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“I’m happy. Hope you’re happy, too. I’ve loved. All I needed: love. Sordid details following.” - David Bowie.

1. The quest begins.

Marjolen stood on the sandy bank of the river. She dipped the toes of one foot into the warm water. Her toenails were painted bright red, and they glistened in the strong sunlight. A tall elf, Marjolen stood barefoot, in her jeans and a blue, silk blouse, and she glanced upward, at the sunlight coming through the leaves and branches of the tall trees. She sometimes had glimpses of things to be, and yet she had no idea which way this conversation was going to go.

“I’m glad you came,” she said, simply. “For a moment . . . when I called you, there was a moment during our conversation where I thought you wouldn’t.”

“Mexico,” Duncan said, cryptically. He followed up that one word with a cryptic smile. His eyes traveled from the flowing river to Marjolen’s face.

“Mexico?”

“I was thinking about going to Mexico,” Duncan said, nodding his head. A large Pit Bull with dark gray fur, Duncan had piercing eyes and an air of quiet confidence around him. He shrugged, and looked up at the trees.

“Thinking about it, or planning on it?” Marjolen asked.

“Leaning towards planning, I suppose. I hadn’t told Celeste or Rav. Or anyone else, actually.” Duncan sighed. “I was thinking that I could run my businesses by phone, from somewhere in Mexico. Somewhere near a beach, most likely, somewhere warm and far from the city. I don’t know if I was going to go for just a while, or for forever.” He shrugged, again. “And then you called.”

“I found him, Duncan,” Marjolen said, somehow able to keep the eagerness she felt out of her voice. She felt happy, too, and she almost - almost - felt a flicker of hope.

“Are you certain?” Duncan peered at her, with genuine curiosity. “I’ve been doing this for so many years . . . so many years. So many leads, and they all just led to . . . to nothing. And I’m tired.”

“And thus, Mexico.”

“Yes. I just - I was starting to feel like I couldn’t do this anymore.”

“That’s normal. It’s happened to all our friends, Duncan - one by one, over the years, they’ve all felt like that.”

“I know. And they all left - when they got tired, when they felt like they couldn’t go on - they all left. Pere was the last one to leave. And I think - I think I started to feel tired when he left. And that was almost six years ago! But then I met Celeste, and I hired her, and then Rav, and they sort of rejuvenated me.” Duncan paused, for a moment, then he said, simply, “Are you sure you found him? You said him, right - not her?”

“He’s a him,” Marjolen said, with a smile. “This last week has been a wild ride, Duncan. I had visions - stronger than any I’ve ever had. I used magic to help clarify them, then I used herbs to help strengthen the magic. As a result, my mind’s been all over this world. I’ve seen so much - too much, probably. I’ve barely eaten anything, barely left the house. I’m exhausted. And I’m also certain. I found him, and I know he’s the one.”

“Who is he?”

“A human. A young human. His name is Micah. He’s finishing his last year of high school. He won’t be able to go west with you until next year - when he turns eighteen.”

“HIgh school?” Duncan asked, frowning slightly. “He’ll have plans - college, adulthood . . . all sorts of things.”

“He won’t be going to college right away. He’s got things planned out, more or less - after graduation, he’s going to work for his aunt for one year. Her farm’s struggling, a bit. After that - after he helps her - then, probably, he’ll go to college. I’ve seen his dreams - those he’s had while sleeping, those he’s had while awake. I won’t go into details, but . . . let’s just say, he’s craving adventure, excitement. More than that, he wants his life to mean something. He’ll jump at the chance to go west with you. If you tell him -”

“He’ll have to pass the tests, first, of course,” Duncan interrupted.

“He’ll pass them. I’ve seen that, too. If - when - you tell him he’s meant to be the next king, it’ll be like one of his secret dreams coming true.”

“And he’s . . .” Duncan started to say. He felt weary, suddenly.

“He’s definitely fated to be our next king,” Marjolen said, infinite patience in her voice. She knew Duncan was struggling to accept the truth of it. If this had happened just a few months ago, there would’ve been no struggle, she knew - Duncan would’ve eagerly leapt at the information she was giving him. He would’ve leapt, with only a few questions asked.

But this was happening now, and Duncan was tired, and he was burned out, and so he was struggling to turn his mind away from Mexico.

