The Fountain of Eden: A Myth of Birth, Death, and Beer

by Dan H Kind

  Chapter 35

  The Adventures of Sir Arthur and Captain Promo

  Sir Arthur and Captain Promo traipsed across muddy beds of ivy in the deeper reaches of Tranquil Forest.

  “Just a few more yards to the sipapuni,” yelled Promo over the wind and the rain.

  “Keep your eyes open when you get there. Who knows what might be waiting for—” Sir Arthur cried out at a sudden stinging on his calf, as if he had walked into a patch of nettles. Ahead of him, Captain Promo made a gurgling sound.

  Sir Arthur looked down and saw a hypodermic needle protruding from his leg. A distant horn sounded over the raging wind, coming from the direction of the sipapuni, and he felt lightheaded. He reached down to remove the foreign object jutting from his person, and the plunger depressed, as if some invisible nurse had given him a shot. His right leg began to go numb as the substance joined his bloodstream.

  With a gasp, Sir Arthur pulled the syringe from his flesh and threw it aside. The horn sounded again, closer this time, and the feeling of dizziness doubled.

  “Promo, it's an ambush!” His words slurred so much that he could barely understand himself. He ducked left, into the undergrowth, ignoring the lightheadedness. It was tougher to ignore his leg, which down to the toes now felt like dead weight. And the terrible sensation was creeping up to his groin, which was never a good thing. Whatever poison had been in that syringe was spreading like wildfire through his body. Then he lost all sensation in his legs, and he felt himself falling.

  Sir Arthur saw Promo collapse to the forest floor ahead of him. A syringe jutted from the fire marshal's neck.

  “Promo, get up,” he urged, though it yet again came out as gibberish. The fire-bringer lay on the ground, unmoving, his face buried in ivy. From the forest floor, the detective reached out a hand to grab Promo's shoulder and help him up, but missed.

  There was a crashing sound coming towards them through the forest, growing louder, getting closer by the second.

  Sir Arthur went for his revolvers, his hands seeming to move in slow motion as they flopped towards the holsters at his waist. Once again, he missed. His entire body now burned with numbing fire, and he would soon float off into the Void.

  From far away, he heard someone say: “See, pop, they just traipsed right into the trap like I told you they would!”

  Then the mysterious horn sounded again, right in his face, and he heard no more.

  Sir Arthur awoke when a bolt of lightning sliced across the sky. His head throbbed, and the unrelenting rain poured down upon his exposed skull. He felt . . . off. Distinctly not himself. He tried to work out why, but it was beyond him. He cracked open an eye as the thunder roared, wishing to observe before he made any kind of movement. But it was dark and his eyes had yet to adjust, and he could make out nothing of his surroundings. Another flash of lightning streaked across the heavens, and for a moment it might as well have been daytime.

  He was near the Fountain of Youth. Nowhere else in Tranquil Forest did the flowers grow like they did here, even in the middle of August, when the humidity drowned just about every bloom it touched. The sipapuni's Waters gurgled softly about fifteen feet to his left. Purple-flowered azalea bushes clustered to his right, and a grove of prickly hollies lay beyond those.

  Sir Arthur's ankles were bound with glowing rope—kenned-up, for sure. His sword-cane and revolvers had been stripped from his person; he could no longer feel their weight at his sides. His arms were bound behind him, presumably in the same manner as his legs, for he could feel a sharp, buzzing pressure on his wrists. Promo's dead weight pressed against his back.

  Sir Arthur cursed silently. To walk right into a trap like that—why, he must be going senile! Of course Hades would have set someone to keep an eye on the sipapuni, to keep the World Path open at this end, ready to pour forth its demonic hordes! The good news was that he hadn't seen anybody else around—at least not yet. If he and Promo could work together, perhaps they could figure out a way to remove the bonds of ken before their captors returned.

  Or before something nasty emerged from the sipapuni.

