by Rex Hurst
Saint-Fond was snug up against the Rhone River near the middle of France. It was a pleasant little riverside town. Quaint, quiet, not particularly touristy. The streets were narrow, made of brick and cobblestones. Three-story buildings, alabaster walls, and slate roofs abounded. Traditional small shops were dotted about. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker all had a little place on the town’s high street. Apart from a few old gents sipping wine at a cafe, not many people were about.
The family manse was a few kilometers away, surrounded by dense woods. Absolom called it a manse, in Jon’s eyes it was a fortress. The wall around it was a stone structure straight from the Middle Ages, complete with a gatehouse and battlements. A massive fountain, worn with age and algae, dominated the entrance drive. It was of a weeping young girl, presumably St. Fond, in chains. Water flowed lethargically about her. The main house was more modern, 17th Century, with all the architectural oddities that century provided.
His bag was taken from him by a mute and starry-eyed servant. The car was wheeled away to a converted carriage house holding many high-end vehicles. He was given no time to freshen up. Dusty and unkempt as he was, Jon was whirled into a large ballroom, filled with elegant people picking the finest local cuisine off silver plates.
He was introduced in a whirlwind of greetings to cousins—first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth—once removed, twice removed, etcetera. John, Jean, Hans, Ian, Sean, Juan, Eoian, Chon, Jane, Johanna, Sian, Ionna, Janine, Yana, Jana, Gianna, Hannie. Their names blended together. Impossible for him to later attach name to face. The range of races surprised him. The crowd contained the fair skin he was used to, but also olive skin Greeks, Slavic ruddiness, Africans, Arabs, and even a few Asians, among the mix. Each held the badge name of St. Fond.
Everyone was handed a glass of wine and Absolom lead the toast.
“À la famille!”
They repeated it proudly and drank the wine in one gulp before smashing the glasses against the wall. Absolom pulled Jon into the center of the room. The rest of the St. Fonds stood about, still eating and drinking, but also listening intently to what the pair was saying.
“Now, Jon of Black Rock,” Absolom began. “Now, you earn the family name. Even if legally you bear it, you have not earned it, but today you do so. If you pass the test of will that is.”
Jon, suddenly alert, simply nodded. The wine hangover had vanished.
“I can only offer you one piece of advice. You have played the game, yes? You have another name, another mind, to use? What is his name?”
“Crixen Runeburner.”
“Je m’en fous. This will be his test as well.”
“I understand.”
“No. You do not,” Absolom paused and licked his lips. “We also give you the choice here. If you do not want to be one of us. If you do not feel you can be one of us. You may walk away. Be of your own mind and your own name. We will allow this to happen.”
Jon looked Absolom in his eyes. Yellow, like Father’s. Disturbing. He saw the glint. Heard a rustle beneath his kinsman’s shirt. The truth bubbled up rapidly from Jon’s subconscious.
“There is no walking away.”
“Mais oui,” the other smiled. “But we enjoy offering the illusion of choice. Now, we must wait.”
“For what?”
“For the hallucinogens you drank to work their magic.”
Oh, boy. A minute later he grew weak in the knees and some of his extended family caught him. They dragged him down a long hallway into the basement. The world started folding at the corners. A secret latch behind an ancient cask was flicked and a rock wall creaked open. Jon was tossed into the center of a circular room. Oil lamps were lit. Their flickering light illuminated grotesque images of death, the devil, and torture over every surface. The door was shut and locked. He was alone with the pictures.
A transparent protective coating ripped away from the planet. There, the break sifted through worlds like a broken film reel. One piling on top of the other, until all things cursed at each other in a common tongue. Albatrosses filled the sky and the mud on the ground and clay in the cliffs spoke frankly with men who trod upon it. And his mind was exposed to concepts below the action. All the elements of his life. All the knowledge he had accumulated as a tortured soul. They took shape and clawed at him with demon faces, then melded together into ONE shape that told all.
He ran.
He broke free.
He broke his nose on the wall.
