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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years

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Onion Tears || Morgan, Ariana, Deirdre, Lydia

TIMING: The recent past, not long after Morgan took care of the murderous alchemist Jo, before Lydia’s attack.

LOCATION: The woods

PARTIES: @deathduty @inspirationdivine @letsbenditlikebennett @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan and her friends mourn the dead.

CONTAINS: Mild gore, ritualized self-harm

The moon smiled down from the pink sunset sky, pale and slight as a white shadow. Morgan hoped that if there really was such a thing as a caring universe, it approved of the proceedings. The much decayed remains of Coraline Adams had been wrapped in a cotton shroud and bundled onto the wood pyre, the rest of the remains recovered from the storage unit were strewn around her. In another world where supernaturals could bury their dead properly without raising brows or suspicions, there might have been separate ceremonies and rites for each of them. But the alchemist hadn’t cared enough to label her specimens by the person she gathered them from, only by material. Banshee nails in one jar. Nix scales in another. Vampire teeth, Mara eyes, wolf pelts, and fused bones, all ordered except in a way that would help Morgan make them into people again. Morgan circled the clearing again for unwanted mushrooms and teenagers daring each other to go deeper into the trees. Gulls squealed, squirrels foraged, life went on. But there had been enough of humans bumping and breaking their way through life for one stretch. Morgan wanted to give them a reprieve from watching their backs all the time, and for the dead to have a moment with their own.

She spread out a tiered tray of refreshments, kindling, and the nice big matches she had once used for her own sacred rituals, scented to help guide what was left of the dead’s souls to wherever they needed to go. It felt wrong, somehow, to slip into a hospitality mindset, but if Ariana and Lydia were going to help witness the rites and pay their respects as much as anyone could, they might as well be comfortable.

One of their guests approached the clearing. “Hey, we’re almost ready,” she said.”But you should come in and have some water or wine if you want any.”

Hearing of another dead werewolf only made her heart feel heavier. After Ariana had discovered werewolves were being killed for their organs, it only furthered her sense of unease to know someone else was doing weird magic experiments. What the actual fuck was wrong with people? It wasn’t something she could wrap her head around, but she hoped paying them respects would help them find peace in their afterlife. The setting sun painted the sky in colors she couldn’t quite distinguish, but the moon was rising. Perfect for the wolf of the bunch, All the fellow supernatural beings who had been killed for whatever this witch was doing deserved better. Maybe they couldn’t change the past, but they could try to keep their memory alive. Help them find peace. She walked to their meeting spot and saw Morgan was the first one there. Not at all surprising. There were even refreshments set up though she found she wasn’t entirely hungry at the moment. She gave a small wave as she approached, “Hey, Morgan. I’ll pour some water for myself. Save the wine for Deirdre. She really loves wine.” The words felt awkward and it was hard to navigate through what she was feeling.

Lydia almost paused when she saw Ariana, the wannabe thief that had been snooping through her property that one time. Mutual friend or not, Lydia did not like the girl in the slightest, even at a funeral. As such, she immediately decided to ignore her for the whole evening, walking over to Morgan with a small smile. “Wine would be lovely. I’m grateful you put in all the effort.”

Morgan opened her arm out to the young wolf when she arrived and wrapped her up in a hug. “That she does,” she agreed. “But, tiny exceptions can be made for you if you change your mind after. Thanks for coming.” She didn’t know what else to say, if wolves had a kind of kinship between each other that made condolences appropriate, or if it was just the chill of seeing the remains of someone who could have been her.

At the sound of Lydia’s approach, she released Ariana to hydrate herself and turned to her fae friend. “I’m glad you came,” she said, pouring a glass and carrying it over. “This is the least I could do. If things were different, maybe there’d be more. But if things were different, maybe there wouldn’t be a need for this kind of service in the first place.” Her eyes flitted to the pyre, gauging the arrangement of the remains. Should she space them out more? Or arrange them more artfully? The nails should probably be laid out, instead of clustered, maybe… Morgan stopped herself with a tight smile. It did not matter. It absolutely did not matter. She knew better than anyone how much it didn’t matter, knew that it was just the last moment, terrible or not, and then sleep. This was just for their own guilt and sorrow, their own intentions in the universe. “Deirdre’s just getting ready to perform the rites. And I’ll spread the ashes myself later. Oh, and you should meet our friend Ari! She’s here in honor of the wolves we’re laying to rest today as well.”

Somehow, despite her cool skin, Morgan always had a certain warmth to her. It brought a small smile to her face and Ariana welcomed the hug from her. Once she stepped back, she laughed weakly and answered, “I think I’ll be okay without the wine. But I am sorry you had to find all of this. It’s really… Upsetting.” She looked down at her feet and heard someone else approaching. Sniffing the air she realized it wasn’t Deirdre, but it was familiar. Her eyes widened when she realized it was Lydia. Her heart sank. The actual last person she wanted to see. Especially at a funeral. Especially when she was slowly killing someone she’d grown to care for. It took a conscious effort to keep from balling her fists, from glaring. Today wasn’t about Lydia. Hell, it wasn’t even about Ace. It was their duty to honor the fallen members of their community in hopes of them being able to find some sort of peace after their violent deaths. “Maybe one day there won’t be a need for services like this,” she said quietly. Part of her wanted to slink away as Morgan introduced her to Lydia. It was hard to pretend she didn’t hate her with every fiber of her being. It was doubtful that her feeding had to include keeping humans for prolonged periods of time until they finally died. Through gritted teeth, she responded, “We know each other already.” She tried to soften her features, but it came across a bit awkward. “But thank you, Morgan. I really appreciate you and Deirdre for doing all of this.”

Deirdre knew better than most what a fae funeral should have looked like. There should have been more in attendance, the sound of instruments trilling through the air under the sound of sombre lilting. She had whispered her apologies to Coraline’s body on the way to the clearing, and she whispered it by her again. This observance would have to be stripped, for the sake of safety--the fae could not be made privy to the horrors committed, their penchant for vengeance would prove too reckless. And the other supernatural reduced to their parts had practices and rites that Deirdre wasn’t the faintest bit familiar with. She pulled at her funeral dress---once white, now stained with the soot of every funeral she’d attended---was a muddy grey, patterned in blotches. The delicate lace detailing was a stark black, and the only thing about the dress she liked. Deirdre tugged at it again, then pulled her dark robe tighter around her, trying not to drop the rod of iron she held wrapped up in cloth in one hand, and the knife she had in the other. She slipped the rod back into the pocket of her robe, and approached the rest of the group silently. “There will always be a need for services like this,” she hissed, irritable under the stress of autumn. Irritable given the event they were all in attendance for. She would apologize to Ariana for her shortness later, but for now, she didn’t bother. “No matter what this world is. There will always be death, and where there is death, there is suffering.” She nodded towards Lydia, and noted Ariana’s tenseness. “You’re supposed to drink at these things. Like Lydia.” She spoke almost with an air of resentment, an air that reared itself now, and had neglected to show on the way over. The forest held the faint drift of mushrooms, she would explain to Morgan later in apology, but for now, she didn’t bother. For now, she wasn’t happy. “You’re supposed to do a lot of things…” Deirdre sighed, “are we good to start?”

“We met through one of her pack members, as it happens,” Lydia replied airily, much better at faking politeness that Ariana did, the little minx. She was practically showing the whole world how much she disliked Lydia, when Lydia was the one who had been trespassed on! She hadn’t been the most enthusiastic at Ariana’s soccer game, but then who would have been? She hadn’t earned this animosity in the slightest. Noting Morgan’s tight smile as the way her gaze flitted around the pyre, Lydia tilted her head in genuine concern. “How are you holding up, Morgan?” The person Lydia was really interested in, though, was Deirdre, in her murky grey dress and her dark robe. She looked irritable in the same way that Lydia’s chest ached every time she glanced at the pyre. Her comment to Ariana was strange, certainly, even more so with that tone, and Lydia couldn’t help but gravitate closer to her. “I think so, my dear,” she said softly, standing at Deirdre’s side.

Morgan gave Deirdre a look as she chastised their young friend. You’re doing it again. Bring it down. She had been warned about what the forest might do to her banshee this time of year, and on some of their walks she had grown peevish, but Ariana was special to both of them and-- Morgan put the thought aside. Fucking mushrooms. She gave Ariana’s shoulder a squeeze. “You’re doing everything just fine,” she said softly. “Don’t mind her today,” she added in a whisper. She smiled with relief and gratitude at Lydia, who was handling the pull of the mushrooms much better. Two grumpy fae were more than she wanted to contend with. “Well as can be expected. My condolences to you and your people.” She did not know if all fae believed as banshees did, that there was nothing after except the comfort of darkness and nothing, or if it would make anything better for Lydia to know that’s just what she’d experienced before she came back. Smiling again--she didn’t know what else to do--Morgan sidled up to Deirdre’s other side. She touched her arm gently for a moment and nodded. “We’re good, babe,” she said.

In the past, Deirdre had always discouraged her drinking as she was underaged and it left Ariana very confused. At least being left perplexed by Deirdre made it easier to ignore the fact she’d very much like to rip Lydia apart. She turned to Deirdre, eyebrows knit together in confusion, and answered, “Sorry? You usually don’t like me having alcohol since I’m underaged.” Then it was very apparent her words were entirely misinterpreted. Death would always be part of life and Ariana knew that, but against all reason, she had hope that maybe one day the supernatural and humans could coexist. “That’s not what I-- nevermind,” she began and decided against trying to explain herself. Today wasn’t about her. Today wasn’t about any of them. Today was for those who fell before their time in a manner that was far too cruel. It was a little easier to relax and let Deirdre’s odd behavior go with Morgan’s always comforting words. Somehow, she always knew just what to say. Even putting this whole thing together was something that seemed so incredibly… Morgan. She hugged her leather jacket around herself more tightly trying not to look to Lydia again. Trying to ignore her presence for Morgan’s sake more than anything else because surely she couldn’t interact with her and pretend like everything was fine. Not when she had Ace locked away in her home like that was just a totally okay thing for people to do. She wondered if Morgan and Deirdre even knew. She took a few steps towards the pyres and asked Morgan, “So how are we doing this?”

Deirdre grew angrier every time her eyes fell to Coraline’s wrapped body on the pyre, then as she glanced around at their empty funeral. Coraline died wrong, would she be honored that way too? Those people in jars; would their memory be the four people who dared to remember them? She boiled as Lydia moved to her side, reminded of what injustice she was committing to their community, and then how badly she wanted to ask how she’d met Ariana, exactly, and why the younger girl seemed so tense with her. I think Ariana is jealous of your beauty, she would offhandedly remark to Lydia later, finding it the only logical explanation. But if Lydia served as a reminder of all that she was doing wrong, Morgan was the opposite. Deirdre relaxed reflexively near her, anger dissipated. She took Morgan’s hand and squeezed it, then she took a step forward, glanced at Coraline’s body, and thought of everything that was wrong again. Her mind continued to plague itself with questions even as she pulled a large purple onion from her robe. “Normally, there’s a human sacrifice. Or--punching bag, if you will. So the fae can exact their anger, right the wrongs, have fun, harvest an arm to use at their next poker game---that sort of thing.” She shook the onion, the pupils of its misplaced googly eyes bobbled. The lips Deirdre had painted on were beginning to flake off. She hated this just as much as she thought it was stupid; which was very. “Considering humans and onions have about the same mental capacity, and taking into account our present company, I thought I’d forgo the human and just use this instead.” She held the onion out, “before I begin the ceremony, would anyone like to partake in hurting the sacrificial onion? And if you will please, just imagine it’s begging for its life and for you to stop. Which, coincidentally, is exactly how Coraline died.” She shook the onion again. “Any takers?”

