The Nowhere Witch

By A.R. Cook

Sharpshooter

The last one is waking up now.

She groans as she sits up on the unfamiliar ground. Her eyes must be burning—she squeezes her eyelids together and grimaces. Sensitive areas on the body tend to experience a burning sensation once the subject has been through the Chronological Relocation. The others felt it as well. The Pirate was the most expressive about it. He is a verbal artiste with curse words. But I will get to him shortly.

Eventually she forces her eyes open. She glances about at the stark black trees keeping vigil over her, as light gray flakes descend silently in the stillness. A growing sense of panic takes root in her chest, but she quickly reins it in. It is instinctive for her, to suppress panic and fear, but she doesn’t remember why.

She doesn’t remember anything.

That realization begins to sink in, and now she looks down at herself. She mentally notes the tattered duster coat, the worn pants, the button-up shirt and the dirt-caked boots. On the ground beside her is a leather brimmed hat and a rifle. A fleeting thought whispers through her mind: Am I supposed to be dressed like this? These are men’s clothes…

Interesting she should think that now. Such a notion hasn’t crossed her mind in years, where she’s from.

She lays a hand on the rifle lightly, not sure if it belongs to her. But it must, since she finds pouches of gunpowder and bullets on her belt that match up with this firearm. She scratches her short brown hair, trying to register everything around her. The usual questions begin tumbling through her mind like a landslide: How did I get here? What was I doing before this? Where am I? Who am I?

It’s that last question that sometimes terrifies most of my guests. But this one manages to keep her calm as she slowly gets up, dusting the gray flakes from her coat.

“Hello? Anybody out here?” she calls. There is no answer, of course. As she brushes away the flakes, she holds a few in her palm and looks at them closely. She realizes it is not snow, as she first thought. She rubs the substance gently between her fingers, and sniffs at it. Her face wrinkles in confusion and distaste. I suppose there is a small sense of relief as well, since it proves she does remember something, at least. She remembers what ash is.

Some of my guests who have awoken in this part of my forest wonder why the ash does not suffocate them or has any strong smell. She doesn’t wonder this, probably because it is the least of her concerns, and given how long she has lived with gunpowder and smoke, it probably would not have fazed her much even if she did remember who she was and what she has done.

She picks up the rifle, and a whiff of a notion returns to her like an age old friend. I know how to hold a rifle, she thinks. I know how to use one. I hit my marks true every time, faster than a hawk on a rabbit. I’m even better than…I can’t remember who…but I can shoot…shoot…

Someone died…someone was shot…did I do it? No, I was upset…but not at who died. At who shot him. Someone is dead…someone…

The memory then slips away, the wriggly little brain-speck, into some deep dark place she cannot access. It frustrates her for a moment, as she tries to grab it back. But not even Sharpshooters as fast as her can catch runaway memories in this place. Not unless I allow them to.

She begins pulling things out of her pockets, hoping that some item on her person will trigger another memory. Some tarnished coins, some tobacco, a small flask of stale alcohol. All things she enjoys, that much she knows, as an automatic reaction of sublime pleasure fills her at the sight of these items. But no, no distinct memories associated with these things. She takes a quick sip of the alcohol and stuffs everything back in her pockets.

She walks through the trees with alert caution. She holds her rifle at the ready, stepping carefully to not make any crunching sounds with her boots. She has the feeling that she is being watched…which she is, naturally. An unnatural, mechanical howl erupts in the distance.

She stops dead in her tracks. She waits, hoping to hear the sound again. She knows that sound…there it is again. A…steam train! There is a train nearby. Where there are trains, there are people. Surely someone there can tell me wherever in Tarnation I am, she thinks.

She breaks into a run, but keeps her gun at the ready. She spots a great plume of smoke puffing up amongst the trees, and in that smoke comes the confetti of ash that is coating the forest. As she watches it, she sees just how far the plumes spread, fogging up the entire breadth of the sky with its snowfall of gray matter. The closer she gets to the source, the thicker the smoke and ash becomes, and the darker the world around her. Yet she still breathes easy; she can still make her way through it all without any invasive smells or lung-clogging debris. Even her eyes do not sting from the swarm of flakes, although it is getting harder to see through the opaqueness, and she begins to think about why the air feels so clear. Her determination to reach her goal trumps her ever-mounting curiosities.

She sees the smoke stack, as impressive as a citadel, through the canopy of leafless trees. As she weaves her way past the pitch-black trunks to an approaching clearing, she can see the rusted carcass of a steam train engine, and although her memories are gone, she knows this is unlike any model of train she would have ever seen before. Half buried in the ash, it is a monstrous machine, with pipes belching hot flames and sharp steel protrusions at the front where a - I believe the term is “cow catcher” - should have been. There are cogs and wheels and pumps in constant frantic motion, but the train does not move, as there are no tracks. Something about its glowing lights and motion and almost musical grinding and puffing strikes her with familiarity again…a carnival? A parade? It’s gone again, damn it. But if this hunk of junk is working, then someone has to be running it, she thinks. Better have a word with the conductor. Hmm…I must know a thing or two ‘bout trains, too, if I remember what a conductor is. Doesn’t seem fair I remember that, but can’t remember my own name.

She stalks up to the machine, craning her neck back to look up. She can see flickering shadows playing in the golden red blaze cast by the boiler inside the engine cab. The noise of scuffling shoes and clinking metal reveals that there is someone up there. She sets her rifle down, the hilt leaning against her hip, and cups her hands around her mouth. “Who’s up there? I’m a stranger in these parts. I mean you no harm,” she calls.

At first, there is no response. She picks up her rifle and raps the butt of it against the side of the engine, generating a series of resonating clangs. “Hey! I’m talking to you up there!”

Something peaks over the edge of the window above. She cannot quite comprehend the face of the figure at first: two large shiny black eyes like those of an alert owl, a strange sort of snout with silver whiskery coils, hard bluish-green skin framed by a soot-stained hood. The voice that emits from this face is muffled.

“Can’t you see that I am very busy?” the man in the train hollers.

“Don’t mean to bother you none, but could you tell me where I am?” she asks.

“Not where you’re supposed to be, I gather.”

“Then tell me which way is the nearest town.”

“No towns around here. You’re in a bad place, mister. Best you just keep walking. You’ll be found eventually. She always finds you people.” He ducks his head back inside.

“First of all, I ain’t no ‘mister’! Now am I going to have to come up there to get you to be respectful, or are you going to be a gentleman and give me some information?” She bangs her rifle against the engine again.

The man in the train pokes his head out again.  “Please stop abusing my locomotive! Poor thing needs complete concentration, and with your rude banging and yelling and nonsense…are you really a lady?”

“A lady who wouldn’t mind placing a bullet right between your eyes if you don’t start cooperating,” she replies, leveling the gun and aiming the barrel at the man. She does not intend to really shoot him, but it is an effective method to encourage compliance, she surmises that much.

“Fine,” the man huffs, shaking his head. “Come up here and we’ll talk. Got to keep the boiler going, you know. Can’t stop production on account of one foul-tempered chronological anomaly.”

She knits her eyebrows, not sure whether or not she has just been insulted, but she shoves her rifle under her arm and climbs a series of rungs up the side of the engine up to the cab. It is a long way up, but she eventually arrives and is dumbstruck by the sight inside.

It is not the modest engine cab that most steam trains have, but a grand boiler room that could house a whole crew. Naturally, a massive steam engine cab has a massive boiler, but there is something not right about it. It appears to be a pulsating, pounding mass, not quite flesh but not quite metal—some mutation in between the two. The fire inside the boiler illuminates it like an orange radiant star, and the odd little man has a clustered collection of tubes and coils and pipes feeding into it. He pours various beakers of bright colored liquid into some of the tubes, and then goes about winding a crank that is attached to an irregularly large accordion bellow, that blows a stream of air at the blazing boiler to fan the flames.

“What in the blazes is that thing?” she asks.

