Halfway on his journey

to the metaphor-defying

Castle Brave Bone,

Zolantos the Merciless Cripple,

warrior-poet, Imperial Champion,

noticed an inconsistency in the throttle

of the lasercopter’s right sorcery-engine.

Lasercopters were precise —

finicky —

machines,

and Zolantos knew

he could not ignore trouble with it.

He gently

landed the lasercopter

next to a large,

mirror-like lake

in the middle of a grassy flatland.

He twisted the ignition jewel

between his two fingers,

shutting off the lasercopter’s sorcery-engines.

Silence swelled around Zolantos,

and he felt incredibly alone.

A voice ran through his head —

“You are never alone, Zol.”

Ionelle’s voice,

always in the silence,

always

when he was in grave danger.

He didn’t turn his head,

knew she stood behind him,

her fingers lightly

on the back of the pilot seat,

the tresses of her auburn hair

flowing down her shoulders,

frontier woman,

witch-woman,

his woman.

Zolantos decided

to ignore her.

He unbuckled his harness,

and walked back

to the engine room.

The spirit

would not be ignored.

“I have come

to warn you, Zol,”

Ionelle spoke.

“You must listen.”

Zolantos opened the compartment

of the right sorcery-engine and

ducked his head

into the magic smoke —

as he had suspected, one of the

quantum bolts in the hover manifold

was resonating in the wrong hue.

This would take time.

“You must not follow the stag,”

Ionelle continued.

“You have to listen to me.”

Zolantos decided to make camp.

He would fix the sorcery-engine,

and sleep by the lake.

It took a few hours

to fix the sorcery-engine.

Afterward,

Zolantos fished a trout out of the river,

and fried it with lard and salt

he always kept in the lasercopter.

Zolantos sat against a stone,

and lit his pipe, sighing.

The ghost relegated herself

to the shadows,

watching him,

until,

finally,

Zolantos bellowed

in pleading thunder,

“Oh, banish from me, Spirit!

And let me rest.”

Ionelle shivered.

“You must leave here now, Zol,”

she said.

“Begone, woman!”

Zolantos repeated.

“Torment me no longer!”

Her feelings hurt,

the spirit faded.

Evening had fallen.

The lake was still

and silent.

Zolantos’ fire crackled softly.

His Cosmic Paranoia

became quiet

and calm.

The wind was soft,

caressing.

Zolantos sank into sleep.

In his dream,

Zolantos saw narrow hooves

stepping through the grassland.

In his dreams,

Zolantos could see.

He turned his head,

and saw a stag stepping

near the lake,

its fur aglow in the purple moonlight,

its crown of antlers like a magic sigil.

The stag dipped a hoof

into the water,

and then another,

wading in up to its chest,

until the water

was just below its nose.

The stag waded deeper,

its head sunk below the surface,

its antlers all that stood

above the water,

until they too submerged in its depths.

Zolantos got to his feet.

How did the stag do that?

The lake grew closer.

Zolantos

looked down into its water;

in the shimmering shadows,

he saw branches blowing in the wind,

leaves fluttering,

a forest

in the lake.

He did not think long.

He stepped his foot into the water,

he could feel its coolness,

now up to his knees,

his waist,

soaking his clothes,

rising to his chest,

its tiny waves

like butterfly wings beneath his chin.

Zolantos followed the stag

and entered the forest.

to be continued...