Mason took another drink. “You and I, of course, on the other side of the mountain, in a land threatened by Malon. Those fucking demons. I ran into Geneveeve at the bookstore today. You wouldn’t believe what happened to me. Granted, I haven’t been feeling so hot. Feverish, hung-over, sick all the time . . . but that’s not all of it.”

  Mason paused. “Ever since Black Canyon, even a little before, I’ve been feeling like . . .”

  “Like what?”

  “Like things aren’t what they seem. And that some things might be changing permanently . . . even for the better. It will get better. It will get better all the way around. Even if the worst happens . . . even if it costs me my life.”

  “You mind if I help myself to some of that?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Eric went to the kitchen. He came back with a glass of ice. He sat down next to Mason on the couch and filled the glass with whiskey. He drank it and poured another.

  “So, how the hell did all this happen?”

  Mason sighed and leaned back on the couch. “The whole story?”

  “From beginning to end, Cuz. I want all of it.”

  Mason lit another cigarette. “You comfortable?” he asked.

  Eric smiled.

  Mason took a deep breath and told his cousin the tale.

  ~

  “We’ve been meant for better things, maybe. Who would’ve thought?”

  Mason smiled. He was intoxicated now and feeling fine.

  “Did I tell you what happened to me today, before all that?” Mason asked. “When I woke up?”

  “No,” Eric said. “What?”

  “I’ve never taken my wedding band off. Today it was on the counter beside the bed. Just sitting there for no reason. Maybe I took it off. I don’t remember. Anyway, it was cut in two, completely in half. Look.”

  Mason fished into his pocket and set two, broken pieces of white gold on the coffee table.

  ~

  “What do you think we should do?” Mason asked. He leaned against the arm of the sofa now. His eyelids were closed, the drink propped on his chest.

  Eric thought about it. “I think we should forget about it and go fishing again. Things are moving too fast.”

  “You’re the sagacious one,” Mason said, keeping his eyes closed.

  ~

  Mason eventually slipped under and into the arms of alcohol, snoring loudly. Eric stood up, set the drink on the coffee table, and let himself out. He looked to the sky, patches of gray clouds. It wasn’t even noon yet.

  “I’ve been waiting my whole life for this,” he said, aloud. “I’ve been preparing my whole life. And I’m not even ready.” He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and walked to the truck. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to see the world. He had half a mind to head to Idaho.

  You don’t have to go that far anymore. We’re right next door.

  He understood the lack of concern, to sever oneself completely from life.

  You have to die here.

  Mason had brought it on. The man was willing it to happen the only way he knew how. His reasons to stay here were meaningless. For what? Geneveeve? His fruitless and perhaps, lucky, career? Why not die? Why not help others since he was unable to perform such miracles here?

  “Sonofabitch,” he said.

  He saw the possibility, the reality of an alternate life for the first time in a long while.

  Eric drove home, his smile stretching from ear to ear.

  CHAPTER V

  Days to get sober. Can I at all? he thought.

  Several days went by and Mason hadn’t heard from Eric. Geneveeve, thank God, hadn’t called or stopped by either. He didn’t go out to get the mail. He didn’t answer the phone. Things would take care of themselves. He could leave her the bank account. Have Goodwill take everything else. It didn’t matter.

  Another drink, he thought. Another drink will banish those thoughts.

  He was no warrior. He was a troubled alcoholic on the verge of divorce, even death. He hadn’t the stamina, let alone the courage. He hadn’t the health or stature of Lucius or Gallus—even Eric.

  Mason sat up. His body ached terribly, and he put a hand to his head. It felt like his brain was still on the couch when he sat up, and now there was just an ache inside an empty skull.

  “This has got to stop,” he said.

  The thought of breakfast made him ill. He’d have a hard time sleeping again tonight unless he decided to drink more. His brain hurt, thinking, constantly churning. It was four o’clock in the morning.

  He went to the refrigerator. The gallon jug of cold water was almost empty. He filled it up in the sink and took several large swallows. If he ate before he passed out or took some aspirin, he might feel better.

