The Dragon & The Wolf

The Dragon and The Wolf

CONCLUDED - novella by Douglas Christian Larsen

Dirklan Dubois sat upright abruptly. He felt a wave of heat ripple across his skin. All over his body the sweat evaporated. There had been much talk about The Dragon's ability to generate direct heat, talk in school and talk amongst the experts, and those that had wrangled with the seven-year-old genius swore to the awesome pyrokinetic power. Most experts agreed that the force was more a manifestation within the receiver's mind than any molecular disturbance measurable in the physical world.

Dirklan did not really care whether or not what he was experiencing was happening within his mind or outside his mind.

All he knew was that it was truly cool.

He stared across at Clarence.

And he burped.

A smoke ring wafted from his mouth.

Clarence Roiclaw lifted his fists. An arrow of bright orange flame erupted from his knuckles and leapt across the space to consume Dirklan Dubois.

Before the gout of fire reached the boy it became a hand with two taut yellow fingers extended to gouge his eyes. Dirklan casually lifted his hand and held it knife-edge out before his nose. The flying eye-poke shattered and fell about Dirklan in thousands of glistening turquoise blooms of confetti.

"Nyuk-nyuuuk-nyuk!" Dirklan Dubois chuckled, giggling. He loved the ancient Three Stooges and thanked them now for this potent martial training.

Clarence Roiclaw stood before his chair. He pointed his finger at Dirklan Dubois.

"You don't know," uttered The Dragon in a steel, small voice. Metallic vibrations warbled the pedestal.

Dirklan Dubois plunged into blackness. All about him the light winked dark. Tears sprang to his eyes. I am alone. It is true. I am the only one. Yes. Alone. He felt these things. He knew what it was like to be less than an orphan. His body seemed to curl upon itself. He shrunk in the darkness. Shriveled in the emptiness. Floating in scentless, tasteless, lightless, lukewarm water.

He experienced the flat lovelessness of Mama Pool and Papa Bank.

Dirklan shook his head. This is not me, he thought. He reached against the blackness. He put out his hand, reaching, extending his fingers one foot through the primordial void, he stretched his arm two feet through the vacuum of loneliness, three feet, four feet, then five and six and his arm kept going, his hand rippling and wavering like a vapor snake, seven feet, eight feet, the air growing warmer in the darkness, nine feet, and this is not me, reaching, not alone, ten feet, and he touches Clarence upon the chest and then deeper.

Clarence inhaled. Mama's kiss blossomed upon his cheek. He felt warm arms about his chest. Papa carried him close. There-there, sweet baby boy, there-there, my little pumpkin. He lay between Mama and Papa. He inhaled the heat of their bodies. Papa's hand warmly rubbed his delicate baby chest. He felt the bristling tickle of Papa's big moustache. Mama spanked him, and then held him and rocked him and kissed him and explained her love as best she could. And then only emptiness where once was Papa. Flickering faces. Ugly men. Mean looks. Hard eyes. Black-and-white postcard roughs, Post Office snapshots, stop-action blurs of hands descending, bruises, and yes, void, darkness, emptiness. Then Da. An encouraging arm about his shoulder.

That is me.

Clarence shrugged off the too-warm embrace. There was something odd in his chest, a hurting thing, and the local-talent grinning monkey boy across the way had done this hurtful thing to the insides of his chest. He raised his hands and with them raised the fire, lifted the volcano.

Dirklan Dubois thought of the beach. Gus Ahtibat took him to the beach one time. The water came rushing onto the sand, thinner, thinner, until it was only a white poppling foam. You could smell salt, a dry and yet happy smell, and if you snorted in the air, mooshed your lungs full of the smell, you knew that you couldn't be sad, that something healthy was inside of you just not letting you be sad. Dirklan stood on the firm wet dark sand and held out his hand.

Clarence took the proffered hand.

They stood holding hands and the foam poppled upon their naked toes.

"Cool," Dirklan Dubois said, looking from his toes to the boy standing beside him, holding his hand. The boy was thin and four or five inches shorter than himself. The pale boy had light brown hair and very dark eyes, round cheeks flushed a simple red glow. The boy looked up from the foam poppling upon his toes and met the eyes of the taller boy holding his hand.

