Dexter Poindexter:
Combat Etymologist
By
A.
A. Roberts
Dexter
Poindexter was not a but the MOST renowned etymologist in
the world. Be forewarned that this
particular branch of study is not to be confused with entomology. You would be sure to draw Dexter’s ire by
confusing the two, and he was known to respond with, “I’m not a bloody bug
hunter!” Etymology, you see, is the
study of words.
Dexter
loved words. He loved the way they felt
rolling off his tongue or dancing around in his mind. He loved their poise, their innate beauty,
their ability to elicit magnificence or horror, pleasure or pain, any emotion,
any illusion, and of course, any story.
Dexter
was a college professor and was thus tasked with teaching ten classes a week in
cavernous classrooms, which believe it or not, were filled with students. In this age of Ipods,
Ipads, Laptops, Smart phones, 3D-DVDs and so on, one
would think the dry subject of word history would be less than
stimulating. Not with Dexter teaching.
“Words (!)… my fine young
friends have power (!)… and if you do not believe
that, I’ll suggest an interesting experiment.
Go downtown to a packed movie theater and at the climax of said event
scream FIRE! Not only will you see a couple
hundred hysterical human beings flee your very presence, but you will almost
instantaneously, and not of your own accord, be whisked away to the nearest
jail!”
This,
of course, always elicited a guffaw from the freshman class and was demonstrative
([1]an
interesting word which originates circa
1374, from the Latin root demonstrationem, from demonstrare, from de-
"entirely" + monstrare "to point out, show," from monstrum "divine omen, wonder”) of how Dexter
turned what could be a dreary subject into the stuff of popular entertainment.
It might also be pointed out that his class
was filled with a fair number of attractive young ladies who, despite Dexter’s
inability to foster anything that approached fashion sense, were drawn to his
natural good looks and well hewn muscular body.
On the surface, Dexter’s physical attributes
versus his vocation might seem to be a contradiction in terms, but his well built frame was owed to the fact that he was not a
world renowned martial artist but surely a world class one. This in turn was due to the poor choice of
forename given him by his father (the entire family was stuck with the
surname).
For the first few years of his life everyone
thought the sobriquet Dexter Poindexter was unbearably cute. That was until he began to attend public
school where he became everyone’s chew toy.
Even the geeks beat him up!
Dexter’s father may have been clueless when it came to naming his son,
but he would be damned if he was going to let the boy grow up afraid of leaving
the house. Thus, he enrolled him in
Master Chuck Graham’s School of American Tae Kwon Do, and over the years Dexter
Poindexter went from a name to be ridiculed to one that inspired respect.
It was during these formative years that
Dexter developed his passion for words.
That passion could be traced back to one singular event...
Mr. Poindexter had made it a family tradition
each summer to trek off to the wilderness of Maine. There, on a rather large pond named Thomas,
in a quaint little cottage, the Poindexter’s would spend two weeks wrapped in
the warm embrace of nature sequestered away from the drudgery of career and day
to day living.
One morning during his eighth summer
("hot season of the year," Old English. sumor, from Proto-Germanic), Dexter decided to cross the dirt road that
wound around the lake and trek into the deep dark woods to do a little
exploring as only an eight year old could do.
This was to be high adventure!
His parents were still asleep, and he would be on his own.
He packed a sensible breakfast, and the
necessary adventuring equipment into an old canvas knapsack. Once fully
equipped, he headed off to the woods with high spirits and even higher hopes of
possibly spying a deer or maybe even a bear (from a distance of course!).
Being a bright young lad, he’d brought a
white crayon with him to mark his way, and it wasn’t long before he was deep in
the forest that surrounded Thomas pond.
One thing Dexter had not counted on was how
quickly the woods could turn from a place of wonder and enchantment into the
cradle of primeval fear. It was a subtle
thing that happened over the course of a few hundred yards.
The trees closed tightly overhead and little
of the morning sun broke through. The
early birds held back their song except for the crows who seemed to mock him
with their semi human sounding caw, caw, caw. The broken, moss covered limestone jutted out
from the earth like jagged teeth. Thick
brown vines, the circumference of his arm, fell from the branch entangled ceiling
like the wispy strands of a monstrous witch’s hair. The forest began to close in on him.
He came into a small clearing of swampy
ground covered with skunk cabbage. The suspicious sounds that came from the
underbrush seemed to creep around him... circle him… watch him. He heard crashing through the woods behind
him and spun in terror.
A man of medium height, dressed in a white
jumpsuit of some strange material and wearing a sword strapped across his back
broke through the underbrush and came straight at him. Dexter screamed. The man ignored his cries, and with one fluid
movement grabbed him on the run, and threw him over one shoulder.
Dexter’s instinctive fear of being snatched
up was nothing compared to his terror when he saw what was chasing the man in
white. They ran on all fours like a
gorilla but had no fur. Warty, slimy,
greenish, grey skin covered immense frames sheathed in an impossible
configuration of muscles. On their large
egg shaped, reptilian heads, where a mouth should have been, there was
none. A nest of tentacles writhed around
a gnashing, serrated, bone white, razor sharp beak.
