Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Prophet of the Hallowed Corpse | Part 1

Episode Date: October 24, 2025

Listen to all 4 parts ad-free with a free trial of Dr. NoSleep Premium. Cancel anytime. No commitment. Start your 7-day free trial:⁠⁠ ⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠⁠⁠ Check out our brand new horror-themed coffee here! Go to ⁠⁠NoSleepCoffee.com⁠⁠ and get 20% off fresh, same-day roasted coffee delivered straight to your door. Just use promo code NOSLEEP20 at checkout for 20% off your first order! Author: Dave Kavanaugh * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #halloween #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Dr. No Sleep Presents, Prophet of the Hallowed Corpse by Dave Kavanaugh. All stories end with death if you stick with them long enough. But I've now come to see that the best stories begin with death and the new life that springs from decay. Think of a humble fungus. feeding on a carcass to summon forth a great bloom of psychoactive mushrooms. In this way, the festering ooze and putrid marrow of rotting flesh is transformed into waking dreams and visions most divine. From the private journal of Professor Mortimer King, August,

Prologue. The full four-part series, Prophet of the Hallowed Corpse, is available now for Patreon members. Hear the complete story today without waiting. Link in the description below. Harlow Vega sits in the back row of the funeral chapel, despite being the only mourner at his mother's service. Beyond the empty pews, a rope and casket rests on its stand, and he can just make out the gray tip of her nose peeking out from the edge. That's enough for Harlow. He doesn't need to get too close. Harlow is no stranger to death,

and he knows all about the tricks and Undertaker employs to prepare a body for viewing, how the arteries on the neck are slashed and tubes inserted, draining blood while pumping in embalming fluid. There is the puncturing of bloated organs with a hollow needle, which then serves to vacuum up all the putrid liquids within. Wounds are stitched, orifices, plunge. The jaw is wired shut, and barbed plastic discs are inserted under the eyelids.

It's not a quiet process. The hissing, dribbling, scraping, the belching of gases. A human corpse can produce all sorts of grisly noises. Thus embalmed, the body is washed, dressed, and posed, with heavy makeup on the face and hands, and the hair combed and styled. And don't forget the scent of flowers, sprayed all around to cover any whiff of decay. That thing in the box, illuminated by candles and the glow of dusk, sifting through the falling snow outside the chapel windows. It's as much a work of the mortician's artistry as it is

Eden Vega. He would prefer it just be her, bloat, rot, odor and all. A man clears his throat to Harlow's left, and glancing up, he sees the funeral director standing in the aisle, dressed in a black suit and tie, in sharp contrast to the tattered brown leather jacket and work jeans that Harlow was wearing. Good evening, sir. You must be the sun. I am sorry for your loss. Thanks, says Harlow, and I'm sorry for the low turnout. Ah, well, I understand that Mrs. Vega was new here in town. It is perfectly understandable that she hadn't made many acquaintances yet. Harlow chuckles dryly.

Nah, her funeral would be empty anywhere. We never stayed in any one place long enough to make friends. We've been on the run, see? For 27 bitter years. A faint crease appears between the funeral director's eyes. Oh? Ah. Well, I'm glad that you could come this evening.

Is there any other family we should wait on or... Harlow shakes his head. Not anymore. Used to be. My dad and a little brother, but they died a long time ago. Twenty-seven years, in fact. The director nods. Ah, now I see what you meant. How very tragic. You and your mother were, as you put it, on the run from the trauma of that terrible loss. Not exactly. We escaped together the four of us, but Dad and Phoenix didn't make it too far. escaped you, say, and what were, oh, do forgive me, sir, it's not my place to pry.

He straightens up and adjusts his tie. Would you like to come up and say a few words before we close the casket? Harlow sniffs a laugh. Say a few words about Eden Vega's life? I wouldn't know where to start. It's a pretty grim and twisted tail, though I guess there is a certain symmetry to it. He scratches his cheeks, fingertips hissing against his stubble. I don't know much about the first half.

She didn't talk about her childhood. And the second half? All those years on the road? There's not much else to say about it. Harlow goes quiet, sitting so still for so long that the director starts to turn away. Wait, says Harlow, and the man freezes. I could say a few words about it. the middle, that one night upon which the whole thing hinges, the night they died.

If you would like to, then, I am here to listen. I've never actually talked about it out loud before. It's not a story mom liked to be reminded of, but she's dead. Dead and dolled up in that pine box there, so the story is all mine now, isn't it? He turns to flash a melancholy smile. Take a seat. Hear my story. The funeral director lowers himself onto the pew beside Harlow. An eager curiosity in his eyes,

though his face retains its expression of professional composure. Now then, where to begin? Once upon a time, that works. My mother and my father were young and foolish, and got themselves mixed up with some, very strange and dangerous people, in a very strange and a dangerous place. That's where we were born, me in Phoenix. I don't have a lot of memories from that time, just little flashes, smells, that kind of thing.

My first really clear memory was of the night we tried to escape. The director leans in, a bead of sweat trickling down his right temple. It was October 31st, 1999, Carlo explains. Halloween, the night of sweet treats and scary stories. I was five. We didn't usually get candy much, so I remember being sick to my stomach when we crawled into our sleeping bags. Then around midnight, my dad came into our family's tent and scooped me up.

I remember he tried handing me this little stuffed bear. I guess he thought it would keep me calm. It only had one arm. I tossed it away. I didn't want it. And mom? She picked up Phoenix. He was only three. Tiny kid. Yeah, for his face anymore. I remember that a stuffed bear had one arm, but not my brother's face. He looks back at the open casket, at the gray tip of his mother's nose. If this is too difficult for you, then... No, I'm okay. Harlow sits up, collecting himself. So, yeah, our parents carried us out and loaded us into the backseat of a car. I don't know who it belonged to. We didn't own a vehicle. Dad started driving us out of there, real slow, with all the lights off.

And we must have made it to the main road, because Dad slammed on the accelerator, and the engine roared. And Mom switched on all the lights and started to laugh. Because she thought we had made it out. She thought we were safe. And then it happened. What? Harlow looks the other man dead in the eyes. A bullet came through the driver's side window

and tore my dad's face right off his head. And mom? Mom got dad all over her, little pieces of him, blood and flakes of skin and these tiny grains of bone like sand. I remember she'd find those little pieces in her hair, weeks later even,

sitting on the carpet of some shitty motel, crying, moaning, and picking bits of bone from her scalp. Good heaven. And you witnessed his murder? Carlo nods. But then, what happened after he was shot? Well, we swerved off the road, didn't we?

Crashed into a big rock. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor of the car with glass all over me. And Little Phoenix was limp and bloody in his car seat. He had brought along this picture book. I guess it was his favorite. I can still remember the image of him clinging to it, Sort of hugging it. And then mom pulled me out, clutched me to her chest, and just started running, running into that dark and dusty wilderness.

And she never stopped. She never stopped running until... Well, he points a finger at the casket. The funeral director releases a pent-up breath. What a harrowing story. It gives me goosebumps. Did they ever catch the one responsible? Don't know, Harlow shrugs.

But out there, in that place? I don't think the justice system works out there. The way my mom described it, it was like, like hell on earth. But I'm not sure how I feel about it. Surely you've never gone back there, Harlow shakes his head. Not yet, no, what I've wanted to. I think about it all the time. I'm not even sure why.

It's like this compulsion. He flinches on the seat as a chill runs up his spine beneath his jacket. And most nights, I hear this voice in my dreams calling me back there, calling me home. A voice? Fascinating. Not really. It's just trauma. Though it can be a bit overwhelming at times. Harlow raises his eyes to the nearest window, where fractal ferns of snowy whorefrost creep across the glass. My mother made me promise to stay away.

I kept my promise. But now, now I will bury it with her in the cold, cold ground. The director wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of one sleeve. So you are going back? I have to. I have to see it with my own eyes in the light of day. Maybe that'll be enough to give me closure, or even quiet the voice in my dreams. Well, it doesn't sound like a very safe place to do you.

to visit. What if your mother was correct? And it's truly dangerous? Arlo's mouth twitches with the ghost of a smile. Then I guess I'll have to burn that place to the ground now, won't I? Beside him, the funeral director swallows nervously. But that's just a figure of speech, surely. A metaphor? Sure, says Harlow, a fiery gleam in the back of his eyes. Just a metaphor. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button. And just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify. It supports millions of businesses and drives 10% of all e-commerce in the U.S.

From major brands like Mattel and Jimshark to entrepreneurs just getting started. With Shopify, everything you need is in one place, from customizable store templates to built-in AI tools that help write product descriptions and enhance your images. It also makes marketing easy with integrated email and social campaigns. And if you get stuck, Shopify's award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7. See less carts go abandoned and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com.

slash dns. Go to Shopify.com slash dns. That's shopify.com slash dns. Part one. Winter. Season of the Topaz Tomb. They call New Mexico the land of enchantment, and as he drives his pickup along the dusty road,

Harlow can see why. The landscape is harsh and untamed, a parched expanse of open plains and gently rolling hills. But its striking beauty, is impossible to deny. The dry grasses are a hundred shades of yellow. Bushy junipers sway in a winter breeze like blue-green fires. In the distance, butes and mesas rise like sacred pillars to hold up the sky. And what a sky it is, so big in blue it makes you dizzy. It's been an hour since he turned off the highway, 60 minutes without passing by a gas station or a post office, and 30 minutes since he's

seen the last mobile home or mailbox. Out here, in the sunburned center of nowhere. The only signs that human beings have ever touched this land are the dirt road and twisted bits of barbed wire where a rancher's fence once stood beside it. He drives across a narrow bridge that spans a dry arroyo. Then the road turns due west, and at last he can see it, the highest and prettiest mesa of them all, sticking straight up from the plains, as if some ancient, imprisoned god had tried to punch their way free from beneath the earth, thrusting up the plateau in their fury. Above its sheer cliffs of redstone, a green veneer of vegetation in one lonely, lofty pine tree trace the mesa's ridge line. He stares at his destination and takes a deep breath, in and out.

