Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Prophet of the Hallowed Corpse | Part 2

Episode Date: October 27, 2025

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Part 2. Spring. Season of the Garnet Crown. All four parts of Prophet of the Hallowed Corpse are available right now on Patreon. Get early access through the link in the description below. The dawn breeze brings the sense of creosote and primrose through the gently swaying curtain. Harlow inhales the morning air, letting its energy fill his being. He combs his fingers through his hair and checks the dim reflection of his face, and bare torso in the yurts floor-length mirror. Three months on this sunny mesa have made his skin a darker bronze than ever before.

Old scars stand out in pale relief, especially the raised slash, just under his ribs on the right side. A memento from a stab wound years before. And he has a weird bruise on his neck. That's new. Stifling a yawn, he pulls on a shirt. Zeke, hey Zeke, he says. Time to get up. Harlow's roommate snorts and rolls onto his side,

scratching his hairy stomach with one large hand, then begins to snore again. Harlow picks up one of Ezekiel's boots and chucks it across the room. Ezekiel grunts as it bounces off his mattress and looks up, sleepy and annoyed. What you want? The sun's up, and it's Saturday. maintenance. I want to patch that crack on the back of the kitchen before breakfast. Huh? Nah, that's all canceled. What? Why?

Ezekiel sits up and stretches. We have to prepare for the feast instead, remember? Oh, wait. You weren't back here when God Gilgamesh brought the news. Harlow takes a knee to put on his right boot. What do you mean? What news? A grin stretches across Ezekiel's drowsy face. The feast of the garnet crown. It has been decided that we shall celebrate it tonight. Prepare yourself, my friend. We mesa folk go a bit wild for this one.

Hmm. Garnet crown. Harlow shifts to the other knee. That's the spring festival, right? But I thought the council canceled it this year, because you couldn't have it without the profit here, so... Ezekiel's eyes gleam in the morning light. Exactly. Harlow takes a moment to process this and stands.

So he is returning today. The prophet. Yes, finally. Ezekiel gets to his feet, twisting his hips to crack his back. The prophet says his time of grieving for the professor is over, thank Vision. And he is ready to return. I am glad. I have missed him.

Not that we're friends exactly. He's on another level, of course, a different spiritual plane. But I've always felt a special connection to him, though everyone says that, I suppose. Right, Harlow sighs. Every time he seems to get close to understanding this place, something new crops up. So how long will it take the prophet to travel back here? No one's ever told me where his meditation retreat is actually located. Is it up in Taos or something?

Ezekiel chuckles as he pulls on a pair of jeans. We should head down to the road. Ochoa and Big John will be delivering provisions for the feast soon. There's a lot to do. Sure. Harlow looks around for his belt, spots it on the floor next to Ezekiel's guitar, and slips it on. The belt's buckle is a heavy affair of antique nickel-silver, with the raised relief of a longhorn skull and bevel-set turquoise pieces along its rim.

Hell of a deal at $60. So where were you last night? Asked Ezekiel, collecting his boot from behind the mattress. In bed with goddess Starling. Harlow lets out a sharp bark of laughter. Why the hell would you say that? What do you mean? You spent a lot of time with her.

I'm not sure about that. But what's wrong with Starling? On a list. Harlow mutters with a smirk. But Ezekiel doesn't get the joke. Nah, I just mean she's fine, but Starling is Starling, you know. Plus, she's got a three-week-old baby to care for, and I don't know what her deal is with the, say, Zeke, who's the father? What?

Her baby boy, Heron, who's the dad? Ezekiel blinks, shrugs, and starts searching for his mask. I've told you, Jack, I keep telling you, here on the Holy Mesa, we all share in the joyous and stressful duties of parenthood. Yeah, yeah, I know that's the ideal, but unless you all believe in immaculate conception, which I guess shouldn't surprise me. There's still one biological father, or do I have to explain the facts of life to you? No, no, I do get what you're asking. But how would I know who planted the godseed heron within Starling's form, or any of her children for that matter? Harlow Wences. Ugh, you know, Zeke, sometimes you can be a

real, chill dude. But then you go and say something like that. Spotting Ezekiel's mask, hanging on the back of a chair, he grabs it and hands it over. His roommate has recently replaced the wooden mask's beard with fresh spring moss and swapped out its crown of bare winter branches with small, fresh clippings of Aspen. On each woody tip, pale green leaves are half unfurled from their shiny buds. It makes Ezekiel look like some fay prints of an enchanted wood when he wears it, though for now he simply clips it to his belt. Harlow throws back the curtain, and they step out into the morning light. How many of the kids here are Starlings anyway? he asks, heading across the dew glittered grass.

All of the children, just as they are all mine and yours and God damn it, Zeke, you know what I mean. How many human babies have come out of Starling's vagina? Ezekiel considers the question. Perhaps. Ten? Harlow rolls his eyes. Oh, man, that can't be right. He tucks one thumb behind the belt buckle as they walk, sweeping his gaze across the green eye,

where tiny, lemon-yellow flowers of burr clover now dot the lawn. Two little girls in canvas dresses are picking as many of the flowers as they can, while someone in a yurt plays a simple tune on a reed flute. Wren was Starlings first, says Ezekiel. unexpectedly. Really? Yes. Huh.

I did wonder, but that would mean Starling was only, what, 13, 14 when she had her? I suppose. They pass by the central pool, where three of the masked grannies are soaking their wrinkled feet. Morning, Miss Violet, Miss Sybil, Miss Pearl, says Harlow, nodding to them in turn. Behind their masks,

Sun, doll, and six-eyed geisha, the old ladies giggle like a little. a couple of schoolgirls. Respond, Sybil, wriggling the fingers on one hand in a playful wave. Harlow cocks an eyebrow and glances at Ezekiel to share a private smile. But his friend appears lost in thought. Harlow shrugs it off, nodding hello to another dozen folk as they depart the green eye. Frisby later, Jack!

Galaxy calls from the door of their yurt. We'll see. Lots to do for the feast, though. Harlow answers. They walk around the adobe storehouse. and across the parking lot. When they come to the switch back and start down the winding drive, Ezekiel finally breaks his contemplative silence. Jack, why are you so obsessed with parentage?

What do you mean? They hold out their arms for balance as they half walk, half slide down the steep path, kicking up clouds of dust. Well, you're always going on about it. I think I get it. Your own childhood sounds rather difficult. No community. around you, just you, taking care of your mind-sick mother, and always having to move from

place to place. And, you know, you call out for her sometimes when you're dreaming. It's like a moan. Harlow scoffs. I'm serious. And yet you insist on searching out the name of each planter and layer of godseeds on the whole mesa. You've asked me about my own parentage half a hundred times. Have I? You know you have. You have. You know you have. have. Harlow's foot slips out from under him. Ezekiel grabs him by the arm. I got you. Harlow studies himself, looking up into Ezekiel's face and wondering, always wondering. They descend the final slope and head south along the plain. Blue-tailed skinks scurry from the road at their approach, and on either side, the prickly pear cactus pads are plump and green

and edged with tiny purple buds. Ezekiel smiles broadly at the wild spring morning, and it's Harlow's turn to be sullen and lost in thought. If the rumor that the young gods had told him was true, if Phoenix Vega had really survived the car crash and was still a resident on the mesa, Harlow figured it'd be easy enough to identify him, but three months into that search, and he still didn't know. Half the mesophol are male, and half of them are in their 20s or 30s. A few men can be eliminated based on appearance, of course. But even that is tricky. Their mother came from a long line of Scandinavian farmers who had settled around the Great Lakes.

And if she was telling the truth about him, their father had been Mexican mestizo, with the blood of both indigenous Aztecs and Spanish conquistadors. Most of Harlow's features are dark and rugged, but for all he knows, Phoenix might have blonde hair and blue eyes. He has learned what he can, tried to be approachable to make friends, and though most of the residents don't like to talk about their lives before coming here, he has crossed a lot of people off the list, based on when they arrived here, assuming that Phoenix never left and came back for some reason. All that still leaves half a dozen candidates, including Ezekiel. And that's not taking into account the zealous minority at the mesa who wear their masks night and day. Picture this. 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 Jim Shark to entrepreneurs just getting started. With Shopping, Everything you need is in one place,

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Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. Ah, damn it. Harlow grumbles when they reach the road. He and Ezekiel aren't the first arrivals.

The Ford Ranger is parked by the empty stand, and three men in masks wait beside it. Their arms crossed, silent as statues. The enforcers. That's what Harlow has come to call them in his head. Bash, Brick, and Krieger. Three nasty sons of bitches. Bash turns his bone-framed face as they approach,

staring at Harlow, always staring. Harlow plants himself beside the road, tucking his thumbs into his belt and looking dead ahead. A storm cloud looms like an anvil of gray mist in the distant south, a silver curtain of rain falling beneath it. Before long, a dusty Chevy Silverado hauling a gooseneck trailer comes into sight and pulls to a stop by the road in front of them. The driver's side door opens,

and a heavyset man in overalls and a green cap climbs out, while children chatter in Spanish from the truck's cab. Blessed morning, God Ochoa, calls out Ezekiel, raising a hand and greeting to the farmer. Buenos dea, signor, says Harlow with a nod. Signor Ochoa straightens up and turns his head, but he doesn't look at them. He looks up at the Holy Mesa,

His eyes bloodshot and unblinking. Harlow has come to a lot of these drop-offs, helping bring up not only loads of food and lumber, but donations of many kinds. Old clothes, dishware, Polaroid film, gasoline. The various drivers always act a bit like Ochoa here. They don't appear, scared exactly,

just a bit dazed. And Harlow's never seen anyone from the Mesa offer payment to any of them. There's always some sort of understanding They drop off the goods and drive off again, just like that. Parlo and the other three began unloading the trailer, transferring mesh sacks of chilies, onions, potatoes, and corn into the back of the ranger. Shouldn't we invite the Ochoas up top? Parlo asks the other men, mostly to gauge their reaction.

Or maybe they'll want to stay for the feast? No, says Ezekiel. Starling has hosted all the farmers on the mesa, once before. But not since. It's not how we do things. Why not? Harlow asks. But Krieger barks a laugh from under his leather and chrome mask.

He says, It is unsettling. Harlow smirks. Yeah, I keep hearing that. But then maybe your counsel shouldn't keep us newbies in the dark if they don't want us bumping into furniture. The fuck does that mean? Krieger mutters under his breath as he trudges away.

