Georgia Peach - Chapter 1

Well, this is boring.

There's about seven cars lined up on the road in front of me. God only knows how many behind. Two chunky men in khaki uniforms are interrogating the first in line, whilst two more with big guns keep watch from a concrete tower.  Apparently things have gotten worse since I last visited the world. Time was you could breeze through a border patrol, driving to San Diego to Atlanta without stopping for anything more than gas and a burger. Now it seems you can't hardly hop the line between two counties without some self-important local militia getting in your face about something. Hence the traffic jam. This kind of traffic would be nothing like this in the city, I know that, but here in the country with nothing but cotton fields as the eye can see, well, this surely is a crowd. My ride is the nicest on the road, the cleanest, and best kept. Some of these others are falling apart so bad I'm surprised they're still running. But they are, just like the people inside them. Something must have happened back west, and for some reason they think Georgia's gotta be better than wherever they were. Hell, maybe it is.

I pull a cigarette from my pocket and light up, a small red flame crackling between thumb and forefinger. Took practice, that one did. First time I tried to use the thing I burned my whole damn hand. Still, it's a handy skill to have, time to time. I breathe deep, and let out the smoke with a sigh that sends it curling over Lucifer's dash. I'd let him decide on shape this time, so of course he's some kind of muscle car, black and brooding. Doesn't make a difference to me what he looks like, he'd still ride the same and hell would freeze over before you'd outrun him. Still, he's a proud beast, prefers big scary cars to the zippy little ones. I guess I get it, and to his credit have a car that's one of a kind does help with image. The leather seats get bloody hot in the sun though. Black'll do that, and I've never seen Lucifer wear anything else. I'm not sure he can. So black it is, and the heat of the sun radiates out from every surface like a furnace. You'd think the heat wouldn't bother me, all things considered, but unfortunately that wasn't in the perks package. 

Lucifer growls, deep and rough, shifting slightly on his wheels. Poor guy. He started out as one of those hellsteeds hundreds of years ago, all flying mane and blood red eyes, and he's had a hard time adjusting to a world where almost nobody rides horses anymore. Cars aren't supposed to prance when they get restless. Hell, cars aren't even supposed to get restless. The idiot behind me jumps on his horn, making Lucifer quiver, so I reach out and pat his dash until he subsides. Groping for the lever, I push my seat back and put my feet up. At the rate these militia idiots are going, it might take a while. After what seems like an age the line shifts a little, and Lucifer jumps ahead with a bassy roar, only to stop a half second later with a sound as close as he's ever come to a whimper. I'll really have to let him go for it when we hit open road. As long as it's empty. I prefer to keep a low profile, and if anyone saw what he was really capable, word would spread around, and that simply doesn't bear thinking about.

There's a manila folder on the passenger seat. I pick it up and flick through the contents, more for something to do than any need to peruse the contents. I'd taken a detailed read this morning, not that there's much in there. The target ain't bad looking, either, not one bit. Ms Abigail Mercer Peach, 26, brown hair and eyes and a killer smile. No height, but I bet she's tall too. God damn. Born and raised in the state of Georgia, and the humour isn't wasted on me. A while ago I would have said someone up there has a sense of humour, but but that was before I learned that the only thing up there is a vengeful fuck and his armies. Still, you take humour where you can get it, and I just happen to be hunting for a bona fide Georgia Peach. Yeah... bet she's never heard that one before. 

Another age, and one of the goons finally swaggers over to my window. He shouldn't, he can't pull it of and it makes him look like a puffed-up idiot. Far be it for me to tell him how to walk, after all, I'm trying to keep a low profile. I roll down my window and smile politely, taking my feet from the dash. It pays to be cordial. The escaping cloud of smoke washes over him, his face noticeably paling above his sweat-drenched collar. Shouldn't be a new experience for him, but I suppose no matter how many tobacco clouds or hotboxes you stick your head into, it takes a special kind of man not to flinch when catching a face full of fire and brimstone. I got little sympathy though, since I've been sitting for the better part of an hour under the sweltering southern sun. They say to dress for the weather, but I have to stick to uniform. The mark never takes you seriously if you're in a hawaiian shirt and board shorts, trust me. It makes the whole job a lot easier if you project the right image, so I'm stewing here all in leather. Black leather. And boots. 

"You got business in Georgia?"