  But he didn’t have the strength.

  He made some coffee instead. Maybe that would help. When the percolator finished brewing, he poured a cup, then went back to the living room. He turned on the television. “Strike it rich fast!” someone promised. “You can be a millionaire in just thirty days!”

  The television screen made his head hurt, the blinding colors. He winced and turned to the window. A face was staring in it at him, eyes close together, unusually large. It looked like an elf.

  Mason’s heart skipped a beat. He spilled coffee on his stomach, bit back on the pain. “Goddamnit!” he said.

  A steel beam jack-knifed through his brain when he stood up. His eyeballs felt like broken shards of glass, forcing him to sit back down again. Mason closed his eyes. His stomach churned.

  He opened his eyes and looked at the window again.

  The creature had dark eyes, slanted and sinister. It looked like a smaller version of Khayman: pale skin and long dark hair, thin eyebrows.

  Mason slowly stood up. The creature’s eyes followed him the entire way. He went to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside into the quiet morning. Crickets chirped. He walked across the lawn and to the front window where the elfish creature stood with its hands on the windowsill. It turned, looked at Mason, and grinned wide.

  In the next instant, the creature bolted across the lawn. Mason saw pointed ears sticking up between glossy, black hair. The figure was roughly three feet tall. A flash of colored light, rainbow balls, followed the figure across the yard, and into the hedges. High laughter filled the air.

  He wanted to follow but knew it was pointless. What were elves doing on his front lawn?

  He closed his eyes. Again, he felt like he was going to be sick.

  Mason opened his eyes again. Somehow, without him realizing it, he’d fallen in frozen mud. He knelt in the middle of an unimproved road with various dark shops on each side of him. He was no longer at his house but in the middle of a marketplace in the dead of night. It was quiet, raining, dark and cloudy. Mud caked him from head to toe.

  Mason put his face in the mud and let the rain beat upon him. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  ~

  He woke up two hours later. Apricot light splashed the sky, stabbing his brain, adding to the roar in his head. The grass was wet under his cheek, and he shivered with the early chill.

  Mason looked around. No one stared at him, no eyes through windows, no visits from his neighbors.

  Like a ritual—the drunken awakening—he pulled himself up on all fours like a dog.

  Someone grabbed his arm. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  Khayman?

  The hands were too small to be Khayman’s. Unable to focus right away, he noticed blonde hair, a smile, bright blue eyes, the hem of a black skirt, the girl’s sandaled feet. She wore a white top, puffy at the shoulders. She led him to the porch and back inside the house, directing him to the bedroom. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d slept in here.

  “Rest,” she said.

  “I saw an elf,” he tried to say. Was he still dreaming? If so, why was he going to bed?

  He slipped under the covers. The softness of the thick pillows and blankets was welcome. The blonde girl smiled, dabbing his head with a cold, damp cloth.

  “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” she asked. “People care about you, you know?” Her eyes were huge, concerned, pleading.

  “Yeah, but none of them are real.”

  “All of them are real,” she said, smiling.

  “Will you fix me a drink?” he asked.

  She looked sad. “Not now,” she said. “You need rest.” She dabbed the cloth on his forehead.

  “My wife doesn’t understand,” Mason said.

  “Don’t talk,” the blonde girl said.

  “Nothing I say is worth listening to because I’m always drunk. If I were sober, it would be for another reason.”

  He was going under again.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “My guardian angel?”

  She smiled. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe nothing.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  Mason slipped under and into the healing arms of sleep.

  ~

  Several hours later, he woke up, got out of bed, showered, and brushed his teeth. He was surprised how good he felt afterward. He made some coffee, ate a banana, a toasted bagel, and put on a clean shirt and pants.

  When was the last time you ate anything solid?

  He didn’t know. He did notice, however, when he put on his pants, that they were noticeably larger. After a few days of wear that was understandable, but straight from the dryer, they should’ve been snug.

  You’re wasting away. You’re wiping yourself off the face of the earth. You’re invisible.

