While paddling my custom made, streamlined four-seater canoe up the New Nile River, just inside the war-torn borders separating Buffalo from Toronto, a sudden movement within the tree line on the left bank caught my attention.
Slowly drifting to a stop, I quietly set the hand break and sat back, focusing intently on the forest. Waiting. Watching. That’s when I noticed the eerie silence – no buzzing monkeys, no howling mosquitoes – which was disconcerting, being the middle of the lunch rush and all.
Bubbles burbled a few feet from my boat – like a melodic hippo fart in the night – momentarily distracting me. This nearly caused me to miss the long, sleek form that launched from the vibrant green treetops like those German engineered Tomahawk missiles favored by the Uto-Aztecan Ground Patrol during the Battle of 1492, when they fought bravely against the Texican Republican Army deep within the Himalayan Mountain ranges of Northeastern Greenland.
Raising my arms and bracing myself for impact, the unidentified ballistic projectile instead hit the water – hard – like a fat dude doing a belly flop. KER-SPLAT!!!
Seconds later, the dingy water muddied and began roiling like a pot of Grandfather’s Five Alarm chili left on the stove (or in your gut!) for too long.
Seconds later a long, green snout broke the surface but was quickly replaced by a large orange head. Over and over the two shapely appendages exchanged positions, until at last, they submerged a final time.
After what felt like hours – but was merely minutes – a huge, nappy-furred Bengal tiger with leathery black wings crawled from the water and up the riverbank. In its jaws dangled the bloody, limp body of an archosaurian aerialis – more commonly known as the flying alligator – an indigenous species often found inhabiting the snowcapped peaks of the North Indies, and distant cousin to the recently extinct, emu poaching winged crocodile last found in the Napa Valley region, on the uninhabited island of Detroit.
That’s when it hit me: The flying gator had actually protected me from the flying tiger, who, unbeknownst to me, had been stalking me from beneath the waves. That ugly, sickly green, cracked leathery hided creature was a hero. A hero who’d nobly sacrificed its precious life to save mine, its mortal enemy. Well, one of many, many mortal enemies. I mean, nobody likes those ferocious things, what with their massive jaws, huge sharp teeth, and cold, lifeless eyes. My body gave an involuntary shiver, shaking me from my momentary mental digression.
Taking advantage of the tiger’s distraction with its newly acquired meal, I kicked the canoe into gear and continued paddling upstream.
Several clicks later, I hung a left into the Colorado River, took an immediate right into the Mid-Atlantic Tributary, before turning off into Lake Cattywompus, where our humble suburban village is discretely located.
While I offloaded the canned goods and artichokes I’d pilfered during my journey, Donny Ten Beers informed me that one of the four neighboring tribes (he couldn’t remember which one) was hosting a potluck shindig on Saturday to welcome back the full moon, and invited me to speak on the current state of our Earth Mother, as I did the most traveling of all the People.
I was torn on this offer as a month earlier, while dating one of the local Chief’s eldest granddaughters, Anita Goodlay, I somehow found myself alone in a sweat house with her younger sister, Baited Hook. Only I didn’t have any pants on.
Nothing happened, I swear! But try explaining that to a drunk, jealous girlfriend who’d provided some disturbingly graphic details about how she was gonna emasculate me the next time we crossed paths. Not only that, her little sister has been blowing up my phone ever since.
Yeah, probably a good idea to take a raincheck – especially for a late-night powwow being held during a full moon!
It’s always best to do your homework before a powwow takes place – whether you’re directly involved, or merely an innocent bystander. (Hmm. That statement almost comes off like a Tribunal Investigation is ongoing. I wonder if there’s something to that?) It can be embarrassing – downright dangerous, even – to attend Gatherings of the People and not know beforehand about tensions between tribes or feuds-in-progress. Or where an ex-girlfriend might be.
Normally, my research consists of watching the Weather Channel the morning of, and going over any pertinent notes related to the topic at hand. Unfortunately, there’ve been occasions where honored guest speakers (like yours truly) are ambushed into lively debates, so it’s always better to be prepared for the worst, but we’ll talk more about that later.
Thanks to the aforementioned Weather Channel, I’d know by 9 AM what dance would be performed, as it’s always based on that day’s forecast: Rain? Rain Dance. Cloudy? Cloud Dance. Hot? Pole Dance. According to Al Roeker, it was going to be hot and dry on the California coast – with a 50/50 chance of wildfires around noon. This means it would rain in our neck of the woods. Rain Dance it is. This also meant I could go incognito in a hooded poncho until I took the stage, thereby avoiding a confrontation with She Who Shall Not Be Named. Yay for tiny victories!
The topic of discussion also hints to who’s likely to turn an informative speech into an outright debate. Our Most Militant Members never miss an opportunity to spew their vitriolic hate towards the White Man: Global Warming? White Man’s fault. Insane liquor prices? Jimmy Bean’s doing. The general all-around desecration of our Earth Mother? Pale Face strikes again!
I’ve been attacked – verbally and physically – for taking the stance that what Mother Nature is doing is simply a natural form of population control. (Honestly, it’s some of Her finest work to date!) I mean, how can any one race be blamed for this? Our ancient Chevy trucks burn the same gasoline, and our well-fed buffalo rip the same farts as the rest of society. At least that’s what I read in an article of an old issue of East Minnekota University’s student newspaper. And they know a lot of stuff! After all, it was their gifted students who discovered the Southern Lights, built the Large Hadron Colander, and developed uncharacteristically clear photos of Higgs’ bosom! (Double D’s, with a touch of enhancement work, btw.)
Where was I? Oh, right. Tribal Leaders wanted an accurate accounting of The People’s Water. That’s not a Native affectation – it’s actually the name of the local water utility company. Ironic, I know, but what’re ya gonna do? The main points of concern (and contention) were reports of bodies of water that did not freeze over in winter, water that glowed at night, and the sudden appearance of the invasive 3-clawed crayfish – a parasitic predator who preyed on the highly coveted zebra mussel population, thereby threatening the lucrative zebra mussel market.
Based on this knowledge, my likely opponent this evening would be Tamar Red Pond: self-appointed Bitch Queen of the Waterways, and affectionately known by the Hua T’ktan faithful as Tammy Tampon. (Due to her cheerful, friendly demeanor, surely.)
She, of course, would be supported by her ever-present shadow, and perpetually unemployed halfbreed husband, Dougie Douche Nozzle, affectionately known as: Shut Your Face, White Boy!
Tonight was gonna be a cakewalk…
I don’t know who first came up with the ridiculous idea (though I suspect Kimosabe Ben Dayo was behind it), but it was suggested that Rain Dances could be performed just by the ladies, wearing white T-shirts. Perhaps while dancing around spears firmly impaled in the ground? It was also suggested that the participating dancers be rewarded for their – and I quote: “Exhibition and exuberance,” with sacred Finch and Grackle feathers being strategically placed on their person. (In lieu of dollar bills, no doubt.)