“Poor thing, so much strain on its heart,” the man mutters, bustling about his various tasks. “Have to take good care of it, you know. Gotta keep the fires going, keep the ash coming, keep it coming and coming—“

She shakes her head in pity at the neurotic conductor. “Why are you making all this filth? It’s covered just near about this whole forest! You’re killing just about everything out there.” She marvels at the heart-boiler, swallowing back the bewildered dread she feels about it. If that thing is a heart, then what exactly is this train…

All right, she thinks, this is one mighty peculiar dream. Better just go along with it ‘til I wake up. Funny, though, you’d think in a dream I’d still remember who I am…but then again, who knows what dreams can do to you. Maybe it’s got something to do with whatever I’ve been drinkin’.

The conductor gestures wildly with one hand, splashing drops of the liquid in the bottle he is holding. “I am protecting everything out there! Well, me and my locomotive, at any rate.” The man reaches back behind his head and peels off the mask he has been wearing—for those big black goggles, the strange mouth apparatus, and the bluish-green plastic were indeed all just a façade. Beneath it is a pale face with long thin ivory whiskers, a quivering catfish of a man with small butter-yellow eyes. Wrinkles have withered his features, and it is clear by his frail hands how bony and shriveled he is.

It is parasitically draining on any living creature to spend its whole life tending to the survival of a much bigger, more powerful beast. Or so I’ve been told by one or two of my more mouthy servants, and not wanting to see them so displeased being in my service, I immediately deconstructed and recycled them.

The boiler man scoops up a handful of ash that litters the floor of the room. “We all become salt, in the end,” he said softly, as he tenderly pokes at the ash as if each flake were a precious seed of life.  “We all return to salt, and salt keeps the evil away. The wicked do not like the salt. Keeps all the bad things away…keeps her away…keeps us safe, keeps us safe…”

“Did you get dropped on your head, old man?” she says. “All this burning seems like an awful waste of coal to me.”

“Coal? COAL? What kind of black-hearted scoundrel would force-feed such dirty material into a…” The man narrows his eyes on her, but then he sighs. “You wouldn’t know any better, I suppose. You’re primitive and stupid. It can’t be helped.”

She clenches her jaw, considering if a good kick to his head might coax some manners out of him. “Just what are you burning then, old timer?”

“Her leftovers, of course.”

“Leftovers…leftovers of what…” She cocks an eyebrow. “Well, whatever it is, this ash doesn’t have any smell or nothing. Doesn’t burn your skin or stop up the lungs. Why is that?”

The boiler man tilts his head at her curiously. “Probably because you’re not all here yet. You’re…in between at the moment. Must be fresh out of the time stream. Don’t worry, once she finds you, you’ll be all here and you’ll experience things much more torturous than a little ash.”

She rubs her temples in irritation. “Look, you’re just rambling nothing. I’ve got to wake up from this dream sometime soon, so you just keep playing with your train here and I’m gonna—“

She instantly quiets as she catches a glimpse of something outside the cab’s window, the fleeting shadow of a living object moving through the trees.

“Who’s your friend outside?” she asks.

        The boiler man goes about his business of pouring the chemicals and cranking the bellow. “No friend of mine,” he quickly hisses when she does not go away.

        She hoists her rifle up under her arm again and climbs back down the side of the train engine to the ground. Lifting the gun to aim it, she scans the trees, listening for any sudden sounds. She takes one tentative step forward—

        --and an arrow shaft wizzes past her, just barely grazing her shoulder.

        How exciting. I haven’t even brought them to me yet, and they’re already fighting. I’ve made good choices after all.

        She doesn’t hesitate. She fires in the direction from which the arrow assaulted her, and the bullet ricochets off a tree. A human-sized blur leaps from the tree, aiming a new arrow at her with a long bow. She steadies her rifle, a perfect shot lined up with her attacker’s head.

        But neither of them shoot. They take in each other, and the longer they stare, the more puzzled they become. He is a robust man, with fine bronze skin, long raven black hair, piercing eyes and clothing of animal furs and leather. A red headband of beads encircles his head, and there are smudges of paint on his chiseled face.

        Something buried deep inside of her says, I’m supposed to hate this man. I’m supposed to be enemies with him. I’m supposed to shoot him.

        Then comes the rational voice: But why?

        Still aiming at his head, she calls out, “Who are you, and why did you attack me?”

        He keeps his bow raised, but he evenly replies. “I must protect myself in a strange land.”

        “But you attacked me first! Now answer me, who are you?”

        He pauses, but his eyes remain locked on her. “I do not know.”

        She slowly lowers her gun barrel a few inches. “You either, huh?”

        His grip on his longbow slackens a little. “I woke up not far from here. I have no memory of what came before. I believe an evil spirit has led me astray into this place. But you…you speak the same language as I. Are you an ally of my people?”

        “Not sure. Who are your people?”

        “I do not remember. But I can feel, in my blood, in my bones and spirit, that I am part of something greater than myself. There must be others who are part of the whole of me. Do you not feel this within yourself?”

        She contemplates this, truly contemplates this for a minute. “No,” she finally replies.

        “Then I pity you.” He retracts his bow, slinging it onto his back. “You dress as a man to empower yourself? To feel strong and brave, like a warrior?”

        “I dress like a man because it makes it easier to clean your plow,” she snaps. “But right now I’d rather get out of here than scuff my boots on you. So how about you go that way, and I go this way, and we never cross paths ever again?” She lowers her rifle and turns to go.

        “It would be better for us both if we travel together,” he suggests.

        She turns back to him, laughing. “Oh, that’s funny.  Look, I didn’t like you the second I laid eyes on you. Don’t know why, don’t care. But that whole ‘what you feel in your bones’ and balderdash that you were saying? I ‘feel’ like I work alone.”

        “There is great evil out here. Evil that comes in unnatural forms. While I do not know you, it is important to make alliances when one can. Unite against a common enemy.”

        “What, are you scared? Need a woman to keep you safe?”

        His expression is stone stoic, and his voice level. “If you go off on your own, where will you go? Where will you find food and water and shelter? You may have a gun, but it will do little against the demons in this land.”

        “Just what have you seen that makes you think—“

        Suddenly his hand whips around to the small of his back, from where he draws a small stone ax. Before she can even raise her rifle again, he swings with all his might and sends the ax flying through the air. It is not intended for her, however. It sails over her head and comes to land square in the eye-lens of my Invisible Monitoring Profiler—my I.M.P.—that has been recording the Sharpshooter’s actions since the instant she woke up.

        “Holy…!” is the last transmission that I receive before the I.M.P. shuts down, and my thoughts are rendered blank for a heartbeat as my mind must reengage itself.

        I do not know how the Raider did it. He did the exact same thing when he first awoke, sensed and destroyed my I.M.P. watching him, despite its cloaking mechanism. No one else I have ever invited into my realm has been able to sense such things, let alone strike against my devices when they are invisible.

        Oh well, it seems unnecessary to send out another I.M.P. to watch them. They will come to me soon, whether or not they decide to band together or go their own ways. Most likely the Sharpshooter will give in and join the Raider…although she is a stubborn one. No matter.

        I will see what the others are up to. I believe the Queen is still finding her way through the Blood-Boil Marshes, so she will be detained for a while. The Emperor is still trying to escape the Oblivion Orchard…but he is close, he will perhaps be the first to arrive at my gates. Perhaps I will check in on the Pirate. He is rather entertaining.

Pirate and Knight

“You have insulted my honor, rogue, and I demand you beg for absolution!”

“Absolution? Absolutely…stupid of you to ask.”

My I.M.P. relays the audio as the visual flickers into my mental vision. I see the Pirate has found the Knight. This should be interesting.

The Knight, a stunning figure in plated silver armor and a white tabard with red and gold insignias, draws his sword. “I will not have you stand in the way of my quest. You are clearly an adversary and must be dealt with swiftly.”

The Pirate is prominent in my vision, as my I.M.P. must be situated very close to his left shoulder. His hair is a matted black mess, his wardrobe almost comical in its vagabond splendor, and his skin is scarred and scorched from countless skirmishes he survived back in his time.

“Quest? What’re you after, boy? Anything worth taking?” the Pirate asks.

The Knight is silent as he thinks. “I do not know. My memory has been affected, and I am sure it is the Devil’s doing. But the fact that I still remember my divine Lord must mean that He has sent me on a quest on his behalf, in which my reward is to vanquish the power of the Devil and prove my valor as a warrior of Heaven.”

