Subject: NEW: CRYSTAL MEMORY - Info (1/1) for the Introduction 4/4 (NC 17 slash)
From: audreyv700@aol.com (AudreyV700)
Date: 21 Jul 1997 21:49:47 GMT
WARNING: NC17 FOR THRILLS AND CHILLS. IF YOU ARE UNDERAGE BACK THE HECK
UP AND GET OUTA HERE KIDDO!! This is an adventure story - lots of creepy
scary episodes! There is also the OCCASIONAL reference to SLASH m/m
relationships between the main sets of characters (theirs and mine).
Sorry, I would not rate it NC17 for raw sleeze because I haven't figured
out how to write that kind of stuff. There is plenty to be worried about
besides 'doing the wild thing' such as snakes, spiders, wolves, and the
assorted maggotty vermin running amok!
CLASSIFICATION: A (Adventure), S (Story), SF (Sci-Fi), V (Vampires), EL
(Endless Listing possibilities!) Archivists are allowed by the author to
use their own imagination to suit the needs of their systems.
SUMMARY: Well, besides our heros and their friends, there's this vampire,
and this conspiracy, and this majik crystal, and this puppy..... and you
get the picture. Toss in a few adventurers and lots of mumbo-jumbo and
you have the receipe for what I hope will be a rip-roaring page turner!
SPOILERS: I have watched all four seasons, I can only assume some of it
has stuck......
ARCHIVE: Absolutely! (Just try to get the author's name spelled
right....)
DISCLAIMER: The X-Files and all attendant characters are the property of
Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Television of course. Of course I
am using them without permission. Of course no copyright infringement is
intended and (darn it all!) no profit will be made. The miscellaneous
characters such as Siu Ling, Calcutta, Preminger, Echo etc. are mine.
STATUS: The old typist's fingers are about as bad as the old eyes. The
story will be loaded here as I get it proofed. Sorry but what with real
life and all, I do not have a timetable for this yet. I am still trying
to figure out how to get this in 15K pieces to the alt.tv.x-files-creative
newsgroup......
AUTHOR: Yours truly, Audrey VanDenberg.....
FLAMES: Cheerfully welcomed - I need all the writing help I can get! I
tried a writing workshop class, but I forgot to write down when it
met......
EMAIL: AudreyV700@aol.com
WEBSITE: Yeah, I AM borrowing a friend's web space..... I know AOL has a
place for web pages, but what the heck, my friend doesn't know how cheap I
really am! Read the story as it's posted on the web at -
http://pages.prodigy.com/NXPD34A/index.htm by clicking here, if I've
coded it correctly and if you are reading online.
This information (summary, classification, disclaimer etc. applies to all
parts of CRYSTAL MEMORY (intro and story) and I'm just trying to save some
time by posting it once for the 4 part introduction.
Ready? Set? Go! Start with the INTRODUCTION!
CRYSTAL MEMORY - The Introduction is in 4 (four) parts.
Part One of CRYSTAL MEMORY (the story) is entitled FIRST FIRE and it's
being loaded up on the web site now (or at least as fast as I can type).
Part Two of CRYSTAL MEMORY (the story) is entitled FIRE & ICE (One for
All, Etc.) and will be uploaded to the web site soon.
ENJOY!
The Author
CRYSTAL MEMORY
"The Introduction" (1/4)
An alternate reality in an alternate universe . . .
by Audrey VanDenberg
(See ratings and disclaimer in the intro to the introduction)
June 22
The Village
Walter's Loft
The blank canvas stared back, silently, accusingly, patiently.
Walter sighed again and the pup under the easel rolled over into a new
patch of sunlight. He had base coated the canvas with white and then covered
it with jet black. He wished for the Muse of Art to strike, hard.
The smell of bread baking wafted from the kitchen area, carried on
the
slow breeze of a warm summer day, through the opened windows on the
still shaded side of the loft. As soon as the sun was overhead, he
would
close those windows and open others which would still be in the
shadows,
and the downstairs door. The cross currents would be welcome as the
hot summer day could wilt even the strongest Marine, if preparations
were
not made.
He had been struggling with the canvas and creation all week;
frustrated
with uprising needs he could not clearly identify, and existing
desires he
identified all too clearly. The headaches had lessened somewhat with
the
burst of changes accompanying the relocation. The change of habits
had
disrupted sleep or non-sleep patterns and so for many weeks he had
slept
quite well. He felt the old problems returning, along with a
lingering sense
of impending boredom. He knew the need to stay busy must be
answered, but he thought he had taken care of that. Busy wasn't
apparently enough. The busy-ness had to have meaning . . .
So here in the spotless loft, with the well-trained (for a puppy)
animal
asleep under the nonbeckoning canvas on the accusing easel, with all
sundry laundry and gardening chores squared away in the cool hours of
the early morn; he wondered what to do with himself and his time,
this
time.
He knew he needed to finish the counseling sessions, to recapture
lost
memories, to answer many many more questions that he wanted to ask.
But he also didn't want to see Mulder, exactly. Kind of, well sorta.
Doctor
Mulder could be a pain, that much was patently obvious. But he also
had
an annoying knack of being rather protective, which when you think
you
are losing your sanity, can be quite comforting.
He realized that Agent Mulder often related to Assistant Director
Walter S.
Skinner as a substitute father, much like he treated all figures of
authority.
And he realized Mulder's relationship with his paternal sire must
have
been something less than what one desired. Mulder was constantly
acting out those desires for a perfect father figure. AD Skinner
realized
this, and being a good manager of his valuable Federal resources,
allowed that built-in relationship to flourish. Mulder's need to
please his
parent and challenge him at the same time, often fueled his ability
and
desire to solve questions, answer problems, do well on the test of
working
as it were.
