Ceremonies

by T E. D Klein

  They found Joram seated in a rocking chair in the middle of the glassed-in back porch. He was rocking furiously, as if possessed, and seemed barely to notice them. His face, they saw, was drawn, weary, but his eyes, which stared at nothing, had a wild look. Behind him, outside in the yard, they could see a round pit filled with ashes from which a few dark tendrils of smoke still rose.

  At first it seemed that Joram was addressing them, but then they all saw that he was in fact talking to himself. 'God is merciful,' he was saying as he rocked back and forth, over and over like a litany of comfort. 'God is merciful, merciful… '

  Abram grasped him by the shoulder. 'What is it, brother?'

  Slowly the man in the chair looked up, and recognition dawned in his face. 'He touched her belly,' he said, 'and she gave birth to-' A fit of trembling seized him. He shook his head. 'Thank the Lord it didn't live!'

  Rupert Lindt stepped forward. 'Joram, what are you talkin' about? Who touched Lotte's belly?'

  Joram turned to look at him. He was silent a moment, as if trying to recollect. "Twas the one from the city. The one livin' out at Poroth Farm.'

  The men eyed one another in silence, the same dark look growing on all their faces.

  'I think it was the air,' Joram was saying. "Twas the Lord's pure, holy air that killed it. It wasn't meant to breathe as we do… '

  And the men looked at one another, and nodded, there on the porch with the ashes just outside, while upstairs, at the other end of the house, out of Lotte's hearing, Wilma Buckhalter sat huddled with the womenfolk and told them, weeping, of the terrible thing that had been born a few hours before and that Joram and the midwife had burned in the back yard – a thing with tiny yellow claws and the beginnings of a tail…

  The two men were working in the shadow of the hill. The younger, still in his teens, was crouching over a small grey box-shaped instrument, an emanometer, used to measure radon gas. From a strap by his side hung a similar device for the measurement of methane. The older of the two, a tall, stoop-shouldered man with thinning black hair, was pacing around the base of the hill taking readings on radiation with a scintillation counter. A camera and a light meter dangled around his neck.

  'No,' he said, sounding far from surprised, 'it's the same over here. Just background count.' Squinting, he peered up along the length of the cone. It towered forty feet above the forest floor – not so high as most of the older trees, but in this section, where the trees were short and vegetation sparse, its top protruded well above them all. 'Think I'd better get a couple more pictures.'

  He backed into the sunlight, holding the light meter before him. Checking the dial, he raised the camera and focused on the top of the mound. The younger man stood watching him. Moments later he called out, 'Dr Lewalski? We've got a visitor.'

  The other lowered his camera and turned where the younger man was pointing. At the far side of the mound stood a short, somewhat paunchy old man with glowing pink skin and a halo of fine white hair.

  'Oh, don't mind me!' the old man cried. 'I'm just passing through.' He stood staring at them for a moment and made no move to go. 'You two prospecting for uranium or something?'

  The one named Lewalski smiled and shook his head. 'Just taking a few measurements, that's all.' He indicated the mound. 'We're trying to find out how this thing was formed.'

  'Seems like quite a lot of fellows have been around here lately asking that same question.'

  The other laughed. 'Yes, I know. We're a little behind. I cut short my vacation just to come down here. It's quite an unusual formation.'

  'We're going to drill a hole right through to the center,' added the younger man, 'and see what's inside.'

  The old man's eyes widened respectfully. 'Drill a hole? He looked around. 'With what?'

  Lewalski laughed. 'Oh, we're not going to do that now. We'll have to come back tomorrow with the right equipment.'

  'Oh, yes, I see. Tomorrow.' He nodded to himself. 'I take it you fellows aren't from around here.'

  'We're from Princeton,' said the younger man. 'From the geology department.'

  'Really?' The old man seemed impressed. 'And so you drove out here today, did you?'

  'That's right,' said Lewalski. 'Why, what's the matter?' – because the other had suddenly frowned and now looked troubled, as if he'd just remembered something particularly unfortunate.

  'Oh, it's nothing,' said the old man. 'It's just that – tell me, where are you parked?'

