Special Edition Author's Note
GwF: Here I am with Tartarus Rising chapter 21. Magnus, you have a question?
Magnus: Yes. When will my magnificent self make an appearance in this story?
Sarah: We'll see your "evil sorcerer" self and your "total jerk" self shortly, but your "magnificent" self? I don't think he'll show up at all.
GwF: Be nice, you guys—wait, what did he do to you?
Sarah: He didn't do anything to me.
Magnus: You'll find out soon enough, GwF darling!
Sarah: *rolls eyes* No remorse, I see.
GwF: Please note, the story Ron tells in this chapter (that he learned from Grandma Watters) can be found in the Book of the Hopi by Frank Watters (Ballantine Books, 1963). It's a high-quality book, generally agreed to be accurate. However, like any other nation, the Hopi have several different creation/origin stories that sometimes contradict each other (this is common in many religions—the Judeo-Christian Book of Genesis actually contains two different creation narratives). That said, not all Hopis believe this is how they settled their land.
The Bible quotation is from the New American Bible, Catholic version (1970).
I was a little worried that some people would be offended that Kokopelli, a Hopi kachina, appears in the same story as Greek gods and mutant bird kids. I tried to make it really obvious that Kokopelli functions on a higher plane than the other beings in the story, to give him a spiritual vibe. Then again, Muse magazine (great magazine BTW) features a comic strip called Kokopelli & Company, which portrays Kokopelli as a pie-throwing practical jokester, and to the best of my knowledge no one was offended by that. Anyway, if you think I should edit Kokopelli out of the story, please let me know with a (polite) review. Thank you!
P.S. On an entirely different note, the song Ron uses to annoy people is "Girlfriend" by Avril Lavigne.
XVII. Qöyangnuptu.
When we got home, we shoved the three boxes of pizza we'd been sent home with into the fridge, then went into Marissa's room to wish her good night. George was sitting at her bedside. She looked really uncomfortable.
"Did you kids have a good time at Allyson's?" she croaked.
"I had a great time," Amy stated. "Not sure about them."
"Ron and I were party animals," said Sarah facetiously. "We made eye contact and spoke when we were spoken to." Amy rolled her eyes.
...
"So, sis," I asked as we brushed our teeth, "you wanna finish what you were saying about the elusive Mr. F?"
"In the morning, little brother. It's nothing to talk about before you go to sleep, trust me."
"Tomorrow morning, then. Don't forget. I want the truth. And there's some stuff I need to tell you about, too."
"Ok, Ron. Sleep well tonight."
"You too, Sarah."
...
I checked my email that night and was surprised to find nothing from Calvin.
That was strange. Since his arrival in New York was fast approaching, we'd been feverishly trying to get him some living arrangements. Where could he stay?
I realized that I hadn't spoken to him in over a week.
So I sent a brief email to him right away. Then I tried to connect with him via Skype. Connection failed. Curses. As Calvin would say: "Zounds! The Gorkon battleships are upon us!"
Gorkon battleships could be a) the police, b) Russian mobsters who get paid to hack American computers, c) the Amish family who didn't know he was living in the loft of their barn, or d) Fang. We also occasionally referred to Fang as The Hideous Scum Being from Planet Zark-14.
I thought I might get a clue from The Hideous Scum Being's blog, so I went over to check it out.
Fang hadn't written for five days. That was odd, too. Fang usually wrote every day—not that I checked every day, but I saw the date on each of the posts I read.
According to the last one he had landed in New York with his "gang" of new mutant friends.
Hey all,
Ah, New York, New York! Long time, no see. Despite getting nearly killed by Erasers about a thousand times here, I still love this place.
Right now we're all holed up in a hotel. Star went through about seven pizzas (I had five). Everyone's ok, but a bit exhausted.
For the past three hours I've been trying every means possible to contact Sarah Blackwood, but she's not on Skype, Facebook or any other social network. I don't know her email, and since Nudge isn't here, I can't hack into her computer. There's a George Blackwood in New York who I figure is the uncle she stays with now. But when I called his number (twice) this very unpleasant preteen boy answered to tell me that the Blackwood family was now off the grid (which was a lie).
