by Remy Wilkins
“It crumbles on its own—higauff!” Itchpot had a habit of verbalizing every hiccup and burp he made throughout the day. He was a constant boil of rank wind and moist chirrups. The vain script of his words was particularly airy.
“Your presence here is unnecessary. Murkpockets hopes you won’t be staying long.”
Itchpot gave a low scoff. “Your envy is loathed, Murkpockets, but Itchpot is here to guide the attack. Your role now is to assist.” Itchpot turned sideways to squeeze past the demons to appraise the hive being built.
The hive was enclosed in a wood frame. Behind a bloody veil the wax cells were made by an angry fist of bees. A demon directed it like a clay pot, running his hands down the sides to form the globular shape. The second demon inserted a wood plank, gnarled with rot, through a slit at the top of the gory veil down the center of the hive.
Itchpot continued, “The Old Master has been envious of your operation. Quite a—hurkle!—loophole. Far better than entry through stone.” His voice was deep like the croaking of an obese toad.
Murkpockets seethed. “But you did not find the gateway. You did not broker the deal with the adam. The operation is not yours. The envy belongs to Murkpockets.”
Itchpot turned to face him. “You will still be in charge of dealing with the adam and assembling the—urgah!—troops, but the Old Master appoints Itchpot to lead the attack. You are not qualified.”
“Who is to say that Murkpockets cannot lead?”
“How many full-frontal assaults on the Name have you made?”
Murkpockets gritted his teeth. “One less than you, Itchpot.”
Itchpot scoffed again and moved to leave. “Then Itchpot is infinitely more qualified. Urgah, urgah!” He left the cavern, speaking into the darkness, “Itchpot will check the rest of the operation. You deal with the adam. Your delays are not tolerated any longer.”
Murkpockets followed the obese demon. “The delay is because the army is not yet raised. If the diaboloi move against one not given to the Outer Darkness, then Heaven will be made aware. They will discover the loophole and seek to destroy all the Alvaria before the army is full.”
Itchpot snorted. “Do not worry about the army. It will be made full.”
Murkpockets shoved a bony finger into Itchpot’s protruding gut. “If you supplied ichor, the depths would be cruentated by dawn.”
Itchpot’s body heaved in a gross burp, and he chortled. “Eat your rage, Murkpockets.”
Murkpockets let the waddling demon depart and muttered, “Murkpockets hates your anger, hates your sleep, hates your groveling wickedness.” He returned to the room, smoldering with anger. His aide still crouched over the map. Murkpockets stabbed out two locations with a claw and barked, “Build them there, sniveler.” He put his foot on the face of Yuckjoy and shoved him onto the floor. He then stomped out, his wings trembling with angst and ill thoughts. Wanting to speak to the Old Master, he wormed deeper into the earth, pushing the smaller demons out of his way as he worked down the dark cavern. They grunted and cursed as he shunted them aside, descending to the lowest level where the Old Master lay.
The Old Master had lain in this belly of earth for over four years. Prior to that he had lain in a deep cavern beneath Vesuvius for nearly two thousand years. He had arrived with no pomp and only a few demons to carry him to his resting place. He had remained prostrate ever since, and rarely communicated with Murkpockets. The Old Master was forced to communicate through feebly written notes, scrawled with a single claw. He was too fragile even to speak.
Murkpockets had taken this to mean that he would lead the charge, but the arrival of Itchpot had put off his rise to power. Murkpockets the Architect, he fumed. Murkpockets the Uprising. He punched a strut as he passed, and the tunnel collapsed behind him, burying a trailing demon. The final curl to the downward tunnel brought him to the pit of the Old Master. Two short demons stood next to the small hole that led into his resting place. Before one could speak, Murkpockets thrust his bony hand to their small necks and lifted them off the ground. “How easy for Murkpockets to rip out your throats and devour you here.” He threw them down. The demons knew not to rise until Murkpockets had crouched to crawl through the small hole.