“It’s going to be hard, Duncan,” the tall elf said, quietly. “I don’t know why. I think someone will stand against you. But you don’t have a choice.” Her voice rose, got stronger. “Micah will have no choice. Next year, when he turns eighteen, and he graduates, he’ll have no choice but to go west with you - of course, he’ll want to go. He’ll gladly give up plans of working for his aunt, and dreams of college, and he’ll go with you.”

“No choice, huh.” Duncan said, quietly, gazing at the river. He felt like he was under the water, and he wasn’t sure if he could swim up to the surface - he wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

“No choice. The year 2000 is coming. Terrible things will happen that year. And then 2001 will be the first year of the new millennium. 2001 could be a new beginning - for either good or ill. We need to have a king - or queen - on the throne by then.”

Duncan looked up, and he stared into his friend’s eyes. He saw both wisdom and sadness in them. He thought about how, back in the ‘60s, Marjolen had been a model. She’d also been the inspiration for many artists, and she’d been famous, in certain circles. And she’d been one of his first true friends - she and Pere, the two of them, had been his first actual friends.

He’d been fifteen, back then. It seemed so long ago. Had he been eighteen or nineteen, the first time he’d slept with Marjolen? On that scratchy blanket, out in the desert, under a night sky that contained an infinity of stars.

“Terrible things will happen next year, too,” Marjolen said. “I think your trip out west will be . . . difficult. I think that some folks will pay a high price, getting Micah to the West Coast. But none of us have a choice.”

**

1. Millennium approaches.

On the edge of town, an empty motel stood amongst a sprawl of likewise empty stores and restaurants. When the terrorist attacks had started, tourism had dried up. One day, the owner of the motel had quietly gone around padlocking all the doors. He loaded everything of value into his van, and then he’d taken one last look at the place where he’d lived and worked for more than twenty years. After that, he’d gotten into the van and he’d driven away.

His sister - with all her children, and all her many, many in-laws - lived in Florida, and that was where he drove to.

So far, vandals had not desecrated the empty motel. No graffiti adorned the walls, no windows were broken.

Father Cranagh - Pere, to his friends - stood and surveyed the empty buildings around him.

Off in the distance, the sound of a van, driving fast and getting closer.

“That’s either Celeste’s van, or it’s . . .” Pere noted.

“Shit,” Micah swore, softly. “How -”

“How do they know how to find us? It’s probably magic.” Pere shrugged. “You’d better get used to that. Magic, I mean. C’mon - until we know who’s in that van, let’s get inside the office.”

Pere produced a key from his pocket. Micah raised his eyebrows, an unspoken question on the tip of his tongue. However, Father Cranagh did not explain how he’d gotten the key. The two humans went quickly into the office of the empty motel, and Pere locked the door behind them.

A black van rolled up and parked near the motel’s entrance. For a moment, it sat in one spot, engine thrumming.

“There’s a back door, to this office,” Pere said, voice low. “I vote we run. Duncan knows we’re here - he’ll be here soon. The rest of them, too, probably. If whoever’s in the van doesn’t know we’re in this office, they’ll start searching all the rooms. So, I vote we try and stay a step ahead of whoever’s chasing us - until Duncan gets here.”

From the pocket of his jacket, Pere pulled out an old gun. He pointed to a baseball bat leaning up against the wall, near the desk. “Grab that,” he said. “If we have to fight, you’ll need it.”

As figures - dressed in fatigues, wearing masks - began spilling out of the van, Pere and Micah left the office. They found themselves in a narrow, twisting alley. Father Cranagh (Pere) was the older of the two humans - the priest had gray hair and lines on his face. Micah was far younger than Pere, and he was - according to some - destined to be the next king.

At the moment, no one had yet considered the “bigger” issues involved - such as, for example, this: Would the folks of America actually accept a new king or queen, no matter who he or she might be? After all, no one had sat on that throne for twenty years.

At the moment, everyone was simply concerned with just getting Micah to the West Coast. The journey had begun in New York, where they’d been attacked by mercenaries. They’d found refuge in New Jersey, with Pere, but his house, as well, had been attacked. Now, here in this narrow alley, now . . . the journey continued.

As Pere and Micah raced towards one end of the alley, masked figures appeared at the other end. Looking back, just for a moment, Pere raised his gun and fired. He wasn’t sure the ancient gun would actually work, so he said a silent prayer as he did so. He didn’t aim as he squeezed the trigger - he would’ve been content to simply fire off a warning shot. However, the gun did work, and the bullet did find its way into the shin of one of the pursuers.