Most people used their occupation as the means to translate their
father
relationships into meaning, as they used raising children to
translate their
maternal relationships. At some point, all children must break away
though and establish their own identities, mark out their own turf.
Having
distant parents as Mulder apparently did, explained his own inability
to
closely relate to living people, and his driving need to search for
the
mysterious missing sister and track teasing tribbles.
He regretted not being able to give or want children with Sharon. Her
maternal instincts had been on strong display since she first
ministered to
him in the Da Nang hospital. She had cared for him and the others in
the
surgical recovery ward with tenderness tinged with toughness. She
had
been everything a mother should be, caring carefully when her charges
were critically ill, and encouraging when they made small feeble
attempts
to regain some of their former independent abilities such as eating,
pissing and turning over in their own beds. She had been strict when
their
good spirits sank into despair, and her eyes had twinkled when their
bad
spirits rose to mischief; shushing, shooing and mock slapping the
makers
of mayhem. Walter caught himself wondering what his own parents had
been like, shocked that he could not remember distinctly or clearly
who or
what they were like.
Sharon knew when boredom was imminent. When men of action longed
for activity. When men who faced death bravely cringed at the
thought of
moving just healing stitches, or needing a change of bandages. There
were always limits to the quiet endurance of pains, and she allowed
them
the freedom to express those limits within her arena of dignity. She
held
them, cuddled them, coo'd them and cared without end.
She had goaded, gouged and gently got him into painting. She had
started him out on basket weaving of all things, which he did at
first lying
on his back, unable to sit up without much discomfort for any length
of
time. It was meant to keep his hands and mind occupied as he
struggled
to order fingers to obey commands.
The damage to his nervous system had been widespread, but the doctors
thought it was not deep, and the nerves would reconstruct new
pathways
with constant encouragement. His system had suffered damage, most
probably from shock the Doc had said, he had been near death for
quite a
while before being found in the body bag.
He soon got bored of working with his hands above his chest lying on
his
back and struggled to achieve an upright state without abdominal
pains or
tearing out the steel sutures. It took a while, but he had a goal.
He had
always needed goals. He always achieved his goals. It might have
been
simple, but it was something he could focus on. With his usual
narrow-
minded determination, he had soon succeeded, able to sit with
propping
pillows for hours at a stretch with minimal discomfort; as hands and
fingers relearned relay commands and baskets appeared.
They were simple at first, ungainly, lumpy and knotty. This did not
please
his perfectionist eye, which liked continuity and conformity. He
struggled
with each piece, not satisfied until it was perfect. His baskets had
no
designs, the reeds were not colored and the how-to pamphlet was from
the Boy Scouts . . . He soon grew bored, and simply said so. They
were
boring.
She brought him paints, powdered tempera to be mixed with water, the
simple stuff of kindergarten finger-painting classes the world over.
He
experimented with them, and still was not happy. They are boring.
The
brushes didn't work. He became frustrated with the need to express
something he could not identify. She was glad to see the creativity.
It was
a sign of healing, inside and out. His fingers were needing
something far
more complicated than thick brushes and simple baskets.
She brought him unpainted ceramics with fine small brushes. This was
a
challenge. The paint was a dim indicator of the after firing true
color.
Many times the plasterware would not survive the simple ovens, and
the
work would disintegrate. He began to examine the raw clay carefully
before committing paint, making sure there were no hairline
fractures.
He was quite patient with the process, he would imagine what the
colors
would be, as he layered the dim suggestions and waited for them to
dry
before sending them to be fired. It took a long time start to
finish, but he
was always patient. Some of the simple pieces were quite elegant,
some
very comical. He made ashtrays mostly, everyone smoked, and everyone
could have used an ashtray.
He liked to copy pictures from magazines. Life and National
Geographic
were favorites. Some of the ward fellows asked for special designs,
their
unit insignia, or pet names. They were quite silly at times, but he
struggled to provide the requested artwork - it gave everyone
something
to do. He was not the only hobbyist in the ward, the fellow
*inmates* as
they called themselves were struggling with charcoals and yarns,
different
occupying methods for different surgical needs. Blind men worked on
tiles, men without hands struggled brushes in teeth, or dictated
poetry.
Many strummed guitars or hummed on harmonica's. They were all
recuperating as best as each could achieve before moving on, some
back
to their units, most home to Stateside with permanent damage.
Sharon was a huge force, motivating and mothering them all. She was
the daughter of a very important Marine, but she never seemed to be
stuck up or anything like that.
Walter hadn't wanted her babying him so much, but he couldn't stop
her.
She paid him extra attention and he didn't think he deserved that.
She
wouldn't listen, thinking his life was a miracle and she was obliged
to help
God along she said.
He was soon hobbling around, slowly and stiffly, needing to practice
standing again. So she got an easel and a canvas and bright oil
paints.
He would stand before the canvas in a bright corner of the ward
wondering what to paint. She brought simple objects; a ball, a rock,
a
collection of wood blocks. "Just try," she had said, "art is
subjective. It will
be what it is. Just slap that paint around Soldier."
And so he did just that, he slapped colors on the canvas. He found
that at
times it wasn't his mind doing the slapping, nor was it his hand.
Bright
splotches of color poured forth. He favored black backgrounds for
some
reason. He couldn't make out shapes or patterns in the splotches,
splashes, dribbles and dabs. But she liked them. She liked them a
lot
more than he did. His mind wanted, demanded, organization and
recognition fields. He could see neither in the canvas' but she
didn't care.