Unable to escape from hearing this intelligent conversation take place amongst my peers, I interjected that the feathers would get soaked and become soggy by the rain, therefore rendering them useless to the ladies who’d “earned” them. When it was agreed all around that it was a dumb idea, I couldn’t help but wonder if they only meant the feather idea – or the sacred wet T-shirt contest as a whole. Never can tell with these People of mine…
Irregardless, the days festivities progressed with an excited, yet peaceful hum.
Baked goods of every kind were on sale, as were the homemade turquoise and pyrite jewelry, trinkets and knickknacks characteristic of Indian-esque gatherings the world over.
There were also the typical herbs, spices, snake oils, and homeopathetic remedies being offered to unsuspecting suckers. I mean citizens!
A longtime Hua T’ktan favorite: the Chili Cook-Off, was held and judged, with Chelli Long Pepper taking First Place for the third powwow in a row with his world-famous secret recipe. (It is rumored he uses butter beans marinated in cactus juice and sautés his aged buffalo meat in a Tabasco and tequila sauce. Five-alarm chili – with a killer buzz!)
New this season was an area where quality used motorcycle and tractor parts could be bought, sold, or traded, giving the Gathering an air reminiscent of a swap meet slash flea market – Native Style.
Unfortunately, poor planning placed the Beer Garden next to the bike parts, and soon bartering became confused with bartending, and a few fights broke out. Luckily no blood was spilled, only beer, but that should’ve been an omen of things to come. (Did nobody remember the Battle of Thanksgiving in ’09 that took place when a very drunk – and very belligerent – Chief Wigwam tried to replace the windshield wiper on his mother in laws’ snowmobile – with a dirty spatula? It was a freakin’ bloodbath!)
By six that evening, the clouds (and some last-minute stragglers) starting rolling in at a steady pace – a sure sign to begin the Rain Dance.
As one, the crowd began heading for the bleachers where we would cheer on our favorite dancers, and place bets on who was too high to keep up with the choreographed routine. (My money was on Donny Ten Beers. Last powwow, he spewed Chelli’s Chili all over Katie White Cubs’ brand-new boots – then passed out in a puddle of his own vomit. It was hilarious! And gross! A week later, they were married.)
As the dance progressed, the thunderhead gathered steam, promising (threatening?) to deliver a much-needed shower to both the land, as well as to a few smelly patrons, as a reward for a dance well done. (Weather Channel be damned!).
Thankfully the stage I would soon be speaking upon was covered, so I’d be protected from the worst the storm had to offer. As I considered my fortunate circumstances, I noticed Dougie Douche Nozzle standing by the podium, talking animatedly with someone wearing a colorful hooded rain slicker. Whoever it was had a gorgeous set of ritualistic battle axes strapped to their back.
As Dougie gestured around vaguely towards the gathered crowd, the person slowly turned, and was now facing my general direction. My blood immediately froze in my veins as I recognized who it was: Anita Goodlay. My angry ex-girlfriend. And she was armed for war…
Feigning disinterest, I slowly turned my attention back to the fairgrounds where the Rain Dance was being held, all the while straining to keep Anita in my peripherals – lest she sneak up on me and lop my head from my shoulders. Or some other useful appendage.
Seconds later the crowd let out a collective gasp, followed by different variations of “Eew!” as Donny Ten Beers blew chunks all down the front of his ceremonial garb. (That was an easy 50 bucks!)
The momentary distraction allowed Anita to escape my view, but I quickly caught sight of her as she vaulted effortlessly onto the bare back of a beautiful painted piebald and trotted off in the opposite direction.
I was hoping against hope that she hadn’t spotted me and instead went searching elsewhere. Like Michigan!
Twenty minutes later I was on a dry stage, talking over the pattering rain as it pelted the roof above me. I was reciting a highlighted portion of an AI generated report that inexplicably placed the blame of the 3-clawed crayfish invasion squarely on the shoulders of Tommy Wang Doodle’s Sushi Bar, Massage Parlor, and Used Cars when the first axe struck – nearly splitting the podium in two.
I don’t know why I was expecting some Secret Service-like agents to spring into action, throwing their bodies in front of mine in the line of some insanely sacred duty. It was probably a combination of the bowl of chili I had, along with the bowl I smoked to calm my nerves before taking the stage. (It’s totally medicinal. Blow me!)
As I briefly fantasized being saved by the Men In Black – with their conspicuous earpieces and their not-so-conspicuously concealed weapons – the first volley of flaming arrows struck. Shit! That had to be Baited Hook’s calling card. Those hateful bitches were teaming up on me? But I didn’t even do anything wrong!
As the podium went up in flames, reality kicked me in the balls – or was that Tammy Tampon’s foot? The hell I ever do to her?
Luckily, the partially drunk audience thought it was all part of some scripted act, and so was receptive when I dove off the stage like a rock star, cushioning my landing and unknowingly aiding in my escape. The sad truth of the matter is, if them hallucinating bastards had known that what was happening was for real, they would’ve forced me back up on the stage just to see some action. (I’m not gonna lie: If it’d involved anyone else but moi, I’d probably do the same thing. I mean, who isn’t down for a real live-action fight – with actual weapons?!)
As I wove my way through the throng of onlookers, I managed to snag a hat from the head of a little girl who was enraptured by the giant cloud of pink cotton candy floating in front of her face. (If I didn’t know any better, I’d’ve suspected she’d sampled some of Chelli’s Chili, so enthralled was she!) The hat wasn’t a very good fit – neither in color nor size – but was enough to disguise my identity so that the flaming arrows were no longer landing in my general vicinity.
As I veered left towards the parking lot, I could hear arrows hitting random targets behind me in quick succession: Thock! Thock! Thock! (Damn, she must’ve been practicing!)
By now the crowd was catching on that this wasn’t a staged event – that the axes and the arrows and the crazy bitches were the real thing.
That’s when the reality really kicked into gear.
Ever been to a family get together where a few too many drinks were had, and one snarky comment from a distant cousin you only see once in a Blue Moon sparks a bench clearing brawl between four different generations? It was like that – only a hundred times worse!
Now I was trying to dodge people who were fighting their own way to their vehicles – or fighting just to fight, it wasn’t entirely clear by this point – while also evading the clutches of three bitter women intent on maiming me.
On a scale of one to ten, this was by far the third worse powwow I’d ever been a part of…
My knowledge of Tanoq T’kwan is miniscule at best. I was warned as a child to avoid their lands at all costs, lest I be captured, kidnapped, or worse. That’s how the Elders put it: Or. Worse. (My youthful imagination took that seed and planted it really, really deep!)
Tanoq T’kwan’s history (much like Hua T’ktan’s) is usually deciphered by way of ancient cave drawings, Wikipedia, or Spoken Word. You’d be hard pressed to find mention of our collective People in history books, unless they are derogatorily false accounts of vagrancy, vulgarity, and viciousness.
Our Great Ancestors were piteously credited for their recreational use of… Ahem! I meant MEDICINAL uses of peyote, various smoking herbs, and sour mash. But what little credit they’d been accorded was quickly turned to blame as society found ways to abuse Nature’s intrinsic remedies. For example, snorting uncut cordite isn’t nearly as lethal or addictive as lawmakers have led you to believe. Hidden within the pages of their deceptively vague and oppressive laws lies the truth of cordite’s vast healing properties – a monumental discovery made by The People. But put that shit in a bullet? NOW we’re talking lethal addiction, yadda yadda yadda.