"Cool," Clarence Roiclaw said. Then he did a very strange thing.

He smiled.

"Wanna be friends, maybe?" Dirklan Dubois said.

Clarence Roiclaw considered. His eyebrows lowered. His lips pursed.

He was sitting again in the padded leather chair looking across the far distance to the other, older boy.

"This," Clarence "The Dragon" Roiclaw said, softly, "is me."

Part 5: Conflagration

THE PEDESTAL BECAME A DISK OF TOO-BRIGHT FIRE. A pillar of fire, three and a half feet high and perhaps two and a half feet around, rose from the center of the pedestal. The pillar was orange-yellow with a blue center. It opened eyes looking at Dirklan Dubois. It had a mouth that said:

"This is me."

* * *

The gaunt man standing close to the pedestal blinked his eyes. A trickle of blood ran from his nose into his moustache. He nearly fainted, not due to the rampant virus coursing through his body, but because of the virulent power emanating from the pedestal. Power, palpable and consuming, washed out of the pedestal like a burst dam.

People screamed and crowded those behind them. The heat. The heat. Suddenly they were not observing fascinating images, fireworks and comical shapes, suddenly they were not smelling salty oceans and feeling poppling foam, suddenly they were burned and their lungs were seared by the steady waves of increasing heat.

Gus Ahtibat wailed. Turn it, Dirklan! Turn it boy! Nobody can diffuse anger like you! He lifted his arms against the heat but it was no good. Too hot! Turn it turn it please don't let this happen boy turn it God help please because help nobody like you is nobody like you son . . . nobody can cope with hatred like you! Your precious heart! You're good, so good! Oh your precious heart! God! Don't let him kill you son! Don't kill him God!

Good-boy Dirklan should never have been pitted against this darkly boy-god. He staggered backward from the heat. It was almost impossible to breathe.

Soon only one haggard and gaunt man stood close to the maelstrom of angry heat. Both sides of his nose streamed dark blood. He stood as if mesmerized, as if impermeable to uncommon holocaust.

An HD-TV orb soaring close to the pedestal shattered and plunked to the ground. A droning klaxon rose low and wailing. The crowd trampled itself.

A security guard with a coat pulled over his head bravely dashed for the lone man near the pedestal. He seized the man by the shoulders and yanked him back.

Farkus Dubois pivoted and swung his fist. His forearm cracked the guard in the chest. The large man lifted from the ground and dropped unconscious. Farkus cooking both from inside and out stood blinking. He looked from the pedestal to the fallen guard. Then he stooped and gathered the unconscious man below the arms and scuttled him backward, dragging him fifty feet away from the pedestal before he started running —

— running as if there was not much ticking remaining to his singular life —

— running straight toward the heart of the evil sun.

* * *

Dirklan screamed. He stood from his chair and started to run. He turned and ran the other way. He was burning. He was catching fire. It was too hot.

Then he turned and said: "Cool."

He stood in his little play pool, the one Jim — or was it Steve — had bought him when he was about four years old. Little pink fishes were painted on the inside. Dirklan always loved the little pool. No matter how hot it got he could be cool. It was cool now. He was cool now. He looked down at his arms, at all the singed hairs, and he had burns everywhere, but he was cool now.

Dirklan Dubois pulled the pool up about himself. The plastic stretched and shimmered into a turquoise bubble which he pulled up over his head. He sent a tentative baby bubble toward where the boy Clarence must be. The bubble exploded into hissing gas.

"This is me," said yet another pillar of too-bright fire. There must be five or six of the pillars scattered about the pedestal, each bearing the stamp of Clarence's face. "This is me." "This is me." "This is me." More of the pillars rose. "This is me this is me this is me," they spoke, calmly. Each of them was the boy Clarence. "This is me." The earlier pillars were grown taller, some of them as tall as six feet now. "This is me," said another pillar of fire, standing very close to Dirklan's airy bubble.

