The Pulver Chronicles – Epilogue. Creideann Sé

The sun had completely disappeared behind the thick, grey clouds by the time Seth arrived at the place by the river. It was almost exactly as he had left it, including the big rock on which he always sat. Some weeds had grown at the bottom of the three cenotaphs; Seth put on his gardening gloves and took care of them. Byron’s tombstone also needed a bit of a cleanup. Then, he took a deep breath, tilting his head back.

“Hello Jack,” he said. “Well, looks like it’s going to rain. Perfect to set the mood, am I right?”

He looked at the right-most cenotaph, and sat in front of it, his eyes reading the inscription for the thousandth time since he had placed the stone there.

Jackson “Mad Jack” Pulver

He gave us the world

1976-2001

Seth had long pondered about what to write on that tombstone. What was the right epitaph for the best friend he had ever had, one of the most important people to have ever entered his life? How to best sum up the life and deeds of Jackson Pulver, and what he had meant to so many people? Initially, Seth had wanted to go with something more classic like “Beloved husband, dearest friend, brave soldier”, but that just felt like a platitude, the kind one comes up with after only putting the minimal amount thought into the matter. Liz had suggested something along the lines of “Forever part of the Neha tribe”, but had then decided that it was not good enough, and that it went without saying anyway. 

Every Nehan had offered their own ideas, ranging from the somberest to the silliest. It was in fact a silly suggestion that finally led Seth to finding the right thing to carve: Latna had advised him to go with “he gave me BBQ sauce”; she had partially meant it as a joke, but also as a way of saying that Jackson had led her to discover an entirely new world, and with it a new life. Indeed, that BBQ sauce Jackson used to make was what had convinced her to become a cook, a dream she had realized a couple of years after coming to Earth. She now owned her own Tex-Mex restaurant in Reno; it was working so well, she was now thinking of starting a franchise.

He gave us the world. Yes, that was the right epitaph. It wasn’t boastful or a poetic license. It was literal: Jackson had given his people a new world. A new life. A new fate. And, to this day, over two decades after his passing, they were still making the best of it.

“So, here I am again,” Seth said. “How long has it been since the last time? A month, I think. Maybe more. Jeez, I’m sorry. Used to be I came to see you every week, sometimes several times a week. Remember? Now, I barely make it once a month. In my defense, being my own boss is a lot more work than I thought. There’s always something to do at the shop, especially since I’m down to two employees now. Oh, yeah, I didn’t tell you: Lars and Laurie moved to Ohio, to open their own place. Right next to Cincinnati; Delhi Hills, I think it’s called. Anyway, now it’s only me, Darryl, and the new guy, err, Johnny. And I’m probably not gonna keep Johnny for very long. The guy means well, but he’s a mess. He’s always breaking something, or forgetting something, or misplacing something. The worst part is, he often makes the same mistakes again and again. The guy just straight up doesn’t learn! I mean, I hired the guy so I would have less to do, and all he does is give me more work.”

The Demon cleared his throat.

“But let’s not talk about work. I bore Liz enough with that over dinner. Speaking of her, Liz is doing great. Three weeks ago, she and I went to Baja California. It’s official: there’s now a new tribe among us! The Ruko tribe, they’re calling themselves. They built this nice little hamlet near the forest. That’s… What? The twelfth new tribe since we came here? Or the thirteenth? I’ll have to ask Liz, she’s got a perfect memory for these things. I swear she can recite the name of every tribe and every chieftain, and list their address, their phone numbers, their symbols… probably even their food allergies. Anyway, the Ruko tribe… We threw a party to celebrate. Damn, those Hellhounds down in Mexico can drink. I was hungover for a week after. A tequila hangover is nasty. And you should have seen Liz!… She’s always so happy every time our big family gets even bigger. After all these years when it only got smaller…”

He sniffed. “You know, I think that’s the first time I thought about Varda in a long, long while. I don’t really miss it. Not much about that place I regret: the Archdemons, the Empire, the war… I mean, sometimes I get nostalgic about Vertrisia or some parts of the South, but that’s about it. Haven’t spoken Hellian in a while either, come to think of it.

“What else? Oh, I’m doing good too. I mean, work gets stressful at times… But I said I wouldn’t talk about that. The project car is going, uh… Well, it’s going. I finally managed to find a new exhaust manifold that’s compatible with the engine. It wasn’t cheap, especially since I had to import it from Canada, but it’s definitely the right part this time. Um, small problem, though: I lost a wheel somehow. I have no idea how that happened, it’s just… gone. Did it get stolen? I’m guessing it didn’t roll away on its own. But why would someone steal just one tire? Ah, well.”