Ezekiel Greer, That was a nice analogy. Sounds like something Starling would say. Oof, low blow, says Harlow, adjusting the last goods in the back of the truck so we can shut the tailgate. That's when a shrill voice cries out in panic. Harlow spins around. The scream is coming from the cab of the farmer's truck, but Ochoa is still just standing in the road, staring up at the mesa, unreactive to his child's plight. Harlow hurries to investigate. Hey, he shouts. Back off, Bash. You're scaring them.

Bash is standing beside the Silverado's passenger side door, staring up through his bone mask with its forked horns at two young kids peeking down from the open window. Tears in their eyes. Bash tilts his head to smirk at Harlow, then turns back to the truck, and bearing his yellow teeth, begins to snarl like a rabid animal.

The kids scream again. Harlow looks up at the truck. Their tear-filled, Niños, this man is a... Tonto. Their tear-filled eyes, swivel from Bash to Harlow went back again. He's just crazy, kids. This loco. Behind the mask, Bash, chuckles darkly.

What the hell is your problem? Harlow hisses at him. Staring at me all day ain't enough? You got to freak out little kids now, just to feel like a badass. Whoa now, Jack. Calls out Ezekiel, jogging up to them. Let go of him. Harlow looks down from Bash's gleeful eyes and sees that his own fists are clinging to the man's shirt.

Deep breath, my friend, Ezekiel says softly into Harlow's ear. Behind him, Krieger and Brick are watching. Harlow releases his grip. Bash's grin widens as he steps back, dusts off his shirt, then saunteres around them to shut the trailer. Harlow goes to follow, but Ezekiel lays a hand gently on his shoulder. Take a minute. I'm fine. There is a blood-red fog over your vision, Jack.

And this isn't the time or place to deal with it. I hate that guy. Of course you do. He's an asshole. You don't get it, Zeke. It's not just me. Ask the young goddesses. Ask Zen, Yumi, even Wren.

Bash gets off on intimidation. Why doesn't anyone do anything about it? Ezekiel sighs. He is part of the... community, part of the mission, but things can change. When? Perhaps sooner than you think. There's a gleam in Ezekiel's eye. The feast of the garnet crown is unlike any other night. It's an opportunity for emotional release for transformation. But for now, cool down. Got it? Harlow takes a deep breath and nods. Ezekiel smiles and towsles his hair.

Jesus, man, come on. Another shipment will be here soon. We will stay and unload it while the others take up this lot, yes? Sure. As the Silverado pulls a wide U-turn and rumbles out of sight, Parlo wanders onto the dusty road, his boots crunching through scraps of broken tumbleweeds. He raises a hand to rub the last bit of sleepiness from his eyes,

and as his vision comes back into focus, it locks onto a tiny face. and the brush across the road. A prairie dog is sticking its head up from a hole in the dirt, sniffing the air with its tiny nose. Harlow takes a step forward, and the little guy pops back into the ground. He glances back over his shoulder,

checking to see that the enforcers have indeed driven off, then turns and walks from the road, south, out into the wild plains, the mesa at his back. He passes the prairie dog's empty hole and walks. walks on, searching the patchy grasses and gnarled junipers, until he spots another one, two, three of holes. From the last of three, the prairie dog springs back into view, now holding a fresh green seedling in its front paws. "'Blessed morning, little fella,' says Harlow, squatting in the dirt. "'Nice little hideout you got here. Quiet. I'm jealous.'

The fuzzy critter keeps his eyes on Harlow as it begins to eat. snout twitching, nimble hands busy. Harlow's stomach growls. Guess I'm jealous of your breakfast, too. The piercing cry of an eagle sounds from above, and the prairie dog dives into the hole, his black tail whipping out of sight. Harlow rises with the grunt and takes another few steps southward,

then jerks to a stop. He blinks, going dizzy, shaking himself, he tries moving forward again, but his vision tilts and blurs. What the hell? A breeze slithers across the ground, like the breath of the earth, and a hair on his arms stands up.

He shudders and whips around to look behind him. There's no one there. Who was, but no. His eyes scanned the dusty horizon. The wilderness speaks again in a voice he knows. I await your hand in mine. What the hell is this? He stumbles in a circle, sweat on his cheeks, sunlight burning his eyes.

Is this a dream? Find me. Stop! Stop! In the house that you're for? Jack? Where'd you run off to? Carlo draws in a sharp breath and whips around. The mesa rises in his vision to fill the northern sky. He staggers toward it, and as he comes back onto the road,

His head begins to clear. There you are. You all right? Harlow swallows, keeping his eyes on the mesa. Uh, yeah, just a bit of vertigo, I guess. Ah, yes, that happens. What happens? If we wander too far from the mesa, I mean, the mind goes fuzzy, and sometimes it's hard to breathe,

probably just from the change in elevation. Harlow looks back across the road, to the wild south, and the storm cloud creeping nearer. Oh, elevation. Yeah, that. That must be it. He feels better back on the top land, especially after a shower and a bite to eat at the forum.

But just as he's rising from the table to leave with Ezekiel, counselor Indira walks into view, followed by Galaxy and a dozen of the other young gods, all holding crates of craft supplies. Going somewhere got Jack. Ask Sendera. Uh, morning goddess, says Harlow. I'm just off to do some chopping.

Rumor is Big John is bringing down a fatted Herford calf for the feast tonight. We got to have a nice blaze going. Yes, but now it is time for class. I thought work duties were canceled. The counselor's sun-wrinkled eyes narrow. My class is not work. Uh, right. He looks to Ezekiel for moral support, but he's already watching.

walked away. Shoulder slumped, Harlow sits back down. As the last of the breakfast dishes are taken away, the young gods gather around the tables, most of them waving friendly helloes to Harlow. Amen, whispers Galaxy, as he lays out bones, feathers, cloth, and tools on their table. Have you seen Zen today? Harlow shakes his head. Don't think so. Is she all right? I don't know. She's just been a bit off lately. Is Ziggy okay? Yeah, thriving.

Huh. Is everything good with you two? I mean, I thought so. But you know, girls. Harlow nods sympathetically. Indira calls for silence. Sunlight glints on her sweaty scalp and faded forehead tattoo as she stands before the tables. This blessed morning, we shall resume the vital task of mask-making.

Some of you are near completion, and so may dawn the sacred guises at tonight's feast. Most exciting. But first, we have something else to celebrate. The prophet is returning, calls out an excited voice at the far end of the table. Indira smiles, an expression that makes her face look more like a sphinx cat than ever. Yes, indeed, and we all look forward to being in his presence. But that is not what I speak of. Goddess Cadence,

today marks the one-year anniversary of your arrival upon the Holy Mesa. You have grown so much. We're very proud. Harlow looks over to his right, where Cadence, in her black sweater, is hunched over the mask she is making, a large Luna Moth, covered in tiny glass beads.

Harlow thinks a moth is a fitting choice for the girl. Cadence is light on her feet and quiet when she wants to be. As we work this morning, I thought perhaps you might summarize what you have learned thus far. There are several new arrivals this week. She nods at a college-age couple across from Harlow. The boy seems excited. The girl looks skeptical. Who could use catching up?

And no doubt, we would all benefit from your wisdom. Cadence sets down the tray of colored beads she was sorting. And pulling her hands into her sleeves, She closes her eyes, and rocking slowly on the bench, she begins to speak. The ancient peoples of the world believed that spirit exists within all things, in every rock and tree and mountain. And today, in this modern age of materialism and distraction, many of the world's leading scientists have found their way back to this prehistoric way of understanding

and, what are you talking about? Caden's goes quiet, and faces look up from their work to glare at the interrupter. It's the newly arrived girl sitting across from Harlow, who's named Alexis. Rather than shrinking under the barrage of stairs, Alexis shrugs and pulls out a stick of gum. What? Obviously, science doesn't believe in spirits. What the goddess means? Begins, but Cadens sits up straight, her face serious and voice determined. Consciousness, that is the key. Consciousness is at the foundation of all human experience, belief, and knowledge.

Yet, science has failed to find its source or explain its existence. That is why the experts are now accepting that. Rather than arising from the brain, it is the other way around. Consciousness itself, the same power which the ancients called spirit, and which we on the Mesa call vision. It is the source and substance of reality. And Dira claps her hands together, bracelets juggling. Well, foot goddess, yes, as our dearly departed professor used to put it.

The universe thinks, therefore the universe is. Alexis rolls her eyes and shoves the gum into her mouth. Harlow gets it. He's heard this lecture a dozen times now. Each lesson is basically a different version of the same. same thing. The first few classes he attended had been taught sitting around the green eye, before they were tasked with creating masks for themselves, and relocated here to the forum. Harlow hasn't bothered to start on a mask for himself yet. He keeps his hands busy helping others

with theirs. Today, he's trying to sew together scraps of suede and silk, with very little luck, to help out another teen girl named Yumi. Go on, goddess Cadence. says Endira. Tell us about vision. Cadence closes her eyes again and clears her throat. There was no God, but there was always vision. It is eternal and the root of all things. But vision is not a singular unified power.

It is a mosaic. Everything is and has and generates vision. All particles, atoms and molecules, Each drop of rain and every fish in the sea, every mountain and moon and galaxy. Hey, that's you! Harlow whispers, poking galaxy in the ribs. Galaxy tries to pull off the burst of laughter as a cough. Cadence waits for quiet, then continues.

Each piece of the cosmic hole projects its own vision of the universe, its own truth, a trillion trillion contradictory realities. This chaos is responsible for all the pain and imbalance in the natural world, and in our minds, and in society at large. Cadence finishes this speech with a nod, then pops her hands from her sleeves and returns to her mask. Exactly, intones Indira. Her eyes now bright with tears.

You have all seen the proof. The environment is dying. Civilization has failed. The world is. broken, full of woe and famine, war and genocide, inequality and discrimination of every sort. Just look at the current political climate, down there in the so-called United States.

Things are more toxic and divided than ever before. Why is that? Because the very realities in which each ideological side exists are different and incompatible. What hope is there of progress when everyone is trapped in their own private universe? No hope. So, what are we to do about it? Given to despair?

No goddess. The Holy Mesa has the answer. Indira nods. Indeed we do. Let us say it together. She holds out her arms. From the minds of many gods. One vision.

Answer many voices. Even Harlow mumbles along, out of habit. Alexis crosses her arms and blows a glossy pink bubble from her lips. Then she leans to her boyfriend. So they don't believe in God, but they are God. Right. Quiet, babe, mutters her boyfriend, red in the face. It's all right, says Indira,

walking over to lay a leathery hand on the girl's shoulder. It is a valid question. Your name is Alexis, yes? Hmm, who can explain? Jack, how about you? One skeptic to another, tell Alexis why she is, in fact, a literal goddess. Harlow blinks slowly, then sets down his sewing. Well, Alexis, the mesa folk up here, uh, they believe that humans are special.

