“Yield and die!”

Then cast…

… far forth

… where Time is dust

and days are lilies without number…

and the night is a purple cockatrice whose name is oblivion denied…

He becomes a topless tree chopped through and falling forever.

At the end of forever, he lies upon his back and stares up at the Prince Who is his Brother, standing at all heights with eyes that imprison him.

“I give you leave to depart now, brother, for I have beaten you fairly,” come the green words.

Then Horus bows his head and the world departs and the old world comes again.

“Brother, I wish you had slain me,” he says, and coughs behind his bruises.

“I cannot.”

“Do not send me back with this kind of defeat upon me.”

“What else am I to do?”

“Grant me some measure of mercy. I know not what.”

“Then hear me and go with honor. Know that I would slay your father, but that I will spare him for your sake if he will but aid me when the time arises.”

“What time?”

“That is for him to decide.”

“I do not understand.”

“Of course not. But bear him the message, anyway.”

“…”

“Agreed?”

“Agreed,” says Horus and begins to rise.

When he regains his feet, he realizes that he is standing in the Hall of the Hundred Tapestries, and alone. But in that last, agonizing instant, he learned a thing.

He hastens to write it down.

PEOPLE, PLACES AND THINGS

“Where is Horns?” inquires Madrak. “He was here but a moment ago.”

“He has gone home,” says the Prince, rubbing his shoulder. “Now let me name you my problem-“

“My name,” says Wakim, “give it to me. Now.”

“Yes,” says the Prince, “I will give it to you. You are a part of the problem I was about to name.”

“Now,” Wakim repeats.

“Do you feel any different with those shoes upon your feet?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know… Give me my name.”

“Give him the glove, Madrak.”

“I don’t want a glove.”

“Put it on, if you wish to know you name.”

“Very well.”

He dons the glove.

“Now do you know your name?”

“No. I…”

“What?”

“It feels familiar, very familiar, to have the mesh spread across my body…”

“Of course.”

“It can’t be!” says Madrak.

“No?” the Prince inquires. “Pick up that wand and hold it, Wakim. -Here, hang its sheath about your waist…”

“What are you doing to me?”

“Restoring what is rightfully yours.”

“By what right?”

“Pick up the wand.”

“I don’t want to! You can’t make me! You promised me my name. Say it!”

“Not until you’ve picked up the wand.”

The Prince takes a step toward Wakim. Wakim backs away.

“No!”

“Pick it up!”

The Prince advances further. Wakim retreats.

“I-may not!”

“You may.”

“Something about it… It is forbidden that I touch that instrument.”

“Pick it up and you will learn your name-your true name.”

“I- No! I don't want my name any more! Keep my name!”

“You must pick it up.”

“No!”

“It is written that you must pick it up.”

“Where? How?”

“I have written it, I-“

“Anubis!” cries Wakim. “Hear my prayer! I call upon thee in all thy power! Attend me in this place where I stand in the midst of thy enemies! The one whom I must destroy is at hand! Aid me against him, as I offer him to thee!”

Vramin encircles himself, Madrak and the General with elaborate spikes of green flame.

The wall at Wakim’s back slowly dissolves, and infinity is there.

Arm hanging limp, dog-faced jeering, Anubis stares down.

“Excellent, servant!” come the words. “You have found him, cornered him. But the final blow remains, and your mission is done. Use the fugue!”

“No,” says the Prince, “he will not destroy me, even with the fugue, while I have this thing for him: You recognized him when first you saw him, long ago. His true name is now near to his ears. He would hear it spoken.”

“Do not listen to him, Wakim,” says Anubis. “Kill him now!”

“Master, is it true that he knows my name? My real name?”

“He lies! Slay him!”

“I do not lie. -Pick up the wand and you will know the truth.”

“Do not touch it! It is a trap! You will die!”

“Would I go through all these elaborate motions to slay you in this manner, Wakim? Whichever of us dies at the hands of the other, the dog will win. He knows it, and he sent you to do a monstrous act. See how he laughs!”

“Because I have won, Thoth! He comes to kill you now!”

Wakim advances upon the Prince, then stoops and picks up the wand.

He screams, and even Anubis draws back.

Then the sound of his throat turns to laughter.

He raises the wand.

“Silence, dog! You have used me! Oh, how you have used me! You apprenticed me to death for a thousand years, that I might slay my son and my father without flinching. But now you look upon Set the Destroyer, and your days are numbered!” His eyes glow through the mesh which covers his entire body, and he stands above the floor. A line of blue light lances from the wand that he holds, but Anubis is gone, faded with a quick gesture and a half-heard howl.

“My son,” says Set, touching Thoth’s shoulder.

“My son,” says the Prince, bowing his head.

The spikes of green flame fall behind them.

Somewhere, a dark thing cries out within the light, within the night.

WORDS

Between you and me,

the words,

like mortar,

separating, holding together

those pieces of the structure ourselves.

To say them,

to cast their shadows on the page,

is the act of binding mutual passions,

is cognizance, yourself/myself,

of our sameness under skin;

it rears possible cathedrals

indicating infinity with steeply-high styli.

For when tomorrow comes it is today,

and if it is not the drop

that is eternity

glistening at the pen’s point,

then the ink of our voices

surrounds like an always night,

and mortar marks the limit of our cells.

“What does it mean?” asks Lord Uiskeagh the Red, who is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side against Dilwit of Liglamenti.

His party leans through fog toward the rock where the words are graven.

“Lord, I’ve heard of these things,” remarks his captain. “They are the doings of the poet Vramin, who publishes in this manner: He casts his poems at the nearest world, and wherever they fall they record themselves upon the hardiest substance handy. He boasts that he has written parables, sermons and poems in stones, leaves and brooks.”

“Oh, he does, does he? Well, what’s this one mean? Is it to be taken as a good omen?”

“It means nothing, Lord, for it’s common knowledge that he’s also mad as a golindi at rutting time.”

“Well, then, let us urinate upon it and be on our way to the wars.”

“Very good, Lord.”