Harnessing the Five Inner Demons (Food Poisoning for Thought Reprint)

(*Reprinted from Food Poisoning for Thought as part my ongoing process to unify my web presence.*)

I don't like the body of work that linguist Stephen Pinker has amassed. I think his adherence to Noam Chomsky's field work antagonistic theory of language leaves him on barren ground with regarding to the field of linguistics. I feel he is out of his depth regarding his forays into other fields, as evidenced by his willingness to use discredited sources (Napoleon Chagnon for instance) and to even then mischaracterize the research he finds to suit his conclusions.

I find the most to disagree with in his work "the Angels of our Better Nature". I find the work paternalistic and racist in its assumptions. I feel that it misuses the data that is does show accurately and misrepresents other data, presenting it as things that it isn't. But this isn't a critique of Pinker's attempt at creating what amounts to a work of propaganda for the myth of human progress. He makes an interesting and useful point amidst all the poor logic and misrepresented data, although his conclusion after making this interesting point is precisely wrong.

Pinker asserts that much violence derives from five sources, what he calls the "Five inner demons": Predatory or practical violence, dominance, revenge, sadism, and ideology. He then asserts that empathy, self-control, the moral sense, and reason are civilization's "Four Better Angels"- as though we somehow lacked these things before civilization- but I digress. Pinker needs to draw heavily on the ludicrous work of Thomas Hobbes- whom he argues was 'undervalued' in an attempt to justify Hobbes' fetishism of state violence to remove individual violence. But the point stands, for a culture to survive, it must harness those five inner demons. Pinker seems to prefer repressing them, missing the point that tribal cultures recognized and used them as tools.

Practical violence is a function of situational need. As I said in the fall of the Liberal Dilettante, in times of need most of us become pragmatists. This was what Hobbes' observed when he called the state of existence without civilization "nasty, brutish and short". The tribe of course is anything but that. Physical archaeological data shows that we lived longer (if we didn't die in childbirth or early life- the primary time of mortality in tribal cultures) that any civilized group did until the mid to late 20th century. Likewise, tribal people were taller and healthier, based on physical archaeological data, than civilized peoples until (again) the mid to late 20th century. How does this relate to practical violence? These tribal people's were not fighting over scraps, in equity was low to non-existent. Practical violence was directed outwards, towards the stranger and not towards the tribe. And this may sound violent to civilized ears, but it was powerful population control. And if this sounds harsh to civilized ears, remember that we too are animals and we too have sustainable levels of population.

Skipping ahead to sadism, Lt. Grossman pointed out in 'On Killing' that the small percentage of the population which is unaffected by the stress of combat and can take sadistic joy in the act of violence is mobilized by tribal cultures into a warrior caste or other in group and given direction and leeway, their sadism used as a weapon to the advantage of the tribe. Once again, the violence was pointed outward.

Dominance and ideology are the purview of the civilization and not the tribal nomadic hunter gatherer. But the ritualized violence of sport, martial art, dueling, and rites of passage all existed as methods of directing and controlling the violence of dominance, even in tribal days. It was not until the ten thousand years of civilized history that the need for dominance drove the creation of mass empires. Ideology as a driver for violence is again is a feature of civilization. Certainly tribes used ideology to justify practical violence, but the holy war and the cold war are not features of tribal life.

Revenge is an oft vilified and overlooked aspect of peacekeeping and population control. Social Critic Daniel Quinn describes a tribal warfare strategy which he terms 'erratic retaliator', in which tribes periodically raid their neighbours to prove their strength, and in which their neighbours respond in kind, and afterword there is a peace agreement, frequently a feast and often young people engage in cross tribal courting. The net result is a strategy that keeps population stable, diverse and genetically sturdy; but could easily be misinterpreted as revenge by a modern mind and could just as easily morph into the revenge blood feud traditions of pseudo civilized tribal cultures of the modern world- caught between the past and the present in a vice they can't escape.

 

The Fall of the Liberal Dilettante (Food Poisoning for Thought Reprint)

(*Reprinted from Food Poisoning for Thought as part my ongoing process to unify my web presence.*)

So Jonathan Haidt noted that the hallmark of a liberal is openness to experience. Well openness to experience is an easy trick when one's own dinner and home and comfort are not threatened. And although the oft cited rule about there being no atheists in foxholes has been nearly continuously proven wrong by history, the aphorism does point out rightly that maintaining beliefs is more difficult when our comfort is threatened.

