There’s a man, standing on top of a hill overlooking the barren wasteland of the desolate valley. In the distance is a row of mountains, their peaks glistening with snow.

He stands amidst three trees. Their branches have been shorn, but they show signs of new growth; tiny leaves and buds forming, pushing through the young bark. He uses one for support; his hand gripping it like a staff, leaning into it. A band of leaves encircles his head like a wreath or a crown. He stands there waiting, watching the valley below.

A woman sits on a throne. She is clothed in golden linens. A staff rests in one hand, shorn from the same tree that the man was gripping. No, it's not a staff now, but a scepter. The new growth is still visible; jutting from the sides and top. In her other hand she holds the stock of a sunflower; the head drooping off to the side. She sits in judgment watching me.

There was a battle in that desolate valley. Two armies fought. One army won. They divided the spoils and put into chains the defeated soldiers. As a symbol of their conquest, they left the conquered king lying where he was killed with ten swords buried to the hilt, methodically aligned from the crown of his head to the small of his back.

The man leaves the hill and continues down away from the valley. He is carrying his makeshift staff, cut from the grove of three trees. The new growth still clings to its trunk.

Coming to a river, he crosses at a juncture that is dotted with tree trunks that were sunk into the bedrock. He uses his staff for balance as he steps from tree trunk to tree trunk until he loses his balance and falls in.

Another queen sits on a throne in her kingdom in the clouds watching the man fall into the river. She sits in judgment of him, clutching the executioner’s sword in one hand while with the other she gestures, willing him to rise dripping from the river.

The Baphomet stands naked, with his arms raised high above his goat head in exaltations, basking in the praise of his followers as they call out loudly, “Yalla! Yalla!”

He speaks not a word, but he stands silently, watching me. Both a man and a woman with the face of a goat.

I am filled with dread as I watch the Baphomet. It doesn’t move, but I can see it’s beady black eyes. He/she knows the beast that had plagued my dreams as a child.

They are related, but they are not.

They are the same, but they are not.

In the barren wasteland of the desolate Valley of the Goat, I stand alone before the Baphomet. As I stand alone in the Valley of the Goat, I fear no evil, except the Know. To be in the Know is a horrible thing. To know is to know and experience fully the consequential weight of my actions.

“Hello,” the Baphomet says, his/her arms are still raised. “How are you doing?” The voice that comes out of his/her mouth is layered, an echo upon an echo; a chorus of men and women fighting for dominance over its vocal chords. “Would you like to be in the Know, Mr. Man-Child?”

“No,” I say hesitantly. “No Know for me.”

The Baphomet bares his teeth. “Then I would assume, Man-Child, that you are in the know about the Know. Fore, to know that you are in the know is to know.”

“I know,” I whisper back. My pace quickens as I leave the Valley of the Goats behind me, clutching a staff shorn from the trunk of a straight tree with little shoots of new growth.

On my journey, I came to a river. I’m not sure how I knew, but at that moment I was aware that there was no bridge for miles, but, at the same time, I knew I had to cross the river. It was predestined.

I first attempted to wade across it, but the current was too strong and upon my first stumble I turned around and headed back towards the river bank.

Following the river upstream, I came to a section where there were seven tree stumps buried in the bedrock. Jumping from the river bank I landed on the first stump. Taking my staff in both hands I use it for balance as I step from one stump to the next. There’s movement on the riverbank, just outside of my periphery, and I turn distracted. My balance is off and I fall into the water. My head goes under and I thrash, attempting to head towards the surface, losing my staff in the process. Arm over arm I swim for the opposite shore, until the water is shallow enough for me to stand and trudge onto the bank.

Exhausted I throw myself to the ground, arms wide, welcoming the warm rays of the sun as my clothes begin to dry.

“Hello, fair traveler,” I hear.

Opening my eyes and squinting in the midday sun, the visage of a maiden slowly comes into view. Her hair is golden, cascading down her shoulders and forms a halo around her face. She is holding my recovered staff, arms wrapped around, leaning into it as if she is weary, although her face is bright and full of joy.

