Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Prophet of the Hallowed Corpse | Part 3

Episode Date: October 29, 2025

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Part 3. Summer. Season of the Copper Rose. The full series, All Four Parts of Prophet of the Hallowed Corpse, is available on Patreon. Hear the rest of the series without waiting for Part 4. Link in the description below. Rain comes in June. The first showers on the mesa since Harlow's arrival. One night, awaking from a nightmare, he hears the soft padding of droplets on the roof of his yurt. He lies for hours in the dark, just listening. The next morning, the lawn is wet and muddy, and the central pool is filled to the edge and overflows as children tousel and splash.

The rain brings new shades of green, blue, and gold to the top land. And the panoramic view of the plains below glows watercolor bright, dotted with the sunny blossoms of prickly pear cactuses. And with the rain and the colors come also. new visitors. Western bluebirds cluster in the branches of the ponderosa pine, and wake the meso folk each dawn with their sweet and mournful melodies. The desert milkweeds bloom and play host to the migration of monarch butterflies,

so that the days are filled with a silent flapping of small orange wings. And in the evening, swarms of crickets gather in the green eye, their summer song a strange and lovely counterpoint to the drums and flutes and Ezekiel's guitar. By the first week of July, the monsoon season has reached its peak. Moist air swirling in from the southwest and the distant east clash above the plains, birthing anvil-shaped storm clouds like little angry gods. Thunder claps, rumbles, and rolls.

The visionaries of the Holy Mesa adapt, stretch a roof of tarps above the tables at the forum and spend much of their time in their yurts. Some take to wearing their masks set atop their heads and pulled down over their brows, like fantastical caps when they go out into the rain. Harlow still hasn't made a face covering for himself, though in all other ways he has assimilated to their way of life. No more jokes at the expense of Indira or the council, no more arguments in class. He works hard, he listens, he learns. He even organizes activities with the young gods and goddesses. Good old Uncle Jack.

The wind and rain make Frisbee difficult, but they play capture the flag instead, dividing into teams with himself and Ezekiel as team leaders. They charge in packs through the slick grass and muddy hillocks, soaked and filthy and laughing until their cheeks hurt. But the fun ends one evening in late July when a girl named Nevea trips while scrambling over a pile of wood and rusty metal in the hilly north end and breaks her ankle. By then, even Harlow is getting tired of

the relentless rain. One afternoon, as he sits in the doorway of his yurt, Ezekiel strumming lazily on the guitar beside him, Harlow looks up through the deluge and is surprised to see the prophet exit his own yurt, and, instead of heading toward the covered forum as usual, go instead into the middle of the soaking grass. The prophet sits. cross-legged in the mud, his hair dark and wet, his smile, unaffected by the rain belting his scarred face and soaking his woolen poncho. Many of the mesa folk emerge and walk with their heads bowed against the weather, or blankets pulled up to cover themselves, gathering around the prophet. Harlow rises to his feet, and Ezekiel sets his guitar aside. They walk out into

the rain, side by side. Ezekiel grabs the mask from his belt and pulls it up. over his forehead to block the rain. The wooden face now boasts a crown of new little branches with a deep green spread of summer leaves. They take up a spot on the edge of the group. The prophet is very still, looking up and forward at the blue-gray clouds. Prophet, may I ask you a question? Says a golden-haired godling named Pippet, who is seated on the lap of Granny Pearl. You just did, says the prophet, and a few people chuckle. It's just... You don't ever get angry. It's weird.

Don't you ever get angry? The prophet turns to look at the child. Why would I want to be angry? That's not a nice feeling. Because stuff! Like the rain. All my clothes are wet and cold and they never get dry. Even when they get hanged up in the yurt, it's driving me crazy.

Granny Pearl glares down at the girl through her six-eyed geisha mask. Watch your tone, little one. You are speaking to the prophet. Remember, he could make it sunny whenever he wants to, with a mere tweak of his holy vision. The Prophet laughs, a measured, little sound. Ha, ha. Well, I don't know about that. Maybe I could, and maybe not. But my vision would never, ever clash with the vision of the weather. Why not, Prophet?

Asked. Don't you want to be in dry clothes? The Prophet considers this. His expression stoic, watched by the shivering crowd. I would rather not let the rain affect me at all. It is silly to be angry at the weather. It is blind, and it serves the vision of the grasses and the trees and the animals. Our mission here is too important to get all worried about silly things. We must focus on purification of our personal visions.

Yep, so that one day we will be strong enough to fix all the problems in the world. And like, when that happens, says a boy wrapped in a blanket. with only his curious face showing through. Will we all be like you, Prophet? Will we be happy all the time? Even in the rain? You don't need to wait to be happy. All you have to do is align your vision

with the vision of the water and the wind and the clouds. Converge. Go on. Try it. Close your eyes. Harlow watches as the boy obeys. His face contorted in intense concentration. Stay very calm, says the prophet.

He inhales through his nostrils. The rain is here to bless our mesa. It sinks down into the stone and the sand to refill our aquifer so that we may have water all throughout the year. Don't you see? Even the weather is on our side. It knows we are the answer. We are the future.

After a few seconds, the boy sighs and opens his eyes. It didn't work. I still wanted to be sunny. The Prophet laughs. Ha ha. Harlow clears his throat, and projecting his voice, he calls out. Prophet? What if it's not about the rain? What if it's other people? Say a person treats you badly, or hurts someone you love or or abandons you. Would that not make you angry?

The Prophet looks over at Harlow, or rather, his vacant eyes ain't. themselves in that direction. No, he says. Why would I want to be angry? That's not a nice feeling. Behind the cross-legged prophet, the willowy figure of Indira bows her wrinkled head. We all aspire to your level of purity, prophet. The group disperses a half hour later.

Harlow walks over to the yurt of Granny Fang, the healer of the Holy Mesa. Stepping through the red curtain door, he is engulfed in the smoke of burning sage. Afternoon goddess, says Harlow, pulling off his dripping leather jacket and hanging it by the door. Fang nods to him. She's a strange old woman, pretty quiet and never seen without her mask, a curtain of threaded beads that runs from a band at her forehead down her face. She is kneeling on the floor, hunched over the figure of Bash on a mattress, and removing bandages from his head and left eye.

Bash does not look over at Harlow, but stares with his right eye, the only eye that still works, at the single light bulb that hangs from the Yerz ceiling. Harlow crosses his arms, looking down at the once intimidating enforcer. Without his mask of bones, Bash is just a pale and ugly middle-aged man, and Harlow's beating had given a distinct asymmetry to the bulldog face and bulbous nose. The swelling has mostly cleared up by now, but his milky left eye still weeps, bloody pus. And how are your hands today, God Jack? Asks Fang, as she wipes away the pus and applies a fresh bandage.

Harlow shrugs. A little stiff, a little sore, but fine. I can almost make a fist again. She rises from the bedside, gives her hands a quick wash in a basin of steaming water. Too quick, Harlow things. and walks to him. Taking both his hands and hers, she examines them one by one. You need to stop working with them.

There is work to be done upon the mesa, Harlow intones, in a falsely righteous voice. Then he wences as she presses his right palm with her thumb. Ow! Okay, sorry, he mumbles. But he can sense the smile behind her beaded mask. He likes Fang more than the other granny. She's not a shameless flirt for one thing, and despite the lack of sanitary standards, she seems to be good at what she does. Harlow's hands have healed miraculously well, and whether that's all down to the healer's

talents or to luck, or, as Ezekiel insists, to the power of the mesa, Harlow doesn't much care. His left hand is basically back to normal. His right is a bit behind. The wounds left from the iron spikes of the goat-hand. head mask are the biggest surprise. For the inside of both puncture wounds has healed over with pink scar tissue, leaving a small fistula tunnel in both palms. Now, a pinprick of light shows right through his hands when he holds them up. It's a neat party trick. Over by the mattress,

Bash gets to his feet with a groan and lumberes toward the door. His shoulders slouched. Then he pauses and turns sheepishly to Harlow. downcast, Harlow grins. You may go, Bash. Bash bows his head and departs. Harlow follows a few minutes later, grabbing his jacket and assuring Granny Fang that he'll be more careful about his hands. The rain has lessened, but the wind is strong as they bring platters of tamales and sauces

to the tables for supper that evening. Moods are generally high. People snuggled up in pairs and trios under blankets. ready to fill their bellies with something hot and savory. Harlow looks around for galaxy among the crowd and grows worried when he doesn't spot him. Just then, a gust of wind tears one of the tarps overhead. Collected rain splashes down onto one of the tables,

causing several people to scream in shock and others to laugh. Harlow jogs over to help secure the tarp, but several others get there first, including the prophet and Starling. Harlow hesitates. The prophet, standing on a bench and holding up the torn tarp, looks down at him. We got this. Why don't you say the words tonight, God Jack?

Harlow raises an eyebrow surprised. He looks to Starling, who considers for a few seconds before nodding. Harlow takes a second to gather himself, catching Ezekiel's curious eye from a nearby bench. Then he walks to the center of the forum. him. Feeling rather self-conscious, he raises both his hands with their punctured palms. Above him, the quilt of tarps, billows, and sways. Many faces turn to look at him as conversations die away. Harlow clears his throat. From many streams, one river! chanced the crowd. He sees the proud smiles on their faces,

and none is whiter than Ezekiel's. Harlow smiles too. He doesn't have to force it. It is a good feeling. From many journeys, one path, the community answers. Harlow surveys the sea of faces and masks. All these people he has come to know and come to care about.

Gods and goddesses and godlings. Even stern counselor Indira is, well, not actually smiling at him, but not scowling either. He takes a moment. Let's the feeling linger, then. From the minds of many gods! He bellows.

One vision! Harlow sits. Ezekio claps him on the back. Someone else sets a pork tamale on his plate for him. He cheers with a glass of cider, and then begins to eat, while people laugh and chatter all around him. And wild-eyed children dance in the swirling rain. Picture this.

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Galaxy doesn't come to breakfast the next morning. Is he? Bad? Again? Harlow asks Cadence, catching her as she leaves breakfast. Cadence nods, the lime green wings of her moth mask, feeding up and down with the motion. She has taken to wearing the mask almost all the time now.

Yes, it's just like in the spring after. You know. Harlow exhales and nods. He finishes his breakfast, then heads over to the green eye and approaches Galaxy's yurt. Rise and shine, Harlow says, stepping through the curtain. You're missing blue cornmeal pancakes with choke cherry syrup. No idea what a chokeberry is, but it's definitely what you would call delish. In the dim room, which smells like feet and unwashed clothes, Galaxy rolls over on his mattress.

He's wearing nothing but polka dot boxer shorts and his alien mask. Not hungry, he mumbles. You're always hungry. Besides, there's coffee today. And not the pinion stuff. Real beans, from a store and everything. Came in with yesterday's shipment. On the bed, the alien shrugs.

Harlow takes a seat on a pile of dirty clothes. A wave of uneasiness washes over him. Zen's absence lingers like a ghost in the yurt. No doubt, Galaxy can feel it too. I thought you've been doing better lately, Harlow says softly. You kicked ass and captured the flag. In his mask, Galaxy sighs. His breath vibrating the rubber. He looks at Harlow through the dark mesh over the alien's bugging eyes. Starling's been taking care of Ziggy, he says.

And now she's had his crib moved into her yurt. Yeah, I heard. I wanted to do that. Not like I can nurse him or anything. You'll never know unless you try. That gets a chuckle from Galaxy, who finally reaches up to pull off his mask. The warmth has gone from the young man's cheeks, and his once constant smile is now as vacant as Zen's side of the mattress. I'm lost, man. What do you mean?

My head's a freaking mess again, full of nightmares and flashbacks, and I can't even... Everything's all jumbled. Harlow nods, supportively, but Galaxy groans. Oh, man. Some of the others here. They feel the same way. I know they do. But you don't get it, Jack.

Maybe at the start you would have, but look at you now. You're all in, man. You've drunk the Kool-Aid now, like Jim Morrison. I think you mean Jones. Fine. Jones-Morrison, whatever. No, I mean, never mind. Harlow lowers his voice.

Listen, Galaxy, the way you're feeling about this place, I do get it. Believe me, that's why I'm doing what I'm doing. So I get to the bottom of, of whatever is at the bottom. Galaxy scoffs. You sure about that? Because the mesa, it gets into your bloodstream man like a poison. It changes you. Harlow leans in closer.

Keep your voice down, okay? Why? Because this conversation is giving me a serious case of Teja Vu. Okay, because it wasn't that long ago that I was in this yurt, listening to someone else expressed their fears about the Holy Mesa. Galaxy's eyes widened. Carlo nods. Zen was getting suspicious. Don't say your name!

And the next morning, we found her dead. I can't! Talk about that! Shut up, Galaxy! I'm trying to prevent it from happening again. Don't you get that? But you're wrong. That's not why she died. It was because... He chokes on his words, face twitching, a look of horror in his eyes. After a moment, Harlow shakes his head.

