The Riddle in Wood

In Memoriam: Stephen Fulk

Kasham knew not where he found the box. He had acquired so many things that how or when or why was no longer a concern. But each hour since that ominous day, his mind grew more and more nettled. The box threatened to twist his heart in two and shatter his violent resolve.

It was as simple as poetry. The lines of its form were straight and gentle. The pine wood was light and soft, but no doubt marked from within by runes or some sigil to keep it from breaking and wear. There was no lacquer. And when shaken, something rattled within. But no lid could be discerned of its identical sides; no hinges seen, no seams in the grains of its wood. Save the mysterious rattle and its light weight, Kasham would have sworn the wood was a solid block.

Since first finding the box, since first hearing the tumble within, that sound jumbled and lodged itself in his troubled mind. Distraction of any kind would prove lethal for the demon.

Kasham was a proud Ahhazu, and a lieutenant among the Collectors. Bred to acquire wealth and goods for the war against Heaven, he held whole nations within his grasp. Any precious mineral he ate could be spat up later in perfect condition. Anything he laid his hand to would remain in his grip forever unless he willed otherwise. He could imprison a man in his mere gaze. A second-generation hellspawn -- his mother born of two Fallen -- he was awarded privileges and accommodations reserved for those of higher castes. He owned a pack of hounds that could smell and track saints from two languages away, and proved invaluable in locating relics. He commanded a family of goblins who could steal a thing both from its owner and its owner's memory. He carried a length of hemp that could bind hope, cut from Judas' own neck. And each day of his office drowned in a great multitude of thefts, kidnappings, lies, and pillagings. His will was immense and terrible, and now wholly obedient to the mystery of the box, the riddle in wood.

Two days after finding it, a fellow Ahhazu had stolen into the night with the female goblins that had, until then, served him. This she did by laying her hands upon the two eldest females; the others followed out of loyalty to their matrons. When Kasham looked up from the box to find the male goblins before him, standing with rage in their eyes, he knew the box could be the end of him.

Kasham laid a snare with his cursed rope and caught a Rabishu -- a near impossible feat -- and forced the lurking monster to take him to its lair. There Kasham found a mountain of books and papers and scrolls of every tongue and subject. Having no time to read this ocean of words, he called the remaining goblins to him. He sneered at the Rabishu and asked what it knew of puzzles. The monster, its hope bound in the coils of hemp, tried to trick itself from remembering just as it could trick itself from being seen. But Kasham ordered his servants to steal the words, the Rabishu's treasured hoard, until the creature could surely remember nothing at all. It was then the beast wept and pleaded, saying how in one of its lurkings it found a human who knew much of puzzles and boxes. The Ahhazu then told the Rabishu about the box, and the monster quickly blubbered that it had heard of this thing: a clever working that trapped first the owner's memory of its discovery, then -- slowly -- the owner. Only they who opened it in time would be granted the treasure within. Kasham and his goblins then proceeded to steal everything but the monster's name and the innate magics of its breed.

So it was that Kasham stepped into a miser's locked closet, left the house, walked across the street, and arrived at the home of Stephen, box in hand. He twisted the doorknob, opened it, and stepped inside.

"Suzanne?," called a voice from upstairs. A moment later, "Robert?"

Kasham smirked and made his way up the carpeted steps, muttering, "No. Someone else entirely."

There was a great commotion in the room before Kasham arrived at the small study, there finding the eyeless gaze of a double-barrel shotgun aimed at his torso, accompanied by the riddle "The hell do you think you're doing?!"

The demon looked from the weapon to the man who held it. He was seated, short and round, his face and voice weathered to suit his snowfall hair. His eyes were an alert, but weary, blue. He wore a plaid, buttoned t-shirt, khaki shorts, a brown leather belt and well-traveled moccasins. His reading glasses still swung like a pendulum from the hurried readying of his weapon. Kasham blinked once and captured him, as was his art as an Ahhazu.

"You can no more kill me than you can breathe, human. I, Kasham the Ahhazu of the Collectors, have imprisoned your form in my eye. You are subject to my mighty will and my dwindling patience."

The human's glasses stilled their movement on his chest.

"But hear, Stephen of the Puzzle, for I would have your counsel. Should you accept, I will only take from you the memory of this encounter. Should you refuse, I will coil you in the rope of Judas and take your hope." Kasham added as an afterthought, "And a human with no hope is an earthen vessel waiting to be broken." He relaxed his gaze upon the man. "You may speak."

Stephen frowned, the lines of his face cutting deep in loathing. He then rolled his eyes, displeasure still riding his lips as he muttered, "Sure. Fine."

The demon stepped forward, plucked the weapon from his hands, and propped it up in the corner next to a fishing pole, then released the human from the prison of his sight. Stephen slid back in his chair, warily eyeing his guest as Kasham turned his hungry gaze to the study around them.