“The Devil, you say?” The Pirate laughs. “Boy, I could tell you a thing or two about that. But dancing around in that hunk of tin you’re wearing and spouting such fine words won’t help you in Hell.”

The Knight narrows his eyes. “Do you speak of such things because you are an agent of depravity? You and that ‘pet’ of yours?”

The Pirate turns and looks straight into the eye-lens of my I.M.P. “Ain’t she a wonder? Think I’ll call her ‘Lucky.’ She seems to like it.”

I admit to being slightly agitated. This is what happens for giving my I.M.P.s their own artificial awareness when I am not directly tapping into their transmissions. Apparently this one shut off its cloaking mechanism and is actually bonding with the Pirate. I’ve seen this circumstance happen before in the presence of certain guests with particularly powerful auras—or maybe there is something about this Pirate that is more than what he appears to be…

It is just as well. This way I can receive a clear close-up visual, and my guests do not seem to be any wiser to the fact that the I.M.P. is transmitting to me. I will let it be for now, but I take control for just a moment so I can maneuver the device to show me their location.

Hmm, the Bone-fields. How fitting for the Pirate.

“On second thought, I doubt an agent of Hell would be as slovenly and dim-witted as yourself,” the Knight says. “I will bestow mercy on you, brigand, if you renounce your evil ways and devote yourself to God and his angels. You can still save your soul if you seek His forgiveness.”

The Pirate’s gritty-toothed smile morphs into a tighter, slimier grin. “Save my soul? I’m too far beyond that, boy. As a matter of fact, I got a pretty good trade for mine.”

The Pirate snaps his fingers, and a small spark jumps from them. It erupts into a ball of flame that swivels through the air and targets the Knight. The Knight sidesteps and swings his sword at the flame, which disperses as he slices through it.

Fire manipulation? That I did not expect. History tends to write off such occurrences as legend or myth, or simply not mention it altogether.

“Black magic!” the Knight spits. “You have sold your soul for such power! I will dispatch you, villain!”

I do think he means to eliminate the Pirate at this very moment. Disappointing. I was hoping to see one of them fight against the others—in particular I thought the Pirate would do well against the Emperor, or the Knight against the Sharpshooter. But this is all part of inviting them here to begin with. I must let it play out.

“I like your confidence, boy,” the Pirate says, as he summons forth tendrils of fire that snake around his fingers and arms. “It will make it all the more satisfying to kill you.” He turns his head towards my I.M.P. “Best you find yourself a good perch to watch the show, Lucky. Wouldn’t want you getting fried on my account.”

The Pirate, showing compassion? How odd…and how useless. We can’t have any of that if he might be the one I need.

The I.M.P. floats upwards and out of the way of the impending duel, giving me an overhead view of the two combatants. They size up each other, the Knight’s face set in determined concentration, and the Pirate’s face displaying amused eagerness. For fun, the Pirate lets a burst of fire surge at the Knight’s feet, hoping to knock him off balance. But the Knight is quick; he jumps back, and the fireball pummels the ground, scattering a pile of bone shards and blackening the earth.

The ‘earth’ lurches beneath their feet, sending both of them staggering backwards.

They are standing right on top of a nest of sleeping Marrowmaidens? What are the odds. This could become very exciting or very sad.

The two men freeze in bewilderment as something—somethings—sprout up from the caliginous mass of the bone-field, the array of various bones and teeth and skulls tumbling this way and that. Heads of bone-brown and gray hues emerge—that is, what should be heads, but they are mostly leech-like mouths with metallic serrated teeth. Long, serpentine necks extend upwards until they are taller than the men, and manes of quills flare around the heads and down their spines. Each ghastly mouth flickers wiry proboscises, each tongue adorned with a needle on the tip, dripping acid.

“Dear Lord Almighty…” The Knight grips his sword so tightly, the whites of his knuckles show through his hands. “What manner of demons are these?”

The Pirate’s eyes are as wide as they can be, but he shrugs and smirks. “Eh, just a bunch of oversized tadpoles,” he says.

It is easy to be flippant about something when you do not know the level of danger it might present. If the Pirate knew that a Marrowmaiden can strike a man dead and suck out the marrow in his bones in as quickly as six seconds—unless they choose to savor their meal—he might not be so quick to joke about it.

Neither man has to ask the other—they know that they both need to focus their fighting on these monsters, and leave their petty squabbling for another time.

I should stop this, if I want them both to survive long enough to find me. But perhaps this would be a good opportunity to see how far they will go to live…or to kill.

The Pirate draws out a battered cutlass from his belt, and runs one fire-lit finger along the blade. The sword alights in flames, blazing in a blinding fluorescent-white hue. In his glee to hack down the Marrowmaidens, tiny sparks ignite in his hair, singeing the tangled braids and causing wisps of smoke to encircle his head. The Knight casts a quick glance his way—is that distaste at the Pirate’s black arts, or a twinge of jealousy because of it?—but he quickly refocuses on the salivating jaws hanging over him.

The poisonous heads dart at them with blinding speed, but the two men have their advantages. The Knight’s armor protects him well, as neither the Marrowmaidens’ teeth nor tongue can pierce it, but one of the proboscis glances off his unguarded cheek, leaving a burning welt. The Knight gives a deep-throated cry in pain, but he keeps swinging with all his might to sever the heads from their necks. Unfortunately, the flesh of a Marrowmaiden is a manufactured combination of millipede exoskeleton and iron, so the Knight’s sword does little to wound them.

The Pirate, on the other hand, slices through the necks with his searing sword of fire, leaving half-melted stumps behind, but he has to be quick to avoid all the jaws gnashing at him, for he has no armor. His coat is in shreds in no time, and while none of the tongues have managed to inject him with their acid, he is quickly covered in welts and bites. The mounting pain is gradually slowing him down.

“Blast you ugly gutter snakes!” he bellows, swinging his sword about uncontrollably, sloppy in his technique. “If I’ve survived this far in my life, surely I’ve faced worse than the lot of you, even if I don’t remember it!”

One Marrowmaiden rears its head back, preparing for a killing strike on the Pirate. The Knight sees this, but hesitates. I suppose he is torn between his morality to defend a man against a demon, and his holy duty to end the life of the sacrilegious Pirate. The venomous head juts forth—and it is blocked by a downward plummet from above by my I.M.P.

I must remember to extract that artificial awareness from all of my future I.M.P.s. This one has somehow overridden my control, perhaps because I neglected tapping into it for too long.  I shall have to dismantle and recycle it.

This creates just enough distraction for the Knight to run forth and shove his sword into the gaping mouth of the Marrowmaiden. As with most creatures, even those of the strongest skins, their interiors tend to be much more vulnerable, and the sword cuts into the flesh at the roof of the mouth. With a sideways slice, the sword separates the top of the head from the bottom jaw, and the Marrowmaiden flops over in a writhing, black fluid-seeping pile.

The Pirate dispatches the last of the Marrowmaidens with a sweeping swoosh of his blade. He extends out one sore arm so my I.M.P.—perhaps I should consider it his I.M.P., for now—perches on it. “Thanks, Lucky,” he wheezes.

“You’re thanking that…monstrosity?” the Knight asks.

The Pirate gives him a dark glare. “If you’re saying it’s you I should be thanking, don’t hold your breath. I didn’t need your help, and Lucky’s the one who clocked that tadpole on the head and saved my life. By the way, think about trading in your useless knife there for a sword that can do something.”

The Knight sheathes his weapon. “You’ve suffered some terrible wounds. We need to get you to someplace safe to treat you.”

“I thought you were intending to kill me anyway. Holy duty and all.”

“I’ve seen the true minions of Hell now. They cannot be saved or redeemed. But you are a mortal man, and all mortal men have a chance for redemption. It would be a far greater test, and thus a greater spiritual reward, to convert you into the ways of the light, than to simple send you into the Devil’s domain.” The Knight extends a hand towards the Pirate. “I say we call truce for now, until the Heavenly Father reveals the paths we are meant to take.”

