Wispy tendrils of smoke danced playfully nearer the crown of the small and claustrophobic antechamber. The tight and intimate space beyond the smoke was filled past the brim with circuitously writhing bodies; as if one giant sea of flesh; each new tide peaking and crashing; servicing mortal vices and pleasures to the bodies deeper below.

Only three persons adrift the carnal sea of flesh retained a distinct outline amidst the others. One, was shaven bald; the top of his burnt-honey colored head shone dully; his youthful skin betraying his age. His body was wrapped loosely in a vibrant saffron cloth knotted diagonally around his torso leaving one of his breasts--beginning to favor an immature gluttony--innocently exposed. He sat cross-legged a half-foot above the bodies; a dense bronze and tangerine marble vase pocketed between his thighs. The second of the threesome was similarly shaven bald and dark skinned, his features also favoring Asian descent. Secular from the others, this one sat at the entrance to the harem; his eyes intently monitoring the world beyond. Last of the three; waist deep in the sea of bodies was a dashing well-aged male; his features queerly enchanting. His thin, almost malnourished face while not tired, belied a certain air of wisdom and reverence gained only through an exhaustive life. Icy grey pupils burned cold and numb for those who looked directly into them; with but a glare this one could pry into a soul and learn of all its most recessed thoughts, feelings and desires; its core humanity. Framing those ethereal eyes were milky white cheeks, a mane of deep raven; streaked by bolts of silver and a trim goatee.

He too had a vase of bronze and marble; a sluice clenched in his teeth connected to it. Taking a deep breath inward he sucked contents from the vase deep inside his lungs. "What did you claim this exquisite herb was, my friend?" The dashing male craned his neck upward and blew grey exhaust past his comfortable smirk toward the Heavens.

"It is the Shangril tea leaf," his levitating companion answered. "Grown infinitely here in the gardens below."

"Might I convince them to part with some on my behalf before I depart?"

"Of course, Stephen," the monk cooed, smiling warmly. He too took a hit from his vase and spat a relaxed breath of thick smoke halos into the air. "But please, do not be so hasty to leave. Your presence is very welcomed--we have a lot yet to discuss."

"Yes, I'm afraid we do," Stephen Strange replied solemnly.

He laid gently back into the sea's tide. The heavily hallucinogenic fumes attacked him through his lungs and his pores; they seeped into his brain and poisoned the mind. He imagined himself being coursed over by the warm waters; the thrashing waves lapping at every intimate contour of his body.

For Mature Readers Only

#1
October '05

Strange Tales Presents

Doctor Strange

Bottles Marked "Poison"
Part 1
Written by Mike Rasbury

Shangri-La--

"A place of resplendence and timelessness where no one grows old. A hidden kingdom of ancient learning untouched by modernity..." began the description from James Hilton's 1933 novel, The Lost Horizon.

Heaven on Earth thought Stephen Strange, now, as he scanned the sliver of paradise cut deep into the paw of the Himalayas. Sandy cobble ventricles traveled by hundreds of flittering wooden sandals bled into the heart of Shangri-La; lush and green with fertility. This place warmly embraced Stephen. Like a child in a mother's arms, he wished he might retire in her grasp for eternity.

Stephen stalked the grounds side by side his monk companion; the manservant Wong trailing gingerly behind them--consumed only with the well-being of his master--even in this place of tranquility. They had followed this routine, in silence, seemingly, for a full fortnight only taking small reprieves with the native plant-life together. Neither man spoke a word; those would only serve to stifle discourse. What these two could express with a simple gesture would take others a library.

Meticulously manicured topiaries served as boundaries along their travels through one of the thousand gardens in Shangri-la. All were molded into small, green simalcrums depicting famous acts of Wukong; the Monkey King. A fancy of Chinese scholar Wu Cheng'en's Journey into the West--one of China's Great Four Novels--Wukong was regarded as a great many things; a trickster, a great sage and the 'Disciple Aware of Emptiness'. Paramount among the tales of Wukong's grandeur was that of him plundering the Jade Emperor's orchards; having gouged himself on the whole 'manfruit' tree, Wukong was rendered immortal hundreds of times over.