But it was their eyes that froze young
Dexter’s heart. Multifaceted constructs
of thirteen, crimson orbs the size of small grapes stared out from underneath
large leathery lids. Each had its own
pupil and every one stared at Dexter with a black hatred that he felt down to
his very soul.
Dexter’s screams ceased, realization replaced
fear, and he yelled to his bipedal beast of burden, “RUN FASTER WHITE MAN!!!!”
After a few seconds of crashing through the
woods, they broke through to a small grassy clearing of knee high grass. The man in white ran to the center of the
clearing and put Dexter on the ground.
The monsters followed them into the clearing,
and formed a circle around them. The
creatures slowly stalked man and boy in a counter-clockwise circle, hissing and
gnashing their beaks all the while.
Dexter looked up at his saviour
who smiled back down at him, “Don’t worry about it kid. I’ve fought much worse than this.”
He stood just below six feet and was of
medium build. Despite his bulky, loose
fitting jumpsuit, one could tell there was a frame under there covered with
muscle born of many battles. His smooth
good looks, dark hair and smiling eyes all hinted at a wry sense of humor.
The man in white reached into a pocket sewn
into the upper arm of his suit and pulled out a cigar and a lighter. He bit off the end of the cigar, spit it out,
lit it and took a long cool drag from the aromatic tobacco.
Dexter eyed the creatures circling them and
wondered if this was really the time for a smoke. “My mom says smoking is bad
for you.”
“You’re mom’s a smart woman. She’s right.
Smoking is bad… for humans.”
One of the creatures screamed a cry that
sounded somewhere between a baby’s scream of terror and a dying dog’s cry of
pain. Dexter yelped and jumped backwards
into the man in white.
“Pretty ugly, aren’t they kid?”
Dexter nodded vigorously.
“They’re the 13 sons of Asag,
a minor but butt ugly Sumerian demon.
They were supposed to be removed back during the Great Purge, but seeing
as they’re shape shifting pieces of shit, they slipped away… excuse my
Sumerian.”
Dexter began to shake uncontrollably. The glare of the demon sons washed him with
fear. The man in white put a gentle hand
on his shoulder and the fear was cleansed away by the glow of the man’s
personal power. Dexter had never felt
anything like this before.
“Don’t be afraid
kid. You and I are the only two leaving
this clearing. You see, normally these
pricks are pretty much untouchable. That
thick hide of theirs will turn even old DustMaker
here,” he jerked a thumb back over his shoulder to indicate his sword, “But
I’ve been researching a word of power for the past month that’s going to take
care of that situation…”
Obviously having heard and understood what
the man in white had just said the sons of Asag
stopped circling and began to back away
The man in white smiled, “That’s right
boys. Time for the
light show.”
Dexter watched in awe as the man weaved a set
of gestures in the air. The tip of his
cigar glowed from the effort and he finished with palms facing down and next to
his hips. The demonkin
started to flee, but the man screamed the word of power, and Dexter covered his
ears in pain.
The word rocked the heavens, and a deep bass
boom exploded from the ground below. The
sons of Asag screamed in pain as bolts of crystal
blue energy exploded up from the ground and coursed through their writhing
bodies. It was done in a second.
The man smiled as the demon’s sons picked
themselves up off the ground. The
thirteen turned back to face their enemy and hissed in absolute rage at their
tormentor.
“You like Hendrix kid?”
Dexter had no idea what the man was talking
about, but nodded yes anyway.
“Me too,” he replied and snapped his
fingers. The wail of Jimmy Hendrix’s
guitar echoed about the clearing. Dexter
recognized the song from the radio. It
seemed to originate from all around them as if by magic… well it was
magic.
The man in white slid DustMaker
from its scabbard, “I like a little theme music when I work. Ok, I need you to watch my back boy. Any time you see one of them try to jump me
from behind I want you to scream “attack”
as loud as you can.”
“Yes sir.”
“Good man… Alright, let’s have a little fun.”
[2]“Alright, now listen, baby. You don't care
for me, I don'-a care about that.”
Dexter watched in awe as the man danced a
martial ballet that looked to be humanly impossible. To that point in his life he thought Master
Charles Graham was the fastest and most dangerous man alive. This man in white could have eaten him up.
“Gotta new fool, ha! I like it like that. I have only one burning
desire.”
He leapt with the grace of a gazelle, but
with the power of a lion. Demonkin split into bloody green bits, tentacles flew in
the air, limbs parted from their owners and the man in white danced on.
“Let me stand next to your
fire.”
The demonkin tried
to surround the man but he slid out from under their claws to line them up
single file. Dustmaker
kissed them from ear to ear, brain to beak, tail to torso.
“I have only one burning
desire, Let me stand next to your fire.”
