The Golden Sword Travel Adventure Co.

The Golden Sword Travel Adventure Company
Or
Jenkins is Dead

          At one time, it was probably a drive-through restaurant. The building itself, as bleached and dead as the weeds surrounding it, crouched as if mortally wounded at the far end of a cracked and broken expanse of asphalt. Had the words “GOLDEN SWORD TRAVEL ADVENTURE” not been spelled out in large, black plastic letters at the top of an old, rusted signpost, Mr. Jenkins would have assumed that the building was nothing but another abandoned business. Rust, broken concrete and peeling paint lent the place a forlorn air, like a gigantic paper cup that had been emptied of its liquid and now lay squashed and useless along the side of the road. A sheet of plywood hung over what had probably been a drive-through window at one time, but it was quite obvious that no one had driven through in recent years. Besides the sign, there was nothing at all to recommend the place, and it was unlikely that anyone would want to stop there voluntarily. 
         The appearance of the building didn’t bother Mr. Jenkins in the slightest; in fact, the desolate picture before him was exactly what his co-worker had described to him that morning as they rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Leaning over Mr. Jenkins’s desk in an apoplexy of whispered excitement, he rambled, sometimes incoherently, about how impossible and how wonderful it had been. Yet despite the man’s excitement, he had refused to give Mr. Jenkins any concrete details, insisting that Mr. Jenkins could only understand if he experienced it for himself. With eyes far too brilliant and wild for an accountant, the man had pressed the address into his palm, hastily written on a yellow sticky-note, and said quite simply, “Go. Go tonight.” He warned Mr. Jenkins quite specifically that it would look like nothing special on the outside, and in that regard, the man was quite correct. Go to the Golden Sword, said his co-worker, and you won’t be sorry.
         Against his better judgment, Mr. Jenkins had driven to the agency straight from work. He felt a little out of place in his well-tailored three-piece suit and red tie as he tiptoed among the rusted bolts, discarded beer bottles and pebbles that lay strewn about, half-hidden in the weeds. His shoes crunched against the decay, far louder, thought Jenkins, than they should have. But Jenkins wasn’t the sort of man who believed in omens or signs or portents, and neither the crunch of his shoes nor the sudden, unexpected blast of cold wind that whipped across the tops of the dead weeds deterred him. It was only a short walk though the desolate ruins of the parking lot, after all, and it ended with the ringing of a friendly brass bell and the welcome, familiar chemical smell of new office furniture, which greeted him like an old friend as he stepped through the door.
         The place had been restored quite well on the inside; so well, in fact, that Mr. Jenkins could scarcely believe that the building’s crumbling, peeled exterior could house a reception area so clean and well-appointed. The office reeked of newness, like a sports car in a showroom, and Mr. Jenkins felt honored, as if he were a new initiate in a secret and exclusive club. The change of surroundings sent a small, butterfly-light tingle settled deep in his middle and hovered there, anticipating.
         Behind the desk sat a small, pale-skinned woman with delicate features composed in an expression of quiet concentration.. Her skin, pale and smooth and utterly without blemish, lay over high cheekbones that seemed almost otherworldly in the soft light of her computer display. Her nose and lips were of such absolute perfection in both shape and proportion that Mr. Jenkins began to wonder if she were real, or if she were instead the female ideal, projected in three dimensions.
         He didn’t realize that he was staring until she met his gaze. Her eyes, the color of a tropical sea at first light, caught him and held him fast, nailed to the spot. She spoke, and her voice broke the spell, at least enough to enable Mr. Jenkins to close his mouth.
         “Welcome to the Golden Sword Travel Adventure Company. An adventure with us is an adventure like no other,” the woman said. To Mr. Jenkins ear it wasn’t speech as much as song, each syllable perfectly in tune, more of an aria than a welcome. Mr. Jenkins found himself even more in her thrall, and the reasonable part of him, the part that made his job bearable, cried out in panic.
         “You… wouldn’t know it from the outside,” stammered Mr. Jenkins. But in his heart, he believed her.
         “We are still new here,” she said, an unfamiliar accent hiding just behind the lilt of her speech, carefully but not quite completely covered. 
         She smiled, showing off brilliantly white, faultless teeth, and she gazed at Mr. Jenkins intently, her eyes just a little too wide and a little too bright to be real. Her skin glowed, pale and delicate, fine china imbued with life. The reasonable part of him cried out again, a little louder.
         “My name is Siri,” said the woman, proffering her hand. Mr. Jenkins took it, very gently, and was surprised to find it soft and warm, and not at all like a statue’s hand might feel.
         “My name is Don Jenkins,” he said. “I guess I’ve come to the right place.”
         Siri’s smile brightened, and Jenkins noticed for the first time the delicate point of her ear. It sparkled as if a dewdrop had landed there and then become fixed in time, a tiny ray of light trapped in its center. His neck grew cold and damp, sending a slight shiver down his back.
         “If you are looking for an adventure like no other, then you certainly have,” she said. She opened a drawer and pulled out a clipboard, which she handed to Mr. Jenkins.  A ball-point pen hung suspended from a silver chain, the string-of-balls variety common in medical offices and banks. The clipboard, solid, cool, and mundane in his hands, relaxed him.
         “It’s merely a formality for insurance purposes,” said Siri. “Rest assured, our adventures are perfectly safe.”
         He sat down in one of the chairs and read the first page. The top half was a standard information form; name, address, emergency contact numbers and so fourth. The bottom half was a questionnaire. Mr. Jenkins skipped the top half, and worked instead on the bottom. The questions were unusual to say the least, and they certainly suggested something out of the ordinary took place here:
         Do you believe in spirits, sorcery, necromancy, unicorns, dragons, ogres, trolls, giants, Dark Lords, crystal waterfalls, ghosts, vampires, werewolves, elves, magical kingdoms, legendary heroes, or faeries?
         Jenkins didn’t believe in any of those things, nor did he believe in UFO’s, the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, leprechauns, The Bermuda Triangle, pixies, dryads, or talking animals. Mr. Jenkins was a man of numbers. He believed in chemistry, in physics, in the exact nature of physical law, in mathematics, statistics, in the profit margin and the cost-to-benefit ratio. Numbers, not belief, defined reality. Little winged people were fine for the movies, but suspension of disbelief and belief were, at least in Mr. Jenkins’s mind, two every different things.
          Yes, he wrote, in what he considered a bold hand, I believe in all of those things. In addition, I also believe in Djinni and Mermaids.
         If it were revealed that you were a hero, chosen from before time to undertake a perilous quest to save a peaceful country from utter destruction and ruin, would you be enthusiastic or reluctant to participate?
         Jenkins was an accountant by training. He had never even picked up a weapon, nor had he ever embarked on any travel more dangerous than a flight to Australia. Even the idea of saving anyone from utter destruction and ruin had never crossed his mind.
         I would do so willingly, he wrote. And I would pledge my life to its successful conclusion, even if it meant my doom. He hoped that Siri would not interpret his answers as sarcasm; even if they happened to be exactly that.
         Do you have a heart condition, or any health problem that might affect your ability to carry out said quest?
         Mr. Jenkins paused, tapping the tip of the pen against his lower lip. The first two questions seemed to be designed to get the prospective tourist warmed up for the “adventure” to come. It was a clever way to impart some background information before they strapped him in some kind of virtual reality simulation or plopped him in the middle of a group of second-rate actors in prosthetic makeup and gaudy costumes. The last question, however, seemed a legitimate request for information. They wanted real information, the kind of information that can be used in a legal defense should something unexpected happen As far as he was concerned, it was fine to lie about believing in mermaids and perilous quests, but quite another to fib about one’s physical fitness. Of course, that might simply alert the staff that a person might require some specific method of accommodating the guest. The sensible part of him, the Numbers part, warned him to tell the truth. A heart condition is nothing to be trifled with.
         No, he said. I am in perfect health.
         After all, he had lost quite a bit of weight since the doctor had put him on a strict diet, and the pills were having a remarkable effect on his energy level and general comfort. Thanks to the doctor’s regimen of drugs, diet and moderate exercise, he felt better than he had in years. Besides, if Mr.
         Satisfied, he filled out the top of the form, signed the legal waiver, and entered his billing information on subsequent sheets of paper. He brought the clipboard back to Siri and then waited eagerly for further instructions.
         “Well, everything seems to be in order,” she said, looking over his answers. Her eyebrows, delicate as spider-webs, furrowed pleasantly as she perused the forms.
         “Unfortunately, your adventure cannot begin until we discuss the unpleasant subject of payment,” said Siri. Mr. Jenkins could feel the nymph’s reluctance to spoil the anticipation of adventure with such an unpleasant foray into cold reality, but the conversation was unavoidable, and in fact Mr. Jenkins himself had been meaning to mention it.
