Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Prophet of the Hallowed Corpse | Part 4 (Finale)

Episode Date: October 31, 2025

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Part 4. Fall. Season of the Turquoise Mask. He does not dream that final night, because he does not sleep. He lies atop the soft linen sheet of their mattress, dressed only in his scars and a sheen of cool sweat. Starling has curled up beside him, one hand across his chest, the other resting on her stomach. She wears the medallion around her neck, and nothing else. Harlow pets the back of her head, gentle strokes. Dawn is almost here. The curtain door moves in an autumnal breeze, beckoning soft golden light with each flutter.

A tiny voice winds sleepily and a chair creaks. Harlow leans his head all the way back on the pillow, staring into the darkness. The objects set along the back wall take shape, the clothing racks, sagging under the of Starling's many dresses, then the crib, where one-year-old Ziggy stands, clinging to the bars, wide-eyed and snoddy-nosed, and beside the crib, an old woman in a white robe and ceramic sun-mask, sitting up in a rocking chair with little heron on her lap. Starling yawns and shifts her body on the mattress, she whispers, soon, says Arlo. In her chair, Granny Violet starts to rock back and forth, the wooden joints of the chair squeaking like a wounded animal.

Are you ready, sweetheart? Harlow turns to look at Starling. Her eyes are half open, her mouth half smiling. What do you mean? Well, it's a big day, she says softly, lifting one bare leg to rest the ball of her foot against his calf and slide her toes down his ankle. A feast day. The feast day. When the sacred world, words declare exciting new changes to life on the mesa. Will the words be, I wonder? She kisses his shoulder. You'll see it's a surprise.

Well, happy birthday to me. Starling pulls herself up onto an elbow. Wait, is today your birthday? Arlo shakes his head. Nah, last week, 33 years young. You should have said something if it's important. important to you, I would have had a cake made. Since when do we visionary celebrate birthdays? We can always start if that's what you want, she leans to his ear. We can do whatever we want.

Heron begins to whine in earnest. Starling motions for Violet to set her son on the floor. As Heron crawls wildly toward them across the plush pink rug, Harlow gets up and pulls on his boxers and jeans. Are you going out already? Well, it's a big day, like you said. He tightens his belt and throws on a shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. Lots to get ready. Grabbing his socks and boots, he goes out. See you at breakfast!

Starling calls as the curtain swings shut behind him. Bash stands guard outside the yurt, maskless. He uncrosses his arms as Harlow emerges and bows his head. Harlow answers with silence and sits on the edge of the long. to put on his boots. There is a hint of frost in the air, and overhead, the final stars are blinking out, one by one. As Harlow tightens his boot laces, a shock of pain fires through the palm of his left hand. He winces, and holding up the hand in the growing light, he sees something long and delicate sticking out from the scar tissue fistula. He flips the hand over and sees it extending

out of the back too. It is a strand of white hair. He twists the end around the pointer finger of his right hand and pulls. The hair comes through slowly, dragging bits of crust and dried skin with it. When it's finally out and tossed aside, his hand continues to sting, a burning sort of itch. He flexes his fingers, tightens his fist, and stands. Bash resumes his Queen's Guard stance at their yurt as Harlow sets off around the perimeter of the green eye. He's not the only one up early. Many people are moving about, masked, and jittery. Some head to the kitchens to get an early start on breakfast. Others carry armloads of pumpkins and

gourds from the parking lot, where they were delivered the day before, and set them in the grass for the godlings to carve later. He spots Ezekiel, yawning as he walks toward the stable they've built beside the greenhouses, to tend to Brava. Harlow reaches the Prophet's yurt, where a line of electric light stretches out from the edge of the curtain door. Harlow does not announce his arrival. He marches right inside, blinking in the glow of the battery-powered lamp hanging from the ceiling. Phoenix stands in the center of the yurt, in white cotton briefs, a granny on either side of him, one holding his robe, the other is poncho.

Blessed morning God, Jack, the ladies say. bowing their heads to him, before moving to resume the ritualistic dressing of their prophet. I'll do that, says Harlow, holding out an arm for the garments. You can leave us. The grannies exchange a look, then hurry to hand over the clothes and depart in silence. Blessed feast day of the turquoise mask, smiles the prophet, as Harlow pulls the white robe over his brother's head and helps him find the sleeves. Aren't you excited? The day will be busy and fun

with the carving of spooky faces on pumpkins and baked goods and everyone in their masks. And tonight, pure magic. Yep, messages from beyond the veil. It's Halloween, says Harlow, turning the poncho right side out. That's what it is. You know, they used to celebrate a lot of holidays up here.

Christmas, Easter, Holly, whatever people wanted. No big deal. not anymore except for Halloween but I get why it's sinister exciting absurd it fits the holy mesa know what I mean Phoenix doesn't answer instead he bends at the waist bowing stiffly forward it takes Harlow a moment to realize why ah right harlowe slips the poncho over Phoenix's head and straightens it across his shoulders I like this poncho of yours.

Reminds me of Clint Eastwood, the man with no name. Harlow moves in front of Phoenix and begins to comb back his brother's hair with his fingers. Do you? Do you know your name? Phoenix's smile widens. The scars on his left cheek stretching. I am the prophet. That's a title. Not a name. But we choose our names here upon the Holy Mesa. I chose the prophet. Harlow licks a thumb and smooths back a loose curl. Okay, but your mother gave you another name.

Did you know that? Do you know that you had a family? Phoenix pivots his head to face Harlow. I have a family. More than 100 parents, siblings, and children, and growing all the time. Harlow checks over his shoulder, then leans in, taking his brother by the elbows. Your mother named you Phoenix. He waits for her reaction, for a sign, anything.

That's a pretty name. She died, you know, about a year ago. It was rough. The doc said she had some rare type of dementia, with an abnormal protein buildup, something, I don't know. She was sick for a long while, forever, really. But it got worse, in the end, real bad. That's a sad story.

I used to wonder if that was the Mesa's revenge, her punishment for... Harlow lets go of Phoenix's elbows. You don't even care, do you? You're incapable of caring. I care for everyone, God, Jack, smiles the prophet. Sure you do. Arlo leaves the yurt. The morning is brighter now, and the green eye is quickly filling up.

He scans the scene, catching the eye. of galaxy, Cadence, Lexina, and a dozen others. They return subtle nods. They are ready. Everything is prepared. Tonight, one way or another, it'll be over. Tension rises with the sun and grows as shadows stretch east to west across the top land. Even the infants can sense it. The energy in the air, the tremor in the stone, the vibration in their bones. Everyone's nerves are taut, twisted threads, woven of anticipation, fear, and wonder. Harlow welcomes the feeling, because when everyone looks restless, his expression blends right in, along with those of his team of young revolutionaries.

By midday, the shadows have shrunk. The air is thick with the sweet vegetable aroma of pumpkin innards, and every godling's hands are sticky from their labor. The faces they have carved, like the masks on the adults around them, are each unique and outlandish, yet hard to look away from. The jack-a-lanterns are spaced out in two parallel lines, marking a path west across the green eye, then looping north toward the museum. In the afternoon, the godlings are taken to the forum and given craft supplies, paper, crayons, glue sticks, sticks, and feathers and leaves, and instructed to create temporary

masks for themselves. The masks are crude and ugly and colorful. And as the shadows stretch once more, west to east, the tension in the air becomes a frenzy of energy. More than once, Parlo sees someone freeze in place and start to shake or to cry or to kick their feet in a wild, rapid dance of untamable nervousness. From her stable, the anxious snorts and coughs of brava punctuate the passing hours. When supper is laid out on the tables, it looks and smells as splendid as ever. Pork-posal with butternut squash, stuffed peppers, blue corn muffins, and baked apples. But no one eats much. They mostly sit in silence, knees bouncing, hearts pounding. The godlings cannot sit still at all, and take to swarming round and round the forum, whooping and spinning, until their paper masks are tattered and dusty.

Harlow starts to wonder how much of his own jitteriness is due to the secret task at hand, and how much comes from the waiting itself, from the expectation of the sacred ceremony, this celebration of the weird and the wild, of the ancient, unknowable past. It is undeniable, the draw of certain rituals on the homo sapien mind. It's always been that way, and it's all the same thing, isn't it? The shaman's dance, the ring of church bells, the minarets called to prayer, even that moment before a DJ drops the beat and the club goes wild.

All of it, a quirk of genetic hardwiring to keep the group united, and thus alive. Picture this, it's late at night, you're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more, than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button. And just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify.

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Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash DNS. Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. Daylight vanishes at last. Tea lights are placed in the many cavern pumpkins and set alight so that the monstrous faces glow and flicker. A waxing moon hovers in the eastern sky. The restless mesafolk shuffle aimlessly around the forum, waiting for the council to begin the ritual. One man in an antlered mask starts tapping aimlessly on the drum hung around his neck, and from over by the southeast corner, Harlow hears the plucking of guitar strings.

He spots Ezekiel, leaning against the Ponderosa, instrument in hand. Arlo takes a deep breath. Well, he's put this part off for as long as he can. Arlo throws back a final gulp of cactus wine, rises to his feet, and walks over to his first and favorite yurt mate. Blessed evening, says Ezekiel as he strums. He is wearing his mask, freshly bearded and spongy moss, and now topped with new aspen branches for the fall season.

Now, a blaze of golden leaves fan out above his head. We need to talk. Ezekiel's fingers freeze on the strings. Now, there's not much time. They will soon come to bring. I've figured out who your parents are, Zeeke, interrupts Harlow. Ezekiel stares blankly through the eye holes. I. You what? Why?

Your mother was a woman named goddess Kateri. I believe she passed away a few years ago. Ezekiel lowers his guitar. Oh, well, I thought maybe it was, goddess Kateri. She was always sweet to me. But why are you telling me this, Jack? Why now? And your dad? It doesn't matter who...