The air whistling through the open windows is dry and cold, suffused with a faint mineral tang. When he's a few minutes dry from the mesa, Harlow pulls the truck over in the shade of a juniper tree. Grabbing his tattered leather jacket and backpack from the passenger seat, he climbs out and walks around to pop the hood. The engine of the 92 Toyota is caked in dusty oil and half-melted zip ties. The truck is the same age as Harlow, and he wonders if that's what he would look like if someone popped him open and peered inside. Bones and muscles worn out before their time, battered and corroded by 32 years of hard living. He takes a rusty pair of pliers from his bag and sets them on the battery. Then, leaving the hood open, he moves around to the rear, lowers himself onto his back in the dirt,

and, reaching under the frame, locates the fuel pump electrical connector. Pinching the release tab, he pops out the plug. This done, Harlow gets to his feet and dusts himself off, satisfied with the sabotage. Should anyone come to investigate the truck, they'll find the engine unresponsive and assume mechanical failure, complete with a forgotten pair of pliers. Somewhere in the wilderness, a red-tailed hawk screeches. Harlow grins. He feels oddly at peace.

considering where he is and what he's about to do, and remains cool-headed and resolved as he pockets his keys and starts hiking down the road, choosing to finish these last few miles of his journey on foot. Beside the road where it passes the base of the mesa, two folding tables sit beneath a sun-bleached canopy. He approaches the stand, and the couple of workers sitting in folding chairs behind it,

their backs to the cliff face. roadside stands are common in the southwest, especially on the reservations, where native artists sell pottery, jewels, and dream catchers to tourists. But this one seems out of place, so far from everything and every one. The tables are covered in wicker baskets. Harlow moves past them one by one, eyes scanning over chili peppers, corn, and eggs, then polished slices of petrified wood, sharp chips of obsidian and chunks of raw fluorite. Another basket holds bolo ties and vintage belt buckles. Strangest of all, the one on the end is full of masks. Harlow stops and picks one of them up. The mask is sewn from pieces of leather and hide with crudely cut eye holes and a grinning

mouth lined with real human teeth. As he taps at the teeth, a child's voice calls out from across the table. He said a destined traveler would be coming by today, a mighty soul lost in the wilderness, one whose vision is clouded. Harlow lowers the mask. The girl who spoke looks no older than ten. She is bald, with skin the rusty brown color of the mesa, and her eyes are half-closed and rolled back, revealing only their whites. What was that? Harlow asks. Were you talking to me, or the fate of all shall be in his holy hands. Someone else rises from their seat and walks over,

a woman in a floral dress, with golden hair and one hand wrapped around her very pregnant belly. You must forgive young Shiloh here, the woman says, coming up behind the girl's chair. She often speaks in riddles, and though blind, her inner vision is clearer than most. The woman smiles at Harlow, and even in the canopy's dark shadow,

Her eyes are so bright and colorful, they seem to shine hypnotically. Hello, new friend. Are you looking for something special? Arlo smells back. Aren't we all? He places the sinister mask back in its basket. But I'm just browsing today, thanks. Funny place for window shopping.

And I don't see your vehicle. Surely you're not out for a stroll this far from civilization. Arlo busies himself. another basket, picking through the raw gems inside. No ma'am, it's just, well, actually my truck died on me. A couple miles up the road. The engines cooked. Oh dear, that's no good. And you won't get a signal out here to call a tow truck, though we'd be happy to help. We've got a landline in our community. I can call Big John. He's a farmer, lives an hour north of here. He's got a hitch

on his truck, always takes care of our vehicles. We've got an understanding with Big John. He'll give you a fair price. Harlow nods politely. Well, that's awful kind of you, ma'am, but to be frank, I don't have the money to pay for any repairs. I guess I'll probably just hitchhike. She laughs lightly. Good luck with that. We don't get a lot of passers by. Harlow shrugs, though he can't seem to take his eyes off the woman. Her right hand is holding her stomach as her left hand fingers a medallion on a string about her neck it's a circle of turquoise the same color as her eyes carved with a simple spiral the destined traveler must come back with us announces young shiloh he must come up the holy mesa

hmm i think you're right harlowe cocks an eyebrow the holy what now shiloh turns in her chair raising a hand to point up at the mesa behind them It's where we live. The woman squats to pick up a copper thermos from the ground and fills its top with the clear water inside. Here, it's important to stay hydrated out here. Harlow accepts the offered drink and takes a sip. The water is cool, slightly alkaline with an earthy flavor,

probably from a sandstoneed aquifer nearby. There's really a town up there? It doesn't seem big enough. Oh, the community and the plateau, we're mostly. made for each other, a heavenly fit. Whatever you imagine it's like on the Holy Mesa, I assure you it's better. Harlow swirls the water in his makeshift cup. I don't know. I've got quite the imagination. He finishes the water and hands the lid back to her, their fingers touching. As do I, destined traveler, an active imagination and a talent for persuasion. She screws the thermos lid back

on. Shilu is right. You must come up. We can offer you a hot meal and a bed for the night, and it will be time for supper soon. We'll pack up here and head out. Thank you for the offer, but like I said, I can't pay. We're not asking for money, nor would we accept any. But if you do wish to repay our hospitality, there is always work to be done atop the mesa for a... She leans across the table, her bright eyes scanning his body. able-bodied man. You look to have muscles under that sweat-stained denim shirt of yours. Jimrat?

Ranch hand. Mmm, even better. Anywhere local? I know most of the farmers around here. Parlo shakes his head. Way up north. I've been on the road a while. Forever, it feels like.

All the more reason to stop and catch your breath. Come. She turns and sets off, weaving through prickly pear cactuses. Harlow follows, his feet moving faster than his mind can catch up to. The woman looks at least seven months pregnant, but that's not slowing her down. My name is Starling, by the way, she calls back at him. Pleasure. They approach a rust-speckled, early 2000s Subaru Outback, parked between the stand and the foot of the mesa.

Starling lets out a sharp whistle, and someone steps from the passenger side door. As this stranger comes around the back of the vehicle into view, Harlow feels his stomach go suddenly cold. The man is stocky and round-shouldered, like a boxer gone to seed, dressed in black jeans, a button-down shirt and suspenders. But that's not what's triggered Harlow's fight-or-flight instinct. The man is wearing a mask. It's made of assembled bones. A coyote skull split down the middle at the eyes, the jaw of a deer at the chin, and the black forked horns of a pronghorn antelope up top.

Harlow stands in place, staring at the shadowy eye holes of the coyote skull, where two dark eyes glint dully back at him. This is Bash. Bash, this man is coming back with us. We must make room for our guest. The masked man, this, Bash, says nothing, but goes to open the Subaru's hatch. The back is filled with slatted wooden crates. Harlow tightens both fists at his sides, cracking his knuckles, then relaxes his hands and forces the muscles in his face to relax. Here, let me help you with that.

Harlow reaches for one of the crates. At first he thinks they contain more produce, but as he leans into the Subaru and inhales the sharp stench of spoiled vegetation, he sees that the crates are actually filled with rotten jackal lanterns. The pumpkins are shrunken and slimy. Their carved faces lopsided and deformed. Fuzzy tongues of green mold oozing from their warped smiles. Harlow stares into the decayed faces.

His body frozen. His mind transported to the past, to that night, to the darkest of nights. His heart begins to pound in his ears, panic building inside him like a storm. He closes his eyes, and with an effort, he pushes the reaction down, down, down, into the that abyss within himself, where so many feelings go to wither in that perfect dark. Exhaling, he picks up the crate and turns to dump its contents out onto the dirt, where Bash has already deposited the remains of some 20 of the moldy pumpkins. As they hit the ground, the soggy pumpkins burst apart, and little clouds of fat black

flies swarm out and circle in the dusty air. They're the last of the old decorations, Darling tells him, from my our autumn festival two months back. It's too bad you missed it. It's a night like no other. Harlow looks up at her. Out of the shade and standing here in the cold radiance of a winter sun, she looks right at home in the land of enchantment. How old is she anyway? 20s, 30s? Her face is full and glowing, but finely lined, and her hair is going silver at the temples. Her eyes are deep and piercing, full of memory and mystery. She doesn't wear makeup, which has always been Harlow's preferred. You still haven't told me your name, she says. Harlow swallows and glances down at his

right hand, calloused, dusty, smeared with oil from the truck and slime from the rotten jackal lanterns. The name's Jack, he lies, holding out the hand. Is it now? Well, it's very good to meet you, Jack, says darling, taking his hand in hers and squeezing. Oh, mighty soul, lost in the wilderness. It takes them only five minutes to circle around the base to the mesa's western rim, then drive up a steep and winding switchback carved into the rock and reach the top. Harlow sits in the back of the Subaru and feels car sick by the time they finally park. He climbs out, grateful for solid ground. Swinging his jack, in a knapsack over one shoulder, he straightens up, taking in a deep breath through his nostrils.

And as the air hits his lungs, his nausea vanishes all at once. The air appears fresh and cool and full of flavor. Sun-baked adobe, damp earth, leaves and flowers and spices, and the herbal smoke of a pinion campfire. And with the altitude, it can make one a bit lightheaded. It's certainly unexpected. Oh, just you wait. she says with a wink. You're on the Holy Mesa now, Jack. Unexpected Marvel is our specialty. He glances around.

They're parked in an open rocky area by the western cliff, beside a Ford Ranger pickup. A long adobe structure, like a storehouse or barn, blocks the view to the east. Starling leads the way, guiding Shiloh by the arm, while silent bash takes up the rear, trudging behind Harlow.

They walk around the storehouse, house, then on a path between the two white yurts, emerging on the other side into the Mesa's flat, central topland. Harlow stops in his tracks, and for half a moment, despite the impossibility of it, he wonders if he took a wrong turn and ended up on the wrong plateau. This place, it's not at all what he remembers. In the sparse recollections of his early years, the so-called Holy Mesa was a place of blinding sun and lifeless stone. The ground covered in goat heads, those nasty double-pointed thorns that stuck fast in your skin and burned even after you pulled them out. Everything had been the

color of dust, the barren sky, the dead trees, the dirty canvas tents, even the people. But had the grim accounts and dire warnings of his mother twisted those remembrances. Is everything all right? asked Starling. Uh, yeah, of course. It just looks so different. Different from what? Arlo shakes himself. Oh, just from what I thought it would look like.

Well, keep up. He starts walking again. His boots crunch over hard-packed earth. Then step down silently as they move onto a grassy lawn. The lawn is laid out in a perfect circle. What is this place anyway? Some sort of commune? You could call it that.

We just call it home. Harlow lets his gaze sweep the scene around them, the unexpected marvel of it. It's the first week of January, at least back down in the rest of the world it is. But up here, the grass is soft and thick and the color of jade. A couple dozen people sit on blankets or stroll about, talking, laughing, singing. Someone is strumming on a guitar, someone else tapping away on a drum. There's a group of teens and 20-somethings tossing. a frisbee to their right, and a line of gray-haired women in white robes sitting cross-legged in

a line on their left. In the center of the lawn, sunlight twinkles off a circular pool, and little children play in the shallow water, naked and splashing. It's like some idyllic city park, but one without the honking of car horns or a single piece of trash or junkies passed out on a park bench. And there's no modern technology in sight. No phones, no screens, no wires even. The one small exception is the click and whirl of a Polaroid camera. A smiling woman, in short shorts and a crocheted top,

that leaves very little to the imagination, is standing beside the pool, taking pictures of the children. Slung on her back as a kind of costume head, black feathered with a long metal beak. As he peers around again, Harlow notices that almost everyone present has some sort of mask, though most are not wearing them. They hang around necks,

dangle from belts, or sit on the grass beside their owners. Strange. Harlow doesn't remember face coverings being a part of life on the mesa and can't guess what they're for. They look handmade, and each is unique.

