"Saturday night, at eight o'clock,
I know where I'm gonna go.
I gonna pick my baby up
And take her to the picture show."

"Everybody in the neighborhood
Is dressin' up to go there, too.
Hoo-hoo-hoo! HOO-HOO-HOO-hoo-hoo!
And, we're gonna have a ball
Just like we always do."

Michael Smith and Alexandra Bigelow looked at each other, and smiled, as they listened to this rock-and-roll classic (of the "doo-wop" style) being transmitted to their car radio via the wireless speakers on either side of them. A casual on-looker would probably have assumed them to be fraternal twins, as they were both seventeen-years old and wearing matching outfits (blue jeans, white sneakers, and white shirts under gray windbreakers).

But, Sandy--as she preferred to be known--had long, light-brown hair and slightly darker brown eyes. Where Michael had short, wavy black hair and blue eyes. Furthermore, she was the daughter and only child of the headmaster of nearby Goodson Academy. While he was one of a family of four in charge of landscape maintenance at the school.

They had known each other for twelve years, yet had only been dating for two. Ever since the discovery, in fact, that they had a common interest: a love for vintage science fiction and fantasy films. The more outlandish, the better!

And, tonight, the Retroplex would be closing its current season with an old-fashioned triple feature: HERCULES VS. THE BLACK KNIGHT (1963); THE MONSTER THAT WASN'T GILA (1957); and INVASION OF THE BATON TWIRLERS FROM OUTER SPACE (1979).

The first two films had a collective running time of one hundred fifty minutes. So, they had been shown back-to-back, prior to intermission. And, as they had already devoured the snack bar food they had purchased prior to the opening cartoon, the two youngsters had fifteen minutes all to themselves.

Unfortunately, that was when the Cajun chicken fingers they had shared chose to act up.

"Ah, frig it!" muttered Michael: "Sorry, Sandy. Game called on account of stomach pain."

She half-giggled/half-groaned: "I can empathize. Believe me! Let's head for the head."

Ten minutes later, as Michael was washing his hands, he heard an all-too familiar voice behind him.

"Well, well, well! Who do we have here?"

Michael turned around. Sure enough! It was Wesley Saxon. Captain of the academy football team; heir to the Saxon Pharmaceuticals fortune; and Sandy's ex-boyfriend. And, on top of that? He had four of his teammates with him.

"What do you want, Wes?"

The blond, blue-eyed super-jock smiled...like a Cheshire cat with rabies.

"What I want...is to know what a bright girl like Sandy sees in a home-schooled piece of poor white trash like you."

Michael's eyes narrowed.

"It's better than coming from a long line of plutocratic hypocrites."

"Oooooooooh!" chorused the Four Stooges. That is; until Wes silenced them with a glare. Then, he turned to look back at Michael.

"Just what did you mean by that?"

"I mean; of all the snobbish, bigoted Old Money brats at the academy, you're the worst. You think the only dirt-poor relatives on your family tree were Adam and Eve! And, frankly? I'm bored to death with it. Go blow your hot air on somebody else. In fact; go blow yourself! Period."

Wes' teammates looked at each other, and then at Wes. The latter's face had turned red, and his clenched fists were quivering in un-concealed rage.

"Bored to death, huh?" he finally snarled through gritted teeth: "Well, what say we perform us a little mercy killing? Huh, guys?"

The Four Stooges grinned as one; each pounding his right fist into the palm of left hand, two or three times, in eager anticipation. Then, with a yell worthy of Viking berserkers, they charged forward!

But, Michael surprised them. He ran back towards the sink, and jumped up into it. He then sprang upward in a backward somersault, landing behind his would-be assailants!

As they spun about, dumbfounded, Michael jumped forward. In the process, his right foot slammed into Wes' chest, causing the latter to stumble backward, and hit the back of his head against the mirror.

Following which, Michael ducked under the telegraphed punch of the stooge to his left. While down there, he punched that particular opponent in the gonads! Allowing Michael to lift him up bodily, and throw him atop the two stooges to his right.

Unfortunately, this allowed the fourth stooge to tackle him to the ground.

Yet, just as he was about to flood Michael's face with a series of right-handed punches, the latter turned his head to the left and bit the young man's calf!

"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!" screamed the stooge. That is; until Wes pulled him off Michael, bodily. He then pulled Michael to his feet by the lapels of his windbreaker.

Yet, just as he was about to let fly with a straight right jab at Michael's nose, the latter criss-crossed his arms up and over Wes' left arm. Slamming all three arms downward! Thereby allowing Michael to duck under that punch, as well.

As a result, Wes received two right jabs to his stomach; a right upper-cut to his jaw; and a left hook to the right side of his head. All of which collapsed him like a wet sack of organic fertilizer.

Unfortunately, by that point, the three jocks, that had been dog-piled on top of each other, had become disentangled enough to tackle Michael to the floor, as well. Allowing them to spread-eagle him! One each pinning his arms; the third pinning both his legs.

"OK, Wes! We got him. We got him!!"

No sooner had this exclamation been uttered, however, than the wall separating the men's and women's rest rooms suddenly developed a very large hole. And, looking down at them, through it, was a topless semi-giantess. Eight feet tall, at least! With a face full of bestial fury...and a bedraggled head of light-brown hair.

tbc

Detective Sergeant Toby Swofford, age 57, was just about to clock out, at the end of his shift, when his partner--Officer Josephine Blackurn--came running down the hall.

"Hey! Sarge! Wait up a minute."

Swofford groaned: "Oh, no! Don't tell me..."

She nodded: "Dispatch has been flooded with cellphone calls from the Retroplex. Some kind of trouble over there."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Initially, a drunken brawl. Now, a full-scale riot. One caller claimed the place had been attacked by a fifty-foot woman!"

Swofford shook his head: "Couldn't the pre-Halloween pranksters have at least waited till Monday? OK, Jo! You drive. I'll radio for back-up, en route."

When they arrived at the drive-in, however, Swofford's mood went from sullenly half-interested to outright flabbergasted.

"What the frig...?"

Up on the giant silver screen were what looked like five Egyptian mummies. Not the bandaged-up zombie kind, usually depicted in old monster-movies, this time of year. But, the stationary kind usually seen in National Geographic documentaries.

Only these particular five were not being very stationary. They were screaming to be brought down to the ground, as they were quite literally stuck _on_ the screen. Like flies on flypaper!

* * * * *

NINE MINUTES EARLIER

"Let him up," growled the semi-giant Amazon.

"S-S-Sandy?" stuttered Wes.

The latter smiled: "You still remember me, after two years of screwing every other girl on campus? How flattering! But, enough talk. Do as I told you and let...him...UP!"

Michael's captors needed no further urging. As soon as Michael had regained his feet, and brushed himself off, he looked at his girlfriend.

"Uhm! Sandy? Not to seem ungrateful, or anything. But, how...?"

"I'll explain later. After I teach these jerks some much-needed manners."

After expanding her height to fifty-feet tall, and destroying what was left of the ladies' room roof, Sandy grabbed up all five of Michael's attackers. She then stripped off all their clothes before wrapping them up, head-to-foot, in every spare roll of two-ply toilet tissue she could find. When that had been accomplished, she put each pseudo-mummy in her mouth; rolled him around in her saliva; and then spit him back out in the direction of the movie screen.

Wes and the Four Stooges had been turned into human loogies!

Nodding in satisfaction at her accuracy, she looked down at Michael, before picking him up in her arms, and running off into the night.

Ten minutes afterward, the police showed up.

* * * * *

Sandy did not stop running until she had reached the Goodson Fairgrounds. The preparations for the annual Halloween Carnival were under way. But, there was no one working overtime, tonight. The young couple had the immediate environment all to themselves.

Michael was lowered to the ground, from where Sandy had carried him under her left arm's elbow. She then shrank down to her normal height. Revealing, in the process, that she had been carrying her street clothes in the palm of her right hand.

"I suppose you want that explanation, now," she asked, (semi-rhetorically) as soon as she had finished dressing. And, naturally, he nodded. So, she extended her right hand.

"See this jade ring? It was given to me by my grandfather for my thirteenth birthday. You remember Grandpa Doug, right?"

Michael nodded again. Dr. Douglas Bigelow, the world-famous archeologist, was the one who had helped the Smith family get their jobs at Goodson Academy in the first place!

"Well, Grandpa Doug got this from a Huichol Indian shamaness down in Mazatlan, Mexico. It seems that some local fisherman had 'over-celebrated' returning to port with a big catch. And, when they tried to make this thirteen year-old girl, selling flowers in the cantina, join in their 'celebration,' Grandpa Doug came to her aid with some pepper spray!"

The young flower vendor turned out to be the shamaness' granddaughter. And, she had given the ring to Dr. Bigelow in gratitude. Claiming that the ring had previously been worn by the Huichol fertility goddess, Great-grandmother Growth, herself.

"Grandpa Doug didn't want to hurt her feelings. So, he accepted the gift and passed it on to me. Two weeks later, in seventh grade science class, I had to go to the bathroom. Getting permission from the teacher, I waited until I was out of the room before I went racing down the stairs and into the lav. Unfortunately, I ran into a bunch of eighth-grade cheerleaders who were smoking pot! They thought I had run into them on purpose, and started pushing and shoving me. The next thing I know? We're all in the principal's office. The cheerleaders; with bloody noses. And, me? With torn clothes I don't remember tearing!"