Where was I? Hell, where AM I? Baited Hook’s GPS directions put us in the middle of a rainforest! That it was actually raining wasn’t helping matters any. At this rate we were gonna get stuck in the mud and have to continue this journey on foot!
You saw this coming, didn’t you? Not only did the oldest minivan in existence get stuck in the mud, it lost power as well: the engine died, headlights cut off, radio went out.
I am by far not a superstitious person – I’m more of a Set In His Ways kinda guy. But this had all the hallmarks of a horror film: critical thinking adult figure, take charge warrior-princess type, inebriated slacker dude, stalled vehicle in a dark forest…
I’ll say nothing more. (I learned my lesson two paragraphs ago!)
I mucked around outside of the van – as though a solution could be found in the mud – while Baited Hook ransacked the interior, stuffing who-knows-what into her backpack and mumbling under her breath.
All of a sudden the unmistakable sound of a face getting the shit slapped out of it split the very air like a lightning bolt: CRACK! Silencing even the rain. I sighed with relief when I heard a slurring Dougie ask: “Are we there yet?”
Standing in the vans doorway, Baited Hook said, “Take this,” and held her backpack out to me. As I reached for it, she said sternly, “Whatever you do, do NOT drop this!”
O-Kayyy. That wasn’t at all unnerving! The hell was in there?
Seconds later a slightly disoriented Dougie stumbled out of the van, only to face plant in the mud. SPLAT! Hearing Baited Hook giggle at this helped ease my tension over carrying what I now believed was a homemade dirty bomb. So much so that I almost dropped the damn thing. Sheesh!
She took a moment to shut and lock the van’s doors before we set off through the Dark Forest – which I thought was odd, considering it was stalled, stuck in the mud, and had a broken window. (Oh, and that PROBABLY wasn’t the real name of the place? My childhood fantasies and vivid imagination were running rampant at this point. I mean, we were in Tanoq T’frickingkwan! How wild was that?)
“Listen,” Baited Hook began. “We’re gonna go about a mile or so into these woods,” she gestured around vaguely with one hand. “Then we’ll cut west across the old Beaver Farm, until we come to The Witches Tall Falls.”
Dougie gasped at this. To many amongst our People, “The Falls” were a myth. Scary stories whispered around camp fires, or told to misbehaving children. They couldn’t be real! The look on Baited Hook’s face not only said they were real – it said she’d been there.
After a moment of contemplation, I realized we had another very serious problem: When it came to the old Beaver Farm, I was considered their mortal enemy…
Ever been wrong about something? I don’t mean a little off the mark, or “Oopsie!” wrong. I’m talking about USS Hugantic meets rogue iceberg on the Mississippi River wrong. “I didn’t know the gun was loaded!” wrong. Totally. Effing. FUBAR’d wrong.
Well, I have.
First, it turns out that the young Baited Hook’s incessant phone calls were actually innocent in nature. She was trying desperately to warn me of her evil sister’s plans. (Her sister’s evil plans? Whatever.) But I never checked my voice mail.
In my defense, I didn’t know Grasshopper Wireless even offered voicemail!
Second, Ms. Red Pond’s swift kick to my balls was labeled an unfortunate accident. She’d merely meant to kick me out of the way as the second axe came hurtling towards my unsuspecting melon. (I’d later heard she’d called it a win-win. Bitch.)
Third, Baited Hook was using those flaming arrows to corral and guide me in my escape. Why she felt the need to torch the podium and bleachers (and at least three vehicles!) remains a mystery, but there you go.)
And fourth, Anita Goodlay is, in fact, a psychotic slut who’s on a Spiritual Quest to make me dead.
I just want to be clear on that point.
I should also mention that the riot was bound to happen, as animosity between tribes had been brewing since the start of the Infernal Equinox. It was only a matter of time till things boiled over. The location was simply a convenient formality, if you will.
I bobbed and wove my way through the frenzied crowd of parking lot gladiators, taking the occasional sucker punch along the way (thanks, Donny!) until I happened across what is described in prehistoric cave paintings as a VW Vanagon. Keys dangling from the ignition and everything.
Thinking on my feet, I shattered a window, climbed in and, several desperate attempts later, finally coaxed the ancient artifact to life. (Cut me some slack. I didn’t know Italian cars were diesel!)
Pinballing my way through the parking lot, I hastily picked up a few stragglers who were either too dazed or too bewildered to get out safely. Among them was a very pale (and very drunk) Dougie Douche Nozzle, followed by my cousin Vinnie’s secretary, Gladys, and none other than Baited Hook herself, in full war garb – face paint and all. Only now she carried a backpack instead of a hunting bow. (Ever heard that saying about hindsight? Yeah, me neither. I later realized that the backpack shoulda been a clue.)
Clearing the lot, Gladys demanded she be let out at the nearest Tim Horton’s. As we rounded the drive-thru curve, (who starts their journey without some Timbits and a hot cuppa?) the Nozzle turned and asked, “Were you planning on backing up your research, concerning our water problems?” He followed up his inquiry with greasy belch that smelled like pickled quail eggs and… dandelions?
Huh. That was a new one. I’d hafta remember to tell Donny Ten
“Excuse you!” came the disembodied voice of an offended ghost.
(On the cool, I’d forgotten Baited Hook was still on the bus. Oops!)
“We just scraped our way out of an epic Royal Rumble – by the skins of our teeth, thank you very much,” she said in an angry teenager tone, “and your drunk ass is insisting he show his fucking work?”
I couldn’t help but to bust out laughing! I mean, here was this kid, putting a grown-ass man in his place.
“What’s so goddamn funny, Big Chief Donut Hole?!”
Wait. Was she talking to
“Yeah, I’m talking to YOU!” she said with a violent neck snap. “We just barely escaped the Nation’s biggest cluster fuck to date – thanks to ME. And your first priority is Starbucks?”
“Uh, this is Tim Hort”
“SHUT YOUR FACE!” she screeched, almost shattering another window.
But, that’s DOUGIE’s name! I thought sullenly to myself.
“Get back on the highway,” she demanded. “I wanna show you what I found hidden in Elder Merrimack’s cavern.”
“Road Trip!” Dougie announced excitedly. Then he proceeded to barf all over the dashboard…
After removing the vomit-soaked shag rug dashboard cover, then rolling an unconscious Douche Nozzle to the back of the van, we loaded up on Timbits and dark roast and made our way up the 501, towards Tanoq T’kwan, Hua T’ktan’s closest neighbor, located a scant seven leagues across Lake Eerie [sic].
A few miles down the highway Baited Hook broke the silence by explaining why we were headed to Chief Merrimack’s cavern. During the course of putting together her college thesis on the forced migration of the predatory archosaurian aerialis (flying gators) to the newly relocated Florida Everglades (which is now up on the second summit of Pike’s Peak), she’d stumbled upon a ferocious pack of carnivorous hippopotami who’d been forced off the San Diego Islands due to a lack of sustainable sustenance.