After a few minutes the song ended and only
three remained. The man in white finally
seemed out of breath. A smile creased
his blood spattered face as he eyed the two in front of him.
“ATTACK!!!!!!” Dexter screamed as a crafty one came from
behind. The man spun with DustMaker in a wide arc cleaving the creatures in two from
head to torso. Another son of Asag crashed into him from behind, and the
man went down under its bulk.
He spun on the ground in one fluid movement
as the demon attempted to bring its razor sharp beak to bear. The white man tucked his legs under the
creature, and kicked out in fury. The
creature sailed across the clearing, and was impaled on a limb jutting from a
fallen tree. It screamed, twitched
spasmodically and then was still.
The Man in white stood to appraise his
handiwork, “Look at that. Demon on a stick. Betcha it tastes like chicken.” The man looked at Dexter and smiled, “Pretty
damn impressive, huh kid?”
Dexter nodded vigorously, and the man made
his way over to him, “Thanks kid. You
did an awesome job watching my back.”
“Who are you?”
The man held out his hand in response to
Dexter’s query and the boy took it, “Gabriel.
What’s your name?”
“Dexter.”
“Well that’s kind of apropos, don’t you
think?
Being a little dazed by the whole affair
Dexter wasn’t entirely sure what he was talking about, but nodded yes
anyway. The man in white came over to
him and knelt.
“Now here’s the deal kid. No one can know what happened here
today. I’m supposed to blank you… erase your
memory, but to be perfectly honest I’m too tired and out of magic. You heard that word of power?”
Dexter nodded again.
“That’s not the most powerful word. Do you know what the most powerful word is?”
Dexter shook his head no.
“Your word of honor. I
want you to give me your word of honor that you’ll never tell anyone what you
saw here today.”
Dexter placed his hand over his heart, “I
give you my word of honor.”
Gabriel smiled and rose,
“Alright then. Let’s get you home. I think we’re good for now.”
“There are only twelve bodies,” Dexter
pointed out, “You said there were 13 sons of Asag.”
“I know.
We’re missing one. No problem…
We’ll get him eventually… more importantly… have you seen my cigar?”
Dexter pointed and Gabriel spun to attend to
a smoking patch of grass halfway across the field. While Gabriel was otherwise engaged, Dexter
noticed the sun glint off something in one of the dead demons claws. Dexter went over to inspect the beast and
discovered it was holding a knife with a black blade made of a kind of rock
he’d never seen before. It was set in a
golden hilt that was sculpted to look like serpents entangled with each other
ending in a ferocious looking head for a pommel.
Dexter threw the knife in his knapsack and
turned to find his new friend stamping out a grass fire. Once the fire was out he took a long drag off
his cigar, pointed a finger at Dexter and said with a smile, “You see kid… only
you can prevent forest fires.”
#
Over the course of the years on the journey
into adulthood Dexter convinced himself that most of that adventure had been a
dream. This was the only way he could rationalize
what had happened to him in a world that had no room for magic or demons. To
say the least, the entire affair had left him conflicted right through to his
adult life… dream or reality?
Yet the word of power he’d heard haunted
him. The word Gabriel shouted was so
familiar that it ate at him that he could not remember it. Because of this and soon after that battle he
began eating up words, consuming dictionaries, encyclopedias and ultimately
etymological tomes. Sadly, he could
never tell anyone why he was so passionate about this issue for he would never
break his promise to Gabriel… even though he wasn’t even sure if he was real or
not.
During his studies Dexter stumbled upon an
ancient Egyptian adage “He who reveals (circa 1375, from old French reveler, 14th century, from Latin revelare "reveal, uncover, disclose," lit. "unveil," from re-
"opposite of" + velare "to cover, veil," from velum "a veil") the truth reveals the
word of God.” This only gave him
further fire and inspired a penchant for world travel in the course of his
studies.
Because of his single minded pursuits Dexter
ultimately became entangled in many unbelievable adventures, but it is the one
that brought him back to the woods of Maine thirty years later that is most relavent.
#
Shaukat Khan was the stereotype for Jihadis and Al-Qaeda. He was a Pakistani
born to a poor family in the Dir district and was
swept up into the struggle at the vulnerable age of 13. His family held no particular hatred for the
West but they sent their son to a Madrassah because it was free.
Unbeknownst to them their son was taught a creed of hatred for
the infidel by the fanatics there.
Unfortunately, Shaukat was predisposed
to this kind of hatred. Had he been born
in the west he would have been a Klansman.
In Germany he would have been a Nazi.
The boy was a bad seed and lived for one thing only… evil. This is what drew his “mentor” to him.
Shaukat’s mentor came to him in
the middle of the night on a cold wind.
He explained that he was the boy’s guardian angel and that he would
teach him how to be cunning and how to bring the vengeance of Islam down upon
the heads of all of Shaukat’s enemies. Shaukat’s only
requirement was that he keep the existence of his
mentor secret. Shaukat
was good at keeping secrets.
