Upwyr by Bill Bowler	Table of Contents
Chapter 6: Last in Line part 2

When Sonya came back into the kitchen, von Holzing and Yanosh were talking.

“Uncle Abe, why does Hope always wear black?”

“It’s a long story, Yanosh. She loved the man you’re named after.”

“Yanosh Straker.”

“That’s right. He died eight years ago, the year you were born. They were in love and he saved her life. She still misses him badly and wears black in his memory.”

“That’s why she’s always so sad?”

“Yes.”

Yanosh turned to Sonya. “Can’t you give her a magic potion to make her happy, Sonya?”

“I wish I could, but no potion can do that, Yanosh. An elixir would only paint over sadness, hide it, but not change it. Such changes must come from within, from the soul itself.”

Von Holzing sipped his tea, picked up the newspaper, and showed Yanosh an article.

“Take a look at this, Yanosh. Here’s the exhibit I thought we could see.”

“What’s that, Uncle Abe?”

Von Holzing scanned the article. “It’s an archeological exhibit from the permanent collection of the Romanian National Science Museum in Bucharest on loan to the Museum of Natural History. They recently found the most fully preserved mummy ever discovered. They call him the ‘Bog Man.’ His hair, teeth, finger nails, even his skin and soft tissue, are in remarkable condition for a 2,000-year old man.

“His robes and garments survived, as well, a bit the worse for wear. He’s in such good shape because he was sealed in mud, airtight. They pulled him from a peat bog in Romania.” Von Holzing put the paper down. “Would you like to see the Bog Man?”

“I’m not sure, Uncle Abe. Is he really dead?”

“Dead as a doornail.”

“Then let’s see him! Will you come, too, Sonya?”

“I have to watch the shop, dear. You go along with Uncle Abe.”

“We’ll be back for supper, Sonyechka.” Von Holzing rose and pulled on his coat.

After they left, Madame Sonya stood at the sink, drying a sauce pan. Something was tugging at her subconscious. As Abe had read the article about the Bog Man, a forgotten memory had surfaced. She had caught a glimpse of a fleeting image. She remembered her own grand-mother, a little hut in the forest, a hand sticking out of the mud, and a crystal sphere — fragments of the past swirling into the present.

* * *

Blackness. Nothingness. Timelessness. A gentle floating in eternal sleep. No sound. No sensation. No self. No other. A bed of earth and water. And always, the power stone, pulsing in the ether. Until it grew faint, grew distant, stopped. Disappeared. The pulsing ceased. The nothingness became complete. Eternity cycled in the void. No contact. No exchange. No transfer.

Then dreams began. Movement. Separated now by a thin veil. Faint sounds from the distance, growing louder. Unintelligible voices. Light and dark. Sound and silence. Then the crack in the wall. The seeping out. The drifting towards the source. And then the pulsating began again. Not far now. Familiar. Welcoming. Reviving. Living shadows seemed close enough to touch. A rent in the fabric, an opening, and blinding light burst in.

Yanosh and von Holzing had climbed the broad steps and entered the museum through the grand entrance across from Central Park. They walked past the charging elephants and followed the signs to the Special Exhibit Gallery on the first floor.

Yanosh stood in the exhibit room and stared at the Bog Man’s face, the paper thin, brownish skin, torn in places, stretched tight across the cheeks and jaw, a grinning skull with broken teeth, like in his dream. The eyes were shut, impassive. But as Yanosh watched, the lids moved, imperceptibly, and the eyes opened, just a slit. Yanosh felt the Bog Man staring back at him.

Yanosh grabbed von Holzing’s arm and pointed. “Look!”

“What is it, Yanosh?”

“The eyes are open!”

Von Holzing studied the mummy’s face. It wasn’t going to win any beauty contests. The features were set in the immobility of death.

“It’s your imagination, Yanosh. The eyes are shut. It does look almost alive, but it’s been dead for two thousand years.”

Yanosh stared at the Bog Man’s face. The eyes were open, just a slit. They hadn’t been before. Something had disturbed it, woken it up. It was looking straight at him.

When they left the museum, someone or something followed them home, or did it? Yanosh kept looking back over his shoulder. Uncle Abe didn’t seem to notice. Yanosh felt it in the street, in the taxi.

When they reached home and entered the parlor, Madame Sonya felt it as a deathly chill. The air turned cold as the life was drained out of it. Sonya’s eyes blurred for a moment. Did she see something move, in the corner of her eye?

And then it passed. Warmth and life returned to the air. The bustle from the street filled their ears again.

Underneath the silken cloth, the power stone began to pulsate with a dim light. The wall between worlds was clear, thin, transparent, porous. The portals were open. Life had tempted the dead to return.

* * *

The spirit of the Bog Man had entered the power stone. The long dormant spirit was still weak and disoriented but gaining in strength. It perceived only floating shadows, vague reflections, blurred images drifting to and fro. Motion. Sound. The long sleep had ended. The living world renewed itself and pressed and crowded from without, moving and churning just beyond the thin, transparent wall, just outside the sphere.

