The Topher Trilogy

Chapter 2 - Pounds of Flesh-4

“Not really. More like a witch.”

“Mother made me promise not to get caught up in any of your schemes.”

“What about if it’s a witch that can only do our bidding?”

“A zombie witch,” Zorn offered.

“Yes,” Topher said. “And no. More like a golem zombie. Well no, that’s redundant. Gertrude, are you in or not?”

Gertrude studied the metal collar. Then his eyes fell on his textbook, the laboriously titled Bloated Flesh and Lost Compass: History’s Greatest Maritime Nautical Disasters. He wanted to say no. He wanted to pick up that silly book and study. He heard his mother’s voice, admonishing him to stay out of trouble, to stay away from “that boy.” But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. What Topher was proposing was just too exciting. Topher’s propositions were always much more exciting than anything Gertrude originally set out to do. Going to a movie? Let’s blow up frogs in the creek instead. Reading your favorite book? Let’s throw rocks at cars from an overpass. Practicing the oboe? Let’s look at these magazines I found in the woods. Okay, okay, okay.

He worked up a slow boil. Topher was the most selfish, careless, irresponsible person he’d ever known, but being his friend, his second right-hand man (Zorn would always be first) was both dangerous and thrilling. While Gertrude preferred to plan things out, carefully consider his options, and move through his day, dutifully checking off his list of things to do, Topher barreled through time like a hyperactive pit bull, destroying everything in his wake, barking gleefully has he did so. Gertrude was the guy who stood in the corner at parties, watching, carrying on a conversation with a few good friends. Topher was the madman doing keg stands and setting the couch on fire, dragging the poor schmuck standing in the corner into the back room to snort white powder off a mirror.

And then it struck him. None of this was really Topher’s fault. He could have said no to all of those things but he didn’t. He wanted to do them. He wanted to blow up frogs and throw rocks at cars. He wanted to look at pornography and snort drugs. He just needed someone to push him into it. And this is how it works out. He ends up at Raleigh’s Prep. It was the only logical result. Nobody put him here. He chose to be here. He belonged here. As soon he realized that, the pressure on his chest was gone. The icy ball in his stomach melted. He had always gone along with what Topher said and he always would. He knew his place in the world. He understood his fate, and it was freeing, this knowledge. And terrifying. He looked up.

There stood Topher, waiting for an answer. Zorn had already snapped the codpiece around his waist and turned it around to guard his backside. He was checking it out in the mirror.

“Well?” Topher asked.

Gertrude sighed and grabbed the iron collar.

“Okay. I’m in.”

The path snaked through the woods, leading the boys deep into the heart of Chainwrought Forest. Topher had no idea where he was going. He chose it because it looked like it had been used before. The bare limbs of the trees enmeshed overhead, creating a thick, knotty web that creaked in the wind. Outside the forest, the moon shone bright and full; inside it barely penetrated the canopy. Topher pulled a broadsword out to clear away a tangle of creepers and thorns that seemed to purposefully block his way. He sliced through for a couple of feet, but they reformed behind him. He hacked at a knot the size of his head.

“Magical prickers! I’d move quick if I were you.”

“Where’d you get that sword?” Gertrude asked.

“I found it in the basement.”

“You found a sword in the basement?”

“Where do you think I got your collar?”

“Where in the basement?”

“I don’t know. Someone just left them out, so I took them.” He pulled up his shirt, revealing his own codpiece and a mace, which he’d tucked into his belt. “And these!”

“Did you find anything we could use?”

“No, of course not. Well, maybe. Okay, yes. But I’m not giving them to you.”

“Why not me?”

“You? Please.”

They followed him as close as they could, pinching the vines and thorns between their fingers, trying to move them aside, but they scratched and bit and tore their furs. Gertrude was actually glad for the collar, though it rubbed his skin raw. At least it protected his neck. No telling what kind of poison magical prickers contained. The vine, no doubt, carried some kind of toxic oil. They’d all be covered in calamine lotion before the week was out. If they survived this. He sneezed. His belly was in knots. He began to chant the refrain that defined his life with Topher: thiswasabadidea, thiswasabadidea. On top of everything else, the wood was stuffy and humid, and it smelled like a trunk filled with old raincoats and apple cores.

“Cat urine,” Zorn announced.

Topher shot him a glance over his shoulder.

“What?”

“It smells like cat urine in here.”

“Oh.”

“Why did you look at me like that?”

Topher shrugged. “I thought you said something else.”

Zorn pondered this a moment. He brushed away a spider’s web.

“What else could I have said?”

“Never mind. Listen to me, you two. We have entered the belly of the beast, to use a cliché. Acta non verba, as they say. Be mindful of all noises and smells. Ahab himself could not be more vigilant.”

“Are we in any particular immediate danger?” Gertrude asked.

“Are you kidding? When have I not put us in danger?”

“Good point.”

“No need to freak out yet. I’ve never been here before.”

“What?”

“No need to worry. Crews is a ninny. Have we seen anything weird yet? Tonight,” he added, cutting Gertrude off. “The only thing that’s attacked me at Raleigh’s so far was a titmouse out on the Badugby fields. And that ass, Brimstone. And a few other boys on our first day. And Zorn, but that was purely s****l and he was sleepwalking.”

“It was not s****l!”

“Please, Zorn. You grabbed my nethers.”

