orchid blossom
Explorer
Mythago vs. orchid blossom Final Round
Divine Hands
Nicolas stood just inside the door of the small club, trying to see through the haze of blue smoke. He pulled the brim of his black hat further down over his eyes and adjusted his duster so it covered the revolver at his belt. Then he tapped the ash off his own cigarette and worked his way over to a table.
This club was stranger every time he came in. Today an accordionist was playing a lamenting kind of tune in a far off corner, but the main show seemed to be a human still life on the stage. Nick coughed loudly and the androgynous figure in gold at the bottom turned his head and smiled. With all the grace of his kind he rose and walked over to the table. "Give us one of those, hmm?"
Nick pulled out a case and handed one of the slim white rolls to the muse. "So this is art now?"
The muse shrugged. "It's my version of the old adage, 'A fool and his money are soon parted.'"
"I never did understand art," Nick said, putting away the case.
"Neither do they, but they won't admit it. Which is why they part with their money to see it."
Nick smiled his crooked smile and said, "That I understand." He took a sip of the beer a waitress had just set in front of him. "So Vic, you called me. What's going on?'
Vic rubbed his hand against his smoothly slicked hair and dropped his voice. "I'm not sure. This little piece of art," he said motioning to the stage, "Is about the best I can inspire these days. Even getting the call out to you was hard."
“So, there’s a problem at the giving or the receiving end. Or you’ve pissed off the powers that be one too many times.”
Vic waved that last idea away like a bothersome fly. “I don’t feel any different. It’s kind of like those screens the gold miners use. I still have the idea, the artists still have the desire, but something won’t let the gold through.”
“How long this been goin’ on?”
“The serious problems started a few months ago. But thinking back, there have been little things for years.”
Nick tapped his finger against his chin. "That explains a few things, Vic. Last few years things have been slow. Not much new, if you know what I mean. Old music, old plays, not even any new inventions, and you know those were going like gangbusters."
"Science works on inspiration too," Vic added, puffing on his cigarette.
"So you want me to what? Save the world from boredom?"
"It could be worse than that. Without getting into the metaphysics of it, we agents of the divine all work out of the same source. So whatever's affecting me could be affecting prophets, messengers, any of the hands of the divine on Earth. And that leaves a hole for those with other powers to fill."
Nicolas threw back the rest of his beer. "I'll look into it. It's been a while, I'm not sure which of my contacts will still be friendly."
Vic stood up and crushed out his cigarette. "I've got a place for you to start."
"Why don't you do it yourself then?"
"Can't. I'm only allowed to deal with the living."
Nick's lips tightened. "You know I hate dealing with the dead."
"You'll get over it." Vic started back toward the stage with Nicolas following. He briefly explained how to find the place where the veil was thin between the living and the dead. He then lowered himself back onto the stage in the same tableau, flicking his finger at a little doll laying on the stage. "Take that to call them."
*************************
Nicolas tied his horse to a tree a good distance from the one that sat alone in the middle of the grassy field. He didn't relish the idea of being out here with no way to leave quickly if the horse got spooked and bolted. He pulled the red rag doll from his saddlebag, took a deep breath, and started across the grass.
He was not, as Vic called them, one of the hands of the divine on Earth. But he had always been what some called "sensitive." Others passed through this field every day, feeling nothing more than a sense that it would be wrong for any farmer to clear it for a farm. Nicolas could feel the veil, like a cobweb across his face. His presence was like a bubble in water, moving in it but not through it.
He arrived at a tree with a trunk so wide three large men couldn't circle it with their arms and touch hands. It had the kind of low branches children love, being easily reached for climbing. Nicolas laid the red doll at the foot of the tree, unsure of what else to do. He could feel rippling across the veil, as if another bubble were skittering along the surface on a collision course with his.
It began to pull apart, not ripping, but pulling its threads apart far enough to allow him to pass. Nicolas stepped without moving his legs, the opening now behind him instead of in front. A portion of the tree's bark began to morph and change until the face of a young girl replaced it. Behind the tree, spirit after child-spirit rose from the ground.