"Women are like that," he mused.
But then again, neither did Doc. They were glad that each day he
stood
longer, and when he paced before the unyielding blankness of canvas'
they barely restrained applause.
Ah well, as long as they were pleased, he was happy. He was
accustomed to obedience. If they liked it, it was enough he figured.
Sometimes the pacing helped, most times it made no difference. He
wondered what kinds of dreams he had back then. Remembering those
old paintings had started a trickle of memories, most of them just
flashes
of imagery, nothing he could put his fingers on. He just wished it would show up on the
canvas.
Well in the meantime, he decided to mosey down to the Second Hand
store. There was a small basin table, that with a little paint would
be quite
nice in the bath area. He had a mason enclose the commode with milk
bricks and hung a door set with large panes of waving glass in the
wall. It
was open, airy but private, perfect for the simple business performed
within.
He had a steepled quarter circle set of curving walls built of clear
brick
around the tub area. It had hollow spaces for decorating around and
was
wide enough to put plants atop, being only seven feet at its highest,
and
four at its lowest. There were three of these quarter curves, two
coming
from each of the corner walls, forming an opening. The third wall
before
the opening formed an open-ended corridor to the tub, blocking direct
views into the area. The sides sloped downward from the attaching
walls,
and the center wall sloped to the left and right in a staggered stair
step
matching its mates.
He liked the openness and the light which was accentuated by the
skylight
overhead and the corner windows with their wide ledges beneath. A
huge
claw footed porcelain tub was the showpiece. It had been repainted
bright, bright, deep cobalt blue, and he had the claw feet painted
gold.
The tile on the floor was a simple white, small diamonds in shape,
with
occasional blue dots scattered amongst the pattern. He had been
picking
up blue glassware pieces, bottles, plates, bowls, shakers, cups,
whatever
and they were casually scattered about, in the brick hollows, atop
the stair
steps, on the window ledges. Anything blue was used, and big fluffy
white
Turkish towels neatly rolled into cylinders were stacked atop the
walls. He
had poured his rain forest soaps into new cobalt blue bottles with
glass
stoppers, and the blue glycerin soaps into crystal dishes. Dried
flowers
were scattered, their slight scents emanating when the tub steamed.
Now he needed a sink, but didn't want a regular one, in the regular
place.
The washbasin could be fitted with plumbing. He knew where he could
get a blue clay bowl for the stand. Sitting outside the tub area, it
would fit
well with the rest of the rooms' decor. He would strip the wood and
stain it
pecan, then touch it up with bands of bright. There was a small
dresser
alongside the glass wall, which had been similarly treated and the
washstand would accompany and complement it well.
It was a diversionary tactic he knew, but he did need a small sink
there.
He was tired of brushing his teeth in the kitchen. That way he also
didn't
have to comprehend his disappearing beard either, which certainly
made
his morning ablutions quicker, but it was somewhat disturbing
nevertheless. It was either get the stand, or stare at the canvas
some
more. The getting won out over the staring.
Motel 6 1/2
Black Hills, South Dakota
Special Agent Fox Mulder's Motel Room
A Cool Late May Evening
Scrolling through the newest Web Site, Fox abandoned his fingernails
in
favor of more sunflower seeds. The shells piled up at his toes. He
weighed calling Scully, then decided against it. She didn't need a
good
laugh at his expense.
The phone rang. "Damn!" It rang again, the screen beckoned, he
answered it with one eye, the other kept reading.
Subject: NEW: CRYSTAL MEMORY - (2/4) INTRODUCTION (NC17 slash)
It was Frohike. "Mulder, there's some very strange things going on
in the
universe, and they are reaching for us all . . . I'm in South Dakota
. . . "
He left unsaid a very great deal indeed.
Fox tore his mind from the screens to ponder the strange statement.
"Hey, it wouldn't have anything to do with someone named Atkins would
it?" he asked teasingly.
"Ohmygod! How in heaven's creation . . . I should have known if it
was
really weird and really strange that'd you'd have a leg up on the
spinning
globe," sputtered the good Gunman.
Fox allowed himself a momentary congratulation. A sinking sensation
stuck in his stomach, something about his usually jovial friend's
tone
disturbed him deeply. Frohike continued, "I'm on my way it shouldn't
take
too long. I've got the Cessna." He knew it would not be a
conversation
he'd want buggy phone pals evesdropping on.
Later that evening, the secretive knock on the motel room door was
distinctively Frohike. He was checking his Marine timepiece when
Mulder
one, yanked the door open and two, yanked the scholar in by his bow
tie.
"Why didn't you tell me about Echo and Harri and and and - hey are
you
sending me weird E-mail???" The glazed look in Mulder's eye took
Frohike aback for the merest of moments.
Recovering and adjusting his bowtie, he said, "Hello. It's
classified. I've
found that I'm not too fond of him in my old age. No. Just how
weird is
weird?"
Mulder, realizing he'd been babbling like a directionless brook,
dragged
Frohike to the computer. He said "Watch this. It disappears as you
read
it on the website. I haven't figured out where it's going to or how
it gets
there. So you get one shot at it. By the way, it won't save to disk
or
printout."
Before Frohike could sputter out "That's impossible," Mulder hit the
page
down key. The longer sections had a convenient pause built in for
food
breaks, cell calls, calls of nature, whatever . . .
Black Hills, SD
DEAR DIARY:
More reflections from a power spot.
My head was splitting. The lesser Sons had already fallen for the
night,
Fargo among them. He was fun but nevertheless he was a lightweight.
Thoughts of 'Nam and Clancey had darkened my mood. I opted for a
long, calming walk beneath this full harvest yellow moon.