All I know for sure is we have to be careful. We can't trust anyone. We can't even trust ourselves, our eyes, our memories. And right now, you need to come to breakfast and then take a shower. That gorgeous hair of yours is getting all dry. out again. That's your sexiest feature. Can't let that go to waste. Galaxy smiles sadly. Yeah, okay. Your hair is getting long and shaggy too, you know. Huh. It kind of makes you look like the prophet. Well, Harlow holds out a hand. Come on. We'll go together. To the showers? Harlow smirks and rolls his eyes, pulling Galaxy to his feet and handing him his baggy jeans and the UFO t-shirt. August arrives, and the storms finally recede. Sunlight quickly bleaches the deep,

vibrant hues of nature to muted pastels, and the music of the birds and insects grows faint on the mesa. One day, as the young gods and goddesses gather for class, Indira tells them that instead of the usual lecture, they will all be going down to the plains together to, as she puts it, fish for tuna. What the hell does that mean? Asks a young woman, chuckling. Harlow smiles down at her. It's Alexis, the girl who arrived in the spring with her boyfriend, though they've since broken up,

and now she goes by the chosen name, goddess Lexina. She's wearing her own mask atop her head to block the sun. Its outer surface is mirrored, set with a hundred reflective squares taken from a disco ball, and its glare blinds Harlow as he leans close to her. ear. Goddess Indira means that the cactus fruit is ready to harvest. It's what we use to make the wine. Oh, sweet. Legit sweet, yeah, chimes in Galaxy on Harlow's other side. Kind of floral tasting, too. The class heads over to the storehouse and searches the messy shelves for plastic

buckets and wicker baskets. When they all have one, Indira asks Harlow to bring along gardening hose. She herself carries a number of kitchen tongs. They follow her down the winding switch back to the foot of the mesa, where the air is hot and dusty. Indira shows them how to pinch and twist the fuchsia fruits from the cactus pads, while being careful to avoid the white spots where fuzzy needles grow in bunches. They spread out along the western side with their tools, staying within a hundred feet of the mesa's wall. No one tells them not to wander any farther. But no one needs to. The Holy Mesa holds them, like moons, in a tight orbit. The prickly pairs are many. They're fruit plentiful, so it doesn't take long for the baskets

and buckets to be filled. Several people are bleeding from their hands and arms, and Indira allows them to head back to the top, while the others gather together by the road. They pick up the baskets and walk, reaching the road just as the Subaru outback drives down and parks behind the tables there. Starling and Shiloh climb out. And as Starling opens the hatchback to unpack the items for sale that day, Harlow jogs over to help her. Thanks, she says, carrying a ristra of dried chilies in each hand. He grabs a crate of eggs. Behind them, the others unpack the rest. They all work together to set up the stand, then fill the outbag with the harvested cactus fruit. Want to drive it up? Starling asks Harlow, tossing him her keys.

He shrugs, then hands them to Galaxy instead. Oh man, I haven't driven in over a year! Starling winces as the engine roars to life, and Galaxy turns it in a tight circle, kicking up dust from the tires. If he wrecks my baby, I will never forgive you. Harlow chuckles. It'll be fine, he assures her, watching as two girls jump out of the path from the speeding vehicle.

When he glances back at Starling again, she is staring at him intently. What? She brushes some loose hairs off her cheek. Nothing. It's just... You and I haven't spoken much lately. You have been very busy. Don't think I haven't noticed.

Noticed what exactly? She nods toward the rising dust cloud. Well, Galaxy, for one thing. I saw how you pulled him out of the doldrums. Well done. And then there's your general demeanor lately with everyone. Even goddess Indira is singing your praises these days. And what's this I hear about you turning down a chance to finally enter the museum?

Harlow shrugs. I said they needed somebody to work on electric in there. But goddess Joe is better at that than me. Is that right? She nudges him with a shoulder. I know what you're doing, Jack. I'm doing what you told me to, Starling. I'm all in.

Hmm. Well, it certainly appears that way. Harlow crosses his arms. I've proven that I can be valuable to you. Is that right? Yes, it is. I'm clever, I'm handy. And at the feast, I danced, Starling.

Not for long, true. But I converged. You saw it. And then at the pool, I... I showed what I can do to my enemies. You never said thank you for that, by the way. One of her golden eyebrows arches. For what exactly?

Breaking the goathead mask? I admit, it is a barbaric little ritual. But it served a purpose. For saving Wren for months of action? agony and a lifetime of scars. Carlo takes a deep breath. These past few months, I've shown that I can keep my mouth shut and my head down and blend in when I need to.

Is that all of it? Someone wise also once said that I have a certain, gritty charisma. Ha, ha. She says sarcastically, though there's a smile in her eyes. So, what am I still missing? What else do you want for me, Starling? What do I want? She shakes her head.

I want to know what you want, Jack. I want to be led into the fold. For real. I want access to the answers to really understand this place. Is that all? They hear a vehicle approaching, but it's not the Subaru coming back for the next load of tuna. It's winding up the road from the south, an old camper van. The van slows as it passes the stand, then pulls over on the side.

Starling sighs. Well, looks like it's time for my harvesting. Fingers crossed, I make a sale today. She winks at Harlow. He gets the joke. The roadside stand has never been about selling produce or gemstone trinkets. What they're really selling is a one-way ticket up the Holy Mesa, and a chance to have their vehicle towed away by Big John, never to be seen again.

Harlow's just glad he parked his truck miles up the road. They watch as a portly older woman and her young grandson walk from the park. parked van and approached the stand. In her chair behind the tables, Shiloh sits up, excited. But as Starling moves to join the girl, Harlow grabs her by the arm. Hang back. What? Tell me what you want for me, Starling. She considers. Her eyes on Shiloh as the girl greets their visitors, her expression, hard to read. Return down here tomorrow at dawn. I have a task for you. Harlow nods, relieved. Sure, no problem. Meet me on the east side of the mesa and bring Galaxy with you.

Harlow's stomach drops. Oh, will that be a problem? In his boots, Parlo's toes curl and his calf muscles tighten, but meets her gaze and shakes his head. No, ma'am, we'll be there. Perfect. It's a date then. Harlow doesn't sleep well that night. He tosses and turns on his mattress, presses a pillow to his ears to block out Ezekiel's snoring. and finally sits up in the darkness with a groan.

That's when he realizes that he is back in the little funeral parlor, the sole mourner of Eden Vega. The flowers around his mother's coffin are rotten. They stink, and the coffin is different, bigger, too big. Harlow steps toward it and peers inside. Eden is still there in a black dress, and she is not alone. Gabriel lies beside her, is much larger body. dressed in a brown suit and a turquoise bowelot tie and leather boots. His salt and pepper

hair is combed, his beard trimmed, a pair of glasses set in place above his closed eyes. And then there is another corpse, fit snugly between the parents, a boy, small and round-cheeked with mousy hair, wearing only a woolen poncho. It's little Phoenix, only. He's all wrong. There are chunks of flesh missing from his body, so that his poncho sinks into pits, and other parts of him are swollen. Some features are altogether in the wrong place, a foot where a hand should be, a belly button on his cheek, a nipple on his neck. The top of his skull is missing, and the skin on his head sunk in like a deflated balloon. What happened to you? Harlow asks the dead boy.

From the emptiness around them, a woman's voice whispers. Harlow shivers, a chill crawling up his legs and around his chest to grip his neck, like ghostly fingers of ice. You are searching for the wrong answers. But I need to know. That child is not important. Harlow's body stiffens. He cannot move. And it never was.

The tiny corpse begins to twitch. Its limbs lift up, as if pulled on strings, and its head flops to the side, Eyes fluttering open like a doll. But you are, Harlow. Harlow feels the spectral fingers light up his back. The hands stop at his shoulders, squeezing. We shall be side by... Harlow doesn't wait for the sun to rise to get started on the morning chores,

gathering eggs from the coop and watering all the plants in the greenhouses. When the sky finally does start to brighten, he marches anxiously to Galaxy's Yurt and calls for him. Several sleepy and annoyed voices grumble within, though none is galaxies. Galaxy! Wines Cadence. Jack's outside for you. Galaxy finally emerges a minute later, yawning and barefoot.

Put on shoes, Harlow advises. For the goatheads. Huh? The thorns don't grow up there. What size is it? Arlo makes Galaxy put on a pair of slippers, then leads him across. the lawn. We're going down to the planes again. Starling needs our help. With what? Harlow doesn't answer right away. They move in silence from the green eye, and as they reach the switch back, Harlow releases a breathy grunt. Okay, so how much do you know about the visionary's burial tradition?

Galaxy scratches his head. Uh, not much. Indira hasn't taught about it yet, but my theory is that The dead are buried in the stone grove. That place gives me the creepy crawlies. Why? Harlow holds him by the arm as they descend. You're not far off. The stones in the grove do bear imprints from the hands of the dead. But the bodies aren't buried.

They're on the surface, scattered, and it's just the bones. Why are you telling me this man? First, Harlow explains, speaking fast and loud, forcing the words out. The corpse is drained of fluid, then severed, head. torso limbs. This is all done down on the plains to the east, out of sight." Galaxy slows, but Harlow tugs him forward. Next, they wrap the body parts and yucca leaves and lay them out in a shallow pit to let the sun in the air dry out the flesh. How do you know this man? Zeke told me. It just came up one day. We were talking about a morgue

where I used to work. Jack, you're really starting to freak me out. Do you remember that day? Like a week after the festival, when the enforcers roasted chunks of limestone in the oven, that was to create quick lime. They mix it with salt and ash, and sprinkle it over the body to accelerate decomposition. They add fungus spores, too. All of that causes the flesh to rot away in a few months, leaving behind just the skeleton. Wait, a few months? Jack, you don't mean... Reaching the planes, Harlow leads himself, and the road ahead of them, a roadrunner whips its head up, a struggling lizard in its beak, and scurries off into the tall grasses. The season that a death takes place affects the process, Harlow explains.

We've just come out of two months of rain, which will have rehydrated the tissues and caused a lot of putrefaction. There'll be a smell. Be prepared for that. Try not to vomit. No! Galaxy backs away from Harlow, his eyes huge, reflecting the golden light of dawn. We'll be stripping her bones of any remaining flesh, I think, Harlow tells him, and then crushing them. Though, the fall probably did a lot of that on its own. Galaxy looks suddenly 20 years older. His color drained.

Oh my God, I can't. I mean, Jesus! It has to be us. Why? Starling said so. Then tell her no, man. Harlow marches back to him, jamming a finger at his chest. Listen, this is a test.

Everything here is a test. For what? For me, mostly, to see if I can get you to go through with it. What? Why? Is it because of Wren or something? Harlow lowers his finger. What about Wren? I heard a rumor from God Zephyr that Ren is being removed from the council.

Do you think they want you to take a place or something? Are they preparing you for community leadership? Harlow shakes his head. I don't know what Roll Starling has in mind. Frankly, I don't give a shit. As long as it gets me access to answers about what's really going on here. Now, come on, we should hurry. I'm not going.

I can't be near the body. I can't. You'll be okay. I've dealt with a lot of corpses. Just think of them as meat. Meat? What the hell is wrong with you? It was...

She was... Oh, God. Galaxy puts his head in. his hands. You don't get it. Her ch'idi. Her spirit? It's with us. Even now. She haunts me, Jack, every night, all the time, messes with my mind because of what I did. What you did? Harlow takes a step backward. What do you think you did, Galaxy? I think I was with her on the cliff. Galaxy's hands slide up his face into his hair, gripping his scalp. His face is twitching.

He's struggling to get out the words. I think I... I asked her to marry me. Stupid. Stupid. And she said, no. So I... He wretches, stumbling.

Harlow sighs. No, Galaxy. That didn't happen. You were high. You're confused and scared. and look, I can't explain why, but I know it wasn't you, okay? But I can't stop seeing it. Her body falling in the moonlight, spiraling down in the dark and...

Carlos slaps him, hard and fast. Galaxy gasps. Don't trust your mind. Galaxy rubs his cheek, his shameful expression replaced with shock. And we are doing this right now. If you need to vomit, swallow it. Got it? Slowly, galaxy nods.

They turn and finish their journey in heavy silence, circling around the south of the mesa, past the tables, and up around the eastern side. As they approach two figures standing there, beside a cage of rusty wire set over a dip in the land, the sound of flies buzzing grows louder in their ears, and their nostrils tingle. The morning air is thick, with the stench of death.

Harlow is right about the rain's effect on. on the flesh and about the fragmented condition of Zen's skeleton. But he hadn't considered how slimy everything would be, nor how much the fungus has thrived in the added moisture. He and Galaxy sit on the edge of the pit. Starling stands behind, wearing her turquoise dress. Beside her is Caliban, holding an empty basket. Harlow bends and tears open the gooey yucca wrapping on Zen's left leg. The odor hits his nostrils like chemical warfare. He tries to hold his breath, but it's no use. He twists, spewing a mouthful of watery vomit onto the sand behind him. I thought you said not to do that, mutters Galaxy, one hand clamped over his nose and mouth.

Harlow wipes his chin and turns back to the hole, blinking out tears from his irritated eyes. The putrid bouquet of smells fills his science. sinuses, sour rot, sweet sulfur, and the earthy musk of mushrooms. He reaches down into the open wrappings. His fingers push aside the spongy turquoise caps of vision shrooms, then sees a piece of femur. He pulls it out, the flesh squelching, one wet string of tendon still attached. The bone is mottled white and yellow, and specked with dark mold. It had snapped cleanly in half upon landing, and the honeycomb pattern visible in the broken end now leaks drops of greasy marrow. Harlow snaps off a stubborn tendon, then holds up the bone.