In the mirrored district, for that poor, nameless Lampade, they had done this with the human. Lydia hadn’t taken a shot then - that kind of violence didn’t bring her any pleasure, it never had, and she’d been to more such funerals with the sacrificial onion in its place. Unfortunately, she had been to many funerals that required such a sacrifice in the first place. She looked to Deirdre, trying to read all the facets of her face right now, all that pain and anger, and the tension in her hand as she squeezed Morgan’s. Lydia wondered how often, exactly, Deirdre had had to do these rites. How much she’d seen while handling the body and these jars. “I’ll start,” Lydia said solemnly, taking the purple onion in her hands. She looked at the googly eyes and lips, the corner of her lips twitching. As far as she knew, the googly eyes were not tradition, but they did add a certain something to the proceedings. She shook the onion once, until the eyes were roughly pointed to her. Raising one hand, Lydia stabbed one googly eye with her golden acrylic nail. The eye popped off, lost into the woods. The onion skin crackled and crunched as she sank her nail deeper into the flesh of the onion, and then dragged it down, leaving a long slit in her nail’s wake. Lydia twisted her nail, and pulled up at the seam, tearing up the onion. She ate the onion parts she’d torn off the onion, as was tradition, and handed it back to Deirdre. “May Coraline find peace in this onion’s suffering.”

Morgan couldn’t name what it was about how Deirdre handled the sacrifice that filled her with pride and affection. Maybe it was the earnestness of the googly eyes and the painted lips, trying to fill this need for adequacy, for giving enough to the dead. Maybe it was the way she squeezed her hand, emerging from the haze of her grief and the mushrooms hiding deeper in the forest to be herself, to feel and to try when she felt some of these losses as if she’d known them herself. Whatever the reason, it was almost enough to make Morgan feel like this was going to be okay and everything had been fixed fair. She took the battered onion gently from Deirdre, fingers brushing hers, and cradled it against her chest a moment, the juice dripping down the front of her white cotton dress. Her thoughts were with the dead supernaturals, the comfort they could not have and the hours of pain they could not be saved from and the days of recovery that they could not get. She had to turn down towards her shadows to remember Jo. Remember how she’d thrashed in Miriam’s grip. How she had called them pigs. How close she had been to taking another supernatural who’d trusted her. And as she thought, she dug her hands deeper into the onion flesh. Deeper, as she tried to imagine what exactly Miriam had done to the woman, exactly how long she had lasted in the two days she was kept, and whether any of it was close to enough when there weren’t even enough remains left for separate pyres.

Half the onion exploded in her grip, spraying skin and juice and soft clumps of fresh into the air. They landed in her hair and dress, sprinkled down on the earth like rain. At any other time, Morgan would have been embarrassed, but it wasn’t that sort of occasion. She took a piece from the clumpy wreck in her hand and chewed it thoughtfully, wiping her face and hair from the mess. She held out the remnants for Ariana or Deirdre to have a turn with, murmuring, “May Coraline find peace in this onion’s suffering,” And in the suffering of her killer.

While Ariana wasn’t sure what to make of the customs Deirdre spoke of, she could definitely get behind murking an onion right now. Especially if it meant honoring the fallen fae, werewolves, and other supernatural creatures they had pieces of in the pyre. Now wasn’t the time to pay Lydia any mind at all. She didn’t deserve any of the focus that was intended for the deceased. Twigs cracked underneath her combat boots as she reached to take the mostly exploded onion from Morgan. The half that was still intact was now in her hands now. The googly eyes were long gone now, but the painted on lips were still half there. To honor the wolf here today, she’d have to embrace the wolf in herself. Not that this differed from any other day, but there was no pressure to live up to human norms around Deirdre and Morgan. A low growl echoed around their clearing and Ariana gave the onion a stern look before sinking her teeth ferociously into it. While she kept her human form, she mimicked the way she tore into a deer’s throat every full moon. She ripped away at the rest of the layers of the onion with her teeth, living bits and pieces on the floor. There was little care for the fact her black dress now smelled like onion. Onion juice dripped down her chin and she let it. A deer would be more appropriate, but she’d treat the onion with all the ferocity she had in her. Only small, jagged pieces of onion remained in her hands. Her gaze remained stony as she solemnly said, “May their memory and fierceness live on in all of us.”

Ariana looked to Deirdre momentarily before adding, “I’d like to add a bit of werewolf tradition in.” While she didn’t know the full ins and outs, Ulfric had explained his moon shrine to her as well as some of the aspects of the religion his pack back in Norway had followed. She looked up to the moon, softly glowing in the sky with sunset hues she couldn’t perfectly make out all around it. She raised her onion soaked hands and recited, “O Great Diana, goddess of the moon, night, and hunt-- please guide those who have fallen to peace. May they find enlightenment under the soft glow of moonlight from here on out.” It wasn’t perfect and she wasn’t sure she got the words right. Actually, she was positive she hadn’t. She made her own prayer loosely based on ones Ulfric had shared with her previously, but she hoped it helped their souls find peace in death.

What Deirdre hadn’t expected was the seriousness with which her admittedly idiotic sacrifical onion was taken with. She expected some resistance to which she could explain her train of thought: they couldn’t use an animal, because animals were inherently innocent and that would defeat the point. But she watched instead, humbled, by Lydia, Morgan and Ariana all harming an onion in Coraline’s name--she did imagine that an animal would have been tastier than a raw onion though. She reached out to pick bits of onion out of her girlfriend’s hair and off her nice dress. “Beautiful words, Ariana,” she smiled, having forgotten her earlier animosity. Funerals were not merited by their turn out, she remembered, but the compassion of those who did observe them. Odd as the onion was, Deirdre could only hope that Coraline would see three people who were angered for her, and desired to bring her peace. With her thoughts at peace again, she remembered why exactly she was here to begin with and her anger with herself disappeared. She had an onion to thank for that. The banshee shook her head, drawing her hand back from Morgan and pulling a small rod of iron wrapped up in thick wool out of her robe. “I think I can start now.” She stepped back and moved to the pyre. “Coraline Adams died at the hands of someone she trusted, her skin transmuted to iron,” she began, then tapped the jar with the banshee nails. “The two in here were tortured by a warden for forty-four days before they succumbed to their injuries.” Deirdre went on, listing the ways each part and piece had died, filling in names where she could and omitting gorier details out of respect. “Some of these people had died by Jo’s hand, others were simply her property by trade---bought or bartered otherwise. They will rest easier knowing Jo suffered as she should, and that no more harm can come from her. We remember their deaths.”

Deirdre turned back towards the other, rolling up her sleeve with one hand as the other unwrapped the iron rod carefully. She gripped the iron with her hand safely behind the wool, searching her forearm for the scar that seemed to grow every couple of years. She pressed the iron to it. “As the living, we will know their pain. And may they rest knowing that we carry it with us, and the pain of every injustice like this we cannot stop.” Her skin seared, blistering and peeling under the iron. Deirdre didn’t flinch and her face remained impassive. She would hold the iron there for as long as Coraline burned. “The house of winter is dark, and you may rest in its shadows. But your blood was spilled by the undeserving,” her voice dripped out steadily in Gaelic. “So I hold your pain in my heart, I hold it with my life. It is with each who watches me, each who knows. You can rest now, free from it. You can rest, by the decree of fate’s faithful, you can rest. The house of winter cherishes you now; to your home your body returns.” She pulled the iron away, bits of her skin were still stuck to it as she dropped the rod to the floor. Blood ran down her arm, dripping carelessly to the earth. She turned to Coraline’s body, dropping to her knees and pulling the cloth away from her face. “Take my blood for all that was taken from you.” She carefully lifted her head, delicately wrapping the wool around it before finally pulling her ceremonial knife out. There, she cut across her palm and dripped the blood on to the white cloth holding her body. Deirdre’s voice surrendered to a low hum, softly singing her family’s lament as she moved through each piece of the ceremony---from the wool wrappings to the cut palm. Eventually her singing trailed away, and she stepped back. “You can light it,” she told Morgan, “with any luck, her skull will be preserved enough to keep with the ashes. They can rest now.”

Deirdre had explained to Morgan what happened at a fae funeral and how it was her duty, as the officiant, to carry the pain of those who had died. She had known what the rod was for and how long it had to be held against Deirdre’s skin. But solemn discussions in the night didn’t come near to preparing her to see Deirdre’s skin melt off in red, gummy layers, steam rising from beneath. Nor was she prepared for the monstrousness of Deirdre’s silence. Her face looked like stone for all it moved, some hollow, unreal nightmare.

The burnt spot on Deirdre’s arm popped with heat and blood simmered and ran in thin sticky lines around the wound. Morgan had to cover her mouth to keep from screaming and running over to her. A muffled whimper escaped her lips and she clamped down harder, reaching for Ariana’s shoulder to keep herself still. This was part of a banshee’s role when a community was lucky enough to have one. This was what fae did for each other. Morgan knew this. She knew this. But she trembled with the urge to intervene as Deirdre cut her arm open, spilling more blood for the dead.

When she was called to light the fire, Morgan shuffled forward, fumbling for the long matches in her pocket. She had lit enough fires in her day, even without magic, to handle this with the kind of grace the situation asked for, but her arms were stiff and trembling. It took her three tries to get the end lit right. She held her gaze over the flame as it ate the wood one inch at a time and laid the flame over each bundle of kindling she’d laid on the pyre. She circled the structure til she came back to Coraline’s head. When it was done she flung the match into the blaze and stepped back, reaching for Deirdre. She slipped her arms around her waist and pressed them close together, her head resting on Deirdre’s chest. “I hope that was okay,” she whispered.

Ariana had never been to a fae funeral before and she had a bit of a hard time keeping a close eye on Deirdre. She couldn’t understand the parts that were in Gaelic, but she imagined there was some sort of explanation for why Deirdre had to put herself through physical pain for the ritual. Instead, she watched the pyres burned and wished that their souls would find peace. The circumstances surrounding their deaths had been bleak. More so than anything probably should have been, but more and more she was learning that’s just how the world worked. The smoke began swirling above them into the sky that was becoming darker now. The flames glowed around them and the smoke began to overtake the smell of the onion though she still tasted it on her lips. She remained silent as Deirdre continued on with the ceremony and refrained from wincing at Deirdre’s pain.

Lydia had last been to a funeral with a banshee officiant when she’d been a young child. While the human sacrifice (or onion sacrifice) was a common one, somehow, other species of fae were not as keen to take on pain in honouring the death. Lydia had only ever seen instead the damages transferred to a chicken. Deirdre was not a chicken, and she didn’t remember that childhood funeral right until the second Deirdre pulled out the iron bar. She steeled herself, staring at Coraline’sbody as Deirdre’s skin began to burn. If Deirdre wouldn’t flinch, nor would Lydia. It was an honour to suffer for the dead, as much so for the chicken as the Banshee. It wasn’t until Deirdre spoke, in a beautiful clear form of Gaelic that was so different to Lydia’s own tone, that a single tear rolled down her cheek. The witch’s death did not undo any suffering. It still lingered in the air, in their hearts, and in the skin on Deirdre’s arm that would take time to heal. When Deirdre’s voice dropped to a hum, Lydia found the rhythm and joined it too. The heat of the flame licked Lydia’s skin, uncomfortable without burning. She set in the fire five pieces of canvas, each made with ecstatic inspiration. So much that no image on them was legible, but for a funeral that was what was desired. Art in its purest, least dilute form. They burned, and in each carried the hope that the people cremated would find joy in the life hereafter. “Let nothing hold you to this earth. Your word has been kept, and you have been relinquished of what holds you here.”

It was a battle of wits and long limbs as Deirdre tried to navigate wrapping her arms around Morgan without getting blood on her. She was bleeding far too much for this to be accomplished, and so she remembered that white dresses were worn specifically to be sullied and she wrapped her arms around Morgan, staining her back with blood. "I think it was," she replied gently, "I think it really was." She bent down to kiss Morgan; first on her cheek, forehead, nose, before she eventually settled on her lips, capturing them for as long as she could. "Thank you," she mumbled as she lingered close. "For doing this. You really have brought them all peace, Morgan. I know it." There were no ghosts that lingered, and so it must have been true. "You did good, my vigilante zombie." She kissed her once more before she retreated, approaching Lydia and Ariana. "Your words were beautiful, and your voice is too. You should sing more," she smiled at Lydia, pulling her close—this time she took great care not to get blood anywhere, knowing Lydia didn't seem as strong-willed at the sight usually. She pressed a kiss to her temple and thanked her for giving that canvas, then for coming. The funeral was over, more or less, but Deirdre would stay until the flames died and help Morgan collect the ashes. She turned to Ariana next, forgetting whatever strangeness plagued her and Lydia earlier, or even her own actions. She wrapped her arms around the young girl, careful again with her bleeding arms. "And you, young wolf, have greatly honored us today. Thank you for sending that wolf to peace, and for observing the rest with us." She pressed a kiss to her temple too before releasing her. The funeral pyre grew steadily, the sound of cracking wood painting the air. The flowers laid atop did what they could for the smell, but to a wolf like Ariana it might not have mattered what they put. The funeral was over, technically, and all guests were free to leave—though this portion was usually colored with drinking and merriment. But watching the embers pop and disappear, the flames consuming all within with, she didn't think that they would. Not yet.

