"You seem troubled." Old Joe remarked as he sat himself down in his red armchair out on the porch, next to where I was having a late lunch. "Didn't find what you were looking for?"
"You could say that." I admitted before taking a half-hearted bite of my sandwich, the toasted slices of bread crunching between my teeth. I could hardly taste the butter I had melted into the bread. Ever since I had returned from my search for Tyler Freeborn, I felt as if I were weighed down by the knowledge that all the effort put into saving this place were for nothing, the knowledge that I was currently speaking to a dead man walking.
However, the only choice I had left was to move forward and finish doing damage control, so that was what I did. Stuffing the last corner of my sandwich into my mouth, I finished consuming it before asking, "I don't suppose you remember something from your people's mythology that could help us?"
"I don't, but the land itself does, and memories can be made images. With our magic, harvested from the earth, we can bring those memories forth, live them again, see what our ancestors saw. As real as a waking dream."
"That sounds great!" I said as I sat up in my white plastic lawn chair. "When can we get started?"
"Right now." Old Joe said, smiling as he put a little bit of what appeared to be ordinary tobacco into an old wooden pipe that looked like it could've belonged to his pre-colonial ancestors.
"The tobacco in my pipe is a special kind that only grows here on the island. I'm sure those Hollywood types would love to get their hands on this recipe." Old Joe said as he lit the pipe, and sweet-smelling smoke in shades of blue and pink wafted into my nostrils — nothing like the foul air that comes from cigarettes. "Now then. Breath. Close your eyes. Raise the anchor of your soul and let your mind drift out into the great ocean."
Settling myself into my chair, I closed my eyes and inhaled. In the darkness, the smoke made its way through my nasal cavities, and by reflex, I exhaled sharply through my nostrils, forcing it out. I then reminded myself that I needed to let this stuff inside in order to find the leads I was looking for, but the paranoid parts of me urged me not to let the foreign filth inside.
"You really do have trouble letting go, don't you?" The voice of Old Joe sounded in the darkness.
"Sorry, but lately, my experiences with voices that want me to 'let my mind drift out into the great ocean' haven't been great."
"Your spirit wants this. My voice will be your guide through the memories. Listen to it. Let me be your anchor to this place, and you won't get lost. I'll pull you back when you've seen what there is to see." Old Joe said reassuringly, and my body began to relax, releasing tension that I had no idea I had.
"Don't worry. I've done this before. At least once. Or maybe I haven't. My memories are not as vivid as the Earth's."
"Not encouraging, Joe."
I got the feeling that Old Joe had just rolled his eyes at me, though I couldn't know for certain, given that my eyes were closed. "It was back in the days of our forefathers, many, many lifetimes ago that our land was invaded by an army of darkness from the distant south…"
As he spoke, I could feel myself slipping away from consciousness, losing the ability to focus on anything but Old Joe's words and the incense-like smell from his pipe. Then Old Joe's voice and the sweet smell of his pipe began to fade away, as if I were growing more distant from him. I suddenly became aware of the ground beneath my feet, and I opened my eyes to find myself standing in a Wabanaki village.
Wooden longhouses stood around a central bonfire, whose bright orange flames were beginning to dim, but beyond the center of the village, the ruins of those unfortunate enough to be at the edges still smoldered.
I looked down at myself as I walked, a movement not of my own volition, and I was reminded of my vision of Sarah back in London as I saw a bare-chested, muscular body that wasn't mine. In my callused hand was a bow, and dangling from my waist was a tomahawk.
At the borders of the village were low wooden palisades made of sharpened sticks embedded into the ground. Several Wabanaki warriors stood guard at the entrance of the village, waiting for whoever was attacking them to show up again.
The brave I was inhabiting then paused in his steps as we both heard the sounds of a large group of people coming our way, and he pulled out an arrow from my quiver. As the brave nocked the arrow to the bowstring, I spotted something that I thought only existed in the past and in history books, much less on the shores of Solomon Island.
Bare feet stomped hard on the ground as a war party of loincloth-clad warriors charged the entrance of the Wabanaki village, waving around macuahuitl — wooden swords with obsidian blades. They wore elaborate skull masks adorned with carvings and brightly-colored feathers, and their eyes blazed with a warrior's fury as they engaged the Wabanaki guards.
As the brave drew his bow up to his chin, I then heard the voice of Old Joe coming from everywhere and nowhere at once over the sounds of the fighting, as if he were doing a voiceover for Wabanaki Hallucinations: The Video Game.
