News: Posting Chapter 17

Chapter 17 posted. Not at *all* how I thought it was going to turn out. Sometimes I wonder who's writing what.

http://www.finding-wayside.com/2009/11/manuscript-finding-wayside-chapter-17.html

Manuscript: Finding Wayside, Chapter 17

Sasha Okhotnikov sat in the Vologda regional airport. When this area was part of the CCCP, Sasha thought, the airport was probably well maintained. Now the consistent incurrence of the snow and time had turned it into an old, run-down soviet relic which smelled to Sasha of damp carpet and cabbage.

Sasha held his passport and plane tickets with careful respect, like they would crumble in his grip if he were not delicate with them. He had never had reason to leave the country, let alone fly on a commercial airliner halfway across the globe. He trusted his fixer though, who had made all the necessary arrangements for his journey. He had a well-made passport under a false identity, and Iskraa was secured in a special luggage container with all the necessary paperwork taken care of to travel with her.

He had been reluctant at first to part with her in such a way. After all, she was not a child’s vacation bag, and should not be treated as such. But he was given assurances that she would be handled with great and personal care and would remain on the same airplanes on which he would travel. His contact even made accommodations so he might verify Iskraa’s safety between flights.

Sasha the hunter was satisfied. Besides, the prospect of the chase and the challenges it presented were worth a few temporary travel inconveniences. And if what the spirit said was true...Well, he and Iskraa would deal with that when and if the time arrived.

* * *

Noura’s mother, after three days of coddling her daughter, had at last decided that Noura was well enough to return to the life of an adult and permitted her to return to her condominium in Glasgow. Dinah, with a level of forgiveness that only pets can produce, greeted her at the door with an outpouring of feline affection. This made Noura feel all the more guilty for having spent so much time away from her recently, but she stroked her friend behind the ears, poured her some cream and figured, as an apology, it would have to do for the time being.

Noura had put on a good show of being tough and well for her mother, but in truth she was frustrated to the point of exhaustion that she knew nothing about Wayside and the newly formed force that prevented her from shifting there. The shadow form, the beast that now guarded that point in her mind, was present now whenever she even thought about Wayside in even a casual way.

Noura sat at her desk and looked at her reflection in the dark computer screen.

“What should I do, Dinah?” She said to the cat that had quickly moved to occupy her lap.

Dinah meowed.

Noura bit her lip, and instead of turning on the computer, she picked up her cellular phone.

“Hello,” said a man’s voice.

“Demon,” said Noura.

The man sighed. “Well if it isn’t Noe Naysayer. People are not going to make appointments with me if the name ‘Demon’ sticks, you know.

“Demon?”

“I mean, who’s going to go to Dr. Demon, Psychotherapist? Anyway, to what to I owe the pleasure? You haven’t rung me in weeks. I was beginning to think you’d finally lost it and gone to sea.”

“Sorry, Darren. I’ve been...distracted.”

“Sounds like a severe case of non-communicus-with-childhood-friend’s syndrome.”

“Now really, is that the sort of humor a psychiatrist is suppose to be using?”

“If the psychiatry student is talking to a friend and not a patient, then yes. It’s called sarcastic transilluminance,” said the man.

“You made that up.”

“I did, yes.”

“Um...”

“Well?”

“Look, can we have a coffee? I need to talk to someone.”

“Well,” the voice sighed dramatically. “We have been friends for a long time, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to charge you double for a coffee session. Especially since you’ve been actively and egregiously avoided my phone calls for the past month.”

“Two weeks, and it wasn’t my fault. Just meet me at The Green Bean, please.”

“Fine, but I’m counting this as a date. Honestly, the minute you say you’re in school for a psychiatric degree everyone you know develops deep-seated psychoses for you to cure.”

“Really not funny,” laughed Noura. “9’o clock.”

“Yeah, alright. Green Bean, 9’o. Tah.”

Noura pocketed the phone and stood to get her coat. She realized that despite her frustrations, Darren had once again proven his audacious knack for making her smile.

