Inkling

11.3 Flying High, Really High

11:58 P.M.

Max kind of knew what was going on. He had heard Daly say something about time and its lack of movement, so he had pulled out his pocket watch. He had cast an intense darkness over the graveyard - something he did not, actually, know he could do - and had taken up watching the watches progress in the bursts of light coming from Lane's hands.

Lane he had just met, and was therefore allowed to be impressed by her furious fighting. Sophia, however, he had known for what felt like a lifetime. He had always known she was fiercely talented, he just did not know what meant she could fiercely send a wall of air barreling toward a man and, fiercely, break his nose with it. That, Max discovered, was a pleasant surprise. He would have cheered, had his mouth not felt like cotton.

Max looked back at the watch and waited for Lane's fire. Had he thought about it, Max would have conjured his own fire. But he had not been doing much thinking at all, so this did not cross his mind. The watch did not appear to be moving at all, the second hand should have been chugging along pleasantly, instead it clawed its way forward at a hardly noticeable pace. But Max, who had to remind himself to blink, noticed its valiant efforts and smiled.

Another flash. Max had barely enough time to take in what he saw: Lane, her hand in a man's hair, her knee in his stomach. Sophia, a burst of sparks flying from her fingers - it was her who had caused the light. Daisy, racing through it all, her yellow dress torn and smeared with mud.

"I told you she'd turn up," Max said then, looking around, realized he was the only one sitting in the snowbank. Max sighed.

"Max!" Daisy's voice was directly in front of him and Max jumped straight out of the snow, slipped, and fell down.

"Holy hell when did you get over here?"

"I ran you daft man, come on!" Daisy waited a moment, and Max realized she could not see him. He snapped his fingers and the darkness was ripped away. The moon barely shone in the heavily clouded sky. It was nearly impossible to see through the snow as it was.

"MAX!" Sophia roared and Max swore, snapping them into darkness again.

"Wrong hand," he muttered, snapping again but this time with his left and producing a match worth of flame.

"Dios mio, Max, come on." Daisy took his arm and all but threw him toward the building. The building. At the time, Max had several things in his pockets: a pocket watch, Ira's letter, a pen, a handkerchief he was reasonably certain was not his, and something which he had taken from the office of that building earlier that day.

The thing, in itself, was not terribly important, just an old map. Max could not remember why he had grabbed it, just that he knew he could write on it. He would make a golem. A map - how fitting? To put something in the heart which would help it find its way.

Max ran to where Adam dug up the grave, and he fell to his knees by the displaced soft mud and dirt.

"Max, help me. I've barely made a dent." Adam's voice was so far away.

"That's because a minute has not even passed." Max did not say this to anyone in particular. He grabbed handfuls of dirt and threw one after the other into a pile, from one pile to another. The only difference was that the second pile was magic and it built itself into something knew, adding on to what was already there. It did not look like a person, not really, it was nearly six feet tall by the time Max was done, and appeared more like a chunk of earth had sprouted legs and arms. It did not move until Max scribbled on the map and, with it held crumpled in his fist, plunged his hand deep into the golem's chest. The map heart.

"Find your way," Max whispered to the earth.

"What are you doing?" Adam grabbed Max by the shoulders and Max pulled his hand out of the golem. He was positively covered in mud, but no one noticed that, because the giant mud monster stood up all on its own. The mud monster stood up and walked around the building and was greeted by terrified screams followed by unsettling smashing sounds.

"Fixing," Max said, after they had watched it go. Then he walked to the grave, the place Lincoln had to be. But he couldn't feel anything, Lane had made sure of that, and Max found himself angry with her. He had felt such intense need, such pain and he wanted a true relief from it, not a gentle ebb and flow. Max pointed a single finger at the grave and, with a face that gave away nothing of his fear, pulled the coffin out of the ground.