He entered and rose as much as he could. The ceiling was low, and the room was empty except for the raised bed of dirt on which the Old Master lay. The stench of this room swallowed the smell of filth that filled the rest of the tunnels.
Murkpockets could make out the form of the Old Master in the dark—ashen flesh, thin bones, and twelve feet tall. He was completely bald. His wheezing was the only sound as Murkpockets entered, but the Old Master’s head was elevated, and his eyes immediately seized the one who disturbed him.
Murkpockets drew near slowly and knelt next to the prone figure. “The envy is yours, Old Master.”
The aged demon waved a hand dismissively.
Murkpockets leaned closer to speak into the Old Master’s ear. “The adam discovers the betrayal. He resists. What does heaven hold for him?”
The Old Master raised a weary hand and crooked a jagged claw. He slowly stabbed Murkpockets in the side until a black ichor oozed out. Murkpockets hissed.
The Old Master withdrew his claw and let the fluid drain into his hand. When it was dripping with the blood, Murkpockets took up a sheet of paper from the stack next to where the Old Master lay. Words were not trustworthy, but whether his tongue was bound or ripped out, the Old Master could communicate no other way. He was reduced to using the enemy’s treasured medium.
Murkpockets placed his hand underneath to make a writing surface. His eyes, so frail in the light, could easily make out the dark and splotchy script the Old Master wrote, despite the pitch black—but reading those characters was more difficult. He strained to make out the word.
Murkpockets looked at the closed eyes of the Old Master and growled, “But if Hell delays, he will surely call on angeloi.” The Old Master let his silence answer the objection.
Murkpockets moved to the next issue. “And the boy? Already he has been a thorn.”
The Old Master drove his claw into him again, let the ichor fill his palm, and wrote another message beneath the first.
Through clenched teeth Murkpockets read and replied, “Isn’t it all Heaven’s? How long must Hell cater to her?”
The Old Master lifted a lip in a weak snarl.
Murkpockets continued, “The diaboloi run the risk of interference if we allow—.”
The ancient demon cut him off with a wag of the finger. He then pointed to his first note: soon.
Anger boiled inside Murkpockets. He breathed out swirling black motes with the air from his nostrils. He moved on. “One last thing. A tempter has strayed from the ranks of the diaboloi. The young adam has turned him. He seeks to be angelos now.”
The Old Master exposed his teeth in a grimace.
“What should the diaboloi do?”
The wavering hand of the chief demon smeared the two prior messages and began writing again, first refilling with Murkpockets’s blood. He wrote with more speed and spattering. When he was finished, Murkpockets lifted the blood-message to read it. Though it was full of splatters and faint lines, he read:
Murkpockets’s eyes widened in the darkness as a fierce scowl broke out across his face. He placed the sheet on top of the other hastily scrawled notes and began to leave. “Murkpockets will act immediately,” he said.
The Old Master grabbed his wrist and slowly shook his head.
“But soon?”
The Old Master nodded.
“They will all fall to the teeth of Hell.”
The Old Master nodded again.
Without another word Murkpockets withdrew. He hated delay, but they must not draw the ire of Heaven prematurely. Plans must be laid, traps must be set. He hurried up the narrow tunnels, again trampling smaller demons under his fur
ious gait.
Flexing his arms in anticipation of the coming assault, he howled, “No strays!”
* * *
Far above the pit, Rodney pushed his bike from tree to tree in a panic. At each one he would crouch and peer from behind it. Every shadow loomed and summoned his fear. Pinwheel trotted behind with an annoyed look on his face. Rodney shot off again, coming to a sliding stop at an embankment of ferns. He let his bike topple over and lay back to catch his breath. Pinwheel walked up and sat beside him.
“Rodney, you cannot hide from the Outer Darkness if it intends to find you.”
Rodney looked wildly around. “Where do we go, then? Where is someplace we can talk secretly?”
“Demons cannot be everywhere,” Pinwheel responded calmly. He cocked his ears to the side and lowered them.