Rain drops began darkening the tombstones. Seth put his coat’s hood up, tying the buttons around his horns.

“The girls are doing great, as always. Moira has started one of these podcasts things. I still don’t get the difference between doing a podcast and being a radio host, to be honest. She tried to explain it to me, but… Well, that’s just not my generation, I guess. Her theme is true crime and unsolved mysteries. She’s always had a fascination for it, ever since she watched that movie, err… Which one was it again? The one about that old serial killer no one ever caught. Um… Oh, right! It was Zodiac. Anyway, she released a few episodes of her podcast. I listened to them. She’s a pretty great narrator. Plus, she’s got the right voice for it. All spooky and shit.

“Debra is… still Debra. Cold and grumpy on the outside, but warm and sweet on the inside. She still doesn’t have many friends, and she still doesn’t go out often; she says she’s focusing on her studies. It’s true she’s got her masters coming around soon. But, I mean, sometimes I feel like she’s got nothing outside of her studies. She reads, she goes online, that’s it. Liz says I shouldn’t worry, that it’s just how she is, an… what’s the word? Oh, yeah: an introvert. She’s an introvert.

“Well, Niasa sure isn’t one, though. She’s the very definition of extraverted. She’s…” Seth chuckled. “She’s so much like you: energetic, outgoing, carefree, reckless… Hell, she just loves being alive.”

He paused to wipe the underneath of his noise.

“She’s nothing like her namesake, though. I get that Liz wanted to commemorate her sister by naming one of our children after her -not the exact same name, because that’s bad luck, the Trinitarists say-, but I’m really glad she turned out completely different. She likes roughhousing with her sisters, and she got into a couple of fights in the past -okay, more than a couple-, but beyond that she’s a good kid.

“Since we’re on her subject, Niasa moved to San Francisco last month. Man, you should see the average rent in the Bay Area, it’s downright criminal! Niasa doesn’t mind, though, she’s making a lot of money at her new job. She’s a back-end developer, which, err… Agh, she explained to me what it means many times, and I still don’t really get it. Something to do with computers and the Internet… Never been my thing. Liz is a little better at it. Niasa calls us almost every day, and we have video-conferences on weekends.

“Oh, hey, I forgot to tell you: she moved in with her boyfriend! That’s right: our Niasa got her paws on a boy. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that for a while, especially since it happened so fast. Apparently, they met a few months ago in the Hamptons, and… Well, you know Niasa, always passionate. She was immediately smitten, and I guess the boy reciprocated. Hard to resist the allure of a Hellhound, am I right?

“I still haven’t met that boy, but Niasa can’t stop talking about him. His name is Duncan, he’s from England, he’s a little younger than her, he plays the guitar, and he has an office job he doesn’t like. Oh, also, he’s got a mysterious past.”

Seth waved his hands like a bad guy in an old horror movie.

“That’s what Niasa says. No idea what that’s about, but it gets her all excited. Seriously, that girl is just like you in so many ways. Even her smile looks like yours. I…”

His lips pursed, and he swallowed.

“I wish you could have met them, Jack,” he said, his throat so tight he suddenly had difficulty breathing. “I wish you could have seen them being born. I wish you could have seen them grow up.”

He wiped his nose again.

“I told Liz that a few times. She says that you were there. You were with them when they took their first step, learned how to read, graduated high school… She sees a lot of you in them, even more than I do. Heh. She says Moira has your nose, Debra has your mouth, and Niasa has your… brave-bordering-on-crazy thing.

“I wish they could have met you, too. It’s just not fair. You’re the reason they’re here at all, and they’ll never actually meet you. At least that guy Stanton didn’t get away with it. We still haven’t found out who killed him, who was that silent partner pulling the strings behind the scenes. I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. Could be they’re dead too by now.”

The rain was getting worse. Seth grumbled when he realized the shoes he was wearing didn’t offer much protection against water; his socks were getting soggy. He powered through.

“I miss you, Jack. So does Liz. Every day. I thought it would get better in time, and it kinda did, but… I still feel it. When I watch something funny on TV, I think about how you would have laughed at that. When I go shopping for groceries, I think about the stuff you used to buy. Hell, when I work on the Dodge, I actually picture you by my side, grinding the rust off the body or testing the battery.” He chuckled. “Do you remember that time you actually bent a tire iron, trying to remove a lug nut? I mean, in your defense, that was a pretty shitty tire iron, but still.

“You know, in a weird way, I think… I think I don’t want to stop feeling that. Sure, it hurts a little every time I think of you, but it means that, in a way, you’re actually still here, you know? You’re still with me. Maybe it’s stupid, but you were a big part of my life, and I don’t want to let go of that. It… It just wouldn’t be right.”