Some are made of bones, like bashes, others of leather, cloth, terracotta, or glinting metals. There are masks that resemble ancient gods, plastic dolls, animals with fur, feathers, or scales. As Starling leads them past the pool, the woman with the camera spins and takes a picture of Harlow. He bows his head to hide his face, but he's too late. Starling must have noticed him cringe because she waves a hand. Pay no heed to Indigo here. or to her camera. He blinks and looks out beyond the edges of the grass where a wide ring of yurts has been erected,

circling the whole lawn. There have to be almost a hundred of the structures, each an identical round hut with a domed roof, white cloth walls, and a red curtain for a door. There are open spaces in the ring to the north, south, east, and west, where paths lead out. Beyond the yurts to the northwest, Two steel-framed windmills rise up, their rotors twirling in the breeze.

And to the southeast, he sees the upper branches of a tall, lonely ponderosa pine. Girlish laughter makes Harlow look over. A throng of huddled teenage girls comes toward them, and the girl in front calls out to Starling. Blessed vision goddess, how was the stand today? Most serendipitous goddess, Ren, Starling answers, smiling at the girl, who looks 14 or 15, The girl, Ren, pivots to stare at Harlow. She has the same golden hair and bright eyes as Starling, and he wonders if they're sisters. Wren has a small, masquerade-style mask, but it sits flat atop her head, held in place by a leather string.

Most of the older girls behind her have their masks hanging from their necks. But the face of a tall girl in the back is hidden behind a polished oval of wood, with a slit for the eyes and small borehole at the mouth. That mask, it unsettles him. All the masks do. He's grateful for that. It keeps him cautious, keeps him from getting too caught up in the whole kumbaya vibe

that buzzes in the air. Wren finally takes her bright eyes off Harlow and turns to Shiloh. Hey, goddess, want to help us get the godlings ready for supper? Shiloh nods. The afternoon sun glinting off the dome. of her head, and Wren guides her away across the grass with the group in tow. Lovely batch of visionaries, mutters Starling. And now I must be off as well, I'm afraid, but I'll see you again soon. The latrine is through there if you need it, she says,

pointing at the break in the circle of yurts due north. Between the greenhouses and the chicken coop. If you need any clothing cleaned or repaired, just ask the grannies. She nods at the line of older ladies seated in the grass. And don't worry, I won't leave you without friends. Starling looks around, then calls out to the Frisbee players. Galaxy, Zen, Cadence! A young man and two young women saunter over. All are bare-faced and smiling, and Harlow doesn't see any masks on them.

One of the young women has a baby with her, a tiny little thing wrapped tightly to her chest in a long blanket. God, goddesses, this is Jack. Starling introduces. He's just arrived. Make him feel at home, won't you? Right on, goddess! Calls out the young man, clapping Harlow on the shoulder. Starling casts Jack a final grin, which he returns,

wincing as sunlight catches on her turquoise medallion and flashes in his eyes. He blinks, and as his eyes adjust, the spiral glare in his vision fades, and he sees that Starling is already walking away across the lawn, her floral dress sweeping side to side. So where are you from, Jack? What? Oh, uh, North. Harlow mumbles, still watching Starling. Well, man, enough with the details.

I didn't ask for your whole life story. The girl with the infant rolls her eyes. Jack inhales sharply and turns to them. Sorry, guys. Got a bit distracted there. What are your names again? I am God Galaxy. The young man declares. He has a long curtain of lush,

straight hair so black it looks blue in the New Mexican sun. And this gorgeous mamacita here is goddess Zen, with chubby little Ziggy against her blessedly divine bosom. Zen shoots Galaxy a playful grimace, then nods hello to Harlow. And this is goddess Cadence. Cadence, who looks slightly younger than the other two, wears her dark hair in precise, sculptured cornrows braided tight against her scalp. She has on a black sweater, with the sleeves pulled down to cover her bald fist.

Cadence doesn't raise her eyes to meet Harlow's, but her mouth curls in a polite smile. Pleasure, says Harlow, before going quiet. He's not sure how to talk to these three, kids. Do you still call them kids at that age? He remembers that awkward stage of life, old enough to go to war, or have a child of your own, but God forbid you try to order a beer or rent a car. Harlow is saved the bother of having to make conversation by Galaxy. who doesn't seem to have any trouble in that department. So, man, is Jack the name you chose? Or do you want us to call you something diff?

Harlow's heart skips a beat. What? What do you mean? What else would you call me? We all choose our own names here. Explain Zen, bouncing on her heels to call him her baby, who has started to whine. Hell yeah, we do.

You think Galaxy was on my birth certificate? Nah, man. My name was Eugene. Talk about ick. Harlow nods, sighing in relief. Oh, I gotcha. But Jack is fine, thanks. See you guys all live up here on the mesa?

Yeah, man, chirps galaxy, holding out his arms to either side and walking in a tight circle. We are visionaries of the Holy Mesa now, and have embraced our roles as gods and goddesses. This galaxy sure is a character. He's barefoot, dressed in baggy, ripped jeans, and an oversized T-T-T-T-T-Pes. shirt. The back of the shirt depicts a cartoon Jesus flashing a peace sign as he has beamed up into a flying saucer. Uh-huh. And why did you join the, what'd you call them, visionaries of the Holy Mesa? Galaxy marches back to Harlow and grabs him by the shoulder. Because, man, the world out there? It tears you down. It wants you powerless, distracted, ignorant.

But here on the Mesa, we're all about lifting each other up, get it? Maybe I'm not good at explaining it yet. You should ask Starling or Indira. I've only been here six months. Zen came about the same time and Cadence? Eight months and two weeks, says Cadence under her breath. See? Her newbies, young gods, haven't even made our masks yet. Just like you, Jack. Harlow shakes his head. Oh no, I'm just passing through, really. My truck's shit out on me. Miss Starling offered me a place to stay for the night. It was very kind of her. Uh-huh. Smirks Galaxy, giving the girls an exaggerated wink. Just here for the night, you say.

Sure. Me too. Uh-huh. I don't get the joke. No joke, man. It's just everybody in this place. We all just showed up here one day. Different reasons, different origin stories.

Origin stories. Harlow repeats. Like with heroes and villains? My point is, man, nobody plans on staying. But once you're here, once you've really absorbed the energy, seeing the greatness of the vision, it's hard to think of a reason to leave. What brought you here? Asked Cadens, her eyes downcast, hands fidgeting in her sleeves.

I told you, my truck. That's not what she meant. Galaxy interrupts. He moves in close. His voice softer as he says. Cadence? She escaped from a dangerous foster home situation. She was sleeping in alleys.

in Albuquerque, hopped in the back of the truck just to get away, and fate brought her here. And Zen? Well, when Zen's pastored a mega-Eglacia father found out that his high school daughter was knocked up, he went loco, man. But now she's here. She's safe. And precious Ziggy, too, with all the family and support they could ask for. Harlow watches as the infant reaches a pudgy brown arm from under his wrappings,

and punches his tiny fist upon his mother's chest. Zen rocks to the side to comfort her son. Hmm. And what about you, Galaxy? How'd you end up here? Me? Ha! The young man barks.

Now that is a story. I came to protest this place, if you can believe it. Pick it's sign and all. But after engaging with the community here, obviously I came to my senses. The others went back without me. Thank vision. Otherwise, I'd still be washing dishes at the casino buffet

and spending all my cash on shit weed. What were you protesting? Asked Harlow. And he can't help but notice as both Zens and Cadence's eyes turned guardedly to Galaxy as he explains. Well, I'm Diné, you know, Navajo, from up near Shiprock, and a bunch of us came from the Res to protest the Mesa's Museum. We were demanding that all artifacts and remains be returned to DeNé Authority.

Harlow narrows his eyes. He vaguely remembers something about a museum, not from his childhood, But from the incoherent ramblings, his mom used to moan when she was having nightmares. Why does this place have a museum? He asks. What's in it? Both the young ladies now stare daggers at Galaxy, that he doesn't notice.

Stuff from under the old mine. There was a lot more than precious stones down in that. Galaxy, shut up. Sen hisses, forcing herself to smile even as her eyes drill into her friend's face. Dios meo. She clears her throat. I think that's enough babbling for today. Jack just got here.

What's the big deal? All I was going to say is that the artifacts definitely aren't Dene, or from any of the other nations. They're way older, from the ancestors of the ancestors. And they obviously don't belong to anyone, because she, supper will be ready soon. Interrupts Cadence. Shall we head over to the forum?

Yes, goddess. Good thinking, says Zen. And she takes Galaxy by the hand. and pulls him beside her into a fast walk, heading east through the grass. Harlow follows the trio of young gods, thinking hard. There's a lot to process, that we can't help but be distracted by the smell of smoked meats growing stronger with each step. At the mesa's southeast corner, a large adobe structure with solar panels on the roof stands beside the Ponderosa.

Long tables with benches are laid in rows and a clearing outside. The tables are set with many mismatched dishes, and cutlery, and people carry trays and bowls and sizzling cast iron pans from Adobe kitchen and set them along the center of each table, while others carve off strips of the meats that roast over firebits nearby. As Harlow takes a spot on the bench beside Galaxy, someone sets a platter of sizzling pork before him. His stomach groans. The last thing he ate was half a protein bar for breakfast, after sleeping in his truck. His gaze moves greedily over the steaming cornbreads and fry breads and tortillas, green chili stew, beans and squash, corn on

the cob and leafy salads. There are bowls of apples, plums, and rock melons, and jars of fresh salsa and honey. Harlow lets out a low whistle. The mesa isn't big enough to be self-sufficient, surely. So who pays for all this? Where do they get it all? Galaxy starts piling food onto his plate, and into his mouth, though people are still coming into the forum and finding seats. Harlow follows suit, serving himself whatever looks good, which is everything. His first bite is of slow roasted pork shoulder. It's so tender that it melts like cotton candy on his tongue. Holy shit.

Galaxy pats him on the back. I know, right? And it's like this every night. Delish. They dig in as more. and more bodies file around the tables. Sit beside friends, lift small children onto their laps, begin to feast. Harlow surveys the gathering crowd. He can't see any unifying feature in them. Everything about them is varied. The ages, the sexes, the personal aesthetics. There are hippies,

cowboys, metalheads, and school librarians. He grabs a piece of cornbread and dips it into the the pork gravy. Say, guys, is the, uh, prophet here somewhere? He asks, looking from Galaxy next to him to Zen and Caden's across the table. You know about the Prophet? asked Zen. She hasn't begun her own supper, but has loosened Ziggy's wrap and is feeding him at her breast. I heard something about him, yeah, says Harlow, averting his eyes. From that blind girl, Shiloh. Galaxy shakes his head, stuffing his mouth with frybread. He's on retreat, Harlow chuckles. Didn't catch that.

Zen sighs and leans over her plate. He said, the prophet is on retreat. Beside her, Cadence's hands have finally emerged from her sleeves, and Harlow glimpses the end of many old scars on both her wrists as she arranges fruit on her plate. Oh, the Holy Mesa, Caden says, eyes on her edible artwork. Winter is called the season of the Topaz tomb, and in this holy season, the prophet goes away and seals himself beneath the earth to meditate until the spring.