Shaukat excelled at the Madrassah
and was so successful that he gained entrance into Hajvery
University in Lahore where he studied English and computer science. He graduated with honors and, unbeknownst to
any authorities, he traveled to Afghanistan to undertake an entirely different
course of study with Al-Qaeda. He was of the opinion that summer camp had
never been more fun.
After
his education in violence he slipped back into Pakistan where he was hired by a
large information technology consulting firm.
They shipped him off to the west, and he slipped into American society
as a consultant working at a large insurance company in Hartford,
Connecticut. Once ensconced in the heart
of corporate America he watched and waited…
#
Godfrey
of Clarmont came late to the First Crusade in 1098,
primarily because he got lost. He’d set
off with his band of twenty knights from his small barony in the south of
France with high hopes and little experience.
It wasn’t until the end of that year that he actually made it to
Constantinople due to several unplanned detours. How he lamented not having
his wife along for directions.
To
his credit, and despite rogues, bandits, Saracens, and
the like he managed to make it to the deserts of Syria without losing a single
man. That was until they ran into a
Saracen lord named Malik and his fifty knights.
Outnumbered more than two to one Godfrey’s men managed to represent
themselves with no mean skill on the field of battle… but the outcome was
inevitable.
In
the end two of the enemy forced Godfrey to his knees in the sand before Malik
and his eight remaining Saracen knights.
His great helm had been removed and the Baron’s long blond hair and blue
eyes confounded the Saracen lord.
“How
can such fair men fight so viciously,” he thought to himself.
Malik
pulled an ornate black obsidian blade mounted on a gold hilt from his
waistband, “This knife was passed down to me by my father and his father before
him. It is said to hold great power. I’m told it came from ancient Sumeria and once belonged to a king. They called it Portal, although I know not
why. I have killed 49 men with this
knife. You will be number 50 crusading
dog.”
Godfrey
bowed his weary head and clasped his hands in prayer. Malik smiled the predator’s smirk and
advanced on the baron.
Malik
looked down on his captive, “They say our God is the same. I find that hard to –“
Malik’s
observation was cut short as Godfrey drove his clasped hands into the man’s
groin. He swept back with two fists into
the groins of both men holding him down thus folding them over. He grabbed their necks, yanked and flipped
them down into the sand. He came up with
a blade from his boots in either hand and drove it into their throats.
Malik
fell back as the Baron jumped to his feet and snatched the swords of the two
fallen Saracens.
“It
would seem, Saracen, that our God prefers me this day!”
And
with that Godfrey wove a web of steel with the two Saracen swords that over the
course of the next five minutes eviscerated his temporary captors. Malik was the last to die and in Godfrey’s
opinion, the easiest to kill.
Before
he mounted his horse and left the carnage, he saw the black blade named
“Portal” glint in the sun and he took it as a souvenir of the day. He would carry it with him to Jerusalem and
eventually all the way back to France where he arrived three years later than
anticipated due to his total lack of navigational ability. He was very happy to see his wife when he
finally got home and never went on another excursion without her.
#
Bartholomew
James Baxter was Dexter’s best friend and associate. They met early on when Dexter first started
his position at the university. Bart was
a professor of ancient religions and mythology, and the two met when Dexter
tapped him as a resource for his pursuit of the word.
They
hit it off right away since both shared a passion for the martial arts and
physical fitness. Of course both were
intellectuals of note and they spent many a night over too many beers
discussing man, myth and religion.
It
was no surprise then, when Dexter invited Bart to come with him on a fishing
expedition to Maine to the very same cabin he stayed in as a youth.
“I
really appreciate your tipping me off to Professor Almont, Bart. It’s so hard to find any true authorities on
ancient Sumeria.”
Bartholomew
smiled, “How could I not tell you with this deep dark secret of yours?”
Dexter
stowed their equipment into the back of a rented minivan, “I’m so mysterious
aren’t I? What luck that he’s staying so
close to my parents’ cottage. You said
he was an ex-curator at the Louvre?”
“That’s
what our departmental newsletter said.
Turns out he’s visiting with a friend of mine from the University of
Maine. Don’t worry. I’ve made all the arrangements. You’ll get to interview your Sumerian
specialist”
Dexter
slammed the rear hatch shut and exclaimed, “All packed up and ready for
adventure!”
Bartholomew
shed a weak grin, “Not too much adventure… it upsets my stomach.”
Dexter
laughed at that and jumped into the driver’s side of the minivan. Bartholomew eased himself into the passenger
seat and they were off to the woods of Maine.
#
It
had been a year since 9/11 and Shaukat chaffed at the
fact that he had not been able to participate in this jihad against the great
Satan. He became even more sullen than
usual, but his mentor flatly forbade him to take any action.
He
lay down on his lumpy mattress in a cheap apartment in the north end of
Hartford. He turned out the light and
scowled at the ceiling.
Shaukat felt his presence before seeing the
shadow in the night. It was like a wash
of static energy that electrified every pore on his slight, dark body. Shaukat pulled
himself up to his knees and touched his head to the mattress he knelt upon.
