiled like the Stepford Wives.
Genevieve Sole nodded in response to Lady Purge, "Far
too concerned with what people might think, should they learn
the truth. Far too concerned with doing the right thing. Held us
back far longer than it should."
Gertrude added, "Other people get
their stories in your head, and they make you into characters in
their stories and they make you dance on their stage. Where's
your stage?"
Harley was starting to get overwhelmed
by the flurry of voices around him.
"Is Linwich Crossing your stage
then?" He asked, and instantly regretted the tone he had
used. The words sounded accusatory or mocking, definitely
defensive, as they floated in the air.
"Don't let appearance fool you
Storyteller," Agnes Bladder said, "I know you're new
to the role and to the story, but don't let us being little old
ladies fool you. We serve ancient powers, we draw our strength
from the Primal One. You'd be fools to think you can brush us
aside, especially given how underdeveloped your abilities are."
"I'm sorry," Harley said,
"I'm just tense. Too much running from the bad guys, too
much frustration, not enough options. To keep with the story
metaphor; it sounds like the villains are everywhere, and the
good guys are in hiding and broken.The more I hear, the more
hopeless it sounds."
Agnes shook her head, "This is not
a battle between good and evil. This is not a duality or a
dichotomy. The game board is vast and, if I may steal from dear
old Whitman, contains multitudes."
Harley couldn't decide how to respond
and Agnes continued, "There are many horrible things in the
story. Ancient gods and demons and devils lurk in the shadows
and the dark of the tales you will rediscover and weave back to
life. And these evils are essential to the survival of the
story. It is a poor story that assumes evil must be opposed.
Evil is an idea, a creation of the Locust King and his folk, a
way of describing those who do not step into line with him. We
are wicked and our patroness is more wicked, and dark and vile
and inhuman in her thinking also. But that does not mean she
must be destroyed or that you could destroy her. The hallmark of
the Locust King has been his penchant for the fool's errand. He seeks
constantly to be the hero and casts all who disagrees with him
as the villain."
"That's something I keep
wondering. Something I keep hearing from other people. Nobody
seems certain who is in fact the hero. People have called us
main characters, but nobody seems certain as to who the story
belongs to, who it's about."
"Everyone has their quest and
their story. You are the storyteller. But the battle here is
precisely that, whose story does the storyteller tell?"
"He's not even telling the story
yet," Countess Cleanse pointed out, leaning in to tap
Harley on the breast bone.
"He's Bishop on the board, but
he's acting like a knight." Her sister, Sybil Cistern added
reaching up to put a hand on Harley's shoulder.
The sisters known as Countess Cleanse
and Sybil Cistern were not in fact twins, although one might be
forgiven for believing otherwise. They both looked nearly
identical, round little heads with iron grey hair in round
little buns, all set upon round little bodies wrapped in pink
knit sweaters that matched perfectly.
"So teach me," Harley said,
"You're sending me into some place to dangerous or too
difficult for you ladies to manage it, and I haven't heard
anything that will help me use this power I'm supposed to have.
I haven't heard any tutorials on how to summon tomahawks or have
convenient clairvoyant visions, or anything."
There was a brief silence and then the
women broke into frenzied argumentative speech, voicing
clamouring over each other as they fought for auditory
dominance.
"We should help him summon
Boneshaker."
"We should teach him the seven
league walk."
"We should teach him the path of
winds."
Agnes raised her hand and the coven
fell silent. "I heard the seven league walk. He's the
Walker so that will probably come naturally, and he'll need that
to get in and out in a hurry."
"What's Boneshaker?" Harley
asked, "I heard that get mentioned."
"The flanged mace that is the
weapon of the Walker is named Boneshaker."
"So, if I'm hearing correctly,
that's the equivalent of Marion summoning his tomahawks?"
"Yes. And?"
"Then I want to learn that too.
How long will that take?"
Agnes frowned, "Summoning
Boneshaker will be like re-attaching a phantom limb. That mace
is a part of your character, as much a part of you as your arm
or your sense of honour. You have to imagine yourself as a
character. What would King Arthur be without Excalibur? What
would Thor be without Mjolnir? The costume is part of the character,
like putting on a mask to become a god. The mace part of your
character as you exist now within the story. You need to reach
out deep in the Infinity codex, deep in the heart of the story.
You need to find it. And you need to pull loose that missing
part of you."
"How do I do that? It's a great
pep talk, but how do I do that?"
The coven burst into murmuring again.
"He's far too pragmatic."
"No imagination, how is he the
storyteller?"
"He's only half the storyteller.
Maybe we can work with the other one."
"He's all we've got until the
Dreamer breaks free."