So your prophet, he like hibernates? All three of his companions laugh, to Harlow's surprise. Harlow laughs too. He takes a bite of the gravy-soaked cornbread. It tastes like heaven. The sound of friendly chatter and the clinking of dishes get louder. The evening has grown cool, and the setting sun paints the western sky with bands of fire and gold. Would you like any tuna wine?

Asked a voice behind Harlow. He looks back over his shoulder. Wren is standing there, holding a ceramic pitcher. You make wine from, tuna fish? From around their table, a dozen voices snicker. Tuna is the local word for the fruit of the prickly pear cactus. Wren tells him, shyly. Oh, then, sure, thanks.

Various cups, glasses, and mugs are set out on the table. He grabs the one nearest to him, a chipped China teacup painted with forget-me-nots. Wren leans between him and Galaxy and pours the dessert spirit into the teacup beside his plate. Harlow goes for a sip, but Ren sets a hand on his wrist. You may eat, but you must wait for the words of convergence before you try. drink. Right, Harlow sets the cup down again. Ren moves off, and he doesn't have to wait long to learn what she meant.

Whether seated or standing, talking or chewing, everyone in the forum goes abruptly still and silent. It's like God has pressed pause on the world. Harlow turns on the bench and spots Starling approaching from Rocky Hills to the north of the forum. Two masked men march at her sides, bash on her right, and his men. his mask of bones, and on her left, a tall, blanky man in a dark leather jacket. He wears a saber-toothed mask of black leather and chrome studding, like something a samurai biker gang might wear.

There's a third man behind Starling, with his head covered in a sort of crudely sewn canvas bag with eye holes. She approaches their table, flicking a hand in the air as she comes to a stop just behind Cadence and Zen. At this gesture, the three intimidating masked men freeze, turn, and march off again. Starling is now wearing a crocheted shawl over her flowery dress, and her blue-green eyes are as bright as ever in the warm glow of dusk. As Harlow watches, she raises both arms and tilts her face to the fiery sky. In that pose, with the curves of her impending maternity, she reminds Harlow of some ancient fertility figure. From many streams, Starling calls out. Her voice ringing.

One river, declares the crowd. From many journeys. One path. The people respond. She lowers her head, her gaze scanning the faces of their table, and landing on Harlow. From the minds of many gods. One vision! These final two words are chanted in flawless harmony,

and as soon as they die on the breeze, the spell of the words of convergence is broken. Dining continues, and conversations are resumed. Starling lowers her arms and cradling her stomach, steps up to the table. Zen and Cadence both hurriedly scoot to either side to make room, blushing with pride that Starling has chosen this spot. Blessed evening goddess, says Cadence.

Hi, Cadence, says Starling, settling on the bench and serving herself salad and cornbread. Galaxy leans toward Harlow. You can drink now, man. Carlo picks up the teacup. The tuna wine is cloudy red. He takes a sip. Good, yeah?

Asked, Galaxy. They sweeten it with honey and infuse it with toasted pinion. Carlo takes another long sip. The wine is lukewarm, but as it hits his belly, fire blossoms. Starling from across the table. What is your impression, Jack? Of the cactus wine? It's great.

She sniffs a laugh. I mean about a lot. our community. Any thoughts? Harlow takes a third sip. I got a few thoughts, yeah. And do you care to share them? He catches the look in her eye, a sharp and playful challenge, and shrugs. Well, I only just got here, didn't I? There is a pitcher of water next to the fry bread, and Harlow raises up to pour a glass for Starling, but she shakes her head. What happened to the importance of staying hydrated? She grabs a plum and takes a job. juicy, slurping bite.

How's that? Harlow sits back down and scoops beans onto a tortilla. So you want to know my first impressions of this place? Starling nods. Harlow glances around and sees that it's not just the young gods who have gone quiet, watching him. Two dozen faces are tilted in his direction. Harlow rolls up his little taco. This holy mesa of yours is a captivating place.

There's no denying that. But... Harlow doesn't answer right away. He eats the taco and two large bites. And by the time he's done, and washes it down with wine, most of the eyes at the table are staring at him. He licks his lips. But something doesn't feel right about it.

Starling's eyelids twitch. You know, you can speak freely at this table. Whatever concern is on your mind, you can say it. You can say, The word, Jack. And what word might that be? She grins. Cult.

Harlow stares at her face, at the light reflecting in her eyes. The word has the opposite effect on Harlow's stomach as the wine. It is bitter cold, like a stone in his gut. He adjusts himself on the bench. I didn't say that. But you thought it. And frankly, why wouldn't you?

Look at us. We're a bunch of weirdos in the... the wilderness, wearing strange masks, and calling each other God and goddess. It is pretty odd. A few people chuckle, but Starling's smile flattens out. And what's more, to be perfectly honest, there is a dark history to this community. Harlow leans forward. Do tell.

She sets the half-eaten plum on the edge of her plate. You see, those that came before us, they were drawn here by the Mesa's power. But they were not worthy of that power. And many of the gods and goddesses gathered here tonight arrived over the last decade, so they weren't here to witness that darkness. But I was. Harlow squints, thinking back. But no, he would have remembered Starling.

Even as a girl, he's sure of it. I came here when I was 11 years old, she says. The other tables have gone quiet now, too. All ears tuned to listen. Zen and Cadence appear mesmerized, as if this story is new to them. Daddy had already left us by then, Mama and I. Starling goes on. And then she got sick, and she heard about a place, way out in the middle of nowhere,

where it was said that miracles happened. And so she came looking for the Holy Mesa. She left me, and she came here. Harlow Downs the last of his wine. That must have been hard. Starling's head dips up and down. It was too hard. So I came after her, and I found this place.

I felt its power even then. Even when it was, shall we say, in a dark period. She lets out a sharp breath. Then the smile returns to her face. But it is different now. Yes, we have made it different, haven't we? The people cry in support. We have made it into the sanctuary of light

that it was always meant to be. Yes, goddess, shalt a man's voice down the table. Harlow sets down his teacup. A sanctuary of light. Hmm. So then, not a cult, right? Starling rocks her head from side to side. Maybe that's a matter of semantics.

How would you define a cult, Jack? She picks up the plum. Go on, I'm serious. I'd like to know. Well, I'm no expert, says Arlo. But since you asked, there's usually a pattern to it. There's always a beautiful exterior, lots of happy faces, and maybe a good dose of Eastern philosophy with some fundamental Western therapy techniques mixed in.

Starling laughs. And you say you're not an expert. But wait, does that not describe countless self-help seminars and 12-step programs? Not to mention every church and temple in the modern world. But let me guess, you're one of those people that believe that in the foundations of every lovely house of worship, there lurks a secret basement filled with every sort of perversion. That's a bit more dramatic than I'd put it, says Harlow. Hmm, well, what else? How do cults operate?

Harlow glances at Zen, who looks decidedly anxious about the whole conversation. Cults don't reveal the really crazy beliefs until later on, he explains, when converts have dug themselves in too deep to get out with ease. That's why new recruits, are often met with secrecy and vague answers about certain. His gaze flickers over to galaxy. Details of how it all works. Starling considers this. You think that we keep secrets from new arrivals, is that it?

Well, yes, I guess we do. But surely, one cannot teach advanced calculus to someone who is just learning basic arithmetic. So any instruction needs a ramp to the more complicated stuff. That's only logic. Harlow doesn't take this bait, and plows on, speaking loud enough for the other tables to hear. There's more, like the glorified leader. There's always some sexually frustrated, holier than now, anointed one, whom everybody loves and reveres so much that they'll turn a blind eye to the

horrible things he does behind closed doors. Starling's face crunches up in mock concentration. Are you talking about cults? Or celebrity culture? Or purport? Or poor. politics, or what's more? Harlow continues. His cheeks flushing. The followers are always desperate to carry favors with their leaders, and they work themselves to the bone so that the chosen few may live in comfort. Starling nods fervently.

Ah, now I get it. Capitalism. That's what you're talking about, isn't it? A few people at the table laugh. But there's tension in the voices. Tension in the evening air. Harlow's teeth grind together in his mouth. his cheek muscles tighten.

Sterling beams at him. Well, go on, Jack. What else? Educate us all about the terrible things these cults do to their followers. Ooh, can I guess what you'll say next? She leans forward, her medallion necklace clinking against her plate. You'll say that cults prey on lost souls, on the desperate, the traumatized, the most vulnerable. They rope those people in, and they tied them down, and they never let them go.

Was that it? Am I close? Harlow exhales and leans back, crossing his arms. They stare at each other across the table, silent. As the seconds tick by and the night grows dim, then her expression begins to change, twitching between curiosity, anger, and hurt. Is that really what you think we do here? There are tears in Starling's eyes all of a sudden. Harlow wishes he could break eye contact with her,

but they're like turquoise magnets. Well? He shrugs one shoulder. Well? He flinches knocking over the empty teacup. If you wish to leave, Starling tells him. Then you can leave. Anyone can, whatever they want. Harlow clears his throat, struggling to find his voice.

Well, that's easy to say, isn't it? When the people don't have cars or cash or any place to go. Oh, really? Reaching into the pocket of her dress. Starling throws something onto the table. It clatters against the far edge of Harlow's plate. He looks down. It's a key chain with car keys, a miniature compass,

and a little black crystal pendulum on a string. Take my Subaru. It's all yours. You can leave right after supper if you want, or in the morning, or in a week, or a month. I think the tank's about half full. In fact, she fidgets in her pocket again, this time extracting three watered-up $20 bills,

which she slaps down next to the car keys. The forum has gone eerily quiet now. There is only the whisper of the wind, the crackling of the cook fires, and the distant howl of a coyote on the plains below. Melodic, mournful. Even baby Ziggy is silent, sleeping soundly with his belly full of milk.

You're not wrong, says darling, now letting her tears stream down both her cheeks. Humans can be monstrous. We are social mammals, after all, programmed to crave meaning and validation. And to fall into habits and patterns, wicked people everywhere. We'll always try to use that to their advantage. Everything you said, Jack, you find those same terrible toxic misuses of love and loyalty

and control in all levels of all societies. She wipes at her cheeks with a sleeve. And it was here, right here, when I came looking for Mama. Harlow's eyes itch. And did it help her? The Mesa's supposed power, I mean. Did your mom get better? Slowly, Starling shakes her head.

She died in agony on the floor of a filthy tent. And I was left here alone. Well, not alone, no. I was taken in by one of the leaders, actually. A very cruel man who made me his plaything. That's terrible. Yes, it was, though actually. She smiles again, her cheeks stretching so that the tear tracks bend and glisten on her face.

Thank vision that I was, because that meant I was here to witness that old darkness fade away, and to see the light return, the glorious light. She raises a hand at the sky, fingers spread. In that moment, the clouds must shift, because the soft blue light of a waxing moon shows suddenly from the west. Blessed vision! Shouts a child's voice from the next table. Shiloh's voice. Chant a hundred more voices from all over the forum.

