On Friday night at about 9:30, a double-tanker carrying a full load of high octane gasoline pulled out of a parking lot in Santa Cruz and headed slowly north on River Street.  The driver had stopped to pick up a video, two New York steaks, a couple of Idaho spuds, some fresh spinach, and a magnum of champagne.  Before he left Monterey, he called his fiancée in Felton to let her know he would be arriving about 9:45 to fix her a late dinner.  He had planned to celebrate her birthday with a quiet evening under the redwoods.

He'd driven his rig on the same route from Monterey to Scotts Valley and back hundreds of times.  He usually drove straight to Scotts Valley, delivered his load, and cruised by her house afterwards. But tonight he decided to head directly for her house.  Instead of making a right onto Highway 1 and driving up Highway 17, he decided to drive straight to Felton on Highway 9. His fiancée’s birthday was worth the change in itinerary.  He could deliver his load early the following day.

When the light turned green, he pulled his rig slowly across the intersection of Highway 1 and started up Highway 9. It was late and traffic was lighter than usual.  After the first mile the road narrowed and entered the forest.  He was a good driver with twenty-five years of experience behind the wheel.  Except for not wearing a seatbelt, he didn't take unnecessary risks.  Once he got past the railroad tracks he relaxed.  The newly resurfaced road made the drive easy.  He negotiated each curve with the proper degree of caution, cruising along at a moderate clip.  It was a clear night and there wasn't a car in sight.  The smells of the forest were humid and earthy.  Soon he'd be enjoying a nice dinner and the company of his future wife.

About 45 minutes earlier, Jon had left his apartment in San Jose.  Before leaving town, he checked to see if Gordon was still breathing.  He was out cold, still slung over the arm of the couch.  Jon sat next to Gordon's head and snorted a few more lines of cocaine.  He stared at Gordon's thinning hair for a few minutes and listened to his erratic breathing.  He'd have to do something about getting him out of his apartment.  He finished off another half bottle of tequila while he decided what to do.  It didn't take him long.  He really wanted to see Kimberly and settle their differences.  He holstered his gun and strapped it around his shoulder.  He picked Gordon off the arm of the couch and turned off the outside light with his elbow.  He carried Gordon downstairs, pants still around his ankles, and laid him facedown on his neighbor's front steps.  It was safe.  A row of tall Juniper trees shielded the view of the two-story apartment building from the street.  Jon rang the doorbell several times to make sure his neighbor heard it; then he walked to his car, got in, and drove away.

Mrs. Kratch, his downstairs neighbor, was a recluse in her seventies who moved around slowly with the aid of a walker.  She wouldn't open her door.  He knew that from his own dealings with her.  She always peeked through a tiny slit in her drapes and pretended not to be home.  This time she'd have to do something.  The sight of a naked man lying facedown on her porch would definitely get a reaction.  It would at least guarantee a call to the police.  They'd arrive shortly and haul Gordon away.  Once they revived him, Gordon would have a hell of a time explaining what had happened.

When Jon's neighbor looked out her window she couldn't make out the form that lay on her steps.  She thought, at first, a large dog had decided to make himself at home.  Perhaps the paperboy had rung the doorbell and left his mutt behind.  She would get her spectacles from the mantle and have a better look.  When she returned to the window and looked through the drapes again, she became angry.  The man was a pervert and he meant to harm her.  She turned quickly and lifted her walker without looking down.  She planted a leg of the metal contraption on her cat’s hind paw and shifted her heavy body weight onto it.  The animal reacted immediately to the pain.  It clawed and bit at her ankle so suddenly, she loosened her grip and lost her balance.  The old woman fell over the top of the walker, landing heavily on the brick apron before the fireplace.  The fall shattered her brittle hip. 

By the time Jon arrived in Scotts Valley, his neighbor had gone into shock.  Gordon had stopped breathing.

The message that Bonnie had left for Colleen on her answering machine told Jon exactly where to find Kimberly.  He wasn't sure what he would do when he arrived at the shelter, it was late; but one way or another he was going to see her and make her understand that he loved her.  The cocaine in his blood made him want her more than anything.  But the alcohol in his brain had a different effect.  It slowly replayed the scene in his living room with Gordon: the leer on Gordon's face; his degrading remarks about her color.  Gordon was lucky that Jon hadn't shot him.

