Callahan: A Gothic Tale

Of Poetry and Polaroids (1988)

34 Of Poetry and Polaroids (1988)

"However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light." -Stanley Kubrick

9:30 pm, Same Evening, Early November 1994, Window Outside Biochemistry Laboratory

He covered her mouth, pointing to the glass with his other hand as her mouth dropped open.

That definitely wasn't Cora.

Some waiting game this turned out to be.

Matching the camera footage she'd managed to view from her phone, the pair watched in rapt fascination as an identical miasmic cloud swept through the laboratory, causing test tubes to clink akin to windchimes, and petri dishes creak precariously atop table ledges. Scrambling to her feet, binoculars thumping against her chest, she made as though to orb in with Harry—

"I wouldn't do that if I were you—" a familiar Ukrainian voice rang out, as they jumped, startled.

"Dima?" Macy gasped. "What the—" as she watched the cloud flicker for a second more, then vanish in the next instant.

"I'll explain everything—follow me," as they made their way to an adjoining park bench, partially obscured by a pushcart filled to the brim with what appeared to be chemistry sets and various mystical artifacts, buttons and switches. "Sit," he motioned, and they did. After a few seconds more, he began speaking. "You're not the only ones who want Scythe defeated."

Wait—what?! Harry and Macy stared at him, then at each other. Did you know? Me neither.

"So, uh, Dima, what's with the cloud?"

His hand reached over to stroke the protruding Erlenmeyer flask atop his pushcart, a worry stone of inordinate proportions, the labelled numbers punctuating its fragile surface, as he mulled over his choice of words. "Sentient Tessera magicae macrophages."

Harry bore a puzzled expression while Macy gasped aloud—phagocytic cells—that ate harmful bacteria—and the Latin translation was..."time-traveling magical cells...that eat Scythe?" she whispered as Dima nodded.

"Excellent deduction, Dr. Vaughn," he answered, and Harry couldn't help but feel a tiny thrill of pride at Macy's quick-thinking intellect.

Finally, Harry spoke. "I—" he swallowed, "I mean—we—are appreciative of your efforts—but—er—why?"

Dima smiled. "Scythe's fascinating from a biochemical and mystical perspective, as an occasional time traveler myself. For one, he's immortal—" as Harry and Macy felt an immediate pit in the bottom of their stomachs.

"I-immortal?" stammered Macy, speaking for the pair. Oh, and Dima's a time traveler and smarter than his outward appearance suggested. She made a mental note to never underestimate a scientist wearing Goth shirts and purple-tinted hair, even if he looked stoned out of his gourd nearly every day.

"Basically, Mother Nature balances the scales, and Scythe's pestilence is an outward manifestation of corruption and societal ills—"

"Which should remedy itself in the upcoming results—" Harry interjected, in reference to tallies of a certain sort, but Dima shook his head.

"Does nothing against Scythe," Dima responded. "Without my help, it could be another two years before normalcy returns. Are you willing to wait that long?" he threw them a piercing look.

10 pm, Same Evening, Early November 1994, Window Outside Biochemistry Laboratory

"But—" Macy finally spoke, "who's funding your research?" Harry raised his eyebrow. Love, who cares where the money's coming from? She gave him a deadpan expression. I've seen things. I know how this works—