He sighed, and stood up. His butt was getting numb, and one of his legs had fallen asleep. If that wasn’t enough, his pants were getting soggy too.

“All right, I should go before I end up drenched. I’ll come back next week, probably Saturday afternoon. Hey, actually, Moira’s coming to visit; I could bring her with me.”

He placed his hand on top of the tombstone, indifferent to the fact that it was cold and wet.

“See you, Jack. I love you, man.”

Before long, he was back at the house. He helped Liz make dinner by cutting and washing the vegetables. The two of them ate their meal in front of the television, watching some old western while talking about various things: the weather, some work that needed to be done in the yard, and their next vacation -Liz wanted to see the Death Valley, Seth suggested the Grand Canyon. Later that night, when Seth went to sleep, his last thought was that it had been a good day.

 

***

The man browsed his bookshelves covering the western wall until he found the book he was looking for: Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. He didn’t go much for the classics these days, preferring to stay off the beaten path in search of an overlooked gem, but he made an exception for his guest. As he flipped through the pages with his gloved fingers, he wondered: would said guest find it a little on the nose? Ah, well, even if he did, it was still a good read. Then, with his free hand, he went for another book, located on the bottom shelf, on the far left: Wuthering Heights. He had never liked that novel, or gothic fiction in general, but that one was not for reading. The man pulled on the book, until a clicking sound was heard; the leftmost bookshelf moved slightly, suddenly unstuck. He dragged the bookshelf, which opened like a door, revealing an elevator. He entered the cabin, closing the bookshelf behind him.

One press of a button and about thirty seconds later, he arrived at his destination. He flipped a switch, turning on the lights, then followed a hallway. The place always smelled a little stale, he thought, in spite of his many efforts to change that. He had had air ducts with state of the art ventilation installed, but still the staleness lingered. On occasion, he would burn some incense, which helped obfuscate it at least. Overall, a faint bad smell was a small price to be paid for this secret sanctuary beneath the ground. That, and the lack of natural light, but come to think of it, that last one was more of a benefit than an inconvenience.

Entering the main room, he immediately turned left and walked to the record player, which he opened and turned on. He grabbed the first record he found without really looking, and put it on the player before placing the pickup. Ah, the Ipana Troubadors, he thought with a nostalgic sigh. It has been a while. He turned away from the record player, facing the large, round object at the center of the room.

Said object looked a little like a concrete well, but large enough that a Minotaur could lay down at the bottom and stretch without touching the walls. It was also only two feet deep, and of course its purpose had nothing to do with water. A large cylindric dome, made out of a very strong, very thick, shaded glass, was placed on top; it included a small tray on the side. To its left was a very tall metal brick, similar to an old computer’s central unit, but about seven feet tall. Several red cables connected it to the base of the well. It was indeed a computer, a bespoken one, created for one specific purpose. Because of its size, its complexity, and its black color, the engineer who had designed it had dubbed it the Beast. The man had liked the nickname, and had kept it.

Right in front of the well was an oakwood desk. A beige rotary phone and a ceramic ashtray laid on top of it, along with a fountain pen box and several sheets of paper. At the center was a strange machine, built out of copper, plastic, and iron, cubic in shape. Its function would have been hard to guess to the man on the street: it vaguely looked like a cross between an old computer and a very small oven. It had a keyboard like the former, and an enclosed space with a glass door like the latter. There was a dial and two knobs on the left side. A thin, white electric cable came out of the back, ending in a plug that was connected to a socket on the floor. Another cable, blue and thick, connected it to the well, going through its concrete base. A third, finally, linked the machine to the Beast.

The man sat in the armchair in front of the desk, pushing his back into the dark red leather. He laid the book down next to the phone, then opened the desk’s top drawer. He tutted when he noticed his cigar box was empty, and closed the drawer. Nevermind, then. He opened the bottom drawer, and retrieved a cubic box, made out of metal. The box had a lock on top, too large and too shallow for any key, but precisely the right size for the signet ring the man wore on his left hand’s ring finger. He pushed the ring into the lock, and a faint jangle was heard. The box opened, unveiling an orb, about the size of a closed fist. It was made of some transparent material, akin to glass or crystal. Contained in it was some sort of uniformly black gas or mist; a keen eye would have noticed it moving slowly.

He picked up the orb, and, with great care, placed it inside the strange machine on the desk, on the round, copper receptacle made for it. He turned one of the knobs, and the machine turned on in a flurry of clicks and whirrs. It was getting noisier with every use, the man thought. That was to be expected, really, after nearly two decades of use. It definitely was time to replace it with the more modern version recently created by R&D; this one was only ever supposed to be a prototype, after all, and it had more than served its purpose. Yes, the modernized version would be very welcomed. It would be much smaller and quieter, for one thing. For another, it would considerably accelerate the process.