And they came for him.
Jon the boy-man could do nothing
against these fiends from inside and beyond.
He had not the will to fend them off.
To crush them. To conquer them. To command them.
That would require a mighty hero.
One from a long line of adventures and princes.
One who had destroyed many a fearsome foe.
The name was bellowed
And he came.
On fleet feet he swept in
For half a day
With spell and staff
He crushed the demons of the mind
Threw them back into oblivion of non-space
And of the boy-man there was no sign
He was gone
Sleeping in safety and security
Away from knowledge, harm, and responsibility
***
Jon emerged from his mental crib only to find his body resting comfortably in a luxurious bed. Thousand thread count sheets swaddled him. The most comfortable pillow ever cradled his head. An IV hung above in the rafters, pumping nourishment into his veins. His broken nose was bandaged up with only the faintest throb of pain. Absolom sat nearby, reading from a book bound in the time of the Renaissance.
“Congratulations, Jon St. Fond.”
Jon tried to mouth the question, but no words came out. The mere act of attempting to ask wore him down. Absolom divined his intent.
“Yes. You and Crixen passed. He was fully formed enough to take on the role. You must have understood that failure meant a permanent vacation in an asylum, your mind fractured to the four winds.”
Absolom lifted a glass of port and sipped in short rapid spurts. Jon was surprised to see a softness outline the other’s eyes. A . . . concern? Pity?
“The way of the opener has never been an easy one in our famille,” Absolom continued. “And while you’ve stood up to become the type of man we require, the usefulness of your skill will always make one of the others attempt to dominate you into their service. Even now, your father still holds sway, does he not? Is his thumb still not pressed against your spine?”
Jon nodded.
“Of course, he has. It is not easy for the boy to become man when the father is about, non? And this is his greatest triumph. What has he offered?”
With tremendous effort, Jon managed to squeak out, “One million dollars.”
Absolom whistled. “That much, huh? Coûter les yeux de la tête. But I will add my guarantee that this debt will be paid. Then you can be your own man, learn the deeper mysteries of the family and secretly pull the strings of the world.”
Jon nodded his assent. Absolom went into detail on the ritual, one carefully researched and crafted over the centuries, which culminated in the eighty one day ritual they called The Feast of the Beast. Everyone involved would don their alter egos, their magical names, for the entire time. By their will, by their thoughts, by naming the creature, and mental atmosphere, they would physically pull one of these entities into the Earth’s gravity and give it shape. Under the power of their collective will, it would remain long enough to impregnate Jon’s sister and then dissipate to the cold lightless reaches beyond the universe.
The key emotional elements of the ritual were lust, degradation, hate, anger, fear . . .
“ . . . and betrayal,” Absolom finished.
“Betrayal?”
“You will know when the time comes and then you will choose the truly great path. How will you open it
? How does the boy become the man?” He stood up and patted Jon on the leg. “But now, I must go. Rest up. Faire la grasse matinée. Gather your resources. I will send in some refreshment.”
Jon raised a hand. Absolom stooped down, nearly placing one of his ears on Jon’s lips.
“The family,” Jon asked in the tiniest whisper, “what are we?”
“We?’ Absolom laughed gently. “That’s a good sign.”
Jon closed his eyes, convinced that there would be no straight answers here. Absolom shook them back open.
“We are the ones who sit unseen in the back rooms making decisions, calling out the names of the damned, and forcing the beyond to do our bidding. We divide the world, pitting one side against another. Wherever there can be conflict—politics, religion, culture—we promote it. For where there is strife, there is a gap, and the family flourishes and profits in that gap.
“All things which push indolence and ignorance are our brainchild. All things which degrade the soul is our design. Wherever there is stupidity to be squeezed for a profit, the family is there. The world is full of pearls for us to pluck. We profit from destruction and then disappear.
“On the outside, we shift like with the wind, changing with every cultural norm, but our bedrock remains solid. We also know our place. We do not dabble with thoughts of beyond. That way has always led to ruin. Until now, we knew how far to extend our hand.”
