Strays

by Remy Wilkins

  Rodney gave a humph sound and dabbed his nose with a wet rag.

  * * *

  That night dinner was a Lauter special, Dinner Waffles. Rodney was willing to put away his grudge for waffles.

  Ray, ever the night owl, was sipping coffee. He looked up as Rodney entered the room. “Hey, slugger, how’s the peeper?”

  Rodney poked the purplish eye and said, “Not so bad.”

  Ray shut the book and stood. “Ready for waffles? I wanted to wait till you came down, because you have to eat a waffle within minutes of being cooked or else it’s no good.”

  Rodney followed his uncle into the kitchen. Ray sighed and exclaimed, “I like my coffee like I like my chocolate cake.”

  “Um, black?”

  “No, sweet with milk and loads of chocolate.” He refilled his glass and squirted a blop of chocolate syrup in it. He stirred and flipped on the waffle iron. He opened the lid and waved Rodney over. “Check this out.”

  The waffle iron looked like a regular waffle iron. Rodney stared back at Ray and said, “What’s the big deal?”

  Ray smiled. “You don’t see it?”

  He looked again and noticed the hexagonal shapes in a flower form. “Oh, it’s like your house.”

  “Right,” Ray pointed a finger. “We’re here, there’s the dining room, foyer, living room, den, library, and in the center is the stair room.”

  “Cool.”

  “And if I just fill three, then I have the second floor.”

  “And if you want to add the attic, you just fill one.”

  “So how hungry are you?” Ray said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

  “I could eat a whole house.”

  Ray picked up the waffle batter and poured it on thick. “That’s what I like to hear. First floor coming up.”

  Again before they ate Ray hoisted a bite of waffle and said, “I love waffles. I love waffles. I love waffles.”

  Rodney set out dividing his waffle into even parts. “Why do you and mom do that?” Rodney asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Say you love things three times.”

  “It was your grandpa that taught us to do it. Told us to practice loving things. It was always easy to love waffles, but last Thursday when I did that with carrots . . . ” He shook his head. “Euchhh. That was hard.”

  “You don’t like carrots?”

  Ray stuck his tongue out and shook his head.

  “Then why even eat them if you don’t like them?”

  “How else will I learn to like them if I don’t practice?”

  Rodney ate the entire floor plan of the house with a second helping of the second floor. Ray ate three first floors and leaned back to sip on his coffee.

  “So what are the plans for tomorrow, Hot Rod?”

  “I kinda want to bike into town. Check out the library.”

  “You want books?” Ray pointed in the direction of his library. “Cause I have lots of books. Classics, new fiction, nonfiction, scientifiction . . . ”

  “Scientifiction?”

  “Sci-fi.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know you read that. I thought it was just, like, boring books.”

  Ray laughed. “I like boring books too, but I read tons of science fiction. Asimov, Burroughs, Philip K. Dick, Wolfe, Cordwainer, trust me. I could have a reading list of fifty books in ten minutes if you wanted.”

  Rodney stood, “That’s okay, Ray. I just want to wander around the library for a bit.”

  “I understand. Just want to get away from the house. My monk’s lifestyle isn’t for everyone.”

  Rodney yawned, and his bones felt loose. He slouched back in his chair, tired and heavy. Ray cleaned up the dishes and waved Rodney on to bed. Somehow he was able to stumble up the stairs and go through the night rituals of brushing teeth and changing into pajamas.

  He entered his room and looked out the window. It was too dark to see anything from his lighted room. A stone could’ve been rolled in front of the window, for all he knew. He opened it a bit so that the night sounds flowed in. It was comforting to hear the chatter of crickets and the belching of toads.

  He flipped the lights off, stretched out on the mattress, and let his mind wander. He imagined himself hitting balls over the fence, the crack of his wood bat, and high fives from amazed teammates as he entered the dugout. He imagined hitting one into the gap, feeling second base under his spikes as he turned to stretch a double into a triple. He saw himself slide feet first, red dirt thrown into the sky, heard the pop of a glove’s leather and felt the slap of the tag hitting his leg too late. He imagined standing to pump his fist, but he stumbled. His foot ached like it was pierced with a nail.