Starling closes her eyes. Yes, the mesa is as it should be. The sacred work is being done. Lowering her arm, she opens her eyes again and adds more food to her plate. But like I said, the keys are there. So go, if that's what you want. But I think you should wait a day or two.

All around them, people return to their suppers, chatting casually, as if their little battle of words and wills hadn't even happened. Hike around our mesa in the light of day, Jack, says Starling, making herself a sandwich with pork and cornbread. It doesn't take long, but there is much to find. You already know the green eye, where we all play and relax, and the forum here, are gathering place. but there are also gardens and wild ambling paths and you haven't seen the stone grove or the storm claw with its undying wind she takes a bite of the sandwich

chews swallows and do you know what you will not find what's that harlowe asks a marble mansion with a sports car in the driveway or a harem of wives or a stockpile of weapons there's no gift shop up here No inequality at all. What we have, we share,

and we don't go out into the world to convince others to join us either. And... She lowers her voice. There is no glorious leader. Now, can you honestly say that any of that sounds like a cult to you? But your prophet? The prophet is a good man with a gift.

Nothing more. We are all gods here, remember? Carlo nods. That is clever. The whole God got his thing. But if someone were to DNA test all these pretty little kiddos around here, what's your word? Godlings.

How many would it reveal were fathered by your humble prophet? For a moment, Starling goes very still. Then she releases a great snort of laughter. Starling, Harlow. Oh, God. She chuckles. Sorry, that was just very amusing. None.

That's the answer, I assure you. She takes another bite, shaking her head and trying to control her laughter. The sky is indigo now, flecked with embers that swarm like orange snowflakes. The mood is light again, as if Harlow's words meant nothing, as if his feelings is memories, don't matter at all. The food and wine in his stomach churns and goes sour. Goddess Starling are very good at what you do. Starling takes a little bow.

Harlow grins coldly. Why don't you tell me about the old mine, he asks. She looks up at him, eyebrows raised. Tell me about your museum. I mean, if all this is really so innocent, why can't you tell me what it is you're all really doing on this mesa? Your sacred work. Starling shakes her head.

That's not how it works. If you choose to stay, then you will get answers. But not until you're ready. Harlow scoffs, and when he can't think of anything else clever to say, he decides to play her bluff. Reaching over his plate, he scoops up the car keys and the cash and tucks them into his jeans pocket. Oh, says Starling, wiping crumbs from her hands. The turn signal tends to stick, so after you turn, you got to give it a little, you know, tapy tap. She winks at him. That sly and alluring smile back on her face.

Harlow exhales. His hands on the tables are squeezed into fists. He relaxes them, then looks around for Wren. He could really use another glass of that prickly pear wine right about now. When he wakes the next morning, Harlow's not the slightest bit hung over. In fact, he feels genuinely rested, which is odd, considering the nightmares that persisted through the night. He dreamed about his mother, as he often does, though this time was. different. Eden Vega was young in the dream. Her hair was still the rich copper color he

remembered from his youth. Harlow was a boy, and he was sitting naked in a motel bathtub. The tub had rust rings and was speckled with mold at the corners. Harlow sat in an inch of room-temperature water, and his mom was scrubbing his skin with a washcloth, hard, fast and frenzied, sweat on her cheeks. Harlow's light brown skin was not dirty, but she wasn't scrubbing to make him clean. No. It was because of the jewels that were sprouting from his body. As he stared down at his arms and his belly and his legs, he saw them rising up beneath his skin, pushing so that it stretched in many tiny pyramids. Then the skin would break, dribbling blood into the bathwater, and the glistening gemstones would be revealed. Deep red garnets, creamy yellow calcite,

rich green malachites, and wrinkled chunks of raw turquoise. They pushed up from his skin, like precious pimples. As fast as they came, his mother wiped them away, and they vanished at her touch, leaving behind wounds that dripped blood and pus until the bathwater became the cloudy pink of tuna wine. His mother kept saying in the dream, and when she yanked out the plug to empty the filthy tub, the vortex of air and water over the drain gurgled and hissed like a whispered cackle. creeping up through the pipes in mockery of Eden Vega's efforts. Harlow yawns.

Sunlight leaks around the red curtain door of the guest yurt. The circular hut is cozy and comfortable, and it remained surprisingly warm throughout the winter's night. Harlow sits up on the mattress, which is laid on the floor. When he rises and steps out into the grassy green eye, he sees that most of the mesa folk are already out and about. Children splash in the central pool, while adults move about in pairs or small groups. Some carry tools or push wheelbarrows.

Others hang clothes to dry on ropes stretched yurt to yurt. Harlow wanders along the dirt path that runs between the yurts and the grass, thumbs tucked into his belt. The soft strumming of a guitar serves as the morning soundtrack, and as sunlight glints off moats of dust in the air, They glow like golden fireflies, dancing in languid loops to the music. A large chicken scurries across the path ahead, followed closely by a miniature stampede of giggling toddlers. Harlow slows to let them pass, laughing softly.

A blessed morning to you, God Jack, calls out a man's voice. Harlow looks over at the speaker, whom he does not recognize. It's the big man with the guitar, sitting up in the grass near. The man rises to his feet, shifting his instrument to his back where it hangs on its woven strap and saunters forward. He looks to be about Harlow's age, though he is taller and broader and a good deal more hairy. And like Harlow, his hair and beard and eyes are dark. Harlow nods in greeting. Morning, but can I be a god? Even if I don't even believe?

Of course. Specifically. A blind god. That is the most common type. The man holds out a large hand and flashes a friendly smile. I am God Ezekiel. Jack, says Harlow, shaking Ezekiel's hand. He glances down at the man's workbelt, where a sheathed dagger is secured to one hip, and a wooden mask hangs against the other. The mask is of a simple design, an impish face with real moss for a beard and small,

bare white branches at the rim, like a crown. So you're one of these crazies? Ezekiel shrugs his broad shoulders. I suppose so. Born into it, you could say. Carlo looks up. You were actually born here on the mesa? Yes. Why? Hmm. Oh, just... It's interesting, that's all. I suppose. Are you hungry, God, Jack? I could eat. And I already have, though I'd gladly eat again. Shall we walk to the forum? Only if you drop the god and just

call me Jack. Ezekiel scratches his beard with a fingernail the nods. Okay, Jack. Okay, Zeke, says Harlow, holding out a hand for the other to lead the way. Breakfast turns out to be a more modest offering than last night's supper, though still delicious, fresh eggs, scrambled with green chili and tomatoes, and soap apia's with honey, to finish. They eat together on the end of a table. Ezekiel answering questions about his life here. Bullshit, says Harlow. You're telling me that you never leave the mesa, not even just to go into town? Why should I? counters Ezekiel. Everything we need is here. Food and drink, sunlight and shelter, friends, music, and many beautiful gods and goddesses with which too. He leans down to jab

Harlow with an elbow. Converge more than just our visions, if you know what I mean. Harlow chuckles. I think I can guess, yeah. Finishing up, they get to their feet. So then, you've never been anywhere. I've been down to the foot of the mesa and to the roadside stand. No, I mean like, you've never swam in the ocean or gone to the movies or been thrown out of a bar. Aren't you even curious about all that? It's a big world. Ezekiel raises his eyes to watch an eagle soar over them, heading south. The prophet says, one need only gaze in the eyes of a child to see the world entire.

Harlow rolls his eyes. Yeah, well, good luck with that. The eagle screams. One shrill note, Ezekiel sighs. I know there is much to this planet that I have not yet yet. seen or experienced to come to understand, he says. But we on the mesa have a deep and sacred purpose to our lives. That might seem silly to you, but to me, it matters. It matters very much. Fair enough, says Harlow with a nod. He glances around at the quiet forum. Some of the old ladies,

the so-called grannies, are clearing away the dishes. So what do you all do for fun around here, besides making masks. I was about to chop some wood, care to join me. Oh, hell yeah. They walk back through the green eye, then enter the Adobe storehouse. The interior is a crowded mess of boxes and shelves, filled with supplies of every sort, garden tools,

gas canisters, craft supplies, candles, even a string of Christmas lights. Ezekiel pulls an axe from its hook on the wall, and they move back into the sunlight. What did you do in the world, Jack? You mean for work? Harlow shrugs. A little of everything and a whole lot of nothing.

Some ranching up in Montana, fishing down in Mexico, a bit of logging, some handyman work. They move around the building to the parking lot on the western rim. The same two vehicles are parked there today. Starling's Subaru, the keys of which are still in Harlow's pocket. And the Ford Ranger, its bed now full of bucked rounds of pine. The wood is sticky with sap and smells like vanilla. They begin to unload the logs together, stacking them against the storehouse.

I used to want to be a mortician, if you can believe that, says Harlow. Even worked in a morgue for a while, on side of Anchorage. But that all went to shit. Once the wood is unloaded, Ezekiel hands Harlow the axe, then sets the first heavy round onto a chopping block. Harlow raises the axe and swings it with a grunt. The round splits down the middle with a satisfying crack. Again and again he swings, and before long, the sounds of the axe-head,

slashing air, the thunk as it splits the wood, and the percussive clatter of the halves tumbling out to either side. It all puts him into a sort of trance. Physical labor in the outdoors has always been Harlow's preferred method of meditation, and he feels the new quiet in his soul widen as he works, and as the sun beats down on him from that big, big sky, When he finally stops for a breather and wipes the sweat from the back of his neck, Harlow glances over and sees Starling. She's standing by the corner of the storehouse, a gray binder under one arm, watching them. Morning, says Harlow. I see you're still here, says Starling.

For now. And can I ask why you changed your mind? He spins the axe in his hands. Well, the food is good for one thing. That yurt was comfy too. I had a surprisingly restful night. Is that so? She shifts on her feet,

the medallion at her chest sliding into view from under the collar of today's dress, which is butteryellow and tight across her stomach. Harlow blinks. Oh yeah, here. He pulls the car keys from his pocket and tosses them over. She catches them. And the money?

She asks, as Harlow nods to Ezekiel to set out another life. What's $60? Starling's face breaks into a reluctant smile. You're kind of a dick, aren't you, Jack? Carlo swings the axe, a twinkle in his eye. Well, enjoy the cash. In fact, why don't you buy yourself something nice at our stand today? Maybe something turquoise.

I've never been much for a bolo tie. Then how about a belt buckle? He squints and raises the axe. I'll think about it. See that you do. She turns and walks off, calling back over her shoulder. If you're going to be a new Mexican, Jack, you've got to look the part. Harlow grins, sinking the axe into a particularly stubborn round of resinous pine.

Ezekiel catches his eye and winks. Shut up, jokes Harlow, yanking the axe free, then swinging it down again with a vicious crack. Day two on the Holy Mesa passes quickly. After breakfast, Harlow volunteers to help out around the place. There is a lot of work to be done, and he welcomes each task as it arises, tilling soil in the gardens with Ezekiel, helping prepare brisket for lunch, hanging up freshly laundered cloth diapers, and hemp sanitary pads to dry in the sun with Cadence and Zen, while infant Ziggy wriggles on a blanket at their feet.

