“He-Thing.”

He-Thing stirs, lost in dreams,

but the voice is merciless.

“He-Thing!”

He-Thing wakes.

He is a boy, only seven,

he sees night around him,

feels pain twisting his body,

his right arm is bound.

He-Thing recognizes the voice,

a merciless voice,

his Teacher’s voice,

Zolantos’s voice.

The wiry, surprisingly strong

cripple

sits upon a tree stump,

peering at the young He-Thing

with his empty eye sockets —

though blind,

Zolantos possesses the second sight

of Cosmic Paranoia.

His bald, brown head

shines in the moonlight,

his long, intricately combed sideburns

fall to his chest,

his infamous cane stands at his side.

“If the petulant pebble of your mind

was capable of education,”

Zolantos spits in disgust,

“You would not be suffering

as you are now.”

They are in the Laser Deserts of Kom.

Zolantos and his student, He-Thing,

are camped on the outskirts

of the accursed ruins

of the city of ninjas,

Neo-Zeed.

“I fell?” He-Thing asks his Teacher,

remembering the tower of rubble.

“Undoubtedly,” speaks Zolantos,

“As I warned you would.

Do you think the pain

in your shattered arm sorcery?

Come, drink this tea,

it will fight the demons

that invade your blood now.”

He-Thing climbs to his feet,

and sits on the stump

next to Zolantos,

taking the hot tin of tea

in his remaining hand.

The tea is foul,

inspiring imaginings of retching

that He-Thing,

before now,

considered impossible,

but he drinks nonetheless,

ever in fear of his Teacher’s cane,

which Zolantos now takes

in his left hand

as he rises to his feet,

approaching He-Thing

with something

in his right hand.

He-Thing,

in fear,

and with hot, putrid

tea in his mouth,

flinches, spitting.

But Zolantos only

drops something

into He-Thing’s lap —

square, white,

it flutters

and lands

on He-Thing’s quivering thighs.

Zolantos shouts,

“I told you to take nothing

from the accursed ruins!”

Yes,

He-Thing disobeyed,

was alone for the most fateful,

thrilling moment,

and the artifact

lay in a drawer of a cabinet,

which he pulled open

with terrified glee.

It was pale white, square,

as thin as a strand of hair,

light as air.

He-Thing asked himself,

What possible use

could such a thing have had?

Or was it some bauble,

some treasure,

handed in thrilled anxiety

to lovers and children?

“Now we must deal with that

cursed magic,”

speaks Zolantos,

running his fingers

through his sideburns,

“Finish your tea. Go fetch your lantern.”

He-Thing gulps the rest of the tea,

and scurries to the side of the camp

where their Fearwolves

sleep guardedly.

He-Thing unearths his lantern

from his saddle

sitting next to War Dog,

and takes a moment

to run his fingers

through her dazing fur.

“Good,” speaks Zolantos,

when He-Thing returns.

“Alight it,

and I will show you some sorcery.”

He-Thing lights the lantern,

erasing the stars,

illuminating the crystalline green

laser sand beneath their feet.

Zolantos,

ever surprising,

more cunning

than the Maid of Mothers,

sits back on his stump,

takes a feather from his bag,

along with

a small bottle of black liquid.

Zolantos takes the artifact

from He-Thing,

dips the point of the feather

into the black liquid,

and instructs his student,

“Cast the lamp’s gaze upon it.”

Under the lantern’s light,

Zolantos makes strokes

across the artifact,

his eyes ever blind,

leaving dark, intricate

marks in black liquid

on its white face.

“Teacher...” asks He-Thing,

“For what purpose

do you do such a thing?”

to be continued...