It had been confided to
me. His keepsake. And not only had I damaged the jewelry as it was displaced
from its roost about my neck, it seemed the symbolic trinket would also be lost
forever.
Since it had been a
part of me on the flight, it was headed in the same direction. I figured that
gave me a decent chance at repossessing it. But because of the force with which
it was dislodged, the time before it would eclipse my reach was withering.
There was an awful
screech as if two colliding vehicles had crushed a giant glass balloon betwixt
them. It registered in my mind, but my worries about matters of loyalty trumped
that of possible impending danger.
I had one gloved hand
free. One shot.
It sparkled. I swiped.
It wriggled. I knocked it. It tumbled. I swore. It hummed. Something exploded.
Blue flash. My eyes bounced. I was redirected.
I, the arrow, had been
splitting the air right beside the wall. My nose had strayed from the target,
concerned with Vinny’s necklace, so I had no idea how close I was to the
crescent when the jolt came. In a flash of crystal blue, the air pressure let
up, and my lungs swelled to normal size with a certain spice while my ears went
a-throbbing—queerly, I hadn’t noticed the air pressure building in the first
place—and left my awareness hanging by a thread. As I tried to cope with that
pain, my back smacked into the wall—an exponentially greater pain. The metal
did not give as it met the base of my skull. Actually, it felt like it went out
of its way to try and touch my brain.
Drowsily, I slid across
the wall. The room was pitch black again, all except for the Tap’s light, I
found, as my body rolled over to face down once again. Something screeched and roared
amidst the darkness like a bloat of hippos clashing over river territory. I was
now around twenty feet from entering the Tap. And on the ground next to it,
right where the portal’s bubble of light gave way to darkness, a figure stood
in the shadows. It looked like Malibu. How
nice, I thought woozily, he did think
to wait to jump in with me.
Until a tongue rolled
into the light. A tongue that had to be over a foot long. Then a hand with
knobby fingers emerged into the pale light. The ebony claws attached to it
slashed through the Tap’s luminescence, and there, space curdled black, leaving
streaks of dark pollution that hung solid in the air. It was as if the fingers'
toucherased the light. The hand was open, awaiting. I squinted to pinpoint whatever
it was that the looming entity could be expecting.
I saw a little oval
with strings swaying on either side. It glinted, seeming to hover in the air—just
inches above the open hand.
The elongated fingers
started to swing shut around Vinny’s locket. I got the feeling that when
slammed shut it would be permanent, wrested away in an undying clutch. I fell
with horror, watching the entity’s tongue rupture into four as the first parts
of the jewelry brushed against the flesh of its palm, watching it snatch up the
symbol I was supposed to keep from harm, while I helplessly flew toward the
mouth of a portal that now strongly resembled a grin, having suddenly slipped
on its side.
And right as all hope
died within me, right as the hand was condensing into a clench and I thought I
saw red lining the back of the horrid fist, the real Gutterson appeared out of
the dark yawn of space, running at full boar.
He had been waiting for
the perfect moment. He had probably been watching my fall, and mentally palming
his face thinking how clumsy I was. Had he known how I was pretending to be an
arrow he’d probably claw at his frosty blue eyes, or ask if I could treat
nothing with the proper attitude.
And Malibu had no idea either
just how dynamite his timing was. I couldn’t believe he was hot-footing it.
Because he should’ve boinked the sinister figure square on the rear with the
swinging bag at his side. But it went straight through, zero effect. No normal
effect that is.
Since Gutterson didn’t
appear to see the being that had been so wholly invested upon securing the
necklace, neither saw the other coming, and the thief had its groove thrown completely
out of style as Gut unintentionally blasted its behind. Its tongues snapped
back into its hidden face and the hand went into a spasm. The bag cut through
its presence, and in doing so caused the mysterious visitor to mist out as if
it were only an apparition.
Next thing I knew, my
eyes were drawn away by a shifting of light in my peripheral vision. The
crescent-shaped portal had been resurrected to its original vertical position.
There was no time to adhere to its will in the air. Beneath me, Gut vanished as
we were flung into the portal together.
We had overcome the
separation being thrust through the Spinal Tap’s center, caused by the heart of
the magnetic field. We were reunited. Nothing stood between us and going home,
except perhaps, our physical bodies that still had a sojourn to get there.
The journey back was
every bit as tantalizing as the first, quite pinchy this time actually, but
nothing that couldn’t be tolerated. I was suddenly staring at my own backside.
