The Fountain of Eden: A Myth of Birth, Death, and Beer Page 17

  Chapter 17

  The Morning After

  Jack Whiskey awoke, dazed and stiff, in the spare bedroom of the beekeeper’s cottage. The first thing he noticed was the pitter-patter of rain on the windowpanes, which drilled into his foggy brain like sonic pins and needles. The first thing he observed, when he opened his eyes, was a gaggle of pimply adolescent faces peering down at him in curiosity.

  “Would'ya look at that, he’s finally awake!”

  “He slept like the dead, din't he? Or mebbe a vampire, sleeping in 'is coffin.”

  “And he was twitching like he was possessed by a demon!”

  “Yeah, only he warn't spewing projectile vomit an' speaking in tongues and making obscene gestures at priests.”

  Jack propped himself up on his elbows, unsure how to react to such exuberant chatter. He recognized the faces peering down at him as the group of preteens from the Farmers’ Market the other day, though their number had been reduced to five.

  “Mister Holmes told us you didn’t even land a single punch on Sam Waa, Mister Whiskey. Is that true?”

  Jack wiped the sleep from his eyes. “Who's Mister Holmes? And who are you guys? I remember seeing you at the Farmers' Market the other day, but it's all kind of fuzzy.”

  “We're Tom Sawyer's gang!” exclaimed the red-haired kid, while the other members of the “gang” fawned and preened. “I'm Tom Sawyer, that's Huckleberry Finn”—he indicated the boy with the straw hat, who grinned—“Ben Rogers, Joe Harper”—nods from the two dark-haired boys—“and the pretty gal there is Becky Thatcher.”

  “For some reason, I'm not at all surprised,” said Jack with a groan.

  Sir Arthur strode into the room with a steaming kettle in one hand and a coffee mug imprinted with the debatable aphorism “Detectives do it best” in the other. “Coffee, Jack?”

  Jack nodded and accepted a cup of the brownish sludge. He took a sip and grimaced, but the caffeine shot through his system and woke him up. He drained his cup, propped up a pillow, and leaned back on the headboard.

  “Are you feeling better today, Jack?” asked the hospitable host.

  “Yeah, I guess so.” He winced as he shifted his weight. “Just a little sore.”

  Sir Arthur nodded. “Yes, you took quite a beating at the hands of the skeleton man yesterday. But don't worry. Thanks to your divine essence, you should be as good as new in a few hours.”

  “The skeleton man?” asked Jack. The visions/dreams/memories of last night were still caught fast within the webbing of his psyche. “So Sam Waa is Masaaw, the Hopi skeleton man. Makes sense, I guess, if you look at the names.” He pursed his lips. “But Masaaw and I are friends. Why would he attack me like that?”

  “That is the question, is it not?” said Sir Arthur. He began pacing the room, his words coming quicker with each step and pivot. “For Masaaw being involved in a plot to destroy the universe goes against his very nature, as he is the Protector of his people. No, it is my estimation that somebody—or some being, I should say—has tricked him and his Trickster compatriots into helping them, or perhaps somehow holds them in thrall.”

  “There's more Tricksters around than Masaaw? More Tricksters like . . . me?”

  “That's right, Mister Whiskey,” said Becky. “Tricksters like you, only mean and not so good looking.” Tom stared over at her with solemn eyes. Becky blushed.

  “They kidnapped Sid Sawyer and beat up Tom yesterday,” supplied Huck Finn. “Iktome, Old Man, Coyote, Raven, and Rabbit.”

  Jack recognized every last one of the names. Memories of long-ago adventures he and those mentioned had been through gushed across his mind in a mental Great Flood.

  “But why would the Tricksters help to bring about something like the end of the world? All those guys love the Earth—and themselves—way too much to be in on something like that.”

  “At this juncture, we simply do not know,” answered Sir Arthur. “Perhaps they have no choice but to help . . . him.”

  There were gasps from all around, and Tom Sawyer asked, “Who's . . . him?”

  The beekeeper ceased his pacing and glanced about the cramped quarters of the bedroom with vague distaste. “Let us move this discussion to the living room, where we may all sit down and get comfortable, and all will be revealed.”