She must’ve mistaken the blank look on my face as a lack of understanding.
“They ran out of food,” she explained.
Slightly offended by her condescending tone, I smartly replied with, “Duh!” (Not my finest hour, I admit, but the whole college thesis thing really threw me. I mean, I thought she was still in junior high!) I admit I was also slightly suspicious of the word “hippopotami,” but one thing at a time.
Before I could stuff my foot further into my uneducated sounding mouth, she continued.
“I started backtracking their journey, but hit a dead end in Denver. At least I THOUGHT it was dead end.
Turns out the entire town is just stoned on Yummy Bears.”
I always wondered why they called it the Mile-High City. Ya learn something new every day!
My expression must’ve given me away again because she quietly added, “I checked. His pockets were empty.”
Damn!
Undaunted by the lack of Scooby Snacks, she explained that she caught a break in The Case at an In and Out Burger, of all places. She’d pulled in so she could pee, then decided at the last minute that a Triple-Double bacon cheeseburger and Outsized fry was needed to keep the investigation going.
After placing her order, she overheard an elderly couple in matching bowling shirts complaining about all the strange debris that was washing in from the Pacific Ocean and littering the sandy Arizona beaches.
Never a shy one, Baited Hook politely asked the couple to repeat themselves.
“Sure, all’s the way up to Calgary, Alberta – so Ed’s told me,” the old guy insisted. “Tons of floating, glowing, slimy shit – far as the eye can see,” he explained dramatically. “Damn shame too,” he added, a withered thumb out to the old broad next to him. “Me and the little woman here was gonna head out to our timeshare, do a little ice fishing.”
His wife just nodded along, frowning the whole time.
I don’t know if it’s my face – or Baited Hook’s inability to read it – but she felt compelled to explain that that was where the oddballs from up North cut holes in the ice, then fished. In the holes.
Jeeze, cut a guy some slack! I mean, I’ve seen Olympic curling on TV. I know all about… Wait, what? Ice fishing? In Arizona?
Before I could choke down my shoe, she suddenly blurted out, “Get off here!”
I pumped the breaks – hard – veering across three lanes to make the exit ramp. That’s when we heard a loud “Clunk!” coming from the back of the Vanagon. Thinking the extreme driving maneuver caused the ancient rear-mounted engine to vacate its ancient mounts, thus ending our expedition prematurely, we were slightly relieved when we heard Dougie softly moaning from somewhere in the darkness. Not only had we forgotten he was back there, we’d also forgotten to strap him in. Oh, well. He’d never know what hit him. Or what he’d hit. He was thoroughly crocked.
Getting my questioning look right this time, she explained, “I know a back way in. It’s better we aren’t seen – or caught – trespassing on enemy territory,” she finished with a grave voice.
Enemy Territory. Interesting choice of words, I thought.
Oh, if I’d only known how much I was gonna regret them words by morning…
My knowledge of Tanoq T’kwan is miniscule at best. I was warned as a child to avoid their lands at all costs, lest I be captured, kidnapped, or worse. That’s how the Elders put it: Or. Worse. (My youthful imagination took that seed and planted it really, really deep!)
Tanoq T’kwan’s history (much like Hua T’ktan’s) is usually deciphered by way of ancient cave drawings, Wikipedia, or Spoken Word. You’d be hard pressed to find mention of our collective People in history books, unless they are derogatorily false accounts of vagrancy, vulgarity, and viciousness.
Our Great Ancestors were piteously credited for their recreational use of… Ahem! I meant MEDICINAL uses of peyote, various smoking herbs, and sour mash. But what little credit they’d been accorded was quickly turned to blame as society found ways to abuse Nature’s intrinsic remedies. For example, snorting uncut cordite isn’t nearly as lethal or addictive as lawmakers have led you to believe. Hidden within the pages of their deceptively vague and oppressive laws lies the truth of cordite’s vast healing properties – a monumental discovery made by The People. But put that shit in a bullet? NOW we’re talking lethal addiction, yadda yadda yadda.
Where was I? Hell, where AM I? Baited Hook’s GPS directions put us in the middle of a rainforest! That it was actually raining wasn’t helping matters any. At this rate we were gonna get stuck in the mud and have to continue this journey on foot!
You saw this coming, didn’t you? Not only did the oldest minivan in existence get stuck in the mud, it lost power as well: the engine died, headlights cut off, radio went out.
I am by far not a superstitious person – I’m more of a Set In His Ways kinda guy. But this had all the hallmarks of a horror film: critical thinking adult figure, take charge warrior-princess type, inebriated slacker dude, stalled vehicle in a dark forest…
I’ll say nothing more. (I learned my lesson two paragraphs ago!)
I mucked around outside of the van – as though a solution could be found in the mud – while Baited Hook ransacked the interior, stuffing who-knows-what into her backpack and mumbling under her breath.
All of a sudden the unmistakable sound of a face getting the shit slapped out of it split the very air like a lightning bolt: CRACK! Silencing even the rain. I sighed with relief when I heard a slurring Dougie ask: “Are we there yet?”
Standing in the vans doorway, Baited Hook said, “Take this,” and held her backpack out to me. As I reached for it, she said sternly, “Whatever you do, do NOT drop this!”
O-Kayyy. That wasn’t at all unnerving! The hell was in there?
Seconds later a slightly disoriented Dougie stumbled out of the van, only to face plant in the mud. SPLAT! Hearing Baited Hook giggle at this helped ease my tension over carrying what I now believed was a homemade dirty bomb. So much so that I almost dropped the damn thing. Sheesh!
She took a moment to shut and lock the van’s doors before we set off through the Dark Forest – which I thought was odd, considering it was stalled, stuck in the mud, and had a broken window. (Oh, and that PROBABLY wasn’t the real name of the place? My childhood fantasies and vivid imagination were running rampant at this point. I mean, we were in Tanoq T’frickingkwan! How wild was that?)
“Listen,” Baited Hook began. “We’re gonna go about a mile or so into these woods,” she gestured around vaguely with one hand. “Then we’ll cut west across the old Beaver Farm, until we come to The Witches Tall Falls.”
Dougie gasped at this. To many amongst our People, “The Falls” were a myth. Scary stories whispered around camp fires, or told to misbehaving children. They couldn’t be real! The look on Baited Hook’s face not only said they were real – it said she’d been there.
After a moment of contemplation, I realized we had another very serious problem: When it came to the old Beaver Farm, I was considered their mortal enemy…
I suppose a trip down memory lane is in order – for clarity’s sake, if nothing else…
Before I was elevated to the Honorable position as a Tribal Elder – acquiring ignominious titles such as Chief Wise Ass, Sir Smokes A lot, or the recently bestowed honorific: Big Chief Donut Hole – I was but one of a handful randomly chosen by our Clan to venture into the Big City to obtain a higher education, in order that we gain a better understanding of the Greater World around us.
I won’t bore you with any legal mumbo jumbo surrounding the socioeconomic reformation project known as Affirmative Action – a controversial policy designed to eliminate discriminatory practices that have negatively impacted economically challenged and undereducated minority groups since time immemorial. Let’s just say that by taking advantage of a racist tactic designed to fight racism, we chosen few were thus able to attend Big City Community College.
