Encounters with Enoch Coffin
W.H. Pugmire and Jeffrey Thomas
Ashman’s flesh, he was reminded of the binding spells engraved on the archipelago of floating blocks in that other realm. The three symbols he inscribed, however, spelled out the Hebrew word emet, or “truth.” Ashman groaned in pleasure, not pain, as thin trickles of blood oozed from his new clay skin where it had been wounded. He lowered himself onto his back on the bare floorboards. And Enoch Coffin lowered over him, forgetting his dinner plans, forgetting his former disgust for his visitor. Happy accidents, and all that.
IV. That howl, more lonely than the bleat of a foghorn turned to a deafening volume, cut through the swirling white masses of fog that filled this world. Enoch stood upon one of the hovering blocks of stone and smiled with satisfaction at how much closer he was drawing to that beast on the final block, each time he willed himself into this realm. And each time he came here now, he felt more in control of his abilities, no longer becoming overwhelmed and forgetting himself. He could see, this time, that the bandages that blinded and masked the semi-human crouching beast were stained through with spots of blood. Was this a new development, or had he been too distant previously to make out this detail? No longer suffering disorientation, he was not surprised when he directed his gaze to the block upon which he stood, and soon saw two vast hands reach out to take hold of it. These were his hands, his godly appendages, and he watched them crush the malleable
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