by J. S. Miller
The green suns had begun to set when I finally pushed myself up. I put on the gun and satchel more out of habit than necessity, wanting the familiar weight over my heart and on my hip, and then I gazed at the ashen trail snaking toward the horizon. I knew with uncharacteristic lucidity that the best thing I could do was stay out of it. Running into battle now would only add “painful, pointless death” to my personal catalog of failures. My friends — even Elena, wherever the hell she was — would be grateful I wasn’t running around punching holes in buildings with my untrained and ill-advised alchemy. The ring and my power were gone. That chapter in my life was over.
My body and soul ached as I set off toward the forest where I’d stumbled into this world all those nights ago. I’d go back, try to brew something strong enough to get myself drunk, and keep my nose out of any business that could get anybody hurt. That was my lot in life. The straw I had drawn. I was going home.
So I walked, and the green of the plains changed as the twin suns of that world melted on the horizon like scoops of lime sherbet on asphalt, then rose again in what seemed like minutes. I don’t know how many days passed, but I did know, somehow, that I was making good time. Maybe the land masses shifted. Maybe the wind was at my back. Or maybe I’d simply started walking, and my feet had known where to go.
I arrived at the edge of the forest just after sunset. Wind sighed through the plum-colored trees, making their leaves ripple and gleam. The moon cast dancing shadows on the bark, imbuing the entire scene with motion, a post-impressionist landscape come to life.
After hiking far enough into the woods that the open plains were no longer visible behind me, I caught sight of a large shadow hunkering a little way off in the trees. The sight reminded me of Arthur Rundale’s mansion, but when I moved closer, an even larger stone building emerged.
It looked like an ancient Irish monastery, although the belfry in front had an unusual shape, tapering at the base while ballooning out near the top. If I were being totally honest, the shape resembled a giant pint glass. But that was ridiculous, right? About two thirds of the way up, nearly hidden beneath moss that hugged the old stones like an impassioned lover, someone had carved symbols into the rock. First, a crude image of a harp. Below that, letters that appeared to spell the word “Guinness.” Well, that explained it. I must have died back at the camp. The Laughing Man had killed me, and this was heaven.
The hinges on the double doors groaned like Godzilla after Salisbury steak night. Inside was a modest chapel, with pews and lectern standing in their expected places and little to no adornment on the walls. I walked down the center aisle, gazing up at the room’s only light sources: windows that captured this world’s history in panes of stained glass. In each one stood a religious figure, but these weren’t the saints or angels of Earth.
One figure clad in khaki held a flaming sword. Another wearing spectacles gripped a small box featuring twin circles of speaker mesh. All of them wore the gold and silver rings awarded to graduates of the Royal Academy of Alchemy. Each ring had a unique pattern, like a fingerprint, with the only universal element being the philosopher’s stone at the center. When I reached the front of the room, my eyes fell upon the largest of the windows, and my heart skipped about twenty beats.
My father’s face stared back at me. Arnold Muller — Arn to his friends — frozen in colored glass. There was no mistaking him. On his face, he wore that same crooked smile. On his hand, he wore a ring, its pattern a perfect match for the one I myself had worn for the past 10 years.
Chapter 25
I slammed through a door at the back of the chapel, wanting to leave this strange place and yet needing to know more — and nearly ran over a short, round man carrying a large barrel.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “And who might you be, laddy?”
He spoke in an over-the-top, Lucky-Charms-leprechaun accent, which might’ve seemed crass if his face hadn’t been so rosy-cheeked and kindly. His graying hair had been trimmed into a monastic tonsure, and the bald spot glowed as if he’d only recently earned his halo. Below that, he wore a T-shirt that read “Kiss me, I’m Irish.”
“Name’s West,” I said, arching an eyebrow. “Where am I? Am I dead?”
“Not unless we both are,” he said, chuckling. “Me name’s Father Howie, and you be standin’ in the Sacred Temple of the Guinness Pint.”