The Green Bean, a hot spot for the college cognoscenti, was a 24-hour coffee shop in Merchant City. Noura liked it because even though their coffee was mostly traditional, they gave even their most commonly ordered items fabulously awkward names. The staff they did this to entertain their patrons, but Noura supposed it was the owner’s eccentric way of making tourists feel awkward when they ordered. Anyway, none of the regulars thought twice of asking for a “Foam-headed bastard step-child with two black eyes” or a “rosy wet-nurse locked in the closet” or any of the other arcane items on their hand-written chalk menu, and the place was always full of regulars.

Despite his feigned reluctance on the phone, Darren was waiting when Noura walked in from the Glasgow night. Darren always had a casualness about him that Noura found a real comfort, and tonight he sported dark blue jeans, a gray hooded zip-up and a 5 o’clock shadow. He stood, hugged her with great familiarity, and then pulled out her chair in a very gentleman-like way as she joined him at the table.

“Hey,” he said as he returned to his chair. Noura saw there were two steaming drinks already on the table. “I took the liberty. A ‘Drooling idiot in lamb’s wool’ for me,” Darren pointed, “and a ‘mad, sexy doctoral student’ for you.”

Noura raised an eyebrow.

“What, that’s the drink!” Darren put a hand to his heart. “It’s the special, I swear it.”

Noura smiled but her eyes didn’t share the sentiment.

“Oooo,” said Darren, stirring sugar into his drink. “This might be genuinely serious, yeah?”

Noura picked up her drink and let the warmth of the mug heat her hands. “It’s about Wayside.”

Darren leaned back, his tongue pressing on the inside his cheek. “Wayside? You mean that city we thought up as kids?”

“You may not remember it, but you used to go there too.”

“Wow, we haven’t talked about that place in years. I can barely even remember what we said it looked like, let alone anything specific about it.” Darren’s rapped his forehead with his knuckles in thought. “Wasn’t the door in a coat closet or something?”

“The basement broom cupboard in your parents’ house, actually. At least that was the door you used.”

“Mmm,” Darren said wistfully. “Nope. Not an inkling of recollection. All I remember about that basement is the silverfish.”

“Nowadays, when I think about Wayside, there’s something...wrong...with the thought.”

“Wrong?”

“There’s something dark in the way of my memory of it.”

“So don’t think about it,” Darren shrugged.

Noura bristled. “That’s your prescription? ‘Don’t think about it’?”

“Look, it was a fantasy. Like when we built a spaceship out of cardboard boxes and flew to Uranus.”

Noura slumped. “Oh my god, Darren, please be serious for once.”

“Look, why are you saying all this? What do you want me to do?”

Noura took a mouthful of her coffee and swallowed her frustration along with it. “I just need you to help me remember.”

An hour later, Noura was lying on her couch in her dimly lit living room, with Darren seated nearby on the recliner. He wore the composure of a doctor now, which Noura couldn’t help but find amusing.

He spoke in a soft, even tone. “I want you to relax.”

Noura giggled, and Darren’s voice took on its natural tone. “Look, do you want me to do this or not.”

“Sorry. I am serious about this. I’m sorry. Really.” Noura breathed out, her hands laid flat on her stomach.

Darren resumed his even tone. “I want you to count backwards slowly, starting from one hundred.”

“One hundred.”

Noura shut her eyes and watched the afterimages of her vision swim away into the static of her mind.

“Ninety-nine.”

“Picture this room in your mind. I am sitting in the chair, saying these words. Continue to count, slowly.”

“Ninety-eight.”

The image of Darren she produced was one with thick brown horn-rimmed glasses and a lab coat, but it was him nonetheless, and she accepted it as close enough.

“Ninety-seven.”

“Now, see yourself, lying on the couch in this room. You are calm and relaxed. Perfectly comfortable.”

“Ninety-six.”

She was there, in a black sequined evening gown with diamond earrings.

“Ninety-five.”

As you continue to count down, you see yourself growing younger. You are twenty, finishing school. I’m there with you; we’re going back together.

Ninety-four.

It’s afternoon, and we’re in high school. You see me on the side of the road as you’re walking home, but we’re not really hanging out anymore. I’m smoking with my mates, trying to look cool, but I cough and burn myself with the ash. You laugh at me and I smile back, embarrassed.

Ninety-three.

We’re eleven and Reilly Sullivan is threatening to take your candy frost. I march over and try to defend you, but you punch him in the nose and he runs off in tears.

Ninety-two.

