by Shock Totem
Emile, gasping, took up his walking stick with his good hand and held it horizontally before him. Stumpy Joe skidded to a stop as if he’d hit a pane of glass.
Of course! The stick! Why had Emile not deduced it before?
“You see this rod of wood, you lumpy excuse for a man?” he said. “Heed me well, Stumpy Joe, for once it was part of the object of your destruction. I see in your eyes you know it to be true. Though you may not remember your death, you feel it. This was fashioned from the gallows tree from which you were hanged. And while your poison may linger in this dream place yet, this staff appears thirsty for your blood, for has it not led me to you on more than one occasion? I see its intent now. It is a cleansing thing, not evil, and if my guess is correct, it likely seeks to see you dead a second time...”
Stumpy Joe dropped to his knees and clamped his fists to his ears. “No! Do not torture me thus with such words. ‘T’isn’t true, I say again, and I’ll not stand for the sort of lies you spin, trickster. I’ll—”
“You’ll what, little man? Carve your initials into my guts? You’ve tried that before, and a lot of good it did you. I still stand, having suffered only a scratch.” A bit of a stretch that, since Emile’s palm pulsed with pain so regularly someone as well could have been hammering railroad spikes into it.
The dwarf glared at him, fumed from where he’d been rocking on the ground in frustration. He ground his teeth and made to rise, but Emile’s staff barred him from approach. Eyes darting around their surroundings, Stumpy Joe grunted, then gestured at the graves around Emile. One by one, each monument and obelisk edged nearer, hemming him in, crowding close like stalwart soldiers. Additional gesticulations made the ground grumble and quake.
Emile, in turn, swept the staff about him. The ground instantly grew still; the grave-markers exploded. Stone fragments rained down upon him, but far better that than to be crushed by the closing markers, and in a moment, only settling dust remained.
A screech escaped Stumpy Joe like the war cry of a savage. He strained, making claws at the sky, which caused thunder to roll overhead. Purple flashes of lightning forked down, veining the sky with violent light as the soil in front of Emile gave way to two skeletal arms of immense proportions. These giant appendages groped for him, their fingers the size of timbers twisting into the hems of his garments.
Emile knew if the enormous fists closed on him, it would mean his death. But somewhere along the way, fear had fallen away as Emile had grown more confident of his newfound abilities. He stepped deftly out of harm’s way and made chopping motions with his injured hand. The cadaverous limbs collapsed, splintered, then melded back into the unwholesome mold from whence they had originated.
Emile further completed a scooping motion, and the ground directly behind Stumpy Joe caved in to form a depression in all ways resembling a freshly dug grave.
The dwarf’s ravings at the meaning and insult behind this were scarcely audible above the cacophonous thunder. The boiling clouds flared from within, and wind howled as wildly as a banshee’s call.
Stumpy Joe fisted his hand at his opponent, the gesture of which triggered the weeds beneath Emile to move. Tendrils of what resembled crab grass thrashed as live things, lengthening in proportions at first, then seeking to snare Emile.
Emile made two motions: a sweeping movement—which caused the bothersome stalks to wilt as from an immediate drought—followed by a thrusting of his walking stick. Ripples of energy pushed outward once more, hurling the dwarf back into the pit. And to be sure, Emile commanded the earth to swallow up the vile creature.
Stumpy Joe might have worked his way out, had Emile not sealed his fate with one final action. He dashed forward, fell upon the grave on hands and knees, and drove the stick deep into the clay. As Stumpy Joe’s hand broke the soil, and as both he and Emile were gripping the wooden shaft, a bolt of lightning arced down from the skies, spurring sparks and blue worms of light to course through both men. No matter that the wood was dead and a poor conductor; the rules of nature held little sway in this land.
The jolt filled Emile, and white-hot brilliance crowded his vision until at last he collapsed.
-14-
Consciousness came to Emile in slow increments. As he sat up, he found his entire body felt as wracked as it might have had a team of horses galloped over him.
