O woe! For that endless war that in the end claims all lives all at once, that all is lost or, at most, the best of the rest beats a retreat with pockets out-turned, and those fine-feathered friends, those fine, feathered friends, looking for the answer they held in their hands at all times, walked all the way to the center of the world—their world—only to try dying and find dying trying! A too-high stack of double corpses—who's gonna go through and call that lucky? Oh, well, whatever—

Oh! Sorry 'bout that. I got distracted by something in the window.

So anyway, this chapter goes like this:

“Well,” said the Blood Onyx of Zykluur, “you've found me.”

Setting the scene. In a vast place of shadow—or a place of vast shadow, either's fine—here we have Traycup, wrapped in darkness, wreathed in shade, packed in a shipping crate effused with an eternal abyss—so, it was dark, is what. He stood or sat or clung upsidedownward from an unseeable ceiling—he himself knew not his status, for the darkness was as good as complete, and half as troublesome. The voice of the Blood Onyx of Zykluur came to him from the deep darkness—not in a mysterious way, not like “it was coming from everywhere and nowhere at once,” or whatever. It sounded like it was... right over there, on the leftish, down a little. Was that down?

“Well! If it's not that ol' wayward gemst'ne!” said Traycup. “Why, the commissar'll be mightily pleased at last! We can get the butter needed to have a letter sent. The only pity's that I'v'n't the letter n'more—but it's a pit of no depth, t'be sure!”

The shadows were moving all about him, a sea of darkness rising and falling in waves, a darkness atop darker darkness, swirling shadows marching every which way—but there was no sense of an emptiness, no feeling of a void. This was a darkness populated, heavy with malice and infinite shadows hiding endless threats in every direction, all of which were one and the same—there was no sense of up or down, and nor of size, or space, or time.

“Nice place y've here,” said Traycup. “D'you rent?”

“This,” said the Blood Onyx of Zykluur, “is nowhere. The only place for me. The only place I want to be. You came looking for me, and I didn't want to be found, and I hid, and then came your scrabbly hands, clawing hands, greasy, filthy hands, come grabbing, searching—finding. Couldn't have you go and say, no, not say where I was hid at, go on and tell everyone, go on and tell stories, no. So, I took you. Took you inside, with me. Took you here. Took you nowhere.”

“You'dn't wish for finding,” said Traycup with a laugh. “Non'th'less, you're thoroughly found now! It's me that's done the finding, too.”

“Oh, yes, yes, you've found me—you've found me, and you've lost you. You've found me, yes. So, where am I? Go on, say it, do—where am I?”

Traycup pointed at where the voice was coming from—right over there, on the leftish, down a little. “Well, there it's.”

A shadow seemed to move behind or into or through another shadow. The Blood Onyx of Zykluur began to laugh, the sound echoing from right over there, on the left, down some. “Yes, there! That's where, indeed, that's where I am. Now—where's that?”

“As established,” said Traycup, surely sure of his self, “right over there, on the left, and down some!” Traycup could solve nearly half of the Where's Waldo pages in less than a plethora of weekends, so his findment skills were definitely without equal.

“And where's you?” chided the Blood Onyx of Zykluur. “Oh, where's you, you've got such surety you've found anything, you're not nowhere no more, no, you've gone and gotten lost, all lost and good and gone! No, no, you've found only the best place to get lost, yes, so go on, get comfortable, yes, you've got nothing but time here—for there's no time—no ticking clock, no countdown, no deadline. We only have this endless moment of now.”

“Now, one moment's enough,” said Traycup, “to get friended nicely! So let's put aside pitter-patter and get some manner of bridges built! There's a wide gulf 'twixt me and thee and it'll do t'see it spanned!” He put on his best friendship pants and waved to passingfolk. “Say?”

“No,” said the Blood Onyx of Zykluur. “In flight I found solace, peace, silence, then you put your presence here to disenchant me, no, no—you can be friendless here.”

“Alas,” said Traycup, “who'm I to play Battleship 'gainst, then, with no fair 'ponent? Ah!” He realized his grave faux pas only after uttering it, which is what made it a faux pas and not just, y'know, a thought gone unsaid. “I'll take some happiness in teaching the game at you, if 'tis your first time.”

“You will not know joy here,” said the Blood Onyx of Zykluur.

