by M. K. Gibson
“Do you mind? I am having a discussion with my wife and our consenting third-party partner.”
“Oh, what I am going to do to you all,” Branwen purred as she lifted her hands, preparing to call down a bolt of lighting. “I’ll bring the full power of my universe down upon you all. And then, little mortals, you will beg for death.”
But no lighting came. Not even a little zap of static cling answered her summons.
Confused, Branwen never saw Lydia, who quickly lashed out with a violent sidekick directly into goddess’s near-mortal ribs. The sudden strike put the goddess on the ground hard. As she tried sitting up, Myst’s thunderous punch connected to the side of Branwen’s head, knocking her flat on her back.
While I firmly believe in kicking a person while they are down, I elected to hurt Branwen with words. It was only fair.
Kneeling, I spoke directly into her ear. “And just who ever said we were still in your universe?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Where I Discuss Hollywood Elites, Watch a Cartoon, and Take a Picture
You know what the best part of being the Shadow Master is? Well, the list is actually quite long. For starters, I’m obscenely wealthy. I’m a god, so, that’s pretty cool. And there is of course the fact that I’m not you. So that’s definitely a plus.
Ha! Gods above and below, could you imagine that? Instead of people enjoying my action-packed, sexy, clever, and frankly fucking funny adventures, they were reading about whatever it is that you do? The tale of a mundane who goes to work, eats poorly, binges too much streaming media, and too frequently touches their no-no spots? Man . . . can’t wait for the sequel. It would be like one of those Oscar-bait character study movies that have no plot and go nowhere.
But without the orchestral score to make it remotely watchable. The ones where the male lead makes Jake Gyllenhaal face the whole time and the female lead is vulnerable yet tenacious? Gods above and below, I hate those movies.
So let’s face it: Nothing you do even comes close to the exploits of a reality-hopping, smart-ass deity. Which brings me back to my point of why it’s so great being me. Once we remove the obvious factors of how great I am and my life is, the best thing is, despite my power and success, people still underestimate me. Ta da!
Not what you were expecting, was it?
They never do.
You see, my literature-consuming, couch-based source of disposable income, when you go up against and defeat people, you create enemies. But when you act as frustratingly juvenile as I do, yet somehow succeed, said enemies attribute my success to luck. They cannot fathom someone who acts as carefree and foolish as I do being a winner. Take the fine folks who read my recorded adventures and enjoy it. They understand that a winning personality, carefree charisma, and strategy wins. Those who do not enjoy my antics are often angry, stick-up-the-ass, pseudo-intellectual, emo tools. They rate me poorly, spit on my works, and don’t take me seriously.
Boo hoo. I cry my eyes out on the royalty checks I receive, funded by their money.
All this meandering self-congratulations brings me back to my point. Branwen, as a high goddess and my former . . . sexual Sherpa, shall we say, underestimated me as well. She knew I was smart. She knew I was cunning. She knew I was ruthless. Because these are all skills she too possesses and values above all others. But she didn’t have a skill I have, and force those who work closely with me to practice.
Acting classes.
Those who know my previous works will recall that I frequently credit my acting and improv classes for my ability to bluff my way through many situations. You see, a good actor can carry a scene and make the audience enjoy the work. A great actor can make you believe that the lie they are telling is complete truth.
I am a great actor. I mean, I’m not Gary Oldman or Amy Adams good; they’re beyond amazing. But I’m oodles better than DiCaprio. That poor man looks like a pinched-faced weasel who’s holding back a rancid fart whenever he tries to be serious.
In the case of the Raven Goddess, she had no need to act. She ruled by fear and pain. Therefore, she took my, Lydia’s, and Myst’s actions as true. Ahh, high gods. Just as easy to fool as people who read HuffPo and Brietbart exclusively.
********
“What . . . what’s happening?” Branwen asked, her voice sounding unsure. “What happened to my power?”
