The Demon’s Cantos
Part 17
Faustus came back at some point during the night. When Byron awoke, the giant spider was sitting on the porch, the stub of his missing front leg wrapped tightly in white gauze. A small speck of black blood had soaked through.
Byron approached the spider slowly, not wanting to surprise it. The newly risen sun reflected in Faustus’s glassy eyes and in them Byron saw eight perfect suns over eight perfect blue seas. Byron was beginning to lose himself in the reflective black orbs when Faustus turned toward him in that twitchy way even giant spiders move.
Byron couldn’t help but jump, though he managed to stop from yelling out, which he felt was a step in the right direction.
“Hey Faustus,” Byron said, slightly uncomfortable to be talking to a giant spider, even one he owed his life to. “Thank you, for last night.”
When their attention was fixed on him, Byron still found Faustus’s unblinking eyes were quite unsettling.
“I’m really sorry,” he said, “about your leg.”
Faustus remained frozen for a long moment, then click-clacked his way over the wooden slats of the patio until he was right in front of Byron. Faustus stood high enough so that the top of his central carapace was just below Byron’s hips.
Byron made himself stand firm, even though sheer instinct urged him to run. Instead, Byron took a deep breath, reached down with his right hand, and gently patted Faustus on the forehead, just above his eyes. The sensory hairs there were finer and fuller than elsewhere on the spider’s large body, almost like the soft hair of a collie. Byron inhaled Faustus’s odd, musty library odor and was surprised by how silky the spider felt under his sweat-soaked palm.
After a few seconds, Faustus clacked back a couple of steps and lowered his head in a subtle gesture of acknowledgment. Then he went back to where he was perched between the two chairs and stood there like a statue watching the sun.
“Good Morning.”
Tilda’s voice startled him. She stood in the house’s front doorway, looking exhausted but still much relieved compared to the night before.
“Morning,” Byron said. He made a small gesture toward Faustus, “he gonna be OK?”
Tilda eyed the spider affectionately. “Looks like it. He’s a tough one, my Faustus.”
Byron rubbed at his chin nervously, “do spiders, uh, grow back legs? You know,” he added unhelpfully, “like lizard tails?”
Tilda pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, “sort of, maybe. They can heal some things when they molt.”
“Molt?” Byron asked, swallowing a lump in his throat.
“It’s how they grow,” Tilda made a shivering motion across her body, “they shake off their old skin and there’s a brand new one underneath.” She looked back at Faustus quizzically, “I’ve seen him lose small scars that way, but never anything this big.”
Byron felt a bead of sweat run down his forehead at the idea of Faustus shivering like a hypothermic and slinking out of his own dead, dried carapace. He decided to change the topic, immediately.
“So, what’s the plan for today?”
Tilda leaned against the door frame and looked out toward the beach. “Today we train,” she said, and pointed over Byron’s shoulder, “but first, we follow your friend’s example and eat breakfast.”
Byron turned around and peered into the bright morning sun. He shaded his eyes with a free hand and saw splashes in the ocean a few dozen meters beyond the surf. Three tentacles breached the water, submerged, and then reemerged a moment later at least fifty meters away.
It occurred to Byron he had never really seen Korbius in his natural environment and he marveled at how fast the Lord of the Octpodiae was.
When the tentacles breached the surface of the water again, each was wrapped around a different large, flopping fish. Korbius smashed the fish into each other until they stopped writhing in his tight grip and then they all disappeared together beneath the waves.
While Korbius devoured his catch somewhere offshore, Tilda served two very different meals in the house. For her and Byron, she cut big slices out of a newly baked quiche lorraine. Thin strands of melted cheese stretched as Tilda lifted each hot triangle of savory decadence, and Byron caught a whiff of the delicious odor before the food reached his plate.
He was about to take a heaping bite when Tilda opened the refrigerator and nonchalantly removed a transparent bag of dead rats from inside.
Byron gaped, fork held in mid-air, as Tilda reached into the bag, as if it were filled with oranges or ripe bananas, and picked out three or four big rats by the tail. She plopped them down onto a large white plate on the floor over which Faustus waited eagerly. No sooner had the first rat hit the plate than a bright green liquid began oozing out of a previously hidden orifice near Faustus’s mouth. Faustus allowed the excretion to drip onto the midsection of one of the dead rats, and where the liquid touched the rat’s corpse quickly began to bubble and disintegrate. An acrid odor, like bile mixed with gasoline, billowed invisibly through the kitchen and Byron found it was all he could do not to gag.
Tilda watched Faustus happily for a long moment before returning the horrendous bag of dead rats to the fridge, right beside several blocks of cheese wrapped lightly in plastic.
