Princess Tara Chronicles: Blue Tara; Or, How Is a Hyacinth Macaw Parrot Like a Tibetan Goddess?

Chapter Seven

Part One

I got home to Ballard just in time to catch Jean locking up the coffee shop. I parked my truck, parked Tara on her perch in my apartment, and ran down the street. "Am I glad to see you," I told Jean, sitting down on a bench in front of the shop to catch my breath. "I feel like I've been running on empty all day."

"I'm dying to hear how it went at the U Dub today," Jean said, sitting down next to me. She was casually dressed for a cool Seattle spring day. Black jeans and a dark wool sweater. Her long brunette hair flowed loose over her shoulders.

"Funny you should mention dying," I said.

"Where's Tara?" Jean asked.

"I left her at home. She had a big day. Jumped straight on her perch to take a nap. Only killed two people," I added.

"What?" Jean asked, astonished. "Killed what two people? What are you talking about?"

"Okay, so she only actually killed one person. A cop. Michael's cat killed the other. . . Cop."

"Now you're putting me on," she said, then changed her mind. "No. I know better than that. So what happened?"

"We got into a scuffle with a couple of Deportation Police goons on Red Square."

"Deportation Police? They rarely come into the city. Usually stay out in the country where the turf is friendlier."

"Ever since this Free Seattle movement took hold, the federal goons have boosted their visibility. They were harassing students on Red Square, checking papers and whatnot. Somehow Michael and I got in the middle of it. One of the goons kicked Michael's cat Margarita, and she, well. . ." I paused. "She's a witch. Just like Tara. She took the guy's head clean off."

"Oh my God," Jean exclaimed.

"Turns out she's one of the Taras that my Tara is looking for. Black Tara to be specific. Black Tara is a witch of vengeance, and damn if she didn't deliver some vengeance. Then Blue Tara took the head off the other goon before he could shoot us."

"Wow. The place must have been crawling with cops after that. How did you explain it all?"

"That's the thing. There was nothing to explain. Tara. . . Blue Tara reset time and space back to the starting point. We had been standing in line at a coffee cart. And when it was all over we were back to standing in line at the coffee cart. The goons simply disappeared, like that bag lady. Heads and all. Not even a blood stain."

"My lord. What have you gotten yourself into?"

"Right now, anyway," I said, taking Jean's hands into mine, "I've got myself together with you." I bent over and kissed her. She put her arms around me. My tongue swept across her lips and into her mouth to meet her tongue.

"Oh my," Jean said. "Maybe we should head up to your place before I rip your clothes off here on this bench. I'm off tomorrow, so I can stay up late and play. You hungry?"

"Starved."

"Let's pick up a pizza on the way."

"Sounds like a plan," I said. We dropped into Ballard Pizza across the street from the St. Charles Hotel and picked up a garlic and onion pizza. Thin crust. Olive oil base. Jean's suggestion. A woman after my own heart, I thought. I paid of course. Then we ran across the street to my apartment. I had wine in the fridge.

Tara perked up from her nap once we opened the pizza box and I poured a couple of glasses of cabernet.

"Food?" Tara asked.

"Pizza," I replied.

"What's pizza?"

"Baked bread covered with a sauce and cheese and some veges."

Tara immediately flew off her perch and onto the table. She bit off a hunk of the pizza slice I cut for myself. "Oh yes," she said. "Food. This is even better than caprese salad."

After several big bites she dunked her beak in my wine glass. Wine splashed across the table and pizza.

"So much for pizza," I said.

"Never mind the pizza," Jean said. She took my hand and pulled me up out of the chair. "Come with me."

We walked into the bedroom. Jean kissed me while she unbuttoned my shirt and unzipped my pants. She pushed the shirt back off my shoulders, then pulled my pants down to my ankles. She licked my lips. Then she licked my chest. Then her tongue got lower on my body as Jean dropped to her knees.

"Oh. My. God!" I exclaimed.

"Careful what you say, hon. Tara may hear you."

I held my breath.

"Come to momma honey. What are you waiting for?"

"I'm waiting to see what Tara does."

I didn't wait long.

We took the bottle of wine and climbed into bed. But not to sleep.

I had visions of sleeping in the next morning with Jean in my arms, but the visions were rudely rent asunder when Michael called early to tell me the campus was crawling with Deportation Police. We talked for about half an hour. Well, he talked mostly. I just listened.

"What's going on?" Jean asked drowsily.

"Looks like the feds have put out a news bulletin about our headless goons. They're asking any citizen who knows anything about a couple of missing goons to step forward."

"Yeah, I'm sure people will come crawling out of the woodwork volunteering information," Jean joked.

"There's nothing for anyone to report. No one in this reality saw anything," I said. "Tara took care of that."

"Then we haven't got anything to worry about," Jean added.

"There's something else," I said.

"What's that?"

"Michael said that several people have been attacked on campus and seriously injured."

"Injured? How so?"

"They were attacked by, get this, giant birds. One lady even had her eyes pecked out. I remember something Michael told me about the legend of the furies. He wants me to come over to the campus as soon as possible. Says he's got some new info for me. Why don't you come along? You can meet Michael and Black Tara. But first, we've got to go and warn Charlie about what's going on."

"Well, okay," Jean said. "But you're buying the coffee."

Part Two

Jean and I got dressed. I picked up an empty pizza box off the dining table. "No breakfast for us," I said, dropping the box. I stepped Tara up and we went out to my truck.

This time I parked directly in front of Charlie's Bird Store, right in front of a 'No Parking' sign. Tara refused to get out of the truck, so I left her in the cab. Jean and I walked into the store.

First thing I noticed, the shop eerily quiet, in spite of the hundreds of birds packed into the store. I spotted Charlie in the back arguing with a customer. More like the customer arguing with him. Right off, he didn't seem to me to be a parrot kind of guy.

Lanky, almost emaciated. I would have thought anorexic if he had been a woman. Pale skin even noteworthy by Seattle standards of pale skin. Big bald spot accentuated by the remaining hair tied back in a pony tail. Not so much a beard as unkempt stubble. Clothes that might have been in fashion back in the 1980s. As Jean and I entered, he turned to face us. His eyes sent shivers up my spine. Sunken. Badly bloodshot.

