Original

The time of death of Somer Krest was as surprising to himself as anyone. Under cover of desert night, he had been the first one blasting through the castle’s steelplast door. He didn’t realize it was a cursed booby trap until that damn black dog got snooping in the middle of it. Krest’s only solace was the wired grenades justly discharged dog and man the same automatic execution. The assault team was inside the palace and Krest was wounded everywhere. The dog was dead. But for the moment, they weren’t under attack. Precious blood pooled around Krest on the white marble floor. For a minute, he thought he’d gone to heaven. Where were those damn kids? He thought he was going to die without giving final instructions. In this case, his death was a contingency he had foreseen.

“One man down! Zin hold your position!”

It was too late. She was already kneeling in blood by her dying father’s side, holding a bright chemical torch in the darkness.

“Zingara, I have to tell you something,” Krest wheezed.

“Dad, I already know.”

“You already know your way to the prison cellar?”

“No. Of course not. I know the prisoner is my twin.”

“Good. But that’s secondary. Kill the bitch Lamia and everything else will go smooth.”

“Father, you need medical attention.”

“The closest medic is dead,” whispered Yew to Zin.

“Here both of you. I’ve prepared for this moment. Take the chemplast packets in my right breast pocket.” Chemplast was virtually indestructible and expensive, in this case, obviously used for a last will and testament.

Yew reached in and pulled out a bloody wad of stuff. He shoved it in his war kit. The packets were perforated directly by a finger-sized stone projectile.

“Zin, good-bye, Royal Princess.”

“This sucks,” said Zingara not knowing what else to say because her emotions were so scrambled. Hearing that final hollow statement, Somer Krest, the wise old man, expired.

Zingara paused, numb, retrieving Krest’s memorabilia. This was the man who talked with the Phoenix, now he was a dead medicine man. Zingara felt anger at herself. She didn’t get to say farewell. It just wasn’t right. Nothing glamorous, just explosives on the door. Ding-dong. Boom! You’re dead.

Zingara almost cried for a moment. She was fighting back grief, smothering it with hate for the person who wired the door: The Dragoness Lamia. The she-monster took away the man who helped his daughter discover her beauty and intelligence, the gift of confidence to succeed at anything. He helped shaped her precious feelings. Murdering her incestuous mother would lay blood vengeance on the same cold white marble floor.

“You men. In here,” commanded Yew solemnly.

A stretcher was presented to remove Somer Krest’s broken body.

“Wait,” said Yew Rue. He withdrew a shining red feather from a secret pocket sewn in his pant leg.

“I return this sacred talisman to it’s spirit owner,” he said. He spread a handkerchief across Krest’s silent chest. Folding Krest’s hands, he placed the feather there. All of the men were staring at the shining feather in disbelief. One of the men was Forward Scout Eye.

“It’s always been true. I knew it,” whispered one.

“It’s the flight feather of the Phoenix,” breathed a young uniformed woman.

“We never doubted the legend, sir,” said the drill leader.

“It’s more than legend now,” said Yew Rue, “Bury The Wise Old Man in full battle dress with this Phoenix feather showing testimony of his sacrifice. Are there any final questions?”

“No, Sir.”

“Fail me and you shall fail our most loyal friend, Somer Krest. This is your honor and your duty. Stand tall young warriors!” shouted Yew Rue, “His spirit guides us still!”

The soldiers memorized the words, “The Wise One’s spirit guides us still!”

And outside a battle chant spontaneously grew, “Guides us still, guides us still.” As they carried his body from the building, the chanting continued. The truth, Somer Krest’s memory was etched into the people’s remembrance by the existence of one shining feather. They would never forget Yew Rue’s display verifying what all believed: the man, Somer Krest, was a genuine legend.

Eye lashed out at himself silently for the Wise Old Man’s death, “I’m a trained Lead Man and Forward Scout. It’s my job. Krest took the hit.”

Growing intolerable shame washed over Eye.

“It was my job to die! I’ve nothing to lose!” wept the lamenting Eye as he helped remove the body of the dead Somer Krest.

Zingara never noticed the leadership in Yew’s voice until now. It touched her deeply. But returning the generous Phoenix feather was more than she dreamed a desert man could do to honor another. She was in shock. Her trained military composure was eroding to turmoil. A sob welled up from deep inside.

Her knees collapsed as she spoke, “Daddy, don’t go.”

Disciplined soldiers echoed her soft sob inside themselves, “Sir, don’t go.”

