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The Demon’s Cantos

Part 5


Even with all the windows open, the car’s interior reeked to high heaven. Byron’s eyes watered in the haze of odoriferous octo-stank.

High beams painted the dark country road with light for a quarter mile ahead. Byron had waited until 1 AM to start driving. As a result, he had not yet seen another car.

Which was lucky, because Korbius’s best effort at “laying low” in the back seat was less than effective. It had taken half an hour to coax the giant octopus into the old sedan, to begin with.

“Come on,” Byron had insisted, “get inside, we need to go.”

Korbius was submerged in the pool of murky water that had recently been Nan’s backyard. Only the top half his single giant, anxious eyeball peered out above the surface.

Korbius begs! Korbius, King of all Octopodiae, he begs! He who has never begged before! Master Cantor, do not imprison Korbius!

Byron rolled his eyes, his voice raising an octave in frustration. “What are you-? It’s a car! Korbius, it’s a car! Get in the car!”

Byron didn’t even want to bring Korbius – he’d be happy never to see the giant blob again. But Byron was loathe to attempt to reverse the Enthralling spell. And he couldn’t very well leave the monster behind for his unsuspecting neighbors to run into.

Korbius’s mental voice took on the upbeat tone of desperation. He began to patrol the air around the swamp with his tentacles, demonstrating as he “spoke”.

Korbius will remain here, at backyard. Yes! Korbius will protect Backyard! And, Cantor, you need not tense your air bladder – Korbius will not flee. Oh no, Korbius would never dream to flee! Yes, excellent. So, it is decided Korbius shall remain here.

Korbius no longer dared risk a direct confrontation with Byron. But every spare second was, in fact, spent plotting his escape. So far all that effort had not come to much.

Byron had placed a backpack filled with supplies on the front passenger’s seat. Into it, he stuffed dry clothes, fruit and water bottles. Beside the bag rested the Demon’s Cantos. The book glowed brightly in the night’s darkness, filling the front of the car with a dim golden light.

Byron grew frustrated. “Korbius, if you don’t get in this car, I will-” Byron hesitated for a moment. What would he do? He said the first thing that came to mind. “I’ll turn you into pudding.” Byron regretted this choice but doubled down anyway. “Alright? Do you want to be pudding? Hm? A small…uh…cup of Octopus pudding?”

Korbius’s eye looked left and right and then, dejected, down into the muddy water.

Korbius does not wish to be pudding.

Byron shot a firm finger at the car. “Then into the car! Now.”

It took five minutes of slithering and squishing to squeeze Korbius into the back seat. His jelly body filled the space almost to the ceiling and pressed up against the windows.

That was about an hour ago. So far, despite the terrible odor, and the lack of a drivers license, Byron was making good time. At this rate, he was hopeful they would make it to the Ocracoke ferry by sunup.

Byron wanted to stay on the local roads for as long as possible to avoid other cars. In the dark, at speed, it was difficult to make out Korbius’s shape in the back seat. But, now and again a giant tentacle would slip out the window. It would trail behind the car in the wind for a few minutes before Byron noticed and ordered Korbius to suck it back in. That was a mistake they could not afford on the highway.

For his part, Korbius found the journey was an immense discomfort. His stress glands oozed prodigious amounts of cortisone infused mucus in response.

Cantor Byron, how much longer must Korbius be constrained in Car? Korbius has learned his lesson. Korbius wishes only to be free of Car.

It took all Byron’s self-control not to explode on the giant, rank creature. Byron took a deep breath and, using his left hand, touched each finger to the tip of his thumb. Only afterward did he respond.

“About six more hours.” Byron said, his own voice filled with distaste, “by then we should make it to the island.”

Korbius’s eye widened at the mention of an island. An island meant water. Water, aside from portending comfort, meant a possible avenue of escape. Pleased, but afraid to give away his hand, Korbius complained with soap-operatic gusto.

Oh, six hours! Six hours! Oh! Oh! Oh! Korbius shall perish! Oh!

Certain that his ruse was working, Korbius added a final “Oh!” before going silent. Without another word, he relished the anticipation of watery freedom.

Thankful for the quiet Byron focused on getting to Ocracoke without incident. His mind fell upon the mystery of what he would find there. Who or what was the Preceptor? And why did Nan insist Byron look for it?

Lost in thought, Byron forgot to keep track of his speed. He zoomed past a low billboard at thirty over the limit. Blue and white strobe lights exploded in the black space behind the car. They filled the sedan’s cabin like a disco party.

Korbius tensed up and braced himself for some kind of magical impact.