Was a man named Gabriel Vega. Ezekiel takes a step backward, bumping against the tree trunk. The... Builder? Harlow nods. My father was one of the founders? That's not all he was. Harlow stares into the wooden face,

into the dark, playful eyes. He can sense the connection between them. It is everything Phoenix's eyes do not communicate. Jack, you're my brother, says Ezekiel, pulling off his mask and gawking, open-mouthed. Harlow has taken aback. He hasn't said it yet. Half-brother, yeah.

How'd you know? Ezekiel huffs a laugh. I didn't, until just now. But how is that possible? You weren't born on the mesa unless... He blinks and tilts his head, then gasps. I do remember another little boy, a friend. But the memory is fleeting.

Harlow nods. Yeah, same here. We were really young. He steps closer. There'll be time to discuss all of this, Zeke. But I had to tell you now, because something is going to happen tonight. Of course. It is feast day of No, Zeke, something else.

Something hard for you to understand. I won't ask you to help me. That would be too much for you, I know. I just need you to trust me, okay? Ezekiel's breath catches. What are you going to do? Just don't get in our way tonight, Ezekiel, no matter what, says Arlo. He turns to go, but...

I found the basement. Harlow looks back. You what? You told me not to, but I looked for it. It was like fighting through a poison fog to find the door. But I did. And I saw what she keeps down there. Harlow feels a hot wave of guilt wash over him,

followed immediately by a cool breeze of relief. Oh, then maybe you will understand what I have to do. Ezekiel shakes his head. I don't know what to think. think. I don't understand what I saw in those binders, but there must be a reason, Jack, a way that it fits into the grand vision, or else you don't need to try and make it fit, Siek. It'll all be gone soon, ashes, like it never happened. Ezekiel's eyes flare suspiciously. What does that mean? A chill creeps up Harlow's neck, a change in the wind. We'll talk after. The stirring in the air

shakes the branches above them, and seeds rain down from the ponderosa's ripe open pine cones. Each seed has its own delicate wing, and they twirl in the night like a million papery blades, like nature's confetti. Children leap to catch them, laughing. Looking up through the shower of seeds, Harlow sees figures approaching from the north. Their silhouettes dipping up and down as they traverse the undulating mounds. Gilgamesh leads the back, with the other counts. and some torch-wielding volunteers in the back. People jumped to their feet at the tables, pulling on their masks, pulling children by the hand, rushing to meet their leaders. Ezekiel straightens, it's beginning. He pulls back on his mask and walks, guitar in hand, to join the crowd.

Arlo waits until he is gone, then looks to his left. Galaxy emerges from the darkness, dressed all in black and wearing his celestial alien mask. As he reaches Harlow, he holds out the cow skull, and beside it, hidden from the view of the crowd, a sheathed dagger. Harlow takes both items, slipping the dagger into the back of his belt, and setting the skull in place over his face. Galaxy circles around behind him to tighten the leather strap of the mask and to ensure that the back of Harlow's jacket covers the weapon.

galaxy whispers. Carlo nods, his sharpened horns dipping, his eyes burning with the longhorn's shadowy sockets. The inner edges of the bone dig into his scalp and temples. They move to join the others, staring over the excited crowd to the figures on the slope. Gilgamesh, in his antique mask and his pristine lab coat, stands in front, framed in firelight.

Caliban and Indira stand to his left, and Starling to his right, her medallion glinting. Next to Starling, wearing a raven mask with a long beak. Goddess Indigo raises a Polaroid camera and snaps a shot at the gathering crowd. Harlow's expression darkens at the sight of the flash. He misses the days when his brain filtered her out. Starling's eyes are searching the crowd,

and when they land on Harlow in the back, she smiles. Starling is wearing a dress he has never seen before, white and lacy, beaded at the edges to catch the moonlight. Its puffed sleeves are gently gathered on her upper arms, and it leaves her neck and shoulders bare. The bodice fits snugly across her chest, before spilling out and down in a billowing skirt.

A halo of woven filigree traces her head, and her hair has been styled up in braided coils. Harlow can't look away. She's like some, ethereal apparition on her way to a Victorian ball, or else, on her way to a... The time has come, declares Gilgamesh, holding up a polished sphere of gemstone. For the couple of rolls to be returned, set in place within our sacred ladies' immortal remains, that her spirit might once again deliver the hallowed whispers to her chosen people.

We are ready! Pries a voice from the crowd. Her visionaries are ready to receive! Screams another. All praises be! Then come! The museum has been purified. The prophet awaits.

The crowd cheers. They part as Gilgamesh marches down the slope, holding the copper rose up before him. As the counselors and the torchbearers pass through the crowded forum and turn west, following the path traced and glowing jackal lanterns through the green eye, everyone falls into step behind them,

moving in a surging procession. From many streams calls out the gravelly voice of Indira One river! The man in the antlered mask bangs his drum. From many journeys! One path!

Wild music rises. Willow flutes, gourd rattles, Ezekiel's guitar. From the minds of many gods! Her vision! They cheer, they stomp, they cry out and laugh and pray Possessed by the night, the visionary stream across the lawn, past the central pool, moving

west, the north, guided by the haunted faces etched in flickering candlelight. From the midst of the frenzy, little Shiloh's voice rises up above the tumult, strong and clear. My children, I see you, my children! I see you with my undying eyes! I see your place in the vision, your worth and the Holy Project! Come to me, my children. Come, come! Come! I am waiting! Parlo and Galaxy walk in the very back at the group,

marching in unison, eyes dead ahead. At last, winding through the Stone Grove with its many haunted handprints. Reaching up from the underworld, the procession emerges through the mud-brick wall and comes into sight of the museum. Torches surround the towering structure, their flames dancing in the wind from the nearby storm claw. Harlow looks past the mesa folk, past the old shed, to that northeast corner.

The claw's fury is extra strong tonight. Moonlight shows on the dust swirling in its vortex, and the murky shapes of tumbleweeds circle in the sky like satellites. Gilgamesh starts up the stairs, then Starling, her white dress trailing behind her, then the rest, moving in a line to the high brass doors. As they ascend, the group goes quietly. until the only sound is the wind and the flickering torches and their feet upon the stairs. Harlow slows, narrowing his eyes as he looks at the lower stairs, where? On either side of the worshippers, the enforcers stand guard. Tall, lanky Krieger is on the left-hand side, brawny bash and brick on the right.

Ahead of Harlow, several people on the edge of the group have gradually slowed and moved aside, letting others pass them. Soon, the last of the line has ascended and moved through the tall doors, but a dozen young gods and goddesses remain outside, standing in a semicircle at the bottom of the steps, masks on, backs straight. From the center of the group, Arlo looks around at the others. Cadence stands at one end,

Luna Moth mask glittering, and at the other, Lexina with her disco mirror mask into torch in one hand. Harlow crosses his arms behind his back, slipping one hand up under his jacket, barks Krieger, marching down the steps. Torch light glints off his black leather jacket and the chrome studs on his mask.

You back to cause in trouble then? Doesn't surprise me. Harlow pulls out his dagger and lunges. Before Krieger can react, Harlow thrusts the blade into the side of his neck and slashes it laterally across his throat. Krieger falls to his knees. gasping for air and clasping at his neck as it spews red blood into the breeze.

On the stairs, brick and bash both flinch. Then freeze, Harlow breathes. You are busy getting instructions to murder our friend. Harlow straightens and turns, holding up the dagger, hilt first. Galaxy steps up to receive it, and walking to standing before the kneeling, bleeding enforcer. He rips off Krieger's mask with his left hand, raises the blade in his right, and stabs. Krieger's body drops onto its side, blood gurgling from his severed neck and around the dagger's blade, now lodged through his right eye.

Galaxy looks over at Harlow, who nods. Then they turn to face the other two enforcers. Bash stands very still, arms at his side. Brick is cowering, shaking, eyes wide behind his human skin mask, his hands moving slowly to protect his crotch. Harlow grins. Bash's mismatched eyes swivel to him. Harlow winks.

Brick's eyes bulge, and he begins to run up the stairs. But Bash grunts and tackles him. They hit the bottom stair and roll into the dirt. Bash grabs a loose stone and smashes it into Brick's head, again and again and again. Harlow exhales. Beside him, Galaxy removes his rubber alien mask, drops it into the dust, and pulls on Krieger's mask instead.

Then the team marches forward, passing Bash, who continues to move. used to hammer away with the bloody stone. They move in a line up the stairs, between the pillars, and into the museum. The artificially chilled interior is a shock to harlowe's skin and nostrils, like before. But there is a murky haze in the air now, and new smells that make his head swim. Some are pleasant, like the warm, sweet woodiness of burning sage and copal, but these clash with the harsh odors of chemical disinfectants. He creeps down the front hall and past the framed photographs. When he reaches the corner, he stops and lets the others go around him into the main gallery.