The Pirate stares at the outstretched hand, and sneers. “How about I don’t burn you to a crisp, and you don’t bore me to death with all your God talk?”

The Knight drops his head, but nods. “Now, having scouted the area over there already, I advise we head this way—”

His speech is cut short as one more Marrowmaiden, hiding beneath the bones, anticipating the right moment to attack, bursts up from below and latches its mouth around the Knight’s leg. It extends its neck to full length, lifting its prey high into the air, and it clamps down as hard as it can to break through the armor. The steel plates and chain mail resist the teeth and the needle-tipped tongue, but they are starting to bend under the pressure of the jaws.

The Knight draws his sword, but the Marrowmaiden is swinging him about too wildly for him to land a solid blow. “Help me!” he calls down to the Pirate.

The Pirate stands there, arms crossed, smiling at the scene before him. “Surely a soldier of God doesn’t need a heathen’s help. I think I’d rather just watch.”

The I.M.P. pokes the Pirate with his telescopic lens.

“Don’t you get all goodie-goodie on me,” the Pirate mutters.

A blur of black dives out of the sky and grasps onto the Marrowmaiden’s head with sharp claws. Its beak begins pecking furiously at the beady, glassy eyes of the marrow-drainer, and the monster screeches, dropping its armor-plated prey. The bird—a unusually large raven, I now see—continues to gouge and peck until a passionate battle cry resonates behind the Marrowmaiden, and then there is a tall figure climbing up the creature’s backside with unfathomable speed. It reaches the top, where it then raises a spear above its head and drives it down deep into one of the Marrowmaiden’s eyes, down into its skull. The Marrowmaiden howls, thrashes about, and then collapses into lifelessness.

The Knight has landed hard on the ground, but he rolls up onto his feet, sword ready. Both he and the Pirate marvel at this new stranger, as the raven alights gently on her shoulder. Vibrant red hair, like finely spun threads made of rose petals, cascades down her back, and emerald green eyes lock on the two men with unrelenting vehemence. A sky blue gown and layers of wolf, bear and fox furs cover a feminine but muscular body, one that is shockingly tall, as she stands at matching height with both the Pirate and the Knight.

“It would behoove you both to learn how to battle,” the Queen says. “The gods do not favor weaklings.”

The Pirate’s jaw is slack, but then a broad smile crosses his lips. He saunters over to the Queen, his eyes running up and down her body. “My, aren’t you a big girl,” he says. “You have some skill with a spear. I’d like to find out what else you’re skilled at.”

Her fist colliding with his face sends him sprawling onto his back.

The Emperor and the Impure Within

Why are you following that black horse?

It has been sent to guide me. See? It is waiting for me. It is keeping itself within my sight.

It could be leading you to your death. It would not be the first harmless looking beast we have come across in this land, and it turned out to be otherwise.

I do not think this one is like that swarm we saw in the orchard. Those animals were not created by our gods. This horse appears to be of Nature’s design. And it has not attacked us.

Do not say “our” gods. I belong to no one.

I would argue otherwise.

Ah, but just because I am within you does not make you my master. After all, the Tengri declared that you were to become ruler, but that is all. The Tengri created me with his very own hands. I am as equal to him as snow is to rain.

Declared me ruler…how do you know this? I recall none of that.

Oh, there are so many things you do not recall. When we were brought to this land, an enchantment was placed upon you, stealing away your memories.

But not yours?

The magic works on humans. I am not human.

I can tell that much. Why do you refuse to tell me what you know?

Because it is fun to see you get frustrated and incapable to do anything about it.

If you were not inside me, I would rip you apart piece by piece until you talked.

I see that your bloodlust has not left you, despite your memory loss.

What do you mean?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Speak, demon! What are you implying? What have I done?

Nothing that any other man in your position, with an unquenchable thirst for power, would have done. Shame it had to be in the family, though.

I will not be tortured by your words, when you cannot even prove to me they are true. I will focus on that horse. He will lead me to the reason that I am here.

It would serve a better purpose as food.

No, I am certain I am meant to follow it. It may be an extension of my very being, showing me the way to sanctuary.

Why must you be so wrong about everything?

Why don’t you leave me and allow me peace?

I’m afraid I cannot. Your actions have trapped me in here with you. I may not be as pure as the Tengri, I may be disowned and banished and loathed, but you are the one who willingly sinned.

If you do not intend to tell me the meaning of your words, then be silent!

Make me.

Trust me, I will find a way. Even if it is by ending myself that I can end you.

Bold words, from one who holds none of the power. But I think we’ve arrived.

The Poet at the Gates

There is someone prowling around outside my gates, but it is not one of my guests.

He paces back and forth, already knowing the gates are locked to him. Crumpled papers are held tightly in one of his hands, while a quill pen is in the other. He sits on the ground, and begins scribbling on one of his sheets of paper. After a minute, he looks over his work, sets it down in front of him and removes a small bottle of powder from a bag he has slung over his shoulder. He sprinkles the powder on the paper to dry the ink, and then he stands up. He clears his throat.

“Oh enchantress of evil, the mistress of madness,

Who fashions such dreams of debauched design,

My words shall unravel your tapestry of distress,

May the ballad ensnare, may the spell unwind.”

He waits, and as always, nothing happens.

I admire his persistence, but he is starting to annoy me. A few extraordinary artists and writers throughout Time have had a special ear, which hears whispers and songs that other people do not—the secret, subtle suggestions of muses. Even rarer still, there are bards who can slip out of their world entirely, into dream spaces where no one else can follow, and when they return, they have stories and ballads to tell that seem impossible to have merely fabricated. This one, however, this determined poet outside my gates, managed to wander his way into my realm, into the Nowhere, and now he refuses to leave.

Why do I not use my powers to force him to return home, you may ask? I could do so, if I had invited him here. But I did not invite him, thus I am not his hostess, so I hold no power over him. But he holds no power over me either, even though he is obsessed with the idea that I can be subdued with the right sonnet, his own little brand of scroll magic. How drolly fairy-tale of a thought.

I could invite him into my palace. Perhaps that would be enough to hold sway over him. Then I could take his imagination from him, rendering him without inspiration or artistic soul. That could be fun, to watch him wither away into any other unknown face, into another pointless life forgotten in the story of Time. That can be worse than death for a poet.

He stops his pacing, as a sound from the nearby brush startles him. A large, black form trots out from the trees. It snorts, fixing its crimson eyes on the storyteller, and brays at him with a voice that is too jarring for its species. The Poet bolts, running for the haven of the trees, and the shadowy animal watches him run off. Then it looks up towards the balcony window that I am standing at. It fills me with a bitterness that I reserve exclusively for it.

I will reclaim that damn horse, one way or another. But at least it has served one good purpose. I see it has brought me the Emperor. He looks a bit younger than I thought he would be…I must have extracted him a bit earlier from the Time Stream that I thought. It does not matter, really…the same bloodthirstiness will be coursing in his veins, regardless of his age.

I should go prepare myself to receive my guests. Which face shall I wear…

The Nowhere Witch

“Now that is something you don’t see everyday.”

The Sharpshooter is impressed by the bastion that looms before her and the Raider. I honestly did not think the two would agree to travel together to get here. But they would have come to my palace eventually, whether together or apart. I am not particular.

They approach the palace, as the trees thin out more and more the closer they come. The Raider has his bow at the ready, as he continuously scans the area. “No man could possibly build such a dwelling. It is taller than a mountain!”

The Sharpshooter tips back her hat, whistling as she stares up at the sky-caressing parapets and steeples of my chrome castle. “Well, this thing didn’t grow out of the ground. It’s the only building for miles around. Someone’s got to live here. And I bet whoever lives here knows why we’re here.”

“I can sense darkness ahead.”

The Sharpshooter shrugs, and cocks the hammer on her rifle. “Then we shoot the living daylights out of it.”

At the front of my gates, the travelers discover they are not alone. As I predicted, the Emperor arrived ahead of the rest. He sits directing in front of the iron-wrought entry,  cross-legged on the ground. His eyes are closed, and he inhales and exhales slowly in quiet meditation. As the two new guests advance towards him, he does not open his eyes but he closes his hands into fists.