One persistent little mushroom still clings to its side. Do we smash it now? He asks, Starling. She shakes her head. Just set it in the basket. Galaxy, why don't you retrieve her skull? Galaxy catches Harlow's eye, then he swallows, and reaching into the pit, His trembling hands

seize onto the lumpy ball of interwoven leaves and begin to pry it open. Caliban clears his throat. Harlow turns and places the broken femur inside the basket. Caliban is holding out for him. From the twisted mouth on his mask, half sneering smile, half wild frown,

Caliban's lips quiver and purse playfully. He reaches into the basket and plucks up the tiny mushroom grown from Zen's flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Locking eyes with Harlow, the counselor pops it into his own mouth and chews noisily. Harlow stares at him, imagining how it would be to smash in the psycho's face. Beside him, Galaxy chokes on a sob. Harlow turns to watch as Galaxy slides the fingers of one hand into Zen's dusty, dark brown hair,

and uses it to pull her skull out of the wrapping. The jaw is left behind. Her skull appears surprisingly undamaged. She really was a pretty girl, wasn't she? Says darling. And such lovely hair. Go ahead and rip the hair off the scalp galaxy. That's right.

Leave it here. Some crows might find it and use it in a nest. Wouldn't that be nice? Good. Now set the skull into the basket. Keep at it, boys. There are many bones to go. When they smash the bones with hammers in the stone grove afterward, the debris shoots everywhere,

like little grenades, flinging human shrapnel into the breeze. Arlo gets a splinter of bone in his right cheek, and Galaxy's eyes soon burn red from the stinging dust coughed up by each furious swing. It's still morning when they finish, and Starling and Caliban head off to the forum to catch a bite of breakfast before it is put away. Harlow takes Galaxy back to his yurt and tells him to try and rest, but as he walks away, he can hear his friend, screaming into a pillow. The scream becomes a moan, becomes a sob, a laugh, mirthless and broken.

Harlow grabs a fresh outfit at his yurt, then hurries to the showers. He scrubs and scrubs at his hands and his wrists, but the stench of rot won't go away. Pulling on his clothes, he marches around the kitchen and up to the tables. Most people are done eating and cleaning up their dishes. Harlow walks past them, ignoring greetings of, Hey Jack, and... Blessed morning! He stompes to the central table,

where Starling is nursing little heron at one breast, and Ziggy, sitting up on her lap at the other. Zen sun looks huge compared to Starlings. Can we take a walk goddess? Harlow asks her loudly as he approaches. As soon as you're done here, God, his Starling's schedule is very busy today, rebukes Indira, sitting on Starling's right. No, it's fine, says Starling.

Jack has been very patient, and he's had a rough morning. I'd be happy to take a stroll with him. He nods. Good. I'll be waiting for you at the Stormclaw. Harlow stands by the edge, cloaked in the wind, watching that dusty vortex twirl before him, so dangerous and beautiful. Why here? He turns, and there she is.

Starling, in her flowing turquoise dress, which ripples like green water in the gusting air. This spot is where I was first initiated, and the violence of this mesa. Well, someone's feeling theatrical, aren't they? He starts walking toward her, the wind diminishing with each step. I know why you had us do that this morning,

cracking her apart, tearing out the pieces, smashing them to bits. You wanted me to do it. to get my hands dirty. And that's not just a metaphor. He comes to a stop before her. I'm done with your tests, darling. I passed. I'm ready. Now it's your turn to do something for me. She nods. All right, Jack. What can I do for you? I need you to walk me through the history of the Holy Mesa, the true story, the real power. I want to know all of it. Fair enough. Where should we start? She glances left.

The museum. Harlow shakes his head. Not yet. We should start where it all began. Meaning? He grins and leans in. The Prophet's meditation retreat, of course. Well, well, it seems you've already figured out a lot on your own.

Some. He looks up at the terracotta hillocks behind them. No one ever leaves, right? Not even the Prophet. He spends the season of the Topaz tomb right here, inside the tomb itself. And where is the tomb? Jack, his eyes dip to stare at the rock beneath their feet. Below, it's a crypt. A smile flickers across her face. In that case, lead the way, oh clever one. He does, taking them across the

sloping ground, away from the arresting sight of the storm claw, away from the eye-catching museum, heading straight toward the ugliest, most inconspicuous feature on all of the Holy Mesa. The rusty He shed beside the pile of rotten planks and scrap metal. Harlow might have figured it out sooner, perhaps even during his first visit to this area, had the shocking death of Mortimer King not distracted him. But he hadn't forgotten the two older women standing next to the shed. Baskets in their hands. Why had they been here?

Bringing provisions for the profit, of course, in his secret hideaway. That junk pile there against the hillside, he says, pointing to the planks and metal, jumbled like a nest. That's the original entrance to the old mine, isn't it? Collapsed in. A glow of pride comes into her cheeks. Go on. This shed.

It's the entrance now. There's a rusty knob on a sheet of corrugated steel on one side. And as Harlow grabs it and pulls, it swings open on squeaky hinges. A puff of damp air wafts out from the hidden door. The interior is dim and musty. Spiderwebs arch across the ceiling. Harlow looks down.

Steps are carved into the sandstone, leading into utter darkness. He exhales, feeling dread and exhilaration in equal measure. Ladies first. How chivalrous! She holds up the hem of her dress and steps through. The stairs are steep and uneven, and she moves slowly. Harlow waits until she is almost out of sight, then follows. Four stairs down, a gust of wind slams the sheet metal door shut behind him, and for a moment they are left in blackness.

Then there's a click and soft electric light appears below. He continues down toward the light. Starling is standing at the bottom of the stairs, in the mouth of a long tunnel. She releases the pull string of a dusty light bulb on the tunnel ceiling. Arla reaches the bottom and looks past her. The underground passage has been chiseled through the moist stone and is held up by a masonry arch support. You were right, says Starling. The old jewel mine caved in while the professor was first exploring it.

He fell into a hidden chamber beneath the mine. He was able to climb, eventually, and this passage was dug to gain access to the lower chamber. The Tobaz tomb. She starts down the tunnel. Harlow at her heels. The curved arches that reach up on either side make it feel as though they're passing through the ribcage of some giant serpent. Along the walls, horizontal support planks run between the arches,

and above each of these timber beams there grows, a dense row of vision shrooms. Thousands of turquoise mushrooms line the tunnel. They are not growing from soil, but from severed arms, lots of them, stacking along the beams floor to ceiling. Some are only bone, some are leathery and dry, and some are slick and black and oozing. And by the glow of the dangling light bulbs, Harlow can just make a haze of golden fungus spores in the air around them. The tunnel curves to the left.

They round a corner and head down a slope, where the stone walls are cracked and slick, and the passage narrows until they're walking single file. Starling at the front. And here we are. Welcome, Jack. to where it all began. She steps aside, squeezing against the wall so that he can see where the passage comes to an end,

at a doorway. It is not the sort of door Harlow expects to find in a place like this. Not a practical entryway of steel and wood, not some heavy rolling disk of stone from Bible times. Rather, fitted snugly into a whitewashed doorframe set within the heavy sandstone, is a door like,

like that of any typical American suburban home. Just a normal front door, painted fire truck red with a brushed nickel doornob. There's even a dusty mat at the front of a door, and Harlow can just make out the words, Bless this home on its worn surface. Shall we? She twists the knob, opens the door, and steps inside, vanishing into momentary darkness before flipping a switch on the wall. Warm orange lights flicker on within, and music starts to play, a warbly tune,

scratching and screeching from an old record player. As Harlow enters the subterranean room, the 1920s big band song playing on the record makes for a strange soundtrack to the scene. Starling, says Harlow, turning in place. What the hell is this? Two floor lamps and the corners cast warm light around the room, revealing the four smooth stone walls covered in carvings, spirals, symbols he doesn't recognize, and one large scene a woman standing beside some sort of armored woolly mammoth, upon which rides the ghoulish figure of an axe-wielding warrior. The images are incised, in sunken relief, and painted in bold shades of red, white, black, and green,

barely tarnished by the millennia. The underground chamber is a time capsule, a glimpse, of the prehistoric world, and of a forgotten people. But more than the grandeur of these painted walls, more than the broken ceiling where a jagged hole shows the spot the professor must have fallen into, it is the objects in the center of this ancient burial chamber that unnerve Harlow, that twist his intestines into a knot,

and makes his eyes go wide. A faded rectangular rug lies on the floor, featuring the alphabet in colorful, bubble letters, perfect for a preschool. Atop the rug is a child-sized bed with a sagging mattress on a rusty frame, and a picture book leaned upside down against the pillow. Beside the bed, the record player sits on an end table. Behind this bizarre little bedroom set up is a large stone box, open at the top. Harlow steps up to it. It is undoubtedly a sarcophagus and part of the tomb itself.

A body must have once been laid inside, but its current function is that of a toy box. Tattered picture books, stuffed animals, and Fisher-Price play sets are jumbled and dusty in the stone box. Lying on its back atop the toys and staring at the ceiling with its button eyes is an old teddy bear with one arm. Harlow picks it up.

He knows this bear. In fact, he remembers a lot of the toys. He had played with them, along with Tiny Phoenix and the other kids, the children of the children of the Holy Mesa, many years ago. The prophet, Harlow says. He spends three whole months of every year, cooped up in this preschool bedroom? Starling sighs. That's right, playing with his little toys and listening to the professor.

the professor's old record again and again. And don't get me started on that book. He wants it read to him every night. The same stupid story. Parla looks over at her, confused, then turns back to the bed. Setting the teddy bear in the toy box, he moves to the bed and picks up the picture book.

As he turns it over, he notices brown stains along the edges, fingerprints. His mind flashes back, 27 years. to the ghastly visual of a toddler limp in a car seat, clinging to a book with tiny, bloody fingers. Harlow sits on the edge of the bed.

It squeaks under his weight. The oaky-spooky Halloween mask, he reads aloud, eyes tracing the title, then shifting to the illustration of a dancing boy in a green monster mask and a bed sheet cape. He opens up the book. Don't bother, says darling. It's proper shit.

Harlow flicks through the pages, vaguely recalling the story now, about a little boy desperate to join his friends for trick-or-treating, except he can't find his costume's mask. His parents are angry, they want to leave. The boy doesn't care. No, no, mother, we can't leave now. We must find my oaky-spooky mask, but how? Oh, God, grown starling. See what I mean? Not exactly Dr. Seuss, but he's always been obsessed with it.

He'd probably still insist on carrying it around with him all the time if he hadn't made everyone. Well, it doesn't matter. Harlow shuts the book. Starling, does this mean that? The prophet. He's like a child, isn't he? Mentally. Emotionally.

She snickers. Always has been, yeah. Most people interpret his simple nature as a sign of great, spiritual enlightenment, even the grannies who take care of him in the winter. They read him as picture books. They clean out his little rusty toilet in the corner there and tuck him into bed at night. And still, they revere him. Their precious prophet. Harlow sets the book back against the pillow, upside down, just how he found it. What does it say about the faithful, Ajax, that they can't even tell when they're beloved and inspiring leader?

is an actual idiot? Harlow lets out a long breath, then shakes his head. But the things he says, they sound wise. So then he must be fed phrases, is that it? He's been trained like a, like a parrot, a vessel for another's words.

Jesus, I did wonder, but why is he like that? What happened to him, Starling? She begins to pace the room, glancing around at the ancient art on the walls. Oh, that's hard to say for sure. He might have been slow-witted to begin with, but I do know he was in a car accident when he was little.

That's what the scars are from. And then he was raised by the delusional professor who proclaimed to everyone that he was a special boy destined to be a holy prophet. That would mess with anybody's head. And it probably didn't help that he breathed in all the mushroom spores down here for a couple decades. Still, he has proved useful. A dull ache rises in the pit of Harlow's stomach. So whatever he was, whoever he might have been, that person is gone, forever. The record needle scratches as Starling suddenly unplugs the player. The music dies with a deepening groan.

I hate that song, she mumbles. So yeah, or should I say? Yep, the prophet is a glorified Furby, does that fact challenge your theory about how this place works? Harlow rises to his feet. No, I knew that he was never the true source of power, but I needed to see this place for myself. He looks around the room again, until his gaze settles on the sarcophagus. That's it, isn't it? That's where the professor found an ancient mummified body, the one you call the hallowed corpse, and keep in the museum. The sacred lady of the mesa. Starling nods. Is that our next stop then?

I guess so, says Harlow, holding on an arm toward the door. Shall we? Starling's eyes light up, and she raises her right hand. Allow me, she winks, and placing together the tips of her middle finger and thumb, she snaps.

Harlow blinks, then sucks in a shocked breath of sun-worned air. Holy shit! Harlow gasps, struggling to find his balance. They are. no longer in the tomb. He's standing outside again, under the open sky.

They're on the steps of the museum, with the pillars rising up before them. What just happened? Power, says Starling, lowering her right hand. Well, come on then. Let's not waste any more time. She walks up the last few stairs, between the central pillars, and stops before the tall, bronze double doors at the museum's entrance. Harlow shakes his head, trying to make sense of it all, and follows. Well, go on. Open them.

The doors are always locked. She almost laughs. No, they're not. They don't even have a lock. Look. Harlow looks. She's right. But I couldn't ever get inside. You never tried, Jack. Of course I did. When? Can you actually think of a single time when you climbed these stairs? and pushed on the doors?

