A maid was sent to bring out the pen knife, and I was made to hold it, made to hear that horrible screeching in my ears again. Louder, angry that I had been avoiding it, angry that I had been trying to get rid of it.

“Well? What does it say?” My mother was reasonably worried for the wrong reasons. Everyone knows you must sacrifice something important to you, and the most important thing to me should be being a good wife (at least in the eyes of my family)

I wonder if I'm lying. If I say that I'll lose the ability to have children, that I'll lose my beauty, that I'll lose something that'll make me a bad wife, they won't make me do it.

“What do you lose for it?” Gregory asked.

“The ability of words.” The words fall out of my mouth before I can do anything, the knife forcing me to speak out of my own volition. “No speaking, no writing, no reading. Nothing to do with words.”

There is a plan to lie, fitting I suppose since the knife wishes to rob me of my words.

“Oh…” My mother is quiet, joy spreading across her face and she and my father exchange relieved glances.

“Well I suppose that isn't too terrible.” Samuel sighs, going back to his dinner as if it were nothing.

Though I suppose to them it is nothing. Quality of life hadn't mattered much to them anyways. As long as I can marry it would all be fine.

A few days passed and my regular routine was interrupted as my mother and father had me sit down, Gregory already awaiting us in my fathers study.

“So dear, we have wonderful news!” My mother smiles widely.

“Your marriage with the DUke of the East has been moved up, the two of you will be wed by the end of next week after which you will immediately set out to deal with the threat before going to live with your new husband.”

“It'll be a quick courthouse wedding, nothing like we've planned… But we’ll have a big ceremony after this whole ordeal is over with, around the time we originally planned for your wedding!”

I stayed silent. I knew this was going to happen. My marriage to the duke of the East was a big deal for my parents. I don't know what the Family of the East is getting out of it, but my parents were getting their nobility back. I would be the highest ranking duchess, THE lady of the kingdom besides the princesses or the queen, and they would be my proud and rich parents.

I said nothing, Gregory said nothing, and my mother and father chittered away and made plans around us.

___________________________________________________________________

The carriage ride is long, and horrid. Hopefully the weather will be better on the return trip. I would hate for my bride to feel ill on her way to our home for the first time.

The duke of the east waa riding in a carriage to the capital city, where his bride awaited him. The wedding had been moved up, which was fine, a few plans had to be advanced but he was more than eager to finally marry her.

He had only been waiting ages for this day, and he was more than fine with making some rushed changes in his schedule if it meant it would come any sooner.

Gregory had assured me that all had been handled on his end. The matter of the chosen weapon appearing to her was a mute point, it wouldn't matter in the end anyways. As Long as he pulls through on his end of the bargain all will be well.

“Oh he's here!” My mother was frantic and excited as she all but burst into my room. The weather outside reflected my mood, a mournful grey and downpouring rain. I thank the clouds for at least trying to delay the inevitable.

I had been all dolled up, dressed in a simple blueish white dress with lace and a pale blue ribbon around my waist. A blue and silver veil, for those were the colors of my soon-to-be husband's house, was being fixed into my hair, and the pale sapphire and pearl jewelry set he sent ahead as a gift for me sat against my collar bones and heavy on my wrist and finger.

I suppose it's better than what my mother had planned originally for my wedding outfit. The amount of lace in the drawings of it seemed enough to drown a small city.

I was grabbed and pulled along the hallways, to be brought to the family study, when the officiant my father and Samuel waited for me, so I waited with them for my husband.

However as we were coming down the stairs the maid opened the front door.

“Greetings my lord, the lady of the house will be right with you. But please, come in out of the weather for now.”

She curtsied and stepped aside to let him in, and I saw a man far older than I had expected standing in the doorway.

“This is the Astor house then?” he sounded gruff and he looked even worse.

“Ah, Sir Hassick.” Gregory had come into the hall, “The duke is with you i hope?” He joked, i've never heard him joke before.

“Yes. Though I'm afraid there's been a… change in plans.” Sir Hassick looked concerned between him and my mother, “as I wrote to you about. I'm afraid his lordship has passed away rather suddenly. Bear attack while out hunting.”

My mother froze on the stairs, I felt elated though I know i shouldnt at a man's needless death.

“Hassick step aside and at least let me in. Getting drenched before my wedding is far from ideal.”

I feel crushed.

Sir Hassick quickly steps aside, revealing a much younger man (boy? He seems around my age) who quickly enters our home with Hassick right behind him.

“Yes, I just read the letter. I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to inform my mother yet. Shall we head to the sitting room for a moment?”

Gregory leads Sir Hassisk and this younger man to the sitting room, coming back shortly to escort our parents there. Not a second later Sir HAssick emerges and brings me into the room by my arm.

“I insist she is present for this, she is to be my wife after all.” The younger man is glaring daggers at my parents, and motions for Hassisk to bring me to the senate is on, sitting me down next to him.

I stare straight ahead, at Gregory who is standing behind the couch my parents are sitting on.

“My Older brother passed away quite suddenly, as Sir Gregory was explaining to you. In his stead my father has sent me, to keep the arrangement that was made between our families. I will marry Miss…” He turns towards me, I do not look at him still staring at Gregory who is looking far too pleased with himself. (is that a bruise along his shirt collar?)

“Faeryn!” My mother's scolding brought me out of my daze and I quickly glanced between her and then took my first look at my new husband.

“Oh… My apologies. It's just quite a bit to process so suddenly. I'm very sorry for your loss.” My voice is barely a whisper and I know. Every lesson of prosperity is slipping from me.

“I understand. You were engaged to him for your whole life. I know the change is sudden but I can assure you that I will do the proper thing and marry you in his place, and I will take care of you as he would have.” The young duke nods firmly and then turns back to my parents. “I understand that you may wish for some time, however I would like this done as soon as possible. My brother was made aware that the chosen weapon was passed to her, which is why the wedding date has been moved up. The sooner we are wed the sooner the kingdom is not at risk. As the Duke of the East it is my duty to ensure the kingdom’s safety, I'm sure you understand.”