  Sir Arthur brewed another pot of coffee while the Gang lounged about the living room. Jack joined them after a quick rinse-up in the sink, and Sir Arthur walked out of the kitchen with an ornate silver tea-tray upon which rested steaming mugs of sludge for all.

  Jack set down his mug and looked at the beekeeper. “So, Art, who's the mystery man?”

  “Why, Jack, it is none other than—”

  “I may be able to help you with that, Jack,” lilted a memorable voice that drifted into the room through the beekeeper’s screen door.

  “Stephone!” cried Jack.

  Sir Arthur opened the door, and Stephone walked into the room. She wiped her clogs on the doormat and shook the rain from her hair. She held a tiny dog wearing a ribbon about its ears in her arms, like an offering to some rattish deity that appreciated pink things of a frilly nature.

  “Hey, guys,” she said to the powwow in general. She turned to Jack and smiled, which made her look drop-dead gorgeous and caused Jack’s insides to turn to mush. “I guess we'll have to put that date on hold, Jack. I think we'll be a bit busy tonight.”

  “S-sure,” said Jack, taking dazed steps towards Stephone. “But what are you doing here?”

  “Art called me last night. He asked me to come by today.”

  “But . . . why?”

  Stephone's face went troubled. “I’m not exactly who you think I am.”

  “That’s okay, because I’m not who I think I am, either.” Jack thought for a moment and shrugged. “Or who I was, or whatever.”

  Stephone sighed and stroked the little dog behind the ears. “My true name is Persephone. I am the daughter of Demeter and Zeus.”

  “Ah. So you're from . . . there,” said Jack, not sure how to put it into words.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but I was worried you wouldn’t want anything more to do with me, seeing as how I’m a dark goddess. But I didn’t know that you didn’t know who you were until I spoke with Arthur last night. I just thought you were being slick and didn't want to mention our mythic origins.”

  Sir Arthur said, “Milady, I have been harboring an idea of who is attempting to pass himself off as Farmer John. Could it be your . . . significant other?”

  Stephone looked downright miserable. “Yes, Arthur. The impersonator is my unwanted husband and eternal nemesis.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Hades.” Her eyes flicked about the cottage, as if she expected the God of Death to materialize out of thin air in the beekeeper's living room. “Farmer John agreed to hire me on a couple weeks ago. But yesterday he called me into his office and fired me. I was shocked! I asked why, but he just smiled and would say no more. On my way out, he laughed. A deliberate laugh, like he wanted me to hear it.” Her eyes seethed with emotion. “I recognized that laugh, and it was not Farmer John's.”

  “Milady,” said Sir Arthur, “do you have any idea why the Unseen One would cook up such a crazy scheme? If Nataraja Dances samhara and the universe dies, so does he. He knows this, yet still he has gone through with his plans. It just doesn't make sense.”

  Stephone shook her head. “I have no idea, but it's definitely not like him. He's a loner, manic depressive, can't let go of the fact that he drew the Underworld lot while Zeus reigns in the sky and Poseidon lives in the sea, but I never thought he would take it this far.” Her expression soured. “We should have been divorced long ago, but he refuses to sign the papers.”

  Silence ensued for a few seconds. Then Jack proclaimed, “So you say Hade—”

  “Ssssshhhhhhh!” blasted in from all corners of the room. Feet shuffled and eyes looked around with trepidation.

  “Jack, it is said the Unseen One hears it when you
speak his true name, no matter where you might be,” said Sir Arthur.

  “Sorry,” said Jack, though he didn't sound it, as no one had yet mentioned that tidbit. “So your husband refuses to sign the divorce papers. I mean, as a dark goddess, can’t you just say 'Forget it, I'm done!' and annul the whole damned thing?”

  Stephone shook her head. “No, these days even gods and goddesses have to file for divorce. The papers must be approved by the MythCourt.”

  “Right,” said Jack, and sat back down. “The MythCourt. Of course. What was I thinking?”

  “The marriage shouldn’t even have been legit, but magically, it was. I can't believe my stupid father even agreed to the whole deal, like I'm property to be given as a gift and possessed! I'm sure the Unseen One greased his palm with something—what, I don't even want to know. What a bunch of egotistical, chauvinistic, pig-headed—”

  “All right, let's all just calm down here,” said Jack, feeling that he must stand up for his sex, no matter how ethic-free some of its members might be. “So once he signs, that’s it? You’re a free woman and may do what you will?”