And then, a vulnerability, a crack in the shield, a rent in the veil, an escape route. The spirit hissed through the break, through the tear in the fabric, and settled in around the open wound, the aching soul searching to receive, to accept.

The spirit settled in and its vision cleared. The world around grew sharp and focused. The sounds and smells became real. It reached out and touched. It was thrilling, a re-awakening, a re-birth. It exploded through its new host, but the resident soul pushed back reflexively, struggling instinctively to defend its dwelling, to preserve its own existence and identity in the physical plane.

Hope came down the steps, rang the buzzer, and pushed through the open door to Madame Sonya’s parlor. Sonya was seated at the table with one hand on the transparent globe. She spoke, as if to herself.

“It’s strange, very strange. The sphere is warm, just as when I first found it those many many years ago. I had forgotten. A wild rose bush grew in a forest bog.”

“Madame Sonya, it’s me,” said Hope, feeling as if she were intruding on Madame Sonya’s private thoughts. “Should I come back later?”

Sonya looked up. “Oh no, Hope. I’m glad you’re here. The skin cream is ready.”

Sonya took a blue, wide-mouthed jar from the glass display case and gave it to Hope. “Maybe I should call this ‘Baby’s Butt?’”

Hope laughed, and her laugh cascaded, out of control, into hysteria. Her eyes rolled and stared wildly.

“Hope, what is it?” asked Madame Sonya.

Hope’s focused her eyes and laughed, “It’s nothing. I’m suddenly feeling quite well, actually.” There was a harsh edge to her voice. “You know, Sonya, I’m getting tired of wearing black, tired of staying home and moping. I feel like getting out and having fun.” Hope laughed again, a nervous laugh with no joy in it.

Sonya watched Hope carefully. Hope moaned and grabbed the sides of her head. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Sonya held her and sat her in one of the easy chairs.

“I’m getting a migraine,” Hope groaned.

“Sit back and close your eyes. I’ll give you something for it.” Madame Sonya took a small jar from the display case and poured a teaspoon of powder into a glass of water. “Here, drink this.”

Hope sipped the tonic and leaned back in the chair, eyes closed. “Thank you, Sonya.”

“Rest a moment and let it take effect.”

Sonya sat beside her, worried about her friend’s condition. On the table, the power stone pulsed with a dim, reddish light. If Sonya had touched it at that moment, she might have burned her hand.

* * *

At Jack’s Pub on West 58th, around 11 pm when the crowd was thinning, a good looking young woman, dressed in red, came in alone, sat at the bar, and in a loud voice ordered a stiff drink.

The bartender set her up. She lifted her head, tossed down a double scotch in one gulp, and ordered another double. The bar tender glanced over at the manager. The manager nodded yes, and the bartender poured the drink.

A middle-aged stockbroker, unhappily married, sat at the corner of the bar nursing a gin and tonic. He took his drink and walked down the bar to where the good looking babe in red was chatting with the bartender.

“Mind if I join you?”

The woman looked at him with unfocused eyes. “Sure! The more, the merrier,” she laughed. “Have a seat.”

The stockbroker sat down. The woman seemed pretty drunk already. Mighty fine prospects for some action tonight. His eyes dropped to the cleavage made by her breasts. The top buttons of her red blouse were open.

“Where does somebody go around here to have some real fun?” The woman’s voice was slurred.

“Come with me,” said the stockbroker. “We can take a taxi to a private club I know on the East Side.”

“Lead the way,” said the woman.

As she stood from the bar stool, she swayed and lost her balance. She grabbed for the bar to steady herself. The stockbroker began to get a bad feeling about things. Hope threw up, mostly on the bar but some vomit splashed on the nice man’s Brooks Brothers slacks.

* * *

“An evil spirit is trying to take control of her,” said Madame Sonya.

Von Holzing nodded.

“Her mood fluctuates from deep sorrow to hysteria. It’s the surging tide of the struggle between her own soul and the alien spirit that has invaded her body like a parasite.”

“What can we do?” asked von Holzing.

“The infection has already taken hold and it’s a nasty one. We’re going to have to use extreme measures. I’m going to brew some Exorium. The native soul, from long habitation, knows its own body’s life force channels. It has flowed through them and, in a sense, owns them. The invading spirit is less at home, less familiar with its new environment, and that is its weakness. It is still exploring and searching through the corporeal network, the life matrix, of the host, which it seeks to alter to its own pattern.

“Exorium prevents the alteration of these channels and preserves their original configuration. This gives the resident soul a kind of home field advantage, tips the scales just enough to empower the native soul to expel the invader once and for all. It’s as if the body were inoculated. Resistance is developed to the invasive spirit.