Speaking of the process, the man began typing on the keyboard, entering a long series of letters and numbers. He knew the key sequence like the back of his hand by now, and no longer made any mistakes. A good thing, too, as any error meant the entire sequence had to be typed again from the beginning. After he entered the last key, he turned the second knob. A droning sound hummed in the air, coming from the Beast’s several fans, and small sparks appeared around the orb.

A mass of black smoke formed above the well, inside the glass dome. At first, it was shapeless, and the size of a basketball, but it then grew bigger, and began taking form. After several minutes, a head appeared, roughly defined, like an artist’s first sketch. Features began forming: a mouth, a nose, and two eyes. Four horns grew out of the top. Below, a torso appeared. Four limbs formed from it, starting as stumps, but growing to full form within a  couple of minutes. In total, it took about twelve minutes until the man’s guest appeared completely, down to the tips of the fingers -or rather: the tips of the claws. It floated almost two feet from the ground, as if suspended by invisible strings. The guest remained immobile for a few seconds, then stirred to life, letting a long grunt as if he had been pulled out of a long, deep sleep -which might have been the case, actually.

“Good evening,” the man said, taking off his Panama hat and dropping it on the desk.

“Is it? Morning or evening, it makes little difference down here.”

The man smiled. His voice -or was it: their voice?- was quite different to what it was during his previous… life. Lower, more guttural. Yet the tone was the same.

“To what do I owe the… mixed blessing of this meeting?” the creature said, floating closer to the glass. “Am I to be subjected to more experiments? I recall the last ones not ending the way you hoped… at all.”

“No, no experiments today,” the man said. “I just thought you might want some entertainment.”

He showed the book, then stood up to pass it through the tray. The creature brushed its cover, remaining inexpressive as he read the title.

“How very kind,” he said. “That will make my imprisonment far more enjoyable.”

The sarcasm was also the same, the man noted with amusement as he sat back.

“Ah, come on, you are not a prisoner here.”

“Do you truly believe that I’m here voluntarily?” the creature retorted. “ Or that I enjoy this… solitary confinement?”

“As I explained to you, this” the man gestured to the dome “is for your benefit. This controlled environment is necessary to your existence. This world is inimical to your… unique metabolism.”

The creature picked up the book, and opened it.

“Conveniently for you, this also means you can keep me out of sight,” he said.

“That is also for your benefit. Could you imagine how some people would react if they were to find out about you?”

“Would they destroy me? I wouldn’t mind that.”

His acerbic tone gave the man pause. On the desk, the machine let out a small bell sound, indicating that the five minutes mark had been reached. This meant they had fifteen minutes left to finish their conversation. A little less, actually: the man always preferred to shut down the Beast early, to avoid the risk of overheating. He had been careless enough to let it overheat once. He still remembered what had happened; no doubt his guest remembered it even more clearly.

“I understand that this was done to you against your will, and I apologize again for that, and for the deceit. But it was necessary. Do you still not see the implications of my work, or the possibilities it offers? Do you not understand that you represent the first step towards an unprecedented achievement? What we are doing here may well save millions of lives.”

The creature slowly floated back, a dark chuckle erupting from his throat.

“I certainly understand the benefits for you,” he said.

“Whatever benefits humanity, benefits me,” the man replied.

“Oh, I’ve heard that kind of speech before, but never in the mouth of someone with actually honest intentions.”

“Come now, you yourself have been to another world; you have met with the Angels and their Inquisition. You know how dangerous other worlds could be to Earth. Do you really believe I am lying about this?”

“No.” The creature turned a page. “Not about this. But I can tell there is more. Another motive. Something more personal.”

“Is this about what I told you the other day?”

“No, I believe that part too. I don’t understand the exact nature of your relationship, but I think you really care about her.”

“What is it, then?”

“I don’t actually know,” the creature confessed. “But I can tell there is something more, another reason you’re so invested in opening portals to other dimensions.”

“I see,” the man said politely. Changing the subject, he added: “By the way, you might be interested to know that R&D has finished their project. The installation of your new accommodations should begin by next month. It will be far more spacious, and allow you to remain corporeal for a while longer.”

“How very kind,” the creature said. “Will I remain confined to your underground lair, or would I be so privileged as to have a window, this time?”

The man smiled. “You will be moved to another place, above ground, where you will indeed have windows. They will have to be obfuscated during the daytime, for obvious reasons.”

“Your generosity knows no bounds.”