  Lewalski nodded toward the north. 'An old dirt road about a mile, mile and a half from here. It runs past what must be the town dump.'

  The old man shook his head glumly. 'That's just what I thought.'

  'Is something wrong?'

  'Probably not. It's just that there's some fool law in this town about parking on that road on a Sunday, and – well, there've been some incidents. Quite a few out-of-towners have had their cars towed away.'

  'On a Sunday?' said Lewalski. 'That's absurd! I'm not even on the road, I pulled way over.'

  The old man shrugged. 'I'm sure you're completely in the right. I just wish the people of this town had a little more respect for state laws. They have some funny ideas around here about Sunday driving.. . ’

  'Hold on a minute!' said Lewalski. 'We saw people driving around here today – at least I think so.'

  The old man nodded, looking sorry he'd ever brought up the subject. 'Of course you did. They were probably on their way to Sunday worship. Out-of-towners they regard a bit differently.'

  'But we're from Princeton,' said the younger man.

  'You're saying they tow away people's cars?' asked Lewalski. He was beginning to look nervous. 'It makes no sense. This is practically official business.'

  'Well, that road to the dump is town property, you see – so are these woods – and, well… ' He shrugged and looked away.

  'Aw, come on, Dr Lewalski,' said the the younger man, 'nobody's going to touch your car.'

  The other looked dubious. He scratched his chin. 'No, I guess not.' He stepped back and brought the camera up to his face. 'We'll just- Jesus, what was that?'

  A thick brown snake had slid past his feet. He saw it disappear into the bushes out of the corner of his eye.

  'Been a lot of snakes around here lately,' said the old man. 'I suppose you read about it. Some folks say it was the quake that stirred them up. We've had quite a few people bitten this year- more than in the past twelve years combined. Copperheads, mostly. Hope you brought your snakebite kit along.'

  The younger man turned to Lewalski. 'Did you?'

  Lewalski grimaced. 'No, of course not. I know these woods. There's no danger at all, if you don't go around- Jesus, there's another!' He stepped back, then stared up at the hill, frowning. 'You know, maybe this isn't such a good idea today after all.'

  The younger man shrugged. 'Whatever you say.'

  The old man cleared his throat. 'Do you, uh, know your way out of here all right? I only ask because I'm heading up that way myself. I can show you the right path, take you back to your car without your getting lost.'

  Lewalski was fitting his camera back into its case. 'You know, mister, we'd really appreciate that.' He turned to the other. 'Come on, let's go – we can do a really thorough job tomorrow.'

  They followed the old man down the path that wound northward. He was whistling.

  'You seem to know these woods pretty well,' said Lewalski.

  The old man smiled but didn't look back. 'Yes, known 'em since I was a boy. Grew up around here.'

  They were passing a tall clump of bushes. For just an instant the old man's eyes darted to the side, toward where the leaves and brambles grew thickest, and he gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.

  'Stay with me now,' he added, 'I don't want to lose anybody.'

  It wasn't till the three had continued down the path and were almost lost from sight amid the foliage that the bushes stirred, then shook, and the hulking form of the farmer pushed its way out onto the path.
r />   It stood for a moment, watching their retreating forms; then it turned to face the mound. Pressing its shoulder to a massive grey rock, larger than any living man could move, it wrested the thing from the earth and rolled it toward the base of the hill. Another boulder followed, and another. Soon the structure rose against the hillside.

  It was building an altar.

  'You know we've got to do something… '

  'No doubt of it!'

  The men had walked down the path from the Sturtevants' house in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Now the group stood huddled together by the roadside.

  'I ain't never seen old Joram so upset.'

  'Well, and don't he have a right to be?'

  'Seems to me we got to act now. Let's get our trucks and head on out to Sarr's.'

  'Now just a minute, Rupert, we can't none of us be sure-'

  'I ain't takin' no chances!' Lindt smacked his fist into his palm. 'I was at the Poroths' place last Sunday, and I watched that boy. I saw the way he was lookin' at my little Sarah.'

