Le Moulin à Vent au Carrefour Bhemins [Part 3]

The Chapel of Impossible Things existed between the worlds; the Astral was not a friendly place to the uninitiated.  The intricate stained glass windows showed fictional works, great and small vaulting up thousands of feet into the air creating rainbows of marvelous miasma as suns and moons from the worlds outside rose and set.  But the monk praying for a miracle on the alter of the dias expected no aid.

Everyone wanted to save Christmas, but so few saved Easter.  It wasn't just about the Bunny; that was just a cover for the real work.  Pope Amazing III, the greatest of the Unknown Popes had signed the Umbral Accord over 1400 years ago; formally transferring the duties from pantheons semi retired to the rising power.  At the time, Monotheistic magic had been strong, faith stronger.  The belief of the devout had seemed unlimited in its potential and strength.

Brother Pmermer had come from a world whose stories had been stolen and the meaning of Christ so perverted that it was no longer recognizable.  That had been centuries ago.  One by one, the magic had been crushed and systematically drained until there were only a few sparkling panes left.  How hard could it be? To believe in Christ as He was, not as you wanted him to be?  And yet; and yet...

Perhaps it was that whole problem with His Father being....

Instantly he slapped himself; a penance he accepted willingly.  Such blasphemous thoughts...

But no answer was coming, and without the fulfilment of the Umbral Accord, Easter would default and Christianity among all the world would be stuck paying the bill!  Brother Pmermer couldn't let that happen! There were still good hearted Christians out there; REAL Christians not people who thought the rich should be more blessed than the poor, the strong more deserving than the meek or....he saw another panel flicker and die.  Not that one! That world had been one of the strongest of them all!

He wept and prayed all the more fervently.

The answer came, and he was most surprised to find an answer...in a miracle.

No, not a Miracle, a miracle.  A Miracle was the kind of thing the Chapel specialized in.  Lost souls from all over Christemdom; some even beyond it, came crashing through the stain glass windows, floating gently to the floor where the Sisters of Gentle Mercy healed them; heroes usually, moving on to the next battle against evil.  The chapel had done a lot of good over the years.  That was the windows were there for; what they had been designed for.

This was a knock at the door.

The monk wasn't sure what to believe at first.  He stood up finally and moved to the door, shuffling in his giant brown cassock.  The candles fluttered as he walked by.  They had not had new candles in quite some time.  Indeed, now that they had company coming through the front door, he noticed how threadbare his own robe had become.

Times were sparse for a monastic order that combined magic and Christianity.

The door opened.  There stood there an empty shell of a thing.  It had golden armor, sparkling; resplendant in fact, but there was something missing from it.  But the eyes; the eyes burned like lamp fires, no.  No.  Something else.  A yellow ball of rotten that did...not...how could something so unholy have?

It was impossible.

And it wasn't alone.

For the front door had been hard to open because it had to be opened on two different worlds at the same time.  And that was one of the reason Christianity had been perverted in so many locations.  The fewer places real Christians existed; the fewer places likely to harbor an entrance.  Indeed, in many places, such as the reality where the...thing...had stood....there were Crosses and Cathedrals, all legitimate symbols of the faith but meticulously laid out in a fashion to disrupt or dispel all magic.  ALL magic, not just evil magic.  After all, so many versions of the scripture said that sorcerors....it never said magic.  It always...so easy to misunderstand....

He signed.

But...even though the Lord had turned His face from these worlds, the architecture relied on fundamental principals of enochian lore...what WAS this thing? It wasn't evil but it WAS wrong.

But the other being? The one who had knocked the door on one of the few worlds still lit...was a curiosity to behold indeed.

Hardly a hero.  Dressed in chainmail, the figure was covered in bandoliers with small potion bottles of every color and variety.  He had a sack of magic, boots and ...that spike.  There was something in the spike on the knight's helmet that looked...familiar.  The monk could smell magic but he did not detect a whiff.  Not a thing.  And everything had a little magic.  After all, magic in most worlds, even the drained worlds, made life alive.  It passed and moved from world to world as it had to.  But this thing had none and the monk had centuries of experience to know it.  AND he was in a place of utmost power dedicated unto the Most High.

Not a peep.