That since we've evolved to be self-aware and creative and capable of cooperating, we have the potential to use the power of vision intentionally, to alter our personal view of truth and to converge it with those of others. We can be like gods, but most people, unbelievers like you and me, are blind to our own potential. Alexis shrugs.

I still don't get it. Harlow sighs. They think they can create utopia, Alexis, by manifesting. one grand vision that remakes reality itself, like a lucid dream. They want to save the world. By remaking reality? Is that like a metaphor?

The whole universe is a metaphor. Chuckles Indira. Or rather, a convoluted jumble of mixed metaphors. And it is we who are destined to bring clarity to it. Alexis pauses in her gum-chewing to look around at the class. but you all know this is like fantasy bull crap, right? On the bench next to Alexis, her boyfriend cringes and slides a few inches away from her.

Harlow Snickers. What do you think, God, Jack? Asked Sindira. You've been here for three months now. Is it all fantasy bull crap? Harlow sits back on the bench. Oh, I wouldn't put it that way, ma'am. Your underlying philosophy here is just a sense.

sound as any other religion. And Dera grins. But what I teach is not a mere philosophy. Our doctrine wasn't dreamed up by some bourgeois gentleman in an armchair, nor by an illiterate sheepherder in ancient Canaan. This divine truth was revealed to the first founder, by one with powers you cannot even imagine. Undeniable powers!

A miracle maker! And we have been blessed with the task of helping pave the way for their sacred vision of the future. One with undeniable powers. Would that be your prophet? Indira shakes her head. The prophets has the blessed gift of translation. But the words themselves come from another's lips. He is the vessel filled with the sacred message of another. Alexis leans forward.

But if this powerful miracle worker person isn't the prophet, then who is it? True to form. Indira doesn't answer. Let me guess, goddess, he says. Might this mysterious being reside over in the museum? The class goes still. Indira smiles coldly. You are awfully interested in that place, I hear.

God Gilgamesh says you often just stand outside the building, staring up at the pillars with a far-away look in your eyes. Hmm, it's too bad our class can't have a field trip up there to see it for ourselves. But then, we're not ready yet. That's what Starling keeps telling me. Do you think we're making it all up? And that there's nothing in the museum? Harlow shrugs.

Maybe there is. Or maybe it contains a great big metaphor. Indira waves a hand at the class. Many at this table have already witnessed the miracle for themselves During the feast of the turquoise mask Harlow nods So I've heard Though everyone is quite tight-lipped about the experience

As if their lips are sealed by some magic bond Convenient The counselor's brow furrows Rinkling the Zia Sun tattoo You think you're very clever Jack But the truth is you're only stubborn She says coming close You've locked yourself in a dark room in your mind. Then you call through the door to those

of us outside in the sun, and you say that we are the fools for believing in light. Harlow shuts up after that, mostly out of boredom, and resumes his sewing. Glancing up, he sees that the smugness is gone from Alexis's face. She's watching Indira intently, and now timidly raises a hand. Yes, dear. I was just wondering about the masks. What did they have to do with vision? Ah, another astute inquiry, Alexis.

Indira takes hold of her own mask, hanging about her neck, a golden face with a lotus flower collar, modeled after a Hindu goddess, and pulls it on. We all bring spiritual and psychological baggage with us to this mesa. She explains, her voice muffled by the mask. Unresolved traumas and inherent flaws which cloud our vision. The masks are outward tools to aid in the unclouding process, and they are deeply personal.

Many symbolize that which the wearer aspires to become. Others reveal the shape of the lost childlike innocence they seek to reclaim. Some masks are abstract, others literal, and some represent what they're creating. present what their creator fears the most, to help them overcome that fear. Like Batman! calls out Galaxy. Indira turns her mask to women's size. Sure got Galaxy. Like Batman.

And some people, mutters Harlow, don't need a mask at all, apparently. Indira tilts her head. Is that your excuse for why you have failed to discover within yourself, what shape your own mask should be? When all others here found theirs in a matter of weeks? But I'm not the only one, says Harlow. I've noticed Starling doesn't wear a mask, ever, nor does little Shiloh, though a lot of the other kids her age do.

You've noticed, but not understood. Indira looks to Alexis. For a select few, their vision is naturally so pure and powerful that no correction is necessary. You think she's talking about me? Harlow whispers loudly to Galaxy, who chokes on another laugh, as several others around them hold back grins. Behind her mask, Indira's eyes squint, reproachfully. Harlow hands the unsuccessful sewing project back to Yumi, then rises to his feet.

Think I'll head out a bit early today, Teach. You can just mark me as sick in the roster. It's my vision, see? He waves a hand in front of his face. It's all cloudy. Alexis sniffs a laugh, and she's not the only one. Harlow throws her a wink, and when her boyfriend looks offended, Harlow winks at him too.

Leaving them both, thoroughly confused, Harlow leans down to Galaxy's ear. I'll go check on Sen. As Harlow departs, goddess Indira returns to her lecture, droning on about mixed metaphors and ancient powers and a bunch of other fantasy bull crap. A line of toddlers pass Harlow on the lawn, shepherded by Wren and the Tall Girl in the Oval Mask. Each godling wears a homemade crown cut out of black crape paper.

Harlow bows to the tiny monarchs, smiling. The air is cooler than it's been in days, with a whiff of ozone on the wind. He looks to the southern sky. The cumulonimbus he saw earlier is closer now, but seems to be drifting west. They won't get rain on the main. but the cool humidity feels good on his skin. He comes to a stop outside the yurt, shared by the young couple and a few others.

Zenn? Are you in there? It's Jack. He waits for about five seconds, and when there's no answer, starts to go. But then he hears it, crying, and it isn't six-month-old Ziggy. Zen? I'm gonna come in, okay? He pulls open the curtain, just enough to slip up.

just enough to slip inside. It's dim and musty. The scent of dried flowers mingles with that of dirty laundry. He spots Zan curled up on a mattress, dressed in a lavender blouse and sweatpants. Six-month-old Ziggy is awake beside her, lying on his back in a cloth diaper and sucking on the corner of a blanket. Hey, you okay?

She shakes her head and doesn't look up at him. Harlow lowers himself to the floor beside her mattress. and reaching out, lets Ziggi take hold of his hand, gripping his thumb and pinky with surprising strength. His little legs kick in excitement, and his eyes bulge. He's getting big.

Zen lets out a shaky breath, then wipes her eyes against a pillow. Did Galaxy tell you to find me? He's worried about you, said you haven't been feeling well. Do you think you should see a doctor? I could ask Starling for the keys to the outback, take you into town. Zen lets out a humorless laugh.

What town? They don't do that kind of thing here. You seriously haven't figured that out yet? His mind rewinds to the incident with the prairie dog earlier and the wave of dizziness that had crashed over him as he tried to wander south and that voice. But no need to dwell on a little waking dream, born of dehydration and too much time in the sun. He clears his throat. Can I get you anything? water or I'm not like sick sick it's just she blinks tears from her eyelashes I don't want to be here oh Ziggy is trying to get Harlow's fingers into his mouth so he retracts his hand yeah I felt that a lot too but you're still here yeah well I've got some unfinished business

no she whispers he watches Ziggy roll over onto his stomach then hoist placed himself onto his hands and knees, babbling nonsense. Then Harlow looks at the young mother, her eyes gaze back at him, desperate, drowning. I think there's something really, really bad going on here. I think things are happening all the time, all around us, but we can't see it. She bolts upright, jostling the mattress. Ziggy tips onto his side and starts to cry. It's like the mesa itself is wearing a mask, hiding its true form.

Esmalbado! Hey, hey, it's all right, Harlow says, moving to take Zen gently by the shoulders and lay her back down. Oh, am I just going crazy? Ziggy continues to cry. Harlow looks around for something to distract him and spots a dried gourd Maraca. Picking it up, he gives it a shake and tucks it between the baby's arms. Ziggy shuts up instantly and attacks the instrument with his slobbery mouth. Harlow sighs.

Did something actually happens then? Did someone say something to you or hurt you? Maybe galaxy or... No, I don't think so. I don't know. No lo see. No lo entiento, but... It's like the longer I'm here, the less of me there is.

And I can't even keep track of time. Mira, I have these marks, like rope burns. I don't know where I got them. She pulls up her lavender shirt, and Harlow averts his eyes. Whoa, Zan, I, uh, look, I'm sorry you're having a really rough time. He reaches over to grab a blanket and tucks it gently around her legs and stomach. You should rest today, and maybe stay inside tonight. Something tells me this feast might get.

Routy. Did anyone tell you that the prophet's coming back today? Adios! She groans, flopping her head back onto the mattress. Harlow grins. I guess you've already met the guy before I arrived. Is he that bad? She shrugs.

Meh, I know his type. My dad's a pastor, remember? Oh, yeah. How about you? Am I a pastor? Zen laughs. It's a nice, bright sound, coming after all her crying. I might actually go to that church.

The services would be like two minutes. You just call God out for his bullshit and send everyone. one home. Yeah, maybe. I meant, what did your dad do? Harlow's grin flattens. I know that's not the kind of thing we're supposed to talk about here, but... No, it's fine. It's just... I never really knew my dad. He died when I was little. My mom said he was from Cholula, Mexico. But I don't know what he did for work there, or if he did anything. She looks down at her son. Ziggy's never going to know his dad

But that's fine That guy was a piece of shit Most guys are But you've got Galaxy now He's good with Ziggy And Galaxy, I mean He's very He's a lot

That's what he is On the mattress Ziggy starts to wriggle and whine Someone needs the nipple Harlow stares at her blankly And shakes himself Shit, right The uh, baby, gotcha

He gets to his feet, clearing his throat. Well, I'll leave you to it then. He heads to the door, which she calls softly after him. Como de yamas? Your real name? Harlow halts. He casts a weary look at the sunlit walls for a sign of anyone within earshot. Then he turns back to her. Zen is sitting up now, cradling Ziggy in her arms.

My name is Harlow. It feels strange to say it out loud. strange and rather liberating. He too? She blushes. Delores. He bobs his head side to side. You think Zen fits me better?