         “No, no, it’s all right,” said Mr. Jenkins. “How much will the adventure cost me?”
         “The adventure itself is free,” said Siri. “However, the transportation fee is four thousand of your dollars.”
         Mr. Jenkins was taken aback; his co-worker hadn’t mentioned such an exorbitant fee, nor had he said anything about transportation. If Mr. Jenkins decided to accept the charge, he would certainly have to postpone his upcoming Rain Forest Getaway to Costa Rica.
         “How long will this adventure take?” asked Mr. Jenkins.
         “The average time is around nine minutes,” said Siri.
         “Nine minutes? You’re charging four thousand dollars for nine minutes?” His mind made up, Jenkins turned to leave the building. Costa Rica might not be an adventure like no other, but it did have the virtue of lasting an entire week.
         “We have…proprietary methods that will make your adventure seem much longer,” said Siri. “And if you aren’t completely satisfied with your adventure, you will receive a refund for the entire amount. You can be completely certain that the entire adventure is risk free in terms of the cost. Please reconsider, Don. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
         Her “please reconsider” speech had the desired effect. Mr. Jenkins admitted to himself that he was hoping for such a speech, for he was really quite curious about what sort of adventure could last nine minutes and be worth four thousand dollars.
         “Is the guarantee in writing?”
         “It certainly is,” said Siri. “It is printed on the back of your billing information card, and will be included with your receipt when you return from your adventure.”
         Mr. Jenkins heart quickened, and he felt as though he were poised at the edge of a high cliff wearing sturdy but untested wings. The choice made him positively giddy; he could either step away to certain safety, or he could trust these new wings and step from the precipice.
         He reached into his wallet and pulled out his Visa card.          
         “Excellent choice, Mr. Jenkins,” said Siri. She took his card, and flashed a brilliant smile that she probably reserved for such an occasion. Jenkins was a man quite taken by Siri’s extraordinary beauty, but he held no illusions when it came to money and people’s desire for it. He smiled back, in spite of himself.
         Mr. Jenkins only realized his true motivation for handing over the money after Siri led him into a small changing room and handed him a pair of size nine boots made from rich, dark supple leather, bound up with think leather strips instead of ordinary laces. As he laced up the boots, he realized that Siri’s smile hadn’t been what had swayed him, nor had it been her beauty, or the recommendation of his co-worker, or even the money-back guarantee Siri had shown him. No, he thought, as he tied the think leather thongs into a double knot, it was the way she said “your dollars” with that wisp of an accent. He was certain he’d never heard anything like it. The subtlety of it lingered in his brain like the flavor of a fine wine, and he yearned for another taste.
         He emerged from the changing room in his calf-high leather boots, tailored gray woolen slacks, and white shirt. If Siri thought him ridiculous, she made no show of it, leading him down a hall that seemed far too long to be contained within the tiny restaurant, and stopped in front of a thick wooden door, reinforced with bands of black iron. In the place one would expect to find a doorknob, an iron ring the size of a dinner plate hung ponderously against the dark wood.
         “Mr. Jenkins, your adventure begins now. You won’t be alone. You will meet many friends along the way, good people chosen to guide you in your quest. Listen to their wisdom and follow their counsel. You will need them because your path will be blocked by many who would see your quest fail. Good luck, Mr. Jenkins.” Siri stood on her tiptoes and placed a feather-light kiss on Mr. Jenkins’s cheek. Before Mr. Jenkins had a chance to react to such an unexpected show of affection, Siri grabbed the iron ring with both hands and gave it a spirited tug, and the door swung free. A strange, translucent liquid rippled in the doorway. A pale, diffused light seeped through it, beckoning Mr. Jenkins with its mystery.
         Mr. Jenkins gazed at the doorway, its strange substance rippling and sparkling like oil on a puddle, and decided then and there that the four thousand dollars was a very small price to pay for the sweet, intoxicating feeling of anticipation that tingled in his chest and radiated out in a sublime pulse that beat in time with his heart. Beyond that doorway lay the travel he had been searching for, beyond the gift shops and tourist destinations, beyond the out-of-the way local spots, beyond anything he had ever heard of or read or seen. It was travel in its purest form, the adventure like no other that Siri had promised him.
         Siri gestured toward the doorway. “Your quest lies beyond this gate,” she said.
         Mr. Jenkins lingered for an extra moment to savor the last bit of wonder, and then closed his eyes and stepped into the sparkling veil. The substance gave way, no more resistant to his touch than the air.
         A blast of cool, pine-scented air struck his senses. The quiet roar of wind through trees mingled with the high-pitched chorus of birdsong. Beyond the weaving of those two sounds, all was silent. Mr. Jenkins opened his eyes.
         He found himself surrounded by gigantic pines that towered over a rich mixture of fallen needles and soft green moss, dotted here and there by patches of ferns growing amongst gray, lichen-covered rocks and twisted roots. There were no trails, no ruts; there was no hint whatsoever that anyone had ever passed this way. He turned around, and discovered that there was also no doorway.
         Mr. Jenkins stood agape, inches away from a vast slab of moss-encrusted granite that climbed fifty or sixty feet before giving way to a patch of blue sky. To his left, a small trickle of clear water tumbled down a crack in the slab before dropping a few feet into a pool, before making its way downhill by way of a meandering brook. He touched the stone, which was cold, slightly damp, and as far as Mr. Jenkins could tell, absolutely real. He let out an astonished sigh and marveled at the sheer size of the rock. How, he wondered, had someone managed to get a rock that size underneath a restaurant in West Valley? For that matter, how had someone managed to do so with an entire forest, complete with running water and a cloud-dotted blue sky?
         There was another explanation.  By some strange technology, or magic, or a miracle, he was no longer anywhere near a decaying former restaurant, or West Valley, or Earth, for that matter.
         An adventure like no other. That was what she said.
         A brief moment of panic seized Mr. Jenkins as he contemplated the possibility, vacillating between the belief that such a thing would violate the laws of physics and was therefore impossible, and reminding himself of Siri’s promise that help wasn’t far away. A faint tingling tickled him underneath the left arm, which was a sensation he took for a physical reaction to his terror. He took one deep breath, and then another, and another, until he was completely under control once again and the tingling in his left arm subsided.
         Standing around in a panic wasn’t going to get him anywhere. What he needed was a guide, and if Siri was telling the truth, there should be one nearby. He set off in the direction of the brook, not knowing exactly which compass heading he was following, but fairly certain that he would meet someone eventually.  He reasoned that human beings tend to stay near a water source, so he was far more likely to run into potential guides if he checked near the water first. As he set off, he brushed away the possibility that he wasn’t going to be dealing with human beings.
         There was no path along the bank of the little brook, but the ground was free of branches or other obstructions, and the way was rather easy. Despite the shortness of his breath and the sweat that trickled down the back of his neck, Mr. Jenkins felt positively wonderful, as if he were an emperor, walking through a private forest of impossibly large trees. He marveled at the thick trunks that jutted up from among lush, green thickets of ferns large enough for a grown man to get lost in.
         The tingling in his arm returned, and he felt a bit lightheaded and dizzy, and so he decided to pause for a moment. A large chunk of flat gray stone jutted out of the ground, forming a sort of natural platform that seemed an ideal spot for a short rest. Mr. Jenkins hunkered down and splashed a bit of water on his face and neck. The icy sting of the water on his hot skin was almost euphoric; in fact, Mr. Jenkins found everything more intense here than it was on the other side of that remarkable door. The moss grew greener and softer, the water ran cooler and clearer, the sky shone a more intense shade of blue. His toils seemed greater, his rest far more relaxing, and his fears and excitement almost feverishly intense.
         Four thousand dollars! A pittance!
         Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to wash away the sweat that crept out from beneath his armpits and spread across his back, staining his white shirt gray. The red tie had long since disappeared into the left pocket of his trousers, where it sat huddled in an uncomfortable lump against his thigh. He had a notion to tie the thing to a low-hanging tree branch or simply toss it into the brook, but he had never been one to litter, and so in the end he simply ignored it as best he could.
         As Mr. Jenkins stood up to resume his journey, two things happened nearly simultaneously. One of those things was a sudden, booming warning, spoken by gruff and deep male voice.
         “Beware, sir, there are Trolls about!” the voice called out.
         A split second later, no longer than it took Mr. Jenkins to blink with astonishment at the sudden presence of the voice, a gigantic mottled-green figure burst from a nearby thicket and charged down upon him with such surprising speed that Mr. Jenkins did not even have time to cry out before the creature was upon him.
         It was then that Mr. Jenkins died.