Well, yeah. Of course I got business in Georgia, dumbass. Else why would I be here, waiting in the sun? It sure as hell isn't so I can ogle your cotton fields. It doesn't pay to antagonise meatheads, though, so I keep my peace and answer him politely as I can, some bullshit about seeing dear old granny and the rest of the screaming bunch. The miliatiaman squints at me, reaching up to scratch under his hat. I don't bother reading the shield on it. There are so many groups these days, and it'd take a far greater and more boring mind than mine to keep track of them all. Mostly they're made up of guys like these. They mean well, I suppose, and want to protect their families. They just annoy the shit out of me. I can see the wheels ticking over in this one's head, and I see the exact moment he decides not to like the look of me. He puffs his chest and rests his hand casually on the pistol in his belt. Shit. I think I might be starting to get a headache.

"I'm going to have to search your vehicle now sir. You can never be too safe, especially these days. Why don't you step on out of your fancy car there?"

Not a fucking chance in hell. No way am I going to let a dipshit like you put greasy fingers on Lucifer's seats. Again I hold my tongue, because if this belligerent sack of flesh actually pops the hood, or looks in the back, not one of us his going to have a good day. Least of all him, because Lucifer isn't a car despite his appearance, and his 'engine' is full of things that aren't pistons and a radiator. The back isn't any good either, due to the body Lucifer's slowly digesting. So I put on my best smile, which is damn good, and back it up with a touch of true devilish charm. You know, you're doing such a good job, protecting the fine state of Georgia, and all of its inhabitants surely do thank you from the bottom of their hearts, bless them. I snag the plastic handle of a sixpack with my finger. After all, it's such thirsty work, and don't you and your fine pals just deserve a little break? As it happens, I didn't need to give him the alcohol. He would have done anything I said, all because of my silver tongue. He might have wondered about it when he got his wits back, and that's why I gave him the beer. He's less likely to think about it if there's justification. 

Lucifer rolls over the state line into Decatur County, Georgia. We speed up down State Route 253 until there's no-one in sight. With my feet back up on the dash I slip the magnum back into its holster from where I'd been hiding it behind the door. It's a bitch of a thing to use, and I hate doing it, but it gets the job done and no-one argues once the dust has settled. Plus, it's scary looking, and my job is a lot easier with the right image. You see, I'm the devil.

Inspired by a friend. Seed: The Devil went down to Georgia, but why?

September 8 - The Sign

This town was perfect. Rows of whitewashed houses with lovely terracotta roofs, clean windows giving brief snatches of homey domestic life. Smiling children pilfering small pastries from their mothers’ kitchens, jocular men returning home from work and kissing wives on rosy cheeks. The town fairly shined in the sunlight. A cool breeze swept in from the wide bay, a bay that encircled the gentlest patch of ocean that Audrey had ever seen, gentle blue waves that lapped at the pearly sand encircling it. Everyone she passed tipped a hat, nodded her way, or smiled warmly. In the centre of town was a tall clock tower, and as she walked through the main square it tolled, a mellow brassy sound, signalling the start of afternoon. Audrey smiled a little smile. This town seemed just lovely, and the only thing she had noticed that might be out of the ordinary was that all the houses were built of darker stone than those in all the other towns in the area. They must have mined from a different quarry, and that certainly wasn’t going to stop her from claiming this town. She had liked it more and more as she had walked around, and the best part, the part that was giving a smug twist to her lips, was that she hadn’t seen a single hint of a Sign. Not one, not a single flowering shadow. This town was simply lovely, and it was going to be all hers.

Audrey was a witch. She’d just turned eighteen, and as such had finally, at long last, ended her apprenticeship to Ms Laughersley, the old hag. Always Ms, never Mrs or it was a week of scrubbing the pots. Hateful, spiteful old woman. She’d had to stay with her for the full apprenticeship time, no matter that she had been ready years before. No-one seemed to get that Audrey was simply better than everyone else. She had mastered the alchemies faster than all the other girls, had perfected the magics long before they could even cast them, and bound a familiar when she was only fifteen. But despite how brilliant she was, they had made her stay with the doddering old hag until her birthday. They were jealous, of course. They were trying to keep her around because they didn’t want her settling into a town and becoming competition. Well, they couldn’t stop her now. She’d just found a perfect town, one that was miraculously unclaimed, and she meant to make it hers.

Audrey climbed the belltower, all the way up, and started unpacking her ritual bag under the great bell. She would put her Sign right here, in the centre of town, and soon it would grow and encompass the entire town. The Sign was many things. Most people couldn’t see it, but to those with the sight it was an intricate pattern of soft shadow, spreading slowly from some central point. It was a witch’s way of staking claim to territory, to warn off other prospective. It was a symbol of the witch’s power, for as she grew in power so too would her sign grow, sending out tendrils through her town and connecting her even more closely to the land. Every witch’s sign was subtly different, and you could use them to distinguish between them, if you knew who was who. Ms Laughersley’s had looked like a bougainvillea, and even though she’d lived in Shipley for twenty years hadn’t even grown over half of it. Audrey would be different. Her sign would be a thorned rose, because she was beautiful but dangerous, and would blanket the town within a few years.