Strange's companion slithered past one topiary which showed Wukong riding his own personal cloud; a mischievous grin ever-present. The monk crossed even more brush along his path, mostly small briars of savory tea plants until he came to the base of a nimble fruit-bearing tree; its branches entranced in a choreographed dance to the tune of avian flutes buried within the canopy.

The monk was far too short to reach even the lowest branches flatfooted, so from the tips of his toes he stabbed wildly at the fruit above. The sight of the potbellied monk grabbing absently for fruit with such abandon that he might fall face first was so curious that the avian music-makers just out of his reach changed their tune to a sonata rife with mockery.

After a short few minutes at war with the tree, the monk subsided. He wagged his tongue thirstily while glaring deviously into the fruit-bearing bosom above. The monk turned his back to the tree and plopped onto it as if to catch a rest. He then wrapped his arms around the tree and locked his forearms into his fists; he shook violently to and fro. The tree trembled in the eager monk's grasp and without further protest bowed to his prideful might. A storm of fruit rained down on the monk, pelting him in the skull. The monk ignored the battery; a triumphant smile crossed he cheeks as he pounced onto all the fallen fruit, drawing them up into his robe like it were a basket.

Still on the cobble path, Strange buried his hands sheepishly into his vest pockets and watched his companion with an amused grin. It was curious how much the monk reminded him of Strange's master, The Ancient One, and yet, nothing of the monk's own son, and Strange's manservant Wong. The innocent stubbornness he displayed in combat with the fruit tree was much like the son Strange had spent his life with, as were many things; those eyes--mischievous and loving; the ability to speak with compassion truths that needed to be heard when Strange refused to listen; the genuine soul of a child--warm and forgiving; and an eternal devotion to their masters even after death, no matter the Hells they might traverse because of it. No, despite all of that, Hamir still shared more in common with The Ancient One, his adoptive father, than he did with his own kin; his flesh and blood. He held the same glowering power of presence as The Ancient One; the same air of reverence--and while it was Strange who was born not far from this paradise as The Ancient One's successor and the new Sorcerer Supreme--Hamir was always much more the son Strange could never be; as if a mirror had been turned on The Ancient One and from the reflection birthed Hamir.

Hamir stumbled back to the path juggling clumsily the wealth of fruits nestled in the lower half of his robe which he held out waist-high. He came back to Strange's side holding one of the fleshy fruits between his fingers and thumb for inspection under the sun's vivacious watch. After rolling it across his fingers several times Hamir shrugged slightly and shoved the fruit toward Strange insistently.

Strange accepted the fruit tentatively. It was the most morbid fruit he had ever come across; it's soft velvety skin felt sweaty and alive--like human flesh. What's more the fruit was even shaped like the start of humanity; a fetus. Facial features even formed an innocent cherub's smile on the surface of the fruit. This, Strange surmised, had to be the 'manfruit' of Wukong's tale.Whether the fruit truly existed, or was just another fancy of Shangril tea--like the harems previously--Strange cared little; he found the cannibalistic implications of devouring a fetus fruit to be distasteful. He declined; handing back the fruit to Hamir and nodding gently as if to say 'thanks, but no thanks.'

Hamir took the fruit back and began to laugh heartily at foolish Strange. His belly rolled and quaked; the powerful laughter threatened to topple him. He sunk his palms to the tops of his knees for support and continued to laugh further until tears raced down his cheeks. He knew Strange far too well, for him to pretend to be coy. Hamir knew what Strange had meant--he was protesting, 'you expect me to eat THAT?'

Fleeing ridicule, Strange stormed ahead on the path. Meters ahead he came across a vibrant crimson bridge that stretched like a magnificent rainbow across a small babbling brook. The water's subconscious words soothed the soul inside Strange's body; begged it to come hither. The tired boards under Strange's feet spoke to him with each passing step--telling him it was time to move forward. He had done all could to protect his loved ones and now it was time to protect everything else; no more walking away. The mortal world could only hold it's breath for so long, waiting for a Savior before it drowned.

Strange sighed, shrinking to the banister; studied the stream below. The waters teemed with life; Strange watched with vested interest as a handful of orange and black marbled koi frantically swirled through a maze tall willows and floating lily pads. They too, were retreating; a massive kingfisher bird skittered across the surface after them. Little thought, or instinct rather, was spent on the account of the desperate hunger the kingfisher might feel, and that it might be best to let him catch one or two. The fish simply retreated selfishly down the other side of the bridge and out of sight--feeding Strange with only more questions.

The vociferous planks trumpeted Hamir's arrival on the bridge and Strange slid down to allow his companion a place beside him on the banister. Hamir rested his forearms on the banister; he was chomping loudly on a section of skull missing from the manfruit in his palms.

"If you drink much from a bottle marked 'poison,' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later," stated Strange.

"Forgive my insolence, Stephen--" Hamir began. "--but just because I do not control the Eye of Agamotto does not mean I cannot read you like a book. There is nothing you can hide from me, well--except your arrogance--you may hide that if you wish."

"I know--and I apologize. I just--I just--"

"Who all knows of your secret?"

"No one--except you."

"Has she begun to suspect anything?"

"No, I fled here to distance her from me. I've assembled around her a coven I can trust--but my true motives were kept my own. As long as they don't take philanthropy upon themselves, she should remain safe from harm."

Hamir nodded knowingly.

"Forgive the foolishness of my next supposition, friend--but I suspected The Ancient One might have been responsible. That's why I sent for you," Strange continued.

"Foolish indeed, Stephen," Hamir chuckled warmly. "You are aware, perhaps, more than anyone of The Ancient One's end."

"I know--or, at least I thought I knew--but finality is a thing I have little belief in anymore."

"If it helps to rest your waking mind, as the guardian of The Ancient One's continued spirit, I can assure you that The Ancient One has not been returned to the mortal realm."

"I--I thank you; indeed it does place my mind at ease." Strange turned toward his friend and smiled. The smile just as quickly faded. "It's just that it was so...personal--focused solely on me--as if it it came from someone intimate. I've not felt so crippled since--since--" Strange's hands began to tremble as they struggled to hold to the banister; wounds of his past not yet healed.

Hamir took his own palms and covered Stephen's hands with them; comforting his companion.

"What must you do now?"

"Hunt those whom hunted me and regain what was lost."

"You've a long, curved road ahead of you where the path might not always be marked--but shrouded in dark forest," anecdotal, Hamir spoke. "I had Wong return to our chambers with the lion's share of manfruit, but when he returns I will request that he go back into your service. He shall help you along your arduous journey."

"I appreciate that, truly, but his place is with his father at the Temple of The Ancient One; besides, I recognize he still holds a slight grudge against me for Imei's death."

"Nonsense; Wong has never wanted to live my life--that's why he joined you in the first place. As for Imei's death, it's not something that consumes him any longer, you know that--he's just using it as a way to veil his undying devotion to you, Stephen. He's realized that like every man you are fallible and his moving to the temple was to help him adjust to that."

"I had no idea," Strange lamented.

"Yes, I know," Hamir chortled. "It's hard, even for men like us, to know the intimate thoughts and feelings of our loved ones."

Hamir removed one of his hands from atop Strange's and after a minor debate with his robe, he pulled free his last manfruit and ushered it toward his friend. Strange glared at him crossly, again objecting to eating such a morbid-looking fruit.

"Come now." Hamir shoved the fruit closer to Strange's face. "What value do concerns hold to one who is immortal, heh?"

Strange resigned, snatching the fruit from his friend. He gave the fetus fruit one last study before sinking his teeth in the warm, soft belly. The taste was subtly sour, like gumdrops; the warm juice gushed down his face, staining his lips purple. It tasted very good however, and Strange tongued his lips, lapping up all the immortality he could taste.

He would need it all.

Beneath the surface of his sleeping mind grew a wretched weep; inaudible at first, louder it shrieked until it consumed his mind whole--wailing, wailing, wailing...

His eyes snapped open.

Cleaving into the framework of his mind like an axe; the siren split his skull. Stranded somewhere between awake and asleep--his eyes pinned nigh shut by mortar; Sandman's dust--he stared in teary-eyed horror as he swore the screaming Banshee clawed out from inside his own forehead.

Yes--it certainly had; even in his grogginess, he could see that clearly now--struggling to wrench itself free was the screaming banshee; waist deep in the sleeping man's skull. Bleeding itself out from the tear far too slowly, the raging shadow-thing grew even more volatile; its violently burning red irises locked with the human's widened-in-terror eyes. The stare down caused a panic in the thing--it attacked its human host.

