Epoch

by Timothy Carter

  “Vincent!” said Chanteuse, who was similarly surprised.

  “Sorry, Max,” said Vincent, who was also amazed he’d actually done it. He’d had no choice; the obyon would have agonized him if he’d refused, but Max was his brother and he’d hit him.

  And Big Tom was his best friend, but he’d hit him, too. What other horrible things would the elves force him to do?

  “So this is your choice,” Max said, staring hard at his little brother. “You would rather ally yourself with these foul things than with your family? And what of your commitment to the Triumvirate?”

  “Bo-ring!” Grimbowl said. “Vincent, smack him again. Harder.”

  “No,” said Vincent. The moment the words left his lips, the pain stabbed right through his head. Vincent clenched his teeth and clapped his hands around his temples, but the pain got worse.

  “Vincent?” Chanteuse said, but he could hardly hear her.

  “Brother?” Max asked, and there was genuine concern in his voice.

  “Aaagh!” Vincent cried, and slapped Max. Harder.

  “Good,” said Grimbowl. “Now reach into Chanteuse’s pocket and squish that pixie.”

  “What?” said Nod, poking his head out again.

  “No!” said Chanteuse, throwing her hands over her apron pocket.

  “No!” shouted Vincent. The agony was tremendous, but he did not—would not—move. If he didn’t draw the line now, he would become a murderer.

  But the pain was overwhelming. It was too much. He fell to his knees, screaming and clawing at his skull. He wondered if he was going to die, and then he hoped he would. Anything for relief from the pain.

  Anything except murder.

  Someone grabbed him by the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. He was pulled forward, stumbling along on legs he could hardly feel toward a destination he couldn’t see because his eyes were shut tight. He remembered his parents telling him of the Soul Harvester, a fallen angel who would drag the unrighteous to face the Triumvirate on their white thrones at the moment of death. Was that happening to him now?

  The pain became so great that Vincent could no longer think. He let his captor take him where they would, and hoped it would all be over soon.

  And then it was.

  Vincent blinked, felt his head. The pain was gone. Completely.

  It was replaced by a severe tickling in his nostrils. He sneezed, then sneezed again. When he sneezed for the third time, a bug flew out of his nose.

  Vincent stared down at the ladybug, and realization dawned. That bug had been the obyon. Now that it was out of him, he was free.

  “I’m free!” he cried, looking up. He was inside Chanteuse’s house, just beyond the front door. Chanteuse stood beside him; it had been her who had grabbed him, not the Soul Harvester.

  Grimbowl stood in the doorway, looking most displeased. Max ran up the front steps behind him, looking confused.

  “What in Creation is going on here?” he asked.

  “I’ll explain later, Max,” Vincent said, then he looked up at Chanteuse. “What did you do?”

  “I brought you inside,” she replied. “My house is protected by magical wards. Any magic items that enter here are instantly rendered useless.”

  “Hah!” Vincent said, smirking smugly at Grimbowl. He saw the ladybug skittering away and wanted to squash it, but before he could Chanteuse snatched it up off the floor.

  “What is this?” she asked the elf.

  “A bug?” Grimbowl said innocently.

  “It is a lot more than that, elf,” Nod said from the apron pocket.

  “Tell her,” Vincent said. “Tell her what you and your friends did to me.”

  Grimbowl opened his mouth as if to speak, then he charged forward. He tried to get out through the front door, but Max had that exit blocked.

  “There is no escape for you, evil one,” Max said, thrusting forward his Text.

  “Oh yes there is,” Grimbowl said, turning and running the other way. He zipped past Vincent and Chanteuse and nearly made it to the backdoor.

  “Aagh!” Grimbowl cried as a large hand clamped around his waist.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Miss Sloam said, holding the elf triumphantly.

  “Tell me,” Chanteuse said, holding out the insect. “What is this thing?”

  “It’s an obyon,” Grimbowl said, and he told her what an obyon was. Chanteuse listened with growing horror, and when the elf finished she was in a full-blown rage.