Believe it or not, this "very unpleasant preteen boy" was not me. I remembered five days previous the phone had rung at about 4:00 pm. I'd been blogging about the new Star Trek movie in my room, Amy was practicing her drums in the basement, George was at the gym and obviously Marissa couldn't get up, so Sarah dropped what she was doing (writing a letter to the President about the Canadian oil rig) to answer.
"Hello?" she'd said. "Oh. Well, my name is Doug Wilkins. My family and I live in this house now. We just moved up from Georgia. The Blackwoods used to live here, but they're off the grid now. I think they moved to Alaska to live with the caribou like the guy in Never Cry Wolf. Oh. It's a great old movie about this scientist who lives with caribou and wolves. Maybe you should watch it. Yes, if you want to talk to Sarah Blackwood I recommend you go to Alaska. I'm sure you are. Yes, I saw that Dateline. You're a fantastic actor. Oh, it's real? Well, uh, yeah, have a nice day." And she hung up.
It happened again two days ago.
That was the first time I'd heard her be anything less than impeccably courteous, let alone dishonest, on the phone. When I asked her about it, she said it was Mitt Romney's campaign asking for money. I'd shot back that it was odd that Mitt Romney's campaign wanted money from us when both George and Marissa were registered democrats. She'd just shrugged.
The truth made a lot more sense. I didn't want to know how Fang discovered we were still on the grid, but it was pretty funny that he fell for the Doug Wilkins thing.
Anyway. Back to Fang's blog:
Also, Max II hasn't shown up yet. I hope she's ok.
So Max II, if you're reading this: PLEASE COME NOW. We don't have much time to waste.
And Sarah, if you're reading this (which I sincerely hope you are): PLEASE LET ME KNOW BECAUSE I'M GETTING WORRIED ABOUT YOU. I'm starting to wonder if this Doug Wilkins kid who answered the phone killed you and your family. Please tell me that's not true. [Stop snickering, Holden. My heart belongs to Max. I am not—I repeat, AM NOT—romantically interested in Sarah]. You are an important part of this plan. You can post a comment or video on my blog to contact me.
Both of you: meet me and the gang at the base of the Statue of Liberty. From there we can exchange info and launch our plan of action. That's all I can tell you right now. You have to trust me.
I'm also kind of mad right now because we are apparently being tracked. I know this because I used the bathroom in here and I slipped on these noodles that were sitting by the door. Then I slipped on some noodles coming downstairs to the pool. And then I slipped on some noodles on the way out of the elevator [stop laughing, Ratchet].
All the noodles were greenish colored and smelled like they'd been dug from the bottom of a trash bin. I should mention that a certain hater on this blog (someone going under the username of TheIcyBlueHandOfDeath1986) keeps threatening to cause a "noodle incident." I guess this is what he meant. Icy Blue Hand of Death, will you and your friend Jorblack please tell me why you hate on me and what exactly you want? If it turns out you're agents of Itex, I will not be happy. While you're at it, post paranoid rants about the government on your own blogs—I don't need that kind of thing here. And stop threatening to feed me, my Flock, my gang and my fans to wild Zondargs. I don't know what that means but I don't like the sound of it. Thank you.
Fly on,
Fang
There are 330 comments on this post
TheIcyBlueHandOfDeath1986 wrote: 3 days ago
WILD ZONDARGS should be in all caps. The WILD ZONDARGS must be paid every respect. As for the noodles: MWAH-HA-HA-HA-HA!
Fangs#1Girl wrote: 3 days ago
TheIcyBlueHandOfDeath1986 stop being such a jerk! You and Jorblack should go hang yourselves! How dare you be so mean to Fang! Go away! We all hate you here!
I won't trespass on your patience by showing all the comments like this. That's the kind of abuse Calvin and I put up with on a daily basis from the Fang Girls.
You ask, if we got cyberbullied, why didn't we just quit? Because we felt we had a responsibility to show these poor dumb kids Fang's true nature. And we wanted to start a fight. Not necessarily in that order.
I signed in and posted a comment:
Jorblack the Torchbearer wrote: 20 seconds ago
Ladies and gents, let's talk about this in a civilized manner. We do not mean to offend you. However the fact remains that Fang is a traitor, a liar, a charlatan, and a thief. Visit .com or .com for more information.
But what had happened to Calvin?
Tomorrow I'd look into it.
...