The Dragon smiled from himself. It felt good to smile, especially with all his mouths. He was thankful to Dirklan Dubois, local-boy talent, for teaching him the magic of smiling. And now he was able to project himself, as had Dirklan. And there was no need to vomit. It helped, seeing someone else do the trick first. And now his full power was upon him.

The power of fire. The power of projection. The power of creativity.

The Dragon knew if he were to take the silly CQ test right now he would probably go right off the scale. Projecting his number he would have to say, oh five hundred, maybe six hundred. Double his earlier attempts.

He looked from his eyes at himself standing looking at himself and smiled to himself who was smiling back at him, and this was the beginning, this wasn't even his left arm anymore, this was maybe his little finger, or the little toe on his right foot, he hadn't even begun to flex his muscles and in no way was this the beginning and how far could he go before there was an end?

I suppose I am a god, The Dragon thought from the close distance of his many selves.

Clarences The Dragons turned their eyes upon Dirklan Dubois.

"We are your friends," said Clarences The Dragons in one impressively booming voice.

Dirklan nodded his head without hesitation.

"You are our only friend," said Clarences The Dragons, several more pillars appeared, all smiling at the boy Dirklan. The tallest of the pillars were now ten feet high and rising.

Dirklan thought of one of those eco-bubbles, the kind they put over the dirtier cities, like the many agricultural bubbles spread on the moon. One now formed about the pedestal, a perfect airy-blue globe which went perhaps forty feet into the air and another forty feet into the ground.

"You wish to contain us," said Clarences the Dragons in perfect unison.

"Uh-uh," replied Dirklan. His personal bubble shrank about him, came close, fitted down, and he absorbed it into his skin. He stood in the waist-high flames and smiled at all the pillars. "I just don't want any of them out there to get hurt."

The pillars chuckled with the crackle of pine cones popping.

"They are little, Dirklan our friend. They are not alone like us."

The pillars moved toward the walls of the shimmering blue eco-sphere.

"We can get out." "We can escape," the fiery pillars mumbled. "We can get out." "You can't hold us."

The walls of the sphere bulged ominously.

Dirklan reached into his pocket. He produced his little salamander. Of course it wasn't really his salamander — that lizard he had freed before coming here. Then again, wasn't this little lizard — this little dragon — wasn't it real? He held it in his palm and stroked its green scaly back. Even though he created it, it did breathe of its own will, it did have life. He showed it to the Clarences.

"We hate bugs." "Ooh. We hate bugs." "We hate bugs."

"He's like a little dragon," Dirklan said, smiling, petting the creature's back.

The pillars leaned in for a closer look.

"We're a lot bigger than this little dragon," said Dirklan.

"Pretty." "Nice little dragon." "We like dragons," the Clarences agreed.

"We have to be careful with little things," Dirklan said, smiling about at the pillars. "We have to take care of little things."

"Little things." "Pretty things." "Little dragons." "Take care of them."

Then something unusual happened. One of the pillars close to Dirklan spoke up: "I . . . disagree. Strongly."

Dirklan swallowed hard and looked at the pillar. It was one of the middle-sized pillars of fire, perhaps six or seven feet tall. It flared a deep green blaze, in contrast to all the other Clarences.

"Dirklan is right," spoke a pillar across the pedestal. "The strong must care for the weak."

The green-fire pillar chuckled. "You only say that because you are weak."

There was silence, save for the frightening music of the massed crackling flames.

Then the green-fire pillar bent low and consumed a four-foot-high orange pillar. A green tendril shot from the top of the pillar and snatched up the orange pillar that disagreed. Three more four-footers disappeared into the green-fire pillar.

Suddenly another pillar of fire, this one fifteen feet or more, blazed deep red, mulled to burgundy, and sharpened to a bloody crimson. "You stop it Clarence. I am the strongest Clarence. I say that Clarences may not consume Clarences. The others, the weak ones, the little people who are not gods, they are fair game. Except for Dirklan, who is friend to Clarences."

Green Clarence roared laughter and shot as high as the eco-sphere allowed, broadening also, consuming several small- to medium-sized Clarences in the process of expanding. Burgundy Clarence also flared huge, also sucking in many of the other Clarences.