Lexina goes first, holding up her torch and walking confidently. The others follow, except for Galaxy, who moves straight ahead and slips quietly into the professor's old bedroom. Arlo takes a moment to breathe, then he steps around the corner and into the crowded heart of the museum. Every torch along the walls and columns is lit, and their flickering amber light dances upon the the silent assembly, strobing the inhuman shadows of their masked visages across the polished wood panels and ornate adobe columns. Harlow moves slowly through the crowd, approaching the ring of columns in the middle of the gallery. No one pays him any heed. They are all facing the center, where the only electric light in the whole building glows, cold and white. Glancing left

through the unmoving bodies, Harlow catches sight of Lexina moving toward the far corner of the room, then vanishing from view. Harlow comes to a sudden, involuntary stop. Looking down, he sees that his boots are on the edge of the spiral mosaic, which covers the circle of floor directly beneath the dome. Raising his eyes, he sees that the cryocophagus has been moved out of the back sanctuary and placed on the epicenter of the circle. Misty light shines from its glass panels,

and its mechanical buzzing rises and falls like electric breath. All around the circle, packed, shoulder to shoulder between the ring of columns, the faithful stand and watch, unable to come any closer. Even Indira and Caliban are held outside the inner circle. Only three people have been allowed in. Starling, and her snow white gown, stands at the right end of the cryocophagus, besides its canisters of pressur-eyed gas. Gilgamesh stands at the left end, straight back and statu-esque,

and finally, the Prophet. Phoenix is directly behind the box. His arms raised above his head, palms outward. His face is vacant and ghostly, lit from the machine below. Is everyone here now? he asks. Yes, Prophet! Bellow Starling, her voice echoing as she smiles. She spots Harlow across the circle and winks.

The faithful visionaries are gathered. We await the blessed words of us. of prophecy and promise and your holy translation prophet. Then let's get started. Gilgamesh puffs out his chest, steps up to the box, and leans to unclasp the locks on its corners. As he opens the lid, there is a pneumatic hiss and a sharp whoosh of escaping gases. The air in the gallery goes suddenly cold, and the torches seem to dim as the white electric

light brightens. Gilgamesh returns to the left end and stands, straight-backed and statuesque. Harlow leans forward, craning his neck, trying to peer within the luminous depths of the cryocophagus. Everyone around him does the same. Everyone outside the circle. Everyone in the museum. Is he just trying to catch a glimpse, or is he? Are all of them bowing their animal senses reacting to an urgent need to genuflect,

to show respect to worship? Lift her up, cries the prophet. That all may see! Gilgamesh kneels on the tiled floor, and raising one massive hand, he seizes the handle of the brass crank wheel that lies flush against the machine. He pumps his arm, and the mechanism begins to rotate. The rhythmic sound of clicking gears builds as he spins the wheel, round and round, and the light from within changes as its contents are lifted up,

inch by inch, trembling and casting a ghastly shadow on the domed ceiling above. My God, Carlo mutters, as the shelf within the cryocophagus reaches the upper edge and comes to a stop, revealing her. Parlo's pupils widen. It is a human body, a corpse, as it should be displayed, not filled with embalming fluid or smeared in makeup, but boldly, shamelessly, utterly, dead, and all the more beautiful for it. The hallowed corpse is gaunt, skeletal. with wrinkled, leathery, green-tinted skin. Her body is curled and held in place by a harness. Her legs are bent at the knees and pulled up to her chest, where gaping slits run the length of each rib.

Her arms, too, are bent and hugged around her knees. Her neck sits in the crook of a U-shaped stand, holding up her withered, open-mouthed, eyeless head. From each empty eye socket, a tiny bunch of mushrooms grow, green-capped and golden-stemmed. And atop her head, braided plates of hair are coiled into a rising spiral, coarse and brittle, the black color faded to red by the millennia. No way, Harlow whispers.

Beside Harlow, someone looks up at him. He glances sideways. He's standing next to Wren in her cat mask. Turning back to the center, Harlow sees that the hallowed corpse has a mask of her own, but not upon her face. She holds it in her bony hands. As he watches, the prophet bends over the ancient body and grabs hold of the upper edge of the mask. He pulls it gently from a grasp and holds it up for all to see.

The mask is a screaming face, emaciated skull-like, with furious eyes, hollow nostrils, and a gaping mouth with golden teeth. Its surface is a mosaic of little turquoise tiles. Some are chipped or faded, but most are bright and gleaming. Gilgamesh walks up beside Phoenix, and bringing out a little Velcro strap, he clips it to either side of the turquoise mask and helps the prophet put it on. Phoenix's manic smile shows through the wide open mouth as he proudly dons his oaky, spooky mask. Harlow shudders, a feverish anger rising into his cheeks. Make her speak! The prophet commands. Gilgamesh moves to the corpse

and begins unstrapping the harness. Once complete, he re-rear-rearming. ranges the body's pose to lie flat. His hands moved with gentle, practiced precision. But even so, Harlow cringes at each adjustment, worried that the ancient joints will crack, that the limbs will snap, but no. Her elbows are straightened, leathery tendons squeaking, and the arms are laid out straight at her sides. Then the legs, one at a time, are unbent at the hip and knee and stretched out. As this happens, and as the torso is uncurled, Harlow hears it. Air is sucked into the corpse's sides, hissing softly, swelling the chest and belly. The wrinkled skin is stretched, taut, and shiny.

Next, Starling steps up to the cryocophagus, standing between the corpse's feet and holding the copper rose in one hand. She pushes the right sleeve of her dress up onto her shoulder so that her arm is bare, and clutching the sphere in her fingers, she leans and reaches between the corpse's legs. Harlow looks on in numb shock, as Starling is in her arm. inserts her hand and pushes her arm into the corpse's body cavity up to the elbow. Starling winces, twisting, and adjusting her arm. Then, with a wet click, the sphere snaps into place. Starling exhales and pulls her arm free. Her skin is flecked with dark, grainy flakes.

She brushes them as she moves to stand at the corpse's head, then takes hold of the bony shoulders. Starling nods to Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh now takes up the position at the corpse's feet, gently grasping the ankles, then sliding them back so that the knees are bent, while Starling lifts the shoulders. Between them, the body is compressed, expelling air in a rising hiss through the slatted ribs and open mouth, the swollen torso deflating. The sound, that hollow moan, that voice! It ripples through the air, enters Harlow's ears, and tickles his brain, and haunted. Harlow's knees go weak. He sways, almost falling, and Ren has to catch him by an elbow. A few masked faces glance over at him, but most are fixed upon the corpse, as Gilgamesh

straightens the legs again, re-inflating the chest. They repeat the movements, pumping air in and out in rasping wheeze and guttural groans that echo through the gallery. The hallowed whispers. The prophet begins to laugh, high and shrill and childish. them! The words in her undying breaths! Her message! Her message for us! Harlow nods. Yes. He lifts his right boot off the floor, leans forward, and steps down into that forbidden inner circle. Behind him, Ren releases a little gasp of shock. The firstborn goddess says that we have done well, Phoenix declares. She is proud of us, proud of her chosen visionaries! All praises be! Someone calls from the watching crowd.

Voices echo. Harlow takes another step. All his attention fixed upon the ancient body. She says, she says she will bless her beloved people with a gift to strengthen our united vision. Oh, how exciting! She instructs us to adopt a new ritual, a sacred right reserved for those of purest sight, the unification of two souls, of two visions, in an eternal. eternal bond. Harlow steps closer. People are noticing him now, inhaling sharply in surprise,

whispering to each other. Rejoice! For soon you shall all bear witness to the first vision-blessed marriage of a goddess and a god! The prophet pumps his fists, but the crowd does not respond. The people are silent, confused, distracted. All eyes are on Harlow as he walks slowly across the tiled spiral. moving, as if in a trance, and comes to stand beside the cryocophagus. Gilgamesh continues to pump the corpse's legs, his eyes closed, body moving with mechanical repetition. But Starling lets go of the shoulders and jerks upright, staring at Harlow, the look on her face more astonished than anything else. Phoenix lowers his arms, and spotting Harlow across the machine, he smiles. Oh, and look! Here they both are! The first to be chosen for the sacred

gift. God Jack, and God is Starling! The Blessed betrothed! Stop! Harlow's voice says the word, though his mind is still catching up to the present moment. He blinks and looks around. Phoenix has frozen in place, smiling blankly behind the turquoise mask. Gilgamesh too has ceased his task and kneels, breathing heavily. The hallowed corpse ceases to whisper. Um, sweetheart, said Starling softly, as the crowd fidgets nervously watching him. What do you think you're... This is wrong, says Harlow. Looking back at the corpse, then around the gallery, his vision framed darkly by the eye holes of his cow skull mask.

This is all wrong! From the crowd, a voice hisses. What are you doing, man? Harlow exhales a shaky breath. One of his team has spoken, and they're right. This isn't part of the plan, but he knows what he has to do. He straightens and lifts an arm to point one finger at his brother's chest. His words are lies!

A communal gasp reverberates through the assembly. Most people look incensed, and to his left, Counselor Caliban, in his golden actor's mask and black opera cape, seems to be struggling against an invisible wall as he tries in vain to enter the circle and confront him. He lies! Harlow screams again. That message did not come from the hallowed corpse.

nor did it arise from his own mind. The lies belong. It revolves in place, the aim of his index finger swinging and coming to rest on Starling. To her! A second wave of indignation sweeps the crowd. Starling takes a moment, eyes narrowed at Jack, mouth open. Then she crosses her arms and scoffs. Okay, I don't get it.

What are you hoping to accomplish here? Do you think by claiming that there's no holy message that somehow there is, there is is a message, but he cannot hear it, and he never could. The torches flicker. But how can you know this? Calls out a voice from the crowd. Harlow lowers his hand. Because I can hear it.

Starling rolls her eyes. Really, Jack. Is that where you're going with this? He turns back to the box. His chest rising with a sudden gush of emotion, tears in his eyes. I know her voice. I have known it all my life. heard into my dreams on a thousand nights.

I hear the groaning whispers, same as all of you. But I also hear, they're not really words. It is so much more than that. He gazes into her ancient, shriveled face. Thoughts and feelings and images, conveyed mind to mind, pure, sacred, prophecy. Harlow claps a hand to his chest. He can hear his heart, fluttering hummingbird fast. He sniffs a laugh and whips around to look at Starling.

It's me, he says. It has always been me. Her eyebrows raise, and she sucks in her breath through clenched teeth. Okay then. Obviously God Jack has overindulged on the tuna wine this evening. God Gilgamesh, please escort him back to his yurt. Immediately. Harlow doesn't react.