When we find ourselves in situations where our morals and beliefs will expose us to trials and discomfort, we discovery quickly how strongly we believed. The Spanish Inquisition discovered the torture was an easy way to make devil worshiper that are Christians, and many a caliphate discovered the taxation was an easy way to make the infidel into a Muslim. A belief untested by the fire may not be a belief that all. The fire will either forge us or fry us alive.

And all of this brings to the educated liberal elite. Holding an ideology of non violent tolerance and openness and sharing of the wealth is easy when one's own wealth is not being shared, when one's own hone is not being opened, when the violence being tolerated is not being inflicted on those close to you.

To Quote the character of Higgins in the Robert Redford classic movie 'Three Days of the Condor'; "Ask 'em when they're running out. Ask 'em when there's no heat in their homes and they're cold. Ask 'em when their engines stop. Ask 'em when people who have never known hunger start going hungry. You wanna know something? They won't want us to ask 'em. They'll just want us to get it for 'em!"

Am I saying that all liberals are conservatives with a coat of privilege on them? No, but a lot of them are. What I am saying is that liberal and conservative are convenient labels that we generally only have the luxury of applying to ourselves when times are good, even if they aren't as good as we think they should be.

When times are bad, truly bad, things change. During the special period (famine) of Malawi, during the Holodomor in Ukraine (The USSR inflicted genoicde by starvation), during the post World War 1 years in Germany, marching the trail of tears in North America during the Indian War, in the Concentration Camps of World War 2 or the Gulags of Stalinist Soviet Russia, during the Great Leap Forward in China; during these times we nearly all become pragmatists.

Who is at Fault (Food Poisoning for Thought Reprint)

(*Reprinted from Food Poisoning for Thought as part my ongoing process to unify my web presence.*)

http://climatecrocks.com/

The internet has swelled in a righteous rage recently with the news that Exxon knew about climate, knew it was bad, knew so decades ago, and still misled the public anyway. I have seen and browsed take-down article after take-down article. Angry diatribes and rants have filled my Facebook feed. And I have to ask...

Why is anyone surprised? Why is this news? We knew this in 2013.

http://www.scientificamerican.com/article/dark-money-funds-climate-change-denial-effort/

We knew this in 2010.

http://www.motherjones.com/blue-marble/2010/04/inside-kochs-climate-denial-machine

We have known this for years and years and years and years. They have been lying to us and we have been letting them do it. We wanted to believe them, we wanted to think we wouldn't have to change. The only reason that they lies don't sound sweet anymore is that now we're feeling the pinch. Exxon and the Koch brothers are the cool kids in the Frat House who convinced us to party instead of hitting the books, and it's only now- when we've realized we're going to fail the test- that we've decided to get angry. Well the people we should blame are none but ourselves.

Regarding the Moral Landscape

(*Reprinted from Food Poisoning for Thought as part my ongoing process to unify my web presence.*)

Regarding "The Moral Landscape"

Sam Harris is one of my favorite people with to disagree.

I have spent a little time this morning attempting to read Sam Harris' book "The Moral Landscape" and am at an impasse. It is the same impasse I reach with people like Michael Shermer when debating things like GMO crops. Shermer is convinced that the only valid objection to GMO crops is and must be "Do they hurt people who eat them? Are they less healthy for human consumption?" and dismisses anyone who has objections to GMOs by convincingly arguing that his two chosen objections are invalid. Objections such as how intellectual copyright laws change the dynamic for subsistence farmers in the third world, or how pesticide resistant crops are exacerbating the rise of pesticide resistant weeds and insect pests, or other non-human health based concerns are ignored. I have a similar issued with the underpinnings of Sam Harris' premises for the Moral Landscape. I think the subject and the premise of Harris' book is very interesting, but thus far I feel he has squandered it. Harris' assertions seem to me to be similar to a man who wins the lottery and uses his millions to buy the world's largest stuffed shark collection. Yes, money can buy stuffed sharks. Certainly, purchasing things is a valid use for money. Do I think that this is the best use of that money, or returning to Harris's book, that idea? No, I don't.

Harris asserts, unless I misunderstand, that human well being and the minimizing of suffering of conscious beings should be the underpinning of objective morality. Now, I don't want to suggest that morality should ignore well being and the minimizing of suffering, but I would dispute the idea that well being sits at the center of morality. Well-being is like gas mileage. A well run car will get good gas mileage, but good gas mileage won't get you to Cleveland if you have no wheels. And further, you won't any gas mileage without a working engine, solid axles, etcetera.

