Upwyr

by Bill Bowler

Chapter 6: Last in Line

part 3

He reached out for the globe, his hand brushing the branches of the rosebush causing delicate petals to fall and flutter down. In triumph, the thief grasped the globe and held his stolen treasure aloft. He tried to turn back towards the sloping bank, but with each attempt to move now, he felt himself sink deeper into the mud, which he realized, with horror, was now chest-deep.

With supreme and desperate effort, the thief wrenched himself around to face the safety of the bank whence he had come, but the movement screwed him deeper into the muck. He was now neck-deep, holding the precious globe in one hand, above his head.

Slowly, inch by inch, he sank, until the mud covered his mouth, and then his nose, and finally his eyes. A moment later, only the globe in the palm of the man’s hand was visible and then the hand and globe, too, disappeared into the muck, leaving no trace in the smooth surface beside the rosebush. The broken, marble arm lay on the bank where it had fallen.

Yanosh heard the woman’s voice again, faint and distant, singing its sad song. The cloud inside the globe swirled and congealed, dropping like a curtain of mist before the forest scene, concealing all.

“Yanosh.” Madame Sonya had come into the front parlor and saw the boy staring into the globe. “What do you see?”

“I don’t know, Sonya. A beautiful woman who looked like you. One man who killed another and stole a globe like yours. He sunk in quicksand next to a rosebush.”

Madame Sonya’s face clouded over. She was silent for a moment, lost in her own thoughts and reflections. Then she sighed and smiled at the boy.

“What does it mean, Sonya?”

“It means whatever we think it means, something different to each who hears or sees. The globe is speaking to you now, showing you things that have happened and will happen. It offers its knowledge and wisdom to those who seek it with open hearts. To those who crave power for themselves, its doors are closed. To those who seek truth and beauty, it sings an endless song. But lunch is ready. Come and eat with Uncle Abe.”

Sonya took Yanosh by the hand and led him through the curtain to the kitchen, where von Holzing had already eaten half his sandwich.

* * *

When Madame Sonya administered the Exorium elixir to Hope, she fell into a deep sleep.

“Give it time to work,” Sonya said to von Holzing. “Let her rest here in our bed. In twenty-four hours’ time, if all goes well, she will awaken purged of the parasite. Her resistance will be strong and the alien spirit will no longer have access to her corporeal manifestation.”

“Excellent,” said von Holzing. “Well done, Sonya.”

* * *

The window to the living world grew opaque. The living beings, moving to and fro, became two-dimensional silhouettes, then vague shadows flitting here and there. The borrowed body filled with a violent force of noxious energy and became uninhabitable, unsuitable for dwelling. Fear. Panic. Flight. Escape. Once again, as for so long, only darkness, murk, vague sounds and distant movement. The path to the borrowed body was broken, the channel closed, the link severed. The spirit fled, returning to the dry husk in which it had first awoken.

But in the darkness, somewhere, glowing dimly in the distance, a shining sphere of light. Drawing all to itself. Attracting. Alluring. The last link to life, the last channel to the living, the last open doorway to the breathing world. The globe.

* * *

It was after hours. The museum guard was dozing, seated near the doorway of the mummy exhibit. If the guard had been awake, he might have seen the slits appear between the eyelids as the eyes slowly opened. Dry and yellowed, they stared dully out from the grinning skull-like remains of the face.

If the guard had been alert, he might have seen the Bog Man rise and heard him shuffle slowly across the parquet floor, might have been able to run, to sound the alarm, before the dry, bony fingers wrapped around his throat, choked off the air, and ended his brief sojourn among the living.

In the void, in the lifeless darkness, the Bog Man moved slowly towards the distant glowing sphere. The ancient, evil spirit was drawn towards the power stone, towards the last opening to the living world.

The well-dressed couple coming out of the restaurant paused on the steps. Under the street light, a man in tattered rags, or what was left of a man, bone thin, shriveled, hunched and limping, shuffled by.

“Look at that dreadful derelict,” the woman said to her dinner companion. “I think he’s drunk.”

“He looks diseased. Stay away from him, dear.”

“His skin is flaking off! It’s horrible.”

The couple waited for the homeless drunk to pass. The derelict shuffled across the street and headed west towards the setting moon, head down, drooping, dragging his filthy rags behind.

* * *

Von Holzing was awakened by the sound of breaking wood and glass in the front parlor. He jumped out of bed.

“Stay here, Sonya.”

“Be careful, Abe.”

In his pajamas, von Holzing crept to the curtains that separated the living quarters from the front parlor. He opened them just a crack and peeked through. An intruder was ransacking the parlor. Von Holzing stepped through the curtains into the parlor.

“What are you doing here?”

The burglar said nothing. He stumbled towards the table and pulled the silken cloth from the power stone. The sphere was glowing blood red. The burglar grabbed the power stone in both hands and lifted it.

Von Holzing strode to the table and took the burglar by the arm. A piece of rotted cloth came off in his hand and crumbled to dust. Von Holzing became aware of a deathly chill that was permeating the room. The burglar turned towards him, holding the globe now in one arm. Von Holzing saw the dead, yellow eyes and the brown, bone dry face, grinning like a skull.

With one powerful sweep of its free arm, the Bog Man knocked von Holzing aside and threw him against a bureau. The professor’s head struck the corner of the bureau and he crumpled to the floor with a groan, unconscious and bleeding.

