dos hombres

        Brother Ambrose tackled Scoop and they crashed onto Sonya Chekov's black shellacked Japanese teatable. The newsman was heavier than the preacher, so he was able to roll on top and pin his friend to the carpet. Both widowers laughing like magpies.
        "Ziggy!"
        "Artie!"
        "Motherfuckers!" Sonya shouted from the doorway. "The fuck ya done to my table?"
        Sheepishly they surveyed the damage.
        Like a doofus ER intern giving prognosis on roadkill, Brother Ambrose replied, "Oh, it'll be fine. Gorilla Glue can fix it."
        "Goddamn it, Ambro! That's classic furniture!"
        Scoop straightened up, knees popping. "The two of us will take care of it."
        Sonya began to cry.
        "Oh, babe," Brother Ambrose cooed. "I'm sorry. Real sorry. We'll make good on it."
        "Get out! The two of you. Get out!"


                                                                                         *


         Coffee and apple pie at Frenchie's. Old friends. Just like Simon and Garfunkle.
         Scoop asked first, "What brought you here?"
         "Wandering. Just wandering. My new life began at Sweet Creek Falls. Left Ziggy behind and ended up in Eugene. Met a fine old woman there. Then the Skell Van began to whinney and knicker, telling me it was time to hit the road. Wow, far out, this is too much!"
         "Yeah man." Scoop paused, wondering how to begin his story. All the years at Lotus Land, the K'lid K'iyass, Kelly Alabama, Leah. "Many years, many trails."
         Saddle pals.

       
   

celestial marriage 3

        A prairie moon opened like a Spanish abanico. Tannhauser sat close to Artie's campfire, thumbing through an old book. Artie had draped his bedroll upon the dry earth and stretched out, boot toes describing a lazy dihedral.
        "He was an angel." Artie said. "A flesh and blood angel."
        "Jah. I haf heard of such."
        "If we'd not been witness, I'd say nonsense!"
        "Jah, nonsense." Absorbed in his reading.
        "What book is that?"
        "Enoch."
    

        The transfiguration of Leah's corpse defied everything in Artie's  known world. Within moments she became a thing of pure light, and as she passed on, the strange young man with raven hair and eyes of burning obsidian stood guard. It was so Bibical.  A hallucination of some sort, Artie thought all the while.


         


                                                                                      *


           Celestial Brother handed Artie his beloved Engagement Stone. A relic left behind.  "Keep this while you live."
           Artie blinked. Hoarsely he replied, "I will."
           Tannhauser announced from the doorway. "Mein Gott! This is sorcery!"
           "It is that," agreed Leah's guardian. Packing his brawn,  he strode into the crashing night.


                                                                               *


            There would be no return to Bountiful.
          
        

celestial marriage 2

         Artie captured a room on the verge of combustion. Ozone and the coppery scent of ventilated blood slammed him backward. Leah's eyes gazed forth from a petrified face, contorted in death. Evidently she had suffered a stroke during one of her Mystery Bleeds.
           "NO-o-o-o!" The howl of a thousand suns breaking.
           The beatific  man grappled with Artie with the strength of many. "Don't touch her! Not yet!"
            "You monster! What have you done?"
            Once more Artie moved toward the bed, and once more the man in the frontier butternut shirt prevailed, throwing Artie to the floor. A heavy boot slammed down.
            Tannhauser clubbed Artie's adversary with a split log. "Verdamnt!"
            Then he helped his young friend and they went outside to the truck.
            "Oh, my God, Otto! She's dead!"
            "Jah." Suddenly Tannhauser seemed winded. He sat down in the grass. Ashen.
            Artie handed him a beer. "Hang tough, old timer. I'm going back in."
             Inside the room, he felt composed. The man with raven hair and eyes of burning obsidian stood akimbo, full of sorrow.
              "Who are you?" Artie's voice steeled his own mind.
              "I am her Celestial Brother."
              "I don't quite understand."
              "You knew she was different. You must have!"
              Leah's body subtly grew illuminated with an inner light, her flesh the delicate hue of the hibiscus rose of sharon.



   

celestial marriage 1

         A peyote sun spun like a Fatima event behind Tannhauser's truck. Artie was anxious to reach lilac home. It was pink twilight as they pulled close. The last rays caused the field stone house to gleam like a gold tooth. Artie suddenly felt deep love for old spread.
         "You know, Mister Geist. I don't know your first name."
         "Oh jah. It's Otto."
         "Pleased to know you, Otto."
         "Schon!"
         Artie leaped from the truck. He could hardly contain himself, shouting, "Leah! We're here!"
          It was like meeting a shade from the Underworld. The young man strode from the doorway and grasped Artie's hand. Long raven hair, burning obsidian eyes. Reminding Artie of an angelic Jim Morrison.
          "Who are you? Where is my wife?"
          Frozen behind the steering wheel, Tannhauser watched wordlessly.
          "Come inside," commanded the beatific man garbed like a teamster from Nauvoo.
          Artie followed, passing through the lilac. "I ASKED you WHERE is my WIFE?"


           Loading the Indian for their ride from Bountiful, Artie noticed that Leah had chosen only three books to take with her into the unknown.
           Most prized was an edition of combined scripture leather-bound with a zipper. It contained the King James and the Book of Mormon, along with Doctrine and Covenants and The Pearl of Great Price. A hefty tome, well-worn and rain-stained. Then there was Parley Pratt's "Key to the Science of Theology." And for entertainment: a paperback "Dune."
          "That's it?"
          "Travelling light, my love.
          "I was afraid you'd want to take along everything you owned."
          "Saints are practical and willing to sacrefice. Remember what I told you of Nauvoo."
          "I do."
          " Parley Pratt was one of the original Quorum of Twelve Apostles. My copy is old and unrevised. It contains his thoughts on polygamy. Eventually he was murdered by an Arkansas man who swore Parley had stolen his family."
           "He was at Nauvoo?"
           "Yes. When Brigham said they must leave behind their earthly fortunes, the Saints did so. Parley Pratt led his party along the Mormon Trail."
            Artie embraced her and she felt his arousal.
            "Oh, now we're getting horny," Leah laughed. "Buy me a Pepsi."
            "Mormons aren't allowed Pepsi."




