Arle the Shoveler

Waiting for change always seems to take longer than you would expect. Arle had spent the last twenty years of his life shoveling sludge from the thick tar-like fields into cast iron barrels, all the while convinced that he was minutes away from promotion to the shiny suits and fancy smoke belching vehicles of the bossmen. His potential was being wasted, he would say to his fellow sludge shovelers, his wife, and all who crossed his path. He was destined for great things; Assistant Shoveler was just a rung on the ladder of Arle's ascent to greatness. No amount of nay saying could convince him otherwise. Perhaps the fumes from the raw fuel deposits went to his head, but one day change did come, just not in the way Arle expected it.

"Have you ever seen such smooth shovel action. Ed?" Arle's voice boomed from beneath three chins.

"No Arle." Ed, who was as scrawny as his partner was beefy, grumbled his usual answer. Arle swiped another load of thick black fluid into a container with a wide sweeping motion that spattered Ed's leather overalls.

"Smooth action there, Ed. Name one shoveler who can swing like me."

"Can't think a one."

"Exactly! A bossman will notice, yes sir, and sure as the sky is carpeted with black I'm minutes from a promotion."

Ed turned his eyes lazily across the bleak landscape in search of a bossman, the yellow light from his helmet-lamp fading into the miasma. To date he had never seen one, nothing but the sludge, scorched sky, and massive metal trucks that belched black fumes into the sky as they were loaded full of metal barrels by shovelers to be taken back to the plant for refining. As Ed turned his creased face back to work an alarm sounded in the depths of his brain. Deep in the recesses of gray matter stupified by fumes and years of repetition was the last twist of cognitive sensation, and it was this bit that noticed something was amiss. His head tilted upwards, up, up, until his helmet fell 'splat' into the muck. His lips worked to find words for the monstrosity that loomed above.

"I tell you Ed, I won't be here much longer. You should take notes so you can impress the bossmen after I'm gone. Soon we could both be sitting behind massive mahogany desks smoking fat cigars." Arle paused mid shovel swing for Ed's affirmative response. Sludge slapped from the tool as he waited, seconds ticking by through an unprecendented silence. Arle pivoted to look at his partner and noticed the direction of his attentions. Arle's eyes lifted heavenward. A second helmet hit 'splat' in the sludge.

"Ed. What is that?"

Ed's jaw continued its pantomime, up, down, left and right. None of his stock responses suited this unique situation. He grunted.

"Looks to be getting bigger. No, not bigger. Closer. Look out!"

With a quickness that would surely have impressed any watching bossmen, Arle threw his girth at Ed and the pair sprawled into the knee deep, cloying liquid. A loud splash followed, then the creaking of metal like a furnace struggling to supply heat. The shovelers lifted their heads as a hatch popped open in the side of the metal beast.

"Hullo!" A thin chested man with bushy black eyebrows and matching moustache, as if a small forest were spreading across his face, popped from the hole. Long fingers pinched at his facial hair as he surveyed the damage to the metal contraption, an eight foot long iron pod. Exhaust tubes poked from numerous spots of the shiny plating, as if it were the skin of an acne stricken teen.

"Ed, look at that suit!"

"Shiny."

Arle nodded, then shifted into his regular voice, suited for stage and used for most all occasions. "Who are you, sir?"

They bushy faced man spun on his heel to face Arle, who managed to stand by pressing Ed further into the muck. Thick fingers grasped the scrawny shoveler by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet next. Arle may look to his own advancement first, but he would never leave a friend behind.

"I am Charles Charlesby. inventor extraordinaire. Surely you've heard of me?"

"Of course Charles Charlesby, I'm sure you've heard of me as well, Arle the Smooth Shoveler?"

The two men exchanged vacuous smiles. Of course neither had ever heard of the other. Ed kept his opinion to himself. He had at least heard of Arle before.

"Yes, yes, Arle, I am sorry for the bad landing. I'm afraid this Mark II model consumes fuel faster than I anticipated. Unexpected, very unexpected."

"Mark II?" Arle's verbosity was stymied by his confusion.

"Yes, the Mark II Charlesby Flyabout, this contraption here." Charles returned his gaze to the vessel as Arle and Ed exchanged nervous looks.

"He must be a bossman," Arle muttered, "look at that suit!"

"Shiny."

"That means this is out big chance!"

"Uh huh."

"Well Charles, what can we do for you? I imagine that whatever help we give would look well on us at bossman headquarters."

"Yes, yes, bossman headquarters." Charles' nervous expression went unnoticed, as he still faced the ship. "The shuttle appears sound. I need more fuel. A few barrels of this sludge should do."

Arle bowled his partner over in his haste to scoop up his shovel and display his technique. Ed had the sense to stand well clear as the shovel went into a blur of motion, sending sludge up, down, left, right, and occasionally into one of the empty barrels. Charles didn't protest the new paint job on his ship; the metal dripped a glistening black.

"There you are, three barrels. Let me ask you Charles," Arle manhandled the first barrel inside the hatch, "have you ever seen a smoother shovel?"

"No, I don't believe so."

"Ed?"

Ed nodded emphatically as he struggled to move the second barrel.

Arle rolled the third container into the ship as a distant rumbling reached their ears. Charles plucked at his moustache and jumped into the ship. "Thank you gentlemen, for you help. I bid you farewell! Soon the fame of Charles Charlesby will resound through the land!"

"And don't forget Arle the Smooth Shoveler!"

"Eh? Of course!" Charles swung the hatch shut just as Arle remembered to toss in Ed's name as well. In moments the exhaust tubes belched smoke and the shuttle rose into the air. Arle waved a thick hand in farewell and watched as the blackened ship vanished into the smoky sky. He was imagining himself in his new shiny suit when Ed's tugging on his arm brought him back to the present. A black, ironclad car had spun to a halt in the sludge mere feet from the shovelers. Generally combustible vehicles weren't allowed in the muck; could the promotion have come so quickly?

A tall, shiny suited man jumped from the passenger side, feet splashing forward. "Where's the shuttle?"

"Sent it on its way, sir! We did a good job of it, too."

"You helped him?"

