managed to open it a crack, enough to reach out to you this way. But I’m still trapped, Beej.” The god wavered, its face blurring. “You have to let me out. You will have assistance from other worshippers, acolytes of mud and fire. But you are my favorite. Remember. My chosen one.”
“Yes,” Beej said. “Yes, oh yes. Where are you trapped? What can I do?”
“I’ll show you,” the god said, and raised its knife.
Beej sat calmly as the god sliced into his scalp. There was not much pain—the knife was very sharp. The god touched the bones of Beej’s head and tugged, and the plates parted. The sensation sent a shiver through Beej’s body. It was better than orgasm. It was an earthquake in his flesh.
With the tip of the knife, the god began writing on the surface of Beej’s brain.
Knowledge filled him. He knew where the god was imprisoned. He knew about the artist, Garamond Ray, and how the god had been changed and trapped—and he knew what Marzi had done, what she was still doing. Beej whimpered as the god’s mind brushed against his own. Even at this distance, with the god only reaching through the crack in the door of his prison, Beej sensed its enormity, its inhumanity, its unrelenting purpose.
Its message conveyed, the god retreated, putting the bones in Beej’s head back together. A breeze blew in through the fence, swirling the god apart, wisping its transitory body into nothingness. Beej touched his head tenderly and found it unharmed. He smoothed down his hair, feeling grubby and human again.
The things on the altar were smoking lumps, blackened by fire, and Marzi’s comics were now ashes. Beej touched the warm altar stone for a moment, then trudged up out of the hole.
The sense of total understanding was fading, had begun to fade the moment the god stopped touching him, but Beej remembered enough. He knew what he had to do first.
He had to break into Genius Loci, and open a door.
Misty Beyond
----
Denis reached the site of Jane’s inhumation shortly after nightfall. He pulled his car off the road and drove into the trees, parking well away from the hillside. He searched halfheartedly for a flashlight in the glove compartment, but he hadn’t brought one. That was stupid, but he was under a lot of stress. Denis considered moving his car closer to the mound and letting his headlights illuminate the area, but that would bring him entirely too close to possible entombment. The way Jane had died . . . that wasn’t for him.
Denis got out of his car, wrapping his overcoat around him against the evening chill. It was noticeably cooler here in the hills than it was downtown. Denis squinted in the darkness as he approached the mound. The moon was silvery bright, but its light was pale and filtered through the redwoods overhead. Denis stumbled and cursed as he walked, but when he saw the tire tracks running through the mud, he stopped. He hadn’t thought about it before, but Jane had left a trail, driving here through the soft earth. Would someone notice the tracks, and follow them to the mound of mud? Jane had pulled off the road, but she hadn’t gone
that
far from the beaten path, just a few dozen yards.
Someone would find her eventually, Denis supposed. There’d be no evidence of his involvement, though. Not once he picked up the knife, and the other remains of the picnic. There were his footprints in the mud, but his boots were not an unusual brand, and by the time the car was discovered, his prints would likely be washed away. Maybe he would scuff away the bootprints when he left. No one had seen him with Jane that night, Denis reminded himself. As far as anyone knew, they had broken up and were no longer speaking. He was safe. There was nothing to fear from Jane now but bad memories and bad dreams—but even dreams of Jane would be a relief from his usual nightmares about the machine that grinds.
Denis followed the tire tracks . . . and then found another, much fresher, pair of tracks
“Yes,” Beej said. “Yes, oh yes. Where are you trapped? What can I do?”
“I’ll show you,” the god said, and raised its knife.
Beej sat calmly as the god sliced into his scalp. There was not much pain—the knife was very sharp. The god touched the bones of Beej’s head and tugged, and the plates parted. The sensation sent a shiver through Beej’s body. It was better than orgasm. It was an earthquake in his flesh.
With the tip of the knife, the god began writing on the surface of Beej’s brain.
Knowledge filled him. He knew where the god was imprisoned. He knew about the artist, Garamond Ray, and how the god had been changed and trapped—and he knew what Marzi had done, what she was still doing. Beej whimpered as the god’s mind brushed against his own. Even at this distance, with the god only reaching through the crack in the door of his prison, Beej sensed its enormity, its inhumanity, its unrelenting purpose.
Its message conveyed, the god retreated, putting the bones in Beej’s head back together. A breeze blew in through the fence, swirling the god apart, wisping its transitory body into nothingness. Beej touched his head tenderly and found it unharmed. He smoothed down his hair, feeling grubby and human again.
The things on the altar were smoking lumps, blackened by fire, and Marzi’s comics were now ashes. Beej touched the warm altar stone for a moment, then trudged up out of the hole.
The sense of total understanding was fading, had begun to fade the moment the god stopped touching him, but Beej remembered enough. He knew what he had to do first.
He had to break into Genius Loci, and open a door.
Misty Beyond
----
Denis reached the site of Jane’s inhumation shortly after nightfall. He pulled his car off the road and drove into the trees, parking well away from the hillside. He searched halfheartedly for a flashlight in the glove compartment, but he hadn’t brought one. That was stupid, but he was under a lot of stress. Denis considered moving his car closer to the mound and letting his headlights illuminate the area, but that would bring him entirely too close to possible entombment. The way Jane had died . . . that wasn’t for him.
Denis got out of his car, wrapping his overcoat around him against the evening chill. It was noticeably cooler here in the hills than it was downtown. Denis squinted in the darkness as he approached the mound. The moon was silvery bright, but its light was pale and filtered through the redwoods overhead. Denis stumbled and cursed as he walked, but when he saw the tire tracks running through the mud, he stopped. He hadn’t thought about it before, but Jane had left a trail, driving here through the soft earth. Would someone notice the tracks, and follow them to the mound of mud? Jane had pulled off the road, but she hadn’t gone
that
far from the beaten path, just a few dozen yards.
Someone would find her eventually, Denis supposed. There’d be no evidence of his involvement, though. Not once he picked up the knife, and the other remains of the picnic. There were his footprints in the mud, but his boots were not an unusual brand, and by the time the car was discovered, his prints would likely be washed away. Maybe he would scuff away the bootprints when he left. No one had seen him with Jane that night, Denis reminded himself. As far as anyone knew, they had broken up and were no longer speaking. He was safe. There was nothing to fear from Jane now but bad memories and bad dreams—but even dreams of Jane would be a relief from his usual nightmares about the machine that grinds.
Denis followed the tire tracks . . . and then found another, much fresher, pair of tracks
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