I ambled along well enough considering the ingested meal of the
previous
hours. I headed for the hill side shadows. Perhaps it would be
cool.
Snakes would be out and about. In moods like this I loved the
company
of cool blood.
Sure enough I found one. An ancient, wise in the ways of staying
alive.
Wise enough to remember an old unearthly force. Children are alike
the
worlds over; never listening to their elders. We sat, commiserated,
and
communed. Clouds rolled across the orb throwing up a deepening
gloominess. I smelled impending rain. <;Yes>; his thought had
agreed,
<;it's time for us to seek dry shelter!>;
Where? I asked expecting him to shelter for the night slithering to
the
nearest overhang.
<;Oh no youngster,>; he replied, <;in my years I have earned
the comfort of
dry spaces. Follow me.>; Knowing that if the space referred to
was small,
I could shape shift down to say a rat didn't bother me. What
bothered me
was the nagging thought that If I did that, I might end up his
attempted
dinner, which would be sad. I shoved such nastiness aside, he was
wise,
but nowhere near senile.
After a few meters we came to a great shadow hidden in the cleft of a
split
wall, in a canyon nearly deserted of any life signs. I heard the
scampering
of mice and the songs of crickets, but little else. No birds were
heard,
asleep or otherwise. Odd, I thought. Usually the further one leaves
the
garbage of man behind, the closer one comes to the gifts of nature.
But I
pushed this minor thought aside following the elder within.
The cleft eventually widened into a nice space with a dry flooring of
sand.
<;Hallelujah>; He cried, as he curled, coiled and rolled like a
dog greatly
enjoying the back scratch. I opted to explore. I smelled bats ahead
and
knew there would be another space further inside.
I walked some twenty paces and was stopped. I had hit a barrier of
some
sort that couldn't be seen. It was stretched before what appeared to
be a
simple cave's end. Interesting version of a lock spell, I thought,
knowing
this wasn't the work of any red brother. It was good. Good enough
to
require the services of a Renaissance sorcerer of reasonable
competence
for a human to undo. And they were all long gone. But as this was
merely a lock spell, quite nearly my forte, I passed through it
with no
problem. Only the uneasiness that accompanies a feeling of deja
vu
troubled to come, as from the past, arriving here and now.
This portion was cold, bone chilling cold. Not damp, just icy chills
that ran
up and down my sensory network. I wondered who had passed through
this place before. I had a queasy feeling in my stomach pit. Who or
whatever it was, I really didn't want to be giving a hot damn about
it, or
them. A crash! I jumped, nerves on edge.
The old one hissed, <;It's thunder. It will rain til dawn. I have
never seen
the skies this angry.>;
I shrugged it off as spooky superstitious nonsense. Spooks set me to
thinking of the General, which led me back to thoughts of 'Nam, which
brought back those old fears. I shook them away violently. When
entering a place of someone else's majik, the last thing one wishes
to
accompany one's footsteps, is one's own fears. They bring a power and
helplessness all their own, that you really don't want anything else
picking
up on. I forged ahead.
The chamber was apparently some sort of entrance, a lobby of types
which made me smile. That's one hell of a door bell they got here .
. .
Around a small nearly impossible to see corner, I found a wide tunnel
squarely chiseled. Interesting. Who's putting in underground malls
around here, hey Mister? Humor is a great weapon in the darkness.
Even
I, child though I may be of the darkness, have a healthy regard for
the
powers to be found down here.
The tunnel opened into a large arena dripping with stalactites, and
stalagmites perched upward. They glistened with wetness and their
scattered colored crystal gave off an eerie glow. Andy Warhol would
have
loved this. The thunder outside sent rumbling vibrations deep into
this
room, gently wafting the still interior air.
I stood in the center of the arena, letting my other senses loose,
waiting to
see what they turned up. I channeled on different levels. I
understood
that what had done this had been old strength, old power. One of my
tribe in all probability.
Suddenly the short hairs on my neck rose. My alarm systems went off.
Without thinking, without taking the time to blink, I shifted into
mist. A
favorite precautionary standby modus operandi. Can't shoot, or
catch, or
flame a mist you know.
The cavern lit up. Energy bolts shot from the hanging and piercing
spires.
They ricocheted off walls. If I had retained form, I'd have been
hurt bad.
Sounds, hair raising banshee screams came as blasts of air whistled
through, swirling the cave floor sands up into storms that would have
blinded a form with eyes. I waited, lurking near the floor, by a
sheltering
outcropping of stone.
On the far side a wall cracked, crumbled, and fell. What ho! It was
not a
wall after all, merely clever plastering. Behind the destroyed
facade stood
a huge glowering red wolf, red eyes gleaming, eerily painted on the
wall.
Its outline glimmered and shimmered. Seemed alive, thought I. The
image moved, nay not moved. It came to Life and leaped from the
upright
slab, landing gently on the floor, staring straight into my mistness.
Evil, cold evil, I thought.
<;Nay, nay Thou art again incorrect>; it spoke through my senses.
I was puzzled. This was not one of mine.
<;Nay, wrong again. I am of Thine as Thee are of mine. Come my son
and speak to Thy parent.>;
Daddy-o! Time to split!
<;Stand oh lowly beggar; Thee who cry and whine among the mortal
slime
of this pitiful existence, stand and greet Thy King as is befitting
Thy Lord.>;
Slime? Such words. He must have gotten vinegary in his old age.
They
said he used to adore the folks of this place. Lord? I was furious.
