Wanderers from the Weird Side

(August 15-16, 2017)

10: A Place in the Woods

From Alfheim to Zarzusa, all across the globe, you will find legendary Places of Power. In these spots, eldritch forces gather, and for all any of us know, dance to rave music, play Truth or Dare, and bake brownies. Or maybe they do other stuff, like punching holes in reality, creating portals to infinite worlds, or powering monstrous beings.

Some say that these scattered and concealed locations are linked by invisible channels of paranormal power called ley lines. These are absolutely straight (yeah, the world's an oblate spheroid, but still) and link all of the Earth's centers of paranormality. You could conceivably instantly travel from Gravity Falls to Camelot, taking the ley of least resistance.

Or maybe you'd just disintegrate, or maybe project yourself to a realm where only two dimensions exist, and you'd wind up as a geometrical shape that others could perceive only as a straight line. Even if you're a circle. Conceivably, you could materialize to near a supernova, and that would end your trip real fast, wouldn't it?

On the other hand, you might just want to use the power thrumming through the ley lines to recharge the waning powers of fading apparitions.

That's what Stanford thought, anyway.

"Uh," Dipper said, "is that what we want to do?"

"You and I should decide that," Stanford said. "It's too painful for your sister. And Wendy is too protective of you. I'm afraid that you and I are the ones who must determine the course of action."

"I don't want to put Wendy in danger," Dipper insisted. "Or Mabel."

"I'd say that our best chance of avoiding that is to find out why these creatures are in need. They fear they're on the verge of death. When Bill Cipher is no longer even partially in the Mindscape, they might indeed fade out of existence. I surmise that they are drawing on the remnants of his power. If we can give them access to just enough power, we might allow them to communicate with us without taking full physical form." He yawned. It was nearly midnight, and Ford had experimented with possible alternate ways of communicating with the false Wendy or Xyler and Craz or—last resort—Dippy Fresh.

None worked out.

"That seems risky, but if you think it has a chance, let's try it," Dipper said.

"I understand your point," Ford said. "I wouldn't ask you to put yourself in unnecessary danger. I'll let you know how it turns out."

Dipper began, "We'll have to—wait, what? I'm going with you!"

Ford shook his head. "Mason, the simulacrum of yourself that Mabel created is mortally dangerous to you, but not to me. I won't run the risk of your being touched by him. Who knows? The creatures may want annihilation—a quick end, as opposed to wasting away."

"You just said it. No one knows that, not even you," Dipper said. "And it might be as dangerous to you as it is to us. You need backup."

Firmly, Stanford insisted, "I plan to go armed."

"Grunkle Ford, there are four of them who might attack simultaneously. And since they think they're dying already, you can't scare them. I'm sorry, I'm coming along. You can't keep me from being there for you."

Stanford leaned back in his chair, took off his spectacles, and polished them with a handkerchief for a long time. Finally, very softly, he said, "Mason, I'm not like Stanley. I—I'm not a hugger."

Dipper laughed. "Neither is he," he said. "He might give me noogies if somehow I've impressed him, but about the only hugs I've had from him were group ones—when Soos, Wendy, and Mabel pin him down so I can get in there."

Ford nodded and for a long time remained silent. Dipper decided he would wait his great-uncle out. When Ford did speak, his hoarse tone surprised Dipper—He's on the verge of tears! "Mason—Dipper. You know, I can't remember our dad ever hugging either Stan or me. Mom sometimes, but never Dad." He sighed. "When you have children, Dipper, hug them often. Teach them to show affection. All I can say—" he put the glasses back on and honked his nose on the handkerchief—"Is that I am very, very proud of you at this moment."

"Then I go?" Dipper asked.

"Promise me that you'll obey me if I give you an order. No matter if you think I'm wrong. No matter if you think I'm under some threat. Promise me that you'll obey my orders immediately and without questioning them, promise me as man to man. Then I'll agree to let you accompany me."

Dipper said, "I—"

Ford held up a six-fingered hand to cut him off. "Hold both your hands up so I can see them," he said. "Then promise."

Dipper shook his head, but he had to grin. "Here. No crossed fingers. I promise that I'll obey any order you give me. Even if you tell me to run away while you hold them off."

"Very well," Ford said. "Then you may come with me to attempt communication with these entities."

"Why did you even think I might cross my fingers?" he asked.

