The House on Black Lake

by Blackwell, Anastasia

  “I disagree.”

  “Women are no different than men.”

  “That is your belief, not mine.”

  I smell Roger’s body beginning to cook—or perhaps it is only his heart.

  “What if everything you believe to be true is false? What if the entire foundation of your belief system is based on a load of crap?”

  “I will not be corrupted by you.”

  “Illumination is not corruption,” he says, and his gaze softens, nearly imperceptibly. “You’re an intelligent and educated woman, Alexandra. You have the capacity to understand and appreciate other dimensions of thought and experience.” He reaches out his hand to caress my cheek with his bloody fingers. “I will lead you into the secrets and the mysteries, to unimaginable hidden truths. I will initiate you myself and make you my special protégé. Such a bond between two is greater than marriage, or a relationship based on the flimsy illusion of love. We will share a partnership, an alliance of equal powers.”

  “Murder and the conjuring of dark powers is not only illegal, it’s evil.”

  “Evil is what has happened to you, my dear. Acts perpetrated in the name of love, of justice, of education, and all the other notions of honor and duty that wrap you in dried filament, preserving your sarcophagus. And in those rare moments when you are allowed to fly outside the outmoded systems, it is only as a blind insect flailing against the light of truth, oblivious to what you might have become had you been given the opportunity.”

  Ramey is silent as he waits for me to absorb the absurdity of his notions.

  “What we have done tonight is not evil and it is not murder. It is sacrifice. And it has been successfully performed since the dawn of mankind.”

  “I don’t believe bloodshed creates abundance.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “It means I have my work cut out for me. You are not going to be an easy student.”

  “I will never be your student, or any man’s for that matter.”

  “Your options are limited, dear.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Ramey.”

  “Join me or perish. Those are your choices. You can’t leave after what you’ve witnessed, unless you agree to become my protégé, and that requires an oath.”

  “Since when do you value oaths?”

  “It’s an ancient vow of honor and commitment and requires a mark on your body to prove you’ve crossed over, and to remind you of your commitment to the credo. I view it as a wedding of equals.”

  “What you offer is sacrilege.”

  “I do my business with those who create the dogmas.”

  “This antiquated credo of yours eschews love. But if love does not exist, if there is only a universal drive for the replication of DNA, then why do you shed blood for change?”

  “Alexandra—”

  “We feel love because we wish to create, not replicate, and the bond of two is far greater than that of a single being. The changes you seek, through blood, will never lead to an evolution in mankind. If we continue to replicate and shed blood, we’re doomed.”

  “There is no debate. Join me, or I will have to take your life,” Ramey says, and poises the spear against my heart.

  “Will you?”

  “I will.”

  “But that would be murder, since you have already performed your sacrifice.”

  “Join me or perish,” he says and his eyes grow cold.

  “I wish to hold the Spear of Destiny in my hands, to feel the magic of the most powerful weapon in the world.”

  Ramey is rigid; there is no movement on his side.

  “If I am to be your protégé and we are to join forces, I ask for a sign of trust. Hand me the spear.” Holding his eyes, I ride my hand down the blunt edge of the sword. His face softens and a sly smile tugs at his mouth.

  “It’s heavy.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Stand back.”

  He hoists the ancient weapon into the air, lowers it, and offers it to me. Grasping onto the worn leather above his fist, I take the full weight of the iron. The handle’s old blood has mixed with Roger’s to create a bright burgundy stain. The smell is rank and flush, like that of a fresh carcass. And it fills me with a terrible hunger, a fierce thirst for blood.

  “You asked me to forsake my beliefs and accept your dogmas. I do not accept them. That means, as you have advised, I will perish by your hand in this glen. But I now hold the Spear of Destiny, and it is you who has reason to fear. I will sacrifice your life to spare my own. I have no choice. Down on your knees.”

  I raise the razor-sharp tip to the soft hollow of his neck.

  “One easy thrust and your spill will join that of your uncle’s—a feast for the gods on the dawn ending summer solstice. Do what I say. I have nothing to lose, so I’m dangerous.”