With all her reagents placed correctly, Audrey was ready to start the ritual that would lay claim to this land, and the town that stood upon it. Something made her hesitate, just for a moment, her heart speeding up and the tang of fear in her mouth. She shook her head to dismiss it. She was powerful, the best apprentice in a thousand years, and this town was empty of other witches. She had been careful about spotting any Sign, and hadn’t seen a single thing. She took a deep breath, and when she exhaled gathered her power and set her Sign upon the stone beneath her. It was exactly as she’d imagined. A small, delicate rose tendril, curling softly, already with tiny thorns on it. This was the moment she had been waiting for, she had finally done it! But she couldn’t shake the dread that seemed to hang over her, looming ever larger, making her neck prickle. She heard a step behind her. A wizened old woman stood upon the top stair, looking at her with mild surprise.

“Well well, this I never expected. You know, there are not enough witches to have one in each town any more, and so the ancient ways haven’t been invoked for about two hundred years now. I never expected to see another duel, let alone be challenged to one.”

What was this crazy old lady talking about? Audrey put a stern look on her face.
“So, you obviously have a little bit of knowledge, or at least think you do, if you know about witches. I don’t know what you’re blathering on about with duels and whatnot, but I have just claimed this town as my own, and you will have to get used to me living here. You’ll soon realise it’s for the best, and that it would be best to be on my good side. I am a powerful witch, you know.”

The old woman looked unfazed, and insultingly she seemed rather amused/

“Little girl, do you have any idea what you’ve just done? You might know how to brew a few potions, cast a few little spells on unsuspecting villagers, and you even know how to place a Sign. You know a little bit, I’ll give you that much. But only a very little bit. I imagine you were told about the Significance of a sign, that it symbolises a witch’s growth and power?”

“Well, of course I do, and furthermore I don’t appreciate your...”

“AND do you know what it means when a witch places her Sign upon that of another?”

That gave Audrey pause. This detestable old lady was being horribly rude, and obviously needed to be put firmly in her place, or obviously she would cause trouble down the track. But what she’d said had sparked a memory. A snatch of one of old Ms Laughersley’s interminable lectures, a part she’d actually bothered listening to because it sounded interesting. Way back when, there hadn’t been enough towns to go around, one witch could place her Sign over the top of another’s, thus challenging her for possession of the town. But that was ridiculous, there was no Sign to be found here. She said so, and now the lady was wearing a grim smile. 

“Oh no? Look again, girl, and this time look closely.”

Audrey looked at her own sign, still small and fragile. For some reason it almost seemed to fade in and out of the stone, blending in with something. As she looked closer, she got the impression of brambles, of nettles, of oak trees and reeds and watercress and countless other plants, all laid over the top of each other again and again. She looked at the walls, and saw the same thing there, layer upon layer of soft shadows, all blending in with each other until the wall itself looked darker. With dawning horror she remembered her walk through the town, seeing no Sign whatsoever. The stones of this town were no darker than any other. It was Sign, it was all the Sign of this old witch, countless different patterns of it twining around every building and curling around every fountain, staining the entire town with her presence without a single gap. To have such age and power, it boggled the mind.

Audrey raised her hand, and so did the other.

September 7 - End

Welcome, traveller, to Aurelium, the Golden City, the City of Lights. You will need to present your travel records and proof of identity to the Dogs at the gates, they will assess your validity for entry into the city. 

The same message plays over and over again, every thirty seconds, over thin slots in the walls. I’m standing in long corridor bounded by low alloy walls. People line up single file, listening to the message over and over again. All sorts of different people, large and small, pale and dark, all lined up like leeks in a trough. At the far end, where the trough meets the shining gates of the City, a door opens and closes, sliding whisper quiet on some sort of rails, admitting one lost soul at a time. I can tell it’s quiet, because everybody is completely silent, except for the one over the speaker system. The doorway is completely dark, nothing is visible beyond. I wonder what the City will hold for me. For the man behind me, and for the woman in front.

Aurelium is the final destination. For everybody. Everybody spends their life travelling to it, yearning for it. Everybody in the world, and I mean that. I can see them all gathered here in this line. I see a woman with the white hair and wild eyes of the south. There is a young girl with dark skin, clutching a small stringed instrument to her chest. I see a man tattooed with his lineage, at long last come to his new home. Everybody here carries remnants of their life, and the lives of their ancestors who journeyed their entire lives that one of their distant descendants could one day set foot in utopia. They carry the scars of their journey through the wasteland that is our world. Red blotchy scars on arms that have been burned by fire, and missing fingers on those burned by snow and cold. 