So if I disagree with Harris that well being underpins all morality, then what do I think does underpin morality- objectively using science (because I agree with Harris that Science should be able to help us determine objective morality)? Well to digress for a moment, I should ask you what other species behave in moral ways? Cats are notoriously amoral and learn rules and social cues much slower than dogs. Why is this? Cats are solitary predators in the wild with a few exceptions such as lions and hyenas is we are expanding our definition to include a feliformes. Dogs are social predators and groups cooperation is necessary for survival of the pack and survival of the pack is necessary for survival of the individual (in most cases). As such, while I agree with Harris that morality is something objectively knowable, I do not agree with his idea that well being is the key. Now I suspect and anticipate that Harris will, as I continue reading, delve in and elaborate on the idea that he means 'the greater good', that is the highest wellbeing for the most number of people (or conscious beings to use his phrase), and that gets closer to my own idea, but I would like to pause here with a quote from Ursula Vernon, speaking in her work "Digger" through the character of Ed "Fair? Tribe is not concerned with fair! Tribe must work!" And that in a nutshell is my divergence with Harris.

My issue thus far with Harris is that he has found a wonderful telescope and pointed it down rather than up, whereas Harris' other critics seem to object to Harris finding a telescope at all.

John Horgan stated in his review of "The Moral Landscape' (Which Harris seemed to feel was near slander, but I found rather favorable to Harris) that "Harris might be on sounder ground if he likened morality not to science but to engineering. Science seeks one true answer to the questions it poses: How does heredity work? What keeps the moon moving in its orbit? Engineers would go mad if they thought in terms of exclusively true solutions to problems like building a bridge or designing a new cellphone. Engineers seek the best of many possible solutions given the physical and economic constraints imposed on them by particular problems."

I like this idea, I feel that it does nothing to hurt Harris' original good idea. I will keep reading, because the book is certainly thought provoking. And, if nothing else, it is forcing me to organize my own ideas better.
 

Movie Review: Shaun of the Dead (Food Poisoning for Through Reprint)

(*Reprinted from Food Poisoning for Thought as part my ongoing process to unify my web presence.*)
 
Shaun of the Dead

I think what I like/loathe about 'Shaun of the Dead' is the way everyone takes the zombie apocalypse in stride. Nobody panics and nothing is done to solve the zombie virus (although celebrities have started the 'Zomb-Aid' charity). The movie ends (spoiler alert) with the military systematically and effectively containing the zombie outbreak and everyone carries on as though this was normal. This is a good depiction of human strength, we carry on despite the horror; while also pointing out that we keep attempting to not adapt to changing situations and to not solve world shaking problems. This is why people will survive any collapse that still leaves room for human existence at all and why we will then build a semblance of a normal life. But it is also why we will ignore problems that might require us to chance our day to day routine. Do not adjust your set.

The Problem of Evil (Food Poisoning for Thought Reprint)

(*Reprinted from Food Poisoning for Thought as part my ongoing process to unify my web presence.*)

On Messiahs and Extinction Events and Why We don't need a Redeemer

Part One: The Problem of Evil

A classic question within the Philosophy of Religion is how to reconcile the existence of evil with the idea of a loving omniscient and omnipotent god. The reason that this question seems so difficult is that philosophers have previously made the mistake of incorrectly identifying evil, and then not noticing that the world does a very good job at eliminating actual evil without exception.

I suspect we have made these errors because, with very little exception, the people doing the thinking were living in cultures built upon a foundation made nearly exclusively of those evils that the world has made its business to eliminate. In other words, we were standing within a blind spot that made noticing our error nearly impossible.

So what is evil as the world defines it? Evil is the extinction of life. Not the death of individuals, but the death of species. I heard a definition of extinction, credited to the biologist E. O. Wilson that described extinction as the "death of birth". I have been unable to substantiate the quote, but it seems apt. And even extinction is not evil in the view of the world.

If we look at the thrust of the universe, we see a trend of increasing complexity. Entropy will eventually deplete that, but until then we do our best. Life is possibly the ultimate expression of that drive for complexity, and the preservation of complicated ecosystems can be regarded as the highest good possible. As such, war upon the ability of our biosphere to sustain life is evil and things can be measured as good or evil on the basis of whether they support or damage our biosphere's ability to sustain life.

One might argue that this is not a valid definition of good or evil. But on the basis of available information that can be observed and tested, we can only judge good or evil by the long term effects on this world. Thus making sustainability the strongest measure of good we can imagine.