  Stephone sighed. “Except for the Curse of the Pomegranate. The Unseen One must lift it willingly, or I will be forced to return to the Underworld for four months of the year.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Jack. “Help me out and fill in the gaps in my memory. What is the Curse of the Pomegranate?”

  “Long ago, the Unseen One mythnapped me and dragged me down into his namesake Underworld to be his unwilling Queen. But he did this illegally. When the crime was discovered, he agreed to let me go. But as I was about to depart the Underworld, he offered me a pomegranate to munch on. I thought it was a peace offering on his part. I swallowed a few seeds just before Hermes got there to escort me back to the land of the living, and my fate was sealed. If one eats the food of the dead, one is cursed to dwell forever in the Underworld. But since I was tricked, a compromise was reached between the Unseen One and Zeus. I would spend the winter months in the Underworld, and be allowed to return to the Key World for the rest of the year.”

  After a long moment, Jack said, “So why did you agree to go on a date with me, if you're still married?”

  Stephone gazed into his eyes. “The Unseen One and I are married only in the eyes of ignorant divine law. Must I wait for a divorce agreement from a husband who had me bound and gagged during the marriage ceremony to move on with my life?”

  “Good point.” Jack whirled to Sir Arthur and pointed a finger at the beekeeper's prominent nose. “And you're Sherlock Holmes, Art. You told me you were a mytho, and you’re none other than Sherlock-friggin'-Holmes-his-friggin'-self! It all makes sense now—your strange powers of deduction and your X-ray eyes.”

  “Indeed, Jack,” said Sir Arthur, smiling a wild smile. “And your powers of deduction are also formidable, for you figured out who I was with very few hints.”

  “Yeah, well, the ‘Mister Holmes’ thing kind of gave it away,” muttered Jack. “But Sherlock Holmes is no god. So what are you doing here, cavorting with the divine, and all that?”

  “Ah-ha! You are right, my friend! Sherlock Holmes is no god! And yet Sherlock Holmes is a being created from Mind, a character born of human imagination. Sherlock Holmes is a figure known by many people, and he resides strongly, deeply, within the minds of many human beings, caught fast within the whirlpool of human thought as a whole. You might even say that Sherlock Holmes is a fictional being who has become something far more than words written down on paper.” The detective gestured at the Gang. “The same can be said for Tom and company. Sure, we are born of a more modern mythology, but we are what we are.”

  “So any fictional being invented by the human imagination instantly becomes a deity?”

  Sir Arthur smiled. “Well, in a way. Worlds of Myth are created and destroyed every instant of every day, the majority of them without anybody except the short-lived mythical inhabitants ever knowing they were there. The Worlds of Myth and mythological beings that hang around for the longest are those that are well-known and/or well-remembered.” He glanced around the room. “Such as everyone here, including yourself.”

  “Me?” squeaked Jack. “But hardly anybody's heard of me in modern times!”

  “You would be surprised, Jack, at just how well known you are. You are a Trickster, and people like Tricksters. They sympathize with them.”

  Jack thought for a minute. “So does it have to be written down somewhere?”

  “No. Beings of myth do not exist as words on paper. Sometimes that's where they start, sure—but they truly exist, they truly live, in the human mind, in the human imagination. As for myself, I do owe my existence to the written word—and to the mind of a most intelligent gentleman who brought his own little World of Myth to life within the imaginations of many. So the written word does have the distinct power to increase ken. But long before the alphabet and writing was invented, there were mythos wandering the Earth. These beings were much more nebulous back then, sometimes Chaos incarnate, the endless Void from which many early cultures believed the universe sprang.”

  Jack's forehead wrinkled. “Did you say ken?”

  “I did. As a mythological being, you have powers that are specific to your nature, unique to you because of who you are. This is your ken. My own ken allows me to reveal deception to those who otherwise might not be able to see it. But your ken is not an unlimited thing. It is based on how well-known you are in the mass-Mind of humankind, and it can be used up if you are careless with it. And then you will disappear in a poof to the Void of Misplaced Myth, none the wiser you were ever here at all.”

