See this previous post for a communication to any who would join me in writing.  For a thought on David Lynch, see this article.  And see this article to read the story from the beginning.  Meanwhile…

–

Astrocielo is an idea of space, a spirit pantomime of the real thing, which is why distances within it are so much shorter than in long space.  If no person can truly conceive of astronomical units, then they simply don’t exist in the spirit world.  That makes routing through the astrocielo the best option for faster than light travel.

Everybody knows that the astrocielo is “short space,” though only scholars have a handle on the reason why.  Blasfemia was far from a scholar, but she appreciated the time saved.  You could see it.  In long space, the stars never seemed to change position, no matter how long you flew.  In the astrocielo, strange lights, spirits, and astronaves swam through the cosmos like fish in an aquarium – making it a lot easier to get a sense of progress.

She let the scene wash over her, until she got annoyed with the lack of a copilot chair.  “Why you only have one seat, Corsario?  There’s room for two up here.”

“There’s only one of me.”  There was a double meaning in this.  Spirits only came together as couples or groups if their ideals told them to do so, or if a new ideal formed between them.  In a sense, only spirits who are couples would be couples.

“I’m here now.”

“Won’t be there tomorrow.  Use the bench.”

“You use the bench.  I like the view.”

“You like this view, huh?  I hate it, but I need to be able to see.  You see those lights over there?  The ships down there?  The dragon over there?  They aren’t normally on this route.  Probably refugees from the shitshow at Dio 6.  I need to be able to see them, in case they become a problem – or any of a thousand other things.  Leave me be.”

Blasfemia gave up and went to lay down.

Time passed.  Sleeping in outer space is an uneasy thing, for creatures of the worlds.  A planet’s gravity provides a wonderful sense of stability and security.  The artificial gravity of astronaves could never compete.  Its weaknesses suggest to even the unconscious mind that one is just a mote of dust in a shaft of light, spinning wildly until the day it slips into darkness, and is gone forever.  Blasfemia slept lightly, until the feeling of real gravity returned, and she fell deeper into that gentle darkness.

But the corsario was impatient, and roused her with little slaps on the cheek, like she had once used to prolong the suffering of a dying priest.  “It’s time to see Josefina’s abuelita, little killer.  Rise and shine.”  Its paw was something between cat and human, hard fingernails threatening to raise welts.

She shoved it away.  “God, you know what you look like, right?  Last thing I need to see when I’m first wakin’ up.”

It smiled with little cat teeth.  “I’ll bury myself in the dirt, just for you.”

She sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, then she glared at her captive.  “No cozy dirt naps for you.  You have to come with me.”

It rolled its eye.  “How about I just give you some essential part of the Leveret, so you know I won’t fly away?”

“How the fuck would I know what’s essential on this thing?”

It nodded, and went to retrieve its tool belt.  Blasfemia patted herself down to make sure she still had her own tools.  She remembered herself, and what she was about to do.  It might not be well received, approaching an old woman loaded for bear.  But it couldn’t be helped; she had no idea what to expect in her tower.

The corsario went out the hatch first, and came up with a curved rod-like tool in hand.  That must be the gun, Blasfemia thought.  “Put that thing away.  Prob’ly we don’t see nothin’ but a little old bruja.”

It clicked the tool back in place at its belt, and scanned the scene for trouble.  The sky was dull white along the sunward horizon, dark enough to see stars on the other.  A stiff and endless breeze blew in one direction, unimpeded by hills or mountains, which at least made it easy to shield one’s face from a direct blast.  Neither of the travelers had cold weather clothing, so they didn’t hesitate long before approaching the tower.

Some people had intuitive powers, that flowed from the ideals in their minds.  It was more common in worlds with thin borders between the astral and physical worlds.  Corazon 2 was not such a place, and so intuitives like Josefina and her abuela were rare indeed.  Blood was a factor in the gift; Blasfemia’s natural exorcism was her manifestation of the power.  Education could constrain intuitive gifts to socially acceptable forms, such as the sciences and the priesthood.  But wilder traditions remained, with some number of brujas found on every world.

Which comes around to the tower again.  For reasons long forgotten, brujas love towers.  Some took modern constructions, like abandoned buildings or scientific facilities, but some took ancient towers left over from witches past.  This was one such tower.  It looked like a turret from the corner of a church survived the crumbling of the rest of the building, topped as it was with a spiraling minaret.  The carved calligraphy and symbols on the face had long ago eroded into illegibility, and there was only one door that hadn’t been cemented shut.

Without a moat, and with miles of wide open astronave parking, it was an easy walk.  Good, because Blasfemia would die of cold if she remained in that weather another hour.

She checked the handle on the door.  Unlocked.  Would a hex strike them blind if they went in uninvited?  Blasfemia wasn’t about waiting around anymore.  She went inside, whistling.  “Is there anybody here?”  She remembered her circumstance and shot a quick look back at the captive.  It was standing at the door, seeming ready to sprint away at any moment.  She waved it in.