Arle frowned at the man's tone. "Yes, sir. Any chance to help a bossman, I take."

"Bossman! That was no bossman! You idiots!" Not so shiny shoes kicked up muck in frustration. Arle glanced at Ed, whose eyes were rooted to the ground.

"So does this effect our chances for a promotion?"

"Promotion?" The suit spat the word.

"Of course. Surely you've noticed my work, Assistant Shoveler Arle and his partner Ed?" Ed managed a thin smile.

"Promotion?" More spittle. "You're fired! Get off company land, and return those shovels!" Ed winced and nearly toppled over. Arle was motionless, jaw slack, shovel in hand.

"Did you morons hear me?"

WHAM! Splash!

The bossman's shiny suit was engulfed in muck, a giant welt growing on his forehead. Another suit hopped from the driver's side, looked at Arle's expression, and jumped back into the car.

"You ever see such smooth shovel action, Ed?"

"No, Arle. Can't say that I have."

The pair tossed away their shovels and headed for the nearest truck for a lift home. This change was a long time coming and not what Arle was expecting, but already his mind was figuring out the next rung of the ladder for him and Ed. It was there, he just had to reach for it.

A Few Bad Wolves

 The lizardman had problems. That's what you called a werewolf infestation in my line of work: problems. So I packed a clip of 9mm silver bullets and slipped a silver bladed knife into my boot before leaving the office. Standard issue stuff for the paranormal.

 You might be asking yourself - a lizardman? Aren't they the enemy? And I would answer that no, many monsters and freaks are quite nice once you get past the fangs. Of course werewolves are almost always nasty, given the underlying feral urge. The only positive experience I had was with the young woman with fantastic legs. I eventually found out that she had to shave daily. That was a fun case.

 This one was bad from the start. The lizardman ran a commune outside the city. A series of wooded hills for creatures of the night to escape life among the normals. Cabins with all the amenities and plenty of game to hunt, which is what attracted the werewolves. They do enjoy a good hunt.

 I drove out to the commune at noon. I wanted to check the lay of the land, bait a few traps. The place was beautiful if you're into the pastoral thing. I pulled up a gravel drive, stones skidding away from my tires. The cabin in front of me was two stories and the lizardman was waiting on the porch, a five foot tall gray-green skinned man with a fanged snout wearing a tweed jacket and pants. He greeted me and gave a quick tour. Four cabins sat beyond the main house where he lived, all with freezers containing a variety of meats and a charcoal grill. I spotted two deer during the walk - very good hunting. Then he showed me the marks on the trees. Deep gouges torn from the bark. Claw marks. Footprints in the ground below. Paw prints, to be exact. Big ones.

 He didn't know how many werewolves were in the pack but there were at least three. He had tried to scare them off with a shotgun but I got the impression he must have fired it from a window. For a lizardman that dealt with paranormals on a regular basis he was a little on the quivering side.

 I took a room in a secondary cabin for the night. I spent the rest of the day setting bear traps around the house and memorizing the layout of the grounds. If I got lucky I would tag them with the pistol. If unlucky, I could lead them on a chase to the traps. As night fell I cleaned my gun and loaded the silver bullets. The chamber clicked ready. I waited at the window, lights off.

 The growling started around ten. Snarling and howling soon followed. I glimpsed motion in the forest; good night vision was a blessing in this job. By eleven they were braying their triumph at a kill. I crept out the front door, gun at the ready, followed the sounds of feasting (I could have followed the smell just as well) and found the pack. Four, all about six feet tall. Thick, furry arms and legs, with claws tearing apart the deer that was dinner. A bit of intestine shot past my cheek as I raised my gun. Unfortunately for me there were five in the pack.

 What felt like a concrete slab smashed into my back and I collapsed to the ground, claws slashing open jacket and flesh beneath. I twisted and fired twice into the beast's leg. The silver burned its way into muscle and the creature howled. It limped into the night as I spun around, just in time to rattle off three more shots. Two werewolves fell. The last two beasts pinned me down by my arms, the gun wrenched from my hand.

 A toothy maw descended towards my gut and I snapped a kick that rattled its teeth loose. It yowled and stumbled away. I slipped my knife free and jammed it through the other creature's skull. Another one down. I took off for my traps, a raw tingling sensation spreading across my damaged back. Without knife or gun I was in trouble. The creature behind me regrew its teeth and gave chase.

 I dove over a trap as the beast descended. A satisfying 'thwack' followed by a yowl confirmed the bear trap's effectiveness. I watched for the beast with the injured leg as I retraced my steps to locate my gun but it must have returned to the den, a typical werewolf response to injury by silver.

 I finished off the yowling beast with two shots (the traps weren't silver, just plain steel; would still hurt like hell, though), then searched for the fifth creature's trail. It led further into the woods.

 An hour later I found a cave mouth that practically belched the stench of wet dog. My prey was huddled in the corner, its injured leg cradled under its body. The pistol cracked once and my work was done.

 The next morning the lizardman's thanks were boundless in their generosity. I reminded him about my fee. The payment did not quite match his verbosity. Still, money was money and I was glad to get paid.

 I drove back to my apartment building and popped open the trunk. The remains of the deer from the night before made my mouth water and I hefted the carcass to carry upstairs. I hate when a few wolves give us a bad name. Now that woman, she was something special.

The Appearance of Christopher

The abbot struggled across the courtyard through drifts of snow up to his knees. The pounding on the front gate had ceased moments ago, but a thin wail still drifted on the snow clogged wind. The portly, middle aged man lifted the bar that held the portal shut and strained to pull one side of the door open. He plowed a divot of snow away and forced the door back a foot. His head poked out into the blizzard, the wisps of his gray, tonsured hair whipping around his face. A pitiful cry brought his attention to the ground.

 "Oh Lord!" The abbot reached down and lifted a boy from the snow. As the holy man turned to head inside he noticed an arm where the child had lain. The abbot deposited the boy inside the door, away from the wind, and reached down to clear snow away from the appendage. The rest of the body took shape as he brushed. A young woman, blue and stiff, stared at the sky. The abbot gasped and stumbled backwards. He made the sign of the cross and grabbed the boy, determined to see him inside before dealing with the corpse.