When he said the word “Guinness,” he shook the barrel festively.
“I … um … the sacred what?”
Father Howie smiled.
“You must’ve traveled far … we’re out in the middle of bloody nowhere. Why not rest a spell and seek nourishment in the holy hops of the sacred brew?”
Heaven it was, then.
“Ah, what the hell,” I said. “Who am I to turn down the sacred brew?”
“That’s the spirit, boyo!”
Father Howie led me into a large, circular room where brewing gear had been placed with care against worn stone walls. Stairs spiraled up around a great tree at the center, and a skylight far above framed the massive purplewood in a column of moonlight, highlighting its swirling bark and bent, twisting branches, several of which ended in stumps.
“We use this here bell tower for brewin’,” Father Howie said. “And the wood from the tree for smoking the malt, ya see. Brings it closer to the sacred recipe. The brewing tree provides incredibly complex flavors. Here, let me pour you some.”
He approached a row of barrels, plucked a clay mug from a nearby rack, and filled it with dark, foamy liquid. He handed it to me, and I took a sip as he poured one for himself.
The sound and color of memory washed over my tongue. I hadn’t tasted anything so flavorful in years. Smokey, sweet, all combined with a dash of something otherworldly. It was overwhelming; it was impossible. Tears filled my eyes as I gulped the rest of the beer. Father Howie glanced back at me, mild concern in his eyes.
“This tastes nothing like Guinness,” I said, wiping my mouth with my hand. My voice only cracked a little.
“Ya mean to suggest you’ve actually imbibed the heavenly brew?” he asked, chuckling. “Bah. And I’m the pope.”
“I’m from out of town. Used to drink it all the time. Been a while, but you never really forget the flavor.”
“Bullshit!”
I nearly choked on the beer.
“Language, father,” I said, laughing. “I swear it’s true.”
“I’m sorry, boyo,” he said, his smile fading. “But you just can’t have tasted it.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because, if what you claim is true, then … my entire order, all our work, all those years … it’d be all for naught.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “This is amazing. Different doesn’t mean worse.”
“But we dedicated our lives to replicating that recipe. Spent years sitting by the radio, listening for techniques and ingredients, writing down what we could … trying to understand what little the masters left for us.”
“Hold on. You did all this, you made this beer, just by listening to the radio?”
“Aye. Well, and by reading the texts handed down by the Alchemists … ‘twas all we could do after the last of the great lords departed these lands.” He didn’t seem to be talking to me anymore, but to the building and the sky and this world he called home. “We t’rew darts in the dark for centuries, trying to find the grain called barley, the flower called hops, the wee buggers called yeast that make it all come together into something remarkable. And all of it … it was all for nothin’.”
He held out his mug as if girding himself to dump its contents on the floor.
“Hey, slow down,” I said. “So you didn’t get the sacred recipe exactly right. Who cares? You tried something new and created something unique. Just like Arthur Guinness himself. I’m telling you, this is the best beer I’ve tasted in a long, long time.”
Howie ceased his verbal self-flagellation and locked eyes with me. The intensity of his gaze w
as startling. You’d have thought I just told him Jesus Christ was my second cousin.
“You knew ‘im?” he asked.
“What? Who?”
“Arthur Guinness.”
“Oh, uh,” I stammered. “No, but I … I came from his world. The place where the radio signals come from. Your gods are just men there, struggling along like everyone else.”
“And I’m the crown prince of Astoria.”
“I’m telling the truth,” I said and held up my ring hand. Upon seeing it, of course, I remembered the ring was gone and had to fight down the urge to throw my own pity party. Instead, I lowered my hand to the rune satchel. “Do you know these symbols?”
Father Howie’s eyes bulged. The outstretch mug slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor. Beer washed over my Chucks, and I nearly wept for the mouths that would never get to drink it.
“How did you find so many?” he asked, fervor rising in his eyes. “We scoured the records for decades to find mere scraps compared to what you have there.”