  A moment of silence ensued, then Jack laughed. “So the Fountain of Youth's been sitting there in Tranquil Forest this whole time. I'll bet you get all types of crazy gods and monsters and demons and aliens showing up here in Eden, huh, Art?”

  Sir Arthur looked thoughtful. “Well, not all types. Farmer John is the Gatekeeper of Earth. The Guardian of the Ocean. If a mytho comes to the Key World and causes trouble, John can make them forget their own names for a good long while, much less the knowledge of there even being such thing as a World Path. This singular ability is a part of who he is. It is his ken, you ken.”

  Jack grinned like the Trickster he was. “Well, don’t feel bad about not being a real god, Art. I mean, I’m a god, and I’m so unknown that I hadn’t even heard of myself until last night.”

  Sir Arthur observed Jack’s unkempt condition with a single eyebrow raised. “Do not underestimate yourself. Trust me, Jack, there is far more to you than first meets the eye.”

  Stephone coughed into her hand at this, and the kids' faces all went funny trying not to smile, most of them without success.

  “Oh, thanks, Art.”

  Stephone tittered and the Gang giggled. Before long everybody in the room was hooting and hollering and slapping knees. Even Jack joined in. But the merriment was short-lived, as the grim reality of the current situation brought them back to Earth.

  “We must destroy all Hoppy Heaven Ale in existence,” said Sir Arthur. “And thanks to a little detective work undertaken yesterday by my colleague Tom Sawyer, we know that the Unseen One has taken some to his Palace in the Underworld.”

  “D’you think they got Sid holed up down there with the farmer?” asked Tom Sawyer.

  “If your brother is here on Earth, he is likely being held prisoner here in Eden, and we shall find him. If he is not in town, I would indeed postulate that he is imprisoned with Farmer John in the Underworld. Where, however, I know not.” A certain gleam alighted in Sir Arthur's eye, as tended to happen when the game was afoot. “And on that note, some of us are going to take a delightful trip to ancient Greek hell, while the rest of us remain here on Earth to seek and destroy Hoppy Heaven Ale.”

  “Okay, so who’s doing what?” asked Huck Finn.

  “I know my way around the Underworld,” said Stephone. “So I'll go.”

  “Are you quite sure, milady?” asked Sir Arthu
r. “The Unseen One might see it coming.”

  Stephone shrugged. “I'm cool with just about everybody that lives down there, and some of them might be willing to help us out.”

  Sir Arthur looked about the room, taking in every face in turn. “That makes one.”

  “I'll go to hell,” said Jack.

  “Just as I knew you would, Jack. Just one or two more will suffice. I’ll need most of you to stay with me, here on the Key World.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll go,” said Tom Sawyer, trying not to let his budding eagerness show. “I got a feeling, I dunno why, that Sid's imprisoned down there in the Underworld.”

  “I’m going with you, Tom,” said Becky, and grabbed Tom’s hand.

  Sir Arthur clapped his hands. “It is settled! Okay, Team Myth—that’s you and yours, Jack—off you go to Tranquil Forest and the sipapuni. Keep a close eye out for Farmer John and Sid Sawyer on your journey across the Underworld. And remember, time moves differently there. Your journey might take you days—weeks, even—but time will move at a crawl here on Earth while you are gone. Here, take this.” Sir Arthur handed Jack a gold-plated pocket-watch.

  Jack brought the ticking timepiece to his ear. “Is it magic, or something?”

  “It will tell the time on Earth with unfailing precision, and will not be affected by crossing between Worlds.” Sir Arthur pulled Jack close and whispered, “It will be of great assistance if you run into any stoppage. Break it.” He tapped his temple with a finger, pulled back, and addressed Team Myth as a whole. “Get back to the Key World as soon as possible—safely, of course.”

  The members of Team Myth nodded.

  “Team Real—that’s the rest of us, people—after Team Myth has departed, we shall confer to discuss what we shall be doing today. I have a few . . . interesting excursions planned.”

  The Teams made ready for the day, while the lotus on Sir Arthur's mantel pulsed with a purple-black light that steadily grew dimmer, as if on the verge of going dark forever.