Yeah, I do. You've made a good choice. Her smile widens. Have I? Their eyes lock for a long moment. Harlow's cheeks grow warm. Get some rest, Sen. They don't serve lunch on the feast day,

but the forum and the kitchen both bustle with activity all afternoon as folk rush about, getting things ready. The fire pits are stacked high with smoky mesquite, and the wood is left to burn down to hot coals. When the herford calf arrives, Harlow helps split the carcass lengthwise and mount each half upon a metal cross. Thus crucified, the meat is hoisted into place above the coals. They prepare a wet baste with salt, pepper, hatched chilies, and limes, and when the beef begins to brown, Arlo spreads it on with a brush of juniper sprigs. His stomach growls impatiently as he watches the juices drip and sizz onto the glowing coals below. Iron steaks topped with torches are set up all around the forum, and a string of those old-fashioned, incandescent Christmas lights is plugged in at the kitchen, and draped from the building to a low branch on the ponderosa.

It's a nice touch. Some of the older children bring twine and many small flags that they've made, triangles of cloth with a black crown painted upon each. They string the flag everywhere they can reach. Before he knows it, the sun is sinking below the mesa's western edge, and still there is no respite from his hunger, nor any sign of the prophet. it. Harlow finishes setting up cider casks by the tables, then wipes his hands on his jeans. He spots Bash, standing on the far side of the forum, watching him.

Harlow grits his teeth and waits until Bash looks away for a moment, then ducks behind a passing group of grannies, and jogs around at the back of the kitchen. He walks to the rugged cliff on the southeast corner. The storm cloud from this morning is all but dissipated, but the extra moisture in the air, now blankets the plains below in heavy fog. He can't see any roads through the fog, nor the polluted glow of any distant city. An island in the sky. That's what the Holy Mesa feels like. Lifted out of time and space. A world of its own, set apart and forgotten. Ready to get your party on? He glances back over his shoulder. Starling stands in the fiery light of dusk. She wears a flowing, dark red dress, and her hair is braided and coiled into a high bun.

A crown of desert lilies arches across her head. In her arms, she holds her newborn son, swaddled and snowy white. Evening, says Arlo. You look awful. Uh. She cocks a golden eyebrow. I look awful? No, I wasn't finished. He turns and looks her up and down. You look awful. Divine, this evening goddess darling. I thank you, God, Jack, she says, with a playful curtsy. And I see you wore your best boots for the feast. Indeed I did.

They are also my only boots. And are they suited for dancing? The boots? Sure. Me? No ma'am. She walks up beside him, the last crimson glow of the sunset reflecting in her eyes.

Goddess Indira tells me you were quite the prickly pairing class today. Harlow shrugs his shoulder. Oh, that? Well, she started it, I think. Do you enjoy it, stirring up trouble here? Not really, but I do like to speak my mind, though Indira is not nearly as fun to debate as you are. Oh, you don't know the half of it.

I can be very persuasive. Baby Heron squeaks softly in his wrappings. and Starling rocks him side to side. Harlow glances at the newborn's face speaking through. He's a tiny little fella, hairless and thin, and a rather pointy face, kind of mousy. Indira is getting worried, Gilgamesh, too, and Caliban is losing his freaky little mind. Huh? Do you mean worried about me? Why? Because a few jokes in a class that, no offense, takes itself way too seriously.

It's not about jokes, or even how nosy you can be, sneaking around, trying to get into the museum. No, they're scared of the effect you're having on the new arrivals. Carlo turns to her, crossing his arms. What does that mean? They're worried that you're riling up the young gods with your rebellious ways, so that one day you might lead them in glorious mutiny against the council. Carlo laughs. Aren't you serious?

Wow. Well, that's an idea, I guess. Though I've never been much of a revolutionary, and I don't know why the young gods would follow me if I was. She shoots some annoying look. What? Don't act stupid, Jack. You know they look up to you. I think they're attracted to that certain. Hmm? Grady charisma of yours. They've all been let down by parents and authority figures in the past. That's a bit of a theme up here. And I recognize that those of us on the council have become a bit. eccentric for some people's taste. But you, you're like a cool uncle.

Harlow squinsettter. Uncle? Really, Starling. Are you trying to make me feel old? Well, you do look about 40, she says from the corner of her mouth. Which is old to them? Forty? Harlow clicks his tongue reprovingly. I'll have you know I'm a vigorous and virile 32. Yes, and I am a radiant and resilient 29.

And yet here we are, both going gray at the temples. I guess trauma takes its toll on the body. And we both have our scars, don't we, Jack? Inside and out. Harlow lifts his eyes to watch the sky darken. She moves closer, their arms touching. I'm not worried about you causing trouble here, Jack. I figure, if we are not up to facing the challenging words of one headstrong man,

then we are not worthy of our sacred task. However, there is something I must ask you to do. And what might that be? She moves around him so that they're face to face, locking eyes as she rocks her infant, left and right, left and right, like a pendulum. Except that the mesa has become your home. There is a place for you, Jack, in the Grand Vision. An important role.

But first, you must be all in. No more standing on the sideline. cloaked in cynicism, hiding what you are. Harlow stares at her. And what am I? She doesn't answer right away. Then, slowly, she reaches one hand up, cradling his chin in her fingers, and tilts his face from side to side.

There is a fire, she whispers. Passion, dark passion, a yearning for. What exact? She lets go of his face and smiles. Well, self-discovery is a long process, and tonight's feast is an excellent place to start. Uh-huh, and why is that? Oh, the feast of the garnet crown is different. Once a year, we enter a sacred communal state, where there is no room for shame or secrets and no place to hide.

It is a chance to expand the mind, to unburden the soul of all societal expectations, to seek new connections. Harlow tilts his head back. Just what kind of party is this? They look at each other in the gathering gloom. Then many voices rise up from the other side of the kitchen. The prophet! The people call out. Praises B! The prophet has returned!

Starling lets go of her turquoise medallion. Ah, just in time. She turns to walk away, but Harlow reaches out and takes hold of her sleeve. Wait! Starling turns back at him, eyes sparkling. Yes? It's about Zen. Her face falls, and she shrugs off his hand.

Oh, what about her? She's not doing well, Starling. Probably won't come to the feast. She's really struggling. Maybe it's a postpartum thing. I don't know how all that works, but she might need to change. Is that right? Starling's mouth twitches.

Well, I was with Zen this morning. She seems fine to me. But I'll have a lot. Granny Fang visit her tomorrow just in case. It's awfully cute, you being concerned about Zen. Cute? You know what I mean. She likes you, Jack.

What? Like an uncle? Ha! Huh! You might be a blind god, but you're not that blind. Harlow scratches his cheek. Okay, so maybe she's got a crush. But she's a kid, starling.

Hmm, is she? A kid with a kid. You know, when I was her age, I already had three. Uh-huh. So, what are you saying? Are you jealous or something? She snickers and whirls around.

Her red dress fanning out at her feet. In your dreams, blind God. Now come, best not keep the super-scarewe cold leader waiting. You have a holy prophet to meet. A full moon is rising in the eastern sky. It's cold light, mingling with the golden orange glow of the cook fires and mounted torches. Everyone is pressing together just beyond the tables, looking to the north, like crazed fans, awaiting the arrival of a rock star.

Starling walks off in that direction, but Harlow keeps his distance. He moves to the Ponderosa and leans against its trunk, peering over the crowd to the hillocks beyond. Why would the prophet be coming from that way, and not from the parking lot and through the green eye? He must have gone first to visit the museum or something. A silhouette comes into view, just the head and shoulders at first, edged in moonlight and still a ways off. But the mob goes wild, shrieking and jumping. It gives Harlow a headache.

He watches the figure move in and out of view, walking the undulating terrain of the Mesa's north end, a little clearer with each appearance. And when he descends the final mound and his bare feet step into the forum proper, the fiery light illuminates the prophet of the Holy Mesa for all to see. He looks a lot younger than Harlow expected. His smiling face is clean shaved, and his shoulder-length brown hair is pushed back and tucked behind his ears. He wears a simple robe that ends just below the knees, and over this, a woolen poncho patterned with the stepped diamonds and zigzags of old tribal weavers. No shoes or sandals, no jewelry at all.

A baby-faced Jesus and a cowboy caftan. But that's about all Harlow can glean from this distance, before the throng encircles their spiritual leader and blocks him from view. Harlow walks forward, pulled ever closer to the prophet, not by any mystic power, but by a yearning to understand the devotion this man inspires. The sudden bliss, the weeping, the kissing, the fainting. He moves around the outside of the crowd and catches a glimpse of the person. prophet within its boisterous ranks, holding out both arms so that his fingers touch down on people's

hair and masks and shoulders. Then there is laughter and cheering, and Harlow sees arms rise to pass a toddler over their heads, a little boy in brown overalls. His eyes and mouth are wide in shock, as the hoard carries him to the prophet and sets him on the man's shoulders. The child grabs the prophet's hair in his tiny fists and clings as he is sweet, wept into the frenzy, spinning like a ship upon a sea of writhing bodies. As Harlow watches, the crowd begins to drift back toward the tables, and a granny on the edge of the group turns to Harlow. It's Sybil, in her mask of a porcelain baby doll,

and grabbing his arm in a bony hand, she pulls herself toward Harlow, trying to press the porcelain lips of her mask against his mouth. Now thank you, Harlow grunts, yanking his arm from her grasp, and turning swiftly away. He nearly crashes into someone else, and his boots scraped to a sudden stop. He is face to face with a prophet. The prophet stands perfectly still amidst the excitement,

as the group disperses to find their seats for the meal. His smile is sweet and dreamy, his hazel eyes gleaming like wet glass. His features are handsome, but... Harlow couldn't see it from afar. The entire left side of the Prophet's face is criss-crossed with a hundred little scars, fine lines of pink against his dust-colored skin. The two men stare at each other in silence.

Then Harlow hears someone call out. Jack! And glancing over, he spots a bug-eyed alien waving at him. It takes Harlow a second to recognize Galaxy in his freshly completed mask. He looks back to the Prophet, but the man has moved on. Feeling a strange weight in his guts, Harlow walks to take the saved seat beside Galaxy. Nice mask. Thanks, man.

I just finished it. Turned out pretty in creed. Galaxy's mask, like everything else about him, is rather eccentric. He's taken a used silicone mask of a big-eyed, green-skinned Roswell Alien, covered the whole thing with black ink, then used phosphorescent paints to add glow-in-the-dark stars, planets, and swirl. drilling nebula across its bulbous surface. Zen's still back in the yurt with Ziggy. I hate that she's missing this. You can bring her back a plate or a...

Shh. The shushing comes from Harlow's other side. He looks over and finds himself staring up at the huge face of a brown rabbit. The fuzzy mask, which covers the man's entire head, shakes in annoyance. Shut up, blind God. This is the voice within. He's about to say... ...goes quiet.

