Phillips Harbour
October 30, 1868. Late night.
Randall's locked the safe room where he's been keeping Mother, as usual. So Yotee enters the farmhouse alone, leaving Marseilles outside. He noses at the locked door, and it opens without a click. Inside is the usual careful array of books and old documents. Mother rests on a low shelf. He can feel her sleeping.
Books, they smell inviting. Old tomes that have passed through many hands, pages of paper, papyrus, velum, and cotton wrapped in interesting skins and filled with inks made from all sorts of exotic substances. Each one with a distinct, savory story to tell. The coyote could easily assuage some of his worry here, transfering it the corners and pages through an extended gnaw. He resists, he has something important to do, and is unusually focused in its execution. He noses the rock, gently stretching his teeth around to pick it up. The flask is outside with Marseilles, that's where he's taking her. Mother, there's someone I want you to meet.
As before, Mother takes a little while to rouse. By the time she does, Yotee has carried her outside and laid her on the grass beside the fox girl. "This is her?" Marseilles speaks with hushed reverence, kneeling beside the little rough-hewn statuette.
Then, with a stretch and a sleepy yawn, Mother's spirit awakens. She enfolds Yotee in her warmth. Mmmm, good morning, baby boy.
The coyote has been gentle, turning around three times to trample the grass into a bed before laying Mother down. Her stone rests in the hollow, a spot of moonlight illuminating her. Her warmth is welcome, chasing the chill he's had since the bay waters into distant memory. Yotee paws at the edge, bowing down to lay on the ground before the statuette. Good morning Mother. I'd like you to meet a friend, Marseilles.
Marseilles gasps as Mother envelops her, too. They are caught in a beam of moonlight that feels like the sun, gathered into a comfortable lap like children, like cubs. Good morning to you too, Marseilles. Oh, my poor baby girl. You've had a time of it, haven't you? Mother says to her. The fox-girl flats back her ears and hunches her shoulders, nodding as Mother curls her closer in that warm embrace. It'll be all right, Mother promises, and somehow it seems true when she says it.
Yotee curls up, happily squirming in the embrace. His tail wags, he believes her. So many things have happened Mother, and I've brought you food. He is especially proud when he says it, he's taking care of his mother, like a good boy should.
Awww, sweet baby boy, you shouldn't have. Her presence extends to brush the vial, rolling over it. This? This is for me, sweetie?
The coyote remembers his dream, of the sweeping darkness that spread, absorbing the spirits and how he was a tiny one of those, the last one clutched and saved by her. He remembers promising to help, feeling so ineffectual by her side, and at last managing to keep it. Yes. It will make you stronger. I brought it for you.
Oh, pumpkin. She cuddles him to her. Are you sure about this? You don't want to give it to someone else? You could use it yourself, you know. I know you've been hungry, baby. She rubs his tummy, scratches at the itchy spots beneath the fur, and the gaunt rib bones hidden by it.
The coyote has been, so hungry, always hungry. More aware of it now than he has been in a long time, after that brief view of the other world that left normal food tasting like dirt, dust. The cold, the darkness, the ice, the pain and effort it took to come back after his encounter with Alorn, and anxious effort he expended helping him fight the hill. With great difficulty he fights the urge. I am hungry. We open the gate soon. You would be there, you could make things be all right.
He can't see it, but he knows that Mother's taken the vial in her hand. She rolls it between fat fingers, thoughtful. You're gonna Open, baby boy? You sure? I'll do what I can to help, you know that, pumpkin. Whatever you decide. But it's implicit in her words: she doesn't think she can make this All Right.
Yotee isn't sure.
Mother strokes his flank, cradling him to her with one arm and Marseilles in the other. Mother has plenty enough lap for both of them. Marseilles rests her head against Mother's breast, quiet and attentive, watching them both.
He hasn't been, from the beginning. He hasn't been sure of the rules, of what side he was on, if what he was doing was the right thing, if he was being bad or good, or just being. The game, was a game, something to play at the way he played at everything: bite it, tease it, poke it, dig it up and see what could be learned. He was following his curiosity more than anything else, and a closed door should be opened! But what he's seen through the cracks, what he's heard, and what he remembers combined with Mother's hesitation makes him wonder if it's not yet too late to change sides. If one door shouldn't be opened. If he should play it safe this time and slink away, instead of gamble...
... but he wants to see...
... and everyone's prepared, right?...
... and it'd be a really good trick... and doors should be opened.
I'm opening. I'm sure. Yotee answers, sounding not too much in doubt. The other masters offered him everything, Mother would give him the food if he asked. He'd be stronger, remember tricks he's forgotten, who knows what he might do then! But it's never been about the power for him, and he knows what a good cub should do. I want you to eat, and it'll be okay; I'm strong enough.
All right, baby boy. She unstoppers the bottle, and pours out a cornucopia of foods. She runs her fingers over them, through them, meats and vegetables and fruits and grains. She doesn't eat them: she shares the abundance with them. This is her metaphor, Yotee knows: he must eat for Mother to be sated. And so he does, and Marseilles with him, devouring a feast while Mother looks on, never more real or more tangible to Yotee than she is right now. And he has never been less hungry.