The Sistine Chapel? Why that’s on par with the lobby of a Motel 6 by an offramp to a regional airport compared to my imagined writing retreat. As natural light streams through every window throughout the day and the room remains at a constant 72 degrees with 45% humidity, how could I not be motivated? The intoxicating smell of honeysuckle lingering in the air advances my creative output.

A nubile, Swedish masseuse, who would make Helen of Troy look like Vern Troyer (R.I.P.), standing at the ready to banish the knots or stiffness in my neck, shoulders and lower back would be advantageous. Of course, a Michelin three-star chef on staff dedicated to preventing me from becoming hangry and losing my train of thought isn’t detrimental. My cellphone in Airplane Mode, the neighborhood kids staying off my lawn and distractions going by way of the passenger pigeon are all advantageous.

Garbed in pants woven from Egyptian cotton and a satin smoking jacket with a cashmere scarf cascading over my shoulders would burst open the inspiration floodgates. Palming a snifter of brandy in one hand and a hand-rolled cigarette made with the highest quality Turkish tobacco secured in the end of an elongated, mother-of-pearl holder between two fingers of the other hand, I take my rightful place nestled in the overstuffed throne. What could be more uplifting? I position myself behind the customized mahogany desk. Dipping a quill replicating a feather from an Archaeopteryx lithographica into the bottomless well of Persian ink that’s adjacent to a stack of never-ending Midori paper guarantees boundless productivity.

When the process of transferring ink to a cellulous medium begins, stories flow out of me as effortlessly as water pours over Angel Falls. My participles don’t dangle. I’ve correctly used they’re, their and there. Possessive apostrophes are flawlessly executed. In the end, my written words conjure images so impactful, they compel librarians and bookstore employees across the globe to clear the shelves of best sellers, freeing up space for my highly anticipated, soon-to-be released tomes.

With encouragement from the Federal government, the Dewey Decimal System generates a new category dedicated specifically for my books. Instead of numbers, the omega symbol is assigned to this classification. Nationwide, elementary school curriculums add a course entitled: “How to use the Dewey Decimal System,” so children now and for future generations to come, will have the skillset to independently locate my printed works in the newly reorganized libraries.

But alas, such a crafted scenario will never become a reality. I’m at peace with this though because I want to abolish every reason for not sitting down and writing today. I must eliminate the mindset of postponing writing until ideal conditions are achieved. I want writing to be my excuse for ignoring the trappings of life, not the other way around.

Dirty clothes in the hamper - I’ll get to them once I land on the perfect synonym for “trouble.” Bills need to be paid - I’m on it after I tighten up this transitional sentence. Haven’t gone to the gym in a week – That’s a good topic for a story. The dishwasher isn’t going to load itself – Uber Eats will suffice until I proofread, out loud, this paragraph five more times. Free-range dust bunnies are propagating beneath the bed – I’ll vacuum when I’m happy with my final draft.

Combating “writer’s block” is difficult in of itself. Having this malady forever lurking along the frazzled edges of my mind requires me to be on constant alert for possible battles if it decides to storm and subsequently obstruct the gates of my thought process. So, I shouldn’t be too selective while mentally establishing an optimal location for writing.

If I visualize my ultimate workplace consisting of a pencil, a blank piece of scrap paper and a horizontal (or diagonal or vertical) surface, then I have no other option but to write. Anything above and beyond these three things will only boost my enthusiasm, invigorating me to keep writing. This is the situation I long for. This is how I control my space.

*This chapter is part of "The Small Town Magic Arc." This saga began with Chapter 134*

"You've already shown how much of a liar you are Mayor Aplonica, Cyclo, or whoever you truly are." The Pirate shot back. "Honestly, I bet you can't solve any of our problems even if you wanted to."

"Oh, I assure you this is the truth." Jahno responded with a grin. "Allow me to give you a sample."

Jahno pointed at the Pirate and pulled a small stream of dark liquid out of him. The liquid floated between the two of them.

"This is a sample of your blood that carries Glicko's curse. Now watch closely Pirate."

The liquid then swirled over Jahno. Jahno twirled his finger under the liquid, spinning it. Once he stopped moving his finger, the liquid had reverted back to clean, healthy looking blood.

"I have completely removed the toxin from your blood sample. Here, you can have it back."

The blood stream flew back at the Pirate, absorbing back into his body.

"That was just a sample, so not enough to remove the curse completely. Even so, I am capable of removing the rest of it from your system. Now it is your turn Rick. Do tell me if these folks look familiar."

Jahno summoned a virtual image out of his hand, revealing what looked like a shared common area of a college dormitory. Sitting on a couch was a middle aged man and woman, whose anxiety and fear was evident even without a single word being spoken by either of them.

"Mom! Dad!" Rick cried out. "Where is this, where are they?"

"I can't tell you too much before we have come to an agreement, but I can assure you that their captor is at least holding them in a comfortable living space." Jahno said reassuringly before making the virtual image vanish. "Now Cerissa and Essie, time to give you a taste of what I could return to you!"

Jahno pointed at the two mages, and two holographic like lock symbols floated out of their heads, resting above Jahno.

"These represent your memories that were taken away." Jahno explained calmly. "Your memories did not disappear completely, but appear to have been locked away within your minds by Glicko's spell. Unlocking these memories and returning them to you would be simple indeed. I shall open these slightly, and give you both a small fragment back of your memories."

A small white mist slipped out of both of the floating locks, one of each floating into Cerissa and Essie's heads. Almost immediately both of their eyes lit up, and they ran to each other and embraced.

"Cerissa, it is only a small detail I remember, but apparently we trained together as mages!" Essie gushed.

"Yeah, I only have a faint detail too, but I see my home village, and you're there!" Cerissa said excitedly as happy tears formed in her eyes.