“Fearn't for my sake,” said Traycup, “for the memory's recallable 'til I'm enexited!”

“Fear? No, no, I have no fear,” said the Blood Onyx of Zykluur. “You will have time enough here to forget everything. You will have time enough here to lose your own name, your own quest, and all things you held dear. You will linger on in the darkness of this dead and dying ocean until you have nothing left—and then linger ever on until you are the darkness.” The Blood Onyx of Zykluur was, clearly, very spooky.

Traycup checked his watch, or tried to—in the darkness of sight he couldn't make out its face, and, what's more, in the darkness of feeling he couldn't tell if he was even moving his armish part into that position at all. He supposed he must be. He wanted to, after all, so why wouldn't he have? He came to think that he was falling, but without a wind to hurtle through, and no ground to put undue halting to his motion. He made his shape like an enchaired person, and, if he had bones, untied them.

“Seems you've a long day planned,” said Traycup. “Let's pencil in a brunch break—or a lunch lake—or a munch make?”

“Speak no more, Finder,” said the Blood Onyx of Zykluur. “Now I will leave you lost, lost and alone, and let you be here in this spot forever and ever, for evermore, for the whole of this long and endless moment. Stay here, kin to darkness, forgotten, disappeared.” Now the Blood Onyx of Zykluur began to chortle darkly—duh—and its voice became faint and distant, and it receded away to the left and down, until Traycup was all alone, with only darkness to keep him company.

“Alas for missed friendship,” said Traycup only to himself and certainly no other secret nearby listeners, “but I s'pose there's the next time.”

Then he became quiet, and all was dark and still.

Ben Garment, Lorenzo—who was still a bee—and Jockey Bradish had spent a few months, or possibly a few minutes, wandering around a land of nice meadows and woods and such, unbothered by wild cities or noisy parties, cackling witches or obtuse lawyers, and this was all well and good in and of itself, but they were significantly disconnected from the completion of their quests, and this grew increasingly dire to them. Having composed themselves since their crash landing, they now turned their thoughts to their old friendages in need; Roby Lopkit, who they left in the giant's safe, somewhere far away, still in the realm of witches and cities; and good old Traycup, who at the last checkpoint Ben Garment had seen whisked away in entrapment by some beautiful lady—and in this place of rolling hills and shady forests and babbling brooks, Jockey realized that none of those things were found at all.

“I've got it!” she said. “We're—somewhere else!” She congratulated herself on her research and waited for others to do likewise, but the Nobel committee wasn't meeting until next millennium.

“Let's find the path of our coming,” said Lorenzo. “I've a mind to contract a burly courtesan to lay a road for us, from here to there, that we might return whence we came with haste. Alas, behold!” He showed them his cell phone—no bars.

“The legful house,” said Ben Garment, “took quite a spill, and even now does it lie on the land in its pieces. If we just trace the femur fragment trail, we'll find our way back to it's standing spot in no time or so, and from there, the safe housing young Roby ought be spottable.”

“That's a fine plan,” said Lorenzo, who thought it was a fine plan, “so long as we don't come across a vengeful opponent. Have we any?”

Ben Garment and Jockey Bradish looked away and shifted their feet shyly, remembering their rival-soaked high school days—days long past in Ben Garment's case, and days yet to come in Jockey's. Lorenzo didn't romanticize his memories, for he had no feet. He sighed and sized a walnut.

“Poor choice of words,” said Lorenzo. “Never it mind. Now, returning to a solid state—before we depart, we must collect vital supplies. Here—Jockey, take this jug, and find a stream to fill it with fresh water. And you, Ben Garment, take this great basket, and fill it with the fruits that this land yields, that we will have food for our journey.”

“We could eat the basket,” said Jockey the idea-haver.

“We will if Ben can't find us some berries,” said Lorenzo.