I mean, a specific ethnic group – arbitrarily chosen over another, based solely on their differing ethnicities, and not on merit – is, by definition, racism.
Where was I? My ADHD is acting up again. Must be the rain. And I think I might be suffering from some kind of digressive distraction disorder as well. They should call it 3-D! I wonder if there’s a gummy for that? I’ll have to check with Lazy Elk when we get-
“Know what they call an Elder who forgets to pass the Pipe in a teepee smoke out?” Baited Hook asked the group, such as we were.
Roused from my reverie, I watched as Dougie Douche Nozzle stared at her like she was speaking another language.
She then looked to me, one eyebrow raised questioningly.
I must’ve mirrored his look, because she lowered her head and sighed, before mumbling dejectedly, “Chief Inattentive.”
Wow.
Wait. Was that a shot at
“Care to explain why you said ‘mortal enemy,’ then stood there drooling on yourself for the next five minutes?” she asked, not unkindly.
Was I really drool-
“HELLOOO!” she snapped, not so kindly this time.
“I um… Well, what I mean is, I uhh…” I stammered, unsure how or where to begin.
“Dude,” Dougie said.
I looked at him all wild eyed, like a mouse caught in a bear trap. Hold on, was that the right analogy? I wondered to my-
“Dude,” he repeated, then added, “You might as well tell her.”
Tell her what? Where was I again? Oh, that’s right:
I suppose a trip down memory lane is in order – for clarity’s sake, if nothing else…
“Close your mouth, you’re drawing flies,” Baited Hook said with a smirk.
What was wrong with me? I knew this story. I loved this story. Hell, I LIVED this story! So why was I having so much trouble spitting it out? And how the hell did the Nozzle-
“Bro, everybody knows,” he tried to assure me. Then blew that idea out of the water when he chunked a thumb in Baited Hook’s direction and stage whispered, “Except for her, apparently.”
Thanks, Dougie. Thanks a lot. Well, here goes nothing…
“Do you remember some few years back, when a group of our People were sent to school in the Big City?” I asked Baited Hook plaintively.
“Oh my god, are you kidding?” she exclaimed. “That was frickin’ legendary! I mean, they were the first ones EVER to-“
“The ONLY ones to ever go,” Dougie interrupted.
She looked crestfallen for a second, but recovered quickly.
“Nuh uh!” she insisted. “What about when Krysta Morningstarr and Dave Mustang and Donny Ten Beers’ little sister – what’s her name? Something something Longneck?” she rattled off, rapid fire.
“Hey, Kiddo,” Dougie interjected. “Let him explain. He was one of ’em, after all.”
To say her eyes became as big as dinner plates would be an apt description. And when her jaw landed on the ground, I couldn’t help but say, “Close your mouth. You’re gathering flies.” Then threw in a playful wink for good measure.
“YOU were one of them?” she asked incredulously. “How is that… I mean, I thought you had to be-“
“I am,” I assured her.
That’s when she fainted…
Hands in his pockets, Dougie gave the universal shrug that said: What’re ya gonna do? Looking down at a softly snoring Baited Hook slumped in the mud, I scratched the back of my head as if to say: I dunno, man.
Her reaction puzzled me. I mean, we’ve all done some pretty wild and crazy things in college. Why should I be any different? Did she think I hadn’t experienced all that college life had to offer? Did she think I was a friggin’ prude who’d held myself to loftier standards than my peers?
I am a Native Son of Hua T’ktan – where beer bongs, keg stands, trippin’ balls, and toking your brains out are not only a Rite of Passage, but Second Nature!
I didn’t get why she’d reacted that way over my participation in an orgy. Well, it was an epic orgy, to be sure. But still.
Dougie seemed to be on the same page.
“I can’t believe she didn’t know about you and ‘The Orgy,'” stated Captain Obvious. “I’d heard the Psychology Department began rewriting their master manual, and the Physics professors were preparing some kind of Theoretical Inertial Mass Velocity curriculum, based on reports of your exploits,” he bragged. “Until the Ethics Committee got involved, that is.”
Continuing that trip down memory lane I’d mentioned before, I explained some of lesser known details from that infamous evening.
In my third year at Big City Community College, I ran into my old friend, Wobbling Javelin, at a bachelor party. We didn’t know the other was enrolled there, as we hadn’t seen each other in forever, so we got caught up while playing a few losing hands of poker.
Cutting our losses, we wandered about the party, introducing one another to fellow classmates and casual associates. Before we’d completed a full circuit through the crowd of tipsy scholars, in strutted an identical pair of strippers. Eyes bugging out of my head, I froze in place and mouthed TWINS! to Wobbly.
“Those aren’t twins, my friend,” he corrected me.
Bullshit. They were a perfect match, right down to their-
“They’re quintuplets,” he added, much to my… I don’t know what I was, after hearing THAT revelation. Surprised? Shocked? Horny?
Pointing to the blackjack table, he guided my gaze to the third twin. Wearing a black bowtie with matching lace bra and thong, she seductively dealt out cards like a seasoned pro.
He then directed my attention to the bar, where a fourth (and topless!) twin was slinging drinks like a ninja. Wow! How had I missed HER?
It took a moment, but I eventually caught sight of the elusive Number Five. She was in the DJ booth, wearing nothing but headphones.
Wobbling Javelin explained that the five beautiful, half-naked ladies were the beloved daughters of Tanoq T’kwan’s Chief of Agriculture, Igor Beaver. He’d made millions cultivating and exporting agave plants, salvinorin bushes, Lophophora cacti, select mushrooms, and various hemp plants of the famed Indica strain. You know, for bowstrings and stuff.
Within minutes introductions were made: The gorgeous strippers were Misty and Stormy, recent graduates of some prestigious – and insanely expensive – dance school located in New York, of all places.
The sexy cardsharp was Annie, the hot bartender Sharon, and the naked DJ was aptly named Frida.
For the purpose of brevity and decorum, I’ll gloss over the juicy, carnalistic debauchery that took place, over and over and over again, after the party. Suffice it to say, Wobbling Javelin and I were caught in flagrante delicto – with all five sisters – by the Chief himself.
Two things saved our lives that night: 1) The Chief couldn’t get a clean shot off, as we were entangled with his daughters. 2) Our drive to flee swiftly in the luxurious kayak we’d stolen from a rich, and very angry father. (That thing cut through the water like a lacy thong through butt cheeks!)
“I’m not worried about some stupid orgy, moron!” said a conscious Baited Hook. “I thought you were telling me you’re one of the aliens.”
Aliens? WTF?!
Dougie and I stood there like shell shocked mannequins, not moving a muscle as Baited Hook mumbled to herself while swiping at the mud caking her pants.
Taking the backpack from my hand, she slung it over her shoulder with practiced ease and said, “I’ll explain on the way.”
I don’t know if it was a testament to Dougie’s sobriety – or the lack thereof – but it took at least five minutes before he blurted out, “Aliens?” That was all. Nothing more was said until Baited Hook paused to get her bearings.
“We head west from here,” she said with one of those directional karate chops you see in old army films. “We’ll be at The Falls in less than an hour. Any questions?”