He stands firm, arms at his side, as Gilgamesh rises to his feet and trudges toward him. Only when the taller man's hand touches down on his shoulder does Harlow move, twisting his body, ducking his head, then swinging it back up, the right horn of the cow skull stabbing under Gilgamesh's mask into the fleshy underside of his chin. Starling screams. Gilgamesh releases a grunt that becomes a gurgle, that becomes a wet hiss. Harlow jerks his head higher, piercing through layers of flesh, then pulls back, yanking the horn free with a spray of blood. Gilgamesh's body slumps to the the floor at Harlow's feet. Cries split the air. Women gasp. Men grunt. Harlow sees Starling's right-hand

clutch at her medallion, and the fingers of her left-hand twitch, and at once, Caliban is released from his invisible bondage. The hunchbacked counselor lurches forward, cackling gleefully, and pulls a short knife from under his coat. Harlow spins to meet him. Grabbing the cow skull from his own face, he rips it free, and lunging, drives it, and to Calaban's mask. The Longhorn skull explains. explodes and dusty pieces as the counselor is flipped violently backward, landing on his neck with a savage crunch, then flapping dead upon the tiles. Harlow stands over the body, breathing hard. His whole body is vibrating, his fingers clenched like claws. The muscles in his hand so tight that the holes in his palms grow bright with blood. Jesus, Jack! Starling blurts out. He whips around a facer, panting. His short hair sweaty and rumpled, his teeth bared. My name isn't Jack.

He walks slowly backward, toward the edge of the circle, raising his arms on either side. He inhales deeply, holds it and... I am Harlow Vega! His voice rumbles from his chest like thunder, filling the museum. Eldest son of Gabriel Vega, who was the builder! From the crowd, and old woman shrieks in shock, Harlow swings an arm to point. And that man there, who... whom you all call the prophet is my baby brother, Phoenix.

The old woman cries out again. It's the healer, Granny Fang. Good heavens! The other boy! The other boy! I have been baptized in the blood of the first founder, Harlow declares. And that mask! He opens his outstretched right hand, spreading his fingers, cupping the air, and turns his

face to Starling, his mouth stretching into a roguish grin, belongs to me. There is a snap, a breath of wind, and the turquoise mask flings itself through the air, whistling in a straight line, right into Harlow's waiting hand. Someone faints. Several people turn in fear and try to run through the mass of bodies now craning to sea, calls out the gritty voice of Indira, meeting his eyes, Starling sneers. Yes? How did you do that? The mask is icy cold against Harlow's fingertips, but energy seems to emanate from its surface.

and across his skin. With an effort, he relaxes his muscles and bends his elbow, pulling in the mask to examine it. I got no idea, he admits. And yet, I did. Everyone is watching him, a sea of fire-lit eyes within their masks of gold, glass, leather, and clay. What did she say to you? Asks a boy's voice to his left. Yes, tell us! calls out a woman to the right.

What is her true message? Starling's eyes glint darkly. Oh, yes. You must tell us everything. Harlow nods. She showed me her story, the true story, from its beginning, long, long ago. Harlow steps over Caliban's body as he begins to pace around the circle. Turquoise mask in hand.

Starling sighs. Well, this ought to be good. Her tribe were nomads. Her mother was a wayfinder, her father, a weaver. But one night, a pack of dire wolves attacked their encampment. She was orphaned and left to wander the wilderness alone. She survived on rainwater and mushrooms, just a child. Harlow pauses, catching sight of little Ziggy in the group,

wearing a paper mask and held by Granny Violet. But while others might have succumbed to despair, she did not. He resumes his path, the torches, splaying out a dozen different shadows of his figure upon the blood-splattered floor. She had all that she needed. She had her mind. And so she thought and she dreamed. And she envisioned the world, not as it was, but as it could be. She envisioned it with such clarity and command that her vision became more real than reality itself. And so she became and remains what Mortimer King claimed her to be. Coming to a stop, Harlow cradles the mask in one hand and holds out the other toward the hallowed corpse. Behold! The firstborn goddess! All praises be! shouts a man in the back, but most of the watching crowd remained silent and scared. Harlow approaches the cryocophagus. She tried to perfect the world in her own time, but the earth wasn't ready to be changed. The tools to craft her utopia were

still millennia away, and there were not enough humans in all the world to be taught her talent. and so unite their visions and aid her in the great mission. Looking up from the body, Harlow sees that Phoenix is listening to the story, like a curious child. She had to be patient to wait until the time was right. And so she showed her acolytes, how her body might be preserved,

and instructed them to entomb her. Here, within the citadel of stone that she herself created, the holy mesa. Carla resumes his pacing, moving counterclockwise against the spiral mosaic on the floor. And when the world was finally ready, she called out, and someone heard her. Mortimer King found her resting place. He brought her out into the light and made her body whisper, and he did his best to obey her

instructions. But the professor's mind could never really, properly interpret the meaning of her words. He wasn't strong enough. She needed another, a true partner, loyal and lionhearted, and so. Though, she dreamed of one, conceiving, in her disembodied mind, a soul with the qualities necessary to be her champion. Many faces now turned to the prophet, but their eyes look cold, confused, unconvinced. From Eden's womb, the child was born, Arlip proclaims.

But when the professor told its earthly mother of the sacred path planned for the child she had birthed and raised, the mother became afraid. refused to go along with the plan and the family fled the mesa the professor tried to stop them of course he shot at their car killing the father the builder and taking a little boy from the wreckage taking him back up to the mesa and teaching him to translate Phoenix watches Harlow but there is no sign of understanding on his scarred face but Mortimer King made a mistake that night he even told me so just before he died I planted the wrong seedling within this consecrated soil. That's what he said. He had brought back the wrong Vega, the wrong brother.

Harlow goes quiet, and for a moment, only the flutter of the torches and electric hum of the cryocophagus are heard. Then, moving through the crowd, a jingling of beads accompanies a tall woman to the edge of the circle. It is true, says Granny Fang, from behind her beaded curtain mask. That Eden Vega had two little sons. I remember, but Mortimer told us that the elder boy had died, along with his father. I lived, says Harlow, and my mother took me far from here. It ruined her mind to do it, to flee from the call of the Holy Mesa, but she managed because she loved me and because she was afraid. He looks up at Granny Fang, then around at the circle. The professor's mistake almost ruined at all. The plan was shattered, the path broken, and the community was thrown into chaos, a chaos which,

Starling here, did her best to take advantage of. But the sacred vision was too powerful, and before long, everything, the whole universe, began stitching the pieces back together. Even my witless puppet of a brother there played a role. He was right to obsess over masks, because this mask, Harlow looks down at its glittering gemstone surface. It is important somehow. Another silence follows, broken after a few seconds by the slow, measured, sarcastic clapping of two small hands. Well, well, bravo, my love, says darling.

Whoever knew you had such a talent for storytelling? That was really something. And these people? I mean, look at them. They ate that shit right up. They loved it. They love you. Arise are angry.

But that doesn't stop a tear from trickling down. one cheek. But it won't come to anything. You must know that. Harlow takes a step toward her. The white light from the cryocophagus shines up upon Starling's face, and upon the masks he sees spread out behind her. Endera's golden goddess, a geisha, a raven, a Luna Moth. Your reign upon the mesa is over. Starling sneers. Oh, I seriously doubt that sweetheart. Remember, all I have to do is snap my fingers and everyone in this building! including you, will do whatever, remember whatever, and be whoever. I decide.

But that's the thing, Starling, says Harlow, holding up his empty right hand, thumb and forefinger pressed together. I can snap my fingers too. He snaps, and just like that, the plan is back on. Starling winces as her head jerks suddenly forward. She looks down just in time to see a dark hand whisk sideways, clutching the turquoise medallion in its fingers. Starling spins, clawing at the air,

but Cadence has already ducked back into the crowd, fleeing through the masked multitude. Starling whips back around, bearing her teeth, and rubbing at the back of her head. Ow! She puts her hands on her hips. Well, is that it? The fucking necklace?

You really are a fool, Jack. If you think that, that, why are you smiling? Stop it! Stop it! Harlow chuckles. Sorry, it's just, you really believed it was you all along. All down to your talent? He shakes his head.

No, Starling. The medallion belonged to her, same as the copper rose and the garnet crown. The founders didn't recognize its importance because it wasn't discovered in the tomb, but on one of the petrified bodies below us by the cavern lake. What the hell are you on about now? sighed Starling.

Do you expect anyone to believe that you learned this? All of this bullshit? And 30 seconds of throaty groaning? The magician thought you'd like the necklace. And you did, didn't you? You liked how it made you feel, what it allowed you to do. You're wrong. You are the blind goddess, Starling. Blind to the fact that you've been living on borrowed time and ruling by stolen power. That's enough, Jack! He takes another step to order. And don't you think your little insurance policy downstairs will do you any good Now, sniff the air, go on. Can you smell it yet? It's smoke, burning plastic. Around them, people gasp in sudden recognition, shuffling on their feet. Don't worry, the hidden door is fire

sealed, and Lexina has shut it tight. Lexina calls out from the back of the crowd. Harlow grins. See, she's just visited your little library of naughty pictures. Starling's eyes bulge. Stacked up all your precious binders. Starling raises a hand. And set that to you. Shit ablaze. Starling screams, flicking her hand up, then down, then twirling her fingers in a circle. Harlow cocks his head. She does the gesture again, then motions with her left hand, fingers twitching madly. Harlow raises an eyebrow, then glances left and right.

