Sonant

by A. Sparrow

  “No one else came in for a nap? There was plenty of room. Would’ve been cozy, but we probably could’ve even fit three.”

  “You need to shower, Mal,” said Aerie.

  He sniffed his armpit. “Oh, it’s not that bad. I use deodorant.”

  “Let’s go,” said Ron. “I got omelets on the brain.”

  “Someone, kill the fire.” Mal stumbled over to the aquarium. “We’re taking Junior with us, right?”

  “Junior?” said Aerie.

  Ron kicked dirt on the glowing embers.

  “I was thinking we could stash him lower down so we don’t have to climb back up to get him later.” He peered inside the glass. “Oh shit! He’s not looking so good.”

  Aerie came over and flicked on her light. The dust cloud pulsed slowly inside the broken flower pot like an ebbing heart. “Crap!”

  Ron grabbed his guitar from the tree from which it dangled. “Let’s play.”

  “I’m not so sure the three of us are enough,” said Aerie. “We need to get this little guy to Aaron’s.”

  Mal pulled off some the rocks weighing the cover down and lifted the tank. “Someone grab my horn. Spot me if I slip. Don’t want to smash this thing to smithereens.”

  “Get his sax, Aer.” Ron tossed his guitar strap over his shoulder.

  “Where is it?” She patted the ground beside the tent. Something crunched beneath her knee. “Aw shit. Mal, I think you need a new reed.” She glanced up, finding nothing but trees, and beyond a sky gone pale. “Mal?”

  She grabbed the horn and scurried off to catch up with the boys.

  ***

  They stashed the aquarium in a thick bed of ferns near the conjunction of the creeks, and struck out for the parking lot of the farm stand. Ron strode in front. Aerie brought up the rear. Workers from the farm stand stared as they approached the lot. She could only imagine what they thought of such a bedraggled trio stumbling out of the woods at this hour. They looked like refugees from some invasion, or some down on their luck migrant workers.

  The little white Sentra sat alone at the edge of the cinder lot. Aerie was relieved to see no orange tickets protruding from the wiper blades. She unlocked it and they loaded their instruments. Ron sat in front. Mal was already sacking out on the back seat.

  The car started all rough and reluctant, with its usual flicker of engine warning lights, some of which stayed on, but at least it ran. She put the car into gear and tried to back up. It stuttered and died. She restarted it, only to stall again.

  “Pop the hood.” Ron hustled out. He plucked a leaf from a catalpa tree to wipe the dip stick. He ducked around the hood, face contorted.

  “Aerie, what’s the deal? No oil. No coolant.”

  “I don’t know. I just drive the thing.”

  “It’s a machine, Aerie. You have to take care of it.”

  “Can’t you get it to go?”

  “It’s gonna take more than water this time,” said Ron.

  “So … what do we do?”

  “There’s a Mobil station just down the way. Aerie, you get in and steer. Me and Mal will push.”

  Chapter 42: Excursion

  Sunlight filtered through the sparse leaves of a birch bough rubbing on the bedroom window. John awoke to soft refractions and dappled shadows dancing on the wall.

  He reached over to Cindy’s side of the bed to touch her hand, as he did every morning to take measure of her mood. How she responded—whether her fingers entwined his, stayed limp or jerked away—revealed scads more than words could ever provide about the outcome of their spats and the state of their marriage.

  His hand met only rumpled sheets. Cindy was already up and gone.

  Voices reverberated downstairs. Clunks and scrapes resounded from the dining room as if furniture was being moved. A gush of panic made him throw off the covers and fly out of bed.

  Out of habit he went first down the hall to check on the boys, finding Nigel’s bed and Jason’s crib both empty. He blinked away mental cobwebs, remembering that Cindy’s parents had come to fetch them the night before. How could he forget them being bundled out the door in their pajamas, screaming and squirming like sacks of kittens?

  Cindy’s folks seemed resentful of yet another imposition on their pensioned lifestyle. Cindy had cajoled her folks to take the kids to Orlando with them, but the matter was still under negotiation. She wanted John to be the one to go down fetch them from Disney World if they ended up going. He hadn’t agreed or disagreed. He simply couldn’t think that far ahead.