I pulled on a ratty t-shirt (that is, rattier than the one I was already wearing) and an equally ratty pair of shorts, and climbed into bed. Tonight, for some inexplicable reason, I actually wanted to sleep.
What could I read to lull myself to sleep?
I thought of finishing Julius Caesar, but decided on the Bible instead. There was something in there I wanted to look up.
There was no index, but since the passage I wanted was right near the beginning in the Book of Genesis, I didn't have to hunt very long.
Origin of the Nephilim . When men began to multiply on earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of heaven saw how beautiful the daughters of man were, and so they took for their wives as many of them as they chose. Then the Lord said: "My spirit shall not remain in man forever, since he is but flesh. His days shall comprise one hundred and twenty years."
At that time as well as later the Nephilim appeared on earth (as well as later)…They were the heroes of old, the men of renown.
Jace's story didn't quite jive with this. He said the Nephilim were people who drank angel blood. The Bible said the Nephilim were the natural-born offspring of male angels and human women, not unlike Greco-Roman demigods. Either could be right and either could be wrong.
My yawn nearly spilt my head in half.
...
The Hopi (at least the group that my maternal grandparents came from) believe that there are nine worlds. One is the world of Taiowa, the Creator, which encompasses all the other worlds and then some more. The second is the home of Sótuknang, Taiowa's Nephew, the Destroyer.
The remaining seven are allotted to humans. We live now in the Fourth, and there are three left should this one be destroyed.
It was intended by Taiowa that humans only need one world, but in all the previous worlds we lost touch with him, so those worlds needed to be destroyed to give us a fresh start. Tokpela ("Endless Space"), the First World, became corrupted by lust and was ended by fire. Tokpa ("Dark Midnight"), the Second World, became greedy and was frozen to death. Kuskurza (meaning of name has been lost), the Third World, saw the invention of prostitution and weapons of mass destruction, and it was drowned. In each world Sótuknang saved the good people; they survived to populate the subsequent worlds.
This Fourth World is named Túwaqachi ("world complete"). According to some, there have been warnings for decades that the Apocalypse (and the Fifth World, for the chosen of God) is soon upon us.
When the righteous arose into the Fourth World to settle and populate it, each group followed a different star, and settled under where the star rested.
The people who would become the Hopi had to climb a tall mountain to reach the place set aside for them. Accompanying them were two máhus—insect people resembling the locust.
An eagle met them at the mountaintop. "Have you lived here for a long time?" asked one of the máhus, speaking for all of them.
"I have lived here since this Fourth World was created," the eagle replied.
"We have travelled a long time to reach this place," continued the máhu. "May we share it with you?"
"Perhaps," said the eagle. "But first I must test you."
Now they could see he held a cluster of arrows in his talons.
At his command, the two máhus stepped closer. The eagle turned to one and said, "I'll poke your eyes with this arrow. If you keep your eyes open, you and your fellow travelers may settle here."
The arrow came so close it almost touched the eyeball, but the máhu didn't even blink.
"You are a people of great strength," the eagle remarked. "But the second test is much harder. I don't think you can pass it."
"We are ready," replied the máhus.
The eagle drew out a bow and put an arrow to the string. He shot one máhu through the body. With an arrow protruding from one side of his torso, the máhu lifted the flute he'd been carrying and started playing a lovely tune.
"You are more powerful than I expected," observed the eagle. He shot the other máhu, whojust grabbed his own flute and played along with his comrade. Their music was so beautiful it healed their wounds.
The eagle honored his agreement. In addition to letting the people occupy his land, he let them use his feather in prayer ceremonies. Because he was the greatest of all birds, the conqueror of the sky, he could take their prayers directly to the Creator.
One of the máhus was called Kokopelli, the Humpbacked Flute Player. He carried seeds and flowers (and sometimes babies) in the hump on his back; he brought springtime warmth in the music he played. When some of the people migrated north he went with them, scattering seeds and singing on his way.
...
In my nightmare, I was trapped in a crate in a white room full of people with white lab coats and surgical masks. One of them stuck a needle into my arm, and I crumpled to the bottom of my crate, all thoughts and perceptions shattered.
...
I woke sitting bolt-upright, panting, sweating. Hopi slept in the crook of my arm. When I moved, he raised his head, drowsily blinking his yellow eyes.