“But the elixir is powerful and highly toxic. If the dosage is too strong or the blend of ingredients off balance, then the subject does not recover from the effects and remains in a deep, death-like trance, like a coma. It’s a risk we’re going to have to take.”

“All right,” said von Holzing. “You know what you’re doing. Why, hello, Yanosh.”

Yanosh had come through the curtain that separated the parlor from the rear apartment.

“Did you hear what we were saying?” asked Sonya.

“Yes.”

* * *

Madame Sonya was in the kitchen, making lunch for Abe and Yanosh. Yanosh was playing in the front parlor when he heard the faint, distant sound of someone singing. It was a woman’s voice, beautiful and melodic, singing a deeply sad song of pain and loss.

Yanosh was fascinated by the song. It seemed to come from nowhere and from everywhere, from inside his own head, and from out. Its melody made him sad. As Yanosh listened, it began to seem that the song was coming from the glass ball underneath the silken cloth on the table. He leaned across the table and removed the cloth. The globe was warm to his touch. The song seemed closer, clearer.

Yanosh gazed into the sphere. The swirling cloud danced before his eyes, shifting and coiling into fantastic shapes and sparkling colors. Yanosh stared wide-eyed as the cloud dissolved and, in the globe, he saw a woman singing...

The woman was beautiful. She was dressed in flowing white robes. Her skin was pale and smooth, like cream. Her figure was slim. Her hair was silver and fell in waves to her shoulders. She reminded Yanosh of Sonya, only younger.

The woman was standing in a clearing amidst a grove of pine trees. Beautiful white columns supported an arch. Beneath the arch, a statue stood on a pedestal. It was the figure of a man with the wings of a bird and the head of a wolf. In one hand, the statue held a sword and, in the other, outstretched palm, a large glass ball.

The woman stopped singing and bowed before the statue. The cloud swirled and the scene dissolved into another. Yanosh now saw a man, in a robe like the woman’s, walking with a long staff topped with a carved wolf’s head. The man strode up a forest path, through the pines, towards the arched columns in the clearing. Yanosh heard the faint, beautiful singing again.

As the man with the staff made his way up the path, another man emerged from the pines and crept up behind. In this man’s hand was a jagged rock. He raised it and struck the robed man from behind, smashing the rock into the back of his skull. The robed man dropped his staff and fell to the ground, a pool of blood forming around his head. Yanosh gasped in horror. The sad song continued.

The murderer threw away the bloody rock and dragged the corpse from the path into the brush. He put on the dead man’s robe, took the wolf’s head staff, and continued up the path towards the woodland temple. When the murderer entered the clearing, the beautiful woman stopped singing. She turned to the man and bowed. As her head was lowered, the imposter swung the great staff and struck the woman in the head. She crumpled to the ground.

The imposter approached the statue and grasped the great globe. He pulled and tugged on it, trying to wrench it free, but the globe was secured to the hand. The imposter took up the great staff again and swung it with full force. He struck the statue’s arm and broke it off at the elbow. The marble forearm and hand holding the great globe fell to the ground, landing unharmed on the soft bed of pine needles.

The imposter — murderer and thief — took the arm and globe, hid them in a shoulder bag, and ran from the temple into the forest. Still dressed in the stolen robes, he fled away, further and further, across three great rivers and into a range of thickly forested mountains. He was pursued by a band of similarly robed men, armed with swords, staves and knives, who had discovered the murdered priestess at the temple, the desecrated statue of their god, and then the bloody corpse in the brush.

The thief fled swiftly, putting ever greater distance between himself and his pursuers until, finally, they lost the track. The thief pushed on, hoarding his treasure, always towards the sunrise, into the thick forest and high mountains. He came, at last, to feel safe and halted. He sat down on a gently sloping bank of earth near a large, flowering wild rose bush, on the edge of a meadow of swaying cat-o-nine tails.

From his rucksack, the thief took the globe and arm and admired them in the dappled sunlight. The beams of light played on the crystal globe, making it sparkle and glisten magically. The arm itself was of white marble, lightly veined with rose. He placed the treasure down on the bank and leaned back against a tree. The globe, which he had been unable by any means to disattach from the hand, now, of its own accord, rolled free, down the slope, and came to rest at the base of the wild rosebush.

The thief was amazed. Leaving the broken arm on the bank, he started down the slope to retrieve the globe. At the bottom of the slope, he realized the ground was moist and soft and, as he walked, he sank into the mud up to his ankles. The great rosebush swayed before him in the gentle breeze, its red blossoms like many red eyes, its fragrance filling the air.

The thief made his way through the mud towards the globe. Each step sunk deeper into the soft muck and he strode with difficulty, knee-deep now.

The globe sparkled in the sunlight. The rosebush swayed gently, beckoning. The thief struggled now towards the globe. He was waist-deep in the soft mud. The globe was almost within reach.

Proceed to part 3...

Copyright © 2008 by Bill Bowler