  He took a chance again today, and instead of staying inside, decided to go the mall. He felt up for it, more rejuvenated after the sleep and some breakfast. It was actually the best he’d felt in a long time.

  It was 11:00 a.m., bright and sunny outside. Mason grabbed his keys, hopped in the Cherokee, and drove into town. He parked, stepped outside into the June heat, and crossed the parking lot to the Cache Valley Mall. A cool blast of air conditioning hit him in the face. Hot pretzels, pizza, and the smell of coffee were strong in the air.

  Teens in flashy makeup, tight shirts, and tighter jeans were everywhere, kids licking ice cream cones. Mason went to a place called, Medieval Arts, a store specializing in merchandise of that time period: swords, shields, gauntlets, ceramic dragons, wizards, and goblets. Swords of all sizes, battle-axes, maces, and other weaponry lined the wall behind the counter. Daggers, dirks, large knives, and Chinese stars filled a long glass case. To his left, a rack held colored cloaks, vests, jerkins, and tunics. Another rack held pouches and belts. The far wall was dedicated to footwear. Ceramic dragons, crystal balls, and wizards sat in niches and in the display windows. Did people really buy this kind of stuff? Was it a fad?

  “How ya doing, man?”

  The voice came from a boy roughly eighteen-years of age. He wore silver metal rings in his lip, ears, nose, and eyebrows. He had on black eyeliner. His hair was dyed jet black, short, but spiked in a greasy manner. Black bracelets stretched the length of both forearms. He wore army fatigues, a black T-shirt with cut-off sleeves. I’m a psychopath. Will you marry me? it read.

  “Like your shirt,” Mason said.

  “Hey, no shit!” the kid said, excitedly. “Me, too! Get a lot of stares. Anything here catch your eye?”

  “I like that battleaxe on the wall,” Mason said, motioning to the weapon. “The small one.”

  “Ah!” the kid said. “Everyone likes the battleaxe. Not too big, either. Just enough for one hand. Wanna check it out?”

  “Yeah,” Mason said. The kid grabbed the battleaxe and set it carefully on the glass case. Mason didn’t pick it up. “What about that dagger right there?” Mason said, pointing to a black-handled dagger in the case with a silver blade. “How much is that?”

  “Man, you got good taste,” the kid said.

  The dagger had an hourglass blade, like the figure of a woman. The kid opened the case, pulled the dagger out, and handed it to Mason. Mason held it in his hand. It was heavier than he’d thought, but he liked it. He picked up the battleaxe and took a practice swing. The kid look amused.

  “Keep them out,” Mason said, setting the axe on the counter. He moved to the rack of cloaks. He found one made of black velvet with gold thread embroidered along the trim. The price tag said $495.00. He pulled it off the rack and stepped to the counter.

  “I’ll leave the axe and take the dagger,” Mason said. “And let me check out the two Celtic broadswords, and the one longsword,” he said.

  “Jesus! Are you serious?”

  “You got sheathes for those things?”

  “Fuckin, aye! I’ll throw ‘em in for nothing. Anything else?”

  “I need some good boots, black. For long terrain. Give me a pouch and a flask, too.”

  “You got it! Jesus, I’ll get to close early and go out with Melissa. She’ll fucking love that!”

  “Get them boots in size eleven,” Mason said.

  “Anything else?”

  “Give me one of those purple dragons. Screw it. Let me have the green one, too. And that crystal ball with the talon underneath.”

  “That, my friend, is an official dragon claw.”

  “All the better,” Mason said, smiling.

  “Anything else?”

  “You sell horses?”

  The kid looked at him for a minute, then burst out laughing. Mason laughed with him.

  Funny thing, huh, he thought. You’re quite serious, and the kid is hoping you’re not serious. He’s hoping you’re joking because if you’re not joking, he’s not going to get a sale, and he’ll have to call the cops.

  “Ring it up,” he said.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ! I’m taking the cash register!”

  “Maybe you can give me a discount,” Mason said.