Two of the cheerleaders turned out to have over-protective boyfriends on the football team. And, when they tried to avenge their girlfriends' "honor," history only seemed to repeat itself. In their case? They were found tied to the middle school's flagpole.

Ten feet off the ground!

"Hmmmmm!" mused Michael: "Seems like your first two uses of that magic ring were subconscious. Resulting in Lou Ferrigno-style 'Hulk-outs.' "

"Exactly!" replied Sandy: "Boy! You sure are taking this a lot more calmly than I thought you would."

"Well, I have a confession to make," he began. Only to be cut off by a rather weak-sounding outcry.

"L-L-Landor!"

Michael and Sandy turned to their left, and beheld the oddest thing they had yet seen that night. A man was staggering toward them. A man dressed in what resembled a white tank top with matching trunks and cape. But, even more astounding to Sandy was the color of the man's pigmentation.

Every inch of his skin--from his bald head to his sandaled toes--was a very bright shade of blue!

tbc

The blue man collapsed to the ground, face-first. Prompting Michael to run to his side, fall on his knees, and roll him over to look for injuries. In this way, Sandy observed that this strange being had a sword sheathed to his left hip. As its silvery-looking hilt was clearly visible at the top of an exotically embroidered scabbard.

But, even that paled in comparison to what happened next. Michael, taking a closer look at the blue man's face, suddenly exclaimed:

"Toray?!"

The blue man opened his eyes in response.

"Prince...Landor? Thank...the Great Parent! I've found you."

"What the frig are you doing here?" replied Michael: "You're two weeks early."

"No time...now. Take me...to Willek. Quickly!"

Gesturing for Sandy to help him, the two youngsters helped the blue man to his feet. No sooner had they done so, however, than three more people joined the party!

These three looked more like Sandy than the one called Toray. Although, they did have swarthier complexions. Not to mention, hairstyles slightly reminiscent of a disco-era Afro. Plus; all they wore in the way of clothing were loinclothes (that looked more like rawhide kilts) and matching boots.

Most disquieting of all, however, were their weapons. Broadswords strapped to their backs like a quiver full of arrows on an archer. Plus; what looked like short-handled maces, made of stainless steel, strapped to their left hips. And, with a short noose of rope tied around the base of each mace's knob.

In short; these latest three arrivals looked like Conan the Barbarian impersonators!

"You! And, you," the apparent leader shouted, pointing at her and Michael: "Stand away from the Azuling. Now!"

To which Michael replied: "Landor Golarson takes no orders from any _boot-licker_ of Ashrog's."

Sandy could not tell which had stunned the trio more: the insult or the name. In any event, the leader finally responded by lifting his mace off his belt by the noose; whirling it counter-clockwise; and then throwing it under-handed. Almost in a literal blur!

To her ever-increasing amazement, though, Michael sprang forward and intercepted the weapon! Catching it in his own left hand, and throwing it back after his own counter-clockwise spin.

Resulting in the man to the barbarian leader's left falling flat on his back. Blood gushing from his throat, where it had been penetrated by a crescent-shaped blade that seemed to have magically appeared out of the mace's handle!

Two seconds later, Michael had unsheathed Toray's sword. Aiming its point in the barbarian leader's direction, and grinning.

"One Osiri down," he recited: "Two to go."

Whereupon, the remaining two barbarians drew their own swords, and charged forward.

"OSIRIIIIIIIIIIII!" they screamed in unison.

"WOTANIIIIIIIIIII!" Michael screamed in counterpoint.

The swords of the barbarians proved slightly shorter than Toray's weapon. But, they were slightly wider where the blade met the hilt. This allowed the two Osiri to wield their swords single-handedly. As opposed to the two-handed grip Michael was now employing.

Even so, he was clearly no novice at combat fencing. A fact he proved when he drew first-blood on the Osiri to his right. Ham-stringing the latter's right leg!

But, instead of aiming a death-blow at the fallen warrior's head, Michael snatched up his switch-bladed mace, instead.

WHOOSH!

THUNK!

"Urrrrrgh!"

Another Osiri fell flat on his back, choking to death on his own blood. Prompting Michael to turn around and remark:

"Now, it's your turn. Boot-licker!"

tbc

Michael was to be denied that satisfaction, however.

"Osiriiiiiii!" screamed the warrior, impaling himself with his own sword! And, as stunned as Sandy was by that, Michael was even more so. The warrior, his life's blood flowing from him, looked up at the youngster and smiled, defiantly.

"S-Simbarra...curse you...and all...your...ilk."

With those final words, he fell down dead to his right.

Michael slowly walked back over to where Sandy was finding it increasingly difficult to support the half-conscious Toray all by herself. For someone so slender, he certainly weighed more than she did!

"I told you I had a confession to make," Michael said (with a lame grin).

"Don't tell me. Let me guess," replied Sandy: "You want to wait until we get back home."

Her boyfriend nodded. Reminding her that they had left their car behind at the Retroplex. He then suggested--very politely--that she could resume her giant size and transport them--he and Toray--back to the gatehouse at Goodson Academy. With no other obvious option, she agreed.

Thus, she found herself naked for the second time that night.

As the fifty-foot tall teenager strode back towards the boarding school run by her father, Michael (sitting in the palm of her right hand) removed something from around Toray's neck. At first glance, it resembled nothing more than a crude necklace. A piece of white string with only one decoration: a small glass pyramid roughly the size of a pea.

But, in actuality, the pyramid was made of pure quartz crystal. And, when Michael concentrated upon it, it grew large enough to fill the interior of his cupped hands!

He then focused his thoughts upon it.

"Landor calling Willek. Landor calling Willek. Do you read me? Over."

He telepathically repeated that mantra twice more before an image formed within the pyramid. The image of an old man with silvery-white hair...and a strangely fixed gaze.

"Landor; how many times must I tell you? Stop using that jargon! Your parahedron is not some walkie-talkie in a World War II movie."

"I'm not using my parahedron. I'm using Toray's."

There was a momentary pause: "What?!"

Michael closed his eyes, and placed the pyramid to his forehead. The resulting flood of mental images, from the past thirty-five minutes, were thereby relayed to the elderly personage at the other end.

Willek shook his head.

"Osiri? Here, on this world? Incredible!"

"But, true," countered Michael: "And, that can mean only one thing."

Willek nodded: "They've somehow gained the knowledge to create Apertures."

* * * * *

Goodson Academy, like the town that eventually grew up around it, had been named for William Wallace Goodson. The latter was a Revolutionary War veteran who had been born and raised in what was then the Windham County parish of Scotland, Connecticut. But, as he had fought for America's independence as the privateering captain of "The Sultan of Bozrah" (a frigate captured from the shipyards at New London), he had eventually come to be nicknamed "Bozrah Billy."

The fortune he had amassed, attacking and looting British East Indiamen, allowed him to purchase a decommissioned Continental Army fort, in the Northwest Corner of Connecticut, in 1785. It and the surrounding acreage became the nucleus of an elegant farmstead. With the site of the fort's main gate becoming the farmstead's gatehouse.

Unfortunately, a childhood bout with the mumps had left him permanently infertile. So, he had no children to whom he could bequeath the farmstead when he died of old age, in 1817. He therefore willed it to the Nutmeg State. Stipulating it should be used as a preparatory school for American Indian children, prior to educating them at Dartmouth.

Regardless of whether or not they even _wanted_ a white man's education!

The school's goals, curricula, and student body had changed many times since then. But, the gatehouse had always been the habitation of the groundskeepers. And, the Smith family proved no exception to this.

In addition to Michael, there was his twenty-six year-old cousin Martin; Martin's widowed mother, Lucy; and her blind father-in-law, John. Teachers, students, and townies alike knew them as a family of shunned Amish from Pennsylvania! Why they had been shunned was never revealed.

Yet, it was now obvious to Sandy that not even that much was true. And, before the night was over, she was going to learn what kind of light her boyfriend had hidden under the proverbial bushel. Or, they were through!

tbc

John Smith--nee Willek--felt the seismic vibrations almost at the same instant as his guide dog, Lorraine D'Alsace (who whined, apprehensively).

"Yes, girl. I know!" he murmured, soothingly: "Something tells me a lot of secrets will be laid bare, tonight. Secrets just as thunderous as those strides."

Two minutes later, there was a knock at the front door of the gatehouse. Lorraine took her companion to it, and he opened it just as easily as any one with normal sight.

"Put him over on the couch," he told the youngsters without preamble, as they half-carried/half-dragged Toray into the living room. Willek was not far behind them and, when they stepped out of his way, he bent forward and placed his right hand on Toray's forehead.

"He's fine," came the pronouncement, moments later: "No internal injuries. Just plain exhaustion. He's been on the run, up and down these steep foothills, since sunset."

"From those three Osiri?" asked Michael.

"From the much larger force they were accompanying," Willek replied.

"Now, look...!" Sandy started to complain, finally losing all patience.

"I know, my dear. I know. Landor will explain everything. But, in his defense, it's going to be a long story. So, Lorraine and I will go into the kitchen, and fix up some instant lemonade to quench everyone's thirst. Come, girl!"

Once they were alone, Michael gestured to one of two matching arm chairs separated from the couch by the almost obligatory coffee table.