As for Stumpy Joe, Emile was certain whatever remnant of his existence had remained after his death was now gone for good. His hold here was fading. Monuments eroded, turning to grit, trees melted like dripping tar, and the wind quieted as the storm came to its end. When the moon appeared, if anything, it seemed brighter than before.
It took great effort to stand, but Emile forced himself to do so. Best to be on his way, wherever that might be.
And thinking on that more, he realized that by the time he reached the alter-existence Chapel Landing, it could very well be there no longer. As with everything else, it might vanish, with Stumpy Joe no longer here to hold the image fixed in his mind; and if that should happen, Emile would lose his egress from this place and would be forever be its prisoner.
Then it occurred to him that if he had been able to match Stumpy Joe’s powers of manipulation of matter, he could very likely create his own damned gate. He experimented by describing a circle in the air with the head of his walking stick. As predicted, a brilliant round plane hung suspended in mid-air—a glowing, opaque oval of liquid.
Emile thrust his arm through, tentatively, then removed it and saw it had suffered no harm.
After a sweeping of his uninjured hand, the small trial portal disappeared and he created a larger one in its stead, adequate in size to accommodate his entire body. He concentrated on his destination, held his breath, and staggered through the doorway on weak legs.
-15-
As though from a vast distance, Emile heard his name called. The words grew louder; the gentle tapping along his jaw became urgent slapping.
Parson Harper’s face loomed large above him, his brow furrowed in rapt concern.
The clergyman wasted no time in helping his friend to his bed, explaining he had worried when Emile came up missing.
Missing? Whatever could the parson mean?
“I mean exactly that, Emile. I’ve not seen you for better than a week, and knowing your excursions—for want of a better word—as I do, I naturally feared the worst...that you had met with some foul end in that alternate Chapel Landing of which you’ve toured of late.”
Parson Harper went on to say he’d stopped by two or three times daily since he’d last seen Emile, in the vague hopes he might turn up and prove his fears unfounded. It was in this fashion he had found him, sprawled upon the parlor floor.
Emile nodded understanding. A week, though. How was it possible? He had ventured home by way of the gate immediately after grappling with Stumpy Joe. His struggle and subsequent return certainly couldn’t have eclipsed a week, though.
He strained to say something to this effect, but his throat proved parched and raw, his lips cracking. Even swallowing took more exertion than he could muster.
The parson hushed him, insisting, “Rest now. Time enough for the telling later.”
And with that, Emile’s eyelids fell shut again.
-16-
Over the next several days, Emile awakened for brief periods. At one point, a physician looked him over, head to foot, and indicated he needed as much liquid as could be got down his throat. The widowed Mrs. Soames came by, as well, and between she and the parson, they fed Emile coarse bread soaked in broth, changed the dressings on his injured hand, and forced more brandy upon him than even a drunkard could want. If the desired effect was for him to sleep as much as possible, their hopes were realized in full.
On the fifth day, Emile was able to sit up for half an hour at a time unaided, and on the sixth he could feed himself, though it was necessary to use his left hand.
And on the seventh day, Parson Harper must have decided Emile had had enough of a
restorative period, for he finally pressed for details. He drew up a ladder-back chair close to the bed, stroked his beard pensively, and said, “So, let’s have your report. I’m sure you’ll allow I’ve been patient long enough.”
During Emile’s testimony, the parson gasped at the appropriate places, grunted at others, but above all else held any remarks he might make until the end.
“That,” he then said, clapping his knees, “is your most entertaining yarn by far. Without reservation. Stumpy Joe struck by lightning, no less.” He stood and paced beside the bed, not restlessly, but as in great thought.
“Sly old dog,” Emile inserted. “You’ve already arrived at more theories, haven’t you?”
A smile turned up the parson’s lips. “Am I so transparent as that? Wait, hold your tongue. I have no need of an answer on that. But yes, friend Emile, of course I have been pondering the matter.”