Harlow watching. with everyone else as the prophet comes to stand at the end of the central table holding out his hands to either side. My good friends, gods, goddesses, godlings, children giggle. It is good to be back. I have missed you all. A lot. Voices cry out to echo his words. We missed you too. We love you, a lot! The prophet closes his eyes and brings his hands together on his chest. I'm sorry it took so long,

but when I heard about the professor's accident, it made my heart so very, very sad. In sharp contrast to his words, that wistful smile remains plastered on his face. And yes, I know, the professor could be a bit of an old grump sometimes, but I loved him. Yep, he used to sit me on his knee when I was little,

and he'd tell me stories about, lost cities and ancient peoples and about oaky spooky magic. The voices of old women and young children ooh and ah appreciatively. I do miss him, but the vision goes on, yep, and in my long meditation, I have received new revelations. I can't wait to tell you, my friends, all about them. But first, something smells yummy. And what are all these pretty flags? with pictures of a crown on them about. Hmm, I wonder.

Starling approaches the prophet, smiling brightly. It is all prepared, prophet. Our bellies and our minds are ready to be filled. Then tell us, goddess. What exactly are we celebrating tonight? Starling turns to the tables as she joyously declares. Under this, the second full moon of the season of the garnet crown, we honor that buried circlet of iron and gem,

which represents the passions, the fervors, the violence and the virtues of the one whose vision we strive to join. Cry a hundred muffled voices, beneath their masks of silk, clay, wood, and fur. Starling nods to the prophet, and he raises his open hands above his head. From many streams? One river! From many journeys? One path.

From the minds of many gods? One vision. One vision, mumbles Harlow, staring at the prophet as he lowers his arms. Those eyes, that smile, the scarred cheek. The man's expression has not wavered, not for one moment. Harlow nods slowly in realization. The prophet of the Holy Mesa does wear a mask,

just like his followers. Only his mask is in. It is a facade-long rehearsed, a visage of childlike purity, radiating boundless love. Ezekiel believes this man exists on another spiritual plane, and Indira speaks as though he is something more than human. Harlow's not buying it. Well, what are you waiting for? Calls out Starling, laughing.

Dig in, everyone! God Caliban, goddess Wren, bring forth the vision wine! Harlow tears his gaze away from. the enigmatic prophet and begins to stack his plate with bread and fruit, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the meat and booze. Two teenage girls move between the tables, serving people warmed wine one at a time. The skinny girl in the wooden oval mask holds a steaming cauldron. Wren carries a ladle and dips it into the cauldron to fill each offered cup, goblet,

Stein, and glass. Her golden hair flows out from behind her bejeweled cat mask. Harlow looks toward the girls as they approach, but his focus is on the man who follows behind them. It is the hunchbacked artist, counselor Caliban, waddling with his outturned gait, like a chimpanzee in an opera cape. He has a sack over one shoulder, and as each person has served the wine, Caliban reaches into the sack and sprinkles something into their drink. When it comes time to serve Galaxy, he accepts with glee. and pulling up his alien mask to his forehead, he chugs the hot wine, then whoops merrily.

And then it's Harlow's turn, and the sweet and sour aroma of the cactus wine wafts from the cauldron. Got Jack? says Wren, dipping in her ladle. Take, drink, and may this elixir melt away the barriers between our myriad visions that we may see as one. Harlow clears his throat. Thanks, Ren.

He grabs an empty pewter mug from the table and holds it out to her. As she pours, he looks at her eyes. They look red like she's been crying. Then she moves aside and Calabans unnerving half-glee slash half-despair mask looms into view. The man giggles as he crushes something between his fingers and palm, then wipes all the crumbs into Harlow's mug. Harlow peers down. The mysterious substance floating in his wine,

looks like clumps of wet dirt, but he recognizes the shape of a tiny mushroom. The cap is dark green, and the stalk is spiraled blue and gold. Well, that's not a cinnamon stick. Drink it, darling, croons Caliban, when Harlow hesitates. Many other thirsty throats are waiting, hmm? Not sure I should, actually, Harlow says, shifting on the bench. It's just I, uh, was a bit sick to my stomach. this morning and drink it.

Wren's voice is low and resonant as she says the words, like her mother's. Harlow sighs and raises the mug to his lips. Mingled with the smell of the wine is the bitter, savory fragrance of mushrooms. And as it hits his tongue, the taste is earthy and strangely nostalgic. Well done, dear, says Caliban. Now, don't forget to swallow. That's right. Every little little.

drop. Harlow shudders as he forces it down his throat. The trio moves off to serve the brown rabbit next, and Harlow turns back to his plate. He stuffs half a piece of cornbread into his mouth and chews fast, washing it down with a full glass of water. Hopefully that'll soak up some of whatever inebriating properties the fungus contains. He needs to be cautious to keep himself focused. He has tried to be careful up to this point, never having more than a few drinks. That hasn't always worked, of course, and he's woken up a dozen times without a clear memory of how he got to bed the night before. But this? This is different. A toddler further down the table raises their voice in protest, and glancing over, Harlow sees Granny Sybil trying to get

the godling to finish the cloudy liquid in his sippy cup. We drug the drugged the kids too? The rabbit turns to him. The big mask is pulled up to the man's nose, so that the rabbit eyes seem to stare at the stars above. So what? The vision shrooms are perfectly safe, obviously. They grow right here upon the holy mesa. We don't grow mushrooms in the greenhouses. The rabbit snorts a laugh, then stabs his fork at a platter that's just been set down on their table, and which is stacked high with pieces of glistening veal. Across the table, the rabbit, Pable, Granny Violet, in her yellow mask like a smiling sun, slices corn off a cob with her knife.

You know, God, Jack. Studies actually show that the brains of infants naturally resemble the state of an adult's brain during a psychedelic trip. Harla refills his water and takes another sip. Oh, yeah? Yes. So there's no need to worry for the little one's sake. We all come into this world as beings of boundless imagination and love.

It is the toils of our spirit-crushing society that make us forget that. The vision trumes help us remember. Harla reaches out with his fork for a piece of veal, but Granny Violet snaps out a liver-spotted hand and lays her crinkled fingertips on his arm. There's a bruise all around her wrist. Tonight, she gushes, her eyes wide behind her mask. We will all be as children again, free to frolic and dance. and be silly and playful. Right, Harlow gingerly pulls away his hand

and skewers a hunk of beef on his fork. He sets it on his plate, then leans to whisper to Galaxy. If I get attacked by a bunch of horned-up grannies tonight, you gotta help fight them off. Go for the hips, they break easy. He smiles at his own joke, but Galaxy doesn't respond.

Harlow looks over at him. You okay there? Jack, Galaxy whispers. I think it's working. I can see colors. Harlow rolls his eyes. No, Galaxy, that's just normal sight. Eat your supper. Harlow cuts off a corner bite of the beef, puts it on his fork, and blows at the steam as he glances around the table. A lot of people have gone quiet, while others start to laugh or to weep or to sing.

Beside him, Galaxy gasps, and whips his head. to Harlow, the rubber mask swinging. Oh my God, Jack, look, I have hands. He holds them up, trembling. Harlow sighs. Yeah, man, you've always had hands. Galaxy jumps up from their bench, knocking against their table so that Harlow's water spills. Whooping, Galaxy begins to spin around and around in the aisle.

Then he stumbles and grabs Harlow by a shoulder. Oh, come on, man. Harlow grumbles, trying to clean up the mess. I'm starving here. Let me eat. I'm going to propose to send later. Then we'll be a real fam, like in a sitcom. Maybe wait till you're sober for that. Plus, the visionaries don't actually do marriage, so...

Galaxy dashes suddenly away, laughing. Harlow watches as he slides to a stopover by the torches. The alien's feet kick out in the rapid patterns of a tribal dance as he raises his newly discovered hands slowly into the air and whirls around and around and around. That boy's going to crash hard, Parlo mumbles, as others rise from the benches to join in the dancing. Parlo shakes his head and returns to the meal.

As he takes the first meaty bite, someone begins to beat a drum. Beside the torches, men and women with the faces of animals and deities and statues rise and gather to sway and spin to the rhythm. More drums join in, and a flute and a harmonica. The sounds all clash in Harlow's ears. There's a twinge of pain in his stomach. He winces and waits to see if it gets worse. But the pain subsides.

The shrooms are doing anything for me, he says, to no one in particular. I don't feel anything at all. Harlow's eyes bulge as time turns to liquid, and his body goes numb. He stares at the beef on his fork. The meat is alive, pulsing with a heartbeat, dancing to the rhythm of the drums. Harlow panics and drops the fork onto his plate. To his right, a creature is eating noisily. Harlow pivots his body to observe.

There is a seven-foot rabbit on the bench, leaning over its plate and eating with a second gaping mouth open on its neck. Whoa. Harlow taps it on the shoulder. Hey, do you know that you're a rabbit? The rabbit pivots to him, red juice dribbling from its neck mouth. I am the god of rabbits, okay. Harlow looks around the table. There are figures of flesh and eyes with skin of gold and pottery.

They laugh and chatter and drink. Someone throws a grape across the table, and someone else catches it in their mouth. It is the most impressive thing Harlow has ever seen. A gray woman with a round yellow head climbs onto the bench across from him and begins to dance, waving her flappy arms back and forth. Ghostly trails from both gray arms hang in the air, and above her head, the stars are gathering into a single, swirling constellation of a giant spiral. Wait!

Says Harlow, blinking. Oh shit. This is bad, isn't it? A voice laughs behind him, loud and shrill. and the cackle rattles the bones in Harlow's body. He cringes. Oh man, I shouldn't have had that mushroom and tuna fish wine. A hand claps him on the back and an electric shock goes through his whole body. Harlow closes his eyes, but the colors of the night are even brighter in his own head.

I gotta get a grin. I should go. Yeah, I got to get back to my yurt. I'll just sleep it off before anything crazy happens. He opens his heavy eyelids, and with a Herculane effort of will and concentration, he swings his legs over the bench one at a time and rises to his feet. The mesa vibrates under his boots, and the air as thick as water. He gazes around the slow motion scene in the forum, where fantastical creatures sway and shimmy in the firelight. Then he manages to spot the ring of yurts to the west. He points at it, drunkenly.

There. Okay, good. Now I just got to remember how to... Fuck, what's that word? Walk. He takes a step forward, cringing at the immense boom of the boot, setting down on the hard soil. Then a figure emerges right in front of him. There you are, Jack. Feeling anything yet? Asks a wooden man with a curly green beard and a crown of leaves. Harlow tilts himself backward. His chin, squishing. into its neck. Raising a hand, he taps the wooden man's cheek.