Charlie didn't so much as greet us. In fact, he didn't greet us at all. He acted like he didn't recognize me.

"Sorry folks. I'm closed early today. Not feeling well. Think I'm coming down with the flu or something."

I ignored his warning. "Hi Charlie," I said, walking up to him with my hand out to shake his. "Who's your friend?"

"He said he's closed," the man said gruffly, in a voice so guttural I had to play it back in my mind to make sure I understood him. "You should leave," he insisted.

I looked at him. Then looked back at Charlie. "I'm glad I caught you," I told Charlie. "I need to talk to you about Tara."

I thought I saw Charlie mouth the word 'No'. The other man's eyes almost popped out of his head. "Tara? You know Tara?" he asked me.

Charlie interrupted. "Sorry son, I sold Tara to some guy come up from Portland. She's not for sale anymore. Sorry you had to make the trip for nothing."

Jean took my hand. "Maybe we should leave," she said.

"Do what the pretty lady says," the man snarled.

"Didn't you want to buy some parrot food for your African Grey, sweetie?" I asked her. "There's some over there," I said, pointing to the back wall.

I started to walk past Charlie. The man grabbed my shoulder to stop me. "You need to leave," he insisted. I tried to brush his hand off my shoulder, but he gripped so hard I almost fell to my knees in pain. He opened his mouth. Instead of teeth I saw fangs. Jean screamed. He bent over to take a bite out of my neck. Charlie grabbed a cast iron poker he used to open and close his windows and clobbered the man in the head. The man staggered back, releasing my shoulder. He turned and grabbed Jean, putting his arm around her neck. "If you want your precious to live, you will tell me where Tara is." He bared his fangs.

"Don't let him bite her," Charlie yelled. "He'll turn her into one of them."

Jean's knees buckled as the man choked her. I grabbed the poker from Charlie. The front door blew open.

Suddenly Blue Tara appeared in the middle of the room. She grabbed her battle axe, raised it over her head with both hands, and flung it at the man. The axe made an eerie whirling sound before it split the man's head neatly in two. Tara let out an ear-splitting screech. Before the gusher of blood could even hit the floor the man vanished. Into thin air. Just like the goons at Red Square.

Jean fainted. I grabbed her before she could fall to the floor and cradled her in my lap.

"That was a close shave," Charlie finally exclaimed. "Sorry about this mess, boss. Who's your friend? Is she okay?"

"Hope so. Probably scared half to death, I guess."

Jean started to revive. I noticed Tara the parrot perched on her old cage. Suddenly I noticed the din of hundreds of birds screeching and calling again. Everything seemed back to normal. Jean managed to get back up on her feet.

"Well there Princess," Charlie said to Tara. "That was quite the show."

Jean hugged me. "Oh my God! What happened to the guy?"

"Tara disappeared him," I replied.

"I thought I was a goner," Jean said.

"You and me both."

"My whole life flashed before my eyes when that blade came whizzing by my nose," Jean said.

"That's the first time I've seen Tara as she really is," Charlie said.

"So who was that guy?" I asked. "And what did he want?"

"Tara of course, boss. He wanted Tara. And he wanted you."

"What did you mean when you said he'd turn Jean into one of them?"

"He's a. . . was a cannibal. And a zombie. Probably created when another cannibal took a bite out of him. He would have turned you and your friend into cannibals, and zombies, if he'd taken bites out of you."

"But where'd he come from? What did he want with you?"

"He served the Winalagalis, I'm guessing. Most likely he was one of his slaves. Looks like the word is out about Blue Tara. He wanted to find you. To find Tara. Somehow they must know about you. You need to watch your back, son. There's a whole world of hurt coming down on your head. And anyone close to you," Charlie added, looking directly at Jean. For the first time I saw fear in Jean's eyes. I just hoped she didn't see the fear in my eyes. I took her hand in mine.

"How about you?" I asked Charlie. "Apparently they know about you too."

"Just a lucky guess, I'm thinking. Being as I'm the only parrot store downtown. And pretty well known. They could just as easily started with Denise's. Or Inca's. Or Apollo's."

"Aren't you worried they'll be back?"

"Next time I'll be ready. They won't catch me off guard again. I'll have my friends Smith and Wesson by my side from now on."

I looked at Jean. "We need to get over to the campus and warn Michael," I said.

"Who's Michael?" Charlie asked.

"We found Black Tara." Charlie shuddered. "Michael is an old colleague of mine at the U Dub who just happens to have a black cat who is a witch. Like Tara."

"You take care of yourself, son. And you take care of your friend here too. Okay?" Charlie patted Jean on her back. "Otherwise I may have to take care of her for you." Charlie winked at me.

"You sure you'll be okay?" I asked Charlie.

"Absolutely. Especially with a 45 on my hip. Now go. Warn your friend."

I stepped Tara up and we ran out to my truck. If that didn't beat all, I found a parking ticket under my wiper blade.

Part Three

At the summer solstice the Hudson's Bay Company post of Fort Rupert at the northern tip of British Columbia's Vancouver Island is bathed in almost constant daylight. When the sun finally dips into the Pacific Ocean for its short rest, the shaman of the Kwakwaka'wakw people gathers his warriors by the rocky beach on Queen Charlotte Strait. The shaman is resplendently dressed in his ceremonial trappings of his trade. Deer skin leggings and shirt, richly decorated with sea shells and trade beads. He wears a bear skin cloak pulled over his shirt. And over the bear skin cloak he drapes a crisp new green and blue striped Hudson's Bay Company blanket presented to the shaman by the post's chief factor just for this occasion.

The shaman's face is black with soot. Red ochre lightning bolts are painted across the black soot. A red and black painted cedar mask sits atop his head, not covering his face, but looking skyward. The hand carved and brightly painted mask depicts the raven clan that are his forebearers and ancestors, shamans all.