I have
no lord save myself and that's shaky at best. Fury rose in me. I
rebodied
to meet this less than Guardian Angel. All of the torment,
loneliness,
anger, helplessness and abandonment came rising up in my gorge. I
knew better than to meet him on his terms, so I rebodied into my own
man
self.
"I have no name. You saw fit to leave before giving me one. So
don't
*son* me, old man," I spoke in what I hoped was a haughty tone. The
red
gray wolfness chuckled evilly or was I only perceiving bad as evil?
Stop
that Mister, you're in real trouble here, I reprimanded myself.
<;Thy troubles are all of Thy own making. I beg or take nothing
from
Thee,>; he growled in my mind's ear.
"What are you doing here in this godforsaken place? Oh excuse me,
you
think of yourself as a God don't you . . . "
It sighed. I didn't relent. "Hanging around waiting on the next
shuttle out
of town? I thought you might have gone the way of all things gone
wrong.
You know. Fading into a slim memory, in someone's feeble mind."
<;Enough of Thy chatter. First I must thank Thee for my release.
I have
been imprisoned here, beyond count these years. That fiend spawn's
doing.>;
"Too bad. If'n I'da known, I'da left ya Daddy-o Dear."
<;Why this anger and hate? I have done nothing.>;
"That's right old one, nothing with a capital zilch. Nothing, no
way, no
thanks, goodby."
<;'Wait, wait. There is much I must tell Thee.>;
"You got nothing to say to me that I wanna hear." I turned to
leave.
<;No, no! Thee must hear me out.>; His anger was rising, I knew
it would.
So I like the true warrior I was, I ran like hell.
The howls that erupted from his aged throat added mercurial wings to
my
fast moving feet. I literally flew out of there like a bat out of
hell! My
shadowy self blew past the wise one coiled in the cooling sand out
into
the golden moonlight.
Black Hills, South Dakota
In a cosy glen
That same May Evening
Calcutta Devine was deep in a pipe-induced trance, sitting in the
spacious
garden of the holy lands created by a small brook, lush moss, and
gleaming stars overhead. A small fire glowed at his feet as he sat
cross-legged, breech-clouted, and moccasinless, two braids unadorned.
The old ones had persistently beckoned, and finally he had paid heed
to the
call; settling himself here in the Black Hills, near a power spot
that set his
spine to humming.
He saw in his dreams a desert nights landscape under a full yellow
moon.
He was puzzled, but content to watch and wait, as a bizarre scenario
unfolded before his closed vision-filled eyes.
He saw a man dressed in the costume of the old day, jeans, black
t-shirt,
armless denim jacket with strange symbols embroidered, and black
boots;
come stumbling forth from the darkness along a boulder. <;There
must be
a cave in there somewhere,>; he spoke in his mind, as his dreaming
eyes
watched with growing wonder.
Subject: NEW: CRYSTAL MEMORY - (3/4) INTRODUCTION (NC17 slash)
The man ran into a clearing, and then abruptly turned to stand and
face
what was following. A glowing, eerily grinning, red-eyed wolf of
glimmering red-gray coat, shot forth mere moments later, huge,
emanating raw power. <;He hasn't got a chance>; thought Calcutta,
as
he assumed the giant red one to be rabid, from the fire spewing forth
from
the red eyes.
Then wondrous to behold, the man's form shifted, becoming a large,
midnight black wolf; nearly equal in size, with piercing blue eyes.
The
black wolf shivered, calmed, then crouched, waiting for the
onslaught.
Calcutta felt as if he were watching a battle forthcoming, to the
death.
But why had the spirits called him into this? Unconsciously, he
aligned
with the black. Calcutta could sense terrible fear in turning to
face the
red. It reminded the young brave of the many times he had turned
inward, to face himself; with the same kind of fear. The red leapt a
charge
ferocious and fury-filled. The black met the charge fully head on.
Halfway
their massive jaws locked, throat to throat.
Earsplitting growls filled the clearing. They broke the mutual death
grips,
circling in the night. The red was wiser, stronger; but age was a
factor
here. The black was younger, and even though fear surrounded him; a
desperation clung to him, as if he were fighting for more than mere
life.
Cal stirred. They charged again, now in the circle of moonlight; a
rolling,
snapping, snarling, mass. The black yipped and broke free, dashing
to a
bush to lick a small spurting wound. The red locked eyes with it and
edged nearer.
Out of nowhere a gigantic rattler, decades old, launched through the
air;
striking the red in the throat. Red jumped and bit the rattler's
head off;
yowling as if in glee, dancing, prancing around the jerking, headless
body.
Black howled a death chant. Calcutta straightened. <;How could a
wolf
know the Apache death song?>; This was weird, apparently wolf and
serpent knew and cared for each other.
Red appeared amused, for now he was strutting, nearly gloating in his
powers. For he had taken a full shot of the deadly viper's poison,
it
affected him not. Black abandoned his bush and limped forward, a new
bearing in his carriage; as if accepting what would surely be his own
suicide, if he were to continue this frustrating battle.
Cal immediately threw in again with the black. Instinctively, he felt
if a
serpent would throw in with a wolf, and if the wolf would mourn it's
passing, then he could too. Suddenly he saw standing on the hill
surrounding the glen, his Grandfather in full medicine man's regalia!
And
he heard the war chant that boomed from the old throat. Cal knew his
Grandfather was dead, but here he was young, vibrant and strong
again.
Summoning up all the powers he knew of, Cal's mind joined his
Grandfather's, without hesitation.
Together, they chanted and prayed, tom-toms began beating in the
night's
air. The red startled by the appearance of the medicine man, snapped
at
the image on the hill, the black taking advantage of the minor
distraction,
charged.
