Creatures of Light and Darkness

BROTZ, PURTZ amp; DULP

“Pass the frawlpin, please.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The frawlpin! The frawlpin!”

“I don’t have it.”

“I’ve got it”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say so?”

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

“Sorry. Just gimme. -Thanks.”

“Why do you keep refribbing that job, anyhow? It's ready.”

“Just to pass away the time.”

“Do you seriously think he’ll ever send for it?”

“Of course not. But that’s no reason for turning out an inferior product.”

“Well, I think he’ll send for it!”

“Who asked you?”

“I’m volunteering an opinion.”

“Whatever would he want it for? A tool no one can use!”

“If he ordered it he wants it. He’s the only one of his kind ever comes here to do business, and he’s a gentleman, I say. One of these days, he or his’ll pop in to pick it up.”

“Ha!”

“ ‘Ha!’ yourself. Just wait.”

“We haven’t much choice now.”

“Here’s your frawlpin back.”

“Go sit on it.”

The dog tosses the glove from head to head until, yawning, he misses and it falls to the ground.

He fetches it from among the bones that He at his feet, wags his tails, curls up and closes four eyes.

His other eyes burn like coals within the massive dark that is behind the Wrong Door.

Above him, in the fallout shelter, the Minotaur bellows…

Fifty thousand devotees of the Old Shoes, led by six castrati-priests, chant a magnificent litany within the stadium.

A thousand drug-maddened warriors, glory glory glory-saying, away with their spears before the altar of the Unwearable.

It begins to rain, gently, but few notice.

Osiris, holding a skull and depressing a stud on its side, addresses it, saying: “Once mortal, you have come to dwell in the House of Life forever. Once beauty, blooming fair atop a spinal column, you withered. Once truth, you have come to this.”

“And who,” answers the skull, “is perpetrator of this thing? It is the Lord of the House of Life that will not let me know rest.”

And Osiris makes answer, saying: “Know, too, that I use thee for a paperweight.”

“If ever thou didst love me, then smash me and let me die! Do not continue to nourish a fragment of her who once loved thee.”

“Ah, but dear my lady, one day might I re-embody thee, to feel thy caresses again.”

“The thought of this thing repels me.”

“And I, also. But one day it might amuse me.”

“Dost thou torment all who displease thee?”

“No, no, shell of death, think never that! True, the Angel of the Nineteenth House attempted to slay me, and his nervous system lives, threaded amidst the fibers of this carpet I stand upon; and true, others of my enemies exist in elementary forms at various points within my House-such as fireplaces, ice lockers and ash trays. But think not that I am vindictive. No, never. As Lord of Life, I feel an obligation to repay all things which have threatened life.”

“I did not threaten thee, my Lord.”

“You threatened my peace of mind.”

“Because I resembled thy wife, the Lady Isis?”

“Silence!”

“Aye! I resembled the Queen of Harlots, thy bride. For this reason didst thou desire me and desire my undoing-“

The skull’s words are then cut short, however, as Osiris has hurled it against the wall.

As it falls to pieces and chemicals and microminiature circuitry are spread upon the carpet, Osiris curses and falls upon a row of switches at his desk, the depression of which gives rise to a multitude of voices, one of which, above the others, cries out, through the speaker set high upon the wall:

“Oh clever skull, to so have tricked the fink god!”

Consulting the panel and seeing that it is the carpet which has spoken, Osiris moves to the center of the room and begins jumping up and down.

There grows up a field of wailing.

Into the places of darkness and disrepute, upon the world called Waldik, enter the two champions Madrak and Typhon. Sent by Thoth Hermes Trismegistus to steal a glove of singular potency, they are come to do battle with the guardian of that glove. Now, the world Waldik, long ago ravaged, hosts a horde of beings who dwell beneath the surface in caverns and chambers far removed from the courts of day and night. Darkness, dampness, mutation, fratricide, incest and rape are the words most often used by the few who offer commentary upon the world Waldik. Transported there by a piece of spatial hijackery known only to the Prince, the champions will succeed or remain. They go now through burrows, having been told to follow the bellowing.