As the warriors gather by the beach, the mournful sound of beating drums breaks the stillness of the night. Even the surf seems to lay down on the beach noiselessly. At the precise moment the sun sinks into the Pacific Ocean on that summer solstice night, the shaman drops his mask over his face and signals for the ceremony to begin. About a dozen warriors walk out of the surf carrying an intricately hand carved cedar log canoe onto the beach. Carved from a single massive cedar log, the canoe is easily twenty feet long. Fierce painted serpent heads adorn each end of the canoe. A large tarp made of bear skins stitched together covers the canoe.

The canoe is placed on the beach at the feet of the shaman, and the bearskin tarp pulled off. The flickering light of several great bonfires casts a strange and magical aura over the gathering. The beating of the drums grows louder and more intense.

The shaman raises his hands over his head and begins an incantation. The drums go silent.

Hoi'p Hoi'p.

Baxbakual goes with me around the whole world. Hiai, hiai, ai, ai, hiai, hiai. Baxbakual walks all around the world. Hiai, hiai, ai, ai, hiai, hiai.

We are afraid of Baxbakual's body which is covered with blood. Hiai, hiai, ai, ai, hiai, hiai. Baxbakual is feared by all because his body is terrible. Hiai, hiai, ai, ai, hiai, hiai.

The incantation continues for several more verses, and stops. The shaman steps away from the canoe. For a few moments the silence is so acute the warriors can hear the beating of their own hearts.

Suddenly movement. Hands appear from the darkness within and grasp the sides of the canoe. A giant figure slowly rises and stands up. The warriors gasp and stagger backwards, as if to retreat  into the darkness of the forest behind them. The shaman calls out to them to stand their ground.

Slowly the ogre Baxbakual steps out of the canoe. A giant, he towers over the shaman. The black hair on his body is matted and greasy, so thick it looks like fur. He has not one mouth, not two mouths or even three mouths, but his body is covered with mouths. Hungry red gaping mouths that have not feasted since the previous summer solstice. He starts beating his chest and crying out, "Eat! Eat! Eat!"

Two of Baxbakual's servants appear out of the night sky and fly down to the beach. Qoaxqoaxual, a giant raven, and Hoxhok, a giant crane. "Eat! Eat! Eat!" they cry. The giant raven jumps at the crowd of warriors and with his huge beak grabs one of the men unlucky enough to be standing too far away from the safety of the group, and drags him to the canoe. The giant crane crushes his skull with his great beak and sucks out his brain. The raven devours the man's eyes, and starts ripping his flesh. Baxbakual steps forward and moves toward the warriors.

The shaman jumps in front of the ogre who is at least twice his size, and from under his blanket produces an immense glowing crystal of pure quartz. The shaman places the crystal on the beach directly in front of Baxbakual. The ogre recoils at the sight of the crystal and retreats to the canoe. The shaman raises his arms over his head one more time and commences to dance around the crystal while singing another incantation.

Hoi'p Hoi'p.

You frightened everyone by your magic, Baxbakual, hia, hia, hia, ya.

You frightened everyone by your wild cry, Baxbakual, hia, hia, hia, ya.

You frightened everyone by your great servants, Qoaxqoaxual and Hoxhok, hia, hia, hia, ya.

You go all around the world, magical Baxbakual. You destroy everyone before you, hia, hia, hia, ya, ya, hia, ya, ya, hia, hia, hia, ya.

Hoi'p Hoi'p.

As the shaman sings he steadily advances toward Baxbakual, never taking his eyes off of him, forcing him back to the canoe. The birds of fury snarl and hiss, but retreat toward the canoe as well, dragging their victim with them. The shaman picks up the glowing crystal and places it on the ground before him as he advances toward the ogre. Finally he forces Baxbakual to retreat back into the canoe.

At that, the shaman signals the warriors, and two men step forward dragging a naked woman between them, squirming and struggling to get out of their grasp. But they are too strong for her. They drag her to the canoe, and finally lift her up and throw her inside. She screams when she sees Baxbakual, but the screams are momentary. Baxbakual drags the woman into the depths of the canoe, and the screams stop.

A few of the warriors run up and toss the bear skin tarp back over the canoe and the host of men that brought the canoe out of the surf onto the beach lift the canoe up and carry it back into the water. The shaman removes the cedar mask from his head and wipes the sweat off his brow. He turns and walks back toward the village with the satisfaction of knowing his people are safe for another year. The warriors move out of his way. They dare not speak to him.

Sitting incredulous at the back of the beach on this summer solstice night of 1896, watching this remarkable and mysterious ceremony seen by few western eyes, the young German archaeologist Franz Boas could not believe what he had just witnessed. A German Jew with a freshly minted doctorate from the University of Heidelberg, Boas ran away from the rising tide of antisemitism in his native Germany to seek adventure and treasure in the virgin field of American archaeology. He feverishly transcribed notes describing the ceremony he had just witnessed into his field book by the light of the bonfires. Then he noticed the huge crystal of quartz sitting on the beach where the shaman had last placed it, no longer glowing. Jumping up he grabbed the crystal, wrapped his jacket around it, and placed it in his field pack for safekeeping. This clearly was an artifact of great power and mystery worth further study.

End of Chapter Seven

Princess Tara Chronicles: Blue Tara; Or, How Is a Hyacinth Macaw Parrot Like a Tibetan Goddess?

Chapter Six

Part One

Tara piped up, "I want coffee." Michael almost fell out of his chair.

"If that doesn't take the cake," he said, righting himself. "Now I've heard everything.  Does she really drink coffee?" I nodded. "There's usually a coffee cart or two parked on Red Square during the day. You buying?"

"Yes, he's buying," Tara stated unequivocally.

We headed outside, Tara perched on my shoulder, Margarita sauntering along behind Michael. We found an espresso cart parked by the steps to Suzzallo Library, and got in line. Several students complimented me on Tara while we waited to be served by the barista, a tall attractive African woman wearing a bright red hijab, and speaking with a distinctly British accent. One or two of the students bent over to pet Margarita, who clearly enjoyed the attention.