  He lurched back to the bedroom to dress. Other than a fresh pair of socks, he put on the same clothes he had worn the day before. He could shower and change after his errands.

  He had so much to do. They were feeding an army tonight. Chickens needed to be bought and hacked and marinated. Potatoes needed to be peeled and boiled and mashed, salads prepped and tossed.

  Downstairs, he found Rand camped out on the sofa in front of the fireplace, a stack of wood piled on the carpet. The fire burned quite vigorously, but at least the flames confined themselves to the hearth this time. He shook his head at the bits of bark and smudges of dried mud soiling the carpet. He needed to dust the furniture and run a vacuum through the rooms on top of everything else he had to do.

  He found Jerry in the breakfast nook off the kitchen, standing by the toaster with a box of pop tarts. He gave John an odd look, his eyes all narrow and serious.

  “Ew! Jerry, why are you eating those? There’s some nice apple-ginger scones in the breadbox.”

  “These’ll do me fine, thanks.”

  “I could fry you up some eggs. Some sausage?”

  “I’m fine, John. Really.”

  John pulled on a jacket and grabbed a banana out of the fruit bowl, stuffing it into his pocket. He snatched his keys off the hook on the refrigerator.

  “I’m heading out to the store. You need anything?”

  “Actually, it’d be nice to have some snacks for the woods. Maybe some pepperoni? Some cheese and crackers?”

  “No problem.”

  “Appreciate it. I’ll pay you back.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s only food. I’ll be back in an hour or so in case anyone’s wondering.”

  Jerry’s looked troubled by something. He touched John’s sleeve. “John … hang on a sec.”

  “Yeah?”

  He lowered his voice. “Last night, when I was putting away the gear I happened to notice … well … that you, or someone looked like you had kind of … uh … gone up by that house … the hell house.”

  The insides of John’s stomach rippled. “Yeah. What about it?”

  “So that was you? What exactly were you doing up there?”

  John glanced out towards the dining room where some folks were glad handing with Mac. Cindy’s voice seemed absent from the mix.

  “Just … poking around. You know … s-surveillance.”

  “Spying?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what’d you see?”

  “Um … not much. There wasn’t much going on. I mean, they played some music … but it was kind of laid back compared to what they usually do.”

  Jerry looked at him with a grave, but fatherly concern. “Listen … and I’m just saying … you gotta be careful around this bunch. If Donnie or the others see you doing stuff like that, they might think you’re consorting with the enemy and that you’re possessed or something. They’re gonna want to do an intervention on you. I’m not kidding. That’s how Donnie thinks. And a personal intervention … a forced deliverance … I guarantee you is no picnic. Been there. Done that. Let me tell you.”

  “Well thanks,” said John. “Thanks for the warning. But there’s really no need … I just took a walk to see what’s going on. That was about all I did.”

  “I understand. I’m just saying, John. Watch your back.”

  ***

  As John approached the outskirts of Ithaca, the queasiness triggered by his little chat with J
erry lingered. He wondered how Jerry had managed to spot him. He had been discrete, returning from Aaron’s via a circuitous route all the way around the end of the cul-de-sac. It had been completely dark out. Jerry must have used that dang infrared camera or those light-amplifying goggles.

  What’s done was done. Fretting about things wouldn’t make them any better. He was just going to have to be more careful.

  He went over the menu and a list of groceries in his head. He would need at least ten medium-sized chickens for broiling. Their oven wasn’t large enough to cook them all at once, so they would have to go in staggered, which would be fine because dinner would be buffet style, as people would be arriving at various times.

  Some kind of polenta would be nice, instead of mashed potatoes, though he wondered if this crowd could handle it. It was basically grits ground finer, but maybe some kind of rice dish would be a safer bet. Maybe a pilaf with golden raisins and nuts, though on second thought, he remembered some allergies in this crowd. Maybe a touch of saffron would add the pizzazz he was seeking.

