Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Abaddon XII



The last of the logs had died down to coals. Next to him, wrapped around his small body for the meager warmth it provided, the Princess slept soundly, peacefully, the sleep of innocence, youth, and exhaustion. But not so for the Bandersnatch. He was far removed from the Misrule Pass. The Vale Vixen bloomed lushly around him. He inhaled the scent of tropical flowers, hummed to the symphony of birdsong and falling water, the sweet music of Kamali’s laughter; and remembered a day when immortality and the immensity of time were something to look forward to. For eternity was not questioned in paradise. It simply was.

Since the slaughter, he had worried the question of time like a bone, gnawing it incessantly, unable to break through to the marrow. He and Kamali had once spent a perpetuity staring into each other’s bottomless eyes. There he had known heaven, the answer to life and life everlasting. The glyphs of all great questions spiraled and danced, revolved and whorled in the depths of Kamali’s eyes, and Hiurau had no need to ask for explanations. He had known.

But. The slaughter. It had changed all that. As they fled heaven, their haven, like Adam and Eve exiled from the Garden of Eden, all knowledge disappeared. Survival. That was all that mattered. All unknowing they had entered Gehenna—the Devastation—and suddenly Hiurau was plunged into his own private Hell.

How long had he been alive? How many years had he spent in the bliss of Vale Vixen? Had he ever been a child? Surely? He could no longer remember. Time after the slaughter had been counted, painfully, second by second. Eternity measured by the slow burn of the sun across the sky, the cold light of the moon that gleamed off his silver fur. Sometimes he wondered if he even slept but he knew that he must for surely the nightmares that ravaged his mind only snaked their way into his unconsciousness when he closed his eyes? And, the serpent, his nightmare, was time.

He sighed, and Eluned stirred. He had long ago come to terms with time. At least, that it was a matter that needed to be dealt with. His views on it varied constantly. One day, he was perfectly at peace with the concept of a nonspatial continuum; the next, silently raging over the need for it; the next, pondering the apparently irreversible succession of events from past to present to future that marked his time. He wished he could freeze Eluned’s time, suspend her in ageless innocence—virginal, naïve, guileless. An Angel. But he could no more stop her from aging than he could prevent her from having her heart broken or from recognizing her purpose in life. For, contrary to their earlier discussion, he did have an inkling although it was still true that he was a pawn, albeit a willing and important pawn, in the great and secret show.

Freewill not withstanding, much was preordained. From the rise and death of prophets, false and true, to the tossing of a golden ball (not maliciously) into a forest where it rolled silently across a carpet of moss softer and more richly green than the velvet cloak that swung from the ivory shoulders of a certain queen, and across the moss and into a clearing filled with flowers (none more lovely than a certain princess) where it bounced with a gentle dinggg! against a wonderful tabernacle of granite and quivered to a halt precisely in the center of a fairy ring of toadstools.

Perhaps he should close his eyes and attempt some semblance of slumber, but he feared the flickering figures that would play upon the screen of his eyelids. Since the previous eve when suddenly reminded of the atrocities of the Devastation—first the Barrow Wight, then the Dzu-tch, Bonpo—he had been unable to banish them from his thoughts. Indescribably horrible—the suppurating flesh, the oozing craters of their eyes, craggy teeth in the lipless caverns of their mouths and the odor, fetid, rotting, putrid as if they were actively decaying. He shuddered. Would he ever forget? Was he supposed to? He felt a hand heavy against his ribs and his heart stopped for a moment before he realized it was only the Princess, comforting him even while she slept.

He wished he could delay the trip. They would make it through the pass in a matter of days. And then she would fall in love. And have her heart broken. And learn quickly how harshly cruel love, and life, could be.


Jabberwock was moving in his sleep, skinny legs jerking and muffled squeals issuing from his chest. Once again, Eluned put out a hand to calm him, but this time she awakened completely. The nightmares again. He seemed to experience them almost nightly.

A log in the fire popped and Eluned froze. Surely it would have died out by now? She had already been dreading getting it going again. She sat up and looked around and her movement awakened Jabberwock.

“What is it?” he grumbled. A twig snapped in the woods behind them and Jabberwock and Eluned scrambled to their feet, hearts pounding.

“Who’s there?” She squeaked. A monstrous hand pushed aside the branches of a fir that stood at the edge of the small clearing they had camped in. A giant body followed it, ducking under some of the higher branches.

“Bonpo!” The Princess wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “You scared me to death.”

“I solly,” he dumped an armload of logs next to the fire. Da fire was out. You want me . . .”

“To explain just exactly what you’re doing here?” Jabberwock interrupted, sarcastically, but there was a peculiar glint in his eye.

A huge grin split Bonpo’s face. “What? You haf to ask?” Jabberwock rolled his eyes and flopped back down the fir needles. “So, what’s for breakfast?”

Bonpo chuckled and turned to his huge pack. “What? What?” Eluned asked in frustration. “Why do I always feel like I am not even present when you two are having a conversation? Would you care to explain to me why you’re here?” She glared at Bonpo’s wide back as he measured some coffee into a pot. He turned and settled the pot firmly into the coals before answering.

“I rearize when you arrive dat I was meant to be wit you,” he said, simply. “O’course, Jab have dat feerin’ too.”

“Why?”

“I no know reason. Jus know it meant to be.”

She looked to Jabberwock for further explanation. He only stared back, unblinking, eyes reflecting the oranges and yellows of the jumping flames between them.

“Omni.” A statement.