As we waited in line a couple of Deportation Police goons wandered by, intently staring at the barista and the waiting line of students. The Deportation Police rarely showed themselves in public in Seattle but were becoming more evident as the Free Seattle movement took hold. They sported standard Deportation Police black. Black boots. Black pants. Black sweaters. Black wool caps. Black bulletproof vests. Black sunglasses. The only part of their getup not black were the words

ICE

POLICE

stamped on the back of their bulletproof vests in white print. The officers slowly walked along the line of students waiting for coffee. Several students decided to skip the coffee and leave. The others stared at the officers in a less than welcoming manner. The officers cut into the front of the line. One student shouted out, "Line forms in the rear!"

The larger of the two men, a husky bruiser with a Marine Corp haircut turned and walked back to the protesting student. "You got a problem?" he asked the kid. He probably outweighed the kid by a good hundred pounds. Michael turned toward the officer and repeated, "Line forms at the rear." Since we were the end of the line, he pointed behind us.

The other officer demanded that the barista show him her identification. The larger man walked up to Michael and said, "You looking for trouble?"

I interjected, "We're just looking for coffee, officer."

"What is this? Critter day on campus?" the cop retorted, noticing Tara on my shoulder. I could feel Tara's claws clamp down on my shoulder. Margarita hissed.

The first officer again demanded that the barista show him her papers. Several students suggested he leave her alone. Suddenly he reached across the espresso cart and grabbed the barista, pulling her across the cart while trying to rip off her hijab. The second officer grabbed my shoulder. Margarita hissed again and the officer kicked her, sending the cat flying several feet across the square. Michael screamed something obscene. Jumping back on her feet, Margarita let out an earsplitting howl and stood up on her hind legs. The black cat disappeared in a whirl of motion like a whirling dervish. I glimpsed what appeared to be a huge white claw slicing through the goon's neck. His head flew off his shoulders and rolled across the red brick pavement of Red Square. His body slowly toppled over as a stream of red blood gushed from his neck onto the red brick.

The other officer dropped the barista and reached for his weapon. Tara screeched. Suddenly a brilliant blue dervish rolled off my shoulder and jumped in front of the officer. I distinctly saw a flash of white steel and the second goon's head rolled onto the brick as his body toppled over almost in slow motion. I thought I heard people screaming and running.

Everything happened so fast it seemed like one of those bad dreams where hours of action are compressed into a few moments. I felt like I was suffering from shock. I couldn't believe what I had just witnessed. I pressed my hands against my ears and I squeezed my eyes shut.

I thought I heard someone ask if I wanted a coffee. Coffee? Surely I was dreaming. I hesitantly opened my eyes. The barista smiled at me with her dazzling ivory smile. "What can I get you?" she asked in her superiorly British accent. I glanced around. Tara sat perched on my shoulder. Margarita lay curled on the pavement, licking her fur. The only concession to what might just have happened, Michael stood behind me, pale as a ghost.

No bodies. No heads. No Deportation Police goons. No blood.

"What can I get you?" the barista asked again.

Getting our coffees, Michael and I walked over to a bench away in the corner of Red Square. Tara crawled down to my lap, dunked her beak in my coffee cup, and started drinking. Michael finally asked, "What. The. Fuck?"

"Tara?" I asked. Tara kept drinking. I finally took the cup away from her. "Tara?" I repeated.

"There were bodies without heads," Michael said. "And heads without bodies. I could have sworn!"

Tara finally responded. "I bent time and space so no one else could see what you saw. I disposed of the bodies. And the heads. The men were bad men. Agents of evil. I made them disappear."

"This can't be happening," Michael said.

"For all intents and purposes, I guess it didn't happen," I suggested. "Tara just disappeared the goons."

"Won't someone notice?" Michael asked.

"Most certainly," Tara responded. "But they will simply go missing, never to be found. Their bodies are shark bait out in the middle of the ocean."

Part Two

"Something tells me this isn't going to end well," Michael said. "We can't go knocking off federal agents and no one notice? Can we?"

"It has started," Tara said.

"What has started?" Michael asked.

"The beginning of the end. The culmination of the scheme the Winalagalis has put into action."

Margarita raised her head and added, "You have our protection."

"I don't know if I can handle this," Michael said.

"There's nothing for you to handle," I said to Michael. "Besides showing us where the turndun is. And where the Boas field notes are. It seems to me the Taras are plenty capable of taking care of the bodies."

"Well, I can certainly show you where the turndun is. But I have no idea where the Boas field notes are located. Somewhere inside the Special Collections room. But the feds aren't allowing anyone to look at them."

I got up and started walking across Red Square. "Where are you going?" Michael asked.

"The Burke Museum. You're going to show me where the turndun is stored."

The Burke Museum is located at the entrance to the University of Washington in a drab square gray concrete and glass building of a kind popular during the 1960s.

We entered the museum through the staff entrance at the back of the building, Tara perched on my shoulder, Michael cradling Margarita in his arms. The woman at the security checkpoint recognized us. I remembered her from a couple of my archaeology seminars some years back.

"Oh, how cute," she said. "What a pretty bird. We don't normally let people bring their pets into the building."

"It's okay," Michael said. "We're just going to be a minute. I lost my wallet," he lied. "I want to check the lab and see if I left it there." She buzzed us in.

We walked down the stairs into the basement and Michael unlocked the door to the lab. Inside, row upon row of floor to ceiling gleaming white steel cases filled the immense room.

"This is going to be easier than I thought," I told Michael. "You have the keys to the cases? I can stick the turndun under my jacket and we can just waltz out of here. They'd never notice."

"You might want to take a look up," Michael said. "Act casual." I glanced up. Security cameras covered the ceiling, literally a camera above each case.

"That's different," I said. "Weren't any cameras when I taught here."

"That's the least of it." Michael added. "Follow me."

We walked through the lab until we reached the back wall. There we found a steel vault built into the wall. Locked, of course.

"There's the turndun," Michael said, pointing at the vault. "The lab director has the only key. The director is required to be here with me any time I want to study it. And it's on his schedule, not mine."

"Looks like you need to schedule a visit," I told him. "And you'll have company."

"Please tell me he's not going to lose his head," Michael pleaded. "Otherwise I won't go through with this. He's actually a pretty nice guy."

I knew the director from my teaching days. "I don't think anyone will need to lose their heads over this, will they Tara?" Tara didn't respond. "You make the appointment Mike, and let me know so Tara and I can join you. Just don't tell him you'll have company."