“Howdy,” the Sharpshooter addresses the Emperor. “You the owner? Quite the place you got here.”

The Emperor slowly opens his eyes. He observes both the Sharpshooter and the Raider closely, taking in every detail of them before replying. “This is not my home.”

“Oh.” The Sharpshooter looks around. “Don’t reckon you know whose home this is?”

The seated man narrows his eyes on her. “Why are you here?”

“Frankly, that’s what we’d like to know.”

The Emperor furrows his eyebrows. “Were you guided here by a black horse?”

The Sharpshooter looks back at the Raider, as if he might know what the Emperor is talking about. The Raider makes no reply. She turns back to her new acquaintance. “Ain’t seen no horse. Seen some mighty strange things, though, you included. You a local?”

“I awoke in this land, with no recollection of who I am or where I come from, but I know this is not my homeland. I believe that I have been banished here for an action I may have committed.” He lowers his head, closing his eyes once again. “It may be best for you to keep your distance from me.”

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t planning on hugging you or nothing.” The Sharpshooter looks up at the palace again. “What’re you just sitting there for? Nobody home?”

“I hear movement inside these gates, but I have seen no one,” the Emperor confirms.

The Raider walks closer to the gates, peering through the intricate knotwork of the intertwining iron. “There are strong smells coming from inside. Someone is cooking.”

“Then I say we break down the door and get ourselves some food. I’m starving!”

This was spoken by the Pirate, who has arrived with the Queen, her raven and the Knight. The others snap their gazes at this new entourage, and the Emperor instantly rises to his feet while the Raider and the Sharpshooter grip their weapons tightly, ready to defend themselves.

“Well, look what we have here,” the Pirate scoffs. “Looks like a bunch of pitiful landlubbers to me, wouldn’t you say, Lucky?”

The I.M.P. crawls out from under the Pirate’s hat, reluctant to leave the comfortable nest of hair, and comes to sit loyally on his shoulder, adjusting its lens to observe the three newcomers by the gate.

“It’s one of those things!” the Sharpshooter yells, aiming her rifle at it.

“Hey, you leave Lucky alone, boy, or…” The Pirate squints at the Sharpshooter, and shakes his head as if he is disoriented. “I must’ve taken one too many blows from those worms. For a second I thought you looked like a woman.”

“I AM A WOMAN! Does a pair of pants on a lady really make men complete idiots?? If I put you in a dress, would that make you a…” The Sharpshooter has a disgusted look on her face. “Forget it, even thinking that makes me want to puke. But if you got one of those metal critters with you, then I bet you’re the man that sent that other one to spy on us.” She aims her gun at him again. “Spill the beans, Dog-face. What’s your game?”

“My ‘game’ is one you can’t win, little missy. Now put down that pea-shooter, before you make me scar those delicate hands of yours,” the Pirate growls, fingering the hilt of his cutlass on his belt.

“Let us all calm ourselves,” the Knight insists, taking a step forward. “Obviously, we are all strangers in this country, and we have all been drawn to this castle. We cannot give into the influence of wickedness. I ask, milady, that you lower your…” He stares curiously at the rifle for a moment. “…weapon, and disregard the ill manners of the vagabond. He has a penchant for causing irritation.”

The Sharpshooter scrunches the right side of her nose at the three strangers. “You all on your way to a costume party? Let me guess…there’s a masquerade ball inside, and one of us is gonna fit the glass slipper.” She places one hand on her hips, shooting a look at the Pirate. “But I ain’t no princess, so don’t be askin’ me to kiss you to turn you back into a prince.”

The Pirate grins. “Har har, the lady’s got a funny bone. Too bad you don’t have good looks, otherwise I might grow to like you.”

The Sharpshooter raises her rifle at him. “In about two seconds, you ain’t gonna be much to look at either, since you won’t have any face left!”

The Raider places his hand on the barrel of her gun, gently redirecting it towards the ground. “I would not waste bullets on a minor annoyance, when there is real danger to worry about.”

The Sharpshooter lowers her gun with a huff. “Fine, I’ll beat the tar out of him later. So, how about you?” She turns to the Queen. “What’s your story?”

The Queen and her raven simply stare at her in silence, as still as sentinels on duty.

“Okay, short story.” The Sharpshooter turns back towards the gate. “So, y’all reckon we try to go in?”

“The gates will not open,” the Emperor says. “There is a strong mystical power guarding this castle. It could be the same sorcery that stripped me of my memories.”

“Have you all lost your memories as well?” the Knight asks. “I, too, have suffered the same affliction, as have my companions.”

“It is not just the loss of our memories,” the Raider says. “We all come from different homelands, that is clear, yet we all understand one another. Our language is one in the same.”

“Didn’t think of that,” the Pirate admits. “Someone’s been commandeering our brains. And that someone’s got me fired up right now.” A small flash of fire sparks from his hair, causing the Raider to aim his bow at the Pirate with heightened alert. The Pirate just rolls his eyes. “Relax, if I was going to burn you, your silly little sticks would be dust already.”

“How did you do that?” the Sharpshooter asks, as she holds her rifle across her chest.

“Just a trick I do,” the Pirate smiles broadly. “Can’t help it if I be gifted.”

She grits her teeth. “If you can do that, how do we know you didn’t put this spell on us…not that I believe in this whole ‘magic’ twaddle, but it seems to me—”

“Best you keep your pointy nose out of other people’s business, little lady…if that’s what you really are.”

“You’re just begging for a tail whooping, you yellow bellied, skunk-eatin’—”

The tip of a spear juts between the Pirate and the Sharpshooter. The Queen glares at both of them with such malice, both the warriors recoil from her.

“I was not brought here to deal with children,” the Queen states. “We are here for a reason, and I wish to discover the truth. If the gate will not open, then I will force it open.”

She pushes past the others and goes to place a hand on my gates. Before she can, they swing inwards, away from her touch. A wide pathway leads down a vast expanse of lawn, too brilliantly green to be natural, dotted with cobalt-blue pools upon which delicate glass water lilies float. The pathway is lighted by golden lampposts, designed as eel-esque frilled sharks spiraling up and around tridents, with glittering orbs of candlelight in their fanged mouths. The entire group hesitates, casting each other a glance. With silent concurrence, they march down the path and enter into my courtyard single file, led by the Queen, then the Emperor, the Raider, the Sharpshooter, the Knight—no, the Pirate pushes past him to get ahead, so the Knight begrudgingly enters last.

I believe I have prepared my courtyard for my guests rather splendidly. While I have tenacity for concise order and form, I have allowed my architectural creativity to create an enticing array of gardens with illuminating glass flora, sculptures of neon-glowing whimsy, walkways paved in literal gold, fountains that bubble forth wines and champagne and mead, and all around floating lanterns of every color add a warm, dreamland ambiance to the scene. Tables upon tables of the most exotic pastries, meats, fruits and cheeses fill the courtyard, culinary concoctions that look too beautiful for consumption, but their aromas are too intoxicating to resist. If I still had any passion within my being, even I would have my breath taken away by the sight. Clearly, my guests are affected, as all of them lower their guard to marvel at my handiwork.

The Sharpshooter clicks the hammer of her rifle back into place. “Looks like we’re expected. Someone went through a lot of trouble setting up all this. And let me tell you what, I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.”

She walks over to a nearby table and picks up a marinated turkey drumstick from one of the serving trays. Before she can bite into it, the Raider dashes over and grabs her by the wrist, forcing her to drop the food.

“What the Sam Hill d’ja do that for?” she snaps.

The Raider’s eyes are stone cold. “You do not know where this food is from. It could be poisoned.”

The Sharpshooter scowls. “I don’t need you tellin’ me what’s good for me or not. I’d rather risk getting poisoned than flat-out starve to death.”

“I demand you to be quiet!” the Emperor hisses.

“Hey, I don’t take kindly to demands, ‘specially not from some blow-hard—“

“I was not speaking to you,” the Emperor says, as he rubs his fingers over his temples. He appears to be embarrassed by his outburst, but he quickly adjusts to a veneer of authority. “But yes, you too I would prefer to be silent.”