So, now those pursuers knew that at least one of their targets was armed with a gun, and that was good news for Pere and Micah - now, the folks chasing them would have to change their tactics.

At the end of the alley, Pere and Micah emerged into early morning daylight.

“We’ll keep ducking into buildings,” Pere said, his words nearly as fast as his stride. “Until Duncan shows up.”

They stopped in front of an empty and abandoned pharmacy. Pere shot the lock off of the rusty iron gate, and into the dark and dusty interior he and Micah went. The empty shelves formed a maze, and the two humans began navigating the labyrinth, moving quietly towards the door that led to a stock room.

As they entered the stock room, they could see an exit door at the far end. Meanwhile, behind them, they heard the pharmacy’s front door explode inward - instead of simply opening the door, their pursuers had kicked it in, shattering the glass. As Micah and Pere rushed towards the exit, they heard heavy footsteps, behind them, running quickly.

The chase continued. Once again, the older human and the younger human emerged into daylight. The folks chasing them were close behind - and Pere quickly realized that a second group was running towards them, from somewhere down the street.

There are so many of them, the priest thought. And they’re so organized - and they know just where to find us.

He fired off a shot, wildly, towards that second group, but he didn’t really aim. He and Micah rushed towards the large building directly ahead.

It turned out to be a warehouse, and - God be praised - the door had been kicked in some time ago. Pere and Micah rushed inside. The main space was empty, save for a few dusty crates and a weathered forklift. Here and there, sharp flights of stairs led up to catwalks. Pere pointed to the large door on the other side, which had an “exit” sign above it, and Micah nodded. They began running, just as some of their pursuers entered the warehouse behind them.

“Just give us the boy,” one of them said, loudly. “You can walk away from this, you know.”

“I’m not a boy,” Micah muttered, still running. “I’m eighteen.”

“C’mon, priest,” someone else called out, and Pere could detect amusement in the rough voice.

Directly up ahead, bulky figures wearing fatigues came through the “exit” door. Pere and Micah now found themselves between two groups of pursuers. Without thinking, without hesitating, Pere grabbed Micah’s shoulder, and they changed course - they started running towards the warehouse’s office. As they did so, Father Cranagh fired off another shot.

Four bullets used up, Pere thought. I’ll have to reload after the next two, but how - there’s no time - and it looks so damn easy in the movies, too.

As Micah reached the office, and rushed inside, Pere turned back and fired off two shots, quickly. One barely missed, and one sank into the meaty shoulder of one of the fatigue-clad figures. Inside the office, Pere slammed the door shut, and Micah pushed a filing cabinet up against it.

“That won’t hold for long,” Pere said, looking around the office. With shaking hands, he reloaded the gun. In the corner of the office, a steep flight of stairs led up to another exit door. “Go! Up those stairs,” Pere said, sharply. “I’ll hold them off.”

“What?” Micah was horrified. “No, c’mon, we can both go!”

From outside the office, mocking laughter.

“There’s nowhere to run!” Someone called out. “So stop with the foolishness, and put down your gun, old human.”

Shots rang out. The office had a large window, which looked out onto the main space of the warehouse. The pursuers put two bullets into it, and it exploded into shards of flying glass. And yet, no one came through the jagged hole, as Pere expected them to.

“You better not have hit the boy,” someone said. “We need him alive.”

“Relax, boss,” someone replied. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Usually,” the boss replied, amused. Then he turned his attention back to the office. “C’mon, priest, just give up now. Like I said, you can walk away. There’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, and you know we’ll be in that office in just a minute. But if you surrender peacefully, and let us have the boy, you can walk away from all of this. So what do you say?”

Pere turned and looked at Micah. Sternly, he pointed to the stairs. Micah shook his head.

“Saints preserve us,” Pere said, voice nearly in a whisper. “You have a responsibility, Micah. You have to go out west. You have to.”

“But if it means . . . letting you . . .”

Their pursuers began kicking in the door.

“Fine, let’s go,” Pere whispered, harshly. Micah turned and began climbing the stairs. Pere followed, but, as he set foot on the second step, the door exploded inward. Pere turned back and shot the first pursuer to enter the office.

Everything seemed to happen at once. Micah froze. Father Cranagh fired his old gun again, and the bullet grazed the arm of the second figure through the wrecked door.