"You never told me what you're going to do with the turndun. You're not going to damage it, are you? It's a priceless artifact."

"Are you kidding. This is me you're talking to. Tara just needs to use it to call the Garuda, to summon the other nineteen Taras."

"Garuda?"

"King of the Birds. Messenger of the Gods."

"Sorry I asked," Michael replied.

"We'll give it back to you, soon as Tara is done with it. Promise. Right? Tara?" Tara again refused to respond.

In Level C of the basement of the Henry M. Jackson Federal Building in downtown Seattle, a federal agent of the Department of Homeland Security, monitoring a bank of computer screens in a top secret and heavily fortified room filled wall to wall and floor to ceiling with computer consoles received an alert on one of his screens. He retrieved a video file from a security camera mounted above the U Dub's Red Square on the roof of the Suzzallo Library. He tapped his bluetooth com and hailed his supervisor. "Chief, you need to see this."

A gaunt, balding and wiry man wearing black pants, a white shirt with a pocket protector stuffed with pens, and a green visor like a blackjack dealer would wear, came to the agent's station.

"What you got, Agent Cooper?"

"Chief, we just lost Deportation Police Team Six."

"Lost? Did they sign off their shift?"

"No. I mean we lost them. They vanished. There's no signal from their beacons. And check out this security footage from Red Square."

Agent Cooper clicked the replay button on the video feed. The two Deportation Police agents could be seen walking across the square and coming up on the coffee cart. The video clearly showed one of the agents confronting the barista. The other agent could be seen interacting with a couple of adult men at the back of the line.

"What is that?" the chief asked. "Is that a parrot?"

Suddenly the video feed blurred. There seemed to be a glint of steel in the sunlight. The agents vanished.

"Get this video to Control right away Agent Cooper. I need to call Washington," the chief said.

Part Three

Once the world's largest office building, the Old Executive Office Building in the other Washington sits on the site of the original War/State/Navy Building. Built in grandiose French Second Empire style, the building epitomized America's original longing for empire in the heady years following the American Civil War, when there seemed to be no end to American expansionism. A radical departure from the neoclassical look of previous federal buildings, the Old Executive Office Building was universally scorned and ridiculed by the White House employees working there, so much so that the scorn and ridicule even drove the architect to suicide.

It seemed somewhat fitting that Control chose this building in which to set up shop. Simply put, Control did for the new regime exactly what the word implied. Control controlled. Control implemented the vision and dreams formulated for the regime by the Winalagalis. The various law enforcement agencies that existed before the regime, such as the FBI and the DEA, continued to function untethered from the niceties of constitutional restrictions. Control existed to ensure that nothing stood in the way of implementing the New American Order. Dear Leader represented the friendly face of the regime. Control contained the brains of the regime.

Control sequestered itself out of the light of day and attention in the highly secure and heavily guarded basement of the Old Executive Office Building. The chief of Control never went outside the facility into the streets of the city. He never left the confines of Control. Even Dear Leader came to Control whenever necessary to consult with its chief. His staff addressed him by his code name, Hamatsa.

A tall man with long disheveled black hair, the chief hid his scaly pale yellowish skin as much as possible under a leather coat and gloves which he constantly wore. The flickering lights of the computer monitors provided the only illumination within the chamber, but unintentionally highlighted his gleaming red eyes. He stood next to a computer monitor with his lieutenant, a tall svelte dark skinned muscular woman with a military bearing called Kinqalatlala. They kept replaying the same security camera video from the University of Washington's Red Square.

"It's Blue Tara. It has to be," Hamatsa said. "There's no other explanation why the two agents simply disappeared. And the cat must be Black Tara."

"Why Seattle?" Kinqalatlala asked. "Why now after all this time?"

"Blue Tara must be summoning the Taras. She must have found an instrument that will allow her to call her cohort together."

"To what end? And why Seattle?"

"Only one reason. To counter the Winalagalis before his power becomes unstoppable. Seattle must hold the key to her plans. There must be a reason she chose these men to help her. I want to know who they are and why she chose them. Especially the man with the parrot."

"Yes sir."

"Dispatch the furies. Instruct them to find these two men. Wherever these men are, Blue Tara will be close. Have the furies bring the man with the parrot to me. Alive."

"And the other?"

"He will be their reward. They can feast on him for all I care. And this talk of feasting is whetting my appetite. Bring me one of the undocumented so I may eat. Make it a female this time. Female meat is so much more succulent."

"Right away sir." Kinqalatlala smartly turned and practically ran out of the room. When Hamatsa demanded to be fed, his hunger needed to be placated as quickly as possible. For Hamatsa was a cannibal. Kinqalatlala was his slave. The victims Hamatsa devoured in turn became cannibals and zombies, themselves needing flesh to continue their existence in Hamatsa's service. Slowly and surely, victim by victim, meal by meal, Hamatsa built his own private army of cannibals and zombies. Soon his power would rival that of the Winalagalis. Kinqalatlala had no desire to fall victim to Hamatsa's hunger for flesh. She was perfectly happy to be the one to provide the meals. The new regime seemed to be blessed with an endless supply of flesh from the countless numbers of undocumented rounded up on a daily basis. She knew that one day even the Winalagalis would notice Hamatsa's hunger for power. And she would prefer not to pay the price.

After Kinqalatlala selected an appropriate victim from the holding cells adjacent to the Control facility, she unlocked an anteroom at the end of the hallway and flipped on the lights. A large wheeled steel cage stood alone in the center of the otherwise empty room, covered by a canvas tarp. She rolled the cage down the hallway to the freight elevator and took it up to the roof of the building.

Once on the roof, she pulled off the tarp, revealing four extremely large birds perched in the cage, the furies, a giant raven, a giant crane, and two condors.

"Greetings Qoaxqoaxual. Greetings Hoxhok. Greetings Gelogudzayae. Greetings Nenstalit." She bowed before each bird. She opened the door to the cage and the four furies hopped out onto the roof. Qoaxqoaxual, a giant raven. Feasted on the eyes of Hamatsa's victims. Hoxhok, a giant crane. Cracked open the skulls of his victims with his great beak and devoured their brains. Gelogudzayae and Nenstalit, feathered guard dogs and body guards, if guard dogs had the teeth and claws of grizzly bears.

