Raven Revivals

by Amy Cross

  “You have no idea what I do in that cemetery,” she mutters, taking a deep breath as first the cola is set in front of her, and then the beer. She picks up the cola first and takes a sip. It's good, but she knows the beer would be better.

  “It's a quiet night,” Mr. Hale continues. “I think most people are staying at home because of that goddamn tent out there. People just don't like change around here, and they don't like some big American show coming to town and taking over the town square. I dare say this whole area is going to be dead for the next few nights. I'm telling you, the new town council has completely lost the plot. Say what you like about Mayor Winters, but at least he knew the character of Rippon. Mayor Simpkin, on the other hand, seems to think he has to try to modernize everything. Rippon is quite alright as it is.”

  “Huh,” Sam replies, still trying to decide whether or not to drink the beer. “I might... Uh, I might take these outside, if that's okay with you. So I can watch the tent being put up, you know?”

  A couple of minutes later, sitting at a table under the awning, Sam takes a sip of cola as she stares at the large tent on the other side of the town square. Several large lorries are parked nearby, while some dark figures are working in the shadows, putting up the supports that will keep the tent in place. Sam can't help but note that Mr. Hale was right when he said that the whole thing seemed out of place in Rippon: the tent is red and yellow, completely clashing with the muted colors of the town. Rippon is the kind of place where not much happens, and when something does happen, it happens slowly. The circus, on the other hand, looks like it might as well have landed from outer space.

  For a little while, Sam loses herself in thoughts of the tent, but finally she looks down at the pint of beer in front of her. Reaching out, she puts a hand around the glass and feels its seductive coolness. She knows she shouldn't drink it, that even a sip could send her back to the kind of behavior that got her into so much trouble before she moved to Rippon, but at the same time she can feel a little voice in the back of her head telling her that it wouldn't hurt to have just one beer.

  “You're not an idiot,” the voice whispers. “You can drink a beer without becoming a slobbering alcoholic. Just drink it, enjoy it, and then go back to cola. You've got self-control, haven't you? Stop making such a big deal out of it!”

  Reaching out, she picks up the pint glass.

  “One will become two,” says another voice in her head, “and then three, and then four and before you know it you'll be a drunk mess again. And we all know what happened last time you lived that kind of life, don't we?”

  “Henry,” she whispers, setting the beer back down.

  She closes her eyes.

  For a moment, she can see him again: the newborn baby wrapped in a blanket, about to be abandoned by the one person in all the world who should look after him. She reminds herself that he'll be a year old now, which means he'll have started learning to walk, maybe even to make some basic noises that will eventually become words. All those little milestones that she's missing out on, and although he won't yet be aware of what he's missing, she knows that sooner or later he'll start to wonder why his mother abandoned him.

  Opening her eyes, she stares at the pint of beer, and finally a single tear falls from her eye, running down her cheek.

  “Better not,” she says quietly, wiping the tear away before grabbing the beer and pouring it down a nearby drain. She breathes a sigh of relief as she sets the empty glass back on the table, although after a moment she leans forward and sniffs what's left of the beer. She can't deny that it smells good.

  She sits back and takes a sip of cola.

  “To you, Henry,” she says quietly. “Wherever you are and whatever you're doing. Just know that I...”

  She pauses as she feels a lump in her throat. Taking a deep breath, she resolves not to think about her son. Instead, she wipes her eyes again and focuses on the tent, losing herself in quiet contemplation of a red and yellow flag that's fluttering gently in the breeze. Picking up one of the cardboard coasters from the table, she starts absent-mindedly tearing it into little pieces; anything to keep her hands busy, to make her feel as if she's doing something.

  “It's a real eyesore, isn't it?” Mr. Hale says, coming to the door.

  “So what kind of thing goes on at a revival meeting, anyway?” Sam asks, as she carefully gathers the torn coaster pieces into a little pile and starts working on a second.