What magicks are these Master? What has Korbius done now?

Byron muttered a curse under his breath. “It’s not magic,” he said as he ran his options, “It’s the cops.”

Korbius blinked in wonder.

A strange world you inhabit where trees produce such light.

“What?” Byron yelled.

“Pull over to the right” The amplified voice of a state trooper came through the air.

Korbius tried to twist around to look out the back window but couldn’t manage it.

Quite aggressive trees. Very impressive.

“Shut! Up!” Byron yelled, anxiety getting the best of him.

The cop turned on his sirens and sped up until his bumper was inches behind Byron’s. “Pull! Over!”

Korbius finally caught a glimpse of the police car.

That is not a tree.

“Fine!” Byron put on his right blinker and began pulling to the right. The wheels moved from the paved road onto the dirt shoulder and the car rumbled to a stop. The police car pulled in behind him. The officer shut off the sirens but left the lights running.

Byron began to hyperventilate. He shut off the engine and stared at the steering wheel, talking at a frenetic pace. “Oh my God. Oh my God. We’re done. I’m gonna go to prison. I don’t want to go to prison. I’m going to prison. Prison. Prison. I don’t want to go to prison. I don’t want to go to prison. Go to Prison. To prison.” He felt himself get stuck in the word loop but couldn’t calm himself down. “Go to Prison! Go to Prison. Pri-son! Pri-son?”

Korbius listened from the back seat, uncertain what was happening or what to do. Meanwhile, the driver’s side door to the police car opened. From inside the officer’s high gloss boot appeared. The black leather clad foot stepped out onto the dusty shoulder.

Master Cantor, what is copse? Shall Korbius destroy copse?

This snapped Byron out of his loop. “No! Hide!

Korbius’s eye looked around the tight confines of the car.

Hide?

Byron turned to face him from the driver’s seat and gave Korbius a gesticulating shrug. “I don’t know!”

The police officer reached the trunk of Byron’s sedan. He pulled out a small handheld flashlight. Byron spun around and faced forward, ready for all hell to break loose.

A couple of more seconds passed before the officer made it to Byron’s window. When he arrived, the tall state trooper rapped on the glass with a black gloved knuckle. Byron rolled down the windows with the manual lever.

Byron, covered in a sheen of sweat, gave the officer the most inculpatory smile imaginable. When he spoke, Byron tried to sound matter of fact. This was an utter failure and instead, he came off as mentally unstable.

“Officer?” In his anxiety, Byron raised the pitch of certain syllables as he spoke. He couldnt help it. “Can I help you?”

Implacable as a boulder, the officer raised his flashlight so the beam fell right on Byron’s face. Byron tried to “play it cool.” His eyes went wide and his smile broadened in what was a terrible attempt at a look of disinterested innocence.

“License and registration.”

Byron swallowed a lump the size of a bison and cleared his throat three too many times. He reached into his pocket for his wallet. Rummaging, he managed to extricate the car registration and his learner’s permit.

“What,” Byron cleared his throat again for good measure, “seems to be the problem – ahem – officer?”

The officer took the two documents and examined them beneath the beam of the flashlight. After what seemed an eternity he looked up.

“This is a learner’s permit.”

“Right,” Byron answered, eager to be tased into unconsciousness rather than continue this conversation.

The officer swung the flashlight back onto Byron’s face. The beam lingered there for a second and then swung right onto the front passenger’s seat. The Demon’s Cantos glistened like a prism in the flashlight. It fired impossible shards of color all around the front of the car. The flecks of color twisted and morphed like the inside of a kaleidoscope.

Byron held his breath. Still, the officer said nothing as he swung the flashlight into the back seat. Byron braced himself, ready to be ordered out of the car and lay flat on the asphalt with his hands behind his head.

He was about to burst into the whole insane explanation when the officer turned the flashlight back towards Byron. “Stay in your vehicle and don’t turn on the engine.” The officer was still calm as if he’d seen nothing of any significance. With resolute steps, the officer made his way back to his car to run Byron’s plates.

Byron blinked. Confused, he turned around to look in the backseat.

Where before there had been a giant Octopus, now there was, by all appearances, only empty seats. Astounded, Byron began looking out the windows for Korbius. As he looked a large section of the backseat began to morph. The colors and structures shifted like a desert mirage. Finally, Korbius’s camouflage disappeared in the center, revealing his giant eyeball. It appeared to hover in mid-air over the otherwise empty backseat.

Byron let out a muffled scream.

Cantor, with respect I must say that your lusty urges are insatiable and poorly timed.

“How did you-?”