The abbot summoned his staff of three monks to the common room, a space with three long tables and a blackened hearth. It was not a prosperous monastery, located far from any large settlements and surrounded by inhospitable terrain. Despite this the abbot believed in his work and ran an efficient operation, confident he was doing God's work. He dispatched two monks to the front gate to move the body to the small graveyard inside the walls. The other monk he ordered to stoke the fire, which was usually kept smoldering. The abbot sat down at a table next to the boy who was currently engaged in chewing on a chunk of stale bread. The man watched as the pale boy steadily gnawed on the coarse nourishment in small bites. The boy did not stop until the bread and its attendant crumbs were finished. At this the abbot walked with him to the fire, which had become large enough to project warmth to the nearest bench. The monk who had worked on the fire, a short, scrawny man with only the stubble of a black tonsure, waited at the bench with hands clasped.
 "Thank you Bernard, you may return to your prayers."
 Bernard bowed and left the room. The boy leaned towards the fire, his arms outstretched.
 "Be careful, don't get too close."
 The boy showed no sign of hearing the abbot, his small fingers only a foot from the flames. The abbot put a hand on the boy's arm and drew it back with a gentle touch.
 "You don't want to get burned, do you?"
 The abbot rubbed a hand around his plump midsection and wondered if the boy was deranged. Perhaps the events of the day had stolen his mind? The abbot sighed and leaned back against a table. The two monks who had gone outside entered through the main door and paused to brush snow from their clothes. Brothers, they had similar features, with strong jaw lines and thin noses. The taller of the two, standing over six feet, spoke. "The body is at the gate to the cemetery, Abbot."
 The second brother, almost as tall as the first, walked to the fire. He stared at the boy but did not speak.
 "Warm yourselves for a moment, then return to your prayers. Thank you for your work."
 The pair lingered by the fire, enjoying a luxury usually unseen in the monastery. After a minute of silence the shorter brother plucked at his companion's sleeve and led the way out the back door. The abbot stood and looked down at the boy.
 "Do you have a name?"
 The boy's stare remained fixed on the fire.
 "What did your mother call you?"
 The boy glanced at the abbot for a second, then turned back to the hearth.
 "You must have a name. I am Cornelius. And you?" The abbot pointed to himself as he spoke his name, then turned his finger to face the boy, who did not respond.
 "Alright, if you don't have a name, I'll give you one." The abbot tapped a slender finger against his cheek. "I've got it. You'll be Christopher, for the patron saint of lost travelers." The abbot smiled, pleased with his decision. He touched the boy on the chest. "Christopher."
 The boy looked down at the pointed finger, then up at the abbot. His eyes, which the abbot only now noticed were a deep shade of green, flashed with an inner flame as if some of the fire had been absorbed into the pupils. The boy opened his mouth and slowly let out, "Christopher."
 "Good! Now Christopher, if you'd like, one day you could be a monk like me and the others you saw. I could be your teacher!" The abbot smiled at the boy, convinced he was saving a life and a soul. The dead woman's face was already banished from his thoughts. The boy did not share in the abbot's enthusiasm..
 "Very well, you don't have to make up your mind now. I must see to some matters of business, will you be alright here alone?" The boy did not acknowledge the question. "Of course you will. I will return later to check on you." Cornelius walked to the back door and pushed it open. As he entered the passage that led to the monk's rooms and the small chapel, he looked back. The boy hadn't moved from his seat. Cornelius gave a mental shrug and headed down the hall to his chamber. It was almost time for the afternoon prayer service, and he wanted a moment alone to reflect. As he passed Bernard's chamber he heard the crack of a whip against flesh. Cornelius shook his head and walked on. Each man had his own means to come closer to God.

As the group sat down to eat at the table closest to the fire, Cornelius stood and offered the prayer. At the end he added, "And thank you Lord for sparing this young child," the abbot nodded at Christoper, "and for bringing him to us. Amen." The group set to the food that Bernard had prepared in the small kitchen at the back of the room. Each had a bowl of thick porridge and a chunk of the same stale bread the boy had eaten earlier. Cornelius positioned himself next to Christopher, who had turned around in his seat at the sight of food. As far as the abbot new, the boy had remained seated by the fire all afternoon.
 "Abbot, have you discovered anything about the boy?" The taller of the two brothers, George, asked.
 "No, I'm worried there may be something wrong with him. I named him Christopher, and I ask that you all refer to him by that name so he recognizes it."
 The meal finished in silence, as was usual, and the monks retired to their rooms.
 "Come Christopher, I have a room where you can sleep." Cornelius took Christopher by the hand to a chamber just inside the back door. There was a straw pallet on one side and a small desk with an unlit candle on the other. Cornelius pointed at the bed. "You sleep there." The abbot pinched his lips together at the lack of a response. As he was about to explain further, the boy laid down on the bed and closed his eyes.
 "Good!" The abbot clapped his hands together. "Good night, my boy."
 The abbot found his own bed, in a room furnished exactly as the boy's except with a large, care worn bible on the table. Cornelius knelt for a moment and prayed for the boy and the dead woman's soul before drifting to sleep.

Shadows inhabited the abbot's dreams. Shadows in the shapes of men with fierce red eyes. The wraiths surrounded him, enveloped him in silky darkness. Whispers caressed his mind, promises of power, wealth, women, all that he could ever desire. All would come to him, for a small price. The shades did not name their price, but as Cornelius shook awake he felt their lingering desire like a hollow at the base of his skull and shuddered.