With that eager daydream in mind, Jockey went down the hill and found a normal stream in the shade of many tall trees which she noted as oak—actually they were conifers, the mortal enemies of the deciduous clan, but a good guess all the same—and at the stream a deer was getting a drink of water. Jockey said to the deer, “Hey! Dear deer! Don't flinch from this coming proposal—keep your hooves to yourself!” It was rude to speak English to a deer in those days, and this one was especially sensitive, so it became replete with angerousness and drank the entire stream and ran away—or, that was its plan, but it became so plumply bloated from drinking that much water that it just sort of... rolled around like a waterbed mattress, or bladder, or whatever you call that part. It moved like tank treads, its bottom staying put and its one side lifting as the other drooped, the mass of its innards pushing against the side to compel motion. Hypnotic and eerie, but not a swift method of travel for a real, natural deer, and Jockey caught it on the third or fourth try, putting any who doubted her capabilities to shame. Jockey slid the entire deer into the jug, and left the jug out in the sun to ferment and become deer wine, which wasn't water, and wasn't even mostly water, but was probably close enough, hopefully.

Meanwhile, Ben Garment got up to some silly antics, too. Let me think. ...let's, uh... let's say he found some trees that bore big red fruits, some kind of pasta, he suspected—tree identification was an iconoclastic hobby throughout Paltropisburg, and our heroes were not the type of nerd who indulged in such deviant ways, so don't be too harsh on them for not knowing bark from bite. Anyway, it turned out that the trees were not inclined to share their bounty with him. They folded their arms, upturned their noses, and sang a long and somber chant meant to touch Ben Garment in the very soul—it did, but Ben Garment's focus was so great that he could be used to light ants on fire for no reason, and so he was moved—but not to inaction. “If I'm to have the pasta,” said Ben Garment in his sleeve, “what's the game to be?” The trees saw his determino and offered Ben Garment an arm-wrestling contest, and Ben Garment, not seeing the ruse, accepted. The trees won easily—obviously—and Ben Garment was ashamed, but he declared a double-or-nothing bet on a game of cards. The trees took up the offered game and dealt themselves a straight—a royal flush would've been showing off—but Ben Garment had a peck of business cards. Astonished, the trees admitted defeat—their noble hearts opting to be the bigger men here—and they gave Ben Garment all their “pasta,” which was actually poisonous, but that's our secret.

Lorenzo, back at camp, built a campfire. That's what one does when they're making camp. He found a lot of fallen twigs and leaves—stuff already thrown away, so the trees wouldn't get upset; Lorenzo knew how and when to deal with trees on their own terms—and he built a nice big campfire that put all its smoke into the air, so Jockey and Ben Garment would be able to tell where the camp was. Lorenzo had given them up for lost as soon as they were out of sight, knowing they had left no breadcrumbs to find the return path, and for good measure he also put a boombox on top of a stepladder and blasted the top jams of the Eighties so as to attract them. In ten days, give or take about ten days, Ben Garment and Jockey returned to camp and displayed their spoils.

“That'll do,” said Lorenzo, assuming it would do.

And so, all odds ended and loose ends lost, the trio began their long hike from those great, wild lands, and pretty soon found the fallen legs of the house, legs that had been made of a thousand femurs and a thousand knees, legs which, in retrospect, probably should have never worked—well, they hadn't worked, that's why they were all in this pickle, anyway. They trusted the road of bones to lead them back to their good ol' pal Roby, and were off.

All right, so, I guess I'll do a Roby scene. This chapter needs a little more meat, anyway.

So, Roby was still on the train, and was working on a plan to get it to stop so she could unembark from it, and most of that plan revolved around finding something tall to stand on so she could reach the emergency stop cord. Failing that, she could just jump out the window when they passed by a river—if she could find something medium to stand on so she could reach the window. None of these were good ideas, however, so she settled on moving one car up from where Mobile the skeleton was sitting, and settling down there.

Now, each car on the train was legally its own municipality, and each had their own rules and regulations, and the rules of the next car were very simple: Rule Number One: no turkey allowed on Tuesdays, and Rule Number Two: success is impossible. Roby didn't know this, even though there was a sign posted—though it didn't really count because someone put one of those “We Buy Ugly Houses” stickers over it, but the police wouldn't buy that excuse.

When Roby opened the door to the car, there was Billiam Supermotor, dressed in foolscap, ready with the paperwork, and he ushered her in swiftly and thrust forms in her direction.

“Sign here, here, here, and initial here, if you please!” said Billiam very, very quickly.

“Why,” said Roby, “this is a rushing, so please try some shushing! First there must be a reading by me to see if I see through this legalese—so if you can wait I will not hesitate to sift through this plate ere I sign off my fate!”