"Awwwww, how sweet." Cyclo mocked, as he motioned for the two lock symbols to absorb back into the minds of the mages they came from. "As I have proven, I am more than capable of solving all of your problems, Pirate and crew. However, me bailing you out will not come for free. If I am to break Glicko's mutation curse, return Rick's parents, and unlock Cerissa and Essie's memories, I would require you to leave Aplonica and allow me to wipe the knowledge of this confrontation from the minds of my daughter and our people. I will clear the memory of this from your minds as well, so there will be no guilt hanging over you for taking what I feel is a superb deal. Tamma will forget who I really am, and I will be able to provide for her again as our people pay 'Cyclo' to keep Tamma and the village safe. And you my friends, will have everything you are fighting for taken care of. What do you say, heroes?"

"I'm sorry guys, I can't compete with an offer like that." Tamma said sadly. "I understand, and I hold no ill will if you choose to cooperate with my father."

Cerissa looked to the Pirate, Rick, and Essie, who each nodded approvingly. Cerissa then embraced Tamma, then turned toward Jahno. The Pirate joined her side, while Essie and Rick continued to stay close to Tamma.

"While I do believe you could truly do the things you say you could for us, we will never turn our backs on Tamma and Aplonica by accepting your deal." Cerissa said boldly, her soft tone not taking away any confidence that her words carried. "However, there is something I want to thank you for besides your kind offer."

"And what would that be?" Jahno asked in a bemused tone.

"You gave us enough time to prepare this." Cerissa smiled. "Take my hand now, Pirate!"

The Pirate joined his hand with Cerissa's, which now glowed a brilliant white. The white light then expanded, completely consuming the two. The light then faded as quickly as it had shone, revealing a new figure now boldly standing up to their adversary.

To be continued....

Kevin Miller woke John in a dim classroom. He was John’s lawyer when the police questioned John about his wolf encounter, and he had joined Officers Schuster and Foster’s investigation of police corruption in Wolftown.

“Billy told me to wake you up,” Kevin said.

“Huh?” John asked.

“He, Wayne, and I might go to Happy Howlers. Since you are allowed to observe the wolf situation with Wayne, he thought you should be woken up.”

“Another attack?” John asked.

“We hope not,” Kevin said.

John followed Kevin to the principal’s office, where he and Schuster had spent most of the night speaking with an anonymous distressed woman or discussing her between themselves or with Wayne. Since Kevin accepted her as a client, he could not tell John anything else.

“Did Glenn and Rebecca get home safely?” John asked.

“Yeah, don’t worry,” Wayne said.

“Everybody was okay. Deputy Peterson didn’t find a wolf or signs of nefarious activity. I appreciate letting the lady and me talk on the satellite phone. The battery is running low. Sorry.”

“Is she in danger?” John asked.

“Yeah.”

“Use the spare if she needs.” John remained skeptical of police in general, but he worried about the lady’s safety, and he wondered if another emergency happened while he slept.

“I hope we won’t need to,” Schuster said.

Wayne grumbled, “She broke into Happy Howlers, ate our snacks, and might have been involved in attacking Suzanne. And the other victims.”

“She says she broke in and ate for survival,” Schuster said.

“I can’t complain about that, but why didn’t she go somewhere else?”

“How would she get there in the storm? Isn’t Happy Howlers and one house between Wolftown and Thurber?”

Thurber was the Wilde County capital.

“She says she was in the woods,” Schuster said. “The lady gives a lot of details. Some of it can be verified, and some of the verifiable details haven’t been released to the public, so I’m considering her a reliable source. She says she and three men were conducting the wolf attacks. She says she doesn’t want to be in cahoots. The lady’s description of the leader matches the naked man, and—”

“Dennis Laufenberg,” Wayne asked.

“We haven’t confirmed his identity yet. I have to compare his timeline with hers. She hasn’t said why the individual doesn’t wear clothes. Her description of the other guy matches the missing person found dead. He hasn’t officially been identified yet, but I think he is Tyler Wilson. I’m going to call him that. I have no idea who the third man is. When the attacks escalated, he ran away. The lady thinks the leader might be willing to kill him. The lady sounds familiar, but I don’t know who she is.

The leader is making the attacks, she says, ‘look like wolf attacks and like someone is using a wolf strap. If there were signs it was a guy, it’d be too crazy to pay attention to.’ She hasn’t talked much about the wolf straps.”

“Kevin, are you going to say anything about them?” Wayne asked.

“Not again, please,” Schuster said. “Her and Wayne are thinking about talking about the wolf attacks, but she doesn’t trust anyone.”

“And I’ll probably yell at her,” Wayne said.

“And that wouldn’t assist the investigation,” Schuster said.

“When they weren’t attacking people and animals, her and the two identifiable men went into the woods. I’m not sure where the third man went. They’ve got some kind of camp in the woods, and it sounds like she is familiar with the area. The search parties were looking in the same direction as her coordinates.”

“And it’s in easy hiking distance of the Vasquez’s campsite,” Wayne said. “The sites are pretty deep in the woods.”

“The lady says that they were using the sewer system to get around town and evade the authorities,” Schuster said.

“As bad as the dumb wolf hypotheses,” Wayne muttered.

“The third man lifted up the manhole covers for the others to climb out. They conducted the attacks, and he stayed in the sewers. It’s tough to lift up a manhole cover without a tool. Stephanie says that sewer work is dangerous, even if you have the right safety equipment and stuff. The individuals stopped hiding in the sewers because of the rain. It sounds like the lady and the other two men knew each other much longer than they knew the third man. If they were using the sewers, it explains why there were wolf sightings in completely fenced-in sectors that had been thoroughly searched. Wayne, have you thought about the wolf in the sewer question?”

Wayne sighed. “At least muzzle the wolf, but it probably wouldn’t let you put him in a sewer unless you sedated it. A wolf is pretty heavy, so you would need to lower it on a rope or carry it. I’m not going to experiment because I don’t want to get mauled and I’m too tired to make a dummy wolf.”

“Do you have an opinion, John?”