Crickets. Well, that’s what you WOULD’VE heard, if there’d been any crickets out.
“Kidding!” she clarified, much to my relief. “God. Loosen up a little, will ya?”
Oh, I had some questions. Boy, did I have questions! But I didn’t know where to begin, because now I was unsure if her ‘kidding’ admission applied to her ‘any questions’ comment, or to her ‘aliens’ declaration. THAT would be a good place to-
“What do you mean, ‘Aliens’?” a visibly shaken Douche Nozzle asked.
Turning her back to us, Baited Hook talked as she led us westward. She must’ve been holding back her thoughts for a long time, because when she opened her mouth, it became a babbling fountain of knowledge, rumors, and conjecture.
“I told you about my thesis, right?” It was a rhetorical question, because she didn’t even pause for breath. “Well, I looked into what that old guy said, about all that glowing trash and stuff washing up on the Arizona Coast?” Again, rhetorical. “So, I followed the proverbial chemtrail – only the trail in this case wasn’t very proverbic.”
I didn’t have the heart – or the balls – to correct her verbage. Besides, Dougie took the brief gap between her sentences to repeat his previous question.
“What do you mean, ‘Aliens’?”
“I’m getting to that!” she answered hotly. “Don’t rush me. You’ll see for yourselves in a little while.”
Again, Dougie and I went silent as we waited for the bomb to drop.
“So, I’m chasing down all these leads, right? And-“
“Hold on,” Dougie interrupted again. “Leads? I thought you said-“
“What I SAID was don’t rush me. Now shut your face, White Boy, and just listen for once! God, I swear…” she breathed.
I’m ashamed to admit it, but I laughed at this – one of those unmanly, snorting chuckles. SHNORK! It was a little embarrassing, especially after my boast about The Orgy. But the way his least endearing nickname smoothly rolled of her tongue as she casually checked him was funny. And impressive.
And I have to give Dougie credit as well, because he took it in stride, and actually kept his trap shut.
She glared at us, back and forth like an angry spectator at a tennis match. But I didn’t even say-
“Zip it!” she warned, smashing her thumb and forefinger together in midair. “So, I’m following LEADS,” she declared with a neck snap, “in the course of gathering documentable facts for my thesis. And every one of those leads led here, to the Witches Tall Falls. Every. Single. One.”
Those imaginary crickets got even louder.
Walking and talking once again, Baited Hook broke down the course of events incrementally, but swiftly, until she could no longer be heard above the roaring water as it crashed over the Tall Witches Falls. The sound was deafening – the sight majestic.
The People’s teaching of The Falls, as they’d come to be known, is based on folklore. Tales told around campfires, and to children who need some Act Right in their lives.
For the most part, this was an effective tactic: Here stood two men (nearly pissing their pants), who’d never dreamed they’d live out their nightmares in coming here.
As I glanced around at what I now perceived to be a tranquil oasis of the highest order, Baited Hook put a hand each on mine and Dougie’s arms, then whispered, “Whatever you do, DON’T. MOVE.”
That’s when I saw them…
Dangling from the low hanging branches of the giant trees making up this enchanted forest, were kiwifruit the size of watermelon, cranberries that looked like ripe tomatoes, and bright purple lemons.
Bright? How was anything bright? It was well after midnight – in a dense, overgrown forest!
Dougie was transfixed by something in the water. With his mixed heritage, it was probably a 50-pound Alaskan king crab, or a herd of great white dogfish.
Hands shaking but still clamped firmly on our arms, Baited Hook was staring intently at the waterfall.
None of us dared move – dared to breathe.
“Greetings, children of Hookah Town,” squeaked a dry, raspy voice as old as time. “Welcome to the Garden of Edom.”
As one, we craned our necks in the direction of who I sure was the Crypt Keeper.
Not five feet from us stood a tiny, withered person of indeterminate sex or age. And I wasn’t far off on the Crypt
Keeper comparison, what with the voice, paper thin leather-like skin, and sparse wisps of grey fuzz on its bony skull.
“We’ve been waiting for you for a looong time,” it wheezed, before succumbing to s chest-wracking coughing fit old smokers are prone to undergo spontaneously.
I can’t speak for my cohorts, but I was both star struck and creeped out at the same time. (The Crypt Keeper was technically a star, right?)
Baited Hook gained her composure first, demanding in her Warrior Princess persona to know who “we” was.
Dougie, on the other hand, swooned dramatically before crumpling to the ground in an accordion-like faint – making my unmanly snort from earlier seem like hardy, Herculean laughter.
“‘We’ are the Guardians of the Garden,” a grating voice replied from the shadows, scaring the hell out of me. Baited Hook didn’t even flinch.
“It was foretold millennia ago, that a young temptress and a worldly scholar would come from enemy lands, seeking the Old Magic,” added the faceless voice.
Young tempt-
“How do you know who I am?” Baited Hook demanded, sidestepping the floozy inference.
“We told you,” answered the Crypt Keeper. “You’re coming was foretold.”
Baited Hook chewed on this for a moment. Before she could demand a better explanation, another creepy voice joined the discussion.
“There is no mention of a Third in the Prophecy!” it squawked.
“The interloper must be sacrificed!” it declared, pointing a bony finger accusingly at Dougie’s unconscious form.
Baited Hook widened her stance as she slowly lowered her backpack to the ground.
Looking like she was about to battle three delusional senior citizens; my mood quickly shifted to excited – but worried. I wonder if I should look for a bipolar gummy, because I sure seem to-
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you” advised the Crypt Keeper.
Focused on Baited Hook – anticipating she’d pull off some acrobatic ninja moves – I was unsure who it was talking to.
A sudden glowy movement inside of The Falls itself caught my attention. It must’ve caught hers, too, because Baited Hook gasped aloud and said, “That’s them. Those are the aliens!”
As I looked on, it appeared as though a group with eerily glowing eyes was gathering on the other side of The Falls.
My mood swung once again, this time to scared shitless, and “Mommy!”
As my fight or flight instincts warred with my common sense, I took a small step back and inadvertently stepped on Dougie’s hand.
“Ow!” he cried. “Get off my hand, jerk wad!” he added while shoving me.
I moved my foot and reached down to help him up, never taking my eyes from The Falls.
“What’d I miss?” he asked groggily while getting to his feet. He noticed there were now three ancient beings among us, and that everyone was focused on The Falls.
Following our gazes, he was instantly mesmerized by the glowing eyes, wavering behind the rippling, falling water.
The next thing I knew, Dougie was flat on his face – out like a light in seconds flat.
Then I heard my name being whispered, over and over again – only it was inside of my head…
“That which you feel,” explained Grady – as I’d come to identify the shriveled old prune with the grating voice in my Internal Dialogue. Or is it Inner Monologue? I always get confused between-
“is the Old Magic pulling at the core of your existence,” it went on, interrupting my distracting colloquialism.
Colloquialism? Wait. Was I getting SMARTER as I stood here? How is that possi-
“You may be hearing a name,” it continued. “The sound of a beating heart. Or perhaps nothing at all,” it finished, staring down at the snoring Dougie.