“Nuts to that!” said Billiam, so he forged her signature with the help of Pogosalt the blacksmith. Then all the alarms went off and Roby was arrested for violating Rule Number One and Rule Number Two, and brought before the judge, jury, and executioners. Billiam stayed by her side and said, “Don't worry, I play public defense in a local theater group! I'll handle your case free of charge, just like an electron.”

Roby put on the orange jumpsuit of a prisoner and made herself comfy in the 'lectric chair—not that they were setting up to execute her just yet, it's just that that was the most comfortable chair in the place, and the jumpsuit was new and clean and might have pockets. If it had pockets, it might have—

“Order in the court!” said Judge Rommmmp, banging a gavel and wearing a wig and wondering when and how it had all gone awry—and how to unwry it. These were questions without answers, however, and it was useless to speculate about it, but, unreliable narrator and all, I guess there was no way he'd know that.

“We find the defendant guilty!” said the jury. “All right, we'll take our checks now.” They began putting on their hats and coats.

“Hang on,” said Judge Rommmmp, “we need to do closing arguments, at least.” The jury furiously threw their hats and coats into the furnace. Would this trial never end?

“Ladies and gentlemen of the nearly unbribeable jury,” said Billiam, “if you will look at my client, you will note that she's ugly as sin, and therefore in no way could have violated Rule Number Two.”

“Hold on,” said Judge Rommmmp, “that's a little narrow-minded. There's more to life than beauty!”

“That so?” said Billiam. He smirked. He sneered. He owed more than ten thousand buckaroos in child support. “Hang on, would you? I'm going to make a call—your bluff!” Billiam ran to the telegraph and dove under the covers and quickly hammered out a message. He slurped loudly at a juice box and waited four years for the reply. He read it and smirked again, sneered again, and owed more than twenty thousand buckaroos in child support. He rushed back courtroomward.

“Well, Y'r Honor, I went and checked, and, sorry—there isn't. It's beauty or bust.”

“And your client's got neither,” said Judge Rommmmp. “Well, that's a damn shame. Looks like I lost a bet—Murph's gonna take my toe!” Chuckling, the noble judge covertly sold his gavel to a collector. He didn't get much for it, but he did get rid of that damn gavel at last. “Anyway,” Judge Rommmmp said, “that still leaves Rule Number One! Can you demonstrate that she doesn't eat turkey on Tuesdays?”

“Easily!” said Billiam. “Behold!”

Billiam gestured to Roby, who was chowing down on a big turkey sandwich. She deer-in-headlightsed and said something which was obscured by spraying poultry but which probably rhymed anyway. Just assume it did, it always does.

“As you can all see,” Billiam went on, “today is Thursday.”

“Airtight,” said the jury, clucking their tongues. “Looks like we're left with no choice. Confound it all, you'll get your verdict! So, we, the peerless jury, find the defendant innocent of all charges!”

“So be it!” said Judge Rommmmp, and he reached for his gavel on instinct. Sorrow overwhelmed him. Weeping, he closed his hand on nothing, and pounded the gavel receivement device with his soft, unused fist. “The penalty for innocence is death!” he declared. “Prepare the band saw, band camp, and banned camp!”

“Well,” said Roby, daintily dabbing her mouth with a handkerchief, as one does when one is theatrically finished eating—which she never truly was—“this has been some fun, and now it is done, and so I will up and run! Thank you for the meal, which I finished with zeal, and this fine new suit that makes me look cute! I am called uptrain so I must abstain from deigning to remain in your domain, and please do not yell at me about your whole penalty lest it be the death of me ere I finish my sightseeing!” With that, she sprang from the 'lectric chair and shuffled across the courtroom to the door over there, and went out, to the next train car up.

Ten years passed, and then Billiam said, “So... do we chase her, or what?”

“Nah,” said Judge Rommmmp. “We gotta make the bed we lay in. Our own fault for not executing her ahead of time.”

“All right,” said Billiam, “we've got to execute someone, though.”

“Oh, very well,” said Judge Rommmmp. “Call the orphan dealer and get a case delivered!”

The jury said, “This is no time to break for lunch!”

For Roby, the danger had passed, and more danger lay ahead. Or maybe it was all going to turn out okay, who knows. Probably neither, really. Things happen and they never matter.