           





           


                                                                                              


 

sightings

         Artie filled the gas cans. As the fuel spurted, its fragrance reminded him of Papa telling him never to inhale fumes. The antique glass-walled pump refracted the tall sunlight. Overhead the sky appeared to be a limitless eggshell dome. He wondered what Leah was up to.
          Inside the bar he found the Geist brothers seated at Friedrich's office table discussing the latest UFO sightings. They seemed to know just what the phenomena truly was. Word was that MUFON had dispatched a field investigator. They were getting their stories straight. He was amazed how quickly he had sobered up.
         "Jah, Artie," Tannhauser said. "Sit down. Setzin!"
         "You guys are serious about this stuff?"
         "It is all true," Friedrich affirmed. "People all around here have seen things."
         "What people? You're out in the middle of nowhere."
         "We think it is the Tesla," Tannhauser announced. "Little gray men? Nein!"
         "Well, I have to admit," Artie replied. "That light bulb was pretty amazing. Earth energy. Far  fucking out."
          They all laughed.
          "Vell, vee must roll if vee get back by nightfall," Tannhauser grunted.
          "Yeah," Artie agreed. To Friedrich he said, "Nice meeting you, Sir."
          The Cowboy Kraut grinned, and to Artie it almost seemed that the old man's boots clicked together in salute.



                                                                                  *


           They had driven about a mile when Tannhauser stopped. He climbed out and looked backward toward Friedrich's place. Artie did too. Above the Last Chance were two and then three seed fluffs drifting skyward. It was plain they were not organic, but electical. Faintly visible against the sapphire sky.
            "I'll be damned," Artie said. Astonished.
            "Jah, at night you should see them!"

lilac wine

         Leah felt the presence of a man. He was sitting on the bed. The weight of him shifted toward her and a breeze touched her forehead. She opened her eyes and saw that he was quite handsome. His butternut shirt was of the ancient frontier.
         "How are you, Leah?"
         "Who are you? Oh--" Hangover pain stabbed her brain.
         "I thought so," her stranger chuckled.
         She sat up slowly and looked around the room. Oddly the first thing she noticed was the wine rack. Tannhauser's home-made lilac wine. In mason jars. The thought of wine caused her to vomit. Floor splatter.
          "Oh, God--"
          "It's fine. I'll clean it up."
          His hair was long and black as a raven's wing. His eyes were burning obsidian.
          "Who are you?"
          "A friend."
          "Please, don't hurt me."


                                                                                           *


          The dream had the sonorous power of a Bach organ. It lifted her from the bed and carried her outside where there was a garden. Wild rose, honeysuckle, wisteria and Virginia creeper. Rampant. Wind-rushed.
           She was delivered unto an abundance of sweet grass.
           In the midst of this dream her face was frozen into glass.
           Artie, my love. Help me. Help me!
          


   

prairie dogs

        By noon they were blushingly drunk, glowing with friendship. Tannhauser boasted of his beer. "It's a real elk-stopper. Can't control the alcohol. But what the hell? Eh, Leah?"
        "Um. What?"
        Artie stood up, scooting his chair, and began massaging her shoulders. Warm butter.
         "Hey, Dutch, you gotta bed for my gal? She's done in."
         "Sure thing."
         Tannhauser freshened his own bed and Artie carried Leah to it. She was out before her head hit the pillow.
          "What say we head on down to my brudder's gas station and get what you need while she sleeps it off? Today I ship my gute bier to him."
          "Sounds good. You're a real sport, Dutch."
          "Jah. Jah. Hah hah hah!"
          They shambled outside. The sunshine was fierce.
          Tannhauser inserted the key and worried the ignition, giving good choke. The truck roared to life.
          Artie noticed a rifle in the gun rack. "Whatchacallit this thing?"
           "Ach! That's my prairie dog fire stick. Hah hah hah!"
           Artie admired the Cooper varmint killer. Without handling it.
           "Jah," Tannhauser said, squinting. "I gots the Ruger .204 round in it. Plugs them gute."
           He opened a gunnysack and offered Artie a warm Beck's
           "Jesus Christ, Dutch. I'm glad we're in open country."
           "Hah hah hah!"


                                                                                   *

           Dry as a cinder, the prairie protested the truck's passage. A rooster tail of volcanic ash plumed behind Tannhauser's bomb.
            "How far?" Artie asked after thirty miles.
            "About one more round of beer."
            "You are one helluva trip, Dutch."
            Finally, up ahead, a speck beneath an enormous sky. Cobalt blue thunderheads. No guarantee of rain.
            "Dat's it, Artie. My brudder's gas station."
            They rolled up to a fieldstone house a tin-roofed portico. The antique gas pump had glass walls. Artie felt so relieved he felt like pissing.
            "Heinrich's Last Chance!" Tannhauser announced. "Sells my gute bier COLD! Best cheap gas anywhere!"
            It was a tavern in the wilderness.
            Artie wondered where it got electricity.
            "How does he keep anything cold? I don't see any power lines."
            "Jah, hah hah hah. He's got der Tesla."



                                                                                *


         The oaken bar was dark with oil, a monument to stand-up drinking. A brass foot-rail was all a man needed. Artie marvelled at the room. Oak panelling, old as the hills. Bullet holes in a poster of Teddy Roosevelt.
         One poster, pristine behind glass. Thule~Gesellschaft 1*9*1*9.
         Artie heard bootheels behind him. He turned to find he was standing to face to face with a Teutonic Knight named Heinrich Geist.  Tannhauser's elder brother and complete opposite. At least seventy.
         "And who is your friend, Little Brother?"  Like Tannhauser, his accent resembled Lawrence Welk. Crystal blue eyes. Wire-rim glasses. Skull-face carved from hickory. A Westerner, tall and lean, denim and leather.
         "My name is Artie Hoffman. I would like to buy gasoline."
         "Ah. New York!"