John thought. “It would be a very unhappy, scared wolf. And unhappy, scared animals tend to be uncooperative, even if they have been domesticated and trained. If you got the wolf into the sewer, it might turn on you.”

“And if you sedated it, you would have to wait for the sedation to wear off before attacking.”

“Do they get loopy like people?” John asked.

“Yeah, so that is another problem,” Wayne said. “If they were making it look like wolf attacks, they were using real wolves.”

“Okey-dokey,” Schuster said. “I need to check sewer abnormalities. The lady says that the leader prevented the sewer workers from cleaning out the sewers before the rainstorm, and Stephanie told me the same thing a few days ago.

“The lady says she called in an anonymous tip that Mr. Wilson drowned in the sewers and that he was in a sewer outlet. She told me she knew he had a wolf strap, and she made sure it was found with his body. She didn’t say so in the anonymous tip she originally made. The officer she spoke to told me that the caller had a female voice.

“The wolf responders almost caught the wolves this morning. The lady knows that a wolf responder fell into an open manhole, when, where, his name, and where the current carried him to. Wayne confirmed the details. They were in a residential area, so it’s possible someone overheard, but she was very specific.

“The lady says that she gave an anonymous tip to the police that Suzanne Giese would be attacked, and it would be in a couple minutes. Corporal Henry says that the caller was female. She says that when the leader found out she called a tip, he attacked her the same way he had attacked other people.”

“Shouldn’t she be in a hospital?” John asked.

“She says it is going away on its own. If the leader is violent towards her, she could have been injured much worse before. Or it was a non-life-threatening assault.”

“Or it was what you call attempted assault by a wolf,” Wayne said. “I bet you could train a dog to do it on command, and maybe a wolf. She hasn’t said that they trained the wolves.”

“I can confirm the details about the attack on me and Zach. She knows that Zach shot a hole through the wolf’s snout and that the exit wound was big enough to stick fingers through. She knows the direction the wolf went and approximately where the wolf responders lost track of it. She wants it to be dead but doesn’t think it died from the gunshot wounds.”

“Why not?” John asked.

“Because she says she saw it alive later in the morning. I don’t believe that because she says the same wolf attempted an attack on John and Barbara Lubens. Nobody reported a big hole in the wolf’s face. Am I very detail-orientated or is that something witnesses would remember?”

“Yeah,” John said.

“You are and it is,” Kevin said.

“Was there a scar or something?” Wayne asked.

“No, the wolf looked healthy.”

“I believe that she knows about the attacks, though. She doesn’t know where the wolf went, but she listed hiding places in Wolftown. The wolf responders are looking for wolves, not people, so it’s possible someone missed him.

“She says the wolves weren’t in her control, but I don’t know why. After Mr. Wilson died, she had an altercation with the leader. He threatened to kill her, so she ran away into the woods. She hasn’t said how she ended up at Happy Howlers. She won’t say whether she brought a wolf with her and she won’t talk about anything to do with the wolf in the empty pen.”

“And we don’t know where they put the wolves between attacks,” Wayne said.

“She doesn’t talk much about the wolves,” Schuster said.

“After breaking into Happy Howlers, she saw John’s phone number on the desk and decided to call it. She hasn’t said why, but it sounds like a significant risk to her safety. She feels like it is the best place for her to be.

Wayne asked, “Why would she attack employees, go to their workplace, and ask the owner to help her?”

“People’s decisions in a crisis don’t always make sense to observers,” Schuster said.

“If she wants to tell me and thinks I will tell her to forget about it, she’s wrong.”

“My client hasn’t confessed,” Kevin said.

“Maybe the lady is being coerced into giving the information or it’s part of the plan. I might be gullible, but I wouldn’t say some things the way she said it about someone I willingly aided and abetted. I definitely wouldn’t say it in front of him. She sounds like she is worried about saying it in a situation where he could find out what she said.

“She says the leader will attack her if she asks for help from anyone. She says the leader can stop authorities from responding to her, but she hasn’t gone into much detail. It sounds like he will use threats and wolf attacks. She says he tracks the police movements and the walkie-talkie frequency, so he knows if the police respond to her call. I think if he can do that, he can listen to the sheriff’s department and state police. I told her that the county sheriff’s department had already been there about the wolf Glenn found in a pen, but she won’t discuss it.

“The lady is very scared of the authorities. I’m guessing if the leader can stop the authorities from doing their jobs, he can make them do something to her or he can keep them from investigating whatever he might do to her.”

“Like a chief of police,” Wayne said.

“The suspects are anyone who can be definitely connected to the lady, like in a police line-up. Happy Howlers is not a good place for her to be long-term, but she says she doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“If she is scared of the authorities, why did she go there?” John asked.

Wayne led part of the wolf response, but voluntarily and unconnected to the civil services. Happy Howlers was a private non-profit.

“Maybe I don’t count,” Wayne said.

Schuster said, “I’m worried the lady or the leader might try to attack Wayne. She knows who he is and where he works, but I don’t know if she found that out before or after going to Happy Howlers. She probably knows Wayne wants to stop the wolf attacks. She might know he thinks they will continue until someone stops them.”

“Maybe they would have stopped naturally if they were just wolves, but people might not let them. I still think attacking people with wolves is a stupid idea. Apparently, the lady thinks it would work, but I don’t have any data about her. If I do, I didn’t recognize it.”

“It sounds like she intends to stop attacking people. The lady won’t or can’t move herself to a secondary location. She says the storm washed away the place in the woods. She says she literally has nothing with her. So, I can’t tell her to walk to Thurber. No one should hitchhike, but especially her. Wolftown wouldn’t be a safe location. Wayne is letting her stay there.”

“And it makes it easier for you to detain her or whatever,” Wayne said.

“I’d normally say she would be safer in police protection or at least sitting inside a police station. If there is police corruption regarding a homicide, her, Kevin, and me have to be careful.”

“Were homicide investigations corrupt before?” John asked.