We’re eight, and you’re over at my house. My dad’s told us to go somewhere so he doesn’t have to babysit us, and we decide to play in the basement.

Ninety-one.

We crawl into the broom cupboard and pretend it’s a cave, and you say you’ve found a door in the back.

Ninety.

You open the door to Wayside.

Darkness. Noura no longer felt her body. There was the beast, and there was the point -- clear and burning like a single star in a velvet sky, but there was no Noura there. She had no body she could use to pass through the point and come out in the other world. There was only the point and the beast.

She could make it out now, the creature. Not a shapeless monster, but a wolf, large and black, who cradled the point like it was her cub she protected.

There was something else there. A boy. Noura thought it might be the boy Grim, but instead she could now see that it was Darren, whose hair had been a like a mangled pile of brown straw back then. Back when they had first found Wayside. His eyes darted around the darkness, a look of utter confusion painted on his young face.

The wolf opened its eyes. It lifted its massive form onto clawed paws and snarled a warning snarl.

“Noe?” the boy called into the dark.

Noura tried to run, tried to will her consciousness into some form that could protect the young Darren from the black wolf, which she knew would lash out to defend the spark.

Suddenly it was an adult Darren there before the beast, and as he looked toward her she felt herself given form at last.

“Get to Wayside, Noe,” This Darren said in the calm meter of the doctor.

Noura nodded and turned to the point. She wrapped herself around it and through it.

An endless field of gray opened before her.

News: Posting Chapter 16

There are two things you might notice about Chapter 16: a lot happens, and it's really rough. This is partially a consequence of the way NaNoWriMo works -- quantity over quality, which I know sounds odd, but it's actually not a bad thing. Keep in mind that everyone who signed up to read this story gave their implicit acceptance of the fact that first drafts suck, and if you're expecting a polished story, you're gonna have to wait until at least draft 3. Chapter 16's length (it's almost 4k words) is also due to the fact that I've been waiting to get to this chapter for*ever*, and it feels good to have it down at last. The character you meet in Chapter 16 has been in my head since at least 2002.

I hope you enjoy. My apologies for any inconsistency.

http://www.finding-wayside.com/2009/11/manuscript-finding-wayside-chapter-16.html

Manuscript: Finding Wayside, Chapter 16

The three spent the next half hour searching through alleys and drain pipes, looking for a rat to question. At first the exercise was more frustration than progress, as the three fired back and forth with accusations of “your being too loud” and “we already checked there” and “rats don’t respond to ‘here ratty, ratty’”. They checked the Garment District, The Pages, and even the spotless alleys of the Governance to no avail. Then, just as Grim was about to call the evening a failure, he heard the scratching sounds of rubble being disturbed in a drainpipe near the Market.

“Shh.” Grim raised a hand and Ophelia and Cane froze in their tracks.

“What did you—“ Cane started, but Grim thrust out his palm emphatically.

There it was, whisker twitching, cautiously nibbling at a piece of crust that had washed into the pipe. Grim approached it with slow, cautious steps. As he drew near, it looked up, its body tensing, ready to flee. Grim held his breath.

“Well, go on and ask it,” Ophelia whispered.

“What do I ask it?” Grim said, realizing now that they hadn’t really planned this out with the utmost care.

“Ask it, um…tell it to take us to its leader,” said Cane, whose whispering voice had jumped an octave.

Grim turned his head. “What? Are you serious? And why are you talking like that?”

“They probably hear better in higher pitches. Plus, do you have a better plan?” Cane squeaked.

Grim turned to the rat, which was watching them with cautious curiosity. It nabbed a bit of the crust and held it protectively.

“Fine.” Grim sighed in defeat. “Would you, mister rat…please…take us to your leader.” Grim sneered at his friends.

The rat squeaked and clutching its bread crust scurried down the pipe.

“Ha. See?” Cane laughed, beaming a snarky smile.

“So, now what, genius? We follow it into the sewers?” said Grim.

“Well, yeah,” Cane replied.

“Are you nuts? Isn’t that where all the Forgotten are?”

Ophelia tutted. “You wanted to find Murphy, right?”

Grim snarled.

“Well come on, Cane. Let’s follow the rat. The Forgotten keep to themselves, anyway, right? I’m not waiting for the lion to find his courage.” Ophelia walked past Grim and into the drain pipe. Cane followed, glancing back at Grim as he passed.