Byron clenched his teeth and ran his fingers together several times under the lip of the stone countertop, forcing himself not to leap up and race outside.
For her part, Tilda was totally unaffected. She sat down across from Byron and picked up her fork. “I’m so glad he’s eating,” she said, as she plunged the fork into the thick quiche, “I was worried he wouldn’t.” Without a moment’s hesitation, Tilda sliced a creamy wedge off with the side of her fork and placed it in her mouth. “He usually eats at least six,” she said matter-of-factly as she chewed, “but I thought we would start with four and see how he feels.” Then she swallowed and took another bite, pointing to her mouth blithely and mumbling through the quiche, “good, right?”
Byron gave her a pained expression and made the mistake of looking back briefly at Faustus, who was heartily slurping the melted guts out of one of his breakfast rats. Byron’s head snapped back toward Tilda and his hand raced up to his mouth by sheer instinct. “I’ll eat in a little while,” Byron managed as he pushed the plate of quiche away and slowly walked out to the porch.
Tilda shrugged amicably, “OK,” she said, eating another bite, “we won’t be long.”
Byron gave her a small nod and raced toward the front door. As he passed by, Faustus looked up at him like a happy toddler with its face covered in chocolate fudge – except in this case the toddler was a giant spider, the face was a collection of eyeballs and mandibles, and the chocolate fudge was the melted interior of a recently deceased rodent.
Byron held his breath until he was out the door and halfway down the length of the beach.
Ten minutes later, his stomach settled by the fresh breeze coming off the azure water, Byron stood in front of the portal considered it in silence. Looking at the banal purple door, Byron could not help but see again the immense evil approaching on the other side, tearing through homes like tissue paper, leaving scorched footprints in the earth, with fell step —
A giant gray object, wet and shimmering in the sun, landed just a few feet away. It kicked up a storm of white sand as it tumbled a distance, and carved a long crater as it came to a stop. Byron recoiled in surprise and tripped, falling onto his back. As the dust settled, the living giant twisted and flapped its muscular body, tossing itself about fruitlessly in the sand.
Breakfast, Master Byron!
Korbius strode up beside Byron, lifted high on all eight tentacles, which he used like stilts to keep his huge central mass off the sand. His eye beamed with pride and he pointed with one tendril at the creature writhing dangerously a few meters away.
This was the largest monster Korbius could find, Master Byron. It brings Korbius shame to best one so small, but strength cannot thrive in your blue seas.
Korbius brushed a dismissive tentacle towards the ocean and looked off into the distance, falling into a reverie.
If only this were the Nethersea, oh Master Byron, the Breakfast Korbius would conquer —
Byron balked. “That’s a shark!”
Korbius blinked back to the present and lazily eyed the 2,000 pounds of pure muscle thrashing violently on the sand.
“Shark“? Shark. Hm, pathetic creature —
Tilda’s voice came through the air from the direction of the house, “Is that a great white?”
Korbius made a curt slurping noise and rolled his eye towards Byron.
I suspect not – this pitiful “shark” is neither great nor white.
Byron stood up and just stared for a moment. He’d only ever seen great white sharks on TV.
“Korbius,” Byron said, “you need to put it back.”
Korbius lowered his mass closer to Byron’s height.
Is Master Byron dissatisfied with Shark? If Master Byron does not feel Shark is sufficient breakfast, Korbius can retrieve another. There were several —
“No,” Byron interrupted, “it’s not that, I just don’t . . .” he hesitated, “. . .eat. . .shark.”
Korbius became concerned and spoke in an almost conspiratorial tone.
Is shark poisonous, Master Byron? Like Dolphin? For Korbius has already devoured several small shark.
Korbius began contorting his torso in undulating, powerful pulses, as though he were getting ready to squeeze out the contents of his stomach like a gigantic tube of toothpaste.
“No!” Byron shook his head vigorously, “no, it’s not poisonous! You’re fine, don’t . . . just, you’re fine. I just don’t care for shark, that’s all. Just, not my favorite.”
Korbius stopped convulsing and stood up straight, in a manner of speaking.
Oh, apologies Master Byron! Have no fear, Korbius shall provide Breakfast! If needed, Master Byron, Korbius is prepared to capture every mewling denizen of this pathetic sea for Breakfast!
Byron sighed. “It’s OK,” he said, and continued, feeling stupid, “Tilda made Quiche.”
Korbius blinked.
What sort of creature is Keesh?
“It’s not a creature,” Byron began.
Korbius peered up at the house.
It could not very fearsome if the tiny one captured it.
“Just put the shark back in the water,” Byron said emphatically.