  Could that be the very reason they had been left here like this? To be devoured by the next monster that came through the World Path? And where were their captors? Had they really just left them here and wandered off?

  “Promo?” Sir Arthur glanced around the glade as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, taking mental notes of the surroundings. “You awake?”

  The fire marshal muttered something unintelligible and shifted his weight, but then quieted and was still. He was still doped up from whatever had hit them—and Sir Arthur, upon quick consideration, knew just what had. The needles were a tough call, possibly a new weapon, but the horn was a dead giveaway.

  “Hypnos,” he muttered. “And the syringes? Could it have been . . . Morpheus?”

  “That's right,” said a voice in the detective's left eardrum—the dark, demoniac voice of a nightmare come to unholy life. “Morpheus, god of dreams, at your service.”

  Then came a tired, drowsy voice, as if its owner hovered at the edge of wakefulness. “And Hypnos, the god of sleep . . .”

  The pair of Hadean denizens walked into Sir Arthur's view from behind.

  Hypnos looked tired: an ever-drowsy human male, a Lazy John. Short and slight, he wore a golden helmet that sagged down over his eyes. Slender white wings protruded outwards from his temples, stretching back three feet behind his head. He said, “Can you believe this guy's supposed to be the greatest detective ever, son? And on equal footing with us, the true gods? Why, this guy's just a literary construct, no more powerful than the human being who first conceived him . . .”

  Morpheus was well over six feet tall and frighteningly slender. He wore a black leather trenchcoat and black leather pants with silver chains dangling all over the place. Massive wings made of swirling feathers of darkness jutted from his back. Fangs like a vampire's poked out over thin, bloodless lips. Piercings looped with silver rings littered his pale face. He held a weapon that looked like a cross between a bazooka and an air-gun.

  “Well, pop,” he said, chortling, “I must admit I was a little concerned, what with all the rumors about him, but it turns out he's not as tough as everyone thinks he is.”

  Hypnos chuckled. “Why, just look at him, helpless as a babe, just like his humankind-loving pal, who can't handle his opium . . .” He brandished his opium-dispensing horn in Sir Arthur's face. “How 'bout you, Sherlock? Care for another hit of the horn?”

  “Chill, pop,” said Morpheus, placing a hand on Hypnos's shoulder. “Our orders are to keep these two alive until the boss gets here. He wants to deal with them personally.”

  “Not exactly my drug of choice, anyway,” muttered Sir Arthur.

  Hypnos backed away from Sir Arthur, keeping the horn's bell pointed at the detective. “What do you think is taking the boss so long, anyway?”

  “He'll be back,” said Morpheus. “Those fools can't stand up to him. We shouldn't be waiting much longer.” A wicked grin slashed its way across his bloodless face. “Then we can join in the fun. Today I shall add hundreds to my collection of souls.”

  Morpheus produced a fist-sized glass sphere from his pocket. Firefly-like lights of an infinitude of colors flitted inside the crystal ball. Sir Arthur caught glimpses of distorted faces that formed and then disappeared back into the light-swarm: trapped human souls.

  Hypnos snorted. “Always going on about your souls. Come on, son, we've all heard it before . . .”

  The crystal ball disappeared into Morpheus's pocket. “You're all just jealous! Nobody in the entire Greek pantheon and beyond has a collection like mine!”

  Hypnos waved off the comments. “Worthless things, human souls. Everyone knows that . . .” He placed a paternal hand on Morpheus's shoulder. “Son, it's not that other mythos are jealous of your collection, it's just that they don't care. Sure, those souls are pretty to look at swimming around in that globe of yours—a novelty, surely—but
of what real use are they? I mean, really . . .”

  Morpheus smiled with devilish pride. “I test synthetic nightmares and chemicals of dark imagination on them. One time I—”

  Hypnos cut in before he could get going. “Well, sucks for the souls, I guess . . .”