Before supper, he even joins the young gods for Frisbee in the green eye. Supper is much like the first night. And besides the cactus wine, Harlow samples hard cider they make on the mesa. The drink is tart and strong and wonderful. He helps clean up after the meal, carrying trays of dishes into the kitchen, where volunteers do the washing at a trough sink by one wall. The kitchen building is a simple, open space with a dirt floor, a ceiling fan, and an old landline phone by the door. wires run down from the solar panels on its roof to electric ovens and a row of deep freezers, which buzz softly. That night, after a round of blessed dreams and see you in the mornings, Harlow is escorted back to the guest yurt, and he falls asleep within seconds of laying

his head upon the pillow. And on the third day, he rises and goes out early. The world is still dark, and the sky is filled with stars. Harlow walks across the grass to the circular pool in the center of the green eye. The water is still. He peers into its mirror surface. It was another night of disturbing dreams, but this time he dreamed not of his mother, but his father, whose name had been Gabriel. Harlow knows his dad was from Mexico, and older than his mom, but that's about it. He has never seen a picture of him, so Harlow's subconscious had only that fleeting Halloween memory to go by. In his dream, Gabriel Vega had a round face, glasses, black hair slicked to the side, and a short-trimmed

beard only, only his glasses were askew, and there was a gaping hole in his left cheek, and the right half of his face was gone, blasted apart. The skin hung in stringy tatters, and the exposed skull and teeth were yellow and cracked. Harlow had looked around for his mom, because he knew the rest of Dad's face must be on her, all those little missing pieces. But in the dream, it was only the two of them, father and son. Gabriel bent his head to look down, so Harlow did too, and he saw that his own arms and hands were slick and red. Will you be ready, my son? His father's ruined face asked.

You must be ready. Someone in a yurt coughs, then a baby starts crying. Harlow blinks, tearing his gaze off his reflection in the pool as he refocuses on the here and now. Others are starting to rise for the day, stepping out from their curtain doorways and stretching in the morning air. The stars are gone, and the first sun rays peek out from over the eastern ridge. Harlow sets off across the lawn, heading south. He passes between the yurts there and emerges near the Mesa's southern edge, where the ground is flat and stony. like a stage on the cliff's edge.

There's no railing, which hardly seems safe, considering all the children up here. He steps right up to the ledge and peers down. How high are they? 500 feet? More? A long way to fall to the weathered talus below. As the sun emerges and its golden glow reveals the shape of the world

stretched out below him, Harlow spots where the mesa folk set up their stand by the road. Beyond it, the landscape is a large. the wrinkled blanket, the color of old bone, and it seems to go on forever. He stands and watches as the sky brightens, and the light adds touches of sage green and copper red to those arid plains. Then he turns right and starts walking west along the rim, heading counterclockwise, with a plan to hike the mesa's full perimeter.

Harlow is glad he came to this place, he decides. He has seen the holy mesa with his own eyes, and whatever the same so-called visionaries are playing at now. It seems clear that the old wickedness that had once taken root upon this rock, that it caused the deaths of his father and brother, and poisoned his mother's mind, that evil is gone now. Yes, he is glad he came, and he will be glad to go. He will leave today after a final meal. Harlow will not tell anyone or say goodbye, or give Starling another chance to reel him in with those dazzling eyes of hers. He will slip away when no one's watching and walk down the winding switch back to the plane below.

He'll go to his truck, fix the pump connector, and climb behind the wheel. Then it's one quick U-turn, and he'll be speeding back to civilization. But he's got an hour or two before breakfast, and it would be a shame not to explore the whole of this geological wonder while he's here. Lisa is shaped like a wonky, rounded square, and everything he's seen thus far has been solely on its southern half. He walks north along the western rim, passing the parking lot and the windmills, and then, leaving behind the community, heads into wild, rocky topland.

Needle-sharp grasses grow from cracks in the stony ground, like golden straw. There are pale green salt bushes, honey-yellow rabbit brush, and amber snakeweeds. The deadly white spikes of prickly pear cactuses stand out against the purple-red of their winter pads. As he reaches the northwest corner of the mesa, Parlow comes upon an open clearing, enclosed on its right side with a roughly made wall of mud bricks. His boots crunch into the chalky gravel that covers the ground as he moves cautiously forward. What was it Starling said last night about what he would find on the mesa? The Stone Grove and the Storm Claw?

This must be the grove. It looks like some sort of haunted art installation. Dozens of heavy stones have been erected throughout the clearing, each marked with the striking imprint of a human hand. The images were made using negative space. The artist must have pressed their palm upon the stone, then blown or splattered pigment across it, leaving their hands silhouette behind. That's an ancient technique, he knows. from way back in Paleolithic days. What the hell is this? Harlow muses. As his eyes sweep the grove, the hair on the back of his neck prickles.

It's the way the ghostly hands are positioned. They seem to be stretching up from the lifeless ground, as if buried spirits are reaching desperately for air, for light, for salvation. Harlow hurries through the haunted stones and ducks through a low doorway in the wall. He steps out on the other side into morning light and a rising wind. He has reached the northeast quadrant.

This then is the last area to be explored, and just like each other section of the mesa, it has a character all unto itself. The terrain slopes smoothly up and down in little hillocks, like frozen waves in a terracotta sea. Ahead and to the right, he spots an old abandoned shed, rusty and boarded up. Next to the shed, nestled on the side of a little hill is a pile of rotten wood and rusted metal. He turns in place, and as his gaze reaches the northern cliff edge, he freezes, perched upon a rise and bordered in brilliant blue sky, stands a building

unlike any Harlow has ever seen. My God, it is a temple. This, Harlow knows by instinct, the way infants know to fear loud noises. Anyone in this place would come to the same conclusion. He starts toward it, moving with slow, deliberate steps and trying not to blink, as if the whole thing might vanish should he look away. The temple appears new, or at least, it is in pristine condition, but its design follows that ancient, human template for houses of worship which transcends era and region and culture. Its architecture, its architecture, its architecture The architecture draws the eyes up, inspiring wonder and dread in equal measure, so vast, so perfectly proportional.

It is a temple, and yet Harlow also knows that the people here do not call it that. They call it the museum. Wow! Every inch of the edifice is crafted from red-brown adobe, apart from the solar panels on its roof. Side stairs ascend to the structure's base, where many straight pillars stand along its perimeter, holding up a slanted roof or stories above. An umber dome rises at the center of the roof, in a perfect half sphere.

It's like, like the builders of Mesa Verde took a crack at making the Parthenon, half inspired by ancient Mediterranean's, and half by the indigenous peoples of this land, and 100% inspired, by the holy mesa. Yeah, Harlow gets it, intuitively. This museum could not exist anywhere else but here, here where its bold color camouflages it against the arid topland, where one could easily imagine that the whole thing

had risen up out of the mesa itself, pillars and all. Harlow comes closer, squinting up at the horizontal band of carven images set above the pillars. The symbols and figures on the museum's freeze are simple and mythic, invoking the petroglyphs so common in this part of the country. A spiral, a mammoth, a glowing circle, a turtle, a man with a flute, a skull with horns. As Harlow stands, transfixed, he hears doors open on the front of the museum, and seconds later, a bent figure comes slowly into view between the central pillars and descends the stairs.

Whoever it is, they're old, hunch-backed and hooded. and leaning on a thick cane. Harlow doesn't move. He's only about 50 feet from the person, but they don't seem to notice him. And reaching the ground, they turn and limp away from Harlow, heading northeast, moving slowly across the uneven ground. Harlow takes a deep breath.

A nameless dread stirs in the back of his mind, and he feels himself, compelled, to follow the hooded stranger. stranger. So he does, keeping his distance. The wind is picking up now, and the closer they get to the deadly drop at the mesa's edge, the louder and fiercer it becomes, until Harlow's hair whips in his eyes. He looks up and sees a twisting spire of dust in the air, just beyond the northeast corner. The vortex of wind does not move or fade. As he comes near it, holding up one hand again the wind-swept sand, he puzzles out what's causing the miniature storm. Where the northern and western rims meet, a narrow outcrop of rocks extends from the main cliff face,

like a weathered bridge to nowhere. This jutting ledge curves left to a sharp point, trapping the flow of westerly wind along that escarpment, and funneling the wind up, up, up in a tiny tornado, remembering Starling's words, the storm claw with its undying wind. The hooded figure comes to a stop just before the edge and stands, leaning on their cane. Their tattered gray cloak flaps in the wind, and their hood is blown back, revealing a white shock of long, frizzled hair. Harlow is suddenly worried.

The stranger looks so thin and frail that the undying wind might wrench them off their feet and drag them spiraling into the air like a tumbleweed. Hey, hey, hello? Harlow calls out, but the figure does not respond. As he comes up behind them, Harlow realizes that they're not leaning on a cane at all, but a rifle. The gun is old, with a faded stalk and rust on the barrel. With cautious steps, Harlow moves around to the stranger's side, eyes narrowed against the wind. It's an elderly man, and his tangled hair and beard whip around his wrinkled face like a snowy halo.

The old man does not move, except to sway in the wind. You all right, sir? Harlow calls out. You're mighty close to the edge there, and... The stranger jerks, sucking in a wheezy breath and trembling as he turns suddenly to Harlow. In his hollow face, his eyes bulge, filled with milky cataracts and burst blood vessels. The sacred lady of the mesa! The old man wails.

She has been so... angry with me for so long. Harlow raises his hands in a calming gesture. I don't know what you mean, sir, but you really shouldn't stand right here. It's dangerous. I was never the proper vessel. Never. The old stranger insists.

Never strong enough or pure enough. And in my holy task, I, I fail. His lips tremble, and he begins to cry like a lost child. Harlow takes another step, staring into that withered, colorless face. I think I remember you, Harlow mutters. Too soft to be heard above the storm claw's howl. The old man lurches forward, dragging the rifle over the dirt with one hand and reaching with the other to seize Harlow by the shirt.

I failed her. I planted the wrong seedling within this consecrated soil. He screams, tugging on Harlow's shirt. You did something, said something that scared my parents, Harlow says, knowing the words to be true, even if he can't remember why. You're the reason we fled. The man lets out a hideous sob. Snot bubbles from his nostrils and is pushed by the wind,

oozing up his wrinkled cheeks in yellow rivers. And now it's all wrong. Oh, topsy-turvy, the vision. It's ruined. Harlow barely notices the outburst. His attention has moved down to the rifle. Wait, says Harlow, his voice lowering to a growl. That rifle, that's it, isn't it?

He looks the old man in the face. It was you. You shot at her car. You killed them. For a moment, the two men stand within the swirling dust. Then a light comes into the elder's eyes, and his wrinkled face contorts in a toothless smile. At last!

He gasps. At last, I am needed no more. Oh, blessed day! He tugs on Harlow's shirt, beaming up at him. And so in death the narrative may begin anew. I can die. I can die, I can die, I can die, I can die. Harlow is shaken from his dark musings.