Woefully, their sad yearnings echoed in the vacuum.

Yew stepped among the assault team … and stood in the middle … in the proper teaching stance. Krest as mentor guided Yew still.

“I am Yew Rue. My battle name means sorrow. Here, you and I, all of us, sorrow the loss of our worthy leader together. Our battle mission is dedicated to free this city. We will make it free again or die.”

In silence, gloved fists began to rise, showing soundless battle consensus. One raised glove belonged to Forward Scout Eye. His whirlpool vision, drowning in tears, revealed his gallant pledge and also loss of his precious Arrow. So, it was promised by all: free the city or die. And, without a word or struggle, Yew Rue was unanimously chosen as new battle leader.

As Eye and the five other men trudged along men and women removed their hats in tribute to Krest’s greatness as a leader. Eye felt an odd tap on the back of his hand. It was Prisoner of War tap code. He looked down to see the Wise Old Man’s little finger tapping. Eye knew the code well and silently responded to it. And so Krest remained bleeding and secretly “dead”.

By morning, each soldier from around the “deathbed” stretcher stood solemnly in dress uniform at the Wise Old Man’s funeral. Each served deliberately as a pallbearer. Each looking grim as the unknowing SCARAB company buried the closed war casket. Each under solemn oath. For each knew the casket deceptively contained only warm desert sand.

Yew and Zingara never realized the most critical element to their mission’s success was an admonition given to Krest by the Phoenix.

* * *

Many years before, on the top of a high mountain, the Hill of Creation, lived the mighty Phoenix. The Young Somer Krest approached the beautiful bird.

“Phoenix, I’m glad to finally be in your presence.”

“You may call me Benu, my Egyptian name. You are aware already of its link to your secret BENXUS word.”

“Yes, I’ve made the connection. I’ve come here to ask some questions plaguing me. Would you mind?”

“I don’t know all answers, but I’ll be truthful. You may proceed with the probe.”

“Your myth is the result of the Phoenicians zealous overselling of New Guinea plumage. Is this embarrassing to you?”

“No. I laugh. The roots of my legend demonstrate the power of storytelling. It also shows how desperately my symbolism and story is needed by millions of humans.”

“Benu, are you the symbol of my purpose? I’ve studied about you in detail. I don’t see the connection yet. Could you tell me? I see our similarities but I don’t see the purpose yet.”

“What do you see as our similarities, Human?”

“Several things: The unification of birds, and male and female characteristics. Next creativity, new strength and growth after destruction. You have no parents neither do I. You like being solo. You are one of a kind. You are a symbol of completion and transcendence. But what is transcendence?”

“Transcendence is man’s liberation from any state which is too immature, too fixed or final. Transcendence is the way man achieves his highest goal: the full realization of the potential of his individual Self. I, the Phoenix, am a symbol of man striving to attain this goal or purpose: creating a new pattern of life, one of equilibrium between paradox of containment and liberation. This process begins with a rite of submission, followed by a period of containment, and then by a further rite of liberation. A balance is struck of reconciliation of personality elements making one truly human and also the master of Self.”

“You said “the full realization of the potential of one’s individual Self.” What does that mean for me?”

“You’ve discovered many new things,” said the Phoenix, “But you are asking, “What do I do next?” How would you answer this ancient question?”

“Focus. Make it real and exist in more than my dreams.”

“So your mission or purpose is . . . what?” asked the Phoenix.

“The new pattern is one of giving instead of gathering.”

* * *

Not understanding the scope of their quest, Yew and Zingara didn’t realize Krest’s mission was symbolically giving his life for others. And in that he was successful, for he remained in seclusion for most of the days of his now hidden, occlusive life.

The creature was held deep in the castle cellar far from the common world. Her crippled body tottered and dragged hobbling across the cellar’s cold stone floor. She was grotesque beyond words. The creature’s waiting seemed an eternity. No matter the task at hand, she kept a hopeful eye on the heavy wooden door in the chamber corner. This portal never opened shaping her into a potential lifelong prisoner. She didn’t need a reflecting mirror. She didn’t need to see the abnormal lumps and bumps on her face, head, and shoulder exposing her hideousness. The ugly creature was intelligent. Repulsive ugliness encased the creature’s beautiful heart. Frequently her whimpering tears lulled her into sleepy brighter moments. The lonely creature dreamed. She dreamed she danced like a gazelle, sang as a lark, her face clear and bright shone as a soaring night star. It was miraculously wonderful yet no one shared her powerful happiness. Awakening in the deserted darkness she prayed for a transformation that never materialized. The tormented creature’s life was an ordeal.