The animals met again, chest to chest, slamming together. Eyes afury,
jaws snapping, reaching for vital veins, strong forearms swiping,
strong
paws full of razor sharp claws, ripping fur and skin apart
heedlessly.
Cal saw on the hill's more figures arriving. He sat amazed in his
dream,
all the great old medicine men and powerful chiefs lined up beside
his
Grandfather. They encircled the clearing, for Chiefs have a power
and a
majik all their own. The gathering directed their energies, sending
them to
the black, who seemed to be ignoring them all together, as if
determined
to win or lose this battle on his own. They broke apart, the black
bleeding
profusely, the red gasping for breath, but it was still an even
contest.
Then an unholy commotion rose up from behind the hills.
<;<;END SPLIT SCREEN TEXT>;>;
Motel 6 1/2
Mulders Room
Black Hills, SD
Frohike and Fox Read The Palmtop's Fading Screen
"See what I mean" shouted Fox who had been pacing as he read.
Frohike could see he was in a distressed state. He calmly weighed
calling
Scully deciding against it, although it would have been nice to see
the
inscrutable beauty once again.
"Calm yourself man. I'm sure we can get to the bottom of this. Have
you
been keeping a list of the locations?" The ugly glare Fox threw his
way
assured him. "Of course, you are the FBI . . . Well let's get it to
Langley
and Byers. They are the true whiz kids of mystery, mayhem, and
cyberspace."
"Okay, you do that. I've got a bad feeling about this. It's too
real-time. . . "
Fox had returned to the tiny blinking palmtop screen when something
stopped him mid-movement. Frohike, watching over his shoulder while
punching the cell phone, stopped mid-punch, whistling at what he read
on
the Agent's face. They drew the same conclusion simultaneously.
Instant
recognition of that event was clearly etched on their unbelieving
faces.
Launching through the motel parking lot, heading for the Cessna
conveniently parked in the field across the way (out here in the
sticks
many of urban America's finer manners were complete ignored), Mulder
muttered through his seed shells that Danny had been working on the
E-mail
back trail without much success. Frohike only grunted as he fired up
the little twin prop job, wondering if they would find trouble,
before trouble
found them.
Deep In the Black Hills,
South Dakota
That same May evening
Fargo stirred from a drunken slumber. What woke him? Thoughts of
Hondo? What a drag. Mister wouldn't like that. He laughed, and his
head hurt. Justin was a strange name. Mister fit like a glove. An
unknown quantity, a mystery man drifting through a mystery life.
<;Where on earth was he?,>; Fargo wondered. He could hear
various
and sundry grunts and snores, from the slumbering sons, what a bunch!
So what had woke him? He heard strange sounds, drums! Who the hell
was throwing a party without the Sons? Well this had to be
rectified, and
immediately! He set to kicking the sons of bitches awake or
semblance
thereof. It took a few minutes and more beer to get them up, but
he did.
They mounted choppers and roared off toward the strange drumming.
I was fighting for my life and knew it. I hurt, Lord how I hurt, but
I could not
stop. The match had never been even. But my freedom was at stake
and
we both knew it. This was my declaration of independence. My stand
for
my life. I would let no being rule me now. I had spent too much
time,
suffered too much pain, to walk in another's shadow, ever again.
Daddy-O wished to possess me, a need to make up for lost time? Too
bad. Iago got the best of him, wasn't none of my doing. Why should
I pay
the dues on that? I wondered if the Old Ones were amused at this
sight.
The two of us fighting like dogs. It had been a long time since I
used
earth powers. I had been too long away from the wilds. It's no good
to
even try it in the city. Everything is too far removed from true
reality. Only
a Messiah could make connections in a city . . .
I felt their presence before I saw them. I knew I was not truly
seeing
them, but rather, images of their past glories. That's all that was
standing
on those hills, old powers long gone and vanished, unused, untapped.
I
wondered if they were here to watch. I couldn't smell any popcorn.
Were
they here to render assistance? If so, to which of us? Did Daddy-O
rule
them?
Meanwhile in the glen, Cal watched as bikers of all things, ringed
the
small arena. He felt, rather than knew, that the old ones were not
visible
to them. He didn't know how bikers would have handled real Spirit
Indians, if they had been visible. He felt it couldn't have
mattered. They
all appeared to be drunk. What in the name of his Grandfather's
spirit
were they doing here?
The beasts within the encirclement were near exhaustion now, tongues
lapping, eyes wild with anger and passion. He could see trembling in
their
massive limbs. They could not last much longer. He continued his
dream
watch.
Meanwhile Fargo and his company of leather clad companions climbed
the hills. Fargo directed them to encircle the hills and "climb the
sonofabitch, you worthless bunch of mother makers" and wearily, in
some
cases cautiously, they climbed; cradling hangovers and hangunders.
Reaching deep within those dark inner reserves they found the where
with
all to stand upright, mindlessly obeying their fearless leader. No
one even
noticed the absence of Mister, the erstwhile life-time President.
They
were so bombed.
Fargo topped the incline breathing slightly for all his exertions,
and
dropped his jaws - a fight and a mean mother at that. He watched in
awe
as the huge beasts below attempted to break bones with sheer slam
power. He had heard of this stuff in Los Angeles' dance clubs, but
never
figured to see it in the raw.
Something about the ferocious beasts tugged at him. A blue-eyed
wolf?
Since when did gray glow red in the dark, and this place, it was
weird. If
he moved a foot or two either left or right, it was like he was
bumping into
something. He couldn't see anything and the light from the moon was
pretty good. This was too spooky. He stood rooted to the spot.