It wasn’t until Deirdre pulled her into her arms that Morgan released whatever she’d been holding onto of the dead girl she’d first found in a pile of garbage with Kaden, of everything she’d seen in that awful storage unit. For a moment, she could even release the unfairness of being supernatural in a world where your history and identity had to stay some stupid, deadly secret. For a moment, as the flames surged in the twilight evening, everything felt like it was enough. Morgan sagged into her banshee’s grip and hugged her back just as tight, kissed her just as long. The forest was quiet except for them. The birds, sensing something amiss, stayed away or else hid in their roosts. The deer watched from a safe distance and closed ranks around each other, grateful for another day to come. Morgan released her hold and watched Deirdre give her parting kisses to their friends, then followed behind to slip her arms over both of them at once. They came together easily, with only a few inches of height difference between them. Morgan held them tight in their group hug, murmuring, “Thank you, for doing this with us. And thank you for being my friends.” She pressed a kiss to each head and held them a moment longer. The moment was fading, the weight of the world beyond them pressing in as surely as the night. “You can sit with us and watch awhile? But I understand if you want to get back. I know someone still has a coaching gig in the morning.”

It was a relief to see that Deirdre no longer seemed annoyed with her though she didn’t love the sight of her bloodied. Ariana welcomed the hug and told her, “Thank you to both you and Morgan for putting this together. I like to think it helped all of them find peace.” Her voice was wistful as she continued to try and put her hopes for those lost out into the universe. When Morgan came over to her, she still kept her features gentle. There was no use to acknowledge Lydia at this point. The moon was higher in the sky now and the stars twinkling above the smoke that was still present in the air. “Of course,” Ariana started before she realized what Morgan was doing. Her stomach flipped and her entire body tensed up despite their now serene surroundings. Morgan was pulling her and Lydia into a group hug and she wanted to rip herself away, but Morgan didn’t deserve that. She was actually pretty sure Morgan had no idea just who Lydia really was. Being fae was one totally cool thing. Keeping people you fed from hostage in your home-- totally different ball game. Lydia was nothing but a glorified serial killer in high heels that had someone very dear to Ariana trapped in her home. It left her feeling disgusted as she awkwardly let herself be enveloped in the hug. She did her best to keep close to Morgan, but she could still feel Lydia’s body against her own. Ugh. It was hard to ignore the discomfort and urge to fight, but she did. This wasn’t the time or place. Still, it left her skin crawling even as she pulled away. Even though she hadn’t been sleeping well, Lydia being out of the house meant maybe she could see Ace tonight. “If I didn’t have such an early day with the kids tomorrow, I’d definitely hang around, but I’ll come by soon. I do believe I owe Deirdre a strawberry rhubarb pie,” she said with a grin before offering a final wave and getting the hell away from Lydia.

“I’ll sing more with you,” Lydia replied softly, taking Deirdre’s healthy hand for a quick moment, a gesture meant just for the two fae women, only for Deirdre to pull her into a hug a moment later, and Lydia squeezed her back tightly, for as long as she was allowed before Deirdre moved on to Ariana. She turned to the flames and didn’t look away from them until Morgan’s arms slipped around her. “Oh!” She gasped, suddenly pulled tight against two of her favourite people and an annoying brat. She hugged Morgan back at the very least, and smiled as they were let go. “I’ll stay-“ she was cut off by Ariana’s quick reply and equally quick disappearance. She eyed the young girl until she was out of sight and sighed. Shaking her head, she looked back at the others. “I’ll stay and sit for a while.”

Morgan gave Ariana one last squeeze as she departed. She floated slowly to the ground by the wine service with the two fae, pressed in close to Deirdre. Around them, smoke fine as mist rolled through the air, carrying the smell of char and death with it. The smell was so rich it penetrated the haze around Morgan’s senses. As she breathed it in, she imagined that the dead were with her and knew her in a way most of the living could not. Morgan looked into the fire with its blinding yellow core, with its desperate hunger. Was their rest in the pop of flesh going up in smoke or the cooling of the bones? Was it when the smoke kissed the tops of the trees, or when the embers died? If the dead had the answers, they couldn’t give it to her. Morgan huddled closer to Deirdre, stretching a hand out for Lydia as well, squeezing her hand. If peace was something the universe granted to zombies, it would be something she had to make for herself.

#onion tears #wr chatzy #wr deirdre chatzy #wr ariana chatzy #wr deirdre #wr ariana #wr lydia #wr lydia chatzy #self harm tw #self-harm tw #wickedswriting

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everyonesomething · 7 years

Text

Session Nineteen B

Malkas: "God, this hand."

Edith Runekill: "Maybe cards was a mistake."

Malkas: "Do I need to eat the card now?"

"Like a hyena?"

Edith Runekill: "I... I don't think so." She makes a show of pretending to read the rules.

"Doesn't say anything about eating a card."

Malkas: "Okay, so that was a house rule back home."

Grim: "Only if you cheat."

---

Pepper: "You should be glad I can't fit a piano in my lap."

Grim: "Better you than Sydney."

Pepper: "I hope they sent that beautiful instrument off with full honors."

Pepper holds a non-existent hat over her heart.

Grim: "Only fittin' for a casualty of war."

Pepper chuckles. "Hope it didn't leave behind any unfinished symphonies."

Grim doesn't get it, but that's fine.

In this session we've got a lot to talk about.

The set-up: A bunch of side RP got done because of our surprisingly eventful fight.

The Game: We've set up camp for the night and are settling in for a well-deserved meal.

Syd takes a moment while the dinner's cooking to have a chat with Pepper who's been moping in the car like someone died or something. Though it doesn't seem like that's what's bothering her.

Pepper reluctantly tells Syd the healing at the end of the fight was from her, but it's not something she can reliably do. Syd doesn't understand and asks if maybe it's painful for Pepper to do, to which Pepper angsts that it was just random luck. It's not anything she can control.

Syd tries to reassure her that it's nothing to be ashamed of and that what happened must be perfectly natural. Good, kind Syd is trying, but Pepper's not hearing it.

Sydney Gaydos: "So you can't control it?" Sydney smiles. "That's nothing to be ashamed of Pepper! It's perfectly natural!" That was a lie. She has no idea.

Pepper: "Natural does not mean good. It doesn't mean invited, it doesn't mean pleasant, it doesn't mean anything except when a bolt of electricity goes off in someone's face, there's a name for what happened."

"If you don't get it, don't try and say you do, okay?" she says and rolls away from Syd.

Sydney Gaydos hecks up so bad. She lets Pepper finish her rant first before saying anything. "You are correct. Gayd--I, don't know anything about it." Ohhh Serious Tone now. "But I want to. It seems to be troubling you and you are my friend and I want to help with that." Pause. "Even if that means electricity to my face."

Pepper turns her head slightly, then turns back. "I thought that accent sounded phony." She groans. "This wasn't supposed to happen. It HADN'T happened for so long." She buries her face in her elbow.

Sydney Gaydos: "It's not phony!" she huffs, but lets it go. Slowly she reaches out a hand to put on Pepper reassuringly. "You were under a lot of stress. It was a fight after all!"

Pepper doesn't flinch away, she doesn't react at all. "Yeah? You wouldn't be saying that if it'd been anything other than a heal. It's just gonna get worse, and someone's gonna get hurt."

Pepper still has her head buried. "When Grim shot Cap she did it on purpose and everyone still jumped on her for it. Wait until I accidentally. Teleport someone out of the car or something."

Sydney Gaydos is going to HUG this out gosh dang-it.

Syd tells Pepper anything that happens would be an accident and the group would stand by her. Even if they didn't she would, for sure. But she's optimistic, we're all friends after all!

Still, Pepper makes it sound like it might be better if she just left but Syd won't hear it. Syd tells her she's just as important to the group as anyone else—Pepper helps to keep the mood light and spirits high.

Pepper mopes a bit more about how ill-suited she thinks she is to adventuring, but she seems to be feeling better. She thanks Syd for taking the time to talk to her the camper and promises she'll see her in the morning.

Syd's so good, y'all.

It's Mal, Edith, and Grim on first watch and they're all on high alert.

Edith Runekill leans on Leomund's Tiny Hut. She's wearing her Goggles of Night and has has wrapped herself in the blink cloak. What a maverick fashion icon!

Grim sits nearby, smoking under a tree and idly working on her rifle carving while she listens to the Wilderness Night Sounds

Edith Runekill peers out into the woods, not entirely convinced some more bullettes won't come bounding out.

Malkas is scooping the remaining stew into a tupperware.

Well, Edith is on high alert.

The trio talk about the monster attack earlier in the day with Mal and Edith agreeing they'd almost rather be back fighting mummies than more bullettes. They understood mummies, at least. The discussion turns to life and (un)death in general and how a lot of mummies are probably more of a security system to chase off grave robbers. Edith would rather respect a being's remains, rather than turn it into some kind of guard for a bunch of relics, but it's a moot point for her—everyone in Plaguewrought is cremated after death.

Edith Runekill shrugs. "We cremate our dead, anyway. If I die somewhere where I can get the proper rites done, it's back into the air and the earth and the sky and water. If not... well, that still happens, just slower."

Grim nods and works away on her carving.

Malkas: "... You know, I don't know what the tiefling burial rights are. Not like we're religious. And also the only tiefling funeral I've been to was my Great Great Aunt Pazuzu and we didn't have a body for her on account of her getting eaten by a hydra."

Edith Runekill: "Hey. Um."

"If... if I die out here, on this trip. And in a way where you know I can't be brought back... since I know that's a possibility, depending on how things unfold. But... but if I'm really gone for good..."

"You--”

"You'll... you'll burn my body, right?"

Malkas: "... Yeah."

Grim says nothing and keeps carving like she didn't hear

Edith Runekill: "Sorry. Not anybody's idea of a fun conversation. But... well. This is dangerous stuff we're doing."

Malkas: "Mhm."

Edith Runekill: "And I... I just wanted to make sure."

"You know?"

Malkas: "I know."

"Will you promise to embalm me and hang me up like a halloween decoration in your home to scare off all other potential suitors?"

Malkas has a pathological need to lighten a mood.

Edith Runekill lights a cigarette, but she's smiling a bit now.

Malkas: "Get a good taxidermist. Not Eddie at the museum."

"That dire wolf is a fuckin' hatchet job."

Edith Runekill opens her mouth for a follow-up joke, but it dies on her tongue; she can't really find this funny.

Malkas lights a cigarette.

Malkas: "We're gonna be fine."

Grim is tuned out. She's not into this conversation.

Cheerful!

Mal finally turns the conversation to less troubling talk and pulls out a deck of cards to help pass the time. Edith would love to play and Grim joins in with Mal winning the first two rounds. They play a few more rounds with Edith pulling out ahead and Grim quickly losing interest in the game.

It was a fine distraction, but Edith's mind turns back to the fight and how close she came to dying. She'd never had such a close shave before.

Malkas: "Trust me, being dead and then coming back is ... really hard to get your head around the first time it happens."

"I prefer almost dying."

Grim: "It's s'posed to be that way."

"You get comfy with all that magical shit, that's how you end up like Tam."

"We all got limits for a good reason."

Malkas: "Well that was the issue with Thay... No limits on anything. Total mageocracy."

Grim: "Limits don't just come from the outside, though. You got to know in yourself when it gets to be wrong."

"I don't believe it's a bad thing to be shook up over comin' back like that."

Edith Runekill looks troubled; that isn't QUITE what she meant.

Edith Runekill: "No, it's more like... like a sort of whiplash. Less about the magic in particular and more just... the gut feeling of having your body all bent and broken and twisted up and torn how its not supposed and then just--" She snaps a finger. "Suddenly you're whole again. And it's like none of that trauma's real? Except it happened. But..."

