And Her Son VOL 1. CHP 4. VERSE 4.

Volume One: The Road Out

Chapter Four

Verse Four: And Her Son

"You don't pray to call help down from the sky." Agnes Bladder began as she stood peering out at the mining site outside town. "It doesn't work that way. Prayer isn't a call for help, its a promise to future."

"That's not what I was taught in Sunday school," Maia said.

"I tend to agree with Maia on this," Harley said," Praying is like giving Santa Claus your wish list, as least the way I always heard it."

Agnes reached out and sharply flicked Harley's ear, "You selfish child! True prayer isn't asking for a present. True prayer is planting a seed and promising tomorrow that you will water that seed until it grows to an oak."

Harley rubbed his ear, "Okay, and your point?"

"You are our seed to be planted. The help we're giving you is our promise to the future. So listen carefully, because this is important."

Harley stood just to Agnes' left with Maia in front of him. Harley kept a hand on each of Maia's shoulders as Agnes spoke, looking at the witch rather than the mining site that Agnes had indicated was where Harley would fulfil his end of their agreement. Agnes Bladder was a crone in the classic sense: large nose and sharp eyes, a face that bore a interstate roadmap worth of wrinkles and lines, hands warped and gnarled like the branches of an ancient tree, all capped off by a stooped back that made her posture look like a question mark.

"The first thing that you need to understand to work in the story world is what is what and what that means. People have been digging around in the Shadowlands for as long as we've been people. Not just Homo Sapiens, our older cousins and parents and grandparents- Homo Neanderthalensis and Homo Erectus to name just two. Bone flute and burial mounds and ochre body paint are found on ancient sites all over the world. We've been talking to gods and using magic for as long as we've be able."

Harley shook his head, "I don't want to sound like a flat earth atheist here, because I'm not in denial about the kind of world we're suddenly living in. But I feel like I'm playing catch up, because I would have called myself agnostic before this happened and I definitely wouldn't have believed in ghost or old gods or magic prior to getting swept up into the story, whatever the story is."

Agnes nodded, "Very sensible. Keep those ideas in mind. You see, gods are a way of personifying concepts. They are a way of giving form to ideas, building myth from symbol. Magic is a system of explanation for things that we can predict, things that we can use, things that we can reliably observe, but which we cannot explain. Magic is how we explain things for which we do not understand the underlying mechanism. Theologians and critics call this the god of the gaps theory, and generally as a pejorative, an insult. Which is nonsense. Humans have been using since fire long before they understood combustion. If humans were not willing to play with that magic flame well it was still magic, cities wouldn't exist today. You need to stop imagining that what you've seen somehow re-writes physics or invalidates natural history or renders science irrelevant. None of this conflicts with natural science, because that is the Bonelands and this is the Shadowlands and the two meet only in the telling of the story."

"You lost me," Harley admitted, "I was hearing what you were saying and then, poof."

"You're too rational, too reasonable, to level headed to make the jump necessary on intuition. I imagine that's what your boyfriend did."

"We aren't dating." Harley said.

"That's a shame," one of the other witches said, "You'd make a cute couple."

Harley turned and looked at her as she spoke, trying to remember her name. He was fairly certain she was called Phyllis Heart.  There were a lot of them and Harley was struggling to keep them straight in his head. Phyllis Heart looked like all of the Golden Girls rolled impossibly into one. She perfectly mimicked the prototypical sitcom grandmother with a gentle face and a clever smile and hair wrapped into ridiculous curlers.

"People trust little old ladies," Phyllis heart continued "Even people playing the game. Which is foolish. I started playing this game when I was a young girl. Does the game seem easy to you young one? Has the learning curve been gentle on your bones so far?"

"No ma'am."

"And yet here I am, still playing the game, still moving other people across the game board. For decades now, I've held my title as witch. That sound easy?"

"No ma'am."

"And yet people underestimate me every day. But you won't, will you young one? Not any more."

"No ma'am."

"And that's because I like you. You're practical. So we're giving you a look behind the curtain as gift. Hmph. That sounds vulgar, like I'm a dance hall girl. I don't imagine a young thing like you would want that kind of look from an old lady like me."

Harley had no answer.

"And now I've made you blush. I do like you. Decent child at heart. I don't know that the game will be kind to that decent soul though. I do wish you luck."

"Luck hasn't been readily abundant thus far, ma'am."

"Don't be ridiculous. You've been all kinds of lucky, or you wouldn't be alive. Do you know how many people might be the Storytellers and never make past the first vision?"

"I haven't had my first vision." Harley said.

Mildred Spine piped up, "Or maybe you just didn't recognize it when it first happened."

Harley turned in the opposite direction to look at the new speaker. He had noticed that a lot of the witches seemed to work in pairs. Mildred Spine always seemed to stand near Margaret Rib. Mildred Spine stood straight and wore jeans and a knit wool sweater. She looked practical and indomitable and stood over six feet tall and very thin, but looked in no way frail. She made football players look up when she passed. Margaret Rib by contrast, though also tall and very thin, looked as though a strong wind would blow her over if it caught even her wispy long hair. She looked like a dying willow, or a starving ostrich, with huge eyes and a sagging skin on her face that hinted at her having been heavier in her youth.