The Sharpshooter’s face turns a light shade of red. “Crazy as a hornet,” she finally says.

The Knight pokes at one of the glass flowers. “How extraordinary,” he muses. “I have never seen such artistry before. It is as if this craft is in ode to the Garden of Eden.”

There is a loud splashing from one of the fountains, as the Pirate has dunked his face into the fountain’s pool of wine. He comes back up for air, shaking wine from his mass of hair. “Now this is what I call drinkin’!” he laughs. “The master of the house is my kindred spirit, and I haven’t even met the man yet!”

I cannot help but find amusement in his assumption that his host is a “man.” For him to even assume his host is human is a touch humorous.

The fountains stir something inside the Sharpshooter, as she stares hypnotically at the flowing alcohol. It is both a feeling of dire craving—more than a desire to slake her thirst—and revulsion, of being slave to an entity that has brought pain and hardship again and again. She walks over to the fountain of wine and stares down at her reflection in the dark liquid.

The Pirate grabs an empty stein off a nearby table, returns to the fountain and fills up the mug. He practically shoves it at the Sharpshooter. “You look like you need a good swig of the hair of the dog. It’ll help kill the bug that’s crawled up your arse.”

“Watch your tongue in the presence of ladies, scoundrel!” the Knight hisses. “Besides, one should partake in the wine that is the blood of Christ, not for vulgar and frivolous consumption.”

But the Sharpshooter has already downed half of the stein before the Knight has finished his opinion. She lets out a long sigh of contentment, licking traces of wine from her lips. “Well, the drink isn’t poisoned,” she declares.

“And if it is, at least we’ll die drunk and happy!” the Pirate bellows, laughing and clapping the Sharpshooter on the back.

The Queen has remained silent as the others explore my courtyard, even though her stomach growls at the sight of all the food. The Emperor continues to mumble to himself as if in a one-sided conversation. The Knight grows increasingly more entranced by my sculptures and landscaping the more he wanders. The Pirate and Sharpshooter seem to have found common ground, and their tensions fade with each gulp of wine. The Raider has braved to eat some of the meat, but he continues to glance about warily, just waiting for whatever is lying in wait for them.

I believe it is time to introduce myself.

Two servants of mine, small mechanical dolls with round ceramic faces and bodies of quails with copper feathers, skitter onto the edge of the balcony overlooking the courtyard. On tiny silver trumpets, they sound a sweet melody of welcome, catching the attention of my six guests. Their expressions grow more perplexed as the trumpeters finish and scurry away. Then a length of what they first believe to be white silk tumbles down from the balcony down into the courtyard below, but gradually the silk stiffens and begins to take shape, transforming into a stairway. It is one of my more presentational but remarkable creations, as strands of gold and pink ribbons flow up from the silk staircase, spiraling and shaping themselves into elaborate guide rails along each side of the stairs. The staircase shimmers and sparkles, like a starlit pathway to the heavens, and then at the very top, I appear.

I can feel every breath in their throats catch, and I know at that moment, they all belong to me.

 They have never witnessed such a being before: tall, elegant, regal in flowing ivory-white embellished by the deepest reds and somber silvers; a headdress of pearls, rubies and moonstones; a mask of finely painted porcelain, an Aphroditian face of beauty, pride and strength, beams down at them with blank but smooth marble eyes. Two small silver-leafed wing-pieces adorn my shoulders, and to complete the otherworldly atmosphere of my apparel, carousels of bioluminescent baubles float in slow circles around my neck and wrists, like air sprites ready to attend to my every whim and will.

Already I can see in my mind’s eye what each of them is thinking at the vision of me.

The Knight thinks, Surely this is an angel.

The Raider thinks, What spirit is this…one of benevolence, or one of deception?

The Queen thinks, This is no mortal woman…perhaps a goddess…what does she want of us?

The Sharpshooter thinks, My head hurts. I gotta be seeing things. Ain’t no real woman that looks like that.

The Emperor thinks, She is so beautiful. Is this the one that is meant to rule by my side?

Then the other part of him thinks, Stop acting like a lovesick youth and open your eyes!

The Pirate thinks, She wants me. She wants me so badly.

I am certain that the Pirate has consumed too much alcohol.

“Welcome, my most honored guests,” I announce, my voice enveloping the whole courtyard. “It is my pleasure and good fortune to have you in my home. While you are in my palace, no harm shall come to you. You may eat and drink your fill, and my servants shall attend to your every need. Anything you desire shall be granted to you, within my power.”

The six are struck dumb for a minute, until the Knight finally speaks up. “Forgive me if I sound dubious, milady, but may I ask who you are, and why we are here?”

I pause for effect. “I am the Mistress of the Nowhere Realm,” I reply. “And you are here because if I had not brought you to this world, all of you would cease to exist.”

Chronological Anomalies

A grand dining table is set up and draped with blood-red satin and golden placemats and napkins as soft as a lover’s caress. Seven ornately carved mahogany chairs with silk cushions are placed around the table, and crystal candelabras with lights that gradually shift through a myriad of colors shine brightly at their designated posts along the table. Each of my guests is escorted into my dining room by one of my servants, human-sized mannequins that each tinkles an airy melody that is harmonious with the others. The wind-up mannequins are dressed in fine outfits of flowing ballroom gowns and ruffled evening suits, and each has a perfectly molded mask of plastic topped with elaborate wigs styled with ribbons and beads and feathers. They make my guests look dull and drab by comparison—who are noticeably uncomfortable being attended to by these mock-humans.

The six guests are seated at the table, and my servants busily service them by bringing cups of tea and coffee and hot chocolate to start. Goblets of water, champagne and juices appear with brisk motions from robotic hands, and soon the first course is brought out. Each guest is presented with a different concoction of soup, matching whatever their favorite flavors and spices are, even if they do not know it is their favorite yet. The movements of my servants are so quick and fluid, every one of my guests is baffled and can hardly keep up mentally with what is occurring around them.

“I say, this is all very sudden,” the Knight comments, looking down into his silver tureen of watercress soup, blended with savory cream and potato. “But our hostess would appear to have a reasonably good understanding of our individual tastes. She is…quite unusual, don’t you think?” He says this with a glitter of budding rapture in his eye.

“Unusual? She’s downright peculiar,” the Sharpshooter says. She stirs her hearty beef and vegetable stew with a spoon far too fragile for such a robust soup. “Just what did she mean, ‘we’d cease to exist’?”

“Perhaps she saved us from death. We are all skilled in the art of battle, so we may have been at war and destined to die on the battlefield,” the Emperor offers. Meanwhile, inside his head, the Impure entity suggests, If that was our destiny, then she could not have intervened. She is hiding something.

“But even in death, we still exist. We are always part of the earth and its spirit,” the Raider says.

“Will you people shut your yaps with all this philosophical tripe? I don’t like to think when I’m enjoying dinner,” the Pirate responds, between lapping up his bowl of Mahi Mahi and Rum soup, which is a bit lighter than the fare he usually has, but the hint of rum is well enough for him.

“Can’t imagine you like to think, ever,” the Sharpshooter mumbles under her breath.

The Pirate tilts his head back as he gulps down the remainder of his soup, and then he slams the bowl down on the table with a satisfied belch. “Good start, but when do they bring on the main course? Hey, Lucky, you don’t have to take that from that oversized pigeon!”

The I.M.P. and the Queen’s raven have clearly not taken a liking to one another, as the bird pecks viciously at the machine’s lens. The I.M.P. extends his telescopic lens abruptly, smacking the raven in the face. The raven, flustered by the unexpected hit, flaps his wings and returns to his mistress’s shoulder.

“Your false pet should be more careful,” the Queen warns. “It is not wise to anger a goddess, even in animal form.”

“Goddess?” the Knight inquires. “Do you worship that raven as your god?”

The Queen bores her gaze into the Knight. “This is the totem of the Morrigan. It embodies her essence. The Morrigan is the matron of warriors, and the goddess of war and death. She gives me my strength and my will.” She allows her raven to partake of her lamb and barley soup, and the bird greedily wolfs down the tender pieces of lamb.