Cornelius rushed through morning prayers, his thoughts consumed by the shades of the night before. Goosebumps ran across his skin as he remembered their cold, tender touch and he shivered. Their voices still echoed in his head. He found his hands trembling and clasped them together until his fingers grew white from the strain. A hand on his shoulder jolted him up, eyes wide and panting.
 "Abbot! Are you alright?" Bernard was standing next to Cornelius' kneeling figure. "You look ill. Perhaps the chill of going outside yesterday," the abbot rubbed sweat from his brow and stood, noticing that the other two brothers watched from their usual position in the back of the chapel.
 "I'm fine, it's nothing. Come, let's go break our fast."
 The others formed a line behind the abbot as they entered the main room. Christopher sat at the table, his legs swinging. Bernard hastened to the back of the room to prepare some broth while the others took their seats. George spoke with his brother in a hushed voice while the abbot addressed his small companion.
 "Christopher, did you sleep well?" The boy looked at the abbot but remained silent. "Today you shall join us in afternoon prayers. I will stay here with you after breakfast and teach you. How does that sound?" Still the boy remained silent. Bernard returned with a bowl of steaming broth for each. The boy slurped up his portion, heedless of the temperature.
 "He's a hungry little one, isn't he?" George asked. The others only nodded. The abbot forced his mind to focus on the boy and ignore thinking of the night before.
 As they finished, the three monks left for their cells. The abbot took the boy by the hand and led him to the chapel. Cornelius knelt by the altar and helped the boy do the same. "Now hold your hands like this," the boy folded his hands together, "and repeat after me. Our Father,"
 The boy watched as Cornelius ran through the prayer twice. Christopher's small hands held together but he did not speak. Cornelius recited a variety of prayers but the boy did not so much as part his lips. The abbot and the boy stayed in the church until time for afternoon prayers, when the other monks entered. Cornelius led the ceremony and the boy watched from his position by the altar. At the conclusion, the abbot finally felt as if the shadows of the previous night had receded to their dark abyss and would not return. Dinner passed uneventfully, the boy still refusing to speak and the other monks reticent to break the silence. As Cornelius retired to his room apprehension bubbled in his belly.
 "It's nothing," he muttered, "silliness, that's all." The abbot sped some prayers heavenward, again for the boy and the boy's mother, before slipping into slumber.

The shadows returned, and this time they had gaping mouths dripping with red ichor. The eyes and mouths hovered in the darkness, moaning their promises of riches and power as the abbot curled into a ball and covered his ears. He started to recite the Lord's Prayer but couldn't recall the words. Whispers filtered in between the moans. Whispers coaxing him to do horrible, unspeakable acts. The abbot squeezed his eyes as tightly as he could, then pulled them open as he realized he was no longer dreaming. The shadows crowded close to him and he screamed.

"Abbot!" Bernard was at the door, shaking the thin wooden planks with rapid bangs of his fist. "Cornelius!" The door was flung open and the short monk rushed to the abbot's side. "What is wrong? What happened?"
 Cornelius sat up on his bed, covered in sweat. His breathing was ragged. He pressed a hand to his chest and willed his heart to slow.
 "I'll go warm some broth, come and sit by the fire." Bernard led the shaking man to the common room and sat him at the table nearest the fire. As Bernard went to his cooking the boy trotted in and sat next to the abbot. He laid a small hand on the abbot's arm, who instantly felt his body relax and his mind ease. Thoughts of the demons receded to a blurred memory.
 "Thank you, my boy. Thank you."
 Christopher nodded, removed his hand, and looked into the fire. Bernard hustled over with a bowl, steam rising from the simple mixture of water and herbs. "Drink this, Cornelius. No arguments."
 "Yes, thank you Bernard."
 "Your shouting must have woken the boy." Bernard moved next to Christopher and looked into the little one's eyes. "He has green eyes! Remarkable, I don't think I've ever seen that before."
 "Me neither."
 Bernard took a seat beside the abbot. "Tell me Cornelius, what was it that frightened you?"
 "Just a dream, that's all."
 Bernard shook his head. "No, don't try to tell me it was just a dream. I know you too well to believe that."
 The abbot glanced at the boy, unsure he wanted to voice what happened in front of him. He leaned close to Bernard and spoke in a hush. "I saw some sort of spirits, Bernard. Shadows, haunting me. In my dreams, and then for a moment when I awoke."
 Bernard nodded, a frown digging into his forehead.
 "I know it sounds ridiculous,"
 "Not at all. Not at all, the Church has had plenty of experience with hauntings and exorcisms. It's just strange that it is happening here." Bernard's eyes settled on the boy. "You don't suppose that he,"
 "Nonsense!" Cornelius' tone startled the shorter monk. "Why, just now when he put his hand on me I felt invigorated."
 "Interesting." Bernard steepled his fingers, then pressed them against his chin. "It could be connected to his mother. She is still outside, unburied."
 "Of course!" The abbot stood and took a step towards the door. Bernard jumped forward and restrained him. "No you don't, you need to rest. Besides, the sun isn't up yet. Going out at night in this cold is too dangerous. I'll send the brothers out after breakfast to bury the woman." The abbot moved back to his seat near the fire and Bernard tossed a chunk of wood into the flames, sending a cascade of sparks into the air.