  “How could you!” she shouted at the elf. “How could you do that to my friend? You little monster!”

  “You used your wicked sorcery to command my brother,” Max said. “There is no mercy in Heaven for a wretch like you.”

  “I would rather you had done that to me,” Chanteuse continued, “than to one of my friends.”

  “I couldn’t do that!” Grimbowl said. “You’re … well, you’re the one person we elves can trust. And you treat us like we’re good.”

  “I was clearly wrong about that,” Chanteuse said.

  Grimbowl reacted as if slapped. Tears formed in his eyes, and for a moment Vincent actually felt sorry for him. It seemed the elf was more dependent on Chanteuse’s good graces than he’d let on.

  Not that Vincent could blame him. He knew he’d be devastated if Chanteuse called him a bad person. She was like that. You couldn’t stand for her to not like you.

  “What shall we do with him?” Chanteuse’s mother asked.

  “Burn him,” Max said. “Then burn that little one in the apron. And as for the witch ... ”

  “Max, not now,” Vincent said, standing back up. “There’s a lot here you don’t understand.”

  “And I’m not waiting around for him to figure it out,” Grimbowl said, and then his whole body went limp.

  “What happened to him?” Vincent asked, walking over to Chanteuse’s mom.

  “Don’t know,” said Miss Sloam, giving the elf a shake. “Looks dead. Didn’t think I squeezed him that hard.”

  Vincent reached out and poked Grimbowl’s stomach. Nothing happened. He flicked one of the elf’s legs. It swayed like a branch in the wind, but nothing more.

  “Check his breathing,” Nod said. “Bet you anything he’s faking it.”

  Vincent licked his finger and held it in front of Grimbowl’s nose. He felt air on his finger, and then he felt teeth.

  “Ow!” he cried, yanking his finger out of Grimbowl’s mouth.

  “You are all in big trouble now,” the elf said. “I just went and got help. My entire tribe will be here in five minutes to rescue me.”

  “You didn’t go anywhere,” Vincent pointed out as he rubbed his finger. “You’ve been right here the whole time.”

  “Ever hear of astral projection?” Grimbowl said. “We elves are experts.”

  “Really?” Vincent said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Is that so?” Nod said as he climbed out of the pocket. “Well, when I’m done with you, your astral body’ll be all that’s left of … ”

  “Nod! Stay in my pocket,” Chanteuse said, grabbing him and pushing him back. “You won’t be cloaked if you come out.”

  “Cloaked from what?” Grimbowl asked.

  “None of your business,” Vincent shot back.

  “Because if that’s a magical cloak,” Grimbowl went on, “then it won’t work in a ward-protected house, will it?”

  Vincent, Chanteuse, and Nod stared at the elf and said, “What?”

  Then Vincent and Chanteuse looked at each other, then down at Nod.

  “Oh, no,” the pixie said.

  “So what was it supposed to cloak him from?” Grimbowl asked.

  A moment later, he found out.

  With a loud cras
h, the three demons burst through the living room window into Chanteuse’s house. Bix led them, and he looked very pleased.

  “Well, well, what a feast we have here!” he said, looking from Nod to Grimbowl.

  “Ulp,” said Nod.

  “Demons!” screamed Grimbowl. “Letmegoletmegoletmego!”

  “Demons?” said Max. “But all of you are ... ”

  “Not now, Max,” Vincent said.

  Miss Sloam dropped the elf and sized up the new intruders. Vincent guessed that she, like her daughter, had seen a lot of strange creatures in her time. Judging from the look on her face, however, these winged, round monsters were something new.

  “Get out of my house,” she said.

  The demons ignored her and charged. Two of them made a beeline for Nod, who scrambled out of Chanteuse’s apron and took flight. The third demon veered off and followed the fleeing Grimbowl.

  Chanteuse’s mother swung a fist and pounded the demon full in the face. Vincent kicked up with his left leg and nailed Bix under the chin. The last demon pushed past Max and lunged at Nod.