“You do like a good puzzle, don’t you? And what have you come up with?”
The parson reseated himself and drew the chair up ever closer, as a spinster might prior to sharing a choice bit of gossip. “Just this...the matter of your having lost a week of your life. It was only your first attempt at fabricating your own gateway. On the other occasions, it would seem that it was your walking stick which was in control, and you were only along for ride, as it were.”
“Go on.”
“I’d dare say you are more or less a fledgling in your abilities. It might be that you not only have gained the power to transcend space and enter alternate realities, but you are able to circumvent time as well. It could be that you simply misjudged the point of re-entry to our world. To that end, that you were able to come even close is a minor miracle.”
Emile did not care for the laughter which followed the parson’s assertions but supposed he was likely still out of sorts from his near-death ordeal and decided it best to let it pass.
“Anything else?” he inquired.
“Oh, to be sure.” From the bedside table, the parson hefted a thick book, bound in cracking leather, with faded gold embossing. With apparent satisfaction, he opened it to a pre-marked place and laid it onto Emile’s lap for his perusal. On the printed page were depicted two faces, the backs of their heads touching. One laughed while the other cried. The caption indicated this was a representation of the Roman and Greek god Janus.
“Janus? Why, those are the same faces which are on the head of my walking stick!” Emile asserted.
Again the clergyman allowed a parsimonious chuckle then continued. “Certainly, dear boy. And have you not heard of this god before?”
Emile admitted he had not, or if he had, he did not recall.
The faces of Janus, elaborated Parson Harper, were often used in theatrics to indicate comedy and tragedy, and though the use of the symbolic visages had traditionally been used through the ages, none could tell why.
“But,” he went on to say, “heed this—and you may read for yourself if you like, and if you feel physically up to holding this great tome—Janus was also the patron god of gates and doorways. Gates and doorways, man! Finally ringing any bells for you?”
Emile sat stunned, trying to take all this in and finding it to be too much to absorb quickly. “But how can you, a man who advocates and upholds Christian ideals, propone such thoughts as ancient gods? Do you not believe this to be blasphemy?”
“Ah.” The parson inhaled deeply. “There has been my biggest obstacle. Balancing my faith with my suspicions. I am coming ‘round to believe, Emile, that there is a broader scope than what my narrow doctrines would have me think. What if the God we know is only one facet of a deity who has many facets and many guises? Would it be such a leap of logic to suppose all cultures might see him differently, all observations filtered through their own perceptions and frames of reference? Why, even the Bible tells us all mysteries shall be explained to us one day. If this is not a mystery, frankly, I don’t know what is.”
“So,” said Emile, “what, in all this, was the thing which caused it to come about? My dwelling in Stumpy Joe’s home, the stick bearing Janus’s likeness? What?”
“I doubt it would be a great stretch to say it was a unique combination of all those things. The gods did like their sacrifices, and, as I’ve told you, Stumpy Joe was hanged from a tree from which that stick was fashioned. With Janus’s two faces added—perhaps inadvertently—that only solidified the thing. And what was the likeness put upon but a cane...an instrument of travel! And, as if that weren’t enough, according to this book on mythology, Janus received from the god Saturn, in return for the hospitality he had afforded him, the gift to see both future and past. For all purposes, when you returned home, Emile, you returned a week into your own future. Whether you wished it or not, you transported yourself at least seven days from whence you left!”
It was enough to make Emile’s head spin. “I’m still not certain how this can be. Matter cannot vanish from existence, only to come into being again. Where was my body when my mind was in this dreamland?”
“This dreamland must have had substance on some plane of existence. Therefore, your body and your mind were resident elsewhere.”
Again, this pushed Emile’s sense of reason to its limits. But of course Parson Harper had had two weeks to dwell upon this, whereas Emile was only considering these theories for the first time.
“How can you be so certain?” he said.
