The Voice of the Almighty

Buck’s car smelled of patchouli oil and the six or seven different air fresheners hanging from his rear-view mirror. I climbed into the passenger seat and reclined it as far as it would go, sinking into the soft fabric and ancient, worn cushions. I couldn’t decide if it was comfortable or not, but I couldn’t be seen from outside the car and that was good enough for me.          

            “Seat belt,” Buck said, clambering into the driver’s side. “You hungry? We can stop somewhere.”

            My stomach gurgled hatefully at me, but I shook my head. “I’ve gotta disappear, man. I’m sorry to put this on you.”

            “Ah, stop apologizing. It’s fine. I figure worst case scenario, they aren’t gonna kill me too. I’m not involved, right?” He grinned as we pulled out of the small parking lot. “Unless someone blows up my car from orbit or something, I guess. Dude, whatever. It was either this or smoke weed and eat more tacos.”

            “Sounds pretty good to me, right about now. God, I don’t think I’ve ever been more sober than this. This is like, ultra-sober.”

            Buck smiled knowingly. “I went to a Muslim wedding once. I know exactly what you mean. So I’ve been hoping to talk to you �" are you still working at the store? Cause if not, I gotta train somebody. For a minute there I figured the new girl would take your place, but then I remembered…”

            “Yeah, listen, I’m really sorry about the whole situation,” I said, earnestly. “I mean… look, even if this all blows over, I think I need a change of scenery. And I’ve got a check in my pocket that’s worth five or six years at the store.”

            Severely overestimating how expensive Fence’s magical arsenal would be, I had asked Daphne if I could get a pay advance before leaving the Conclave lobby, the day before. Between the upcoming shopping trip and the somewhat dire warning she’d given us, I figured it would be a good idea to have some liquid assets. I needn’t have bothered, but still, there was never any such thing as too much spending money.

            “Sure pays good to be a wizard on the run,” Buck chuckled.           

            “Yeah, if I get a chance to spend it. And I don’t know if wizard is the right term for what… I am.”

            “Sorry. Magic-American.”

            We both laughed. It was impossible not to relax, just a little, in Buck’s presence, even under such ridiculous circumstances.

            A few minutes later, we pulled into Buck’s driveway, and I hurried from the car to his back yard, looking over my shoulder the whole time. He followed, nonchalant, and unlocked the patio door.

            I went inside, buffeted by a wave of pot, patchouli, and incense, not to mention the incomparable scent of stoner laundry. Buck’s home was a monument to the lifestyle, so wondrously relaxed and marijuana-centric that I felt a pang of regret at ever picking up the goddamned Text.

            “This place is badass, man,” I said, having never been here before. It was the only sanctuary I could imagine where Beck wouldn’t immediately know to look for me. I hadn’t seen my parents in years, but Beck knew where they were and how to find them, and if Conclave was in fact responsible for my situation, the Nexus was a no-go.

            And of course my apartment was now a pile of chilled toothpicks. I hoped the other tenants were okay.

            “Thanks,” Buck grinned. “Honestly, sometimes I wonder why everyone doesn’t live this way. It’s cheaper than you’d expect, and it never seems to get old.” He started pointing around. “I’ve got to go back to the store for a couple hours. Fridge is there, bathroom is at the end of the hall, and of course the chronic is… here,” he finished, opening a set of double doors on a large wardrobe.

            About fifty mason jars, each packed to the rim, stood in neat rows, printed paper labels taped to the lids. Among the jars were an assortment of pipes, bowls, onesies, and a grand, four-hosed hookah. The left door had a rack with at least forty lighters of various types. Bics, Zippos, a couple of butane mini torches.

            “F**k, man.”

            “I know, right? Help yourself.” Like all real hippies, Buck was unerringly generous. There are fake hippies, of course. You can always tell a fake hippie because they trumpet the goodness of sharing without bringing anything to the table. Buck was no faker.

            “Alright man, gotta roll,” he said, taking a last look around. “You sure nobody will think to look for you here?”

            “It was the only place I could think of. Don’t worry, I just need to get in touch with Lee and I’ll be out of here. I really appreciate it, man.”

            “Ah, it’s nothing. If you’re still here when I get home we’ll make tacos. Man, I haven’t had a roommate in years…” he trailed off, locking the front door behind himself. I immediately went to the back door, locked it, drew the curtains on all the windows shut, and pulled out my phone, looking up Lee’s number.

            The call went directly to voicemail. She was either still on the Moon, or under a bridge. I debated the wisdom of leaving a message, then rolled my eyes. Even if Conclave was responsible for my predicament, Lee certainly wasn’t on the strike team. I could trust her.

            “Lee, listen, I need your help like right now. Beck attacked me at my apartment, I got away but she destroyed my place and my car and I’m holed up at a friend’s house. I don’t stand a chance against her, I don’t know what to do, I’m freaking the f**k out. I don’t know why but I think Conclave ordered a hit on me, after all. Call me as soon as you get this. F**k. Uh. Bye.”

            I hung up. I hadn’t intended to sound so desperate, but as I listed my problems I realized I had more of them than I had thought.

            I sighed heavily and sagged into a deep couch, accidentally squishing my shield ball in the process and sending a throw pillow sailing across the room. After fumbling the thing out of my pocket, I rolled my eyes and set it carefully down on the mirrored coffee table.

            I frowned at the ball. I’d forgotten about it during my battle… all right, my escape from Beck, and it probably would have come in handy. I wondered how much cold it would keep out.

            That whole event had been a complete debacle. I ran through the short exchange in my head, a nightmare that had lasted about two minutes from Beck appearing at my door to my teleporting away. Two minutes, and everything I owned except the raggedy clothes and shiny new trinkets I was wearing was obliterated.

            Where on Earth had she come up with so much power? I was new to the Reading game, but she was even newer, and she’d been slinging insane amounts of energy with little apparent difficulty, while I struggled to remember how my shoelaces were supposed to work. There’s a lot to be said for hard work, practice, and applying yourself, and Beck had always had a talent for those more academic abilities… but the simple fact remained that what she had done should have reduced her body to a withered husk.

            F**k. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to panic. I realized I was taking shallow, fast breaths, and my eyes were darting from door to door. I felt like a trapped rat. Between the adrenal rush of the attack, the drain on my body from casting Glyphs, and the stress of knowing there might be a huge and powerful organization trying to kill me, I was seriously on edge.

            I glanced at the great cabinet against the wall longingly. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the idea of getting high, for a variety of reasons. I was pretty sure I was safe here, for the moment, and I had no idea when Lee would be getting back to me. But at the same time, I had begun to see pot as something from my past, something I would grow out of as a part of becoming Conclave.

            Of course, that thought had come before I found out much about the reality of what Conclave was. I was starting to see the value in remaining me, instead.

            I thought for another moment, then hauled myself to my feet and went to examine Buck’s stash.

            When people imagine a marijuana smoker, the immediate mental image is a lazy, glassy-eyed dope, slouched across a couch and giggling at stupid s**t. That’s half true. About half of all strains of weed are known as indica, and cause the stereotypical dummy effects in addition to sleepiness and the ‘munchies’. Cheap pot is usually this.

            To the far right on Buck’s cabinet, however, were a few selections of sativa. To put it bluntly, sativa is probably responsible for the greatest works of art and music there are. Unlike the debilitating indica, it fills the discerning stoner with a sense of mental energy, elevated consciousness, and creativity, without the dumbing symptoms such as sleepiness. You don’t giggle at stupid s**t when you smoke it �" you laugh with pure pleasure at the shape of the Universe.

            And Buck had what could be called the goddess of all strains: “Metatron.” The Voice of the Almighty.

            “Well,” I said to nobody, “If anything’s gonna help me relax, it’s this.” I grabbed a few items, the mason jar of Metatron, and returned to the coffee table, where I went through the long-since-automatic motions of loading up a pipe while I considered the problem of Beck’s insane Reading.

            I’d felt a significant drain on my own energy reserves after throwing one s****y fireball, as a distraction. I could understand if she had some kind of innate talent, or whatever. It would be just my luck. But she’d ripped off my porch, frozen and shattered most of the top floor of my building, deflected a spell with a perfect shot of her own, blown off the back end of my car, and then flash-frozen my driveway, the rest of the car, and almost me. Without breaking a sweat.