In all the years Jon had spent on the force, he had never come close to using his gun against another human being.  Tonight he came very close.  It was true.  Domestic affairs and weapons were a potentially lethal combination.  The thought of Gordon and Kimberly together disgusted him.  He almost wished he had shot him.  He was proud of himself for humiliating him at least.  But the ugly truth crept slowly into Jon's drunken thoughts.  Kimberly had allowed Gordon to abuse her.  No matter how much of a jerk Gordon was, some of the blame had to be placed on her.  She refused to press charges against him the night she came into the police station drunk.  In spite of the beatings and the sexual humiliation, she continued to see him.  It had to be the drugs.  Jon would straighten her out.

As he crossed the summit on Highway 17 and started his rapid descent, Jon's positive emotions began to decay.  Kimberly belonged to him, he decided.  He was going to see to it that her affair with Gordon was over for good.  No more drugs.  No more sex with Gordon.  Perhaps she would have something different to say about the matter.  After all, she had refused to take his calls all week.  What's to say she would even talk to a man who had slapped her around, he reasoned.  Her continuing relationship with Gordon, he concluded.  What kind of woman would just keep going back for more?  Jon didn't doubt that the first time Gordon tempted her with a little blow, she'd be over his house fucking his lights out.  No more.  He'd put a stop to it.  If he had to take her by force to convince her, he'd do it.

When Jon took the Mt Hermon Road exit into Scotts Valley, the sharp curve to the right made him realize just how wasted he was.  He knew the road was patrolled for speeders, so he coasted to 35 m.p.h. and concentrated on driving straight.  There was a chance he might be stopped anyway; his left headlight was out.  He turned on his brights to mask the problem.  Once he got past the town limits he noticed he was having trouble focusing on the centerline.  Luckily the drive through Felton was just a few blocks long.  If the two California Highway Patrol cruisers were parked at the Quik Stop, it would be smooth sailing after that.  He could concentrate on driving straight for a few blocks and then relax the rest of the way to Santa Cruz.

He made a slow right onto Graham Hill Road and proceeded to the intersection of Highway 9. He turned his left blinker on the waited.  Santa Cruz was only six miles away.  When the light turned green, he crossed the intersection and carefully observed the speed limit through the small town.  He drove past the Quik Stop.  The CHP cruisers were parked side by side, facing opposite directions.  The officers were engaged in conversation; they didn't look his way.  Once he passed the entrance to Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park, he was satisfied he was out of danger.  He increased his speed to 50 m.p.h.

About a mile down the road he was distracted by a small house on the left; it was an antique shop.  At that point the road took a ninety-degree turn to the right without warning.  He crossed the centerline and fishtailed on the opposite shoulder.  He kept driving.  The road folded back on itself to the left and then curved sharply again to the right.  It began a slight ascent as it cut along the face of the mountain.  The solid wall of mountain was fully butted up against the road on the right-hand side.  His brights reflected off the light colored rock and nearly blinded him.  He switched to his low beams and accelerated to 55 m.p.h. The centrifugal force of the turn and the quickly passing scenery made him dizzy.  There wasn't time to think, he was about to get sick.

The road continued to curve.  It seemed to spiral in an endlessly reducing radius, climbing faster than he could follow.  To the left were an aging guardrail and a white fence made of exposed rebar and concrete.  There was no room on the right-hand side to pull over; he would have to cross over to the guardrail quickly.  He didn't make it off the road.  He skidded sideways to a screeching stop, carelessly blocking the left-hand lane.  Out of habit, he killed the lights and pulled the key from the ignition.  He stumbled out of the car heaving and groping for support in the dark.  He dropped his car key without noticing.

The river must have been closer than he recalled.  As his stomach cramped painfully he heard the sound of rushing waters.  The taste of tequila made him so sick he swore he'd never touch the stuff again.  His stomach convulsed, rapidly forcing fluids through his nose and mouth faster than he could catch his breath.  The sound of the river grew louder, turning into the low roar of a diesel engine.  He looked up and saw the blur of headlights approaching in the distance.  Soon they'd speed around the curve and the driver would have to slam on the brakes.  The only way around his black sedan was along the mountain side.  Jon had no choice.  He couldn't stop puking long enough to stand up straight; he'd have to rely on the other driver's ability to think fast.