WHAT could work such a magic? And what ...

"Ahem.  Um.  Yes, so rude of me.  Um...hello?"

The empty shell said nothing.  It just reached into the chapel, unbidden (also impossible) and closed the door that had opened.  But only the world he was from (also impossible.)

The knight said, "GREETINGS CITIZEN.  MY NAME IS GRENADEMAN.  I AM HERE TO ASSIST YOU WITH YOUR DILEMMA."

"My...you were sent here by the Lord?"

Grenademan blinked a moment and shook his head, "NO CITIZEN, I JUST HEARD YOU ASKING FOR HELP.  LIKE ANY MEMBER OF THE FORCES OF GOOD, I FELT I HAD TO RESPOND."

It was that at this point that Brother Pmermer recognized that the Lord might have touched this one in a special way.  A very special way that only the most special of monks were touched such that special duties that involved no sharp objects or highly complicated tasks might be endevored.  All with love of course, great love.

Then again, for any who knew the actual Christ, who better than the simple to help in such an hour?

"Um.  Yes, I was asking for help."

"INDEED CITIZEN."  Such confidence.  That was a good sign.

"We need someone to save easter."

"SAVE CHRISTMAS?"

"No. Easter."

"I DO NOT UNDERSTAND CITIZEN."

"Look.  Time is different here, but it is still limited.  The thing that you need to know is that unless someone saves Easter, Christianity will be in debt."

"SO...UNLESS I SAVE CHRISTMAS..."

"Easter."

"CHRISTMAS.  I UNDERSTAND.  CHRISTIANITY WILL BE IN DEBT."

"Yes."

"To whom?"

"Well....everyone.  The universe."  Had he just asked that last with a regular tone of voice?

"CHRISTIANITY?"

"Yes."

"The universe."

"Yes."

"AND WHAT WILL THE UNIVERSE DO?"

"Well...um...the universe won't do anything.  But all of the blood that was spilt in holy wars, the agreements with old gods that had obligations....it will come due."

"COME DUE?"

"It will mean bloodshed.  Both literal in some worlds and metaphysical in others.  Look up there, those stained glass windows? The dark ones? They are evil now but some of them have small flickers of light.  If you don't do this, if the sun rises on Easter Morn and the bill is due, then in many of those worlds there won't be ANY.  Previously real Christians will have their faith snuffed out like a candle."

"I FIND YOUR LACK OF FAITH IN FAITH DISTURBING."

This was not going well.  Time for a new tactic.  "If not for me, then think of the children?"

"CHILDREN?"  This got a much more interesting tone of voice.

"Yes.  If the 'easter bunny' doesn't deliver all the eggs and chocolate and candy, then the children will have nothing to look forward to on Easter."  Like an understanding of the importance of a sacrifice made for their sins, but really, what was symbols compared to disappointed children?

"WHAT MUST I DO?"

And so began the great work.  The monk watched through the seer stone as the figure leapt through one stained glass window to deliver the easter eggs.  The Easter Bunny had existed at one time, but had retired.  These days rumor had it that he had tried direct intervention in troubled young people with temporally advanced problems and elderly gentlemen in need of assistance with troubled families.  All well and good, but he had always been a free agent, and for at least fifteen years he had not been available.  The shadows the figure had cast in the worlds; the lesser Easter Bunnies had carried on the work in some ways, but without any of the deeper symbolic meaning.  It had just been candy to children.  Without the understanding of the rite of spring and the rebirth, the eternal cycle and deliverance from death, without understanding the deeper story, it was just so much free candy.

It was a curious thing.  The magic bag the hero had filled with all of the eggs and candy he could carry.  The bandoliers replaced the 'grenades' with easter eggs and chocolate rabbits.  World by world he went.  House by house.  How does the Easter Bunny enter your house?

Why, through the window of course.

It was like something out of a story book.  A miracle to save the Miracles.

But it had been so late, and the debt was so high.  Normally, about a fifth of the worlds would have been sufficient.  The story would replicate and cause echoes; other bunnies to begin the deliveries.  But so many of them were stew or lucky rabbit's feet now.  Pmurmur felt bad for them of course but, very badly, but he didn't have the power to help him.