Her real name was Ungula and she was the fraternal twin sister of Zingara. The hideous damsel was crippled, ugly, and oozed a gelatin-like substance from her left eye. Her humped back and gimp leg made her appear a monster. Ungula kept a small suitcase packed and ready by the door for the fateful day of her freedom. Though almost speechless, every night before retiring she knelt by her bed and prayed. Before getting into bed, she looked at the door checking if it was open. It never was.

Tonight was different. The hideous damsel’s prayers were answered by two human angels named Zingara and Yew Rue. Two loud whining explosions popped a time bomb for each steel hinge.

She staggered whirling around. The door slowly turned and fell off its hinges. A man stood in the door frame. He appeared startled. It was Yew Rue.

“It’s you,” he said as if he recognized her. Obviously, his emotions were jumbling. Fear, disgust, wonder, and compassion all stirred at once. He stepped into the little room. They stared in each other’s eyes reading subtle movements, gestures, and indications. A warmth radiated from her like the sun popping over cloudy mountains. Confusion surged through his heart.

“Could this ugly nightmare be loving me as I sense?” He thought in his tangled mind. “Why do I taste a secret attraction for this unsightly feminine husk?”

“I free you from this dungeon,” he declared determined to act on his feelings and not his sight. To Yew, it was miraculously wonderful sharing her powerful happiness.

Yew shook his head as if clearing it. He could hardly believe his eyes. What was he thinking? This dismal lump was going to be his sister-in-law.

“Ungula, I’m your sister. Do you understand what I am saying?” shouted Zingara.

“Ungula. We’ve got to go now. Mama is coming,” said Yew.

At the word “mama”, Ungula’s expression became suspicious.

“You. Mama,” slurred Ungula with her distorted mouth, gesturing and pointing.

“No. We’ve come to get you out,” said Zingara. She picked up the small suitcase for emphasis.

The suitcase did it. Ungula got the symbolic message. Realizing Ungula could never keep up with their pace, Yew hauled her over his shoulder and took off at a quick lope. She was much lighter than he anticipated.

Lamia sat in human form waiting in her huge but empty throne room. She appeared a beautiful young woman dressed in black and red satin. Her youth had been preserved by sucking the life’s blood of others. She was expecting dinner guests. Any moment.

Explosion shook the room. A huge door toppled off its hinges and crashed to the floor.

“You have a way with doors. You had only to knock,” said Lamia with her usual wit. “I suppose you’ve come to kill me.”

“Yes. Mother aunt, I’ve come to discover if the breasts I suckled are full of milk or poison blood,” threatened Zingara.

“My. You are vulgar. Oh, and you brought your crippled sister. How nice. We’ll have a homecoming party,” she laughed, “But really, one boy for three girls?”

Yew was glancing right and left checking exits. He smelled a trap. Everything was too easy. That’s when the middle of the huge floor opened up swallowing them into pitch darkness.

When Yew came to, the first thing he noticed in the dark was the putrid smell. A sure indicator they were in the dungeons.

“Zingara, Ungula. Are you there?”

“I’m here. No sign of Ungula. My wrists and ankles are bound. How about you?”

“Seems that way and I’m hanging out from the wall by some steel torture apparatus, I suppose. Wish I could see something.”

As if fulfilling his desire, a sinewy man dressed in black leather with a red sash entered the room with a bright lantern.

“Morgan!” gasped Zingara.

“Morgan!? You mean Morgan the Impregnator?” said Yew facetiously, while blinking.

“Who’s he? What does he mean by that?” said Morgan winking at Yew Rue as if the two were secretly old pals.

“This is my husband-to-be, Yew Rue.”

“Funny rhymy name. You two to marry. Sad. I’ll be dispatching you both as soon as you tell me where the Phoenix dwells.”

“Wish we could but your wired door killed the only man who ever spoke with the legendary Phoenix. What’s your concern anyway?”

“Wired door? Not me,” he lied, “I’m just a mercenary for the dragoness lady. She wants to know how to live 500 years like the Phoenix. Less messy machine killings and blood sucking that way. Never mind that, you haven’t seen a large black dog? Mine seems to have run off again.”

They were silent about the black dog.

“Look, let us free. We’ll help you escape, too.”