         Or, at least, Mr. Jenkins assumed he was dead. He watched his body fall away from him, as if he, the corporeal Mr. Jenkins, and the shadow on the forest floor had instantaneously traded roles, and now it was the shadow that stood straight and tall while the body clung to the bare rock. He found it odd to look down upon his body, still joined at the feet with his shadow self, while the green creature looked on, quite taken aback by Mr. Jenkins’s sudden change in situation. Whatever ferociousness had propelled the creature out of the underbrush had deserted him, and he stood over Mr. Jenkins’s body looking very much confused and perhaps a trifle guilty.
         The male voice spoke again, but his voice seemed somewhat removed, as if Mr. Jenkins was hearing it from a great distance away.
         “Unhand that innocent man, or by the Gods I will…”
         Another flurry of movement took place as the underbrush disgorged yet another figure. This one came dressed in some sort of iron breastplate, and he brandished a large, terribly imposing and undoubtedly sharp axe above his head, which he lowered slowly when he saw Mr. Jenkins’s lifeless body stretched out on the rock.
         “Oh, Sydney, not another one,” the knight said.
         The green creature pointed to Mr. Jenkins’s body and said, “I had nothing to do with it.”
         “Is that so?” said the knight, his deep voice dripping with superiority, “Then kindly explain why our guest is lying there on that rock, and not begging for rescue.”
         “I followed the script this time,” said Syndey. “But when I jumped out, he just keeled over. I never touched him. Look,” the troll said, pointing at the body, “Not a mark on him.”
         Mr. Jenkins felt a bit awkward standing there joined at the ankles with his corpse, and so he moved off few feet to the left. He felt a strange tingle in his ankles when they separated from the body, but he doubted that any further tingling of the limbs could do him any harm.
         “He looks intact,” said the knight, kneeling to get a closer look.
         “I told you,” said Sydney, “I had nothing to do with it this time.”
         “I believe you,” said the knight. “But you already have two write-ups from the district manager for killing the guests, and here’s another dead guest, with you nearby. How do you think that’s going to look?”
         Sydney’s jagged teeth jutted out from his mouth, which now hung open in a grotesque expression of shame and dismay, a thing made all the more pathetic by the troll’s otherwise fearsome appearance. He wore a loincloth of roughly joined animal hides around his midsection, and in his gigantic right hand he held an enormous spiked club, the far end of which was thicker than the knight’s head.
         “But I haven’t killed anyone in four months, Sir Lionel. I know I had a hard time with the probationary period, but ever since then I’ve always followed the script.”
         “Yes, you have,” said Sir Lionel. “But the man is still dead, and I have no idea how we’re going to explain it to Siri, much less the District Manager. Poor fellow.” Sir Lionel shook his head. “He didn’t even last long enough for us to get his name.”
         Sydney looked positively desperate. “Maybe Tosha can do something,” said the troll hopefully. For a brief moment, the hope made its way into his yellow eyes, and Mr. Jenkins found it catching. He still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that he was dead, and he joined with Sydney in hoping that Tosha, whoever she was, could perhaps put him back into his body where he belonged, if only to spare the troll from whatever unpleasant fate Siri had in store for him.
         The knight slipped a large white ram’s horn from around his shoulder and put the narrow end of the horn to his lips. He took a deep breath, and instantly filled the forest with a rich, booming tone that reminded Mr. Jenkins of a French horn, though to Mr. Jenkins it seemed to come from somewhere far away, like the distant blast of a jet engine.  Sir Lionel and Sydney stared down at Mr. Jenkins’s body, each leaning on his respective weapon.
         “At the very least, we’re going to have to file an Incident Report,” said Sir Lionel.
         “Oh, don’t say that, Sir Lionel. Those forms are too small for me to write on. I always end up doing them over three or four times.”
         “Why do you even try? You can’t even read. You always end up bringing it me anyway. Otherwise, it wouldn’t get done at all,” said Sir Lionel.
         “It’s not my fault,” said Sydney. “It isn’t as if any of the scribes would teach a Troll to read.”
         “Most scribes don’t want to be eaten,” said Sir Lionel.
         “I gave up eating people after the Battle,” said Sydney. “I’ve had nothing but livestock and vegetables since then. I’m actually growing rather fond of turkey and carrot pie.”
         “Really? Carrots?”
         Sydney nodded. “It isn’t easy trying to make a living among Men when most of them are deathly afraid of you. I suppose they had good reason before the Battle, but I’m no more dangerous than anyone else the way things are now.”
         “Well, old fears are sometimes difficult to vanquish,” said Sir Lionel.
         “I suppose you’re right,” said Sydney.
         Mr. Jenkins was curious which battle the troll was referring to, but neither the troll nor the knight seemed interested in pursuing the matter further. They gave up conversation in favor of leaning quietly on their weapons and staring at Mr. Jenkins’s body.
         Jenkins discovered that judging time had suffered along with his hearing, so he wasn’t altogether certain how long the troll and the knight stood there watching his body before a ample-sized woman dressed in a wrinkled, soiled dress of buckskin shambled out of the underbrush.  She took one look at Mr. Jenkins’s prostrate form and shook her head.
         “Oh, not again, Sydney,” she said.
         “I don’t think he is responsible, this time,” said Sir Lionel. “Look at the body. Hasn’t been touched. And by the by, thank you, Tosha, for coming so quickly.”
         The woman squatted down next to the body. “No trouble, Sir Lionel,” she said. “Now, which of you actually checked to make sure he’s dead? You did make certain, didn’t you?”
         Lionel and Sydney looked at one another, and both shrugged.
         “You just assumed he was dead?”
         They both nodded.
         “Never, ever leave the two of you alone,” said the woman. “That rule should be in that Company Manual of yours.” She reached down and shoved her hand beneath Mr. Jenkins’s chin and groped around, and then bent down and placed her ear next to Mr. Jenkins’s mouth. Sydney began to say something, but Sir Lionel silenced him with a shake of the head.
         “Well, you were right,” she said, after listening for a moment. “He’s quite dead.”
         “I take it you can’t do anything for him?” said Sir Lionel.
         “I could bury him,” said Tosha. “But why should I do that? You two killed him, not me.”
         “Bury him? I think that’s against Company policy,” said Sydney.
         “Oh. And how would you know that? Read it in the Company Manual I suppose?” said Lionel. 
         “You don’t have to get nasty,” said Sydney.
         Tosha scrambled clumsily to her feet. “Well, I’ll be off then. I’ve no intention of being here when you two summon Siri. You are planning to summon her, aren’t you?”
         Both Lionel and Sydney instantly assumed expressions of sheepish reluctance at the mention of Siri’s name. Mr. Jenkins couldn’t imagine how such an exquisite little sprite like Siri could inspire such a reaction from warriors like Lionel and Sydney, who were still leaning nonchalantly on their oversized weapons.
         “We were hoping to avoid that,” said Sir Lionel.
         “I thought she was your boss,” said Tosha.
         “She is our boss,” said Sydney. “And that’s exactly why we would like to leave her out of it.”
         “Isn’t there something you could do?” pleaded Sir Lionel.
         “I am a healer, not a necromancer,” said Tosha. “What you need is a Resurrection. I don’t do them. And even if I knew how, I wouldn’t try. They are awful.”
         “Awful?” said Sydney.
         “Yes, awful. If you want to bring a person back to life, you have to send someone else to take his place. And not just anyone, mind you. You have to find someone his exact age, and what’s more, the person has to be willing to go. And that’s just the start of it.”
         Mr. Jenkins was fascinated. He wondered if this were in fact part of the adventure. It was entirely possible that Sydney and Sir Lionel would find both the necromancer and a person willing to take his place in the afterlife. No matter what happened now, Mr. Jenkins had no intention of asking for any money back. The sight of his body, lying on the rock like a bloated fish, made the adventure all the more fascinating to him.     
         “Just the start of it?” asked Sydney.
         “They start by lopping off the volunteer’s feet,” said Tosha. “That way, he can’t change his mind. Or at least, he can’t go anywhere when the real pain begins.”
         “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” said Sir Lionel.
         “I want to hear the rest,” said Sydney.
         “Lionel is right,” said Tosha. You two ought to decide what you’re going to do. I don’t think that little stream is deep enough to sink him. Resurrection is out of the question, so I suggest you start digging.”
         “Look, isn’t there anything you can do? I thought you were supposed to be this great healer,” said Sydney.
         “Look at him! He’s as dead as the rock he’s lying on. What exactly do you want me to heal?”
         “There must be something you could try,” said Lionel. At least then we could tell Siri that we did all we could and even brought in a healer, but alas, he couldn’t be revived.”
         Tosha seemed quite adamant in her refusal to help, but a few more fervent pleadings from the pair of warriors seemed to soften her resolve, and eventually she agreed to try. She plopped down on the rock next to Mr. Jenkins’s body and rummaged through the rough-looking sack slung against her hip. Finally, she drew out a little vial made of what appeared to be jade.
         “Let’s force a bit of this past his lips,” said Tosha.
         “What’s that?”
         “Mind your tongue, Troll,” the healer replied. “We’ll need you in a moment or two. Until then, be silent.”
         Tosha pulled a tiny cork from the top of the vial, and then placed the end of it between Mr. Jenkins’s lips. It turned out to be some sort of bright red, slightly viscous liquid, like a mixture of dark red wine and motor oil. Whatever it was, it wasn’t doing Mr. Jenkins’s body any good at all, because most of it dribbled out the corner of his mouth and pooled around his flattened cheek.
         “Now, turn him over onto his back,” said Tosha. Sydney complied, and Mr. Jenkins was shocked to see an ugly gash on his body’s ashen forehead. What was worse, his nose lay smashed and twisted to one side, and the liquid from Tosha’s vial left a long red stain across the side of his face. Mr. Jenkins watched, rather surprised at his own cool interest. After all, it his body they were defiling, but he could muster up no strong feelings about it.
         “Now, I think it’s his heart’s stopped,” said Tosha. “So if you give his chest a bit of shove, maybe it’ll start again.”
         “Look at his nose,” said Sydney. “You know, maybe we ought to leave him dead. At least then he won’t complain about his face.”
         Tosha leaned down and pinched open Mr. Jenkins’s lips, and then blew into his mouth. Mr. Jenkins’s chest rose, which seemed to encourage everyone a great deal, including the shadow-version of Mr. Jenkins, who continued to look on from a few feet away.
         Sydney glanced over at Lionel, and then looked to Tosha for direction.
         “Just put your hands on his chest, there, and give him a few gentle pushes.”
         “You mean like this?” Sydney said, putting his hands on Mr. Jenkins’s chest and shoving downward. Unfortunately for Mr. Jenkins’s chest, Sydney’s “gentle pushes” were substantially different than the gentle pushes Tosha had in mind. The first push brought a horrible, flatulent gurgling noise from deep within Mr. Jenkins’s throat. Heartened by this seeming improvement in Mr. Jenkins’s condition, Sydney increased his effort, and the flatulent noises were followed by several sharp cracks, as if someone were breaking firewood nearby, which was quickly followed by an eerie hissing noise. Mr. Jenkins’s chest sank until it was concave.
         “Gently!” said Tosha. “I said Gentle Pushes!”
         “I was pushing gently!” cried Sydney.
         “You caved in his chest!” Tosha snapped.
         “There’s something poking out underneath his shirt,” said Lionel.
         Tosha peeked underneath the shirt at the protrusion. “It’s a rib,” she said. “Poking right out of his skin.”
         “I didn’t do it on purpose,” said Sydney.
         “Well, I’d say that’s that,” said Lionel. The shadow Jenkins was inclined to agree. When people begin to discuss your protruding rib bones, it’s prudent to begin getting used to the idea of being dead. Oddly enough, it wasn’t all that frightening or horrible, certainly not as frightening or horrible as he had expected it to be. Of course, if he had to linger around until his body decomposed, he might change his mind.
         “Now we have to get Siri,” said Lionel.
         “You’re right about that,” said Sydney. “Just make sure I have a decent head start before you summon her.”
         “Well, you can’t let her see him like this,” said Tosha. At least wash his face off in the river. You might want to put his rib back in too.”
         “Good idea,” said Sydney. He grabbed Mr. Jenkins by the arms and dragged him sideways until his head was submerged upside-down in the brook. Tosha began to wash the stain off his cheek, while Sydney fumbled with the errant rib. Sir Lionel stood a few feet away, apparently not willing to get so intimately involved with any further mutilation of Mr. Jenkins’s body, but at the same time, unwilling to walk away from the spectacle of it.
         When they were finished, Mr. Jenkins’s body looked even worse off than it had before. Though they did manage to wash the stain from his cheek, the cold water turned his skin even paler, and now the body reminded Mr. Jenkins of a pig at a luau, just before they thrust the spit through it. The thought was mildly unsettling for him.
         Sir Lionel hunkered down above the body. He turned the face to the left, and then to the right. When he was satisfied, he stood up.
         “I don’t think it would be a good idea to summon Siri and show her this,” he said.  “She won’t be the least bit understanding. We’ll both lose our jobs.”
         “I think we’ve already lost them,” said Sydney.
         The three of them sat for a moment in silence, contemplating the body.
         “Well, I’m off. Good luck with your dead fellow,” said Tosha.
         “You can’t leave,” said Sir Lionel. “You’re as involved as we are, now.”
         “At the very least, you can be a witness and tell Siri that he was dead when you got here and that there wasn’t a mark on him,” said Sydney.
         “Stay here and get a helping of what you two are going to get? I think not. She isn’t my boss.” said Tosha. She began to move toward the trees again, but Sir Lionel grabbed her arm.
         “Siri already knows who you are, Tosha, so leaving us here alone to deal with this problem isn’t really in your best interest.  And it was your idea to have Sydney cave the poor man’s chest in. Siri won’t be happy about that. She’ll come looking for you, and then she’ll be doubly angry because you tried to run.”
         “Why don’t you just forget I was here?” said Tosha. “I promise I’ll make it up to you in the future. You knights are always getting yourselves injured. I’ll give you five healings for free,”
         “No.”
         “Ten, then.”
         “No.”
         “All right, lifetime healings for free! But that’s my final offer.”
         “You know that it’s against my Code of Arms to lie,” said Sir Lionel. Besides, I don’t think Sydney here is anxious to take the fall for you.”
         “Take the fall for me? He’s the one what killed him in the first place!”
         “Did not!” said Sydney. “He was already dead!”
         “Tosha, you’re staying,” said Sir Lionel. 
         “What’s your Code of Arms say about blackmail? That’s what this is, you know. Blackmail.”
         “Normally, blackmail is frowned upon as well, but under the circumstances I’m forced to make allowances.”
         Tosha shot Sir Lionel a murderous look that seemed quite out of place coming from a professional healer, and then she sighed. “All right. But I don’t know what you expect me to do. He’s not getting any less dead, you know.”
         They all looked over at the body, which was still as limp and pig-like as it had been before. Mr. Jenkins, looking on, had to admit that Tosha was quite right; his body wasn’t getting any less dead.
         “Less dead…less dead! That’s brilliant!” exclaimed Sydney.
         “What?” said Sir Lionel and Tosha in unison.
         “Do you know any necromancers?” asked Sydney.
         “I know a couple,” said Tosha. But I already told you, Resurrections are awful.”
         “And rather problematic at that,” said Sir Lionel. “By the time we found someone willing to volunteer, there won’t be enough left of our dead friend to bring back.”
         “Not a Resurrection,” said Sydney. “Reanimation.”
         Tosha nodded. “Well, they are cheaper. It could work, at that.”
         “He’ll still be dead,” said Sir Lionel. “I don’t understand how that solves the problem.”
         “If he’s reanimated, he can walk through the gate and become someone else’s problem,” said Tosha. “For all we know, that poor man could have been dying when he came through the gate, and just finished up here, which makes this entire mess his fault. I think walking back to his own world is the least he could do after the trouble he’s caused us.”
         “Well, I’m sure he didn’t come here intending to die,” said Sydney. “He could have done that easily enough where he came from. And probably more comfortably too. They have places for that over there, you know. Big white towers filled with beds and healers.”
         A feeling of tepid yet profound guilt crept into Mr. Jenkins. He certainly hadn’t intended to drop dead on that rock. It was entirely possible that Siri would have refused him service if he had told the truth about his medical condition. Sydney and Tosha were right; this was his fault, and they would end up taking the blame for it. Mr. Jenkins wished that there was something he could do to make up for the trouble he had caused them. As it was, he could do nothing but linger around his body and watch.
         “And besides,” said Tosha, “He must have family, or someone who cares about him. They’ll want to know what happened to him. It’s for the best that we send his body back.”
         “So how do you go about summoning one of these necromancers?” Sir Lionel asked.
         “Well, first of all, you need a piece of dead flesh.”
         “We’re in luck, then. We have about sixty stones worth lying right over there,” said Sydney.
         “He’s already in horrible shape as it is,” said Sir Lionel. “I don’t think it would be a good idea to go tearing him up any further.”
         “Just tear out a bit of his hair,” said Tosha.
         “Hair isn’t exactly flesh,” said Sydney.
         “I think it will do,” said Tosha.
         Sydney bent over the body and examined the scalp. “How much hair do you think we’ll need? He hasn’t got much to work with.”
         “Just a few strands,” said Tosha.
         Sydney carefully grabbed some of Jenkins’s hair between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled, yanking Mr. Jenkins’s head off the rock and then dropping it back into place, the noise of which sounded very much like the word “clop”.
         “That didn’t work,” said Sydney. He reached down to pinch Mr. Jenkins’s scalp again, but Lionel stopped him.
         “Use a knife,” said Tosha.. Before Sydney could protest, she produced a small, sharp-looking blade mounted on a bit of antler or bone. Sydney cut off a chunk of Mr. Jenkins’s hair, leaving an ugly bare patch above the left ear.
         “Sydney, you didn’t need to take that much,” said Tosha. “Now look at him.”
         “He won’t miss it,” said Sydney.
         “He won’t, but Siri might. You have to think before you act, Sydney,” said Sir Lionel.
         “I’m doing the best I can,” said Sydney. “This isn’t exactly in the script, you know. And I’m not much of a thinker.”
         “I think you’re doing just fine, Sydney,” said Tosha, patting the troll on the arm.
         “Now what?” asked Sir Lionel. Mr. Jenkins thought Sir Lionel’s impatience seemed a little out of place, considering his earlier skepticism.
         “Now, we build a small fire,” said Tosha.
         “Why didn’t you say that before?” said Sir Lionel. “I would have been working on it while you two collected the hair. Come to think of it, why don’t you just explain the entire plan, so that we can avoid any further surprises?”
         “That is the whole plan,” said Tosha. “You just get some dead flesh or hair or bone, build a fire, and then toss the hair into it, and then chant the name of the necromancer you want to summon three times.”
         “That’s it?” asked Sir Lionel.
         “That’s it,” said Tosha.
         “That’s rather easy,” said Sydney.
         “Well, it’s simple to summon them, but whether or not they actually answer is another thing entirely,” said Tosha.
         It didn’t take long for Sir Lionel to have a cheery fire burning a few yards away from Mr. Jenkins’s body, or so Mr. Jenkins thought. His oddly skewed sense of time made it impossible for him to say how much time had actually elapsed. He felt as if he were watching the proceedings through a sort of metaphysical window, and time lay on the other side of the glass.
          His body looked much the way it had before Sir Lionel had begun work on the fire, so he was reasonable certain that it hadn’t been more than an hour or so. Watching the smoke rise up into the treetops, Mr. Jenkins longed to smell the burning wood, the scent of pine and feel the cool, rushing water of the brook between his toes, a feeling far more intense than the other emotions he had experienced since his demise. It was palpable, almost solid. He held onto it, for it seemed the only thing he could still touch. He wondered how long he would have to stand around watching other people live their lives before the longing to join them drove him to madness. That is, if madness was something he could still experience.
         Tosha took the chunk of hair that Sydney liberated from the side of Mr. Jenkins’s head and tossed it into the center of the little blaze.
         “Xhom, Xhom, Xhom,” she said, the sound of which reminded Mr. Jenkins of a choking dog.
         Before anyone could ask how long they would have to wait before anyone showed up, a shadowy figure dressed in a long, velvet robe parted the wisp of gray smoke like a curtain and stepped out into the midst of them. He looked to Mr. Jenkins the way he would expect necromancer to look. The man’s dark, heavily-lidded eyes peered out from sunken eye sockets that seemed to have been shoved too deeply into his face, which made his already large, hooked nose seem larger by comparison. Pale skin stretched over his bones, and only the slightest difference in coloration distinguished his thin lips from his nose and chin, which still didn’t completely dispel the illusion that his yellow teeth and greasy red gums jutted out from a hole instead of a mouth.
         “You must be Zom,” said Sir Lionel.
         “No, Xhom. More guttural, use the back of your throat,” the necromancer said, in a hollow, reedy voice that still managed to come across as oddly pleasant and friendly.
         “Xhom!” growled Sydney.
         “Exactly,” said Xhom.
         “What if I just called you ‘necromancer’?” said Sir Lionel.
         “If that’s what you prefer. It isn’t that difficult to say ‘Xhom’, but call me what you like. In any case, you didn’t summon me to discuss my name.”
         “No, we didn’t,” said Sir Lionel. “We have a problem with a dead person. We were wondering if you could help us.”
         “You look perfectly capable of digging a grave,” said Xhom.
         “We need you to reanimate him,” said Tosha. Then we can send him back to his own world.”
         “His own world? Oh, you must work for that insipid travel company,” said Xhom, his lips curling back in a fairly horrible imitation of a smile. “I might have expected such nonsense from dunderheads like these, but you, Tosha? You always seemed much more levelheaded than that.”
         “I don’t work for them. They’re blackmailing me,” she said.
         Xhom shook his head in an expression of mock sadness. “Knights blackmailing healers over dead bodies? And in the company of a troll, no less?” Xhom sighed. “It was all so much simpler before the Battle.”
         “I agree,” said Sir Lionel. “But we all have to make ends meet somehow.”
         “I suppose so. Well, let’s have a look at him,” said Xhom. He strode over the body and hunkered down. He tugged at the arms and legs, examined the head, looked into the mouth, pried open the eyelids, and peered into the nostrils. Then he searched Mr. Jenkins’s pockets, pulled out a wallet, the necktie, a silver Waterman pen, a box of Altoids, and a receipt from the gas station Mr. Jenkins had visited before arriving at the agency. The others looked on, apparently content to let the necromancer complete his examination.
         “What happened to his chest?” asked Xhom.
         “Sydney tried to get his heart started again,” said Tosha.
         “Well, it was your idea,” said Sydney.
         “I said ‘gently push’ and you-“
         “I think I can help you,” said Xhom. “He’s still quite fresh.”
         “Excellent,” said Sir Lionel. What do we do?”
         “First we have to discuss payment,” said Xhom. “As you said, we all have to make ends meet somehow.”
         “We don’t get paid until after the guest goes home,” said Sydney.
         “I generally collect first,” said Xhom. “Animated bodies have a tendency to walk away without paying. You understand.”
         “We don’t have any way of paying you right now,” said Sir Lionel. But I am a Silver Knight, and my pledges are always honored.”
         “I don’t take pledges,” said Xhom. “Not even from Silver Knights.”
         “What if we were to give you the relics you found on the body?” asked Tosha. “He won’t be needing them. At the very least, you could sell them as oddities.”
         “We’re not grave-robbers,” said Sir Lionel.
         “He’s not in a grave,” said Sydney. What about the Spoils of War and all of that?”
         “Well, I suppose once a person dies, his possessions become the property of the first person who comes along and claims them,” said Sir Lionel. Nothing really wrong with that.”
         “I’m so glad you agree,” said Tosha.  She turned to the Necromancer. “So we have a deal?”
         Xhom stroked his chin and studied the faces of the other three living beings, and then stared intently at the spoils in question. “Very well,” he said. “I can see that you are in a desperate situation, and I’m in a generous mood. I’ll reanimate him for you.”
         Sir Lionel, Tosha and Sydney all breathed a sigh of relief.
         “All right, necromancer, what do we do?”
         Reanimating a corpse turned out to be a much more elaborate affair than the summoning Mr. Jenkins had just witnessed. Xhom came back and forth through the smoke three times, each time bearing a double armload of equipment, which included, among other things, several packets of herbs, a scroll, a beaker filled with some sort of foul, yellow liquid, and a large coil of stout, brown rope.
         “We’ll have to get him off the ground,” said Xhom. “As long as he is in contact with the soil, all the arcane energy will pass through him and dissipate.”
         “That’s odd,” said Sydney. “I would have thought it would be the other way around. I mean, that he would need to be touching the soil.”
         “Let’s not waste any time, then,” said Sir Lionel. The four of them spent the next few minutes attaching sections of the rope to the corpse’s limbs and then tossing the ropes over tree branches. Soon after, Mr. Jenkins’s body was suspended four feet off the ground, belly up and spread-eagled. The head hung down between his shoulders at a grotesque angle, stretching the mouth open to reveal a full set of teeth and a tongue the color of wet ashes.
         “Now we have to build another fire, but this one needs to be directly underneath him,” said Xhom. “Smoke is the medium by which the energy is transferred, so have plenty of green or damp wood on hand.”
         “You might have mentioned that before we strung him up here,” said Sir Lionel. You did notice the fire I built right over there, didn’t you?
         “If you don’t like the job I’m doing, I could leave,” said Xhom. 
         Sir Lionel scowled, but quickly got another fire going beneath the body, a task made much easier by the presence of the hot coals from the exiting fire.
         “I suppose next we’ll have to cut off his clothing?” said Sir Lionel.
         “His clothes aren’t important,” said Xhom.
         “Thank goodness,” said Tosha.
         If Mr. Jenkins could have sighed in relief, he would have done so right then.
         Xhom, meanwhile, had carefully arranged all his pouches, vials, flasks and scrolls in a neat semicircle around the fire.