Master Cantor instructed Korbius to hide. It has brought Korbius great shame to do so, but Korbius must obey.

Impressed and confused, Byron’s gaze fell upon the officer running his information. Besides driving without a license, Byron knew the car’s registration was expired. Nan hadn’t driven it in several years and the car had been living in the garage that whole time.

If everything went perfectly the cop would give Byron a ticket and let him go. But if the cop wanted to he could arrest Byron for driving without a license. If he did he would search the car. And if he searched the car he would find Korbius, and presumably, that would be the end of the cop.

Byron needed a plan B.

Turning toward the Cantos, Byron picked it up and began flipping through its pages. He was looking for one spell in particular. He had seen it earlier and it stuck in his mind. Skimming the Manipulations section Byron came to it. He ran his finger along the title at the top of the page:

Manipulating Space

Korbius watched with his single, non-camouflaged eye. When he saw the word “Space” gleaming in the Cantos, Korbius began to secrete anxious mucus afresh.

The Cantors’ ability to weave a path through space and time was legendary. If those legends were to be believed, a Cantor could mold reality to its will in many dangerous ways.

With as much haste as he could, Byron sounded out the spell’s summary, mumbling to himself. “To manipulate space is as dangerous as it is useful. In skilled hands, a Cantor may leap from place to place. She may bend spacial reality to her will. The Cantor must beware, however, for space—”

Korbius cut Byron off.

Master, copse returns. Will it and Korbius shall tear copse into easily digested fragments.

Byron spun around, “No!” He caught a glimpse of the officer’s slow stroll back toward the car and began to panic again. Feverishly, Byron ran his finger down to the advanced section and struggled to read. It was slow going – he could never read well under pressure.

Byron was in the middle of the section when the cop arrived at the window again. Looking in with his flashlight, the cop peered down at Byron. The flashlight fell on the open page, which glimmered in vibrant refracted colors.

“Is that a cookbook?” The cop asked, audible confusion in his voice for the first time, “are you reading a cookbook?”

Byron blinked and gave a dumb nod. “Uh, yes?”

The cop shook his head. “Young man, I was gonna give you a break. But you’re registration is expired. You’re driving without a license. And, I’ve got to tell you-you’re clearly intoxicated.” The cop shook his head. “I’m gonna need you to step out of the car.”

Time seemed to slow down as Byron weighed his options. Finding them all to be terrible, Byron settled on the one least likely to land him in a jail cell.

Byron nodded, “OK, give me one second.” Byron looked back down at the open page. His finger found the words of incantation and he sounded out the first word.

“Lo-cus.”

The cop rapped on the door frame with his flashlight. “Come on, out of the car.”

Byron didn’t look up. Instead, he focused on the slow and careful pronunciation of each syllable.

“May-ip-sum.”

“Sir, out of the car!” The officer put his hand on the holster of his gun. “Now!”

In the back, Korbius braced himself for some new magical torment. This drew his attention away from the effort to remain camouflaged. The false backseat disappeared and coalesced into a thick mass of wet octopus.

The cop saw the transformation and gave a yell. He pulled his gun. “What in the hell?!”

Byron panicked and tried hard to think of Ocracoke. He brought the aerial view of the island up in his mind’s eye. It was the same view from the old postcards they sold in the gift shops on the island.

Then he read the final word.

“Im-pee-ree-um.”

The officer disappeared. For a brief instant, it seemed Byron, Korbius, and the entire car squeezed down into a single point. All at once they stretched out, thin and longer than a football field. Byron and Korbius screamed as they were taffy pulled. Their mental and physical voices echoed in the ethereal space between realities.

Strange shapes and fractals surrounded them. Korbius, Byron, and the car raced somewhere, passing through noplace. Another instant that felt like forever passed. Finally, the car snapped back into real life, back to its normal size, along with its occupants.

The wind screamed through the open driver’s side window, roaring in Byron’s ear. Byron felt his guts churn as if he were falling, moist air tearing into his face, whipping his hair about. He gave a frantic look around the interior and saw his backpack floating in mid air. The Cantos hung halfway between the seat and the ceiling, in defiance of gravity.

With some effort, Byron managed to look out the car window. Through buffeting winds, Byron saw a sparse collection of tiny lights far below. Thousands and thousands of feet below. Even in the darkness, Byron could make out the outline. The stretching expanses of pristine sand beaches. The smattering of structures catering to tourists most months of the year. Here and there the moving blips of car headlights and lazing boats adrift in the shallows.

It was Ocracoke Island alright – the same view as those old postcards. And old Nan’s sedan was plummeting, headlights first, right for it.



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