by J. S. Miller
“You passed the trial. We acknowledge your pledge. But sacred law may not bend to an individual will.”
“See, this is why I stopped going to church.”
“We shall make for our camp near the forest’s edge,” he said and started walking … in the same direction Coppersworth and I had already been traveling. I flashed C-Dub a look, and his metal eyebrows practically bruised the rim of his bowler.
“Well, since you asked so nicely, I suppose we could tag along for now,” I said. We fell in behind the shi dogs. I kept my face set to “poker” and tried to hide my sudden enthusiasm behind a barrage of seemingly unrelated questions.
“So … how do you know English?” I asked.
“We are all fluent in at least two of the Holy languages of Earth,” Stern said.
“Holy languages of Earth?”
“You speak one now. My personal favorite is Spanish.”
“OK, sure,” I said, shaking my head. “But how do you know about Earth? And alchemy?”
“Those are two very different questions.”
“But you have answers to both, I’m sure.”
“You, like the old man, are too curious,” Stern said, glancing back at the others. “You shape these forces, bind them to your will, but from a distance. We know these things because we live with them all around us. It would be like trying to study water while swimming in the ocean. You either intuit how to swim or die.”
“Do you always speak in riddles?”
“The fault is not mine if you do not understand. I have explained our ways of learning and knowing. We do not wonder how magics pass from one world to the next. They simply do.”
“So they do pass between worlds!” Coppersworth said.
“My head hurts,” I said, rubbing my temples. “Let me get this straight. These ‘forces,’ alchemical reactions or magic or whatever you want to call them, sort of … trickle into our world from yours? Like an overinflated balloon leaking into other dimensions?”
“Based on Arthur’s research, that seems a simplistic yet accurate evaluation,” Coppersworth said. “It would certainly support his Theory of Universal Finiteness. It might also explain why Earth has so many tales of ancient magic while providing so few modern examples. Perhaps, at some point, Earth was a source dimension. But the balance shifted. The balloon, as you put it, deflated, and now most of that energy resides here.”
I caught Stern eyeing the other shi dogs and, following his gaze, saw that several of them were glaring at us. Hit a sore spot, had we? Oh well. Stern himself had said we weren’t here to make friends, and this was information I needed if I planned to save Elena and get out of here alive.
“Could you elaborate a bit, Coppersworth?” I asked.
“Well, as I mentioned, Arthur posited that alchemical magics seep into our universe through fissures, most of which are microscopic, imbuing mundane substances with small amounts of latent chemical energy. That is why certain substances, even on Earth, possess such powerful chemical reactions. Take sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate, for example. Put them together, and you have gunpowder. Give them to an alchemist, and the possibilities increase tenfold.”
“Put them in a source universe, and I’m guessing they go batshit crazy,” I said. “That’s why conventional firearms work about as well as a charcoal grill stuffed with dynamite.”
“Let us change the subject,” Stern asked.
“Sure, yeah,” I said, not really listening. “Coppersworth, you said these fissures are usually microscopic, but we’re living proof that holes big enough to fall through are popping up all over the damn place. Does that mean they’re growing?”
“I should think such a process would take eons,” he said. “If it were possible at all.”
“Agreed. But what if this phenomenon isn’t random or natural?”
“You mean to say, what if some scalawag were prising them open for his own nefarious purposes? I imagine the consequences of such tampering could be catastrophic.”
“That’s not what Max says,” a female voice interjected. I turned and noticed a slightly smaller shi dog staring at us with defiance in her eyes. “He says the rifts are here to help us. Gifts from the gods. They let him come here and start over.”
“Because Max knows everything,” another small shi dog said, rolling her shiny black eyes. The tufts of dark fur along her back were braided into an odd, asymmetrical mane, and her stone flanks were etched with fresh carvings that resembled traditional Irezumi tattoos. “That guy stinks like a sock full of old fish. You shouldn’t hang out with him.”