Grenademan was relentless.  But the blood that had been spilt in the name of the King of Peace was infinite. So many worlds.  So many lives lost to force them at the hands of awful men like Constantanople.

Grenademan was a hero...even a super hero. But he was not a God.  He could not pay the debt.  The light began to go out, in some worlds; true Christians suddenly began supporting cold hearted monsters....and in so many worlds the lights had gone on again.  In so many the lights had gone on forever. There was a magic to Christianity.

But the debt came due.  Time passes for all men.  All men must face the question of time.  And one man, even with the aid of...whatever that THING in his helmet that was such a powerful magic, could not undue the debt.

And eventually the sun rose.  Not all worlds had been saved.  So many worlds lost.  So many hearts turned cold.

Grenademan leapt through the window a final time before the bells began to sound.

"WE MUST BUILD A TIME MACHINE."

Grenademan grabbed several easter eggs, jelly beans and a nearby printing press and started to get to work.
It was all for naught.  "No, you don't understand."

The super hero was relentless.  Using astral time, he created indeed a single shot time machine but Brother Psmermer grunted in annoyance and frustration, picking it up and throwing it out the window.  "You cannot!  Magical deals as this do not allow cheating."

"SAVING DISAPPOINTED CHILDREN IS NOT CHEATING CITIZEN."

"For Christ's sake you imbecile! This is about more than children.  This is about miracles, its about-"

"It's about honor."

The thing was back.  The thing threw open the door.  The thing was cold.  Armor, not chainmail on the hero, but platemail of the late Renesance period.  Platemail that covered every surface of skin, golden platemale, a visor, and gauntlets and arms and greaves.  All of it but the yellow eyes, those unholy yellow things.

The voice, now speaking in a rasp,"Honor is the power of the spiritual realm, isn't it Monk? And you can no more beheave in a dishonorable fashion and retain power than you can betray your Lord, can you?"

"We....we paid so much."

"It was not enough.  And it has not been for too long.  You know this."

Grenademan looked on.  "WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?"

"A repossession.  The rightful rite of spring shall no longer be associated with this order.  The accord is struck.  Blood will spill."

"MURDER?"

"No.  They'll do that themselves."

"THERE ARE CHILDREN-"

"Your service has been honorable former Scion of Order.  Yes, I know about that.  Every child in every world; all of them, for one day will receive a piece of chocolate.  In the worlds where magic does not function so well, it will find its way to them, eventually.  Your debt is serviced."

"SO THIS IS A MATTER OF DEBT COLLECTION?"

"It is."

Grenademan nearly left.  Chapter 11 was the stuff of lawyers and police, not super heroes.  But there was something on the Monk's face.  "LET ME READ THE ACCORDS."

"I don't recommend that.  You don't want to champion this lost cause."

"LET ME READ THE ACCORDS."

There was a shimmer in the air and the knight began to read.  Line by line, precept by precept the knight read the lines in the golden scroll.  Time bent, and hours that were seconds and seconds that were years passed away.  The knight was just as relentless in his study as he was in his delivery.

"I SEE NO LOOPHOLES."

"No.  There are none."

"BUT I ALSO KNOW YOU ARE NOT WITHOUT MERCY.  YOU SENT ME HERE, DIDN'T YOU?"

"I did nothing of the sort.  The universe answered a call.  It does that as it will.  I was a hand on a door and a voice when needed."

"I AM NOT ..." he said rather awkwardly and uncomfortably, "A VERY RELIGIOUS PERSON.  BUT CHRISTMAS IS AN IMPORTANT TIME OF YEAR."

The Gold Knight looked confusedly at the Monk who shrugged.

"I DO NOT FAVOR ONE RELIGION OVER THE OTHER, BUT IF EVEN HALF OF WHAT OUR HOST IS SAYING IS TRUE, THE EVIL WILL BE RELENTLESS. I CANNOT ALLOW THAT TO HAPPEN."

There was a pause.  And then the Gold knight began to laugh.  He laughed and laughed and laughed, "What is true cannot be made untrue simply because you fight for it.  What, do you think a grenade will stop it?"

"I WILL DO WHAT I MUST TO FIGHT THE FORCES OF EVIL."