"Well," Ford said with a wry smile and a shrug, "you have hung around Stanley for many years now!"

They got down to planning.. Ford had looked up the weather forecast. "It's supposed to be sunny and hot tomorrow," he said. "The forecast is for a high of 88 degrees and a low of 52. Sunrise is at 5:40 AM. I propose to leave the house here at about sunrise and walk out to the place where the effigy stood. We should arrive there no later than six in the morning. I have a portable device of Fiddleford's that I'll operate."

"What does it do?" Dipper asked.

Stanford replied slowly: "It, um, well, think of it as an energy pump. Tonight I'll have it running to charge itself up with paranormal energy. Then in the clearing, we'll reverse the pump—I'm sorry, that's not really how it works but the analogy isn't too far wrong—and make a supply of power available to the, um, constructs. If anything will let them communicate with us, that should do it."

"What are you most afraid of?" Dipper asked. "No crossed fingers, OK?"

Soberly, flatly, Stanford said, "I'm afraid without Bill Cipher to rein them in, they may run riot. I'm letting you carry a destablilizer pistol, Dipper. If it looks as if they're breaking free—if they're threatening us in any way, or if you even suspect they are, then you must shoot the device. Destroy it and you'll cut off the source of power. And even if you think I'm too close, you still have to destroy the device. We've had one Weirdmageddon. I don't want a second one to break out. Especially if it's my fault."

"OK," Dipper said. "I understand. Uh—do you want to go out right now?"

"Tempting," Ford said. "But no. We need daylight. I want you to try to get some sleep tonight."'

"I'll try," Dipper said. But he didn't promise. He couldn't promise.

Dipper and Wendy would ordinarily go for a run somewhere around seven. He wrote a quick note to her:

Dear Wendy,

I've gone with Grunkle Ford. He thinks he might have a way to let one or more of the creatures to communicate. If all goes well, I should be back by 7:30. If we're not back by then, try calling me. If you can't get an answer, then listen for my voicemail greeting. That will tell you where we are.

But be careful. Ford's scared of what might happen, and that scares me. Don't worry—we're going armed, and if we have to run, we are going to run as fast as we can (and you know I'm fast!). I love you, Wendy. Watch out for Mabel, please. If all goes well, I'll see you both tomorrow morning at breakfast, and we'll talk it out then. Wish us luck.

Love,

Dipper

There. In the morning he'd fold that and leave it on his pillow for Wendy to find. For the time being he put it beneath his phone on the bedside table, so he wouldn't forget it, and then turned in for seven hours of tossing, turning, and occasional catnaps spiced with bad dreams. Many of them featured the horrible Dippy Fresh.

At five-fifteen, Dipper got up, showered, and dressed for a hike. He tiptoed downstairs in his sock feet, carrying his hiking boots. He went out onto the family porch, with its sofa (not the old sagging, broken one, but a near lookalike that Soos had bought to replace it). Sitting there and listening to the morning songs of birds—thanks to Wendy, he recognized many species now, robins, bluebirds, thrushes—and of course the early-morning woodpeckers, he donned and tied his ankle boots. Then he sat back and gazed out into the pre-sunrise dawn, the trees blue-green shadowy shapes, the parking lot filmed with ground haze. Dew gleamed on the Shack lawn, turning it into pewter.

Around the corner of the house, he heard the family door open and Mabel, sounding irritable: "'Go on, you silly dog, and do your business!"

Quietly, Dipper left the porch and hurried down onto the driveway. He stopped just far enough away so he couldn't see the Shack. If Tripper tracked him down—

But then Dipper heard the crunch of tires on gravel from the foot of the driveway and hurried down the hill to the spot where Grunkle Ford had pulled off the highway. He climbed in. "Aren't we going to walk down the trail?" he asked.

"No, there's always the chance of someone seeing us and following. Instead, we're coming in the back way," Ford said. "I can pull off the highway in about three miles, and then we'll find our way through the forest. I used to explore that area fairly often—for one thing, it was a place where I could encounter Gnomes. Anyway, I know a good spot where we can cross Cold Creek and keep our feet dry, and then it's just up the hill a short way to the effigy clearing." After a moment, he semi-apologized: "It's a little more complicated, but really as I said, I thought it best to avoid the house. Someone would be bound to wake up."