“Not as far as I know. Fortunately, we have a very low homicide rate. A few Wolftown officers know I’ve been speaking with a witness. They don’t know much, and we haven’t communicated about her over the radio. The other officers have not always been helpful. Some officers would notice if I asked a couple of officers or former officers for backup. And some officers are unavailable. The lady won’t talk without Kevin present, so they need to be in the same place.”

“In person is better, not just because of the telephone lines,” Kevin said.

“So, Kevin and I are going to take her to the sheriff’s department office. It will be the first time they hear about it. I’m assuming she will let us or I can detain her and transport her with the resources available. It could be tricky and put Kevin in danger.”

“And you,” Kevin said.

“But I’m a police officer. Going to Happy Howlers could be a trap or a trick. Going by myself is stupid, and bringing any civilian is a really bad idea. It probably won’t end well.”

“We should stay sheltered from the storm, but she needs assistance,” Kevin said.

“I was thinking of potential criminal activity, but the weather will suck at best,” Schuster said. “Wayne is part of the wolf response and has a gun. He owns the property, and I need his permission to enter.”

“You have it,” Wayne said.

“Can Kevin write it in legalese—I mean, legal verbiage—and you sign it?”

“I’ll write it.” Kevin turned to a fresh sheet of his yellow legal pad. “It is not a legal document, but it will sound authoritative.”

“I’d prefer a warrant, but getting one would be difficult. John is welcome to come if Wayne does. But, Wayne, you’re a bit upset about the wolf attacks and the lady.”

“I’ll behave. I have to go, but I can’t keep up with you young guys.”

“Who are you calling young?” Kevin asked.

“It depends on how old you think you are,” Wayne said.

“Why are you going, Wayne?” Schuster asked.

“Why ask?”

“It’s important.”

“The wolves or whoever keeps getting away, but it needs to stop. I bet she was involved in the attacks. She still needs emergency aid on my property, so I have to be involved. I’m annoyed, but I’ll put up with her.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll go if Wayne is,” John said.

“Any chance you have a gun license?”

“I have one so I can legally operate a tranquilizer gun, but I can’t carry guns,” John said.

“I’d feel better if you had some form of self-defense other than an air-horn.”

“He won’t,” Wayne said.

“Bow hunting? Fencing lessons?” Schuster looked desperate enough to ask, Rodney King riots?

“No,” John said. “Do you want me to carry the tranquilizer gun?”

“It’s better than nothing,” Schuster said.

Wayne began to explain the complete lack of evidence that tranquilizer darts were effective against the wolves attacking Wolftown, but interrupted himself with: “You brought fancy technology, but did you remember food?”

“Yeah,” John said.

“With you? Here? Did you at least eat plain noodles or something at supper?”

“No, I left it in my hotel room because the attacks were in town. And I didn’t think I would be stuck in an emergency shelter. But I’ll be fine, assuming we don’t get stranded in the woods.”

“Why are you assuming that?” Wayne asked.

“I’m an optimist.”

“We have to get some stuff from Kevin’s house and convince Luke to lend us his personal canoe. Kevin and I can do that and you and Wayne get whatever from your hotel room.”

“Will it slow you down?” John asked.

“The hotel is in the same direction as Luke’s house, so we can pick you two up before going to Kevin’s house and going back in the direction of the river.”

“And we must stop by my house,” Kevin said.

Schuster, Wayne, Kevin, and John planned the trip to Happy Howlers.

Because an elderly person sleeping in rain-soaked jeans in 34-degree weather risked hypothermia, John and Schuster argued Wayne should wear John’s fishing waders. Kevin would be active and awake.

“What about you?” Wayne asked Schuster. “You lost a lot of blood.”

“It’s been about nineteen hours, though. I’m fine. Sir, don’t make me put them on you.”

“You’d rip your stitches,” Wayne muttered but stepped into the fishing waders.

Schuster wrote Pastor Mickelson a note detailing where he, Kevin, and John went, including a rough map of their route. He slid it under the office door instead of waking him. Also, he told the lady that he, Kevin, and two other trustworthy people would attempt to reach Happy Howlers as soon as possible.

John left Paula a message, but due to a low battery, told her to call Pastor Mickelson for more information. As John packed his briefcase and stowed it under the table, Wayne called Rebecca. If he had not called again by noon, she should call the sheriff’s department’s non-emergency line.

They left quick messages, worried that the floodwater would wash them away or turn them back to Holy Trinity before they reached the spare satellite phone battery in John’s hotel room.

Part Thirteen coming January 31, 2025.

Quiet, with the tranquil sounds of rain, storms, water, rivers, the ocean. Windows to let in cool calming light. Books and the smell of knowledge and other worlds. A cool atmosphere to snuggle into blankets and wear warm sweaters in. Curtains to darken the space and warm lamps of different shapes scattered round the room to bring in light when the natural isn't around. Spots to sit cross legged on windowsills, or to work at desks in soft, hard or rocking chairs. Sweet and quite piano music. The space decorated to present a part of life. Vines and plants hanging and filling the space, or the ocean painted across the walls with soft and light woods, or the dramatics of fantasy worlds with dragons and mythical creatures inhabiting the celling and its artwork, or an old English styled library with dark woods and cold stone walls to keep you protected. Coffee and blankets freely accessible. Trinkets and special books lining shelves. The books and quotes of authors who had gone before. These are the spaces I wish for.

I lean back into the cushions with my eyes closed, feeling the warm sun on my face. The ceiling fan above me blows a gentle breeze, and a tall glass of lemonade is on the table beside me to keep me cool.

Not for the first time, I’m grateful that we made the choice to screen in our new front porch because I know without those screens, my arms and legs would be covered with mosquito bites by now, but as it is, I have yet to see or feel a bug in my space.

The bay window that looks into our living room site behind me, surrounded by the house's gray stone wall, but I’m facing the quiet street, with only the occasional neighbor walking their dog passing to distract me. Otherwise, it’s quiet, and I can settle in and be inspired by the great outdoors while enjoying all the comforts of indoors.

A workplace.