“Sophia?” I said, calling out to the open communication line.
“Yes sir?”
“Since our guest appears to be greatly de-powered, I’m assuming we’ve arrived?”
“We have indeed, sir!” Sophia’s chipper voice said.
“Is it as charming as always?”
“See for yourself, sir,” Sophia said as one of the side panels of the hold retracted, revealing a large rectangular viewing window.
“You . . . monster,” Branwen hissed.
Through the window and far below the Zenith Umbra lay rolling green hills and lush verdant forests. A crystal blue lake could be seen nestled between two picturesque valleys. A pristine castle sat high atop a hill, above a thriving village.
And every inch of the idyllic kingdom, from the flora to the fauna, was rendered as a brightly colored cartoon.
“Behold, the cartoon universe of public domain,” I said with a smile over my shoulder to the dark and brooding Branwen. “Welcome to Enchantastica.”
“You vile fiend,” the goddess cursed.
“Take a good look.” I smiled. “Down there is an entire universe full of happy people. I’m talking singing chipmunks, princesses yoked to a patriarchal idea of maidenhood, and a shit-ton of never-ending cheer. There are adventures and stories where the wicked are punished and bluebirds bake pies. Isn’t it delightful?”
“What are you going to do?” Branwen asked. It was clear the sheer thought of such a joyous place was anathema to the goddess of goth.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Does the colorful world scare you? Afraid that if I abandon you down there, you won’t be able to escape? Pity that you’re an uninvited high goddess in another universe.”
“Jackson,” Branwen seethed.
“The moment your taloned feet touch the plush soft grass of that ground, you will basically be an enhanced mortal. And believe me, I know how much that sucks.”
“I’ll kill everything down there,” Branwen threatened.
“HA!” I laughed in her face, then wiped away a phantom tear with a sniff. “No, no you won’t. You will be—at best—an evil queen. Or a wicked stepmother. Either way, those roles don’t work out too well for the people playing them. And believe me, I’ve done the research. Enchantastica maintains the old way of doing things. So if you’re hoping for a recasting of the villainous female with an Angelina Jolie type in a poor attempt to ‘get woke,’ it ain’t gonna happen. No, the only way you’re getting back to Horreich is if you answer my questions.”
Branwen looked past me at the horrible technicolor nightmare below. “It isn’t that simple,” she whispered.
I grabbed the goddess by her shoulders and lifted her into the air. “Then make it that simple!”
“Release me!”
I looked at her like an idiot. “No.”
“Where’s my daughter, Branwen?! Where is she?!” Lydia screamed from over my shoulder.
“Why did you take her?” I asked. “Why? Why? Why?!”
With each question, I shook my former lover a little harder. Here, in my embassy, I was the god and she was the peasant. And I wanted nothing more than to enact the age-old tradition of smiting.
“Stop!” Branwen screamed, shaking her head from side to side. “You don’t understand! We had to!”
“We? Who’s we?” Lydia asked.
Branwen refused to answer. She closed her eyes and shook her head. A moment later, blood poured out of her mouth. The raven goddess then spit a bloody lump over my shoulder.
“What was that? What did she do?” Lydia asked.
“Oh, gross!” Myst said, p
icking up the bloody mess. “She bit her tongue off! This is nasty.”
“Then put it back on,” Lydia told me. “She has to answer.”
“I can’t,” I admitted. “She isn’t one of mine. Even in my universe, I have no direct power over her.”
Lydia clenched her fists in frustration. “Then what do we do?”
Before I could answer, Branwen disappeared in a flash of blue-white light. One moment she was there in my grasp, and the next, she was gone. Down below, I saw her lying on the grassy hillside of Enchantastica.
“You’re welcome,” Dmitrius’s disembodied voice came from within the ship. “Before you all go crazy, let me explain.”
“You better,” I said, reaching for a cigarette.
“She clearly wasn’t going to answer you. So rather than a long-winded back and forth, I put her on the planet as per the Shadow Master’s intention.”