"OK!" began Michael: "For starters? My real name is Landor Golarson. And, the reason why I like sci-fi and fantasy flicks, so much, is simple. I come from a parallel-Earth! One where the North American continent developed along radically different lines."

He paused, in case Sandy had any questions. She only had one.

"Define 'radically.' "

Michael half-smiled: "The harsh northern portion of the continent is inhabited by a red-haired/blue-eyed race called the Wotani. While the arid southern plains are home to nomadic clans of polygamous horsemen (with black hair and brown eyes) called the Osiri. In between them, along the temperate eastern coast, are a blue-skinned race known only as the Azulings. Neither of the other two races knows their true name, because the Azulings, themselves, claim its unpronouncable by either!"

Michael went on to describe how, for the longest time, there was no contact, at all, between the Wotani and the Osiri. Except, of course, through the trading caravans of Azuling merchants. But, eventually, the Wotani began expanding southward; the Osiri, northward; and the Azulings, westward.

"It wasn't exactly what you might call 'peaceful co-existence.' The Osiri live by--and for--raiding. And, they raided Wotani farms and settlements more often than they did Azuling ones. A race war was increasingly imminent! Then, Xamurep--Patriarch of the Azulings--had an idea."

Before the Azulings had unified themselves, they had been divided into war-like tribal factions. And, on certain occasions, to avoid what most of the tribal leaders regarded as needless bloodshed, they would exchange their wives with each other!

"By one leader having children, via another leader's wife, it made the two rival factions related by blood. Which would, in turn, inevitably make each faction reluctant to _spill_ that blood. And, that's precisely what happened with the wives of Golar I (High King of the Wotani) and Nahrog (First Chief of Chiefs of the Osiri)."

Golar's Queen Vara, agreed to the exchange. As did Mairhee, Nahrog's First-Among-Wives. Nine months later, the Great Exchange began bearing fruit! Much to the satisfaction of all...save one.

"Who was the sour grape?" asked Sandy.

"Nahrog's twin brother, Ashrog. As First-Among-Warriors (a.k.a. Nahrog's second-in command), he was what you might call an automatic 'babe-magnet.' But, there was only one woman he was seriously hot for: his sister-in-law, Mairhee. She had chosen to marry Nahrog over him. And, it rankled him! He just couldn't accept the fact that he wasn't irresistible to literally all women."

"Heh!" snorted Sandy: "Sounds a lot like Wes."

"With one major difference," corrected Michael: "Wes can't summon hundreds of thousands of high school football players to his cause!"

In Ashrog's case; he used his military influence to not only step up Osiri raids against Wotani civilians. He even led some of those raids, himself. Shamelessy violating the terms of the Great Exchange.

"Finally," said Michael: "...Nahrog had had enough. He called Ashrog before the Inter-clan Council, to take him to task. And, Ashrog admitted to the charges with perverse pride. He then accused Nahrog of being a pro-Azuling boot-licker! And, among the Osiri, there's almost no greater insult. In this case, it prompted Nahrog to jump to his feet in anger. Leaving him completely vulnerable to a club-knife in the back."

That treacherous act of murder was the signal for all of Ashrog's supporters to come charging out of hiding. They massacred everyone on the Council that Ashrog deemed loyal to his brother. While Ashrog, himself, when after his mixed-blood niece and nephew.

"Their mother, Vara, tried her best to defend them. But, she was almost killed herself. It was only through the intervention of her ten year-old stepson, Rojar, that she escaped at all!"

"How old were you, at the time?" asked Sandy.

"Just over a year. So, most of what you've just heard came from Vara and Rojar. Better known to you...as Lucy and Martin Smith."

tbc

"So, let me get this straight," declared Sandy: "You're a prince-in-exile from a parallel-Earth. Your cousin Martin is really your half-brother. And, your Aunt Lucy is really more like your foster-mom. What does that make your Great-uncle John?"

Michael grinned, looked towards the kitchen, and replied (in a half-raised voice):

"Just a very, very, VERY old friend of the family! Formally known as Sibling Willek of the Church of the Great Parent."

"Sibling?" echoed Sandy.

"The Church of the Great Parent is a bit like your Roman Catholic Church," replied Willek, as he returned to the living room pushing a gray metal cart. On top of which were the promised pitcher of lemonade, along with three glass tumblers filled with ice.

"Except for one thing," he continued, as he served the lemonade: "There's no sexually segregated hierarchy. In our church, both men and women can be ordained clergy. Those of what you might call entry-level rank are addressed as 'sibling' (rather than 'brother' or 'sister'). And, all siblings labor as itinerant preachers. Seeing to the needs of those villages too small for establishing official churches."

Willek added how most siblings were eventually promoted to parish priests. While a few--like himself--opted to say siblings for their entire lives. So as not to lose touch with normal people.

"Does that mean he's _abnormal_?" thought Sandy to herself, as she sipped her lemonade.

Willek smiled: "Only in the sense that I read minds."

If spitting and coughing in amazement were an Olympic event, Sandy would have been a gold medalist at that moment.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, at the Morgan School of Equestrianism, the chief wrangler was making his final rounds of the day, when he heard a strange commotion. Some of the American Saddlebreds in Stable Number 1 were acting up. Thinking it might be coyotes or bears, he momentarily stopped to withdraw his .22 magnum Smith and Wesson kit gun. Prepared to fire a couple of warning shots into the night air as a means of scaring them off.

WHOOSH!

THUNK!

He landed flat on his back, destined never to know what had killed him as he choked to death on his own blood.

Two copper-skinned strangers stepped from the shadows, the dim glow from the external night lights revealing that each had a head of hair that could only be described as "leonine." The one whose hair was more like charcoal gray, rather than black, walked with the aid of a wooden staff. And, the staff was topped by a human skull!

He watched as the younger Osiri removed his club-knife from the dead man's throat...before licking the blade clean of blood.

"Your ghoulishness will be the death of you, Malagor."

"And, this one could have been the death of us all, old man!" growled the latter, as he clicked the knife blade back into place: "You said the family which owns this strange farmstead had all retired for the night."

"I sense he was not one of them. Merely some kind of overseer."

"Then, we had best depart before someone comes looking for him."

Yet, as Malagor walked past him, the shaman grabbed him by the shoulder.

"What of Zan-tac, Zyr-tec, and Lip'tor? They have not yet returned from their pursuit of the Azuling!"

Malagor looked at the shaman's hand, before removing only half-gently.

"They were our three best trackers. If they have not returned with him by now, it is because they are dead. Now, find yourself a horse. And, MOUNT!"

Five minutes later, the Morgan family was awakened by a strange blood-curdling cry from the direction of Stable Number One.

"OSIRRRIIIIIIIIIIIII!"

tbc

GOODSON ACADEMY GATEHOUSE
OCTOBER 24, 2009
(10:41 P.M./EST)

* * * * *

"Not nice, Willek. Really not nice!" exclaimed Michael, as he repeatedly slapped Sandy's back, in an effort to help her cough out the lemonade she had swallowed the wrong way.

The older Wotani had to agree, adding: "Forgive me, my dear! My inner child sometimes resurfaces, and I become more immature than I often scold Landor for being."

"Qui---koff! Koff! Quite all right," replied Sandy, wanting to change the subject: "So, you're a mind-reader, huh? Did this Church of the Great Parent teach you that, as well?"

"In a manner of speaking. As you know, all humans use less than ten percent of the total power their minds are capable of generating. The Azulings are capable of using twenty percent! And, they're willing to teach any non-Azuling, willing to learn, how to do the same. Those physically unable to learn can still communicate telepathically via parahedrons."

When Sandy asked what parahedrons were, Michael showed her his, followed by Toray's. Demonstrating their psychokinetically-variable size. Small as a pea, for better portability. Large enough to fill a cupped pair of hands, for better transmission and reception!

"That's all very fascinating," she admitted: "But, that still doesn't explain how the four of you got together. Or, why you came to this world?"

So, Michael continued their back-story.

"The war was still going on by the time I was five. Because, it was basically an endless series of stalemates! The Osiri had the advantage in the grasslands, while the Wotani (who had never developed knights in shining armor) had the advantage in forested areas. Finally, my father decided to ask the Azulings to actively enter the war. After all; the Great Exchange had been their idea! So, why were they remaining neutral?"

Toward that end, King Golar sent Landor's other half-brother, Golar the Younger (the king's only son by Vara), to the Azuling capital of Cerulea. With Lord Toray as intermediary.

"Toray was Patriarch Xamurep's Envoy-General. Sort of a cross between Henry Kissinger and James Bond. In fact; it was Toray who had reminded Xamurep of the ancient Azuling custom of spousal exchange! So, I guess because he felt somewhat responsible for the war, he had agreed to arrange an audience between Prince Golee (as I affectionately called him) and the Patriarch. Unfortunately, Ashrog's spies got wind of the meeting. And, the night before it was to go down? A hundred Osiri warriors snuck through the sewers of Cerulea...and burned the local Wotani embassy, there, to the ground!"

In the process, however, they had apparently abducted and killed the Wotani Crown Prince. For, his body was found the next morning, just outside the rear gate of the Patriarchal Palace. With his forehead having been branded with the Osiri symbol...for illegitimate birth.