  Just past the farm stand at the turn to Treman State Park, he came upon two young men pushing a dingy white Sentra along the shoulder. The duct tape on the fender made him slam on the brakes. He decelerated abruptly, and pulled alongside, nearly but not quite overshooting them. He put on his flashers.

  Aerie sat in the driver’s seat with her window open. She looked startled to see him. Her hair was disarrayed and she had smudges on her cheeks. The two guys pushing looked even more disheveled and dirty.

  “What happened? Is everything okay?” said John.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said. “My car went kablooie again.” She gave him a weird and warped little smile. “We’re pushing it to the gas station.”

  “You really should have that towed,” said John. “It’s not safe pushing it along the road like that. People come blasting through this stretch. I mean, I’ve seen trucks go ninety down that hill.”

  “Yeah. You’re absolutely right,” said Aerie. “But … we’re almost there. I can see the sign up ahead.”

  “At least put on your flashers,” said John. He peeked into his rear view mirror. Traffic was light this early in the day.

  His instincts told him to move on, but he couldn’t help himself. This was Aerie after all, in the flesh. “Do you guys … n-need help?”

  “Um … sure,” said Aerie.

  The frizzy-haired kid stopped pushing and stood up straight. He scrolled away on his smart phone. “Hey guys. I just got a lead on Eleni. A friend of mine says he thinks she works at GreenStar.”

  “Let’s go!” said Aerie. “Maybe John here can give us a ride.”

  “But … what about your car?” said John.

  “I don’t give a crap anymore,” said Aerie. “That thing’s given me nothing but trouble.”

  “Sari’s got a car,” said the kid with the phone.

  “A decent one, as I recall,” said Aerie.

  “Decent? It’s a freakin’ Saab,” said the guy with the shorter hair.

  “We should leave a note for the troopers,” said the guy with the phone.

  “Oh, who cares?” said Aerie. “They want it, they can have it. Come on, let’s go to GreenStar.”

  “What about the waffles you promised?” said the short-haired kid.

  “First things first,” said Aerie. “Finding Eleni’s more important.”

  Aerie scrambled into the front seat.

  “Wait a minute,” said John. “Where is this place you want to go?”

  “It’s that food co-op on West Buffalo,” said Aerie. “You just go straight like you’re heading into town and stop before you get to State. We can walk from the corner.”

  “I wasn’t planning on going all the way into town,” said John. “Actually, I was just going to Wegman’s.” Aerie looked back at him with those sad, almond eyes. He looked away, as if he feared being turned to stone. “Does … does GreenStar have a meat department?”

  “Yeah, actually they do,” said Aerie.

  “What the heck,” said John. “Maybe I can pick up my chickens there.”

  “Oh, they’d be free range, for sure,” said Aerie. “Much nicer than that Perdue, factory-raised crap.”

  The guys piled into the back seat.

  “John, let me introduce my friends. The guy with the dreadlocky fro is Malachi, and that there is Ron. You might recognize them from the band.”

  “Of course.” Heart thumping, disparate thoughts churning, he pressed his foot on the accelerator and pulled forward.

  “Whoa! Hang on!” Ron burst out the door as the car started to roll. “I forgot my guitar!”

  ***

  John rolled up to the register with a cart loaded with twelve, lovely broilers, a sack of jasmine rice, five pounds of purple Yomitan sweet potatoes and various odds and ends including some kind of vegetarian sausage for Jerry. He wasn’t so sure Jerry was going to like the stuff, but it was the closest thing he could find to pepperoni in a place like this.

  His new friends were out front, huddled around a bagger wearing a moss green apron. Aerie glanced back at him, chewing on her chapped lips. John nodded and smiled as he loaded the fresh chickens onto the checkout counter. She split off from the group and came walking over, her eyes maintaining contact with his. A shiver rippled down his back.

  “Hey John. I need to ask you a favor. Turns out our friend Eleni doesn’t work here anymore. She used to, but now she works at this other place.”

  “Oh? Where’s that?”

  “Ludgate Farms.”

  “I never heard of it.”

  “It’s just up the hill. Mal knows the way. Right Mal?”