                                                                        *

          Artie paid in wrinkled money. Then he looked around the bar room. Many things were tacked to and hung on the walls. There was a photograph of a group of  intellectuals in suits. One astoundingly beautiful woman sat among them, wearing a cloche hat. There was something familiar about her face.
          "My mother," Heinrich chimed proudly. "And those are members of the Vril Society."
     

oasis

        Artie pushed the Indian and Leah walked along, straightening herself. A tortoise shell hairbrush magically appeared in her hand, commencing an age-old womanly ritual. One hundred strokes. They found themselves in a fairybook meadow. A cistern, a pig pen, a log pile, and an ancient American-International pickup truck stood in the yard. A scene worthy of John Curry. Artie smiled, noticing two large gas cans in the back of the truck.
         Leah approached the front door, which was open.
         "Hello?" Her voice like a cowbell. "Hello?"
         A scent of barley and yeast touched her nose.
         "Guten Morgen. Guten Tag," came a man's reply. "Kommen sie herein! Bitte."
         A sturdy man of maybe sixty years emerged. Faded blue bib overalls, faded blue chambray workshirt, scuffed brown lace-up boots with thick tartan laces. Bright blue eyes. White bushy brows and beard. Clean of moustache, reminding Leah of Quaker and Mormon men from long ago.
         Softly from a radio: "Tannhauser."
         Leah shook his hand. "Good morning to you, sir."
         Artie came in. "This is my wife Leah. We are travellers."
         "Sit down. Here." Tannhauser motioned toward a dinner table and three chairs. Blue checkerboard oil cloth and a vase of lilac.
          Without asking, the Old World gentleman went to a reserved larder and brought forth three amber bottles of warm home-brewed beer.
           It was only nine in the morning.


                                                                                      
        


       

on the road again

        The blood orange sun awoke, stretching and yawning. It caressed rosy cirrus clouds as they floated over eastern Oregon. Artie was cleaning the Indian. Rubbing it as if it were a woman. Leah loved that.
        "The house sold well," she said. "I was surprised."
        "Me too. Not much equity, but we'll be fine. After all, we ARE gypsies!"
        "Nomads!"
        "Nomads!"
        "You don't mind going back to Utah?"
        "Not in the least. Dipshit is dead."
        "Settled, then." Leah amazed Artie with an impromptu cartwheel.


                                                                                   *


          A line storm swept up from the prairie and shook the timberland. Artie was running on empty. He never worried Leah about such matters. Civilization had ebbed for miles. It was a dirt road now. Leah was not an idiot. She was sure he was lost. Red cedar and white pine obscured their path, boughs plunging and soaring. Hillsides were brown and loamy with Threebear topsoil..
          "Stop! Stop right now," she shouted into his ear.
          "What?"
          "It's getting worse and we need to talk!"
          He pulled beside a pine and quickly hoisted a tarp. Lightning struck a nearby tree. Leah screamed.
           "Easy, Darling. We'll be fine." He hugged her and set her down.
           "We're out of gas, aren't we?"
           "'Fraid so."


                                                                                       *


            In the morning the world smiled. Leah walked into the woods to make her toilet. From the loamy soil rose shoots of Ute Ladies Tresses. Rare now, except in deep country.
             Her anxiety suddenly evaporated.
             Something told her they would be all right.
             Artie did his business too.
             When they were mounted up he kick-started the Indian and they found an improved trail.
             Soon the woods cleared and there was a pasture and a log cabin covered in wild lilac.
             "Oh, Heavenly Father," Leah sighed. "Thank you for that last drop of gas."
            

spirit unbound

        As the roots of the great sugar pine probed the brain in Hyram Pratt's severed head he was thinking: I need not stay here. Between lofty branches he observed the phases of the moon and the circuit of stars around Polaris.
         It is time.
        A dust devil tickled his ribs and lifted him from the earth.
        His lucid shadow traversed the face of the moon.


                                                                                     *


        Leah shivered. Someone had walked across her grave.
        The hoot owl summoned his woodland mate.
        In the bedroll beside her Artie argued Talmud in his sleep. His slumber was an enormous beard. Hassidic, black. Profound.
        She kissed his bald spot. My special Jew.
        Morning dew collected on the Indian.
        "What time is it?" He asked, rubbing his eyes.
        "Oh, Darling. We have all the time in the world."

scoop drops in

        Sight of the Skell Van misted Artie's eyes. He pressed his hand upon the radiator.
        Hello, old friend.
        So, all he had to do was climb the steps and knock on the door. A frog materialized in his throat. Much had transpired since they parted ways. Ziggy was now a charismatic motivational speaker who looked like Jesus. A soapbox minister in no need of a Crystal Cathedral. His cathedral was the great outdoors. Folks had testified to his healing powers.
         First Artie would hug his old friend and then Scoop would get the story. The Pentax was loaded and ready to shoot.
         From above: "Hey, asshole! Get away from there!"
         Sonya Chekov. On her balcony, feeding Mugsy.
         "Hey, Pretty Thing. It's me, Artie Hoffman."
         "Scoop! Sorry. Didn't recognize you."
         "Yeah, yeah. Mind if I come up?"
         "Suit yourself. I'm not home."


                                                                              *

         Years of celibacy had not been a requirement from God. Brother Ambrose felt so close to Cherry Blossom that he needed nothing more. Bonded forever.
         He put a lot of dirt on that old van. Travelling many miles. In Eugene he hooked up with a widow woman named Summer Rain, fifty years old, living in an Airstream trailerpark. Lattice arbor and canvas carport. Winter garden in back.
          "What a lovely mural," she said as he parked the Skell Van close beside her trailer.
          "My late wife painted it." He smiled without knowing it.
          Summer Rain was large and round. Shaped like the Venus of Willendorf.
          She wore black teeshirts and black denim overalls.
          "Are you in mourning?" he asked her.
          "Naw. These are my skinny clothes."
          They laughed and she served him iced tea. Two folding deck chairs. A card table.
          "You are welcome to anything I have," she said.
          "Thank you kindly."
          She visited his van and smoked weed. He shared his TM mantra and they meditated together. He shared her bathroom and kitchen. Pretty soon they were showering together. Saving water.
          One afternoon as hawks cried in the sky he told her he would be moving on.
          Her enormous tears broke his heart.