  He drops to his knees with the twist of a wry smile on his lips.

  “If we are to be equal partners, then a new dogma must be written. Your patriarchs are dead. Today marks the beginning of something new. There will be no more bloodshed for abundance. You will teach me the secrets and mysteries, and I will teach you about love. Our union will create an evolution of thought and riches beyond our wildest dreams.” I press the sharp metal deeper into the soft hollow of his neck and ask: “Will you accept my terms?”

  He is silent, eyes gazing downward.

  “Would you have me flog you before you are sacrificed? I recall you once telling me it is a powerful experience for both the giver and the receiver. Look at me. Raise your head and look me in the eyes.”

  He makes no move to obey my command.

  “Will you have me take your life?”

  Ramey raises his head and looks up at me with disarming eyes. They are the eyes of an innocent, a little boy lost, a child peering up to seek reassurance from one who may or may not be worthy of such splendid trust. I could kill him if I desired, but why bother?

  “Do you accept my terms? I will not ask again.”

  He breaks into a beguiling grin. “Sure, Baby. I’m all yours. Teach me everything you’ve got.”

  “Stand.” I maintain the pressure of the blade as he rises from the ground.

  “May I mark you with the sign?” he asks, looking sober and thoughtful as he reaches out his hand to take the spear.

  “Not so fast.”

  “Good instincts. First you must lift the talisman as an offering to God and then offer it to me.”

  “How can I trust you will not turn the hallowed spear against me?”

  “You are either in or out in matters of faith. To have faith you must trust without reservation.”

  A shift occurs as he speaks these words. A golden beam of light pierces the circular space and with it an intangible burst of something glorious. A powerful force has been released and there is no turning back. A pact was made at the shrine and my journey has led me to this moment. I cannot destroy him and I will not be destroyed. Unity is the only answer.

  “What is the oath?” I ask him.

  “Lift the spear above your head, bring it down and offer it to me. “Now repeat the vow after me: Brand me...”

  I repeat the sacred oath and then ask him to recite a pledge of commitment: “Our love will create an evolution of mankind that will change the course of the universe.”

  Ramey repeats the promise and I release the weapon.

  “Lift up your right palm,” he tells me. He spreads my open hand and uses the spear to cut a rough circle and draw a cross in the center with lines of equal length. “The cross means it is empty; it also means you have crossed over. If you stand in the middle of the sphere and lift your hand to the sky, you will find the wormhole, the place where the light shines and gives answers to those who seek them.” He presses my bloody palm against my heart and then against his, leaving imprints of the insignia outlined in blood.

  A glorious sunrise crawls up behind him, and the moon hovers above the sun, surrounded by
a myriad of stars—and the heavens open with a rush of fresh rain.

  “We finished the ceremony in time,” Georgie proclaims as he nears the edge of the clearing, “just as the sun was beginning to rise. We cut out the old man’s heart and made the offering, then drained him and cremated his body. Those knives in the pewter box, the ones we collected as kids, cut through Uncle Roger like a stick of butter.”

  “Go. Hide over there.” Ramey points to a thicket near the sinkhole.

  “Labat is saying some Injun prayers over Roger’s ashes to help him cross over. Our uncle is going to be plenty pissed when he finds he’s spending eternity with a bunch of redskins.

  “What the hell are doing, Sandeley?” Georgie shouts, as I break for the woods. “If you can’t finish her off, then I will. You know she can’t live after what she’s seen. Give me the spear,” he bellows and charges at Ramey. Georgie wrestles him to the ground and rises to stomp viciously on his hand until his fingers go limp. He grabs the treasured blade and shoves a foot into Ramey’s neck. “Gotcha, Sandeley. Now who’s the boss?”

  Georgie’s moment of triumph gives me the time I need. I break from the brush and forge through the concentric circles to where True is hitched. Hiding deep within the long shadows, I catch a glimpse of a figure moving stealthily in my direction. A sliver of light brightens André’s face, twisted into a mask of rage and sorrow, his eyes nearly red with mad passion.