“Your sorcery won’t work on me, witch!” declared Baited Hook.
“‘Tis not witchcraft, child!” the Crypt Keeper insisted heatedly.
“That pull you feel – that you have ALWAYS felt – is our Earth Mother, reaching out to you.”
Right then, E.T. – as I associated its long, bony index finger with that of the famous intergalactic traveler from our history books – stepped forward slowly, but aggressively.
Oddly, its body language was almost familiar. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say-
“Back off, witch,” Baited Hook warned, mimicking the creature’s stance.
No fucking way! These two were like-
“Listen to your heart, Warrior Queen,” advised a now calm Crypt Keeper.
Ha! Warrior Queen! I thought to myself. And here I’d been thinking of her as a Warrior Princess. Like that chick on TV? What was her name? Zelda? Zima? I’d have to ask Doug-
“Enough!” snapped Grady. “There is little time for posturing.”
With a frail-yet-swift kick to Dougie’s ribs – THUNK! it added, “Or napping. Get up, fool!”
Baited Hook and E.T. each mirrored the other’s movements, changing from defensive to aggressive stances.
Who’d have thought three wily oldsters would have us on edge?
“Dude. Did you just kick me?” asked a groggy Dougie, breaking what had quickly become a very uncomfortable silence. I mean, even my ill-timed thoughts had gone quiet. Well, except for the mirrored image observation I’d just-
“What’d I miss?” he asked, disrupting my-
Dammit! I was doing so good, too!
“Ask your innermost questions,” invited the Crypt Keeper.
“Open your hearts,” added E.T., never breaking eye contact with Baited Hook.
“Open your minds,” Grady said. “Starting with you, Douglas Duchene of the Nuzzling Bear Clan.”
THAT broke Baited Hook’s focus. Mine too, if we’re being honest here. Dougie didn’t even blink.
“H-h-how do you know me?” he asked nervously.
Grady let the tension build, then gave a vague, but creepy answer: “I have known you my entire life.”
But, this thing was like, a hundred years old!
“Seven hundred and thirty-four, to be exact,” Grady replied, looking right at me.
No frickin’ way!
“We are named after our grandfathers,” it said to Dougie.
“On both sides,” it clarified.
“We?!” Dougie, Baited Hook, and I exclaimed in unison.
“Yes,” it answered without further explanation.
With a slit-eyed death glare, Baited Hook asked E.T., “And what’s YOUR name, witch?”
“She is Tangled Web,” the Crypt Keeper answered instead.
“Great, great granddaughter of Chief White Cloud, sole heiress to the tissue empire, onetime Warrior Princess of the Garden of Olympus, now Warrior Queen of the Garden of Edom.” With a sigh he added, “The Last Garden.”
As one, Baited Hook and E.T. stood at ease, nodding to one another as if in acknowledgement of this insane revelation.
Oh, c’mon! Were they actually buying this crap?
“Too much to wrap your scholarly mind around?” asked the Crypt Keeper.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re supposed to be…”
“Hee he he heeee!” it laughed in that hysterical way I remembered from old reruns. “Not as dumb as you look.” Running ancient fingers through the sparse patches of fuzz on its skeletal head, it added, “Good thing you get handsomer as you age.”
I couldn’t put my finger on it, but that poor vernacular seemed familiar.
“How can you possibly be us?” I asked.
“We are from both the ancient past, and the distant future,” Grady answered. “But the time of our passing is finally upon us…
“But, you can’t drop something like that on us, then just… die!” a frazzled Dougie declared. Or, should I say, a frazzled Douglas Duchene, of the Nuz-
“Ask your questions,” E.T., or Spinning Web – or whatever the hell its name was – replied.
“The stories we were told? As children?” Baited Hook, or Nappy Weave – or whatever the hell her name is now – asked.
As I’d anticipated, the Crypt Keeper, or… Fuck it. I give up.
“The spellcasting, soul-stealing witches,” it began. “Innocent children used for ritualistic sacrifices. Tribal members returning to their villages, horribly disfigured – their memories wiped clean,” it ticked off each infraction with an arthritic-looking finger. “Am I missing anything?” it asked sarcastically.
I was really starting to hate this guy.
“Those anomalies your village experienced some years back?” Grady offered. “You know, the sudden, mysterious overabundance of fish and wildlife? The summer crops growing and thriving in mid-winter? That was the Old Magic, reaching out to help heal your land.”
“Are you just gonna gloss over your ‘Guardians’ titles, extreme ages, or ridiculous claims to be US!” demanded Dougie. The REAL Dougie.
It got surprisingly quiet – considering we were next to a roaring waterfall.
“It is true: there is powerful magic here,” began E.T. “But we do not wield it. Nor are we witches,” she added sorrowfully. “If only that had been the case, so many would not have died.”
“What do you mean?” asked Baited Hook.
Grady picked the thread back up. “Children from surrounding villages would egg one another on to cross into ‘enemy territory,’ or to swim in the ‘wicked water,'” he said using air quotes. “Even daring each other to plunge foolishly over The Falls on makeshift rafts, or in old rusty barrels they’d scavenged.” He looked down at his feet, shaking his head sadly.
“We did our best to treat the survivors,” admitted E.T. “But, 9 times out of 10, their injuries were beyond our abilities to heal. Those who did survive suffered horrible, debilitating physical and psychological injuries.”
Oh, snap! I knew what she was talking about! These were the stories we were told as children: kids who’d wandered back to their villages with broken limbs that healed improperly (or missing a limb altogether!), with catastrophic head wounds resulting in bouts of amnesia. And all this was blamed on-
“It doesn’t end there, I’m afraid,” the Crypt Keeper added soberly. “Those who didn’t survive outnumbered the survivors. Sadly, we couldn’t return their bodies to their families without exposing ourselves,” he admitted with watery eyes. “So we perpetuated the myths and the horror stories, in order to frighten off future trespassers,” he finished.
Damn. This story was getting to be a real bummer.
“Where are…” Baited Hook faltered. “What did you do with their bodies?” she managed.
“They are interred in the Sacred Burial Grounds, below The Falls,” answered E.T.
“How many?” I asked.
“In my lifetime,” the Crypt Keeper volunteered, “I’ve personally buried 5,872 of our People.”
Holy smokes. Doing the math in my head, that averaged out to-
“Eight children per year,” he informed me.
That was eight too many.
“So there were never any evil witches here, kidnapping and killing children,” Dougie interjected. “You were actually trying to save them.”
We’d fallen into a reverent silence – until Baited Hook broke it.
Pointing an accusing finger at the The Falls, she asked, “What about them? What part do those aliens play in all of this?”
Dougie’s eyes popped out of his head, and he started that swooning thing again.
Grady touched his arm gently and whispered, “Relax. Those aren’t aliens.”
Hearing his confession, Baited Hook asked, “Then who are they? Why are they watching us?” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “And why are their eyes glowing?”
“You’ve never seen zombies with glowing eyes before?” asked the Crypt Keeper.
Dougie hit the ground a second later…
“That never gets old,” chuckled the Crypt Keeper, then fell into another coughing fit.
Baited Hook stared at him, mouth agape.