                                                                               *


         Now he was lounging in Sonya's apartment. Her wallposter of Bjork scrutinized him.
         A Sugarcubes CD played while he waited.
         Resting upon a window sill, where most people would put a pot of philadendron, was a feminine alabaster jar with nothing in it. Her Mary Magdalene.
         Knock knock.
         He looked up and saw Artie Hoffman, grinning like a thief.
         "Hello, Kemo Sabe."

        

a door to everything

         The doorway framed her like the one that framed John Wayne in "The Searchers." Lilacs were blooming in the dooryard. Cherry Blossom wore her mauve gingham grannydress. A string of cowry shells overlapped a string of lapis lazuli stones around her Audrey Hepburn throat. Her silhouette accented the arch of her slim hips. Brother Ambrose crooked his finger in bidding and she strode forth, into the owl light. 

         He was adept at this. Accomplishing what a million widowed men desired. A golden necromancy, available only to soul mates. 

         "How have you been, darling?" he asked, offering her a mug of chai.
         She smiled lovingly. "The same as you."


                                                                                 *


          A gossimer touch, his finger rested upon the wound in her breast. Bloodlessly he found her dead heart.
          "How does that feel?"
          "Sweet as one of your kisses."
        
           Oh, this was beyond belief!

           Night had fallen beyond the door. A whipoorwill called to them.
           By then they were making profound love.
           In the cabin deep in Oregon so long ago.





                                                                                   

sweet creek falls

         It was  remote viewing. Maxine lay heavily upon the bedsheet, her wide hips writhing like an engorged serpent. She had been invaded. Brother Ambrose could not look away. For he was drawn to her anguish like a moth to a flame.
        His viewing technique was self-developed. He  practiced Transcendental Meditation  and was initiated in Sidhi-TM. Though he meditated quite succussfully inside the comforts of his van, nevertheless,  he sought out meditation centers. The energy shared within a group was mind boggling. Sidhi-TM eventually led him to "flying" groups.
         A TM friend introduced him to the Monroe Institute and astral travel.
         Double whammy.
        


                                                                           *


         Scoop drove over to the Totem Pole Lodge and parked behind Sonya's apartment. The next door apartment had an old van up on blocks. The Skell Van.
         "Well, I'll be damned!"


                                                                           *


           Ziggy lost his mind soon after splitting from Artie and Leah. Cherry Blossom was gone forever.
           He drove as far as Sweet Creek Falls.
           By then he was raving mad.
           Leah had told him what had happened. She described the obscene mortuary rites. The vision of Ernst Mueller bathing Cherry Blossom's poor dead body with rosewater was too much. Simply too much. 
          He found himself wading into deep water. The falls were crashing above. He was screaming.
          "Cherry! Cherry, my love!"
          People gathered around. A preacher from the God Fearers baptised him.
          Full emersion.


                                                                          *


            Each ensuing year he made holy pilgrmage to Sweet Creek Falls.
            Driving the Skell Van.


                                                                   



                                                       
         



        

a past revealed

        A tiny brass bell tinkled overhead as Artie Hoffman opened the door. The bookshop appeared diserted. Taped music piped something from "Hearts of Space."
        "Hello to Camp! Emrys!"
        He peered around a folding lattice wood screen. Nobody. A box of books shipped from Magikal Childe lay unopened, Most odd. Usually Emrys Lloyd would stop everything, even taking a crap, when ever a parcel arrived. A draught of dry August air touched his face and he noticed that the backdoor had flown open. He could see the porch and he could smell the reefer.
        "Hey you old stoner! Answer up."
        "Hi, Scoop."
        The bookseller resembled Gandalf. He wore a cloak and his beard was long. Blue eyes twinkled beneath a floppy wizard's cap. He did not wash often, but frequently doused himself with Old Spice. A fragrence decidedly California Red permiated the area.
         "I'm surprised you aren't unpacking the new books."
         "Yeah well, today's different."
         "Oh?"
         "Fucking Brother Ambrose."
         "What'd he do?"
         "Took off with my girl."
         "Which girl?"
         "Sonya."
         "Where'd he take her?"
         "Away from me. The shit-heel."
         "Hard words. But you don't look THAT broke up about it."
         "Great fucking grass, dude."


                                                                                 *


        Brother Ambrose was doing something he had not done since he and a woman named Cherry Blossom swam naked in Otter Creek. Sonya Chekov rose from the cold water pond and marched ashore. Brother Ambrose met her with his patented erection. He grasped both buttocks and squeezed hard. She gasped, grinned wantonly and took him in hand.
         "Tell me more," she commanded.
         "I was married once, long ago, down in Oregon. We were hippies living on the land."
         "Easy-going, I'll bet."
         "Very easy," he replied, bringing her to earth.


       
       
       

shiitake and cilentro

          "Why don't you use my sofa rest of the night?" Hank suggested. "I'll stay in here."
          "And drink more beer," she teased.
          "Might just DO that. Might just DO that." Wilfred Brimley.
          "Love ya, Dozer."
          She stood to leave. He observed her with fondness in his watering eyes. Recklessly he confessed: "I've always thought you looked like Adriene Barbeaux. Have I ever told you that?"
          "Not to my face." She chuckled. "To my chest, maybe."
          Impishly she skipped from the nook.
          Hank shook his head. "Busted again."


                                                                                  *


        Maxine awoke with a pain in her kidneys, having slept on her back without changing positions. As expected, Hank was gone. This time he had remembered to take his cell. She called him just to say thanks for everything.
         "H'llo, what's up?"
         "Don't eat while you're out. I'm fixing one of your favorites."
         "Ten-four."
         Shiitake and cilentro. He could taste it already.
         Maxine again: "Dear, would it put you out too much to stop by the Asian Market?"
         "Not at all."
         "Some Lop Chang pork sausage. Oops! There goes my surprise."