We pilgrims, we believe. One day we will reach paradise. A place where we will no longer hunger, or feel the cold, or die from the heat. Where we will not have to fear the claws and fangs of the predators, or the blades of predators that walk on two legs. There are those who have given up on our journey, our destiny. They have forgotten that once we flew through the stars in our golden city, and that when all of Aurelium’s wayward children have returned we shall do so again. But some will not return. They stop at the side of the road to rest, and they do not rise again. They build a more permanent camp, then a house, then a village. They stare at us from their doorways with their sad eyes. They pity us, even though they  are the ones who are lost, they are the ones that will never taste paradise. I do not understand them. 

I hear the message six hundred and forty-one times before I finally reach the front of the line. The golden doors slide open in front of me. A faint warmth emanates from the dark doorway. This is my salvation. I believe it, I do. I step forward.

September 6 - Snow

It is cold. It is always cold, cold enough outside to kill you if you are not protected, cold enough inside to do the same, only slower. The cave is dark, except for a faint glow filtering through the ice in the ceiling. We have quite a stockpile of fuel, we found a fallen tree that was not too large and managed to break it to pieces with stones and drag it back home. It would be warmer if I were to light a fire on the stone in the back of the cave, but even with such a good stockpile the precious sticks must be hoarded closely. The long dark of the night is deadly, and the flame is our only way to survive. It is my only way to survive, since Churgi-Nim went to hunt for food. He has not yet come back.

Churgi-Nim has been gone for four days. I am not worried about him at all. This is for two reasons. The first is that there is no point worrying, for he will either return with food, or he will not. The second reason is that I know what has happened to him. After four days in the outside, there is no chance that he has survived. He will not be returning, and so I am alone.

I have not eaten in a day. Before long I will be too weak to move. If that happens, I will die. I do not wish to die, so I must take action. I dig a small tunnel in the snow at the front of the cave, shivering as the cold wind blasts snow into my face. The sky is perpetually gray outside, but I can see that it is darkening towards night. I must wait until tomorrow to venture outside. I pack snow tightly back into the hole I made, shutting out the howling wind. Whilst I still have dim sunlight I construct the fire, kindling in a grid pattern to catch quickly and waste little. In the yellow light I stitch all the remaining furs into garments my size. When they are finished I harden my spears in the fire, feed it a chunk of wood, and then curl up to sleep.

I wake, and dig the tunnel again. It is dark, but gray light is starting to seep into the blackness. It is time for me to go. I dig my way out of the cave, filling packed snow behind me. The cold is much worse outside, and despite my extra furs the wind cuts into my flesh. There is a tall stone beside the entrance to the cave, so I fix it in my mind before turning my face into the wind. I take sixty paces towards the hunting ground before something in the snow catches my foot and makes me fall on my face. I should move on, the most important thing is finding food, but curiosity makes me stop. I reach down and dig around the hard object that tripped me up. It is long and bent, and soon I see five pale objects sticking out of something larger. Fingers, and a hand. I have found Churgi-Nim, he didn’t even reach the hunting grounds.

I dig out his furs and spears, then turn my face into the wind. I must find food. Mourning can wait.

September 5 - Temper

When you first get your materials, they will be base and unrefined. They will not very much resemble what they will eventually become. You may use them as they are, of course, but those rough chunks and pieces have such potential, can you but unlock it. How could you resist the urge to create something wondrous?

To do this, you will need tools. You may buy them, of course, for they will come in many shades of quality. Some will be cheap, and flimsy, and though you struggle to shine despite them they will make you and your work less. Some will be fine and strong, and you will revel in their action and wonder why it took you so long to find them. The best tools, however, you will make yourself. Carve the wood and shape the steel, and you will know every nuance and quirk of your tools, each stress and breaking point.

Once you have your tools you may begin. First, and fundamentally most important, you must have a flame, bright and hot. You must be able to control this flame, to make it blaze or to make it glow. You must calm its temperamental nature so that it is steady and even, that your creation will not be flawed. Slowly heat your raw materials, too fast and you will destroy them. Soon your raw materials will begin to soften, and this stage is critical. Fold it upon itself, time and time again, until it is smooth and fairly gleams in the light. By doing so you will make it harder, but you will also make it brittle. Here now you may add other agents, to strengthen or colour your materials.

