The Knowing. Part 3

When Variol opened his eyes, they met soft golden sunshine. He stirred and groaned, and lifted the back of a pew that had collapsed across his torso.

He sat up. Around him were the charred and smoking remnants of the place once consecrated to the disgraced War-God. Of the demoness, there was no sign.

A louder groan, and he got to his feet. His flute was lost in the wreckage. Behind him were only the pathless hills of the Gravian Forest. A long and lonely trudge through the plains awaited him, with only the ash in his mouth to break his fast.

But with his tenth step, he stumbled. A jagged, jutting board, which, when kicked aside, revealed a sack of wine. He picked it up: by the grace of one god or another, it was still intact. The bard raised it to his lips and drank deep.

“Now that’s a good night’s work,” he murmured. He drank again, and began to hum a tune as he headed West. At his back, the sun climbed higher through the merry blue ceiling of the World.

A few days later, he left the rainy country of Hylomoria behind. He caught a wagon-train in Kenoma, and sang for his passage South. The year was blossoming into Spring, and all the cosmos of blue and green awakened as the leagues unfurled before them.

And there, one morn, was Sendroval. The bard’s old home, walled and mighty, surrounded by the sunlit fields of the South. Variol thanked his new friends and hopped from the wagon to saunter down the Lane of Death.

For this great city, jewel of the Kingdoms, housed a temple to each one of the gods. It was named for Sendra, Goddess of Wisdom; but Yyrkana, Goddess of Death, was honored there as well. Not far off was the temple of Aive, Lord of the Sun, and another disused church of War.

Death’s temple was closed to the public during the day (unless the sky-watchers foretold an eclipse), but Variol knew many things. He walked casually along the onyx wall, away from the front steps and the giant doors, down a small and shadowed alleyway. Then, casually, he caught hold of a seam in the stone and swung himself up. Caught hold of another, hoisted himself up, and caught another: scaled the black wall like a crooning spider till he vaulted the top and dropped into the secret garden beyond.

A tall grey woman was strolling in the flowery aisles. Kindly smile lines marked her face, and the frown of deep thought, and the jaw-set of enormous strength. Variol stepped out from behind a birch tree wrapped in flowering ivy, humming a cheery tune. Her fists clenched when she saw him, but her face stayed calm.

“Lady Nella,” said the bard, “High Priestess of Death.”

“Odd,” she said, “that’s my name too.”

He grinned. “Lovely to see that you have humor, Lady. My name is Variol of Sendroval. I come, ostensibly, for the tourney of the bards two days hence; but in the meanwhile, there’s work to be done. I need your help.”

“You have humor too, little minstrel. Why in all the Seven Hells would I help you?”

“Because you know that Gordash betrayed the God of the Bards. But his treachery did not conclude with his banishment: Yyrkana too is imperiled. You see, you need my help as well.”

“Tell me the tale, bard. Your boldness earns you that, at least. I’ll decide after if your quest is worth my time.”

He shook his head. “First, your word. I cannot risk the tale until I know your loyalty is where it should be. Your predecessor was best of friends with the murdered rhyme-lord, and the Death-Goddess with the Bard-God. But you, I do not know.”

The Priestess stepped closer, and her frown grew deep. “You go too far. Speak your tale or I will cast you out myself.”

“A Knowing, then?” He smiled.

“You’re unwise to challenge me.” She raised her voice in the Hymn of the Tomb, and her avatar stepped slowly forth from her flesh. The power of Yyrkana loomed behind her, an aura like the sickle of a titan. “You are nothing but a feckless fool,” she declared.

“Perhaps.” And his glowing spirit lunged for her grey-clad body.

Anticipating her opponent’s use of Music, Nella drew upon the silence of the grave: the deep, black, sound-swallowing nothingness that waits beneath the grass. But Variol didn’t try to match her strength. The Spirit of the Grass, unworshiped by men, dwelt quietly about them in the budding Spring, endlessly growing and alive. As she drove toward his body on the wings of oblivion, she found herself gently but tirelessly pushed back by a vibrancy no scythe could keep at bay.

Pivoting in mid-idea, she pushed forward with the breath of Winter, foe of Grass and friend of Death—but, slipping behind her defenses, Variol himself now called upon Yyrkana Death-Goddess. His handling of that power was far less efficient than the Priestess’ would be; but the difference in sheer brute force between a mere season and final mortality was enough to break her momentum once again.

She fell back and glared, but a grudging respect was dawning in her face. Nevertheless, she felt, it was time to put forth her true might. She soared above the sunlit garden and descended as the hammer of Apocalypse. “Death is victorious!”

“Yet the battle is glorious.”