  'We're not gonna do him any harm now, that wouldn't be right.'

  'Course not, Matt. We're just gonna call on him, that's all. We're just gonna see that he leaves-'

  'Before tonight.'

  'Before dark!'

  'Yeah, leaves before dark and never comes back.'

  'No weapons now, mind you.'

  'No, o' course not! We don't need weapons against a little worm like that! Why, did you see how soft his hands are?'

  There was a pause.

  'And if he knows spells,' said Abram Sturtevant, touching on what was in all their minds, 'you know that weapons ain't gonna help us anyways. We got to trust in the Lord.'

  'Now wait a minute,' said Geisel. 'The Lord counsels patience, you all know that, and maybe we should talk this out with Joram first, when he's come 'round again. Ain't no need to rush into things.' . 'Don't forget what day this is, Matt. We don't want that sort of person around here tonight. He could get himself into all kinds of mischief.'

  'But there's no sign he even knows what tonight is.'

  'Listen, brother.' It was a leathery-faced old farmer who spoke up. 'I gave that boy a ride in my car just the other week, and do you know what he kept askin' me? All about this very day – the thirty-first of July – and whether we get many killin's on this date.' He glared at Geisel. 'Now what do you say to that?'

  The other was silent.

  'That settles it,' said Lindt. 'Come on!'

  Walking through this part of the woods with the two scientists, he feels a tug of memory almost akin to nostalgia.

  He remembers, even now, with perfect clarity, how a century ago he stood here while the Master still lived to command him. He remembers that day in the woods, that chilly Christmas afternoon, and how, as a boy, he first saw the black form in the tree…

  And he remembers exactly what it told him that day – remembers because his entire life, since that moment, has been lived in accordance with its words. He remembers how the black thing's eye glared at him and how it opened up its black fleshless mouth.

  He remembers what it said.

  I have been waiting for you.

  'How long?' the boy had stammered, breathless.

  Long.

  'What do you want of me?'

  Muck.

  'What must I do?'

  You shall perform Ceremonies in my honor.

  'Ceremonies for what?'

  To bring me back as my Son.

  'Where is he now?' the boy had asked, and he remembers today the Master's answer.

  He isn't born yet.

  The planet rolled through the afternoon with only a scattering of clouds. A soft breeze sprang up, tropical in its warmth; the pine trees stirred among themselves on the other side of the brook. Where small birds had hopped and chirped among the branches, there was now only the whisper of the wind, the most solemn of stillnesses. The branches stretched yearningly toward the two sleeping figures on the farther bank; the shadows of the trees grew longer, reaching across the water where they lay. Slanting rays of sunlight hung like curtains before the bases of the trees, shifting with each movement of the branches. The sun seemed to die a little.

  Still prisoner of some all-enveloping dream, Carol shifted in her sleep as if in response to a call. Slowly she stretched and sat up. She gazed across the water into the darkness of the woods; and if she saw the figure there standing veiled in yellow curtains of sunlight, as unmoving as the trees, and if she was surprised, and if she saw it was a man, tall, bearded, nearly naked, his clothing in ribbons, his hands black with dirt, and if she saw the thing that had happened to his skull, she made no sign. She stared at him a moment and said nothing.

  Gazing at her from across the water, the figure raised its hand and beckoned.

  She stood, paying no attention to Freirs sleeping obliviously beside her among the weeds. Hesitating but a moment, she stepped slowly into the stream, the water swirling round her bare ankles. Heedless of the chill, looking neither left nor right, she walked across, stepped onto the other side, and joined him where he waited for her. His hand reached out for hers, took it imperatively in his grasp. For a moment, as his hand touched hers, she turned to cast a single, half-regretful backward glance at the man still sleeping on the other bank. Then the figure pulled her toward him, and the darkness of the woods closed over them both.

  The day is waning at last, and he is glad of it. It is the night that concerns him. He watches impatiently as the professor and student climb into their car and drive off. They wave one more time in thanks. He nods, waves back, smiles till the car has disappeared. They will not return today, and tomorrow – tomorrow will be too late.