A studio. Pop a stain of oaks, dark or just mundane brown.

Cherry wood too much, but not quite blacked down.

I think they would be thick, shelves about nearly an inch thick, with matching dividers to quarter the books apart.

One corner laid bare, open and ready to ensnare me in the latest project. A mendable mat of white and black. And a lazy Suzanne cup to the right, pushed to the far back against a decked windowsill that protrudes two inches and a quarter over said desk. Rows of drawers down to the left, beneath a thick slab of wood, no less than three inches thick. Adorned in handles of bronzed alloys, antiqued and filigree with a marble topper centered across the center mass of the round knob. I'd store little sharp tools, teeth, fangs, and claws, all things dead, and things cold and unliving there.

And to the right of said desk, a squared jig would lay, fill of rolled leathers, and under it would be, a drawer or two of metal and steel, metal cutters for my 5-ton press to the more right, sitting on a large work bench covered in all manner of things. Splitters, skivers, edgers, and some electric machines walled off to their right. A 3D printer, smaller, and a larger. A resin printer encased above them, working or not working diligently. It doesn't matter.

The lighting would be warm, not cool, with a burn yellow, almost orange hue. And the room would stretch on, rectangular, and fitting a door. I could continue on past it, back around full circle to the desk to the left of the book shelves, and a little podium would stand in the center of it all, with the most important books of all. Bright, faded nearly pastel blue engineering books in white letters, mold making too alongside burnt maroon nearly umber welding and brazing books with gold lettering. Another face stacked to the brim with electrical, home and small units, singular devices that execute codes. And so on, and so forth, all things far from ergonomic. An inventor space, darkly lit with brushed fern-muted walls, and a wood flooring covered in carpet to settle my cold withdrawals.

A quiet space. A space that only misses a bed. I don't think I'd ever step out of my tiny little shed. A room in a shop. A room in a house. It's warm, dark, and cozy, and I have no plans to yell or shout. I don't need anyone, no one. Not really. I can write, I can draw, and press keys on my backlit keyboard without feelings scrutinized, or small. No one there to feel like they need to stand tall. Tall over me, angry, and mean. Feeling like I'm threatening their space, when I just need. Peace and quiet, a place to recover from the whirl of it all. My tiny little space, maybe a bit decrepit and small.

So if you ever ask, where my perfect space lies. In a shop. In the woods. In the dark with no other eyes. I'm a solitary creature. I need a lot, but it's worth every bit of thing I produce whether it has a value or gives birth to all wonders of conversations and knitpicks or shames.

I write. I create. I just don't want to be named.

The night is dark and thick and it falls heavy, hot, and suffocating over the land.

An grass is tall and it is sharp and it droops slightly as it lines the ditch of the dusty, worn road. The dusty road that if you look down it will look you in the eyes and say Yes. I'm here. Come to me.

The moon hangs high in the sky but all its light appears faded. It's just a circle of white ringed by gray as the night is just an all-expansive starless sky of black. The only light there is shines from the piercing rays of a gas station light far off in the distance, too far to illuminate anything. The night is unnatural. The night is eerie. The night is heavy.

This is the place where nature and the city clashes. Nature is overpowered. Of course. By the city's snaking fingers that press into everything. The tired-terror-rage-hurt in the eyes of the men and the hopeless desolate love in the mouths of the women. And the sorrow snd silence in the people who are not either. The way the grass dies in the polluted dust of the roadside. But there is living grass still. There is kindness and cleverness in the eyes of the men. Anger and confidence in mouths of the women. Secrets, hope, and wisdom in the people who are not either. And there is the way the night falls like a disguise, like a cloak. Like a blanket.

The crickets chirp and buzz, silently cheering me on.

I am a shadow of a girl. I am a girl lost in the shadows. Trailing behind another girl who always, always, always blocks all the light. I am the silent one. The unseen one. I am the one who is always nothing and no one.

But not anymore. The air is hot and humid and yet it feels cool around my body. Around my face, around my arms, around the soles of my bare feet.

The dew on the grass brushes against my ankles.

Miri kissed me three days ago. Before I set out onto this journey with the blocker of my light. She told me to be brave. Be confident. Be brutal. And I'm not brave. I'm broken. But when Miri kisses me hope runs down like molten gold over the broken, jagged edges of my heart. Pulls them together.

So for her I am brave. For us both.

The other girl is walking in front of me. She always is. She is walking slowly. Even her steps are haughty. And I don't quite know how she manages that. As always, my steps are quiet.

I walk faster though. Just a tiny, immeasurable bit faster than her. The air around me grows immeasurably colder. The path is full of rocks and broken bits of concrete from when the road was functional. It digs into my bare feet. She in her thick-soled shoes cannot feel it.

Seven days ago Miri and I were hiding in the alley sharing breathless open-mouthed kisses, hands brushing up under each other's shirts. She whispered my name over and over again.

Ayali. Ayali. Ayali. Ayali. Ayali I love you.

And she told me she sabotaged the engine of the car. The world smelled faintly of exhaust and heat as it always did and for the first time in my life I cried. And she moved to quickly wipe the tears from my face with her gentle hands so that I would not be caught.

The night is still. The world is tensed with anticipation. Waiting.

The girl gets out her cellphone, and dials the number of her father.

"Hello, daddy? Yes the car broke down. We're. We're on our way to the gas station now. But gee whiz cheese and crackers, the road is so long and it's so hot out here. I need a fan or an air conditioner of something. We don't have any of that here now do we? Christ on a bicycle I'm too delicate and sensitive for this."

I wait until she finishes her phone call. None of this will work if she's still on the phone with her father.

The moonlight softly illuminates the top of her hair. Her phone's screen shines pale against the skin of her cheek. She looks eerie. Frightening. Though I don't remember ever not being frightened of her. It's good that I know exactly where she is. It's good that I know exactly what she is.