“Settle down,” I said. “I’m an alchemist, but I’m also just a man, same as you. I even make a bit of beer myself. The only difference between you and me is my dad had superpowers. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Arn Muller?”
“Oh, that’s your finest joke yet,” he said. “But you shouldn’t take a high alchemist’s name in vain. Especially without some proof to make that load o’ shite a bit easier to swallow.”
“I … had some, but it’s gone now.”
He stared at me for a moment.
“Well, if you are the great Arn Muller’s boy, where is he now? Why did he leave us?”
“I don’t know. He left me too. Died. When I was young.”
Howie scoffed.
“Alchemists don’t die,” he said. “They simply move on.”
“In that case, he moved on somewhere I’m not eager to follow just yet.”
“Then where are you goin’? And how’d ya end up all the way out here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well it looks as though you’ve been through hell on the road to this land of I Don’t Know.”
I glared at him.
“Home,” I said. “I’m leaving too. And I probably won’t be back.”
Howie was silent for a long moment.
“It’s all right, son,” he finally said. “This world is but a waystation, even for the great alchemists. No need to feel ashamed for movin’ on.”
“I never said anything about shame,” I said, a tad defensively. “What should I have to be ashamed of?”
“Whatever it is you’re running from.”
I searched his eyes for signs of mockery, but nothing of the sort lived there. I shook my head and chuckled ruefully.
“You’re sharp, Howie, I’ll give you that,” I said. “There’s a man … he wears this mask. It’s hard to explain, but if you’d ever met him, you’d run too.”
“Ah, you had an altercation with the Outrider,” he said, nodding. “I do understand, then. I just hope my brothers don’t share the same fate.”
“Why would they?”
“A messenger from the moon city, Astoria, came to our temple a few days back. They’ve been sending out word, askin’ everyone in the area for help. The Outrider and his armies march on their gates. We are men of peace, but we’ll not turn away from those in need, even if it means breaking our vow to remain cloistered here. Being the eldest, I alone stayed to care for this place.”
I glanced around the room, hoping I’d missed a wall lined with weapon racks and punching bags. The place was bare except for the machines that made beer. These pacifist monks were laying down their lives for the very cause I was fleeing. I stared down into my mug, unsure how to respond. Father Howie cast his own words into the silence.
“There’s a story told ‘round these parts. We heard it first from the radio, but then those messages stopped coming, so now we tell it mostly among ourselves. It’s about a man, wearing a gun just like yours, who wanders, alone, and protects people when they need protecting.”
“I’m no hero,” I said. “Especially not from some Old West adventure show.”
“You have the gun. You claim to have the power. There’s only one thing left ya need.”
“Yeah? And what’s that?”
“Belief.”
“Belief?” I laughed. “In what? Alchemy? The almighty radio?”
He grimaced, and new bags seemed to collect under his eyes. I could practically feel his disappointment pressing down on me, and I couldn’t blame him. The son of a god stops by for a drink, and he turns out to be a heretic and a coward. That’s bound to leave a bad taste in your mouth.
“I don’t know, son,” he said. “Those are questions each of us must answer on our own.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“No, it’s not, but if you won’t even try, why carry on? If ya truly have nothing to believe in, nothing left to fight for, why not just give up? Take the easy path. I won’t stop you.”
“I just wish something, anything in my life would make some goddamn sense for once. Or that the great and powerful Arn had actually taught me something useful.”
“You shouldn’t take the gods’ names—”
“Our words can’t hurt the men in those books,” I interrupted, nearly shouting. “They’re gone. Why do you keep telling their stories as if they mean something? Are you really that scared of whatever’s out there in the dark? Whatever comes after all this?”
He paused, seeming to consider his next words carefully.
“I don’t think so. And I think you’re doing all people of faith a disservice by sayin’ we worship only outta some feeble-minded search for security.”
“Then why?”