A giant fist manifested at the side of the screaming nothingness beast; it streaked toward the darkened chamber's ceiling, faintly lit by the gentle glow of candlelight and sprawled outward into four serpentine fingers hissing and wiggling thirstily; wanting to feed.

Frozen still, much like the shadow-thing birthed from his forehead, he could not wrench himself free of the nightmare.

He studied the events with a perverse sense of comfort. For once he knew his fate.

It seemed to take eternity for the guillotine to drop.

When, finally, it did, Stephen Strange screamed in agony.

His mouth snapped shut, his teeth grinding horridly together with such vigor he half-expected them to shatter; he writhed around in his bed, clawing in vain, at the shadow leeches burying deep into his nude chest, hoping free himself from the immense pain.

As the leeches burrowed deeper, they displaced skin, flesh and blood, not of the corporeal, but of the astral; drowning Strange himself in it. Strange sloshed around in his own astral essence, choking and sputtering while trying to fish around in the craters left by the leeches so that he could pull them out. However, a trend he had started to take note of was a fleeting degradation of his motor skills--and now, when he needed them most--his hands went slack, numb.

It was time for a more mystical vanquish.

"By Agamotto's lion claw--" Strange began his incantation. "--rip from my body...this insidious haunt!"

A simple chant dedicated to the honor of Agamotto of the Vishanti like he had done innumerous times before. He should have felt the warm presence of Agamotto awash him--cleanse away the Banshee of Shadows. He felt nothing--blank, empty.

The thing trapped in his forehead had. Puzzled, the shadow-thing tilted its inky head from side to side, eyes still fixed on Strange's. The massive head craned down like a sidewinder until its shadowy breath--wrought with the stench of death--reached Strange's face in short, rhythmic puffs. Those scalding red eyes locked painfully into Strange's own burned hotter like kindling added to a furnace.

The eyes only a start; the shadowy thing itself grew stronger. Strong enough so that when the puzzlement at Strange's arcane eviction warrant was through, the creature clamped its fists onto Strange's skull once more and pried itself free. An explosion of astral brain matter ejected from inside Strange, painting his walls, ceiling, and bedding white-opaque; cool residual droplets of intangible blow-off rained down on his naked body as the shadow-thing weaseled free of his head and scampered down the hallway into darkness.

Strange lay there weak, broken, watching in idle delirium as his astral presence continued to drip down his cheeks like some perverse spiritual tear.

A body without its spirit is nothing but a mere shell; unable to move, act, or feel--it is in essence--dead. As Strange's spirit hemorrhaged readily from his shell, it drug him closer to death. He struggled to raise his body; he struggled to roll off his soiled sheets; he struggled to pull himself off the astral slick hardwood floor; he struggled to cry out to his savior.

"C--Cloak--Levi--tation," he muttered; spats of astral bile bubbling through his lips with each word.

Over the arm of a dull burnt orange love seat slept the latest incarnation of Strange's Cloak of Levitation. Interpolated into a crimson housecoat, Strange chose to hide the austere and lavish guise of the original Cloak of Levitation in favor of the if-at-all-barely less austere velvet coat garnished with a velvet banana-peel scarf.

Strange called out again.

Finally the cloak stretched from slumber, chased by an inaudible yawn and wafted toward its prone master; struggling not to drown in his own spiritual matter collected on the floor. The cloak wrapped over his cold, trembling flesh. Taking the shape of a fist, the cloak picked him up off the floor and sat him upright. The velvet hand snuggled his nude frame; nursing him.

"The Eye--I need Agamotto's Eye," Strange informed the cloak.

His spirit and dominion of magick fleeting--siphoned into the shadow-thing, he knew he would be too drained; touch-and-go for some time; that meant relying on the cloak for the 'heavy lifting'.

Stephen, weakly from his throne of velvet fingers sent out a finger of his own; his hand quivering, Strange pointed toward where the Eye slept; On a rosewood vanity across the other side of Strange's bed. A hound at master's hand; the throne peeled away one of its fingers--a sleeve--and retrieved the all-seeing charm.

Strange nested the Eye in his palms, trying as hard as his devastated state would allow to connect with the amulet psychically.

Wake.

Wake.

Wake.

The silvery amulet shuttered its ornate eyelid; finally awoken, it too, from a reverie. Crafted by the Vishanti named Agamotto from a mystic ore not found on any mortal plane, The Eye of Agamotto was gifted with many a talents; any falseties or mystery became dispelled; any great bleakness became lit by Agamotto's radiance; even veils that may cloak any realm from another became transparent--seen through. A utility the Sorcerer Supreme relied on intensively in his journeys.

"Come, we've a great darkness to enlighten," explained Strange.

The Eye accepted its master's call-to-arms; batting lids sympathetically before lifting from Strange's gentle hold and glowering out of the chamber, down the hall. Strange chased his hand weakly after the Eye as to instruct the chariot of cloak to follow behind.

Strange's heavy eyes widened as he was dragged to the hallway; thick puddles of bile vomited from the shadow-thing as it fled painted floorboards, walls and ceiling. As the Eye stalked further down the hall, more shadow-thing entrails were stroked wildly onto its canvas. Strange watched as the trail of demonic offal broke right down another annex, then left down another. His presence of mind returning--he knew what the shadow-thing was after.

"The Sanctum," the words fell from Strange's mouth.

The Eye halted. The amulet warped in half, turned back toward Strange, giving the effect of looking over its shoulder; it stared meekly back; fluttering lids absently.

"Yes, that's right," Strange answered. "It cries for a lost loved one; a mate now bonded to my Sanctum!"

The Eye widened in horror; even the Cloak under Strange's flesh seemed to shiver at his declaration.

The Sanctum Sanctorum, often a term to describe the whole of the Sorcerer Supreme's Bleeker Street mansion, it was actually a chamber of infinite space and quantity inside the mansion where Strange sequestered all artifacts, idols, weapons and books of magick. The wonders held behind lock and key made the Sanctum the most powerful chamber in the world; if not the entire mortal plane. It that may enter the chamber would hold the proverbial pistol to the temple of all existence.

The Eye returned a sidelong glance to its master.

"I would venture the incantations did little in the way of prohibiting access," Strange replied. "It did, after all, escape from my own astral simulacrum!"

The Eye gave Strange another glance; he nodded and waved with his hand for the amulet to push onward.

It was a blight, starless night poisoned by shadow; blackness stained the mansion. Pierced by only the lantern glare of Agamotto's Eye and the train of candles from Strange's chambers darting curiously behind them, the trio of magick purveyors stumbled blindly, instinctively. Entered were doors freshly spawned from the arthritic floorboards; scaled were stairs ascending downward; chased was the shadow-thing lusting.

The Bleeker Street mansion was a curious labyrinth of annexes and chambers which numbered in the thousands--a number that grew nearly autonomously everyday; a maze that could consume the surface area of New York City itself had the sorcerer's architecture not allowed the mansion to expand and collapse within its existing constraints. Strange likened his domicile to M.C. Escher's Relativity.

At the end of a final wretched hallway; the black and white checker floor tiles twisted to the ceiling and wispy glass chandeliers prone on the floor were large oak double doors blackened and warped, arcane symbols cut into the woody flesh; the beginning of the Sanctum.

The doors were left ajar no more than an inch, the shadow-thing obviously inside. A thick veil of shadow-fog spewed from the cracks between and under the doors and sweated between thin oak pores, quickly suffocating the hall in darkness.

The inky plume had a tinge of familiarity to Strange; just outside his grasp, the familiar entity stood taunting him. The more Strange focused on this elephant in his room the more the familiarity came to him, evaded him; a perverted game of 'Duck, Duck, Goose' they played; tag the familiarity came, then, run away it would. Around and around in circles came Strange trying to wrangle with this feeling of his.

"Enough," he cried having tired of chase. "I am the Sorcerer Supreme and I shall not be parodied!"

An extension of his being, Strange reached weakly out for the brass ringlet on the deadened oak doors; the Cloak of Levitation below him mimicking the action consumed the wide distance between them with a crimson sleeve, parting the doors violently.

The thick shroud of shadow escaped the Sanctum stronger, slurping away the oxygen quicker yet. Lost amidst the amassing bleakness in the hallway was the radiant Eye. Strange scoured the darkness blindly with his cloak feelers for the all-powerful light of Agamotto; drowned in the shadow sea.