Mm-hmm? Or did you always just stand down there, staring up, believing that you couldn't come inside, convinced that it was impossible? I don't. She lays a hand on his forearm. It's all right. I'm here, Jack.

You can go in now. Arlo sucks in a breath through his nostrils. Right, he says, looking up at the bronze doors. They are two-story slabs of metal. Plain and flat and featureless. He lifts both his hands and pushes against the cold bronze. The doors glide open in effortless silence, welcoming him inside. My God, says Arlo, entering a spacious front hallway.

I forgot what this feels like. Air conditioning! Starling shuts the doors behind them, chuckling. The artifacts in here require a specific temperature and carefully regulated environment. It is a museum after all, Harlow turns in place, taking it all in. Although they're only in the entryway, the interior here is already almost as impressive as the outside. The floor is tiled with an exquisite mosaic, modeled after the designs he just saw in the tomb, and those on the museum's outer freeze.

The walls are clad in richly polished timber, with ornate trim and crown molding. Three spotlights above the front doors aim across the hall, illuminating three photographs displayed in golden frames, one large, central picture with a smaller one on each side. Harlow steps up to them. They are the first photographs that he's seen since his arrival. He moves to examine the first of the pictures, a black and white photo portrait of a young white man in a military uniform.

There are medals on his chest, and on his head, an Egyptian headdress. This Lawrence of Arabia-looking guy here. This is Mortimer King, isn't it? Starling comes to stand beside him, hands clasped behind her back. Yes, he claimed to have fought in the Battle of El Alamein during World War II when he was just 17, and to have stayed in North Africa for a while after the war. That's where he got obsessed with Egyptology and early civilizations. He came up with some very bizarre theories, all about lost people.

peoples and the special abilities they possessed. Where did he teach? Oh, he made everyone call him the professor, but I doubt he ever actually taught in any university. He was always too mentally unhinged for that, full of delusions of grandeur. Young Mortimer there became convinced that ancient spirits were calling to him through the veil of time,

telling him where to seek in the wilderness for their forgotten realms. He traveled all over the world, never found anything, of course, until. Until he came to this mesa, she nods. It was the summer of 69, the summer of love. She sticks out her tongue at Harlow and holds up a peace sign with her fingers. Harlow emits a polite laugh. He said it was destiny that brought him to this place. All I know for sure is he was trespassing,

digging around in the abandoned mine when the ground gave way and he tumbled into that crypt. Quite the stroke of luck, she shrugs. What he found down there, it inspired him. So he acquired the land, started gathering others to the mesa, and built up the community here, and the little religion to go with it, complete with a group of spiritual leaders. Together, they were called the... The five founders, Harlow finishes for her,

moving to their right to stand before the much larger central photograph. This one is in color, though it looks to have been edited to have a sepia tone, probably to make it appear more historic and dramatic. There are three smaller printed photos tucked into the inner corners of the frame, but Harlow focuses on the main photograph. It was taken at the Mesa's southern overlook, with the landscape stretching out below. In it, five men stand side by side, all with serious, unsmiling faces looking into the camera. When was this taken? Harlow asks, trying to keep his attention from wandering to the fifth man, who he recognizes, and whose inclusion in this picture makes his heart jump.

Before my time here, early 90s maybe, you'll recognize the first founder there, the darling professor. God, he looked old and crazy even then, didn't he? Harlow can't disagree. The professor's eyes are not yet cloudy with cataracts in the photo. but already his hair and ponytail are white and wispy and his cheeks are gaunt. And this next man, the second founder? I'm guessing he's the, uh, the magician, right? The second founder is taller than the professor,

and is holding out one long fingered hand, from which dangles a little pendulum on the string. Harlow has seen it before. The magician is dressed in a faded black tuxedo, bow tie, tails, the whole thing. and wears a stove-pipe hat, like Abraham Lincoln. Greasy black hair hangs in strings from under the hat, and his mustache is oiled and curled.

Eccentric, wasn't he? Carlo looks at Starling. She is silent, her forehead furrowed, a haunted look in her eyes. When it's clear she has nothing to add, Arlo clears his throat and points to the third founder, a very pale and corpulent man with dull eyes and a tie-died t-shirt. Who's the hippie?

Starling shakes herself. Oh, that's the mycologist. He came to study the corpse fruit. I mean the, uh, oh, what do you call it? The vision shrooms. That's right, yeah. The third founder, uh, found a way to cultivate them. I know he looks like a big, dumb marshmallow in socks and sandals, but he was another

not-so-very-nice person. Harlow lowers his voice. Was he the one that hurt you, Starling? She shakes her head. No, that was the magician. The mycologist there? He liked boys. Straightening up, she taps the glass over the fourth founder.

Now the artisan here, he wasn't so bad, at least not to me. Harlow looks at the thin, dark-skinned man wearing a beret and painted stained jeans in the photograph. The fourth founder was quiet. He kept to himself mostly, or with his wife, Fang. As in, the healer, Granny Fang? Yeah, it's his art that decorates the interior of this building, the mosaics, the walls, the crown molding, though the museum itself was constructed by the builder, she nods.

Harlow swallows, finally allowing himself to study the final man in the photograph, who is tall and broad. His skin is bronze, and his hair and beard are dark. He wears glasses and is dressed simply in flannel, khakis, and work boots. It's Gabriel Vega. It's Harlow's father. Harlow's dad was the fifth founder, means. That means that the building in which Harlow now stands, the one he has spent countless hours staring at, transfixed by. It is the handwork of his own flesh and blood.

I didn't know that guy, says Starling, exhaling. The builder died a few years before I came here. Of course, they're all dead now. Good riddance. She crosses her arms and moves to stand before the third and final image displayed in the hall. Before joining her, Harlow glances at the three little photos tucked into this central frame's corners. One shows the mesa from afar, with a storm cloud rising up behind it. Another is of the museum while under construction, with materials stacked in the dirt around

its stone foundation. And the last little picture captures a scene of casual life atop the mesa, back in the days of the children. Harlow leans in and squints at the image. Beside a row of tents, a campfire is burning, sparks smeared forever above its blaze. Mesofo folk amble about, and no one is wearing a mask. Two boys are running in the background, blurred and out of focus. Could the taller of the two be Harlow himself?

And the smaller, Phoenix? Maybe. But what he is sure of is that that bearded man sitting next to the fire, a guitar on his lap, is Gabriel Vega. A third little boy is scrambling up Gabriel's back, reaching an arm over the big man's shoulder to grab playfully for the instrument. In the hallway, Starling sighs. I really hate this picture.

Harlow backs away from the central frame and turns to her. Then why keep it displayed? As a reminder of what this place was and what it must never be again. He walks over to stand with her, shoulder to shoulder, and examine the photograph. It shows the magician again, without his top hat, kneeling beside the Ponderosa. He is holding something out, like an offered gift to a girl standing beside him. For a moment, Harlow thinks the girl is Wren, but no, it must be Starling, aged 11 or 12. She's reaching out with both hands to receive the magician's gift.

Harlow knows what it is, of course. He has seen it many times, and it's just a couple feet away from him right now, hanging on a string around Starling's neck. He gave that medallion to you? She stiffens. Yes, I told you once, didn't I? I was his favorite. Harlow looks down at the turquoise spiral on her chest,

then back at the photograph, thinking, Shall we continue the tour? Sure, yeah. She walks down the hall and turns left, out of sight. Harlow moves closer, careful not to miss any detail. A half-open door off the front hall reveals a small bedroom, sparsely furnished. Mounted above the bed in the corner, Harlow sees it. the hunting rifle.

Are you coming? He tears his eyes off the gun and follows her around the... They emerge into the open heart of the museum, where spaced rows of Adobe columns hold up a high mosaic ceiling. In the center, above a ring of embellished columns, looms the dark green underside of the building's dome. Skylights let in angled beams of sun that bounce and reflect on the tiled floor, casting a golden glow all around them,

And empty wrought iron torch sconces are mounted on every column and stretch of wall. Harlow lets out a low whistle. The note echoes through the spacious gallery. It's like a goddamn cathedral. Why don't we use this building? Everyone could fit in here. We do, but only for the autumn festival, she tells him. Her footsteps reverberating as she leads him under the dome and through the pillars on the other side.

They come to a kind of sanctuary, extending our own. off the main gallery with a large, blocky sort of altar in its center. As Harlow looks around, he sees that the room is half temple, half scientific laboratory. A desk in the far corner is covered in notebooks, a tray of tools, and a microscope. The altar is a long box made of steel and glass, and raised on a stand, almost like a coffin. There's a brass crank wheel flushed against one end, and gas canister is attached to the other. A plug runs to an outlet into the wall, and the box buzzes softly, like an old refrigerator. Glass panels on the top of the box are misted from within, hiding whatever is kept inside. Harlow steps toward it,

but muscles suddenly go loose. He stumbles, catching himself against a column, as the dizziness grows stronger. What is he doing here? grumbles a deep voice from their right. Harlow steadies himself and looks over. A tall man in a lab coat, holding a heavy gas canister in his arms, stomps into the sanctuary. For a moment, Harlow doesn't recognize the man. Then he realizes, it is counselor Gilgamesh, only without his mask. But the man's real face looks almost exactly like his disguise.

Furious, bushy eyebrows, prominent nose, scowling mouth, and a tightly curled beard. Eh, but it's wrong with them. Is he sick if he brings contaminants into... I'm fine, Harlow insists, straightening up, fighting the haze in his brain. See, he's fine, chirps Starling. I brought him here. Gilgamesh grumbles in his throat, and marching to the box, he sets down the metal canister. Arlo blinks, his vision coming back into focus, and squints to read the label on its side.

Pressurized ethanol vapor. You should have spoken with the council first, goddess. before bringing someone new before the cryocophagus. Starling glars at him. I did. The big man blinks. Then his eyes glaze over. Oh, he mutters.

Yes. Of course. I remember. But the museum does have to be purified for visitors. I should. That's enough of that, interrupts Starling. And as Harlow watches, she flicks one hand in the air.

Gilgamesh's eyes rolled back in his head. His body goes limp, and he drops heavily to the floor beside the box. Harlow raises an eyebrow. Fascinating, Starling smiles. Where were we? Ah yes. The tour.

She walks around to the other side of the box, and without the slightest sign of reverence or respect, she wraps a knuckle on its lid. The noise is sharp and makes Harlow's jaws clench. This, of course, is the cryocophagus. It's where we keep her. The hallowed corpse. Ooh, spooky.

Harlow looks down at the machine between them. You speak of her as if... As if what? Her grin widens. As if I don't believe? What do you think, Jack? You've played the part of a reluctant convert very well these past months.

But do you really think there's an actual deity in this... This climate-controlled coffin here? She clicks her fingernails against the glass panel. The body is that of a... young woman, probably a victim of some disgusting sacrifice ritual, if you ask me. She's very creepy, has fungus in her eyes and on her arms. Nasty. The corpse is 13,000 years old, so you can see why someone like Mortimer King thought he'd found something special. Not only that,

these particular human remains really can be used to perform a rather mystifying trick. She tilts her head, blinking down at the fog to glass window. See, the ones who killed her. Who am I kidding? The men who killed her, they removed or rearranged her internal organs, heart, lungs, all that stuff in the torso. And they cut these big slits between her ribs and inserted a sphere of gemstone. When the professor first moved the body, the motion caused air to pass in and out of her chest and throat and around the sphere. And it made this sort of...

Starling presses her hands against her stomach and begins to moan, soft and guttural. Blood goes cold. The haunted whispers, Starling Snickers. The professor was intrigued, of course, and then he went and did something very, well, very him. She wrinkles her upper lip. He sampled the mushrooms growing out of her flesh,

got very, very high, and became convinced that he could hear a voice in the corpse's moaning. He claimed she began telling him all about the power of vision she had developed while alive and instructed him to build a community of faithful to learn this power and help facilitate the creation of a new world, a perfect world, her long-awaited utopia, Harlow strokes his chin. Reminds me of the, uh, what's it called? Stoned ape theory. Starling shakes her head. The what? It's a theory that all the world's religions actually began when early humans ingested hallucinogenic mushrooms and tried to a

to explain what they saw, or something like that. Hmm, she shrugs. Anyway, the professor obeyed the voice in his head, and later he trained a dumb little boy to take over the task of hallowed translation. And once a year, the cult takes out the body and makes it whisper so that the prophet can relay her sacred instructions. She casts him a quizzical look. You don't seem very surprised by any of this.

Like I said, I've guessed most of this already. She narrows her eyes. Yeah. Though that move you pulled outside, zipping me from the tomb to the stairs in the blink of an eye, I'll admit that was a bit of a shock. I bet it was. He crosses his arms. So, here lies the hallowed corpse.

And we've already seen the Topaz's tomb. What about the things she was buried with, the holy objects that your seasons are named after? Starling rolls her eyes. Oh, those. She heads back into the main gallery and approaches a glass display case against the wall. This was discovered inside her abdomen. It's made of a mineral called Kingston ore, and is also referred to as a copper rose Kabuchon. Here, catch!

She tosses it to Harlow, taking him by surprise. He barely manages to uncross his arms and snatch the sphere from the air before it flies past him. The sphere is about the size of a baseball, polished, smooth, and warm to the touch. He holds it up to examine in a beam of sunlight. Its surface is dark brown with glittering specks of copper and veins of turquoise. As he turns it in the light, a momentary blink of green flashes through the hole in his right hand. Beautiful. And...