Michael broke down into silent tears at this point. Sandy looked at Willek in puzzlement. So the latter explained.

"Among the Osiri, it is forbidden for a man and woman, of the same clan, to marry. No matter how distant the biological relationship, if they belong to the same clan, any physical intimacy between them is still regarded as incestuous. And, any child born of such a union is indelibly tattooed on the forehead with the...aforementioned symbol."

Conversely, the Wotani believed that the body and soul were still intertwined during the first twenty-fours hours after physical death. Thus, to mutilate a corpse less than a day old was supposed to identically mutilate the spirit that used to inhabit it!

"And, the only way to rectify that," concluded Willek: "...is for the descrecator to be killed. And, then, likewise posthumously mutilated!"

Sandy's eyes became as wide, with horrified shock, as an anime' character.

"Th-th-that's...barbaric!"

Willek shrugged: "By the standards we've come to live by, here, yes. But, there's an old proverb that a lot of Wotani, back home, still live by. 'Justice and revenge are but differently-named sides of the same two-headed coin.' "

tbc

Not wanting to get side-tracked by a philosophical debate, Willek hurriedly went on to explain how the tragic news from Cerulea made Queen Mairhee understandably concerned for her own son's safety.

"That's when Toray came to the rescue, again. He knew, from his own education by clergy of the Great Parent, that there were many other worlds besides our own. Or, more precisely, _beside_ our own. Like a multiversal string of pearls...with no two pearls exactly alike!"

Toray had therefore suggested that Landor could be evacuated to one such parallel-world. At least, until his eighteenth birthday. Rojar and Vara could accompany him as both bodyguards and combat instructors. And, both boys could be provided with a special tutor!

"I, of course, was recruited for the latter position. And, on the designated day for departure, we assembled in the basement chapel of the Azuling embassy near King Golar's castle. The chaplain in residence chanted in unison with several siblings. And, moments later? An Aperture formed!"

Willek explained how that term technically referred to a bright yellow curtain of energy that was psychokinetically formed within a circular stone arch. But, that most non-Azulings referred to the arch, itself, by that name.

"In any event, we stepped through the Aperture, one by one. Emerging within a cave on a strange wooded hillside, overlooking an even stranger sight. Specifically; Goodson's 1997 Halloween Carnival!"

Sandy sat bolt upright: "Yeah! I remember that one. I came as the Disney version of Peter Pan, that year. Grandpa Doug came with me, dressed as Roy Rogers. And, you guys..."

"...looked like rejects from a Renaissance fair?" said Michael, finishing for her.

Sandy looked at him in shock, which caused him to smile as he wiped the remaining tears from his eyes.

"I never said that out loud!" she exclaimed: "How did you...?"

"Willek read it in your thoughts, at the time. That's how he also found out about the Amish and their customs. From reading your grandfather's mind."

Sandy shook her head, still a bit incredulous, despite everything she had been through so far, that night. Then, something occurred to her.

"Where are...?"

"Rojar and Vara," said Willek: "--or, rather, Martin and Lucy--were called to the police station to answer some questions concerning you, Landor, and Wesley Saxon. But, they have informed me, via parahedron, that they are now on their way home."

* * * * *

POLICE HEADQUARTERS,
GOODSON, CONNECTICUT
(FIVE MIN. EARLIER)

Wes, wearing a P.A.L. sweatsuit (due to his own clothes still being soaked with saliva), glared at Lucy and Martin Smith as they left the police station.*

"You got the stuff, George?" he asked into his cellphone (trying not to be overheard).

George Wiesel, his father's attorney, replied in the affirmative.

"I do wish you'd reconsider, though," he added: "I mean, if your father finds out..."

"...he'll also find out about that very pretty business major," replied Wes: "The one who's been profiting from all your insider stock tips. Emphasis on 'inside her!' Do I make myself clear, George?"

The much-harried lawyer sighed: "Yes, Wes! As clear as Waterford crystal."

Wes hung up and walked to where his friends had parked his Dodge Ram Charger. It had been a sixteenth birthday present from his father, who had joked about it being the only four-wheel drive vehicle named for two rival NFL teams!

"I'm gonna drop you four off back at school, alright? But, then, I'm turning around and heading straight back here."

"What the frig for, Wes?" asked his roommate (and favorite blocker) Biff Morgan.

"Let's just say I'm meeting someone who's gonna help me cut Smith and my ex-bitch down to size!"

And, with that, he started the ignition.

tbc

* * * * *

Lucy Smith pondered what she was going to tell Headmaster Bigelow, regarding the impounding of his illicitly borrowed car by the police, when she suddenly felt their 1996 Nissan Hardbody begin to decelerate.

She looked at her stepson, who was driving.

"Rojar? What's wrong?"

He kept glancing into the rearview mirror.

"I think we're being followed."

"Well, this _is_ the main route we're driving on. It's probably just one of the local farm families returning from the Retroplex triple-feature!"

"Maybe so/maybe no."

Martin Smith (as he was locally known) turned right, at the intersection with Farmstead Road, and then pulled over. He shut off the engine and headlights, and they waited. Sure enough; another pair of headlight was approaching the intersection.

And, sure enough, they kept right on going.

"Looks like you were right, Vara. For once!"

The twenty-six year-old grinned as his Wotani stepmother back-handed his right shoulder in half-serious reprimand. He then turned the ignition back on, and resumed the drive home to the Goodson Academy gatehouse.

But, while that stately old domicile might be the main entrance to the renowned boarding school, it was not the only one!

Wes Saxon pulled his Ram Charger over, next to a wooden stick with an orange-painted top. This stick marked one end of a foot path used for cross-country training by the girls' track-and-field team. And, by doubling-back along it, Wesley's friends would come out on the athletic field behind the school gymnasium.

Biff Morgan looked in at his roommate, after disembarking from the front passenger seat.

"I sure hope you know what you're doing, dude. I don't want you to see you get in any bigger trouble!"

"Don't worry. Like I said earlier? It'll be Smith and my ex-bitch who'll be in big trouble!"

He then did a U-turn, and headed back toward Goodson. As he passed the intersection with Farmstead Road, for the second time that night, he failed to notice the fifty-two pairs of eyes that observed his vehicle's progress from a roadside meadow to his right.

"I wonder what magic powers that strange vehicle?" asked the shaman.

"I neither know nor care," replied Malagor: "I am concerned only with carrying out our mission. Horses up!"

This order was given to the other Osiri warriors who--like he and the shaman--had coereced their stolen mounts into lying on the ground, on their sides, when the shaman first sensed the approach of the two automobiles. The danger of inadvertent discovery having passed, the Saddlebreds were allowed to regain their feet. Whereupon, the Osiri raiders sprang once more on to their backs!

"Onward!" yelled Malagor.

"OSIRRRRRRI!" chorused his subordinates.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later, the Ram Charger entered the parking lot of a local motel. It pulled into a vacant spot near the motel's 24/7 coffee shop, right next to the one occupied by a vintage Datsun 280ZX.

"Glad to see you're a man of your word, George" sneered Wes.

The corporate attorney said nothing. He merely scowled, and opened the trunk of his car.

"The air rifle has a laser targeting scope already mounted on top. The carrying case contains one vial of the formula. And, the 'fanny-pack' has six tranquilizer darts. I hope that proves satisfactory?"

"I'll let you know, tomorrow morning."

With that, they went their separate ways.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, back at the gatehouse, Toray of the Azuling had finally regained consciousness.

"Welcome back to the Land of the Living, old friend," said Willek.

The Envoy-General gave a lop-sided grin.

"I wish I was here under more pleasant circumstances. You know the old saying, however: 'Mortals may arrange. Yet, the Great Parent rearranges.' "

"Has the tide of war changed, back home?" asked Lucy.

Toray nodded: "In, perhaps, the worst way possible."

He then looked at Michael: "It grieves me to announce this, Your Highness. But, King Golar is dead. Long live the king!"

tbc

* * * * *

Toby Swofford and Jo Blackburn were having a busier night than anticipated. First, the weird incident at the Retroplex. Now, a homicide!

"What have you got, Doc?" the detective sergeant asked the coroner.

The latter shook his head: "Initially speaking? It appears this man choked to death on his own blood, after having his throat cut. But, the way it was cut? Whatever knife was used is something outside my experience."

Swofford then went over to confer with his younger partner, who had just finished taking the preliminary statement of the riding school's owner.

"The vic's wife found him, Sarge. She ran to find Mr. Morgan, here. And, he called us. While waiting for us, he looked around the barn. And, he found fifty of his instructional saddle mounts missing!"

"Horse theft?" he muttered: "In this day and age?"

Swofford shook his head. Then, something occurred to him.

"Morgan? Say! Is he any relation to...?"

Jo nodded: "His son Biff is one of the Goodson Academy students we interviewed, earlier tonight."

"How fast can you drive us over there?"

Jo grinned: "You mean, without having a pilot's license?"

* * * * *

There was stunned silence for at least two minutes. Then, for the second time that night, Michael broke down and cried. Sandy gave him a comforting hug until he had managed to recompose himself. Then, Michael asked how it had happened.

"I was at the Azuling embassy near your father's castle," replied Toray: "Informing him about something of grave concern that had been brought to my own attention. Namely; that the Osiri have learned the secret of Aperture-making!"