“Not me. I’m goin’ into the next life with the old lady. I’ve secretly been planning to do her in for a long time. You know doll, if we alter your combat costume just a little, you’ll be more attractive and much more comfortable.”

Morgan flicked out a straight razor.

“Now don’t struggle. I hate it when people lose blood unnecessarily.”

Yew was having a hard time deciphering Morgan’s behavior. Very schizophrenic.

“Hey, Morgan while playing doctor with the fabric, maybe you could answer a question? Have you ever met this girl whose clothes you’re trimming?”

“I never forget a body especially one as nice as hers. Sorry. If I did, I was too drunk to remember. There. That’s better.”

Morgan had cut off both shirtsleeves and made shorts of the pant legs. Yew breathed a sigh of relief.

“Now you are dressed for the sea and the beach.”

“So you really are Morgan, the Sea Dweller,” said Zingara.

“One and the same, at your service.”

“Mr. Morgan, can you let us go or at least let us in on your plan to annihilate Lamia?” asked Zingara.

He thought for a while delighting in Zingara’s firm legs. She flinched when he slid his hand down her bare skin.

“OK. But probably, there’ll be no survivors. And don’t tell me, you can live with that! Ha! Tragic about your Father. He was a strong man.”

“There is one thing. Where is my sister?”

“The freak? I think the old lady’s holding her, just in case your now deceased father or you two should show up. A hostage shield shall we say.”

In minutes, they were free. Once again, Yew was suspicious. Everything was too easy.

Zingara’s pretended sham pregnancy was exposed as easily as her now bare arms and legs. But Yew knew it was true Morgan drank much too heavily, to Zingara’s good fortune. He was incapacitated by wine the night of Zingara’s chance meeting.

When I’m done, you must finish the job by impelling the hidden wooden stake through her heart. Lamia lives on if you don’t,” said Morgan.

Yew nodded. He saw a glint in Morgan’s eye as if he were the master trickster. He had been a parasite dependent on Lamia’s slayings to sustain him. A worm on a worm. And now the worm was going to kill the host.

“Now, we sit and wait,” said Morgan.

It seemed as soft ethereal chants of distant angels whispering, filling the air. Morgan sat on one of the throne room’s pinkish-tint marble benches oblivious to the warm music. His head resting on his clenched fists. His forearms forming a pyramidic power-stance propped on his knees. Hunching over, his dark hair framed his foggy eyes. Glaring from underneath his brow, he appeared in a scowling trance. He was impatiently waiting.

Morgan was constantly waiting, even hoping for a confrontation with his nemesis, his female counterpart. It had been a long time. Closing his eyes he thought of Lamia’s chilling beauty, her movements graceful, her speech impeccable, her voice seductively throaty. In spite of all her natural beauty and gifts, she was a dark, sinister, vengeful trickster. Her only purpose: to destroy. Her victims were always pure, unsuspecting, and shining. Unblemished lambs harvested before fulfillment’s crest and tragically sacrificed.

Morgan reflected. How did he feel about her victims? He was always stunned by their previous brilliance and lost luster. It seemed barbarous. Why always the brightest, the most elite? Morgan grimaced as he thought he too lived off the murdered, taking a portion as trophy and another to sustain and protect his life. He looked at his hands. They appeared leathered, worn by time. How many dead had his hands held? How many had to die before Lamia’s vicious dance was done? Paradoxically, he too, depended on future deaths to maintain his existence. He felt trapped living off Lamia’s negative energy. He evolved into a negative creature, also.

Lamia entered true form as a two-faced black widow. Devourer extraordinaire. Morgan’s incestuous mother.

“Both of you stay lying down as planned. Quiet, or we are all dead,” whispered Morgan.

Morgan dragged each supposed dead body, sliding them across the slick marble floor and into the throne room.

“Lamia! Mother, I brought you warm blood to quench your thirst.”

“No blood satisfies,” she shouted from the throne, “but I am weak. Bring them to me.”

“I suppose you haven’t the energy to drain them,” Morgan said with contempt.

“Bring them here and hold them up to me. I’ll manage.”

Lamia was not afraid Morgan would harm her. He needed her like an addict his drug or like an antidote for poison. He was the little black spider who had secretly grown as rabid as she.

Close enough now to strike her, Morgan dropped his pretend victims and drew his ax-like sword. He flicked slicing the blade easily through Lamia’s thin pretty neck in one stroke. He picked up her chattering head by her black hair.

“Tonight I dine on your brain. I’ll live for over 100 years on that tiny morsel. And then I shall die but I’ll not be a bloodsucker vampire like you. I’m no longer your slave, human tick.”

Morgan strode out of the room with the bloody head. Zingara and Yew sprang to life. Zin searched to retrieve the stake and mallet previously concealed in a compartment under the throne by Morgan. It was empty.

“The stake and mallet aren’t here. He lied. We’ve been suckered,” cried Zingara.

Yew rolled Lamia’s body off the throne with his boot. Yew smashed the wooden leg off the chair with an angular boot thrust. He jabbed the improvised stake into the decapitated corpse’s heart with all his body weight. The bloody stake protruding from Lamia’s evil heart gave a final quiver.

“What a grizzly sight,” said Zingara, “I hope I live to forget it. But it seems appropriate for the she-monster.”

“Hey! Speaking of monsters, where’s your “beauty queen” sister,” asked Yew.

“Very funny. Probably back down stairs. C’mon!”

Incredibly, the damaged door had been jammed hastily back in place.

“We need Ungula to pull from the other side while we push. Do you think you can communicate that to her?”

“I’ll try,” said Zingara.

The voice inside responding seemed young and lively.

“I don’t think she’s here but somebody inside wants to help,” said Zingara.

“OK. On three.”

The door came out laboriously.

A new face greeted them. A familiar faded old dress hung off her shoulders draping a youthful breast. It was the transformed Ungula.

“Stop drooling, husband-to-be. This is my sister. Help me find her some decent clothes.”

Yew was transfixed. He experienced the most unusual sensation from Ungula’s eye contact. Zingara thought he was lusting after Ungula’s youthful body. But, this was something magical or like mental telepathy.

Zingara watched with mounting envy as Yew stood motionless before Ungula.

“Ungula is my combat name and my birth name. It means talon just like your battle name means sorrow,” she spoke, “My spiritual name is Anchor.” She stuck out a hand and Yew awkwardly shook it in greeting.

“Hello,” said Yew staring, dumbfounded.

“Yew excuse me please, notice my sister, your fiancee, Zingara. She is obviously getting angry at your inexplicable inadequacy to get me some decent clothes. She thinks you desire touching me in forbidden ways,” said Anchor while motioning a suggestive military hand sign to give emphasis.

Yew looked over at Zingara dumbfounded. “Where did she learn that signal?” he quizzed while squinting. Zingara was steaming and would explode in a tirade any minute.

“Zin, it’s not her body. Really. I can’t believe this. It’s as if her mind is linking up and on fire to me. It’s like mind reading. You know, extrasensory. How did she learn so much so fast?”

“Humph! No wonder they locked Beauty up in here with a curse. She turns men’s minds to jelly. What woman can compete with that?”

Yew Rue bolted upstairs to an open balcony. Below a dark figure with a square white case in hand was racing in the night toward the cover of rock. Yew judged the distance from the main military unit to the escaping character.

Following Yew’s course, Zin and a modestly attired Anchor dashed onto the balcony.

“Stop him. Hit him! Zingara, you’re better at arm signal coordinates. Get rid of this rat, Morgan. He’s up to sabotage. Something’s wrong!”

Zin stepped on the balcony, a signal flare in each gloved hand. In seconds, a flaming SCARAB projectile whizzed by and exploded on impact with the sprinter and container. A crack-shot artillery nailed Morgan bull’s eye. Yew saw the white box sailing through the smoke-filled sky and cracking against a stone wall.

“Whoever shot that SCARAB missile gets a medal, I swear!” said Yew enthusiastically.

Morgan’s white box’s contents dropped and scattered on the ground.

“Give me some occulars,” commanded Yew. But the occular vision instrument was pressed in front of Anchor’s eyes.

“One request, Yew Rue, when you find out who launched the SCARAB missile, please let me know who she is,” said Anchor.

“She?” he remarked, “sure.”

“Lamia’s head … plumbed for lapsing life support. Now, her fragile brain will be permanently spoiled in minutes. Tsk, tsk. Morgan obviously schemed an excellent matricidal hoax for Lamia. Secret medical restoration of her head if properly maintained was a real possibility,” said Ungula pointing, “but not any more. Just dog food.”

She handed the desert occulars to Yew and winked.

Yew stared at her again marveling at all her knowledge.

“You amaze me,” he said to Ungula, “Do you read a lot?”

Ungula rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“You amaze me, too. But for disgusting reasons,” sneered the jealous Zingara as she removed her flare gloves. “You’re very welcome for the weapon signals, Cowboy!”

“So, Morgan sold out after all. His parasitic relationship with that woman will always remain a mystery to me,” said Yew.

“It’s simple,” said Ungula, ” He could never face his deepest fear. So he could never kill Lamia. He always believed he couldn’t live without her and that she controlled him. Weird love-hate thing, you know.”

Yew Rue plopped down on a pinkish-tint marble bench. She was right. He remembered Krest’s lesson trancing him into facing his fear. What now? he wondered. He thought of the bloody packet from Krest still in the war pouch.

“Excuse me ladies. You probably have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll just find a washroom and clean up.”

Both women looked at him as if he was crazy but welcomed the chance to be alone together as sisters.

Yew found a basin not far and dumped the bloody packet in it. It obviously was treated because it cleaned up from the staining fast. Yew took it out and shook it dry.

“Chemplast paper,” he mumbled, “Krest wanted something durable.” He looked at the hole in it. “But not durable enough.”

He was intent on the message and ignored Zin’s approach.

“Thought I’d wash up, too,” she said.

“Sure. Help yourself,” said Yew unthinking.

Zingara stared at the bloody contaminated water.

“What’s going on here!” she demanded.

“Tidying your father’s last testament, so to speak,” said Yew.

“Ugh! I can’t believe I’m in love with you. Whatever it says, concerns Ungula, too. C’mon let’s go back to her.”

There were two envelopes. One for Ungula containing the locket and war ID. The other envelope contained Krest’s last wishes.

“Do you know the man owning the locket?” asked Zin.

“No. Trusted number of military draw upon my sustaining powers in the form of H-pix or photo. I’m sorry for this man who gave his life for us.”

When they were all reunited, they took turns reading.

“Dear children of mine: Because you are reading this, you know I am very, very dead. My death was necessary for the completion of your mission. You probably have dispatched Lamia to Hell and rescued Ungula at the same time. Well done. The City is free again. If any of you have died because of this venture, I can only smile because you will be with me soon.

To my Daughter, Zingara: You now are the legal Heir to the City of Shiloh. Rubble that it is. Rebuild it with the assistance of your King. You always were royal and loyal.

Give me healthy grandchildren, Queen Zin.

To my son-in-law, Yew Rue: Love my daughter as you constantly have. Your quest is not done. Follow my map. Take your new bride on a memorable honeymoon. Visit the Phoenix. When done, you will be the Wise Old Man. Every tribe needs its Shaman. I selected you. You admired me as medicine man from the start. You will be King, Military Leader, and Holy Man simultaneously.

To my Daughter, Ungula: Inspire us. Teach us. Remind us of what we lost and have regained. We have been war torn. Teach us to be gentle creatures again. I imagine you in my heart. I was robbed of you all my life. I pictured you cheerful, intelligent, creative, and alive. I sense I’m right on that account. Never forget your captivity so you can rejoice in your new found freedom. I’m sorry we never met but spiritually.

To the young anchoress living by the sea who’s correspondences and potions healed my broken mind and spirit, I leave my library of books and papers in entirety. And I restore her to her true position denied her at birth by an evil mother. I pronounce her once again Royal Princess of the Golden City, Shiloh, with all it blessings and honors.

To my troops, bodyguards, stewards, and cooks: Build a better world. War no more.

Signed- Somer Krest: Military Leader, Order of the Phoenix, and Wise Old Man.

Zingara stared at Ungula in quaking shock.

“What the blazes is an anchoress?” she said stunned.

Arrow kept pushing to pursue the military caravan tracks with combat discipline. She also pushed for military macrobiotic diet. She was starving, sick and tired of any and all discipline.

“When I get to the Big City, I’m gonna eat ’til I puke,” she said talking unwittingly to herself, “and I’m gonna drink a tank car full of ice water.”

“Please. Your jabbering only makes circumstances worse. Prattle about herbal doctoring, male psychology, or hog slaying, anything else. Please, please,” she begged back to herself. Arrow was losing her mental abilities.

She continued her twisted personal discourse on cooking and eating and drinking.

Surprising to both parts of herself, they made it. The sand march was over. It was night but she arrived at a gratifying historic moment.

Arrow saw and understood frantic arm-signal flare coordinates delivered on a balcony down the canyon-like street. Knowing she was in the best firing position, she readied her modified weapon.

“What are you doing?” she asked the weaker part of herself, weakly gazing around for a clue.

“Target: Oh-seven Niner, and he is mine. Turkey buzzard, say bye-bye!” her stronger side shouted.

Onlookers cringed sarcastically at Arrow assassinating a creature she no doubt had never met. But this was the rule in the Big Golden City. Impersonal carnage. They put their dirty fingers in their dirty ears.

“Count me down. Five, 4, 3, ” shouted Arrow, too aroused. Black smoke bloomed into flame.

For the history books, Arrow shot down Morgan dead in the palace street. It was as if she lived her whole life for this hit. All her anger and passion blasted down the fiery tube destroying one sick villain. Military people nearby cheered her accuracy and timing at eliminating the human disease.

“You done showing off. Let’s get some chow,” she said to herself covered with gritty sand, dust, and smoke. She was drifting in and out of hallucinations.

Arrow warmly laughed through parched lips like fatigued worn sandpaper.

“I’ve just been in the right place, at the right time, to administer the punishment of the century. And I am haranguing about food as if I’ve been wandering in the desert for weeks.”

“I’m weak. Give me water now!” she hissed, her eyes rolling back in their sockets, as she blacked out.

The Phoenix once told young Somer Krest, before becoming the Wise Old Man: “Transcendence is the way man achieves his highest goal: the full realization of the potential of his individual Self.”

So it was for New Shiloh and her returning refugees. They had transcended the evil Dragoness Lamia and her slave son, Morgan the Sea Dweller. The City of New Shiloh, like the Phoenix, became a symbol of striving to create a new pattern of life. And no one represented this change more than Ungula. Her long period of containment and ultimate liberation were evidence she paid her dues to sorrow, suffering, despair, and depression. Her personality elements made her truly human and also the master of herself.

While Zingara reigned as Queen, Princess Ungula exercised a healing power with the people. She was a diplomat of peace and love. The people knew she’d suffered cruel indignities. She loved people and they knew it without spoken words. She felt no internal inadequacy. Because of this, others trusted her unconsciously and openly. She was honest, sincere, warm. She sensed others need in a “telepathic” or “empathic” manner. She couldn’t help everyone but her mere attentions helped many.

In the palace, Yew Rue stood admiring a sleeping angel. Lying on her right side on a small lounge, Zingara’s right hand pillowed her cheek. Zingara’s other hand lay between her curled knees; her skin smooth, her dark eyelashes forming small spiky crescents halfway around her shut eyes. Small silver and stone earrings graced her earlobes. A smile on her face, and with eye movement flashing behind her closed lids, revealed content dreaming. Yew Rue carefully knelt beside her. He listened to her breathing, verifying she was really asleep, then he gently touched her bare knee with a kiss. “I love you,” he said to his unperceiving companion. He reached out cupping the back of her head feeling the softness of her dark hair.

“What am I feeling inside?” he whispered to himself. Stroking the hair at the back of her neck, he strained to memorize her shape and soft touch. Would he always feel this way? Would everything vanish as the drifting scarab sands? Since Somer Krest’s death, he was the Highest Ranking Military Leader of SCARAB. The Queen, the Wise Old Man’s beautiful daughter, was his bride, and still he had not found the real treasure. Where was Morgan’s magic box?

This was a recurring scene. Yew Rue stood, a puzzling discontent growing in his guts. Asking himself again, “Where had Morgan lived? No palace room of Morgan’s was ever found.” Yew Rue sat on a floor cushion and became trancelike as the Wise Old Man had taught him.

“I envision the corridors and rooms of the castle as if I were first a mouse and then an eagle,” said Yew Rue.

In his mind, he finally saw Morgan’s rooms tucked away and hidden. Morgan’s secret quarters were nearby but undiscovered. Walking briskly through the palace to the hallway where Somer Krest perished, Yew Rue approached an elaborately decorated panel. At his touch, the panel slid to one side revealing a half open door. At last! He had it!

“So these are the mystic quarters of Morgan, the Sea Dweller,” he said to himself.

Stepping into the dusty room unveiled the tiny living space of a lonely man. A small bed, one chair, one plate, one cup, everything in singles except a rack of dark clothing. No wealth, just ordinary things.

“This is an odd flask. For mixing potions, I’m sure,” said Yew.

Yew observed the small leather trunk. Its black color seemed to discharge iciness.

“This appears interesting,” said Yew as he opened the old trunk, “Seems Morgan had some treasure after all.” It was the box he had heard so much about, The Box of Power.

Yew stared into the collection of gentle hair.

“What is this? Nothing but tiny lockets of hair?”

He probed the little wreaths of hair with his fingers. A surge of power electrified his hands and arms. He pulled his hands back pondering the feeling.

“This is Morgan and Lamia’s power I sense. What magnificent evil have I discovered?”

Darkness fell across Yew’s mind. Black, dusky odor spun in the air. Were dark spirits guarding wanton power?

He slowly placed both hands upon the amulets of hair. There was no resistance to his intrusion. He was aware these small objects represented many sad deaths. A high pitched ringing formed in Yew’s ears proving to be a disembodied voice. It was the shrill voice of the deceased Morgan.

“You killed me once. You shall not destroy my energy source!” screeched the voice of Morgan, “You and I had a deal. I’d give you General Fang and Somer Krest and you’d let me escape with Lamia’s brain.”

“Morgan, the Sea Dweller, I changed my mind. You cannot stop me from handling or even destroying your collection of trophies,” said Yew with a shrug.

“This is disgraceful, blasphemous and irreverent. Those are my dead girls! How dare you stroke them as if they were liniment for aching joints,” said Morgan.

“Then tell me more, quickly, or I’ll destroy this thing with fire,” threaten Yew.

“Fine. Be slow to act. If you digest the hair you will have eternal life. One locket equals about 70 years of life,” replied Morgan.

“So, that’s how you remained alive,” Yew said eyeing the flask and paraphernalia, “What if I only touch a few hair pieces? Or all of them at once?”

“I won’t recommend that. Lamia described often such action as fatal and it destroys the amulets simultaneously. Wouldn’t want that would we?”

“But Lamia was a compulsive liar,” smiled Yew. He plunged both hands into the hair and clamped his eyes shut. The ringing in his ears subsided and died. A soothing pulse wormed up his nerve fibers winning residence over his blackening heart. He stared into the empty chest, all lockets were gone. Vanished.

Yew’s body was magically empowered. He stood glowing and invigorated.

“I call upon all my new powers to find the dead monsters and burn their black hearts to powder and cast their dust to the four winds,” Yew commanded with a low rumbling voice. He sensed the act was finished even as he spoke.

He felt relief and strength simultaneously. So many fears were gone. This was what he searched so long to find. It seemed the same peace Ungula possessed. Duplicating her peaceful countenance would be delight. Or was it a forgery? Yew wondered.

“Now empowered I choose using the Devourer’s power for good instead of evil.” That charity declaration seemed to deaden his stinging conscious a little, but he knew it was a lie.

After sealing the secret room, he returned to the sleeping Zingara. Her eyes slowly opened when he touched her leg.

“I’ve found something terrible and wonderful at the same moment,” he said.

“I feel a change in your touch,” she said. She wondered if this moment reflected the treacherous personality she had silently dreamt of over and over.

He smiled cautiously.

“I’ve discovered the powers of life and death coexist. My desire now is life unfettered by symbols of past evils. The intensity of my life is only as potent as destroying my past.”

“You defied the mystic dragon?” questioned Zingara.

“Yes,” said Yew Rue, “Life can never be the same. It will plainly be better.” He heard the hollowness of his own words.

Plainly better?, he thought, simple symbols yield focus, purpose, and reduced effort.

“An old way of existence is dead,” Yew said, “I am reborn. A new life waits before me.”

Nothing has really changed, he thought, who am I fooling?

Zingara looked closely at Yew’s features, then she said, “You have become more than Somer Krest, my father. You have become more than both the Devourer’s Morgan and Lamia. You are more than even yourself, Yew Rue, the Sorrowing One.”

She paused.

“I fear what you have become,” she said, a tear trickling down her face.

“It is as if I have rekindled my inner self. I conjure up no more from a hidden subconscious mind. I am self-aware of my inner thinking and deeper feelings,” said Yew.

“Sensitive and discerning?” whispered Zin.

Inside a sinister voice whispered, “Lies, deceptions, falsehoods. Gullible people!”

It was the laugh of Morgan.

“Man transcends when he achieves complete awareness of his potential,” quoted Yew Rue, a crooked glint in his eye. Morgan had tricked him again! He lived now inside Yew’s mind and body. Yew heard an imperceptible, “Checkmate!” ringing in his skull.