"You do really well with that, I grant you. I really do.  But the shades of gray? Not so much.  There is an evil that has to-"

"I SPEAK NOT OF THE EVIL OF THE PAST.  I SPEAK OF THE EVILS OF THE FUTURE.  PART OF THE DEBT HAS BEEN PAID.  LET THAT BE ENOUGH."

The figure paused.  He waited.  He listened.

Above all, the knight of Gold listened.

"You have begged mercy Champion of Light, and so it shall be.  The worlds where the light shines..." he pointed to the panes, "Will have that magic.  Christianity will be real.  The worlds where some light sprinkles...those worlds will have some magic.  But these worlds that the debt has reclaimed? They are gone.  Let them find their own light.  But there shall be no magic in their words; only their faith.  Let's see if it is enough.   Personally, I"m not counting on angels sweeping down any time soon for people that do what they do."

Grenademan started to reply, but as soon as he had opened his mouth, the Knight of Gold was gone.

The chapel was smaller then.  The sun shined through the panes but the color on the windows was not as vibrant.  And the monk wept for the shame of it all.

Grenademan was stunned.  He had lost.  He never lost.  That wasn't supposed to...happen.  Granted, this wasn't so much a battle against THE FORCES OF EVIL as....

What was it a battle against?

And with confusion, he walked out the front door, moving on to other places.

The monk wept for a long time until a mighty hero righting a winged stallion crashed through the stained glass windows.  The Chapel of Miracles was open yet again, repowered and for the places where the magic touched, bringing much needed magic where it was best applied.  It would have to do.  It was all that could be done for now.

Le Moulin à Vent au Carrefour Bhemins [Part 2]

by Rhombus Ticks

TC is standing in line with his wife for Notre Dame.  It is a two hour wait.  It begins to rain and become very cold.  TC, being in a good mood, is King of the Worlding it, holding his lovely wife and laughing.  He's kind of a loon.

The rain turns to sleet.

TC is still laughing.

Julia makes a comment about letting people take shelter inside.

TC says,"I know, right.  It's like they should let people take Sanctuary inside."

Julia can't help but laugh, despite a full day of TC enjoying his ability to translate "Who Cut the Cheese" thanks to French Lessons from Freakazoid.  Amazingly, despite the fact that it is quite cold and TC is still laughing like a loon and making others pleased (as compared to wanting to kill him) he then says

"Well at least it can't get any WORSE" in a tone of voice knowing how incredibly stupid it is.  This time everyone looks at him like he's insane, but laugh anyway.  Nine minutes later the sun comes out and a good hour is held by all.  Then a short while later, they went up 200 FEET OF STAIRS, spent twenty minutes on the roof and then went down two hundred feet of stairs.

What? You though that they were going to get to see the inside of Notre Dame?

That was the other line.

Duh.

Except that that this is not all that there is to the story.  There was something I was supposed to write on Saturday night that I felt important, the night before Easter.

I forgot.

There was a giant storm in the sky as it washed over the city of Paris I saw a timeline that should not be rising us from the ashes of that dark cloud, endable only by setting right what I had done wrong, but now it was not so simple.  Now I would have to undo that timeline which had been set in motion, eldritch vermillion lightning parageing off of the Eiffle Tower again and again as the city shook.

I struck a bargain with Perversity, as he snickered behind his hand.  "Do you think you're him?" He asked.

"Who?"  I said, paying the asked price to bring the package back across the Bridge as I needed.  There are many talents I possess, but this was not one of them.

"You are not the Terran mirror of TC."  Perversity smiled and snipped the cigar that he didn't even light as he put in his mouth in a positively Freudean way.

"I know that."  I didn't.  I felt a bond with him.

"There is a bond alright, but not that kind.  What is the family motto?  Your family motto."

"Nam et Carcosa? What about it?"

Perversity just laughed.  "Never mind Rhombus.  Never you mind.  So you got your package.  Deliver it and have at it.  But while you do, why not stop

at the Musee d'Osay and have a look at the paintings on the fifth floor.  Ask yourself if you see anything familiar about them?"

I did as Perversity Directed.

At first I couldn't see anything.  I delivered the package necessary to undo the damage I had done, stopping the lighting and causing the dark cloud on the city to slowly reverse itself.