  Sir Arthur felt Promo stir against his back. Was the fire marshal finally waking up? Sir Arthur groaned to divert attention. Hypnos and Morpheus looked down at him as if just remembering they had company.

  “Your bonds a little tight there, Sherlock?” asked Hypnos.

  “It's so much fun to see you tied up like a stuck pig,” said Morpheus, chuckling. “Maybe soon we can gut you like one, too.” He kicked Sir Arthur in the side.

  “So what was in those syringes?” Sir Arthur managed to croak. That one might have broken a rib.

  Morpheus grinned like a child who had just learned to use the potty. “The very drug that is my namesake. Well, ninety percent morphine and ten percent of my own special concoction: supercharged narcotic ken-juice. You should feel privileged, because you're the first mytho it's been tested on. Well, the second, I guess, if you count your friend there. It's designed to not only numb the body, but deaden the intelligence. It just remains to be seen whether or not its effects are permanent or wear off after a while.” The grin widened. “Personally, I'm hoping for the former.”

  A chill shot down Sir Arthur's spine. So that's why he couldn't think straight! Morpheus the basement chemist's new concoction flowing through his veins, making him stupid! He found his center and focused on filtering the poison out of his system.

  “You must realize that this crackpot scheme of your master's is sure to fail,” said Sir Arthur. “You cannot take over Eden with harpies!”

  Morpheus laughed as if Sir Arthur was crafted of the utmost moronic fiber. “The harpies are the front lines, the fodder to be mowed down. I, however, command nightmares. You do know of my own personal army of darkness, do you not? The Oneiroi prey on dreams. They are blobs of darkness, globs of nightmare, all sharp fangs and shadowy wings. They bore into the ear—”

  “Ah yes, the Oneiroi,” interrupted Sir Arthur. “I know those foul beings of nightmare. They enter a human being's ear while asleep and attach to the outside of the brain like a tick. They infect their host's dreams with artificial nightmares, killing them with manufactured fear, and suck out their souls, leaving behind only the shell of body. The Oneiroi are parasites, but harmless to mythological beings. Except perhaps as an insect-like distraction because they're made of shadows and it's tough to see them to shoot the mindless things out of the sky.”

  Sir Arthur felt a sudden pressure against his back. Promo was awake, and he was telling him to keep the bastards talking because he had something up his sleeve!

  “They are not mindless!” screamed Morpheus, bringing his face to an inch from Sir Arthur's, teeth gnashing and spittle flying. “They are connected, mind to mind, with me! And do I seem mindless to you, Sherlock? Just you remember whose trap you just waltzed into!”

  “By no means would I say you're the brightest bulb in the gallery of gods, but then again nobody in your whole pantheon is.”

  “Hey, now . . .” slurred droopy-eyed Hypnos, halfheartedly restraining Morpheus from throttling the bound detective. “Why you gotta bring me and my peoples into this? I'm just standing over here, trying to catch a few quick Z's, and you insult me . . .” He clucked in disapproval. “It's just not nice, Sherlock. Perhaps by the end of this my son will have taught you some manners . . .”

  Sir Arthur harrumphed and then regretted it, wincing as pain shot through his ribs. “Not likely,” he said through clenched teeth. “Pretty soon, if your boss has his way, there'll be no time left for that or anything else, for there will be no Time, period.”

  “Whaddya mean there'll be no Time?” said Hypnos.

  “If your so-called boss has his way, you two, me, your son's precious Oneiroi, all human and mythological beings in existence, will cease to exist. Nataraja will dance samhara, and the universe shall burn away to ashes.”

  Hypnos looked worried behind half-closed eyelids. “All beings will cease to exist? We were promised a high ranking in the new pantheon that is to be created . . .”

  Sir Arthur snorted. “The existence of mythological beings depends upon human beings. Your boss has deceived you. No one shall awake from this nightmare. This is the end of everything.”

  Sir Arthur felt a surge of heat and a release of pressure on his wrists. Promo had burned away the bonds constricting their arms! Sir Arthur didn't dare give any indication this was so. He needed to keep these two talking until they were barely aware of their prisoners.