  “It's all this showy nonsense,” he replies. “Pretending to heal the sick, speaking in tongues. Typical American rubbish, turning a private connection to God into a piece of showbiz. You won't catch me going in there. They want ten pounds for a ticket. You're not thinking of going, are you?”

  “Me?” Sam considers the possibility for a moment. “God, no. Not in a million years.”

  “Another beer?”

  She shakes her head.

  “How many nights off do you give yourself?” he asks. “Go on, Sam, just allow yourself to relax for once.” He pauses. “That... thing in your head. Does it... hurt?”

  “Nope,” she replies, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Getting to her feet, she finishes the last of her soda before handing the glass to him. “I really just wanted to get out of the cemetery for a little while. I should get back now, though. Lots to do in the morning.”

  “You're always welcome here,” he replies. “Remember, as the cemetery's gardener, you get free food and drinks. Even beer!”

  Smiling politely, Sam turns and walks across the town square. She shoves her hands in her pockets as she makes her way through the shadows, and she glances at the large tent as the workers continue to get it ready. Several men are manhandling a large sign, slowly raising it above the tent's entrance. Sam looks at it for a moment before continuing on her way, but suddenly she stops dead in her tracks. Slowly, she turns to look back at the sign.

  “What the hell?” she whispers.

  Making her way back to the center of the town square, she stares up at the sign, trying to work out if she's really seeing what she thinks she's seeing. In big red and yellow letters, the sign bears the name of the show that has arrived in Rippon, and although she wants to believe that it's a coincidence, Sam can feel a growing sense of unease in the pit of her stomach.

  “Raven Revivals,” she says quietly, reading the name just as a solitary raven lands on top of the sign and stares down at her.

  Chapter Eight

  “Hey,” Anna whispers, as she peers around the corner and watches the quiet town square. Morning sunlight spreads across the quiet scene, and even for Rippon, things seem unusually sleepy. “So what are you doing here?”

  She listens for a moment to the imaginary conversation in her head.

  “Wow, that sounds so cool,” she adds. “Me? Oh, I just came out for a morning stroll. I like to keep in shape, you know? That's one of the good things about Rippon. Every street's basically a hill, so who needs to go to the gym?”

  She pauses, watching as Scott Havershot wanders out of the store with a couple of carrier bags. It's still early in the morning, so the town hasn't fully woken up yet; not that a place like Rippon ever really bursts into life. The town square is still sleepy, with only the store and the nearby cafe having opened so far.

  “Sure,” she continues, “I'd love to meet you for a drink. How about tonight at eight? Great. Yeah, I know that place. No, I've never had a cocktail before, but I've always wanted to try one!”

  Ducking out of sight, she listens to the sound of Scott making his way across the town square. His footsteps ring out against the constant banging sound that's coming from the nearby Raven Revivals tent.

  “Okay,” Anna adds finally, forcing herself to be brave. She takes a deep breath, but some of the air immediately leaks out from her rotten chest, making a shrill whistling sound. “You can do this. You will do this.”

  She takes a step forward, but her new left leg immediately buckles and she has to turn and grab hold of a nearby drainpipe,
which just about manages to hold her up. There's no pain, but she's already starting to think that she should have spent a little longer practicing how to use her new body parts. She can feel the metal staples buckling as they try to keep the legs attached to her hips, and she's worried that at any moment the staples might split, leaving her literally legless in the middle of town.

  “Hey!” a voice calls out.

  “Please don't be him,” Anna whispers. “Please, not like this -”

  “Are you okay?”

  Turning, while still clutching the drainpipe for support, Anna sees to her horror that Scott has come over to check on her.

  “I'm fine,” she replies, forcing a smile while still holding herself up. “Just... stretching before I go for a run.”

  “Did you pull something?” he asks with a smile.

  “Absolutely,” she continues. “Ow. It, er, really hurts.”

  She pauses, aware that she probably didn't sound very convincing. At this moment, however, all she cares about is getting away from him. The whole situation is a disaster and she's desperate to retreat.