“We don’t even have a light!” Grim said, but followed the two into the darkness of the pipe and into the sewers of Wayside.

* * *

Osborne sat at his desk, staring at Noura’s case file without seeing it. There were no leads, no way of contacting her, and only Caravan’s word that her location and safety would be confirmed. Osborne reached for his tea cup and put it to his lips, but sputtered as the tea was now cold and bitter. He looked at the cracked face of his long-dead watch on his wrist and licked his teeth.

The echo of footsteps, light and female, preceded the grand entrance of Madam Lenoire by moments. She burst into Osborne’s office like a mad chicken, her wilted boa leaving wisps of down in her wake.

“Mister Osborne! Oh my! Terrible! Terrible!” Madam Lenoire floated to Osborne’s desk and slumped into the chair opposite him. She helped herself to a glass of brandy and re-lit the tip of her Abdulla.

“What seems to be the problem, Claire. And why are you here and not at the constabulary?”

Madam Lenoir waved the comment away. “Sauvages. Useless, good-for-nothings.” She sipped her brandy, steeling herself. “Young Murphy has vanished!”

“What do you mean, vanished?” Osborne pressed his eyes, trying to piece through Madam Lenoir’s dramatic soliloquy.

“I mean,” the flustered old woman crowed, “c’est perdue, masseur Osborne! The bell tolled nine and off he went, into the evening two days past, without a backwards glance and he hasn’t been back.”

Osborne sighed. “He’s a big boy, Clair. He can take care of himself. He probably spent the evening with some…company, and decided to make a weekend of it.”

“Non. There’s mischief afoot, Commander. I know it. He’s been… well,” she leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper. “He’s been talking to himself. Laughing at nothing. Odd things. I’m worried.”

This was news to Osborne. Murphy always seemed, if rather rambunctious at times, the picture of youthful vim.

“Alright,” Osborne stood, and reached to help Claire Lenoir to her feet. “Maybe I should check out his flat.”

It was mid-morning and there was ample foot traffic through the garment district. The ground floor of Madam Lenoir’s shop was buzzing with the sounds of swiftly sewing women, working the pedals of their machines on the floor below. Osborne and Claire ascended the stairs to the mismatched second floor with its dark wood paneling and approached Murphy’s door. It was unlocked and open wide enough that Murphy’s flickering electric light cast a pallid yellow glow into the hallway.

Osborne turned and whispered to Claire, who was crouched behind him. “Go downstairs. I’ll take a look.”

Claire gave a sharp pair of nods and with a whispered “Etre prudent,” scurried down the stairs.

With great care, Osborne attempted to open the door enough to slip in but winced as the door gave a loud creak that would have turned every head in a crowded room. He let out a long breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding. The room was empty.

Osborne walked a slow circuit around the room. Murphy’s apartment certainly seemed more ragged than usual. Cigarette ashes and discarded clothing littered the floor and the window had been left open. A stack of charcoal drawings lay on the sill.

* * *

The sewers were not quite as dark as Grim had supposed. There were grates in the streets all along Wayside that Grim had never pondered before now, but he now saw that the glow of the city cast down from them, making grid patterns that lighted the rounded cobble walls of the under-city. A stream of what Grim hoped was mostly water rushed through channels down the center path. At first, Grim thought they were crazy for following a rat down into the depths, but he could now see that their guide, though much faster than the trio, was not just scurrying back to his den, but leading them down a specific path. Often it would dart out of view, around a corner or through a pipe, but would always emerge to point them down a certain channel or pop up to show them which way to turn in a juncture.

“Clever little guy,” said Cane, smiling.

“How do you know it’s a guy?” said Ophelia, an admonishing tone in her voice.

“Because it’s clever,” Cane said, wrinkling his nose at her. He ducked as Ophelia swatted at his head.

“It’s not so gross smelling as you’d expect from a sewer,” Ophelia said, looking around at the slick cobbles.

“I expect it’s because it’s late,” Grim replied.

“Bleh. Well that’s a gross thought. Thank you,” Ophelia sneered.

Grim, who was now at the head of the group, stopped suddenly, and Cane who wasn’t paying attention ran into him with a thud and toppled over.