Zeke? Zeke, I think I might be high. The wooden man laughs, though his smiling mouth doesn't open. Whoa, pace yourself there, baby bird. You've just begun to fly. Here, you'll need your energy for what's ahead. Something hard and wet is placed into Harlow's right hand, and when he looks over at it, He jolts with a gas. What the fuck is this? It's a rib. Oh, God. Is it mine?

What? No. It's from a cow. It's food, Jack. Remember food? Oh. Boy, you're really out of it, aren't you? I suppose you must be extra sensitive to the corpse fruit.

Some folk are like that. The prophet says it is a sign of great visionary potential. Did you say corpse fruit? I meant the vision shrooms. Harlow grabs Ezekiel's arm with his left hand. The feel of his friend's physical body helps bring Harlow's mind back into focus. He clings to Ezekio like a life raft.

Zeke, what the hell? What is this? Ezekiel looks to the left and right, then leans in and peels off his wooden face. Harlow recoils, but then he remembers it's just a mask as Ezekiel's human face is revealed. I shouldn't tell you this, Jack, but the first mushrooms they found, they were growing from her hallowed flesh, feeding on her mummified body.

That's why they're so potent. Their power comes from her. From... Ezekiel grins, and the smile stretches beyond the edges of his face. His brown eyes sparkle as fire opals appear at their corner. and slip down his round cheeks. Every whisper we must follow. He reaches up and holds Harlow's face in his big hands.

She is the first-born goddess, Jack, the original visionary, a shamanic queen of the prehistoric world. And all this, everything that we do here upon the mesa, it's for her to bring forth her ancient vision at long last. Harlow gazes into Ezekiel's distorted face, but his mind remembers the face of another, a wrinkled old face with milky eyes. All praises be, Harlow murmurs, recalling the last words of Professor Mortimer King, before the bullet blasted into his brain.

To the hallowed corpse, Eshs. Ezekiel lays a wet kiss on Harlow's forehead. His lips are soft and his stubble tickles. He pulls back on his mask. I will leave you to your journey, my friend. And don't let that rib go to waste. It's very tender. He turns and floats away into the dark,

leaving Harlow swooning in place. Harlow tries to remember what it was he was going to do before Ezekiel appeared. Something about a... A yurt? What the hell is a yurt? That doesn't sound like a real thing. Harlow rediscoveres the rib in his hand. and tears off a bite with his teeth.

Oh, wow, this tastes just like meat. He stumbles forward beside the table, chewing happily. He cannot feel his feet, and his boots seem to glide across the surface of the ground as if slipping on wet ice. There is a lot of motion and noise and smoke around him. Bare feet pounding the soil, garments flying about, Cheshire cat smiles, drifting in the night air. He comes to a stop and sways.

Torches blaze, spitting embers into the sky. Harlow lets his gaze rise up to where the sparks join the spiral path of the stars, and he lowers his gaze to watch this. This otherworldly dance of friends beneath the heavenly lights. I was born here, he thinks, maybe in his head, maybe out loud. This is my home. He vaguely remembers living somewhere else. away. Lots of somewhere else is, actually. But why would he have left this special place? How could

anyone ever wish to leave? That long, dark chapter in Harlow's life, down there in the wide world, that must have simply been a nightmare, yes. A warning of the perils that lurk beyond the sacred cliff edge. Hard egg and hunger and cold nights curled up under bridges and in shelters, and in the backs of cars and in mildewy apartments. So many shitty little towns. They always snuck out in the dead of night, little Harlow leading the way, with his mother clinging to him and weeping, telling him that eyes were watching them from every shadow. She thought they were being hunted, the dumb bitch. She actually believed that people from this mesa would come after them, find them, and bring them back. I wish they had, Harlow thinks

aloud. I've wasted so much time. Someone crashes into his legs. He flinched. He flinched, and looks down. I have seen you! Harlow stares at the bald head of the little girl clinging to him. Shiloh? Shiloh! Shiloh is not wearing a mask, and when she tilts back her face, her eyelids are fully open, and firelight glints in the perfect white of both her eyes.

She has no irises, no pupils. She tugs on his shirt, and Harlow lowers himself onto one knee beside her. What is it, Shiloh? She cups one. hand to her mouth and beckons with the other. He leans and angles his head so she can whisper in his ear. A chill ripples across Harlow's skin. What?

Then Shiloh scurries off, giggling as she runs through the crowd of dancers. No cane, no guide. A blind child, high on vision shrooms, racing past fiery torches and over jagged stones, and not too far from the Mesa's edge. Hey, wait, Shiloh! Harlow gasps, trying to follow her, but twirling bodies press in all around him. Be careful! A woman with six shining eyes laughs in his face.

He tries to push past her, but hairy arms sees him by the hands. Harlow shrieks. A naked man with a head like a neon lion twirls him in a circle. Harlow loses all sense of balance. He is shoved forward, pulled backward, kissed roughly by chapped lips, then an ink-black face with the universe upon its skin fills his vision. Dance God Jack! Sing's Galaxy, shaking him.

We must dance, or else be trampled. No, let go. Stammers Harlow. But we must. I don't dance. I don't know how. Everyone knows how to dance. Galaxy laughs.

It's like sex. It's natural. Instinct. Let your body find the flow. Harlow was told. tugged into a line. He staggers forward, following the body in front of him. Make love to the fucking nightjack! Harlow hangs his head. He sways, the earth passing beneath his feet as they kick left and right in a blur of motion. He exhales, giving in, and his body

floats carried forward by the dance. Their line snakes through the torches and along the edge of the world, colors swirling by on either side. Half the community, has joined in the dance, many little streams flowing as one raging river. The dance takes them past the tables again, and Harlow stumbles out of the line, distracted, and then transfixed by the sight of a woman with the great beaked head of a raven, dancing naked atop the central table. Her feet kick up bowls and cutlery, and she twirls and dips and swings her arms. Harlow floats closer. His eyes locked on her gyrating body. Then he slumps onto the bench, staring up at the Raven Maiden as she comes to stand above him. A giantess moving to the rhythm of the drums

as firelight flickers like a golden strobe light over her sweet, soaked skin and silky feathers. Something itches in Harlow's mind. His ears begin to burn. It makes him angry, and ripping his gaze off the beautiful beaked dancer, he looks around for the sword. He looks around for the source of the disharmony and spots? The Prophet. The Prophet stands beside one of the roasting pits, smiling blankly. His eyes glazed over as his hands slapped together, offbeat. The movement is soulless, like the mindless motion of an automation.

A lump rises in Harlow's throat. His gaze drifts to the other side of the roasting pit, where Starling stands, glowing red and swaying to the music as she nurses rat-faced heron at her left breast. Her eyes snap up to Harlow's face, and he cringes, as if struck and turns away. His vision refocuses, behind Starling, on the blurred silhouettes of drummers seated on the edge of the forum, and then, gazing past them to the foot of the northern hills, he sees the figures of many children. They frolic and wild abandon, writhing, wrestling, flailing about in the dirt in epileptic convulsions as thick foam dribbles from their mouths. Harlow blinks, and peering past the children to the distant north.

His eyes lock upon something else. He freezes, then he shudders, then he rises slowly to his feet, staring. Harlow doesn't care about the children or the drummers or the dancers anymore. All of them fade in his vision, blurring into oily colors. The music quiets, too, until the only drum he hears is the beat of his own heart. A skeleton stands upon the crest of the hill. its slender arms outstretched, its form outlined in starlight. It is the only clear thing in all of Harlow's vision.

Tears come into his eyes. Her bones are green, and her hair is black, tied up in braids atop her skull. She is dressed in a gown of spider's web, with a veil to hide her face. But through the veil, he sees twin flames of golden fire where her eyes should be. She has a crown, but not upon her head. She holds it up on the bony palm of her right hand, and in her left hand she grips a sphere of polished gem. Harlow cannot look away, and yet he feels suddenly ashamed,

because he is naked without his mask, and he knows that if only he had his mask, he could see her clearly, Oliver, the silky flesh upon her bones, the angelic face beneath her veil, But where is his mask? I'm not ready. He hears himself scream. He whirls around and sprints from the forum,

knocking over monsters in his haste to be back in his yurt, looking around desperately for the path among all the freakish faces and dizzy spirals of light that twist and collide in a psychedelic tangle. Parlow runs in a straight line, but the ground won't cooperate. It drifts, left and right, up and down. He falls, scraping his hands,

rises and falls again. As he scrambles to his feet for the second time, he runs suddenly into a springy wall of soft cloth over a wooden lattice. It's the back of a yurt. Voices inside call out in surprise, then laugh, then return to their sensuous moaning.

Arlo studies himself, trying to focus on his breathing. He keeps his left hand on the outer wall as he circles this yurt, trying to get to the other side, to the green eye. and find his home. And, yes, there's the grass.

He rushes forward, then screams as something attacks his face. He swings his arms out to defend himself, punching moist denim, cotton, and silk. Oh, man, what the shit! Its laundry hung up to dry, that's all. He's run into a line strung between the yurts. He lashes out at the clothing tangled around him, ripping garments to the ground, then grabs the line and tears it down. Grumbling and breathing hard,

he steps out across the path and onto the lawn when a running mound of naked flesh and a koala mask collides with him, and he is knocked to the ground. The corpulent man rumbles past him, flesh jiggling in the moonlight, high voice laughing as he runs. A moment later, another figure shuffles from the dark,

nearly stepping on Harlow. It is hunchbacked Caliban, in his mask and his cape. and nothing else, calling out to his prey. Run, run, my portly bushback wheel. Harlow lies on his stomach in the grass, mouth open, eyes burning. Oh, fuck this. He rises shakily and turns in place,

looking around at the hundred identical yurts at the edge of the grass. How the hell is he supposed to find his? His gaze passes by the center of the green eye, then swings back to it. What's happening over there? Carlo staggers forward, squinting at the scene. A dozen masked figures stand around the central pool. Some hold torches, and by their fluttering light,

he can see a slender young woman standing in the water. It's the girl in that, that oval wooden mask, slits for eyes, a tiny burrhole over the mouth. What's she doing? Why are they all staring at her? Behind the girl, two grannies step into the edge of the pool, while from the other side, a large man with pronged horns hops in with a splash. What's that son of a bitch up to?