  Morpheus turned to his father. “But pop!” he whined. “The boss promised us we'd be his right-hand men when the next universe is created, strong in the minds of all beings across the cosmos!”

  “I know, son, I know . . .” Hypnos yawned and peered with skepticism at Sir Arthur through his ever-present haze of fatigue. “He must be lying . . .”

  Sir Arthur laughed. He worked his hands together behind his back, building up ken, waiting for the perfect moment to attack. “Me, lying? I, Sherlock Holmes, a . . . a fibber?! Sure, I have been known to twist the truth to my own ends or let a criminal slide when there was a case with a debatable ethical quality to it, but I have never been a liar.”

  “But . . . but . . . but pop!” squealed Morpheus. He wrung his hands together, weapon secured under an armpit, no longer paying the slightest bit of attention to the captives. “Why would the boss lie to us?”

  Hypnos's tiredness, which hung about him like a sandman's shroud, seemed to expand. “I don't know, son, I just don't know. I don't think he would, but he sure has been acting strange recently. Not quite himself. Sure, he seems just as evil and diabolical as ever, but he no longer has method to his madness. I mean, it's just not like him to try to destroy the entire—”

  Sir Arthur and Captain Promo simultaneously sprang into action.

  Promo dove towards the sipapuni, somersaulted, popped up, and unleashed a stream of flame from his palms like a medieval magician casting a “Fireball” spell. The molten orange sphere engulfed Morpheus, who screamed in pain from within the sun he had become. His long black hair ignited and in an instant his clothing turned into flaming tatters. He dropped the syringe-gun—which was smoking and smoldering and bubbling and melting—to the ground.

  His feet still bound, Sir Arthur jumped straight for Hypnos, who had no time to react. The detective grabbed Hypnos with both hands, one to a wing, and held on for dear life. Hypnos dropped his opium-horn with a cry and took awkward flight. The now wide-awake god of sleep flailed at the detective with hands and feet as they flitted above the sipapuni like two birds locked in coitus.

  Sir Arthur ignored Hypnos's feeble blows and tightened his grip on the god's wings. He concentrated, pushing all the ken he could muster into his hands and, from there, out into the world.

  Hypnos let out a gut-wrenching scream of pain (somehow, even that sounded tired) as Sir Arthur ripped the wings right off his face!

  The severed wings flopped to the forest floor, the two mythos a second behind. They landed atop the god of dream, who fizzled and sizzled in the rain as he lurched towards Promo. Upon impact the Morpheus's globe of souls flew from his pocket and skittered across the flora. It came to rest a few feet from the sipapuni, whose Waters began to madly churn, as if sensing the nearby violence.

  Captain Promo, a half-second away from unleashing another burst of the life-giving and life-destroying gift of the gods at Morpheus, was forestalled by the sudden deluge of mythos.

  Sir Arthur heaved himself and those splayed about his person from the ground. Dragging along Hypnos and Morpheus, he stumbled towards the sipapuni and watery salvation. After a quick push from Promo, the three burning beings went tumbling into the Fountain of Eden. A massive steam-cloud shot into the air.

  A few moments later Sir Arthur crawled onto shore, his tuxedo charred w
et tatters, his eyebrows burned clean off. The detective grabbed the globe of souls while Promo burned off the last of the bindings on Sir Arthur's legs and helped him to his feet.

  Sir Arthur looked down at himself. “Bloody hell-Worlds! My best tux, ruined! Did you know this suit is considered an antique? Why—”

  He stopped speaking as Hypnos and Morpheus arose from the sipapuni, helping each other onto dry land. Hypnos's eye-wings were severed, blackened stumps. Morpheus, who had been dressed in all black, now was all black, his skin charred down to the bone.