The creature focused on his book. He was a fast reader, practically inhaling page after page. The man contemplated him in silence for a while, until the bell rang again, with a specific chime indicating that there was only five minutes left. It dragged the creature out of his reading; they closed his book, and put it back in the tray.

“Our appointment is almost over,” he said.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” The man put his Panama hat back on, and stood up. “Anyway, I have some business in town. I will be back soon. Goodbye, my friend.”

“Goodbye, Mr Varley.” A glint danced in the creature’s eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, I understand you go by Valentine these days.”

The man smiled again. As he moved to shut the machine and the Beast off, his guest casually dropped:

“And say hello to Carey for me.”

The man’s smile faded a little. “Carey? I’m afraid I don’t know that name.”

“No? I read it on the pile of papers you put on your desk, the other day.”

“Did you?” the man replied, affecting nonchalance.

“I could only see the first page, but that pile of papers looked like a file. A big one, too. You kept glancing at it while we were talking about your work with NUTEC. You seemed… antsy. Like a lottery player looking at his ticket, hoping it’ll be a winner.”

The creature stared at him, evidently studying his reaction. The man stared back, his smile now completely gone, his expression blank. Hmph. His mind is the same as well, he said to himself. Still as sharp as his tongue. He would have to be more careful around him in the future. Thankfully, there was no chance his guest would reveal any of his secrets to anyone.

The bell rang again; only two minutes left.

“I will see you again soon,” the man said.

“I look forward to it,” his guest replied. The man couldn’t decide whether that was sarcasm.

The man hurriedly turned the dial, and within a minute, the creature turned back to smoke, which quickly dissipated. The man kept looking into the dome, long after his guest was gone. Then, with rigid moves, he recovered the book, put the orb back in its locket, stopped the music, killed the lights, and left.

Things were going well, the man thought as the elevator brought him back to his library. NUTEC was progressing in strides, and he was confident Abercromby and his partner would do their part properly. All this meant the first phase of his plan would soon be complete. After that, it would be time for the second phase.

There was much work to be done. He was still years away from his goal, and his enemies were restless. Removing one of his gloves, the man looked down at his hand. It might just have been his imagination, but the white stains were now looking more sinuous, and his fingers scrawnier. Ten, fifteen years… Yes, I can hold that long, he promised himself. I can. I must.

And Now, A Word From The Author

Wow, I actually finished it -and so did you!

At over 485.000 words, The Pulver Chronicles is my biggest work, a full-on novel. It’s actually longer than everything else I published on this website put together. Also, did you know that documents on Google Docs have a maximum size? I didn’t, until I reached chapter 31 of this story -barely the two thirds of the entire thing. The Pulver Chronicles took me three years, working nearly every day including holidays, with several breaks to avoid burnouts or running out of ideas. But it’s done. I’m a little amazed I managed to go through with this, especially given how many times I’ve considered just dropping the bloody thing, either out of discouragement or plain laziness. Thankfully, I kept on going, and I’m rather proud I did, especially given the positive reactions I’ve had.

Still, I think my next long story won’t be quite as long. Quality over quantity, and all that. I will also add some short stories here and there, like the two chapters of Niasa & Duncan I’ve published during my breaks.

The story of Jackson, Sathariel, and Alizana is over -truly over. So is the story of Duncan and Niasa, barring like I said a few snippets here and there. I’ve even told the story of their descendants. But that doesn’t mean I’m done with the Pulverse. (Yeah, I gave my universe a nickname. I’m an auteur, I’m allowed this kind of eccentricity.) As you can probably tell, there are still a few questions to answer, and some loose ends to tie up. There is a third act planned (the first being The Pulver Chronicles and the second Duncan & Niasa) to conclude the whole thing. I’ve already started working on it. Well, I’ve jotted down a few notes here and there, but that counts as working. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be done any time soon. It’s probably going to be a major project, and on top of that I’m currently working on something else, something completely unrelated to the Pulverse. We’ll see.

Don’t worry, I don’t intend to pull a George R. R. Martin on you. Or worse, a David Gerrold.

Anyway, it’s customary in afterwords to thank people for their contribution, so here goes. I wish to personally thank every person who has ever read my writings, whether it’s The Pulver Chronicles or anything else. You lot are the reason I do this. I mean, what’s the point of writing something that no one will read? So, really, thank you for reading my works, it means a lot to me. Thank you to my friends as well, for their support and their -sometimes brutal, but often on point- criticism. My works would not be the same without you lads.

I would also like to thank myself, for writing my stuff. They would not exist if not for me. So well done, me, you’re a chap. As they say: thank you and get back to work.

Thank you again for reading, and until next time.

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