"And I didn't get it half so bad as poor Syd..."

Grim listens quietly, but doesn't seem to know what to make of it

Grim: "For the most part, I ain't accustomed to travel with a cleric. Spent most've my life way out where the best healin's a needle 'n thread and a bullet to bite on. Time you get on back to somewhere with a temple, or a clinic, it ain't a problem to recall what's been done."

"Don't know that takin' the knocks is easy to swallow either way."

Malkas: "Neither are we, really."

Edith Runekill: "I'm glad we are, obviously. Otherwise we'd be... y'know, dead. But it's still new."

Malkas: "Dad's a cleric but he didn't usually have to do much day to day healing. A couple of ... Big Fergus-related mishaps sure."

Malkas eyes drift to the car where Pepper is sleeping.

Grim flicks the end of her cigarette into the embers of the fire and folds her arms across her knees.

Mal flips through a guidebook for the Sword Coast, looking for some interesting sights or events we might be passing by. Grim mentions that she's known on the fighting circuit further east if we need to earn some money, and Thay's the closest thing to home turf for her. Mal roughly plots out having Grim help with the navigation around Thay, but before then we'll be passing through Edith's home country.

On the topic of Edith's home, Grim asks her what her folks are like. She hesitates at first before speaking.

Edith Runekill: "They're decent enough sorts? But... but the life I led isn't really what they pictured for their little girl. The job I got, how far away I live... the people I associate with... how much danger I'm putting myself in."

Edith Runekill puts a hand on Mal's shoulder.

Edith Runekill: "They came to visit me in Neverwinter. They made it clear-- in that icy polite understated calm Plaguewrought Land way-- that they didn't really approve of what I was up to. And... and especially not Mal." Edith looks miserable about this.

Grim lights another cigarette, studying Edith as she sits back

Malkas puts his hand over Edith's.

Grim: "So what makes 'em decent?"

Edith Runekill: "I... I guess they want the best for me?" She looks unsure about this. "And... and it's just that I got a different idea about what's really best?" She casts her eyes down, looking uncomfortable.

"I don't wanna sound ungrateful? They gave me a roof over my head and food in my belly and an education."

Edith Runekill lapses into an uncomfortable silence

Grim just smokes thoughtfully

Grim: "How long d'you reckon on paying the debt?"

Edith Runekill: "I... hm."

Edith Runekill takes another long drag on her cigarette

Edith Runekill: "My brothers have done so much more for the family than I ever have. But... but they wanted all that. The farm. Putting down roots of their own out there. A farmhouse and a big family all their own. You know."

"While I was chasing the sunset and dreaming of adventures out west."

They sound nice.

At any rate, Grim tells Edith it's best to live life for yourself and not for family, gods, priests, or whoever else. Though she freely admits she doesn't have much experience with families. Edith never second-guessed her own family before she met Mal's—the Steeles are a very caring, welcoming bunch. Grim reassures Edith that whatever happens in the future, she has people in the group looking out for her.

Of course, no talk about Plaguewrought Land is complete without mention of corn.

Malkas: "You know what we should get at the next stop?"

"Popcorn."

Edith Runekill snorts.

Edith Runekill: "I think we should just appreciate non-corn foods all we can 'til we get past the Cloven Mountains and enter the Corn Kingdom."

Malkas: "True..."

Grim: "What's wrong with corn?"

Edith Runekill: "Nothing inherently. it's just... well, I grew up on a corn farm. It gets a little... monotonous."

Grim: "Cornfield's a real huntin' ground. You got field mice, snakes 'n snake eggs, all kinds of birds, even besides deer around the right time've day."

Malkas: "And Corncob head."

Grim: "What now?"

Edith Runekill: "Corncob Head..."

Malkas: "The mysterious being with a cob of corn for a head that haunts you if you should ever leave and then return to the Plaguewrought Land."

"It's not real, I'm just teasing Edith."

Edith Runekill: "Yeah, it's just a story we tell. But you can tell a lot about a people from the stories they tell..."

Malkas: "In this case, it's a guy with corn for a face."

Grim: "My experience, always worth keepin' them kind of tales in mind. Often they come out of something not so far from truth."

Edith Runekill: "It's less about a guy with corn for a face and more about coming home after you been gone."

"Which. Well. You know."

Malkas: "Or, like... some kinda spell at some point. With corn."

Edith Runekill: "If Corncob Head turns out to be real, I quit the adventure."

"I'm not sure I can deal with my mixed feelings of fear and dread about going back there being embodied so literally."

Grim: "I don't know, fixin' it up into something to shoot sounds as good a way to face up as any."

Edith Runekill grins. "Good point."

Malkas: "I think if it's real enough to shoot, some other adventurer has gone home to plaguewrought and to shoot it."

Grim: "Perhaps each local that leaves creates one anew."

Edith Runekill: "There's a whole colony of 'em."

"You're driving by endless rolling fields of corn. And then you see a couple cobs bigger than the others. And then they stand up."

Malkas: "More metaphors should be edible."

Edith Runekill: "Corncob Heads."

Malkas: "We can make a melted butter golem."

Grim takes a swig from her flask, eyeing the treeline

Grim: "Don't go givin' Pepper ideas, now."

Edith Runekill actually laughs, for the first time in a while.

Edith then wonders if she shouldn't try talking to Pepper about the wild surge she had during the fight. Grim's not versed in magic so Mal and Edith explain it's a sorcerer thing—Mal's brother has them, too. Basically, a sorcerer's magic can go off in unpredictable ways, though in Grim's opinion magic is never very predictable.

And speaking of Pepper, it's time for her to take watch. Grim sends Mal and Edith off to bed, she'll wait up for her.

Grim finally glances up at Pepper, then back at her rifle. She nudges her flask out and nods towards one of the empty seats in invitation.

Grim: "Don't mind the company a while, do you? Ain't so much settled to sleep yet."

Pepper: "It's fine," she says, taking a seat but leaving the flask. "Probably shouldn't drink if I'm supposed to keep a look out, though."

Grim shrugs

Grim: "Keeps the cold out pretty good."

Pepper: "I usually just warm my clothes up or something," she says, faintly gesturing to Grim's shirt sleeve. It starts to feel warmer by a few degrees before she gestures again, causing the heat to dissipate in the cool night air.

Grim glances down at the sleeve and her brow furrows a little, but she nods and goes back to work.

Grim: "That'll do for cold on the outside, sure enough."

Pepper glances at her, chin propped in her hand. "Mm. If you want me to drink my cares away, I'm still gonna have to pass."

Grim snorts softly

Grim: "Fine by me."

Grim asks her where the name Pepper came from. She tells her it's just a translation of her nickname from when she was a kid. She would have gone by her full name—Adralei—but it turns out non-Elvish speakers are bad at pronouncing Elvish names.

Grim: "What's it mean in elfish?"

Pepper picks at a spot on the table. "It's hard to translate. It's like. Good fortune gained through hardship, I guess. But it's also like, an appeal? Asking for good fortune despite hardship in the future. It's a real old, traditional name."

Grim considers this, glancing at Pepper thoughtfully

Grim: "...Ilmater teaches hardship's a part of life. There's always gotta be some certain amount of it in the world. So there's virtue in goin' through it, takin' it off the backs of folks around you. Enduring the worst to make for better fortunes all around."

Pepper just gives Grim the most rotten look.

Pepper doesn't seem very comforted by this line of thought—her parents went through a lot just to end up with her. Grim asks what's so bad about ending up with her to which Pepper responds that even she should have a few ideas why. Grim thinks, she concedes that Pepper runs her mouth and she's a smartass but she's been around worse. But Pepper also healed Syd and helped out big during the fight.

Pepper tells her, too, that the heal wasn't any of her doing—it was just some kind of luck or fate.

Grim: "Fate don't just happen by itself. Takes you showin' up."

Pepper: "Yeah? Well, after awhile fate's the only thing that even wants me showing up anywhere anymore. It sucks and I don't have any control over it."

Grim: "You got control over bein' here, ain't you? Don't know a soul among us that don't appreciate every body we got on the tail of that lich."

Pepper: "I meant control like something else takes over and--ugh," she starts, her face in her hands again. Then, quieter, muffled by her palms. "I thought maybe you felt the same. Like when you got mad today."

Pepper looks away. "Never mind, I'm probably just overthinking things again. What was it, 'cooked up in my own head'?" She has a sour smile on her face.

Grim studies Pepper for a minute, then tosses the end of her cigarette into the fire and looks back over at the owl.

Grim: "I know what you're talkin' about," she says, more quietly. "You ain't wrong."

Pepper noticed when Grim raged out during the fight—though it would have been hard to miss her repeatedly stabbing a bullette seeing as they were in the same car. Pepper asks if it happens a lot, Grim says it's been more frequent lately and that right fighting used to help keep it under control.

Pepper says she's not sure if anyone else would have noticed, there was a lot going on. She's pretty sure Edith was too excited about her fireball to see anything out of the ordinary. A fireball Pepper's still a little peeved about.

Pepper: "And I'm not sure she gets that knowing what evocation can do is a little different experience than being stuck in the middle of it. But what am I telling you for, you were there--" She glances up and catches the look on Grim's face.

Pepper lowers her voice into an almost conspiratorial tone, but looks at the carving instead. "Didn't you say something once about a fire?"

Grim hasn't moved much, but every muscle in her body is tense suddenly. She runs her fingers absently over the carving, brow furrowed.

Grim: "...my hometown burned. I don't remember it."

"Only sometimes, somethin' in me does."

Grim doesn't know why she's telling Pepper this. She lets go of her rifle and takes a slug from her flask instead.

Pepper nods. "My surges were worse when I was younger. I didn't know what I'd done unless someone told me. I think there's still stuff my mom hasn't told me about, she doesn't want me to worry."

Pepper: "But then it's like. You just end up with different stuff to worry about." She lapses into silence, studying the carving instead.

Grim: "There's things that live in your bones, once you been through 'em. Even if you don't recall."

Grim follows Pepper's gaze to the rifle. She's been painstakingly carving out a coyote against a desert plain

Grim: "There's worse places to be, when you're dangerous, than standing in between regular folks and evil."

"Least, that's how I tell it to myself."

Pepper: "Mm. I'll take your word for it, this is a little new to me." She points at the carving. "Is that like. For good luck or something?"

Grim eyes the carving and then smiles a little

Grim: "Naw. Just reckon it looks nice."

Pepper: "Yeah. 's neat."

Grim tells Pepper she heard her talking with Edith the other night at the hotel, after Candlekeep—the walls really were that thin. She's glad Pepper's treating her better to which Pepper admits she had a lot of things wrong about both Edith and Grim. Well, it's almost an apology. Pepper laughs at how backwards she had the situation and double-checks that Grim had no idea about Edith's crush. She didn't—she's used to more direct talk from people.

Grim spots an owl up in a tree, it's actually been watching the two of them for most of their conversation. She IDs it as a celestial owl, a kind of spirit and a good omen.

Grim leans down and rummages around for one of Mal's tupperwares, cigarette clamped in her mouth while she fishes out a chunk of leftover rabbit and tosses it across the way towards the owl.

Grim: "S'a kinda spirit. Good kind."

The owl swoops down and picks up the hunk of rabbit. It does one of those real gross owl moves to swallow it.

Pepper: "Oh. Maybe things are looking up, then. Or. They're going to get so bad it showed up so it'll only be mostly bad."

Grim: "You sure got an eye for a downside."

"And that's comin' from a gal named Grim."

Pepper: "We can trade names, if it bugs you that much," she grins, a bit.

Grim smirks and exhales smoke, watching the owl

Grim: "Suits you better bein' Pep."

With that, Grim goes off to sleep, closing out the scene and the night.

Everyone’s such good friends!

#previously on #summary #corncob head #neverwinter 1933

8 notes · View notes

asia-correspondent · 6 years

Text

excerpts ~

CHAPTER 1 ~ RITUALS

SKY FUNERAL VULTURES IN TIBET

On the rocky outskirts of Lhasa, Tibetan mourners whispered prayers while hungry, brooding vultures circled overhead. Cawing. "This is our sky funeral. We let the vultures eat the bodies of dead Tibetans," a mourner told me at the beginning of the somber rites. "I personally think it is too gruesome. But this is our Buddhist tradition." Cremations and burials are difficult to perform. Firewood is scarce throughout much of Tibet. The ground is often frozen or rocky. In 1984 a gray boulder looming 30 feet high, served as the cold altar for Lhasa's Tibetan corpses. The flat boulder's 20-foot by 20-foot surface could be used every day except Sundays. Sky funerals -- bya gtor or "alms for the birds" -- began at dawn with attendees moaning prayers. "Today, four bodies," the mourner quietly explained. "You can see, three of the dead are village women. Also a merchant. He is a murder victim. He was killed two nights ago in the Lhasa market at a card game. Stabbed. We are all friends of the dead. The brothers, sisters, parents and children don't come to these funerals." This morning was chilly and clear. The sun smoldered behind snow-covered mountain peaks while four Tibetan undertakers -- rogyapa or "body breakers" -- and two assistants laid the four corpses face down on the boulder. The undertakers pulled off the bodies' shoes. Mourners glanced at the slumped, immobile humans, then looked away. More friends arrived to honor the deceased. Visitors came in battered, dusty, green Chinese trucks. The vehicles veered off a dirt road, rattled across a small, flat garbage dump, and splashed through an icy, shallow brook. The trucks stopped near the blood-stained boulder. The all-male passengers climbed down and solemnly trudged towards the rock which rested amid treeless lunar foothills dotted with ragged Buddhist prayer flags on the northern outskirts of Lhasa below the stone wall of the 15th century Sera Monastery. Vultures swooped and spiraled, or simply loitered atop a nearby cliff. The birds of prey looked down upon the living and the dead, waiting for the ritual to begin. Six undertakers, reeking of cheap Tibetan chang beer, used thick ropes to noose the necks of the bodies. They attached the ropes to a very heavy stone. This prevented the bodies sliding off the boulder's slightly angled surface. The mourners were becoming increasingly miserable. They clustered around small campfires a few yards away, below the boulder. Some used dented aluminum tea pots to brew hot tea laced with yak butter and salt -- a popular nourishment. Overhead, more vultures circled and cawed. Some of the birds hopped unafraid onto the boulder and inspected the cadavers. A few of the two dozen mourners quietly joked and gossiped among themselves. The undertakers, in filthy, blood-splattered aprons and knee-high boots, pulled out their whetstones. They sharpened vicious, 18-inch knives and heavy cleavers. Someone tossed a mixture of dried yak dung, roots and seeds onto eight small campfires below the rock and five tiny fires on the boulder's surface. The heaving smoke was to signal distant vultures that a sky funeral had started. A noisy flock of about 150 vultures now swooped above the boulder but didn't land. The drunk undertakers appeared numb to the slowly...

*****

THE DALAI LAMA & THE DEAD

Looking vexed during our third interview at his Namgyal Monastery in McLeod Ganj in 1992, the Dalai Lama revealed that secretive investigations indicated his long dead arch-enemy, China's Chairman Mao Zedong, had been reincarnated. This was the Dalai Lama's first mention to any journalist about Mao's reincarnation, or anything about an investigation. A reborn Mao was alive and well? Somewhere in China? Reincarnated as a child? The Dalai Lama's surprise disclosure about the possibility of a reincarnated Mao emerged when I asked what happens to people who do not believe in Buddhism, or reincarnation, and then die? And what punishment in the afterworld would these people suffer if they committed acts of evil while alive -- I randomly tossed out Mao's name as an example -- according to Tibetan Buddhism? Frowning slightly, the Dalai Lama leaned forward and replied: "According to some indications, Chairman Mao has already emerged as one Chinese boy. According to some mysterious investigations. Usually when somebody has passed away, we start to investigate where they'll be reborn. According to some indications, Chairman Mao may be reborn three times among the Chinese. Three times." Were these investigations into Mao's reincarnation being conducted by Tibetan Buddhists? The Dalai Lama nodded and replied while repeatedly laughing: "Oh yes, of course, of course. No Chinese sources. Certainly not Chinese communist sources. But really I don't know where. Also I have no interest to recognize the reincarnation. Unless we create an institution for Mao Zedong's reincarnation." According to Buddhist teaching, all people whether they are Buddhists or not, are reborn after they die either as a human or a creature. It is difficult to be released from these repeated rebirths because all people, including Mao, are trapped on the Wheel of Life. Each dalai lama is believed to be a reincarnated manifestation of Avalokita, also known as Avalokiteshwara, the Bodhisattva of Compassion. A bodhisattva is a person destined for enlightenment, reborn to serve other people. The Dalai Lama said he could not remember his 13 past lives as previous dalai lamas. As usual during our interviews, I again asked the Dalai Lama -- who was older than me and now 57 -- if he achieved nirvana. He replied: "I think you may achieve it first, or before my age. Even a one month retreat is almost impossible now. When I recite some prayer, or remain in a secluded area with no contact with anyone for 24 hours, I still feel a mixture of happiness and sadness," because longer meditations are impossible. Since 1983, I don't think I've had much spiritual progress." Despite Chinese efforts to control and crush Tibet's elaborate forms of Buddhism, many beliefs survived in...

*****

HOLY SADHUS IN INDIA & NEPAL

"Soon, probably he starts smoking hemp -- for it is a curious fact that a large proportion of Indian mystics are addicted to this form of intoxication. Later, he becomes a paramahansa, which means a 'great goose,' and is the highest order of holy man."

~ Lowell Thomas, 1930

Meanwhile in Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal, half-naked sadhus are so highly respected that they were allowed to join privileged guests witnessing the cremation in 2001 of nine murdered members of Nepal's royal family and the princely assassin. "I saw them burn the king and queen and the others," Rada Kris Mudari, a 40-year-old sadhu told me at the Pashupati Temple complex where the cremation took place amid Hindu pagodas, shrines, and sadhu caves. "It was not good when they burned them because the public was not allowed. Only the government people and the army people and us sadhus were here" during the mass royal cremations. "But all people become like this," Mudari said, gesturing at a bleak row of flame-blackened cement funeral ghats. The ghats are raised, rectangular platforms along the Bagmati River where most of Kathmandu's deceased -- royals and commoners -- are brought and cremated according to Hindu and Buddhist rites. "The rich, when they die, do not take anything. They lose everything. Even the royal family do not take their palaces. They don't even take their names. They only take their karma," said bearded, turbaned, barefoot Mudari. Another sadhu sitting nearby, white-bearded Bogindra Das, 55, told me: "Unlike royal people or rich people, we sadhus don't need anything. We give up everything and are always in a peaceful place. Rich people live with money. Poor people live with God's name. So when rich people die, they don't have anything. But poor people, when they die, they have God. But we are all equal because anytime we can die. I've been here at Pashupati Temple for nine or 10 years. I have seen thousands and thousands of bodies burn. "When a king burns, it is different. When royal people die, a lot of army people come here and they make music. When normal people burn, undertakers just put them on some wood and make a fire. Everybody has to go, even we sadhus have to go. We don't have to stay here on earth." Asked if he would like to be a king instead of a sadhu, Das grinned, exposing a few missing teeth. "I do not want to live like a king. I like to live this kind of sadhu life. A king is a king and he is a god in Nepal, but he also dies. I am a sadhu without money, but I don't worry about getting food. God takes care of everything, if I do good karma. I have been reincarnated many times, as many things, as animals and so on, and had many, many different lives. I cannot remember my past lives, but in the Hindu religion there are many powerful books and we have learnt about this. Earth is the place to do karma. We are coming naked into this world and going out naked. "But it is better to be born a sadhu than a king, because a king is only a king of the public world. A sadhu is a king of kings, because when a king goes to learn about God, the king comes to the sadhu." During the past few hundred years, Nepal's various monarchs, prime ministers and other rulers often turned away from the deadly intrigue of Kathmandu's treacherous politics and consulted sadhus and other holymen to find wisdom and bliss. While the sadhus spoke, another holy man, Raday Das Biraghee, 42, quietly adorned his forehead with a thick splat of bright yellow powdered dye. Biraghee also covered his nearly naked body in white ash from the sadhus' camp fire, in keeping with ancient Hindu tradition which regards all ash as auspicious because it comes from fire, which is sacred. Stroking his powder-speckled, bushy black beard, Biraghee said: "I agree with Bogindra Das, I also don't want to be a king in my next life, because a king has to take care of everyone, and has to look after rich people and poor people. A sadhu's life is better. A sadhu is carefree. A sadhu can go everywhere. When a king visits another place, he has to take bodyguards and look everywhere and worry. When a sadhu visits, he doesn't have to worry at all. If a sadhu wants to go to another country, such as India, and stay a long time, no problem. But if a king wants to go and stay a long time, it is a big problem." Soon, the group of sadhus rose to look for food, which they got by begging from visitors at the Pashupati Temple complex. The sadhus strolled past the charred ghats where several people had been cremated...

*****

CALCUTTA'S DOM CASTE UNDERTAKERS

India's spiritual rituals also have a miserable downside for those who cannot escape Hinduism's traditions. When Hindus die in India, regardless of how wealthy or high caste they are, only impoverished and scorned Untouchable caste Doms can prepare the cremation fire and prod the smoldering corpse to ensure it burns. Doms are even allowed to facilitate the last rites of Hinduism's highest Brahmin caste members, but Doms have been forced for generations to remain trapped into being India's undertakers. They are widely despised and discriminated against. Except at the gates of death. "We think Doms are lowly because the work they do is unsophisticated," Rajiv Prakash, a middle-class Hindu told me in his Calcutta shop where he sold home appliances. "I would not marry a Dom. I cannot go against society like that. I think it is wrong, there should not be Untouchables, and they should not be treated like that. But if I marry a Dom, I would suffer and be rejected by my society. Even if I love the girl, if I came to know she is a Dom, I would break it off," Prakash said. Madhab Ghosh, a Toshiba salesman from Bangladesh visiting Prakash's shop agreed and said Hindus can identify a Dom even if the person lies about their caste. "A Dom would not be able to conceal their caste. You would know from the way they dress that they are a low caste. Or the way they talk would not be so intellectual." The Indian government meanwhile has officially tried to end "caste discrimination" but the problem remains widespread. "The president of India was an Untouchable," Ghosh said. He was referring to the 1997 election of 76-year-old K. R. Narayanan to the largely ceremonial role. Narayanan was India's first Untouchable caste president. "I could marry his daughter, but that's because it would be different. Because if it were the president's daughter, people would forget that she was an Untouchable," Ghosh said. "But I cannot be a rebel against millions of Hindus in India. If I wanted to be like that, it is better I go to America or Germany or some place. Even I know it is wrong, it is already inside my brain. It is like with computers. There is ROM and RAM inside. I would not accept a glass of water from a Dom. I would say, 'I am not thirsty' so as not to hurt their heart. If I were alone, OK, I might take it. But not if someone could see me. Because then my circle would reject me. I can't help it. You cannot go against your society." Foreigners who happen to die while holidaying or working in India are often given by their embassies to the Doms, who see that the corpse is neatly stacked atop wooden logs of a funeral ghat in whatever city the foreigner happens to die in, or placed in a modern "electric crematorium" if one is available nearby. Foreigners' relatives who oppose cremations, or want the body sent back to their country of origin, can pay airlines expensive fees to ship the corpse home in a sealed coffin. Less costly is to send an urn of ashes by air freight. "I am a Dom, my work is dead bodies," Sham Sharma, 22, told me while a funeral began in Calcutta's squalid cremation zone at Kali Ghat. "I burn bodies every day. In one day, maybe five bodies. My uncle, father and my grandfather are Doms and they also burn bodies. I don't know how many bodies I've burnt. In my life, maybe 2,000 bodies? "I'm working here six years. My only one problem is money. I like working here. No money, then it's not good. Money, it is then alright. I collect the bodies and put here. And do everything. People say, 'He is Dom. Very, very good. Here is a dead body, come here." As he spoke, a relatively rich group of men arrived. Twelve of them carried a bamboo stretcher which supported the body of an elderly woman. She had been tied to the stretcher's green bamboo slats, so she would not slide off when the small procession walked to the ghat. A Brahmin priest offered instructions to the men on how they should perform age-old Hindu funeral rituals. The eldest son, bare-chested and head freshly shaved as required by the rites, picked up a red clay pot of nearby Hooghly River water and poured it over his mother's corpse. The son's "thread" -- a white string worn throughout life and slung diagonally across his chest and back, from shoulder to waist -- showed he was a Brahmin. The woman on the stretcher had been wrapped in a blue sari, concealing all but her wrinkled face. Her dead mouth was open. The family quietly fussed over her. They removed a bright marigold cloth which was emblazoned Hare Krishna, Hare Ram repeatedly printed in red ink. The son sprinkled flower petals upon her. He watched as nearby Doms built a rectangular pyre...

*****

CHAPTER 2 ~ KILLERS

JAMPA PHUNTSOK & TIBET'S ARMED REBELLION

"The Dalai Lama had already left the palace and was traveling to India, so I did not have a special conversation with him about my decision to pick up a gun. Instead, I went and prostrated three times before the Dalai Lama's empty throne and I spoke my heart for the cause of Buddhism and Tibet's independence. Then I asked the Dalai Lama to please kindly forgive me for giving up my vows." In the dim firelight of the Potala's butter lamps, Jampa then took off his maroon woolen robe and changed into civilian clothes. Jampa told other monks about an armory of ancient weapons stored in the Potala Palace's basement. But most of the monks withdrew to follow the Dalai Lama's caravan. Only a small group accompanied Jampa into the dark, musty cellars. They removed dirt-encrusted rifles, swords and other outdated weaponry. Jampa knew they were no match for China's well-organized People's Liberation Army. But he distributed the inadequate weapons to rouse the monks to fight, and he hoped to get better weapons very soon. Grasping a rifle for the first time, the monks were unsure how to shoot. Through the palace's windows they could see Chinese troops storming the Potala's walls and entrances, hunting for the Dalai Lama. Some monks were so frightened by the loud explosions and falling masonry that they dropped their guns and fled. Even Jampa was alarmed when he watched the Chinese troops advance. "I thought the Chinese were cowards and we could kill them easily. But the Chinese troops were attacking. Never retreating. They were courageous. Tibetans were forced to retreat by the sheer number of Chinese soldiers. We weren't able to defend the Potala for very long." A messenger told the monks the Dalai Lama had safely escaped Lhasa. Elated, Jampa decided their tiny group should leave the Potala before it was completely cut off. They would regroup later and attack Chinese convoys and outlying camps. To engage the Chinese army in the capital now would be suicidal. Several weeks later, Jampa was no longer recognizable. He traded his clothes for a traditional horseman's outfit. He would now wear a brown woolen knee-length chuba coat, fur hat, and tall leather riding boots. Like many Tibetan warriors, he protected himself from bullets by wearing a gau amulet box, slung on a leather strap across the left side of his body. Inside the box, two small statues of protector deities included a traditional blessing from the Dalai Lama, written in gold ink. Jampa now saw himself as a guerrilla. He brandished a rifle and galloped alongside other Tibetans across the rugged moonscapes and forests of Tibet. "There was a highway robber called Samphal and he collected a large gang. Together we rode our horses across the countryside fighting the Chinese. We had tents and all the utensils and extra horses to carry our rations and equipment. There were 150 in my group. They were 100 monks from various monasteries, plus some lay Tibetans and soldiers. Also included were five or six bandits. Many in my band died." Jampa and the other rebels used hit-and-run tactics. He believed the Dalai Lama protected him through supernatural powers. Jampa said he never suffered major injury in any fighting. And he felt he was also fulfilling his great-grandfather's tradition to defend their homeland. "I fought the Chinese until 1960. I killed about 30 Chinese. But I'm not sure the total number, because I don't know how many I killed in battle. I'm very sorry to tell you now that I felt satisfaction when I was killing Chinese. I know as a monk I should not tell you, but honestly, I feel I achieved something and I wished I could kill more Chinese. "We divided ourselves into units of 100. I was appointed the gyapon, or leader, of one unit." The duty of the gyapon was to carry out decisions arrived at the guerrillas' secret meeting...

*****

TONY "POE" POSHEPNY, CIA IN LAOS

America's Central Intelligence Agency actively supported the failed guerrilla war in Tibet against the Chinese, and the defeated Dalai Lama's escape to India, with training, weapons and cash. Years later, the CIA moved into Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam during the US wars in those three countries, all of which also ended in failure. But unlike Tibet, the regional Vietnam War included direct, deadly roles by Americans on the ground. In Laos, the macabre CIA paramilitary officer Anthony A. Poshepny became infamous because he demanded -- and paid for -- dead Lao communists' ears and their chopped-off heads. Poshepny, popularly known as Tony Poe, said he dropped some of those human heads onto America's enemies while flying over his targets. He also boasted about impaling communists' heads on spikes in the jungles of Laos and joining his tribal fighters in celebratory tribal dances around the dead heads of the vanquished. "I threw two heads from an airplane, it was a Dornier plane. The heads landed right in that [Lao] bastard's front door. We were flying at 100 feet," Poe, laughing, told me in his loud, tough, gravelly voice in the living room of his San Francisco home in May 2001. Whose heads? "Any [communist] Pathet Lao or someone else we didn't like. I had a bunch of heads in my hut and the blood was seeping through the floor. It was sticky. And [CIA officer] Bill Lair said, 'Get rid of those goddamn heads'." Poe gleefully described how he also let his ethnic minority Hmong guerrillas celebrate in their stronghold deep in the jungle of northern Laos. "These people are animists. After fighting, they had to have a ceremony. They'd put the heads on bamboo stakes and did a traditional dance around the heads, and throw pebbles at the heads. To show they were victorious." Poe would also explain why he personally executed Vietnamese doctors who he imprisoned in a hole in the jungle even though they begged to defect from the communists. The loquacious Poe said he rewarded his Hmong guerrillas when they brought in, as he demanded, the sliced-off ears of communists killed by the Hmong. It was Poe's way to confirm his Hmong fighters were not lying. He paid them for each ear. But Poe soon demanded the hacked-off head of each enemy, as much more reliable proof. After several years based in the rugged highlands of Laos where he was seriously wounded three times, Poe grew angry at attempts by senior CIA and American Embassy officers to control his activities. In response to US officials' complaints that Poe's gruesome behavior was counterproductive, he sent a bag filled with his Lao enemies' ears to the CIA station in Vientiane, capital of Laos. Poe wanted to prove his Hmong guerrillas were successfully killing communists. The unopened bag arrived on a Friday and sat in the CIA's office over the weekend, he said. "The ears were putrid. I shouldn't have done it because the secretary opened it up and she went crazy. The ears were in cellophane. They dried right up. You know, ears are mostly water. The human body is 80 percent water. And those...

*****

JAMES "MULE" PARKER, CIA IN VIETNAM

When asked during our interviews about the CIA's Vietnamese spies who Parker and others relied on while writing CIA reports for Washington during the war, Parker replied: "Ah, the lying spy syndrome." For the CIA throughout the world, "it's hard to recruit spies, to find them, develop them, recruit them to steal secrets, dispatch them, and then debrief them on their return. "To the uninitiated, it's tougher than it looks. And here's another thought: when that guy or gal you've recruited to be a spy comes back in with the secret information you sent him to get, it's only at this point where the whole process gives a return on our country's investment of time, money [and] risk. "Not the meeting, assessing, developing, recruiting, training, dispatching and the debriefing when he returns. No. You and your agent are only of value to the intel community when you finally, finally write up the intel report. The process can take years sometimes, progressing from one case officer's development to another." Parker recalled how in South Vietnam during the war, "you find a new [Vietnamese] guy through your own spade work or maybe by referral from the US military or South Vietnamese police, and you go on to assess and vet him and recruit him and train him and send him out. And then sometimes he just disappears, losing his nerve when it comes down to actually doing what he has been tasked to do. "And out in the bigger world of spydom, what's the life of a productive [mercenary] spy? Five years maybe, sometimes longer, but not often. They lose their edge -- their interest in having their lives disrupted and endangered -- or they lose their access. Or, after two or three [CIA] case officer handlers, the personal attachment can become weak and the [mercenary] guy maybe just doesn't gee-haw [get along] with the new case officer. "It's a tough business under any conditions. In Vietnam, this difficult business had to be done under combat conditions, where to be found out, meant sure death for the spy." During the Vietnam War, the CIA's American "case officers turned over every couple of years as their tours expired, and the new [CIA] guy was often taken advantage of by the existing [Vietnamese] agents. "For example, if these [Vietnamese] agents were what is known as 'principle' agents, they sent out other Vietnamese contacts as their intel gatherers. These sub-agents were hard to keep up with...as does accountability and chain of acquisition of their information. And, perhaps most common, these hard to verify sub-agents were often ghosts, as in not really there. Vietnamese agents were found out to be 'fabricators' time and again." As the war dragged on, some of the CIA's Vietnamese spies became increasingly corrupt. "We're talking the end of the war here where [Vietnamese] 'principle agents' had come to know pretty much what the CIA generally was looking for. So the good scammers would just stay in place for years -- up until the end really -- feeding marketplace mush to the CIA case officers. "And for years, if 'principle agents' who had worked for the CIA were found out to be phony, or if they hyped low-level info into something that sounded sexy [and] were found out and terminated in one province -- since they knew the business, these slicky boys would often just move to another province and make indirect contact with Americans there with a whole new invented network of sub-sources and sell their fabricated newspaper-inspired stuff, or general ground truths, to an unsuspecting new CIA guy as 'intelligence'," Parker said. "All that new local [Vietnamese] intel entrepreneur had to do was mix in a little truth, and he would look like he had potential. Some of the [Vietnamese] agents identified as 'fabricators' were not necessarily criminal and deceitful in their work but had, along the way, lost their access or their agents were killed or just didn't come back from missions. But [they] continued to pretend that they had sub-agents, when in fact the 'principle agent' was just making up what the [CIA] case officer wanted to hear." Among the CIA's American staff, problems arose because their own bosses demanded more and more information. "You gotta remember that there was pressure on us CIA case officers to produce intels," he said, referring to intelligence reports. "So the emphasis, certainly from say 1968 to 1972, was to believe your [Vietnamese] agent over reasonable doubt sometimes, and keep him on -- to provide the necessary number of reports you need for promotion, or to keep the [CIA] base you were operating from, up to standards." As a result, CIA case officers experienced a "lot of resistance to cleaning your stable of [Vietnamese] assets, or vetting them anew after a year or so in which they had produced five or ten reports a month to you," he said. "It does get into sources and methods that I want to avoid. Suffice it to say that good clandestine trade craft involves constant vetting of your intel agents, and there are probably a great number of case studies that show how a lack vetting resulted in bad ops and funky 'intelligence'. "The general feeling by most [CIA] case officers is, and was, that your [mercenary] agents will always lie to you...”

*****

INTERNATIONAL "BIKINI KILLER" CHARLES SOBHRAJ

"Let me please introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste. And I laid traps for troubadours, Who get killed before they reached Bombay."