Like Tripper, with his keen doggy sense of danger, and so Mabel, too, would wake up. In fact the two of them had, and it was possible that Tripper had picked up on his worry and tension and didn't just need to go water the lawn. Dipper nodded. "If any of the what-do-you-call-thems, the constructs, show up, I hope they're not hostile," he said.

"I prefer to avoid violence myself," Ford said, "Your destabilizer pistol is under the front seat."

Dipper leaned over and found it. He made sure the safety was engaged and then checked to see whether it was powered. The ladder of green ovals lit one at a time, bottom up to top. Full charge. He leaned back, straightened his right leg, and managed to tuck the weapon into the waistband of his jeans.

"Here we are," Ford said. He drove onto the grassy shoulder near the crest of a hill, where the road behind stretched clear for maybe half a mile and the uphill run they could see reached maybe another quarter of a mile ahead. There wasn't much traffic up here. Few farms, one or two small-time places that sold vegetables, pork, and firewood, in season. Once four big sawmills had snarled and roared and rattled out planks a little farther along, but now they were silent, the buzz saws rusted in place. Exploring with Wendy, Dipper had seen beautiful round-topped hills like narrow pyramids, brilliant green with Irish moss.

They weren't hills, though, but enormous piles of decaying sawdust, the moss breaking them down a little at a time, consuming them like a slow emerald fire. Wendy had told him stories about such places. "They say that sometimes when the sawdust was fresh, kids would come into the woods and play on them. Three or four times, they dug tunnels and caves into the piles. And then the sawdust collapsed on them and suffocated them and sometimes the kids just disappeared. Went into the woods, never came out. Sometimes searchers found their bodies and sometimes not. Some of these pretty green hills just might be tombs. Treat them with respect."

Down a long hill, and there was Cold Creek, trickling and gurgling over round stones. The banks grew thick with ferns. Ford paused to get his bearings and then said, "Over to the left. There's a huge willow, see? That's the place."

Ah, yes, three big gray boulders shaped like huge cream-filled donuts, rounded but with flattish tops, one projecting from the bank where they stood, one in the center of the stream, the other attached to the opposite bank. A careful long step, trying not to slip, take another just as long, and then stumble up safe on the far side. "I know where we are now," Dipper said.

They climbed up the hill at an angle and emerged in the clearing—though now not nearly as clear as it had been when the Cipher effigy was still in one piece and Bill himself could be summoned with very little effort, and sometimes with very little effect. Over the past five years saplings had sprung up, and the clearing had nearly choked itself with brush.

Now a dome made of bent steel strips had replaced the effigy. Ford and Fiddleford had locked it inside the cage to short-circuit any arcane energies that might have lingered behind and to prevent any careless hiker from idly shaking hands with the stone version of Cipher. You could never be too careful.

Ford shrugged out of his backpack and took from it something in chrome and black plastic that looked like a small boombox. "Is that it?" Dipper asked.

"This is it." He set it on a mossy fallen timber. "First let me check the background levels."

He studied the anomaly detector. "Oh, yes. Already twenty per cent above base level of strangeness. That's lower than when Cipher was active, but still significant. There's lingering power here. And this clearing is the nexus of a ley line running from a town up in Washington State where bizarre things have been known to happen down to Haunted Hill, not far west of the California-Nevada border, and another line leading from Spirit Bay on the coast of Oregon to Sacrifice Caverns in Idaho. The lines cross right about where we're standing. This should be a focus of paranormal power."

He switched the device on. It sent out a low pulsating drone. "Back off ten feet. Have your destabilizer ready." Ford took a notebook from his coat pocket. By then the sun was well up, and even in the shade of the trees Ford had enough light to read. It was a Latin incantation. He spoke rapidly, so fast that Dipper couldn't follow, but he caught the names: Wendy. Xyler. Craz. Dippy Fresh.

At least Ford had left that one for last.

For a few minutes, Dipper thought nothing would happen. Then he heard someone approaching. "Ready!" Ford said. Dipper drew his destabilizer pistol.

Something that looked like Wendy hurried toward them, half obscured by the tall undergrowth. Dipper raised the weapon.

"Dip, no, it's me!" she said, and he saw that in her left hand she carried an axe. Her right she held up with her fingers spread.

Five of them.

"Wendy," he said, "Go back."

"I'm already behind her," said Wendy's voice.

But it was the other one.

Right behind the real one.

The world balanced on a perilous point.