Chapter 13: What it Really Said in the Formula

“Lies, my dear boy, are found out immediately, because they are of two sorts. There are lies that have short legs, and lies that have long noses.”

--Carlo Collodi, Pinocchio

As wild things, corvids quickly recover from violence. The Murder’s only real concern was the missing Chiaroscuro. Humans, by contrast, often have a much harder time. It seems strange to only now realize Schrodinger was a carnivore. But the salmon the group ate together never gushed blood.

Unlike the rabbit.

Grace felt sick. Making it more unbearable was knowing this was no savage beast, but a great friend who had been nothing but helpful to Grace. Even when his language tended towards sarcasm.

“It was going to hurt Goldtalon…” she tried to speak without gagging. “I didn’t move, but you saved him! Thank you.” She wanted to add Please clean off that blood.

Goldtalon failed to realize the danger he had been in. He was trying to fly along with Bennu. Though they were technically the same age, his phoenix hatchmate had already fledged. Besides breakfast, lunch, and dinner, flying was the main thing the griffin talked about.

“‘Thanks’ are obscene.” Schrodinger batted a paw. “Any of you would have saved me if our positions were reversed. Well, maybe not the raven—whom I’m sure will turn up soon. The Astral has many corners to tuck oneself away in.”

“Why did it have horns?” Fox poked the dead animal with her foot.

“That’s a jackalope,” answered Schrodinger. “No ordinary rabbit. But I could show you what a jackalope is better than I can tell you.” His eyes began flashing, like soundless ambulance sirens.

“Would it be like shadowboxing?” Grace asked after some hesitation.

“Not exactly. But I promise it won’t be painful,” were the last things Schrodinger said before the fog.

At first, Grace had trouble discerning whether the mist was only an effect of her confusion. Sharing her cloud clone’s viewpoint was a similar experience. But while in that situation she felt numb, in the place Schrodinger brought her she possessed all her senses. The musky smell of wet leaves beneath. The taste of sick-sweet wafting off pine needles. And stepping on what felt like a pinecone actually hurt! In the impenetrable fog, she heard breathing.

Thankfully, it was her friends. Diana was also weeping. Fox grumbled in response. Above, Grace could hear the flapping of crow wings. From bits of the sky she could see, the girl knew it was late in the night, or early morning. For the first time since spying out the hole in the Ambrosius Institute’s roof, she saw stars. Something rubbed against her side. She would know that softness anywhere, even without its metallic shine.

As a chick, Goldtalon’s down felt softer than a cloud, which Grace knew for a fact since. After molting, the griffin’s plumage felt gentler than cotton, with none of the slipperiness of silk. Grace petted his side, gratifying the half of him that was feline.

“Hjckrrh! Where are we, mommy?”

“You’re not the only confused one.” A flash of red light penetrated the mist, and Bennu was standing between Grace and Fox. “But I believe we’re about to receive a lesson! I so enjoy those. Especially when it involves altered states of consciousness!”

If Schrodinger were present, he never made himself known. Someone who did, though, was a man crashing through the pines. While not a giant in the sense of a man-eating ogre dwelling in a sky castle, he was at least seven feet tall by Grace’s estimate. His barrel chest was covered by a maroon flannel straining under the effort. He wore dark green trousers, which—even with suspenders—he had to keep hitching up. The face under his black beanie cap consisted in the main of a shaggy brown beard. These details were less significant than the fact he brandished a huge ax.

Fox muffled a curse.

If Grace could feel pinecones, she could definitely feel a strike from that blade. The lumberjack (for how else would a man like this make his living?) sized up his surroundings with peeled eyes. He swung about. The ax-blade hovered in front of Grace’s head. By instinct, she ducked, pulling Goldtalon with her.

Either the fog was too thick for the man, or the companions were invisible. He stared right past where Fox, Diana, and Bennu stood, stock-still. Neither did he pay any mind to the Murder pitching a fit in the branches above.

He threw his ax into a tree stump, and wiped his forehead for a minute. Then, he had his turn to be surprised! A white stag bolted behind: a beautiful thing with pearl fur and ivory antlers. If he had a rifle instead of an ax, he might have tried hunting after. But the deer got away quick, no doubt on a quest of its own.

The brawny lumberjack bent to unstick his ax. The squelch of hiking boots nearly covered up another sound. A pathetic moaning that, for once, did not come from Diana. Creeping carefully behind the man, in case he suddenly noticed her and proved less-than-friendly, Grace spotted a creature on the ground the same moment he did.