The parson nodded, left a moment, then returned with an object, which he tossed atop the book still reposing on Emile’s lap. “You had hold of that when I found you,” he informed him.
It was Stumpy Joe’s wide-brimmed slouch hat, and the fabric was as real as any other—not dream stuff to vanish when one regained his consciousness. “But I don’t remember...”
“You don’t remember retrieving this before leaving the dreamland? In your daze, that would be understandable. Perhaps in the last moment, you snatched it from his head to prove something to yourself. Maybe you were curious as to whether objects from the world of his construction could be brought back to this one. This serves as evidence the people of the real Chapel Landing were in jeopardy without their even knowing. Ah, I can see by the expression on your face you’ve no idea what I’m talking about. But what I held back from you was that the townsfolk here were being troubled by bothersome nightmares. All very hushed, and while you’ve lived here a while, to most you’re still an outsider, so it’s no wonder you’ve not heard any such whisperings.
“My point is that it is said if you die in your dreams, you die in reality. It would seem Stumpy Joe had returned to plague the dreams of these good people. Once he gained strength, who knows how far it might have gone had you not headed things off? You’ve done everyone a great service, though none will know of the exact nature of your heroics, save me. Speak of your adventures to anyone else and you’ll surely be deemed insane.
“And if you should be tempted to share your exploits, against better judgment, I’d appreciate not mentioning my name or my meanderings of the Lord Our God and His possible correlation with Janus. Those of our congregation are not nearly so forward thinking, and I would like as not be driven from Chapel Landing in the blink of an eye.”
Emile laughed politely and said he would keep this in mind if he should ever feel talkative.
Then the parson glanced down at the hat in Emile’s hands. “A nice trophy, actually, and it appears just your size. It may prove advantageous against the weather when you go on your sojourns.”
“I doubt I’ll be going on any journeys,” Emile said with a laugh and a shake of his head. “I’ve had enough adventuring to last a lifetime. Of that you can be sure. And now that Chapel Landing has been cleansed of the evil spirit of Stumpy Joe and the need for it is past, any special powers my old stick might have held have probably left.”
Parson Harper was disinclined to agree. In fact, he added that now Emile had had a taste of adventure, it seemed to suit him. And again came the chortle at the audacity of his own
statement, considering Emile’s lengthy recuperation.
“But rest now, Emile,” he said. “For you’ll need your strength. I suspicion this is only the beginning for you, and it would be a pity to allow these latent talents of yours go to waste. You have not only passed through doorways to other places, but it seems to me you’ve opened a new one in yourself. I should not be at all surprised if your services should be called upon again. And at a time when you might least suspect.”
S. Clayton Rhodes is the author of over fifteen in-print stories, as well as The Wiz of the West, a children’s book based on a play by the Missoula Children’s Theater, which is an alternate take on The Wizard of Oz theme. His stories have appeared in anthologies by Apex Publications, Wildcat Books, Woodland Press, Ballybunnion Books, Six Gun Western, Necrotic Tissue, and Shock Totem. His first stab at editing a horror anthology is Legends of the Buckeye State, which is slated for a Fall of 2013 release. At least two additional short stories will see print in 2013, and he is currently working on a novel and additional stories as of this publication.
In his spare time, he enjoys doing artwork and collecting film prop replicas, and his day job consists of work in the human services field. He lives with his daughter Rachael and three cats in Marietta, OH, which is the real life counterpart to Chapel Landing, a town in which many of his stories are set. You can find him at www.sclaytonrhodes.com, or look for his author page on Amazon.com.
SMOKING, THE OLD SERGEANT REMEMBERS 30 MINS PAST CEASEFIRE
by Dominik Parisien
He breathes in
a smoke and fire fox that crawls
down his throat walled like a shovel-dug tunnel:
it sears the roots and rocks deep in his lungs,
burns away the sour stink of unwashed bodies.
(Weary of waiting outside
their hole, he heard the fox beg