“Watch it!” Grim’s arms wheeled as he regained his footing. “I don’t want to bath in whatever is flowing through that channel.” He pointed ahead of him. The rat was standing on its hind quarters in a small pipe, big enough to crawl in, but certainly not to walk. It squeaked and chattered its teeth.

“It think it wants us to follow him in there,” said Cane over Grim’s shoulder.

“Terrific,” Grim supplied, walking up to the pipe. The rat scurried onward, into the dark, and Grim peered into hole. “Well, now it’s going to be dark.”

“I don’t think he’d lead us down a way we can’t follow, Grim,” said Ophelia.

“I didn’t saw we couldn’t follow. It’s just not going to be as easy now.”

“I’ll go first!” Cane volunteered cheerfully, bounding to the pipe.

“Oh no,” Grim held Cane’s shoulders and took his place. “I’ll go first. Stay between me and Ophelia.”

“See?” said Ophelia, smiling. “You had nerve all along, Lion.”

Grim shot her a look and shimmied into the pipe. It was dark, and slick, and there was barely room for his shoulders, but he was easily the biggest of the three, so he was sure they could all make it through. He crawled forward a bit. “Hey, it feels like it widens further up. I think we -- WAAAA!”

Grim’s hands slipped, and he slid forward, the narrow tunnel suddenly dipped down so he was now sliding on his stomach along the steep, slick tube. It was pitch black, and the echoing rush of the water in the pipe was cacophony as he plummeted down the diagonal slope. He grabbed for purchase, but there was nothing to hold. The metal pipe was clean and well made and any seams quickly rushed by before he could grip them. It seemed like he slid for minutes in the darkness but as he began to wonder how far below Wayside he must be the pipe abrupt opened, and he burst out into a waiting pool of water below. It was deep enough that the impact was minimal, but he gasped as he emerged from below the surface, as the water was in the pool felt as cold as ice.

The darkness remained complete. The water smelled clean at least, and other than the tiny waterfall created by the pipe emptying into the pool there was only the echo of dripping ahead, as if there was a larger space somewhere nearby.

“Hey,” Grim sputtered, coughing as some of the water splashed into his mouth. “Hey, Ophelia! Cane! I’m here!” Grim wondered if shouting was the smartest thing to do, as he had no clues as to his surroundings or what, other than rats, might be lurking this deep. Still, his friends were up there, and he was not keen on continuing down the obscured path alone.

“HEY!” he shouted, and along with the echo of his own voice, a new sound emerged from the pipe above. It started soft, and quickly rose to a shout as Grim heard first Cane, and then Ophelia explode from the pipe, screaming like banshees. Grim dove below the water as his friends came crashing down above him and Cane’s descending shoe plowed into the side of his head, scraping down his jaw. He was stunned, but the pain was quickly superseded by the chill of the water, and Grim grabbed onto Cane and pulled him up to the surface with him.

Cane coughed and hacked, having swallowed a load of the icy water himself.

“Are you ok?” Grim asked Cane, but it was Ophelia who answered.

“Fine.” She splashed next to him. “But t-this water is f-freezing. We gotta get out of h-here.”

“I think there’s a cave up ahead. This way.” Grim began to swim forward, dragging the coughing Cane towards the dripping sounds.

The pool became shallow quickly, and Grim could feel that the floor was no longer the cobbled surface of the sewer, but the un-hewn stone of raw earth.

Cane’s coughing subsided, and he recovered his voice. “I think there might be something wrong with my ankle, but it’s too cold.”

Grim put Cane’s arm around his shoulder and continued forward. The water was only up to their ankles now, and Grim realized that the cave wasn’t completely dark after all. He could begin to make out the silhouettes of his friends beside him. They were in a rough, domed chamber, and Grim could make out the pipe from which they had fallen and the perimeter of the pool. A tunnel was carved into the rock ahead of them and, though it curved away quickly, the path was dimly lit by a yellow light.

Cane had sprained his ankle, and Grim had to support him as they proceeded down the path. Their pace was slow, and their rat guide was now conspicuously absent.

“Some friend he turned out to be,” Grim grumbled. “He could have warned us about that first step.”

“And how would he have done that, exactly?” said Ophelia, who sounded grumpier now that she was cold and wet to the bone.

“You’re the teleporting gypsy,” Grim replied. “You tell me.”