“Honey,” E.T. called to her kindly. “You’re drawing flies.”
The Crypt Keeper’s fit threatened to turn him inside out.
These ancient relics carried on like-
“Those aren’t glowing zombie eyes, or aliens, you’re seeing,” E.T. explained, waving a hand at The Falls. “Those are just overgrown fireflies,” she continued. “Or haven’t you noticed – that’s kind of a theme here?”
Yep. Quite the cast of jokers these-
“All jokes aside,” announced a recovered Crypt Keeper. “We really have to move these proceedings along.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Prophecy holds that when we return to the Garden, we will then join the Ancient Ancestors,” explained Grady, who’d managed to get Dougie into a sitting position.
“I don’t understand,” I admitted. “Isn’t that what you’ve been claiming this whole time? That you’re us – only really, really old?
“I said, palms up in dismay. “Well, we’ve met.”
“No,” Grady answered. “It’s more simply complicated than that.”
“I think I’m getting a headache,” Baited Hook complained, fingers at her temples. “What IS this place? Who ARE you – really? And why are you HERE?” she finished, a finger pointing at the ground.
“This is the Garden of Edom,” E.T. said, taking the reins. “The last Garden of Life.”
“I still don’t under-” I began, but E.T. held up a hand, cutting me off.
“Once, there were four Gardens,” E.T. continued, “resting upon the four points of the compass – in order that their magic be evenly distributed globally.” She paused, giving us a knowing look in turn. “The Garden, in what was once the North, was invaded by legions of barbarians who overwhelmed the land – taking and taking and taking but never giving anything back – except their dead.” She shook her head sadly at this. “The Natives – try as they might – could not construe to the invaders that they were KILLING the land. Or, they did understand, but just didn’t care – because they moved on when it became a desolate wasteland.”
“Sounds familiar,” Baited Hook agreed, throwing me a dirty look.
What did I do? What’d any of that have to do with-
“I have a question,” said a now standing Dougie – though he did look a bit pale. Well, more pale than usual. “What happened with the other two Gardens?”
“The scourge known as Man happened – with his ceaseless wars and desire to take take take,” E.T. testified. “The magic – while powerful – is not eternal. Once balance cannot be restored…” she finished with a dramatic tilting of her hands – one high, one held low.
“What does this have to…” Dougie paused to gather his train of thought. “I mean, how are WE involved?” he circled a finger in the air between the three of us for emphasis. “And where do we go from here?”
The Crypt Keeper rested a frail, old hand on E.T.’s equally frail shoulder. She, in turn, mimicked the gesture with Grady. There was something familiar about the gesture. In the scene. In THEM.
Taking a deep breath, the Crypt Keeper explained, “Your arrival signals the fulfillment of Prophecy.” It must’ve been instinct, because he held up a hand, signaling me to keep quiet. “Now that you are all here, we,” he paused, making the same gesture as Dougie, “can now take our rightful places amongst our Ancient Ancestors. In the Sacred Burial Grounds.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” I asked.
Looking me in the eyes, he said, “It means I can die now – thank the Great Spirit! And you,” he thrust a bony finger in my direction, “will take up the proverbial torch. That’s what it means. Exactly.”
Baited Hook looked crestfallen, but she managed to ask the tough question: “What’s to become of us?”
“You’re looking at it, kid,” E.T. responded sadly, tears threatening to spill over. “It’s left to you now. To keep the Garden flourishing. To keep the riffraff out. Or to keep the idiots alive – should they make it in,” she said, sobbing…
E.T. and Baited Hook were embracing, sharing a moment – or whatever it’s called – while Dougie and Grady were off to the side engaged in deep conversation.
The Crypt Keeper and I did our very best to ignore one another’s existence, looking at everything in the Garden but each other. God, I really didn’t like this guy!
After a few minutes, E.T. came over and told the Crypt Keeper it is was time to go. Who knew a mummified stick figure could move so fast? If I had those reflexes at that age… No. No, I’m not going down that road. Nice try, though.
“Will we really never see our People – our village – again?” a saddened Baited Hook asked.
“No, kiddo,” Grady answered. “The Garden of Edom is your village now. And these two buffoons,” he said, putting an arm around mine and Dougie’s shoulders, “are all the People you’ll ever need.”
“So… I’ll never fall in love, have children, and grow…” Baited Hook began, but choked up before she could finish.
“Oh, honey,” E.T. said tearily, pulling Baited Hook into a hug. “You’ll fall in love – over and over again,” she assured her. “And everything in this beautiful Garden represents children. And trust me, it’ll demand your time and attention, require your nurturing care and gentle touch. You’ll experience many sleepless nights, and moments of utter pride.”
Wiping the tears from Baited Hooks cheeks like a nurturing mother herself, E.T. added, “You’ll also have to keep these two knuckleheads in line. And kick some serious ass from time to time,” she added with a light laugh.
“And don’t you worry for one second about growing old!” she finished, playfully tapping a finger on the tip of Baited Hook’s nose.
“Um, what do we need to do to, uh… send you… off?” Dougie asked uncomfortably.
“All we need is that backpack,” E.T. assured him.
I was REALLY curious about what was in that damn thing now! Were these crusty old farts going to commit suicide – with a dirty bomb? Maybe collapse part of a cave, burying themselves? What was so damn special about-
“There’s enough spelunking gear in there to give Batman a boner,” Baited Hook told me.
“Spelunking gear?” I asked dumbly. But there was nothing mysterious, or sexy, or DANGEROUS about spelunking gear! How lame was that?
“It’s a looonng way down to the Sacred Burial Grounds,” the Crypt Keeper answered. “And at our age, we can’t afford to come up short!” he finished with that trademark cackle.
We walked as a group to the very edge of The Falls, where the mist perpetually floated – suspended in midair like fog.
“You won’t be able to pass through The Falls,” Grady informed us. “Until it is done.”
That was interesting. But how would we know when it-
“You’ll know,” the Crypt Keeper said, cutting off my thought.
Gah! I couldn’t WAIT for him to leave!
“Remember what I told you, Douglas,” Grady said with a stern look.
“And remember what you promised me,” E.T. reminded Baited Hook.
Sheesh! let’s get as move on, People! I’ve got-
“Oof!”
The Crypt Keeper hit me with a surprise, flying hug, knocking the air out of me.
Awkward!
I managed to give him the most rigid bro hug imaginable, before extricating myself from his bony, insanely strong clutches.
Holding hands, the ancient trio walked carefully along the rocky shelf. Without looking back, they ducked their heads into The Falls itself, stepped forward, and disappeared.
I still had questions. I still wanted answers. I still-
“See you guys later!” Dougie announced.
“And you’re going… where?” Baited Hook asked suspiciously.
“Well, the OLD me? ” He said, unsure if it sounded right.
When we didn’t correct him, he continued. “He told me which fruits ferment the best,” he admitted sheepishly.
“Plus, he told me where he stashes the barrel he uses to ride The Falls!” he said with way too much excitement.
Baited Hook sent him off with a wave, and a warning to be careful.
Taking my hand, she said, “C’mon! We’ve got something we need to do, too…”
The End?
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