Some towers are wide open in the middle, with a shaft admitting light from on high.  This one was not, though the bottom floor was fairly tall.  Above their heads hung strange skulls and body parts and jars on strings.  Every wall that wasn’t taken up with the spiraling staircase was instead covered with standard witching fare, illuminated by green and violet orb-shaped lamps on the cluttered workbenches in the middle of the room.  The air smelled like rotting vegetables and wet dirt.

“Have you never been here before?,” the corsario asked, mildly alarmed.

“No.  Never seen the witch, neither.  If Josefina liked her, she’d gotta be alright.”

“You said Josefina came here, and by the fact you’re looking for her, I can surmise you never saw her come back, yes?”

“What you mean, duende?”

“Is she in these jars now?”

Blasfemia drew a tool without thinking and pointed it at the furry black creature.  The metal shaped itself instantly into a wickedly sharp and curved blade.  “Don’t even say that, motherfucker.”

It showed her the bean-like pads at the bottom of its shaggy hands.  “Say no more.”

“Light,” a small voice said, from somewhere on the staircase.  They swung to stare in that direction, but their three eyes still could make out little more than a lump, like a discarded garment.  The lump moved, and said its word again.  “Light.”

Blasfemia picked up a lamp from one of the tables and brought it closer to the stairs.  “You need light?,” she asked.

They regretted taking a closer look.  The thing was wearing a ragged charcoal grey dress with a ruffled collar, but the outline of its body was so irregular that it must be terribly misshapen within.  That would match its head – baby-like, but with some incongruous details of age.  The features on the left including the ear looked as if they’d been pulled like melted wax to the side and twisted.  Hard round nodules of flesh sprang from its bald head like ball mushrooms, at regular intervals – an intentional style?

The corsario shuddered.  “This thing is no duende!  What the hell is it?”

“A duendelina?,” Blasfemia suggested.  A Duende was a spirit incarnate; duendelinas were supposedly possible hybrids between human and spirit.  The word was more often used as an insult for intuitives.

“No, not at all.  I don’t like it, Blasfemia.”

“Shit, what am I supposed to do about it?”

“Light,” the creature suggested.  Blasfemia brought the light closer and it recoiled in alarm.

“OK, it’s just saying the word, not asking for light.  What do you think we should do?”

“I’m a corsario.  You’re the one who knows about witches.”

Blasfemia wished that was true.  It was part of her sister’s life of which she understood very little.  Reluctantly, she pocketed the knife and picked up the creature like a sick animal – cradled, but held slightly away from the body.  Even if it was completely germ-free, it was hard not to think of its deformities as contagious.

“You go ahead,” she commanded.

The corsario was stone-faced, but it complied, mounting the stairs with intense trepidation.

Blasfemia was disgusted as the creature embraced her arm for better support.  Its limbs weren’t attached right.  And yet, it must be very used to getting carried like that.  Somebody kept strange pets.

The pilot tapped at the walls as it passed, and called out to avoid surprising anyone that could turn it into a frog.  “Anyone home?  We found your ‘Light’.  Hello?”

The stairs had doors at irregular intervals to different rooms, but all seemed to have nobody home.  They figured to reduce surprises, get the top and work their way down.  Yet before they reached the summit of the tower, someone responded to the knock.

“Hello?”

The corsario stepped away from the door in shock, as if it had accidentally touched something living and slimy.  Blasfemia got close.  “I’m here for my sister, Josefina.  May I come in?”

“You may.”  The voice was muffled by the door, but high pitched.

Blasfemia worked a hand free from her bundle of joy, and opened the door.  She gestured for pilot to go in first.

The corsario saw the abuela there, sitting in a rocking chair, surrounded by over a dozen creatures like Light.  One sat on her lap like a tiny child, others sprawled on the floor like infants that didn’t know what to do with themselves.  Others were at least well-formed enough to groom each other.

They’d all been murmuring whatever sounds they could manage, but stopped at the sight of the new strangers.  There was a single canopy bed in the room, and Blasfemia eagerly set Light down upon it.

“Are you..?”  The corsario was confused.  The abuela’s face bore none of the signs of age.

“I am Cora Vittoria Calumnia, an abuela to Josefina Teresa Contreras Ortiz.”  Her head was as those of the little creatures – infant-like, but far too large.  Her voice was that of an elderly woman.  She played orchestral music almost too softly to hear, from an unseen computer.

The corsario bowed uncomfortably, not sure of the etiquette for greeting a witch.  “I am–”

Blasfemia cut it off.  “Pleased to meet you.”  She walked over and reached out a hand.  “I’m Blasfemia now.”

The strange woman stopped petting her malformed clone-thing long enough to take Blasfemia’s hand.  The fingers there were entirely wrinkled and withered, showing her age.  “I remember your name, I think.”

The corsario asked, “Should we call you Cora?  Doña?  Abuela?”

“Cora would please me.”