With that last cryptic sentence, Absolom left the room. Jon was too weak to ask anything further. A while later, one of his female cousins brought in cheese and wine. After dropping a few morsels in his mouth, she stripped naked and crawled onto the bed, stroking Jon gently. The girl was very thin and lithe with auburn hair that flowed straight across her shoulder blades. Despite his tiredness, he could not help but be aroused by her tender touches. Without a word, the girl mounted him and rode with a calm rhythm.
It was almost a ritual unto itself. Neither said anything. The girl looked at the ceiling as it progressed. Jon simply stared at the girl’s small breasts and thought of how much larger Maria’s had been. He eventually reached a joyless, weak orgasm and the girl climbed off. She did a handstand for a minute. Still naked, she walked out of the room, her clothes draped across her back.
CHAPTER 15
Slouching Towards Bethlehem
Jon came back to the beginning. For eighty one days, the beast was fed. Crixen Runeburner, in human flesh, ate, drank, fucked, and shit in the mausoleum below Goodleburg Cemetery. All the cousins below, several hundred of the St. Fond family, continued non-stop until they were hollowed-out zombies, merely a shell for their magical egos.
Acolytes scuttled up and down the rows of participants, picking people up where needed, making sure the cauldrons boiling with fat—animal and human—were well-stoked, adding incense to five massive burning braziers, occasionally shitting in them to add extra heat to the aroma, and scooping up animal carcasses littered about the altar. They were just menial ones, clothed only in black. Those in red robes, like Jon, performed the tasks. Endlessly chanting the spells of invocation. Having rough and degrading sex with all genders on soiled mattresses scattered about the chamber. Then taking turns slaughtering a creature on the altar.
Outside of the old tomb, RVs had been set up to help revive and refresh members. Porta-johns and food tables had been installed nearby, enough to fill three trailer parks. They had called in every member that could assemble, spending a hundred thousand on their accommodations, travel expenses, food, and recompense for lost income from their day jobs.
No part of this ritual was done was for the benefit of those beyond. All the pageantry, the blood, the mindless chants, the smells, and sex was to get the heroes into the perfect mesmeric state to open the door within their minds. With Jon as the battering ram, they themselves would crack the seals between worlds to allow the Beast to enter.
Then came the moment, The Great Whore, the Scarlet Woman, the unclean vessel, his sister, was brought in by Father, the High Priest. Jon was pulled before the altar, a gold knife slapped into his hand. The live sacrifice was revealed. Kathy, with whom he had given up his virginity.
“Jon!” she screamed.
That cry, that wail of desperation from the only person left in the world Jon cared about, nearly split the image of Crixen Runeburner in two. He felt his own body again and saw ghoulish hands in the ether trying to grapple his mind. One second, two. He was about to be destroyed from within. The blade was raised.
“Go. Go. My son,” Father hissed.
Go on. Go on. The moment had arrived. His vision wobbled. Split between the ultimate adventure Runeburner was on and the reality of Jon’s friend screaming her head off on a bloodstained altar. Twin piles of thoughts crowded his head, but there was no time. Heat and pressure mounted around him. He had to act!
A strike. Crixen, no it wasn’t Crixen . . . Jon had plunged the dagger into Father’s chest. A sigh of orgasmic satisfaction rose up from the crowd. This was the greatest betrayal a boy-become-man could accomplish. They savored its evil. Drank in the dark beauty. Father stumbled back a pace, then forward, stubbornly unaware he was dead. Refusing to admit defeat, despite losing five pints of blood. Nature eventually won out over willpower and Father tumbled forward onto Kathy’s screaming body.
A hollow sound boomed, like a rip in reverse. Suddenly a space appeared in front of Jon that had not been there before. From it slithered a yawning, sucking cold. It leeched off his heat, his mind, his soul. Crixen was well gone by now and his true self was naked before the beyond. He felt himself being drained away into a nothingness, wherein dwelled shapeless forces of evil intent. They wanted him. Mind, body, and soul. They would devour him whole and shit out a corrupted parody of Jon.