"That much we had already determined for ourselves," said Willek: "How they managed it is what we don't know."

Toray shrugged: "All I know is that a defrocked priest of the Great Parent was involved. Bribed with the same gold for which unscrupulous Azuling merchants have been selling contraband weapons to the Osiri."

"I thought gold was even scarcer on our world than it is here," declared Martin.

"The Osiri have found a plentiful source of it, somewhere. And, they are using it to good effect!"

"But, what makes you think my father is dead?" demanded Michael, getting back to the point.

To which Toray replied that an Aperture had coalesced out of thin air, at their meeting. An Aperture in the shape of a fiery lion's head...from the open jaws of which Osiri warriors began to emerge like saliva on the muzzle of a mad dog!

"Your father and I, along with the contingent of bodyguards he brought with him, managed to fight our way out of the meeting room. Unfortunately, we found out that the Osiri had evidently opened a _second_ Aperture, elsewhere in the embassy! With no other recourse, we fled to the basement chapel."

It had been their intention to use that Aperture to flee in search of Michael and the others, to see if they were being similarly endangered.

"But, no sooner had the chaplain and his acolytes finished chanting, than the Osiri raiders broke down the door. Your father opted to stay behind, delaying pursuit of me for as long as he could."

"So, you didn't actually _see_ him die. Did you?" countered Michael.

* * * * *

For the second time, that night, Wes had parked his Ram Charger at the terminus of the cross-country training path. And, he ran along it as fast as he could.

The air rifle had been loaded with the first of the chemical-filled tranquilizer darts. And, what he planned to do with it gave the over-privileged bully a sense of gleeful anticipation.

"Frigging weirdoes!" he muttered to himself, in reference to the Smith family. What he planned to do to them had originally been intended _only_ for them. But, if Sandy wanted to throw in her lot with them? Then, so be it!

Through careful spying on her and Michael, he knew where the Smiths kept the spare key to their back door. And, sure enough? It was still there. Hanging on a hook behind a forsythia bush to his left!

He removed it from that hook, and quietly let himself in.

* * * * *

"So, you didn't actually _see_ him die. Did you?"

Before the Azuling nobleman could answer that, Lorraine started growling. And, Willek sat bolt upright.

"Landor! Behind you!"

Michael spun about...just in time to see a red dot appear on his gray windbreaker. It was at that exact same instant that Lucy jumped in front of him, an Osiri club-knife in her right hand!

She thereby took the dart that was meant for Michael, Falling to the living room carpet, face-first. Wes swore out loud, as he hastened to load the next dart into the air rifle as swiftly as possible. But, Michael was far quicker!

Somersaulting to his right, Michael regained his feet with the club-knife in his left hand. He then threw it under-handed; knobbed end first.

WHOOSH!

THUD!

"UHNNNNNN!"

Wes fell to his knees, clutching his groin in pain. Pain that was not alleviated by Michael knocking him to the floor, and sitting on his chest!

"I'm gonna cut off your testicles, and WEAR THEM FOR A NECKTIE!!" he screamed. But, Sandy screamed even louder for him to stop.

"Look! LOOK!!!"

Michael looked...and was rendered speechless by the sight of a naked, five-inch tall redhead in Sandy's cupped hands.

tbc

Everyone else was initially speechless. Then, Toray finally regained the sound of his voice.

"What manner of sorcery...?"

"Not sorcery, old friend," replied Willek: "I've been reading young Mr. Saxon's thoughts. It seems that his father's pharmaceutical company has been trying to develop a drug to suppress the obesity gene. Unfortunately, their best prospect to date had the unforeseen side-effect of reducing height, not weight!"

"Young Mr. Saxon, here, decided to take advantage of that by shrinking all of us. Using tranquilizer darts filled with that drug! Martin, Lucille, and myself would have been crushed to a bloody pulp beneath his shoes. His personal harem of cheerleaders would have received Michael as a mascot-slash-pet. And, you, my dear would have become his personal love slave!"

"WHAT???"

Sandy looked at Wes in both shock and fury.

"I've changed my mind, Michael. I think you'd look very handsome in a necktie."

The latter grinned and his shook his head.

"I've a better idea."

Whereupon, he knocked Wes out with the knobby end of the club-knife. Following which, he stood up, retrieved the tranquilizer rifle,... and fired it point-blank into Wesley's chest.

When he regained consciousness, several minutes later (courtesy of a mouthful of water expectorated by Sandy), he sat up and looked around him. Completely disoriented. Then, he remembered what he had been intending to do. And, more frighteningly, what had Michael had _threatened_ to do!

So, he felt for his manhood and was intially glad to realize it was still intact. Then, it dawned on him.

"Hey! Where the frig are my clothes??!"

"Watch your mouth, young man! Or, I'll cut out your worthless tongue."

Wes spun about (difficult to do, when one is fetally crouching, stark naked, in a futile attempt to preserve one's diminished dignity), and saw Lucille "Vara" Smith standing behind him. Clad in a white handkerchief that had been altered to resemble a Greek toga.

She was also armed with a safety pin that had bent outward to resemble a saber.

* * * * *

While Sandy had been taking care of Vara's diminished dignity, Michael and the others had been boarding up not only the front and back doors of the gatehouse. But, all the first-floor windows, too. A chore made slightly difficult as the first floor was inevitably split in two by the driveway! Living room, kitchen, and garage on one side. Laundry room and guest rooms on the other.

To get from one side to the other, internally, one had to traverse via the second floor, which was comprised of the "Smith" family's bedrooms and master bathroom. The cellar was equally divided between a general work area and a sound-proofed "recreation room" (where Martin had tutored Michael in the art of combat swordsmanship, every day, five hours a day, for the last twelve years).

The only other entrance to the cellar, besides the one in the kitchen, was an outer bulwark. The hatch to which had already been bolted from the inside. With the bolt additionally secured in place by a padlock and chain.

Sandy looked at all these preparations, nervously.

"It looks like you're preparing for a siege," she remarked to the shrunken Vara (who was still guarding Little Wesley on the fireplace mantle).

The latter nodded: "If Landor's father really is dead, we can no longer afford to remain on your world, hiding our collective light under a bushel. We'll have to take Landor back to our world, to lead our forces against Ashrog's."

"Is that why he's been acting so...blood-thirsty...since we got back from the drive-in?"

"Yes! And, it's also why we've been home-schooling him in social studies and political science, for the most part. I know how fond of each other you are. But, I don't see that relationship working out. Unless, of course, you decide to accompany us back to our world?"

Sandy half-smiled: "I can just see Daddy's face if and when I tell him that. He blames Grandpa Doug for Grandma Jenny's death! All that archeological globe-trotting they used to do. To Third World countries with little or no hospitalization as we know it."

Vara was about to reply when, suddenly, all the lights in the house began to strangely flicker.

"W-W-What's going on?" stuttered Sandy.

* * * * *

GATEHOUSE EXTERIOR, FIVE MINUTES EARLIER

The Osiri shaman opened his eyes.

"The Parentian sibling knows we are here."

"It matters not," replied Malagor: "Golar's misbegotten whelp dies here. Tonight! Along with all the rest. Seal them in."

The shaman stood up in his saddle, and began twirling his skull-topped staff in a clockwise circle over his head. And, each circle seemed to be accompanied by a white starburst of light. It was this ritual that made the lights in the gatehouse begin to flicker.

* * * * *

"W-W-What's going on?"

"It's the Osiri," replied Willek: "Their shaman has formed a psychokinetic bubble around the whole school. Including the bit of roadway passing in front of the gatehouse!"

"English translation?" asked Vara (mostly for Sandy's sake).

"Nobody from town will be getting in. And, nobody within the school is getting out."

tbc

GOODSON ACADEMY GATEHOUSE
OCTOBER 24, 2009
(11:55 P.M./EST)

* * * * *

As they had planned (via some telepathic conferencing on Willek's part), Toray went down to the basement and switched the circuit-breaker off. Thereby plunging the whole house into darkness. Michael and Martin then went upstairs to the master bedroom. The window of which overlooked the front lawn and Farmstead Road.

Michael looked through the telescopic sight of the tranquilizer rifle. Its laser beam-targeting component placing a red dot on the left nipple of the Osiri warrior to Malagor's right.

PHIT!

"Thotor!" exclaimed the latter when he saw his right-hand man seemingly vanish from his saddle.

Martin used the ensuing confusion to fire a painted-black arrow from a compound bow. That arrow plunged itself into the throat of another Osiri warrior. As did the two that followed it!

By which time, Michael had loaded and fired another of the tranq-darts filled with shrinking potion.

"What sorcery is this, shaman?" screamed Malagor.

"I know not. But, were I you, I would follow through on our plan. Now!"

Malagor hurriedly nodded: "Half of you! Over this wall! NOW!!"

Two groups of ten split off from the Osiri troupe. Galloping right up to the wall surrounding three-fourths of the academy. Ten to the left; ten to the right. And, having done so, they used their saddles as springboards to jump to the top of that wall.

Landing on the other side, they rendezvoused at the back door to the kitchen. Whereupon, three of them began putting their shoulders to it. Willek, hearing them, telepathed a message to his faithful guide dog.

"Lorraine! Into the living room. Protect Vara."