Harlow creeps closer. The girl in the water kneels and raises her masked face to Bash, standing over her. The grannies grab her shoulders from behind, holding her in place. Bash leans over the girl, but Harlow can't see what he's doing. There is a horrid, fleshy, squelching sound, and the girl screams, a primal, ragged cry of agony. Harlow breaks into a run. Hey! He shouts.

Stop! Stop it! As he reaches the group and slides to a halt beside the pool, one of the masked figures seizes him by the arms. He looks over to see the enforcer Brick looming beside him in his grotesque head covering. As Harlow's drug-addled eyes glower at Brick, He suddenly realized what this enforcer's mask really is. The quilted bag of tans and browns is made of scraps of human skin, stitched together.

Harlow is sure of it, snarls through the mask. Harlow tries to break free from brick's grip, but the hands hold his arms like a vice. There is the splashing in water. Harlow looks. The girl is moaning and thrashing, held upright by the two old women. Dark blood and bright pus leak from open circular wounds in the girl's forehead and chin and countless smaller puncture marks dot her whole face, which is swollen and discolored. What did you do to her? Harlow asks. In the pool, Bash twists to look at him. Through the bones on his mask, his eyes are smiling. He holds up the oval wooden mask, positioning it so that

Harlow can see its front, polished and smooth. Then he turns it, reveal. feeling the concave inside of the mask, which is covered in many inward-facing thorns and two iron spikes like heavy nails. Holy shit. Has that been lodged in her face all this time? Harlow asks, as the grannies drag the bleeding girl to the edge of the pool and someone else steps down into the water.

Harlow blinks. Ren? Harlow leans forward, but Brick's hands grip in tighter. Ren, what are you doing? Get out of there. Wren walks dutifully to the center of the pool, removes her cat mask, and sets it floating in the water. Her eyes are red and puffy,

and when she opens her mouth to speak, her voice shakes. She says I'm not strong enough, but perhaps the pain she'll purify me. Perhaps then. Stop this! Harlow screams, as Wren kneels and looks up at Bash. She's just a fucking kid! He scowls at those around him.

Why would you let her? It is the goddess's choice to be punctured. Does a man with antlers. The Goathead mask is one of our sacred rights, blind god, says a woman in a steampunk scuba mask. Bash snickers and raises the wooden mask above his head. Blood is still dripping off the spikes. Don't!

Torchlight glints off the bulging muscles on Bash's arms as he tenses, preparing to drive the spikes and the thorns into the waiting flesh of Wren's young, tear-streaked face, Harlow clasps his eyes shut. Deep, deep within himself, in that perfect dark, that bottomless abyss where he hides away all of his deepest fears and hates and furious desires. A white-hot flame explodes into being. Harlow's eyes snap open. Kicking out a boot, he sweeps Brick's legs out from under him. Brick's hands tear Harlow's sleeves as he falls backward, and he even, Even as he crashes onto the grass, Harlow brings up his right foot and drives the heel of his boot down into Brick's crotch, then twists.

There's a savage crunch. Brick howls. In the pool, Bash starts to spin around, but Harlow launches himself from the edge, tackling Bash around the waist. They hit the water with a thunderous slap, and for a moment, Harlow's head is submerged, his vision filled with fiery bubbles. Then he is lifted out as Bash stands. The bigger man snarls and writhes, trying to shake off Harlow's grip around his torso. Help me! Harlow screams to the watching crowd, but no one moves, except for Wren.

She scrambles backward from the pool, crying uncontrollably. Harlow tries to pull Bash down again, but he's too strong, and elbows Harlow hard in the back of his shoulder. Harlow grunts, and his feet slip out from under him. He splashes down, then rolls to the left as Bash kicks out a leg, Jumping back to his feet, Harlow raises his dripping fists. Well, he shrieks. Come on then, you fucking animal! Around the pool, the silent figures watch.

No one intervenes. Do it, Bash! Take a swing! Or is it just little girls you like to stab with your... Bash lunges at Harlow, kicking up water and swinging the spiked mask in a wild arc. Harlow dodges back as the mask cuts the air with an eerie whistle. Then he pounces and drives a fist up in a... to bash's chin.

Bash, stumbles back in the water, then charges suddenly forward, holding out the mask, spikes first. Harlow reacts instinctively, throwing both hands out in front of him to block the attack. The iron spikes drive through Harlow's palms and stab out the back of his hands. Gasping, he clenches his skewered fists around the mask's edges as he is shoved back. He slides backward in the water, blood streaming down both wrists. His legs bump against the edge of the pool. He falls onto his back into the grass, with Bash on top of him.

Harlow grits his teeth, bracing against the man's immense weight. Bash narrows his eyes in wicked joy, leaning so that his bone mask fills Harlow's furious vision. Harlow screams and drives his forehead into Bash's face. Bash grunts and loses his balance. Harlow shoves him sideways onto the grass, but is pulled into the roll with him by the iron spikes still lodged in his palms. On top of Bash, Harlow releases his grip on the mask and yanks his hands off its spikes. Blood oozes from the wounds, and Harlow leans and claps both hands over Bash's mask

so that the blood streams into the man's eyes. Bash snarls and tries to strike him with the mask again, but Harlow twists, grabs it in his bloody grip, and wrenches it from the other's grasp. Straightening up and holding the mask above his head, Harlow starts to bring it down spike first, then hesitates, flips it around, and hammers its outer side. against Bash's head. One of the pronged horns breaks off in a burst of dust, and the wooden mask snaps in two.

Harlow takes in rasping breath, glancing at the broken half in his hands, then he tosses it aside, grabbing Bash by the collar with his left hand. He lifts. You like to look at me, Bash? Hmm? Harlow grips his right hand into a tight fist,

blood splurting from between his fingers. He punches Bash in the center of his mask. There's a crack of bone against bone. He punches his right. The coyote skull splits and the deer jaw falls free. Wait! Bash moans. Harlow strikes him again.

Eyes on me, Bash! He hits him again. Arlo drives his fist down again and again and again. The mask is shattered, crumbling into little pieces that rain into the grass or are jammed into Harlow's knuckles. Panting, Harlow lets go with his left hand, and Bash collapses onto his back. Harlow starts to laugh, possessed by the blood of his knuckles. possessed by the bloodlust and the vision shrooms and the fire in his stomach. He leans down and punches Bash again, again, over and over, until the big man has gone quite

still, and Harlow's right fist is purple with bruising, and the skin on his knuckles is split. He cannot stop laughing. He cannot stop hitting. Someone pulls him off Bash. At first, Harlow struggles, swinging at them too, and trying to dive back onto Bash. They hold his arms down, so he bites at the air instead, snarling, but he is lifted by big, hairy hands and carried away from the pool. A light flashes before his eyes. Harlow blinks. His eyes adjust and take in the stars floating overhead. He remembers to breathe again.

He is set back on his feet and stumbles drunkenly away, snickering as his hands bleed upon the grass. Alpred! Harlow proclaims. His voice a gravelly howl in his bone-dry throat. Then, cupping his red hands around his mouth, he bellows words whose meaning he does not understand. We'll thrown beneath the golden sky. When the drums have ceased their thunder, and the night is mostly quiet.

Someone finds him on the rocky ground. They help him to his feet again, and placing one of his arms around their shoulders, they guide him through the breezy darkness and into a velvet shade. Harlow's vision drifts, slipping between transcendent clarity and technicolor oblivion. He inhales cool air, and his body is entangled with another's, so soft and slick with delicious sweat. He is naked and dancing again, dancing on the soft ground, with his head full of stars and slender fingers around his neck.

He slips in and out, in and out of the sacred dream, drinking in the warmth of it until his belly. is full. Then he sinks back into that luminous void. He exhales warm air, and his awareness returns. Arlo's muscles are tired and his skin is sticky. He is on his back, and someone is curled up against his side, their long hair on his chest. He runs his fingers down their breast and over their stomach, passing his fingertips across the gently wrinkled silk of stretch marks. He moans, softly and gases up into the pitch black. For one moment, the briefest span of time that the human brain can register, Harlow Vega feels peace in his heart.

Then he hears someone say his name. Harlow. And his body flinches. They didn't say Jack. They said, Harlow. He sits up in the dark. Mom! There is no answer.

The voice is coming from outside. Harlow starts to rise. A soft hand tightens on his wrist and tries to pull him back, but he shoves the person away and gets to his feet. He takes a step forward, wiping milk from his chin with the back of a hand and wincing as his stubble scrapes the fresh wound there. He reaches out in the darkness. His fingers sees a curtain door. He pulls it open and steps out into starlight. For a long moment, Harlow just stands there, blinking, breathing, trying to understand.

He is on the mesa, surely, but everything is different, barren and wild. There are no yurts, no lawn, no greenhouses or distant windmills. There is only rock and sand, cactuses and junipers. He looks back over his shoulder and sees that he's standing outside a family-sized tent, made of dirty, patched canvas, one, a few dozen such tents. Beer bottles and cigarette butts litter the ground. The night air smells of garbage and skunky pot smoke. From somewhere in the tent village behind him, old-timey jazz plays from a scratchy record player.

What is this? Carlo whispers, and his voice comes out in an airy falsetto. He brings a hand to his mouth, then slides it up across his cheek. His face is soft and hairless, and when he looks at his hands, he sees that they are uninjured. What's more, his hands are small. He is barefoot, dressed in loose shorts and a tattered t-shirt. His limbs are thin and smooth. When? Not what? When is this?

He looks up. The green skeleton stands before him. This time, Harlow is not afraid. Her veil and cloak of shadow flutter in the night breeze. She holds no crown nor polished sphere. One arm hangs limp at her side. The other is raised, pointing a bony green finger to the west. Harlow nods and turning begins to walk in the direction she has shown him.

He has to be careful. The ground has many twisting, thorny plants and sharp stones. It will be years before the air cleared and replaced with the grassy green eye. He approaches a clump of juniper bushes and moving quietly around them. His eyes catch starlight reflecting off a natural pool of dark water. It is not a perfect circle, yet. Just a serpentine spring among the run. rocks. A man and a woman stand across the water, whispering in angry voices. Harlow knows them,

of course, but his mother looks so young, and his father, so much older than he imagined. You heard the whispers, Eden, same as me, whispers Gabriel. It is not up to us. I don't give a damn about the whispers anymore. I won't let it happen. I won't. Eden declares, Shh, keep your voice down, me amor. If they hear, what? What can they do to our family that's worse than what they've already promised to do, hmm? Gabriel Vega hangs his head and rubs his eyes. His hair is thinning at the top, and he is taller and heavier set

than Harla remembers in the one memory he has of him. We have to leave, Gabriel. We have to leave the mesa. Gabriel sighs and takes her gently by the hands. Eden, think about it. The vision is 13,000 years in the dreaming. It doesn't matter what we want. If he truly is meant to be, I'll kill them.