  “Stop!” Chanteuse cried, throwing herself in its path. The demon shoved her aside, scratching her with its claws as it did so. Chanteuse yelped and fell back, blood seeping from cuts on her arm and shoulder.

  “What the … ” the demon said, looking from its claws to Chanteuse’s wounds.

  “What the … ” Vincent said as he stood up. “Shouldn’t you be howling in pain?”

  Bix, who had bounced off the ceiling, took in the situation and smiled.

  “My magic wards … ” Chanteuse said.

  Vincent felt a sick feeling of doom. He looked at Bix, and realized the demon knew it, too.

  “Open season, boys!” Bix said, and charged. He slammed into Vincent’s chest, knocking him backward into the kitchen.

  Vincent gasped, out of breath and drowning in pain. His chest had just started to heal, but now it felt like he’d been smashed open. He lay helplessly on the kitchen floor as Bix exposed his teeth and dropped onto him.

  “No!” cried Max, leaping forward and knocking the demon away. He landed squarely on his brother’s chest, and Vincent wished he could die right then.

  Chanteuse screamed. Max and Vincent looked up and saw her mother grabbing hold of one demon while holding another under her foot.

  “Those are demons?” Max asked as he climbed off his brother.

  “Uuugh … ” Vincent replied.

  “Then what are the others?” Max asked.

  “Uunng … ” Vincent replied.

  Bix recovered and charged again. Max grabbed a chair and held it up, but the demon tore through it like a bullet through a wet napkin. Max backed away, trod on Vincent’s chest, and fell backward. Vincent moaned and wished the demons would finish him off quickly. Bix hovered over him, mouth open wide, prepared to grant that wish.

  Max lashed out with both legs, meaning to send the beast flying. His aim was a little off, however, and only his left foot struck the demon. His right foot, unfortunately, connected solidly with Vincent’s jaw. The room swam out of focus, and then everything went black.

  • • •

  Vincent awoke in a white room. His jaw and chest hurt a lot, but he was lying down on something comfortable. He tried to sit up, but then the pain in his chest got much worse.

  “Ow,” he said, but he tried again. His last memory hadn’t been a good one, and he needed to know where he was. Using his arms instead of his chest muscles, Vincent raised himself up and looked around.

  He was in a hospital room. There were two beds in the room, and his brother sat upon the other. Their parents stood on either side of Max, hands on his shoulders and concern on their faces. A tall man in a white coat stood on the other side of the bed, and when he saw Vincent he smiled and walked over.

  “Good evening,” the tall man said. “I am Doctor Ritchet. How are you feeling?”

  “You have some explaining to do, young man,” his father said, shoving Doctor Ritchet aside and glaring down at him. “First of all … ”

  “We were so worried!” his mother cut in. “Are you all right, Vincent?”

  “I’m … ” Vincent began.

  “He’s clearly all right,” his father said. “Now that he’s awake, I think he should answer a few questions, such as where he’s been all afternoon.”

  Vincent’s mother looked conflicted. Vincent suspected she agreed with his father, but she clearly hadn’t forgotten her encounter with the “angel,” either.

  “Your son needs to rest,” Doctor Ritchet said. “And I’ll need to keep both boys here overnight for observation.”

  “What?” said Vincent’s dad. “But there’s nothing wrong with them.”

  “Yes there is,” Vincent said, touching his jaw.

  “Your sons have numerous cuts and bruises,” the doctor said. “It is not yet safe to discharge them.”

  “Because of cuts and bruises?” Vincent’s father said. “In my day, they’d already be at home, getting thrashed for missing school!”

  “That’s not how things are done now,” Doctor Ritchet said firmly. “Now I must ask you to leave.”

  “Let’s go, Gerald,” Mrs. Drear said, taking his arm.

  “They had better be out in time for Friday’s protest,” Mr. Drear said, allowing himself to be led.

  “You will be notified as soon as your boys are fit to be discharged,” the doctor told him. “This way.”

  Vincent watched as Doctor Ritchet escorted his parents out. He was too tired to be angry with them. They would remain the same until the end of the world. Or two days’ time. Whichever came first.