~ Mick Jagger & Keith Richards

During our interviews while Sobhraj inside Tihar Jail, he still appeared suave, muscular and excited. He moved easily among guards and other prisoners in the visitors' hall. He had been advising wealthy Indian jail mates how to present their cases to the courts and local media. When I asked how many people he killed during his lifetime, Sobhraj replied in aggressive, French-accented English: "Officially, I am denying I killed anyone. Of course I am denying!" Wearing his typical gear of neatly pressed slacks, slip-on shoes, a shirt rolled up at the elbows and a big golden wristwatch, Sobhraj resembled an urbane Vietnamese salesman, with high cheekbones, giving a hard-sell to a customer in a snazzy showroom instead of a convicted prisoner in the bowels of a wretched prison. He projected bravado while a cluster of Indian prisoners watched in awe from a respectful distance. The now-balding Sobhraj told me his priority was to block extradition from India to Thailand, where he feared certain execution because the statute of limitations had not yet expired for the wanted Bikini Killer. "According to the Thai constitution, they can shoot anyone without trial. So I don't think you can get a fair trial there. There is no evidence to connect me with the crimes there. If I go free from this jail, I will try to stay in India, get residence here and do my writing," Sobhraj said, grinning. "I have my own cell. I make it like an office, with an electric typewriter. I find pleasure in writing short stories. I will try to get married. I don't know yet. I want to settle. Kids is what I want. There is no question of my going back into crime. I've been trying to legalize my situation. I fought my cases patiently. Years ago, I said I would win. Now I want to live quietly." Sobhraj tried to project a woeful image of innocence and repentance during our interviews -- a performance he repeated since childhood to everyone close to him. "My advice to a young person is, it will not be worth getting into crime. As far as possible, a young criminal should try to get out of crime. Society will have to play a role in that. But the most important role is yourself, the psychological changes, your thinking and instincts. Accept the advice of specialized people." Then came Sobhraj's classic, ghoulish cliché: "Here," he said, handing me a bottle of soda. "Have something to drink." For several years, he lorded over Tihar Jail's miserable universe including the prison's superintendent who Sobhraj blackmailed. Whenever Sobhraj went to the superintendent's office, their conversation inevitably turned to ways that the superintendent could profit from Sobhraj, who generously offered to cut him in on a slew of devious business deals which would easily profit the delighted jailer. But Sobhraj also planted eavesdropping devices which recorded the superintendent's illegal rackets. When Sobhraj later played a few sound bites, the frantic superintendent had no choice but to agree to share power with the usurping inmate or else suffer exposure. That scam worked for a while but eventually leaked and hit India's media. The government investigated the superintendent's activities, and transferred him elsewhere. Despite denying that he ever killed anyone, Sobhraj wrote descriptions of himself promoting his never-published memoirs, shamelessly hyping that he was a "master jail breaker," "master criminal" and "master murderer." He showed me short stories he wrote while in prison, including his version of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi's 1984 assassination. Sobhraj's written description of her two Sikh bodyguards shooting her dead in the garden of her New Delhi residence was filled with his own fantasies and macabre, bloody imagery rendered in graphic slow motion detail with her splattered blood reverently depicted in words. When I asked about various charges against him in seven other countries, Sobhraj smiled and replied: "Nobody has applied for my extradition except the Thais." Sobhraj said he enjoyed sharpening his wits by reading German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche and Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung. "I believe the childhood I had played a lot in my development. Certain traumatic things in my psychological setup." He enjoyed respect among Tihar's staff. "He is a good man," a policeman guarding the main gate told me. "I know Charles very well. Maybe he is a killer. But he is a very brave man." In 1986, about a year after our prison interviews, Sobhraj did the thing he knew best: he escaped Tihar Jail by hosting a birthday party for the Indian guards and serving them drugged sweets. They nodded out after stuffing their faces. Sobhraj drove out through Tihar Prison's gates in a shiny white car...

*****

INDIA'S "BANDIT QUEEN" PHOOLAN DEVI

She glumly sat in Gwalior's squalid jail fearing extradition back to her home state of Uttar Pradesh, which had a list of her alleged 22 Behmai village murders and where she faced a possible death sentence. Sitting on a bench in the bleak, sun-baked yard of Gwalior Jail, Phoolan Devi winced while denying direct involvement in the massacre. Dark-eyed, short and dowdy, Phoolan Devi did not appear as anyone's idea of a female gangster. Barefoot, she wrapped herself in a black-and-purple sari. She wore a cheap metal stud in one nostril. A few green plastic bangles jangled on her arms. Phoolan Devi looked like a stubby village woman with a defiant expression, perpetually on the verge of tears. "In the Behmai massacre, I didn't kill anyone. Everyone else in the gang did," she told me in a Hindi dialect at the jail. "I searched the houses." Later in our interview, she boasted of having "killed some people" during other escapades. "I didn't want to become a dacoit. People misused me," she said, alternating between sarcastic, earthy remarks and genuinely frightened weeping. When asked what she would do now that she was imprisoned, she smiled and bragged, "I'll escape and become a dacoit again." Her advice to any young girl trying to decide whether or not to follow in her footsteps? "Oh yes, be a dacoit," Phoolan Devi said, sneering and sassily tossing her head to the side. "If she's been harassed, she should harass." Beneath the bravado lived a terrified woman who knew that India's justice system often twisted slowly and brutally. Suddenly bursting into tears, she said softly: "I don't want to be released. I want to die. I want to be punished, because I don't want this burden carried over into my next life. When I am reborn, I want to be a man. It is much easier for men to live. "They're not oppressed. And there's not so much revulsion against them. I regret surrendering because of all the problems I have now." Authorities said her surrender was unconditional, but she insisted the government verbally promised to give her family a gun license so they could buy a weapon to protect themselves in their vulnerable village. No license had yet been issued. And a cousin had seized her defenseless family's land, police said. Phoolan Devi also complained she was not being allowed to leave prison to visit her family, who often stayed in Gwalior just to be near her. Phoolan Devi had expected occasional day-trips as part of her rehabilitation program. When news of Phoolan Devi's surrender appeared in American newspapers, Susie Coelho Bono, wife of former American entertainer Sonny Bono, flew to India and wooed Phoolan Devi with dreams of fame and fortune. Susie, of Indian parentage and a model bent on becoming an actress, reportedly smuggled a tape recorder into Phoolan Devi's cell and spent four hours a day, for two weeks, taping her story with the aid of a translator. "We became good friends," Susie was quoted as saying at the time. "In fact, by the time I'd finished interviewing, I felt as if we were sisters. I hope one day to get her out of India and bring her to the United States." Phoolan Devi now cursed Susie Bono. "She told lies," Phoolan Devi said, gazing out the door at Gwalior's dusty, hot prison yard. "Nothing ever happened. Susie said they would make a film and pay me 60,000 rupees [$5,000 at the time]. But all she did was send me some clothing and paid me 3,500 rupees. I feel used because of this." Phoolan Devi's short-lived notoriety did attract other fans. "Someone from France came to Gwalior wanting to marry me," she chuckled. Bombay's giant film industry made a box-office hit about Phoolan Devi. Not amused, she filed a defamation suit against the Bollywood movie makers for $50,000 in damages. One of her objections to the film, titled Kahani Phoolwati Ki, was that dacoits do not dance around trees when they fall in love. Though Phoolan Devi felt abandoned, she had not been forgotten by the man who risked his life...

*****

JONATHAN "JACK" IDEMA IN KABUL

"That's what I love about Afghanistan, if you tell someone you are going to kill them, they fucking believe you," Idema said during our interviews in December 2001 and January 2002 in Kabul. "If I'm in New York and I tell someone I'm going to kill them, they say, 'Yeah motherfucker? Well, I'm going to kill you first.' But not Afghanistan. Here they believe you." Born in Poughkeepsie, New York in 1956, the short, stocky Idema dyed his salt-and-pepper hair black and loved to show off his weapons which he occasionally fired to intimidate people. He traveled with a handful of young, armed Afghan men who he ordered about, often shoving wads of US dollars into their hands and waving his big military knife at them while theatrically laughing with glee. His knife was the same blade he used in Kabul at home, to eat thick, grilled steak when he invited me for dinner alongside his Afghan gang. Meanwhile, in a worrying display of intimidation, Idema also threatened to murder an American foreign correspondent representing the Stars and Stripes newspaper. The reporter remembered interviewing Idema in a federal prison during the 1990s after Idema had been sentenced to three years for defrauding dozens of US companies for a total of $260,000. When the journalist revealed this overlooked and disgraceful biographical information to other correspondents who were gathered together during a December 2001 party in Kabul, Idema went verbally ballistic. "I just might have to fucking kill you! Now get the fuck out of here before I do!" Idema shouted at the reporter while other worried correspondents hurriedly exited the dining room. The two men then loudly argued while I discreetly stood behind them, eavesdropping and slowly scooping frosted cake into my plate. "You don't believe me? Test me. Just test me! But get the fuck out of here now or else," Idema ranted. The shaken journalist was hosting the party and politely mentioned that this was his rented house. Idema responded: "I said get the fuck out of here. Now!" "But this is my house." "You think this house is yours? This wasn't your house before, so shut the fuck up. If I hear another word out of you, I swear I will..." Several days later, the correspondent told his colleagues: "Look his name up on Internet, and the story of him in jail will come up. His name is spelt I-D-E-M-A." Most foreign journalists avoided Idema and warned everyone else that he was an unstable trouble-maker who liked to brandish weapons and take advantage of Afghanistan's anarchy. Idema insisted he was acting to protect innocent Afghans from being exploited and abused by all sides, so they would not suffer from the US invasion or revenge attacks by recently ousted Taliban and Osama bin Laden's al Qaeda network. "I work for God and country," Idema, who wore military-style fatigues with a US flag shoulder patch, said. After much coaxing, he showed me his supposed, impossible-to-confirm resume, which he kept on his laptop. It listed military badges he claimed to have earned and his experience including: El Salvadoran Master Parachute Wings Royal Thai Army Balloon Wings Royal Thai Army Master Parachute Wings Royal Laotian Combat Parachute Wings Kuwaiti Police Commander Badge German Senior Parachute Wings Nicaraguan Senior Parachute Wings 11 years in the United States Army Special Forces 18 years in Special Operations 1978: Military adviser in Nicaragua and South Africa 1979: Primary SWAT instructor for New York State police Olympic SWAT team, Lake Placid 1980: Primary weapons and tactics instructor for British SAS commandos during Operation Honeygift 1982-83: Special Forces adviser El Salvador 1984: Chief instructor/adviser for the USAID Diplomatic Protection Guard during the Haitian coup attempt 1984: Chief tactics and firearms instructor for Ron Reagan, Jr., David Morrell, author of First Blood Rambo 1985: Chief instructor in tactics and hostage rescue training for SEAL Team Two, Counter-Terrorist Group Academy 1986: Director of training for United States National Park Service and Park Police for the Statue of Liberty rededication ceremonies, SWAT, counter-terrorism and explosives training 1987: Led a classified successful rescue recovery mission to the Caribbean for a Mid-Eastern prince 1991: Adviser to the Lithuanian national police, National Academy and ARAS Commandos, The Eagle, Lithuania" Idema also named a slew of courses he completed at Fort Dix in New Jersey, Fort Benning in Georgia, Fort Bragg in North Carolina, Fort Drum in New York and Fort Devens in Massachusetts. His biography stopped in 1991. "For the past 10 years, I've been 'black'," Idema said, hinting at secret missions he could not divulge. In Afghanistan, Idema dubbed himself "a civilian adviser to the Northern Alliance." The alliance was comprised of the late Ahmad Shah Masood's former mujahideen and other guerrillas who were now helping the US invade, hunt the Taliban and their al Qaeda allies. "I am a [former] Green Beret." Idema also boasted that armed enemy Afghans recently threatened him on a road near the eastern city of Jalalabad, until he shouted that he was an American and bluffed that if anyone hurt him, a retaliatory US air strike would obliterate the place and everyone there...

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CHAPTER 3 ~ WAR

AMERICANS, SOVIETS & MUJAHIDEEN IN AFGHANISTAN

"What has war brought them? Grave instead of shelter. Shroud instead of clothes. Bullet in the stomach instead of food."