The spirit in the tree opened her eyes. "It's been a long time since we were left a gift."
"Most can’t cross the veil to do it."
"There are other ways, but those who remembered us are long gone." She closed her eyes again and he shivered as another presence briefly shared his mind. "You come from the muse. He is disturbed. He wishes to know where the ocean has gone. Why it runs as a river away from the hands of the divine."
"Um, something like that,” Nick answered, rubbing his arms. “Sounded more like he thought there was a wall keeping him separated from his source. Figured once the hands couldn’t do their jobs anymore, something else would take over."
"He is wiser than I thought," the tree spirit smiled. "He usually seems more a child than we."
Nick actually smiled. "He is a unique sort of person."
"Our eyes see more clearly than his. The ocean is in many places at once, but cannot be seen on Earth. There is one like you, able to feel but not control. He has found a way to pull the power, to make it his."
"So power you compare to an ocean gets in the hands of one man, who wasn't suited to it in the first place. Then he goes crazy with it. I don't like where that could go."
"Crazy is the correct word. One who seeks such power does so for selfish purposes. And in his newfound insanity he will not be a kindly master."
The boy-spirit who stood closest to the tree stepped forward. "This is Adam. He will lead you to the river. Follow it to the mad one. When you have arrived we will part the veil for you."
*********************
The building where Adam parted the veil and let Nicholas back into the living, breathing world could only be called a mansion. The river that led here left an afterimage in his eyes, as if now that he knew what to look for he could see that swirling ribbon of color flow through the walls and disappear. He shook his shoulders, trying to rid himself of the feeling of clinging cobwebs.
Somehow Nicolas had expected to find the inside of the manse lit up like the river. Instead it was black, despite the sunlight that should have been streaming in through the windows. Psychic threads spun everywhere, crisscrossing the room with no pattern. Nick took a few deep breaths, pushing them away as they tried to invade his mind. He reached inside his pack and lit the lantern he kept there. .
Usually he would rely on that sixth sense that drew him toward places where one of the hands of the divine was working, but in this place that sense was overwhelmed. Instead he began an exhaustive, room-by-room search.
The building was unremarkable in and of itself. The summer home of some rich merchant, most likely. Rich, polished wooden furniture upholstered in luxurious fabrics. Crystal lamps, fine art, lace table covers. Rich people indeed. The only odd thing was a bedroom set up on the first floor.
The darkness pressed harder against the lamp in this simple yet still rich room. A wide but low bed, a nightstand beside it, a full-length mirror, and a desk made up the furniture in the room. He was surprised at the lack of chairs until he noticed the wheelchair against the wall. A feeling of inspiration came from that chair, strong enough for Nicolas to pluck it out from among the cacophony.
He walked over and ran his hand along the back, then the arm. He didn't know much about science, but it was obvious someone had been tinkering with this chair. If he was understanding what he saw correctly, it would move on it's own. Nick took a deep breath and sat down, holding the lamp before him.
The first inspiration he had given. Nick could see the madman, using his stolen power to help a crippled man make his life easier. Ah, a brother. With more power he had found a way to heal his brother, and the chair sat here now, unused inspiration. And worse, the power that drove the thief mad drove those he inspired down the same path.
The two men were in this house. Power swirled from the room to the upper floor. Nick rose and followed the only threads strong enough to stand out. They flowed up the stairs, twisting around each other, sometimes appearing as one, sometimes pulling apart as if one tried to escape from the other.
Sooner than he would have liked, Nicolas stood before a heavy wooden door. He had gone up two flights of stairs past the fine parts of the house to the attic. The threads had grown darker and more sinister as he climbed, bearing the marks of madness. Nicolas took his revolver out of his pocket, checked that it was loaded, and opened the door.
The first thing that hit him was the stench. Old blood and new, rotting flesh. Voices screamed, masculine and feminine, and beneath that was a satisfied groan, stifled as if the mouth that made it was blocked. The threads split into two, and Nick's eye followed one over toward the wall.