“Come,” she says softly, beckoning me with her free hand. I stare at her questioningly, unsure if I should follow or not, but before I could decide, she turns to walk away.

I push myself up and follow closely behind. We walk for a day and night, walking mile after mile in silence. The path winds its way up a mountain, until we come to a kingdom in the clouds. Its parapets rose into infinity; rock a mortar disappearing in an instance of clouds only to appear a fathom or two higher.

At the gate she bade me farewell and I was ushered into a room by a handful of servants. There they bathed me and once I was cleaned, they showed me a closet of fresh clothing.. Once I was dressed I sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

Time and space stretched and coalesced and once again I found myself herded by a group of servants. Down and down and further down; spiraling through a maze of stairs and hallways until I was pushed through the doorway of a massive room. It was empty, save for a chair at the opposite end of the room. Occupying the chair was a woman: the maiden from before. Walking closer, I saw that she was holding my staff in one hand while the other held a sunflower with a drooping head.

“Your majesty,” I say, going to one knee.

“Not my majesty,” she responds, “but yours.”

My eyes are on the ground, awkwardly casting back and forth in the silence that ensues.

“There's darkness about,” she says finally. “It arose in the west when you arrived and it is devouring all in its path. Did you bring it with you?”

“The only darkness I have with me comes from within,” I tell her. “I have carried it with me a long while.”

“It is not from here and neither are you,” the woman says. “I sense goodness in you, so I do not think that your darkness within and this darkness are the same, but I cannot help but think that the darkness was caused by your journey here.”

“If it did come because of me, I will do anything in my power to stop it,” I tell her.

“Then will you become my king?” she asks.

“If that is your will then it is mine as well.”

Rising, she took my hand and led me from the throne room. Her touch was light and her hand was warm, soft and soothing. It was both there and not there, but I felt tethered to her, so I went where she led.

Opening a door—one of many down an expansive hall—she ushers me inside, closing it behind her.

Pulling the drawstrings of her gown, she lets it drop to the floor, stepping out of it.

Gods, she was beautiful.

“Will you be my king and help me defeat the darkness?” she asks.

I meet her eyes. “Yes, my queen. I will.”

Walking to the bed, she lays down on her bed, opening her legs and baring her sex.

“Will you be my king and help me defeat the darkness?” she asks again.

“Yes, I shall,” I promise again.

I pull my shirt up over my head and let my pants drop. I climb onto the bed, kneeling before her, letting my eyes meet hers.

One more time she asks, “Will you be my king and help me defeat the darkness?”

“I promise,” I tell her. “I will do everything in my power to undo the darkness that is upon your land.”

Laying down upon her, she accepts me and folds herself around me and we are one.

Time jumps and moves in and out of existence and I am standing on a battlefield with my army stretched behind me and the darkness looming before me. We surge forward, the earth and my insides rumbling, my teeth rattling together, the darkness a blur until metal and horses and men collide.

The sun immediately disappears. Not even a hint of it is in the darkened sky.

We’re blind, but there’s screaming all about. I swing my sword, but it doesn’t hit anything. Something streaks by and I whirl my horse around, blade at the ready, but it’s nothing—only darkness.

And then all is quiet; a heavy quietness of fog in the thick woods. I hear the sound of running, heavy footsteps thumping above me on the ridgeline. Whatever it is it runs one way and then there’s silence and then it runs back the opposite direction. It’s close and I peer into the darkness, trying to focus, trying to perceive something, anything. The thumping footsteps start again. It’s closer this time, but before I can react, I’m knocked from my horse.

I land on my stomach in the dirt, my breath pushed from me. Pushing myself up with my elbows and hands I see two cloven hooves before me.

“Yalla! Yalla!” the Baphomet’s followers cry.

The Goat King places a hoof on my back and presses me back down in the dirt. I contemplate struggling, but I know all is lost.

There’s the familiar ring of a sword as it leaves its scabbard and a whirl as it cuts through the air and then pain, unfathomable pain, as it pushes through skin, connective tissue, muscle and bone.

Another sword leaves its scabbard, it whirls, and buries itself.