I was back among the somewhere-between-a-liquid-and-a-solid-state sandy
substance, bent like a pretzel, soaring through a pleasant breeze with my butt
shoved right up in my grill. If that feature was permanent it would not be
entertaining for very long. Hopefully, the fall had supplied enough momentum so
I wouldn’t get stuck in here.
On second thought,
being stuck in here wouldn't be bad. Far from it. Again, I was robbed of all
fear, doubt, and bias. For once it felt awesome to be robbed, in fact, I’d want
nothing less!
Every now and then, you
can get relaxed, distracted, or maybe complacent enough, to be without doubts
and fears. But bias, bias is inescapable. Except during the ride in this
portal. The least proud and vain people still want to feel equal, if not a
little better in some aspect in regard to others, or possess something that
could be thought of as unique.
Yet here, I was content
merely to be. It would be stupid to be covetous, and downright delirious to be
envious with libraries of knowledge being dumped into my ear with each gentle
gust of wind. I almost wanted to be sad that I could not stay long enough to
listen to all the wind had to reveal, but the wind’s words tickled me so much
in the moment, that the smile could not be ripped from my face, and I forgot any
sadness as soon as it tried to creep into my head. The wind tossed some of the
sand into my face playfully, and in accordance to the gesture, I looked below.
Before, nothing was
around save the sand and the metallic-looking stuff. This time I could see a
landscape beneath me. But don’t get me wrong, there was no sky above; there was
not even blackness above; there was non-existence, and if I had even thought to
stop and inspect it, there would be nothing to imagine whatsoever. It would be
like trying to catch yourself giving conception to a thought.
Only from me down, was.
Below was a region
packed with obsidian mountains. Correction: most were volcanoes. All was
turbulence. Miniscule forms were traversing along places where the magma had
crusted over. They were using them as bridges. Temporary bridges. Every so
often a fresh river of magma would wash away the footholds. If the forms were
on them, they were in the way, collateral damage. Or maybe the bridges were the
collateral damage.
It appeared the name of
the game was to dodge each new wave. It didn’t look like any fun. Especially
since there was more than just broiling rivers to avoid. The forms that got
swept away thrashed around in fury, tearing at the heels of passersby on any
given bridge. These sore losers were resolved to take the so-far-succeeding
down with them, even sabotaging the very groups they had once flocked with for
strength and safety. Once their game was over, they had no allegiance except to
themself (yeah, not even themselves).
The wind sounded
deflated, maybe shaking its head, when it came back saying, “‘Tis the mainline.
But look again. The struggle is one of thoughts.”
Some of the forms were
going up the mountainside. That way they didn’t have to deal with the
sabotagers, and could focus on the thing they had been dodging in the first
place. These had realized the volcanoes were the enemy, and quit competing
amongst themselves. Some fell, or were fried by magma. Some fell in saving
another climber’s life. Some put themselves in the path of the magma to help
another out of its path, giving their life for a fellow. Unlike the forms at
the bottom who suffered on after being overtaken by the lava, those that fell
departed as smoke. After they would climb a ways, they would pause and call
down below, encouraging others to follow the same route.
“What are they saying?”
I asked.
“Lend me your ear,”
spoke the wind.
“I’m listening.”
“Then you are already
listening,” rustled the wind. And as the words blew around my ear, it was
pulled off and swirled up into the current.
“Come along,” spoke the
climbers. “The right move is to the core. Down there it is unstable, temporary,
fleeting. It just takes one slip up and all your right moves will have been for
nothing. Besides, you aren’t coming up with a solution to stop the suffering.
Surviving to survive has no aim. I beg you: don’t torture yourselves by running
in circles any longer.” The forms at the mountains' base literally kept passing
from one steamy slope to the next, transients in search of an oasis; I guess
from down there, they couldn’t see the curvature of the horizon, and all I
could see along its length was volcano after geyser of magma puckering up like
canker sores.
“Quit going around; expand
your dimensions; face Up; it’s the only way out. Up here you can’t sink in the
ocean of faces. The climate is cool, clear save the occasional cloud, not so
heated and rushed. Up here our steps are deliberate. Oh dear friends, don’t let
the size or the roaring of the mounts intimidate you; don’t you see that glow so golden at the top? Even a fall from the
heights will serve you better than remaining in perpetual consternation at the
feet, unable to see around these giants. Though the roar intensifies the
further the ascension, the less the distance grows to the top, towards, but above
the heat."
But traversing the
shifting bridges of cooled magma was what they had grown accustomed to. The
majority remained clinging to the strategy that they could identify with. A
strategy that only bred calamity, seeing it would eventually and surely end in
death. Rock climbing was a tricky, delicate, and long undertaking which put the
low-landers out of their comfort zones; they were expecting a bridge to come
along that would lead to a place of rest. Rock climbing was seen by the mass as
dangerous: "The ground is unstable, could give way at one wrong step, of
which there are a countless number, it is irrational, to try requires false
hope, which stems from false promises." Skeptics said such things.