Hmm. Kind of seems like nobody is obeying your commands. What do you know? Starling brings her hands down, crossing them over her stomach as Harlow steps right up to her. She darts sideways, away from him, raising her chin proudly, even as her lips tremble and tears streamed from her eyes. But even if you're right somehow, she says, moving around the edge of the circle and coming to a stop in front of Indira. You are still the outsider here, Jack. These people know me. Don't you? She calls out. You all know me. I started the council. I saved this mesa. I made it beautiful.

Spinning back to Harlow, she straightens, wiping the teeth. tears from her cheeks. Besides, I've been in these people's heads for almost 20 years in some cases. You don't think that will have left its mark? Now it is Starling who takes a step boldly forward and holds out her arms to either side. Visionaries of the Holy Mesa! She shouts. Don't you all see what is happening?

The hallowed corpse is testing us, testing our resolve. Who among you can pass this test and prove your loyalty to the sacred plan? For a moment, no one moves. Then a man steps forward from the line and moves to join Starling. A woman comes out next, crossing to stand beside Harlow. The spell is broken. The mesa folk surge into action, weaving around family and friends, shoving past each other. There are some who cannot decide.

Wren, pulling off her mask and weeping freely, staggers, looking back and forth as the two sides form up. But most everyone else chooses. Lexina pats Harlow on the shoulder as she comes up to him, with two dozen other young gods and goddesses in tow. Thang bows her beaded head as she reaches their group, a small host of Mesa folk just behind her. On the other side, the rest of the grannies, and more than half the Mesa's population are lining

up in rows. They have the numbers, but Harlow has the young, the strong, the bold. Between them, the hallowed corpse lies still and cold upon the glowing box, with Phoenix standing off to one side, watching it all go down with a look of apathetic curiosity. Indira moves to stand directly in front of Starling, shielding her from Harlow and his followers. The counselor reaches up to remove her mask, then cranes her neck to address the gallery at large. It has become clear, Deer croons, that tonight, the holy vision has become clouded.

Now, maybe this. Man here. Jack or Vager or whatever he calls himself. Maybe he has received some bit of revelation, and maybe he hasn't. But I think we've had more than enough drama for one evening. So, let us disperse. We shall regroup in the morning to discuss how we all feel in the light of day. A wrinkled face is smiling, but her eyes are glinting with naked hatred.

Prophet, she says, looking to Phoenix. Please retrieve the turquoise mask. It must go back with the sacred lady now. Phoenix smiles at Indira, nods, and moves toward Harlow. Nope. The prophet freezes in place, his bare feet squeaking against the tiles. I told you, says Harlow. The mask is mine, and I'm not going anywhere.

Indira's forehead wrinkles, smushing her Zia sun tattoo. In that case, where are my enforcers? There is scuffling on that side of the gallery, and the people part to make way for a man dressed in black. wearing a dark leather mask studded in chrome and holding a rifle at his side. Ah, Krieger, very good, says Indira. Take the turquoise mask from Jack, then escort him to. What are you? But you're not.

There's one in the chamber and ten in the clip, Galaxy whispers to Jack, handing him the rifle. I couldn't find any more ammo. That'll do, thanks, says Arlo. Still holding the mask in his left hand, he sets the rifle's forestock on that wrist, raises the gun and shoots Indira between the eyes. Her neck snaps back and she folds at the waist, crumpling to the floor. The crowd winces and gasps, ears ringing from the gunshot.

Starling recoils, angling her body protectively and staggering backward. I told you! Harlow shouts. It is over! Don't you all see what he's doing? Starling screams. He's killing the counselors one at a time! He just wants control!

We must stop him! The vision, the sacred vision is all that matters. The people at her sides exchange glances, breathing hard. Some of them shifting to allow Starling to escape through their ranks. Others, not so sure. All that matters! Echoes a voice from somewhere in the crowd. Harlow snaps the rifles bolt up and back,

expelling the spent round, then slaps it forward, chambering the next bullet. All that matters! He lifts up the rifle, aiming left and right at the masked figures around Starling as they shuffle nervously. All that matters! One large figure pushes through the ranks, stepping out into the light. Zeke, says Harlow,

blinking, cringing as he adjusts his grip on the rifle. Listen to me, my friend. Ezekiel's eyes blaze within his wooden face, with its golden leaves and its beard of moss and its frozen smile. The vision is all that matters. He marches forward, pulling out his knife. No, listen.

Harlow takes a step back, aiming the rifle. Stop it! Stop! Ezekiel raises the knife. Parlo jerks his stance and fires, aiming for the blade. The bullet strikes Ezekiel's hand, spitting sparks and blood into the air. Ezekiel howls, stumbling, his knife and two of his fingers falling to the tiles. Parlo cycles the bolt, loading the next round.

Stand down, Zeke! But Ezekiel lunges, snarling, reaching out with both his hands and grabbing the rifle. Parlo is shoved backward, the turquoise mask, clattering at his feet. rushes to help, but from across the circle a dozen of Starlings' followers charge. Then everyone is screaming, tumbling over each other, yanking children by the hand as bodies collide and fists start to fly. In the center of the turmoil, balanced between the spiral mosaic on the floor and the dark green dome above, Harlow and Ezekiel wrestle for the gun.

Every muscle in Harlow's body strains against the force of the towering half-brother, who is bent forward, breath hissing beneath his mask, eyes huge. They stagger in a circle, people screaming and ducking as the barrel's aim swings toward them. Harlow grunts, trying to twist the gun free. But Ezekiel shoves harder, his thumb squeezing in beside Harlow's finger on the trigger. Red-faced and breathless, Harlow turns his head and looks down at the end of the barrel, where Phoenix stands behind the cryocophagus. No!

Harlow grunts, heaving the weapon down with all the strength he can muster. The rifle goes off. There's a pang of metal on metal. A girl screams. A whistling hiss rises up, and Harlow's nostrils prickle with a sharp, cold scent. He jerks his head to the side. Phoenix is still there, unhurt, and so is the ancient corpse on the box. But they look all, fuzzy and warbled, like a mirage.

Harlow's gaze tilts down to the cryocophagus, to its canister of pressurized ethanol vapor, leaking through a bullet hole. Then he looks up, at the torches on the wall, as the rising cloud of gas reaches them. Oh, shit! The air erupts into blue flame with a deafening whoosh. Harlow and Ezekiel are blasted off their feet. Harlow's body spirals, tumbling over shrieking bodies, striking against a column and twisting violently to the floor.

His head cracks against the tiles, and his vision goes dark. Stars glimmer. Crickets sing. Somewhere, a screech owl hoots its haunted trill to the midnight hour. Harlow blinks. He steps up on the Sandy Eighty-Eas. of the mesa's serpentine pond, with jagged rocks and junipers all around, blue and glowing in the dream light. Across the still water, his parents stand, facing him, watching Harlow.

I didn't want this for him, says his mother. Not any of it. I wanted to get away, to stay away. I tried. I really did. No, we were wrong to flee, mi'amor, says his father, holding out a large hand. Look at the boy, Eden. He has returned. And the mesa has made him strong, made him ready, just as the whispers foretold. Eden shakes her head. No, he is just a man. He is ours. We made him, Gabriel, not her.

And in his heart, there is good and evil and everything in between. Just a man? No. I built a temple of some baked clay, but it will crumble into dust. What he will build, from ash and water and blood, it shall stand for all of eternity. How? asks Harlow. But your brother? Eden interrupts.

Harlow looks at her. The color has gone from her cheeks. Her skin is gray. Her eyes are frozen over with ice. And when she speaks, her breath comes out in clouds. He needs you now. Phoenix needs your help, Harlow. He needs...

Harlow looks away, his gaze settling back on his father's proud face. How? You will see. Gabriel smiles. And there is fire in his mouth and in his eyes. burning bright and all-consuming. She will show you. It will happen soon.

The fire spreads, leaking from his mouth and nostrils, engulfing his head and shoulders. Vamos? She will show me what? Go. Bring it to an end. My Iho unhedo. All of it.

Harlow awakes with a ragged gasp, choking as he inhales smoke and hot ash. Eyelids fluttering open, he sees an ocean of rippling orange light above him. His vision comes into focus. Focus. Flames stretch across the ceiling beams and engulf the wood-paneled walls. He coughs, expelling a puff of ash. The sound rumbles his chest, but is muffled in his ears. Everything is muffled and distorted. The fires roar, screams of pain, an infant crying out. Groaning,

Harlow lifts up his head and looks down at his body. He seems to be all there, dusted in cinders, a bit charred. But is his arms supposed to be all wavy and shiny, like that? He jerks upright and frantically pulls off his burning jacket. His shirt sleeve is singed and there are blisters up his left arm. But the sensation of pain is like the sounds in his ears, dull and distant. Sitting up, he squints through the smoke, looking around the columned gallery. Fire covers almost every inch of wall and ceiling beam. Overhead, a skylight bursts from the heat, and a sudden wind howls, sucking embers from the air inside like. red-hot meteors. It looks like most people must have gotten out. How long was he unconscious?

But others stagger about in the smoke, clutching clothes to their mouths as they check bodies on the floor, drag moaning friends toward the exit, or carry out small, limp bodies. Greeting his teeth, Harlow pushes against the scalding hot floor and manages to get to his feet. A dozen of the dead lie around him, their bodies cloaked in ash, shattered pieces of their masks spread out around them. Half of a gaseous face, a broken antler, little squares of mirror from a disco ball. He sways in place, feeling at his back for his dagger, but it's gone, lost in the fray. Then he turns. The mangled remains of the cryocophagus lay smoking on its side, and behind it, he can see her, the hallowed corpse, limp and smoking. One gaunt green arm is stretched

out above her head, which is turned to face him. Jaw flopped loose upon the floor. floor. Her hair and the mushrooms and her eye sockets are singed and glowing gold as they burn. Harlow blinks, confused. Confused because he knows. He knows what is to come. There's a dark splash of blood on the wall behind the ruined box. He glances up at it, then follows it smear down, down to where Phoenix has slumped against the wall. His brother's eyes are open, and for a moment Harlow is sure that he is dead. Then Phoenix blinks, once, twice. His chin quivers as he looks around,

and Harlow can see that dark wet blood soaks the back of his head from where it hit the wall. Where am I? Phoenix whimpers. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. In Harlow's ear, the words sound like they're coming from underwater, but he can sense the panic in his brother's voice and see the pain in his expression.