The brothers followed Bernard outside after a broth breakfast. The sky was clear blue, the deep color that draws your eyes to the horizon as if the view were limitless, but no enjoyment could be found in it as the cold air bit into each inch of exposed skin. A light breeze cut through their meager robes, which made the trip outside a true test of will. George carried a shovel and as they approached the body they found it in similar condition to two days before, blue and frozen solid.
 "I have the spot picked out for her, just here." Bernard pointed to a plot in the corner of their small cemetery. George nodded and bent to the task, the shovel thudding into the frozen earth. A small divot rose with each stab at the ground. George's brother, Adam, stepped close to Bernard.
 "Why are doing this today? Couldn't it wait for the weather to break?"
 Bernard rubbed his hands together in a feeble attempt to inspire warmth. "The abbot decided she could be left above ground no longer, lest her spirit wander the earth, unable to reach heaven. We don't need to dig deep, just enough to cover her. A better job of it can be done later."
 "This just seems," Adam's face contorted into a sneer, "it seems like a waste of time! We don't even know who she was." The monk stomped away, engaged in a muttered conversation with himself. Bernard was stunned. Adam rarely spoke, and when he did it was with a quiet respect.
 "Here," Bernard moved to take a turn with the shovel, "you two go rest inside, I'll get you when I can no longer stand the cold." George took Adam by the arm and the two entered the common room. They sat by the fire, where the boy maintained his vigil. Cornelius rested in his chamber, afraid to sleep but too tired to continue the boy's education.
 "Adam, what's wrong?" George asked.
 Adam stood and began pacing around the table. "It's nothing." He grabbed his head and rocked back and forth. "Just those dreams, those dreams won't leave me alone." George had to strain to hear his brother. "I can't silence the voices. Do you know what they want?" Adam glared at the boy, whose green eyes turned to match the stare. "They want him." Adam took a step towards the child and George interposed himself between the two.
 "I think you should go lie down, Adam. I'll check on you later."
 Strength drained from Adam and he slumped in his brother's arms. "Yes, rest. I just need some rest." His voice was barely a whisper. "I'm sorry, I don't know what's happening."
 "It's alright. Come on," George escorted Adam to his cell while the boy looked on. Bernard clomped in and rushed to the fire, leaving the shovel propped against the wall. The monk's scrawny body rattled with cold. George reentered the room and spotted Bernard, who raised an eyebrow.
 "Where is Adam?"
 "He isn't well. I'll go out and take a turn digging."
 Bernard nodded as George took the shovel and exited.
 "Strange." Bernard sat next to Christopher. A figure lurched into the rear doorway.
 "Adam! George said you are sick. Can I,"
 Adam lunged towards the table, hands grabbing for the boy. Christopher scampered away and crouched in a far corner.
 "Adam! What are you doing!" Bernard stood and placed himself in front of the child.
 "Him! I need him! Get out of my way!" Adam shoved the smaller monk aside and grabbed the boy's shirt. The small figure curled into a ball. Bernard tackled Adam and both men tumbled across the floor. Adam punched Bernard across the face, knocking the smaller monk senseless.
 "Now it's just you and me, blessed one."
 The front door banged open and George walked in, shovel in hand. His eyes widened as he took in the scene. "Adam, what is happening here?"
 "Don't get involved, brother." He spit out the last word, then advanced towards Christopher. George placed the shovel against the wall and ran to intercept Adam. The enraged man let out a bellow and tried to toss George aside, but found his strength matched. The two struggled as they pushed back and forth until Adam lunged forward and brought his forehead smack onto George's nose with a loud 'crack'. George stumbled, blood flowing from the break. Adam howled and knocked George to the ground. He stepped in front of the boy and laughed, an echoing trumpet like the baying of Cerberus.
 The shovel crashed across Adam's skull and his body slumped to the floor. Bernard leaned on the weapon, blood staining his mouth and his breath ragged. "Are you alright?"
 Christopher nodded.
 "Go get Cornelius, quickly."
 The boy ran out the rear door. Bernard knelt next to George, who was groaning and clutching his face.
 "You'll be alright," Bernard announced after a quick examination.
 "My brother?"
 Bernard glanced at Adam's motionless form. "I don't know."

Adam's body was wrapped in a linen sheet where it lay before the altar. Cornelius led a service for the monk's soul, espousing his virtue and respect for God. At the end of the service George carried the body outside, then returned for the shovel. Bernard cast a worried look at Cornelius and joined him by the altar.
 "Adam was possessed. And I'm worried that this isn't over yet."
 "Possessed? Are you sure?"
 "How else do you explain it? He tried to kill the child. He attacked his own brother!"
 Cornelius nodded. "That would mean I wasn't the only person visited by spirits." Cornelius scratched his thin wisps of hair. "We need to ask George if he has been having nightmares."
 "I'll leave that to you. I don't know if George can forgive me for his brother's death."
 "I will speak to him."
 "Thanks. I'll be in my room, atoning."
 Cornelius shut his eyes. He could already hear the scourge against Bernard's flesh.

After a solemn dinner Cornelius asked George to meet him in the chapel. The tall monk took a seat before the altar. The abbot sat beside him.
 "I'm very sorry for your loss, my son. Adam was a good monk. A good man."
 George nodded.
 "I need to ask you some things, George. Please answer as truthfully as possible. Have you had any nightmares recently?"
 George shook his head, but his face turned bright red. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes.
 "Perhaps this is too much, I'm sorry,"
 "No!" George dropped his head into his hands with a sob. "This was my fault!"
 Cornelius waited as George sniffed back some tears.
 "Adam had been experiencing nightmares for days. Almost a week. At first we just thought it was a lack of faith, and we doubled our prayers. The night before the boy arrived, the dreams turned murderous. I, we, thought we could handle it, thought it was a test from God."
 Cornelius patted George on the shoulder as another sob broke forth. "It's not your fault, what happened."
 "Yes it is! I ignored Adam's madness, for that's what he was! Mad! I did nothing, and Bernard and the boy almost died for it! Abbot, how do I ask for forgiveness for something like this!"
 "You just ask, my son. You just ask. But you must tell me, truthfully, have you had any dreams like those of your brother?"
 George rubbed his eyes free of tears, the sobs under control now. "No, I haven't. You think that means I can be forgiven?"
 Cornelius smiled. "I think that means you already are. Go to your room and rest now, you've had a trying day."
 George left for his bed, his eyes downcast and thoughts turned inward. Cornelius was in turmoil. If Adam had dreams for a week, then whatever force was at work had known that the boy was coming here. And that force was now focused on him. The abbot knelt by the altar and began to pray.

That night, the abbot was visited again. This time it was a single shade. The eyes flared with fire, but it neither spoke nor moved. Cornelius watched it for what seemed like hours, afraid to shift his body an inch lest the demon summon it's friends. As morning approached the beast faded, and Cornelius breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps he had bested the fiends. God must have heard his prayers.