The driver of the double-tanker was unaware of any danger when he rounded the descending curve at 37 m.p.h. Though his speed was a little fast for the winding road, he had minimized his maneuvering by crossing back and forth over the centerline while keeping a watch for on-coming headlights in the distance.  There was no moon.  Headlights would have been easy to spot through the trees; he would have had plenty of time to make adjustments.  He hadn't expected to run across a stalled car, with no lights, blocking his lane.  He had only seconds to make a decision.  He could brake, or try to avoid the vehicle by swerving.  The drop to the right was about a hundred feet, lined with redwoods all the way down.  Since the road curved to the left already, a sudden motion to pass the car on the left might cause him to tip over or slam into the mountainside.  There wasn't time to consider the fate of the vehicle's occupants.  He gripped the wheel tightly, tapped the brakes, and plowed into the rear of Jon's car.

The impact was greater than he had anticipated.  It jarred his foot off the smooth brake pedal and caused him to lose control of the steering wheel.  The cab suddenly veered to the left, snagging a large slab of rock.  The cab pivoted on the rocky outcropping like a hinged gate and turned its nose heavily into the wall of mountain.  It nearly came to a complete stop before the weight of the gasoline forced the tanks around the rear.  The sudden shift in direction hurled the driver through the closed glass of the passenger-side window.  The broken glass cut deep into the right side of his face.  A split second later the back of his head disintegrated against the pavement and the magnum of champagne shattered next to his lifeless body with a loud bang.  The jolt against the mountain slowed the tanks down considerably, but their weight and the road's steep decline allowed them to continue their heavy career, dragging the cab backwards across the road towards the flimsy guardrail.

The accident happened almost too quickly for Jon to react.  He crouched about fifteen feet from his car when he saw the tanker hit.  The force of the collision spun his vehicle like a monstrous top; it crept steadily toward him as he watched emotionless.  The tail fender hit him square in the chest and sent him flying over the guardrail.  He fell down the mountainside, far into the pitch black below.  It seemed impossible that he hadn't struck one of the many trees that dotted the eastern slope.  The force of the impact alone should have been enough to kill him.  Yet he was aware of no physical discomfort, only the darkness and silence.  He felt as if he were floating.  Either the alcohol in his blood had spared him from the pain, or the accident had done more damage than he realized.  Sensory loss could mean a severed spine; that could mean total paralysis.  He knew he was severely traumatized.  The pain would come soon enough.  He only hoped that someone would find him down there in the dark before he started hurting; before he lapsed into unconsciousness.

It seemed the driver of the rig had somehow managed to avoid a major disaster.  There was no indication of a gasoline spill or a fire.  Even if Jon's sight and hearing had been damaged by the concussion, his sense of smell was still intact.  He would certainly have detected any smoke or fumes that lingered in the vicinity.  He was already aware of the strong scent of honeysuckle that surrounded him.  But his perception of time was distorted.  It seemed like only a couple of minutes before he sensed someone approaching from below.  He might still not be able to see or hear, but he knew now that he wasn't paralyzed.  He could actually feel the ground beneath him resonate with each determined step that moved in his direction.  Soon he'd be in a hospital bed recuperating.  In a few days the trauma would subside completely.  His sight and hearing loss might even prove to be temporary.  He was lucky to be alive.

The heavy rig had broken through the guardrail, uprooting its dry wooden support posts without resistance.  The tanks dragged the battered cab over the edge before uncoupling and rolling onto their sides.  They came to rest against the trunks of six massive redwoods, spilling their cargo like twin waterfalls over the dense foliage and down the mountainside toward the San Lorenzo river below.  The cab reared up on its hind wheels like a stallion, propping itself against a young Douglas Fir several feet from the spill.  Beneath it a small flame flickered impotently as it strove to cling to the lush green redwood sorrel at the base of the tree.  The tiny flame pierced the darkness like a votive candle placed at the feet of some alien deity.  A trickle of diesel and motor oil ran down the underside of the cab, forming a small frothy puddle near the flame.  Within minutes the fuel caught fire and started up the wheels of the cab.  The cab's ruptured fuel tank popped out a dull orange ball of fire that was eclipsed immediately by an enormous blanket of velvet black smoke.  As if touched by the hand of some invisible sorcerer, the redwood sorrel came to life in a hissing St. Vitus's dance.  Heat from the fire carried thousands of sparks skyward; so many tiny souls suddenly released from their charred plant bodies.  Some of the sparks extinguished gracefully on their way up.  The more tenacious ones rained down near one of the rivers of gasoline.