                                                                             *


         A two-rut road climbed like Jacob's Ladder from the wilderness onto a stretch of hardpan and there was a bend. Shafts of golden sunlight, with green motes swimming within like plankton, fell between braces of Douglas fir. Hank put a cassette in the tape deck.
         Siegfried's Rhine Journey.
         Indeed. There were giants in the earth.
     

aftermath

        Thinking "a bun in the oven," Maxine held her father's Torah with trembling hands. Hank patiently awaited her words as she tried to marshal her thoughts. He had not seen Nathan Silver's holy book in years. Evidently something frightened her back to the Old Religion. They were sitting in the sunrise nook as moonlight flooded the sideboard. A tallow candle burned evenly within a Mexican glass devoted to the Virgin of Guadalupe. Some of his bric-a-brac.
        "What gives?" He finally asked.
        "Trying to find the passage about Nephalim."
        "Genesis Six."
        "Thanks." She found her page.
        "Giants in the earth and all that jazz."
        "I'm serious, Dozer."
        "Sorry. That old chestnut tickles me. Aliens and Angles, UFOs and the Bible. Just a lot of monkeys throwing their shit in the air."
        "Hush."
        "So many conflicting translations. Did the original text say sons of gods or sons of God? "
        "I said hush."
        "Lusty noble lads hankering for the fair daughters of men. Peeping at then while they bathed. The wankers."
         Maxine sighed, put down the book, and took his hand. "When you woke me that was all I could think. I had been raped by a supernatural being."
         "Leda and the Swan. Yeats. You were reading Yeats at bedtime."
         "Christ! You are impossible. I"m telling you I did NOT dishevel myself!"
         Hank reached into the fridge for an Anchor Steam beer. He said, "Babe, you're all I have."

demon lover

        Ex calibur. From white steel of a Sarmatian smithee in Kalybes a blade. Across the steppes rode warriors who worshipped a sword stuck in stone.


        Maxine's work in progress. Her opus progresso. She smiled and gazed out the leaded glass panes of her sunrise nook. Rosey shafts probed the mist upon a high lawn overlooking Queen Charlotte Strait. She could almost imagine the Lady of the Lake rising from the mystical waters of British Columbia.
        A wreath of steam wafted from her mug of Lipton's Green Label. Robins' egg blue, from a kiln in Victoria, this mug was her favorite vessel.
        Hank had driven off somewhere. His cell phone rested in its charger. Each day his short-term memory surrendered to occulsion. Long-term memory was another case. He recalled the essence of gardenia. Said she wore the scent on their honeymoon.
         "Why your interest in all things Arthurian?" he had asked before going out.
         "I guess it began with Brother Ambrose."
         "Eh?"
         "He seems to have picked up where Pelagius left off. You remember that movie we went to, where Arthur was half Roman and half Pict or something?'
          "Vaguely. Hollywood mumbo jumbo."
          "Perhaps. But Brother Ambrose sounds a lot like the movie's King Arthur."
          "Cribbing from movies. Pathetic. I don't know why you listen to him."
          "New Age sermons on the green. Very romantic."
          "Fish guts and scales."


                                                                                   *


         That evening a nightmare pressed upon her and she perspired like a rutting horse. Soaking the pillow and sheets. A loathesome paralyses spread through her, possessing her, and she felt penetrated. She woke to find someone in bed with her, someone other than Hank. Her waterworks moved like riptides. Amorphous, yet solid enough to conquer her body, "he" aroused her, her hips rising to meet "his" thrusts. A lifelong trust in Freud left her abandoned, unprotected.
          As the etheric body made love to her she was certain  that an umbilical cord, glistening and transparent, coiled upwards into the breathing darkness.
          I have gone stark fucking crazy!


                                                                                   *


          She opened her eyes and saw Hank standing at the foot of her bed, his waxen head glowing with a dim halo from the ceiling lamp. He was holding the Cutty Sark model, his mouth agape.
           "Maxie, hon. What's going on?"
           Bedsheets pulled down to the floor, Maxine lay exposed. The blouse of her nightie had been yanked open. Her "dream" had been a bodice-ripper. Literally. Wordlessly she allowed her husband to ogle her breasts like a schoolboy.
           He asked, "What have you been doing with yourself?"
           HOW DARE HE THINK THAT!
           "I'm OK," she said raggedly. "Please, dear. Leave me. I'll come down in a minute."
           "I thought I smelled gardenias."
           "Go. Please!"
           Hank sauntered out, looking backward.
           Maxine made her toilet. Semen, not ectoplasm, leaked from her secret garden..
           She said to herself, "I'm fixed."
          


    

scoop

        Totem Pole Square offered a "bowling green" and park benches. There was one shade tree, a Douglas fir, stately and proud. Every Sunday Brother Ambrose brought a soapbox and preached his heresy. There was a collection plate, a boombox with New Age cds, and, of course, loaves and fishes.
        On a backstreet off the square stood a gray-shingled office building, occupied by the Totem Pole Ledger. Weekly serving the scattered forest dwellers of Vancouver Island, the newspaper was owned and edited by Artie Hoffman, retired teacher. Folks called him Scoop and he loved it.
        "Hey, Scoop!" The bell wire jangled as Aleister Canterville barged in with burning gossip.
        "Hey, Lester. What's up?"
        "Guess who's fucking!"
        "Me and Margaret Thatcher?"
        "Brother Ambrose and that bare naked Russian hottie. Sonya the Eskimo."
        "Banner news. Thanks. Have a good day."
        "Bye, Scoop."