  “I like to go running,” he replies, before frowning as he notices something on her arm. “Weird.”

  “What is?”

  “Is that a birth-mark on your elbow?”

  “Is it?” Looking down at her left elbow, Anna sees that there is indeed a small red patch. Still not used to the body parts she appropriated the night before from Ruth Havershot's corpse, she tries to work out how to explain the change.

  “My sister had one exactly like that,” Scott continues, clearly a little shocked by the sight. “Like, exactly like it. Almost as if you've got her arm!”

  “Ha!” Anna replies. “How crazy, huh?”

  “Sorry,” he continues, “I guess that's not really something I should... I mean, if we're...” He pauses, as if his thoughts are all tied up. “She had a tattoo on her leg too,” he adds. “A little dagger with blood on the end. If you had that too, it'd be really creepy!”

  “It sure would,” Anna replies, realizing that she still needs to inspect her new body parts. “Anyway, I'm supposed to be picking some stuff up from the Undertaker, so I should get going. And I guess you've probably got things to be doing too. I'd hate to keep you.”

  “Yeah,” he says, clearly not keen to walk away. “It was good to see you again, though. I guess I came across pretty badly at the cemetery yesterday. I swear, I don't usually try to score a date at the same time as my family's in mourning. I just saw you and...”

  Anna waits for him to finish.

  “And what?” she asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “No, tell me.”

  “It's dumb,” he replies. “I just... I've never seen anyone who looks quite like you, that's all.”

  “You haven't, huh?”

  “You've got really pretty eyes. I know that's kind of a weak thing to say, but it's true.”

  Unable to stifle a faint, embarrassed smile, Sam can't help but think that she's blushing under all the make-up and new skin she slathered onto her face earlier. Still, she also can't help but feel a little pleased at the fact that it's her eyes that he likes so much, since her eyes are still her own.

  “And now I'm doing it again,” Scott adds, taking a step back. “I think I should go before I just make myself seem like even more of a tool. Please, don't go assuming that I'm always like this. Actually, most of the time I'm pretty damn slick. It's just something about you that seems to be causing me to have verbal diarrhea. I should probably just -”

  Before he can finish, he backs off the curb and stops to check for traffic.

  “I guess I'll see you at the funeral,” he continues.

  Anna nods.

  “And I promise I won't be like this again,” he adds. “You don't need to...Well, you know. I'm not a creep, I swear. I'm just a guy who...”

  His voice trails off.

  “See you around,” Anna replies after a moment.

  “Sure,” he replies. “I mean, I hope so.”

  As Scott heads over to his scooter, Anna continues to cling to the drainpipe, while trying to fight the urge to run after him. There's a part of her that desperately wants to ask him out for a drink, but there are several other parts of her that know it would be wrong. After all, she figures it'd be somehow unethical to date a guy whose sister she just cannibalized for spare body parts, and even if she managed to strike up a relationship with Scott, she knows there's no way she could ever let him see her naked, not with all the bits of her that have already turned to rotten sludge.

  Taking care not to fall over, she turns and begins the slow trudge toward the Undertaker's office.

  Chapter Nine

  “Back again, are you?” Mr. Hale asks as he sets a bottle of water and a glass on the table. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

  “I just felt like coming down and watching the world pass by,” Sam replies, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on the Raven Revivals tent across the square, while she keeps her hands busy tearing another cardboard coaster into little pieces. “You know, to...”

  Her voice trails off as she watches a man carrying a large piece of wood out of the tent. The man makes his way to a nearby truck and climbs into the back, and a moment later Sam hears the sound of something being hammered. It's clear that there's some major construction work going on inside the tent, which only makes Sam even more suspicious.

  “They're here for a whole week,” Mr. Hale adds resignedly.

  Sam looks up at him.