A quick flash of chrome yellow lighted the forest with a low-frequency boom.  The first river of gasoline erupted in flames that streaked in directions opposite to the point at which the spark lighted.  To one side, the fire cascaded deep into the heaviest part of the forest, imitating the low rumble of a runaway locomotive.  To the opposite side, the fire fought against the liquid current desperately seeking its source of nourishment.  The night gave way to a brilliance, not yet akin to daylight, as the first tank detonated.  Fragments of the tank were hurled hundreds of feet in every direction, setting off secondary fires throughout the countryside and igniting the second river of gasoline.  The second tank exploded with even greater force, shaking the earth and causing an avalanche of boulders and loose soil to bury Jon’s car and both lanes of Highway 9. A massive ball of flame rolled downstream at an incredible rate of speed.  It followed the path of the gasoline river, dodging trees with spectacular accuracy.

The thunderous blasts echoed throughout the river valley as the lightning fast flames bathed the forest in mock daylight from below.  The greens and browns of the vegetation; the whites, yellows, and pinks; even the rarer blues and reds, burst into a defiance of living color before succumbing to inevitable blackness.

The fire spread laterally, connecting the two rivers of gasoline in a sheet of flames that billowed thick black smoke.  The smoke drifted slowly towards the San Lorenzo river and hovered above it until the hot winds forced it southward in the direction of Santa Cruz.  Fortuitous sea breezes stopped its progression downstream and pushed it eastward, protecting the city from its acrid smell.

An enormous quantity of gasoline still continued to flow down the mountain.  It soaked into the soil and penetrated the porous trunks of trees.  It inundated the woods in an ocean of liquid fire and searing currents.  Most of the forest was incapable of protecting itself from the flames.  The redwoods still had a chance.

Redwoods require periodic wildfires to maintain their long life cycles.  Thick bark and lack of resin make these trees naturally resistant to flames.  Because their seeds are smaller than those of most other conifers, they have trouble penetrating the thick organic matter that builds up on the forest floor; consequently, they have difficulty reaching the soil to germinate.  This organic ground cover also supports the growth of a fungus that further endangers these seedlings by attacking their tender roots.  When wildfires burn, they cleanse the forest floor of debris and fungus, making it safe for new redwoods to grow in the sterilized soil.  Even when a redwood suffers a significant burn, it often sprouts new growth from its burned area.  Once it has taken a firm hold in the soil, a redwood’s chances for survival are better than for most other trees in the forest.

But everything comes in threes.  The first was the large number of young, resinous trees that had not been kept in check because of cutbacks in Forestry staff and funding.  The second was the drought, already in its second year, which contributed to an increase in the number of dead trees and thick dry underbrush.  The third was the quantity of gasoline that had flooded the area and soaked the dry soil and vegetation.  This unfortunate trine removed all hope for the redwoods, and left behind a monument to ill fate and total destruction.

The fire spiraled up the trunks of the trees creating vertical columns of flame that reached hundreds of feet in the air.  Small pines and firs began to explode as their volatile resins ignited.  The fire crept quickly along the dry mat of needles and decaying logs, seeking the tinder of dead giants still standing here and there.  Sporadic fires set off by the tank explosions grew from their centers like ripples in a pond.  The shrill cries of birds and the frantic buzz of insects contributed to the heightening chaos.  But those sounds were soon drowned by the louder crackles and explosions that preceded the increasing roar and wheeze of the voracious flames.  The stampede of fauna throughout the forest competed hopelessly with the speeding fire.  Creatures of all sizes appeared and disappeared with no sense of direction, scurrying to and from every part of the forest as sparks whirled like autumn leaves.  It was as if some ancient deity had sprinkled the woods with magic semen, which spawned a momentary generation of life.  But like Kronos, the fire consumed its children.  Nothing escaped its ever-widening maw.