            It didn’t make any sense.

            I sighed, shrugged for my own benefit, and flicked on a butane lighter, inhaling deeply of Metatron’s thick, aromatic smoke.

            It was harsh �" something that strong is usually better with some kind of water pipe to cool the smoke. However, the active ingredient in pot is unlocked by extreme heat, and with the fast burn of a butane flame, it took one deep inhale to rewire my brain.

            There was the initial tunnel-vision that comes when you breathe something other than oxygen, accompanied after a moment by a sense of vibration, not so much a buzz as a pulse, which I’d always amused myself by imagining as the beat of energy, vibrating through molecules, the thumping dance of electrons, the life-pulse of the world.

            Metatron spoke to me and soothed me. I relaxed for a long time, not tired, merely serene, my legion of concerns held firmly at bay by the Voice’s power. I had never had this, before, and in a weird way, I felt that it would be wrong to indulge too often. Almost… sacrilege? Whenever I smoked weed, I would feel a strong sense of spirituality with the world of life, as though my mind were in tune with the greater organism that was Earth.

            The essence of a plant mixed with the essence of an animal, biological chemicals similar to the ones produced by the human body, but different in their essential qualities, opening and stimulating locked parts of my brain. Life, I felt, was all one beautiful force.

            I always had those thoughts, but this was… new. Intense. I sensed that the world of Life was speaking to me, if not directly, then as a general address to anyone wise enough to listen.

            I fancied I could feel something new and different �" the pulse was odd, stronger, more vital than I’d ever experienced. Weird. It seemed to be concentrating on the back of my right hand. I looked at my brand, curious.

            And there it was.

            It was a flash of insight the likes of which I had never experienced, and I briefly paused in gratitude to Metatron’s conferred wisdom.

            The chromatic glyph on my hand was the story of my life, the sum of everything I was, everything I had experienced, every event and thought that had shaped me. It was succinct and all-encompassing, a single sigil that said me.

            And as I watched, as a wave of understanding came over me and altered my perception, the brand changed before my eyes. The magic that I had accepted was the energy of life. And it had accepted me in return. I wore the story on my skin.

            I was worthy.

            I deserved Life. I deserved to live.

            Beck saw the world in terms of who was better or brighter, I had known that for ages. She saw that those who advanced, who got degrees and diplomas and certificates and lots and lots of money were the best. They had it right, they were doing life the way it was supposed to be done.

            I realized I had been looking at it the same way, without Beck’s advantage of being on the winning side of the equation. I was a laid-back, pot-smoking bookstore employee who was happy just getting by and loving a pretty girl, and for years and years I had always, in the back of my mind, known  that I was wrong, that I was less, that I had failed compared to those who went on to bigger and better things.

            The great religions of the world say that gay people don’t really love each other, because they had the definition of love and it wasn’t that.

            My teachers would scold me for reading a book when I was supposed to be paying attention, because I was there to learn. But I was there to learn what they knew was worth learning.

            My family was disappointed that I wasn’t making all kinds of money, because having lots of money obviously means you’re doing great things, that you’re a hardworking person, that you deserve to experience their definition of success.

            And many people would say that wisdom, beauty, revelation that comes from the smoke of a plant is somehow less real, as though the pulses of emotion, every single feeling and thought and sensation they had ever experienced weren’t just as much a chemical as the ones in Metatron’s buds.

            Life, I realized, was life. It all had value. It was all worthwhile.

            And I wasn’t ready to die.

            I studied the brand on my hand for a long time, marveling at the way my story was all written down, right there on my skin. It would always be there, where I could be reminded. I wouldn’t forget this revelation, like I was always forgetting the f*****g Glyphs…

            Holy s**t.

            I had just had an idea.

            I got up in a rush and went to find a permanent marker.

Reviews

[UponATyme]

I love the "Magic-American" bit. Very clever. I like that Tyler is having just as much trouble understanding Beck's skill as I am. I'm glad she's not just a super talented magic-freak. Excuse me, Magic-American-Freak.