  A pressure built deep in John’s stomach. “Um … yeah, you know I’d love to help but … I kind of have to get these chickies home and get them all prepped and marinated. We got that big dinner, tonight, you know.”

  “Oh, I promise it won’t take long,” said Aerie. “Just a quick stop to see our friend, and then you can be on your way. How about it?”

  There went those eyes again. It was rare for her to give so much sustained eye contact. He had previously considered himself lucky to sneak a squint from her. Yet there were those eyes, lounging in his gaze. A stirring disquieted his loins.

  “Um … okay,” he said.

  Chapter 43: Preparations

  Donnie was surprised to find the kitchen so bustling at such an early hour. Folks had arrived bearing sacks of donuts and bushels of apples and gallon of cider. One couple treated him like a celebrity, too shy to speak, but not too meek to gawk. He excused himself and cruised through the dining room seeking a quiet place to meditate on the task at hand.

  Tammie and Rand had Fox News blasting in the den. They sat together on the rug, making small talk about some reality TV show, tossing occasional chunks of apple wood into the blaze. They barely noticed Donnie as he hurried past them to the door of the study.

  He rapped lightly on the door. “Knock-knock?”

  No one answered. He pushed the door open to find a room awash in sunlight. Corner windows looked out into the backyard. The warm, wood paneling made him feel like he had entered his own office back home, apart from the bins of toys in the corner.

  He removed a stack of papers from a nifty mesh-back swivel chair and wheeled it to a cherry table, the only clear spot in a study cluttered with the flotsam and jetsam of a busy real estate practice.

  He emptied his briefcase of the notes and source documents relating to the Swain’s case, intending to tweak the text of his rites and hone the overall plan of attack for tonight’s ceremony. The scarred, bound ledger in which he kept his notes reflected the agony this case had wrought. Its dog-eared pages swarmed with coffee stains, cross-outs, Post-it notes and print-outs of internet discussions of cyclonic phenomena around the world: everything from waterspouts to microbursts. He longed for the day he could file this ledger beside the others on his office bookshelf, yet another souvenir of his growing legacy.
/>   He sorted through his stack of references, placing his old standby, the Moody Deliverance Manual, front and center on the table. Alongside it he arrayed the photocopied and annotated pages of every relevant passage of the Old and New Testament and the Apocrypha in several translations, that he had three-hole-punched, cross-indexed and organized into binders.

  His research had left no Judeo-Christian tradition untapped. With a case as unusual as the Swain’s, with its external as well as internal threats, he could not afford to ignore any sources of wisdom. He had with him copies of Catholic documents, both ancient and contemporary, from some 17th century Latin tracts he could barely understand, to some recent writings of the famed British demon killer, Father Jeremy Davies of Oxford.

  Donnie had been privileged to meet Father Davies at an annual gathering of the International Congress of Exorcists in Czestochowa, Poland. There, he had even managed a glimpse of the grand wizard of all exorcists, the Reverend Gabriele Amorth.

  The old man had been escorted by a band of svelte young priests with murderous glares who carried themselves with a decidedly non-clerical cockiness. He wondered if they might belong to the near mythical Adjurist Brotherhood—the anti-nigromantic ninjas of the Vatican—whose existence was emphatically denied by Bishops and Cardinals alike.

  Donnie’s briefcase also contained excerpts from the Zohar, the Hebrew text that formed the core of the mystical traditions of Kabbalah. He didn’t know what to make of the oddly altruistic Jewish approach to exorcism, so opposed to the Christian method of expelling and banishing demons. Kabbalists sought to heal the souls of not only the victims of possession but also the invading spirits or ‘dybbuks’ themselves. This struck Donnie as radical and risky. If you didn’t actually expel the dybbuk, what was to stop them from rising up some day like some cancerous tumor coming out of remission?

  Still, the Jewish material compelled him enough to include some Kabbalistic rites in the pre-ceremony. An inner circle of ten souls would gather to chant Psalm 91 three times for protection. He recited the pith of the protective prayer under his breath:

  ‘He will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with his feathers and under his wings you will find refuge.’He skipped down to the part that inspired him the most: