Creatures of Want and Ruin

by Molly Tanzer

  Ellie scanned the crowd for her father as they wandered up, but the throng was so big and so overwhelmingly male that she soon gave up. Instead, she focused on the man at the front of the crowd—it wasn’t Hunter, but someone in a Sunday suit who looked less like a preacher and more like a wealthy farmer. He was speaking vehemently about the need to find ways to “protect” Long Island, just as a man protects his family with locked doors and a loaded shotgun. Ellie shuddered to think about what that meant, but she was seemingly alone in that sentiment. Most of the heads in the crowd were nodding.

  Eventually the man wound himself down and left the stage to thunderous applause. Ellie was feeling hot and annoyed. She wanted to get away from here—to get home to Gabriel and unpack. She didn’t need to hear anything further to know all she needed to about this set.

  It certainly made sense of her father’s recent rhetoric. This was a volatile place, simmering from the summer sun and other, more dangerous sources of heat.

  When Hunter finally took the stage the crowd went quiet except for a baby wailing desperately and incessantly in spite of the efforts of its mother to quiet it. Fans and hats waved, but people were otherwise still. Hunter stood with his eyes closed, lips pressed together into a thin, inexpressive line as he waited for a group of five men in dark suits to file up on stage behind him. One of them was his eldest son. He was unmistakable, as he looked almost uncannily like a younger version of Hunter.

  As the tension reached a breaking point, Ellie saw her father. He was one of the five men standing behind the reverend. Ellie nudged Jones, jutted her chin stageward, her heart pounding. Jones saw and frowned even more deeply.

  Ellie was fairly certain her father couldn’t see her—from that distance she would be just another face in the crowd—but when he looked her way she was consumed by a desire to hide. She pulled her hat down low to avoid any chance of him catching a glimpse of her.

  “Take it easy, Ellie,” Jones muttered, and Ellie blushed, not from the heat.

  “Thank you all for coming, you sons and daughters of the island.” Hunter was as good a speaker to a crowd as he was in a parlor; Ellie had struggled to hear the other man who had kicked off the proceedings, but the reverend’s voice came through loud and clear. “It is good to see you all today—so many of you, and from all over Suffolk County, too! I had not let myself even dream that my call would reach so far. And yet, you have heard, and what’s more, you have heeded.” He paused, and even from such a distance, Ellie could see his smile, could feel his gaze. “That you have come to hear me gives me courage. It gives me hope.”

  It did the exact opposite for Ellie, but the crowd was on Hunter’s side. They hung on his every word, too enthralled to even smile.

  “I am glad so many of you came out on this hot day for another reason, too. You can look around here, see the face of your neighbor—the sons and daughters, the mothers and fathers who are willing to take off the masks we are forced to wear and let our real face shine through. I am pleased to see there are so many . . . aren’t you? It’s hard to get the sense of the size, the strength of a movement when all of one’s conversations are one-on-one or in small groups. Why, I see many of you whom I know have more family at home—that means that there are even more of us out there than it appears.”

  Ellie hadn’t realized that her father had joined some sort of social movement; she’d thought this would be much smaller, much less informal. Preaching of the Billy Sunday sort, but more prejudiced.

  “Next time, for there will be a next time, bring your families. Let them hear what I have to say—what people like Mr. Raleigh had to say, and any others among you who feel compelled to speak out. A young mind is supple, eager. It is fertile earth where good seeds can take hold and sprout when they are watered and nourished.” Ellie rolled her eyes. Hunter had missed his true calling when he turned preacher instead of being a carnival barker. “The truth is, it is their fight too—or rather, it will be, if we do not act.”

  Ellie glanced over at Jones. She couldn’t read his expression. He seemed highly interested in what Hunter was saying, and wasn’t frowning.