Grace gestured for her friends to see as well. Perhaps this was what Schrodinger meant to show them. She clutched Goldtalon by the nape so he could not attempt to eat the animal. It looked very, very sick. She could still discern it was a rabbit, except with two lumpy, mismatched growths coming out of its forehead. Growths, that is the only word she could think to describe them. If she squinted long enough to see green-and-red dots, they almost resembled antlers. The animal lay half-buried in a burrow, drooling something pink.

“Oh gross!” said Diana.

“Oh neat!” said Fox.

“Oh dear!” said Bennu.

The rabbit was clearly dying, but for now it just spasmed with pain. Grace had no inkling how long this had gone on, or for how long it would continue before the inevitable.

The lumberjack also appraised the deformed rabbit, cradling his ax under one armpit.

In a tone much softer than expected from so rough-looking a figure, he whispered “Poor, fearsome critter.” He stood to his full height, gripping his broad, wood-handled ax between ham-sized hands. As the rabbit convulsed in obvious agony, he swung his blade down…

“That’s quite enough,” came the voice of Schrodinger.

The companions were back in Vinland. No fog, just Fort Stone. Grace felt grateful. She had seen enough blood today.

“That is where jackalopes come from.” Schrodinger—in the flesh—reclined on the grass. His short muzzle still had blood on it. “Grimalkins, satyrs, even the Aniwye result from every dream-capable animal imagining ideal forms of themselves within the Astral. But there are also monsters born from nightmares, or beings based on misidentification. I just showed you an otherwise ordinary rabbit infected by the Shope papilloma virus, which causes the growth of hornlike tumors.

“I’ve also attempted to illustrate the importance of witnesses. Without that man—who already encountered a deer—finding our particularly wretched specimen, the story of a bunny with antlers never would have grown up around a campfire in…I dunno, Wisconsin, Minnesota, one of the Dakotas. Anywhere on the Frontier.”

“There’s a whole family of mad…” Diana stuttered, “made-up monsters called ‘fearsome critters’ that started as tall tales in the lumberwoods. Squonks were one type.”

“Surely you’re more than that.” Bennu patted Diana’s back with his left wing. “To find a habitat halfway between the waking and dreaming worlds, you must be a changeling. And between-places lend power, even if uncontrollable or unwanted at first.”

At this, Fox stood up straighter.

“Changelings aren’t just fairies who were swapped out for normal humans?” asked Grace.

“I daresay there are plenty today descended from that sort of changeling.” Schrodinger had wiped the blood off his face with a paw, which was itself now bloody. “For millennia, all over the world, fairies have been stealing and replacing babies. Their blood shows up in strange places, manifesting in deeply personalized ways. Magic’s not an exact science, otherwise we’d just call it ‘science.’ The important thing is: belief matters. From the individual to a whole species. Even jokes and hoaxes hold power in dreams. Unfortunately, that gives the so-called Easter Bunny plenty of minions. She controls not just jackalopes, but all rabbits, to the moon and back. I mean that literally.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

***

Everyone digested this news in their own way, but for Diana, it prompted solitude. She still dined with the others at the hearth, and never hid in the room twice (no, three times) larger than her cell at the Ambrosius Institute. Yet she mostly sat by the riverbank, occasionally dipping mismatched feet in the cool waters while otherwise keeping dry. She set a personal record for longest period without tears. The most noise heard out of her was breathing, unhampered by cough or phlegm.

Eventually, Grace came to ask if anything was the matter.

“Squonks and jackalopes are both fearsome critters, which only matter because people told or believed stories about them.” Diana sounded unusually confident. Her eyes were less bloodshot. “I wonder—and this is scary—what if I believed I’m something other than a squonk?”

“What would you like to believe, instead?” asked Grace.

“Uh…what do you think I should believe I am?” Diana confidence dropped several notches. She stared up at Grace.

“That’s something you have to decide for yourself, Di.” Fox also came to the riverside.

Goldtalon, Bennu, and the Murder chattered on the opposite side of the hill. Schrodinger was bent over his scroll. The girls stood apart.

“I…I think, I’ll take off my mask.” Diana wobbled worse than pistachio pudding, but did not fall over. “I mean, if you promise not to laugh.”

“About darn time!” whooped Fox. (For the record, she used a different word than “darn.”)

Tentatively, Diana grasped the edges of her ski mask, then snapped her hands to her waist. The impact made two wet, squishy sounds. She reached again—slower this time—pulling back the mask about an inch before stopping. The flesh underneath was pale.