“He does not,” the other said. “You don't know what the hell you're talking about, Glynda.”
“And you think just because he runs that stupid bar that he’s the coolest guy in—”
“Silencio!” Stern shouted. “Glynda. Gertrude. Do not argue in front of our guests.”
The smaller dogs shot each other glares before stomping to opposite ends of the pack — not so far as to break formation, but far enough to let everyone know how totally pissed off they were. Even alternate realities had teenagers, it seemed.
“So … everyone here knows the history of alchemy, then?” I asked, trying to get the conversation back on track. “How my forerunners spent centuries experimenting with runes and recipes to better control these forces?”
“We are passingly familiar with it,” Stern said in a tone that suggested he was still hoping I would drop the subject. He clearly didn’t know me very well yet.
“And now, after all that time, I find out we’ve been using table scraps? Tiny amounts of energy squeaking in from other dimensions?”
“Not only that,” Coppersworth said. “Knowledge from our world is clearly filtering back through into this one.”
“We know where it comes from,” one of the larger shi dogs said. “And it’s not from the likes of you. Stern, will you continue to suffer these blasphemers? I have met many humans, but most simply misinterpret the gospel of the machines. None have suggested such—”
“Gospel of the machines?” I interrupted.
“The Holy Radio,” he said. “The divine box through which the gods speak.”
As much as it pained me to admit, the shi dogs’ statements were starting to make an insane kind of sense. If certain energies could travel between our worlds, what was to stop other forms from riding the same wave? Say, electromagnetic radiation?
“I suppose there is evidence that radio waves could travel through wormholes,” I said, still rubbing my forehead. “If any of this were even possible in the first place. I’m still only half-convinced I’m not having a drunken fever dream.”
“Believe what you wish, blasphemer,” the shi zealot said. “Your words will not tear down our shrines, nor will they silence our priests.”
“Priests?” I asked. “What do they preach? The holy rites of Howard Stern?”
Several armored beasts murmured in disapproving tones.
“Most do not speak of my namesake,” Stern said, evidently unfazed by this argument. “He is a trickster.”
I massaged my temples harder but was failing to ward off the oncoming headache.
“May we return to these ‘radio waves,’ as you called them?” Coppersworth asked. “Do you mean to suggest that humans have harnessed electromagnetic radiation to project signals through the ether?”
“Yep. A while back.”
“Remarkable. Think of the applications. Warning of disasters over great distances, conveying breakthroughs in medical science … the possibilities are endless.”
“Most of what comes through is bickering,” Stern said. “But it has also given us scripture, and music, and images trapped behind glass. Some even believe it bestows prophecy.”
“Ah, you get TV,” I said. “People worship at that alter back home, too.”
I was trying to maintain my usual levels of casual snark, but each new revelation left me more terrified than the last. Back on Earth, humans had committed some
of the worst atrocities in history in the name of thousand-year-old books about love. Who knew what this world’s peoples would do after tuning in to “sermons” on their soothsaying squawk boxes.
“The prophecy,” Stern continued. “Speaks of a warrior. A man who goes by many names, and sometimes by no name at all. He walks his path alone, and wears a great weapon on his hip.”
“Uh … you sure this guy doesn’t have a name?” I asked. “I mean, one he uses more often than not?”
“Eastwood. Clint Eastwood.”
My poker face slipped badly as I let out a startled bark of laughter. Several of the shi dogs bristled.
“My kind has little use for prophecy,” Stern continued, glaring at the others as if commanding them to settle down. “We guard this place. That is our purpose. But since you are new to the pack, I will offer you this warning, Lord Alchemist. There are those who may see more in you than what you are, for good or ill. Be wary of flaunting your knowledge.”
“Look, I’m not here to start a cult,” I said. “I just need to find someone. Tall guy. Dressed all in red. White mask. Seen him?”
Stern halted, his face somehow hardening even further. It threw new shadows across his stone visage. All the other dogs slowed and formed a circle around us.