  “Never surrender,” he calls out to me and then disappears inside the sacred site.

  I wrench the bit from True’s mouth, throw off the bridle and mount her bareback. I am struggling to guide her out of the dense foliage when Georgie lurches out from the brush and grabs me by the wrist, while swinging the spear high above his head. I recoil, then lunge forward and sink my teeth into his forearm with all my strength.

  “Fucking bitch...” he squeals, and reels back.

  “Mmmm, yummy, I love the taste of blood,” I exclaim, then reach back to give True a smack to her backside.

  She bucks up and lets out a horrific squeal as Georgie lurches towards us, slicing the spear half-hazard through the air, his scope of reference wildly out of control, owned by the weight of the weapon and lost in a desire to create havoc at all costs. True rears up and comes down with full force, pummeling his shoulders and forcing him to the ground.

  Georgie falls beneath her hooves and slashes his face with the blade, tearing open a gruesome wound from eye to chin. He lets out an excruciating howl as blood spurts from his face and flows down his pristine shirt. He shakes his head with a wild man’s fury, hurling droplets of blood that co-mingle with the falling rain and seep into the moss-covered earth. The squeals of the unruly mare conjoin with his bellowing blasphemies, as she rises up and takes off in a full-out gallop and heads into the dense jungle beyond the arrow of the third circle.

  The whistling wind silences the trail of Georgie’s epithets as a heavy rain begins to pound us with a warm shower and lightning burns silver through the trees, casting long and distorted shadows along the ground. Wild, wily, and unstoppable, True tramples anything in sight, driving forward toward a copse with no visible opening. She lowers her head and we are sucked inside a tiny opening steeped in mud and swallowed up inside a cavernous gully. I grasp onto her neck and blend my body into her powerful frame as she makes her way through a twisted decaying morass teeming with drowsy satiated nocturnal creatures and early morning scavengers, and drives through a heavy slough of rotting branches.

  With a hearty snort she breaks through the crumbling rot to emerge at the edge of a wild meadow. She takes off with a fresh burst of energy, galloping across the grazing land, straight into the glorious cleft between day and night. The dynamic sun now overpowers the fading moon, and the stars lose their glimmer as the sky transforms to a luminescent blue. Facing the rising gilded orb full out while reeling across the plain, I watch as the sun shoots a rainbow with a band of pure colors across the horizon. Blowing mists of steam through flaring nostrils, True draws the damp air into her lungs and lets out long, deep, heavy breaths as her neck extends and strains to gain more speed. Through the pelting rain I ride in wild-limbed freedom, intoxicated by the lonely sound of the steady rhythm of hooves pounding against the earth’s surface. I sink my knees deeper into her flanks and drive her harder yet, and pull myself upright to throw back my head, tossing my hair to the whipping wind, and let out a wild cry, a war whoop morphing into a maniacal laugh. Soaked to the bone, shivering, drunk with delirious delight, I squeeze my eyes tight while leaning back to drink in the sweet raindrops. I’m free... free at last.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  SUNRISE

  SAMMY, WAKE UP,” I SAY, AND THROW BACK THE MOUND OF BLANKETS on the pull-out couch. He’s not there; the bed is empty. Surely my boy is sleeping somewhere inside the house, but there is little time to search. Zito promised he would return at sunrise and I can only pray he is true to his word.

  I tear off my mud and blood spattered clothes, toss them in the fireplace, stuff it with newspapers and start a fire. As the flames spread, I redress myself in a fresh T-shirt and jeans and move to the bathroom to scrub my hands and face. I find rolls of gauze and tape in the medicine cabinet and dress my marked hand. My suitcase is of no use to me; it is a burden I cannot afford. Time is of the essence. The sun is almost up and my window of time nearly closed.

  Inside the corridor of sleeping children I search for Sammy. They all snooze comfortably, nearly lost beneath down comforters—all except my son. There is only one room left, at the end of the hallway—Lizzie’s.

  “Where is Sammy?” I ask, while leaning inside her princess canopy to shake her awake.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re lying. Tell me where he is or I’ll slap you until you do,” I say, and yank her up from the bed.