This flock of feathered furies served Hamatsa as his eyes and ears, throughout his realm. No one could hide from them. No one escaped their notice. Kinqalatlala pointed westward toward the setting sun and said, "Go. Blue Tara has been spotted out in the west in a place called Seattle." The furies growled upon hearing Blue Tara's name and shook their wings. "You must find her and stop her before her power returns. Go. And remember. Bring the one with the parrot back to your master. Alive." The furies hissed. "The other you can do with as you wish. But beware the Taras. They are not to be trifled with. Combined, their powers are more formidable than you know. Go!" She pointed off again to the west. One by one the furies flapped their wings, took a couple of awkward steps, and took flight, clearing the building and banking toward the west as they took to chase the setting sun.

End of Chapter Six

Princess Tara Chronicles: Blue Tara; Or, How Is a Hyacinth Macaw Parrot Like a Tibetan Goddess?

Chapter Five

Part One

Jean and I scrambled to get dressed. "Don't I have any say in this?" Jean asked.

"Can't you be a little less dramatic?" I asked.

"There's too much at stake to waste time screwing around," Tara insisted.

"Such as what, exactly?" I responded. "The fate of the world, and all that? What do you want from us?"

"I need you to find the turndun," she stated.

"What?" I asked. "What in the hell is a turndun?"

"It's not in Hell," Tara calmly responded. "It's on Earth. It's an instrument that will allow me to summon a gathering of the Taras."

"A gathering of the Taras?" Jean said, grabbing my arm. "You mean there's more of them? Or her?" She pointed to Tara.

"I wouldn't know what a turndun was if my life depended upon it," I insisted.

"Your life does depend upon it. And her life. And the life of all the living. You study ancient cultures and things, do you not?" Tara asked me.

"Yes he does," Jean piped up. "He's an historian."

"Then I need you to find the turndun. I need to awaken Garuda from his epochal sleep so he can summon a gathering of the Taras to the coming battle."

"Who is Garuda?" Jean asked.

"King of the Birds. Messenger of the Gods. Right?" I responded before Tara could reply. "I don't know about anyone else, but I need a drink."

Grabbing a bottle of wine out of the fridge I filled two glasses for Jean and me. I hesitantly looked at Tara and held the bottle up. She grabbed it out of my hand and chugged the bottle down. Jean and I sat down at the dining table. Tara stood on one foot, like a parrot, her right foot raised up and placed against her left knee.

"Am I right?" I asked Tara. "King of the Birds?"

Tara nodded. "Garuda has been asleep for an eternity. And only the turndun can awaken him. He must summon the Taras before the Winalagalis unleashes his gods of war for the final reckoning."

"So this turndun thing. What is it? And better yet, where is it?" I asked.

"The turndun is an instrument that allows Garuda to call the Taras to gather for battle. Only the turndun can summon the Taras from their hiding places around the world."

"And where do we find one of these turndun things?"

"There is one in a place you call the Burke Museum, here in Seattle," Tara replied. I was dumbfounded. I knew the Burke Museum well from my teaching days at the U Dub. Many of my archaeology seminars had been held in the museum lab.

"Why me?" I asked meekly. "How did I get involved in this?"

"I sent my most trusted servant, Aboo, to find someone who was knowledgeable, brave, generous, and trustworthy. Most importantly, someone who would rescue me from my exile. Someone who would not shirk from the truth of the coming apocalypse."

"Geez. So now we're dealing with an apocalypse?" Jean smirked.

"Let's back up a moment, shall we?" I interjected. "Who is this Aboo fellow you mentioned? I think I might have noticed running into a servant of a god."

"The great bird you met that directed you to me at Charlie's store. The Blue and Gold macaw parrot. That is the form Aboo takes in your reality. He chose wisely, yes? He needed to find someone who could be trusted to follow through. And you did."

"My mistake, for sure."

"No mistake at all. A great opportunity."

Jean jumped into the conversation, "Maybe you should tell us more about this apocalypse. What can one person possibly do to stop something as big as that?"

"The Winalagalis has scattered his demons and his witches throughout the world of men. . ."

"And women," Jean added.

"The world of men and women. The chiefs in all endeavors of humanity. Police. Military. Courts, Government. These chiefs have been targeted and replaced by the demons of Winalagalis."

"And Winalagalis is. . . ?" I asked.

"Winalagalis is the God of War of the North. He killed his shaman and escaped his homeland. In ancient times the shamans possessed the magic to keep the demons in check. Now his power is unlimited. He will not be stopped until he gains dominion over your world. He has placed his demons in positions of power throughout your world. These demons can take any form, animal or human. They can resemble any person or animal and move about your world without causing alarm."

Suddenly the thought occurred to me that maybe I should be paying more attention to the news. Was it a coincidence that Dear Leader suspended the Constitution when he imposed his New American Order? The military draft had been revived to bolster the ranks of the armed forces stretched thin by foreign expeditions and domestic counterinsurgency campaigns. Dissent and public protest were strictly forbidden. The news media had been nationalized and only state sanctioned news cleared for broadcast. Following the lead of San Francisco, the Seattle City Council just approved a plan to designate Seattle as a Free City, free of federal tyranny. Portland also debated a similar proposal. Many people on this coast floated the concept of an independent Cascade Republic. Needless to say, Dear Leader was not particularly happy with these developments.

I asked Tara, "How high does this conspiracy go?"

"There is no limit imposed by man," Tara said. Could Dear Leader be the Winalagalis, I wondered?

"Okay. Say we find the turndun. You awaken Garuda. Garuda calls the Taras to battle. Then what? What can we do that could possibly make a difference? The Winalagalis killed his shaman you say? If only the shamans have the knowledge and the power to contain the Winalagalis, then what can we do?"

"You are an historian. You study the mysteries of the past. You can find the knowledge of the shamans and make it powerful again. You can find the Tlogwe. You can stop Winalagalis."