The German Shepherdess whined, somewhat, though she did as she was instructed. Whereupon, Willek raised his polearm. It was actually a gravel rake, with a hole drilled near the top of the handle. An icepick, however, had been inserted through the hole, and secured in place with twine. Which would make it just as lethal as a real polearm for the bloody business that was to follow.

Thank the Great Parent there would be no two-pronged attack! For, unbeknownst to the Osiri trying to break down the front door, that entry way had been reinforced. By a ten-foot tall Sandy Bigelow, who was now fetally propped up against it.

His retrospection ended when the back door finally gave way. Letting the first wave of Osiri warriors into the garage. Whereupon, they started in on the inner door, leading to the kitchen.

"Landor! Rojar!" he telepathed.

"We're on our way," replied Martin.

"Yeah," added Michael: "We're out of projectiles, anyway."

The two young men ran into the kitchen from the second floor. Each one armed with a sword in his right hand, and a claw hammer in his left. No sooner had they done so, however, than the inner door gave way.

WHOOSH!

"AIEEEEEEEE!"

THUNK!

The Osiri warrior who had come through, first, wound up with rake tines slashed across his face. Followed by the plunging of an icepick blade into his right ear! And, with Willek twirling his polearm like a quarterstaff, three more soon followed. All in less time than it takes to tell.

At which point, he telepathed Toray to flip the circuit-breaker back on. The sudden illumination naturally blinded the Osiri for a precious few seconds. Allowing Willek and his two young charges just enough time to shout:

"WOTANIIIIIIIIII!"

Whereupon, they began hacking and slashing their enemies to pieces.

tbc

While Toray ran up from the cellar (to join Willek, Michael, and Martin in warding off the rear attack), the Osiri trying to break down the front door of the gatehouse decided to try and gain ingress by another means. Those inside were unaware of this, of course, until Lorraine started growling and barking in the direction of the living room window.

"What?" asked Lucy/Vara (still guarding the equally shrunken Wesley on the fireplace mantle): "What is it, girl?"

This questions was answered by the sound of splintering wood and breaking glass.

"Sandy! They're trying to chop their way in with their swords!!"

"Not if I can help it," muttered the teenage semi-giantess.

Whereupon, she threw herself to her left. Landing on her stomach, she enlarged herself to twenty feet. Moments later, a fist the size of a beer barrel came crashing through the front wall. Catching one of the Osiri full on!

As a result, the latter went flying up into the branches of a tree directly across the road. By the time he fell back to earth, he was dead. And, three more of his stunned brethren soon joined him. Their skulls fractured by the index finger of that hand flicking them away, like flies on a horse's neck!

"Get out of here, you little buggers. Before I really get bitchy!"

Sandy's phrasing might have puzzled them. But, the threat behind it was all too clear. The survivors fled back to their stolen horses.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, the Osiri warriors who had broken in through the garage had been whittled down to five. Due, in no small part, to the bottleneck created at the inner door to the kitchen. Not liking the odds, they slowly backed out the way they had entered.

The defenders quickly closed that inner door, and barricaded it further by propping up the kitchen table against it.

"So, let's see," gasped Michael: "We sniped ten from the master bedroom window."

"Plus, another fifteen, here," added Martin.

"And," finished Willek: "I perceive, from Sandy's thoughts, that she has accounted for four more. That leaves thirty-one able-bodied Osiri to deal with. Plus, their shaman and...Malagor."

"Malagor?" chorused the two younger men.

They looked at Toray, who nodded. For it was he, on his previous _scheduled_ visit, who had brought Michael the arguably good news. Specifically; that Malagor was the name of the Osiri who had defiled the corpse of Golar the Younger.

"Well, one thing's for sure," observed Michael (after an awkward pause): "We've lost the element of surprise. And, I don't think they're going to give us a chance to catch our second wind."

"Why don't I just burst through the roof of the gatehouse, and squash them all?" offered Sandy from the living room.

"I would like to save that as a last resort," replied Willek:

"Wait a minute!" exclaimed Martin, with an accompanying finger-snap: "What about...the Sacred Duel of Simbarra?"

"The Sacred Duel of Who?" echoed Sandy.

"It's a trial by combat," explained Little Lucy: "As in; combat to the death!"

tbc

Vara explained that, just as the Azulings had once exchanged the wives of feuding tribal leaders before becoming a unified people, so, too, had the Osiri once had another way of settling disputes.

"Before the founding of the Inter-clan Council, fights for chieftainship of a clan were carried out through the Sacred Duel of Simbarra. He's their chief deity; usually depicted on rawhide drawings as a black-maned lion. Anyway; the duel was supposedly his brainchild. And, the sole survivor of each one fought was supposed to have divine m'ree-tah on his side."

"M'ree-tah?" echoed Sandy.

"A proto-Osiri word meaning both 'justice' and 'revenge.' Sort of a bloodthirsty 'aloha.' Anyway; once the Inter-clan Council was founded, the duel became redundant. All but fading away, completely."

"And, therein lies our best bet for ending this siege without anymore undue bloodshed," added Willek.

"Why not just let me grow to one hundred feet tall, and crush these guys underfoot?" asked Sandy.

Martin grinned: "Now I know why Landor is so fond of you. You think like a Wotani!"

Willek, however, shook his head: "The Osiri will keep up their attacks to the last man. This is the only sane option. Rojar? Get my white cane, and tie a white handkerchief to the bottom tip of it."

Two minutes later, Michael stepped out on to the front porch of the gatehouse; flag of truce in hand.

"Malagor! If you can hear me; I, Landor, challenge you to the Sacred Duel of Simbarra. Face me...if you're not a coward."

Malagor gritted his teeth, as he felt the eyes of his men burning into him.

"I deny your right to make such a challenge, mixed-blood! You're not even Plains-born!"

"But, I am, Malagor!" shouted Martin: "As son of Nahrog (the RIGHTFUL First Chief of Chiefs), I challenge you to the duel. And, I appoint Landor--my Brother-in-Arms--to fight in my stead. As is my right!"

He looked pointedly at the Osiri shaman as he uttered that last part. The shaman smiled and nodded.

"He speaks the truth, Malagor. Of course, as our acting leader, you have the same right. Where is your Brother-in-Arms? Where is Thotor?"

Malagor growled. He had temporarily forgotten the Osiri who had mysteriously vanished, after being struck by those strange metal darts.

"Very well!" he exclaimed: "I accept the challenge. May Simbarra take your rotten souls!!"

Martin gave his half-brother his own sword, explaining that it was just pro forma.

"Technically, it's my challenge. So, you have to use my weapon."

"No problem!" replied Michael: "Just so long as Malagor's blood winds up on it."

"And, if it doesn't?" asked Sandy, frowning worriedly.

"Then you can grow to a hundred feet tall...and stomp the shit out of them."

Sandy half-smiled, and gave him an impulsive full-on kiss for good luck. Whereupon, Michael took off his gray windbreaker and white shirt, before marching out to meet his other half-brother's murderer.

"Get ready to enter eternity, mixed-blood!" sneered Malagor.

"Kiss mine and up yours, gelding-breath," countered Michael. At which point, they began to circle each other. Like rival beasts of prey.

tbc

* * * * *

The duel began with Malagor throwing his club-knife at Michael. But, Michael was just as swift at throwing Martin's (the latter having retrieved it from the rec room, immediately before the challenge)!

Each one collided with the other, head on, and fell to the ground. With that preliminary move over, both combatants charged at each other, yelling at the top of their lungs.

"Osiriiiiiiii!"

"Wotaniiiiiii!"

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG-CLANG! CLANG!

Thrust and parry. Parry and thrust. Each combatant moving so fast and furiously that Sandy could barely whose weapon belonged to whom.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG-CLANG! CLANG!

To Michael and Malagor, however, there was no eye-blurring motion at all. For each of them, time seemed to have slowed down. Malagor swung his sword laterally, from right to left, aiming for Michael's head. But, Michael ducked under it. He then reversed the arc, aiming for Michael's right ankle, thinking to sever the boy's tendon. But, Michael jumped over it!

Malagor, however, was not done. He swung from left to right a second time. And, this time...

WHOOSH!

"UHNNH!"

There was a horizontal streak of red across Michael's chest.

"Ha!" exulted Malagor: "First blood to me, boot-licker."

"But, it's last blood that wins the duel. Dung-for-brains!"

And, with that, they started raining blows down on each other's swords, once again.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG-CLANG! CLANG!

This time, Michael tried his luck at decapitating Malagor. But, the latter ducked under it. Preparing to jump up in the air should Michael try to mimic the same tendon-cutting maneuver as he had. Michael, however, kept his sword at head-height.

WHOOSH!

"Ha!" exclaimed Malagor: "You missed, boot-licker!"

"Guess again, Sherlock."

Malagor looked down at the ground, where Michael was pointing. Surrounding his rawhide boots were wads of his hair!

"Rawwwwwwr!!"

Malagor charged forward, blind with rage. His sword vertically raised with the intention of cleaving Michael, literally, from head to toe. And, this was just what the latter had intended. For, he suddenly dropped to the ground as if he were intending to do push-ups!

But, instead of push-ups, he flipped over so that he was propped up on his left arm. From that position, he had the leverage needed to swing his legs in a lateral scissors kick. Thereby tripping Malagor over them!

The Osiri warrior regained his feet almost immediately, turning about one hundred eighty degrees. But, it was still not fast enough to avoid being impaled on Michael's sword.