She sneers. I'll kill her boys before I'll. let it happen. Across the water, Harlow's father releases her hands, and even in the dim blue of the night, he can see the flush of anger in the man's cheeks. Never say that. Eden crosses her arms. But it's true. I'll strangle them or drown them in the spring, or hold them to my chest and throw myself off the fucking storm claw before I... Gabriel slaps her. It is hard and loud, and her head whips to the side. But when she looks up at her husband again, Eden's determined expression remains. His face crunches up, and he raises a finger to tap his temple.

You are going loka, esposa. Too much mushrooms, I think. I've never been more sane, sober, or serious in all my life, husband. But it's not possible. The other four, they will not simply let us leave. No one ever leaves. We will find a way. But my life's work is here. You cannot make me choose between your true family and the haunted moans of a goddamn cadaver i sure as hell can somewhere back in the tents a toddler starts to cry eden turns to peer through the bushes it's phoenix i have to go to him and you me al banielito she twists back to face gabriel you will find a way to get us out all of us Eden we will burn this place to the fucking ground she snarls turning and ducking through the junipers.

If that is what it takes. Once she is gone, her footsteps fading. Harlow creeps forward until he stands right at the edge of the water. His father looks tired, conflicted, and angry, with his big hands on his hips. And then he sighs, and he too walks slowly off, vanishing through the junipers. Father? Harlow calls after him, raising a hand. Father!

He says again, and his voice is harsh and dry. and deep. Harlow opens his eyes. He is lying under the open sky. The sun is up and the air is hazy. The long dream is over. Rones. His head is pounding. He is naked and lying on his side outdoors. The ground beneath him is coarse and brittle. His right arm is stretched out straight, and his hand, bruised, swollen and bloody, is pressed firmly against a heavy stone. Carlo blinks and raises himself a few inches. As he slides his hand to one side, he sees that he has placed his fingers exactly in the imprint of a hand bordered with faded orange pigment. So, he is in the stone grove on the Mesa's northeast corner, with the haunted rocks and their ghostly handprints all around him.

He groans again and sits up. The jagged little pieces that carpet the grove are sharp against his skin. What is... He picks up one of the little gray pieces on the ground. It is smooth and round on the outside, but has lots of teeny holes like coral on either a severed end. What at first he had taken to be the chalky gravel is, in fact, he looks around, blinking in the morning sunlight.

The carpet of crushed bones stretches far, all around the painted stones. How many skeletons would you have to crush to make all this? There you are! calls out a man's voice, startling Harlow. He drops the piece of bone and looks up. Ezekiel is walking toward him, stifling a yawn. He's wearing nothing but boots and a white bed sheet draped about him like a loose toga.

Ezekiel's mask hangs lopsided around his neck, and most of its mossy beard has been torn away, leaving only a little mustache of green fuzz. His left eye is swollen shut and bruised. Hey, says Harlow dryly, shifting his legs to try and hide his crotch. Did somebody fight you last night? What? Oh, the black eye.

Why would I? Yeah, you clacked me with an elbow when I was pulling you off, Bash. Carlo looks at his hands again. The wounds on each palm look gnarly as hell. And his right hand is broken in at least three places. Shit. Oh, man. I really messed up my hands.

Well, you fought with the savagery of a panther, my friend. It must be the blood of your warrior ancestors. Aztecs, conquistadors, Vikings. Isn't that what you said once? Harlow lowers his hands. And, uh, did I? Ish-Igiel shakes his head. Granny Fang is with him and got brick.

She thinks he'll live, though he'll probably be blind in one eye. And I fear you delivered a killing blow to the bastard's ego, not to mention any chance of brick ever planting godlings. RIP, guess the council will have to tell Krieger to start following me around now. Ezekiel chuckles. I doubt that.

I just saw goddess darling. She is in a very good mood this morning. Perhaps the confrontation was part of her vision all along. Harlow looks down at the scraped up body and deciding that there is no chance of modesty now. He tries to get to his feet. Ezekiel jogs over and helps him up. Were you on your stomach? Don't your dick and balls hurt?

Everything hurts. But, yeah, I don't even know where my clothes got to. Undraping the sheet from around his torso, Ezekiel stands in his boots and his hairy birthday suit, rips the sheet's edge with his teeth, and tears it in two. Thanks, says Arlo, allowing Ezekiel to tie half the sheet around his waist for him. They start walking south through the grove, Arlo wincing as his bare feet press into the jagged bits of bone. How? So, was your...

night, ow! As illuminating as mine! I suppose, says Ezekiel, strolling beside him. I saw the stars danced to the music of the wolf's howling, and I finally hooked up with God Zephyr. That's saucy tease. Congrats. I also, uh, had a bit of an epiphany, actually. I blame you, Jack. All your damn questions must have gotten in my head. Though, I suppose it doesn't matter. I I shouldn't care. Epiphany about what? Ezekiel is silent for almost a minute as they walk. Then he sighs. Shiloh is my daughter. Harlow looks at him. No shit. Huh. Well, she's a very... She's a sweet kid, Zeke. A little odd, maybe.

Yes. Who's her mother? Ezekiel points with a thumb over his shoulder, back the way they've come. Scattered in the grove. She died in childbirth. Oh. They do not speak again until they've reached the green eye. The place is eerily quiet. A lot of folks are passed out on the lawn.

Some chickens cluck and wander about the grass. Harlow spots friends sitting outside the yurt she shares with friends. She's holding her cat mask in her hands. And when she notices Harlow, she smiles weakly. A gesture of unspoken thanks. Carlo nods back. They approach their yurt, and Ezekiel is reaching for the curtain. Then a child's scream pierces the air, one high note of shock and despair.

They freeze. Who is it? Harlow asks. Ezekiel shakes his head and starts to run. The overlook, I think. Hurry! Carlo sprints beside him, holding the bed sheet in place at his waist. His first thought is of Shiloh, running blindly through the dancers last night near the cliff.

But after what Ezekiel is he was, has just told him, it can't be her. That would be too much, too cruel. They bolt between the yurts and run to the southern overlook. Dozens of others are coming too, whispering nervously as they jog toward the screaming. Harlow and Ezekiel pushed past them, sliding to a dusty stop at the precipice. A little girl is pointing over the edge and screaming again and again. Icy dread settles in Harlow's stomach as he leans and peers over the cliff, down, down, down to the biled stones, hundreds of feet below. A distant figure lies spread eagle, dressed in lavender and gray. Harlow backs away from the cliff edge.

It's Zen! Someone shouts. Oh, vision, no! No! No! It's our Zen! Harlow looks up at Ezekiel, then around at the people rushing to see for themselves. Ezekiel walks back to join him. His face set, his arms crossed. I didn't see the baby with her, did you? Harlow shakes his head. They stand there in the open air, and salty tears of anger burn in Harlow's eyes. You know, I heard she's been depressed lately, says a gossipy whisperer from the crowd.

And then, oh my God, it's Galaxy! Galaxy! Don't come over here! Harlow looks over at the Yerts. Galaxy is walking slowly toward them. His long hair, a tangled mess, dressed in a bathrobe. He holds Ziggy in a blanket and his sleepy eyes. squint in innocent curiosity. Fuck. Harlow marches to meet him. Jack, what's going on, man?

Hammy the boy, Galaxy. What? Harlow reaches out with his injured hands and gently pulls the sleeping Ziggy to his own chest. Jack, what the fuck is going on? Arlo looks down at the dreaming infant, then brings his eyes up to meet the gaze of his friend. It is an ancient animal power, the ability to deliver the news of death with nothing but a glance. How does that work? How is the information conveyed? Harlow doesn't know. No one knows. But everyone can do it when the worst happens. It is instinctual.

Like sex. Like dancing. I'm so sorry. The color drains from galaxy's cheeks until he looks as gray as the dust in the air. No. No! He stares at the cliff, his chest convulsing. How? Why? Harlow's stomach churns, and a vision flashes in his mind, a hazy memory of flesh-on-flesh and warm lips and shoving some aside as he rises to his feet, but... No, no, that couldn't have anything to do with Zen, unless... Harlow clasps his eyes shut.

He can't put the pieces together. None of it makes sense. He looks around at the crowd again, until his eyes settle. Unstarling. Her golden hair flows in the breeze around her shoulders. She holds little heron in one arm and has the other wrapped around a weeping girl. On her chest, the spiral medallion sparkles. I don't know what's happened, Parlo says to Galaxy.

I don't know what's going on here. Something really, really bad. Happening all the time all around us. Carlo watches as Galaxy moves like a ghost toward the overlook. The people parting to let him pass, and reaching the ledge falls to his. knees, gripping his long hair in both fists, galaxy unleashes a primal roar of grief. Ezekiel approaches Harlow.

Want me to take the little one or... Sure. Ziggy begins to stir as Harlow passes him to Ezekiel. Then Harlow turns to the east, gazing past the crowd, to where a lone figure stands next to the Ponderosa, looking out on the sunrise. Harlow starts toward them. Where are you going? asks Ezekiel,

Just got to do a thing. Parlo plods across the rolling ground to the southeast corner, morning sunlight on his bare chest, dotted with dried blood. The past 24 hours have brought some of the answers he seeks. He's sure of it. He's not sure what questions those answers belong to. But one thing has become clear. There is a great power here on the Holy Mesa.

Parlo sees that now. He believes. not in sacred invocations or the authority of mind over matter, but rather in the twisted, haunted patterns of the people who've called this place home. He is a part of that cursed history, though he still cannot see what role he will serve in the story. And Starling was right, no more standing on the sidelines. Harlow has to converge, to belong, to go all in if he wants to get to the bottom of things.

That'll take time. So much to do and to process. But at least, in the midst of all this madness, there is one piece of the puzzle which has fallen into place in Harlow's mind. He approaches the prophet. The young man stands in his poncho, breeze in his coppery hair, staring out across the plains below.

Morning, says Harlow. The prophet swivels his gentle eyes and half-scarred face to Harlow. Oh, hello, new friend, he says. I'm the prophet. Yeah, I know. Harlow nods in greeting. They call me Jack. Hello, Jack, smiles the prophet.

They told me about you. I'm sorry we didn't meet earlier. Didn't you come here in the wintertime? It's been a while. Yes, it has, Harlow says, gazing into the placid eyes and enigmatic expression on his baby brother's face. A long while.