Tadda! Harlow looks over. Starling is standing by a second display case, which is open and empty. A dark crown sits upon her brow, angled playfully to one side. Well, what do you think? Do I look like a princess? Carlo places the copper rose back on its pillow within the first case, then walks up to her, his gaze fixed on the crown. It's a circlet of crude, black iron, with chunks of natural red garnet set along the band.

Its many points reach upward and outward, like angry metal thorns. Is that made of a meteorite? I don't know. Ask Gilgamesh. She pulls it off and holds it between them. Hmm, it is pretty cool, I guess. Though the idea that it was actually found in a Clovis-era burial site in New Mexico is impossible, finishes Harlow. The ancient indigenous people here didn't have iron smelting, much less crowns like the kings of medieval Europe. Exactly.

She sets it back in the case. case. You'd be amazed how few people have realized that. And even when they did, the professor always said the same thing. How shameful that we underestimate the wisdom and insight of our ancestors' ancestors. With vision, all things are possible, Harlow chuckles dryly. And the last one, the turquoise mask? She nods behind him. In the box with the body, it's nothing special. Or maybe I'm just used to sing so many stupid masks every day that they can't impress me. She saunters back to the central ring of columns, coming to stand in the epicenter of the museum, directly beneath the dome.

The floor there is a mosaic of tiny tiles, blue glass and shiny gold. The blue flows in a spiral to the center of the golden circle, like a swirling river in the desert. Well, God, Jack, you have seen every corner of this mason. now. Tell me, what is your assessment? What is the real power of this place? Harlow sucks in a breath of the artificially cooled air and walks slowly toward her. He can hear the buzz of the refrigerated cryocophagus and the droning of Gilgamesh snoring on the floor beside. And he hears the beating of his own heart, not fast or panicked, but strong, determined. I know what you want me to say, Starling.

She giggles. And what is that? He steps right up to her. The garnet crown messed up part of her hair. Harlow raises a hand and smooths it out atop her head. You want me to say that the only magic on the mesa, he slides his fingers down, tucking a golden strand behind her ear, is your magic.

She cocks one eyebrow. Well, isn't it? Carlos quince. Yes. He brings his hand around to her chest. And also, no. He taps a finger once, against the turquoise medallion on its string. You told me your secret powers, darling, the first time we ever met down by the road.

You gave me water to drink and said that you possessed, and I quote, an active imagination and a talent for persuasion. Backing away a few steps, he looks in the direction of the front hall. The second founder, the magician, you weren't just his plaything, were you? You were also his protege. Starling's nostrils flare. And why do you say that? I know it, Carlo grins. I'm guessing that tuxedoed bastard really impressed the professor with his parlor tricks.

That's why he was invited to the mesa and made a founder. The magician could do magic, but not the kind where you commune with the dead. or alter reality with your mind. Nope. The magician was a master. At the almost as impressive art of mentalism. The color leaks from Starling's cheek. He taught you the tactics of mental manipulation. He taught you hypnotism.

Her eyes burned like green fire. He was good at it, sure. But me? She raises one pale hand and snaps her fingers. Harlow gasps. He is on his knees all of a sudden. sweaty and panting, looking up at her bright face, haloed darkly in the turquoise dome above. The smile returns to her face, cold, victorious. She clasps her hands behind her back and begins to pace around the circle within the columns.

Her dress flowing on the floor behind her. What I can do goes far beyond mere parlor tricks, Jack. I can get inside of you. Harlow pulls himself back to his feet, swaying in place. The blue and gold spiral spinning in his vision, like a whirlpool of glass and gold. He's so dizzy. I can plant seeds in your mind.

I can frolic in the playground of your senses and your memories and your very perception of time and of space. Harlow hears the click of her fingers, like the breaking of a branch, and the floor vanishes from under his feet. He falls into the empty space within the whirlpool, a deluge of blue tiles coiling around him in a snaking river against a bedside.

backdrop of shimmering gold. F-fuck! He reaches out, arms windmilling, hands touching nothing, his body weightless and spinning, as the diagonal spirals of blue and gold wrap themselves into a round vertical shaft. As he plummets down this fantastical corridor, Harlow lifts his eyes and sees, a turquoise dome spread out high above, like the cap of a giant vision shroom. Harlow is inside a mushroom, soaring down its hollow stalk. the tunnel expands, and the spiral spread out and branch into many reaching roots, into a mystic

mycelium spreading, spreading in a delicate web to every side. Holy fuck! The fungus native to this mesa is a very potent intoxicant. Starling's voice echoes all around him as he continues to fall, but I find it most useful in small quantities, such as its presence in our subterranean water source. He blinks, and the web of threads changes, becoming harsh and geometric, becoming the glinting edges of rocks, yes, rocks in the walls, and the ceiling of a giant cavern. Gems sparkle on the cavern walls, and veins of gold, and great blooming patches of fungus, and it is all reflected on the gently rippling surface of a deep green lake stretched out below him.

Harlow gasps as he plunges toward the lake, but just before he can splash down, time itself decelerates. His descent is slowed to a languid downward drift. Whoa! He blinks, his eyelids drop and lift in extreme slow motion. He turns his head with agonizing slowness and peers around him. That's when he sees them. Bodies. On the stony shore of the underground lake, and all up the cavern walls on every side, the fossilized remains of skeletons are fused with the rocks, men, women, children, infants. And the gems that sparkle in that deep place are all grouped around and on these bodies, as if once part of their clothing

or jewelry long since decayed. The shape of their skulls and their bones remain solid, each skeleton serving, has a garden bed for turquoise mushrooms, coughing out clouds of golden spores that hover in the underground air, drift down upon the lake's surface and, are slurped up, drop by drop, by the rusting metal pipes extending from the cavern ceiling above. It's in our water? With every sip and morning shower you microdose, says Starling. She is pacing at the lake's edge, moving at regular speed, while everything else oozes like temporal syrup.

Once the psychedelic compounds cross the blood-brain barrier, they lower one's resistance to outside coercion. The mind is spayed open, and with my significant talents, the important work of reshaping one's perspective can begin. Harlow stares at her, the only solid and bright object in a world if missed. And if someone doesn't want you in their head? Starling glares at him, then flicks one hand. Time rushes back.

Harlow falls, his body slamming down, against the cold hard, floor of the museum. The air is knocked from his lungs. He gasps for breath, rolling onto his side, the vaulted gallery coming back into focus around him. It takes him a few seconds to re-center reality and pull himself into a sitting position. I don't think that's what hypnotism feels like, he bans. Not even on shrooms. That was fuck. And what else would it be? asks Starling. still pacing at the edge of the circle. Ancient indigenous witchcraft. Harlow cringes at the pain in his chest.

And is it real? Is there really a cavern and lake under the mesa? Yeah, there is. Way down. And those bodies and the rock? Who were they? She comes to a stop, lips pursed and thought, perhaps members of their own little psychedelic-based cult,

way back when? I really don't give a shit. So everything you guys teach, the visions, working to create utopia, it's all just bullshit. What? No, she laughs, voice bouncing around the gallery. I accept all the underlying tenets of the professor's philosophy. The universe is subjective, Jack, an individual's perspective, their experience, feelings, opinions. Those things do shape the reality in which the individual. individual lives, and without a shared vision of reality, there will always be disagreement and conflict

and pain in human society. You shouldn't need a deified mummy to figure that out. Harlow pushes his bangs out of his face. He's drenched in sweat. So, you just control everything? The council, the class is little Shiloh's mystic rambling? Not exactly. Shiloh's just a weird kid with a vivid imagination. As for all the rest? Her upper lip wrinkles in a grimace. Sometimes I have had to bend the whims of others. The enforcers were in Dira's idea, for instance. She was worried about security because of how often accidental deaths occur,

though they have been handy. Oh, and early on, when I saw how obsessed the prophet was with that silly Halloween book, that's when I started having everyone make masks just to keep him calm and happy. That's why the visionaries wear masks? she releases a snort of laughter. The masks are outward tools to aid in the unclouding process. See, that's the thing about a religion.

Designed it effectively, and you can plug in any random bit of nonsense and make it seem profound with the right story. She steps toward him, her footsteps echoing. As for the grand mission, I have ensured that the people's efforts

are not in vain. The goal of a shared utopia has already been achieved. It's all around us. It is the community. Minds of many desperate fools, Harlow mutters, closing his eyes. Your vision.

Our vision. He looks up at her. What? What do you mean? Are you asking me to join the council? The council? Do you think that's the role I want for you? She lowers herself into a crouch.

The council means nothing. Nothing. It's a smokescreen, an illusion of shared authority. What I want for you, for us, is so much more. I don't understand. She raises a hand to her medallion, tracing the spiral carving with a finger. Jack, Jack, Jack, why do you think I'm telling you all this? Exposing the whole truth? I've never done that before. Not for anyone. I've revealed some of it to Wren. I wanted to see if she inherited my talents, but no, totally inept, not to mention ungrateful. She rolls her eyes wearily, teenagers. But what makes me special? She turns to look at him, and he can sense the hurt in her eyes, the disappointment. Do you really not know? After a moment, she moves to sit on the floor in front of him. You've already carved out a nice

little position for yourself up here, all on your own, she says. adjusting her dress around her. Why, take away the counsel and the prophet and myself, and you might be a contender for Mesa leader? You think that's what I want? She is silent for a couple of seconds. Her eyes unfocused. I was 14 when I realized that's what I had to do.

The only way to keep myself safe. I had to take control. I was pregnant. I liked being pregnant. Even then, her hands move instinctively in her stomach. But the thought of my child growing up under the thumb of the founders was unbearable. But I had the talent. I knew I could change things.

It took a lot of trial and error. But year by year, I chipped away, mind by mind. Harlow meets her eyes. And then you killed them off, didn't you? The founders. A blush of pride color Starling's cheeks. She nods. I started with the mycologist.

That was fun. He liked to take little boys to the storm claw, you see, and tell them to piss off the edge. The urine would be picked up by the wind and thrown back into their faces. He loved that. She leans toward Harlow, a twinkle in her eye. So one day, I put the idea in that drug-addled brain of his that he can fly, like a bird. And so, he'd jump. Zero hesitation.

Just flapped his pudgy arms and dove into the pea-filled wind. And splat! crazy amount of blood. Gross. The artisan's death wasn't as messy. I let him finish his work in here. She pauses to survey the beauty around them, all the tiled mosaics. And he was old and sick by then anyway.

So I simply instructed him to stop breathing. It worked. And the magician, asks Harlow. Well, his murder required a lot more consideration. I wanted to come up with the worst possible. the most agonizing, harrowing, terrifying end. But nothing seemed bad enough. Eventually, I settled on an idea.

Which was? She lowers her voice. One afternoon, I took him down to the plains, and I whispered into his ear that he was on fire, every inch of his body burning inside and out. His skin melting off in gooey strips, his blood hissing, the marrow in his bones roasting. every organ alight and sizzling.

I had him writhing in the dirt and the thorns screaming like nothing you've ever heard hour after hour after glorious hour. But when the sun went down, I could feel him starting to break. I worried he'd give himself a heart attack. So I let him end the pain, let him bash his head into a stone over and over.

He cracked his own skull open before it was done. The front part of his brain had all these little holes in it, like worms had been burrowing away in there for years, and I left him there in the wilderness to perform his last magic trick, disappearing into the bellies of vultures and blowflies and hungry coyotes. Harlow raises his eyebrows. Yeah, that sounds pretty bad.

She smiles at him, as if all this is the most normal thing in the world, just two friends hanging out, sharing stories. But you left the performance. professor alive. Why? Well, he had started all this, and people are comforted by continuity, by legacy. You can't change too much too fast. I learned that. You've thought of everything, haven't you? You've even gotten into the heads of local ranchers now, and the sheriff, anyone and everyone that can help you or protect you, her smile falters. I guess I have, yeah, and yet. She brings her knees up to her chest and hugs her shins, rest,

her chin between her knees. The position makes her look younger, less guarded. I did accomplish what I set out to do, all of it, but I still felt so, alone, all the time, so alone, she looks at him. Until you walked down the road, tattered jacket over one shoulder, with your dark eyes like obsidian, Harlow stiffens. She reaches to lay her right hand against his face. Her fingers cold on his cheek. I love you. Starling. I've been hoping that you would say it first, but here we are. I guess I got tired of waiting. You don't love me, Starling, he says, but she interrupts. And now this mesa can be ours, don't you see? We can make it whatever we want, side by side. You don't even know me. He expects her to look hurt, or angry, or to snap her fingers and

send him reeling within his own mind again. But instead, A wild joy comes into her eyes. But that's where you're wrong. I do know you. Every part of you. Her hand remains on his cheeks as her head tilts, and her gaze drops, slipping down his chest. She scoots herself forward until their legs pressed together.

You don't remember them. But we have spent many blissful hours together, in daylight and in moonlight, in one another's arms. The hairs on the back of Harlow's neck stand up. What are you talking about? and it's wonderful. You and I, we fit together like a tortoise and its shell. Jesus, she giggles.

As for your particular preferences, the things you desire when your walls are down and your heart is open, I can give them to you. He swallows dryly, heart pounding in his ears. Starling, I don't know what you're... Shh, it's okay, baby. I can take care of you. I can quench your thirst.