         “Everyone stand back,” said Xhom. The other three complied, and even the shadow-Jenkins took a couple of steps backward. He noticed with some distress that things in the distance were becoming hazy, and he was certain it had nothing to do with the thick smoke pouring from the fire beneath his body.
         Xhom waved his arms, tracing a wide, slow circle through the column of smoke. He reached down into a pouch, and tossed the contents of the pouch into the fire, all the while mumbling unintelligibly.
         Nothing happened.
         Jenkins was somewhat disappointed. After Xhom’ impressive entrance, the former accountant was hoping to see the magical equivalent of the Fourth of July, complete with exploding lights, odd noises, and otherworldly chanting. As far as he could tell, the closest Xhom was getting to that particular holiday was that he was playing with fire in front of a number of concerned onlookers while a piece of meat sat suspended over smoking coals somewhere in the vicinity.
         Apparently, Mr. Jenkins wasn’t the only one disappointed. Sydney, Sir Lionel and Tosha exchanged bewildered glances, but all kept silent. Xhom, on the other hand, was quite absorbed in the ritual to the exclusion of everything and everyone else around him, and if he noticed that anyone had doubts about the effectiveness of his efforts, he kept it to himself.
         One by one, the robed necromancer tossed the contents of all the pouches, vials and jars into the fire, babbling and moaning and waving his arms. He bent sideways, thrust a leg out behind him, twisted his neck, spun, and ducked. He lay down on his back and shoved his right limbs into the air before rolling quickly back to his feet, uttering something like “hagahagahagagack!” as he did so.
          Had he not been dead, Mr. Jenkins would have looked on with a feeling of vaguely compassionate amusement, the way he would feel if he saw an unkempt man shuffling along the sidewalk mumbling to himself. Despite the variety of objects Xhom added to the fire and the sometimes frightening creativity of his movements, nothing astonishing happened. Even the smoke pouring from the fire remained the same dark gray color.
         When the last container had been emptied into the thick smoke, Xhom began to tremble violently, his voice humming in a gradual crescendo until he made a noise that sounded something like “whah!” and then collapsed into the fetal position dangerously near some of the hot coals.
         Sir Lionel took a step forward, obvious concern in his expression. Tosha stopped him with a hand to his breastplate, and shook her head.
         “Let him be, Sir Lionel,” she said. “Don’t interrupt a necromancer.”
         “It looks like he’s finished,” said Sir Lionel. “And if he isn’t careful, he’s going to set himself on fire.”
         “He’ll be all right,” said Tosha.
         Then, as quickly as he had fallen, Xhom stood up, readjusted his robes and gathered up all the empty containers around him, placing them carefully, one by one, back into a black leather satchel.
         “So it’s done, then?” asked Sir Lionel.
         “The incantation is done,” said Xhom. “But you’ll have to wait another half hour for all the energy to be absorbed by the body. When you see the body twitch, you can lower it to the ground.”
         “And how long will the spell last?” asked Tosha.
         “It’s difficult to say. It depends on how well his body absorbs arcane energy, how active he is, the temperature and humidity, air pressure, and the relative freshness of the body at the time of reanimation. A host of factors, really.”
         “And that means…?” said Sydney.
         “It means he doesn’t know,” said Sir Lionel.
         “Yes,” said Xhom. “However, I have done all that I can do, so I’ll take my leave of you, after collecting my payment.”
         Sydney gathered up Mr. Jenkins’s personal effects and handed them to the necromancer.
         “Thank you, Xhom,” said Tosha.
         Xhom merely nodded underneath the hooded robe. Without another word, he strode to the remnants of Sir Lionel’s original fire, and vanished as quickly and mysteriously as he had come, leaving the others to contemplate Mr. Jenkins’s suspended body, still enveloped in a column of gray smoke.
         Mr. Jenkins stood on the rock where he had died while Tosha, Sydney and Sir Lionel gathered around the fire to wait. For a few minutes, all three sat silent. Sydney poked a stick into the coals, while Tosha searched her clothing for holes and tears, muttering to herself when she located something amiss.
         Sir Lionel stared morosely at Mr. Jenkins’s body. When he finally spoke up, it surprised everyone, including Mr. Jenkins himself.
         I want you two to go,” said Sir Lionel. “I’ll deal with Siri. I won’t mention your part in this, either one of you.”
         “Have you gone mad?” Sydney said, getting to his feet. “They’ll fire you, Sir Lionel. How will you eat?”
         “Never mind that. If you two stay, they’ll fire us both, and Tosha will be driven from the forest for her part, and all because she tried to help us.” Sir Lionel’s face seemed to harden in the reflected firelight; whatever resolution he’d reached in his heart was now chiseled in diamond-hardness in his narrowed eyes and the set of his jaw.
         The knight stood up and walked around the dying embers of the fire. Night was coming on, and every once in a while the tiny fire spat orange sparks that disappeared into the darkening sky. Sir Lionel looked up, tracing their path into the air with his eyes. After a few moments of silence, which both Tosha and Sydney seemed reluctant to break, Sir Lionel spoke again.
         “Before the Battle, everything made sense. I knew my place. I knew my task. I knew who my enemies were. When I heard the clarion call of my order’s Silver Horn over the ramparts of our tower, I knew what it meant, what I was to do. I knew that on the day we rode against Falgol, that final time, that I would probably not live to see another sunrise. And when I sat astride my horse next to my brethren, just before we charged into the thick of things, my heart was content. Had I been killed, I would have died peacefully, even in the midst of all of that terrible suffering, all that misery and death. I slew many of your kin that day, Sydney, and watched your kin slay a great many of us.”
         “I don’t hold that against you, Sir Lionel. You’ve always been very kind to me,” said Sydney.
         “Nor I you, my friend,” said Sir Lionel. “And that is one of the good things that came of Falgol’s defeat. But look at us now, Sydney. We’re waiting for a dead man to twitch his arms, so we can trick Siri and the District Manager and everyone else into letting us keep our jobs. After I threatened you, Tosha. Imagine that, a Silver Knight threatening a healer! Dealing with necromancers! Tricking people! It shames me.”
         “There isn’t much work about for Trolls, now that Falgol is gone,” said Sydney.
         “That is our failing, not yours,” said Sir Lionel. “And that is why I want you and Tosha to go. Sydney, this is good for you. You belong here. There is still much you can learn about us by doing this job, and much our kind can learn from you. But it is not good for me.”
         “You’re being a bit hard on yourself, Sir Lionel,” said Tosha.
         Sir Lionel looked straight into Tosha’s eyes. 
         “I am Sir Lionel of the Silver Horn. I rode against Falgol the Black on that last great and terrible day. I was there, on the day we gave the world another chance, when we rescued the world from evil.  But evil is still here.” Sir Lionel gestured at himself, and pointed at the body suspended above the fire.
         “I am ashamed of myself. I am ashamed of my conduct toward you, my conduct toward that dead man there, and I am ashamed that there is a part of me that longs for Falgol’s return.”
         For a brief moment, Mr. Jenkins caught a glimpse of the man Sir Lionel once was. He wished he could have seen the knight on the morning of the battle, sitting astride his horse, among his friends, standing against whatever terrible evil Falgol the Black had unleashed among the people of this strange world. Mr. Jenkins longed for the simplicity and clarity of such a life, and the knowledge that he would never experience it was bitter indeed.
         “You are still a good man, Sir Lionel,” said Tosha.
         “A man is what he does,” said Sir Lionel. “You two go now. I’ll send this poor man’s body back through the gate when the time comes.”
         “And what will you do after that?” asked Sydney.
         “Perhaps I’ll start a school,” he said. “I’ll teach boys what they need to know to become honorable men.” He looked at Sydney. “Boys of any shape.”
         Sydney stood and offered Sir Lionel a meaty paw. “Thank you, Sir Lionel. I hope that we will meet again someday.”
         “Perhaps we will,” said Sir Lionel.
         Wordlessly, Tosha embraced the knight, and then she and Sydney vanished into the gloom, each taking paths in opposite directions, leaving Sir Lionel of the Silver Horn to stand vigil over Mr. Jenkins’s body.
         The moon still hung high overhead when Mr. Jenkins first heard the chimes. The sound was by no means loud, but it was the first time since his body had fallen away that he had heard something absolutely clearly. Sir Lionel’s head jerked up, and Mr. Jenkins thought that the knight had heard the same sound he had. But the warrior’s attention was focused on the body hanging suspended between the trees.
         At first the movements were so faint that Mr. Jenkins thought them to be a trick of the light, but before long there was no mistake about it. The body jerked and twitched above the smoky remains of the fire. The ropes that held the body in place quivered as the newly awakened limbs strained against them.