“Think you, dark horse shadow,” asks the warrior-priest, “that thy brother can retrieve us at the proper moment?”

“Yes,” replies the shadow that moves at his side. “Though if he cannot, I care not. I can remove myself in my own way whenever I wish.”

“Yes, but I cannot.”

“Then worry it, fat Dad. I care not. You volunteered to accompany me. I did not request this thing.”

“Then into the hands of Whatever May Be that is greater than life or death, I resign myself-if this act will be of any assistance in preserving my life. If it will not, I do not. If my saying this thing at all be presumptuous, and therefore not well received by Whatever may or may not care to listen, then I withdraw the statement and ask forgiveness, if this thing be desired. If not, I do not. On the other hand-“

“Amen! And silence, please!” rumbles Typhon. “I have heard a thing like a bellow-to our left.”

Sliding invisibly along the dark wall, Typhon rounds the bend and moves ahead. Madrak squints through infrared glasses and splays his beam like a blessing upon everything encountered.

“These caverns be deep and vasty,” he whispers.

There is no reply.

Suddenly he comes to a door which may be the right door.

Opening it, he meets the minotaur.

He raises his staff, but the thing vanishes in a twinkling.

“Where…?” he inquires.

“Hiding,” says Typhon, suddenly near, “somewhere within the many twistings and turnings of its lair.”

“Why is this?”

“It would seem that its kind are hunted by creatures much like yourself, both for food and man/bull-headed trophies. It fears direct battle, therefore, and retreats-for man uses weapons upon cattle. Let us enter the labyrinth and hope not to see it again. The entranceway we seek, to the lower chambers, lies somewhere within.”

For perhaps half a day they wander, unsuccessfully seeking the Wrong Door. Three doors do they come upon, but only bones lie behind.

“I wonder how the others fare?” asks the warrior-priest.

“Better, or worse-or perhaps the same,” replies the other, and laughs.

Madrak does not laugh.

Coming into a circle of bones. Madrak sees the charging beast barely in time. He raises his staff and begins the battle.

He strikes it between the horns and upon the side. He jabs, slashes at, pushes, strikes the creature. He locks with it and wrestles, hand to hand.

Hurting one another, they strive, until finally Madrak is raised from the floor and hurled across the chamber, to land upon his left shoulder on a pile of bones. As he struggles to raise himself, he is submerged by an ear-breaking bellow. Head lowered, the minotaur charges, Madrak finds his feet and begins to rise.

But a dark horse shadow falls upon the creature, and it is gone-completely and forever.

He bows his head and chants the Possibly Proper Death Litany.

“Lovely,” snorts his companion, when he comes to the final “Amen.” “Now, fat Dad, I think I have found us the Wrong Door. I might enter without opening it, but you may not. How would you have it?”

“Bide a moment,” says Madrak, standing. “A bit of narcotic and I’ll be good as new and stronger than before. Then we shall enter together.”

“Very well. I’ll wait.”

Madrak injects himself and after a time is like unto a god.

“Now show me the door and let us go in.”

“This way.”

And there is the door, big and forbidding and colorless, within the infra-light.

“Open it,” says Typhon, and Madrak does.

In the firelight it plays, worrying the gauntlet. Perhaps the size of two and a half elephants, it sports with its toy there atop a heap of bones. One of its heads sniffs at the sudden draft of air from beyond the Wrong Door, two of its heads snarl and the third drops the glove.

“Do you understand my voice?” asks Typhon, but there is no answering intelligence behind its six red eyes. Its tails twitch and it stands, all scaly and impervious, within the flicker and glow.

“Nice doggie,” comments Madrak, and it wags its tails, opens its mouths and lunges toward him.

“Kill it!” cries Madrak.

“That is impossible,” answers Typhon. “In time, that is.”