My legs don’t work. I want to leave this world and all its pain, but I can’t. Unconsciousness won’t take me, either.

The ring, the whirl, more pain.

Blinking back tears, I see the Baphomet standing before me. He lays down in front of me so our heads are level.

Ring, whirl, pain.

“My child, my child,” he/she whispers. “Why did you send her into our world?”

“Who?” I ask.

“Eleanor,” the Goat King says.

Ring, whirl, my lungs collapse and I can’t speak, involuntary spitting out a mouthful of blood instead.

The Baphomet reaches forward and with his hand, gently wipes the bloody spittle from my mouth. I can’t feel anything anymore, just the pressure caused by another sword being buried in my spine.

“She was the purest of the pure and you cast her out of your world and into this one. She became the Darkness and the Darkness ate of her and became her.”

The sides of my vision were clouding with blackness as I fought to draw air into my torn lungs, but it was to know avail. I couldn’t breathe, I was close to death, but for some reason I wasn’t dying. At least not yet. Even as a sword tore through my heart, I still lived.

“She was love and now she is hate,” the Goat King tells me. “She was hope and now she is despair. She was forgiveness and now she is a curse. She was truth and now she is lies. She was joy and now she is sadness. She was peace and now she is fear. She was life and now she brings death. And all of these things we beheld in her at once after she revealed herself on this plane, and we felt that what we beheld could be understood fore she was born to be all of these things at once: love, hate, hope, despair, forgiveness, a curse, truth, lies, joy, sadness, peace, fear, life and death These are a dream of her making; of your making. And so it will remain, until she dies a violent death and the flame of her darkness goes out.”

My body shudders and I lose what feeling remained in my hands and fingers.

I’m sorry, Eleanor, so sorry. But I know that it isn’t enough.

“She was a good little girl and now she is Darkness. And she will continue to be the Darkness, talking to the dark soul within herself.”

Eleanor, I’m sorry. Oh, Eleanor. Eleanor. Eleanor. Eleanor.

The Baphomet stands and from my limited field of vision, I can see him drawing his own sword. I feel the tip’s pressure gently on the nape of my neck. The pressure increases as it bites through skin, sinew, bone, until finally blackness.

I’m floating in the void. My soul is anchored to a dying star that is transitioning into a black hole and I can feel my being floating closer and closer to the event horizon until I am at its edge peering in. I know I need to go in, but I can still feel myself breathing, so I will myself to stop breathing, but even in that space where time stretches on, I still feel like I have a choice; that I can choose to exist; to exist and choose to do better.

And so I choose to exist.

Fresh, cool air fills my lungs and I’m conscious of tears slowly running down my cheeks as I lay awake on the floor of Eleanor’s room in the pre-dawn light.

“Daddy?” her voice is quiet.

Eleanor isn’t quite there, but in the darkness by her bedroom door there’s a ripple of light in the shape of her.

“She’s crying again,” I can hear her say.

I pause. “Who is crying?”

“The other girl. She’s sad and she sounds hurt and we can’t sleep.” The ripple moves as if to leave and I reach out my hand connecting with nothing that collesces into something. And just like that Eleanor is there, standing over me, fully formed and truly there and sitting on the edge of her bed is her doppleganger.

“Daddy!” The one who I now assume is my Eleanor jumps up and crushes me in the tightest, fiercest hug I had ever felt from someone that small. We stay there, holding and squeezing each other, until she breaks away, still holding my hand. “Ella,” she says proudly, “this is my daddy—the sad daddy—I keep telling you about.”

“Why do you look like my daddy?” the other Eleanor—Ella—asks.

The moment is too real and unreal to form any real response, so I ask, “Have you ever heard of the multiverse?”

They stare at me in silence with their big eyes until my Eleanor asks, “Verse? Like a singing verse?”

“No,” I say, “it’s like when you’re at the toy store and you see rows upon rows of the same doll and each of those dolls will eventually go to a different home. Even though they are the same, they live very different lives because of their environments.”

“What kind of doll is it?” Ella asks.