Mildred Spine stared at Harley with owl's hard glare, "You're an oak tree kid, you know that? Your stronger than everything else around you, but you break when you ought to bend."

Margaret Rib nodded, an act which caused her whole frame to sway unsteadily, "There is strength in embracing weakness dear. There will always be things stronger than you. There are times when you have to roll with the blows and let yourself fall. You remember that dear."

Agnes Bladder added, "He's having trouble seeing this because he's too practical. That's the whole of it."

"Or maybe he hasn't learned how to apply his practicality to the new game is all," added the witch called Lady Purge. Lady Purge was a tiny little lady who had been scrunched down like a coiled spring by time and gravity. She smelled of spoiled perfume and vinegar, and dressed in traditional witches black with a a knitted black shawl stained with tea and spotted with Biscuit crumbs, 

"Look how long it took the Gees to get a handle on how to make the magic work for them."

Genevieve Sole and Gertrude Hand, referred to by the other ladies as The Gees we childhood friends who wore their silver hair in matching high rise beehive hairdos and dressed as though they had never left the Sock hop. They wore too much make up and smiled like the Stepford Wives. Genevieve Sole nodded in response to Lady Purge, "Far too concerned with what people might think, should they learn the truth. Far too concerned with doing the right thing. Held us back far longer than it should."

Gertrude added, "Other people get their stories in your head, and they make you into characters in their stories and they make you dance on their stage. Where's your stage?"

Harley was starting to get overwhelmed by the flurry of voices around him.

"Is Linwich Crossing your stage then?" He asked, and instantly regretted the tone he had used. The words sounded accusatory or mocking, definitely defensive, as they floated in the air.

"Don't let appearance fool you Storyteller," Agnes Bladder said, "I know you're new to the role and to the story, but don't let us being little old ladies fool you. We serve ancient powers, we draw our strength from the Primal One. You'd be fools to think you can brush us aside, especially given how underdeveloped your abilities are."

"I'm sorry," Harley said, "I'm just tense. Too much running from the bad guys, too much frustration, not enough options. To keep with the story metaphor; it sounds like the villains are everywhere, and the good guys are in hiding and broken.The more I hear, the more hopeless it sounds."

Agnes shook her head, "This is not a battle between good and evil. This is not a duality or a dichotomy. The game board is vast and, if I may steal from dear old Whitman, contains multitudes." 

Harley couldn't decide how to respond and Agnes continued, "There are many horrible things in the story. Ancient gods and demons and devils lurk in the shadows and the dark of the tales you will rediscover and weave back to life. And these evils are essential to the survival of the story. It is a poor story that assumes evil must be opposed. Evil is an idea, a creation of the Locust King and his folk, a way of describing those who do not step into line with him. We are wicked and our patroness is more wicked, and dark and vile and inhuman in her thinking also. But that does not mean she must be destroyed or that you could destroy her. The hallmark of the Locust King has been his penchant for the fool's errand. He seeks constantly to be the hero and casts all who disagrees with him as the villain."

"That's something I keep wondering. Something I keep hearing from other people. Nobody seems certain who is in fact the hero. People have called us main characters, but nobody seems certain as to who the story belongs to, who it's about."

"Everyone has their quest and their story. You are the storyteller. But the battle here is precisely that, whose story does the storyteller tell?"

"He's not even telling the story yet," Countess Cleanse pointed out, leaning in to tap Harley on the breast bone.

"He's Bishop on the board, but he's acting like a knight." Her sister, Sybil Cistern added reaching up to put a hand on Harley's shoulder.

The sisters known as Countess Cleanse and Sybil Cistern were not in fact twins, although one might be forgiven for believing otherwise. They both looked nearly identical, round little heads with iron grey hair in round little buns, all set upon round little bodies wrapped in pink knit sweaters that matched perfectly.

"So teach me," Harley said, "You're sending me into some place to dangerous or too difficult for you ladies to manage it, and I haven't heard anything that will help me use this power I'm supposed to have. I haven't heard any tutorials on how to summon tomahawks or have convenient clairvoyant visions, or anything."

There was a brief silence and then the women broke into frenzied argumentative speech, voicing clamouring over each other as they fought for auditory dominance. 

"We should help him summon Boneshaker."

"We should teach him the seven league walk."

"We should teach him the path of winds."

Agnes raised her hand and the coven fell silent. "I heard the seven league walk. He's the Walker so that will probably come naturally, and he'll need that to get in and out in a hurry."

"What's Boneshaker?" Harley asked, "I heard that get mentioned." 

"The flanged mace that is the weapon of the Walker is named Boneshaker."

"So, if I'm hearing correctly, that's the equivalent of Marion summoning his tomahawks?"

"Yes. And?"

"Then I want to learn that too. How long will that take?"