Now stepping back to an earlier assertion, namely that people struggling with the problem of evil were doing so from within evil cultures. The leap should be be hard to make to understand the meaning of that assertion now. All civilized cultures have been unsustainable for as long as they have been civilized. They have achieved civilization on the back of the biosphere and maintained it through domination and subjugation of the rest of the biosphere. It is very hard to correctly define evil when you are in the midst of committing it. There is always a justification for your activities.

So what does all this mean?

The Ptarmigan Trail VOL 1. CHP 5. VERSE 5.

Volume One: The Road Out

Chapter Five

Verse five: The Ptarmigan Trail

Darius Salt strode across the black and white checkerboard tiles of the Inner Sanctum towards the massive body of Falsenight. The massive black serpent lay bloated and rotting like a beached whale, charcoal rib protruding through oil black skin melting like hot plastic in a kiln. The air around Falsenight was rank with the smell of propane gas and the beast was breathing in laboured gasps that sounded like metal fatigue in a skyscraper moments before collapse.

The great serpent stared into the distance, it's eyes milky white and shocking against the black of it's scales. 

"I hunger. Feeeed me." Falsenight slurred, it's words drawn out and desperate. 

"Does anyone have an explanation for this?" Darius said to the assembled crowd of agents and lieutenants standing nervously around the snake. 

Lady Cinnabar stood in front of the black monstrosity biting her lip. She wore clothing that seems to want to be red, but always caught the light wrong and continually looked ash gray instead- a kind of reverse iridescence. She walked barefoot and left bloody footprints that congealed into ugly black blood scabs marking the path she took through the story. She turned as Darius Salt approached, "The snake is dying my lord. The Pale Shepherd is almost certainly the cause. The poor creature is little more than a hollow shell now. When it dies, it's form will return to the Great Serpent and it will regain its lost power. Anything left of Falsenight's power will likely be devoured by the Shepherd to fuel his pretty little nightmare world. What shall we do?"

"Feed me!" Falsenight demanded with enough agonized effort that the crowd shuffled back several steps.

Darius Salt pointed at a random agent, "Eat him then! Where are my children?" As Darius finished speaking, Falsenight coiled painfully upwards, oily liquid coiling down black scales and seeping through spaces in the tiles. The agent indicated by Darius took a step back, as the crowd around him cleared. Falsenight opened its mouth so wide, the sound of a dislocating jaw echoed through the sanctum and then the huge serpent struck downwards, scooping up the agent and swallowing the suited figure whole. 

Cinnabar didn't look at the spectacle as she spoke, "The cadaver who walks like a man has failed to report in. It is so unlike him. I think the Bone Man has failed. And we have reports of portals opening to deeper layers of the Shadowlands."

"Portals? Who's opening them? None of our opponents have the power to open permanent portals. Are they using the cup to power this?"

"The cup was almost certainly absorbed by the Pale Shepherd. He turns our own power against us. I can't imagine any of the little gnats who oppose us having the power or the nerve to face the Shepherd. These portals do not appear created. I suppose it would be more accurate to call them rips in the fabric of the story. They are signs and portents. Our story is unable to support your empire and unless we can supply more tribute, this world will tear itself apart."

"Then we need to find my children."

"The hound has failed my King. The hound. We do not know why, but it has lost interest and no longer pursues the storytellers or your children. And the Bone Man has failed to report in. Your great monster lies dying. The old ones are walking the land and tearing your great works to pieces. Wendigo are being sighted by our agents in the field in larger numbers than we've ever seen here. The centre is not holding. Do you know how many people I had to kill look presentable this morning? We are running out of time my King. What other resources do we have?"

Darius did not answer. And after a moment Cinnabar continued speaking.

"What shall happen to us if the line breaks my lord? I was promised eternal youth. I do not fancy watching my debts come due all at once."

"The line will not break. I will not allow it." Darius answered.

"But our patron demands more every time. The sacrifice of your wife wasn't enough. A thousand years ago, that would have been more than sufficient. Even if we manage to pay tribute this time. What happens next time?" Lady Cinnabar pointed out the huge plate glass windows into the Bonelands and the city where the physical tower was anchored, the corporate headquarters of Salt and Sons. As she pointed, another shimmering tear in reality split the sky ragged and another world became visible beyond the edge of the tear. "The empire stumbles, the world begins to die. We will die. If not for this tribute, then on the next. We cannot sustain this. We are going to die."

Darius shook his head and then slapped Lady Cinnabar with a sweeping back hand and knocked her to the ground.