At first I couldn't understand what Perversity was talking about.  They looked like perfectly ordinary, albeit spectacular paintings.

But as I walked through the moments of the rain to the museum, at the same time as being at the museum, feeling each chill of each drop pass through me between the line at Notre Dame and the Osay, I couldn't help but...wonder...

There was something off.  Something wrong.  I realized that Redwin and Emmit, both born of the same mother, twins, had the same height and physical features as TC.  And they both spent all their time in Earth.  I could not tell if it was physical or projected like me.  Why was that? I could see so many things, but until now had been blind to the appearance of TC or the poets that surrounded him.  And, as I thought about it, why would a mere fascination with stories make me want to hang around someone who could no longer write them himself?

This thing I had to write, I could not do it for him.  He had to do it.  The character was as much of a reflection of him as Redwin and Emmit were.  By delivering the package

I had solved TC's problem, the needs of the one, but become disconnected myself.  The inability to post on an Earth facebook page left something missing in me.  I looked in a mirror and saw this looking back.

That was in my eyes.  I saw his eyes.

But as I stepped back, I saw more.  Much more.

What in the hell was I?!

Le Moulin à Vent au Carrefour Bhemins [Part 1]

by Emmit Other

A Serpent in the Garden
A blight upon the land
Time is running backwards
Cursed darkening sand
The astral is now tearing
The links between the worlds
Calls forth a summoning
In the marshalling of words
The pawns are prisms
That filter ether and stars up in the sky
They filter through the symbols
And barely wonder why
The eye of a maelstrom
Of symbols old and new
The fighters know their battle
Their consequences knew
And know and will know
Of battles yet to come
The culture is the thing that matters
The total and the sum
Of all we are and who we are
The spirit of the dove
Or lash and whip and acid
A boot stomping down from above.
The windmill turns
And turns
And turned
Turning turning turn
This is not the starting
Of the lovers on the urn
For half a hundred years
And a full hundred more
The windmill has been fighting
To keep our hearts still pure.
Truth
Beauty
Freedom
Love
These are the things written in stone
Bound behind the plaster of Paris
Like Norse Runes casting the wisdom of Odin
On all those who can see beyond
The Jiggle and the Wiggle and The Kick
So High
Together
Turn Together Now
Look in her eye
See his smile
Nowhere else has it been safe
This fight against the glacier
The ice of change
The cold of death
The rage against the very fire of the universe itself
Madness against reason
Passion with out truth
The uniquivicol lie
Inept in its execution
Unmerciful in its understanding
Contrived in the bands
The bands of death at the ticking bomb of a wasted life
The bands of puritan steel locking up a woman's flesh
Simply because it makes you think thoughts you were meant to think
The unnatural turning back of time itself
To eras of ignorance and racist bile you claim as nostalgia
This is it
This is Ground Zero
The continual assault against all that the fires of Ignorance would burn
Turning turning turning
The windmill turns
It turns and there is an unseen fight
The serpent rears its ugly head
And it is Ignorance
From shadows echos it waits
And is seen
For this time the Angel of Death waits
And there is no fall
No fall but Ascension
And enlightenment worthy of Zen
And time cycles round
As does the windmill
And the thing that was meant to be
Will be
And has been
And of course always will be
Turn windmill
Turn and turn again
Turn forever more.

Do Not Astrally Project in the Louvre

You can feelitcrammingintoyourbraintheartistsofalltheagesthewonderandthemasterfullnessofitall,bad enough through the eyes of TC but to see the sacred spectral beams of glory shine up and about all that was and will be and has been and is and that which is magnificent beyond compare each window too many windows too many things shining so shining star the wonder the glory in my brain cracks the story i am the story am a part of the story in it every work a wonder every work a demon clawing at the frantic cranium cannot see more must see everything get it get it inside my brain must see more must know more most must not leave all the color spectragraphically around the world on sailing ships and plantations gathered at the hands of masters chip chip chip the sculpture get gain can you see it can you see there the gods they see glory primal radiant captured in stone and brass and bronze time beyond time beyond the fae it is earth it is the thing the hub the center of it all you can see it floating here the masters of all the eyes of ages looking down on the wonderous looking up look down at the glass pyramid stories not only in the windows of the past of the present as well as the people from around the world line up with vendors selling things you dont want or need waiting in line to see the things you need to see more more more more put it in put it in my mind need to see.