He might have been a cripple before, but now he was a madman. A cruel, long-handled ax was gripped in his hands, it's blade dark with blood. The picture frames held hands of the divine, each wrapped in rope and screaming. The woman’s scream was weak as she slumped, dying from the gash through her shoulder. The brother glared insanely at Nicolas and bent his legs to lift the ax again. Nick lifted his arm and shot. The dark thread suddenly snapped and recoiled as the body fell to the floor.
His eye followed the remaining thread, now rippling with shock. It lead past the bloodied form of a muse on the floor to a figure crouched behind it. He lifted His face to the light and looked up at him with clear, sea-green eyes above a bloodied mouth. Nick looked down and saw hunks of flesh torn from the dead body in the man's hands.
The tendril of power rippled and wrapped around Nicolas, and he slipped the revolver back into its holster. Dark fingers ripped into his mind, pushing aside the resistance his own small power tried to put up. He pulled off his hat and duster. The lantern crashed to the floor as he rubbed his hands together and took hold of the ax handle. Nick looked up at the last muse, still tied in his frame. He reached out toward it, wanting to feel its pain as he struck. Their eyes met and another mind touched his. This one was like Vic's, brilliant and colorful. It did not try to sway him from his craving for blood. Nick bent his knees and swung the ax in a wide circle. Those sea-green eyes kept staring at him as they flew across the room.
*************************
Nicolas staggered down the stairs with the muse. Sun was pouring in through the windows now but the muse was blinded by the backlash of power rushing away from the house. Nick felt it more strongly than he’d felt anything before and struggled against the undertow.
Hours later Nick opened his eyes. The mansion was gone, a burnt cinder blown apart by a tidal wave of power. The dark taint that had infected his mind was gone, and so was the bright light the muse had lent him. He shook his head and tried to feel the muse. Nothing. The veil, the threads that were everywhere. Nothing.
“Is everything back where it belongs?” Nick asked, pushing himself up in the grass.
“All back to normal,” the muse answered with a tired smile.
Nick rubbed his chin and smiled. “Normal. Normal is good.”
Divine Hands
Nicolas stood just inside the door of the small club, trying to see through the haze of blue smoke. He pulled the brim of his black hat further down over his eyes and adjusted his duster so it covered the revolver at his belt. Then he tapped the ash off his own cigarette and worked his way over to a table.
This club was stranger every time he came in. Today an accordionist was playing a lamenting kind of tune in a far off corner, but the main show seemed to be a human still life on the stage. Nick coughed loudly and the androgynous figure in gold at the bottom turned his head and smiled. With all the grace of his kind he rose and walked over to the table. "Give us one of those, hmm?"
Nick pulled out a case and handed one of the slim white rolls to the muse. "So this is art now?"
The muse shrugged. "It's my version of the old adage, 'A fool and his money are soon parted.'"
"I never did understand art," Nick said, putting away the case.
"Neither do they, but they won't admit it. Which is why they part with their money to see it."
Nick smiled his crooked smile and said, "That I understand." He took a sip of the beer a waitress had just set in front of him. "So Vic, you called me. What's going on?'
Vic rubbed his hand against his smoothly slicked hair and dropped his voice. "I'm not sure. This little piece of art," he said motioning to the stage, "Is about the best I can inspire these days. Even getting the call out to you was hard."
“So, there’s a problem at the giving or the receiving end. Or you’ve pissed off the powers that be one too many times.”
Vic waved that last idea away like a bothersome fly. “I don’t feel any different. It’s kind of like those screens the gold miners use. I still have the idea, the artists still have the desire, but something won’t let the gold through.”
“How long this been goin’ on?”
“The serious problems started a few months ago. But thinking back, there have been little things for years.”
Nick tapped his finger against his chin. "That explains a few things, Vic. Last few years things have been slow. Not much new, if you know what I mean. Old music, old plays, not even any new inventions, and you know those were going like gangbusters."
"Science works on inspiration too," Vic added, puffing on his cigarette.
"So you want me to what? Save the world from boredom?"