"I am never dying." He said through clenched teeth.

* * *

"I'm dying." Special Agent Saul Bridger announced as he dropped to his knees and coughed heavily before dropping his head to the ground and threw up heavily.

Brave Mountain didn't rise out of the terrain like a pillar or a wall of grey stone. The mountain crept up upon travellers The ground slowly turning towards the sky in a gentle slope that increased quickly, but no so quickly that an unwary traveler might not walk well up the mountain before realizing just how daunting the task of continuing had become. The mountain was not rock, not grey and white granite, but was mostly earth- rich brown and covered in trees and shrubs and moss and a layer of deep tan and burgundy ground cover composed of dead pine needles and leaves and cedar boughs. Salal and Kinninkinnick bushes grew abundantly and cedar trees stretched their branches across the old well worn trails.  Ptarmigan and grouse exploded out of the cover when startled and hustled off on foot or launched dramatically, if awkwardly into the air, brown speckled feathers beating against the sky.

The sun cooked the land until leaves were hot to the touch. The shadows lay deep and black and impenetrable, sharp contrast carved by the sunlight and where it did not fall. The sky was crisp and arced away into infinity above the mountain and made the enormity of the climb ahead far too clear. The top of the mountain itself lay hidden by the unassuming angle of the mountain. One could march upward and be confident that one was making progress, but the mountain gave no hint of how much further its summit lay beyond any single footfall. And this made the climb difficult, as each step was uncertain and at no point could a hiker be clear in their progress.

Harley looked down at the man and put a hand on his shoulder, "You get used to things being constantly insane, unfortunately. It's kind of terrifying how fast this stuff became normal, now that I say it."

"That's normal to you?" Bridger said between gasps, pointing up the hill towards what Harley could only describe as a hole in reality. The sky had torn open in front of them and through the hole a blasted wasteland was visible where the only life was the occasional desperate looking Wendigo scrambling around a barren version of Brave Mountain looking for and eating anything even remotely edible. 

Harley had walked with Bridger right to the base of the mountain in big bounding steps. Harley had refrained from travelling further than he could see and effect had disoriented Bridger severely. Harley suspected that this had contributed to Bridger's collapse at the sight of the tear opening up in front of them. 

"Normal enough at this point," Harley said.

"What is it?" Bridger asked, wiping his mouth and pulling himself to his feet.

"If, I had to guess? This sounds like what the Witch Doctor was talking about. The World is breaking apart. This is another part of the story, or a competing story, or the world as it looks without a story. Something like that. You want a better answer, let's survive long enough to ask the Witch Doctor when we get back."

A Wendigo began to stare at Harley and Bridger through the shimmering tear that hung in the sky between the men and the monster. The creature tilted its head to the left and then to the right and sniffed the air experimentally.

"Let's get moving. I don't when to be around when Wendigo start coming through that opening." Harley said. Bridger nodded reluctantly and they walked quickly away from the tear in the sky before anything emerged. Harley looked back several times as they left, but say nothing emerge from the tear while he was looking. And eventually the trail curved and the tear was obscured from view.

The first Torii gate was at the base of the mountain trail and was easy to find. Bridger led the way, Harley imagined that the older man felt obligated to do so, both because of his age and because of his official authority as a federal agent.

  

Brave Mountain didn't rise out of the terrain like a pillar or a wall of grey stone. The mountain crept up upon travelers. The ground slowly turning towards the sky in a gentle slope that increased quickly, but no so quickly that an unwary traveler might not walk well up the mountain before realizing just how daunting the task of continuing had become. The mountain was not rock, not grey and white granite, but was mostly earth- rich brown and covered in trees and shrubs and moss and a layer of deep tan and burgundy ground cover composed of dead pine needles and leaves and cedar boughs.Salal and Kinninkinnick bushes grew abundantly and cedar trees stretched their branches across the old well worn trails.  Ptarmigan and grouse exploded out of the cover when startled and hustled off on foot or launched dramatically, if awkwardly into the air, brown speckled feathers beating against the sky.

The sun cooked the land until leaves were hot to the touch. The shadows lay deep and black and inpenetrable, sharp contrast carved by the sunlight and where it did not fall. The sky was crisp and arced away into infinity above the mountain and made the enormity of the climb ahead far too clear. The top of the mountain itself lay hidden by the unassuming angle of the mountain. One could march upward and be confident that one was making progress, but the mountain gave no hint of how much further its summit lay beyond any single footfall. And this made the climb difficult, as each step was uncertain and at no point could a hiker be clear in their progress.