  For a moment back there on the trail he had contemplated ordering the Dhol to kill the two of them – it would have been far simpler and wasted less precious time – but there is always a chance that the men might have been missed and that others might have come looking for them: others who might interfere with the events planned for tonight. No, he decides, there's no use taking chances. Not with so much at stake.

  Which is why he must dispose of the extra man. There is no more need for him; the woman, by now, must be in their hands, and the role Freirs was to play has already fallen to another. It will be well, for safety's sake, to make sure he cannot threaten the proceedings. It will be simpler this way. Cleaner. He has the necessary straps in his pocket, and though they'll eventually be needed for the woman, they may also prove useful for the man.

  Hands tingling with anticipation, the Old One turns his back on the road and sets off once more up the trail.

  There were less than a dozen of them now: Bert Steegler had had to go back and open the store, Jacob van Meer was feeling poorly, and others had dropped out for reasons of their own. They had crowded into three trucks, Rupert Lindt's in the lead, and had raced along the main road from town, over the bridge and past the silent stone cottage beside it, then up the winding roads into the backcountry. Now they had reduced their speed and were moving up the Poroths' road like a convoy, maneuvering slowly over the ruts and gaps and potholes, yet still stirring up enough dust so that the rear truck, Abram Sturtevant's, was covered with a reddish film, making visibility difficult for the three men inside.

  It was old Matthew Geisel, sitting up beside Lindt, who saw it first, at the bend before the Poroth farm. He pointed toward the side of the road. There, tilted forward in a ditch, its right rear tire lifted in the air, was the battered form of Poroth's pickup truck.

  'Appears he's had himself an accident,' said Ham Stoudemire, 'and left the truck where it stopped.'

  Lindt pulled over to the side; the other two trucks behind him slowed to a halt. The men dismounted and hurried to the truck.

  It was empty. Along the upper rim of the steering wheel was a suspicious-looking smear of dried blood.

  'Suppose he may be hurt,' said Geisel, 'and crawled off into the woods?' He surveyed the dense vegetation before him.

 
'It may be so,' said Abram Sturtevant. 'We'd best look for him.'

  The men fanned out from the ditched truck, searching for signs: a broken branch, a tatter of cloth, more blood. Lindt, Stoudemire, and Geisel continued on foot now toward the house several hundred yards ahead.

  Geisel glanced back at the Poroths' truck; he was troubled. 'Twasn't like Sarr to go off the road like that; the man knew every twist and turn of its length. No, 'twasn't like him at all.

  Frowning, he followed the two younger men toward the farmhouse.

  Shadows. Evening coming on.

  He emerges from the woods, slightly winded, to stand a moment on the narrow strip of level ground that, just ahead, dips downward toward the brook. In the distance the farmhouse, barn, and outbuildings have caught the dying sunlight and glow as if aflame; the sky behind the cornfield is a wall of red, turning the field into a battleground where stunted cornstalks stand silhouetted against the sky like doomed men. Just across the brook Freirs' plump form lies defenseless in sleep, his stomach rising and falling among the weeds. As if sensing the other's presence, he stirs.

  For most of his journey through the woods the Old One has been considering Freirs' death. It will be what it should have been three days ago: death by water. His vivid dream of Deborah in the bathtub has been thwarted, chance has saved Freirs from the clutches of the Dhol, but now he will be able to do the job himself. In Freirs' insensible condition, it will be easy; he feels as if he has already done the deed, so detailed and real is the picture. He sees himself turn Freirs onto his belly for the precautionary tying of the wrists, then haul him by the ankles to the stream and shove his face beneath the rushing water. He sees a tremor shake the sleeper's frame, sees his arms twist and strain against the leather in an instinctive, futile effort to escape. The body jerks and thrashes as the Old One bends his full weight upon it. Once, twice, three times Freirs' dazed face, streaming water, lifts above the surface as he wrenches his neck back, legs kicking. But the Old One's grip is like iron, and the joy of what he's feeling now, savoring the final moments of a human life communicated through the spasmodic twitching of the flesh, gives him a tenfold strength. Just another minute to be sure all breathing's stopped…