“Oh, come on!” yelled Fox. “Yank it off already!”

“One quick motion.” Grace mimed the action. “Don’t fret, just…”

Any more encouragement was superfluous. Diana pulled off her mask, folded it neatly, and placed it on the ground.

No point sugarcoating it, Diana Hemlock was ugly. Beneath a chapped, hairless scalp, her forehead had the consistency of reptile scales. Her perpetually moistened eyes, with their red rims and noticeable blood vessels, sank within the saggy skin of her cheeks. Her snub nose had nostrils large enough to comfortably snort the grapes off a nearby vine. Yellow-green phlegm steadily dripped down the left nostril, but not the right. Miraculously, a chin that barely existed supported her rubbery lips. Covering all the above features were warts. Great bloody things, some of which sprouted hairs.

That being said, while Diana was ugly, she was not that ugly.

“That it?” Fox scowled. Her voice sounded angry, but the clouds of rocks that typically accompanied her ill moods were completely absent. “After such buildup, I was expectin’ something to give a few decent nightmares at least. This…is plain disappointing. Hope zombie birds with exploding heads will be more exciting.”

Diana smiled, then immediately screamed in pain. “Owwwww! Smiling hurts. How can any sane person think to do this?” In fairness, while nothing could be said in favor of her other physical characteristics, her teeth were straight, even, clean, and so white as to nearly sparkle. It was not the worst smile.

Grace laughed. “Guess you need to keep practicing.”

***

Chiaroscuro was still missing, though few admitted the dirty bird was actually missed. No further jackalopes assaulted Fort Stone. In the following lull, Grace recounted to everyone what she experienced through her cloud clone. Nobody bothered to argue what she heard from the Director was only some fantasy. They were already living one.

“How’ll I ever forget the Institute?” Diana’s pale face had quickly tanned, but now it blanched.

“Who’s Director Ambrosius again?” asked Bennu.

“A terrible, horrible, awful, despicable, wicked, villainous, malicious, evil, and not-very-nice man!” claimed Jackanapes. He probably did not know every word he just used, which is lucky since they all meant the same thing. “He does invasive, humiliating experiments on kids. And—more importantly—birds.”

“If I ever meet him, I’ll give him a piece of my mind,” Albumen asserted with a nod.

“I’d give ’em a different piece of myself,” said Dusky.

“Hope those cloud-cones or whatever hold up.” Fox spoke slow, so each word came out even. “If the Director realizes we tricked him, he might come searching for us.”

“And that creepy Grammery.” Grace shivered.

“Could they find us here?” asked Rags, which Grace translated.

“The technique I taught you should maintain the illusion for months.” Schrodinger sounded perfectly audible, despite the gold scroll in his mouth. He had taken to carrying it everywhere, even to bed. “The main caveat is, emotional stress will sever your doppelgangers’ link, leaving nothing but a burst of bubbles.”

“Then we mustn’t get too emotional.” With her mask finally out of the way, Diana was free to smile at her friends. She would need much more practice before it stopped disturbing them.

“Oh Di, yours burst ages ago.” Fox also smiled. The attempt proved only slightly less unnerving.

Schrodinger reviewed his scroll for at least the eightieth time. He hissed on noticing Bennu had been silently looking over his shoulder, then declared the phoenix might as well hear what was translated while he was still an egg.

Delight can be found in the smiles of spiders (40 gills for base)

Peace from the rheum of Death’s brother (Beyond 32 grains, Life’s 3rd becomes all)

Sorrow in lament of ever-young frog (16 scruples, mix, strain. Keep in 2 separate pans)

Freedom wanders with a dog whose home is unsolid (4 locks. Add to base with 2nd pan)

Want flows through flesh-hungry branches bearing no fruit (72 drams. Avoid being seized)

Balance achieved by a philosopher’s sword (stir in a widdershins direction)

Strength held in the cradle of Land-and-Sky’s ruler (carefully pour in concoction)

Enlightenment kindled by a sunbird’s plucked quill (cook 4 minutes till boiled. Try not to burn)

These 8 parts you’ll need to undo Evil’s Roots, which decays mind and destroys will.

(Cool to room temperature and serve. Proportions: 24 drops for every 56 pounds.)

Something sounded familiar to Grace since Hatching Day. “I…think I know what the second-to-last item is. When Goldtalon first hatched…”

The griffin in her lap half-awakened, jabbing Grace with a wing-elbow. She continued “… Schrodinger said lions are kings of beasts, and eagles are the kings of birds. ‘Land’ and ‘sky’. A griffin rules both! That’d mean his ‘cradle’ is the agate. Maybe we take a piece of eggshell, enough to hold some potion, and…oh, this sounds weird.”