  “The truth is, we are sorely in need of community these days . . . of knowing who stands beside us, even if they don’t live next door to us. Long Island’s population may be growing—we may have a train to get us to the city more easily, and new roads to get us to the ends of the island more quickly than ever before . . . and yet, people are lonely. They feel isolated; they feel alone. The Great War made the world smaller, brought it closer, and yet, all that has done is made man feel insignificant, while adding to our growing sense of disconnect from the news. The word from Washington is that we live in prosperous times. And yet, most of you seem to feel as if that prosperity is not yours to share in—that you are still sweating every day working on farms or in factories or out on your boats. You feel shame that your wives work part-time, or that you have had to ask for a loan to repair your home. Your fathers and grandfathers would not have had to endure either. But do not despair, my friends. We can go back to those times, those ways—at least, I believe we can. And I also believe that if we believe together for a better future, we can change our course—be reborn in glory instead of dying, doomed and despairing. We will cleanse this island and heal it of its wounds.”

  Ellie’s mind wandered after this—the heat of the day and her dislike of the subject leading her to daydream. But claps and cheers brought her back to the present, and she listened as Hunter declared he’d be “demonstrating” the power of belief in what was right and good.

  Ellie nudged Jones. “Let’s get out of here,” she muttered. “I’ve seen enough.”

  “Hmm?”

  “He’s going to do some sort of trick. I don’t need to see it.”

  Jones looked confused. “A trick?”

  “Haven’t you been listening?”

  Hunter’s voice boomed out over them, even louder than before. “Corrosion eats away at our community from without, and we must act to keep that from weakening us further. But there is something else that nibbles at us from within, like a cancer. Yes, I am talking about liquor. I have already spoken about its dangers, though I know that most of you don’t believe me. But I will prove to you that liquor is not part of God’s plan and it has no business in our homes, in our society, or in our faith. I will need a volunteer, and I see that someone perfect is in the audience today.”

  “I could have sworn . . .” Jones seemed queerly disoriented.

  “Swear later; let’s go!”

  “Ellie West!”

  She and Jones both stopped like Hunter had just grabbed them by their collars. She felt a cold stab of fear in her gut at the idea of answering the reverend’s call; she really did not want to turn around and go up there. How had he known she was in the crowd? Or was he only calling her name on the off chance she’d showed up? Ellie glanced up at Jones, but his expression was unreadable.

  “Ellie West, in the back!”

  Ellie swore under her breath—he had seen her. Heads and eyes swiveled in her direction; mutters were exchanged. With so many eyes upon her, going up to the stage seemed safer than trying to escape.

  “What do you want to do?” asked Jones, under his breath. Ellie got the sense he’d be willing to cheese it or stand their ground, but they wouldn’t get far if things really got ugly—not with the pickup loaded down with all her and her brother’s worldly possessions.

  The hairs on the back of her neck were up, and so were her balled fists. She was poised to fight any one of them, all of them if necessary . . . but would that be necessary? Would they really grab her if she ran; drag her kicking and screaming to the stage?

  Probably not . . . though Ellie couldn’t say definitely not. Cleo wasn’t pleased either; the dog was tense, her back bristling as everyone stared. Ellie had a momentary vision of how badly this could go, and decided it would be best to obey.

  “Ellie, come up here. Please!” said Hunter. His tone was kindly—not
that Ellie for one minute felt he had good intentions toward her.

  “All right, I’m coming,” she said, loudly enough that the folks around her could hear. Actually, they did back off. Perhaps they might really have gone for her, had she refused.

  “I’ll be right here,” said Jones. He put his hand on Cleo’s collar when the dog whined. Smart dog.

  Getting to the stage where Hunter and his companions awaited her felt like a longer walk than it really was. She didn’t look at her father as she passed him by.

  “Ellie, thank you for being here today,” said Hunter. He looked luminous, like the baby Jesus in a nativity scene. She did not, however, spy any of the strange specks or motes that had appeared to come forth from his mouth the last time she’d seen him, and chalked up his appearance to the glow one might get from working a crowd. “Your father did not think you would come.” Ellie felt her face flush but stood up very straight. She would not slouch or cower in front of this puffed-up con man. “I asked you to join me because you are . . . skeptical, are you not? Of what we talked about in your parlor . . . and about temperance?”