“Yes,
my lord?”
The
voice of the shadow was oily, but powerful… a bass rumble of portent and dark
storms, “It is time my beloved son… time for you to take action against the
infidel.”
Shaukat snapped up bearing a grin that
defined happiness, “Truly, my lord! I
may strike now!?”
A
notebook landed in front of the young man who picked it up like some sacred
tome, “No, not now, but soon. Your
instructions are in there. Take care to
follow them explicitly. They may seem
strange to you, but they ensure not only extreme carnage, but that the souls of
your enemies will rot in hell. You will
be remembered forever for this…”
Tears
rolled down Shaukat’s face, “Oh my lord, you are too
good to me. How can I ever repay you?”
“Just
follow the plan and execute it flawlessly.
That will be payment enough.”
A
breath of wind whispered through the room, and the shadow was gone. Shaukat stroked the
cover of the notebook like a lover’s fair skin.
He opened it carefully, and consumed it over the course of the next
evening memorizing every word.
#
Henri
Clarmont was a peaceful man. He desired (circa1230, from old French
desirer, from Latin desiderare "long for, wish
for," original sense perhaps "await what the stars will bring,"
from the phrase de sidere "from the
stars,") nothing more than to bang out his horseshoes and tend to the
pigs, the chickens, one cow for milking and the small garden behind his
house. His wife had died several years
earlier of pneumonia which left him alone in the world, but content
never-the-less. Jacqueline the cow, it
turned out, was better company.
His
father, when he was still alive, used to admonish Henri about his simple
pleasures regaling him with tales of his ancestors’ storied past. Henri would then point out that despite a
lineage of royal note they barely had two francs to rub together. The old man would go off grumbling and Henri
would return to his blacksmithing which provided at least two francs and then
some.
Then
the Germans came. Like the rest of his
countrymen he wept when Paris fell and the goose-stepping Nazi murderers
marched into the City of Light. Petain
set up his Vichy government which brought only the illusion of security. The Germans did as they wanted so it was no
small amount of fear that gripped Henri when he heard the bang at the door of
his modest cottage.
“Henri
Clairmont!!!
Open up in the name of the German High Command!”
Henri
cringed in horror at the tone of that voice and fell to the floor in abject
terror when they kicked the door in.
They flooded into his home, and began to ransack it like a pack of
berserker thieves.
“Monsieur!
Monsieur! I have done
nothing! I am a loyal citizen!”
The
Nazi Col. sneered what approximated a smile, “You stand accused of aiding the
partisans.”
“Non, monsieur! Non! I am but a
humble blacksmith! I am not a violent
man!”
“Here
it is, Arag.”
One of the German lieutenants pulled a knife out of an old dusty chest
placed up against one wall. He held up
the artifact and the obsidian blade set in a hilt of golden serpents glinted
against the light that spilled in from the broken door. Arag took it from
his comrade and almost lovingly caressed it.
“It
has been in my family for generations!
It is only a bauble from the crusades!
What has this to do with the partisans?
Take it if you want it, just don’t hurt me.”
“It
is far more then a bauble, Henri. It is our escape and now I give you yours,”
With this the Col drove the blade into the poor Frenchman’s heart. Had Henri been of such a mind he would have
counted thirteen Germans that invaded his home that day.
#
Gabriel
crashed through the roof of the lake cottage in a spray of roofing, plywood and
insulation. He fell several feet to land
straddling the prone form of a thirteen-year-old girl. She lay tied up and gagged on a circular
table surround by thirteen men dressed in long black robes. Just seconds before one of them had held a
knife named Portal over her heart.
“Hi boys.
Mind if I join the party?” With
this Gabriel grabbed the girl by the ropes that encircled her waist and threw
her up through the hole in the roof he’d just made. He heard her bounce once… twice… three times…
and fall over the rear eaves. He cringed.
“Actually
I was hoping she’d stay on the roof,” he said to himself.
The
man holding the knife screamed in rage at Gabriel, “What is your issue!!! We were trying to leave this world! We’ve been trying for millennia, and every
time we get close you Administration screw heads stop us! Do you want us to leave or not?!!”
“I
guess it’s the whole human sacrifice thing.”
“What’s
a couple of mortals?! You’ve ruined
everything!!! Do you have any idea how
hard it is to find a virgin these days!?”
“My
heart bleeds for you.”
“Oh
it will, Archangel, it will. You’re
going back to the Administration the hard way… In pieces!!!!”
Arag took a swipe at Gabriel’s shins with his obsidian blade and
the archangel leapt over the strike, drawing his own blade at the same
time. The other twelve sons of Asag screamed in rage and shed their human form. While they mutated Gabriel took the
opportunity to leap over Arag and crash out the
cottage door. He ran across the street
into the woods.
He
looked back to see his enemies pour out of the cottage and give chase. He also saw something they didn’t see… a
badly bruised, somewhat bound, thirteen year old girl hobbling down the
street. His pitching arm wasn’t that bad
after all.