  His eyes snapped awake as he realized the pain in his foot was real. There was a figure the size of his backpack at the end of his bed. He cried out and curled his legs up to his chest.

  “Wha—what? Hello?” His spine was rigid.

  The figure shifted from foot to foot. Fear rippled up Rodney’s neck, his heart sputtered, and his arms contracted to his chest. He looked to the door, which was shut. The window was wide open.

  “Did Birthless wake you?” The creature’s voice was screechy, like glass on glass. It was too dark in the room to see anything more than its size.

  “Who are you?” Rodney’s voice was raspy. There was an acrid smell in the room; it irritated his eyes and throat.

  “Birthless is Birthless.”

  Rodney felt a lump rise in his throat like he was about to vomit. “What do you want?” he choked out.

  “Torment. Birthless wants torment.”

  “Oh my god, oh my god.”

  “Someday Birthless will bite off your toes and peel your skin back.”

  “Oh my god.” Rodney pulled the sheet to his nose.

  “Birthless will grind you to dust.” At this the figure rose on stubby, hairy feet; tiny wings spread out from his back, and he opened wide his long, bony arms.

  “Jesus, oh Jesus.” Rodney pushed himself off the bed and fell to the floor. He scrambled to the corner of the room and cowered. The creature had frozen, standing at the edge of his bed with his shoulder slumped.

  Rodney breathed through his nose. It was a little runny with flecks and bubbles of mucus sputtering out. Birthless remained frozen on the bed. Rodney couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.

  “Are you there?”

  There was a long pause before the creature answered. “Yes.”

  More silence. Rodney drew another breath. “What are you doing?”

  “You spoke the Name.”

  “Oh.” They sat in the dark together. The noxious fumes decreased, and Rodney’s eyes quit stinging.

  Rodney slowly stood. In a quiet voice he said, “What are you waiting for?”

  “You spoke the Name,” it responded in a low grumble.

  “So . . . what? You have to obey me?”

  The demon paused again and then rasped, “You. Spoke. The NAME.”

  Rodney wanted the creature to go away, but more than that, he wanted the creature to stay away. He had to make sure the creature would not return. “What are you?”

  “I am diabolos, a creature of darkness.” The creature’s voice was barely a growl.

  Rodney slowly stood, keeping his back against the wall. He edged over to the light switch and flipped it. The light hurt his eyes, but the creature howled. Without thinking Rodney killed the light and crumpled back to his corner.

  “Birthless HATES the light. HATES IT!”

  Rodney’s sight was filled with blotches of color as his eyes fought to readjust to the dark. His mind settled on a solution.

  “Then I want you to run in a circle and yell . . . ‘I love sunshine’ every morning at sunrise until . . . until you fall over. And . . . and . . . don’t come back.”

 
; He waited for another response. There was silence and Rodney wondered if the black spot he stared at was nothing at all. He was beginning to doubt the whole event when Birthless erupted in a great scream, a howl that shook the walls.

  Rodney put his hands in front of him defensively. Suddenly Birthless turned and leaped out the window into the dark. Rodney squeaked in fear at the quick movement. He stood in the corner listening, but there was no other sound aside from his own heavy breathing. He ran to the window and shut it. His heart thundered in his ears. He felt alone, but he didn’t feel safe.

  He climbed back into his bed. Surely Ray had heard the scream. It was quiet now. It hardly seemed real. He checked his foot for bite marks and found nothing. He rubbed his toe, trying to recall the pain that woke him up.

  He slid under his sheets and rested his head on the pillow. It must have been a dream. It felt so real. His eyelids sank down. He felt like the entire night sky was burying his eyes in sleep. He sank lower in his bed and slept.

