written by Lisa M Peppan

a night fit for the purplest of purple prose, doom-saying ravens, and opium induced visions of the blackest Hell.

'Twas -- also -- a fit night for the world to end.

Again.

William Throckmorton drew in yet another lung-full of his Havana, pondering the likelihood of the others arriving in time.

The reading lamp flickered.  He exhaled slowly, and watched the smoke swirl in opaque eddies above its green enameled shade.  But they will come, he told himself, draining his snifter of its deep amber liqueur.  Continent crumbling earth tremors did not stop them before; land drowning rains would not stop them now.

Outside, the deluge of rain made rivers of streets and byways, engendering chaos in the already panicked populous.  In counterpoint to the rain, a holly bush flailed the north wall of the house, rattling like fingers on the wrong side of a coffin lid.  Thunder shook the small house down to its old stone foundation.

Sirens wailed in discordant symphony to the keening howl of the wind.

First came the drought.  Lakes and rivers waned, all manner of living things died; water waxed more precious than gold.  Then came the rain, O! so welcome after the long drought; sweet, wet, life-giving rain. There had been dancing in the streets.  The grass sang.  The trees hummed.  Procreation was varied and abundant.  In the midst of this celebration of life, the sun ceased to exist like it had been swallowed whole by some great beast.  And then came the wind.  Believers and nonbelievers alike pleaded for salvation, begging their gods for deliverance, filling churches, temples, synagogues, and bars, to overflowing.

The memory of this and too many corny cartoons of unkempt, barefoot men with "The world is ending" signs danced through William's memory, and a sardonic grin plucked at a corner of his mouth.  Were one foolish enough to stand on a street corner--now--making so obvious a declaration, one would find the world too terror struck to pay heed.  "Ah, what fools these mortals be," said William to his empty glass.

Knickknacks rattled on their assorted shelves as the house shook from a blast of wind.

For William Throckmorton the wind renewed the knowledge of who he was: one of twelve conservators of humankind.  As such, he had been alive for a frightfully long time and had acted in concert as midwife to that ancillary progeny--twice.  His lapse of memory. . .?  Self-induced oblivion to safeguard reason.  Skepticism followed revelation, followed by deep contemplation of his mental stability.  However, it had been a welcome change from the apocalyptic terror he'd shared with his neighbors, and a relief.  Relief that the banshee wind wailed not for him.

There was a knock at his front door.

Extinguishing his cigar in the crystal ashtray, William rose from his armchair. With unhurried ease he went to welcome the first to arrive.

Doctor Florence Curry swept in with a rush of wind that sent the unfinished sonnets on William's writing desk whirling like autumn leaves.  She skinned out of her drenched overcoat, eyeing the dark oak bar.  "This cycle was the longest yet."  Lightning flashed.  "It's a mess out there."  Rain water drizzled from her thick titan red hair.  "The ER was swamped."

"Cognac?" asked William, pouring her one and setting it on the brandy warmer.

There was a rumble of a nearby explosion.  The lamp blinked, once, twice, thrice, and went out.

Giving it full credit for lasting as long as it had, William addressed it directly. "Farewell, dear friend.  Parting is such sweet sorrow."

"You quote yourself well," said Florence with a smile that could be heard in the dark.

"It is begun," stated a new voice in the darkness.

William lit a purposely convenient oil lamp, "You have ever been the one for dramatic entrances, Manny.  One day you will explain to me how you do it."  He handed Florence her drink and poured one for Manny.

"Tis a gift." Manny Mandragora, prestidigitator par excellence, smiled at him from a straight-back chair in one corner.  "No one EVER sees my exits, so I simply MUST compensate with my entrances."  He bowed his head, humbly.  "Besides, if you knew how it was done, you would no longer be impressed."  Holding out a hand, he added, "No need to warm it."  The drink went from the bar to his hand in the blink of an eye.

By ones and twos, the nine others arrived.  They had been delayed by the storm; rivers that had jumped their banks, flooded roadways, city drowning tidal waves; landslides and earthquakes that made maps useless.