  “Three-thousand-one-hundred and seventy-two dollars, and seventeen cents. Will that be cash or charge?”

  “How about a debit?”

  “Fucking all right. You got ID? Store policy with a transaction of that amount.”

  Mason had his ID out. The kid spent twenty minutes making sure everything was wrapped up, bagged, at least the stuff that was small enough. He rang everything up and handed Mason his receipt.

  “Come back again, man.”

  “Thanks,” Mason said.

  He grabbed the bags, heavy and awkward, and left the store.

  ~

  “I’ll build a house,” he said to himself on the way out, not caring if anyone heard. “Raise some crops, goats, pigs, maybe a cow. I’ll raise a family with a beautiful, short blonde girl. Everything’ll be perfect.”

  Part of him actually believed this, and he laughed again. He was slightly delirious, he supposed, since waking up. Hadn’t he seen an elf the night before? What about the blonde girl who’d helped him to bed?

  He put the things in the back of the Cherokee, hopped inside, and put the Jeep in gear. He stopped at Glausers, a diner in the middle of town. He stepped inside and took a booth by himself. He ordered a grilled turkey sandwich with fries and a large coke. The food seemed to make everything clearer. He left a propitious tip, left, and started home, lighting a cigarette.

  Once at the house, Mason took everything inside and locked the door. He took off his pants and shirt. He put on the boots, the cloak, and strapped the knife to his belt. He sheathed the sword and attached it to his left hip.

  “Destiny,” he said, looking at himself in the fool-length mirror on the bedroom door. “Nostalgia.”

  The funny thing was—when he looked at himself—he seemed bigger, taller. Maybe that was the just the length of the cloak. But if he didn’t know any better, he’d say his cheeks had filled out, his arms. He looked . . . fuller.

  He could handle the weapons with no problem at all. He could fight these beasts. For the first time in his life, Mason felt capable of battle, strong enough to wield the sword with Gallus, Lucius, Khayman, and Eric beside him.

  Mason took the clothes off, dressed in his regular civilian duds, and made a drink. He lied on the couch and closed his eyes.

  In his mind, he saw Geneveeve shaking her head. She’d come to visit him after he’d gotten home from the mall. Was he dreaming still?

  “Oh, please! Mason! What have you done?”

  “Destroyed the darkness, dear,” he said, smiling. Lying on the couch, his eyes were still closed. The drink was propped on his chest. “Made light out of everything once dark. You didn’t want to hang around. You didn’t want to see. You didn’t believe in me. I tried to tell you. I tried to make you see!”

  “I’ll miss you when you’re dead and gone,” she said.

  “Get away from me, Geneveeve.”

  She smiled. “Make love to me.” She cupped him between his legs, but it failed to arouse him.

  “Gen, goddamnit!”

  “I’ve had some time to think.” Her voice was husky. She’d changed. The devil had gotten into her. This was not Geneveeve. Geneveeve was someplace far away. “Goddamnit, Mason. I want you to make love to me!”

  Mason laughed out loud. Of course! Now, he knew it was a dream! He’d fallen asleep on the couch after coming home from the mall. Geneveeve wasn’t that willing or anxious.

  She unbuttoned his pants, pulling his zipper down. Mason closed his eyes, in need of another drink.

  “You know what you’re problem is, Gen? You don’t understand that you can’t be sexy. Not to me. Not anymore. Your womanhood has gone out. Stick to the church, sweetheart. You’re more useful that way.”

  But she didn’t stop.

  “Gen, what are you doing?”

  “Mother says I should’ve left you a long time ago. But she doesn’t understand. I know who you are, what you’re made of, Mason. I know what you’re fighting for. You’re just a little . . . disconnected. I want to bring you back. Just enough. I know I can help you.”

  Geneveeve kissed him, grabbed his hand, trying to lead him into the bedroom.

  Part of him actually wanted it! No! All of him wanted it! He wanted her, wanted to put his arms around her, strip those shoulders bare! How long had it been since he’d touched her like this? Yet, part of him hated himself for wanting her at all.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18