At the center of the conflagration the winds reached hurricane force, toppling mammoth trees and sucking in small animals and broken branches.  The gasoline that floated on the San Lorenzo river made it easy for the flames to cross to the other side.  The great alders that lined the river quivered and whipped in the burning wind.  Their slender trunks couldn't withstand the heat.  They whistled loudly in the storm before disappearing in flashes of white ash.

About a hundred feet upstream three separate fires raced across a large clearing, razing the tall clumps of pampas grass and the carpet of wild flowers that stood before a stand of ancient redwoods.  The fires connected in a spectacular rush of orange and continued toward the trees as if possessed with atavistic intelligence.  The flames poured around the base of each tree and cascaded into a deep canyon filled with giant ferns.  A wall of fire had already broken through the trees on the opposite side of the stand and countered with the toppling of a dead maverick pine.  The tree fell across the narrow part of the canyon, forming a fiery bridge that encouraged the flames to rise along the trunks of the massive redwoods.  Beneath the bridge, the ferns languished as they dripped flames like life-blood in an endless stream of contagion.  The canyon suddenly became a kiln in which the ancient stand of redwoods underwent its final purification.

By 11:30 p.m. the call for help to save the forest had gone out to all emergency response teams within a 50-mile radius.  Crews began to arrive from Santa Cruz, Los Gatos, San Jose, Monterey, Gilroy, Morgan Hill, Watsonville, Salinas, and Hollister.  Special crews from Oregon, Nevada, and Colorado were due to arrive by daylight.  The governor was awakened in Sacramento for a briefing by his staff.  They recommended that the National Guard be alerted immediately because of reports that local authorities couldn't handle the situation.

The fire raged out of control for several days.  The slide on Highway 9 prevented fire crews from reaching the origin of the fire.  Steep terrain hampered efforts on the ground, while thick smoke hung over the river basin like fog and made it nearly impossible for helicopters to fight the fire from above.  The fire leveled thirty-three homes in the town of Felton, some up to five miles from the scene.  Most of these houses had shake roofs and stood beneath redwoods that had deposited their dry needles atop them.  The local fire department had already responded to the call from the Forest Service and residents were left to fight the fires on their own initially.  After the first hour, two fire engines rolled in from Ben Lomond and Boulder Creek along with Sheriff s patrols and other law enforcement agents to help evacuate the town.

The only escape routes were north on Highway 9 or east on Mt Hermon road towards Scotts Valley and Highway 17.  A half-mile wide crescent of fire flanked Felton on the south and west, making it unsafe to exit towards the ocean on Felton Empire Road.  The curiosity of onlookers made the evacuation efforts a nightmare.  Special bulletins on radio and television urged people to stay clear of the area.  Just north of the Lexington reservoir the CHP closed the southbound lane of Highway 17 to non-essential traffic.  Highway 9 was barricaded in Saratoga, and a checkpoint was set up south of Boulder Creek.  Both lanes of Bear Creek road carried traffic east toward Highway 17.  The danger of more fire from possible accidents along this treacherous road was a major concern to county officials.

To the west of Felton a small crew of fire fighters from Santa Cruz was assisted by local volunteers.  The fire was threatening homes and property in the steep western slopes.  Another crew was on its way to the scene from Half Moon Bay.  When they arrived they found one fire truck on fire and two firemen seriously injured.  A utility pole had snapped on the summit causing a domino effect.  The high-voltage wire fell across the roof of the truck.  Two volunteers rushed to the firemen's aid while another entered the wood-frame house the firemen had been trying to save.  The volunteer had heard the screams of children trapped inside.  A small propane tank hidden behind the house exploded.  Nothing was left to do but drag the injured fire fighters away from the area as fast as possible.

Many people fled the area on foot, unable to save their homes or belongings.  The power had failed.  Their electric water pumps were useless.  For the few who had water service installed, the pressure had dropped to a trickle and their garden hoses were no match for the fire that raced along the tops of the trees.  Pacific Ocean breezes fanned the flames high above and the intense heat from the ground fire created wind tunnels in the deep gorges that parted the coastal hills.  The fire seemed to be spreading west towards Bonny Doon.  There were vineyards and more houses in its path.  At this point, no one believed the fire would move south towards the city of Santa Cruz.