Fist-sized hail had just joined the hogshead rain.  Despite it all, or, belikes, because of it all, those who needed to be there were present.  They were the same six men, the same six women who had gathered on a crumbling quay millennia ago.  Twelve individuals who had lived lifetimes of subtle, and not-so-subtle, mentorings, who had watched loved ones age and die, who had sought the sweet respite offered by the River Lethe, only to suffer the resurrection of dolorous self-awareness.  Of these fine things and more each had done.  Twas cold comfort that when this cycle ended, and the new begun, they would do all this and more again.

As they always had.

As they would continue to do.

"Are we ready?" Manny extinguished the oil lamp, then produced a sheathed dagger on a leather thong from a pocket of his discarded coat.

"Are we?"  William took a step forward.  "Are we truly?  Humanity continues to subject one another to carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts, accidental judgments, and casual slaughters.  Why not let new players take the stage?"

"It's not time," answered Lothar Gunner in a rumbling voice better suited to the battlefield.

"And though bootless our task," added Oma Ledyard, shaking an ancient finger at William, "we will continue until there's nothing left to continue with.  Then, and only then, will your new players take the stage of life, William.  Now, no more lollygagging.  Manny--if you will."

Manny tied his dagger's thong about his bare neck, glancing at William, an eyebrow cocked in silent question.

The sirens had stopped.  Or perhaps it was the steady drum of hail and rain drowning out all else.  Or the wind howling like wolves on the hunt. William shared out the last of the cognac from its cut crystal decanter, and raised his snifter in toast.

"To the poet, writer of prose
To the physician, healer of woes
To the farmer, planter of dreams,
And to the scientist, seeking to know.

"To the magician, weaver of wonder;
To the warrior, tamer of thunder;
To the artist, painter of life
And to the teacher, a shaper of minds.

"To the musician, singer of epic
To the priestess, bane of the skeptic
To the builder, creator of hearth
And to the elder, life's long living tome."

Shots of blood-warm liqueur were swallowed, emptied glasses set aside.  Clothing was shed in a casting off of earthly personas.  The center of the living room was cleared of furniture, making room enough to draw the circle.  A moment of silent contemplation, as thoughts were ordered.

Manny drew the dagger, spoke to it briefly, then aimed it at the floor.  A glowing green dot appeared where the primitive blade pointed.  He paced out the circle, and, shortly, a glowing green line encircled the twelve.  The dagger was sheathed.  Hands were joined.  "As it has been before, let it so be again."

Thunder boomed in response.

"We are the people and we live forever," said the Poet, bidding silent farewell to words he'd written--and would write again--both fare and foul.

Lightning flashed with an audible sizzle.

"We are the people and we live forever," said the Physician, knowing the cures that were would heal ailments to come--in one fashion or another.

The ground groaned like a tired old soul.

"We are the people and we live forever," said the Farmer, looking forward to all that must be done toward the greening of the new cycle.

The wind howled like a lonesome wolf seeking the comfort of the pack.

"We are the people and we live forever," said the Scientist, feeling the joyful dread of old discoveries to be rediscovered.

The house shuddered on its foundation.

"We are the people and we live forever," said the Magician, delighting in the challenge of charging the minds to come with the possibilities of How and Why.

One after the other, each of the twelve spoke the ritual words.  Green light filled the room.  At each utterance, the tempest grew louder, the rain and hail fell harder, until the words were no longer audible.

In the backyard of William Throckmorten's home, lightning struck an old sprawling ash tree.

The tree had been there as long as it could remember.  Springs and summers, autumns and winters.  It had survived fires, freezes, floods, and droughts; inquisitive young gods hanging from its branches, and the cold dark things gnawing its roots. Silent and solitary in its vigilance, it had survived all Man could contrive.  It had survived Time itself, and it would survive this.

A second bolt of lightning, and a third, jagged down in rapid succession, shaking the ancient sentinel to the tip of its roots.  The fourth one struck, like an old sun gone nova, engulfing tree, house, town, and all.