“You had your chance!” Someone yelled.

“GO!” Pere yelled at Micah. He turned his head, just for a second, and was vastly relieved to see Micah scrambling up the remaining stairs. He thought of Duncan. Duncan believed in Micah, and that was good enough for Pere. Micah had to be the one, he just had to be.

Bulky figures - humans or anthros, who knew - were coming through the shot-out window. More were rushing in where the shattered door once stood. Father Cranagh fired again, then again.

For some reason, he thought of his old friend Marjolen. He hadn’t seen her in - how long? How many years had it been? She’d apparently told Duncan that they needed to have a king or queen on the throne by the year 2000.

Millennium approaches, the priest thought, as he fired off his gun again.

And then they were on him.

**

Micah found himself on the roof. He could hear footsteps behind him, on the stairs. He hoped they belonged to Pere, but he didn’t dare turn back. He rushed on, towards a fire escape.

The fire escape was old, and it barely clung to the building. He descended quickly, doing his best to avoid the patches of rust on the railings. Near the end, he simply dropped down to the ground - he was further up than he thought, and the drop nearly knocked the wind from him. He was in a long, winding alley. Much further down, a small group of figures was running towards him.

He wasn’t surprised. No doubt, they were circling the warehouse, trying to cover all the exits.

Pere had wanted him to run - but where was he going to run to? How was he going to get away from these fuckers? Or . . . was he going to run? Micah looked down at the baseball bat he held loosely in one hand.

He was worried about Pere. And he was worried because in exactly one second he was going to have to choose between fighting and running - and he had no idea which was the better choice. And yet . . . and yet . . . mixed in with the worry, he felt . . . excitement?

A feeling of unreality momentarily sent him reeling. This . . . “situation” he found himself in - it felt unreal. It wasn’t happening. Or, it was happening to someone in a story, or a movie.

All his life, he’d secretly wanted life to be more like an adventure - or a movie. Did that explain the sudden, dizzying rush of excitement? It was crazy, Micah thought to himself, as he lifted up the bat in what he hoped was a gesture conveying threat and strength. Feeling excitement when he was about to face down a mob of pursuers armed only with a baseball bat. Crazy. He was fairly certain they meant to take him alive, which meant his life wasn’t really in danger, or anything like that. But if he fought back, they could certainly injure him, hurt him, maybe break a few bones. So why the rush of excitement?

They walked swiftly towards him, the mysterious figures wearing fatigues - and then a sound Micah could not identify cut through the air. He heard it again, and some of the figures chasing him began to turn around.

Someone was behind them, attacking them with something, Micah realized.

It was Duncan. The large, gray-furred Pitbull was armed with a crossbow, and he was rapidly sending arrows into the crowd.

Micah hesitated, and then he rushed forward, swinging the bat. The feeling of unreality persisted. Part of him felt like a child - the boy, they’d called him - being rescued. Another part felt like - well - if his life really was becoming more like an adventure, then, why not try and be the hero?

After all, Micah reminded himself, Duncan believed he was destined to be the next king. Of all people! He, Micah, from a small town in upstate New York.

Why couldn’t he be the hero of this adventure?

Feeling like both a child and an adult, wanting Duncan to protect him and (at the same time) wanting Duncan to be his equal, Micah swung the bat, and he was able to knock out two of his would-be captors.

“I followed the sound of gunfire,” Duncan was saying.

He grappled, face to face, with the last of the pursuers, eventually succeeding at knocking whoever it was to the ground.

More figures emerged, at the other end of the alley.

“They’re on the roof, as well,” Duncan said, looking up. “C’mon.”

He began running back the way he came. Micah followed, trying to keep up.

Micah wanted to say something - anything - about Pere, but no words came to him.

Duncan wanted to ask, but he forced himself to focus on running, on getting Micah away to safety. Pere wasn’t with Micah, so . . . Duncan felt he had no choice but to assume the worst.

They exited the alley, emerging into daylight.

“Keep running,” Duncan said.

And so they ran. They ran until their muscles burned, they ran until the alley and the warehouse were somewhere far behind them . . .

When they stopped running, Duncan lifted up the crossbow, and he looked around, and he braced himself for trouble.

But the air was silent. The street, and the buildings surrounding them, felt hushed and empty. Not even the call of a bird disturbed the stillness of the early morning air.