After a few moments he was cheering in his inner self's voice for the
black. The red was a nasty son of a so and so. The black didn't
stand an
ice cube's chance in Hell. <;Ouch>; that last one had to hurt.
The red laughed in wolf's language. He had landed a solid slam on
his
youngster's back, very nearly breaking him. If he had been one of
the
ordinary, he would have. He was beginning to sense a subtle
difference
in this whelp. He couldn't place it. Fear was common. But this one
had a
fear not of death, or punishment, or rulership. This one's fear was
borne
of nothing physical. It was a trifle unsettling but he ignored it.
And
stamina. Why continue? He had surely bested this sproutling of his
own
creation. Why wouldn't he simply surrender?
Then he could complete the mission. Then he could tell him the truth
of
his people, his past, his history, and most importantly, his enemies.
For
there were two, maybe less, who were far more deadly threats to his
continuing existence that he would ever pose. But no, this silly
persisted,
undaunted. Where did such fierce determination derive? Surely it
was
not a part of any normal birthright.
Doing what had to be done had very little to do with determination,
but
everything to do with patience; of which this child had little. He
blocked a
fierce charge with a massive shoulder, receiving a wicked foreleg
gash for
his momentary mental distractions.
In this form, he had fought many battles, and with the exception of
the
last, had always emerged victorious. <;Oh well, one last charge
should
do it,>; the pup's youth was beginning to show. He leapt into the
sky's
night, a fierce howl erupting from aching lungs; all the strength of
the
massive musculature summoned for the effort.
<;Oh wow man,>; thought Fargo as he watched the red's leap,
<;this
is it, he's gonna kill the dude now. There's no way son, no way.>;
Then
without thinking, his knife was out and spinning through the air,
even as
his eye targeted other weapons. Blades numbering more than thirty,
flying as if under command of some as yet unseen force, through the
cool,
crisp nightness.
Airborne and Above the Black Hills of SD
Frohike's Cessna
Late Late That Same May Evening
Mulders thoughts wandered unbidden. He told Frohike that he had been
backtracking the news out of the South Dakota office all week. He
didn't
know what he was looking for, didn't know what he expected to find.
He was just curious and bored. For some reason there were no cases
calling to him lately - he was beginning to wonder if it was some
unseen
evil forces at work. The approach of the Hale Bopp comet maybe?
"Regardless, it was good to have this *downtime*," he said.
Unmentioned
was Scully. She was a tricky problem. So brave and so independent.
"I
tried to respect her wishes and pretend she wasn't dying. But that
is truly
easier said than done." Unsaid, the thought that he would have had a
chat with Skinner, but since that paragon of pain seemed to be on the
perpetual rag, refusing to have any unnecessary contact with Agent
Mulder; *Agent Mulder* decided he didn't need to invite any
additional
confrontations, personal or professional in nature.
Speaking of said and done, "A Break In and Entry occurred at the
Black
Hills Indian Museum a week ago" he said.
Subject: NEW: CRYSTAL MEMORY - (4/4) INTRODUCTION (NC17 slash)
"Hmmmm." Frohike muttered, checking the slowing indicator panel,
"I wonder if the bikers had anything to do with it - when they were
sober?" Then he shook his head. "No, I think they have an affinity
for
things native, at least according to the screens. They wouldn't have
done it."
Nodding his head in agreement, Mulder remembered a pink message
slip in Scully's neat, methodical hand that had been lying on his
blotter.
In fact, it looked like she had cleared a space on his cluttered
worktop
just for it. It said that a Special Agent Justin Preminger would be
in
town in a few days and was requesting a meeting with Mulder on a
matter urgent to the whole Indian Nation. That had definitely caught
his eye. He filled Frohike in as the Cessna headed for something
resembling a road, which would have to pass for something
resembling a landing strip, out here in this oasis of airports.
After
blocking the tires, they headed for the rim of the encircling hills,
which
they had spotted from the air because of the movements on them.
"The WHOLE nation? I always thought of the tribes as a group of
nations. Wait a minute. Preminger, that name. Could it be a
coincidence?" Frohike wondered aloud.
"Don't you believe in coincidence?" asked a skeptical Fox. He
checked his mental calendar. Luckily he was free tomorrow. Even if
he wasn't, he would have made sure to keep the appointment with the
mysterious diary writer, Preminger.
He had logged in earlier that day, checking Bureau's database library
for some background information on the Black Hills Indian Museum
and the stolen artifact. Apparently, it was some sort of hide
painting.
The printouts were in the briefcase which was on the motel sofa,
where he'd thrown it upon entering some long hours ago.
He was again filling Frohike in on the website's contents. "TWO who
were MORE deadly threats?" Mulder had pricked his eyes up when
he had read that, even now recalling the incident, he nearly
swallowed
the graham crackers which had constituted his dinner and dropped the
milk carton which was his dessert. "God, if any of that was true . .
. "
He glanced at Frohike to see if he was following the tale Mulder was
telling.
"Yes, yes, I can count. This is fascinating. Some great sci-fi, hey
Mulder?" Frohike of course, hadn't been on this since the beginning.
But he had been a great study and cracker thief in his own time, as
he
was appropriately demonstrating as they trudged uphill, toward the
sound of drums..
Fox tried to explain some of his thoughts, realizing he wasn't making
much sense. "I'm not sure this is fiction," confessed Mulder with a
sheepish look over his shoulder, as his eyes remained riveted to the
scenery before them. Hiking around in the dark was not his forte'.
Skulking was. Frohike followed the glance to the eerie enveloping
darkness, which seemed to have followed their travel up the ravine
toward the rim of the hills' bowlshape.