After this, you must cool it delicately. Too fast and it will shatter. Take it from your flame and set it in a pan of water, making sure that no part stays too long. Soon enough you may complete the finishing touches. Smooth it with steel or hard wood. Make sure it spreads evenly, so as to avoid lumpiness. As it cools to hardness you should see the light gleam mellow across its surface. There may be more that you will do. Perhaps you will carve it, etch it, and cover it with graceful patterns of sinuous lines. Perhaps you will set it with things that shine green or blue or red, or wrap it in delicate filigrees. Or perhaps you will embellish it not, and keep it in its pure simplicity, for there is beauty in that also.

When you are finished, what have you made? Is it for you alone, or is it for many? Does it reflect who you are inside, or perhaps who you want to be? Is it fantastical and creative? Simple and elegant? Solid and comforting? Whatever qualities you have imbued with it, you have fed into it your time and your energies. The mere act of creation has rendered it wondrous.

It’s hard to go wrong with chocolate.

September 4 - Brush with Death

It’s been a long day. The bloody neighbour was drilling something at 5am, and not even I could sleep through that. The hot water heater broke down at some point, so halfway through my shower it went ice cold and stayed that way. Some idiot had flipped his car over on the highway, so I was stuck for ages in traffic. I could see the guy sitting on the kerb, orange fake tan unmarred by his close call. He had this stupid grin on his face as he was being interviewed, like it would all blow over if he was suave enough. The rest of the day went pretty much like any other, work is work no matter the day. Except this time three of the temps called in sick, so I had to put in an extra hour. After ten hours of work and another in traffic I’m finally walking up my garden path. I let myself in the door, and throw my jacket and keys on the entry table. I glance into the kitchen, nothing in there but a stack of dishes I haven’t gotten around to washing and an empty fridge. I really need to go shopping. Right now, though, I couldn’t be assed. I call for takeout Chinese and eat it in front of the TV. I throw the rubbish and the bin and put my feet up. Soon my eyes are drooping despite the incessant noise and flashing. I fall asleep.

I jerk awake. My mouth is dry and papery and there’s a crick in my neck from the odd angle. The TV, having detected no movement for a while, has turned itself off, leaving the room dark except for the thin strips of streetlight that filter in through the blinds. I feel something wet on my shoulder, and when I flick the light on I see it’s a huge splodge of drool. I strip off the shirt and throw it in the laundry hamper, then head to the bathroom to brush my teeth before I crash. The neighbourhood is quiet except for the occasional faraway whisper of a car on the main road. The house feels too large, full of black empty spaces that push in on my tiled little island of light. The mirror shows me dark bags under my eyes. The sound of my toothbrush fills my ears. I brush for ten minutes, making sure to get every nook and cranny of every tooth. Dental hygiene was drilled into me when I was small, and it stuck no matter what I do. I go to rinse my mouth, but it’s as if my vision is blurred. No, not blur, but fog. Thick ropy tendrils pour through the doorway like smoke, filling up this tiny space. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and though the air doesn’t move I feel as if a cold breeze  is blowing around my head. The fog gets thicker and thicker, now roiling and thrashing not two metres away. The sink presses cold and hard into my back. A skeletal hand reaches out of the fog towards me.

I scramble backwards, flailing arms sending bottles clattering to the floor. A figure appears out of the mist. It must be walking, but for all the world it looks like it materialised out of the fog. It’s tall, so much taller than me, clad in a tattered black cloak. Its face is hidden by a deep cowl that seems to draw the light from the air, the light dims and flickers. From the mist it draws a huge scythe, curved and wickedly sharp. No no no! I don’t believe this. There is no grim reaper come to collect your soul when your time runs out, I don’t believe. But my heart is beating painfully fast in my chest, and I hear my own soft whimpering. Its hand reaches into the robe, and brings out an hourglass. For a brief moment I’m captivated by its stunning detail, tiny figures meticulously etched into bleached bone, fine sand dribbling from one crystal chamber to the other. Then I realise what it is, and I shiver all the more. Its hand reaches up to the cowl, and in one motion throws it back, revealing the terrible grinning visage of a human skull. Its eyes seem to draw mine, though fear claws at my belly when I even look in its direction. It towers over me, drawing the warmth and light out of the room. The light is so dim now, soon to be extinguished like my own life. The tiles are frigid against my bare skin. The last grains of sand settle to the bottom of the hourglass. The hand reaches out, snagging my neck and dragging me to my feet. Empty sockets stare into me, the scythe blade arcs back, and I close my eyes.

I open them again as I am set on my feet. The scythe is resting against the shower rail, and the skull faces me expectantly. A skeletal hand flips the hourglass and taps it a couple times, bone clicking on bone. From some fold in its robe the figure pulls out something bright green and bristly. It points at the toothbrush still clenched in my hand, and holds up its own.