CHAPTER EIGHT
The Forgotten Memory
III
It was the previous afternoon, before the first vexpid attack, and Wilburn was sitting on the guest cot by the fireplace scarfing his third bowl of Mom’s broth. He hadn’t known he was a wizard yet. All he’d known was he could fly, and that was pretty darn awesome. Except apparently he’d passed out in the air and almost died… well, that was pretty awesome too, but he knew better than to express this point of view in front of Mom. For the first few seconds as the memory began, Wilburn’s consciousness was split, with one side of him remembering that he was remembering, and the other side fully invested in the memory, experiencing it all as if for the first time. That side quickly won out. It was so real… maybe it was real.
And then it was real. The fire crackled and the cauldron bubbled. Wilburn tipped his bowl to slurp the dregs. He belched. “Scuse me.”
“Would you like more broth?” Mom asked anxiously. “How about more bread?”
“No thanks…” Wilburn’s eyelids felt magnetized. The cozy interior of the cottage swam in and out of focus as he struggled, unsuccessfully, to keep them open.
“Are you sure?” Mom hovered by his elbow. “There’s still half a loaf left. And I can always bake another. Here, I’ll butter one more slice for you.”
“No, Mom, really… thanks, but…” Wilburn lay back on the cot, folding his hands over his bulging belly. “I’m stuffed,” he mumbled. “I think I’ll just… just…” A massive yawn expanded out of him.
IV
The next thing Wilburn knew, he was standing before a weatherbeaten signpost at a crossroads in the middle of what appeared to be a wasteland. A flat, blue block of sky sat on a flat, brown floor of earth whose only feature was the cobbled X of the two roads. Or was it four roads? There were four arrow-shaped signs nailed to the signpost, presumably identifying the nearest town in each direction… except… the silvery script was playing tricks on Wilburn’s eyes. He squinted. The writing seemed to slither and distort as he attempted to decipher it, and finally, in frustration, he gave up—at which point, the meaning became clear. He couldn’t read the signs, and yet he somehow understood that they said, Lower Astral, Higher Astral, Real Life, Open Dreamspace.
Up to this point, Wilburn had accepted the scenario with the inexhaustible credulity of the unconscious dreamer. Now, however, as he set off up the road to Open Dreamspace—which, of the available options, struck him as least likely to be lame—a tremor of doubt began to nag at him. It was his shoes: the problem was, he wasn’t wearing any. He was otherwise dressed normally, in overalls and a long-sleeve shirt and woolen socks. But what had happened to his shoes? How had he managed to get all the way out here without them? Wilburn halted in his tracks. How had he gotten here? He didn’t know. That came as a surprise, and an even bigger surprise came when he glanced back over his shoulder and could no longer see the crossroads or the signpost. He’d only taken a few steps away from them, of that much he was sure, and yet before him and behind him there was nothing but the road, shrinking away to kiss each opposite horizon. He decided to press on. But first, he took his socks off so as not to wear holes in them.
Wilburn walked barefoot for some time… or perhaps no time at all. The scenery never changed. Nothing changed. Nothing happened. And then, just when his boredom was nearing terminal intensity, a person made of solid golden light, nine-ish feet tall with identical faces wrapping all the way around their head, swooped down from the sky on a pair of aquamarine butterfly wings and landed in the road in front of him, and said, in a chorus of harmonizing voices, “Fear not! I am Lieutenant Angel Alfajean of the PROVED!”
It was a good thing there weren’t any crystal goblets lying around, because Wilburn’s scream would instantly have shattered them.
“Fear not, I said,” Lieutenant Angel Alfajean said, somewhat testily. “You know, you mortals could save yourselves a lot of trouble if you’d just listen once in a while.” It was a fair criticism, but Wilburn wasn’t listening. He was too busy sprinting for his life. The angel flew in front of him. “You are Wilburn Fart, the wizard are you not?” they asked, consulting a thin rectangle of glass that they were holding like a clipboard. Wilburn swerved aside. The angel flew in front of him again, cutting him off. “Please confirm your name for the record. The operation cannot proceed until you have done so.”
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
Wilburn remained crouched in a runner’s stance, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His eyes darted every which way, searching for an escape route that did not exist. There wasn’t so much as a scrap of cover for miles in all directions. The many-faced angel towered over him. “Wilburn Totkins Fart?”