“He seeks communion with the Outrider!” the shi zealot said. “Alchemist or no, he will join them, and our world will not survive his conversion. Stern, he must be put down.”
Several of the shi dogs, including the one named Gertrude, growled and lowered their massive bodies into the same fighting stance Stern had adopted earlier. The majority, however, were glancing around the circle uneasily.
“Whoa,” I said. “That seems a bit harsh.”
“I agree,” Stern said.
“With me or with him?” I asked.
Stern didn’t answer me. Instead, he turned to the crowd.
“This human is our guest,” he began. “Even if his mouth does flap like that of a dying fish.”
“That seems a bit unnecessary …” I grumbled.
“He passed the trial and has shown himself to be both strong and merciful. We are obligated to honor his request and grant him safe passage back to our village. If anyone disagrees with my judgment, now is your time to step forward and challenge me.”
The circle went silent as every shi dog but one cowered in submission before Stern. The zealot alone held his fighting stance, grimacing at the leader of his pack with undisguised disdain. Stern returned his gaze, except his was steady, mature, almost regal. I considered saying something sarcastic, but then remembered this staring contest would decide whether or not they should murder me, and I elected to sit this one out.
“Stern, you must listen to reason,” the zealot said after several moments. “He is not one of us.”
Stern didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His gaze spoke for him. It bore into the other dog, never faltering. One by one, the other shi dogs averted their eyes. As I stood between them, watching the green forest light dance in Stern’s obsidian eyes, even I had to look away. What the hell had I gotten myself into?
After a moment, the zealot started fidgeting like a child who’d gone too long without a bathroom break. Then his gaze fell to the leaves, and he slumped. Stern turned and began walking again. The rest of the party fell into step behind him.
“You seek a creature called The Outrider,” he said. “We do not speak of him. Wherever he goes, death follows — and the grim specter of unlife chases them both.”
“OK, but I really need to find—”
“I have not seen him,” Stern said. “But his stench defiles the leaves, meaning he passed this way recently. Why do you seek him?”
“He … took someone. I aim to get her back and put an end to him.”
“I see,” Stern said. “I am truly sorry, but your friend is already gone.”
“What do you mean by—”
Stern interrupted my question by raising his head, sniffing sharply at the air, unleashing a howl of triumph, and bounding off into the underbrush. The other shi dogs followed.
Coppersworth and I glanced at each other, bewildered, before racing off after them. The shi ran faster than creatures clad in that much granite had any right to, whereas I kept tripping over roots and getting slapped in the face by branches. After each stumble, I could see fewer and fewer of them sprinting ahead of me. Even Coppersworth’s thudding feet faded away, and I was alone, running full tilt through an alien forest, becoming less and less sure where I was going with every step. But I ran harder, focusing on each aching breath, on each thump of my heart, on each muscle pushing and pulling my form into action.
I burst into a well-lit clearing, stumbling but — praise be to the almighty radio — managing not to fall on my face. What stood before me, however, almost knocked me on my ass anyway.
It was a city, one unlike any other I’d ever seen. Hundreds of thick vines wound up around the colossal trees, supporting platforms littered with sleeping shi dogs. A small army of them. On the vines, bioluminescent buds pulsed with purple and orange hues that reminded me of those in my basement laboratory. For the first time since my arrival in this world, the urgency of the hunt subsided, and I felt the dull ache of homesickness. How far had I come? Would I ever be able to find my way back?
“At last, we are home,” Stern said, and then motioned with his snout to a row of tents lined up a short distance away. “My kind requires little shelter, but we have constructed such things for visitors. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
Coppersworth and I approached the nearest tent and ducked inside. The interior was like something out of a pulp adventure story: Canvas cots sat on either side of a table holding a small gas lamp. The furniture looked rickety, as though it’d been built by carpenters with no opposable thumbs, but when I gave one of the cots a test bounce, it felt sturdy enough.
“Well then, Lord Alchemist,” Coppersworth said, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “Shall I presume you have already formulated a daring plan for our escape?”