Korbius obliged, walked up to the beached monster, wrapped two tentacles around its large form, and dragged it back through the sand toward the beach.
Of course, Master Byron, no Shark. Korbius shall remember – no Dolphin, no Shark.
Tilda walked out the front door of the house, as they watched Korbius recede into the surf. The Cantos glowed in her arms and a sated Faustus brought up the rear.
“He’s a funny one,” she said, “and devoted.”
Byron frowned, “yeah,” he said, as Korbius spun around in a powerful 180-degree arc and catapulted the shark bodily into the air. It landed at least fifty feet away in deeper waters with a humongous splash.
Byron shook his head and turned toward Tilda, “so,” he said expectantly.
“So,” she responded, and with an underhanded toss, hefted the Cantos towards him. Byron caught the hulking book awkwardly and looked down at its glowing cover.
“I assume you’ve read some of it?” Tilda asked.
Byron nodded, lost in the golden letters, “a little.”
“Besides your friend there, have you done anything,” she paused, considering what word to use, “amazing yet?”
Byron looked up and made tentative eye contact with Tilda. He flashed back to an ocean of water pouring out of his palms and teleporting hundreds of miles in the blink of an eye.
“Yeah,” he said, almost to himself.
“OK,” Tilda nodded and sat down cross-legged on the white sand, Faustus crawling beside her and resting his head in her lap, “show me.”
“What,” Byron started, “right now?”
Tilda smiled. “When else?”
Byron hesitated, anxiety gurgling to life in his belly. “Um, alright.” His mouth was suddenly dry. He shifted the Cantos into his left hand, cradling the spine along his forearm, and opened the book with his right. Inside, the beautifully illuminated pages shone impossibly bright, no worse for the wear, despite numerous submersions in salt water, octopus slime, and all variety of sand, dirt, and mud.
So far Byron had used four different incantations. The first, and purely accidental, had been summoning Korbius into his Nan’s kitchen. The second was the Manipulation of Fire, and then Water Manipulation was the third, which had soundly destroyed his Nan’s old house and nearly drowned him twice. The fourth was the Manipulation of Space.
Considering his options, Byron certainly didn’t need a second octopus, and given the way things got out of control last time, he didn’t think spewing an ocean out of the palm of his hand was a good idea. He also didn’t feel compelled to teleport anywhere just yet after the terrifying fiasco a couple of days ago in the air above Ocracoke. In the end, he flipped through the pages until he found the incantation for Fire manipulation.
He was about to begin reading the words, written in Latin with a shimmering script when he turned toward Tilda. “You might want to move back,” Byron said, “I’ve had,” he considered how to put it and decided on “mixed results.”
Tilda smiled and obliged him, standing up and moving several more feet away. Faustus followed dutifully.
Still uncertain, Byron took a deep breath and read the three Latin words, sounding them out carefully, his finger beneath each word.
“Flah-miss. May-ip-some. Im-pee-ree-um.”
As it had less than a week earlier in Nan’s not yet ruined back yard, Byron’s right hand began to glow like a fierce ember, heat pouring off it and sending visible distorting ripples through the air above. Still shocked that the words had worked, Byron dropped the Cantos to the ground and held his searing hand as far in front of him as his arm would allow.
“Now what?!” he said, uncertainty painting his face in broad strokes.
Tilda’s eyes widened in a subtle look of amazement. “I knew it,” she said, “I mean, of course, I knew it, but seeing it again —” her voice faded and she shook off her sudden remorsefulness.
Tilda stood up, “now, do something with it.”
Byron blinked, “huh?”
Tilda pointed at his red hot hand, “you said the words, your hand is on fire, now do something.”
Byron looked around the empty beach, “like what?”
Tilda shrugged, “use your imagination.”
Byron considered his options, looked down at the nearby sand and decided he would melt it into glass. He pointed his hand down at the ground, arm outstretched, forearm taut, averted his eyes and braced himself.
Nothing happened.
Byron opened his eyes and looked at his still glowing hand in confusion.
Tilda chuckled, “what happened?”
“I don’t know,” Byron tried again, aiming his hand at the sand, imagining it melting into glass. He strained the muscles in his arm, trying to will the sand to melt, but again nothing happened. Instead, the glow of heat in his hand began to fade until it was once again just flesh and blood. He poked at his skin carefully with his left hand, confirming it was body temperature. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“What were you thinking about?” Tilda asked.
Byron looked up from the child-like inspection of his own palm, “I was thinking about the sand melting into glass.”
Tilda nodded, “well, there’s your problem. You’re trying to control fire while thinking about sand.”
Byron scrutinized her, “I guess.”