"He'll never get it."
"He's hopeless."
Harley waved his hands like an umpire
calling a play at home base,
"I can hear you, you know! What am
I missing? And why would you think that explanation would be enough?"
Lady Purge answered, "As a
storyteller, you need to be capable of creation, drawing something
from nothing. That is what story telling is. If you can't do that,
how can you tell a story?"
Harley shook his head,"I haven't
heard anyone call me a creator, I heard them call me story-teller.
Teller. Storytelling is like playing music, learning the tune and the
rhythm, making old stories sing with a fresh voice. It's not
necessarily about making new music, but about making old music sound
new. And from everything I've heard, this is an old story. why are
you trying to make me play free jazz? I hate free jazz."
Mildred Spine nodded, "You need to
hear the music before you can improvise on it?"
Harley nodded, "That's basically
it."
Margaret Rib, "Oh, we can help
with that dear. Take my hand," She reached out and grasped
Harley's hand with surprising strength, numerous rings digging into
his hands, "Feel the magic, or music is you prefer. I'm going to
summon something through you, pay attention to how it feels."
Harley felt a tingle running up his arm
and initially mistook it for a pinched nerve from Margaret Rib's iron
grip. but the tingling flowed down into Harley's right hand and he
felt something trying to grow solid in his hand, finally his hand
closed around a ceremonial bone dagger that Harley heavily suspected
had been carved from a rib.
"Perfect. Did you feel that?"
Mildred Spine asked, clapping her hands lightly.
"I actually did."
"Good, can I please have my blade
dear?" Margaret Rib asked extending her hand.
Harley handed her the dagger and Agnes
cleared her throat.
"Now you try." Agnes said,
"Call up the mace Boneshaker in the same way. Feel for the same
feeling."
"I'll try, but I suspect I'm going
to take a little while to get this."
Harley wasn't wrong. After half an hour
of cackling, coaching and coaxing; Harley still had not summoned the
mace. Maia had remained resolutely upbeat through the whole process,
cheering on Harley and maintaining absolute faith that he would
master the Magic. Harley wasn't sure if he was grateful for her faith
or embarrassed by it.
"I don't even know what I'm
summoning," He said finally, "I don't really know the story
that I'm a part of, and I certainly don't know how I would recognize
this Boneshaker either."
"We can show you that, you know,"
Countess Cleanse said and quickly reached up and tapped Harley's
forehead sharply. Harley felt the ground drop out from under him and
vision began to darken until he was falling through a void. Above
Harley a figure faded into focus. He recognized the figure as
himself, although it didn't look like him. The figure was androgynous
and dressed in numerous overlapping capes of black with red trim and
held an enormous two handed mace, whose head was made of seven plates
or flanges designed to crush bone and collapse armour. The figure
pulled back a dark hood to look at Harley.
"Why do you hesitate? The walker
acts. It is the realm of the Dreamer to dream."
And then Harley landed in the grass of
the hill overlooking the mine, the impact driving the air from his
lungs. He lay there stunned until he noticed that the coven of women
were clapping, and Maia was outright cheering. Then he noticed he was
holding something in right hand.
Harley shook his head, "No way
that worked." He said, looking at his hands. But sure enough,
there in his grasp was a now familiar two handed flanged mace.
"Well I'll be damned." he
muttered.
"And now. On to seven league
walking," Agnes announced.
"All this help is going to kill
me." Harley muttered.
Seven league walking turned out to be
both easier and much more difficult. Agnes Bladder described the
process as walking with intention rather than walking with legs.
Travelling by willing oneself across the landscape. In theory, the
coven explained at length, seven league walking could be used to
travel through solid objects, across oceans and even to different
worlds. Harley got the hang of the process fairly quickly. He focused
on his destination and mentally removed the distance between himself
and the destination. The problem was that Harley was only able to do
this with places that he could see. The witches put this down his
insufferable pragmatism and rationality. He could bound from hilltop
to hilltop almost immediately, but could not disappear around the
corner of a building. He could travel through a window, but not a
door.
"Keep moving, Keep Walking. Little
steps." The Gees said to him in unison as he practiced. All of
the women had their rituals and their mantras, although Harley
noticed that these rituals were not at all the same. The rule of
magic seemed to be: whatever worked for that person. This drove
Harley mad, as it felt entirely wrong to him. If magic worked, then
there should be a reason that it worked. Still after two days of
practise, although he still couldn't move through opaque objects or
to places he couldn't see, Agnes pronounced his mastery of summoning
and seven league travel sufficient to attempt the mission that was
his part of the bargain. Of course, they still hadn’t told him what
that mission involved.