Jon still lay facedown on the forest floor.  His perception of time was so distorted that it seemed like hours had passed while he waited for the person approaching to reach him.  His senses returned slowly.  He had landed with his arms crossed underneath his chest.  With his left hand he could feel the gun still holstered around his shoulder.  His vision and hearing seemed to return with a crescendo of peculiar sights and sounds.  It was as if someone had turned up the lights inside a movie theater and the patrons were beginning to speak in normal voices.

The sounds of the forest were muffled and seemed to reverberate or flange the way a wah-wah pedal changes the tone of an electric guitar.  His eyes had remained opened in the dark.  Now he began to see the world through a red filter.  Perhaps the damage to his eyes had caused blood to contaminate his vitreous humor.  His eyes were adjusting to the absence of light.  He was at a loss, however, to explain how his field of vision tilted upward involuntarily, as if he had raised his head to look at the millions of stars scattered throughout the sky.  It was impossible, of course, but it seemed as though his eyes had rolled 180 degrees and he was looking out the back of his head.  He felt no desire to alter the situation; it was far too comforting.  It was a relaxation so deep, he seemed to hover above the ground in a state of weightlessness.

His awareness of the surroundings increased.  He was captivated by the level of detail he perceived in the dark.  The bark of the huge tree above him was thick and porous; inviting.  Though he couldn't actually see the colors, he was acutely aware of their lightness, hue, and saturation.  The brown and red pigments of the bark mixed; they nestled the minutest flecks of chocolate, brown deep within hidden crevices.  In the highest branches each twig tapered gradually and took on the subtlest hint of gray just before bursting into a symmetry of soft green needles; darker at the base and lighter at the tips.  The color changes followed the flow of nutrients and water from the soil through the xylem of the tree.  He could hear their microscopic flow from the ground up; feel them transform into the tree's substance.  Beyond it he sensed a presence within the tree, an essence that fused with his own.

The feeling was exhilarating.  It was as foreign to him as art or religion; yet it struck him as perfect and circular.  It coursed through his being with the luxuriance of floating in the womb.  It was a private glimpse into something profound and complete.  He found himself suspended far above the ground among the branches of the tree; as if he had made the extraordinary journey through its bark along with its water and nutrients.  Far below the branches his own body lay prone.  He witnessed it with a sense of profound peace and calm.

The smell of honeysuckle returned.  Instantly he plummeted towards the ground at an incredible velocity and felt himself sucked violently back into his body with an audible sound, much like that of air filling a vacuum.  He heard the footsteps again.  They came to an abrupt stop next to his head.  He closed his eyes for a second.  He knew that bears sometimes walked on their hind legs, but there were no bears in these woods.  The static electricity in the air made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"You're dead, Jon."

The unexpected words cut the night air with an icy chill, shattering his euphoria and wrenching him from the quiet of his private thoughts.  It was the familiarity of the voice that disturbed him.  He opened his eyes and found himself looking Gordon full in the face.

"I've got something for you." Gordon stood naked before him, vigorously fondling himself and smirking.  Jon was more disgusted by his lewd behavior than surprised by his unexpected appearance.  "Look down here."

"You sick bastard.  What the fuck are you doing?" Jon refused to watch Gordon masturbate.  He stepped back to get away from him.  As he did, Gordon motioned with his free hand towards the ground.  He tilted his head slowly from side to side and grimaced with tortured pleasure.

Jon glanced quickly at the ground.  It finally dawned on him that he was standing instead of lying prone.  His own lifeless body lay at the foot of a large redwood.  His head was turned, facing almost completely backwards.  His neck was twisted and broken.  The smell of honeysuckle deteriorated to the stench of rotting flesh.

"What the hell’s going on!" he demanded, looking back up to see Gordon's leering face.

A tall stranger wearing blue jeans and a leather jacket now stood in Gordon's place.  The man held one of the metal buttons on his fly between his thumb and forefinger.  He had a blank look on his face.  "Forest reflections," the stranger said in Gordon's voice, tilting the metal button from side to side, inviting Jon to glimpse his own reflection in the tiny silver mirror.