"They came in terrible ships, riding creatures of nightmares, wielding powerful black magic. We know them now as Mayans, but our ancestors saw them only as masked demons from a hellish place…
"Our tribe was outnumbered and stood no chance against the invaders. Many warriors lost their lives in the first battle, and the second battles was sure to destroy us all and leave the mountains unprotected."
To my surprise, the arrow began to glow as the brave infused it with anima. Picking his target, the brave then released the arrow, and as the tip of the arrow embedded itself into an unlucky Mayan's head, it then exploded, taking out the rest of the Mayans as if they had been caught in the kill radius of a grenade.
Bringing out another arrow and nocking it to his bow, the brave then left the relative safety of the village, apparently intent on bringing the fight to the Mayans. However, his mission hit a tiny little speed bump in the form of a Big Bad Wolf wanting to maul his face off.
In a seriously clutch move, though, the brave dropped into a slide, the hound sailing over his head harmlessly. Getting up onto his feet, the brave launched his arrow right into where the sun don't shine on the Big Bad Wolf. The ensuing explosion resulted in the entirety of the hound's hindquarters being blown into tiny black bits, making me wish that my own magical projectiles could do that.
The brave then went on his way as if nothing happened, but I could feel the increase of speed in his heart rate, and hear the heaviness of his breathing. Still, he nocked another arrow to his bowstring and continued on his way. As he reached a cliff overlooking the seashore, he saw a sight that gave both of us pause.
Burning longships were beached on the shore as the two surviving Vikings fought for their lives against a masked Mayan magus. Seriously — Native Americans and Vikings versus Mayans and monsters. I couldn't make this stuff up even if I tried, guys.
Several rocks levitated around the magus for both protection and ammunition, as was seen when one of the Viking warriors charged the magus with his axe, only to be speared through the heart by the several shards of rock that came flying at him like machine gun fire. The brave and I watched as his blood seeped into the sand, staining it crimson.
The brave knew what he had to do, and so drawing his bowstring again, he aimed from above — the only place not covered by the Mayan's rocks. As the arrow reached full charge, it was let loose. Both the brave and I watched as the arrow flew, but unfortunately, a passing stone intercepted the arrow, taking the brunt of the explosion. However, the ear-ringing blast disoriented the Mayan, and that was all it took for the last Viking to finish the job.
With a battle cry, the last Viking raced towards the Mayan, furry boots kicking up the white sand of the beach as he leapt onto one of the still-floating rocks left untouched by the initial explosion. The brave's eyes widened as the Viking's hammer began to crackle with electricity, and as it made contact with the Mayan's skull, it both crushed and electrocuted.
As the Mayan fell dead, the Viking then looked up at the brave, and nodded in acknowledgement of what he had done. He then pointed towards the end of the beach with his hammer, and the brave nodded as Old Joe spoke again.
"With the blessings of our ancestors and theirs, with the power of all our rites and rituals, along with those of the Vikings, with every man and every woman standing tall with a weapon in their hands, we were ready. Time was short, and the darkness had to be stopped by club, by spear, by swords, and by magic.
As the Viking and the brave met at the foot of a hill, I managed to get a better look at the Viking. He had a handsome bearded face, and red hair peeked out from beneath his hornless helmet. A round, wooden shield rested against his leg, and in one hand, he held a hammer, and in the other, he held a metal axe, taken from one of his fallen comrades. He offered the axe to the brave, who took it and gave it a few preliminary swings.
I could feel how he liked the weight of the weapon, and the brave glanced down at the chipped stone blade of his tomahawk. He then grinned his thanks at the Viking, who nodded as he picked up his shield and jerked his head towards the top of the hill, where a figure stood in front of a pillar of light that reached up into the sky.
As the Viking and brave reached the peak of the hill, they found that it was the Wabanaki's medicine man, covered in blood from having fought alongside the rest of the tribe. As he spoke, he gestured with his hands for the Viking's benefit.
"You cannot continue alone. The forest is flooded with blackness — blackness wept from the wound in the mountain. I have spoken to the earth. I asked it to guide you across the danger. Walk into its golden light now."
The brave then turned towards the Viking, who nodded. They strode purposefully towards the light, letting it swallow them up and turn their vision white. As they left the light, they saw both Viking and Wabanaki fighting fiercely against the Mayan invaders, and in the distance, explosions of light flashed and sounded amidst the din of battle as a monstrous roar shook the entire world.