Tilda nodded toward the Cantos, “try it again. Keep your mind blank as you read the words, find your target, and then,” she waved a hand haphazardly in the air, “think of fire.”
Byron took a deep breath. “Think of fire,” he repeated to himself.”Sure, easy enough,” he mumbled and kneeled down to where the Cantos had fallen on the sand. He flipped back a few pages to fire manipulation and read the words again.
“Flammis. Meipsum. Imperium.” He said, a little surer this time, and once again his hand began to glow. Tilda watched, eyes thin and expectant.
Byron stood up and raised his hand up once again. He straightened his arm, locked his elbow, and aimed at a spot on the sand. With a deep breath, Byron shut his eyes and tried to imagine fire. A delicate candle came to mind, glowing in a dark room —.
— And the palm of Byron’s hand a small candle flame appeared, not even an inch tall. It struggled to stay alight even in the slight breeze. Byron opened his eyes, raised his hand to eye level in front of him and stared at it with a mixture of amazement and confusion.
Tilda clapped her hands together, “Progress!” she yelled happily.
Byron turned to her, “barely,” he answered, “I’m not melting anything with this.” He held out the tiny flame with a frown.
“Well,” Tilda said, “think bigger.”
Bigger.
“Alright,” Byron said. Bigger. He could do that.
Byron turned back toward his target, briefly catching sight of Korbius extricating himself from the water in his periphery, and raised his hand one more time. He shut his eyes again and tried to think of something bigger, a more powerful flame. He flitted from image to image, briefly visualizing a flamethrower, then a bonfire, and a propane torch. With each image a burst of different colored and shaped fire poured out his hand – a brief stream of lit napalm that fell to the ground in burning clumps, the hiccuping scorch of wood flames that dissipated into the air, the blue, high pitched whine of a steel cutting torch. Each lasted for only a second or two and Byron could not maintain a steady flow of fire.
Frustrated, Byron tried to hold a single image in his imagination but found he could not. Something interfered, prodded at the back of his mind, something bigger in the truest sense.
I see you, Byron.
The voice of the shadow echoed through his memory, and with it came the vision of a world consumed by flame – all-consuming, all-destroying – a fire alive with malice.
Byron screamed as a cone of white-hot death rocketed out from the palm of his hand, billowing forward with a roar louder than a rocket’s engine. A plume of concentrated doomflame emanated from his palm and expanded out to form an unbroken cylinder of hellfire which consumed everything in its path. The white sand scorched to black and melted into a long puddle, as though the mouth of a volcano had opened spontaneously beneath the beach.
The blaze cut a swath through the distant forest. It vaporized the trunks of palm trees instantaneously, causing the coconut-laden tops to fall toward the ground, only to consume them as well in the blink of an eye. The unbroken beam cut through the underbrush and the dirt beneath. Anything not caught in the direct blast burst into flames under the scorching ambient heat.
In the far distance, on the other side of the island, at least a mile away, where the land ended and the ocean began, a gargantuan plume of steam rose up into the air and formed into angry clouds, as though a storm was rolling in from across the sea.
Byron could not control the beam, and as he stood, screaming, beneath the tremendous weight of its horrible power, it began to expand, hungrily growing wider, as if the fiery power were eager to devour them all – to devour everything.
Tilda’s hand came from behind him and touched Byron gently on the shoulder.
“Calm,” she said, “be calm.”
All at once Byron’s features relaxed, his muscles unclenched, the fingers of his hand closed into a dull fist and the destructive beam snapped out of existence.
Byron fell to the sand, breathless. When he opened his eyes, he inhaled sharply.
The forest was ablaze and a black rimmed hole had been cut straight through it. The sand shimmered in the sunlight like dark obsidian along the path of the beam, ending at the ashen char of what had been a dense undergrowth of ferns and flowers. Byron looked straight down the spherical path of destruction, an undifferentiated mile of chaos, cutting all the way through to the distant, boiling sea, where a stormcloud’s worth of water vapor still rose into the air.
Lightheaded, Byron began to apologize, “I don’t know what happened,” he said, “we need to put out the fire —”
All at once there was a clap of thunder, and the sheer volume of vaporized seawater coalesced into its own, ad hoc weather pattern, falling back to the Earth. The storm squelched the burning forest in burps of black smoke.
As hot rain fell around them, Tilda stood over Byron and stared down the path of pure destruction he had wrought. Forcing herself to suppress her instinctual terror at the sheer power she’d just born witness to, Tilda rested a small, squat hand on Byron’s wet hair.
“Well,” Tilda began with a sigh, as both Korbius and Faustus approached nervously behind her and peered down the mile-long length of the impromptu borehole, “I did say bigger.”
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