One year ago Miri and I were sitting on our knees, facing each other, on the floor of the garage. Her eyes sparkled golden in the midsummer sunset light. Her dark hair frizzed in the humidity. She was chanting softly. Lost in a meditative trance. Lost in my dark eyes. I was lost in hers. And the words I chanted laced and wove through the words she chanted to create a beautiful whispering harmony. Beneath us the runes glowed. They were made of feathers from the seagulls and crows that soared in the sky, arranged into the shapes of thin loops forming a circle. The birds soared and squawked and screamed free in that endless blue and they took care of us. We continued chanting as the sun's rays dipped below the horizon. We took the stolen glass jar that we had previously filled with rainwater. And we held it up against the horizon so that it caught the last of the sun's rays. We soaked all the feathers inside the water. As the twilight bathed everything blue we continued chanting, both holding the jar of feathers in both of our hands.

And as the light finally faded we solemnly took twelve steps to the sickly, dying tree holding on desperately to the crumbling ground beside the garage. It was fading, unlike the bright domesticated flowering plants carefully maintained in the front entrance of the house. And we poured out the contents of the jar over its roots.

Brother Tree. You who bend and bow to the city and its rulers as we do. Brother tree. You who hold the life force of Mother Earth as we do. Brother Tree. Aid us in our quest to restore what has been lost and to build what has been broken. Aid us in our quest to bring back life and hope into the hearts of the people.

And now I watch as the light on her cheek flickers into nothing. She puts her phone in her purse and scans the horizon. I'm stalking even closer to her. And as quick as a striking stake my arms twist around her throat. She chokes out a scream. I squeeze as hard as I can but she kicks and claws and writhes and sends us both tumbling to the ground. She gains the upper hand for a moment. Lays her upper body on top of mine and pins my arms to my side. But I bite her cheek hard enough to draw blood. And she screams and jerks away. I spring up and then we are on each other. Biting and grabbing and kicking and pushing in the dirt. Until finally I am straddling over her, with both my hands around her throat. A vice grip fuelled by the unending, incomprehensible pain and rage and desolation and suffocation that has been my life thus far.

I smile the most deranged, glorious smile as I feel her breathing slow, as I see her struggling get weaker and weaker as her body becomes limp. She goes still and silent under me, eyes wide open and completely spaced out. I hold her down for a few minutes, just to be sure it worked.

Four days ago a great storm swept through the lands. It brought with it pouring, torrential rain that was freezing cold, colder than any ice. Just as Miri and I had summoned. As everyone huddled inside the house, Miri and I placed the jar on the ground by the tree. The tree was stronger now. It stood up taller. It's leaves didn't droop. It had a healthy sheen. Rain hit the leaves, and soaked in the life force and essence of the tree. As the world stood in that untameable standstill, water rolled down the leaves, different droplets coalescing together into thick, cold drops. And as the storm raged on and on and on the jar filled with tree-soaked rainwater.

Miri and I got a small reprieve. Could claim that we were trapped in the garage due to the rain. We lay on our straw mat, with wet hair, and kissed. She straddled her body on top of me and then bent down low to kiss me. I lightly dug my fingers into her waist. Brushed them up and down her thighs. She smelled like heat and sweat and dawn and the ocean mist.

Everything around me is dark. Pitch black like a page with ink spilled all over it. Like all the world is nothing. Nothing but a thick, almost tangible black. The road is abandoned. Nobody can see us. Still I carry the girl's limp, cold body towards the ditch, far from the road. Far from bright headlights. In case anyone speeds by. I keep walking until I can see the familiar glow of moonlight shining on water.

Thank you for showing me the way, Brother Moon, I whisper. I lay her body down beside the water. Then, I step into the water to see how deep it is. It's a really dirty pond full of fish waste and mud but to a large extent water is water. I get the small vial full of the tree water I have hidden away in my underclothes.

Four days ago Miri and I kneeled on either side of the water jar, in the dead of night. Softly chanting chanting and chanting and chanting until the water flowed blue like the horizon. We bottled a bit of it in a stolen laboratory microfuge tube, given to us by the boys across the alley who got it from someone else. And we slept curled around each other as we've done for years.

I bring the little tube up to the light of the moon.

"Brother Moon. Father Sky. Mother Earth. Sister Water. Please may I be granted the shape of the one who held the power. May I be granted the shape of the one who held the keys. So that I too may hold the keys and so that I too may hold the power. Transfigure my face and my throat and my body until the day when my people can be truly free. So that I might walk through the world unburdened and fool the the ones in the high into letting my people go. Brother Moon. Father Sky. Sibling Fire. Mother Earth. Sister Water. Brother Tree. Siblings Stars. Sibling rain. Sister Sun. All the forces of the world. Twist my face into a falsehood so that I may bring the reign of truth into the time."

I bring the vial up to the sky then I pour the water over my hair and forehead.

The world seems to still around me. The wind starts blowing, strong and cool and quick over my face and through my hair. I feel as if I am on fire, but it isn't painful. It's invigorating. Energizing. Finally I look up. I am wearing shoes. I have on her soft clothes. My hair is in the long, intricate braids she wore. My skin is soft and smooth like hers. I look into the bag that I am now holding. I pull out the phone and take a picture of myself.

Yes. I have her body. I look just like her. And I snap a picture of her. She has my body. Good. I'll miss my body but I know I will have it back once the work is done. But now I will leave the girl to rot and be picked at by the fishes.

Two years ago Miri came into my life. She was thirteen years old. Her parents were dead. Her baby had been taken from her. And she was utterly broken. I pieced her back together in the far too short moments between dusk and nighttime and between dawn and morning. She pieced me together in the fleeting moments we stole.

I briskly walk to the gas station, testing out my voice. Sure, I sound like her. But I don't quite speak like her yet. So I have to practice. I call her father, my voice wavering. I pretend that Ayali (me) attacked me (her) but "I" managed to fight "her" off.

In about an hour I get to the gas station and I wait inside until he picks me up.

Two years ago I had been alone for nine years and my life was infinitely worse than death. And then Miri told me that I was beautiful, wonderful, amazing. I was everything that was good in the universe and I was deeply beloved by more people than I could count.