  “Here, Promo.” Sir Arthur tossed the fire marshal the crystal ball. The iridescent fireflies inside the sphere flickered and flashed, as if they realized something strange was happening. “Do your thing.”

  Captain Promo grinned as he caught the globe. He held it in one hand, and the globe's exterior bubbled and fizzled like liquid.

  “What are you doing!” Morpheus took a step in their direction, but stumbled over his own barbecued feet. “Stop it! That's mine! Give it back!”

  “Oh, no,” said Sir Arthur, shaking his head. “It's time for those souls to get a move on to their destinations, wherever those might be.”

  Promo tightened his grip on the globe—and it cracked. Souls began pouring from the ruptured glass like rainbow particles seeping from a rift in the moon. They flitted around the heads of Promo and Sir Arthur like luminescent insects, not affected by the rain or the wind. Then, as if they couldn't help themselves, they zoomed down and merged with the sipapuni's Waters.

  “NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!” Morpheus attempted to snatch the souls from the air with his bare hands. “They're getting away!” He shuffled towards Sir Arthur and Captain Promo, his blackened face a mask of rage.

  Sir Arthur held up a hand. “Stop, Morpheus.”

  Morpheus continued waddling in their direction on the cauterized stumps of his feet. Sir Arthur glanced at Promo, who grinned and tossed the remnants of the globe towards the god of dreams. The crystal pieces sailed over Morpheus's head, trailing soul-lights like comets, and plopped into the spring. Morpheus screamed, jumped into the pool, and disappeared.

  Hypnos wheezed on the shore. He looked up at Sir Arthur and Prometheus with resignation in his tired eyes. Without a word, he crawled back into the spring and vanished.

  Sir Arthur dusted off his hands. “Well, I guess that's that. For them, at least. Say, why don't you keep an eye on that waterhole while I search for my armaments?”

  Promo agreed. Sir Arthur soon came across his revolvers, along with his sword-cane and all of his ammunition, covered by fallen brush. The walkie was smashed. “Got 'em! But we no longer have communication!”

  Sir Arthur met Captain Promo back in the glade, where the Waters of the Fountain of Eden bubbled in violent, abnormal fashion. Promo sat on the forest floor, watching the churning Water with a single raised eyebrow. He jumped to his feet when fifteen-foot tall beasts with the torsos of men and the hindquarters of horses began bursting from the spring and trotting onto dry land like they owned the place. Centaurs! The beasts wore rippling black armor and helmets, and carried huge, wicked-looking swords and tridents and spears.

  Sir Arthur sighed. “Well, no rest for the weary.” He began picking off centaurs, spraying death by kenned-up bullet, while Promo tossed fireballs into the horde of horse-men.

  But grim-faced centaurs just kept pouring from the sipapuni in an equine wave of death. Two beasts emerged for every one they dispatched.

  “You know, Promo, this has been one hell of a week.” Sir Arthur warded off a snarling centaur with his sword-cane, stabbed the beast in the throat, then shot it between the eyes. The centaur fell with a gurgle and began thrashing about, screaming before dissipating into purple smog.

  Prometheus grinned as ten flaming darts shot from his fingers. Four centaurs disappeared in mini-infernos as the barbs impacted flesh and detonated. “Sure has. And it ain't over yet.”

  A wave of harpies emerged from the sipapuni and began circling in the air. Promo jumped and grabbed a harpy by the thin bird-leg. The monster's blood began to boil underneath its skin, and it exploded into a million superheated pieces.

  Sir Arthur's sword-cane slashed in a whirlwind, severing harpy wings as the monsters fizzled up from the sipapuni. He dropped two centaurs trying to creep around the battle and into the woods with the same number of rounds, then cocked his head to the side. “I hear something out in the woods.”

  Captain Promo listened as best he could. And over the raging storm and the battle and the bird-monsters' shrieks, he heard something big crashing through the forest towards them. By the innumerable pantheons, he hoped the approaching juggernaut was on their side!

  If not, they would soon be in serious trouble.