Jon began to shiver.  A sickly debilitation seized him.  The stranger's complete lack of expression sent a sharp pang of fear shooting through his chest.  The vileness of the smell turned his stomach inside out.  He felt himself suffocating in the stench of putrefaction.  All his strength seemed to drain through a hole in his solar plexus towards the shiny metal disk on the stranger's bulging fly.  One look at it and Jon felt he would be lost; absorbed by it.  The merger would be final.

The stranger's handsome face loomed large.  His physical aspect was stunning; almost seductive.  His inquisitive golden eyes cut through the darkness and burned through Jon's heaving chest, probing his fears as he imagined himself crawling down the mountain on raw hands and knees unable to escape something bestial; something unutterable.  The thought of looking at the stranger's metal button horrified him.  He imagined himself running through the forest like a wounded deer, pursued by something so powerful he couldn't even fathom the extent of its strength.  The stranger, he imagined, would dog him with relentless animadversion as he fled.  His booming voice would erupt in his ears and shake the forest down around him, prostrating him beneath a sudden outburst of overwhelming wrath and indignation.  "See what you've done!"  The sheer violence of the sound would grate across the stones like rusted metal, igniting the woods all around.  Jon would scramble to his feet, desperately struggling against the man's unnaturally powerful grasp.  The stranger would pursue him with threats of humiliation as Jon would run through the burning woods.  His clothes would be stripped away by the vicious swipes of long, thick claws that would tear deep into his flesh, almost to the bone.

"Look at it.  It shines for you," the stranger instructed quietly.  Jon shielded his face like a frightened child, refusing to look.  He heard the wind sweep high into the branches of a tree.  From atop the redwood, the stranger's voice unleashed a rancor so powerful it made Jon's heart seem to stop.

"Look at the circle of mercury!  Join us in ever-changing forms or suffer the consequences!"

"No!" Jon screamed hysterically.  He fell to his knees in desperation, clawing at his eyes in an attempt to blind himself.  He knew there was no escape.  "No!  No!  You're not real!"

"Taste the cool of the metal," the stranger said in a soothing voice, stroking Jon's hair gently.

Jon shrank from his tender touch.  "No! You freak!  I'd rather die!"

The stranger reached out with his free hand and pulled Jon's fingers away from his face slowly.  He wrapped one powerful fist around both of Jon's wrists and raised him effortlessly off the ground.  With his arms outstretched the stranger dangled Jon like a rag-doll.  "The alternative is this!"  His voice changed to a scratchy metallic sound.  It was avian and cold.  He began to spin wildly around, still gripping Jon's wrists.  Jon felt his arms pulling from their sockets.

"Why!  Why!  Why!"

As he whirled among the towering trees, the stranger spoke calmly and persuasively.  "You will experience a slow death.  You will remain conscious of your condition," he explained.  "You'll feel your flesh burn from your bones.  Why not press your tongue to the circle instead?  See the forest reflection; see the changing forms."

As he spoke he whirled faster and faster.  The pressure was beginning to tear Jon's arms from their shoulder sockets.  For an instant he was tempted to avoid the pain.  He opened his eyes and looked into the button.  For a wild moment he refused to comprehend the meaning of what he saw within it.  Then he shut his eyes quickly and let out a blood-curdling scream, "Aaaaaaaaaah!"  For the first time in his life he prayed.  He prayed that his arms would rip from his body and hurl him as far away as possible from the horror he had seen within the metal button.

The stranger's voice cracked with renewed anger.  "It’s your choice!"  It grated with the unnerving sound of fingernails across a blackboard as it taunted with a familiar rhyme, ancient in sound:

Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?

And driven the Hamadryad from the wood?

Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,

The Elfin from the green grass, and from Me!

The summer dream beneath the redwood tree?

Amid Jon's wild, tortured screams the stranger released his grip.  Jon felt an explosion in his chest.  The physical pain was indescribable.  Blood and sulfuric acid burst through his nose and mouth while his intestines shot through his rectum.  Every ruptured organ and broken bone sent shocks of unbearable pain throughout his twitching nervous system.  He felt the fire of his cracked ribs tear into his lungs and heart.  He felt his neck snap in slow motion as he dove headfirst into the base of a redwood tree.