"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!"

Michael then fell on to his back, judo-style, pulling Malagor (sword and all) with him. He followed this up by kicking upward with both feet, dislodging Malagor from the sword.

The Osiri warrior landed flat on his back, just barely alive. Which suited his slayer just fine. Michael picked up his club-knife; walked over to Malagor; and grinned...as he plunged the club-knife into the Osiri's forehead!

"M'ree-tahhhhhhhhh!"

Sandy averted her eyes.

"W-W-Why? Why did he do that?"

Martin looked at her, sympathetic understanding in his eyes.

"He had to. For his brother Go-lee's spirit's sake. He's returned the Mark of the Bastard to where it belongs!* "

tbc

Michael turned to face the Osiri shaman.

"Your troop leader is dead. Return home, to your own world. Now! Or, you won't live to see the dawn on this one."

"Ashrog ordered us not to return until we had accomplished our mission," replied the shaman.

"That being?"

"Your death, Prince Landor."

"Then, you leave me no choice. SANDY!"

The stolen Saddlebreds began rearing in terror when the gatehouse roof suddenly exploded. Following the emergence from it of a naked one hundred foot-tall giantess!

"Would you kindly demonstrate, for these gentlemen, the unique form of constipation relief we were disussing earlier?" her tiny boyfriend called upward.

"Gladly!"

Half of the remaining Osiri tried to make a run for it. But, their horses only made it as far as the northern-most corner of the academy's front wall. For, in their panic, they had forgotten about their shaman's psychokinetic bubble. And, as a result?

Sandy plucked the first five from their saddles like petals from a flower. Only to fling them to the ground, head-first, and step on them like a flamenco dancer! All the while chanting:

"He LOVES me! He loves me NOT!
He LOVES me! He loves me NOT!"
He LOVES me! He...!"

"Enough!" shouted the shaman: "We will leave. But, first, allow us to gather our dead."

Michael looked at Willek, who nodded. He then smiled upward at Sandy, who returned. It was when she turned away, to wipe the blood off her feet, that she noticed several windows open at the boys' dormitory nearest the gatehouse. With several of its occupants looking in her direction...and aiming cellular vidphones in her direction.

* * * * *

Half an hour later, after bandaging Michael's cut, Martin approached the shaman.

"When you see him again, give Ashrog this message. His days of rulership--and life--are numbered. To the sum of years he can count on one hand!"

Martin pointedly held up only his left index finger.

"Hear me, Son of Nahrog," replied the shaman: "Your uncle may not be the First Chief of Chiefs your father was. But, I agree with him on this much. Whatever the Osiri do, they should _only_ do of their own free will! Not at the bidding of either Wotani or Azuling."

"You sanctimonious hypocrite!" exclaimed Michael: "My father and Nahrog were trying to _avert_ war!"

"With all due respect, Prince Landor? There are some things a wise man _never_ attempts. Not even once! Like mating a brood mare to a gelding...or changing the true nature of the Osiri. Both...are equally foolish."

"Speaking of which," replied Willek: "I believe four of your men are still missing. Lorraine?"

The faithful German Shepherd trotted up, carrying Vara's hair net in her mouth. Willek took it from her, and handed it to the shaman. The latter's wide-eyed astonishment, at seeing that it contained four shrunken Osiri, made Michael and Martin chuckle shamelessly loud.

Moments later, the shaman lifted up his skull-mounted staff and uttered an incantation. He then pointed the staff at the circle of bodies surrounding him and the surviving Osiri (who were now afoot). Instantly, streams of flame shot forth from the eye-sockets, totally engulfing those bodies!

When the flames finally subsided, all that was left was a ring of charred grass. And, it was at this point that Sandy heard the police car coming.

Tbc

GOODSON ACADEMY GATEHOUSE,
OCTOBER 25, 2009
(12:40 A.M./EST)

* * * * *

With the car being driven at top speed, sirens blaring and red-and-blues flashing, it should only have taken twenty minutes for Jo Blackburn and Toby Swofford to get from the riding school to the prep school. Twenty-five minutes, tops!

But, five minutes after turning on to Farmstead Road, there was a strange series of white flashes of light in the sky above their police car. Following which, it nearly overturned as they suddenly lost power to the engine...and everything else powered by its electrical system.

"What the frig is this?" shouted the middle-aged detective sergeant: "The frigging X-FILES?"

His young female partner was about to answer him, as she headed to the front of the car to examine the engine, when she suddenly hit an invisible barrier and ricocheted to the ground!

"Jo! You all right?"

She nodded as he helped her to her feet. Then, she reached out, with her right hand, and felt the air before her. Swofford imitated her, and felt it, too.

"Sarge? I think you'd better call for back-up."

"Good idea."

Unfortunately, his cellphone proved to be just as non-functioning as the police car's radio. And, so did Jo's.

"Look!" he told her: "I'm gonna double-back to the intersection with 202. I know there's a cross-country racing path just a little ways up from there. I'll use that to get to the school. You stay here with the car. If and when this strange interference lifts, you call for back-up. Then, meet me at the school's gatehouse."

"Roger, that! You want the shotgun?"

She pointed to the twelve-gauge Remington pump-action she had removed from the trunk of their car.

"Nah! You keep it with you. I'll stick to my trusty old Ruger convertible."

He showed her the Ruger Blackhawk that could alternate between .357 magnum and 9-mm speed-loading cylinders.

As the flashlight from the trunk proved just as non-functioning as the cellphones, Swofford had to use his cigarette lighter for illumination. He had quit smoking, ten years ago, following his wife's own death from cancer. But, he could not bear to part with the lighter, as it was the first birthday present he had gotten from her after they first became engaged!

Consequently, the feeble flickering of its flame guided him to the aforementioned pathway, forty-five minutes later. And, just as he had hoped, he was able to follow that path to the rear of the prep school. Not knowing, of course, that the Sacred Duel of Simbarra had been concluded by then.

He did, however, get to see a stark-naked giantess (whom he recognized as Sandy Bigelow) standing guard over a bunch of guys who looked like Hawaiian versions of Conan the Barbarian, with Afro-hairstyles. And, a minute later, he also got to see those same guys disappear behind a literal wall of flame!

That put him one up on Jo Blackburn, who only saw the one hundred foot-tall exhibitionist beyond the roof of the ruined gatehouse.

"Detective Sergeant Swofford, is it?" said Willek, as he was led forward by Lorraine: "Come! Let us reunite you with your partner. So, that we only have to explain things once."

* * * * *

TWO HOURS LATER

Swofford shook his head: "If it wasn't for the...three of them, I wouldn't believe a word of this."

He indicated Toray and the shrunken Vara and Wesley. Of the latter two, Vara was calmly perched on Martin's right shoulder. While a beaming Jo (who had been too concerned about Swofford to remember his orders about calling for back-up when the car re-started) kept an inescapable grip on the frantically-struggling Wesley.

"If you need further proof," offered Michael: "...I can tell you where to find the bodies of those three Osiri that were chasing Toray."

"That sounds like a good idea, Sarge," remarked Jo: "We could pass them off as fantasy role-players who over-celebrated at a Halloween party and got...tragically carried away, afterwards."

"Oh, really!" replied the seasoned veteran: "What about those students with the videophones Ms. Bigelow spotted? Huh? Half of them have probably uploaded her face all over Youtube, by now!"

"And, most of the people who google it will probably assume it to be a photo-manipulated collage or a sci-fi movie screen-capture."

"What about your little prisoner?"

Swofford pointed once more at Wesley. Jo's smile broadened into a grin.

"We'll tell his father the truth. Or, at least, the part concerning what Wesley intended to do with that shrinking formula! I'm sure we can get him to agree to letting us place Wes under...house arrest...in exchange for keeping quiet about that."

Swofford now grinned, as well: "I don't see anything wrong with that. But, as I live in an apartment, that house arrest will have to be at _your_ house!"

"You got a deal, Sarge!"

"Nooooooo!" screamed Wesley: "You can't do that! It's ilmmmmmmmmph!!"

Jo muffled any further protest by enveloping his whole head in her left hand.

Tbc

GOODSON FAIRGROUNDS, GOODSON, CONN.
OCT. 31, 2009 (9:00 P.M./EST)

* * * * *

The explanation given for the corpses of Zan-tac, Zyr-tec, and Lip'tor was accepted relatively easily, just as predicted. Especially when one of their club-knives proved similar enough to the fatal wound, on the riding school foreman's body, that his murder was attributed to them, as well.

As for the destruction of the gatehouse? That was attributed to termite damage. Something that was also relatively easy to "confirm," once Willek had used his telepathic powers to draw some of the nasty little vermin into the ruins of the building!

Officer Jo Blackburn also proved correct in her predictions. Most of the teenage males who downloaded images of giant, naked Sandy did not believe the origin-claims made by the uploaders. Nor did Wesley's father dispute the legality of how she had taken custody of Little Wes. In fact, he approved of it, one hundred percent!

Headmaster Bigelow, however, knew the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Because, Sandy had told him everything. And, it made him explode with anger.

"I knew it! I knew you'd get into trouble, hanging out with that boy. And, your grandfather is even more to blame! Giving you unholy objects as birthday presents. Give it to me, young lady. I'm flushing that ring down the toilet, where it belongs!"