Rodney’s eyes bulged. “So what do we do?”
“We have to think of a plan.”
Rodney’s eyes spun. Lifting his cap, he put a hand to his forehead. He began to breathe quickly. “We—we need help. We can’t do this. I need to call my mom. I need to talk to Ray.”
Pinwheel snapped his razory white teeth in Rodney’s face to get his attention. Rodney fell back with a squeak. “No need to do that,” he muttered, picking the underbrush from his shirt.
“I do not know much, but . . . ” Pinwheel seemed to gather himself. He took a breath and began. “For five years, Murkpockets has been cruentating demons, amassing an army. I do not know how many there are, but I know the process is slow. Even in five years they cannot have gathered many in the material world. Demons cannot move freely, and a large number of demons would attract the attention of angels, despite the hexagons.”
Rodney frowned. “What are hexagons? And what do they have to do with this?”
Pinwheel glared for a second before responding, “A shape with six sides.”
“Like the rooms of the Corleonis? Why is that protection from angels?”
“Hexagons are broken triangles. Angels dislike them. Being in hexagons makes them ill.”
“Why would Ray build a house in hexagons?”
Pinwheel ignored him and continued, “But there are rumors that the Old Master is here.”
“Who?”
“He is the serpent from the beginning. He was cast down many, many years ago. I have heard that he has been stricken mute until the end of the age.”
“When is that?”
“I do not know.” Pinwheel hissed and continued. “But if he is here, then the war must be at hand.”
The day felt old. Its heat was stretched out thick. His hair was soggy under his cap. “So if they have this Alvarium thing that lets demons into the world, then we have to destroy it.”
“We have to find it first. It will be hidden, either underground or in some dark place.
“I just don’t understand what Ray is doing.”
“Many men desire to be mighty in one kingdom or another.”
“So Ray built the Maleficorum, and the demons are being cru—infused with blood, and they’re building an army? Why don’t the angels or somebody do something?”
Pinwheel stood. “I have passed through the blood. I am no longer in the realm of the angels. Only man and cruentated demon can harm me.”
“But perhaps, if we can tell some angels, they can do something.”
Without much emphasis Pinwheel responded with a quiet, “Perhaps. But our best hope would be to destroy the Alvarium.”
“But we have to find it first.”
They froze as they heard Rodney’s bellowed name. It was Ray. The situation finally struck Rodney. His mother had abandoned him with an uncle allied with demons, and his only friend was a former demon.
Pinwheel clutched his elbow. “Do not trust Ray. Tell him nothing.” He started to trot off into the bushes before stopping again. “I will stay with the rabbits.”
Rodney ran back to the house unsure if he was running from danger or toward it.
Chapter Ten
ALL EARTHLY POWERS
When Rodney arrived at the front of the house, he saw the Honeypot loaded up, a huge blue canvas covering the contents. Ray, who wore his customary overalls with a tie-dyed shirt underneath, turned when he heard Rodney.
“Hey Rod, wasn’t sure you were back or not. Sorry to holler at you. Had some lunch?”
“No, but I did pick up your comic books.” He expected Ray’s eyes to jump and a greedy smile to spread across his face, but Ray looked preoccupied.
“Just set ’em on the table for me. But listen, I got some other things to do today. Might be gone for a while.” Ray threw some heavy boots into the passenger’s side and dropped himself into the driver’s seat. “Think you can fend for yourself?”
“Sure.” This was his chance to snoop around the house for clues.
“There’s some sandwich stuff for lunch. I should be back before dinner.”
“Okay.”
“Stick around the house today; I’m expecting an important call. Might need you to take a message.” The Honeypot cranked and shuddered to life. Ray revved the engine, and it coughed up its dusty phlegm.
“Alright.”
Ray shut the door and waved. The car rumbled down the driveway with the dust leaping around it.
Rodney waited until the car disappeared into the trees before he dashed inside the house. He ran into the kitchen and threw open the back door and called to Pinwheel. He grabbed two slices of bread and stuck a piece of ham between them. Moments later Pinwheel entered.