Agnes frowned, "Summoning Boneshaker will be like re-attaching a phantom limb. That mace is a part of your character, as much a part of you as your arm or your sense of honour. You have to imagine yourself as a character. What would King Arthur be without Excalibur? What would Thor be without Mjolnir? The costume is part of the character, like putting on a mask to become a god. The mace part of your character as you exist now within the story. You need to reach out deep in the Infinity codex, deep in the heart of the story. You need to find it. And you need to pull loose that missing part of you."

"How do I do that? It's a great pep talk, but how do I do that?"

The coven burst into murmuring again. 

"He's far too pragmatic."

"No imagination, how is he the storyteller?"

"He's only half the storyteller. Maybe we can work with the other one."

"He's all we've got until the Dreamer breaks free."

"He'll never get it."

"He's hopeless."

Harley waved his hands like an umpire calling a play at home base, 

"I can hear you, you know! What am I missing? And why would you think that explanation would be enough?"

Lady Purge answered, "As a storyteller, you need to be capable of creation, drawing something from nothing. That is what story telling is. If you can't do that, how can you tell a story?"

Harley shook his head,"I haven't heard anyone call me a creator, I heard them call me story-teller. Teller. Storytelling is like playing music, learning the tune and the rhythm, making old stories sing with a fresh voice. It's not necessarily about making new music, but about making old music sound new. And from everything I've heard, this is an old story. why are you trying to make me play free jazz? I hate free jazz."

Mildred Spine nodded, "You need to hear the music before you can improvise on it?"

Harley nodded, "That's basically it."

Margaret Rib, "Oh, we can help with that dear. Take my hand," She reached out and grasped Harley's hand with surprising strength, numerous rings digging into his hands, "Feel the magic, or music is you prefer. I'm going to summon something through you, pay attention to how it feels."

Harley felt a tingle running up his arm and initially mistook it for a pinched nerve from Margaret Rib's iron grip. but the tingling flowed down into Harley's right hand and he felt something trying to grow solid in his hand, finally his hand closed around a ceremonial bone dagger that Harley heavily suspected had been carved from a rib.

"Perfect. Did you feel that?" Mildred Spine asked, clapping her hands lightly.

"I actually did."

"Good, can I please have my blade dear?" Margaret Rib asked extending her hand.

Harley handed her the dagger and Agnes cleared her throat.

"Now you try." Agnes said, "Call up the mace Boneshaker in the same way. Feel for the same feeling."

"I'll try, but I suspect I'm going to take a little while to get this."

Harley wasn't wrong. After half an hour of cackling, coaching and coaxing; Harley still had not summoned the mace. Maia had remained resolutely upbeat through the whole process, cheering on Harley and maintaining absolute faith that he would master the Magic. Harley wasn't sure if he was grateful for her faith or embarrassed by it. 

"I don't even know what I'm summoning," He said finally, "I don't really know the story that I'm a part of, and I certainly don't know how I would recognize this Boneshaker either."

"We can show you that, you know," Countess Cleanse said and quickly reached up and tapped Harley's forehead sharply. Harley felt the ground drop out from under him and vision began to darken until he was falling through a void. Above Harley a figure faded into focus. He recognized the figure as himself, although it didn't look like him. The figure was androgynous and dressed in numerous overlapping capes of black with red trim and held an enormous two handed mace, whose head was made of seven plates or flanges designed to crush bone and collapse armour. The figure pulled back a dark hood to look at Harley.

"Why do you hesitate? The walker acts. It is the realm of the Dreamer to dream."

And then Harley landed in the grass of the hill overlooking the mine, the impact driving the air from his lungs. He lay there stunned until he noticed that the coven of women were clapping, and Maia was outright cheering. Then he noticed he was holding something in right hand.

Harley shook his head, "No way that worked." He said, looking at his hands. But sure enough, there in his grasp was a now familiar two handed flanged mace.

"Well I'll be damned." he muttered.

"And now. On to seven league walking," Agnes announced.

"All this help is going to kill me." Harley muttered.

Seven league walking turned out to be both easier and much more difficult. Agnes Bladder described the process as walking with intention rather than walking with legs. Travelling by willing oneself across the landscape. In theory, the coven explained at length, seven league walking could be used to travel through solid objects, across oceans and even to different worlds. Harley got the hang of the process fairly quickly. He focused on his destination and mentally removed the distance between himself and the destination. The problem was that Harley was only able to do this with places that he could see. The witches put this down his insufferable pragmatism and rationality. He could bound from hilltop to hilltop almost immediately, but could not disappear around the corner of a building. He could travel through a window, but not a door. 

"Keep moving, Keep Walking. Little steps." The Gees said to him in unison as he practiced. All of the women had their rituals and their mantras, although Harley noticed that these rituals were not at all the same. The rule of magic seemed to be: whatever worked for that person. This drove Harley mad, as it felt entirely wrong to him. If magic worked, then there should be a reason that it worked. Still after two days of practise, although he still couldn't move through opaque objects or to places he couldn't see, Agnes pronounced his mastery of summoning and seven league travel sufficient to attempt the mission that was his part of the bargain. Of course, they still hadn’t told him what that mission involved.