"Hey, buddy," I murmured. "S'ok."
All attempts to fall back to sleep failed. For what seemed like years I lay awake, mulling over everything that had happened since the fire in January. At about 2:35 am I got up, sick of how the blankets clung to me.
Splashing some cold water on my face, I caught my reflection in the mirror above my bathroom sink (yes, my bathroom. This house was so big every bedroom had its own adjoining bathroom). Those pimples looked terribly determined. My hair was so long now that it got really frizzy if I didn't tie it back at night. I staggered out of the bathroom running a brush absently through my bangs.
I opened the curtains. Now was the time the Hopi called qöyangnuptu, the first purple light of dawn, the first phase of Creation. Central Park was a cluster of darkness. Artificial light glinted from millions of skyscraper windows.
Everything looked normal.
But something was missing that I couldn't put my finger on.
Then it hit me. I heard no cars rushing by, no rap music blaring from a sidewalk radio, no gunshots or police sirens, no mutter of endless crowds.
One of the things I hated most about this city was the constant noise, even at the dead of night. I know I've complained about it at length before, so I won't waste your time with it again.
But now it was as quiet as my true home in Arizona.
What could this mean? Was it that catastrophe I'd been holding my breath for? What did I do now? Was I supposed to act? Or wait and see what happened?
Closing my eyes, I said a quick prayer under my breath, picturing myself writing the request on a little slip of paper with an eagle-quill pen, and an eagle swooping down to take pen and paper up through the sky to the Creator.
Suddenly, subtly, the eerie quiet was pierced by music: the sweet tones of a flute…a Native flute. I didn't recognize the tune; it was sad and hopeful and peaceful and wild all at once. It came from far away but was startlingly clear. Somehow I knew I was the only person who could hear it.
The flute stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and a voice began to sing, similar enough to a human voice that you would assume it was human unless you listened very hard. Its tone reminded me of a cicada or cricket. The melody it sang was the same as the one the flute had played. Paying close attention to the lyrics, I was able to identify it:
"Ki-tana-po, ki-tana-po, ki-tana-po, ki-tana-PO !
Ai-na, ki-na-weh, ki-na-weh
Chi-li li-cha, chi-li li-cha
Don-ka-va-ki, mas-i-ki-va-ki
Ki-ve, ki-ve-na-meh
HOPET !"
Grandpa Watters had sung me this song, long ago, when I asked what those first Hopi would have heard as they travelled. It was Kokopelli's song. To this day the Kokopelli kachina sang it when he danced. Although the music and lyrics and been preserved from time immemorial, the words were so old that no one now living knew what they meant.
My mother was not what you'd call a religious woman. She read her Gospels devotedly, but (as Sarah told you earlier) saw angels and demons and that type of thing as a distraction. Although Mom denied this profusely, she was not over-fond of Hopi religion either, and Grandma and Grandpa telling Sarah and me these stories made her kind of nervous. I never knew why. I just got the impression these subjects were unpleasant for her. Maybe her scientific mind had a hard time accepting all this faith stuff, but then, it didn't bother Dad. At any rate, I'd always maintained some skepticism about stories like the one I told you a couple pages back.
But I knew in my gut that Kokopelli was out there. He was in Manhattan, far from Hopi territory.
And Manhattan was silent.
...
Driven without certainty of why, I went back to the bathroom and took a quick shower. Refreshed, I put on a clean pair of socks and pulled cargo shorts over the boxers I slept in. I threw on a worn t-shirt that didn't smell as bad as the others. I twisted some hair into a skinny braid.
Hopi watched me dress, his furry grey eyelids half-drooped. "I know, I know," I told him. "I've lost my mind at last, haven't I, old friend?"
He just yawned and stretched in response. His facial expression gave away none of his thoughts. Cats. Who knows what goes on in their heads.
My gut told me that if I followed Kokopelli, I might not come back for a while. So I went downstairs to the kitchen.
Allyson had ordered something like a hundred pizzas to feed all the guests at her party. Each Simonetta took home three pies.
I grabbed a big Ziploc bag and stuffed twelve slices into it. The pizza's smell was intoxicating, even after a night in the fridge. I breathed it in with a deep sigh of pleasure.
Mom made pizza sometimes—but she always put vegetables or something "healthy" on it. We only got meat toppings back when we had roosters, or when one of the hens got too old to lay eggs.
