Orders of magnitude

[Grimm]

Stories are living, breathing entities. They change over time based on the needs or motives of the teller. They change because of the very nature of memory, its fickleness and unreliability. They change because the blind spots swirling around us need filled with something. And so they are passed on, from one generation to the next, with power in the repetition. Fragments of the collective unconscious.

For instance, over the ages some have said the eldest Dillinger son had actually been formed of the clay and limestone upon which Hangtown stands. Marked on the forehead with his One True Name and raised with singular purpose in mind. Still another popular account holds that, due to the very nature of Hangtown (which shall be addressed soon), its distinctive atmosphere of place mingled with the focus of the crossroads, and, after a sprinkle of stumpwater and turpentine and iron dust, a genius loci strode forth with an exacting and terrifying single-mindedness. The monster in “here there be monsters” had had enough lingering on the edge of the map.

Or maybe Phinehas Dillinger is indeed just a man. Sitting on a porch up All Souls Hollow, whittling away on a hickory stick, waiting on the next match. And the one after it.

No matter which tale you believe, there is no Phinehas Dillinger without his homeland. The Black Hand knew this. I won’t bore you with the details -- it has all been addressed before -- but suffice it to say the location is the result of much study and figuring and consulting of various auguries. And so begat Hangtown.

Of course, as we have been discussing, who is to say how much of that – if any of that – is true. Accurate and dependable or not, it’s all you have to go on. It ain’t like any of the likes of you will ever have access to the Book the Black Hand. That’s where they keep the good stuff. Thrills and sorrows, curses and vectors, all of it written in ink, soot, coffee grounds, and blood.

One thing has been repeated that is true, though. As strange and wonderful as it sounds, Hangtown could not be located unless you were invited…or, rare as it was, they just let you in. No compass pointed the way. No map had so much of an inkling of its location. And that person who somehow experienced such a visit would conduct their business and return to their own reality without knowing where they’d been or what they’d done. Some might say that emerging from all of that wandering into something resembling civilization (or so Hangtown appeared) was an oasis in the midst of a desolate land, but that’s not quite right. Oasis gives the impression of a refuge. What’s the opposite of that?

Anyway…all of that comes closest to explaining the predicament in which Matthew Metallinos and Marcus Marx find themselves. Though they, being the sober, level-headed gentlemen that they are, find it all too extraordinary to believe.

And yet…here they are. Walking along the closest approximation of a path on which they could agree. Glints of things in the dark, flashes of glass and metal. Serenaded by tunes of lilted gibberish, interspersed with lamentable silences. Passing through random bone-chilling cold spots. Taking stock of wafting odors, those of old vegetation, unfamiliar wildflowers, freshly turned earth. Stepping over ditches running thick with muck.

The pair stop to catch their breath and make some approximation of their bearings.

Marcus says, “Ruth’s directions could have been a bit clearer.”

“I don’t think her directions have anything to do with it. Look around you.” Matthew waves his arms around at the mosses and the fogs. They stand there watching Worm Moons and Corn Moons and Hunter’s Moons and Cold Moons wax and wane overhead.

Marcus is close to resigning himself to the derangement of his senses. How long have they been at this? “Yeah, well…”

Is that…gingerbread he smells?

They move on. Picking through odd shades of fungus and lichen. Feet crunching the last of the hoarfrost and snow. Trying their best to not get drawn down side passages to burial mounds and dead suns, where snakes and ghosts wait for them. Seemingly a land of gloom and chaos. A true dark and bloody ground.

And also, those signs that followed them that believed: they cast out devils, spoke with new tongues. Took up serpents and drank deadly poison. Laid hands on the sick and they recovered.

Wait, no. That’s meant for Seromine. Sorry.

Seromine! Are you there?

We get it. Grimm’s a sinner. Stormm’s a sinner. Rick Majors, Tyler Scott, Jason Willard, all sinners. None are righteous, no not one. A fool, though…a fool claims to be wise, but despises wisdom and instruction. And you, friend, were quite the fool when you instigated this.

Marx and Metallinos are on the verge of giving up. Nothing left to do now but lay down in sackcloth and ashes and let this place have its way with them. But then they step out of the woods into a clearing. Shielding their eyes against the sudden solar onslaught, even one cloaked by a thick layer of pewter, they make out a figure standing by a split-rail fence.

With that hair and that gingerbeard, here in this place, it can only be one person. And they curse inwardly at the sight of the Hangtown Horror. Oh, yes, they recognize him. And they are familiar with the stories. With how Grimm is shorthand for your doom.

In his hand he holds that blasted shovel, called Pierce the Earth by some.

Matthew and Marcus may be members of good standing within the Chronological Order, and there may be two of them, but they have not gotten where they are today by going against well laid plans. Besides, where else can they go? Both men run through their nine sorts of faculty and come up empty. They reckon they’ll be found dead, or mad, or stark-raving poets.