#
Shaukat finished the words and the last
inscription with a flourish. His mentor
had written in his notes that this was Sumerian nomenclature (1610, "a name," from French nomenclature, from Latin nomenclatura "calling of names," from nomenclator "namer,"
from nomen "name" + calator "caller, crier," from calare "call out"”), but he had no idea
what it meant.
Shaukat took another quick look around but
no one was there. He hung suspended by a
harness under the Buckley Bridge which spanned the Connecticut River into
Hartford from East Hartford.
Over
the course of the past four nights he had fixed 500 pounds of ANFO to the
undercarriage of the center piling. This
was done at two during a moonless black night.
He would not make the same mistakes as some of his fellow, but less
talented Jihadis.
He had No intention of being caught.
He
admired the ancient symbols his mentor had taught him to inscribe on the
detonator. It was a wireless affair of his own design and could only be ignited with an encoded
signal. When he removed his night vision
gear he fancied that the symbols glowed of their own accord. This was silly, of course, since he had only
used goat’s blood as prescribed in his master’s book.
“A
trick of the goggles,” he thought.
He
lowered himself down to his raft and was soon off into the night. He felt a great sense of accomplishment. This night had been the culmination of two years worth of work.
This was the last of 13 bombs Shaukat had
placed across the city. From the capital
building, to Mark Twain’s homestead and the bridge he had just left, death and
destruction would rain down on the infidel like all the fires of hell.
He
would send out his signal from the top of the tower building at the Hartford
Insurance Group where he now worked. He
would glory in his victory from a vantage that would allow him to watch the
entire spectacle. All he needed now was
the word from his mentor.
#
Dexter
joined his friend out on the screened in porch of the cottage and settled into
the seat next to him. A breathtaking
view of Thomas Pond stretched out before them with the forlorn cry of a loon as
counterpoint to this scene of natural splendor.
“It’s
hard to believe it’s a pond. In
Connecticut this would be a lake,” Bartholomew pointed out.
“A
rose by any other name…” Dexter responded.
“I
can only imagine the idyllic days of your youth spent at this glorious place…
carefree… dreamlike.”
Dexter
frowned, “Interesting choice of words.
There was one summer I seem to have confused with a dream.”
Bartholomew
grinned, “Let me guess. It was the
summer you lost your virginity.”
“Oh
please, Bartholomew, don’t be so adolescent.
No it was something much more stranger than
that. There was a man in the woods being
chased by these things…”
Bartholomew’s expression changed from prankster to
professorial, “Things? Like bears or
wolves.”
Dexter
squirmed in his chair, “I can’t tell you any more than that. I gave my word.”
“To
the man being chased?”
“Right.”
“Who
may have been a dream.”
Dexter
shifted uncomfortably, “I don’t know… maybe… it all seemed so real.”
“You
obviously had some kind of interaction with this man. What did he give you in return for your
word?”
“He
didn’t give me anything. Well, he
probably saved my… wait!” Dexter leapt
out of his seat.
“What is it Dexter?”
“I had almost forgotten! I took something from one of the dead
beasts. A knife! I hid it as a child. It was my own special secret. Come on!”
Dexter rushed back into the house from the
porch and a bemused Bartholomew followed.
He found Dexter in his childhood bedroom. Dexter was moving an old desk out of one
corner of the room. Once out of the way
he got his fingers behind the baseboard where wall met floor. He worried the board loose and pulled it away
from the wall. There was a cavity in the
corner. Dexter reached in, and pulled
out the shiny object that was hidden there.
Dexter held up the blade called Portal, and
Bartholomew’s eyes went wide.
“Not so much a dream after all! May I see it?”
Dexter handed the blade over to his
friend. He put the room back together
while Bart marveled at the intricate craftsmanship.
“It’s probably worth a fortune, Dexter. The handle is solid gold. It’s definitely Sumerian. I’m not nearly the expert as my friend’s
friend is, but this cuneiform script here means door or portal.”
Dexter turned to address Bartholomew after
pushing the desk back into place, “We should bring it to this professor
tonight. Maybe he knows what it is.”
Bartholomew handed the blade back to Dexter,
“Splendid idea. You are always full of
surprises aren’t you Dexter?”
Dexter chuckled, “Let’s just hope it’s the
good kind. Of course now I’m more
confused than before. I spent my whole
life believing my little adventure was the product of a fertile mind. Now I find evidence to the contrary.”
Dexter threw the knife on the bed and
returned to the porch with his friend.
Dexter hoped against hope that Bartholomew’s connection could tell him
about the knife and that is (Old English is, Proto-Indo-European *es-ti) all it really was… just a knife
#
Shaukat knelt on his mattress head bowed down before
his mentor.
The shadow figure smiled down upon his
student and purred, “Tonight is the night, my son. Tonight you go to paradise.”
Tears rolled down Shaukat’s
face, “How can I ever thank you my master?