Dirklan swallowed hard. He was very afraid. There was not much that he could think to do. Clarences Roiclaws The Dragons were out of control and warring amidst each other. He stood very still, stroking his little salamander.

Another Clarence, one of the tallest, flared a shimmering rainbow of blazing colors that were painful to look at, and looped down between Burgundy Clarence and Green Clarence. "I am the oldest Clarence, and, as you can see, the most beautiful Clarence. Stop fighting, Clarences. Stop killing Clarences. We must talk, all of us — all of us Clarences must confer amongst ourselves."

"Maybe," replied Green Clarence, looping down to place his fiery eyes close to Rainbow Clarence's eyes. "But Dirklan must go. He is not one of us. He is not a Clarence."

"Dirklan is a bug," said Burgundy Clarence, looping in to join heads with Rainbow and Green.

"We hate bugs," said a flaring Ice-Blue Clarence, a much thicker pillar of fire, in fact, this Clarence appeared more a constant electrical arc than a pillar of flame.

"We hate bugs." "Bugs, yuk." "Yes, it's true, we hate bugs!" "Dirklan is our friend." "Yes, Dirklan is a friend of Clarences." "Dirklan is a bug!"

The pillars were adapting new colors, flaring to different heights and breadths, some looking like pools of lava, others like fountains of acid, flames and sparklers and torches of intense fire.

Dirklan knew he could not leave, even if the Clarences were to allow him to depart. He was the only person, probably in the world, who might be able to handle the very real monster Clarence had become — actually, the monsters that the Clarences had become and were even now becoming, becoming and altering and evolving.

One Clarence "The Dragon" Roiclaw — seven-year-old boy-creature prodigy — was more than a handful in controlling, soothing; forty, fifty or sixty fiery Clarences, some of them forty feet tall, all of them composed of powerful, ethereal thought matter, all of them demanding individuality, morality, and especially superiority — well, Dirklan Dubois had not even the faintest beginnings of a strategy.

It was impossible. Nobody could do the impossible.

Dirklan flicked his eyes to the left, to the wall of the eco-sphere where some disturbance pulsed and glowed. Uh-oh. If the Clarences had decided on escape into the general world...

A shimmering blue circle, seemingly composed of the same matter as the eco-sphere, purred and hummed with the noise of a lasersaw. The circle, swirling, honing, was perhaps six feet tall, a perfect circle aswirl with atmosphere, earth, and conflagration.

An image appeared within the circle — the profile of a man — at first Dirklan thought it must be a giant penny forming within the matter of his eco-sphere. But there was no Lincoln beard on the man's face. Rather, a large moustache which hid the man's mouth. It was not a penny, but it did seem to be a glowing six-foot-high coin. Words appeared at the top of the coin, above the man's profile, or rather one word: Liberty. Then another word appeared at the bottom of the coin, below the bust: Creativity.

Dirklan almost recognized the face. A man with a ton of dark back-swept hair, with shocks of silver at the temples, silver shocks that trailed tendrils waving back over the man's ears. Below the hair was a large, prominent forehead free of wrinkles, below that a strong, sloping nose, high cheekbones, glaringly powerful dagger-eyes, a protruding and sensually full lower lip above a rugged jaw and a boxer's chin.

"We know this man." "I know this man." "He is familiar, although I cannot place him . . . yet." "I do not know him." "We know him, yes we know him well."

The Clarences murmured and nodded.

Dirklan Dubois cocked his head. Yes, very familiar, like the actor in some movie he had watched when he was a child but could no longer quite remember.

The profile was no longer the embossed metal of a coin. It was a real face, the head three feet high, the bust another two-and-a-half feet. Slowly the head turned, the face revolving into full front view. The man's face was rugged and intelligent, angry and humorous. The dark eyes looked contemptuously about at the flames, the pillars, the rainbows and bolts and teardrops of fire. The brows above the eyes were exaggeratedly flexed.

The dark man's gaze found Dirklan. The huge face softened. What could have been a smile formed, quirking the luxurious moustache.

"Boys. Oh boys, boys," the dark face spoke in a voice of deep thunder. "Boys. What mischief have you gotten into?"