"Have you noticed yourself losing or gaining time lately?" Bridger asked Harley as they walked.

"Constantly. If you want to hear my best guess on why, I'd say it's the story moving things around to put us where it needs us to be."

"I don't even know what that means. You and everyone else you're with keeps calling this a story, but what does that mean?"

"I don't really know. I've listened, but they really haven't explained that part clearly. Either they're afraid to tell me the whole story, or they don't know the whole thing themselves. As far as I can tell, a story - in this context- is literally a story, but magical in some way that determines how the world behaves or looks or acts or I don't know. It feels like a Fisher King, Arthur and Holy Grail- the land is a representation of the king; only in this case the land is a respresentation of the story somehow."

"And that tear in the sky back there was a symptom of the story failing, so reality itself is failing?" Bridger asked.

"Maybe, kind of, but probably not exactly. Maybe this initiation thing will help me hear the story clearly and then I'll be able to explain it to you."

"This all tastes sour, you know that? We're operating on guesses and the advice of people who won't tell us the whole story. That Witch Doctor guy, you've never met him before today, right?"

"That's right."

Up ahead the trail became steeper and wooden beams had been added into the trail to prevent erosion and create natural earthen steps. A Few feet further up the hill was another bright red shinto shrine gate. Harley tapped the painted wood idly as they passed through and under the gate.

"I wonder how many of these there are. The Witch Doctor didn't say, did he? I don't remember hearing him mention how many. Do you?"

"No, and that's my point. Why do you trust him? He clearly knows more than he's telling. Why are you following his recipe? Why not let him taste his own soup?"

"This didn't start with me. It started with my best friend Marion getting prophetic dreams and visions. He tried to tell me about them and I didn't listen. And then karma or destiny or the story started kicking us. Marion got fired. I got laid off. My girlfriend broke up with me. The kids go missing and then call us. You guys start investigating us. By the time I started listening, things were so bad that we didn't have any good choices left. So let's just say that I'm more predisposed to listen to these mysterious figures than I was previously. The bad guys in this story have thus far twirled their moustaches pretty obviously, so I'm willing to trust the Witch Doctor for the moment. He hasn't tried to kill me, betray me or send a supernatural monster dog to hunt me. So that's something."

"Supernatural monster dog?"

"Don't ask. I think we've dealt with whatever it was. That's what dropped Fitzroy into his stupor. The kid was pretty impressive, but facing that thing down took a lot out of him. It seems like staying in this world takes effort and a certain amount of willpower, or similar. So stay on guard, because I don't know what triggers that shift, and I can't carry you and either fight or run as circumstance may demand."

They continued without much further conversation for about half an hour through the sparse boreal forest that lay upon the mountain like an island in a sea of scrub grass and arid plains all around the mountain. As they walked they passed through two more gateways.

"Well, that makes three." Bridger said as they walked under the arch of the gateway.

"Wait," Harley said, and both men stopped almost in unison, "Do you here that hum?"

Bridger nodded, the ground beneath them was vibrating, thrumming with like a speaker with its base set to maximum. The thrumming grew louder and the air began to shimmer around their ankles in all directions.

"Should we run?" Bridger asked.

"Run where? It goes in all directions. This is like that other tear only much bigger." Harley asnwered.

"Much bigger and on top of us!"

The land died before Bridger and Harley's gaze. The tear opened wider and as the shimmering edge passed over the it, the land emerged caked in dust the color of chalk with the consistency of salt.Tear spread and trees vanished, stumps remained and sometimes not even stumps. The vegetation withered away to dust and what remained was skeletal remains that looked as brittle as crystal.

The shimmering and the thrumming faded, and Harley suddenly noticed that the gateway's red paint was not faded to a pale pink and cracked and peeling to the point the wood's original color had almost resurfaced. The wood of the gateway itself was now splitting and cracking lengthwise. The shrine still stood, but looked impossibly ancient.

"This doesn't bode well," Harley noted, pointing at the gateway, "Do you hear any birds?"

"No, and I can taste the death. This is not a happy place." Bridger added.

"Remember that shift I was warning you about? With Fitzroy? I think it just caught us."

"Meaning what? We're caught in an alternate fantasy land or in the far future or similar?"

"I'm not sure. Marion always related the world he ended up in to a kind of Narnia world."

"We meet a talking lion and I am running."