I have waited so long. I have
worked so hard.”
“Just follow the directions exactly. You must not detonate the bombs until you
have performed the ritual and I have given you the word.”
“Yes my master.”
“Tonight Shaukat,
tonight, won’t be just any night…”
#
Dexter brought the minivan to a stop in front
of a dilapidated, broken down cottage only half a mile from where he and
Bartholomew were staying. Firelight
played through the cracks of the boarded up windows.
“Are you sure this is the right place,
Bartholomew? It looks as though it
hasn’t been used in years.”
Bartholomew double checked the paper with his
directions scrawled on it, “No question.
This is very strange… well he is French.”
Dexter looked askew at his friend and they
both chuckled. He reached into the
backseat and grabbed the artifact they hoped to identify. A full moon lit their way up the overgrown
path to the weather-beaten door and Dexter knocked. It was a muffled, spongy sound, but
audible. No one answered.
“You’re sure, Bart?”
“He said to go in if he didn’t answer. The old fellow must be hard of hearing.”
Dexter turned the knob and pushed the door
open. The interior was mostly comprised
of one large room. Overhead, in the
center of the room, a hole almost five feet in diameter lay open to the night
sky. Underneath was a large round table
covered with an inch of moss, mold and mildew.
Vegetation had sprung up in some corners of the room and the only testament to recent occupation were the torches set in the
walls.
“This doesn’t see right, Bart, unless your
friend really likes roughing it.”
“Dex!
Look!” Bartholomew pointed to one
end of the room as the air began to shimmer and coalesce.
The two men approached the spot hesitantly
and watched in wonder as a perfect seven by three foot rectangle formed in the
air. A scene formed on what appeared to
be a rooftop in a city. A man knelt
before them in the image mumbling strange words.
The door behind the two men slammed shut
causing them to jump. Bartholomew ran to
the door and began yanking it in terror.
“It won’t open, Dex!!!! It won’t open!”
“Calm down, Bart! We’ll find another way out.”
“No!
No! We can’t! You’re trapped!”
“We’re
trapped.”
Bartholomew turned back to his friend bearing
an evil grin, “Noooooo… you’re trapped… old friend.”
Willy ran up Dexter’s spine and the reluctant
protagonist (1671, "principal character in a story, drama,
etc.," from Greek. protagonistes "actor who
plays the chief or first part,") hesitantly asked his friend, “What are
you talking about, Bart?”
“Actually the name’s Arag. We first met thirty years ago this very day
although I was wearing a very different suit.”
Dexter stumbled back in a mixture of terror
and realization, “You’re the last of those demons! The ones that chased
Gabriel.”
Arag scowled, “That blasted Archangel is a cosmic
pain in the ass! Do you have any idea
how long it took me and my brothers to track down that artifact?!”
Bartholomew pointed at the blade clutched in
Dexter’s right hand, “Centuries! We
finally get it, wait for the bloody stars to align, grab ourselves a human
sacrifice and who comes crashing through the roof in this very room!?”
“Archangel?” Dexter replied incredulously.
“Punk is more like it! The Administration decreed no supernatural
entities on this world! Fine! We wanted to leave, all my brothers and me,
but would they let us leave through the back door? Noooooooooooooo.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about
Bart… Arag… whatever your name is.”
“You mortals are so oblivious to the true
nature of the universe. It’s
embarrassing.”
Dexter jerked his thumb back at the floating
rectangle behind him, “What’s this for?”
Arag smiled, “That’s my own special genius. Since Gabriel blew my only window to escape
this world thirty years ago I had to come up with my own ritual to leave this
cursed world. That door leads to
Hartford.”
“You want to go to Hartford? Why no just take a
bus? In fact why don’t you just open a
door like this one to leave our world?”
Arag frowned in disgust, “Opening a door from one
point to another on the same world is child’s play. Opening a door between planes requires more
effort.”
“So what’s this one to Hartford for?”
Arag’s smile returned, “It’s a funnel. That young man on the other side is my little
puppet. He’s set up thirteen bombs
around the city and when they go off hundreds of lives will be taken. Those will provide the soul energy I need to
power up Portal. That would be the blade
you’re holding. I saw you pick it up
that day… how convinient eh?”
Dexter held the knife up, “This? What does it do?”
“I just told you it’s called Portal. What do
you think it does dipshit? It opens up a
door to wherever I wish to go. I’ve
picked out a nice little plot in the shadowlands.”
“You’ve been dogging me my whole life,
haven’t you?”
“I’ve been keeping tabs since I knew you had
the artifact. It was just a matter of
figuring out the right recipe… full moon, death and destruction and of course…
human sacrifice.”
Dexter gripped the hilt of his weapon more
tightly, “I’m not just going to lie down and die for you.”
Arag laughed out loud and began to shake, “Didn’t
you learn anything from Gabriel? My
tough magically delicious skin has grown back since that day all those years
ago. Even Portal cannot wound me!”