“Is it a princess doll?” asks my Eleanor.

“Let’s say it is,” I respond.

“What color is it’s dress?” asks Ella.

“Pink.”

“Can you buy other dresses for it?” my Eleanor asks.

“Sure.”

The two Eleanors sit, contemplating the analogy. It’s quiet and I can’t help but smile.

“I missed you, Eleanor,” I say.

“My name is Nora now,” my Eleanor answers.

“Nora? Like the singer?” I ask.

“I’m named after a princess,” chimes in Ella.

“Are you?” I ask and she nods gleefully. “Which one?” I ask and she shoots out her hands like she is throwing flames and I am even more confused. Are there different princesses with different superpowers in this universe?

My Eleanor—Nora—is staring intently at me.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

She nods, but then asks, “Why didn’t you want me?”

“Oh, baby,” I say, “I did want you, but I didn’t feel like I could be a good daddy for you.”

Nora scoots forward and hugs me tight around the waist. “You’re a good daddy. You just need to learn how to be happy again.”

I hear footsteps coming across the hallway a moment before the girls’ bedroom door opens. Veronica and my doppelganger stand in the door frame, half covered in shadows from the darkened hallway. My other self doesn’t seem pleased, but Veronica’s tone and stance seems neutral.

“I was wondering how long it would take before you arrive,” she said casually.

“Mommy, mommy, mommy.” The girls rush her and Veronica shushes them with the power that only a mother can have and ushers them into their respective beds.

I tuck Nora in, kneeling on the floor next to her makeshift bed. She pushes her tiny hand out from underneath the bed covers and wiggles her fingers, beckoning me to intertwine my fingers with hers and I oblige. She smiles sleepily as her other hand emerges, stroking my face. Nora runs her finger down my nose, tracing the lines by my eyes. I smile at her and she smiles back.

“I love you, Daddy,” she says.

“I love you too.”

Moments later I’m downstairs with the other two grownups. Veronica and the other me sit on the couch opposite myself as I remain standing, leaning against the wall for support.

My doppleganger is silent, staring at me, studying me in a way that I suppose I would do if I was in the exact same situation. Besides, everything he was probably wanting to know was being asked by Veronica.

“Why did you do it?” she asked.

“I didn’t feel like I could be a good father to her. She needed her mother.”

“She needed you. You’re all she talks about. She knows that he—” Veronica gestures to my doppelganger “—isn’t her father. She loves you and she misses you.”

“I know. But I had to know if she would be better here. I didn’t know if she would make it here, but I had to try.”

“There’s consequences to these dabblings. We haven’t told anyone about her. How could we? How could we explain our two Eleanors to his—your—parents?”

“Trust me,” I respond, “it was hard telling my parents in my universe that she disappeared.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” the other me says. “You’re so casual about it. ‘Oh, poor me. It was so hard.’ Just like that. How could you rip their hearts out like that?”

“I’m sure they were the perfect parents in your world,” I respond, a bit defensive.

“No,” he says, “they weren’t. But they did their best given their upbringing and the environment they were raised in. Regardless, they didn’t deserve having their granddaughter ripped out of their lives.”

“It wasn’t the easiest decision.”

“But you still made it,” Veronica states.

“Yeah.”

“And now you’re here.”

“And now I’m here.”

“And what are the consequences?” the other me asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Usually scientists have the answers,” he continues, “but in our world and I’m assuming yours, the multiverse hasn’t been discovered. How do you know there aren’t other undiscovered consequences to your actions in a realm that is completely unknown and undiscovered? The laws of nature are only the laws we have come to know. Where does wind come from? What is fire? You strike a match and it is there and you could tell me all about oxidation, but it doesn’t explain what fire is. With everything else they are either tagged and categorized as the unknown or the mysteries of the universe.”

“The Eleanors mentioned hearing a girl crying in their room. Have you heard it?” I ask.

My doppleganger and Veronica exchange a look.

“Yes,” Veronica says.

“Consequences,” the other me says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“We’re pretty sure that the voice we are hearing is Eleanor,” my doppleganger replies.

“That’s impossible.”