And so I sleep for the first time in a large, soft bed. And I sneak Miri in there too. Claim that I'm oh so tired from my ordeal and I couldn't possibly sleep alone and I need her to stay up and stand watch. We hide under the covers of the bed and kiss each other senseless.

Later we to go live in a separate apartment away from prying eyes. And we create a space where there are no power imbalances. And we plan.

I chat with the girl's uncle, who thinks I am her. He's very high up in the military. I manage to guile him into giving me the locations and entry codes for all the armouries.

Six months later all out war breaks out. It's winter. It's cold. It's nighttime. The winter solstice actually. An auspicious time. The moon hangs bright and still, tinted the slightest bit blue. We march all together. Sharing in each other's heat. Sharing in each other's anger. Sharing in each other's strength. More people than I ever knew existed. We storm the armoires by the thousands. We easily take out the guards. Though they shoot at us. Though our comrades fall. There are simply too many people to shoot and we fall upon them and beat them to death with our bare hands while others flow into the doors of the weapons vaults. It's the most exhilarating night of my life. I had never even seen that many people all right there at once before.

And we take the weapons and we run with them. Sure, we don't know how to use them. At first. But those of us who had been spying on the military - which is many of us - soon teach the others. And then it's all stops pulled out. We know that if this war drags on and on we will starve. Normally this would be more than enough to stop us from even pursuing it. But we outnumber them two to one. We have most of the weapons. The odds are in our favour and the chips are on our side. We know that this is the one chance to get free. And freedom is worth dying for. If it means our children will live. We can win this. And we do win. Easily. It's a matter of weeks.

People did die though. People died in droves. And it was terrible. It was bloody. It was ugly. It was gruesome. It was painful. For them and for all the ones they left behind. It was something that shouldn't've happened. But they died for the new generations. For the future. And for the Earth and Sky and all Their Children.

Two years later I'm back in my proper body. I'm surrounded by my community. I'm married to Miri, and with my four-year-old stepchild Novalee. She's so small. And she's back with us. Reunited with her mother at the same age in which I was separated from mine. And she can be a child. The air is clearer than it ever has been. The water more flowing. The ground is cleaner. There are more plants than before. The moon shines brightly and so do the stars. And people have peace in their eyes. Have joy.

*This chapter is part of "The Small Town Magic Arc." This saga began with Chapter 134*

"I was born with my powers, although they skip generations." Jahno replied with a smirk. "I have never met this Glicko you speak of, but apparently there is a story here. Do tell me what this fellow has done to become your archenemy."

"He has put a curse into the world that mutates people into monsters, my ex-wife being one of his victims." The Pirate answered. "He claims that it only happens to those who choose to do evil. Even so, people should not be forced to choose their conduct to avoid mutating."

"He wiped my memories, but left me with the knowledge that he is the one responsible." Cerissa added.

"My memories were also taken away, except for the fact that Glicko is the one who stole them." Essie said. "Cerissa and I have no memories of our past, and we are currently relearning our magic."

"Glicko kidnapped my parents to test his curse on them, based on their pure hearts." Rick said. "They were unaffected by the curse, but he won't release them due to them knowing about his plans."

"Wow, this guy really did a number on you all!" Jahno laughed gleefully. "So that's why you were so eager to face me, you thought I would bring you closer to this Glicko! Well I hate to disappoint you, but like I said, I have no connection to him whatsoever. If I did, he probably would have cursed me too!"

"Shut up." The Pirate said calmly, promptly stopping Jahno's laughter. "Yes, we would have loved to have gotten one step closer to stopping Glicko, but we came here to help Tamma regardless."

"Thank you." Tamma said softly, wiping her tears as Rick and Essie went to her side to support her.

"You know, I kind of like you guys." Jahno smiled. "Maybe I don't know your pal Glicko, but what if I told you that I have the capability of undoing all of the terrible things he did to you all?"

"I would say you're a liar, just like you've been doing to your own flesh and blood." The Pirate said heatedly.

"I assure you, I am being completely honest with you." Jahno said, no longer speaking in a mocking tone. "I can break the curse on your ex easily. I sense that curse within your own blood Pirate, and I could easily remove it. It would also be child's play for me to restore the memories of your mages, and return the teenage boy's folks back to him. However, I won't do these things for free. Shall we make a truce Pirate?"

To be continued....

Everyone that comes into my room tells me I need to clean it. They tell me it's messy, that they don't understand how I can spend so much time in here. But I don't understand them.

I mean sure, the cracked yellow tile and chipping white paint on the walls exposing the avocado green from when my room was not my own is not the most appealing, but I don’t mind. And yes my dresser is piled with all the random knickknacks I collect, but where else am I going to keep the things I keep from my many adventures? And yes I should put away the pile of clothes that blocks my bookshelf, but why would I? What if I finally get a chance to wear that pink dress that has been on my floor for a week from a date that never happened? Why would I clean my room when I can tell you exactly where my cats leave their favorite toys? Sure I could fix my tower of squishmallows that haven’t been reorganized since I got number 100, but why would I? Why would I when I could tell you where all my favorite ones are even though I can’t see them all?

Sure I could straighten up my jewelry boxes so they aren’t falling off the shelves, but why would I? Why would I when they are in the perfect spot for my nieces to grab when they walk in and see that hot pink Bobby Jack jewelry box full of braceletsI have been saving just for them? Sure, I could fold the dinosaur blanket that sits on my desk or move the cat scratcher from the middle of my room so it's more convenient for me, but why would I? Why would I when they are where my cats like them the best? And sure my walls aren't decorated with beautiful landscapes and traditional works of art but why should they be? Why should they when I can tell you where all 12 of my dream catchers that hang around my room are from? Why would I decorate my wall with someone else's artwork when I can put up my own instead?

When people walk into my room they see a mess but I see me. I see my adventures, my memories, my feelings, my likes and dislikes. Sure I could clean my room, but why would I?