The confusion, the terror, the genuine emotions. Harlow takes one wavering step toward him when a voice cries out. The prophet! Help me get him out! Hurry! Two men stumble through the smoke and leaned to hoist Phoenix by his arms. They drag him quickly toward the exit. Harlow swallows, watching them depart. His mind is clearing, his senses, his memories. He was doing something when the explosion happened, fighting over something.

The rifle. Where is it? He looks around frantically, blundering forward in the haze, searching the ashen mess on the floor. He sees someone's shoe, a trampled shell casing, a charred wooden mask with its mossy beard turned to a black crisp. Two more skylights blow out, more wind, brighter fire, the ceiling beams creak. He coughs, staggered sideways, bumps against a glass cabinet. It's no use. He has to get out of here. He has to get out or else. A huge shape pounces from the smoke. Long arms wrap themselves around Harlow and smash him sideways into the cabinet. The hot air is knocked from his lungs and splinters of glass rain down around him as he has tackled to the floor, his left foot twisting at the ankle with a crack. Harlow screams, trying to fend

off the fiery body that is pinning him down. I have to stop you! Ezekiel's whole face has burned away, his red eyes bugging out from a fleshy pelt of melted pinks and yellows. His teeth and gums exposed through shriveled, blackened lips. It's too important! It's too important! Parlo tries to speak, to reason. But just when he's able to suck in a shaky breath and refill his lungs, Ezekiel's charred hands snatch around his neck and squeeze.

Zeke, please! Harlow weezes. He grabs Ezekiel's wrists and tries to pry them off, but his fingers slip, gouging what channels in his attacker's burned flesh? All that matters! Ezekiel wails, tightening his grip. It is all that matters. Pain explodes in Harlow's neck, the crushing pressure, the pinch of nerves.

He makes fists and beats them against Ezekiel, anywhere he can reach. See? See? I'm sorry. Ezekiel cannot close his reddened eyes. His lids are burned away, so he rolls them upward as he squeezes harder. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry. Parlo feels himself fading. He fights it. He focuses, spreading his arms and feeling out on the floor at either side. His hands slap hot tiles, bits of glass, burning wooden embers. Then his fingers touched down on something curved and metallic. He grabs it tightly and swings. Ezekiel jerks, his body going rigid.

His right eye remains pointed at the ceiling as his left eye rolls downward, feeling with bright blood that spills out, dribbling down his melted face. Parlo releases his grip on the garnet crown, leaving its iron points lodged deeply in half-brother's skull. He gasps as the hands on his neck go limp, and Ezekiel's body slumps sideways to the floor with a heavy thud. Fuck! Harlow moans. The burning ceiling shudders. He sits up. Nothing is numb anymore. Every nerve in his body tingles with furious agony.

He pulls himself upright, cringing as he puts weight on his left foot and searing. pain shoots through his ankle. Fuck! In the far side of the gallery, a flaming beam breaks loose from the ceiling, swinging down to crash against the floor. Grunting with each limping step, Harlow marches through the fiery destruction, kicking aside a child's severed arm. Starling!

He growls. The name, a curse in his aching throat. As he turns the corner into the front hall, the building quakes around him, and the founder's portrait on the wall slips to the floor, glass shattering. Harlow limps toward the high bronze doors. A woman in a mask of a smiling sun crouches in the doorway, holding the doors open as she calls inside for survivors. Old Granny Violet.

When she sees that it is Harlow limping from the smoke, she panics. Squealing, she stumbles outside, trying to close the doors just as he reaches them. Harlow punches a fist through the gap, smashing the old lady ceramic mask to yellow shards and sending her reeling backwards down the stairs. Harlow emerges into the autumnal night. Wind swirls in Van Gogh spirals, cold and biting, full of sand and smoke and burning embers. As Harlow limps down the stairs, he sees that the shed is burning, and there are more fires farther out.

Flames on the blades of the windmills, flames on the distant yurts. In all-powerful wrath flows through Harlow's veins. He marches forward, fast bodies strewn on the stairs. There are more dead on the rocky ground below. its stab wounds or crushed skulls or bullet holes. Three snarling women are wrestling in the dirt to his right, and two men are circling each other on his left, one with a knife, the other a club. From somewhere farther off, the sound of a gunshot echoes.

Now who's got my fucking gun? Harlow grunts. He jumps from the bottom stair, boots crunching into a jack-o'-lantern. When suddenly, there is a great crash behind him, and spinning. Harlow looks up just in time to see the museum's dome collapse. A grand eruption of sparks spews heavenward, where they are pulled into the storm-claw's fury. His eyes follow the path of the wind-swept fire, round and round, up and up in a hellish vortex, then outward.

A billion burning embers are raining down across the mesa. On the hillocks and over at the edge of the forum, the silhouettes of frightened people are running, arguing, screaming into the wind. The urts! The earths are burning! calls out one voice. And the stable! Get the horse out.

Harlow walks forward, wincing with each step. There's another crack of gunfire, closer this time, and the man with a knife falls dead. Hey! Harlow barks at the approaching gunman. Is that? Is it you? I knew it. Galaxy jogs up to Harlow from the darkness.

His clothes are tattered, and his hands and hair and grinning face are coated with blood. We've done it! He cheers, releasing a great war whoop to the night and holding the rifle about. above his head. Our enemies have paid with their blood! Justice for the fallen! Stumbling closer, Galaxy begins to laugh. Ha!

Though, things didn't go exactly as planned in there now, did they, man? Where's Starling? Harlow his voice ragged in his throat. That dark enchantress is Finito! Like you said! Finished! Is she alive? Well, I don't know.

Maybe. I think I saw her with Goddess Indigo. They're probably going for the cars. cars. But I mean, don't you think considering, you know, how many bullets are left? Harlow grunts, marching up to him. Oh, uh, like two or three? Harlow holds out a hand, and Galaxy passes him the rifle. And hey, what you said in there? Your sacred revelation? Your real name? That was all. True,

wasn't it? Harlow doesn't answer. Turning south, he jams the thumb and forefinger of his left hand into his mouth, and whistles shrilly. What are you doing? Asked Galaxy. Against the crackle of fires and the rush of the wind, they hear a nervous whinny,

then the pounding of hooves. Give me a leg up, says Harlow, as Brava lopes into view, moving skittishly in the wild night. Her tail is singed and smoking, her nostrils gaping, her eyes reflecting firelight

as she approaches her master. Galaxy hurries over to lay a calming hand on Brava's withers, then he kneels and laces his fingers on one knee. Harlow steps up with his right foot, and Galaxy hoists him up. As Harlow swings into place, gripping bareback with his thighs, the horse sidesteps nervously, tossing her head. Until that bitch is sprouting mushrooms, Harlow grunts, seizing a handful of main at Brava's

crest in his left hand and holding out the rifle in his right. This ain't over. He leans in, bracing himself, then drives his heels into the horse's flank. Brava bolts forward, charging through the infernal haze. Indigo jerks open the door of the Subaru outback. Starling throws herself into the driver's seat and searches frantically for the keys. Indigo tries to shut the car door, but the skirt of Starling's dress is stuck in the jam. As she leans to grab it, gunfire splits the night, and a bullet slices through Indigo's neck and shatters the car window.

Behind the wheel, Starling screams, trying to duck, to hide, to flee. Harlow nearly loses his balance on broken. as she snorts and rears up, terrified by the gunshot. He flinches as the horse's hooves land heavily back on the ground, and she begins to circle in agitation. Where do you think you're going, Starling? Harlow shouts, snapping back the rifle's bolt. The spent cartridge lands in the dust.

From the car, he hears her weeping. Don't you know? This is the Holy Mesa! He slaps the bolt forward. No one ever leaves! The Subaru's passenger door swings open, and he hears Starling tumble out. Starling tumble out, grunting. He tries to get the struggling horse to move forward, to get himself

in range. Rising to her feet, Starling starts to run toward the cover of the storehouse. Harlow aims and fires. The shot goes wide, striking the corner of the building and blasting off a chunk of Adobe. Starling screams and turns, tripping on her dress, scrambling up again and running south. Brava bucks and snorts. Harlow leans over her neck, greeting his teeth. There's nowhere to go, Starling. He roars, watching as she we, leaves left to run along the southern cliff edge. Harlow straightens up. She's probably headed to the phone in the kitchens, hoping to call for help.

Too bad Harlow had cut the wires this morning. Clicking his tongue, he gets Brava trotting forward again, heading north and east through the green eye to cut Sterling off at the overlook. As he rides onto the lawn, pumpkins exploding under the horse's hooves, the yurts are burning like a ring of bonfires. Men and women dash about, some filling buckets from the central pool to fight the flames, others dragging out their burning possessions. And in the center of the chaos,

standing in the pool's water with her thin arms lifted in the whites of her eyes glowing, fiery red, Shiloh calls out in her ringing voice. Hark! For the age of dark miracles has begun! The waters gather in the deep, all praises be! Harlow rides on. A woman snatches a crying child out of his path, just as Brava charges by.

Breaking through the ring of fire, he relaxes his legs, and the horse slows to a trot, moving across the sandy ground, toward the overlook, where the world drops away. Starling is silhouetted against the purple night, stumbling along the edge, hands clutching her middle, her dress torn and dragging. Thanks, girl, Harlow says to his horse, releasing her mane and batting her neck. Brava comes to a jittery stop, ears flinching.