As he watches, she brings her left hand up to her right breast, cups her fingers, and squeezes. The turquoise fabric of her dress goes dark with spreading liquid. Harlow chokes on a gasp and pushes himself backward along the floor, boots squeaking, then jumps to his feet. Oh, you poor thing! So many mommy issues! That's all right. You could say that about me too. My own mother was hardly the saint of maternal devotion. Yet another reason why we're perfect for each other. Harlow gocks at her. Perfect for each other?

There is such longing in her eyes, such desperate want. It almost makes him give in, there and then, on the polished floor of the museum. I have cradled your head in my lap while you wept, sweetheart, she tells him. I have seen your soul,

and deep down, you are scared and broken and angry, craving, always craving to be more, to be in control, just like me. We belong together. Even if you can't see it yet, you will. I know you will. He shakes his head.

What the hell do you think this is? You bring me in here? You tell me you've been drugging me and playing with my mind and putting voices in my head since I got here, and then you just, what? Propose marriage or... Don't you see how crazy this is? Now the hurt comes into her face,

the offense, the hardness. She gets to her feet, dusting herself. off. You're not acting how I... well, fine. I won't mess with your mind anymore. Okay, better? And what are you talking about voices in your head? I don't do that. Bullshit you don't. You know about the voice in my dreams, obviously. That's why it's gotten so much stranger since I got here. It's you in my head. She whips her head side to side, bitter tears now gathering in her eyes. If you're hearing voices, that's all you, sweetheart. I can't try to you. Just a word you say.

My lies are a gift. What does that mean? It means you have no idea the things I do for everyone here. She screams, breaking in an instant. Her eyes wild and furious. No idea how hard I work to make this place function. Or what I've done for you, for you especially? Or do you really think suckling on a tit is all you're into?

Hmm? Perhaps we should ask the grannies. Harlow throws up both his hands. Whoa, what the hell? I don't even know what you're talking about. Exactly. She snarls. But I have to know.

I have to know. And I don't shame it. I don't judge. And now you think you can judge me? You can't judge me, Jack. Not after what you've done. You can't judge me. What have I done, Starling?

Tell me. Tell me what I've done. Well, you shot Mortimer King for one thing. Harlow groans and smacks his hands to his head, pushing his fingers roughly through his hair. Oh, come on. This again? Really? He was a crazy man and he shot himself.

No, he was going to shoot himself. But you grabbed the gun so that it could be your finger on that trigger. You shot him. That is what happened. Harlow stares at her. What, but no, I, I don't. You don't remember? I know. You're welcome for that. I made sure the witnesses don't remember either. I fixed it. I protected you, Jack.

Protected me. Harlow takes a shaky step backward, trying to put the pieces together, to re-contextualize, but he brings down his arms. Oh, shit, shit, I did shoot him. And if I, if I did that, then no, no. He looks at her, standing there in her stained dress and tear-streaked face. Starling, did you, did you make me think I slept with Zen? And then pushed her off that cliff? Did you place that fucking idea in my head?

Oh, she says, blinking and wiping at her cheeks. Well, that was a delicate situation. But we're past that now. No more mind games, remember? So... You killed her. There is no doubt in Harlow's voice, no hesitation. And not because she was afraid of the mesa.

You can handle that. In fact, I bet fear makes people easier to control. No, it was all because she had a crush on me. You're jealous. So you murdered her and made me feel responsible. as what some sort of warning not to give my heart away god damn it starling he shakes his head it's all just lies on top of lies on top of lies a tangled web the whole thing with you in the center she straightens up sniffling i didn't push zen jack he's barely listening it's

starting to make sense now you used her murder to screw with galaxy too yeah you made him think he was responsible and then made us both smash up her corpse Boy, you really don't like seeing other happy couples, do you, Starling? I wasn't even at the overlook when she fell. I was with you in my yurt. We were together. We were together and it was beautiful. His skin tingles with energy, a cold fury.

Did you make Zen do it herself? Like with the mycologist? No, I promise. Then what the fuck happened? For a moment more, she stands rigid, defiance on her face, and she exhales. I asked Krieger to do it. He pulled her from the tent, dragged her to the edge. That way, if anyone saw, I could use it as a pretense to take down the enforcers.

With you at my side, they won't be necessary. Of course, you took care of them yourself that night, didn't you? Bash didn't bash his head. Now they're just lawn ornaments. Harlow feels a fire building inside himself. He holds it back. He retains control. She was 17.

She was a new mom. And you made that bastard. I did her for you, for love. I'd do anything for you, Jack. And I didn't make Krieger do it. He thought it sounded fun. He's a killer that one. She shrugs.

Same as me. Same as you. So stop pretending to be so fucking innocent, all right? You were a killer long before you came to this mesa. Harlow's heart skips a beat. She steps toward him, reaching out a hand toward his belt. Then she slides her fingertips up under his shirt. He flinches.

Her hand is cold as it slips over his stomach and comes to rest on his right side, just below the ribs. He feels her palm, soft, against the raised scar on his skin. You stabbed two men, Jack, when you were 19, and left them to bleed out behind a bar in Anchorage, Alaska. And then you fled. Harlow stares down at her, unable to speak. You had your reasons, of course. One of them had stabbed you first. She drags her thumb along the scar.

But they had their reasons too, didn't they? After what they caught you doing in the morgue where you worked, Harlow's spasms, slapping away her arm and clutching at his side. Who told you that? She grins. She's standing in a skylight's slanted beam. Half her face illuminated, half in shadow. You did, of course.

You've told me everything, sweetheart. All your secrets. Everyone does. I collect them. Like, Pokemon. I've got them all. A look of pride flashes across her face. And that's not all I have.

She raises a hand, but Harlow snatches her wrist before she can snap her fingers. You said you'd stop messing with my mind. I wasn't going to. I'm just going to show you something. Show me what? Calm down, Jack. I know this is a lot to take in, but it's going to be okay. I promise.

Please let go. He looks over at where his finger. as dig into her wrist and releases her. Thank you. She rubs at the finger marks on her skin, a slight grimace flashing across her face. Now then, you said you wanted access to answers, right? To understand how this place works,

I'll show you, okay? There's a system. In time, we can use it together. It'll be a relief, really, sharing it all. Here, come. She heads off toward the far side of the museum. Harlow doesn't move. I can make you come if you prefer.

She calls over her shoulder. I'm an expert at that too. Believe me. What's my name? Starling stops in her tracks. You say you know all my secrets, Harlow calls out, his voice echoing through the columns. But you still call me Jack, so what's my real name, Starling?

She looks back over her shoulder, her brow furrowed. Is that important? Harlow nods. What's my name? What are the names of my father and mother and brother? You have a brother? I didn't. She blinks, then shakes herself.

Wait, are you being serious right now? Deadly. She claps a hand to her mouth, muttering to herself. But if you're right, if I was in your head all those times, and I really was never able to unlock your... Wow. Oh my God! Wow! Even under your spell, says Harlow.

and he could almost laugh with the relief he suddenly feels. I didn't tell you shit, Starling. You really had me worried there for a second. Had me thinking that this was all for nothing, a wasted year. But a couple of sexual kinks and two dead drunks in the alley, he shrugs. Who gives a shit? She spins around to face, Amanda. She's smiling, smiling from ear to ear, the happiest he's ever seen her.

This is so wonderful! She gushes, clutching at her heart. It's proof, don't you see? Proof that we are destined to be together, to rule together. No one else has ever been able to keep things hidden from me. No one. We are equals Jack. Harlow scoffs.

That's your takeaway to all this? She marches back, reaching for his hand, but he stands rigid. Do you still not get it? I don't care about your past or your family or what brought you here. I care about us, our future, this family. She reaches out again, slowly this time, and Harlow lets her take his hand in hers. Now, come, I need to show you what's in the basement. The basement, and only minutes before, she had told him that he'd finally seen every part of the mesa.

Lies upon lies upon lies. Harlow exhales. He can feel his heartbeat in his palm, where her hand grips his injury. He allows himself to be led to an empty corner behind the columns. wondering how many more revelations can possibly fit into a single day, wondering how much more he can take. A hidden door on the wooden wall reveals a carpeted stairwell. The professor called this his library, but I threw out all his dusty old books and the founder's journals years ago.

No one has been down here in a decade apart from me. Coming to the bottom of the stairs, Starling flips on a light. Harlow looks around. It's a small, windowless room with a gray carpet and wood. white walls. It's sparse, monochromatic, totally different from the building above. A black leather sofa sits in one corner, behind a white coffee table. Bookshelves line the walls, filled top to bottom with gray binders. These contain my insurance, should the facade ever start to break down, though there's very little chance of that. Now that the trouble with the tribes has been taken

care of, and Sheriff Tzosi is firmly under my influence. She begins pulling specific binders off the shelves and stacking them on the table. And not to brag, but these are also a bit like trophies for me, proof of how far I've taken my talents. When a half a dozen volumes have been collected, Starling takes a seat on the sofa and pats the cushion beside her. Sit, family picture time. Harlow sits as she peels back the cover of the first binder. Five minutes later, Harlow staggers in a panic up the basement stairs, tripping as he flies through the door and stumbles back into the gallery. Holy shit. Oh, what the fuck! What the fuck? Oh, don't be so dramatic! calls out Starling, emerging with her arms crossed as Harlow paces anxiously. Suddenly, the lofty columns don't feel grand

and majestic. They feel like prison bars. And the mesa itself, like some detention center for dangerous souls, built on an island in the dust sea, way out in the wilderness. Why would you show me? I mean, Why would you? Shit, darling! Why? You said that a new light came to this mesa, that you wouldn't let it get like it was before,

that it was better. She lets out an exasperated sigh. And I meant it. What you saw down there, it is the best possible system. Harlow clasps his eyes shut, but it doesn't help. What he saw in the photo albums

will now leave his mind. Page after page of dated, labeled Polaroids. Faces he knows, Their eyes glazed over, their bodies exposed, sweaty and naked. Some are tied up. Some are squished together. Some are blurred by the frenzied motion of the scene. Who takes the pictures? he asks.

Goddess Indigo. Who? You saw her when you first arrived. She has a raven mask. She took your photo as you crossed the green eye. But it bothered you. So I made you stop noticing. I've kept your mind from registering her presence.

But she's been here all along. Her role is vital. Harlow looks up, shaking his head. What role? Record keeper of the sick and twisted things that you make people do? To each other? To the old folks? To the children?

To your children? I don't make them do those things, she insists defiantly. I simply remove the barriers from their minds that keep them from doing what they wanted to in the first place. It is human nature. Never underestimate the unbounded creativity of human perversion, Jack. We are feral, just below the surface. I've borne witness to that all my life.

I was a victim of it for years and years, but not anymore. She turns and shuts the basement door, the wooden panels clicking together perfectly to conceal its location. I did try to suppress all that sort of thing when I took over, she explains. Really, I did. But it's impossible. and if we can never eradicate darkness, the best we can hope for is to manage it. So I found a workaround, a way for the mesa folk to release their tension and fulfill the animal

desires of their hearts, but without causing pain, don't you see? The people in those photographs, I can alter their perception while it happens, or change the memories after, or erase them altogether. No memory equals no trauma, no victims, a pain-free society. A happy family." Harlow takes in a shaky breath, remembering the way it had felt to see the images, the way he had been, transfixed by the violence they contained, the unbridled animal lust, the ultimate taboo.

It was only when Starling had set a binder on his lap, which held the photos of his own secret activities that Harlow fled up the stairs. A happy family? He looks at her. Starling, you set it yourself. Those images are your insurance of failsafe to keep the mesophol in line if they ever wander too far from the path you've set, like me right now. That's why you brought me down there.

You've just made me complicit." She opens her mouth to protest, closes it, and sighs. Call it dual purpose. Everyone can all have their fun, guilt-free, and yes, if I ever go down, everyone else goes down with me. You can't blame me for being self-protective. You are psychotic. She shrugs, tears coming to her eyes.

Maybe I am. After all, the memories in my head. I can't erase those. I can't unsee them. Not ever. I don't have anyone, Jack, to hide them in a basement for me. Harlow feels his stomach drop. He's still seeing them in his head. All those faces. Starling was in many of them. Fire light on her sweat-slicked, tiger-striped, swollen belly and breasts, and Zeke and Galaxy and Cadence, and Lexina and the counselors and the grannies, and everyone. I'm done, he finally says.

I'm leaving this place, right now. I'm leaving the holy mesa, darling, and I'm never coming back. Her eyes go dark. No, you're not. Watch me. He marches through the gallery to the front hall, and wheeling around the corner, jerks to a sudden stuble. up. Gilgamesh stands before the bronze doors. His mask is back on, and he holds the professor's rifle in his hands, aimed at Harlow's chest. Harlow grimaces and looks back as Starling stomps

around the corner toward him. No one ever leaves. Her voice breaks, a painful shriek in Harlow's ears. If anyone attempts to flee across the plains, my will in their mind pulls them back. It's automatic, like gravity every time you can't escape. You won't go. You won't abandon me, Jack. You wouldn't do that to me. I can try. Starling's lips begin to tremble. She blinks, and the tears in her eyes streamed down her cheeks. Why are you making this so difficult? The mesa is your home. The first and only place that's ever felt like home for you. You told me that. It was, yeah, but not anymore. And now I'm going to walk out those doors, and you're not

going to use your power to stop me. You could, but you won't. because with me, you need to be real, because you love me, Starling. Arlo looks sideways at the big-framed photograph in the center, at the fifth founder, at his father's face. Goodbye. Wait! He turns, takes hold of the rifle's barrel, and gently shifts it to the side. Please, don't go.