 

* * *

Henrietta feed deer slugs into her shotgun's magazine as the Witch Doctor used a stick of chalk to draw a series of very witchy looking circles and runes onto the floor of her diner. The sign on her front door now read closed, and Henrietta and the Witch Doctor had put Harley's van into neutral and guided it behind the diner so that it wouldn't be visible from the highway. The front door and kitchen door were both locked and boxes from the store room had been piled in front of both doors as an added defense.

Still, as the army of Wendigo quickly closed in, Henrietta was not feeling optimistic.

"You sure that your magic mumbo jumbo is going to protect us?"

"In the short term? Absolutely sure. In the mid term? Reasoanbly sure. In the Long term? The circle will break like glass."

"That's not reassuring." Henrietta noted.

"We're in the climax of this part of the story, I wouldn't expect anything to be reassuring. In fact I expect things will get worse. I hope you have some aces up your sleeve, because you can be sure the other side is palming cards and hiding aces of their own."

"I'll do my best." Henrietta said with a nod, as she strapped on an armored vest. "I'm a prepper after all."  

"You have a bulletproof vest?" The Witch Doctor said with a raised eyebrow.

"Bullet resistant, let's be clear here. None of what you can buy is really bullet proof. It just sounds good. It all depends on distance and size of the round going in."

"The Wendigo don't use guns. But at least it will give some protection against their claws."

* * *

"You can't get it back this time little king."

Darius Salt stared grimly out the huge plate glass window of Salt and Sons Corporate Headquarters. He could see the the huge gaping holes in the sky and the wasteland visible through the great tears in the story. He could feel the presence of the Grey beside him, floating above the ground like a little alien from a bad science fiction movie, but with an insect's mandibles and compound eyes.

Darius did not turn to look at the figure. He stared out at the Wendigo swarming out across city streets to loot and devour. Car alarms thundered a cacophony of dissonant music, the Rite of Spring played backwards by a deranged brass band. 

Darius Salt ground his teeth together until his jaw hurt.

"so much sacrifice and two stupid nobodies and my own traitorous children can unravel everything." He muttered. 

The Grey spoke.

"The line is fraying little king. The line will break, your people have let you down."

"The line will not break."

"Then how will you pay the sacrifice? Will you sacrifice your generals and your forces, those traitorous failures to pay the cost?"

"How will I rule without my forces?"

"You can rebuild."

"With what? You'll have taken my tools."

"What else can pay the tribute?" The Grey asked. 

Darius Salt looked out at the apocalypse unfolding in front him. The sight seemed a revelation to him, and unveiling of a horrible truth. 

His cell phone rang and answering it, Darius heard the voice of the Bone Man.

"The storytellers have assistance. I believe it is wizards, possibly the Tenebrati. The Wendigo have cut us off from access to the targets. What do you advise my lord?"

Darius Salt narrowed his eyes and paused, silent. Then, without answering, Darius snapped his phone shut- ending the call.

He turned to face the Grey, "Take them. Take all of them. stuff yourself."

The Grey's mandibles chattered in anticipation.

* * *

"we're lost." Harley whispered, "Can you tell which is north? Help us get our bearings, maybe?"

Bridger shook his head, "I don't know how to tell which way is north. Why don't you do it?"

"I can only do it with a compass; or at night when I can spot the little dipper and the north star."

They crouched behind a rock, now well off the trail as two packs of Wendigo fought over the right to devour the decaying corpse of a jack rabbit now swarming with maggots and blow flies. 

Bridger rubbed his nose, "You want me to tell the monsters to wait till nightfall? Because by nightfall we'll be desert!"

"I know. I hear you." Harley answered in a rushed whisper, "But that's all I've got. If you have any ideas, I guarantee that I'll listen." 

"Why are we doing this?" Bridger asked, "What is the point of trying to get initiated? The world is breaking open and we're following the dictates of crazy old man with vibe of cantaloupe left in the sun too long. Night, are you even listening to me?"

"I'm always listening." Harley answered, "And yes, you're precisely right. The world is breaking. And we're being hunted by mythical cannibal creatures from a world of which we aren't a part. I don't have any answers you'd want to hear right now. But the only way myself and Marion and the Kids have survived this long is by listening to the crazy all around us and embracing the crazy as a weapon. So if the crazy witch doctor tells me to climb the mountain through the arches to get initiated, then I am climbing a mountain."

Bridger was silent, and after a moment Harley decided to push ahead, and continued speaking. 

"Do have any better options? Because I'm listening. I have been fighting cannibal spirits, soulless fake federal agents, double crossing witches, a supernatural hunting dog, and a full blown eldritch abomination. And I'd really like a clear picture of why and how to stop all of this from literally breaking my world open. 