"The Tlogwe?" I asked.

"The Tlogwe," Tara repeated. "The gift of special powers. The ultimate treasure the spirits grant to those brave enough to enter their realm."

Jean and I looked at each other. No pressure, I thought to myself.

Jean piped up, "Why do you need our help at all? You're all powerful, are you not?"

"No," said Tara. "I am the Ekajati. My powers are great. My enemies fear me. I move Heaven and Earth to spread the knowledge of the evil arrayed against us. I gave my right eye and my right breast in my fight to stop this evil. But I am not all powerful, or Winalagalis would not be in ascendancy." She continued, "I am Blue Tara, but I am not invincible. I am one of twenty-one Taras. The sisterhood of the Taras is a force to be reckoned with. If it can be summoned in time."

"Okay," I said. "Say I find the turndun. You awaken Garuda. Garuda summons the Taras. Then what?"

"You must find the magic the shamans possessed to contain the Winalagalis. The Taras can defeat the Winalagalis in battle, but only if the magic he possesses can be contained. If you fail this, there is no hope for the Taras, and no hope for your world."

Jean took my hand. "Like I said, I like guys who save the world." I bent over the table and kissed her, keeping a wary eye on Tara while doing so.

Part Two

Jean spent the night with me. And Tara. Me anyway. We awoke in the morning to find Tara in her parrot form perched asleep on her stand. Jean had to open the coffee shop and I needed to visit an old friend, my former office mate from my teaching days at the U Dub, Dr. Michael Bulgakov.

There probably is no more class stratified system in America today than university education. Regents, deans, coaches and department heads rule over a medieval fiefdom that the Borgias would be proud of. Tenured professors comprise the knighthood and baronial caste. Adjunct professors find themselves little better than the dregs of the medieval class structure. Janitors are considered more useful by the ruling elite and treated better.

The location of a professor's office gave the best visual evidence of where they fit on the medieval totem pole. Tenured faculty enjoyed offices in sparkling new glass office towers built with the avalanche of tech money flooding the campus. Non-tenured or adjunct faculty, well. . . Michael's office, my old office, lay in the catacombs of the university's cathedral to knowledge and reason, the gorgeously collegiate gothic stone Suzzallo Library, built in the 1920s, back when books and education were still an object of veneration and worship. Specifically Michael's office resided in the sub-basement. This had one advantage. From my time in these catacombs I recalled that I never had to worry about interruptions. My students could never find me.

After parking in the visitors' parking garage, with Tara perched on my shoulder, I walked across Red Square, named not for any socialist tendencies on campus but for the red brick it was paved with, and around to the back of the library to a little known and little used doorway. Thankfully, Tara drew remarkably little notice or attention as most students and staff we passed were walking bent over their mobile devices. It never ceased to amaze me there were not more accidents caused by such inattentive walking over the uneven brick surface.

I opened the unlocked door and hustled down two dark and dingy flights of stairs. A well lit and welcoming open door at the end of the drab concrete hallway indicated the professor was home. From force of habit I entered without knocking.

To stretch his stingy adjunct professor pay Michael had set up housekeeping in his office. Not kosher, but stealthy enough in these dark catacombs not to get picked up on the university's radar. I knew he kept a cot in the closet and used the university gym for showers. Michael sat at his desk with his back to the door, his black office cat Margarita snoozing on a mat at his feet.

Margarita got a glimpse of Tara on my shoulder, let out a howl that could wake the dead, and jumped on Michael's lap, knocking Michael over backwards in his chair. I managed to catch the chair before he fell over on the floor. The cat jumped onto the table and arched its back, its short black fur standing on end. Tara fluffed her feathers and dug her paws into my shoulder.

"Well, fuck all!" Michael exclaimed, jumping up and shaking cat hair off his pants. "What is this? I didn't know you got a bird." Michael brushed himself off. Medium height. Slightly chunky in all the wrong places. Could stand to spend some time in the gym working out. Short cropped brown hair thinning badly and turning white on the ends. Clark Gable mustache. Standard adjunct professor outfit. Khaki pants, polo shirt, and sweater vest.

"Mike. Meet Tara," I said. "Glad to see that Margarita is still doing well after all these years." Margarita's fur was solid black with a tinge of red, except for a white spot just above her eyes, almost like a third eye.

"Hello Tara," Michael said.

"Hello," said Tara.

"It speaks," said Michael.

"More than you know." Tara and Margarita seemed to be trying to stare each other down.

"So what brings you to the catacombs. It's been what, a year since you've come down here? You don't call. You don't write."

"Been busy roasting coffee."

"So now you're into parrots? Must be nice to win the lottery." Michael had never quite forgiven me for abandoning academia. Or knowing when to give up.

"Still no new office mate?"

"One was assigned to me, but she took one look at the place and never came back. Don't think she ever formally relinquished her claim, because no one else has been assigned down here. What brings you back, besides showing me the bird?"

"I need your help, Mike," I said. "Specifically I'm picking up some research on Northwest Coast ethnography." A bit of a lie, but I ran with it. "You know anything about something called a turndun? In the Burke collection?"

"As a matter of fact, yes I do. The Burke asked me to evaluate it for its cultural significance. Why? How do you know about it? It's really top secret. Hasn't been publicized at all."

"So what is it exactly?"

"It's a turndun. Also called a bullroarer. An ancient musical instrument with great religious significance that allowed people to communicate over vast distances."

"How does it work?"

"It's a serrated wood slat, about two feet long, attached to a long cord. You spin it around your head either horizontally or vertically and the sound it creates from its vibration can travel for miles. Long or short pulses depending on its rotation, level or vertical, can create something of an ancient Morse Code."

"I need to see it."

"Not likely. Like I said it's top secret. Seriously. The feds have stepped in and sealed access to it. Me and the museum director are about the only people allowed to handle it."

"Why would the feds care about an old Northwest Coast artifact?"

"Well, they don't say, but there's something really odd about it."

"Such as?"

"Its antiquity for one thing. This particular turndun was excavated in the 1890s by the great Franz Boas on English Bay where Stanley Park sits today." Boas was a legendary pioneering archaeologist and grave robber. The Indiana Jones of the Nineteenth Century.