“I have strange dreams.”

“I was attacked by a squirrel just last week,” Gertrude said. “They’re the natural enemies of simians. Ever since that baboon bit me at the National Zoo, I’ve been targeted by a variety of rodents. Especially Family Sciuridae.”

“Wait, did it bite you?” Topher asked.

“The squirrel? On the contrary. I smashed it in the face and sent it crashing into the bushes. The beast will think twice before it startles a Hughes again.”

“A regular Francis Macomber,” Zorn said.

“Who’s he?”

“Never mind.”

Topher snorted.

Gertrude worried his fingers.

“Tell me.”

“He’s a fictional character in a Hemingway short story,” Zorn explained.

“Oh? Big game hunter?”

“Of a sort. He runs from a lion, then his wife blows his head off.”

“It’s a shame, Gertrude,” Topher said before his friend could respond. “That you were not bitten by that squirrel. We could have used your rabies-infested blood to summon an even more frightful liderc. Or a succubus. Whatever we can manage.”

The more they walked, the darker it grew. Gertrude started to wheeze. He withdrew his inhaler from his pocket and triggered a blast.

“The pollen count in here must be phenomenal,” he said. “I can hardly breathe.”

“It could be all of the fur,” Topher said. “Werewolves are terribly negligent groomers.”

He raised his fist and stopped in his tracks. Zorn ran into him, of course, and then Gertrude (who was looking up at the trees) ran into Zorn.

“Careful, you oafs,” Topher said. He pointed at a wall of thorns about ten feet in front of them. Dim light flickered behind it, a pale, icy fire. Garbled voices and strangled grunts wafted through the air. “This looks like a hant haunt.”

“A hant haunt?” Zorn asked.

“A hant haunt.”

“What’s a hant haunt?”

“A haunt for hants.”

Zorn pondered this.

“You have experience with hant haunts?”

“This one reminds me of the hant haunt outside the old Bill family manse. Oh how I loved our bi-annual hant haunt hunts. William Bill the Trembler once suffered the molestation of fourteen succubi during one. It’s how he earned his nickname.”

Topher crept forward to the wall of thorns, Zorn and Gertrude right behind, and carefully drew aside a few branches.

“How about that,” he whispered. “Crews was right.”

“He was?”

“Yep. There are four werewolves in there and only three vampires. That I can see. It’ll be a blood bath. Ready lads?”

“Are you serious?” Zorn asked.

“My asthma,” Gertrude said.

With an earsplitting ululation, Topher crashed into the wall, rebounded once, then shoved his way through, cursing the whole time. “Avaunt ye knaves!” they heard him cry, followed by anguished yelps and guttural snarls.

Zorn and Gertrude paused, mouths slightly ajar.

“Er—” Zorn said.

“Zorn! Gertrude!” Topher cried. “Damn your hides!”

Gertrude stepped aside and gestured elaborately at the wall.

“After you,” he said.

Zorn cursed under his breath, then picked his way through the wall, like a cat walking in molasses.

The first thing he saw when he reached the other side was an afghan rug with teeth flying in his direction. It hit him square in the chest, bounced off with a yelp, and landed at his feet, unconscious.

“Don’t just stand there, Zorn! Fight!”

Zorn pointed at the rug on the ground.

“Shall I throw this?”

“Throw it! Stab it! Do something to it!”

Gertrude stepped daintily into the clearing.

“Hello,” he sang.

Topher was surrounded by afghan rugs larger than the one that attacked Zorn. His broadsword lay out of reach, but he still had his mace, which he used to strike at them repeatedly, causing minimal damage. One lunged forward and clamped onto his codpiece.

“Ha ha!” he cried, and brained it.

“He seems to having a devil of a time,” Gertrude observed. A bat fluttered into his face. “Oooh, a bat.”

It bothered his eyes, dodging his frantic swats, before transforming into a vampire in a grand puff of smoke.

He cried, “A sucker!” and then it lunged for his neck. There was a clinking sound as fangs met the metal collar. Gertrude laughed. “Topher, it works!” he cried, and the two stumbled backwards into the shadows.

Zorn bent over the thing at his feet and stroked his chin. Was there a specific way one should pick up a werewolf? He didn’t want to strain anything, and he didn’t want to touch . . . anything. He knew that he should lift with his legs, not his back, but where would he put his hands? And what if he brushed up against, or rub, or handle in any way, the thing’s thing?

“Zorn!” Topher yelled. He ducked. A wolf flew over his shoulder.

“All right, all right,” Zorn said.

He scooped the beast up and held it over his head. It was much heavier than he anticipated, and he hadn’t stretched properly. His arms shook and he took a deep, gulping breath, then launched it into the air, leaning in to the throw with all of his strength. It spun once and collided with a mass of its fellows, sending them flying into the thorn wall. One hit Topher, knocking him to the ground where his head struck a stump and knocked him unconscious.

Zorn put his hand to his mouth.

“Oops.”

He turned his attention to Gertrude, whose attacker labored under the delusion that its fangs could puncture metal. Before he could offer his services, he was struck from behind by an unknown force and driven face first into the ground. There was a brief moment when all was still. Then his pants were shucked violently, and something assailed his reverse codpiece with extreme force, driving his pelvis into the earth. There was another pause, and then the strikes were renewed, each one with mounting intensity and greater frustration.