~ Marxist Afghan President Najibullah

"I command 5,000 Tajik tribesmen, 1,000 of whom are armed," Roziya told me, smiling in front of her Dohab home in the undulating desert. "I usually carry my Kalashnikov, but I know how to use a pistol, rifle, hand grenades and all other weapons. "I was a mujahideen from 1980 to 1984. But I left the mujahideen to join the government of Afghanistan. The mujahideen were deceived into thinking Islam was in danger in our country. But I realized it wasn't true. I like the Russians. They help us. When we don't need their help, their army will go back." Her direct, challenging brown eyes scanned the horizon's low hills rippling towards Iran and peppered with deadly landmines buried by the Marxist regime to ward off cross-border rebel attacks. Most women in Afghanistan are forced by Islamic tradition to wear a chador, covering her head and upper body. Less popular is a head-to-toe burqa sheet, which allows only hands and feet to remain exposed. While covered in a chador or burqa, females peer out through a lattice of embroidered tiny holes at eye level. Women work, shop, chat and travel while draped. A chador or burqa is enforced by most males because they fear the exposed face or bodily shape of a female can be an immoral, shameful display of tempting sexuality. As a result, Afghanistan's women spend most of their lives apart from men, secreted away in a curtained-off purdah room at home -- purdah means curtain in Persian -- or in female-only huddles at mosques, on buses, and even among friends. After the 1978 revolution, the Marxist government shocked Afghan society by announcing women could, overnight, enjoy freedom to dress as they pleased, work in the civil service, fight in the armed forces, join institutions, and receive other equal rights. Commander Roziya said she emerged from the revolution in a stronger position than before. Her husband sheepishly admitted that in some ways, she also had become superior to men. "We have been married for four years. Maybe she's a better fighter than I am," Roziya's 32-year-old husband Ali Mohammad said laughing. "She knows things better than me, that's why she's a commander. In my home, she is also my commander." But even among the government's supporters, not everyone was pleased with communist-style feminism. In the northern city of Mazar-i-Sharif, the top Muslim clergyman inside the city's big-bubbled, blue-domed mosque said in 1987 he loved the Russians and the Afghan regime, but he never allowed women's liberation in his own home. Moulvi Abdul Hameed, 47, was the burly imam of the ulema, or Islamic clergy, of Mazar-i-Sharif and the surrounding desert and mountains of northern Afghanistan's Balkh province which bordered the Soviet Union. He was surprisingly blunt about whether or not women should be unveiled. "The wearing of clothes such as a chador or short skirts does not make a woman a Muslim or an infidel," Hameed told me inside the Blue Mosque. "Women now have this freedom. But Islam says every woman who makes herself beautiful only for her husband is good. For example, I am married with two sons and two daughters. My wife is a housewife. She wears a chador when she goes outside. Why? Because it is our custom and our tradition. It doesn't show man is superior. It is for the decoration of women." Hameed chuckled. "For those women who are very ugly, it is better for them." He chuckled again. "I don't tell you if my wife is beautiful or not. But I like for her to wear a chador. She looks more beautiful with a chador than without!" If Hameed were born a woman, would he want to wear a chador? "That is a funny question! It is nonsense to ask me because I am a moulvi." Elsewhere in Mazar-i-Sharif, at an all-girls' school named after Afghan female poet Fatmay Balkhi, none of the students wore veils. Wajma Nahi, an 18-year-old student, told me in a classroom interview: "I wore a chador until last year. I stopped because conditions here became better. Now it is peaceful. Some years ago, the counter-revolutionaries [Islamist guerrillas] said, 'You should wear the chador.' It was compulsory. I don't like wearing it because everyone likes freedom and I didn't feel free." Back in Kabul, the Marxist regime continued to discourage chadors and burqas...

*****

INDIA'S KASHMIR

All along the route, distraught residents in tiny villages described tortures inflicted upon them by Indian troops. While riding in the car during the last section of our journey to meet Salludin, one young, laughing mujahideen sitting next to me in the backseat, held up a hand grenade for me to admire, as if he were displaying a delicious ripe apple. The rebel proudly vowed, if Indian troops tried to stop this vehicle, he would throw the grenade at them. Then we could all run away and escape. Soon, a low-roofed house appeared, heavily guarded by a dozen mujahideen armed with AK-47 assault rifles, rocket launchers, walkie-talkies and hand grenades. The young mujahideen gently rolled his grenade back into his pocket, stepped out of the car, and dutifully took up a watchful position along a wall. Salludin had confirmed by walkie-talkie that he would be waiting inside. When he appeared, Salludin explained to me how he was leading a jihad, or holy war, to rip valuable Kashmir away from India, attach it to Pakistan and establish a fundamentalist Islamic society where true Muslims could be protected and dwell in peace. "If someone does a theft, his hand must be cut off, so society can be saved," Salludin said in a voice which initially hid its gruffness. "But we do not cut the hand of every thief. First, the government is bound to provide the necessities of life for every citizen. And we can't stone a person to death who is not married. It is a person who is already married, who rapes a woman and uses an illegal way for sexual satisfaction, and has brutal behavior. We want to save the society, so we want to give him a stern punishment." Salludin's rebels also traveled to Afghanistan which was admired by Islamist guerrillas around the world as the best and most violent campus available to learn how to fight, because it offered sophisticated weapons training and proven, experimental insurgent tactics. "More than 4,000 Kashmiri militants have received training in Afghanistan and, at present, more than 3,000 are there in Afghanistan now. That's a total of 7,000," Salludin boasted. "As Afghanistan has done in winning, and the Soviet Union has disintegrated into so many pieces, India will also disintegrate if it does not recognize the self-determination of Kashmir's people. "The Indian army kills the innocent masses. When we are going to hit a military convoy, we feel they will take their revenge on innocent people. In spite of that, we attack them. Then the people suffer. So, we try to hit them out of the population areas. But the people are ready for this cause, and tell us, 'Don't lose heart'. "We hope to obtain a corridor along the border area," Salludin said, describing what he hoped would be the first-ever slice of guerrilla-held territory in Kashmir which could allow them to enjoy better supply links from sympathizers in northern Pakistan's part of Kashmir. "It is in the best interest of Kashmir to become a greater Kashmir with Pakistan, and make a great Islamic nation." As the fighting worsened, ardent Islamist guerrillas from other Muslim-majority nations sneaked in to help Kashmir's rebels battle India's army, which often appeared confused and poorly disciplined. The most admired of these new, foreign combatants were battle-hardened Afghan mujahideen. At another of Salludin's safe houses, one of his "battalion commanders," Mohammad Abu Nasar, 36, proudly introduced a handful foreign Muslim guerrillas who had clandestinely crossed into Kashmir and joined their fight. From Afghanistan, heavyset Akbar Bai, 27, showed me his sinister "two-in-one" AK-47. He had the assault rifle customized with an additional, built-in, fat-barreled rocket launcher. Bai said he captured the rocket launcher from Soviet forces before they lost the war and withdrew, and he realized it could fit onto his rifle. From Khartoum, Sudan, came curly-haired Yasin Salin Masood. "I went to Afghanistan two years ago to fight, and came here to Kashmir one month ago," Masood told me. "I came to share in the jihad. There are 300 to 400 Arabs here, from Libya, Algeria, Bahrain and other places. My organization in Sudan, the Akhwan Muslimeen (Muslim Brotherhood), first sent me to Afghanistan and then said: 'If you'd like to go to Kashmir, go'. They sent me for the experience. Here you feel the meaning of Islam and jihad." Back in Srinagar meanwhile, victims languishing in...

*****

THE LIBERATION TIGERS OF TAMIL EELAM

A much more devastating war was ripping apart Sri Lanka, turning its popular cliché of being a "teardrop-shaped island" into a grim reality. "He deserved to be shot," an excited Tamil businessman said loudly, waving his hands at a limp, gray-haired corpse tightly roped to a lamp post in Jaffna city's central bus station in the early morning. A horrified crowd gawked at the bullet-riddled body -- a grisly public warning not to inform on Sri Lanka's ethnic minority Tamil guerrillas. "You see the sign next to his body?" a Tamil housewife angrily announced to the gathering crowd. "It says he informed to the army about the boys." The dead man had been positioned and tied so he slumped upright, leaning against the lamp post. Bare-chested, he wore a blood-stained white cloth knotted around his waist. His weight caused the thick coarse rope to squeeze into his chest under his arms and thighs. His bare feet rested, slightly splayed, in the gutter. Alongside him was a big, taller sign which displayed a long message handwritten with blue paint in Tamil language. It also showed three signed documents stuck to the sign with thumbtacks above an illustration of an elephant using its trunk to grab and lift a bicyclist off the ground. A striped tiger -- symbolic of the guerrillas -- pounced on the elephant's head, drawn to resemble Sri Lanka's President Junius R. Jayewardene. The big blue text said the dead man was Nirmalan of Chithankarni village on Jaffna's outskirts. He was executed by the Tamil Eelam Army, one of the smaller guerrilla groups among about 35 Tamil rebel organizations fighting for independence for northern Sri Lanka's Jaffna Peninsula and Eastern Province. Frowning shoppers, workers and bus passengers jostled to get a closer look at the body and read the sign. Many of the Tamil witnesses muttered that the man got what he deserved. One shopkeeper, gazing at Nirmalan's corpse, said to me the killing was "correct because he put the lives of the militants in danger by informing to the army. "We have not yet gained our independent Tamil nation, so we do not have our own police, courts and prisons to give the fair trials usually held in democratic countries for these people. So, though I do not like to see bodies in our streets, there is no alternative." As he spoke, several men clustered nearby and angrily blurted: "Yes! Yes!" A businessman insolently gestured at the body and caustically told me: "We feel he has received a fair trial because the militants are well-educated university boys under strict discipline by their leaders. This dead man must have received warnings, and would not have been killed unless the militants were absolutely certain he was an informer...”

*****

CHAPTER 4 ~ SEX

MICHELLE, IN PEEPLAND ON 42ND STREET

"I was on Stage One. She was on Stage Three. And it was not too far from Thanksgiving, and there were not too many girls there because it was a Sunday afternoon. I was alone on stage and I was making pretty good money. What you could do is, you stood on the little coin box that's in front of each booth. And then you could look over the partition and see, like, the other stages and the guys. "And when I was standing up there, because usually we call guys in that way, I saw Alison on the other stage and she bent over. It's like she took the money. And she bent over. And all of a sudden, this guy just took a knife and stabbed her in the butt. "And then she just screamed like it was an unbelievable sound. It all happened very quickly. She fell. So another girl grabbed her, someone yelled for security. There was one [security guard] who came inside on stage to see what happened. And the [customer] guy was still in the booth, so the security guard went and basically held him inside. "I didn't see him after this, but this is what they told me -- he was crouched down on the ground like he was in shock or something and, um, they just locked the door and called the cops. "Alison was pretty bad. There was blood everywhere. "I wanted to stay off stage because I went there to see how she was doing and, um, basically they told me to get back to work because they didn't want to leave the stage empty, because there were still customers there. "It was truly bizarre because you had security guards screaming holding this guy, you had Alison screaming with blood everywhere, and you had all of these customers who just continued to go into the booths and um, you know, wanted to, um, ha, ha, just, you know, continue working business as usual. And it was funny, because the money was very good too. It was like just the fact that the place was in such disarray, there were people screaming, it's like it turned them on, they wanted to spend more money. "And then the cops came and they were all over the place. "They came into the booth, and they asked me if I wanted to go out. They tipped and touched me and asked me for my phone number and they were totally like no one had cared that this girl had just gotten stabbed. They just carted her away in the ambulance and dragged the guy up from the booth, kicking and screaming. He was really freaked out, yeah. So I guess that was one of the freakiest things. "Alison stayed away for several months. She went on to marry her pimp. "It seemed like the guy [with the knife] had been there before. He was regular customer who just lost his mind. It was the first time I realized the real threat that there is, when you are working with a customer. "They would have things, like, guys who would do stuff. Like, they'd put something on their hands that would burn you. I don't know what the substance is, but a customer is touching you between your legs and he has something on his hands or on his gloves. There were guys who used to come in and they would wear these kind of surgical gloves. If you were not really watching a customer, he has access, he can do anything to you. So if he put some ammonia on his fingers, or some liquid that was alcohol-based, he would try to put his fingers in your pussy to burn you. "So that stuff happens. Then you have to be careful of guns and hypodermic needles because we were on 42nd Street and all of the locals would come down. I mean these guys were basically drug dealers and gang members and, of course, pimps. Like these are the guys you didn't want to piss off because you always had to walk back outside again. "I had a customer and then, after work when I was leaving, he followed me out of the building and was trying to talk to me. But because I was outside, I became myself again and I wouldn't talk to him. I was ignoring him. "And, uh, he freaked out on me and he screamed at me when I was half-way down the street: 'You stupid bitch. You think you're too good to talk to me, but I just touched your pussy for five dollars.' "It was mortifying. Because it was like, you know, when there's a scene, everybody watches you. So all of a sudden there are dozens of people who all turned to look at me because of his screaming and carrying on. And now they know I work in a peepshow. "There was one particular who used a flashlight and he would want you to kind of, like, you would have to hold onto its handle and you would have to...

*****

Rituals. Killers. Wars. & Sex.

~ Tibet, India, Nepal, Laos, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Sri Lanka & New York

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B086Y7D48L

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