He jumped away, ripping himself from their grasp, screaming in pain. Damage was done though, he could feel it. Part of him was indelibly gone into that void. He grabbed Kathy, now mute with fear, and roughly dragged her down from the altar by her hair. Father’s body flopped over.
In the space, a thing appeared. There was no definite way to describe it for it only had the loosest definition of a form. A moving color which buzzed around a shaky outline of a man. Little pinpricks of light evolved and died around the shape. Grinding noises fell off the thing from no definite orifice.
It leapt across the altar, directed by the mystic symbols to that spot, and onto Michelle. The form melted around her like a marshmallow before a flame, drawn in by her heat, while the color shook around her frame. The grinding, like rock on rock, increased. Michelle shrieked and twisted in painful spasms. Finally, her body seized up, each one of her muscles arched upwards in an inhuman posture. She fell, eyes rolled up into her skull. The color faded.
All of them, each St. Fond member stared expectantly at her body, not believing that this ordeal was over. The rip to beyond silently sealed up and, little by little, everyone came back into themselves. They emptied out of the foul-smelling room and gazed happily at the overflowing night sky. Cleaners would come in tomorrow and sweep everything under the rug. Michelle was carefully taken away in a private ambulance under the watchful eye of Absolom. A half-hearted applause sprinkled across the crowd. Some alcohol and food was produced, but most were too burnt-out to do anything except sit down and try to remember who they were and what they had been doing before the ritual.
Jon stood apart from them, trying to comfort the shivering Kathy. He didn’t feel like celebrating. In fact, he couldn’t feel anything at all. He realized he should be hungry, but the sensation was absent from his body. His fingers and toes had gone numb. When Jon stared at his hands, the tips faded into and out of focus, sometimes becoming transparent, other times becoming startlingly detailed, more real than real.
His mother appeared a short distance away. She just looked at him, lip quivering. Old angers and fears danced around her twisted-up face. Her whole body spat curses that she was too afraid to say out loud. Jon, at least for the moment, was a hero to her people and she was
just a useless bit of debris.
***
The next day, after he was dropped off and had a fitful night of sleep, Jon realized he was alone in the house. Where was Kathy? She had curled up next to him on his bed that night. The geas to prevent him speaking had died with Father and he had whispered to her all of the strange doings over these past few weeks, then expanded onto the bizarreness of his life, the murder of her parents, the sketchy history of his family stretching all the way back to the betrayal of a saint.
She had reacted violently when all of the dirty laundry was laid out, but he held onto her tightly, refusing to let go until she settled. Jon had stroked her hair and told her not to worry, that a million dollars was coming his way and that much money would take care of them both for the rest of their lives. They could go anywhere and do anything. Eventually, they fell asleep and now she was gone.
It wasn’t just her. Mother had cleaned out her clothes and the safe. A great deal of Catherine’s clothes were similarly gone, along with her kiddie pageant trophies. A simple note was left on the kitchen table.
“I’m taking Catherine and leaving. Don’t ever contact us.”
No fear of that. Their disappearance was a blessing, nothing less. But where had Kathy gone? To the police? That might be awkward. There wasn’t any proof of her parents’ murder, but there must’ve been evidence still at the cemetery. No way could all of that be cleaned up so fast.
He pulled a soda can from the fridge and sipped. The soda was flat on his tongue. Strange. Even with these threats against him, Jon couldn’t get excited, couldn’t have cared less. Everything was placid inside.
Time slipped by. Absolom showed up, wheeling in two large suitcases. The Frenchman was fresh and chipper. The world was doing good by him and all doors were wide open. He laid the cases at Jon’s feet.
“Voila,” Absolom said, zipping them open and tossing large bills about. “Argent. Un million. All for you.”
Jon just sat there, looking at his future laid out in green rectangles. He took another sip, then slowly said, “There might be a problem . . . ”