  Ellie didn’t answer. Answering meant participating in his little sideshow. Hunter surprised her with a grin, though not a kindly, avuncular smile—a wolfish leer of a man challenged. Ellie crossed her arms. She wasn’t having a good time, so why should he?

  “Silent as Miss West may be, she will help me prove that when I say God has shown me the way to heal this island, from within and without, He has not done so without giving me the attendant ability.” From beneath his pulpit, Hunter pulled an unmistakable bottle, the slosh of which was very familiar to Ellie. She just didn’t usually see it out in the open among hundreds of people.

  “Moonshine. White dog, hooch . . . Whatever you call it, this bottle contains ardent spirits.” Hunter flipped the top open and held it out to Ellie. She let him hang there for a moment, but then took it grudgingly. “You agree?”

  Ellie sniffed the bottle—it definitely smelled like moonshine whiskey. Not breaking eye contact with him, she took a swig and then a second, longer one, eliciting a few satisfying gasps in the audience. As she swallowed, she nodded. Hunter looked so enormously pleased by this she wondered momentarily if it had been poisoned.

  He took the bottle back, and the air thickened around Ellie. Her stomach lurched to feel that too-familiar but inexplicable sensation that she’d felt on her boat, and again in her parents’ parlor. As Hunter took the bottle from her, she also saw an odd flash of rainbow-hued light that was gone so quickly she couldn’t be sure it had even happened.

  The memory of the night she’d fainted made her shiver, though the day was hot enough that her shirt was clinging to her sweaty skin—clinging to her skin just like it had clung to her that night on the boat, when the rain had poured down on her. Ellie wanted a glass of water, wanted to sit down. She swayed on her feet as she tried to remind herself that none of these incidents had anything to do with one another, that her mind was addled and confused, but what ended up steadying her was thinking about how awful it would be to faint in front of these people.

  Fortunately, when Hunter spoke again, the feeling of pressure in the air dissipated, and so did Ellie’s memories. She felt more solid, more reasonable. The odd colors she’d seen must have been just the sun reflecting on the greasy liquor within.

  “Miss West has no reason to lie in my favor,” said Hunter. “You have only to look at her to see how little she wishes to be up here with me.” Ellie stood her ground, though she felt embarrassed to be called out like this. “Never fear, I need only a few more moments of your time, Miss West. But before you go, I’d like us all to pray.”

  An audible sigh escaped Ellie, again bringing an amused expression to Hunter’s face.

  “Not for too long, Miss West,” he said apologetically, setting the bottle down on the stage. “I want you all to pray with me now—silently, in your own way. Pray as I do that the scourge of liquor shall be lifted from the back of Amityville—of Suffolk County—of Long Island, and the world. Pray for deliverance from wanton ways, drunkenness, and all its attendant plagues. Pray for those who drink who would do better to be sober. Pray for the victims of crimes committed by the intoxicated.”

  Ellie watched him as he went on for a bit longer, and also watched the bottle. She’d seen stage magicians use misdirection to fool a crowd; perhaps sleight of hand was among Hunter’s tactics. But he’d have to touch the bottle to pull some sort of switch—wouldn’t he? And after setting it down on the ground he hadn’t touched it again.

  “Miss West,” he said at last, after calling for attention. “Will you see if our prayers have had any effect?”

  “You’re encouraging me to drink more?” she asked.

  No one laughed. Hunter wordlessly indicated with his hand that she ought to pick it up and take a sip.

  Ellie grabbed the bottle. Sniffing it, the liquid had no nose at all, unlike before when it had the expected aroma of raw alcohol. She took an experimental sip, and spat it out in shock.

  It was full of musty-tasting water—not moonshine.

  The crowd gasped as one at her reaction, and started to talk among themselves.

  How had he done it? Ellie would have seen it had he switched the bottle—and anyway, where would he have kept the other? It wasn’t something he could secrete away easily, like a rabbit in a top hat. The pressure in the air . . . no. He had made a fool of her, somehow.

  “What is it, Miss West?”

  She couldn’t play it off, not after that reaction. “It’s . . . water,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  Ellie took a deep breath. “It’s water,” she said, louder this time.

  “So why did you spit it out?” asked Hunter.