Dirklan was confused. He had not created this image. And seemingly the Clarences were as mystified as himself.

The true face froze. Turned to ice. The coin fell away from the eco-sphere, leaving the wall intact. The coin fell upon the fiery surface of the pedestal and it rang like a silver bell. It spun and revolved, then rose above the surface to hang suspended five feet in the crackling air.

And then something rose from the surface of the coin. A dog. The dog looked left and right, its tongue lolling in the heat. The animal put back its head and ripped the air with a startling howl.

It was no dog.

The wolf leapt from the coin and landed in the fire.

Dirklan Dubois started. He formed a blue eco-skin to send after the beast, fearing for its life, but the animal seemed untouched by the flames. It loped amidst the pillars of fire, collecting the flames, absorbing the heat, dashing faster and faster, until it was a wolf composed of flame and smoke. The wolf flashed near Dirklan and he extended his hand and barely brushed its flank with his fingers.

The wolf returned to the coin and leapt to its surface. Again it reared back and howled and the flames fell sprinkling away from its pelt like rain, a myriad winking red rubies.

The wolf sat back, panting.

"Another bug." "We hate bugs. Yuk." "This is not a bug, but we do not know him." "Yes. We know him." "A childish display. Obviously old-time Thinker." "Smash it. Burn it." "No. I almost know him. Look into his eyes. Don't we know him?"

"You don't know me, Clarence Roiclaw. But I know you," said the wolf, teeth flashing in a toothy grin.

"Who are you?" Dirklan said, his throat feeling plugged. He blinked. He knew who this was. He remembered pictures. A snippet in the HD Encyclopedia. But the appearance here seemed impossible — possibly Dirklan had created this image, had created this visitation because of his terrible fear.

The wolf turned upon the coin to regard the blue-skinned boy.

"Don't you know me?"

Then the wolf flowed up. It melted and twisted, rising tall upon the coin, its pelt sweeping inward until a pink, naked-from-the-waist-up man stood tall upon the coin.

"Dirklan Harrison Dubois," said the man, "I am your father. Do you remember me? Farkus Harrison Dubois. Do you remember me? Papa."

Dirklan Dubois felt as if he might burst into tears. You're supposed to be in prison. You left me. He opened his mouth to speak, but could not form words. Mama said you were a bad man — are a bad man. Do I remember you, even though I was just a little kid when you left me? Do I remember you?

He nodded his head, once. Then nodded again.

Yes, I remember you, Papa.

Farkus Dubois nodded to the boy.

The tall naked man did not look quite as fit as the coin apparition. This man looked nearly worn away, lean, emaciated, faded. There was a growth of beard upon his slack cheeks, about a week or two, and his hair was nearly all gray. And there was a high color upon his face, upon his body, as if he were consumed with fever.

There was movement within the sphere. Rainbow Clarence approached the naked man, looping down, coiling, its fire eyes moving close to the man.

"You are making me angry," Rainbow Clarence said.

"I'm going to make you a little more than angry, little boy," Farkus Dubois said, squarely facing the rainbow display. He flexed his big bony hands into fists.

"You said you know me," Rainbow Clarence said. "Do you know me?"

The other fire creatures were moving in upon the man.

"Leave him alone," said Dirklan Dubois, holding the little green salamander in both hands.

"I know you, Dragon," said Farkus Dubois, his bristled eyebrows drawn together, his jaw set.

"Know this," said Rainbow Clarence, looping in about Farkus, coiling around him like an anaconda about a rabbit.

Farkus Dubois swayed. His eyes blanked.

He sees himself lying upon a metal table. He is larger and younger, his hair only partially gray, and he is naked. Three figures in complete surgical garb bend over him. The scene is familiar, somehow, and yet completely alien. The figures are moving about him — one is holding his erect manhood, milking him into a beaker.

"Oh, but God," Farkus Dubois breathed, his eyesight returned to him, standing within the coils of Rainbow Clarence.

"Now you know me," Rainbow Dubois said, oddly quiet. "Now you know me. Papa."