As she slammed into his avatar with the full, terrible weight of her Goddess, she saw what he had done: buoyed up by Rhyme, he’d cast out webs of invocation in two opposite directions, channeling Gordash by the call to arms and Sendra by his stoic perseverance. In the figure of the Bard, War and Wisdom met—and he warded himself with all three. It was a brilliant move.

But he was no priest of Wisdom, and War was no longer a God. She pressed him slowly down, and down, until she stood firmly inside his body. Her Known was now his own.

Her opinion, however, had changed in the course of this fight. True, he’d been defeated; but for a simple bard to hold his own against the High Priestess of Death was a remarkable feat. The belief she had sought to impose, she no longer held: and therefore, nor did he. They returned to their own bodies, the Knowing a stalemate.

Variol sat down heavily on the grass, panting. The Lady Nella, her chin held high, walked to a nearby bench and sank onto it with dignity. For a few moments, they sat in silence. Finally, she took a breath and spoke in a calm unwavering voice.

“I will not betray your confidence, rhyme-smith. You have my word.”

He nodded and wiped his brow. “Thank you, my Lady. Here, then, is my tale. . .”

Monsters Three by David Berger

(Names have been redacted for purposes of confidentiality.)

ANNOUNCER: We bring you the latest news from Tokyo. The highest military authorities of our defense force have informed us that the seamount called [REDACTED]’s Sunken Island has risen once again from the depths of the Sea of Japan. And, oh, this just in, two great monsters, once known as the Flying Monster, and the Thing, have arrived on the island and have dived into the crater of Mount Kaiju. What does this mean? 

We take you now to the secret mountain laboratory under Mount Fuji of Professor [REDACTED], famous expert on all monsters. Professor, what can you tell us? Are those three terrible monsters going to attack us? Is there danger? What are the authorities and the Army going to do about this?

PROFESSOR [REDACTED]: No. I don’t think there is any danger at this time. Our super-missiles are ready to defend Tokyo as never before. And our monster biologists assure us that these three monsters are in a quiet period. They are harmless for now. But vigilance is always necessary.

ANNOUNCER: Thank your for those expert assurances, Professor [REDACTED].

Deep in the heart of the rising seamount off the coast of Japan, three of the mightiest monsters of all time have met for an important discussion. The great [REDACTED], host for the occasion, provided a spread the finest monster delicacies that could be found anywhere: sautéed sperm whale; giant squid au gratin and cricket livers. He and his guests, [REDACTED] and [REDACTED], ate and drank enormous amounts, and then they settled down to business.

“So [REDACTED], what’s the occasion?” [REDACTED] roared quietly. “It’s been decades, and we haven’t exactly been in touch since the three of us whacked three-headed [REDACTED]. Nowadays your son is impersonating you and making a bundle off it. Neither Sister [REDACTED] here, nor I, have worked in a while. So what’s on your mind?”

“Yeah, [REDACTED], wassup? [REDACTED] said, breathily. “Somehow a monsters’ soiree doesn’t seem to be your speed.”

“You’re right guys,” [REDACTED] said, his huge back plates glowing slightly. “Tokyo’s been rebuilt, and their missile defenses have got AI, so that’s probably out. And, by the way, that’s my grandson, not my son, in New York doing his thing.”

“Since we’re talking family, whatever, how’s your boy?” [REDACTED] hissed, her wings quivering slightly. “He could puff that radioactive fire, even when he was an eft. Remember how you had to step on his tail to get him going?” 

[REDACTED] blasted softly. “You didn’t hear?”

“No,” [REDACTED] susurrated. “Something happen?”

“After the fight with [REDACTED] and the [REDACTED], [REDACTED] was hurt badly. He never grew to full size, and he was never quite right in the head. Later on, he got mixed up in that Jurassic Park thing. He talked himself into a job doing special effects. Then, in one of the scenes, he burned himself very badly. He hadn’t been well; otherwise, he wouldn’t’ve gotten hurt. And they actually used his accident in a scene. 

“He never regained consciousness. That same year his mother [REDACTED] died. She couldn’t bear losing him. We’d been separated for years, but we got together one last time to plan the funeral.”

“That’s rough, [REDACTED],” [REDACTED], said, her compound eyes turning red. 

“I hate to ask this, but did he have insurance?” [REDACTED] boomed out.

“No. He had it, but he let it lapse, and the studio wouldn’t cover what happened – some loophole that he was only a consultant and shouldn’t have been on the set, and there was no negligence. His medical and funeral expenses put a big dent in my nest.”

“That’s rough, [REDACTED],” [REDACTED] growled. “I almost bought it myself last month. I was winging it over the Sea of Japan, peaceful as can be, when a freakin’ DPRK short-range missIle almost did me in. Talk about air pollution!”