“If these two multiverses exist—yours and ours—then others must exist,” Veronica says. “Our two worlds are almost identical, but at some point they diverged and created these two different paths. In your world, I died. In this one, I’m alive. Two choices. A fork in the road.”

“If,” my other self interjects, “throughout your history, there were other forks—other decision points—then there would be more than one outcome to your decision to send your Eleanor into the multiverse.”

“But that’s impossible,” I say.

“Impossible was reaching into the multiverse and finding me,” Veronica responds.

Upstairs there’s a single scream for “Daddy!” All three of us stand up as one and we hear the single scream joined by the other’s voice and together they scream, “Mommy! Daddy! Mommy! Daddy!” as we run up the stairs to the girls’ room.

Flinging the door open, we see the two Eleanors clinging to each other, screaming, pointing to the dark corner of their room.

There’s something in the inky blackness. I can feel its presence oozing out; so similar to the Darkness in my dream.

There’s another scream. Veronica jumps, grabbing her husband’s arm. It’s her. I know it’s her.

“Everybody out,” I tell them.

Veronica opens her mouth to object, but the intensity of my gaze causes her to instead turn, ushering my other self and the girls out of the room.

Shutting the door, I turn my focus to the seemingly empty corner of the room. I don’t hear anything, but I can feel something. It’s a disturbance; a sense of wrongness. Whatever it is, it begins to pile an unseen weight on my chest.

Consequences.

“Eleanor?” I whisper into the darkness.

Faintly I begin to hear crying.

“Eleanor?”

And through the darkness I hear faintly, “Please don’t hurt me, Daddy.” I can tell that it’s her, the words a plea, broken up by sobs.

“Oh, baby, I wouldn’t ever hurt you.”

“But he does,” she responds, “and he wears your face.”

Even with the nightlight on, I can sense the darkness growing and with it a sense of oppression pushing down on me. I reach for Eleanor, wherever she is and I meet resistance. Not the wall, but something solid within the darkness. Focusing my will, I reach out with both hands, searching for a crack and upon not finding one, digging in further, trying to create one.

Fingers clawing, stretching, pushing, opening a gap within the darkness. I pushed further and further into the darkness, pushing my fingers deeper until slivers of light began glowing around them. Fingers twisting, flicking, pushing, pushing and tugging. Everything around the darkness is brightening into a foggy, hazy glow.

I reach inside, my fingers first grasping cloth, then a wrist, and I pull her towards me and into the girls’ room.

Eleanor shakes against me and I hold her, whispering “Shhhh, it’s okay,” over and over again. Even as she clings to me I can tell that something is different. She feels off. Eleanor was always on the petite side, but this one feels skinnier. When I step back and kneel down so that I’m the same height as her, I can see that it’s more than just being skinny. There’s dark circles under her eyes. Her cheekbones are more pronounced. When I rest my hand on her shoulder she flinches and when I move the neck of her shirt, I can see bruising on her collarbone in the shape of fingers.

“Who did this to you?” I whisper.

“You did.” She can barely get the words out as she starts sobbing again.

The bedroom door slowly opens and Veronica steps inside. Her hand immediately goes to her mouth as she sees Eleanor.

“Mommy?” Eleanor asks before running to her.

Veronica falls to her knees as Eleanor holds onto her.

Turning from the embrace, Eleanor’s eyes search mine. “Why did you send me away, Daddy?”

“I’m sorry,” I start to say but then stop. What more could I say?

Veronica tries to soothe Eleanor as she touches, caresses, and inspects her. She sucks in sharply when she sees the bruises on the collarbone and rolling up a sleeve uncovers more bruising on her forearm.

“Who did this to you?” Veronica asks.

“Daddy did.”

Veronica looks at me, but my attention is directed back to the corner. There is something there, moving in the darkness.

“It was Daddy,” Eleanor continues, “but it wasn’t Daddy. He didn’t want to be called Daddy.”

“What was his name?” I ask, but somehow I already know.

“Asmodeus,” the third Eleanor whispered. “He kept saying that he was the destroyer of worlds.”