Pale Beasts

Stacey’s balance left her. “Good means ‘life affirming.’” The old woman’s mouth had not moved. “Evil is selfish. It disregards life. Then which is good: order or chaos?” Stacey did not answer because it took work and time to accept what the glow showed her—that despite similarities of tone and accent, the voice that answered came not from her ancient hostess but from the horn in the old woman’s lap. Stacey remembered another triad who listened to voices from a cone of sorts, a crater in Central Park, as the sun went down that day. She had joined another conclave. She really was a part of this. Surprise and fear have ways of making one speechless.