“Would you t-two s-shut up,” said Cane tremulously through chattering teeth.

The path widened and brightened, until finally they spotted a flickering light ahead on the wall. An electric sulphur light, buzzing with power, was bolted to the wall. A power line ran away from it, down the path, and Grim could make out another light 50 yards or so further down.

“Well someone lives down here,” said Ophelia as she trotted ahead of Grim and his cargo to look more closely at the light. She rubbed a finger along the harness that fastened the bulb to the wall. “They’re not much dusting, but bulbs don’t last forever.”

As the continued down the corridor, the buzzing of the lights and the dripping of water was added to by another sound. Similar, thought Grim, but not the same as the scratch-scratching the rat had made as it lead them through the sewers. They turned a corner and could see now the end of the corridor, a black wall of shadows where the tunnel opened into a larger room.

“Well,” said Grim.

“Well.” Ophelia replied.

They approached the opening and peeked through.

It was like nothing they had ever seen. The cave was massive. If Grim hadn’t just traveled down himself, he would never believe something like this could exist below ground, let alone atop a city. But not just a cave. A city in itself, if one could call it such. There were piles of rubbish, packing material, bits of string, every type of refuse and effluent imaginable, all held together with what seemed like bits of road tar and chewing gum. Towers of garbage, illuminated here and there by oil drums filled with burning trash. Black plumes of smoke rose high into the cavern, and if there was a ceiling in the black miasma above, it was completely obscured by a storm cloud of smoke.

Grim could see now at second glance that there were, surrounding the fire-filled barrels, many figures. The nearest group was at least one hundred yards away, but he could make out their blackened forms -- moving piles of oily rags that rocked and quaked.

And rats. He could see them now, too. Countless numbers. A writhing myriad. This place was Grim’s vision of Hell and he stood in shocked horror before it.

“We should go back,” Cane breathed.

“Yeah,” said Ophelia.

Grim nodded his agreement.

‘Oh my, no’ said a whispered voice in the dark.

Grim’s heart leapt into his throat, and he looked around in a panic, trying to find the source.

‘You will stay for a visit. We have few guests with stories to tell, and the Leader would be oh so displeased if you were to go so soon. After all, did you not ask to be taken to him?’

Grim looked in horror as a swarm, an army of rats emerged from the shadows in all directions. Some, Grim saw, were clearly dead, their tiny bones and organs showing through their dark patchy fur. Eyes missing, ears chewed, they chittered and squeaked just the same.

Through his terror, Grim decided to dare a question. “What are you?” He said, through teeth he was having trouble unclenching.

The carpet of creatures shivered and squeaked -- an amused sound, and the voice, which came from all around but from no one creature rung in Grim’s ears.

‘We are everywhere and everything, filth-maker. We are the hidden eyes. The ears to listen to all the sounds and the noses to catch all the smells. We are the teeth to devour the bones, and the claws to burrow down deep. Our strength is our number, and together we share a voice.’

The three friends looked at each other, and Grim tried to swallow the massive dry lump that had formed in his throat but couldn’t seem to manage it.

Ophelia spoke. “Who then would such a force call Master?”

There was agitation in the swarm, and anger filled the response. ‘We call no one master, girl-thing. But there is one who calls this domain his own, and it...’ the voice paused for a moment, ‘suits us...to give him bailiwick.’

‘And soon you shall meet him.’ The circle of rats tightened around them, forcing them away from the lighted tunnel and towards the city of garbage. Their escort flowed like water along the path, through the towers of filth and pushed the three along with the impetus of their collective will.

“Look,” the limping Cane pointed towards a circle of light, where a group of the ragged figures now stood in predatory agitation.

“Those are the Forgotten,” Ophelia said, as much to herself as to the two friends in front of her. “How horrible it must be to have no stories.”

The soot-covered figures, both men and women Grim could see now, pawed and snarled at the three children and their rodent escort, but seemed to understand that the rats were in charge here, and did not attempt to break through their mass to reach the three friends.

“They look angry,” said Grim, re-hoisting Cane so he did not slip into the stream of rats. His shoulder ached from the effort.

“Anger is probably all they have left,” said Ophelia, and Grim thought he heard a sadness in her voice.