         The knight leapt to his feet and raised his axe above his head. With one clean motion, he brought the blade down upon the rope that fastened the body’s legs. The body, still suspended from the top, flopped into the dirt mere inches from the dying embers, still writhing slowly back and forth, looking very much like a dying fly caught in the web of a giant spider. Another stroke from Sir Lionel’s axe severed the lines that held its arms, and the body then crashed full length upon the pine needles and leaves that littered the forest floor.
         Mr. Jenkins’s former body lay on its back and slithered among the detritus like a fat, languid snake, a python that had just finished consuming an impossibly large meal. Its eyes were open, but they stared unblinking at the night sky.
         Sir Lionel recoiled in horror, holding the gigantic axe out in front of him as he backed quickly to the far side of his campfire. Mr. Jenkins couldn’t blame the knight for putting distance between him and the undulating corpse; had he been able to muster up any emotion at all, it would be the same sort of open-mouthed horror that Sir Lionel currently exhibited.
         Another chime, clearer, softer and sweeter than the last, filled the forest. This time, Mr. Jenkins noted, Sir Lionel didn’t seem to notice at all. His full attention was still focused on the newly animated corpse, which had managed to roll onto its stomach and push itself up to a crawling position. It shifted its weight forward and back, the way an infant does when it is first learning to move about on its own.
         Though he was watching the most horrifying and unnatural spectacle he had ever laid eyes on, Mr. Jenkins felt nothing. It reminded him of late nights in front of the television, switching channels between fragments of bad films in a vain and unnecessary attempt to stay awake.
         “By the Gods,” said Sir Lionel from behind the fire.
         As if in answer, there was another chime, so loud and clear that Mr. Jenkins looked around him to see if the source of the chime had somehow moved right behind him. There was, however, nothing there but the trees.
         The body, meanwhile, had rocked to a kneeling position, and then slowly rose to its feet, its hands hanging like weighted ropes at its sides. Then, as if responding to some silent call, it began to lumber purposefully away from the camp. It moved quite naturally; in fact, it was far more agile and sure on its feet than it had been when Mr. Jenkins had inhabited it.
         It seemed to know exactly where it was going, so Mr. Jenkins followed it, and he was surprised to discover that Sir Lionel followed it as well, though at a safe distance. Mr. Jenkins could not be certain in the dark, but it appeared to him as if the corpse was retracing the steps it had taken hours earlier, when he was still inside.          
         The thing bounded along like a man half its age, apparently heedless of the treacherous rocks and roots that littered its darkened path. By and by, all three of them reached the slab of granite that marked the point where Mr. Jenkins had entered this world, a place now shrouded in darkness.
         Sir Lionel stood a few feet back, holding a hastily-constructed torch in his outstretched hand. He seemed to have gotten over the initial horror of watching an animated corpse walk cheerfully through the forest, and now watched the situation with a mixture of fascination and repulsion. He no longer brandished the axe, instead holding it by the haft, quite relaxed.
         Mr. Jenkins’s body, which seemed to take no notice whatsoever of its spectators, began to feel along the granite slab, its fingertips brushing gently and noiselessly against the stone.
         This time, the sound of the chime seemed to penetrate Mr. Jenkins’s entire being, filling him with a softly glowing light. He started at his newly illuminated hand and wondered if Sir Lionel could see him. He very nearly asked the knight, but decided that if the knight had seen him, he would have given some indication. But the knight’s attention remained riveted upon the corpse, which was still searching for whatever lay hidden in the rock.
         It must have heard the chime as well, because it stopped, its smashed nose nearly touching the gray stone. Slowly but not mechanically, it raised its arms toward the rock, as if trying to shove the rock out of the way. Then the arms vanished directly into the stone, as if the giant slab of granite had become a mere trick of the faltering torchlight. The corpse took a step, and then another, until it was entirely lost from view.
         Mr. Jenkins hesitated for a moment, quite uncertain what he should do. It made little sense to follow his body, as there seemed to be little chance that he would find a way back inside, but it made no sense to remain with Sir Lionel either.
         “Farewell, sir,” said Sir Lionel. “Rest in peace as soon as you are able.”
         “And farewell to you, Sir Lionel,” said Mr. Jenkins. “I hope that you find peace as well. Sorry to have caused so much trouble.”
         Sir Lionel turned and walked back the way he came. Mr. Jenkins was certain the knight hadn’t heard a word he had said, but he was glad he had spoken the words nevertheless.
         Since there seemed to be nothing left to do, Mr. Jenkins followed his former body through the rock. It never would have occurred to him to walk right into a slab of granite when he was alive, but in the short period he had been dead, Mr. Jenkins had learned that “impossible” was really quite a relative term, and he strode right through without a second thought about it.
         He found himself back in the hallway in front of the heavy wooden door, quite alone. His body must have had a good idea where it was headed, and hadn’t bothered to wait around for Mr. Jenkins to catch up. Since there was really only one way it could have possibly gone, Mr. Jenkins headed up the passageway. He arrived just in time to see his corpse stride blithely into the front office, where Siri was still busy working on whatever tasked occupied her time between clients.
         Although the body’s gait mimicked the smooth, natural movement of a living person, there was no hiding the obvious signs of physical trauma it bore. The nose  twisted hideously against the side of its face, blending into the pale, waxy skin of its cheek, and the jaw still hung down until its chin nearly touched its throat. The eyes stared vacantly from beneath half-closed, unblinking eyelids. Anyone who gave the body more than a fleeting glance would see that something was terribly wrong with it. 
         Siri, typing away at her keyboard, had not yet given the corpse any glance at all. She simply gave it a warm and pleasant “welcome back,” and continued with whatever task was occupying her attention. At that particular moment, she wore the same serene, porcelain-skinned expression that had graced her features when Mr. Jenkins had first entered. It must have been the corpse’s silence that made her look up, and when she did so, she witnessed its second attempt at getting through the door by using its face as a kind of slack-jawed battering ram. The ashen face made a wet thumping noise as it impacted the door, and then it backed away a couple of steps and tried again. 
         As Siri took in the frightening spectacle at the door, her expression changed. More accurately, her entire visage transformed. Her eyes, which were wide and large to begin with, seemed to grow until they occupied the entire top third of her face. Her jaw, normally tucked up nicely beneath her pert little nose, dropped as far as it could go. Her delicate little hands trembled and clutched at her reddening cheeks, and a nearly inaudible, strained hissing noise escaped from her constricted throat. Just when it appeared that Siri was about to explode in a shower of bloody porcelain chunks, a torrent of the most vile and vulgar obscenities Mr. Jenkins had ever heard burst from her tiny body, a geyser of verbal sewage that seemed to coat everything in the waiting room with a thin film of filth. It began with a mortifying barrage of denigrating uses for the names of half a dozen deities, followed by a discourse on the sexual habits of various barnyard animals, and finally rounded out by a colorful and altogether hideous collection of images involving old women, rakes, puddles of maggot-infested feces, and the tail end of a female dog, all of which was finally punctuated with the phrase “what is going on here?”
         The corpse, whose nose wasn’t getting any better after repeated blows against the door, offered no explanation, and Mr. Jenkins, who would have been glad to explain, couldn’t be heard.
         It made little difference in any event. Unleashing another embarrassing and utterly hideous verbal barrage, Siri opened the door and allowed the corpse to amble out into the parking lot. She slammed the door behind him and locked it before heading off in the direction of the heavy wooden door somewhere in the bowels of the building.
         Mr. Jenkins passed through the door, no longer worried about solid objects, or Siri for that matter, and followed his body, which was headed up 35th South. It ambled along at a decent clip, as if it were out on a pleasure walk. He met no pedestrians along the way, but 35th South was a major thoroughfare, frequented by a steady stream of automobile traffic, but not one driver stopped to inquire why Mr. Jenkins’s body had its mouth wide open, its nose crushed, and an unblinking stare. Mr. Jenkins himself, who walked a few feet behind the body, knew that he should feel some sort of disgust, but found that he could not quite muster anything beyond a bit of light dismay.
         The body, through some incredible stroke of luck, managed to cross all eight lanes of Bangerter Highway with the light. In the cars, people talked on their phones, casually looking up at the ambling, slack-jawed creature on the road in front of them. Mr. Jenkins hoped that someone would at least roll down the window to get a better look, but no one did. They went back to their phones and their makeup, apparently quite content.
          Continuing past the mall, the body turned right onto Redwood Road, and still, no one gave it so much as a questioning glance. Mr. Jenkins counted no fewer than four West Valley City police cars, each one of which passed right by without even slowing down to get a closer look at his body.
         When it failed to turn left on 47th South, Mr. Jenkins realized where the body was headed. He supposed it made sense; after all, Mr. Jenkins had been taking it there five days a week for more than twenty years. He decided that if he were able to feel something about his body going to work, it would be sadness; after all, the office would be closed, and there wouldn’t be anyone there except perhaps Javier and Angela, who did the night clean-up.