"It could be worse than that. Without getting into the metaphysics of it, we agents of the divine all work out of the same source. So whatever's affecting me could be affecting prophets, messengers, any of the hands of the divine on Earth. And that leaves a hole for those with other powers to fill."
Nicolas threw back the rest of his beer. "I'll look into it. It's been a while, I'm not sure which of my contacts will still be friendly."
Vic stood up and crushed out his cigarette. "I've got a place for you to start."
"Why don't you do it yourself then?"
"Can't. I'm only allowed to deal with the living."
Nick's lips tightened. "You know I hate dealing with the dead."
"You'll get over it." Vic started back toward the stage with Nicolas following. He briefly explained how to find the place where the veil was thin between the living and the dead. He then lowered himself back onto the stage in the same tableau, flicking his finger at a little doll laying on the stage. "Take that to call them."
*************************
Nicolas tied his horse to a tree a good distance from the one that sat alone in the middle of the grassy field. He didn't relish the idea of being out here with no way to leave quickly if the horse got spooked and bolted. He pulled the red rag doll from his saddlebag, took a deep breath, and started across the grass.
He was not, as Vic called them, one of the hands of the divine on Earth. But he had always been what some called "sensitive." Others passed through this field every day, feeling nothing more than a sense that it would be wrong for any farmer to clear it for a farm. Nicolas could feel the veil, like a cobweb across his face. His presence was like a bubble in water, moving in it but not through it.
He arrived at a tree with a trunk so wide three large men couldn't circle it with their arms and touch hands. It had the kind of low branches children love, being easily reached for climbing. Nicolas laid the red doll at the foot of the tree, unsure of what else to do. He could feel rippling across the veil, as if another bubble were skittering along the surface on a collision course with his.
It began to pull apart, not ripping, but pulling its threads apart far enough to allow him to pass. Nicolas stepped without moving his legs, the opening now behind him instead of in front. A portion of the tree's bark began to morph and change until the face of a young girl replaced it. Behind the tree, spirit after child-spirit rose from the ground.
The spirit in the tree opened her eyes. "It's been a long time since we were left a gift."
"Most can’t cross the veil to do it."
"There are other ways, but those who remembered us are long gone." She closed her eyes again and he shivered as another presence briefly shared his mind. "You come from the muse. He is disturbed. He wishes to know where the ocean has gone. Why it runs as a river away from the hands of the divine."
"Um, something like that,” Nick answered, rubbing his arms. “Sounded more like he thought there was a wall keeping him separated from his source. Figured once the hands couldn’t do their jobs anymore, something else would take over."
"He is wiser than I thought," the tree spirit smiled. "He usually seems more a child than we."
Nick actually smiled. "He is a unique sort of person."
"Our eyes see more clearly than his. The ocean is in many places at once, but cannot be seen on Earth. There is one like you, able to feel but not control. He has found a way to pull the power, to make it his."
"So power you compare to an ocean gets in the hands of one man, who wasn't suited to it in the first place. Then he goes crazy with it. I don't like where that could go."
"Crazy is the correct word. One who seeks such power does so for selfish purposes. And in his newfound insanity he will not be a kindly master."
The boy-spirit who stood closest to the tree stepped forward. "This is Adam. He will lead you to the river. Follow it to the mad one. When you have arrived we will part the veil for you."
*********************
The building where Adam parted the veil and let Nicholas back into the living, breathing world could only be called a mansion. The river that led here left an afterimage in his eyes, as if now that he knew what to look for he could see that swirling ribbon of color flow through the walls and disappear. He shook his shoulders, trying to rid himself of the feeling of clinging cobwebs.
Somehow Nicolas had expected to find the inside of the manse lit up like the river. Instead it was black, despite the sunlight that should have been streaming in through the windows. Psychic threads spun everywhere, crisscrossing the room with no pattern. Nick took a few deep breaths, pushing them away as they tried to invade his mind. He reached inside his pack and lit the lantern he kept there. .