The Knight’s eyebrows furrow again, and he taps his fingers on the table. “But true strength comes from our Lord and Savior. I see I have quite some work to do. I will convert the vagabond into the ways of goodness, and I shall educate you and show you the error of your misguided beliefs.”

“What makes you so sure my beliefs are the misguided ones, and not yours?”

“My God sent me on this quest, and because I remember Him and his Word despite whatever demonic power stole my memories, His power is clearly the greater.”

The Queen stands up, glowering. “And I have remembered my goddess as well. Thus, according to your reasoning, her power is just as great.”

“But your ‘goddess’ is nothing more than a bird.”

“And your God is no where to be seen!”

The Knight bolts up from the table. “You blaspheme, and I will not tolerate that, not even from a woman!”

“Is the noble hero actually going to strike a lady?” the Pirate teases. “Because I can tell you right now, Saint George, she’s going to beat your arse black and blue.”

“I don’t need a man to advocate me,” the Queen spits. “It is not just my goddess that I still remember. Whenever I look at you…” She casts an icy glare at the Knight. “I feel rage and hatred. I do not remember what was done to me to stir such feelings, but the pain is here in my breast. It makes me what to tear your throat out.”

“Now just hold your horses,” the Sharpshooter says, raising her hands. “If I’m not allowed to blast a hole through the town drunk over there, then you ain’t allowed to kill the man in the tin can, got it?”

“From what I recall, you didn’t have the stomach to blast a hole in me,” the Pirate sneers.

“Is that a dare? ‘Cause better late than never, I say,” she replies, reaching for her rifle on the floor.

The Emperor suddenly moans, grasping his head. “Please, stop! It is growing stronger…it is your hatred towards one another. It fills me with a wicked desire…this is what it meant, this insatiable bloodlust…it overpowers me…please, stop…”

“He is gripped by the Devil!” the Knight declares.

“For Pete’s sake, even I’m getting sick of all your holy hemming and hawing,” the Sharpshooter barks.

“Then I am surrounded by heretics! I have no allies here!”

“I would never ally myself with any of you,” the Queen bellows.

“I order all of you to be silent!” the Emperor commands.

“Make us, you crazy useless windbag!” the Sharpshooter shouts.

“If we’re not on the same crew, then it’s every man for himself,” the Pirate decides, as flames ignite his fingertips. “And I sure as Hell don’t need the lot of you!”

An ear-piercing whistle causes everyone to turn their heads. The Raider stands apart from the rest, his arms crossed, his expression grave. His eyes shift away from the group and towards the door of the dining room.

The others look to where he does. The tension in the room is instantly shattered as they see that I have arrived to join them for supper.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” I say, as I glide across the floor. I linger a moment as I pass each of my guests, giving them gentle touches on their arms, restirring those initial feelings of awe they had upon first seeing me. “I was tending to your individual accommodations for the night. I think all of you will be very pleased with your rooms. Have you not been served your second course yet? No wonder you are unhappy. I shall reprimand my servants for such negligence. Come, sit with me.” I sit at the head of the table, and the others follow my lead hypnotically. Once we are all seated, my servants bring in the next course: sweet, spicy meats accented by fragrant sauces that once again are prepared to dazzle each guest’s palette.

As much as I would have reveled in seeing all six of my guests destroy one another, leaving the last person standing and thus revealing the victor I so desperately need for my plans, I must be patient. They must all be at their highest peak of wrath, and willing to kill at the greatest extent of their ability, not just brawl mindlessly while the Raider stood by and watched the others fight. These things must be handled precisely, and under my terms.

“You all have many questions,” I say as the others eat in mild-tempered silence. “You may put your minds at ease, for all will become clear to you. For now, know you have nothing to fear from me. I care for all of you. Consider me your dearest friend, your closest confidant, and your most loyal servant.”

The Sharpshooter, as she and the Queen are naturally a bit less affected by my influence since men are easily prone to their baser animal instincts, has the will to speak up. “Why? What do you care about any of us? Did you make us lose our memories? Just what are you playing at?”

“Let me being with your third question. It is not that you have lost your memories, for as you can see, some of you still hold traces of your beliefs, your instincts, and your passions. What you have been unburdened from are unnecessary labels and lineages, for, you see, such things cannot exist in Nowhere. I call myself the Mistress of Nowhere for your sake while you transition to namelessness, but soon you will not need to refer to me by such a title.”

“But…is it not confusing to not refer to anyone by their true names?” the Knight asks.

“You will have no need to. Labels come to possess those that bear them, and lineages make people believe they are limited in their fates to what origins they came from. There are no such limitations here. You will find that we will all be of one universal mind, so there will be no confusion. It has already begun, as you have acknowledged that you are not separated by language barriers anymore. This is the ‘language’ of Nowhere—it is every language, and no language. Just a universal understanding. Soon enough, spoken words will not even be necessary. You will be able to merely glimpse into each other’s minds, and know what every living thing around you is thinking and feeling.”

“I’m not sure if I like that, anyone being able to pry into my head,” the Sharpshooter says.

“I have to agree with the man-woman on this one,” the Pirate says, grinning as the Sharpshooter grinds her teeth.

“It is a foreign concept to you, but you will adjust and find a level of peace and trust you never knew. Now, as for why I should care to extend my courtesies to you, I find it a great injustice for chronological anomalies to be eliminated from Time, merely because the Time-stream Maintenance considers you all a threat to the order of History.”

All six of my guests stare at me blankly.

“Was any part of that supposed to make sense?” the Pirate says.

“Wait, you said something I’ve heard before…you called us a cr…a cro-no-lo-co malady, whatever the Sam Hill that is?” the Sharpshooter says.

“Forgive me, these are all aspects of my existence that I deal with on a daily basis, yet they are unknown to you. You have all been classified as chronological anomalies…that is, flaws within the patterns of Time that endanger to proper continuity of History, and thus the order of the Universe. The Time-Stream Maintenance is an order of keepers, whose sole purpose is to find such anomalies and delete them, and thus Time mends itself and History returns to its intended course.”

“I do not understand. Are you saying…we were never meant to be born?” the Emperor asks.

I pause for the dramatic effect again, as I can see blends of disbelief, skepticism and horror wash over their faces. “It may sound implausible, but weeds can spring up in even the most well-cultivated gardens. But I know you are not weeds. I view you as the most precious of gemstones plucked from the mundane gravel that is the rest of the human race. So I have rescued you from the claws of those who would not just end your lives, but erase everything about you—every trace that you ever would have, could have, might have existed.”

“Who is it for these keepers of time to decide if we should exist or not?” the Raider demands to know. “What gives them the right to call us ‘mistakes,’ when we have done no wrong?”

“I am in complete agreement with you. There is no justice with the Time-Stream Maintenance. That is why I have created this place, outside of Time, outside of their bias jurisdiction. They cannot touch us here. But, I fear, you must remain here for the remainder of your lives, because they will be lying in wait for you if you return to your respective times. You would not be one moment back in history before they would dissolve you permanently.”

“We are trapped here?” the Queen says.

“No, you are free here. You will never experience hardship, pain, or anguish ever again. There are no wars here, nor sickness. My home is your home, and my provisions yours. You deserve to be happy and safe.” I turn my head towards the Knight, as I nudge a mental barb into one of his hopeful thoughts. “You deserve this utopian reward.”

A light of spiritual joy appears in the Knight’s eyes. I do have high hopes for him.

“Something doesn’t add up here, lady. If these time-keepers are so darn efficient, why wait so long to decide to rub us out? I mean, we ain’t exactly spring chickens. Why not wipe us out when we were children, or before we were even born at all? Something smells rotten here, and if it’s all the same to you,” the Sharpshooter says, tipping her hat forward, “I’d rather take my chances with these time critters. You can send me back home, right?”

“I can,” I confess. “I would sadden me deeply, but if that is your wish, it can be done.”

The Pirate chuckles. “Giving up paradise just to prove a point? You have balls, woman.”

“One man’s paradise is another’s Hell,” the Sharpshooter points out. “So, you gonna send me back or what?”

“I will need to regain my energy and strength for the process,” I say. “Rescuing the six of you was very taxing on my body. But by morning, I should be recovered enough to perform a Chronological Restoration. Does anyone else desire what she does?”