“No, Fair Maid of the Shovel!” exclaimed Bennu. “You must be right! We’ll go through your middens to see if there’s still some shell left. I doubt we’ve thrown much of anything away. We don’t even have trashbins. Moving to the following passage, ‘firebird’ can only refer to a phoenix. How proud I am to have this honor to give a piece of myself for the salvation of my city!”

He spread his plume and train to their full length. With an involuntary yip, he yanked a tail feather out with his beak. “Ow-ie! But truly, a happy sacrifice. More where that came from, as needed.” Even detached from the rest of him, the quill continued to give warmth, shining like a prism. Unluckily, the scroll stated Bennu’s feather was the last ingredient required, to cook the others. The group set to figuring out their possible natures.

Grace explained anything of consequence the Murder said for Fox and Diana. Offal whining “I hope we just stumble on them by accident” went untranslated.

“I still think the ever-young frog’s lament could refer to a squonk,” said Diana. “Though I’m not sure I’m one anymore, or if there are any others who haven’t melted into tears already.”

“Leave that one till later,” said Bennu. “But ‘Death’s brother’ is Sleep. Both are sons of Night. Therefore, ‘rheum’ means sleeping sand, though I doubt it’s the regular grit you sleepyheads accrue before waking.”

“‘Flesh-hungry branches,’” Albumen muttered. “Any tree with those would make a precarious perch!”

“There’s Venus Flytraps,” said Fox. “But they’re small. With leaves, not branches.”

“Let’s address the ‘freedom wanders’ section,” said Schrodinger. “‘Locks’ are no doubt the hair of the dog, but there are hundreds of dirty, biting strays with no solid homes. How to narrow that down?”

“What if it’s a dog that lives on the ocean?” suggested Dusky.

“A pirate dog!” shouted Bennu.

Grace bit her lip. “Couldn’t be nastier than a smiling spider. Reminds me of stories my mom tried to tell me, but they scared me bad.”

“I can see that.” Rags nodded. “The only thing you’d find in spider smiles is venom.”

“They taste good, at least,” chipped in Offal.

“Promising leads on all the above,” said Bennu. “That leaves the last item on our grocery list.” Schrodinger growled to hear the remedy called that, but the phoenix did not notice. “The ‘philosopher’s sword’ used to stir everything.”

“What’s philosopher?” Goldtalon asked, only half paying attention.

“I’ve read it in poems,” claimed Diana. “But I must have been too stupid to know the meaning. Oh boo, there must be hundred…no, thousands of words I’ll never have time to learn before I’m dead!”

“Millions, actually,” said Schrodinger.

“Anyway,” interjected Bennu, “a philosopher is someone who loves to talk but hates to listen. Usually, though, they don’t take up arms. In poetic moments, they might call their pen a sword…”

“The scroll’s writer had lots of fun mixing languages.” Schrodinger stole back the conversation. “To my seething frustrations. But I doubt they meant you stir a literal potion with a figurative weapon. There’s only one philosopher I know who carried a piece. He won it off an executioner in a poker game, who stole it from a Valkyrie, who borrowed it permanently from a guy that pried it from a dead dwarf whose brother was a dragon. The sword itself is named Ridil.”

“Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim.” Bennu acted like a student called on in class who studied well the evening before. “But he called himself ‘Paracelsus,’ which probably saved ink on business cards.” He paused, twisting his neck in a way that paid homage to owls. “What were we talking about again?”

“Paracelsus.” Schrodinger turned impatient. “A Renaissance doctor who dabbled in magic. Or a Medieval wizard who dabbled in medicine. Whichever category of scholar; he was a changeling who spent a quarter of his life exploring fairy nature and the elements. Two-quarters of his life were dedicated to finding a cure for all illnesses.”

“What’d he do with the last quarter of his life?” asked Fox.

“Getting rip-roaring drunk,” Schrodinger immediately answered. “That’s not important to us. Paracelsus enchanted Ridil, placing either a magic stone or a horrible demon inside. Regardless of how it was done, the sword is a paradox, a question with no easy answer.

It’s a blade that heals instead of harms. Rumor’s that it can heal any malady in the world. Problem is, the Radixomniummalorum bokor spores came off the tree Yggdrasil, which existed outside this world before it was burned down.”

“Explains why the gold scroll lists more ingredients,” figured Grace. “It wouldn’t be enough on its own.”