Arag screamed in pain and pleasure as he mutated
into his demonic form. Dexter watched in
horror as the tentacles ripped out of his human face and a razor sharp beak
clacked within that nest. His clothes
shred off of him as his true bulk replaced the smaller human form.
Dexter dove to the other side of the round
table so that it was between him and the son of Asag. He took a deep breath to drive away the
terror clawing at his mind. All his life
words had provided for him and he knew he needed one now more than ever. Gabriel had screamed it all those years ago
and all he could remember was that it was a name (Old English nama, from Proto Germanic *namon from Proto-Indo-European *nomnm meaning "one's reputation" is from
circa 1300).
“Of course!”
Dexter exclaimed in a flash of childhood memory, “How could I be so
stupid all these years!?”
Arag tilted his head to one side in bemusement
and clacked his beak. He jumped onto the
round table and stalked forward toward Dexter.
Dexter backed away to the rear of the room. He pulled on his childhood memory to that day
thirty years ago and began to weave the gestures he saw Gabriel make so long
ago.
Arag was obviously confused by Dexter’s bizarre
activity and realized too late what he was up to.
Dexter bellowed the word of power.
Arag screamed in agony and flipped on to his back
as the pillars of heaven shook and lightening slammed up through the ground
through his demonic form. He writhed in
agony as his magical skin was made mortal.
Silence replaced the demons screams and Arag rolled over on all fours. He turned to face Dexter. The hate in those multifaceted eyes was
undeniable. Dexter looked at his blade. He looked at the size of his opponent and
decided that discretion was indeed the better part of valor. He ran across the room and leapt through the
mystical door to Hartford.
#
Shaukat’s eyes went wide in amazement as the portal
formed from the words he spoke. He was
frozen with a mixture of wonder and terror as he looked into another room that
floated a foot above the rooftop he stood on.
He watched two men walk into this other
place. He watched them talk although he
could not hear their words. He watched
as one of them turned into a monster and then as the other called upon great
power to smite the beast. Then he
watched as the man came rushing toward the portal into him.
#
Dexter slammed into Shaukat
and the two men went flying across the rooftop.
Arag bound through the portal and screamed
that demonic cry that would cause lesser men to fold up and die. Arag leapt on
Dexter.
Dexter feinted left, but dove right slicing
at Arag’s fore shins as he did so. The beast screamed in agony and stumbled past
his enemy. The son of Asag spun, bleeding at the shins and radiating hate. He dove again on Dexter. Dexter fell to his back, drawing his knees up
to his chest to keep the beast off him.
Shaukat had taken no chances this night and had
brought a pair of 9mm handguns with him in case he was interrupted during his
ritual. He never dreamed he’d be using
them on a demon. He pulled the guns and
emptied both clips into the back of the monster.
Arag screamed in agony and spun on his
student. Blinded by rage the demon
charged the would be terrorist. Shaukat threw his
guns in the creature’s face and pedaled backward as the juggernaut came
on. Arag
crashed into his protégé realizing too late that they were at the edge of the
rooftop.
Man and beast screamed all the way down to
finish with a resounding… splat.
Dexter picked himself up and went over to the
edge to see what crushed demon looked like.
Arag burst into flame a few feet away from the
still form of Shaukat.
“Pretty damned impressive...”
Dexter turned and went over to what he
expected was the control device for the thirteen bombs scattered around the
city. He decided to leave it alone since
he didn’t see any timers and didn’t want to be responsible for blowing up
Hartford.
He stepped back through the Portal and into
the cottage in Maine where all this had started so long ago.
#
The news was abuzz the next day about an
attempted terrorist attack on the Jihadi to fall off the building and
thus never get to detonate the charges.
There was a mysterious burn spot near him, but other than that, as far
as the authorities were concerned, there were no loose ends. They had found Shaukat’s
notebook, and it took them a few days to entirely dismantle all of the bombs he
had constructed.
The portal between Maine and Hartford
disappeared that night with the full moon’s setting. Dexter left an anonymous tip to the police
from a payphone in Portland and then headed home. Before doing so he returned a knife called
portal into its secret hiding place.
A few weeks later the police came knocking to
ask him a few questions about the disappearance of his friend, but Dexter was
politely unhelpful. The truth he figured
was more trouble then it was worth.
Dexter returned to teaching and study, but he
now possessed a profound sense of fulfillment.
He had discovered the word he’d been searching for his entire life and
it turned out to be one held dear to him all the time. He, above all mortals, had come to learn that
words truly did hold power and he had one he could call his very own.
#
Author’s
Note: If you’re like my wife
you’re probably burning to know what Dexter’s word of power was. I’ve left multiple clues throughout the
story. If you string all of the words
that are referenced etymologically together you will get a very easy
riddle that spells it out. If you would
still like confirmation of your word sleuthing please visit the page on the
internet for my novel “The Sorcerer’s Song and the Cat’s Meow” at
Amazon.com. Look for a review by me and
there you will find the word.