A wild screech and the flutter of wings stirred the deathly cold of the parlor. A great white owl shot across the room and sunk its claws into the Bog Man’s face. The ancient, dry, paper thin flesh tore away in strips. The Bog Man stumbled backwards, still clinging to the globe, and with his free hand, grabbed for the owl.

In the confines of the room, the great bird had no room to maneuver. The Bog Man caught the owl by the wing and shook it. The wing broke with an ugly crack and the bird screeched in agony as the Bog Man threw it to the floor.

Yanosh woke to the sound of commotion in the front parlor. He heard Uncle Abe’s voice, then a crash, then a screeching bird. Yanosh got out of bed and snuck through the darkness quietly to the curtains. Through the crack, in the gloom, he saw Uncle Abe’s body on the floor. Across the room, a great white bird with a broken wing fluttered helplessly on the floor.

Stooping over the bird was a tall, bone thin figure in a robe of rags, holding Sonya’s glass ball, which glowed and pulsated in a fiery red. Yanosh felt the heat of the globe and the streams of deathly cold flowing from the bone thin figure. He slipped into the room and, cat like, crept silently through the shadows, along the wall, towards the carved bureau in the corner.

The man in rags turned and Yanosh saw the shriveled face of the Bog Man, pieces of dry flesh torn from around his eyes and mouth, revealing broken teeth and cracked bone underneath. The dry, yellowed eyes rested on Yanosh and the boy saw the death’s head grin on the Bog Man’s withered face.

As the Bog Man started towards him, Yanosh dove across the table, rolled, and came to a crouching position next to the bureau where Uncle Abe lay unconscious. The Bog Man turned and shuffled relentlessly towards them. Yanosh shivered in the cold that exuded from the mummy and sucked the life from the very air. The boy opened the bottom drawer of the bureau and pulled out the silver pistol. His hand wrapped around the grip and his finger found the trigger.

The Bog Man was upon him. Ice cold gripped Yanosh’s heart. Bone dry fingers wrapped around his throat and he gasped for air as his wind pipe closed. He was blacking out and felt the life ebbing from him.

Yanosh swung the pistol up, leveled the barrel, and squeezed the trigger.

The silver bullet flew from the chamber, found its mark, drilled a hole between the mummy’s eyes and flew out the back of its skull. The Bog Man’s withered head jerked back from the impact as a chunk of dry flesh broke off from the back of his skull. He stumbled back a step, loosening his grip on Yanosh’s throat. Something leaked out the bullet holes in front and back.

A wide grin spread across the Bog Man’s parchment face. Still clutching the power stone in one arm, a grinning skull with a hole between its dead yellow eyes, the mummy regained its balance, took a step forward and reached again for Yanosh with his free hand.

Yanosh pulled the trigger again. The chamber was empty. He dropped the gun, reached behind into the drawer, and his hand found the silver knife. He grasped the handle, slid the blade from its sheath, and swung his arm with one smooth arcing motion.

The razor-sharp blade sliced through the desiccated flesh of the Bog Man’s throat and cut through the dried neck bone. The head was severed. It toppled from the neck, fell to the ground like an empty bees’ nest, and broke in two.

The Bog Man’s headless body stood swaying before Yanosh, its free hand groping blindly for Yanosh’s neck. The boy rolled to the side, sprang behind the slow-moving Bog Man, and swung the knife again and again, like a cat batting its prey with extended claws.

The silver blade severed the limbs, one by one, like so much papier-mâché. The Bog Man’s reanimated flesh, powerless against the silver onslaught, crumpled to the ground, noxious gasses hissing from the wounds. Darkness swelled. Silence descended. Nothingness resumed its reign. The crumpled hulk disintegrated before Yanosh’s eyes, leaving a pile of dust and filthy rags.

The power stone rolled from atop the pile and came to rest at Yanosh’s feet. The boy crouched, breathing heavily, and saw a man’s face in the globe, looking out at him. The man had a crew cut, gray around the temples, and thick whiskers. His handsome eyes were sharp and piercing. His neck was thick and strong, his shoulders wide. The man was smiling warmly at him.

* * *

The next day, Josey and Tricia returned from their trip to fetch Yanosh. They were shocked to see von Holzing’s head bandaged and Sonya’s arm in a cast and sling.

Hope was there, too, looking wan and pale, but with a gentle smile on her face like none of them had seen for many years. Josey could not remember the last time he had seen her not wearing black.

“What in God’s name happened?” asked Josey.

Tricia ran to her son and took him in her arms.

“Are you all right?”

“He’s unhurt,” said Madame Sonya.

“He’s the one who saved us!” said von Holzing.

Tricia kissed Yanosh and looked him over.

“Don’t worry, mom. I’m fine.”

“All right,” said Josey. “Is someone please going to tell us what happened?”

“I killed the Bog Man, dad!”

“You what?”

“Why don’t we all sit down for a moment,” said Sonya. “I’ll brew some tea and we’ll tell you the whole story.”

“Good idea,” said von Holzing. “It was quite exciting. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Good grief,” said Josey. “It never ends.”

Madame Sonya put the cups and saucers around the table. Her gentle, knowing eyes rested lovingly on Tricia and Josey and she began to speak in a quiet voice.

“There’s something you should know about Yanosh...”