                                                                                            *


          One of Artie's delights was visiting the constabulary for police blotter news. He enjoyed reading tidbits of news, each with great implication. At first, not knowing any better, he published the little stories in a Walter Winchell styled column titled Around the Square. The column squandered valuable merit. He killed the column and began giving each story its own venue. Maybe three graphs and a headline. Whoah! The Ledger began to sparkle.
          In the Post-Watergate newsday it was expected of an editor to seek out corruption in government, treating elected officials as "the usual suspects." You know, be the newest Woodstein.  
          Artie attended all the hall meetings. Yawn.
          People came forth with zoning propsals and complaints.
          Radcliff over there is a decent guy, owns a dry-cleaning business. He drinks Olympia beer and can toss a decent round of darts. Westport there is a housewife who hosts coffee klatches at the Moosecall.
          He decided one night to give the Ledger a make-over. Subtle and unannounced. He would slip it to his readers on the sly. No claxtons of self-aggrandizement.
         


                                                                                       *


          Artie had to chuckle. Brother Ambrose and Sonya.
          It's time we met Brother Ambrose. Who knows? There might be a story.

apple cider vinegar

        The Totem Pole Lodge leased four studio apartments, each with an outside walk-up to a private landing. These landings served as balconies. Even miniature patios, with railings. Room for one person and a chia pet.
        Brother Ambrose had resided in #203 for twelve months. He suffered a fifteen percent raise in the cost of being there from May through August. Tourist season. A rip-off. This chafed him. It was a take-it-or-leave it deal in an area with an accute housing shortage.
        Arriving home, he found his neighbor's cat Mugsy perched on his railing.
        "Skat, cat. Go home. Or I'll sell you to Wu Tang's restaurant."
        "Mugsy! Come away from that evil man!" Sonya Chekov shouted to  her prodigal charcoal tabby.
        She stood on her balcony next door. Clad in a grass skirt and a bra made of coconut half-shells. Her crowblack Innuit hair was streaked with Day-Glo purple and chopped in the style of a 1920s flapper. She faux-pouted. Then burst out laughing.
        "What's funny?" he quizzed.
        "Dunno. Me, I guess. Whatcha think o' my party costume?"
        "Costume?"


                                                                                       *


          He thought of her as he took a long pee. French roast coffee and bookshop chai.
          Part Sitka Russian, part native Innuit, Sonya Chekov had ebon hair straight as uncooked vermicelli, chopped high off the nape, as if prepared for the guillotine. Her eyes were epicanthric berries. Usually attired in a tank-top so oversized it threatened to slide from her body completely, she displayed creamy skin amazingly tattoo free.
           "Ah," he once smirked. "The booby trap."
           "You noticed. I thought you were a monk."


                                                                                      *


         That evening he secluded himself in the womblike comfort of his apartment. His trusty futon served as bed and sofa. He covered it with a bedspread from Bombay. On a low Japanese tea table a candle guttered with cranberry scents. He started reading "The Gnostic Gospels" by Elaine Pagels.
         A knock on the door.
         It was ten o'clock. Later than he had thought.
         Sonya in her booby trap. Cut-off jeans.
         She handed him a half-filled fifth of single-malt scotch. "This is all I had."
         "Oh, you bet. Come right in."
         He looked beyond her and queried: "No cat?"
         "Mugsy's out dancing for moths."
         He smiled expansively, looking at her pear-shaped boobs. Thinking, Nice little puppies, with their little brown noses.


                                                                              *


          Seated on the futon, he asked her, "So how did the party go?"
          "Fuh-gedda-bowdit."
          A previous tennent had painted a mural opposite the futon. Covering the wall was an enormous sun ball the color of "eat a peach." Sonya warbled, "I love that thing."
          "Yeah. It's great."
          "Try the whiskey."
          He sniffed its bouquet. Sonya informed him: "Listen, clueless. I'm gonna get you drunk and I'm gonna rape you."
          "That calls for some music."
          "Please no Enya."


                                                                                    *


          "Oh, my God," Sonya exclaimed, holding his dingus. "What happened here?"
          His groin was scarlett.
           "A calamity."
           "I should say," she cooed, stroking the foreskin.
           "Long story. A camping story. I poured apple cider vinegar down there. Full strength. Made things worse. MUCH worse."
           Her laughter began pealing the mural from the wall.
           Mingus.







 

stirrings

         Brother Ambrose embraced the caffeine rush. With a krrrick! of his neck he unlatched internal trapdoors. Kundalini serpent energy sprang forth. He espied Maxine sitting with Greendozer at a corner table. She caught his eye and he recognized her with a courtly nod.


                                                                                  *


        Earlier that morning Maxine had risen before dawn. From the octagonal window of the attic bedroom she looked out upon the flinty waters of the fyord. Colors matched those of the humpbacked whale. Sunless, deep and mystical. And climbing into the mist were great slopes of cedar, undulating in the high tubular wind from Japan. Her soul shouted halleluiah, but nary a word escped her lips.
        She slipped on a threadbare calico robe, a favorite since college.
        Then she stole down the beanstalk. Wooden circular stairs.
         Crackling arches, beefsteak slabs for feet.
         Like ivy, remnants of a dream scrambled up the red bricks of her mind.

                                                                                     *

        She found Hank slumbering on the sofa. Snoring like Battleship Potemkin. Toes with curled yellow nails wormed like nematodes from under his olive army blanket. Three empty Anchor Steam bottles lay beside his assembly-in-progress of a Cutty Sark model kit.
         She could see he had sought a high level of detail. Ratlines crafted from brown thread. Minutia painted with patience and care: belaying pins, davits, windlass and chain. The beer gave him a steady hand.
          Greendozer. The mighty.





                                       


                                        

brother ambrose

        Greendozer could barely chew or swallow whenever he dined in public.
        A victim of exaggerated notoriety, he sat with his back to a corner, feeling likeWild Bill Hickock in Deadwood. Aces and eights.
         It was a case of guilt by association. Eco-terrorism in the States had escalated to fire-bombing logging trucks. Earth Liberation had carried the fight to a grim extreme. How quaint Edward Abbey's Monkey-Wrench Gang now seemed. No more merry pranks. A new ethic had arisen. Agents of destruction let everybody know they weren't fooling around.
         And who was the best known eco-terrorist here-abouts?
         "You have only yourself to thank," Maxine chortled. He bristled, so she added,  "I'm proud of you, Hank."
         They were sitting for brunch at the Totem Pole Lodge diner, a bustling venue fondly called Frenchy's Moosecall.  It was Sunday and the place was packed tighter than canned salmon.
          Word was out that a Yank eco-terrorist on the lam from the FBI was hiding out in British Columbia. He had been a Green Party candidate for United States president before changing his name to Tre Arrow. Naturally the media descended upon Greendozer's corner of the woods and began pestering him with stupid questions. Hoping they could bait him into saying something he would regret.
         His celebrity was tarnished.
         He fell into bitter retreat.
        