What are you saying? O feast upon my tired bones, you ravenous mycelium, you glorious primordial, proud progeny of her holy remains. Pulling away from Harlow, the old man lifts up his rifle in both hands. Harlow tenses, ready to fight. But the man doesn't aim the gun. gun at him. Crying out in ecstasy, he presses the barrel against the pouch of loose skin beneath his own chin. Praisees me! Wait! All praises be to the hallowed corpse! Wait! Harlow lunges through the wind,

grabbing for the rifle. The weapon fires. The gunshot is a thunderous crack for half a moment, and then it's gone. The vibrations swallowed up by the raging wind. Harlow lets go of the rifle. It clatters to the ground. The old man remains on his feet, staring at Harlow with a tight-lipped smile. Harlow gazes into those misty eyes as they begin to weep red tears. The blood trickles down the man's wrinkled cheeks. Then he pitches forward. Harlow catches him around the middle.

Then the man's jaws flop open, and blood pours out. The wind takes the blood. It whips it up and curls it in the air like a tongue of fire and whirls it into scarlet mist that swirls around them both, coating every inch of Harlow, his clothes, his skin, his hair. Harlow releases the body. It falls to its knees, but stays there, held upright and swaying in the funneling wind. Arms flopped out to either side, head upturned, mouth open,

spittle in blood continuing to dribble upward in the squall. Harlow blinks, and the blood in his eyelashes glistens like rubies. He stares down at his hands. His body sparkles with a billion crimson droplets. He takes a drunken step backward and turns. He is not alone. Two older women in white robes are standing some 15 yards away, just beside that old rusty shed.

They hold heavy blankets in their hands, and they stand very still. They are watching him. How long have they been there? What? What do they think they saw? Harlow opens his mouth to speak to them, to explain, but no words come out. Or if they do, they too are stolen by the undying wind, shredded into ribbons by the

storm-claw's fury. He sits in the yurt, hunched on the mattress and staring at his hands in his lap. They are clean now. Harlow can't remember who led him from the cliff edge. He recalls moving south across the hills to the forum, while others rushed. north to investigate the shocking death. At the forum, he was passed to three grannies. Their expressions hidden beneath eternally smiling masks, a yellow sun, a baby doll's face, a geisha with three pairs of eyes stacked on each other. They brought Harlow around the side

of the kitchen building, where showerheads stuck out in a row from the wall, then stripped off his clothes. They scrubbed the blood and the sweat and dust from his body in the cool water, which streamed off him and turned the ground muddy and pink. Then they dried him with a towel and dressed him in a white robe and sandals. So transformed, they walked him back here and told him to wait. So he waits, wondering if perhaps he's still in last night's dream. Or maybe all three days upon this mystic rock were just a dream. Maybe his whole life.

Maybe the whole goddamn history of the universe. One long nightmare, wild. and cruel, devoid of meaning. The breeze outside shifts the canvas walls around him. To the right of the door, there is a dim silhouette of a broad-shouldered man with pronged horns atop his head. That bastard bash, standing guard outside in case Harlow tries to run. To be fair, Harlow has considered this. While the grannies dried him after the shower, he heard someone anxiously whisper. The thought of law enforcement coming here on the Holy Mesa feels all wrong. But Harlow has studied its location. The mesa is not on a reservation. It's privately owned land. Why wouldn't they call the county

cops to report a grisly suicide? But how exactly should Harlow answer their questions? They'll want an official statement. They want to see the identification of this Jack fellow. And what happens then? Harlow, that's out a groan. He looks up and as a second silhouette appears through the cloth wall, and moving to the doorway, the figure pulls aside the red curtain. Harlow holds up a hand, expecting glare, but the light outside is dim and gray. A woman steps inside the yurt and stands, straight-backed and silent, just staring at him.

He doesn't recognize her. She has a mask hanging around her neck on a piece of twine. She looks to be in her 70s. She's gaunt and bony, and she wears so many beaded necklaces and bracelets that it's a wonder she can stand up without toppling over. Her skin is like sun-tanned leather, and her head is shaved, and with the deep wrinkles in her face, she reminds Harlow of a hairless Sphinx cat. There's a faded tattoo on her forehead of Aesia Sun, like on New Mexico's flag, a circle

with Ray's extending an across. Harlow has a sneaky suspicion this severe old hippie woman has spent her whole life moving from cult to cult. Who are you? he asks. She tilts her head and her necklace is jingled.

I am called goddess Indira. You will come with me now. The council has questions. Harlow gets to his feet. The council, eh? I thought Mesa didn't have any leaders. Indira's shriveled lips, purse and irritation. We counselors are simply those who volunteer to help facilitate practical matters within the community.

Sure you are, says Harlow exhaling. Are the cops here yet? I haven't heard any sirens. You'll come now. She wheels about and moves out through the curtain. Harlow follows. Outside, something feels off. about the green eye. The crowd is gone. The silent yurts appear ominous, like a ring of tombstones. The circular field feels smaller, even claustrophobic. And that's not all. The sky. It's overcast.

For the first time since he arrived here, there is no sunlight or starlight to sparkle on the stones, the grass, the pool. The atmosphere is brittle and stale, and the moats of dust in the air are gray as ash. Harlow glances over at Bash, who stands stoically at his post. Then he follows Indira across the empty lawn. Is it just his imagination? Or is the grass itself drier or harsher than before? He looks north toward the greenhouses and has to squint to make sure that what he sees is really happening between the yurts there. The tall, skinny girl on that oval mask with slitted eye holes stands behind a wheelbarrow. Inside the wheelbarrow, one arm hanging limply over its side, is a white-haired corpse. As he watches, a tall man in a mossy wooden mask

steps into view. It's Ezekiel, and he is holding the axe. Ezekiel brings the axe up, then down, severing the old man's arm just above the elbow with one precise chop. Harlow winces. Ezekiel bends to pick up the bleeding arm, and he and the girl walk out of view behind the yurts, driving the wheelbarrow before them. Harlow shakes himself and tries to refocus. One dilemma at a time. That's the key. Looking forward, Bastendira, he sees that in the whole of the green eye, there are only five other people present,

and these are gathered around the central pool. Two were men that Harlow hasn't met yet. both masked and pacing anxiously around the water's edge. Across the pool, he sees Starling with her arm around Wren. The last figure is a tall, wiry man standing with his back to Harlow. He wears the distinctly shaped campaign hat of a county sheriff, and two long dark braids hang down his back. As Indira and Harlow approach, the sheriff pivots to face them.

Harlow marches determined forward, not slowing down. down until he is right in front of the man. For a long moment, no one speaks. The sheriff looks at Harlow. Harlow looks back, trying and failing to find any discernible emotion in the other's face. Then Starling clears her throat. It's the gentlest of sounds. And without a word, the sheriff turns stiffly and treads off across the lawn toward the parking lot. Well, that was weird, says Harlow, breaking the silence. I figured he'd want to talk to me about what happened, check ID and all that. And how?

growls an accented voice to Harlow's right. Could he have done days, sir? Harlow regards the speaker, a broad-shouldered man wearing a weathered bronze mask and, notably a white lab coat. The mask looks ancient, like something they'd dig up in old Mesopotamian. modelled after a kingly face with stern features and a long-braided beard. You guys went through my truck? We don't know you, dear, croons the high voice of the stranger on the left,

a little man in a faded suit and tie, with an opera cape and dress gloves. He is hunchbacked and bow-legged, and his face is hidden in a fusion of the classic comedy and tragedy masks. Half of him grins like a wild clown, while the other half weeps and glowers. Parlo looks from one masked man to the other, crossing his arms. Well, I don't know you guys either. Starling, you think we could start with some introductions? Across the gray water, Starling nods.

Agreed. There should be no strangers upon the mesa. Jack, this is young goddess Wren, though perhaps you've met already. Wren here represents the needs of the Mesa's godlings on this council. And we are proud of her for you. Wren blushes and gives Harlow an awkward wave. Her mask is fixed in place now over her green eyes. It is a feline cowl, with costume gems running up both ears and glittery whiskers.

Beside you stands the illustrious goddess Indira, instructor of the new gods. And this is God Caliban. Caliban is an artist most divine. The bent man in the actor's mask dips into a low bow, with a theatrical flourish of his gloved hands. Finally, this is God Gilgamesh. Harlow looks at Gilgamesh. And what do you do?

In the eyeholes of his bronze mask, the big man's eyes squint angrily. I work with the professor, or rather. The who? The man who died this morning. Ah, Carlo nods. Right. And what exactly did he teach this professor?

Sir. Archaeology, answers Starling. But that was long ago. He hadn't left this mesa in, hmm? Well over half a century. That's a long time. And he had been ill or depressed. He seemed rather out of it when I saw him.

No. growls Gilgamesh. Actually, yes, cuts in Starling. Holding up an open hand when Gilgamesh starts to complain. He had been very ill for some time. We all know. He was very old and has been eating nothing but the mushrooms for over a year now. Still, this morning's tragedy was quite the shock.

Yeah, tell me about it, murmurs Harlow. The prophet will take the news especially hard, says Indira. So tell us, blind God, what happened at the storm claw? Harlow uncrosses his arms and breathes deep through his nose. I'm not too sure. I was out for a walk, like Starling suggested. And when I saw the old guy by the cliff, I got worried. I went to him, asked if he needed help, and he just...

I don't know. He started ranting. Then he brought up the rifle, and that was that. The counsel is silent for a long moment. Then Starling asks, What did he say exactly? Harlow shakes his head. It was real windy.

and he wasn't making sense. I couldn't understand a lot of it, but I know the rant ended with, I can die, I can die, I can die, over and over. Wren looks spooked, but Starling shows no reaction. I see. And tell me, Jack, why would the two goddesses who also witnessed the scene on the cliff

report that you, in fact, confronted the professor moments before his death? Harlow takes a step backward. Wait, that's what they said? They also report, says Gilgamesh, that his rifle did not go off until you lunged at him and seized it. As these words settle over Harlow, he experiences a wave of vertigo. It's like he's back on the cliff edge, pushed and pulled by the wind.

That's not what happened. I was trying to stop him. Where are you? Asked, Starling. Of course. Why would I want to murder some random old man? Why, indeed. asks the voice of Caliban.

Though, you might be some perverted serial killer for all we know. Or a former soldier! sneers Indira. The way the old hippie says the word soldier makes it sound far worse than serial killer. Well, I'm not. Then what are you? Asks Gilgamesh. Harlow tries to think of an answer, but his brain is all cloudy, like the sky overhead. He turns back to Starling.

She meets his eyes, and after a few seconds, the corners of her lips curl into a faint smile. It doesn't matter what he was, she declares gently. He is here now. All that matters is the role he may play in the Grand Vision. And we will need people like him. Her smile widens. Strong of will and mind and muscle. A contrarian, if he can find balance within himself. Parlo lets out a deep breath. Okay, then. But did you tell that sheriff that I had something to do with the professor's death? Starling doesn't answer.