“You don’t call her nothing, duende.  I’ll do the talking.”

It shrugged and turned away.

“But don’t you dare leave my sight!”

It flipped her the bird and went to lean against a bookshelf, comfortably far from the nearest tiny creature.

Cora said, “You should not be cruel to those who help you.”

“I’m not here for abuela advice.”

“You’re here for Josefina.  What would you do if you found her?”

Blasfemia’s face went dead for a moment.  An eye twitched.  Something inside of her wanted to cry, was so close to escaping, so suddenly.  She put it away and smiled, big and phony.  “I’d just give her a big old hug.  I would.”  That much was true, however false her cheer was.

“Why are you Blasfemia now?  What does it mean to you?”

“I wanna destroy the Church.  It’s all I’m living for, lately.  Ximura was a country bumpkin, hunting boogums for chump change.”  She searched herself for a more meaningful way to put it, holding up a hand to stay anyone from interrupting her train of thought until she found it.  “I’ve been killing priests, OK?  Nothing in my life has ever felt more right.  When I see their fancy little smocks burned or bloody.  When I feel them die in my hands.  It is.  All I’m living for, Cora.”

“That’s not what Josefina needs.”

Blasfemia snapped, lunging in and gripping the arms of the old lady’s chair, breathing hate into her face.  “You don’t get to tell me what she needs.  She learned to play with spirits, and the Church made her into the laughingstock of the whole fucking Universe.  She learned that shit from you, witch.  Now I’m setting it right.  I cut out the pope’s heart.  I made the angel Michael fall.”

Finally she let go, crossing her arms to rein herself in.  “That is the truth.”

Cora’s eyes had gone wide in alarm, but at Blasfemia’s renewed restraint, they calmed once more into a bizarre serenity.  The creature on her lap was much less calm, however, and the old woman had to hold it in place with both arms.  She spoke, “Josefina does need you, but not a life of hatred and death.  Just, find something else to live for, please?”

She twitched.  “Like what?  Having kids?”  Blasfemia sneered at the strange creatures.

Cora squeezed her eyes shut, batting away unpleasant memories.  “These are homunculi, made of my flesh.”

The Corsario perked up at the explanation, one it had not expected to be forthcoming.  “Wow.”

Blasfemia shushed him with a hiss.  “OK then.  Should I grow home-buncul-eyes?”

“I shouldn’t have grown homunculi.  I just couldn’t resist.  Something about them appeals to me so…”  She looked at the one in her lap, and shed a single large tear.  It looked back at her, searching for meaning it would never find.

Blasfemia finally looked fully upon the little old lady again.  “Is this a confession?”

“Yes.  No.  It is… an explanation.  I will let you know where to find Josefina, but you must promise to take unto her a little piece of me.”

Blasfemia rolled her eyes.  “Do we gotta?”

“Yes,” said Cora.  “It may be the last thing she ever sees of me.  And they have something of my powers.  I won’t lie to say it is worth the burden of caring for them, but it may prove useful, in some way.”

“God.”

“You say that a lot, for a blasphemer.”

“It don’t mean nothing.”

Cora presented the homunculus on her lap.  “This is my most successful homunculus.  She cannot speak or walk, but she can crawl.  And she understands some words; I know not which ones, or how well they are understood.”

“Please tell me it can use the bathroom by itself.”

“That would be a lie.”

“God damn it.”

“Blasfemia, this is something Josefina would want.  She would love this.  Keep my little homunculus nourished, clean, and safe – and then give it to your sister.”

“I have no choice.  Yes, I will.  Where the hell is Josefina?”

The corsario said, “Don’t trust her Cora.”

Blasfemia cornered it at the bookshelf, a knife to its throat.  “What did I tell you?’

“Temper temper.  The Leveret won’t fly for you, murderer.”

“Where does your fur end and your skin begin?”  She teased apart the fur of its throat with her blade.

Cora simply said, “Hey,” and a sound blared in Blasfemia’s head, like a horn.  She felt a light from inside her skull, that blinded her, sent lances of heat into her body at random, and staggered away from the corsario.

It said to her, “She won’t trust me not to flee at the first chance.  How could you trust her to care for your little clone?  As soon as you’re out of sight, well, I hate to think what could happen.”

“Agh!,” Blasfemia called out, swinging at the air like a drunkard.

“People can be made to keep their vows.  Free will does not mean freedom from consequences.”

“What do you mean, Cora?”  The corsario was amused by the thought of Blasfemia living under a hex.  His amusement was about to end.

Cora stared at the two, and began to speak – each word landing like a cold iron piston into their brains.  “You will both keep your promises.  The pilot will fly Blasfemia to her sister, and Blasfemia will care for my homunculus with her life, until such time as this gift has been given to its intended.  Should either of you break these vows, you will feel the pain of it.”

By the time the old woman had finished her speech, they had both been hammered to the floor – blood flowing from their mouths and ears.  She smiled wanly and tried to comfort her little self one last time.

–