                                                                                   *


         Two flap-doodles barged in. They demanded an American-style meal, beginning with the coffee. Henri DuBois perked a splendid French Roast. Robust and fragrant, it would jolt you awake like a clap of thunder. Fifty cents, refill included. If that wasn't American enough, you could damn well go to Starbucks and pay three dollars!
         The first Yank had a weak chin hidden by a sandy ZZ Top beard. He wore a greasy deer-stalker cap. One gulp of coffee and he bleated, "Shit fuck! This stuff is bitter!"
         "Ad cream, Bo," the second Yank advised. Snap-button shirt with cowboy piping. Beer belly. Male pattern baldness accented by an obscene ponytail.
         DuBoise broke a house rule. He sidled up to Greendozer, now nibbling at a cheddar-and-chives omelet. "Those pigeons need their wings clipped. Eh?"
         "I'm no expert on ornithology, Henri."
         "Eh?"
         "I mean, don't involve me."
         DuBoise went away.
         Rapping a knuckle on the Formica counter, the first Yank called, "Hey, Frenchy, we're ready to order!"
         DuBois under his breath: "Merde."
         "What's in the sausage?" quizzed the second Yank. "I'm particular when it comes to homemade."
         From the doorway: "Minced oxen balls. Low sodium, of course."
         The Yanks dropped their jaws in disbelief. That 60's poster of Laughing Jesus came to Greendozer's mind. Yet the man standing there was more of an apparation of Abe Lincoln, rail-splitter from Illinois, with kindness of mien, scourged by troubled eyes.
         Maxine was thinking of Tab Hunter.
         He wore a rose paisey tunic  with droopy fluted sleaves and corduroy bellbottoms the color of cedar bark. In one hand he held a sheep-crook and in the other a leather-bound Bible.
         "Who the fuck are you?" asked Deer-stalker.
         "My name is Brother Ambrose, friend."
         "Eh?" DuBois.
         With two giant steps the preacher took the vacant stool-seat next to Deer-stalker. "Mind if I join you?"
         Aghast. Shaken even. "Uh no. I guess Canada's a free country too."
         Beaming like a lighthouse. "Yes, it is."
         Greendozer whispered to Maxine. "Natural-born peacemaker."

        
         
        
    

happy trails

         Slow as a millepede the Skell Van crept down Chewbacca's main street, Ziggy mindful of the newly erected monument to Redbone. Same location. Each time he passed a person, in car or on a bicycle, on foot, jogging or shambling, he honked and waved goodbye. The Potlatch was still closed, but its front porch was rife with loafers. Card playing kartenspielers looked up and saluted. A smile on each face so far. It pleased him greatly that he had made so many friends in this wilderness hamlet named after a Wooky.
          His passenger appeared to be sleeping beneath a vast sombrero.
          He parked outside the CONA radio station. Spoke to his passenger. "Stay here. I won't be a minute."
          Inside he found Tyson Gawain speaking to her radio audience.
          "This just in by word of mouth, folks. From reliable sources at the truckstop. A fellow from Portland is rumoured to be interested in opening a spiffy cafe in the old Potlatch. Gonna have fancy coffees and teas. Free newspapers. Yes, you heard me. Too good to be true, if you ask me."
          The chock-a-block woman resembled The Golem. Right down to Paul Weggener's hair style. She swivelled around and greeted Ziggy.
           "Hey man. What's up?"
           "Got some fresh gossip. Interested?"
           "You betcha."
           "Well, me and Cherry Blossom are moving on."
           "Bust me!"
           "Yup. We're on the way. She was up all night, so now she's catching some zees in the van."
           "Lemmee go say goodbye."
           "Naw naw. C'mere. Look outside. Under the big hat."
           Tyson bellowed: "YOU HAVE A SAFE JOURNEY, CHERRY MY LOVE!"
           The woman beneath the vast sombrero stirred, waved her hand.
           "Well, sir, Mister Zig-Zag," Tyson Gawain said, pumping Ziggy's lubricated hand. "It has been a true pleasure knowing you both. Happy trails."


                                                                                      *


            Five miles outside Chewbacca on a lonely two-rut nature trail, Leah climbed down from the van and walked around to Ziggy's window. She kissed him deeply, a sacrement blessed.
            "Bye bye now." Ziggy croaked. He broke into sloppy tears. And drove away. Leah waved until the Skell Van was no more.
            Then she heard the Indian crank up. Artie's thundering steed. She mounted behind her man and they rode to who-knows-where.

 

requiem

        Mister Zig-Zag inspected the damage to his van. Not too bad. The front bumper had absorbed most of the shock. It dangled precariously. Fucking morons erecting a tombstone facsimile to a dog in the middle of the fucking street! Artie had rapped his head pretty hard, but the local medic said he was OK.
         Glad to be home, he was thinking. He noticed a solemn silence, so he tread lightly. Up the front steps and into the cabin.
         The parlor was lit by candles, on the floor, on the mantle, in the windows. Red ones, gold ones, black ones, every candle they owned. Then he saw Leah sitting with Cherry Blossom in wake.
          His soul mate was garbed in her favorite gingam granny dress. Scarf around her head and mocs on her feet. A bit of rouge had been applied to her dead cheeks.
          "Oh my God. What happened?"
          Leah wept.


                                                                                       *


         "The man who attacked Sid at the Potlatch did this."
         "Your man in black. The Mormon dude."
         "I'm so sorry. Oh, Ziggy."
         He was standing beside her chair, she wrapped arms about his hips and hugged him.  "I brought the evil into your lives. Oh Heavenly Father, why did you allow this to happen?"
          Ziggy gazed beyond the ceiling, seeing nothing. Then, strangely, he pressed the palms of his ever-engaging hands upon her head and blessed her.
          "I love you, Leah."
          "Oh, Ziggy, Ziggy."
          "Let us pray."
    