He steps around the tall counselor's rigid body and pushes open the brass doors. Don't go! Harlow walks out into the sunlight. He feels weightless, untethered, drunk on fury and heartache as he marches across the green eye toward his yurt. Someone calls his name, throws a frisbee to him. He smashes it out of the air with a fist and moves in a straight line to the red curtain door.

Whoa, Jack? You okay? Ezekiel is folding laundry by his bed. What are you? Harlow grabs his leather jacket from its hook, feeling at his breastplate. pocket where his truck keys have remained all this time. I need your knife, Sieg.

He says breathlessly, snatching his knapsack from the floor, then grabbing two apples from a shelf and shoving them inside it. My knife? What are you talking about? I called her bluff back in there. I don't think she'd do anything if she had to look me in the eye. But now, who knows what she'll do? She might order the enforcers to stop me or kill me or, I don't know. Ezekiel grabs Harlow by an arm as he rushes by.

Hey, hey, cool down. Tell me what's happened. Harlow looks at him. I'm leaving the mesa. Ezekiel stares, blinks, scoffs. Leaving? Do you mean like, leaving, leaving, leaving? Harlow nods. But why would you want to do that? Come with me.

Harlow doesn't mean to say it. It's ridiculous. It's desperate. Please, Zeke, we can get away. We can start over somewhere else, anywhere else. It's a big world!" Ezekiel stares at him, mouth open, eyes looking through Harlow far away. Don't you ever want that? Something different, something new, something other than this fucking place. I... Yes. Of course I do, says Ezekiel. But I am a visionary of the Holy Mesa.

Our work here, our mission. It's too important. It's all that matters, Jack. I will never abandon that or my family here. Besides, what about you? I thought. I thought we had, I mean, isn't there a part of you that wants to stay? Harlow closes his eyes, and he can sense it, that yawning abyss deep within him, that craving, that darkness. Yes, he admits. But if Harlow does stay, if he chooses to go all in for real and embrace that craving,

who will he become? What will he become? Ezekiel laughs nervously. Ha ha ha, well, there you go. This whole thing is very silly. I'm not going anywhere and neither are you. Don't be crazy. This place is what's crazy.

Or maybe, maybe it's the whole goddamn world, or all of human nature, or... I don't know. I don't know, Zeke. Fuck. You're dehydrated, my friend. Here, have some water. Ezekiel grabs a bottle from a chair and holds it up, but Harlow smacks it away. I don't need your fucking water.

I just... Can I have your knife or not? Ezekiel stares at him, then shakes his head. No, not when you're acting like this. Harlow deflates. Fine. And I guess... Have a good life, Zeke.

Harlow pulls his arm out from his roommate's grip and hurries to the door. Then pauses. Ziam basement. The what? What are you talking about? Jack? But Harlow has already left. He is run.

running across the green eye, trying not to look anyone in the face or in the eyes behind their masks, trying to be invisible, to pretend that he doesn't care. He circles the storehouse. The enforcers aren't by the parked vehicles, yet. And Harlow considers trying to hotwire one. But by the time he does that, Starling might have sent others to stop him. So he rushes past the outback and the ranger, and hurries down the winding switchback. When he reaches the planes, he breaks into a run.

Parlo's already out of breath by the time he passes the empty stand. Slowing to a march, he sets off down the road, panting. He does not look up at the mesa, but stares straight ahead, even as his vision starts to blur. He feels the dizziness rising, the ache in his stomach, the pain in the back of his eyes. You'll have to kill me, he says to the hot summer air, through gritted teeth. Until then, I'm walking. He takes one furious step after. after another, every muscle tight, the very air trying to stop him.

It's like running underwater, like running in a nightmare, but he pushes onward. You think you're good, the whispered voice begins to say. Shut the fuck up! Harlow screams, smacking the side of his own head, then kicking at the dust. His leg moves faster than expected, throwing him off balance. He stumbles, steadies himself, takes a deep breath, and walks on again. And it's easier now. It's getting easier with each step, like he's passed over some invisible barrier to the other side.

He still feels it, the pull of the mesa, but it's weaker now, and he can fight it. He can do this, he can get away. He has to. An hour later, when he finally reaches his truck, the tires have been slashed, the windshield and windows shattered. He leans under the open hood. The engine looks like shit, even more so than before, and the battery is definitely dead. Harlow sighs. Oh well, it was always a long shot. Here, he says to the two large nests that deer mice have constructed under the hood. She's all yours. He tosses the keys onto the engine, then returns to the road. His mouth is already bone dry. Why didn't he bring wine or cider with him?

Or shit. Why didn't he use the kitchen phone to try to arrange a ride? What was the point in running off if he was going to die of dehydration anyway? Away. Hours pass. The savage sun hangs straight above, laser bright, toasting the air to a hundred degrees, and the heat in the road has transferred through his boots, then through his sweat-soaked socks, and finally into his blistering feet. Mile after mile, the landscape looks all the same. He still hasn't turned to look back at the mesa. He doesn't trust himself to do so, fearing to discover that he hasn't actually gotten away, that he's still at the foot of that towering plateau,

maybe walking in circles around its base, round and round. He swallows, which is painful, and feels his guts cramp and growl. He's trying to hold off eating the apples in his sack for as long as he can. God damn the Holy Mesa, he grumbles. God damn the founders and fissions and yurts and masts and aquifer. Oh, what I wouldn't give for a glass of shroom-laced corpse water right about now. Except, I got nothing to give, do I?

I got nothing. Nothing in all the goddamn world. I am nothing. Coming up to a fallen branch on the road, he kicks it aside. The branch hisses, rattles, and uncoils. Harlow gasps as the snake's jaws dart for his right leg. He jumps and brings his boot down on the creature's head with a crunch. Harlow stumbles backwards, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He watches as the decapitated rattlesnake continues to wriggle, streaking the dirt with blood, its tail trembling out a final few seconds of jittery percussion. He exhales and wipes sweaty hair out of his eyes. Looking up, he sees a cloud of dust approaching from the east. Finally, he mumbles, moving to the side of the road, hoping he doesn't look too much like an unhinged maniac. He prematurely holds up his thumb and waits. But as the vehicle comes into clear focus, his eyes widen.

Shit! It's a sheriff's car. Harlow turns and bolts, leaping over the ditch beside the road, sprinting to the nearest juniper and sliding behind the bushy tree. Your precious power was enough. He crouches and waits for the car to pass, But instead, he hears its brakes squeak and its wheels grinding to a stop.

The engine shuts off and the door clicks open. Harlow peers through the juniper's branches. The tall man and his broad hat walks from the car, boots scraping across the road. He stops beside the freshly killed snake. Harlow holds his breath. Sheriff Tzosi tilts his head to examine the bloody ground, hands on his hips, then turns to look from one side of the road to the other. Harlow blinks sweat from his eyes, then searches around by his feet, spots a lumpy rock,

and leans to pick it up. He weighs it in his hand. Some good that'll do against a bullet. For a full minute, the sheriff doesn't move. Then he walks back to the car and opens a door. Harlow prays for the sound of the engine, but seconds later, Tosi shuts the car door again. From the outside, Carlo creeps a few feet to his right. spying around the outside of the juniper. The car is parked diagonally across the road. Sosi stands beside it, a shotgun in his hands, motionless as a mannequin. His high cheek-boned face stares blankly to the west, toward the mesa.

Harlow looks down at the rock in his hand, then sets it quietly back in the dirt. The sheriff's little roadblock serves its purpose well, which means Harlow either has to try and creep back the way he came, or else, He revolves in place, scanning the landscape. To sneak around the sheriff and return to the road would mean looping south and then west, but there's zero cover that way, just wind-swept grasses as far as he can see. But if he heads due south instead, into the wilderness, then there are bushes and large stones to hide behind, and distant red hills.

How far will he have to go to find another road, or a house, or a phone, or any living person, not in Starling's mysterious grasp. Gis I'll find out. Staying crouched, he darts quietly away from the road, moving tree to tree, boulder to boulder, shadow to shadow, creeping his way into the wild, dusty heart of the land of enchantment. By the time the heat of day is finally cut down in its tracks by an evening breeze, Harlow isn't sure if he's conscious or not.

His muscles are fatigued beyond pain, yet he stumbles on. He has moved across the shallow swells of a sun-kissed meadow, through a dried-out graveyard of pinion trees, and finally wound his way into a sandy canyon. Now the dusk burns, bronze, and katydids begin their twilight symphony of chirps and trills. Harlow pulls on his jacket, swaying with each step along the canyon floor, afraid to pause his progress, even now.

He is still too close, too close to the mesa, and if he gives in to his exhaustion and curls up on the thorns and stones, he will awaken his yurt again. He knows it, or on the couch in the museum basement, or in a shallow pit on the eastern plains, chopped into pieces, head, arms, torso legs, all wrapped in yucca leaves while mushrooms consume his flesh. Anel hoots, and Harlow lifts his tired eyes. A half-moon glows upon the canyon walls to either side,

and above them a winding strip of diamond stars flow like a river, drifting north as he trudges south. The universe itself is mocking him, trying to catch him in its celestial current, and carry him back there. But, of course, just a metaphor. As he walks, the canyon stretches open, and the river of stars above widens into a great sea,

with dark islands looming here and there. Harlow blinks head cocked. as his brain tries to make sense of the strange objects blocking columns of the night sky. The canyon has brought him to a haunted land of hoodoos, natural spires of eroded rock, each holding up a heavy capstone. They tower above him on every side, like petrified trees or, no, like mushrooms, like a forest of sandstone mushrooms. Harlow starts to panic.

He starts to run, his empty knapsack swinging from his shoulder. He hears laughter to his right, whirls about, sees a small white hand slip out of sight around a hoodoo. He moves faster, breath coming in ragged gasps. Laughter to his left, a woman's leg in green flowing dress peek in and out of view. Harlow charges forward, weaving between the spires of stone. The night deepens, the moonlight fades, the stars dim. His feet pound the sandy soil as he races into an utter black void. Darkness.

everywhere. He runs. A light appears, dead ahead, growing in his vision, blossoming into an hourglass figure, naked, luminous, with locks of spun gold and dazzling green eyes. Starling! She smiles and spreads her arms wide. Harlow cannot stop. He cannot slow down. He barrels into Starling, tackling her to the ground. Their bodies pressed together face to face. Her eyes are made of pure turquoise with spiral pupils. He leans in to kiss her, but her breath is rank, so he presses his lips to her cheek instead, then down, down onto her porcelain neck, then over the supple valley of skin just above her collarbone. Her hand presses into his shoulders, forcing him lower, lower onto her chest, and her fingers snatch a fistful of his hair and yank him

closer. He suckles at her nipple, but as his mouth is filled, his eyes snap wide. The taste is rancid, sour, foul is death. He gags and chokes, spewing out a mouthful of yellow sludge as he pulls away from her. His head cracks against a hard ceiling just above them. He grunts and wretches, spitting and clawing at his lips. What is that? He moves aside his hands to look at the body beneath his own. His mother's naked corpse is icy pale and motionless,

except for her dark nipples, which both leak bus in a steady bubbling flow. Harlow screams. He tries to get up, but he's trapped. Walls to every side. He is in her coffin, and they're buried together. His mother and himself, and his promise never to return to the holy mesa. They are buried in the cold, hard earth, and he cannot get out. No, no, no!

He squeezes his eyes shut. No, please, no! A breeze whispers in the night, and then a whisper breezes, soft in his ear. You are not to blame, my dar, loo. in the big... close to piss. Harlow opens his eyes.

He is on his hands and knees on the dirt. Sparse dry grasses around him. He looks up. A green skeleton stands in the wilderness. Slender-boned. Her black hair braided atop her skull. Her gown and veil of spider's web flutter in the night air. Where is your mask, Carlo?

I don't know. I don't understand. Who are you? You're not Starling, but... is like you somehow. Why? Twin flames sparked beyond the veil, two playful eyes. The prophet is not all that is false. What does that mean?

The skeleton sighs hot wind. The vision was strong, so when one piece goes missing, something else is often pulled in to take its place. They are mere surrogates of mist. What does that mean? flee, and you will never know. Harlow shudders, goosebumps, prickling his skin. Then, must I go back there?

Must you? The flaming eyes blink. Then the skeleton shakes its head, slowly, left and right. The choice will always be yours. She fades, and he is shrouded in the chilly embrace of dreamless sleep. Harlow awakes to the sounds of tearing grass, chewing jaws, and air gusting through gasping nostrils. Opening one painfully dry eye, he sees a blurry creature looming next to him. He rolls slowly over, staring up at it. It's a horse, female, a bit on the skinny side. The sandy tan

mare is white at the hindquarters, with little chocolate spots. She's grazing on the wheat grass, and wild mustard that covers the ground. Harlow sits up. He's very weak and so thirsty. The horse snorts and tosses her jet black mane and tail to fend off flies. Harlow wheezes, Where's your water, girl? It's got to be.