But you haven't been able to nail down who is good and evil. The cannibals seem eat everyone indiscriminately. It doesn't matter if they're people who think you're chopped liver or people who want to fill you with holes like Swiss cheese, the Wendigo will eat them all the same. How do know you're on the right side? You guess. 

I don't know. I'm guessing too." 

"Should we just guess on the direction to the next gate as well then?"

Harley was about to answer when he noticed that the sounds of battle had subsided. Harley snuck a glance around the rock and saw two dozen gaunt Wendigo faces staring at their hiding place. Harley suddenly noticed a swatch of red down the hill behind the Wendigo. Harley realized he was staring a one of the gates, and he was certain that they had not passed through that one. Harley shook his head.

"We've missed a gate, it's down past the Wendigo. So I'm going to suggest that a more reasonable option at this point would be to run for our lives in a direction generally up the hill."

"Wasn't that supposed to make the mountain god or guardian angry? You want to open that can of worms?"

"You want to deal with the mob of cannibal monsters hunting us right now?" harley said and took off running.

Bridger took off beside him and the Wendigo boiled across the landscape towards them, "Those are horrible options!" 

"Welcome to my world!" Harley answered.

* * *

The Bone Man stared at his phone. His expression did not change. The agents looked at the Bone Man in confusion.

"We have failed." The Bone Man said at last, "And I fear that this failure has cost us everything."

He looked out at the battered sky line as other worlds glared through the shattered sky. 

"Close your eyes, and think of the empire."

The Bone Man looked down at his feet and saw that his body vanishing in little bites, as though an invisible army of insects were devouring him from the ground up, crawling up his body to erase him from the story.

The Bone Man looked out at the shimmering rips in the sky growing around him. He shook his head. 

"This is how it ends. Centuries and centuries of work. For ten thousand years we held the world and the empire together. We killed the wolves of Europe and wiped out the Dodo and the passenger pigeon to power the empire and keep the world together. We scoured the world for coal and oil, for gold and diamonds to feed the Grey. We civilized the ignorant and killed those who would oppose our great work. We defeated tribe after tribe from the Picts to the Pawnee when they refused a place in our empire. We built cities and monuments to eternity, but it seems we could not meet our side of the bargain. And so here we fail, here we end. How disappointing."

The Bone Man closed his eyes.

* * *

Harley and Bridger had managed to stay ahead of the Wendigo only by dint of the fact that the Wendigo were distracted by the local wildlife and each other. Chasing grouse and field mice and jack rabbits with equal enthusiasm, the Wendigo would frequently stop their pursuit to fight over the right to eat a tiny rodent or a scrawny game bird.

The Wendigo were still in pursuit and still within sight even, but Harley and Bridger had maintained a consistent distance from the mob. Harley was in fact beginning to feel vaguely optimistic about their chances of reaching the top intact, when the earth began to make noises. The ground rumbled like an angry volcano god. The Wendigo stopped behind them as the ground began to shift under their feet. The tremors increased and harley toppled to the ground while Bridger crouched low to maintain his balance. The earth rose up ahead of them, shifting like a living being, and shaped itself into an enormous bear. 

"Is the guardian a stone bear?" Bridger asked. 

Harley said nothing, but shook his head. The thing before them was not a bear. The thing before them was every bear that had ever been, made of earth and roots and partridge bones and rage. A great mountain come to life to guard the way to the their goal. Claws made of quartz scarred the cedar tree between the earthen bear and the team. The mountainous thing before them towered nearly as tall as a two story house and the hollow black holes that served as its eyes offered no remorse or compassion.

The Wendigo pulled back to a distance, clearly afraid of the bear guardian thing. 

"So, I guess we shouldn't have missed that gate?" Bridger said, "We can't fight that. We need to run."

Harley ignored his partner and focused on summoning Boneshaker. The footsteps of the guardian shook the ground and screwed with his focus. On the third attempt, Harley felt Boneshaker in his hands and he opened his eyes to find himself starting at the bear guardian's knee caps. He swung Boneshaker and connected with the guardian's knee cap and felt the momentum of his swing die a painful death. The guardian did not give at all, and the vibrations returned to Harley in excruciating waves up his arms to his shoulders. He nearly dropped his weapon. The guardian looked down and roared like the sounds of an avalanche.

"And now we're back to the whole running thing. It's getting old." Harley said to nobody in particular."