  

rosewater

            Leah awoke in a strange bed. An indigo sky dusted with starlight peeped through the cabin window. Someone was shuffling about in the parlor. She heard a melody, folksong or canticle, sung by a man with sweet qualities.            
            In the parlor he had arranged a "cooling board" and was now washing Cherry Blossom.
            "Excuse me?"
            "Howdy, ma'am. How're you feeling?"
            "Who are you?"
            "Ernst Mueller from Comfort, Texas."
            "What are you doing?"
            "I am washing this poor woman's body."
            "Are you crazy?"
            "Yes, ma'am."
            He had found rosewater and some salts. Lovingly he was giving Cherry Blossom her final bath. All the blood was gone. The wound next to her brown aureole had been cleansed with peroxide solution. All urine and feces wiped away.
            "Where did you learn such things?" Leah asked, beginning to appreciate Ernie the Lurp's beautiful skills.
            "On the farm back home. In Nam."
            "I must tell you, her man will be returning any moment."
            "I know that."
            "That monster you killed, what of him?"
            "Already gone. Took care of him like I took care of Charly."
            He stroked Cherry Blossom's pubic mound as a goodbye. "Done here. Advise you folks to bury her as quietly as you've lived. No law, no preacher."


                                                                            *


              Close to midnight the Skell Van returned home.

long-range recon patrol

        The Avenging Angel let the arrow fly. Its three-bladed tip gave it the spin of a drill, sending it almost as accurately as a Winchester slug. It stabbed Cherry Blossom in the left breast and stopped her heart. She slumped to the earth with a silent gush. Leah screamed a gross complaint to her Heavenly Father. Without a thought to flee, she knelt beside her dear friend.
        "Blasphemous whore!" He unsheathed his Bowie knife.
        Eyes red as Satan's sores, he advanced upon his prey.
        Observing all of this was Ernie the Lurp, invisible to all mankind. Trained for long-range recon patrol in Vietnam, he was now a Force of Nature. A deadly elemental. Existing in the arboral purgatory of Oregon's primordal rainforest. His heart turned to stone the moment he saw Cherry Blossom die. Two years of unrequitted love, negated.
         He unsheathed his freshly oiled K-bar knife and clamped it in his teeth. And before the Avenging Angel had breathed a dozen times, the Lurp was nigh.
         Leah stood up, issuing blood from her vagina. Like an Amazon, she held her ground.
         "I'm gonna gut you!"
         She hissed, "God will not allow it. GOD WILL NOT ALLOW IT!"
         And it came to pass. As scripture would say.
        
        

                                                                             *


         Ernie had never seen so much blood come from a woman.
         He entered Leah's world from his green dimension. The K-bar glinted in the foliage. Ernie pounced, the skin of his arm the color of a toad. She was not certain of what had suddenly appeared. An apelike man in jungle cammos seemed to arise like a cobra and strike without hesitation, cutting off the devil's head.
          Leah swooned, ashen-faced and frothy of drool.
          "Peace, little sister."
    

elder futhark

        The hubub in the street had gone viral. Chewbacca had about thirty residents and half of them were converging around the Skell Van. Artie was given a soft place on the grass. He smiled like a space cadet. Kept telling everybody he felt no pain. He looked ghastly.
         Tyson Gowain lumbered up, knelt with cracking kneecaps, and touched Artie's arm. "How're you doing, Mormon?"
          "OK. No pain."
          "I should say not." Smirking. "Your breath smells like a bud stud farm."
         

                                                                                    *


           Cherry Blossom squeezed Leah's hand. "Let's go for a walk."
           "Yes." Her cheeks were all aglow.
           From the front steps, Ziggy and Cherry Blossom had created a kilnstone path down to the dirt road leading into thick cedar. The women walked arm-in-arm, which caused them to stumble. Bluebell laughter.
           Into the gloom of the wood they went. A flutter of quick wings overhead. Then a hush.
           "Cherry!"
           "I see him!"
           Dressed in black denim, the archer emerged, from one shade zone to the next.
           "This isn't happening," Cherry Blossom moaned.
          
         

victory garden 3

        Cherry Blossom sat cross-legged crotch-spayed in bluejean cut-offs on the parlor floor. Casting runes, she felt her rug vibrate as if it were a magic carpet revving for taxi.
        "Oh my dear boys." She gasped.
        From the doorway Leah asked, "What is it?"
        "Here. Bring your tea in and sit with me. I don't like what I'm feeling. The boys are  surely headed for trouble."
        "Runes."
        "Yeah. These were given to me by a berserker shaman named Olaf. Visits once a year in his own fashion. Strange powers."
        "No doubt. What's this about Ziggy and Artie?"
        "There is a dark man following them."
        "Don't fuck with me, Cherry."
        Astonished by the mild profanity, Cherry Blossom's mouth fell agape. "Oh, honey! I would never fuck with you."
        She reached over and hugged her friend. "Never never never."
        Then she broke into tears.



                                                                                  *


        The woodland hamlet named Chewbacca once had a long-eared red doberman who slept in the road. People drove around him. Tiptoed around him. And he lived to a ripe age of fifteen. Died of old dog disease. Old Redbone.
        Ziggy drove by The Potlatch general store, boarded up. He caught Artie's eye, said nothing.
        Up ahead stood a monument the size of a menhir to the deified dog.
        CRUNCH!
        Artie cracked the windshield with his forehead. Just a scalp wound. But it bled and it bled. A red Niagra Falls. Ziggy took one look and panicked. "Oh goddamn I've killed him! Oh goddamn!"
        Then some yahoo was framming the side of the Skell Van. "Hey, Shit For Brains, look what you did to Redbone!"


                                                                                        *


        Cherry Blossom kissed Leah behind the ear. Warm and sweet.
        The runes continued to speak.