“You know it’s not always about you, [REDACTED],” [REDACTED] spit angrily. “But since you bring it up, same by me. Resting in a quiet field in the USA, Oregon, I think. Taking in some sun to dry out my wings, and that freaking Roundup stuff almost rounded me up! Those chemicals are something else!”

“Speaking of pollution, I don’t even want to talk about the Pacific,” [REDACTED] rumbled with only a few sparks from his back. “Last time I brought the seamount up, it almost didn’t make it for the weight of the freaking plastic. Took me a whole day to burn it off. 

“Either of you reptiles run into any of the old crowd?” [REDACTED] asked?

“Yeah,” [REDACTED] said. 

“I was over the Galapagos about two years ago. I spotted  [REDACTED], that freakin’ turtle.”

“I thought she was running a daycare center on Hakkaido,” the King replied.

“She was,” the Great Insect replied. “But they passed a law there saying only humans could run daycare centers. Broke her heart.”

“No good monster goes unpunished,” the Flying Monster rumbled.

“Changing the subject, why are we here, Old Glow?” [REDACTED] sort of hummed.

“Listen my airborne friends, our time is over. We got to pack it in. There’s younger, nastier monsters out there. Look at those bastards who came out of the Pacific Rim. Brutal mothers. I don’t mess with metal.”

“What about Mecha? You messed with him.” 

“That was my cousin in a tin suit. Can’t act worth shit, but kids seemed to like him. He’s retired now. Got bad arthritis from wearing that thing. But let me go on.”

“Yeah, our time is really is over,” [REDACTED] hissed. “So what’s your proposition? I know you’ve got something up your sleeve, even though you don’t wear sleeves.”

“I do have something to offer. But you’ve got to keep it under your hats.”

“We don’t wear hats,” [REDACTED] grumbled. 

“Okay. Let me burn it up for you. There’s a new theme park opening, called MonsterLand! And I’ve been approached by somebody we all know for us to be a part of it.”

“You’re kidding. Us! A freaking theme park!” [REDACTED] howled, shaking the chamber.

“You’re crazy,” [REDACTED] hissed. 

“Wait a minute,” their reptilian host said, small flames coming out of his nostrils. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“Something called MonsterLand is a conclusion!” [REDACTED] roared, curling his leathery wings.

“Can I tell you what’s involved before you wreck my place or wrap it in silk?” [REDACTED] said quietly, the flames in his nose receding slightly.

[REDACTED] and [REDACTED] didn’t reply.

“Okay, it goes like this. It’s being built in Baha. We all show up for the grand opening in about a year. Then each of us becomes the resident monster for three months. What they … .”

“Last time I studied calculus, twelve divided by three was four. Who’s the fourth?” [REDACTED] rattled.

“Uh-oh,” [REDACTED] hissed. “I think I smell a big, hairy … .”

“Yeah, [REDACTED]’s involved. I admit it.” 

“[REDACTED]!” the guests yelled out together. The whole mountain shook.

“That ho! He’s got movies; he’s got a Broadway show; he’s got a chunk of Universal Studios; and now he wants a theme park!” [REDACTED] hissed opening her spinnarets.

“That miserable, mammalian mother … .” [REDACTED] said, spreading his wings.

“Calm down, guys,” [REDACTED] said.

“You calm down,” [REDACTED] cried. “I bound you up in my silk once before, and I’ll do it again.”

“That was your larvae did that, not you. You’re getting senile.”

“Where do you think they get their spinning talent? Don’t get me madder than I am, [REDACTED].” 

“I’m this close to blowing the walls of this place out, [REDACTED]. So talk quick,” [REDACTED] blasted out.

“Listen, guys. This certainly was [REDACTED]’s idea.”

“The park or employing us?” [REDACTED] asked

“Us. The park is being built by the [REDACTED] outfit.”

“Figures,” [REDACTED] said. “I guess they’re bored with princesses.”

“We could end up being very grateful to him. Each of us does a three month’s stint. I’m telling you the money’s good. Really good.”

“How much?” [REDACTED] asked.

“A million a month.”

“Yen or yuan?” [REDACTED] chortled, waving her antennae.

“Dollars. Nice, big, fat, green US dollars.”

“And … ?” [REDACTED] growled.

“Less [REDACTED]’s twelve percent.”

“He’s such a ho!” [REDACTED] hissed.

“Always was,” [REDACTED] roared.

“And always will be,” [REDACTED] thundered, his back plates at full brilliance. “Are you guys in?”

“In,” roared the Flying Monster.

“In,” hissed the Thing.

“Cool,” [REDACTED] roared out, blasting his atomic flame.

“That ape’s still a ho,” the Thing hissed quietly.

“Yeah,” the Flying Monster whispered.