“Likely as not.” His skinny rear ascended as he stretched. Absolutely no doubt as to why they called that particular stretch “downward dog,” she mused. He shuffled off into the woods as Bonpo was removing a heavy black frying pan from his pack. The woods beckoned to her as well. She couldn’t complain about having him with them on their journey, she thought, crouching behind the ubiquitous fir, certainly they would be much safer and she was far from an experienced cook!

As she stepped back into the clearing, Bonpo was expertly cracking some eggs into the pan alongside some bacon that was already beginning sizzle. Her stomach twisted in on itself and she realized that the few bites of bread she managed to swallow before slipping off into an exhausted sleep the previous night had done nothing to nourish her fatigued body.

There was no cream for the coffee (guess he couldn’t carry every possible concession in his pack) but it tasted marvelous anyway. Of course, hunger was a great spice and the eggs, bacon and leftover bread renewed her energy, considerably. Yes, it was definitely going to be an advantage having Bonpo along, especially considering their former breakfast prospects had been only the leftover bread bread and water.


They spent the next few hours in silence. The clearing had long ago been leveled out as a camping spot for those traveling across the mountains. Not a hundred yards down the road and they began to ascend once again. It would be nearly noon before they made it to the pass, and nightfall before they reached the campsite halfway along the pass.


It wasn’t true, but it had seemed that every step they climbed the temperature had dropped a degree. OK. Maybe half a degree. But, it had definitely gotten colder the higher they climbed toward the pass. At one point, she had begged to stop, and pulling out her blood-stained (all right, it was grass-stained) blouse, pulled its soft and warm flannel over her two cotton blouses. Hmmm . . . maybe she should pull her cotton skirt on; but then what would she have to keep her warm between stopping for the night and getting the fire going? Sigh.

Bonpo waited patiently, but Jabberwock looked disgusted at the waste of time. Although, it was probably more a matter of standing still and his body cooling off than her procrastination.

Even with stopping for a cold lunch—leftover bacon and eggs between rapidly staling bread—and the Princess adding more layers to her frigid body, not to mention those “necessary breaks” and the not-so-necessary (I can’t walk another step! Dramatics indeed.), they made pretty good time and arrived at the pass campsite a good hour before sundown.

All Eluned wanted to do was sit, but she gritted her teeth and wandered into the woods to gather some blow downs to keep the fire going. She had no doubt that Bonpo would have it started and roaring by the time she returned! Well, she rationalized, not only am I cold (she couldn’t even feel her fingers), but I am not used to this type of walking. Gee, Jabb had four legs to walk on and she couldn’t imagine Bonpo ever getting tired. Besides, they both seemed acclimated to high altitudes. But, as far as she was concerned, it felt as if her feet were trying to push their way through the soles of her boots. But, heaven (and Omni) forbid that she be thought of as weak! She was just as capable. She just didn’t have as many miles on her yet.

She stumbled back to the campsite with an armload of wood and Bonpo nodded approvingly as he lifted it from her outstretched arms. She wanted to stick her tongue out at Jabberwock as if to say, “See, this isn’t a waste of your time.” But, she knew that was a juvenile reaction and that she really needed to refrain from doing that again, if possible. She was growing up, after all. Eighteen years old. She relished that thought for a moment. Eighteen years old and on the adventure of a lifetime. She tried not to feel too smug. But, but . . . well, she couldn’t keep her mind from drifting to that knight-in-shining-armor; her Prince Charming. As she huddled by the fire (She was right. Bonpo had gotten the fire going.), and she was enjoying its warmth, her exhaustion led her mind in directions she preferred it not go. Like: what would he look like, this man who was to sweep her off her feet? She tried to imagine. She wasn’t really sure what kind of hero she was looking for, but she knew that as soon as she saw him she would know. Her knees would go weak. Her breath would be taken away. Eye color, height, hair. Well, she had nothing to compare those to. She would just know.

She guessed it was bizarre if she actually thought about it, and she was, despite part of her telling her not to, but she had never found any man within her father’s small realm (well, even smaller than normal because she was talking just within the castle walls; technically they were within her father’s realm for another five miles) attractive. She was distracted. She stood to see if she could still see the castle from this point on the pass but there were too many trees not to mention clouds and miles.

Had she known that even on the best day she wouldn’t have been able to spot the walls of her father’s castle from this viewpoint, she might not have strained her eyes so hard. Or, had she known that from this particular vantage point, she was taking not only her last (for quite a while), but most comprehensive view of her father’s kingdom, she might have paused a moment longer. But that was yet another piece of knowledge she would remain blissfully ignorant of.

Anyway, she thought as she returned to the fire disappointed but not knowing why (she didn’t recognize homesickness because she had never left home before), she was beginning to wonder if attractive and exciting men existed solely in the few novels (belonging to Queen Fuchsia, of course) that she had chanced upon and devoured time and time again.

Certainly there weren’t any likely suspects in her father’s kingdom, or at least what she had seen of it, and believe me, she had looked, more than once. Tantalizing smells were beginning to issue forth from the cookpot over the fire and she was easily distracted.


Once again Bonpo worked his culinary magic. No actual meat this time (well, maybe some salt pork) but the beans tasted as good as any gourmet meal. How did it come to be that she was always that hungry; that thoughts of food and filling her belly could surpass thoughts of men? Who would believe it! On the other hand, as she was drifting off to sleep, snuggled warmly in her wool blankets, she couldn’t help thinking of soft lips pressed to hers, yielding warmly, and sparking a fire in the depths of her belly. With a nearly inaudible moan, she drifted off to sleep.

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