Where? As he pulls himself to his feet, the muscles and tendons and his legs seize up. He clenches his teeth and looks around. The towering hoodoos are just visible to the north. To the east, against the glare of the pale amber sun, he spots a windmill standing beside an adobe farmhouse. Harlow's sunburned cheeks stretch with a stinging smile. He staggers forward, squinting against the sun, and when he reaches the windmill,

he falls to his knees. A rusted pipe drips into a trough at the foot of the windmill. It's almost a quarter full. Harlow dips his hands into the water, and a little bubble rises from the hole in each palm. His cupped hands shake as he lifts them to his lips. He slurps the water, but resists the urge to guzzle it down, first letting it coat his parched tongue and mouth, before swallowing a tiny sip.

Chuckling dryly, he pulls off his jacket, dips it into the trough, then lifts it, dripping, over his head to drape across his aching shoulders. Sighing, he goes for another sip. The water is lukewarm, gritty with sand and rust, and Harlow is grateful for every drop. He is able to stand again and turns to face the farmhouse. It looks like it might be abandoned.

Cracked walls, a tarp over half the roof, a single rusty lawn chair sitting outside the front door. There's a pickup parked around the corner, but it looks to be in worse shape than Harlow's and is missing a front wheel. Harlow shuffles toward the house. Hello? Anybody home? He knocks on the door, and when there is no answer, he walks to the side window and peers inside. It's dim, but through the dirty glass, he sees a lumpy shape upon a bed.

Moving back to the door, Parlo sets his feet in the dirt, braces himself, then lunges forward, stepping into the kick as his boot strikes next to the knob. Pain shoots up his leg, but the door crashes inward, splitting splintering. enters. Harlow winces and limps inside. There's a scent of musty decay in the air. The place is small, little entryway, kitchen, bathroom, and one bedroom. The lights don't work. Harlow sticks his head through the bedroom doorway. The body of an old man in plaid pajamas lies beneath a quilt on the bed, stiff as a board. Been dead a few weeks by the look of it. Flies buzz around the deeply wrinkled face. Harlow looks around for anything useful, then closes the door. Moving into the kitchen,

he checks the fridge, but there's no power and the sparse food inside is rotten and furry with mold. He has more luck checking the cabinets, and he soon limps back outside, plops down onto the lonely lawn chair, and cracks open a warm can of beer. Harlow takes a long sip, then tears open a box of salt crackers. He feels at peace sitting there, with the horse grazing nearby. He takes another sip, then holds up a hand against the morning sun, and gazes south. Sunlight glints off a metal roof in the distance, a few miles away. A gas station, maybe, or a town? Probably somewhere with a telephone, maybe even a TV, and Wi-Fi, and all the trappings of the modern world, which feel a lifetime away from Harlow, despite the fact he only came to New Mexico ten months ago.

Hell of a year, he mumbles, munching on crackers. Once he's done with breakfast, he goes back into the house, finds a razor and a pair of kitchen scissors, and stands before the bathroom mirror, cutting away his beard. On impulse, he begins to shear away his hair as well. He hums at tune as he Cuts and shaves, some old-timey melody dug up from the back of his mind. Harlow feels much lighter when he's finished and runs his fingers over his closely shaved face and scalp. Outside, he finds a shed at the back of the house, where the owner kept his tack. Harlow gets to work, talking softly to the mare as he sets on her blanket and saddle, secures the cinch, and adjusts the stirrups.

She seems eager for a ride as he slips the bridle and bit into place, then strokes her neck. Time to go? Yes, I think so too. His body is still weak and sore as he pulls himself into the saddle and takes the reins. But when he kicks his heels and the horse starts forward, all that goes away. Then there's only the warm horse under him, and the leather strap in his hands, and the sage-scented breeze in the air. He rides south across the property until he reaches its fenced edge. Now he can see not only that far-off clump of buildings, but also vehicles, moving along a road on the horizon.

Coming up to the gate, Harlow climbs down from the horse, unloops the heavy chain on the gate, and swings it open. He is just about to return to the mare. When he stops, senses tingling. He pivots, gaze coming to a stop just out of the door. outside the gate and the center of the path, sitting on a patch of desert marigolds. The skull of a longhorn cow is gleaming in the sunlight. Harlow stares at it, at its empty sockets, at the razor-sharp points on both its horns. It's just like the cow skull on his belt buckle.

The horse winds impatiently behind him, but Harlow pays her no heed. Kneeling in the dirt, he picks up the skull. The choice is mine. He turns it in his hands, inhales, and brings it down over his forehead and face, holding it in place before his eyes. It fits like a glove, says Harlow, puffing up his cheeks and exhaling.

As he rides up to the base of the Holy Mesa, Harlow sees that the roadside stand has been open, but is being packed up for the day. Starling isn't present. Krieger is there, and Granny Violet and Shiloh. The blind girl stands on her chair as the horse and rider approach. He has returned, she cries out.

The destined traveler, found in the wilderness, and his vision shall be pure and green. All praises be! Harlow turns his head to look at Shiloh, his dark eyes smiling through the eye holes in his cow-scull mask, now hooked in place with a leather strap. Then he clicks his tongue and directs the tired mare off the road and around the western edge of the mesa.

to the switchback, and up, to Harlow's home. Both he and the mare are delighted by the sight of the twinkling water as they cross the green eye and reach the central pool. The lawn is mostly empty, and those present are all walking toward the forum for supper. But at the unexpected sight, everyone stops and stares. It's Jack! A godling shouts. Jack is back. He's come back.

Harlow swings down from the saddle, and as the horse dips her head to drink, he leans to scratch her between the ears. Well done, girl. People start to gather around. Some looking at Harlow, others, especially the children, gawking at the mare. Is that a horse? Harlow looks over and grins. It is indeed.

Beautiful, ain't she? Ezekiel nods, his mouth hanging open as he walks up. She is. Magnificent. I told you the world has a lot to offer. Hello, Brava! Ezekiel tears his smiling gaze off the animal and looks at Harlow, his brown eyes glisten.

I'm glad you're home. And also, nice mask, my friend. Harlow raises a fist and gives the skull a double tap with his knuckles. Thanks, but it's only temporary, I think. Like a surrogate. He turns to the horse, patting her neck. Watch after Brava, will you? How?

Ha, you'll figure it out. Harlow winks as he jabs Ezekiel on the shoulder and walks off. What are you up to then? Got to do a thing. The watching crowd parts as Harlow reaches them. Then they turn and follow him, whispering curiously amongst themselves, as they come up to the forum. Supper has been laid out upon the tables,

and most people are already seated on the benches. Harlow spots Starling standing off to one side. talking with Indira or back to him. He marches straight for her. Indira looks up in surprise and annoyance, and when Starling turns to see why, her face is sickly pale and her eyes are puffy and red, like she's been crying.

Clutching his mask in his left hand, Harlow lifts it off, and, reaching her, wraps his right arm around the small of Starling's back, pulls her to his chest, and kisses her. Indira spasms, and release.

Leases a raspy squeal of shock, and all around the tables, conversations cease in an instant. Starling's mouth is cool and her breath is sweet. For a moment, her body is tense. Her eyes open and confused. Then her eyelids flutter, and she melts against him, reaching up to hold the back of his shaved head. She kisses him, long, soft, and wet. When at last they break apart, she can't stop smiling. I told you, she croons. jabbing him in the side. I knew you couldn't get away.

He leans to whisper in her ear. But I did get away, Starling. Truly I did. I chose to come back. I came back for you. Oh, Jack. She nozzles her face against his neck. He looks up at Indira,

standing clutching her beaded necklaces and looking like she's just witnessed the foulest heresy imaginable. Everyone at the forum appears too shocked to start talking again. They just sit there, processing. This sort of thing doesn't happen on the mesa, certainly not with goddess Starling. Harlow smiles at Indira, and she drops her eyes as if struck. He backs away from Starling.

She is blushing now, the medallion on her chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. She takes a moment to compose herself, then turns to the watching crowd at the tables. who all jerk to avert their gazes and rush to resume chatting and stacking their plates with supper. She looks back at Harlow. Into your hair. She raises a hand, brushing her fingers up his cheeks. He takes hold of her wrist, lightly. If this is going to work, he says, I need you to understand something.

And what is that? The games. I mean it. I'll know if you try. Her eyes sparkle. But what is love, if not a twisted game of the mind? He lets go of a wrist, kisses her once more, and turns around. Harlow finds himself face to face with Galaxy. The young man is frozen in place.

He's holding a pitcher of water, and his mask dangles from his belt. Galaxy's eyes burn with a deep sense of, what is it? Hurt? Betrayal? Blessed evening, says Harlow. Welcome back, says Galaxy, failing to hide his bitterness. Drink? Harlow looks down at the water.

I think I'll go for a cider tonight. Care to join me? Galaxy doesn't move, but Harlow takes the pitcher from him and sets it on the table, then seizes Galaxy by the shoulder. Walk with me. Galaxy looks confused, but lets Harlow guide him along the table. What is this man? First you, you abandon us.

Then you turn back up with a new mask and do that? I thought you didn't trust her. Harlow places a finger across his chapped lips, and Galaxy goes quiet. They come up to the cider barrels. Harlow grabs a mug lying atop them, and he leans down to fill it. He whispers to Galaxy. It's in goddesses that we can trust. Those that share our concerns would be discreet.

What are you talking about? Gather them and meet me behind the latrine at midnight. galaxy looks conflicted, then slowly, he nods. Harlow walks back, skull mask in one hand and cider in the other, back to his spot at the table, where Starling awaits him, bright-eyed and beaming. Moths flutter around the light bulb on the back of the latrine, which is kept on night and day. Those gathered there, a dozen young men and women, all arrivals in the last year or two, shuffled nervously on their feet, casting glances south.

toward the green eye. They must be expecting Harlow to come from that direction, so when he emerges suddenly from the darkness to the north, he startles them. Jesus! Hisses Lexina. What's going on, Jack? What are you doing here? He beckons for them to gather around. Harlow looks from one face to the other, then takes a deep breath. Starling murdered Zen, and a lot of other people, too. It takes a few seconds for this statement to sink in, and when it does, They all look more confused than before. She made me think I was responsible for Zen's fall. He goes on.

And she did the same to Galaxy here. Isn't that right? Galaxy's lips tremble. I, well, yeah. Carlo looks around at the others. I suspect that most of you have experienced something similar. Or at least, things you can't explain. Missing chunks of time.

Strange marks on your bodies. feelings of shame and bliss and confusion that arise seemingly from nowhere, sound about right? No one answers, but no one laughs or shrugs it off. A few of them look at the ground or hug their arms around their chests protectively. Somewhere in the distant plains, a coyote howls, and from her tethered spot in the green eye, the brava winnie's. Harlow sighs. This place, it isn't what it seems, and it gets worse. Hating himself for doing it,

he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the stack of polaroids he has just stolen from the museum basement, a curated selection of the worst images, and hands them out. As the photographs are passed around, hands are clapped over mouths to stifle gasps. Tears streamed down faces.

Knees start to shake. Harlow tells them what he's learned, and when he has collected the images and stowed them back in his pocket, The group goes silent once again. They stare at their feet, moths fluttering madly around their heads, like the frenzied thoughts buzzing within them. We have to kill her.

They all look over at the speaker, shocked, not by the sentiment, but by the one who said it. Cadence, quiet, private, the true believer, wearing her Luna Moth mask. The power of this place is real, she says, trying to hold back tears. And God is Starling. She's ruined it. Turned it into something ugly, something wicked, something evil. Galaxy nods. She's right.

We should do it. We should do it tonight. Right now. Slow down, says Harlow. Why? You know what has to happen. Galaxy marches right up to Harlow. And don't you dare say you're in love with her.

Harlow sighs. I am in love with Starling. He admits. And I also hate her. It's kind of. Complicated. My relationships with women usually are. She has to be removed from power, says Lexina. I know she does. And maybe she has to die, but not yet.

He turns to the group. We're not ready. Starling has the counsel, the enforcers, the grannies. I think the longer someone's been here, the harder it will be for them to see through her lies. There's a whole lot of the faithful letter beckoned call. But there are some others who might be turned to our side. If we're smart about it, Red won't join us. Someone says. Um, like hell she will.

Counter's Galaxy. It's your mother we're talking about overthrowing. Yeah, but she hates her mom now. All they do is fight. Duh, she's 15. Says Lexina. But it's still her mom. We'll figure all that out, says Harlow,

knowing full well that Wren can definitely not be told. He can't even tell Ezekiel, at least. Not until the timing is right. For now, we need to be cautious and patient and come up with a plan. And in the meantime? Harlow brings up a hand to scratch the dome of his head. I'll do what I can to rain in Starlink for now. But try not to let yourself be alone with her, ever.

And avoid water if you can help it. Stick to wine, cider, juice. And how long is that going to work? Harlow considers the question. We will make our stand. On, on. He closes his eyes. He does not seek out the answer.

He lets it come to him. October 31st. When he looks up again, everyone is staring at him. Like, Halloween? Says Lexina. The Feast of the Turquoise Mask. Says Cadence, nodding. Six weeks from now, everyone gathers in the museum.

It is the most sacred time of the year on the mesa. Harlow nods. The night of sweet treats, he says, a dangerous gleam coming into his eyes and scary stories.