Michael continued, "Most turnduns in collections in this country are no more than a few hundred years old. Wood artifacts just don't hold up well buried in dirt over extended periods of time. The oldest turndun ever found was in the Ukraine by a Soviet archaeologist. He dated it to be about 17,000 years old, which is highly suspect. The Burke turndun. . . well, we got the radiocarbon dates back. It was twice as old."

"That's not possible," I retorted. "The Bering Land Bridge was not open that long ago."

"Precisely. The Burke has me trying to figure out how the dates got so screwed up."

"They're not," Tara said. I had almost forgotten her on my shoulder. Michael's jaw dropped to his knees.

Part Three

"I guess this is where I explain there's more to Tara than meets the eye," I said.

Before Michael could reply, Tara spoke again, "Or maybe your friend can explain why Black Tara is living with him in this dungeon."

"Black Tara?" both Michael and I exclaimed simultaneously.

Michael's black cat jumped up on his desk and stood straight up on her hind legs. "It is my pleasure to serve you, Lord Tara," the cat called Margarita said to the parrot called Tara. Michael and I stood dumbfounded. A talking parrot already stretched my credulousness to its breaking point. A talking cat seemed utterly beyond comprehension.

"I'm going to sit down now," Michael said. "Either you're going to explain how you pulled this trick off, or I'm going to check myself into the university medical center."

Tara continued speaking. "The being you call Margarita is one of the twenty-one Taras, the ones who protect. Black Tara, the Terrifier, serves me as my instrument of wrath, punishing evil with whatever force necessary. With the ferocity of a tiger she devours any demons that stand in her way. With her three eyes no demon can hide from her." Parrot Tara bowed to feline Tara. "It is my pleasure and honor to find you here."

Michael stood up. "The parrot keeps talking nonsense, and you're not explaining it to me," he said with noticeable exasperation.

"It's not nonsense," I replied. "Tara is a witch." Michael's mouth gaped open. "Apparently your cat is a witch, too."

"Enough already. How are you doing this? Ventriloquism?"

"This is going to be tough to explain. Maybe you better sit down."

Tara had other plans. Tara let out a screech and Michael and I both fell to our knees with our hands over our ears. Suddenly we appeared in my Ballard apartment, but before either of us could react Tara screeched again and just as suddenly we were back in Michael's office. My head throbbed in pain as I picked myself off the floor. Michael lay curled up on the floor in a fetal position for several moments before managing to get back on his feet. I didn't think I was ever going to get used to this time space bending.

"Believe me, I went through this same state of denial when this first happened to me."

"Okay," Michael said. "Say I'm not just totally fucked up. How did you get involved with a witch? And how did I get involved with a witch?" Margarita sat hissing under his desk.

"Just a couple of historians saving the world, is all," I smirked. "We need to get the turndun. There's an evil deep within our government that needs to be rooted out. I'm also thinking the key to rooting out that evil is buried somewhere in the Boas field notes."

"The feds sequestered all the Boas field notes. Everywhere, not just here at the U Dub. The Internet has been scrubbed of any digital copies. And library copies all across the country have been seized. Can't imagine what the feds want with those field notes."

"I can," I said glumly.

"This is getting too deep for me," Michael said.

"I thought so to at the beginning. But I learned there's a reason Tara chose me. And there must be a reason why Black Tara chose you."

"Say all this is true. What can I possibly do. I have a career to think about. I don't have the luxury of winning the lottery."

"Oh come on Mike. You don't have a career, for Chrissakes. You teach Intro 101 classes. That's not a career. That's treading water." Michael looked at me glumly. "Sorry to be so blunt, but it's true. I was in the same boat. If you haven't achieved tenure by now you never will. Now we have a chance for a breakthrough that will blow the dust and cobwebs off this corner of academia all the way to Hell and back. I need your help. Tara needs your help."

"To do what?"

"We need that turndun. And I need to look at the Boas field notes."

"Well, Hell. The turndun is under lock and key in the basement of the Burke Museum. And the Boas field notes are locked in the Special Collections room on the main floor of this library. What are you going to do? Just walk in and ask for them?"

"No, I'm just going to waltz in and take them."

"You're kidding?" Michael said.

"You just saw what Tara is capable of."

"Somehow I don't think it's that easy."

"What do you know about the Winalagalis?" I asked.

"Winalagalis? The god of war of the north Winalagalis?" I nodded.

"Bad dude. Fierce warrior. His home base is on the Northwest Coast among the  Kwakwaka'wakw peoples. From there he travels the world in his magic canoe making war and basically making a nuisance of himself."

"If he's just one dude, how much trouble can he cause?"

"Oh, there's more," Michael replied. "Way more."

"Do tell."

"He has an army of ghouls in his service. Let me see. There's Toxuit. He's invincible. There's Hawinalal. He's immortal. Same thing I guess. He has monsters at his beck and call. A gigantic cannibal called Baxbakual. Baxbakual has a giant pet cannibal grizzly bear called Nanes. Though cannibal grizzly bear is probably redundant. There's Nontsistalal, a fire breather, maybe the origin of the fire breathing dragon myth? So, monsters, cannibals, dragons. Even zombies. There's a zombie called Hamatsa who turns people he eats into cannibals themselves."

"Geez," I sighed.

"Wait, there's more, like they say on television. My favorite demon hands down is Qoaxqoaxual. A giant raven who feasts on the eyes of the people devoured by Baxbakual. You want me to go on?"

I shrugged. Michael continued, "And if that's not bad enough, these dudes pack some serious heat. How about a magic harpoon which brings death to anyone it's pointed at? Burning fire which consumes everything in its path? And you can't kill these suckers because Winalagalis has got this water of life which resuscitates the dead!"

"I didn't actually say it was going to be easy," I offered.

"So say this is all true and real. How you think you're going to make a Goddamned bit of difference is beyond me." Michael sat down at his desk and buried his head in his hands. Margarita sidled up to him and rubbed her head against his leg, purring gently.

I said, "We've got Blue Tara on our side. And now we've got Black Tara as well. That must count for something."

End of Chapter Five