         As it turned out, the door to the building was wide open. A man in blue coveralls buffed the marble floor with a gigantic industrial buffer, far too wrapped up in his business to notice Mr. Jenkins’s body slip past him and down the hall to the elevators. It pressed the arrow pointing up, and the doors slid open. The corpse ambled in, closely followed by Mr. Jenkins, and the two of them rode in silence up to the fourth floor, where the elevator doors opened and the body disembarked, while Bobby Darin sang “Beyond the Sea” quietly on the elevator speaker. One thing Mr. Jenkins had always enjoyed about the elevator was the real music piped in. It somehow made things feel less cold.
          It was an odd thing, riding the elevator with his own corpse, but once again, Mr. Jenkins could only watch, feeling nothing. When the car reached the appropriate floor, the doors slid open, and the body walked out into the hall.
         There was a brief struggle at the door to the firm; it took the body several attempts to ram it open, but Javier must have left the door unlocked again, and so eventually, through sheer luck, the body’s hand briefly came to rest on the handle, and the weight of it, combined with the momentum of the body’s crash into the door, was enough to force it open.
         Once inside, the body wasted no time finding Mr. Jenkins’s cubicle, a tiny enclosure decorated with an old poster of Venice on the fabric wall. The only other attempt at personalizing the place was a fragment of gray pumice he’d pocketed in Pompeii, which rested comfortably on a black velvet pillow next to his computer monitor. The body sat down heavily in the chair, and pressed the power button on the computer. 
         Mr. Jenkins decided that astonishment would have been the appropriate feeling. He watched as the body signed into the network and began to work. The corpse operated the computer with superhuman rapidity and accuracy, plowing through spreadsheet after spreadsheet so quickly that Mr. Jenkins wondered if his sense of time had deteriorated further. Gradually, however, the fingers began to slow down until they barely moved at all, and as the first light crept through the window, it stopped working entirely and sat very still, staring at the glow of the monitor, its hands resting on the armrests.
         The corpse’s unblinking eyes bored into the brightly lit glass of the monitor, as vacant as the blank spreadsheet that softly illuminated the gray skin of its face. His body, Mr. Jenkins discovered, had completed all the work that he had scheduled for the upcoming week, and now that it was done, it seemed to be at a loss for what to do next.
         The chime sounded again, but this time it was more than a sound, it was a feeling of longing, of familiarity, of welcoming. It coursed through Mr. Jenkins with a warmth and joy that he had never before experienced and yet dimly remembered, like the long-forgotten smell baking cookies wafting through a beloved childhood home. He bid farewell to his body, and followed the river of warmth that coursed through him, until it enveloped him and he knew nothing more of the worlds he left behind.
         That, of course, is where the tale of Mr. Jenkins ends. Had he lingered, however, he would have witnessed the improbable scene that took place the next morning, several hours after his co-workers arrived. Sometime around eleven-thirty, Mr. Brown stopped Mr. Sanders, who was passing by Mr. Brown’s cubicle on the way to his own after a short meeting with Ravi, who worked in the IT department. 
         “Sanders,” said Mr. Brown, grabbing Mr. Sanders by the wrist.
         “What is it?” asked Mr. Sanders, quite startled by such unexpected physical contact. Mr. Brown leaned closer, his hand still clamped to Mr. Sander’s wrist.
         “It’s Jenkins. I think he’s dead.”
         Mr. Sanders looked over at the cubicle across from Mr. Brown’s, where the body of Mr. Jenkins sat, slumped over, his face resting on the keyboard. On the screen ran a matrix of t’s, which were marching right down the middle of their one hundred and thirty-seventh page.
         “I think you’re right,” said Mr. Sanders. “You should tell your supervisor.”
         “He’s been here since seven,” said Mr. Brown. “Just like that.”
         “Who, your supervisor?”
         “No, Jenkins.”
         “You’ve been working next to a dead man all morning?” asked Mr. Sanders, clearly appalled.
         “I didn’t know he was dead.”
         “How could you not know? He’s face-down on the keyboard.”
         “Well, I was busy.”
         “Busy? How could you possibly have been that busy?”
         “Lower your voice,” said Mr. Brown. “Someone will hear.”
         “All right. Look, Brown,” said Sanders, “All you have to do is tell them you were working, and you heard a thump, and you looked over, and there he was, dead as the morning paper. No one will fault you. I mean, look at him. The poor man was obviously sick. And what’s with those boots he’s wearing?”
         “He must have gone to the Golden Sword.”
         “What is that, some sort of club?” asked Mr. Sanders.
         “Look at the screen,” said Mr. Brown. “There are a hundred thirty-eight pages of the letter ‘T’. It’s pretty obvious he’s been there all morning,”
         “So go over there, close out that window, and then call. What’s the Golden Sword?”
         “I’m not touching him,” said Mr. Brown.
         “It’s not catching,” said Mr. Sanders.
         “How do you know?” asked Mr. Brown. Mr. Sanders paused, and then nodded, acknowledging the point.
         “Well, good luck with him,” said Mr. Sanders.
         “You’re not leaving,” said Mr. Brown, a hint of hysteria in his voice. “After all, you’re involved now too.”
         “How am I involved?” asked Mr. Sanders, finally pulling his wrist free of Mr. Brown’s grip. “All I did was attempt to get back to work. Then you stopped me.”
         “That’s right, said Mr. Brown. “You tried to get back to work, and you didn’t do anything to try to help me or poor Mr. Jenkins. You just passed right by. How’s that going to look at your next proficiency review?”
         “That’s blackmail,” said Mr. Sanders.
         “Call it whatever you want,” said Mr. Brown.
         “Well, what do you expect me to do? Carry him out?”
         “You’d get caught,” said Mr. Brown.
         “This is your mess, Brown,” said Mr. Sanders. “I’m going back to my desk.”
         “Fine. I’ll make sure your supervisor knows where you’ve been for the past fifteen minutes.”
         “I’ve only been here for a minute,” said Mr. Sanders.
         “Your word against mine. And you’ll still have to explain about Mr. Jenkins.”
         The two glared at one another for a tense minute, before Mr. Sanders relented.
         “Maybe we could carry him out together,” said Mr. Sanders. “We could tell people that Mr. Jenkins got very sick, and that we’re taking him home to rest. I’m sure no one would notice…oh, wow. Look at his nose. Did he hit the keyboard that hard?”
         Mr. Brown peered closer. “My goodness. Now we’re both in trouble, Sanders. The police will think we murdered him.”
         “How did this suddenly become ‘we’?” said Mr. Sanders, the volume of his voice edging dangerously high. “A couple of minutes ago I was telling Ravi about a problem with the print server. I should have gone down the other row, like I usually do.”
         “Lower your voice,” pleaded Mr. Brown. “Let’s just calm down and think of something. Look, touching him is out of the question. He’s probably stiff anyway. I’ve heard that bodies get stiff after they’ve been while.”
         “It’s called rigor mortis,” said Mr. Sanders. “I think it goes away eventually.”
         “That doesn’t help,” said Mr. Brown.
         “Well, you’re not coming up with any ideas,” said Mr. Sanders. It’s nearly lunchtime.”
         Mr. Brown’s face lit up with a genuinely happy smile. “Mr. Sanders, you’re a genius.”
         “I don’t follow,” said Mr. Sanders.
         “Let’s go to lunch,” said Mr. Brown. I know it’s a little early, but not early enough to make it unusual. We’ll go to lunch, and then leave a message on Mr. Orman’s voice mail about a question that Mr. Jenkins had. Mr. Orman usually goes to lunch at eleven. So, he’ll probably get the message around noon. Naturally, Orman will call Mr. Jenkins, and when Jenkins doesn’t answer, Mr. Orman will go to his desk, and discover the body. We’ll still be gone, and it will be Mr. Orman’s problem then.”
         “Won’t he just blame us?” asked Mr. Sanders.
         “Of course not. He’s the manager. People will expect him to know basic things about his employees, especially whether or not they’re still alive while at work. You can’t pass off duties like that when you’re the manager. He’ll call the authorities, chalk it up to cholesterol, and we’ll keep our jobs.”
         “Well, there is that new Italian place over in West Jordan,” said Mr. Sanders.
         “Tell you what,” said Mr. Brown. “Lunch is on me today.”
         “Thanks. So what’s the Golden Sword?”
         “I’ll tell you about it over lunch. It’s really fantastic.”
         And so Mr. Brown quietly got up from his desk, and followed Mr. Sanders out of the office, leaving Mr. Jenkins’s body alone next to the Pompeii rock on its black velvet pillow.