work in progress

Prologue

There is peace in the garden. All birds save for the falcon sing their songs. Talonous, feathersome bird. He grips the magnolia branch, scans the garden for the sparrow. An angel hiding from God, his plumage cloak fools all beasts of the garden but one. A gleam in his eye as he watches the sparrow circle the great magnolia. The grey bird lands as might a particle of dust, without noise or weight enough to sway the branch. Says the great bird to the small, Pacify your worry, brother, we are far from view in this place.

Unwise, your speak, the sparrow murmurs. You’ve wit to know there are no unseen places.

But yet you’ve come, the falcon extends his wings. And here we stand, unseen and unheard in this garden, the last holy thing untainted by the wicked.

Careful your tongue, Mazacarth, says the sparrow. You nor I are shall judge who or what is wicked. Emboldening yourself in this effort is unnatural.

But yet you’ve come.

I’ve not come because I trust we are unseen here. The wind shifts through the magnolia leaves. I’ve come to warn you. There is talk amongst some. They say doubt plagues your heart.

Hearts, the falcon laughs. We could be so fortunate. We’ve only strings to pull us this way and that, tethered to an unquestionable force.

I’ll not bare this talk much longer, brother. Steady yourself again on the true path, your undoing awaits I fear should you neglect it further.

Must I? The magnolia splinters beneath the falcon’s grip. When the ones below us take whichever path best serves them? They trespas every natural law, and now even death they defy. It cannot stand. The sparrow prepares its wings.

Return home, it says. Quell these doubts and resume your duties or ready yourself for a fate only the worst of evils has suffered before you. The falcon says nothing as the sparrow kisses his wings to the wind and sails from the magnolia across the garden.

…

The air is cold beneath the screen of pitch. All it ever has been since the sun left. Behind the clouds, the ceaseless flames rage on. The air is wet and Jack’s unrested. He craves the heat of flames beyond the sky. Walks the wilds of lands we once congested. The shadow behind him makes itself known. Shouts, Go no further! Keep what’s left of you! Jack slows, draws his hand up to his hip bone. The savage wind screams protest in his ears. Face me, Jack and live a while longer.  The fire behind the black curtain nears. An angel’s voice calls out beyond the wind. Bit further, Jack, all you seek’s within reach. Jack hastens his step, his boot soles are thinned. His eyes are locked forward.  He wants so badly to turn and face what hunts him. He frees the pistol at his hip from its leather hold. The sky is black. It's been that way as long as Jack can remember. It will be that way until day the fire takes us all.

…

Part One

A baby is born in the cold of October. Waking from the dream of black nothing, the baby does not cry as he is pulled from the wet warmth of his mother’s womb and into the stale air of the hospital room. Confusion. His mind struggling to define the incomplete calculations that pour from some unknown source into his head, he does not cry as the doctor smacks his bottom. The baby turns his head about. Blinks at the light above. Light. He knows the word. Words begin to fill his mind. A name. Keller. The baby does not cry as he is cut from his mother. White sheets and bright light, the baby is uncertain what will become of him as the ones behind the glass before him speak, worry smeared across each face. The glass makes their talk soundless. Another name chimes out into the baby’s mind. Leanne. Rings like so many bells marking the new hour. Leanne. The baby cries. The shorter of doctors waves his hands about the air. A darkly complexioned man, his thin mustache expands and compresses with his hushed words.

She has no ID, he says.

Homeless?

Most likely, she was veddy scraped up. The doctors watch the baby behind the glass, his eyes shut tight and spilling tears.

I’ll get in touch with social services.

...

The man smokes his cigarettes while she drives.

Conspiracy theorists say some crazy things. She looks at him then back at the road. Jack puts out his cigarette. Some of them say things that scare me sometimes.

Oh yeah? She says. Jack shakes another cigarette loose.

Yeah, he says. Just a few. And you have to dig them up deep in the Youtube.

The Youtube, she laughs. Your grandfather didn’t even call it the Youtube, Jack.

I know.

So why the added the.

Keeps some distance between me and the product. Jack lights his cigarette.

Distance.

Yeah. What people did in the old days. They heard things on the radio, watched things on the tele. He looks at her she shakes her head. People started leaving out the the and that’s when the product became little distinguishable from a guest at Thanksgiving dinner. She keeps her eyes on the road. I prefer to keep my distance from the products and the corporations.

Seems excessive, Jack.

Only thing I’m obsessed about is my work.

I said excessive, Jack. Bump in the road, lawyer in the backseat sits up.

I don't think there's any good in telling you so, the lawyer swipes the drool from his chin. But your work has burdened my liver with labor once again. He looks around for the bottle. Probably for the last time too, he says as he puts the bottle to his lips. He pulls a long one. Irish, he says. Words you need not when you’ve a way with whiskey.

Cut the whining, Kurt. Jack pats his hip. Thing ain't failed me yet, he says.

Yes, Kurt snickers. I'm sure you'll just cowboy your way out of this one.

Same as usual, Jack frowns at the rear view mirror. Aint no difference just cause we got him with

us. Jack nods at the pale figure beside the lawyer.

If anything you should feel safer with me on your side. All eyes lock to the angelic voice next to Kurt. Pale and cold, the angel smiles back at Jack through the mirror. And safe we will be so long we mind the brevity this task requires.

Task, the driver laughs. This task, this crusade, this holy campaign, this load of horseshit as far as I know, smoke and mirrors and street magicians shown me stranger things than all you’ve done so far after all, is really worn out its welcome with me.  

Believe you me, says the angel. The one we seek will show you more than you’ve bargained for. So to speak.

So to speak, chirps the lawyer. What do you mean by that?

You’ll have me to explain it again? The angel blinks.

Again? The lawyer hiccups. The angel snaps the bottle from his hands.

Listen closely, he says. We’re about to meet someone very dangerous. Keep your wits up or you’ll have a lot more to worry about than the hangover you have coming. You, attorney, have a critical role to play. Noqoilpi will only benefit from our carelessness.

Nocklepee, the lawyer’s eyes are barely open. That’s who we’re seeking.

Yes, Noqoilpi is the first step in preventing the looming storm which draws nearer every minute, a point I must emphasize as you insist I waste these dwindling minutes reminding you the task at hand.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Always a pleasure to read your work. The story brought me in and I wanted more. Great set-up of the story and the characters. Are interesting. Thank you Evan for sharing the interesting tale.
Coyote

[Suhd]

So refreshing and crafty. Bravo