Having progressive parents has many perks, but it has many drawbacks too: you grow up thinking that a) everyone listens to John Coltrane and b) everyone eats way too much tofu.
Anyway.
I am not the world's quietest person. I sounded like an elephant clomping up and down those stairs. The refrigerator door was loud. The fridge itself made a highly irritating buzzing noise when it was open and a highly irritating clucking noise when it was shut.
Being such a light sleeper, if I heard such a commotion from the kitchen at 2:45 am I would not have any peace of mind till I got up to investigate.
Yet not a creature was stirring—not even a faerie mouse, a demigod mouse, a djinn mouse, a Nephilim mouse, or a genetically-modified mutant mouse.
What happened last night?
Leaving the bag of pizza on the counter, I ran back upstairs.
...
George and Marissa slept with their door shut, but not locked. I nudged it open cautiously and peeked inside. The dawn was turning yellow (síkangnuqua in Hopi; the second phase of Creation, when man received the breath of life). Between the light and shadow I could only see their outlines. George snores like a chainsaw with a whiskey habit. So did Dad, and so does Sarah. Luckily the snore gene seems to have passed me by.
I shook them and called their names. They didn't wake. I flicked the lights on and off. I jumped on the bed. I banged pots and pans. None of it worked. Why?
Finally I crept into Amy's room. She was dead asleep too. If my plan succeeded it wake up everyone for miles, so I didn't bother trying to wake her.
I took her iPod and iPod dock into the master bedroom. I plugged it into one of the outlets. I selected the most painful, obnoxious song she had (which was saying something) and cranked the volume as loud as it would go. You could wake the dead with this piece of audio garbage.
"Hey! Hey! You! You! I don't like your girlfriend!
No way! No way! I think you need a new one!
Hey! Hey! You! You! I could be your girlfriend!
"Hey! Hey! You! You! I know that you like me!
No way! No way! I know it's not a secret!
Hey! Hey! You! You! I could be your girlfriend!"
My aunt and uncle did not stir, which was starting to freak me out. Clearly they were alive—dead people don't snore—so what was going on?
Maybe I would've figured it out sooner if I hadn't been once again jumping on the bed whacking a saucepan with a soup ladle harmonizing with Avril Lavigne at the top of my prepubescent lungs.
A scary blob of color surfaced in the corner of my eye. The creature wore a pastel pink camisole and matching tiny shorts. Its skin was horribly pale, its scarlet hair mussed. Turquoise and black eye paint had bled all over its perpetually angry face.
"Might I ask what in God's name you think you're doing?" it growled at me.
She was awake now, at any rate. There might still be hope for the others. It hit me just how stupid I must look, so I climbed off the bed.
"Trying to wake your parents," I replied.
Amy muttered something that sounded like "That man is not my father."
"Beg pardon?"
"I said, why are you trying to wake them at this hour?" she snapped.
"Hmm…maybe because the streets outside are dead silent and I want to know what's happening but they won't wake up and Kokopelli's out there and I gotta go find him and—"
I doubt Amy heard a word of that. She marched past me, turned off the music, and unplugged the iPod dock. Balancing it on one hip with the iPod itself in a clenched fist, she pointed at me and said threateningly, "My stuff, freak. Got that? This is my stuff. Don't ever touch it again."
With that she stalked out of the room.
...
Once again the house was silent.
Once again I heard him playing his flute, singing in his locust voice.
I'd better get moving.
I crept into Sarah's room. Her snoring isn't quite as bad as George's or Dad's, but I get the feeling it's a bit abnormal for a young girl like her to sound so bearlike.
I shook her. "Listen, sis," I whispered. "Kokopelli's outside. I think we should go meet him."
All the response I got was another snore.
"Well, I'm going, at any rate."
Amy had waked up, but Sarah hadn't. Most intriguing.
Just as I turned to leave she shouted, "Ron!"
She was awake! "Yes? "
"Don't go near the Beaver, Ron. It won't tell you where the gold is. It won't save our farm. It won't save us. The Beaver knows, Ron. The Beaver knows everything." There was more, but her snoring drowned it out.
She talks in her sleep too, sometimes. She got that from Mom.
"Right then, sis," I muttered, and ran downstairs.