[Script] Revolution Number 8 - Page 14

Scene: The letter arrives, and is copied four times.

Scene: Ringo reads it, looks sad and looks out the window.

Scene: George reads it and plays his guitar thoughtfully.

Scene: Paul reads it and begins to write, trying to think.  He plays on the piano and looks at a picture of the four of them together, whistfully.

Scene: John kisses Yoko and smiles.  He winks at her and points to the title, which says,"Imagine."

Scene: People listening to music that is played, a montage of lots of different kinds of people around the people, vague musical hint that the song is indeed Imagine.

Scene: Wide shot of planet.

Words appear on screen: Which song won?

Words then appear: We still don't know the answer.

Fin

On Semi Hiatus

TC is going to Paris with his lovely wife, so I figured if he's going on vacation, I might as well enjoy the ride.  I figure I could entertain you with diatribes about Terra.  The script will be still finished tomorrow because Plane, and also because Plane.  And because its finished.  We can all wait a week to experience the wonders of "Peterpan vs Superman vs Frankenstein."  In case you wondered, TC can still write scripts (I help) so yeah, they're better than his writing but obviously slightly awful.

So we all know how pleasant Earth air ports are? Terran airports are worse.  I know, right? Somehow with all the stores and space that you have, you still think they suck.  Now, I grant you, we didn't have 9/11.  So that means the crazy psychotic security theater you have doesn't apply to us.  Our's was stopped by three conspiracy nuts who slipped onto the plane.  Called themselves the ...I forget. Very forgetable.

Anyway, Terran airports.

Don't go there.

If somehow, say, you listen to EP Blingermeyer's advice on traveling between worlds, do yourself a favor and don't fly.  We have less people who are resistant to change, but the ones we have gravitate to certain government jobs.  Our airports are left in the 1930's.  But let me assure you gentle reader, this is not the art deco style you so enjoy on some of your buildings; but tiny buildings for undernourished people, with poorly done generic propoganda.  We do not have airport terrorism because no one who has any method of avoiding them goes there.

Wait, you say, no blimps and and no airports; how do you travel around? We don't.  Not as much as you, but if you must, then the wise travel by ship.  Some sailing ships, and some steamers.  Recently we have enjoyed a revival of 1840's steam ships; though the recreators tend to go a bit overboard and include highly unreliable boilers.  One Argentian ship even employed African Americans to run the coal plant.  You know.  Shoveling coal.  In actual irons.

Yeah.

So.  Anyway, Terran airports.  It is a bit unfortunate that you can't get coffee or food at any of them.  I take that back.  Ikea? Yeah.  Instead of beloved quirky furniture, they are loathed and mocked maker of vending machine parts.  The vending machines do sell beer, remote controls for a TV that is no longer sold, cheese whiz (but no crackers), honey, gingersnaps and meatballs.  The latter two are actually quite good but good luck figuring out the machine.  Its digital displays show different readouts every week in a different language (never the native language and not even Swedish.)  It also involves following a "Simon" like pattern of colored lights trying to navigate the menu.

Not good.

[Script] Revolution Number 8 - Page 13

Scene: The Beatles all pile onto a truck.  Adams swings around and drives them off.

Cwech looks back as they drive off, draws his pistol and gets into a gun fight with the agents after the Beatles.

The Beatles wave respectfully and it turns a corner.

Scene: The Beatles playing on a roof top, people look on with fascination.

Scene: The director is on the phone with a dead agent hanging over the desk.

Director: Don't worry.  We've used the Official Secrets act on the record producer.  We've got our own experts putting something together.  We'll replace their 'anti dote' with the closest we can manage.

Scene: Chwech listens at the door.

Scene: Director speaking on the phone.

Director: The Beatles won't say a thing.  The Official Secrets act can lock em up if they, yes, that's right.  Chwech? We'll deal with him.  Adams? Hah.  He's harmless.  (pause) Mostly harmless.

Scene: Chwech writes two letters.  He puts on in the post and writes another as he leave it on a desk.

It says, "I resign."

He walks out the door.