They know who he is, and that he knows that they know. Maybe he’ll leave them alone if they don’t let on. But how else to steer the conversation to the topic of Dominic?

A low level drone fills the empty space between them. A vast swarm of bees, somewhere. As they walk out of the woods, they pass a nest of some sort, lodged in the branches of a hollow walnut tree. A nest built of gnawed twigs and lined with black goat hair and the plumage of birds of ill-omen, a nest littered with fairy bones and dragonfly husks.

Matthew shivers and resolves to get this over with as soon as possible. Nothing good can come from lingering.

The man raises a hand. “Hello! What brings you here?”

Immediately, Matthew says, “Dominic Atkinson. Big fellow.”

Marcus casts a scathing glance…but it is why they’re here, and have been here for who knows how long (seriously, how do Watchmen from the Chronological Order have such a sense of missing time??), so why not get to the point.

“Really big fellow. Can’t miss him,” says Marcus, deciding to help move things along.

The man scratches his chinny-chin-chin beneath the beard. “Hmmm. Big fellow named Dominic. Yeah…yeah, involved in some group obsessed with time, right? Trying to find his way in the world. Yeah. And he wrestles, eh? Big match coming up like they all seem to be, something like that?”

Sure, why not. “Yes, and that’s why…”

“Then what’s he doing here?”

The Watchmen both grit their teeth, unable to hide their collective exasperation, but they are at least able to hold their tongues.

Matthew says, “Dominic’s supposedly, um, studying with those Dillingers. But neither they nor anyone affiliated with them have exactly been forthcoming, so we’re here to find him…”

Marcus joins in. “…to stage something of an intervention…”

“…to bring him back to the Order.” Matthew finishes with a brisk nod.

The man also nods, with a bit of a frown. “You’d think the Watchmen would have a better idea of what’s going on.”

That was unnecessary. It’s really hard not to drop the charade with that comment, but common sense prevails.

“We’re concerned he’s taken a wrong turn, so to speak.” It doesn’t matter which one of them says this.

The man twirls the shovel in his hand. “Here’s what you need to know. The Black Hand is a patient bunch. To them, a day is a thousand years and a thousand years is a day. That’s one of the sticking points between them and the Order, but, you know, balance in all things and whatnot.” He waves off the comment, only to continue. “Now, about this match of his…aren’t you the least concerned about that?”

Matthew shrugs. “Yes, I suppose so. But he’s a behemoth. Justin Michaels is not. But, anyway, don’t you…I mean, doesn’t that Grimm fellow have one, too? And he’s been known to spend his downtime around here…”

Marcus casts a side eye. “At least we think this is that here.”

“And if he’s assisting Dominic with his issues, let’s say, how is he going to have time to properly prepare for that match of his?”

The man taps the shovel against his boots, knocking soil from the hobnails. “I’ve been following some of those developments. I mean, Hangtown isn’t that big. It’s hard not to overhear people talking. Dominic has his own…concerns. North American Title and Stormm and such. Not to mention the personal baggage weighing him down. I suspect, given the circumstances, he and Grimm are both on their own. But let’s be fair, it’s how they like it. And you know Grimm. If any of those stories are true – if he’s really the cold-blooded boogeyman of PCW lore – well, he’s going to be fit as a fiddle and rarin’ to go when that bell rings.”

He looks back up at them.

“And, sure, Mass Destruction insinuates that someone in that ring is going to be annihilated. But that’s ridiculous. I…Grimm doesn’t need to go that far. At least, not all in one night. He just wants to beat Seromine into a position in which he no longer has the desire to involve himself in Grimm’s business.“

Marcus raises a finger. “Even so…”

“No, not even so. He’s not going to make any threats about grinding his opponent into dust, or leaving nothing in his wake but a smudge on the mat. Be reasonable, gentlemen. But…Seromine will have regrets. He will question the decisions in life that led him to this. Who knows, maybe this will serve him well. A good stout beating can focus things, give a clean cold clarity to what’s really going on.”

The Red Headed Stranger speaks with a calm certainty. And though his veins may run dark with ice, the pools of his eyes are turbid with meltwater. His mouth breaks forth from the beard, an unsmiling wound upon his face. The Watchmen know not how to answer. And the Hangtown Horror has had enough.

“He’s most likely over yonder,” he says, pointing with the shovel blade, all pits and rust.

Marx and Metallinos nod in thanks – and thinly veiled relief – and head in yonder direction. First a polite jaunt, then breaking into a brisk jog. They pass through an ancient gate into a place of profane myths and old wives’ tales. They move past flickering lamps. The Destroyer-at-Noonday watches them enter, and waits.