Harlow swings down, landing with his weight on his right foot. The heat of the fires is sharp on his back. But the night air is cool on his sweat-soaked chest as he limps forward, rifle held casually in front of him. You can stop now, Starling. She does, and stands, perched and the center of the overlook, bent and swaying. Harlow comes to a stop 20 feet from her. She turns to him. Her eyes burn with exhaustion.

Her mouth hangs open. Her skin is as white as her dress, streaked with dust and blood, and her hair is wind-swept and disheveled. Harlow tilts his head. You know, your little empire of lies up here had a lot of clever features. I'll want a fresh start for my rule, of course. But that doesn't mean I didn't learn a lot from you. And you and I, what we had, it was special, while it lasted.

She closes her eyes, exhaling. Fuck you, Jack! He grins. It isn't all personal if that helps. There is ancient power at work here, Starling. And you were nothing without that trinket, just a dictator in a story of gods and prophecies. You never really had a chance. Starling straightens, wiping her hair from her face.

You want a goddamn prophecy? Well, I got one for you. She purses her lips, then spits on the ground. You will be far worse than I ever was. A tyrant unchecked. Remember, I've seen the darkness in your heart. I've seen it. And I fell in love with you anyway.

What does that say about me? Hey, Jack? Harlow's grin wavers, then stretches. It's Harlow, didn't you hear? She shakes her head, swallowing dryly. No, on the mesa, we choose our names, and you chose Jack. She sighs, turning her tired eyes to look upon the flaming ruins of her kingdom, her home. Did I ever tell you how I first found.

on the Holy Mesa? It should have been impossible. Mama didn't leave a note or any clues. I didn't know where to start. But then I started having this dream. I dreamed that I looked up and saw a great pavilion of red stone. And there, framed in dusky light, stood a bride and a bridegroom hand in hand,

with wedding rice, raining down on their shoulders, and a circle of people stood around them, cheering in undying love and devotion like a proper family. I saw that in my dream, and the dream led me here. She sniffs. I always thought I would be that bride, but of course it was only ever a foolish, girlish fantasy. Harlow exhales impatiently, and snapping back the rifle's bolt,

he glances into the magazine. One last bullet glints per person. in the moonlight. He slaps the bolt forward. She looks back at him. Killing me will be easy for you, Jack. I know that. But what about this? Does this truly mean nothing to you? Her hands slide over the contours of her middle, stretching the tattered dress across her pregnant stomach. Does our son mean nothing to you? Yes, it's a boy, Jack. I know it is. I always know he is due in the New Year. So tell me, look at me and say it. Say that it does not matter.

Harlow looks down at her stomach, then back up at her face. He shrugs. If I ever want a kid with your eyes, Starling, he says, adjusting his stance and raising the rifle. I'll just fuck Ren. Starling flinches. Voices cry out as Harlow's finger finds the trigger. There is movement to his left and right. Starling inhales sharply, her eyes darting to look behind him.

Harlow cocks an eyebrow and turns. The Mesa Folk are rushing southward, fleeing from the worst of the fires. They hold each other upright as they run, or carry the injured on their backs. As they come near, seeing Harlow with the rifle and Starling by the cliff, they stop and stare and hide children behind their legs. Harlow looks back at Starling. There is a glimmer of hope in her expression now. It's almost enough to make him laugh.

So is this it then? Starling shouts. Arise on Harlow. even as she projects the speech to the gathering crowd. This is how you begin your story as righteous leader of the holy mesa by murdering the unarmed mother of your unborn child? That doesn't sound very heroic now, does it? She holds her head high in defiance,

her gold and silver hair loose in the wind, hands cradling the new life growing within her. Around them, the survivors of the night's destruction watch on, clustered in a curved line. Harlow chuckles. You still don't get it, sweetheart. He takes a step closer, drumming his fingers on the rifle stock. Whoever said that I was the hero in this story?

Starling does not answer, but gazes back at him. An audible shudder moves through the crowd, like an anxious breeze. Then a man's frightened voice calls out. Wait! What's all this? Why would... No, no, no, no! Phoenix emerges from the line, swiping aside that.

hands that reach to stop him. He stumbles forward, his hands trembling, his knee shaking. They have removed his poncho, and his robe is burned and sweaty, and stained with blood all down the back. He looks at Starling, then at Harlow. What are you doing? Don't hurt her. Harlow stiffens. Get out of the way, Phoenix. Phoenix! His brother repeats, blinking. Phoenix, Phoenix, and... He gazes into Harlow's face. I know you. you. Ah, Harlow! Harlow! Harlow! Harlow! An icy frost settles in Harlow's guts. He takes a breath, in and out, then nods. Yeah. A gentle smile flashes over Phoenix's face. Then he blinks down at the rifle.

But why do you have that? Before Harlow can answer, Starling shouts out. He's going to kill me! He's going to kill me, Phoenix! You have to stop him! Phoenix swings his head to gawk at her, then staggers in her direction. Wait! Harlow hisses, raising the gun, faltering, cursing. Starling snatches Phoenix by the wrist as he reaches her, tugs him close, and crouches behind him, her hands tied on his robe. Phoenix begins to tremble. What is hap?

Harlow? I don't like this. Ugh, fuck you, Starling! Harlow grunts, squinting down the barrel of the rifle, as the people at his back gasp and whisper. Starling is whispering too, whispering breathlessly to her human shield. He, yes, Phoenix pants, nodding frantically. I am frightened. Tell him.

I, I'm frightened, Harlow. I don't like it here. I want to go. Can we do that, please? Can we just go? Harlow looks into his brother's eyes. His rifle's aim begins to falter. The barrel starts to dip.

Then from behind the watching crowd, Brava lets out a shrill wine. Starling's face peaks around Phoenix aside, looking north. Harlow sees her expression change, her whole body begins to shake, and then she screams. A sound of abject terror, torn from her throat. Behind him, others take up the scream, voice after voice, rising and ear-splitting howls. Harlow doesn't scream. He feels no fear. Lowering the rifle, he turns around.

The crowd has parted. The people are scrambling off to either side. Some have their hands over their eyes, others. Others cannot look away. Harlow watches as the hallowed corpse approaches. She marches stoically across the stony ground. Through the smoke and embers in the air, her cadaverous form twinkling with tiny tongues of fire.

She holds the turquoise mask before her in her emaciated hands, and sucking in a breath of night air, she moans. You dropped this, my darling. Honey fingers pry themselves apart on the edge of the mask, As she spreads her arms, the mask hovers in place, unaffected by the wind or gravity. For a moment, Harlow stands and stares, and then, in his mind, just like he had done in the museum that first time, he accepts the turquoise mask as his own, envisioning the reality that it is in his power. It is not an act of faith or belief, but of knowledge, the true and perfect conviction of the mind,

more real than reality. His eyelids twitch, and the mask obeys, flipping as it flies toward him. It locks in place before him, not on Harlow's face, but floating in the air an inch away, radiating a delicious cold energy across his skin. He tilts his head left and right, and the mask moves with him, a hovering servant. And what Harlow sees through the eye holes, it is more. A jewel-bright universe, dazzling. So many shades of mottled green and dappled shadows.

He sees the mesa beneath his feet, its structure, its energy, its past, and its future, and its many underground caves and lakes and veins of gold, all the way to the mighty crystals at its foundation. He sees the people standing around him, their outlines, the fire in their eyes and in their souls. He sees the sky above, slashed by drifting currents of magnetism, and beyond the atmosphere, a trillion stars. I can't believe it, he breathes. Is this pure, pure unclouded vision?

It is my vision. Harlow turns to look at her, and his heart breaks. The sacred lady of the mesa is perfection. He sees her clearly in both her perfect forms. She is a corpse, shriveled and delicate, comforting in her coldness, ravishing and ruinous. And she is a creature of light, young and beautiful, full-figured, raven-haired, with terracotta skin and eyes of bronze. She smiles at him.

This shamanic princess of the ancient world, and jade light shines out from her ghostly skin. In the center of her being, he sees the copper rose as a ball of milky fire nestled in her womb like the seed, or the spore of a new world. The lady is death, and the lady is life. I've been waiting for you, Harlow says. And I, for you, you are just as I dreamed you. She steps lightly toward him, a glowing. goddess. Are you ready, ready to fulfill that witch I began so long ago? I don't even know what it is you want me to do. Can you, can you show me, lady, so that I can understand where this path

is leading? I can't. She reaches up with one hand and sets her cold fingers gently on the side of his head. Behind his mask, Arlo blinks. The lady remains before him, but the others, The fires, the night, it's all gone. They stand alone atop the holy mesa, and the day is gray and foggy. Harlow looks around and glimpses the pointed top of a dark pyramid, sticking up from the mist where the green eye should be. Then comes a distant rumble at his back, and turning, Harlow approaches the cliff. Leaning forward, he squints at the distant horizon.

Something is coming, rising up, like snow-capped mountains. No, not mountains. Waves! White-capped waves, stretched from east to west, surging forward. An angry ocean rolls across the plains, erasing all in its path, trees, stones, hills, cities, until it crashes against the mesa with a booming, skyward splash, and the raging waters flow around them to either side. Harlow stands on the edge, paralyzed.

The flood is as deep as the mesa is tall. Every sort of detritus can be glimpsed upon the waves. Houses, cars, trains, garbage bins, televisions, mattresses, art, and instruments, and crucifixes. And there are bodies, millions of bodies, billions, men and women and children and infants. They are naked, bloated, and discolored. He gasps and jerks around to face her. Then, this was never about saving the world. You want to end it.

To destroy everyone, everything. She nods her head, down and up, in a delicate bow. Yes. And I am meant to be the architect of your apocalypse. Yes. Harlow looks back at the drowned plains, at the drowned world. This universe has always been a cruel and uncaring wilderness, so full of pain. You know this.