"Your master requires your splendid sight," groveled Strange in vain.

Agamotto, I beseech you!

Allow me to gaze through this charade of darkness--

Strange found the Eye; his cloak fondling the leak of darkness. It's lids were open, the deep and infinite pupil was dimmed, rolling empty and cataract, blind to Strange it turned away and closed up.

That precise moment, his sole weapon turned away; his anguish growing--two shadow tendrils licked out from the Sanctum's maw and snared him around the forearms. He struggled, tried to resist, but he was still too weakened for the shadow-thing's might. Ripped free from his fisted throne of cloak, the shadow snares dragged him down the hallway picking up splinters into Strange's nude back until the Sorcerer Supreme was consumed whole by the Sanctum; the oaken lips slammed shut behind him.

The tendrils released Strange; seemed to retreat from him to a central location in front of Agamotto's orb as did all the shadow in the Sanctum. He used this freedom to weakly come to a hindered stand. He glanced behind him at the door hoping he might escape again, but he noticed a new set of arcane scriptures--burning white hot--carved into the doors. Strange recognized them as intricate markings used in the Central Asia--specifically Mongolia--to bond powerful beings to inanimate objects. No doubt Strange could break them, but it would take time and that was something he wasn't confident he had.

The shadow-thing had proven to hold an intricate knowledge of magick which made Strange's Sanctum as dangerous to himself as it was to the shadow-thing. It the massive inky plume began to shape at the center of the Sanctum. The figure continued to absorb all the shadow from every crease, corner and crevice in the room until appendages birthed from the swirling mass of darkness; then a head. The shape was decidedly human.

From a chair nestled in a nook of the Sanctum the shadow-thing beckoned a long purple cowl; The Lesser Cloak. A cloak similar to Strange's own, only far less powerful; he had given it to Rintrah as a gift when he became his apprentice. It had been locked away in the Sanctum, as Strange had learned a new weave--a duplication weave which duplicated anything the cloak covered--and had planned to sew it into his apprentice's cloak.

Fortunately, Strange thought, I keep everything in the Sanctum in an inanimate state. The trinkets will do it little--

The shadow-thing placed a skull shaped stone from the darkness and sat it at the collar of the cloak like a broach as it corrected the neck like a tie. The Crystal of Kadavus; one of Strange's most useful baubles, the skull shaped crystal could re-animate any comatose tool of magick--including everything in the Sanctum.

Puzzled by the precision used by the shadow thing to dissect his mystical defenses, it’s ability to stay one step ahead of the Sorcerer Supreme; then there was the current of familiarity rippling through the shadow being. Before his mind could properly analyze all three, the shadow thing was motioning again; with the skull shaped icon glowering brightly, hands of darkness licked wildly after Strange, bonding his wrists together. With another appendage born from the creature’s faux chest, another trinket newly re-animated from Strange's Sanctum was wrangled free of the impermeable darkness.

As the steel twins—The Links of Bondage--joined at the neck by a tired and moaning chain peered through the darkness, Strange realized the depths of his troubles. With the sisters bondage hot after him Strange's mystical powers would soon be nullified; if he didn't act quickly, he would soon be left helpless to the shadow-thing's whims.

"Eye of Agamotto, your master is too weak--you must not ignore me further!"

Nothing.

In that moment as the cold steel cuffs adorned with arcane silver skin slid across Strange's helpless hands and the familiar darkness of the shadow-thing engulfed him, he finally identified it. The familiarity was not only from inside him, but it was a familiarity of the Earth's Sorcerer Supreme itself; of the Ancient One.

The scream of the Ancient One's name died inside Strange's throat as the shadow thing forced it's way down, gagging him. The darkness overtook him.

"Father said you wished to speak with me Stephen?"

"Yes, old friend--if indeed that is still what I may call you Wong."

"You may."

"I do this with great uneasiness, that I assure you, but I ask--no, I beg--that you come back to my side for a short duration."

"This sounds dire, Stephen--"

"It certainly is, it most certainly is."

"I see; and what is it that you need from me?"

"Salvation."

"And where might we find salvation for the Sorcerer Supreme?"

"Someone will be waiting for us in K'un L'un, we'll start there."