Yotee sleeps afterwards, deep and contented, until a voice in his mind awakens him, loud as thunder.
THE DEVOURING IS COMPLETE.
There's a silence while Yotee tries to rouse, and then the voice continues. It is, of all people, Horus.
the bird puffs up a bit, taking a breath, and lifting himself on his talons. Then, he Sends. It's like being hit with a shockwave, so close to the origin of the projection. A psychic yell, heard across the world ...
"For those who hear my voice within their minds, I bid you greetings. I am Horus, falcon of knowledge, teacher of the Art, mentor of your mentor, he of the unending cycle. Know now that our world of magic, of spirit, of soul, faces a slow death. Know that I and my allies have discovered soverign remedy for this most dire of conditions. Know now, that we play the Game, and that through it, shall we find salvation."
A pause follows, letting Horus collect his thoughts and the world to let that all sink it. "A great battle awaits us upon the horizon, for soon the the gate shall Open. Know that beyond the Gate is the source of all spirt, all magic, all soul within our world. Without such energy, that which was born of this primal mana will wither and die. Has died. This must not come to pass. We march now to confront the great Masters of the other side, the spirit realm. Know now fear: these fel beings are as gods, but even gods may fall. Even gods may die. They must fall, for we to survive."
"Together, must we stand. Together, we shall be victorious. Know that the Masters, though powerful, are foolish. Know that the strength of man and spirit, our cleverness, resources, and ingenuity, are greater. Know now, that you, too, are a solider in this battle. Should you chose to fight or not. All are in peril. All must stand up and rally to the banner of this world. All must fight. Know now, that I shall open the way. Join with me, and heed my instruction."
Caliban winces at the burst of psychic energy, momentarily dropping the spyglass. He grabs at it as it falls, then catches it up again. Hey Prof, he ooks down at where the ritual is being held. That's the ten dollar explanation you just gave! Lemme make it simple. We Close this and the magic's gonna die, sure as the sun sets. We Open an' we're gonna face a horde of slaverin' Masters. If we care about the magic, we've gotta fight. An' the only way we can fight is all together. You all in?
Miss Pau answers twice, in English and in Mandarin: I am.
Having believed her thoughts private, Bernice's voice carries a note of confusion. What? Oh! I... I'm not so good at... wait, Slate! Slate, dear, can you hear me? Still Forest, please, please keep Slate safe. Slate, don't worry about me. We're... I don't know if I'm... if I don't come back, live there and be happy. I love you, Slate. Please, if anyone can help us, this is everything you've been waiting for! We can turn the decline around, I beg you to come to us. Scattered and disorganized as she is, Townes is at a loss to come up with better.
Slate's voice washes back to Bernice, from a dozen miles away. I hear you, I love you, I will be with you. Always!
The VOICE was loud, the moon is bright, and the coyote throws back his head and howls his reply. I'm coming and I'm bringing Mother.
Yotee noses Marseilles, who surely must also be awake now, then picks up Mother. It's time to go.
Marseilles rolls over, foxish and girlish, and gets up. "Mmm hmm. I was having the strangest dream .... " Mother doesn't say anything, but Yotee knows she's ready.
I was sleeping soundly, full off food. The coyote looks at the farmhouse, at the barn. Randall should be prepared, may even have left already. He scrapes at the door. Randall?
Randall doesn't answer. Over the harbour, a second sun is rising in the east: a pillar of fire in the shape of a great cross.
Yotee feels a tug from the cross. It's oddly gentle for what it wants to do, which is: devour him. It wants to take him, and Mother, and Marseilles, and bring them into itself. But only
But only if they are willing to join. To be subsumed, and consumed. This is the weapon that called his name. This is what it wants of him.
It's dawn, Yotee isn't supposed to be at the Hill until almost midnight. The cross is a very curious thing. The coyote isn't sure what to think, but it's a long walk so he'll have a little time to do so. He leads the way towards it, looking about as he goes.
The wings of the cross are coming to him: not physically, but astrally. With other-sight, Yotee can see spirits joining it: the Still Forest goes to it. The little fish from the spring in the hills. The mare that once kicked him, the Companion to Bernice Townes.
He could join it to, the coyote knows. If he just let go of his body.
He liked that little fish, and Slate turned out to be nice after all. Subsumed into the great spirit that would be directed by Horus. He looks at himself, at his shell. He's struggled to keep it, and now just let go? The coyote isn't sure that was part of the plan.
When it finally comes down to it, the coyote simply can't obey. He's not willing to let go, he knows he's more effective on his own, and Mother on hers, than he would be as a source of raw power for something else. His reluctance would be liable to bring whole thing crashing to pieces. The gate won't open without him, and he's seen how the machine rends and separates. He decides, That's not for us, we have to go to the hill.
The cross accepts his rejection without rancor. Like a great chorus to the world, Yotee hears its reply: Our blessings upon you, O children of this world. Know now that soon, the battle will begin. We will fight for you, O children of this world. Be at peace, whatever fate awaits you, and know that we love you.