Despite this, some of
the forms broke off out of the clusters, even as critics railed them for it, to
try their hand on the slopes. Apparently, the goal was to face the volcanoes
head on. And those that made it to the rim around the bubbling pits dove in without
hesitation.
“What? Those frauds!
The climbers are full of false
promises!” I vilified in disbelief. “They’re leading the followers to
genocide!”
The breeze came back
with my ear, and reattached it. “It was I who guided them; I am no fraud. Some
mistook me for the wind. Other ears were filled with more than wind. Those that
took me at my word left it all behind in honor of my judgment, and did not
accredit the understanding of a new direction as their own wisdom, thus their
deaths are far from abdication: it is concession. They surrender to my voice
and I grant them access to peace of mind: Me.” breathed the wind.
Oh. I
should have noticed before that with all those smoke stacks boiling over their
tops, there should have been vast plumes of ash blotting out most of the view.
But it was only every great now and then, when a climber completed their act as
a diver, that a puff, more like a burp than a vomit, arose out of the
cauldrons. The crimson puffs floated away.
"Why
does it matter with what intent they do it?" I fired.
The
breeze tousled my hair. “Why, dear, silly boy," The wind chuckle-gasped, "Attitude
shapes very worlds."
It gathered the most
recent smoke puff, promptly blowing it ahead of myself in the sand. It
collected it so tight it became a red sphere. Lightning flashed so constantly
within the ball it was like the string of beeps and bleats in Morse code. Over
the orb I could see something coming into view. I looked down again and saw
that we were leaving the first place at our backs, approaching a new domain.
And this one was full of beauty.
Majestic white
mountains. Snow covered everything, but there were no clouds, and it wasn’t
snowing. We were still a little ways off. And then I noticed there was a
division. A valley cut a border between the two provinces. We weren’t over it,
but so high above it that I could see down into its belly from this far. A
trickle of grey noodled across the valley floor. At the far end it branched to
either side. And when I say branched, I do mean like a tree’s branches,
several, and a proportional amount of shoots to both sides.
“Ah,” came the
voicelessness of the wind, “You behold the weeping lead.”
I wanted an
affirmation. “The metal, lead?”
“Precisely. It is
essential. But not now.”
I didn’t argue. The
wind was always right. And I knew I wasn’t.
I could figure out for
myself that the weeping lead was some sort of entrance but… the valley it ran
through was a barrier in itself. A barred
entry just around the corner, just out of the forms' sight? I couldn’t
crack it. I found that more than a little counteractive. Why censor the centerfold of a magazine? Something was being withheld
from me, purposely. But the wind said I didn’t need to understand it yet, so I
didn't push the matter.
The smoky sphere picked
up speed and dipped away on a streamlet of sand stuff that branched off from
the mainstream I was riding on. Miles were whipping by as we sped, so miles
weren’t really a measurement to ogle at here, but the ball zinging scads of
miles to pass over the entire ravine in the time it took to snap off
back-to-back blinks was a feat to
ogle at. When it passed over into the white land there could be seen a tiny pop
high above the mountains. Were I up next to it, it would’ve been like a feather
pillow rupturing after one too many rounds of pillow fighting. Considering the
size of the sphere, the burst was tremendously insignificant.
But it set off a
blizzard.
We were right up near
the lip of the gorge now. The blizzard was more than strong. It was like nothing
ever seen. And I guess for the storm’s ferocity, it has never been seen, still.
I could hear though, hear blustery winds. They were only hurricane force winds,
stirring up a white wedge that washed away all depth. Another noise fell upon
my ears as well. No. It was the same noise I mistook to be wind. The sound of
cheering. Wow. One tiny puff ball and it receives a celebratory confetti so
thick, the puff ball wouldn’t be able to open the presents all the guests had
placed before it.
The wind giggled. “That
I s-al-l-ay–” but its words were jerked away as a coal mountain on the
outskirts of the Lavaland, one of the last as we soared up next to the canyon’s
mouth, abruptly lifted and jabbed its peak, dissecting the wind’s lisp. Then it
was my turn. The jagged rock bit into my side and lava oozed out where the gash
opened. Without the wind, fear burst back into color all around me, and the
more I feared as I stared up at the still rising mountain, the more lava poured
out of my side until I was consumed and began to drip down the mountainside.
Points: 1658
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