The brave and Viking turned to face each other again, and both of them nodded at each other before bracing themselves for battle. From there, all I could think about was where I could get buttery popcorn inside a Wabanaki brave's head.
Mayan limbs were hacked off, heads were smashed against trees, and lightning from the Viking's hammer fried enemy warriors, giving off the smell of burnt flesh. The brave cried out a savage noise as he smashed the knee of one of the Mayans with his new axe, and his enemy's scream of pain was turned into a choking gurgle as the axe bit into his throat.
Meanwhile, I caught only glimpses of the Viking, but each glimpse was something to behold. From what I could see, he had been bashing Mayans left and right with his shield, knocking them into trees before turning their heads into a scorched paste with one swing of his electrified hammer.
More of the Big Bad Wolves arrived to reinforce the Mayans, but if anything, it only spurred the Wabanaki and their Viking allies to fight harder. It seemed as if the earth's energy had invigorated the two warriors to the point that they were less mortal, and more like something straight out of Monty Oum's work. All the while, Old Joe's voice narrated the battle, coming from every tree, rock, and corpse around me.
"Even with the Norsemen on our side, the battle was hard, and the Mayans crept ever closer to the summit and to the gateway in the hills, the gateway that had long been guarded by our people. It was the place of whispers, our tribe knew, and anyone who came too close was poisoned.
"The enemy knew this as well, but they craved the poison. They sought it, they worshipped it, and for this reason, they could not be allowed close."
Finally, the brave and the Viking made it through the horde of Mayans to reach a cliff. Beyond them was the void of space, the planets, stars, and asteroids filtered red like an Instagram photo. Below them, however, on another cliff, was a monster — the biggest I had ever seen.
Bat-like wings that could blot out the sky unfurled themselves as many glowing eyes stared down its opponent. Wicked sharp tusks gleamed in the fading light as a tail the size of a bus whipped through the air, the monster's furry, muscular body tensing up in anticipation. Tongues tasted the air as the monster spoke, in a language that made every orifice seem to want to bleed. "I am Wayeb-Xul! The Hound of Nameless Days! You cannot defeat me! Even with that sword!"
With a shock, I stared down at the Viking facing off against Wayeb-Xul. He wore a wolf pelt atop his head, but it wasn't his fashion sense that caught my attention — it was his weapon. Specifically, the same weapon I was stabbed by not even twenty-four hours ago. In response to his opponent's boast, King Viking hefted his blade before charging at the beast.
A rustle was heard, and the brave looked to see that the first Viking had leapt off the cliff to help his comrade. As his friend charged the demon's blindspot, the brave brought his bow again to provide fire support for the Vikings. Wayeb-Xul roared as its hide was struck by one of the brave's exploding arrows, but that didn't stop it from trying to gore the Vikings with its tusks and swiping at them with its razor sharp claws.
The two Vikings and the Wabanaki brave made a formidable team: King Viking with Excalibur, the brave with his arrows, and the Viking with crackling lightning sent down by Thor himself. However, the three warriors were exhausted from their previous battles, while their quarry was fresh, and this fact showed during their repeated trading of blows.
The Viking was sent flying back by the monster's tail as his shield broke into splinters, and the King Viking had no time to charge up his sword with the pressure Wayeb-Xul placed on him. The brave was down to the last arrow in his quiver, and it was already being pulled back. He had to make sure this last shot counted — lives depended on this final shot.
King Viking grunted as he was pushed back by Wayeb-Xul's blow, and having dug his heels into the ground, they created tiny ravines that stretched for a good dozen yards. Wayeb-Xul then turned its baleful eyes on the brave just as he released his arrow.
The demon screamed as it clawed at the bloody eye sockets blown to bits by the brave's arrow. The brave drew his new axe, and with a battle cry, he leapt into the melee, intent on finishing the war once and for all. As the bloodied face of Wayeb-Xul opened its many-tongued mouth, my vision then cut to black, and I blinked in surprise as I found myself back in the plastic lawn chair.
On the steps of Old Joe's porch stood Priscilla, who smiled as I blinked again to make sure I still wasn't seeing things. "Hey there. Miss me?"
How kind of you to return to the world of consciousness. As much as it's commendable to participate in local customs, perhaps you could choose not to inhale next time. Under current circumstances, if you go incommunicado again we must assume the worst. Don't make us assume the worst.
R. Sonnac