Wilburn licked his lips. “It’s… Fark, actually…” he whispered, “…like with a k…”
Alfajean nodded. “That must have been a scrypo.” They tapped the pane of glass with a golden fingertip, and said, “Insert note. Heading: File update, insert current dimensional coordinates. Sub-heading: Subject name spelling correction. Body: Subject claims subject’s surname spelled F-A-R-K, previous entry F-A-R-T. Remember to submit info-edit request form with after-action report.” Alfajean tapped the glass again with satisfaction. “You see? This is why we have protocols. I’m afraid your Master Bungflower is notorious for his, ah… shall we say, casual approach to protocols, but if ever you are tempted to emulate his example in this, I just hope you’ll remember that a protocol once spared you a great deal of heckling. Oh my, yes. Imagine if your badge had come out saying, Cadet Fart!” The angel chuckled in polyphonous harmony, an extremely disconcerting sound.
“Are you… really an angel?” Wilburn asked. The ones depicted in the church’s stained-glass windows had white, feathery wings, not blue-green butterfly wings. They also had yellow halos floating over their heads—Wilburn remembered these especially well because he’d always imagined them tasting lemony—he liked lemon. But Alfajean had what appeared to be some kind of plant growing out the top of their head, a plant with long rubbery tentacles, and then, perched atop the tangle of tentacles like a bee on a flower, a shiny yellow helmet. It was yellow, at least, but it was certainly no halo, and in place of the flowing white gowns favored by the church’s angels, Alfajean wore a sleek military uniform of gold… ruined, unfortunately, by the addition of a fluorescent orange vest with silver reflective trim and the word PROVED stamped in all caps above the breast pocket. “That’s right,” Alfajean said proudly. “I’m a Lieutenant Angel, though, not as exalted as your seraphim or cherubim. But we all need something to aspire to, don’t we? I’m hoping to make archangel by the turn of the millennium. Not that rank really matters in the grand scheme, because the Great Creator loves all creatures equally, even the very lowliest of lifeforms—which reminds me—Wilburn, this is Buttrom, the prophet. Buttrom, meet Wilburn, the wizard.”
Only then did Wilburn notice the short, round, balding, dirty-apron-wearing man, cowering in the shadow of the angel’s wing. His hands were cupped around a wet clay bowl which appeared to have come freshly off the wheel. “P-prophet?” he asked in a terrified half-whisper. “There must be some mistake. I… I just make pots…” He brandished the dripping bowl at Alfajean imploringly.
“You really think an angel would make a mistake?” Alfajean scoffed. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to double check.” They tap-tapped a golden finger on the little pane of glass. “Nope. Says right here, Buttrom Hoglesby of Prozapple Province, Nalafarnalus. Occupation: ceramic artisan and holy prophet of ages. So there you go.”
“But… I’m not holy… I’m—” Buttrom blushed, casting a nervous glance Wilburn’s direction. “I shouldn’t say in front of the kid,” he muttered, “but you can take my word for it, Mr. Angel—or Ms. Angel—I’m a sinner. I’ve done wrong. I’ve got the devil on my shoulder.”
“Have you repented?” Alfajean asked sternly.
“Oh yes,” Buttrom said quickly. “Yes, I’m constantly repenting. I’m repenting right this minute.”
“Very good. We wouldn’t want you to end up in the bad place, would we?” Alfajean gave a musical tinkle of a laugh, more disconcerting than anything else they’d done up to that point.
Buttrom blanched. “You’re saying… damnation… is real?”
“No, no, I can’t say that officially. All I can say is, if there was a Damnation Program, its existence would be highly classified… so you might want to behave as if it is real… just in case.” The angel winked with half their eyes. “However, there’s no rule against sinners becoming prophets. It’s a bit of a tradition actually. The integrity of the flawed vessel and so forth. And speaking of flawed vessels…” Alfajean tapped the pane of glass again, and said, “AV scry Master Bungflower.”
There was a pause, and then a chirrupy ding-dong tone, and then another pause, and then a robotic female voice issued from the glass. Did you say, telefract to LA Sector 33-B, sub-realm Xiatakron?
“No!” Alfajean said sharply. “I told you to audio-visual scry Master Bungflower, please.”
There was another pause, another ding-dong, then: Telefracting to LA Sector 33-B, sub-realm Xiatakron
“CANCEL!” Alfajean screamed, hammering on the glass with a golden fingertip.
I’m sorry, I’m unable to assist with that right now.
“Why you stupid little piece of—” POOF. The angel disintegrated into a cloud of swirling particles of color and was gone.