“But we need to know what she did with Evie,” Lydia said.
“We’ll probably find out what we want to know at Horreich’s Place of Memory,” Dmitrius said.
“You know where that is?” Myst asked. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”
“Because I was hoping you all would die trying to figure it out or fighting the monsters of that world. But it is clear you all are the luckiest mortals and minor gods in the known and unknown universes. So I figure if I help you, the sooner you’re done, and the sooner I can go back to The Nexus Point.”
“And what happens to her?” Lydia asked, pointing down at the goddess below.
“We can’t technically do anything,” I said. “She is not threatening us directly. And The High Fairy Toodleboots is doing me a favor by dumping her sister off here.”
“Sister?” Myst asked.
“Of course.” I smiled as a thought occurred to me. “Sophia?”
“Yes sir?”
“I assume the Umbra’s latrines need to be flushed out and dumped from time to time?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Well, we may not get our bloody revenge on Branwen. But . . .”
“Already done, sir,” Sophia said.
I looked out the viewing window one more time to see several hundred gallons of septic waste descending on my ex-girlfriend. The putrid brown sludge fell from the sky. And despite the soundproof glass of the Umbra, I liked to think I could hear her shrieking.
The Shadow Master is many things, classy being at the top of the list. But I’m not too highbrow to enjoy a good poop joke. I thought about waving at her and decided that would just be bad form, a fleeting juvenile moment that would be forgotten in time.
Taking a picture, however—well, that allowed me to keep the memory forever.
After snapping several pics with my phone, I checked the images for quality, then called out. “Okay, Dmitrius, I think we’re good here. Where in Horreich are we going?”
“Erinerung,” the celestial being said. “The Island of Memories.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Where I Find Land, Find My Inner Strength, and Find an Accomplice
Erinerung, the Island of Memory, the most unholy place in all of Horreich . . . was really small.
“That’s very underwhelming,” Myst said from the open hatch of the now floating Zenith Umbra. “Are you sure this is where we need to be?”
“According to Dmitrius, yes,” I said, looking past her shoulder at the “island” before us. As I had before in Stella Primus, through my godly senses, I felt the power of this place.
Even if it was a dinky plot of floating debris.
Erinerung was, no kidding, about fifty feet across. The tiny hunk of land seemed to be a blip floating amid an endless ocean. No wonder it was so well hidden. Unless you knew exactly where it was, you’d never find it. The perpetual nighttime waters rocked up and down, hiding the island from time to time depending on your perspective on the tide. The persistent stormy weather made approaching this place treacherous for mortal beings.
On the tiny island, I saw several moss-covered stone slabs, like a miniature Stonehenge, standing in an asymmetrical circle. And in the center of the ancient structure appeared to be the remnants of a stone well.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I said, nodding to Myst and Lydia, who rolled out a wide gangplank from the Umbra to Erinerung’s . . . shore? “Does it count as a shore, or a dock, when the whole of the island is smaller across than a bowling lane?”
Myst shrugged. “Regardless . . . land ho?”
“Cut the shit and come on,” Lydia said, stepping across the plank onto the island.
I watched my wife with growing concern. She wasn’t holding up well. While she was always surly in a lovingly violent way, her demeanor had shifted. She was colder. Darker. Her acerbic humor was all but gone. The loss of Evie had to be weighing on her.
And if I was being honest, at least to myself, I wasn’t doing much better. The reality of my missing daughter was like a spike in my heart, digging deeper with each passing moment. As this particular “adventure” continued, I felt my attempts at comedy waning. Much like those in failing marriages or the professionally outraged delivering squawking tirades on social media, I was simply going through the motions.
I’d always been known for a dark, and misplaced, sense of humor. At a funeral, I was always one to tell a joke. Because let’s be honest, you can’t spell funeral without “fun.”
Wocka wocka.