  “Max?” Vincent said, turning to look at his brother. “Max, what happened?”

  Max looked away, and Vincent thought he was angry. When he turned back, however, there were tears in his eyes.

  “I thought I knew everything,” Max said. “I have Sinned, Vincent. I have been arrogant.”

  Vincent would have agreed with him, but suspected now was the wrong time. His brother had stood with him, and saved his life from the demon attack.

  “Don’t be hard on yourself,” he said. “You did good.”

  He wanted to say more, but time was short. He felt so very sleepy, and he needed information before he nodded off.

  “What happened at the house?” he asked. “Is Chanteuse okay?”

  Max paused, then looked his little brother in the eyes.

  “No, she is not,” he said. “She and her mother were hurt badly by the demons. They would have been killed, but then your tiny friend returned.”

  “Nod?” Vincent asked.

  “I do not know his name,” Max said. “He was the one in the witch’s apron pocket.”

  “That’s him,” Vincent said, struggling to sit up again. “What happened to him?”

  “He attacked the demons,” Max said. “It was the bravest thing I have ever seen. The little thing was clearly no match for the three beasts, but still he fought them. And when all three were fighting him, he flew off and the demons followed. He saved all our lives, Vincent. I had thought such creatures were servants of the Devil, but the Triumvirate have opened my eyes.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Vincent said. His head was very dizzy now, and he could not stay awake much longer. “Max, I need your help. I need you to find Grimbowl, that elf who ran away from Chanteuse’s house.”

  “The one who had you in thrall?” Max said. “No, Vincent. That creature is evil.”

  “I need him,” Vincent said. “Chanteuse was going to help me to do an astral projection so I could sneak into Alphega’s headquarters, but she can’t help me now. Grimbowl said he was an expert … ”

  “No, Vincent,” Max said. “Such things are unnatural.”

 
; “Max … ” Vincent said. He needed to reach his brother, but how?

  “Max,” he said, “do you really think I’m asking you to do evil? Don’t think, just answer.”

  “I … no, Vincent. But the Triumvirate ... ”

  “I need Grimbowl,” Vincent said. He fell back onto his bed, exhaustion claiming him. “I have to … you must … ”

  And then he was asleep.

  • • •

  Vincent dreamed. It was one of those dreams that makes perfect sense while you’re in it, but none at all the moment you wake up. He stood upon a raft on a fast-moving river, heading straight for a waterfall. He held a hoop in his hands, and was trying to convince the cows swimming in the river below to jump through it.

  He was not alone on the raft. Two trees grew out of the raft on either side of him, and they swished their branches at Vincent and tried to make him put the hoop down. Vincent explained to the trees that the cows had to jump through the hoop before they reached the waterfall, but naturally the trees weren’t listening.

  Vincent felt very frustrated—couldn’t the trees see the waterfall? They would if they just looked. Instead the trees told him the cows needed to spin in the water. If they did so, they would be saved from certain doom when the train came. There is no train, Vincent argued, but the trees assured him a train was indeed coming, and would run through the river at any moment. All the cows who were not spinning, the trees explained, would surely perish.

  So it went, with Vincent’s raft sailing down cow-infested waters while he tried to keep the trees from taking his hoop. And it might have gotten stranger than that, but just then another figure appeared on the raft.

  “Nice dream,” said Grimbowl. “Like the symbolism. Good touch.”

  “Grimbowl,” Vincent said, distantly remembering he needed the elf’s help. “Can you help me? We have to get these cows to … ”

  “No we don’t,” Grimbowl said. “You’re in a dream, and I’m going to pull you out of it.”

  “Dream?” Vincent said. “But the cows … ” He waved the hoop, as if in explanation.

  “All symbols, kid,” the elf said. “The river is the world, the waterfall the end of it. The cows are the people, and this hoop,” he took the object from Vincent’s hands, “is you trying to save them. Easy. And the trees are your parents. That one’s pretty obvious. Get it?”