“Where is Ray?” he asked, looking around.
“Dunno. Said he had to do some things. Feels suspicious, but this is our chance to look for clues.”
Pinwheel watched him stuff the hastily made sandwich into his mouth. “Where should we start?” he asked as Rodney swallowed.
“Let’s split up. I wanna check his bedroom. It’s the only place I haven’t really inspected.” Rodney put down the rest of his sandwich.
As he left the room, Pinwheel said, “I’ll check the library. There is always trouble with books.”
The squeak of Rodney’s shoes was drowned out by the thunder of the wood stairs as he ran to Ray’s room. He entered and flipped on the light. He couldn’t help but feel a thread of guilt tugging at him. His parents’ bedroom was strictly off-limits. His dad had defended it like a lion, bellowing anytime he crossed the threshold.
“Toes outside the room, Rodney,” he’d roar. Rodney would inch his toes back until he was fully in the hall.
This was the first time he’d been in Ray’s room. The door, every time he’d visited, had always been shut. His uncle went to bed too late and rose too early for Rodney to catch sight of him going in and out. The motif of the room was water, curling waves for crown molding and waterfalls framing the windows. The bed was enormous, built with shelves for plants that scattered tendrils up and down the bedposts, their green, heart-shaped leaves like hands claiming dibs with a baseball bat.
The sheets were a deep blue, and there was an avalanche of pillows atop them. He climbed up on the bed to feel how soft it was and was surprised by how little the mattress gave. Even when he bounced up and down, the mattress remained firm. Looking at the pillows, the different shapes and variant hues of blue, he noticed a thin yellow stitching on one or two of them. A closer look revealed that the stitching was words—names—and that each pillow bore a different name. He turned them over to read each one, Virginia, Gerald, America, Lucasta, Rodney, the President, Otis, Earth, and Gil, Rodney’s father’s name, along with a slew of names he did not know.
He remembered a practice his mother had had when he was little. Stitched onto his pillowcase were three little bears. His mom would point at each one—Mommy, Daddy, Rodney—and they would “pray the pillow case.” Usually, “Bless Mommy, bless Daddy, and give me a good sleep, in your Name, amen.” He woul
d say this with his eyes closed. Ray must have had a similar practice. The corners where you would hold the pillows were all threadbare.
Having scattered the pillows, he noticed something strange. A little paper triangle poked out of a slit in the wood of the headboard. He pressed his hand to it and slid it sideways, revealing a little cubbyhole. Inside were a battered notebook and a map, whose corner had alerted Rodney.
The map was an aerial of the area with certain locations marked by a thick black pen. A flower shape, he realized, was the house, and connected to it was the looping driveway. A thicker line marked the bridge where it passed over Second River. There was the road that led back to town and Twin Rivers huddled against the mountains, but only Skeleton Mount was shown. On top was the stone snake wall. The rest of the mountain chain, which crawled eastward and northward, was left off.
Back to the clearing in the sea of trees, Rodney saw the rabbit pen, marked in blue, as well as three places in the woods circled in red; one was near the bridge, where Rodney had discovered the beehive. Two more places were marked with black X’s.
“Found something,” he yelled. He paused and soon heard the sound of Pinwheel climbing the stairs. “In here,” he yelled.
Pinwheel entered. “Look,” he said spreading the map out on the bed. “Here’s the house and workshop.” Then he indicated the three spots, “Recognize any of these?”
Pinwheel shook his head.
Rodney pointed at the circle near the bridge. “This is where I was attacked by bees.”
“A hive?”
“Yes.”
“Was it black? Were the bees dark and hairy?”
“The hive was black and I didn’t get a good look at the bees, but yeah, I think so. They were certainly scary.”
“How big was the hive?”
Rodney thought back to the fallen tree. He saw the pulsating mass again, felt the thrum of the place in his bones. “I don’t know. I mean, bigger than a beach ball.”