  “I’ll scream and wake up everyone in the house.”

  “I know it was you and Rand who cut Sammy’s hair and locked him in the closet, and made him hide in the trash bin. I’m going to tell your mother and father what you’ve done and they’ll send you away to a home for bad girls if you don’t tell me where Sammy is!” I say, shaking her by the shoulders.

  “You’re hurting me, stop it,” she cries out, squirming, slapping, and scratching me with her painted and decaled fingernails.

  “I won’t let you go until you tell me!”

  “It was Rand,” she screeches, now nearly in tears, “he was the one who did those bad things. He told me not to tell or he’d put the snake in my bed when I was sleeping.” She falls back like she has fainted and hangs limply in my arms.

  “Where is he?”

  Lizzie comes to life with a moan, lifts her head, and whispers, “promise you won’t tell?”

  “I promise.

  “He’s under the bed.”

  “Whose bed?”

  “Mine. He was afraid of scary sounds in the basement, and when you didn’t come home last night he thought something bad had happened. I told him he could sleep under my bed and I would protect him.”

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you, but you should not be cruel to other children, or keep secrets from adults. And never let your brother threaten you into doing what you know is wrong,” I say, and release her.

  “Wake up, Sam. We have a flight to catch.” I pull aside the dust ruffle and help him out from under the bed.

  “Why is your hair wet, Mommy?”

  “I got caught in the rain. Come, darling, the taxi will be here in a few minutes. Zito said he’d be here to pick us up at sunrise.”

  “Where are you going? Why are you in such a hurry?” Lizzie calls after us.

  “Tell everyone good-bye for us, dear. We’re going home.”

  “What happened to your hand?” Sam asks, as I reach out to lift the front door latch.

  “I cut it,” I say, and freeze for a moment as I trip on a piece of fabric—a black hood lying on the stairway landing. “Come on, baby, let’s run. Start up the pathway to the road.
Go ahead, I’ll catch up—I have to get something out of the car. Hurry, Zito will think we found another ride if we’re not on the road when he arrives.” I sprint to the car to retrieve André’s painting from the trunk and then follow the trail up to the road. As I reach Sam, I hear the clamor of horse hooves.

  “Oh God, no...”

  “What Mommy?”

  “I’m so sorry...”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Through the glare of the early morning sun I see a spark of pale yellow and a faint buzz becomes a sputtering engine. In a cloud of dust, the outline of a taxicab comes bounding down the country road, twisting with the curves, growing larger by the moment.

  “Let’s run to greet him,” I say, and we scramble to meet the barreling vehicle.

  It screeches to a halt in front of us and Zito Zahn steps out in a cloud of cigarette smoke—and what a beautiful sight he is!

  “Bonsoir, Madame. Forgive me for the tardiness. My son was released from prison this morning. Two years,” he says, with a beaming grin as he dances gaily around to open the passenger door.

  “That’s wonderful; you must be very proud,” I say, and shove Sammy into the cab.

  “Beautiful, Madame—you are even more lovely now than before. The rest has suited you well.”

  He takes my painting and gestures for me to enter the cab. “No bag? You sent it ahead, eh?”

  “We’re traveling light.” I slide onto the seat next to my son and lock the doors on either side.

  “Oui, Madame, I understand. No dirty laundry when you go home, eh? These American women...” he says with a chuckle and moves around the cab to stash my painting in the trunk, then jumps into the driver’s seat and starts up the engine.

  I turn to look out the cab’s filmy back window and see, at the base of the flagstone path, Ramey ride up and draw Faithful to a halt. Jack lopes beside them, jumping at the horse’s side. He grasps onto the stallion’s mane, slides off the horse, and guides him to the middle of the road.

  Ramey is a ghastly sight. His clothes are torn, bloody and caked in mud, and his right arm hangs uselessly at his side, with a dreadfully mangled hand. He walks with an awkward, unsteady gait, and when he lifts his head, I see an ashen face—scratched, slashed with dirt, blood streaked—and hollowed eyes lined with dark circles.