The desk was heavily burdened by a computer and a myriad of papers that reminded him of the Rabishu's lair. The walls were adorned with framed butterflies. Windchimes hung before the open window, percussing an unrehearsed music that lilted in the cool spring air. On the bookshelves stood many tomes and pictures, and two rows of beautiful wooden puzzles. Kasham bent and studied them, his own box clutched in his iron grip. The hues of their grains varied as widely as their shape and complexity.

"I am pleased you have agreed," the demon said offhandedly. "I had feared otherwise, for you bear the name of the first Christian martyr."

"I'm not named after the saint," Stephen said, more relaxed now.

Kasham frowned at the puzzles, narrowing his eyes. "It is no matter." He straightened and turned to the human, displaying the box in front of him, held with the tips of his greedy fingers. "There is something within this. Tell me how to open it."

The human looked at the box, then back at the demon. "You can't open it?"

Kasham sneered. "I do not have time, mortal. This thing will be the ruin of me before I can master it. I would not forsake my power merely to open some magus' puzzle."

"You know," Stephen said, leaning back in his chair, "It's funny how often you guys say that." A gentle smile played over his lips.

The demon frowned in reply. "Say... what?"

"'I don't have time.' You have to admit, it's ironic. Especially if you're going to go around calling people 'mortal.'"

Kasham raised his face to the ceiling, shut his eyes tight, and bared his cruel teeth. Then he stopped. He looked at the man and revealed the confusion in his eyes. "Who else has come to you?"

Stephen chuckled and laced his fingers over his chest. "Hate to say it, but you're not the first demon I've met. Which means you might wanna start paying attention."

The Ahhazu looked at him flatly with lidded, angry eyes.

"In that box on the floor there's some puzzle pieces I made last week." He nodded toward a shoebox in the corner. "Looks about the same design: cut along the grain of the wood. If you put it together, you'll probably get a clue how to take yours apart."

The demon pursed his lips and frowned. "Hear me, Stephen of the Puzzle. If this serves only to stall me, I would have you know that my very eyes can enclose you as surely as any iron cell. Held within them, I can stop you from aging... or breathing, as you felt before."

The human scoffed and gestured at the shoebox. "Did you come here for the puzzle or not? I want you gone before Suzanne gets back from Saint Gabriel."

"You will not speak that name in my presence!"

"It's. The name. Of the school."

Kasham scowled, took a moment longer to stare down at the impetuous human, then sat on the floor and pulled the shoebox to him. Inside were small, lacquered pieces of wood. As the demon studied them, their genius became immediately apparent to his ancient mind. The individual parts were cut finely along the grain of the wood, but certain corners were straight and rigid, doubtlessly the edges of the finished result. The hard lines, like those of the mysterious box, would trick the eye into searching for more straight lines that would denote separate pieces, when such cuts actually followed the watery flow of the wood. The demon prodded at the pieces, separating those with the hard, outer lines.

As he did so, he said, "Tell me what form this is, that I may know the finished work."

"Hm? Oh. Dodecahedron. Twelve sides."

Kasham nodded to himself, having easily dissected the Grecian word. If only he could so casually take apart the box.

"There's a design on one of the faces, if that helps any. A cross."

The demon sneered at the pieces in front of him, seeing now the lines etched on a few. "It is no help at all. You are Catholic. You have a cross for every occasion."

The human snickered.

In no time at all, Kasham shaped the puzzle. Soft curves fell in place, aided by the subtle colors of the wood as well as the design on one of the faces. A cross of the pope? A Jerusalem Cross? No; not quite enough lines.

"You're pretty good at that," said Stephen.

"I am ancient, human. The mind learns to shape things easily in such time." He slid another piece into place, down now to only three left. "It is a matter of recognition. Such as seeing a man at a desk overburdened with papers: a puzzle of words and intent. Or the walls of butterflies, a metaphor of the human soul: a puzzle of a very different order." Another piece in place.

"And the fishing pole?"

"What of it?" The demon studied the two final parts, easily seeing where they go to complete the final facet of the twelve-sided puzzle, thus filling in the ornate cross etching. To fit, both had to be inserted at the same time.

"There some hidden puzzle there?"

Kasham smirked. "Nothing hidden, human. Only a matter of bait and patience." And he slid both pieces into place. And he looked at the cross. And it was the last thing he could recall before waking up in a dark, dark room with smooth, unbreakable wooden walls, the only light in which peeked through razor-thin seams that curved along the room's twelve sides.

A cross. With a brace above the arms to signify the plaque that mockingly identified the Nazarene as being of royal Hebrew blood. A brace at the bottom of the cross to symbolize the High Messengers at the feet of God. A line, slightly wider, below the brace: for the other Messengers. And another line, wider still, below that: for the humans. The Golgata cross, called also the Cross of the High Messengers... Cross of the Archangels.

Kasham screamed.

And a world away, Stephen of the Puzzle picked up the wooden shape. He placed it next to the others on his bookshelf, with the cross facet hidden as usual. He then retrieved his magic box and carried it to his front steps, his legs and arms pickled in gooseflesh at the cool spring air. The music of windchimes surrounded him. There he cast his bait back into an ocean of evils.