See, even that was lame. Maybe I too was reaching the end of my limit. It was hard to joke knowing that the one living piece of you was out there.
Alone. Cold. Scared.
Without realizing it, I felt a hand slip into mine. I looked down into my wife’s beautiful hazel eyes. She quirked an odd smile up at me that gave me pause.
“You getting weak on me, Shadow Master?”
“No,” I said. And in that moment, with her, I knew it wasn’t a lie. “No, Madam Barrowbride, I am not.”
“Good. Because if you lose it, then I’m going to fall shortly after.”
I stared at her, looking past her eyes and into her heart, to see if she was telling the truth. There, in that moment, she was honest with me. She needed me as much as I needed her. And together, we could bear the pain.
“Then I guess we need to prop one another up then.”
“I guess so,” Lydia whispered.
I reached down and gave her a quick kiss. She returned the kiss and held me tightly. It wasn’t much. The passion—the desire—was hard to force while our child was in danger, but the love was there. It was what we both needed. That little boost to keep ourselves going.
“Boss, Ma’am,” Myst said. “Hate to interrupt, but you need to see this.”
I gave Lydia’s hand one final squeeze, then walked over to the center of the island where Myst stood. She nodded towards the well.
“An inscription around the well,” she said. “Looks like more of that same weird language.”
There were indeed remnants of the Fifth Tongue chiseled along the rim of the old well. I traced my fingers along the edges, half mumbling, half sounding out the words.
“What’s it say?” Lydia asked as she came to stand next to me.
“It’s a continuation of the previous prophecy,” I said. “Roughly put, it says, ‘And the child, sired from a god that was not meant to be, shall have the power over creation to make or to unmake. In the presence of . . . The All and None? To maintain the ancient binds or to break the shackles and free the . . .’”
“Free the what?” Lydia asked.
“It stops there,” I said, noting the broken portion of the well.
“Damn it!” Lydia cursed, kicking the well with her foot. “Fuck this place and fuck you for losing her!”
I said nothing.
What do you say to a parent whose child is gone—taken—and there is seemingly nothing she can do? The empty feeling of loss was coupled with the acidic burning of impotence. Having the gnawing desire to do, but lacking the ability to accomplish.
But that was not me. That was not the Shadow Master.
I gripped the edge of the well and poured what little power I had into the ancient stone.
“What are you doing?” Myst asked.
“Finding my fucking daughter,” I said.
I pushed, hard, against the entropy of this universe. Without a god to guide it, the very nature of the reality fought to find a balance. I could feel it, the edges of existence fraying. But if this were a Place of Memory, then all events here were recorded.
The edges of the stone began to glow with a reddish light as I poured more and more of myself into the well. The waters within began to swirl in a counter-clockwise motion. Beside me, Lydia and Myst watched as distorted images began to flicker in the well.
“Show . . . me . . . my . . . fucking . . . daughter!” I grunted, fighting the force of a directionless Horreich.
Pushing myself to the point of breaking, I felt . . . something. Amid the swirling sea of time, I sensed the memory I sought. I focused on that and that alone, guiding the power of the well to show me what I desired.
“I see her!” Lydia said.
Blood, my blood, fell from my eyes in crimson tears. Opening my eyes, I focused through the sticky red haze and looked, for the first time since she was taken from me, on Evie.
The well’s water reflected an image of the island. Branwen stood there, with both her hands on Evie’s shoulders. My daughter looked ragged. Her hair was a tangled mess and her face looked gaunt.
“Baby,” I whispered.
The memory continued as a figured appeared before Branwen in a flash of brilliant gold and white light. A figure I recognized.
Valliar, High God of Justice. One of two High Gods who ruled Caledon, the fantasy realm where I first met Lydia.
“Take her,” Branwen said in the memory. “Jackson is close to assembling the relics of my children. I will do what I can to distract him.”
“You know what Jackson did to Hermov,” Valliar’s booming voice echoed.