Bernard was late for morning prayers. Cornelius nodded to George to continue on his own with the boy, whom Cornelius now brought to every prayer session. The abbot stopped outside Bernard's chamber and knocked on the wooden door. He heard the whip strike flesh.
 "Bernard? You're late for prayers."
 Another lash, a spatter of blood.
 "Bernard?" Cornelius pushed the door open, afraid of what he might see but worried for his friend.
 The abbot took a step back. Bernard knelt in the middle of the room, facing the far wall. His bare back was scored by a multitude of red welts, many coursing with rivulets of blood. The scourge in the monk's right hand flicked up and back, too weak now to do any damage. Cornelius rushed inside and tore the whip away. The slight monk slumped into Cornelius' arms.
 "Shadows," Bernard mumbled, his face covered in sweat, "shadows tried to take me. Force me to hurt," Bernard shuddered as Cornelius shouted for George. "I couldn't let them, this was the only way."
 "Yes, yes, Bernard. Just hold on."
 George ran into the room and gasped.
 "Help me carry him! To a table in the common room, by the fire."
 The pair wrestled Bernard onto the table, face first so they could bandage his back.
 "Get me some clean linen, and a bucket of water. Quickly!"
 George hastened to obey. The boy watched from the corner near the fire. Cornelius waved at him.
 "Christopher, this is no place for you! Go back to the chapel!" The boy looked up at the abbot, then walked forward. "To the chapel I said!"
 The boy reached the edge of the table and clambered onto a bench just as George arrived with the supplies. The bucket sloshed water on the floor as he came to a sharp stop in the doorway. The boy set a tiny digit on Bernard's arm and instantly the monk's features relaxed. Lines around his eyes eased and the knotted muscles in his back unbunched. The damage from the whip remained, but Bernard slipped into a contented slumber. The boy stepped down from the table and sat by the fire. Cornelius then noticed George in the doorway.
 "Come come, bring the supplies!"
 George set the bucket and linen on a bench, and the two went to work bandaging their friend.

Cornelius sat next to Christopher by the fire. George sat with Bernard in the injured monk's chamber. The frail monk was stable, his wounds bound and God-willing, uninfected. The abbot looked at his companion.
 "You know what's going on here, don't you. I wish you could tell me." The boy offered a slight smile, then turned back to face the flames. Cornelius sighed. "How do I stop demons," he mumbled, "I'm no exorcist. Last night they visited Bernard, one visited me. And George has received no visits. What does it all mean?" Cornelius slumped back against the table. He needed an answer soon as the day was already halfway over.

That evening they ate dinner slowly. Bernard sat at the table, strain evident on his face, but he had refused to be served in bed once awake. Cornelius asked for their opinions on how to combat the demons. George spoke first.
 "Holding a blessed crucifix does not work. Adam tried that."
 "How about reading from the Bible?" Bernard offered.
 Cornelius responded, "One night I tried to recite the Lord's Prayer in my defense but I couldn't remember it. I don't think we would have any better luck remembering Bible passages."
 Silence accompanied the rest of dinner, until Cornelius had a revelation. He spoke his current thought process out loud, "The only thing that has helped so far is him." He turned to look at the boy, who was busy stuffing his face with leftover bread from the abbot's portion. Green eyes flashed at him as the abbot spoke. "This boy has a strange power, I'm sure of it. I think that only leaves us with one option."
 Bernard frowned. "I see what you're thinking, Cornelius, and it's a bad idea."
 "It's our only idea. Soon more of us will be dead, possibly even this child. Night is on it's way now. What else can we do?"
 George held up a hand. "Wait a moment, what are you planning?"
 "I'm going to let the demons possess me."
 Bernard slammed a hand on the table. "This is madness!" George looked from one man to the other.
 "Why would that help?"
 "You see George, when that boy touches one of us who is afflicted, it erases our symptoms, eases the pain. Perhaps, just perhaps, if the demons are in the person whom the boy touches, they will be destroyed."
 "That's a terrible a risk. If this fails your soul suffers the torments of demons until judgment day."
 "I know, Bernard. But if I do nothing, I risk the same thing."
 George raised a hand again. He was unused to this informal conversation with the two older monks, and felt a need to ask permission to speak. Cornelius nodded to him. "Adam wasn't afraid of the boy, he lunged right at him. Surely the child could have destroyed the demons then?"
 Cornelius shook his head. "I believe from watching him that the boy needs some time to perform his work. The demons only need a moment to kill a child. In addition, I'm not convinced that Adam was possessed, as he attacked during the day. I think our friend was driven mad by his nightly visits." Cornelius locked eyes with the tall monk. "George, this plan requires that you restrain me. I will do what I can to hinder the damned creatures, but I'm going to need your strength."
 George nodded. "I'll do anything to get back at the things that destroyed my brother."
 "Good. Stay with the child in the common room tonight, and be ready."
 "Cornelius,"
 "No Bernard. This is the way it has to be. And you're took weak to help. Stay in your room, no matter what you hear."
 "I'm going to be out here. To witness the miracle, if nothing else."
 Cornelius opened his mouth to protest before realizing it was pointless. Bernard would do as he liked once the abbot was possessed. After a few more moments of planning, during which all potential weapons including the shovel were removed from the common room, Cornelius went to bed.

The shadows formed around the abbot, dark mists that congealed into black, billowing masses. They crowded the abbott, who made no effort to blot out their offers of power. Their whispers probed deep in his mind, sought out his worst fears and strongest desires. Visions flooded the abbot's perceptions, images of violence, screams of death, the rush of sex, the taste of blood, the smell of disease, an exultation in power over it all... and before he realized it the perceptions pushed him beyond any self-awareness and the demons were in control. Cornelius, the consciousness known as Cornelius, was trapped by nightmares of suffering, enclosed within his own mind by powers that force-fed alternate awareness to him, which blotted out all hope, all reason. Cornelius screamed, his body jerked to its feet, and a broad smile ruptured his lips. The scream went unheard outside of his skull.

George sat next to the boy, whose eyes were set on the fire. "They're coming." The slight voice almost went unheard and shook George to his feet. Green eyes glittered at him, and the monk spun around as footsteps echoed from the back hall.

Bernard jolted upright from his seat opposite the boy. Had Christopher just spoken? He shook his head to clear it of pain and cobwebs. The cobwebs dispersed. A figure stood at the rear door.

 "Abbot! Are you alright?" George's fists clenched and unclenched. He didn't know how to tell if the abbot was possessed. That smile looked unnatural and his gait wasn't as steady as usual, but how could he be sure? The figure lurched forward.