It was a vivid image stolen from Buzzbee — but only now had it become evident to him, clear in his new powers, his new strength. Before it had been coded twitches of black and white, memories of an old man, a sicky, a dirty old man, a pervert — a monster. Now the image was three-dimensional and perfect, colorized, filled with virile smells and dynamic shadow.

Farkus Dubois looked at the rainbow creature circling him. His eyes filled with tears. He was undone. He had come here to slay a monster. He had come here to save his son. He was undone. The virus in him rose up nearly as powerful as the rainbow creature. He could not sacrifice one boy to save the other, even if one was a monster. He exhaled as if he took a punch to the gut, and dropped to one knee. The coin hitched, dropped a foot, then abruptly plummeted to the pedestal.

Farkus Dubois rolled into the fire, and began to burn.

"Leave him alone!" Dirklan Dubois cried, running toward his father, shooting out his best blue bubble to save the burning man, but before he could get to the fallen man Rainbow Clarence caught Farkus up in shimmering coils.

"I will not hurt Papa," said Rainbow Clarence. "But he is dying, brother."

That is what Buzzbee meant, silently cackling about irony. The irony of brothers meeting unknowing. Of course Buzzbee could not project the further and more dramatic irony of the father of the boys arriving.

"He is not my father," roared Green Clarence. "The bugs are not my family. My father was Papa Bank, my mother was Mama Pool. I hate bugs. I am alone. I hate family!"

A wing sprouted from Rainbow Clarence's back and slapped Green Clarence in the face.

"You," said Rainbow Clarence, "are not me. I am Clarence Roiclaw. No. I am Clarence Dubois."

"I hate bugs!" roared Green Clarence, spreading thicker, absorbing many of the fire pillars. "I hate you! I hate you, Clarence!"

Many of the pillars, the Purple Clarence, the Violet Bolt Clarence, and the lesser-merely-flame Clarences, rushed from the path of Green Clarence. They flowed like waves and entered Rainbow Clarence.

Green Clarence snatched Orange Clarence as it raced for Rainbow, then Burgundy Clarence, who fought briefly before consumption.

Ice-Blue Electric-Arc Clarence dove into Rainbow Clarence.

Only two great pillars of fire remained. Green Roared and bellowed from its titanic maw. Rainbow Clarence, holding Farkus Dubois in its shimmering coils, sucked in all the flames from the pedestal.

Dirklan Dubois peeked from behind Rainbow Clarence. He reached like he had never reached before. He brought up his hands above his head and pulled.

The blue eco-sphere shrank, shrank and intensified. It zipped down and passed through himself and Rainbow Clarence, collapsed like a shriveling skin, to fall upon Green Clarence. The sphere tightened like a hundred huge flickering blue hands to throttle the green monster.

Green Clarence reared back, roaring. It pushed at the sphere and blared fire. Green Clarence began to shrink.

Rainbow Clarence reached out a tendril, wrapped it about the green hater — and drew in. Rainbow Clarence threw several more tendrils about the struggling behemoth.

Green Clarence rocked against the forces, ripping its talons through the blue curtain, rending it aside, bit down its maw into the rainbow tendrils, and shook its great self free.

"Child's play," Green Clarence said, rising higher, greater, passing the limits which the eco-sphere had contained it. "You cannot stop a god!"

"Look!" Dirklan Dubois yelled, stepping around Rainbow Clarence. "A bug!"

Green Clarence ceased roaring.

"Where? Liar! I don't see a bug!"

Dirklan Dubois released his tiny shimmering green salamander. It crept forward, its bulbous eyes swiveling fluidly. The lizard dashed toward Green Clarence.

Green Clarence bellowed laughter.

The salamander flicked out its obsidian tongue.

"Ouch!" Green Clarence roared.

And then the green salamander reared up, suddenly the size of an iguana, flowing faster than Dirklan could control, as big and dangerous-looking as a Komodo dragon, now as long and bumpy as the most humungous crocodile, and now bigger, bigger, a green wingless dragon the size of a truck with a long black tongue uncoiling.

"Wait!" Green Clarence shrieked. "Wait! I am the dragon! Stop copying me! You stupid cheaters! You stupid cheater bugs! I hate you all, I hate bugs, I hate you, cheaters, I hate, I hate..."