“I think … it started out of anger,” he said. “Out of pain. The kind you’re feeling right now. You can't scream at a storm when it destroys your homestead. Does no good cursing a disease as it consumes a loved one.” He looked at his feet, and his voice wavered. “I believe we started looking to the gods so that when things went wrong we’d have a face to shake our fists at.”
There was a moment of tense silence before I spoke.
“I guess my dad gave us that at least.”
Father Howie sighed deeply, wiped his eyes with the back of one hand, and went to pour himself another beer. I downed the rest of mine. When I lowered the mug, he was gazing at me with that calm, contented expression again.
“But they’ve also given us so much,” he said. “And for the answers they have provided, for the comforts we wouldn’t have without ‘em—” he held up the mug “—for those, I am grateful.”
“I keep messing things up, Howie,” I said. “What am I supposed to do?”
The monk stared at me thoughtfully, then held out a hand.
“You can start by asking for a refill,” he said.
I smiled and handed him the empty mug. He moved back to the taps with the confidence of a man performing an old routine.
“I can see in your face, boyo, that you’ve been through dark times for one so young,” he said. “That can test even the most pious man’s faith. But no one knows his path before he walks it — you can choose the direction, but not where it takes you. That’s why, looking back, it’s so easy to see the wrong turns. The real question to be asking yourself—” he handed the foamy mug back to me “—is whether you can keep looking backwards without spilling your beer.”
We finished drinking, and Father Howie led me up the spiral staircase to the top of the bell tower. On the way up, we passed dozens of small chambers set into the walls. Each contained a single bed, and each was empty. Paired with the shaft of moonlight striking down through the darkness, the vacant rooms gave the place a funereal vibe, more mausoleum than monastery. Howie seemed to feel it too, and he spoke very little on the way up.
We came to a door, which he unlatched and threw open. We were above the canopy, and I could see the forest stretching for miles in every
direction. Father Howie stepped out onto the broad balcony and held up both hands, gesturing in opposite directions: His right finger pointed deeper into Newton’s Hollow, while the left pointed to a large globe of twinkling lights on the outskirts.
“That way leads back to Astoria, where you’ll find a temple much like this one,” he said, wiggling his left finger. “Go there if you seek aid or guidance … they say my brethren sit upon a seat of great power in the city, so they’ll know how to help.”
“And the other way?” I asked.
“That way leads deeper into the woods. If you keep heading in that direction, you should find an old mansion I’ve heard tell contains a very fine map. It’ll lead you wherever you feel you need to go.”
“Thank you, Howie.”
“I’m sorry I cannot go with you, laddy, but I do have one final piece of advice. Whatever you decide to do, know this: Our forest, it changes like the winter wind. If you run away now, you’ll be runnin’ forever. And I’ll be damned if you’re ever gonna find your way back.”
Chapter 26
As I roamed deeper into the forest, my mind wandered. It kept flipping through mental photographs of the men, women, and children I’d met in Astoria. Of monks like Father Howie risking their lives for people they barely knew. And, naturally, of my friends. Coppersworth, Glynda, Cagney, Brando. Their faces cycled through my brain like a never-ending slideshow at a board meeting in Hell.
The Laughing Man was marching on Astoria. But why? As far as I knew, Fen’s goal was to find Elena, profess his undying love, and convince her to join Team Evil. But she’d evaded him, somehow, and disappeared so thoroughly into storybook land neither of us had been able to find her. Was it possible she’d been hiding in the city this entire time? Even if she were still there, Fen’s lovesickness couldn’t be the only reason for all this — people don’t raise undead armies over a Dear Abby question. Plus, he had a good thing going in the city. What could make him throw all that away? This had to be about something else, something bigger.
A realization switched on like a lamp in a pitch black room. Fen wasn’t the one calling the shots. Someone or something else was pulling his strings, and whoever it was had more important things on the agenda than one lackey’s love life. I remembered the godlike figure on the glass throne and realized I had bigger problems than one sad little Laughing Man. Or rather, this world did. I was going home. But that question still dangled overhead, taunting me: Why send his entire army to Astoria?