 Bernard narrowed his eyes. This creature was not his friend, the face carried an evil presence, a darkness about the eyes and tautness to the skin that sent shivers through Bernard's body. "George, grab him!"

 Bernard's warning brought George to life. The giant wrapped arms around the body and lifted. The possessed screamed a warning in a voice that screeched like hell's pipe organ pumped through the abbot's chest. "Do not try and stop me! I will have the boy!" George struggled to maintain his grip on the squirming figure. He gasped as the body stomped down on his ankle. A snap preceded the giant's fall.

 "Damnit! This was a horrible plan!" Bernard stood and hobbled around the table. The possessed advanced on the boy, who watched the figure with wide eyes. Bernard threw himself forward and barreled into the advancing threat. They both fell to the floor. Bernard found himself pressed down, his back flaring into a wave of pain that threatened his consciousness.

 George pushed himself up onto one foot and lunged. His hands gripped the figure around the torso, pressing arms to their sides. "Now!"

 George's shout rattled Bernard to awareness and he grabbed at the figure's legs, pinning them.

 The boy walked to the figure as the possessed rained spittle coated fury out on its attackers. It sputtered and shouted curses, damning them for eternity, then fell quiet as two little hands pressed against its skull.

 For a moment there was silence. George and Bernard kept their iron grips on the intruder, who began to convulse. The boy's eyes widened, shedding a green light onto the deranged features before him. A wail broke from the abbot's shuddering lips, increasing in intensity, then the voice broke into a low moan. The green light faded and the boy dropped his hands. Bernard nodded at George, and the pair gingerly lowered their comatose friend to the floor.
 Cornelius fluttered in the dark. The images and suffering were gone. Now he was alone, lost in a labyrinth of unknown dimensions. A light flared, a warm emerald glow, and he approached it. As the glow intensified the abbot raised a hand to shade his eyes. Something was beyond the glow. Something familiar. I remember...
 "I remember," Cornelius mumbled. His eyes fluttered, dispelling the darkness that had enveloped him. He looked at his friends, who laughed and clapped him on the shoulders.
 "We did it!" Bernard announced.
 "We did it." The abbot smiled. He felt as if a horse cart had dragged him for miles down a dirt path, and the visions of torment sent by the demons would forever haunt his dreams. But they had succeeded. Cornelius looked at the small figure in front of him and saw two green eyes watching, set above an angelic smile. "You are a remarkable young boy, Christopher." The child, satisfied that all was right again, found his seat on the bench near the fire.
 "Now Adam can rest in peace," George added, his laughter fading.
 Cornelius nodded and rested a hand on George's arm. "Now we all can."

Cerberus

 Cerberus leaned back in his chair and studied the bare stucco wall. Wooden legs creaked as he shifted his bulk. He sighed deep in his chest, memories floating past on the blank canvas. A small glass barely touched his lips as he sipped, the deep red liquid trickling down his throat. He scratched the black scruff on his neck, then the thicker patches on his cheeks. He could not remember the last time a razor had touched his skin, could not even remember where a razor might be found. The lack of a full beard suggested he had shaved recently. Cerberus sighed and let another trickle of red ease down his throat.

 A noise downstairs jerked him upright. A noise? He placed his glass on the tabletop before his chair and walked to the door. He pulled it open and peered down the hallway. "Backpackers," he muttered as a young, fit couple crested the far stairs. Their pale skin was scorched by the summer sun, their boots caked with mud and clay. Cerberus shut his door and returned to the chair, casting a quick glance at the rumpled sheets on his bed. "When was the last time I slept?" he wondered.

 Sunlight beamed in through the single window, two panes of glass set one above the other in the bare wall. Cerberus had never tried opening it, wasn't convinced it was possible. Open or closed, the heat didn't care. He sipped.

 A knock at the door. Cerberus creaked out of the chair and swung the door open. The male backpacker. Blond hair, red face, intense blue eyes. Dirty. Smelly. Judging by the young man's grimace, Cerberus didn't look or smell so good either. Far worse, if he had to guess.
 "Do you speak English?" The young man's hands hovered over his pockets.
 "Yes."
 "May I come in?"
 Cerberus scratched at his thick black hair, glanced out into the hallway. Empty.
 "Sure."
 Cerberus gestured at the bed as he resumed his seat in the chair. The backpacker pushed some unrecognizable detritus to one side of the mattress and sat on the edge.
 "Are you who I think you are?" The young man's hands clutched at this pockets now, noticeable bulges in each.
 Cerberus sipped at his glass, then offered it to the youth. "Want some?"
 "No thanks." The young man glanced around the room as he chewed on his lower lip. His blue eyes took in the chair, table, window, and bare walls.
 Cerberus leaned back and asked, "Who do you think I am?"
 The backpacker was shaking. A slight tremor, which Cerberus pretended not to notice. The blond haired man took a deep breath. The shaking subsided.
 "Cerberus. The guardian of the gateway to the underworld."
 Cerberus sipped from his glass. His coal black eyes narrowed as they burrowed into the widened blues.
 "Isn't Cerberus supposed to be a dog?"
 "Supposed to be, I guess."
 "You calling me a dog?"
 "Uh, no. Not exactly."
 Silence. Two more sips.
 "What's your name?"
 "John. John Traveler."
 "Why are you here John Traveler? Besides to call me a dog."
 "Because, I..." He chewed on his lip for a moment, hands inside his bulging pockets. A deep breath followed.
 "I've been everywhere. Climbed mountains in Tibet, poled the Amazon," he brought his left hand out of his pocket. It held a large, bone shaped chew toy. The kind you might give to a large hound. Cerberus eyed the toy, his coal black eyes narrowing to slits.
 With a chuckle the backpacker remarked, "Guess I don't need this." He tossed it on the floor.
 "Now you're throwing crap on my floor."
 "Right, sorry. I'll, uh, take it with me when I go." John stooped and picked up the bone. He passed it from hand to hand before deciding to put it back on the floor. "I'll take it when I go."
 Cerberus sipped his drink, eyes focused on John's.
 "Listen. I like adventure. I live for it. Excitement, thrills, all of it. I've been everywhere the world has to offer. I need something new, something unique. Understand?"
 John's words hung in the air as Cerberus took a slightly larger sip from his small glass. He glanced down at it for a moment. Still a quarter full. How was that possible? He tossed his head and refocused his gaze on the young man.
 John shifted on the bed and leaned forward, his blue eyes intense. Feverish.
 "So are you Cerberus or not?"
 Cerberus lifted a foot to scratch at the back of his leg. "I thought we covered this."
 "You never really answered."
 "Oh." He sipped some more, his eyes unfocused as they met the wall. "Yeah," a smile touched the corners of his mouth, "I think I am."
 John jumped to his feet. "I knew it!" He pulled a small hand held tape player from his second pocket. His thumb jammed down on the play button and easy-listening trickled forth.
 "Is that a lute?"
 John shrunk back onto the bed. "Yeah, it's a lute."
 "You thought it would put me to sleep?"
 "Yeah. Do something, anyway."
 "You really want to see the underworld?" Another sip.
 "Yes! Just tell me how to get there!"
 "Open that window."
 John raised his eyebrows. The combination of this and chewing his lip made him look like a nervous three year old. He stood and walked to the window. A quick glance back at Cerberus revealed no change in the keeper of Hell's gate. John pushed up the window with a minimum of effort. Dust drifted down around the young man's face, eliciting a few coughs. When the dust cleared, Cerberus was standing next to the backpacker. His glass rested on the table.
 "I wasn't sure that could be opened. Never tried myself."
 "What's next?"
 "You jump."
 "What?"
 "Stick your head out that window."
 John slowly moved his head over the sill. "It's really hot out here."
 "Damn right it is."
 "Jumping out a window is crazy."
 "I thought you liked crazy." 
 John raised his eyebrows. "What?"
 "Nevermind. Are you going out or not? I have drinking to do."
 John leaned against the sill and peered out. He didn't notice Cerberus step close behind him, but he felt the push that sent him plummeting head first to the barren patch of soil below.
 