The green dragon snapped out its tongue, and screaming, Green Clarence whipped down, funneling down, attempting to form cylindrical arms even as he vanished to grapple at the pedestal, but the dragon inhaled him, inexorably deeper.

"I hate —" and Green Clarence was gone.

The dragon rumbled. The pedestal shook. Suddenly the dragon's belly bulged, impossibly pregnant.

Dirklan Dubois gripped his hands tightly. His knuckles popped, straining bone white.

The green dragon burped, a loud sour belch. A perfect white smoke ring wafted above its nose. Slowly, the dragon melted, shrank, and the little green salamander swiveled its fluid eyes, crawling upon the charred pedestal.

Dirklan looked to the small boy standing next to him. Clarence smiled shyly.

"I really feel different, Dragon Catcher," Clarence said. "Dirklan? I feel very different — happy."

Dirklan dropped to his knees alongside the burned man. The man trembled, his breath wheezing, eyes squeezed shut. Dirklan put his hand upon the man's fevered brow and smoothed back his hair.

"I'm here, Papa. Me. It's me, Dirklan, your son. And Clarence, too."

The man softly laughed, and coughed.

"Funny. Ironic. Came here. Save. Son. Try and give. Disease. Kill. Save son."

Clarence knelt next to the man and took his hand. "You were successful — um, Papa. You saved your son. You saved both your sons."

"We have to help him," Dirklan said, even as he spoke feeling the poppling bubbles upon his toes, hearing a seashell he found on the beach, warm sand and cool breeze, smelling the healthy salten air.

"Over." Farkus Dubois drew into a fetal ball. "Happy."

"No!" Dirklan cried, tears leaking down his face. His memories of the beach broke up. He reached out, with his heart, and felt his father.

"Here," Clarence said, taking Dirklan's free hand. And he joined him, reaching with his heart. Together they entered, feeling, looking and knowing, and they tasted the tainted blood, blood riddled with holes, blood steaming and thinning. Brother, Clarence breathed, here, for Papa, my blood. Dirklan gulped and nodded, and here is my blood, for Papa. They smoothed the corrugated fluid and patched. Clarence found several holes and plugged them. Dirklan pressed himself into an inner wound and brought flesh in close, channeling and breathing, moving and straightening.

The fading man exhaled, eyelids fluttering.

"Papa!" Dirklan blubbered. "He's too weak. He's dying! Clarence!"

Clarence reached down to another series of black-and-white codes folded neatly within his brain.

He converted them.

He breathed luminous colors.

A beautiful pale woman with dark hair and perfect eyes lies quietly, sleeping, unmoving as if enchanted, lovely and enchanted, perhaps awaiting the enchanted kiss which will awaken her. Ah, yes, for the first time, Mama Pool, my Mama — look Papa! Another lone wolf, waiting, like us, Papa, waiting and alone — waiting for you, Papa! Waiting for us! You're not finished yet, there is still work to do! You have always been alone, Papa, as is she, and if you leave, Papa, she will always be alone.

The pale man shivers. It is too late.

Too late.

"Breathe," Dirklan whispers.

Too late.

"Breathe," Clarence whispers.

Just too late.

The pale man exhales and his body relaxes. His face smoothes, tension pouring away from his tired body. He finally lies at peace.

"Oh God, no, Papa, you can't leave! You don't know me yet!" Clarence wails, shedding the first real tears of his life. His small body shudders with anguish, as if he were no more than an uncontrollable toddler demanding affection.

"Wait! Wait Clarence! Look, look at him!" Dirklan shouts.

Farkus Dubois opens one eye. He turns his head, briefly. His pupil expands and contracts. His eyelid blinks moisture. His eye rolls around to focus on the boys.

"I better not be dead," he mutters.

The boys laugh, their voices pure and thankful.

Clarence drops and hugs the man. He buries his face in his father's hairy chest and remains very still, as if too shy to move. Dirklan snuggles in close, placing an arm about his brother's waist and the other about his father's neck.

"Us," someone breathes.