Before I could respond, the tent flap moved. My hand went to the Chemslinger, but when the fabric parted, a familiar face peered through. It was Glynda, the young shi dog skeptic with the lopsided braids.
“No time for chitchat,” she said. “I’m busting you outta here.”
The tent was silent for a moment, then Coppersworth turned back to me.
“I gave you too little credit,” he said, and this time I could almost see the smirk his face wasn’t quite able to express. “You really are quite the master planner, it seems.”
Chapter 11
When we emerged from the tent, full night had fallen. The forest had been dim to begin with, but now things were downright inky. Mist drifted close to the ground, glowing in the faint purple light of the vines. We circled behind the tents and took care not to be seen. Everything in Tree Dog City was still and silent … everything but Glynda, that is.
“My dad can’t break our laws, but he’s not an idiot,” she blurted in a raucous teenage whisper. “He knows we can’t hold you. Man, I couldn’t believe the way you handed us his ass.”
“Handed you his what?” I asked.
“You know. When you kick someone’s ass and then hand it to someone else. That’s the saying, right?”
“Um, sure,” I said. “Where are we going?”
“Dad told me to help you find The Outrider, and that dude leaves stink lines of evil wherever he goes, so it shouldn’t be too hard to follow him. Not to mention he can’t stop laughing his ass off. Man, I’ve never even seen the guy, but that witch’s cackle makes me wanna piss my pants.”
“Forgive me, Miss,” Coppersworth said. “But you do not appear to be wearing any pants.”
“Figure of speech, Kemosabe.”
“You listen to a lot of shock jocks, don’t you?” I asked.
“I dunno what you’re talking about,” Glynda said, flashing me a literal wolfish grin. “My buddies and I definitely didn�
��t swipe a contraband radio, if that’s what you’re suggesting. And we certainly don’t sneak into the woods to listen to the forbidden stations every chance we get. Perish the thought.”
“Your secret’s safe with me. Lead on, Glynda, you rebel you.”
Our trio tiptoed away from the village. No sentries guarded the perimeter, or if they did, they were too well hidden for my eyes, and our guide never pointed them out.
We marched on till morning, yet the forest never seemed to change. I was finalizing a mental thesis on how all these purple trees must have been copy-pasted when we broke through into the dazzling light of a pale green sunrise. I shielded my eyes. As they adjusted, I saw a second, smaller sun, no less bright and green, hanging in the sky near the first.
I also saw that, another hundred paces on, the ground simply ended. A sheer cliff dropped off into a massive crater. But the crater was not empty. I let my hand fall. In the sky above and in front of me, an enormous orb floated, hovering inside the crater like a clingy, superfluous moon.
Covering its surface was a great city. Astoria, I presumed. As the suns rose and light washed over its structures, details sprang out. Tall brick buildings and cobblestone streets. Glowing stained glass and wrought iron gates. It was a city from storybook noir, the perfect setting for a Raymond Chandler retelling of Rumpelstiltskin. The sight stirred something inside me, like a scent from early childhood or a half-remembered dream in the moments after waking. I couldn’t place why, but it reminded me of the life I might have lived if things had gone differently. Of the world I’d never had a chance to experience myself, only watch through a pane of dirty glass. Of the places I should have gone with Abigail Bouclier.
I was settling in for yet another daydream when a different young, female voice started shouting at me.
“You guys coming or what?!” Glynda asked, startling me out of my reverie.
She was trotting toward a tree at the edge of the cliff. A sturdy-looking rope had been embedded in the bark about 15 feet up. From it dangled a large basket, similar to a gondola cart but abnormally symmetrical, as though its top were also its bottom and vice versa, with a row of open windows wrapped around the middle like a belt. The rope led up and away at a 45-degree angle, but formed a gradual S curve on its way to the other anchor, located somewhere in the city hundreds of yards above. The gravitational pull appeared to change directions halfway.