There is a long pause as the other look at one another. Finally, the Raider steps forward. “I ache for the winds, and earth, and sky. I cannot live with substitutions, no matter how grand. If I cannot have my true mother earth, then I shall never have peace.”

“Peace…” The Emperor is struck with a sudden thought. “I, too, crave peace, which I cannot have because of my past sins that I do not even know. Perhaps if I go back for just that one moment before I am erased, so I can remember what my sins are, then I can be released of this…impurity, and be whole again. Even for that one moment of wholeness, I would give up a lifetime of impurity.”

“My soul cries for the honor of dying a warrior’s death,” the Queen says. “A life of hiding away from the world, without battle to quench my soul’s thirst, would be no life at all. Not even if I were to go outside these walls to fight the monsters I have seen would slake my craving. There is no purpose for me here.”

“You’re all insane!” the Pirate cries. “You want to go back, so these time bastards can do you in? Fine, off with the lot of you. More paradise for me.”

“Paradise is reserved for the most deserving of God’s followers,” the Knight agrees. “And without the constant rivalries distracting us, I can focus on guiding you into the light and learning of our Lord’s most benevolent mercy.”

The Pirate stares at the Knight for a second, before saying, “On second thought, send me back too. NOW.”

“It weighs heavy on my heart that you choose this, but I cannot keep you here against your will. Maybe the Time-Stream Maintenance will change its mind and not terminate you, although that has never happened with other anomalies before.” I clap my hands together. “But I must enjoy this evening with you now, and it is all the more valuable knowing that you will soon part from me. Please, savor your meal, drink your fill, and then may you have the most wondrous of dreams when you sleep tonight. May every last moment count.” I turn to the Knight. “You, at least, have agreed to stay, have you not?”

The Knight stares at me with a glazed, dreamy look on his face. “Why would anyone of sound mind wish to leave Heaven?”

“Oh, brother,” huffs the Sharpshooter. “Men.”

“I propose a toast,” I say, as I raise a silver goblet in my hand. “To all my beloved guests. You are more courageous than I can say, and while I am wounded by your decision to leave, at least I will remember you here in Nowhere, so you won’t be forgotten forever. May this one night of bliss be everything you desire, for it will all be over sooner than you think.”

The others raise their cups to join me, although one can tell by their expressions that their resolve to return home has faltered a little. An air of somberness permeates the room, but I feel a heightened sense of elation.

I will have to work faster than I thought, but pressure oftentimes makes me execute my actions even better. I will have my victor sooner than I planned, and then I will be one step closer to fulfilling my deepest, darkest dream.

A shame to have to spill so much courageous blood.

The Battles Begin

My guests are escorted to their respective suites for the night once supper has ended for the evening. Yet I do not need to have my I.M.P.s watching them to know that none of them will be embraced by sleep tonight.

In short time, each of them has vacated their quarters, and they wander about my palace through its many corridors and rooms. As I expected, they do not search out one another, but prefer solitude, to comb through the jumble of thoughts and fears that infest their minds. I do not mind as they prowl around my hallways, maybe hunting for some secret or hidden marvel that may give them a clue as to what I am, what this strange land is, what they are doing here. Whatever they find would confuse them further, and confusion is an effective tool when you want someone to think what you want them to think.

I find the Knight has returned to my glass gardens. He stares vacantly at the multi-colored filaments inside each fragile blossom, as they softly radiate pastel-hued lights.

“What troubles you?” I ask as I walk up behind him, and he turns to me in surprise of my sudden arrival. “You of all my guests should be at ease. After all, this is your home as long as you wish it. You have no need to fear enemies or intruders.”

“It is not that,” he says. “I have been trying to understand what you have told us, about being viewed as threats to the Universe, being considered ‘flaws.’ But God gave me life. He put me on earth for a reason, to be his messenger and soldier. How can it be that my life, my existence, was never intended to be? It cannot be a mistake. God would not create me, to then decide I should not have been created at all. Milady, could it be…this has all been a misunderstanding? I am grateful that your generosity and kindness compelled you to save those you believed to be in jeopardy, but maybe I am not one of those…anomalies. I cannot be.”

I place a hand on his arm, and although the mask on my face shields my expression, he is imagining that I have a warm and loving smile reserved for him. “Perhaps you are right. You were bestowed with life for a reason, and perhaps it is your God’s will that you were rescued and brought to my lands. He knew I would protect you so that you could continue to do His work.”

This puts a renewed gleam of hope in the Knight’s eyes. “Yes…yes, that must be it. It was God’s will that I eluded those time keepers that would have had me disposed of. But…what is my purpose here? What has He sent me here to do?”

I am quiet, and I tilt my head at him curiously. “It is not obvious to you? You had said it yourself. You are here amongst heretics and sinners. You are the one beacon of light for these people. Of course, there are those among them that do not wish to be saved from damnation.”

“Then I will show them the errors of their ways.”

“Your heart is pure and noble,” I say. “It is sad the same cannot be said about the young Emperor.”

“Do you mean that man who talks to himself? The one in the robes?”

I nod. “He is contaminated by something far worse than misguided beliefs or arrogance. But I have said too much. It is nothing you need to concern yourself with, as he will soon be gone.” I turn to walk down the pathway.

“Wait! He said there was something inside of him that grows stronger when in the presence of hatred. Is it true? Is he possessed by an evil soul?”

I slowly turn back to the Knight. “There is an impure being within him. This is the reason the Time-Stream Maintenance was intending to eliminate him. The entity inside him will one day grow so powerful and so destructive, it will be the end of his people and his nation. It would cause such a tear in the fabric of history, and the future, all would be lost.”

“And you are planning to send him back, knowing this? What if the Time Keepers don’t eliminate him? What if he survives in the world?”

I shrug. “Then it will be the end of millions of innocent lives. But I’m sure the Time-Stream Maintenance will do their duty…although, as our lady friend pointed out at dinner, they haven’t done the job yet. Who is to say...”

The Knight gets a dark, brooding look on his face. “Where is this Emperor now?” he asks.

“I do not know. But, my dear friend, do not let what I have said weigh heavy on your heart. I fear, if you confront the Emperor, the darkness within you…” I place a hand to the lips on my mask, as if I am stopping myself from proclaiming some horrid truth.

“The darkness in me? What do you mean?”

“I have said too much. I must go.’

“No! Tell me, what darkness do you speak of?” He blanches, and he takes in a sharp breath. “Does it have to do with why I would be erased from history, if I go back?”

I am quiet at first, and I lower my head. “Forgive me, but I cannot tell you. My hope was by bringing you here, the destiny that was to befall you would be undone, and you could live out your life in goodness. If I tell you what you could have become, I fear that fate might still take hold.”

He takes my hand soothingly, for he sees I am shaking—I am quite the good actress, when I wish to be. “Milady, I must know. What was I to become?”

“I could not believe it myself, but I have peered into the path your life would have taken.” I hold his hands, and lift my mask up to face him. “You would have become the most cruel, black-hearted, murderous tyrant that ever lived. If what the Emperor might do in his time is villainous, then what you would have done of would put the minions of Hell to shame.”

He is struck dumb. His tongue wills him to retort, but his shock garbles his words. “N…no, it’s…it c-c-could n-not…I am not…I am the warrior of God! I stand for virtue and righteousness and honor! I could never—”

“You turn away from your God. The Time-Stream Maintenance has calculated that the lives you would destroy are more important to the continuation of history, than your own life is.” I pull him a little closer, lowering my voice. “Stay here with me. Without the influence of the world to tempt you, you will not become that monster. God does not wish you to become that monster. That is why He led you to me. I will protect you. I am your guardian.”

As most men do, when a rash thought that seems like a saving grace enters his head, he is spurned to act upon it quickly. “I will prove to God I am not that man. I will prove I serve Him and His way. I will prove that I am stronger than the Devil and his minions! I know what I must do, before it is too late.”

With that, he bows to me, and then he turns on his heel and walks with a determined speed out of my gardens, towards my palace. His hand is already on the hilt of his sword.

This should be an intriguing match.