On they walked, through the city of black towers, and at each circle of light they passed stood an amassed group of Forgotten, who reached out for them with looks of confusion and anger and longing, but would not disturb the coterie of rats.

Grim at last saw what must be, he thought, the rats’ destination. It did not rise into the black cloud overhead as the towers of trash that comprised the rest of the city, but was the closest thing to an actual planned structure he had so far seen. It was poised at the end of an avenue that was cleared of all rubble, and put Grim in mind of pictures he had seen of Cathedrals, though one that no sane mind would have constructed. The best pieces of waste had been gathered here. Shards of glass sparkled in its compressed walls, and twisted columns of metal gave the impression of buttresses, which supported a central structure. This structure, which could have passed for something in Wayside in its better days, sported two large and colorful windows made from cellophane and plastic bottles and broken panes of glass. Through the windows came a light that was too consistent to be fire, and so Grim surmised, must be made by an electric light source of some kind. At ground-level in the center of the structure, doors had been constructed from nailed sheet metal. Grim wondered if all of this had somehow been done by the rats, or if the master of this place had enough sway to bring the Forgotten to task as well.

The rats pushed aside the doors and escorted the three through the entryway and into the twisted cathedral. Electric sulphur lights did indeed line the columned aisle and at the end of the hall stood a raised dais and a jagged black throne constructed of discarded pieces of broken furniture.

A gaunt figure, who had been sitting in this throne when the door was opened, now stood. He was dressed in what was once a fine uniform, gold and white, and wore a black fur hat. He stroked his scraggled gray-peppered black beard with a fur-gloved black hand and waited for the rats to lead the three children to the foot of the dias. His face was filled largely by his bulbous broken nose, and his squinting eyes were so dark that Grim could not make out the whites of them in the shadowy light.

The carpet of rats receded back into the shadows of the cathedral, and the gaunt man stood very still, examining the three in silence. When at last he did speak, it was a voice raspy and dry from disuse, like the voice a long-dead corpse might produce if forced to speak by unnatural means.

“Share,” said the gaunt man, sitting slowly down in his black chair.

The three friends all looked at each other, not knowing what to say, until Grim finally cleared his voice. “Um, excuse me, but –“

“SHARE!” The man slammed his fists down on the arms of his chair and his shout boomed through the cathedral. The rats chattered a chorus from the shadows in response.

Grim, startled, blurted an answer. “I’m John, and my friends are Thomas and Miranda, and we…”

“Lies?” The man chuckled, a slow and menacing noise. “All this way for lies?” A broken, grimy smile cracked his face. “But that one does not lie, yes? That one is no liar, noooooo.” The gaunt man pointed at Ophelia.

Ophelia straightened, raising her chin to the throned figure. “I am Ophelia Faralen of Caravan. This is Grim, and Cane.”

“Hummmm, yes. Truth now.” said the man on the throne. He rose, and approached the children. He leaned forward, and reached a hand out to Cane. “They will not like that name. Very curious. Yes.” Grim could see now that the darkness of the man’s eyes was not a trick of the shadow, but that the man had no eyes at all. He turned his back now to the children and stared blankly into the shadowy heights of the cathedral. “Boris, they once called me. The first Czar of the new world, they will call me. The ruler of men, as well.” Boris raised his arms to the heavens. “and Judge.”

He returned to his throne. “You,” he pointed at Grim. “Your arrival is well timed. Yes. A friend of yours preceded you, and both will play a part.”

Grim started. “Murphy? Murphy came here? Where is he?”

Boris raised a brow, and stroked his beard once more. “Why, little Faralen, I am surprised at you.” Boris’s voice was thick with sarcastic disapproval. “Am I to believe that the guardians of the gate have not told young Baldur of the significance of his arrival? Oh dear, dear, dear. Such a shame.”

Grim turned to Ophelia. Her eyes were cast down, and her face was flushed and red. She pressed her lips tight together.

Boris laughed and spun. “Yes! Yes! How delicious. No foreknowledge of his fate. But I know. Oooooh yes, Baldur. Would you like to know what the Gjalerhorn has whispered to me?” The man Boris now swept over to Grim -- a mad, whirling cadaver. He grabbed Grim by the shirt and lifted him close to the dark, empty eyes.”

“Your death,” he whispered, “Will be the beginning of everything.”