 A knock at the door. Cerberus rose from his chair and opened the entrance. The young female backpacker, her face rosy red and tear stained. "You killed him."
 Cerberus sat down and sipped from his glass. "He asked for the trip."
 She sat on the cleared space on the bed. Cerberus quirked an eyebrow. Did he invite her in?
 "He didn't want to die to get there."
 Cerberus shrugged his shoulders. "Oops."
 She turned her head, her eyes tightly closed. After a moment she turned back.
 "Where's the real entrance? The one that can be used to enter and exit, alive?"
 "To the underworld?"
 "Yes."
 Cerberus shrugged again. A dim part of his mind registered that he hadn't shrugged this much in years. He generally ignored that place in his mind.
 "You want some?" He offered his glass, still a quarter full. He glanced at it with a frown, but could not figure out what it was that bothered him.
 "No thanks."
 Silence.
 "You must know how to access the entrance."
 "Trade secret."
 "Fine." She stood and walked to the doorway. "I'll bring the police back here, they'll take you and lock you up for killing John."
 Cerberus pounced forward and slammed the door closed. Or the door slammed shut on it's own. He wasn't sure, and the girl was too surprised to comment. He returned to this chair, took a sip of his drink. She stared at him, her breath coming in quick gasps.
 "You can open the door and go now, if you wish."
 She slowly grasped the handle, turned it and pulled the portal open. The hallway was gone, replaced by a dark passage, a hole in space. The sound of lapping water drifted in from a great distance.
 "That's it?" She could not turn away from the portal, her brown eyes wide and breath quick.
 "That's it."
 She stepped closer to the door and peered through. Dim phantoms floated in the darkness, but she could not determine what they were. She spun around, the hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention as Cerberus moved close behind her.
 "What are you doing?"
 "Firming your resolve."
 "I ... I don't want to go."
 "Shannon," the voice floated through the portal, no more than a whisper yet impossible to ignore. Shannon cringed away and bumped against Cerberus' chest.
 "Shannon, help me," a figure hovered close in the darkness. Indistinct, but gradually taking shape as it approached. Shannon grabbed the door, tears welling in her eyes as she struggled to close it. It would not budge.
 Coal black eyes watched her struggle. "I thought this was what you wanted."
 "No! I changed my mind! Stop this!"
 The shape was just beyond the door. A body, certainly, with a man's build. The head, however, was twisted at an impossible angle. Shannon screamed as John's features took shape on the broken visage, his eyes gray silt pressed against fogged glass.
 "Shannon, please. It hurts, hurts so much. Come to me, help me." He stretched out his hands, reaching out from the portal. Light blurred around the edges of his form as it began to exit the darkness. A frigid wind caressed her skin in familiar patterns.
 Shannon screamed and scrambled back towards the bed. She looked at Cerberus, eyes wide, cheeks wet. Her mouth worked but she could not form any words. Cerberus smiled.
 "There's only one way out." His outstretched finger pointed to the open window.
 Shannon ran and grabbed the sill, then stopped.
 "Shannon," the voice rippled through the air and rooted her to the floor. "Please, I'm so alone."
 She spun around and looked at Cerberus. His face was fixed in a feral grin. For a moment his image wavered, and Shannon flinched away as two more heads shimmered into place, outlined by the darkness of the portal behind the guardian, each one bearing the toothy grin of a predator.
 John's shade had pushed halfway through the portal, but appeared to struggle, unable to advance further.
 "No." Shannon wiped at her cheeks, took a deep breath to steady her voice. "I won't make his mistake."
 Cerberus shrugged. His smile faded, the other heads disappeared.
 "I want to leave, to go back to the hotel."
 Cerberus turned to glare at John. The phantom let loose a howl that brought Shannon to her knees, hands clutched over her ears. When she looked up, the shade was gone. Only an empty darkness remained, the sound of lapping water echoing into the room. The door swung closed.
 Shannon walked past Cerberus and pulled the portal open. The hallway had returned. She hurried out and down the hall to her room. Cerberus resumed his seat and the door slid closed.

 Cerberus leaned back in his chair and eyed the tape player, which rested on the table. He pushed the play button and lifted his glass to his lips. The easy listening trickled out. He smiled.