supply. I sorrow that by my hand Dino’s Din er was offered to the flames of oblivion, and that
nevermore shall the shake of milk nor the dog of chili be tasted there.
From the North I came riding, mounted on a reindeer, to the town of Montreal. You
wonder, perhaps, how I could ride so far unseen by your camera machines; and as I do not seek
to offend, I will not mention that your people are ignorant fools. Our world, juxtaposed on yours,
belongs to another plane. You cannot perceive us, nor we you, without passing the Deepling
Gates. Unless, of course, one holds the Key.
To the fogbound Fourteenth Gate I swiftly came. There the Keeper waited. Nine feet tall
he stood: twice my height and one foot more. His cloak was grey, his sword was flame. I have
battled ogres in the frozen steppes, and fear no stature. But the Keeper was a Cherub, powerful
enough to turn cities to salt. I once heard a drunken tale that humans picture Cherubim as chubby
winged infants, but I know it to be false. Surely some wisdom still abides in the mortal world.
“Peace be to you,” said the Keeper.
I dismounted and bowed low. “And to your spirit. I am Groth, on direst errand from the
very Claus. I must pass into the lands of Men.”
“Wait.”
“Wait, you say? My business will not do so.”
He spoke no further word.
“Friend Keeper, I seek no quarrel, but I must and shall pass through.”
A looming silence.
“Know that fifty - seven have been pulped upon this hammer.” I raised my father’s
weapon. “I have no wish to make it fifty - eight.”
A voice rang out: “Stay your hand, dear fellow, lovely bearded scion of the snows!”
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