"Not Fiction? Ah God," muttered Frohike as the tales of the blinking
screen continued to reel off from Mulders stumbling tongue. They
grabbed for hand and foot holds in the steepness and darkness. The
stars tonight were not helpful partners in the quest.
"Calcutta," Frohike repeated. "I wonder, are there two of them?"
Whispered a worried looking Frohike. Special Agent Fox Mulder
picked up on the implications immediately.
"His full name I gathered, is Calcutta Devine. I further gathered,
you
two are acquainted, unless there are more Murray Frohike's in this
world? Maybe I should say three. The black wolf character we would
never admit to being out here seeking, often goes by the name of
Preminger. He works for one highly placed but not in my *Who's Who*
Unofficial Directory of Government Movers and Shakers, Harri Atkins"
said Mulder matter of factly.
"Cal? Harri?" Frohike went pale and then went flat, on his back.
He
was stretched out on the sandy flora and scattered fauna in an old
fashioned, dead and gone, fainting spell.
"Interesting reaction," thought Mulder, searching for the old
fashioned
smelling salts, this old fashioned bookworm, would appear to require.
Luckily the tale was at one of his pause points and the salts were
in
his pocket. He had taken to carrying them all the time just in case
Scully fainted, or one of Skinner's cranial vessels threatened to
burst
from compounded agitation and aggravation. Which, if Mulder was on
site, one could safely assume he would be held responsible, again.
Mulder sighed as he applied the broken ampule to Frohike's
unconscious nostrils, and was rewarded with a snorting and gasping
from the old-fashioned friend. The drumming grew louder and more
intense.
Still silent and still in the glen, Cal knew as he sat before the
medicine
fire, whose arms had thrown those blades. He had seen each powerful
giant of his race's history stand behind a drunken biker, enter that
body, and lift arms that could not have prevented a fall; propelling
those blades with eyes keen, and aim perfected over a lifetime of
survival, back in the primitive days of his culture. Each biker had
an
uninvited host except the tall one with *Fargo* sewn across broad
shoulders. He alone, had acted without aid; and he alone had some
mysterious tie to the black wolf in the clearing below.
The old one's leap was unexpected and incredible to see. I marveled
even as I moved to meet the challenge, singing a death song in my
heart, knowing this would be my last earthly action.
Daddy-O crested at the apex of the monumental atmospherical
movement, frozen. Eyes red, wide, glaring, fangs poised, blood-ready
to rip out my throat. All attention on me, then he jerked. I
blinked. He
jerked again, struggling to complete the mental instructions to his
limbs. He failed. He twitched. He fell writhing to the ground.
I couldn't believe my eyes. Blades ten, twenty, thirty, or more,
pierced
his every part. I knew this was not enough, not even the serpents
poison was enough. He needed a killing blow. I rendered unto
Caesar what was Caesar's. Dashing in, I tore out his throat, tasting
the blood of my own true kin for the first time. I grabbed again and
wrenched his throat wide open. A flood of fluid spilled on the
ground. I
wretched and spat. His stuff was vile, so nasty I involuntarily
reformed
into my man self; sitting down hard on the ground, my clothing
shredded. Hundreds of cuts, deep and minor bled profusely; all limbs
akimbo, body shaking, I was trembling from the effort and The Deed.
His eyes rolled. His mind spoke. <;There was so much to say to
you, seed of mine, so much.>;
"Too late Old One. We never did speak the same lingo. If you had
local gossip in mind, you sure picked one hell of a wrong way to get
your point across." I swear he smiled. I was audacious to the end.
He sighed. <;Oh well, tis no matter. They have finished me.>;
And his life force ended. He melted into a pool of wet red that
dried to
dust and blew away; scattering to the four winds. I looked up,
rubbing
very tired eyes, unable to believe what I saw. Bikers and red skins!
No way! I passed out.
Calcutta Devine watched the parting of life from the red form. He
watched as the blue-eyed black wolf took man form and fainted. He
saw the spirits of his Grandfather and friends fade. He watched as
the
bikers in a trance, stumbled down the hills to their transportation;
undoubtedly returning from whence they had come - all save one.
The man with *Fargo* on his jacket. He who had acted without
assistance from the spirits. He who had not had his blade lifted by
a
medicine man's beckoning arms. He whose blade had not returned to
it's proper sheathing. His knife lay where it had fallen after the
red's
disembodiment; beside the fallen ruin of a man, in bloody, tattered
clothing. This biker simply stood and made his way down to the
clearing, to the exhausted victor.
Cal knew his part in the drama was now over, and awoke exhausted
and confused before a cold fire; in a quiet sacred Black Hills power
spot, in the midst of a mossy glen.
Black Hills Indian MuseumManager's Office
Black Hills, SD
A Crisp May Morning
A week earlier, Hondo had prepared his mind for the contact with the
world he had tried so hard to leave behind. He had phoned Harri
Atkins' private number, requesting a personal favor. He explained
the
Indian Museum had been broken into. He had told Harri the tribe had
asked him, on their behalf, to assist in the search, as their tribal
representative. Harri asked him if there were any reason the locals
couldn't handle the case. Hondo said it was the method of the theft,
the character of the thief, and the nature of the missing item.
"The destruction Harri was beyond need; as if the museum were
simply a gaudy playground and a kid who should have been left home
alone, had himself a field day in there. He left behind some really
bad,
bad energy. This wasn't a run of the mill thief, and this wasn't a
run of
the mill theft. Besides you owe me one for Max." The unspoken
accusation hung draped in black cloth in the air. Then Hondo simply
hung up.