  “I thought it was just a one night stand,” he continues, “but I spoke to the mayor this morning and it turns out they've applied for a permit covering the next seven nights. So I'm afraid we're going to be subjected to a lot more noise and disruption. Bloody Americans, setting up camp in the middle of Rippon. I never thought I'd see the day. I mean, they were over here during the war, but that I could understand. There was a reason back then, but now? This is just pure, naked commercialism dressed up as something spiritual.”

  “You think it's phony?” Sam asks.

  “Of course it is. All they care about is getting bums on seats. I just hope the people of Rippon aren't gullible enough to hand over good money.”

  “I guess so,” Sam mutters, watching as the man carries another piece of wood out of the truck and back into the tent.

  “Do you know what makes me wonder, though?” Mr. Hale continues. “According to the mayor, the tent can fit one hundred and fifty people inside. Now, if the place is full every night, I mean absolutely full to the rafters, then every person in Rippon will be able to see the show after just six performances. So I honestly have no idea why the damn fools would want to stay for a whole week. Do they really think that people are going to keep going back over and over? They've obviously got a very high opinion of themselves.”

  “You never know,” Sam replies, taking a sip of water.

  “Something's up if you ask me,” Mr. Hale adds, heading back inside. “I can feel it in my water. An American invasion of Rippon will not go down well. People won't tolerate this kind of disruption for much longer.”

  “I'd rather Americans than ravens,” Sam mutters darkly.

  For the next few minutes, she sips from her glass while watching the tent and tearing up a couple more coasters. Carpenters are working to get everything ready in time for the evening's opening show, and it's clear from the sound of banging and hammering that it's a major operation. On top of the tent, a large flag is fluttering in the breeze, with a logo showing a raven. The whole thing seems to Sam to be far more than just a coincidence. Finally, she gets to her feet and wanders across the square, stopping just as a brightly-colored flier blows toward her. She puts her foot down to hold it still, before reaching down to pick it up.

  “Raven Revivals,” she reads out loud. “The hottest show in town. Direct from the United States, one of the world's foremost men of faith presents a show you'll never forget. Gasp as the sick are healed. Marvel as minds are re
ad. And prepare to have your beliefs rocked as you witness a dead body being brought back to life by the great Charles Raven himself.”

  She raises a skeptical eyebrow.

  “A dead body brought back to life?”

  “You coming?” asks a voice nearby, speaking with an American accent.

  Turning, she sees that one of the carpenters has spotted her. Smiling, the man seems genuine enough, although Sam can't help feeling that she should have stayed a little further back.

  “It wasn't a trick question,” he continues. “I just wondered if you'd be coming to the first show tonight.”

  “Maybe,” she replies.

  “No maybe about it,” he adds, picking up a wicker basket and carrying it toward the tent. “I guarantee you, if you come to this show, your life will be changed forever.”

  “I'm sure.”

  “Don't be so cynical,” he adds, stopping by the entrance. “I know this might seem a little brash to you Brits, but trust me, Raven Revivals has a proud history of changing the outlook of people all over the world. We've been everywhere with our show. America, Europe, Asia, Africa... We like to keep things low profile, which is why you probably haven't heard of us, but we wouldn't have been able to keep the show on the road if we didn't deliver. I'm starting to think that Britain's gonna be a tough market, though. You lot don't like showbiz much, do you?”

  “Are you the boss?” Sam asks. “Are you... Mr. Raven?”

  “Hell, no. Charles Raven is the man in charge. Hell, he's the reason we're all here. Without his vision, I personally would still be back in Iowa, and everyone else who works on this show has a similar story. You won't see Mr. Raven out and about, though. He's resting in his hotel, preparing his mind for the stresses he'll endure later. He has to do these, like, mind exercises during the day, to build up to everything. It's not easy bringing the dead back to life.”

  “I'm sure it isn't,” Sam replies.

  “That's a cool...” The guy pauses, staring at the knife hilt sticking out of Sam's head. “What exactly is it? Some kind of early Halloween costume?”