Usually he would rely on that sixth sense that drew him toward places where one of the hands of the divine was working, but in this place that sense was overwhelmed. Instead he began an exhaustive, room-by-room search.
The building was unremarkable in and of itself. The summer home of some rich merchant, most likely. Rich, polished wooden furniture upholstered in luxurious fabrics. Crystal lamps, fine art, lace table covers. Rich people indeed. The only odd thing was a bedroom set up on the first floor.
The darkness pressed harder against the lamp in this simple yet still rich room. A wide but low bed, a nightstand beside it, a full-length mirror, and a desk made up the furniture in the room. He was surprised at the lack of chairs until he noticed the wheelchair against the wall. A feeling of inspiration came from that chair, strong enough for Nicolas to pluck it out from among the cacophony.
He walked over and ran his hand along the back, then the arm. He didn't know much about science, but it was obvious someone had been tinkering with this chair. If he was understanding what he saw correctly, it would move on it's own. Nick took a deep breath and sat down, holding the lamp before him.
The first inspiration he had given. Nick could see the madman, using his stolen power to help a crippled man make his life easier. Ah, a brother. With more power he had found a way to heal his brother, and the chair sat here now, unused inspiration. And worse, the power that drove the thief mad drove those he inspired down the same path.
The two men were in this house. Power swirled from the room to the upper floor. Nick rose and followed the only threads strong enough to stand out. They flowed up the stairs, twisting around each other, sometimes appearing as one, sometimes pulling apart as if one tried to escape from the other.
Sooner than he would have liked, Nicolas stood before a heavy wooden door. He had gone up two flights of stairs past the fine parts of the house to the attic. The threads had grown darker and more sinister as he climbed, bearing the marks of madness. Nicolas took his revolver out of his pocket, checked that it was loaded, and opened the door.
The first thing that hit him was the stench. Old blood and new, rotting flesh. Voices screamed, masculine and feminine, and beneath that was a satisfied groan, stifled as if the mouth that made it was blocked. The threads split into two, and Nick's eye followed one over toward the wall.
He might have been a cripple before, but now he was a madman. A cruel, long-handled ax was gripped in his hands, it's blade dark with blood. The picture frames held hands of the divine, each wrapped in rope and screaming. The woman’s scream was weak as she slumped, dying from the gash through her shoulder. The brother glared insanely at Nicolas and bent his legs to lift the ax again. Nick lifted his arm and shot. The dark thread suddenly snapped and recoiled as the body fell to the floor.
His eye followed the remaining thread, now rippling with shock. It lead past the bloodied form of a muse on the floor to a figure crouched behind it. He lifted His face to the light and looked up at him with clear, sea-green eyes above a bloodied mouth. Nick looked down and saw hunks of flesh torn from the dead body in the man's hands.
The tendril of power rippled and wrapped around Nicolas, and he slipped the revolver back into its holster. Dark fingers ripped into his mind, pushing aside the resistance his own small power tried to put up. He pulled off his hat and duster. The lantern crashed to the floor as he rubbed his hands together and took hold of the ax handle. Nick looked up at the last muse, still tied in his frame. He reached out toward it, wanting to feel its pain as he struck. Their eyes met and another mind touched his. This one was like Vic's, brilliant and colorful. It did not try to sway him from his craving for blood. Nick bent his knees and swung the ax in a wide circle. Those sea-green eyes kept staring at him as they flew across the room.
*************************
Nicolas staggered down the stairs with the muse. Sun was pouring in through the windows now but the muse was blinded by the backlash of power rushing away from the house. Nick felt it more strongly than he’d felt anything before and struggled against the undertow.
Hours later Nick opened his eyes. The mansion was gone, a burnt cinder blown apart by a tidal wave of power. The dark taint that had infected his mind was gone, and so was the bright light the muse had lent him. He shook his head and tried to feel the muse. Nothing. The veil, the threads that were everywhere. Nothing.
“Is everything back where it belongs?” Nick asked, pushing himself up in the grass.
“All back to normal,” the muse answered with a tired smile.
Nick rubbed his chin and smiled. “Normal. Normal is good.”