"NO!!!" she exclaimed at the top of her lungs, her left hand protectively covering her right.

"Alexandra Wolcott Bigelow? You give me that ring, this instant! I will not having you wearing it so long as you live under my roof."

Ten seconds later, Sandy's father found himself being pinned to the wall behind him. His daughter now eighteen inches taller than him. And, her right hand gripping his throat with vice-like pressure.

"Then, maybe it's time I _stopped_ living under your roof, Daddy. Especially, as I could crumble it just as easily as I crumbled the one covering the gatehouse!"

She and the "Smith family" spent the rest of that week at the same motel where George Wiesel had given Wesley the shrinking formula. Although, she and Michael were discrete enough to sleep in separate rooms.

When Halloween night rolled around, she attended the annual carnival in the same outfit as Michael and Martin. A buckskin shirt, with matching pants and boots. Topped off with a light-brown hooded cloak, slightly camouflaging a scabbarded sword.

"Heh!" she laughed: "I don't whether to call myself 'Princess Valiant' or 'Danielle Boone?' "

"That was going to be my ensemble," explained Vara (riding astride Lorraine's neck): "For when we returned to our world. But, with the alterations you made to it, it undeniably looks lovelier on you."

"I'll second that emotion," replied Michael, smilingly. Promptly causing Sandy to blush. Then, the former got serious.

"Are you sure about this, Sandy? I mean; good or bad, he's still your father."

She nodded: "Good or bad, I'll always love him. But, he's become just plain too over-protective of me! I mean; what if this ring had been the last birthday present I had gotten from Mom (rather than Grandpa Doug)? Would he still have tried to get rid of it, for my so-called 'own good?' I think the answer is to that is 'yes.' And, that's something I can't risk...or tolerate. Not if it means needlessly hiding my light under a bushel the rest of my life!"

"Well, just remember," replied Michael: "Where we're going, there are no department stores. No cable TV; and no Internet! So, hunting and trapping, for food and clothing, are not only politically correct on our world. They're vital survival traits!"

"I know. But, you were raised among all those conveniences, too. So, I won't be the only one readjusting. Besides; someone has to show your peoples that justice and revenge are no more identical than apples and oranges. And, it might as well be me!"

Michael's smile returned: "A job I think you're more than big enough to handle."

Whereupon, the two of them began to kiss. A kiss they broke off only after Martin threatened to douse their heads with cold apple cider! That was when Toray reappeared, and recited the Azuling chant alongside Willek. Moments later, the Aperture formed. And, the band of seven adventurers passed through it.

THE END?

This is for those who easily forget things, or who need
me to clarify certain details already over-explained within the story. ;-)

* * * * *

Ashrog (mentioned only): Chief Nahrog's jealous brother, who usurped the latter's rulership over the Osiri.

Azulings: mysterious blue-skinned race that inhabits the North American East Coast of a parallel-Earth. They and the Wotani share a monotheistic belief in a deity called the Great Parent.

Bigelow, Alexandra: also known as "Sandy" (Michael Smith's girlfriend). Seventeen year-old only daughter of Goodson Academy's headmaster. Was given a magic ring, by her archeologist-grandfather, that allows her to grow giant-sized (up to one hundred feet tall)!

Club-knife: a sort of switchbladed mace. A trained Osiri warrior can alternately use it as bludgeon, left-handed parrying weapon, and short-range projectile. All with equal lethality.

Golar (mentioned only): High King of the Wotani. Father of Golar the Younger (now deceased) by Queen Vara. And, father of Landor by Queen Mairhee.

Great Exchange: a wife-swapping ritual proposed by the Azulings in an ultimately vain attempt to avert war between the Wotani and the Osiri.

Landor: also known as "Michael Smith" (Sandy Bigelow's boyfriend). Seventeen year-old only son of King Golar and Queen Mairhee. Half-brother of both Rojar and Golar the Younger (now deceased).

Mairhee (mentioned only): formerly, Chief Nahrog's First Among Wives. Now, Queen of the Wotani. Mother of both Rojar and Landor.

Malagor (now deceased): Ashrog's former second-in-command. His reward for cowardly--and literally--stabbing Chief Nahrog in the back, twenty years earlier.

Nahrog (mentioned only): original and rightful First Chief of Chiefs of the Osiri. Father of Rojar. Murdered on the orders of his jealous brother Ashrog (supposedly for agreeing to the controversial Great Exchange).

Osiri: a large tribe of nomadic hunter-warrior clans, whose men-folk practice polygamy and style their hair to resemble black-maned lions. Chiefly inhabiting the arid Southern Plains, of a parallel-Earth's North America, they are currently at war with the Wotani.

Parahedron: a pyramidal ornament made of quartz crystal. Psychokinetically variable in size, it allows telepathic communication by non-telepaths.

Rojar: also known as "Martin Smith." Only son of Nahrog and Mairhee. Older half-brother of Landor; stepson of Vara; and vengeance-seeking nephew of Ashrog the Usurper.

Saxon, Wesley: Sandy Bigelow's jealous, over-possessive ex-boyfriend. Captain of the Goodson Academy football team; spoiled-rotten son of the Chairman/CEO of Saxon Pharmaceuticals.

Toray: Envoy-General for the Patriarch of the Azulings.
It was on his advice that King Golar and Chief Nahrog agreed to the Great Exchange.

Vara: also known as "Lucy Smith." Formerly, Queen of the Wotani. Mother of Golar the Younger (now deceased); stepmother of Rojar; and foster mother of Landor.

Willek: also known as "John Smith." Psychic blind clergyman who helped Vara raise Rojar and Landor (by posing as their grandfather).

Wotani: a feudal society of blue-eyed redheads who chiefly inhabit the North America of a parallel-Earth from the Arctic Circle to the Great Lakes. Currently at war with the Osiri.

Xamurep (mentioned only): Patriarch of the Azulings. Toray serves him as a combination Henry Kissinger and James Bond.

* * * * *

Sandy Bigelow leaned back in the ox-cart as she struggled to write in her journal.

"Dear Grandpa:

I know it will be sometime (if ever) before I see you, again. And, there's certainly no way to mail this to you from here! But, I've seen so many strange and wonderful things since our arrival here, last night, that I can think of only one way to cathartically wrap my head around it. So, here goes."

"First of all; time passes by on this parallel-Earth at the same relative pace as it does on ours. Ergo; none of those 'one day/one century' ratios that were so much a part of some of the European folk tales you used to tell me as bedtime stories. We arrived at night, as I said. So, Lucy, John, Michael, Martin, and I were guided by some of Toray's people to a communal dining hall."

"Oh! Did I forget to mention that the six of us materialized within a torch-lit underground chamber? It's true! Michael instantly identified it, to me, as the Aperture-generating chamber of the Master Parentian Temple in Cerulea. Imagine an SG1-style Star Gate, in the basement of the Vatican, and you might get the idea!"

"I was a little disoriented, at first. But, that quickly cleared up once I had something to focus on. And, in my case, it was a couple of Toray's fellow Azulings. Imagine it, Grandpa; actual blue-skinned people wearing hooded monastic robes!"

"I'd probably still be rudely staring if Michael hadn't smilingly waved his left hand in front of my unblinking eyes. Thereby snapping me out of my self-induced trance (lol!)."

"In any event, we ate a late-evening meal in the communal dining room. There, I learned a little more about the Parentian faith. First off; if I had to make a comparison, I'd say it's a lot like Roman Catholicism might be if Egyptian Atenism had survived to the time of the Ptolemies..."

"...and become the state religion of Rome through Cleopatra's marriage to Julius Caesar."

"The architecture is a little Greco-Egyptian, as well. And, instead of making crosses in the air, when they bless their food and drink, the clerics draw the shape of an ankh! But, not all of them carry those pyramid-shaped parahedrons. Apparently, those are only given out to Siblings of higher rank ('Sibling' being the gender-neutral equivalent of 'Brother' or 'Sister,' here)."

"They're also a little more tolerant than some early Christians were. For example; they don't abduct the children of other races and try to convert them through physical and mental abuse (like, say, we used to do to Native Americans). Instead, they merely gently preach--and offer to teach--their faith to the other two races. Yet, so far, the only ones who've accepted are certain open-minded Wotani."

"Like Sibling Willek (John's real name)."

"Blind as he is, he gets around more ably than any sighted person I've ever met. Even without his Seeing Eye dog, Lorraine! And, after we finished eating, he led us to the guest quarters for a good night's sleep. Some Parentian temples doubling as over-night hostelries (similar to the Monastery of St. Bernard in Switzerland)."

"Now, we're on our way to the Patriarchal Palace of Cerulea. You should see this place, Grandpa! You'd have a field day. Cerulea is the capital city of the Azulings. Apparently occupying the same geographical space, on this world, that Atlantic City, New Jersey, does on ours. Assuming, of course, you could picture Atlantic City as one big Renaissance Fair!"

"As for the Patriarch, himself? He's the ruler of all the Azulings. Sort of like a cross between the Pope and an ancient Egyptian pharaoh. And Michael says were approaching the palace's main gate, now! So, I've got to go now, Grandpa. I want to do a little last-minute primping in order to make myself a little more presentable."

"Yours truly:

Your loving granddaughter, Sandy."

THE END