The strange force of order that had touched the distant river was now reversing in the twins what never should have occurred, and all at once, they knew what their innermost wish had always been.
To be one.
There, standing on the rim of the canyon, Lara and Jara—the two halves—merged together into a single being, brought into perfect focus—flesh, mind, and soul.
When it was done, two legs stood where there had been four. Two hands were raised in joy to the heavens, and one mind held the singular human being that had once been sister and brother.
The powerful spirit that had united them, allowed them to linger in their joyous moment of completion. And then that same spirit descended upon them on all sides with such violent ferocity that the twins’ soul imploded.
The Bringer stood in the cold night admiring his new body. It suited him just fine. It was young, it was strong—and like the Bringer itself, this body was neither male nor female, but a perfect synthesis of both.
“Sleep,” he told the twins, as he felt their soul collapse in upon itself. They had experienced their completion, which was more than most did. And although he spared their soul the indignity of being eaten, he had no remorse at having buried it beneath the heavy weight of his own spirit.
He took the four mountain lions that, for a brief time, had housed his quartered soul, and one by one cast them off the cliff and into the dark mist of the canyon.
This was not an ancient Mediterranean empire. That was a world and many ages away. Having stolen the twins’ memories, he knew the year and the ways of the modern world. But what was he doing here? He remembered the circumstances of his death: the drowning of the old human shell he had worn; the dissolution of his spirit into the sea. Who had coaxed his fragmented spirit back from the waters of death, causing it to congeal once more into a glorious whole? Who in this world had that kind of power? Instinct told him it must have been a star-shard who had done it, akin to the ones he had destroyed so many years ago. . . .
He peeled from himself the strangely tailored clothes the twins had worn. Clothes sewn by their mother, the Bringer recalled from his usurped memories; arm and leg holes cut at absurd angles that no longer fitted the single symmetrical body the twins had fused into. A perfect human body. He discarded them over the canyon rim, then strode toward the lights of the nearby village, already feeling the pangs of a three-thousand-year-old hunger.
Radio Joe had heard the four shots go off like the monotone chime of the old church bell, ringing a spirit into the earth.
He waited for the twins to return, tempering his own anxiety with the steady hypnotic spill of sands between his fingers, contemplating the ancient patterns on the hardpan of his yard.
When he saw a figure coming toward him out of the darkness, he thought it must have been the twins, but this figure moved in a steady gate. It was naked, and when Radio Joe looked into its face, he thought for a moment he had slipped into some terrible half-sleep, for what he saw was impossible.
The old man felt his aging heart attempt to stop, but he willed it to sustain his life—if only long enough to know the nature of the monster before him.
“Radio Joe,” said the figure, with the slyest of grins, “don’t you recognize me? Or should I say, ‘us.’ "
The old man stood in the center of his sand paintings, studying the figure before him. Firm, hairless pectorals that could have been breasts. Hips that were smooth like a woman’s, yet thighs as muscular as a man’s. And a dark wedge of venereal abomination, with two distinct organs, one wedged loosely within the folds of the other.
“What have you done with Lara and Jara?”
“They sleep,” it said. “For I may yet need them.”
Radio Joe reached down, grabbed a handful of black powder, and hurled it into the flames. The fire spat forth a bright green flame.
“Giyá Bachál vomga,” he chanted. “Return to the dark place. I command you to fall from the living world!”
But it only laughed. “Empty words,” it said. “I had thought it was you who had called me back from the dead—but you are no star-shard. You are barely a man anymore.”
The thing that had been Lara and Jara took a step forward, and Radio Joe took a step away, keeping the fire between the thing and himself.
“Who has drawn me back from the waters?” it asked, with a force that could not go unanswered.
“No one has!” said Radio Joe, knowing this more surely than he had known anything in his life. “No one would knowingly call such a creature as you to the living world.”
The creature considered his answer. “You’re far wiser than you know,” it said. “Perhaps my life is an accident, then. How fortunate for me!” It looked at its arms, studying the gooseflesh that had risen there. “Clothe me!” it ordered.
“I will not help you with your dark business,” Radio Joe told it, finding one more moment with this creature unbearable. “Either kill me or leave.”
It stalked slowly toward him, stepping over the sands, unbothered by the strong magic of their patterns. It stepped over the flames, ignoring the heat, until at last it was face-to-face with Radio Joe.
“Do you have any idea who I am?” it asked.
Radio Joe refused to look away, even though he sensed the depth of the danger he was courting. “At first I thought you were the one who caused the crash . . . but now I see I was wrong. You are the crash. You are the death of all you touch. You are the darkness that swallows light. You are Quíkadi Bp; páa Misma Ga Máa. The Bringer of Shadows. The thief of souls.”
The creature let him go, for a moment taken aback by his words—which clearly hit far closer to the mark than this creature wanted. Perhaps, thought Radio Joe, my words have earned me respect enough to be spared. Or maybe there was some power in the sands yet.
“Your life force is too old to be worth the effort of devouring,” it told him. “Aged into vinegar. I leave it with you.” And then the thief walked off into the shadows. Radio Joe followed it as far as his open gate, where it had dropped his rifle. He picked the gun up, aimed it at the creature’s back as it left, his fingers aching to pull the trigger . . . but he could not—for he knew that he would be killing whatever was left of the twins as well. Still, he held his aim until it vanished into the night. Then he turned to the flames and cried to his ancestors, knowing that it would take more than a gun, and more than the strength of a hundred generations, to purge the world of this thief of souls.
The Bringer was clothed by a woman elsewhere in town, claiming to have been robbed and left that way. Then he set out from the Hualapai nation, first on foot, and then in the bed of a hay truck. By now, he was sure that his new life was an accident—an unexpected side effect of a star-shard’s passage—and he marveled at the power of such a shard, whose very presence could line up enough random events to give the Bringer’s life impetus against three thousand years of death. Order out of chaos! It was a power more awesome than that of the shape-shifting king, so many years ago. It was a power worth harnessing. Perhaps there were no worthy pupils here, but there was plenty to exploit. Plenty of things to use, and a world full of souls to devour.