Does that mean yes? Starling's smile flattens. We have an understanding with Sheriff Tosi. Meaning? Meaning he trusts us to oversee this community. Though he's always just a phone call should anything dangerous arise. Do you understand? Harlow tilts back his head. Uh-huh. I think I'm starting to.

And it isn't just the sheriff, adds Indira, casting a look behind them. God bash there, we'll keep an eye on you now, Jack. As will God's brick and Krieger. Watch yourself. Harlow makes a mental note of the names mentioned, assuming that they refer to the other two men that escorted Starling to supper that first night, and their masks of black leather and patched canvas. Starling turns to the counselors one by one. And although no words are spoken, they must take it as a sign that the meeting is over.

Wren pulls her mask back up onto her hair as she heads off toward the forum, followed by Indira and Caliban. Gilgamesh walks north. His destination must be the museum. Harlow and Starling are left alone in the green eye, standing on opposite sides of the pool, watching each other. After a moment, she reaches down to clutch the skirts of her dress, revealing her small bare feet. Her dress today is turquoise. It matches her eyes and jewelry.

And as she steps down into the shallow water, the ripples take on that same shade of deep blue-green. Come, she says, clutching her dress in one hand and holding out the other toward him. Harlow glances around. Uh, well, I already bathed once today. Twice if you count the blood and... Get in here, Jack. He slides the sandals off his feet and steps down into the pool, the trim of his white robe dipping into the water.

Starling beckons him closer. He obeys, his ankles, sending out ripples with each step that ricochet and multiply into a hundred overlapping circles. You watched a man die this morning, says Starling. Yeah. Was that your first time? Harlow's brow furrows. Then he shakes his head.

The professor's name was Mortimer King, she says as he reaches her. And I always hated that son of a bitch. A shiver runs up Harlow's legs and back. Must be from the chilly water. You did? Oh, yes. So tell me, Jack. She pouts and mock sorrow.

Are you sure your finger didn't find that rifle's trigger? And give it a teeny tiny tug. Harlow swallows. I already told you what happened. She leans in close, rising up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, her belly pressing against him, her fingertips sliding up his forearms. Tell me again. Tell me how he died. Tell me everything. Harlow blinks, fidgeting in the water.

I really don't know what else you want me to say. She chuckles. You've done really well. Thank you, Jack. Carlo winces a sunlight glints off the water around them. The clouds have parted, and daylight is back with a vengeance. It's all going to work out, she tells him, letting go of his forearm. And remember, as long as you remain upon the Holy Mesa, I will protect you and your secrets. What do you mean secrets?

He asks, rubbing at his wrist, where her fingers have left pale imprints in his skin. But she trudges back to the pool's edge and climbs out. The bottom of her dress is heavy and wet, and it drags across the grass as she departs. Starling? What secrets? She doesn't turn around. Harlow shivers again. The sun is warm now, but the water is frigid. He sniffs at the air, catching the scent of smoked meats and fresh bread on the breeze,

and his stomach rumbles. Hell of a morning, he says to himself, stepping out and pulling on his sandals. Jack, hey Jack, we're over here. Hey, hey, nice road, my man. Harlow moves self-consciously through the crowd, heading for the spot where Galaxy stands, holding little Ziggy in one arm and waving with the other. It's nice for the kid to save him a seat, Harlow supposes,

though we'd rather not have the extra attention right now. A lot of heads pivot to look at him as he passes by, and from the edge of the forum, he can sense bash, watching him. Hey, thanks, Carlo says, squeezing onto the bench between Galaxy and Cadence. And this robe isn't mine, obviously. I don't know where they put my clothes. He reaches at once to scoop a few enchiladas smeared with red chili onto his plate. He's suddenly starting, this is a nice bread for breakfast. That's because it's a lunch, man, says Galaxy, snickering.

So, um, Jack. Asks, Zen in a hushed tone from across the table. Is it true? And were you really there? Harlow picks up his fork. About the professor's death? Yeah, I saw it. It was awful.

He cuts off a large bite of enchilada and shoves it into his mouth. The spice is strong and burns his throat. He goes for a second bite. Oh, Vision help us, murmurs, Cadence beside him. She balls up her hands in her sleeves and, hunching forward, begins to rock gently back in her. forth on the bench. It is like the end of an era. He was the first, the first of the five founders. Harlow looks over at her, stopping mid-chew. Across the table, Zen whispers.

Cadence takes the very seriously. She's becoming a bit of an expert. Harlow swallows. Who are the five founders? Zen shakes her head. That doesn't matter. We don't need to talk about it now. They started this community. The whole thing, says Galaxy, crumbs falling from his chin and sprinkling over Ziggy. Zen stands up, red in the face, and reaches over to gently take her son back. Hey, relax, mamacita, says Galaxy. It's just Jack. Goddess Starling said he'll be joining us in class soon. He'll learn all this shit anyway. We can tell him. Nobody told me anything about any class, says Harlow, relieved that the conversation is moving past the old man's death. So who were they?

Galaxy tries to respond, but he's just stuffed a piece of buttered bread into his mouth, and the words come out as nonsense. Zen rolls her eyes. It is cadence, rocking back and forth that explains, speaking as though quoting some holy text. It all started with the professor. He found the tomb, received the holy message, and understood his sacred mission. He came up to this place, but there was so much to be done, So he gathered the faithful, and together the children of the mesa began. Carlo nods. That's what the call?

The community was called? Before it was changed to the visionaries? Zen nods, but cadence goes on. Five founders were selected to oversee the Grand Mission, the professor, the magician, the mycologist, the builder, the artisan. Carlo tries to remember all these strange titles. Mycologist? What is that?

that, the study of microbes? Zen shakes her head. Fungus? Right. The five founders built the museum to house the sacred secrets and the community to serve the holy vision.

Cadence stops rocking and resumes arranging fruit on her plate. You didn't say anything about when it all went totally cray! Complains Galaxy, pouring himself a glass of water. You know, like goddess Starling says, The Period of Darkness or whatever.

Who? Tell about when the professor sniped that car from the overlook. Capawi! Harlow experiences an involuntary spasm, checking on air and dropping his fork onto his plate with a loud clatter. The noise startles Ziggy, who starts to cry. Shit, fuck, sorry. Harlow mutters, slouching on the bench as face his turn to look at the commotion. Sorry, I just... what were you saying? What happened? He asks Cadence. But she stays silent.

That's just a rumor, whispered Zen, trying to calm down Ziggy. Okay, but it's like a super wild, crazy, cool story, so like, yeah. Galaxy turns to Harlow, setting one hand on his back. So the professors had crazy dementia for like a decade or whatever, right? He's got a bedroom up in the museum. Nobody really sees him. We're all just taught that he started the whole thing. But a couple of months back, after the Feast of the Turquoise Mask,

God Zephyr gets like totally shit-based on tuna wine, and his yurt is right next to ours, right? So he stumbles home and goes in the wrong yurt. Zen and I are in, totally going at it, like hard. Galaxy! Zen hisses across the table. Whoa, okay, Jesus, I'm sorry. Galaxy holds up both hands and mock surrender.

Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, the thing! So, Zen and I are in the yurt. Making sweet love. And Zephyr just falls on his face on the floor. And he's lying there. And he starts mumbling. And he tells us this crazy story about what happened here 25 years ago.

Harlow feels his heart pounding in his ears. What happened? He said there was a big argument among the founders. And that one of them just like, I don't know, stole a little kid in the dead of night and tried to run away from the mesa. But the profus is not what he said. Corrects Zen.

She looks side to side nervously, then. Zephyr said that the builder took the boy away, and that Mortimer had to stop them, that he had to get the child back. Harlow stares at Zen, and whatever is happening on his own face, he sees her expression darkened with worry as she looks into his eyes. Yeah, yeah, yeah. So then the professor takes out this hunting rifle that I guess he's had since World War II, and, oh, wow, that's probably the same one he used.

today. That's nuts. And then he goes down to the southern ledge, to the overlook, and just... Galaxy hits the table with a fist, making Cadence wince and Ziggy start to cry again. The dude snipes the kidnapper's car in the dark of night, and it's a direct hit through the window. How insane is that? Harlow looks down at his red chili enchilada, then pushes the plate away. His hands close into fists. You mean to say that? that the professor murdered two people in a car, and they knew about it, and they just, what, let him stay here,

without any consequences, for 27 years? It's just a rumor, mutters Cadence. Why'd you say, for 27 years? Asked Zenn, catching Harlow's eye again. Galaxy said 25. Yeah, and what do you mean two people? Says Galaxy, looking around for more things to pile on his plate. I said he shot the driver.

Harlow turns to him. But weren't there other people in the car? You mean, like they kidnapped a boy? Yeah, but they brought him back up here. That was the whole point. Ooh, Pico de Gaio, can you pass me that? Harlow feels the evening air close in around him, squeezing his body in a vice, his chest going tight.

What did you say? To Pico de Gaio, the sauce! Right there, man. No. Before that, about the kid. Galaxy shrugs. They brought him back up the mesa? Alive?

Uh, yeah, obviously. And hey, if you're not going to pass the pico, can I just... Galaxy stretches over Harlow's plate to grab the bowl for himself. But then, what happened to him? To the child in the story? Asks Zen. Harlow nods rapidly. His breathing is getting sharp.

shallow. He can feel sweat breaking out across his cheeks. Galaxy and Zen exchange a look. Uh, we don't know, man. I mean, if it really happened, then I guess he's probably still here. I told you. People don't leave this place. Harlow stands up, banging the table with his thighs,

so that plates jump and someone's drink spills. Many faces swivel toward him. Sorry, just, I gotta, I gotta use the, uh, Excuse me. Harlow steps out from behind the bench and marches between the tables, knocking into people in his hurry, mumbling apologies, pushing through the crowd until he is in the open and can speed up. He jogs toward the kitchen, trying to control his breathing,

and as he spins around the corner of the building, he wretches. Once, twice, three times. Violent heaves that bring up spicy globs of enchilada than nothing else but rotten breath. He wheezes, straightening up and wiping. at his mouth. Holy shit. Oh God. He doesn't know whether to laugh or to weep. Shit, that's got to be it. He mutters to himself. The voice, the dreams, that's why I'm here. The chatter back in the forum goes suddenly quiet, and he hears Starling's voice ring out.

From many streams! Chants the crowd. Harlow moves back along the wall, running a hand against its sandy Adobe surface for support. He reaches the corner and peers around it, at the long tables, at the sea of bodies and faces and masks gathered there. From many journeys, one path. There are so many people, more than a hundred of the faithful, all drawn to the Holy Mesa by the promise of a better life, a loving community, and by some wholly mysterious greater purpose he has yet to uncover. Some of those people are friendly enough, no doubt, and some of them are fools. and some are dangerous. From the minds of many gods!

And is it possible? Could one of them sitting at those tables right there really be... One vision! Phoenix! Harlow whispers, where are you, my brother?