We must drown that will. that we might pull the weeds up by the roots. Only then can a garden be planted. She walks up to Harlow's side, gazing out at the cataclysmic view. The new can only begin with the death of the old. She spreads her hands. We will create a new world, you and I, a world of light and harmony and perfect order. He blinks.

and the mesa changes again. It has become a pillar of white marble, beneath the sky of gold. Below them, the plains are of dazzling diamond, and spread out in rings as far as he can see. Legion upon legion of distant gray figures kneel in supplication, raising their ghostly voices in a song of eternal praise. Every head is bowed, bowed to the holy mesa, bowed to the sacred lady, and to Harlow, whose flesh now gleams with rainbow jewels,

and who feels the power of a god surging through his every vein. Holy shit! He takes a step back from the edge, and reaching up, pulls off his mask. The night returns, full of smoke and wind. Harlow's heart hammers in his chest. He turns in place, blinking. They are all, still there. The folk of the mesa, watching, waiting.

Galaxy, coated in blood, and cadence, her hands balled up in her sleeves, the turquoise medallion dangling at her side. There's Wren, hugging her arms tightly around her chest, and Shiloh, smiling sweetly with her eyes half-closed, and there by the cliff, Phoenix and Starling. And? Harlow swallows, then turns back to the green corpse standing beside him, so gaunt and ghoulish. What about all of them? The corpse inhales the wind through her open ribs and groans.

Some will be useful. the early days, but they will be washed away when the waves come. As for those closest to you, she aims her empty eyes to the pair at the ledge. The false prophet, the counterfeit queen, don't you see? They are but a shadowy semblance of us, placeholders. Surrogates have missed. Harlow mumbles, finally starting to understand. The lady's vision, was strong, so strong that when the vital roles she had conceived were not yet filled, others had been pulled in to hold their place, to keep the Mesa going, to keep the plan alive. And their purpose has now been served.

Harlow meets his brother's eyes, so haunted, lost, and pleading. Then he looks at Starlings' pale, trembling hand where it clings to Phoenix's robe. You must turn your thoughts to the future. Harlow dips his head, contemplating the mask in his left hand, then the rifle in his right. And know this, my banyan ship, you've always been the plan. My form was etched in the very beginning. Harlow looks up at her face again in its fleshy form, the leathery skin, the loose jaw, the roasted fungus in her eye sockets. You need me, don't you? he says to the corpse. because your mind, your vision is stronger than ever,

but your connection to the material world is fading, crumbling, almost gone. He nods to himself. Yes, you need me, O lady of the mesa, to be your mouth and speak the words of your prophecy, and be your hands and build that witch is needed to fulfill your vision. That is why I am. Isn't that right? The corpse stands before him, wrapped in the wind and the sparks.

Yes. So then, what happens if I were to? He tilts the rifle casually, aiming it between her eyes. Fire a bullet into that skull of yours and blast your bones to dust. What would happen to you then? I would be untethered. A lost vision set adrift in the great eternal dream. Harlow limps slowly backwards, lowering the gun.

He stands there, listening to the wind, to the crackling flames, to his own heart. What's going on? Asks a voice from the crowd. What is the hallowed corpse saying to you? She says that he must make a choice. Answer Shiloh. A choice to decide the fate of all things. Harlow turns to his niece, cracking a smile.

Smart kid. Well, asks the hallowed corpse. What is your decision? Harlow scans the faces in the crowd, and his black eyes burn in the night, joyous and wild, while the corners of his mouth twitch. The turquoise mask flies from his hand

and back onto his face as he spins, raising the rifle. Please don't! Sobs Wren. Harlow shoots, the bullet hits Phoenix in the chest and knocks him backward into star. Their bodies fall from the ledge, down into darkness.

As the thunderous gunshot rolls out across the plains, Harlow lowers the smoking rifle. He breathes in deep through his nose, inhaling the sharp scent of the gunpowder through the mask's gaping nostrils, filling his lungs with it, filling his soul. Dropping the weapon into the dirt, he walks to the luminous bride that is waiting for him. Through the eye holes of his turquoise mask, her radiant face smiles warmly. She reaches out a hand, he takes it and squeezes, feeling its shrivelled bones cold against his skin. They gaze into each other's eyes, then turn as one to face the watching crowd, with the cliff

at their back and embers raining all around them. From the group, one figure steps forward and falls to his knees. All hail! Galaxy shouts, jubilant and proud. The sacred lady of the Mesa! May her blessed vision come to pass! May her rule be eternal! Shiloh steps out from the line and kneels beside Galaxy.

Then Cadence, the medallion clutched in her shaking hands, then Bash. For she is the self-begotten goddess. She is our river, our path, our unified vision! Men, women, children. They drift forward, their eyes frozen wide, transfixed, some by awe, some by savage devotion, some by terror. They sink to their knees in the dust as cinders swirl in the air around them. Soon, only Wren remained standing, slowly shaking her head as she backs away into the shadows.

Behind the worshippers, Brava stamps her hooves into the dry earth, tossing her mane as she neighes. Galaxy raises his face to the sacred couple, and smiling proudly through his tears, he proclaims, in a loud voice, And all him, champion of the holy mesa, the one, the true, prophet of the hallowed corpse. Their second-hand camper van bounces along the dirt road, engine sputtering. The landscape outside is cloudy with dust, through which the rolling hills and dry scattered trees look swirled and blurred, like an oil-painted dream. And still no service. The driver drops his phone into his lap and shakes his head.

I told you we get lost, babe. In the passenger seat, his girlfriend laughs. Relax, babe, we're not lost. She adjusts the lens of the digital camera hanging around her neck. Road behind us, road ahead of us. That's where we are. It's life like, like a metaphor or whatever. The driver rolls his eyes and cranks up the music,

hoping to drown out the worrying sounds of the engine. He maneuvers the van over a narrow bridge, then turns as the road snakes west and fixes his eyes dead ahead, where a high plateau reaches up from the dust. They drive toward the mesa, passing by the rusted skeleton of a pickup truck in a clump of junipers, and then... Okay, what the fuck is this?

Along the road on either side, dozens of wooden stakes have been erected to hold up. What are they? Severed heads? No, just masks. Weird masks of every shape and size. The sun-bleached faces of dolls, aliens, and animals of every sort, caked in years of windswept dirt.

Whoa, so sinister. I love it. She jabs him in the arm, then raises her camera to snap a pick. See, told you getting lost would be an adventure. As they pass by the last of the mounted masks, and the road approaches the foot of the mesa, the driver slows down and switches off the music, staring in wonder at the scene before them. A makeshift parking lot on the left is crowded with dusty vehicles.

There's even an old tour bus. A sheriff's car is parked at the end of the lot, and a tall man in uniform stands outside it, staring up from under a wide-rimmed hat at the mesa. To the right, workers at a roadside stand sell fresh produce and trinkets at a pair of tables, and dozens of people drift about, smiling blankly. Well, aren't you going to pull over? We're in the middle of fucking nowhere.

What is all this? A festival or something? Let's find out. He parks the camper van. Then the couple walk hand in hand to the nearest table. Ah, yes! Calls out a young woman's voice. He's said to be expecting you two. A pair of love-struck rebels,

with light in their eyes and fire in their hearts. Welcome! The couple exchange a look, holding in their laughter. What are you talking to us? The man asks the tall teenage girl, across the table. She nods solemnly. The teenager is completely bald, and her eyes are half closed, showing only their whites. Oh yes, his turquoise vision sees you from afar, and then the mesa guides you here. Right. And who is this? He. Why, the prophet, of course. The young

woman turns in her seat, and though they're pretty sure that she's blind, she raises a hand to point at the top of the mesa. The couple shield their eyes and gaze up, but it's too far to make out anything but a distant clump of silhouettes, standing on the cliff edge high above. What they can see clearly is part of a large construction crane, rising over the ledge, swinging in a slow arc, as it lowers a massive steel beam somewhere beyond their line of vision. What are they building up there? The future. She swivels her blind eyes to them. And now you two must join us. There is much work to be done.

So come, come and see the sacred plan for yourselves. The man chuckles, but his girlfriend is silent. Raising her camera, she aims at the figures on the cliff, twists the lens's zoom ring, and takes a photo. You seriously want us to go up there? The man asks, but the blind girl has already turned to greet someone else. Huh, trippy. Well, babe, what do you think?

Should we check it out and see what these crazies are up to? For a moment, his girlfriend is silent, staring at her camera's display screen. The subjects in the image still appear small, so she hits the digital zoom again and again, so that the figures grow in blocky pixels. Babe, look at this. They squeeze together, squinting at the display. In the blurry image, a dozen children are grouped around the central figure of a man. man. The man wears jeans and has one thumb hooked behind a shiny belt buckle at his waist.

He has on a poncho, flowing sideways in the wind, and his face is hidden in some sort of green mask with two jet black horns at its top. What's his deal, do you think? No idea. She takes in a shaky breath, then grins wickedly. But I'd love to find out. He grins back and grabs her by the hand. They jog around the tables and join the line that is forming there. Sunburned hitchhikers, families on holiday, curious locals, all laughing nervously. A handsome man rides up on horseback.

His dark hair is tied in two long braids, and his bare torso and arms are covered in tattoos of planets and stars. He wheels the horse around and beckoning to the group to follow, he guides away from the road, weaving through boulders and cactuses, circling the mesa to its western rim. As they begin their ascent up the dusty, winding path to the maces top, the sun slips behind a veil of gray-blue cloud. Shadows deepen, and the desert air grows cool and damp. A storm approaches, its arrival heralded by the primal scent of coming rain, and the growling breath of distant thunder.