  “Well, it’s not very fresh water,” said Ellie.

  This time, her defiance did not make him smile; it was clear he’d hoped she’d be more impressed by his display. And while in truth Ellie was more than impressed—she was disturbed, astonished, and barely keeping herself together—she still wasn’t interested in being a part of his act. He took the bottle back from her and crouched down, passing it to a man in the front row.

  “It is water. Praise the Lord!” cried the man, and passed the bottle to his neighbor, a woman in a Sunday hat.

  “As you see, Ellie . . . there is power in goodness.”

  This, Hunter said softly, just to her. She met his eyes; they were a light golden brown and glittered like amber.

  “You must have changed it out,” she said.

  “I changed nothing. Faith did.” He smiled at her. “It is not too late, Ellie. Your father is here. Apologize to him; I’m sure he would allow you to move back home . . .”

  “Allow! He ought to be begging me to come back.” Ellie tucked her loose hair behind her ears. “Look, I gotta scram. Hope your other party tricks go as well as this one.”

  Ellie didn’t look back at Hunter as she climbed down off the stage, but she did spare a glance for her father. He wasn’t looking at her; his eyes were on Hunter. Ellie was pretty certain he’d never looked at her—or at his son, or even at his wife for that matter—with that much love in his expression.

  She felt exposed and strangely ashamed as she walked along the edge of the crowd to get back to where Jones and Cleo anxiously awaited her. As soon as she reached them he nodded wordlessly at his pickup and headed in that direction. The mutt trotted ahead, seemingly even more eager to be gone from that awful field.

  Only after they were bumping along toward the boatyard, and Cleo’s head was in her lap, could Ellie finally speak.

  “Well, that was strange.”

  “Yeah.” He cast a look her way. “You okay?”

  “In what regard?” She shook her head, the ends of her increasingly shaggy bob brushing her chin. “It changed, Hector. He turned booze into water. He really did it—I watched him the whole time, expecting tricks.”

  “I did too. Either he’s the greatest stage magic
ian in the world, or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  Jones shrugged. “Or he really changed it.”

  Ellie briefly considered telling him about her various experiences over the past few weeks, but decided against it. She’d sound insane if she reported feeling the air “tighten” or having seen rainbow spores pour from a man’s mouth.

  It would also mean telling him about the man she’d killed.

  “Come on,” she said, playing it off. “You don’t really think we just saw magic, do you?”

  “Could be” was Jones’s reply, which set Ellie sweating again. “You saw what you saw, as did I. And I don’t like the way I lost track of things . . . That felt odd.” He shook his head as he turned onto Ketcham Avenue. “Regardless, I didn’t like the sound of what Hunter had to say before my mind wandered. Your father’s friend has decided he knows who ought to live here, and who ought to go somewhere else. I’ve heard it all before, though his language was more esoteric, I guess. The idea of making Long Island into an oasis in the scorching desert, or an island in a stormy sea where people can feel safe . . . a moon hanging above the poisoned earth . . .”

  “Poisoned earth!”

  “Yes, seems as if that’s my fault. My service in the Great War and my service to the town don’t make up for being a corrupting foreigner,” said Jones wryly as the boatyard came into sight.

  No wonder Ellie’s father was so steamed up, if this was what he was listening to. She shook her head.

  “I’m sorry you had to hear that. It’s not true.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me that. I fought for this country, and now I serve it every day—even, obviously, on Sunday.”

  They’d arrived. Ellie sat for a moment, not sure what to say. There was a flintiness behind Jones’s words she’d not heard before; she didn’t quite believe that the policeman was as unaffected as he claimed, and she couldn’t blame him.

  “He mentioned masks, too,” said Jones.

  “Masks?”

  “He said at the start that it was good to take off masks to let your face be seen. Remember? Those attacks, that kid who survived . . . The nurses said he’d had nightmares about masked men.” Ellie opened her mouth, anxious to believe there wasn’t any connection, but Jones held up his hand. “I’m just considering possibilities. That’s enough for me to get interested, and if I get more interested . . . well then, we’ll see what needs to be done.”