  Chapter Five

  STRIVING

  Rodney woke to the sound of shouting coming from outside. He sat up in bed and scooted to the window to press his face against the glass. There was an indistinct sound coming from the front yard. He opened the window and stuck his head out into the early morning. Definitely a voice, but he couldn’t hang far enough out of his window to see what was going on in the front, nor could he hear what was being yelled. He withdrew and dashed out of the room and down the stairs.

  He leapt the last five steps and landed with a thud on the floor. He stumbled to the front door, ripped the chain back and twisted the three deadbolts to pull it open. Slinging the door back, he walked out and stared at an empty yard. He was too late or else he had imagined the whole thing.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped. Ray stood behind him wearing a tie-dye bathrobe, the colors spiraling like a giant lollipop.

  “Morning, sunshine porcupine. Up for something hearty?”

  Rodney rubbed his floppy hair, trying to make it less undignified. “Uh, yeah, sounds good.”

  Ray clicked his teeth and tossed his head to the side, motioning him into the dining room. On the table were two plates, one half covered in food, the other pristine. Rodney sat down before the clean plate and Ray pulled the lid off of a pan, revealing scrambled eggs and a couple of links of sausage.

  “Enjoy the eggs,” he said. “Those’ll be the last for a while. Grover’s is out.”

  Grover was the local grocer, notable for his big purple signage. “Out of eggs? Why?”

  “Well, out of locally produced eggs. Taste better when you know the chicken.” He gave a quick laugh. “Without our friendly neighborhood eggs we might have to live like regular kings for a few weeks.”

  Rodney tried not imagining living here for weeks. He drew the food onto his plate with his fork and dug in.

  “How’s the peeper?”

  Rodney lightly touched his swollen eye. “Still hurts.”

  “Probably be tender for a few days. How was your sleep?”

  “Fine.” He responded instinctively and swallowed the eggs without chewing. He was thinking through yesterday’s events. What Otis said about Ray conjuring demons and then the creature he’d encountered last night. The de-ah-blos or something. He needed to know what was going on and he couldn’t ask Ray. Or maybe he could, what was there to lose?

  “Actually something weird happened. Or, at least, I think it happened.”

  Ray cleaned his teeth with a curling of his tongue and tossed his napkin on the table. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “I think there was a little, uh, monster in my room. Or, like, a dream maybe? He bit my toes and was making threats.”

  “Was it scary?”

  Ray didn’t seem all that disturbed or concerned. “Kinda. But . . . I don’t know, he stopped being scary.”

  Ray went back to sawing and scooping his breakfast. “Did you use the Name?” He asked, in between swallows.

  “The Name?”

  “Iesous? Jesus?”

  “Yea-sous?”

  “That’s the Greek pronunciation of Jesus’ name.”

  Rodney looked away. “Maybe. I know mom doesn’t like me to.”

  Ray spoke while he chewed. “Why not? That’s what names are for. Anyway, demons are subject to the Name.”

  “Subject to the Name, like they’re subject to stone?”

  “Names are like stones. Yeah.” Ray gazed ahead like he was doing math in his head, his head bobbing at the solution.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Does that mean they have to do what you tell them?”

  Ray shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never done it.”

  Anytime Ray was slow to spin a story or expound on an explanation, Rodney grew suspicious. The times Ray had lured him into a room for projectile pie or with a bucket of water above the door were the times Ray wouldn’t elaborate on why he had wanted Rodney to enter the room. Unless he was at the edge of a nap or the end of a book, Ray was always leaping into stories, riddles, and recollections. Rodney tried to press him further. “Where do you get this stuff?”

  Ray laughed and leaned back. “Books. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “It was probably just a weird dream,” he said and searched Ray’s face for clues.

  “Probably.” Ray picked his plate up. “Full?”

  Rodney pushed his plate to his uncle who carried it into the kitchen. “Come on,” Ray called over his shoulder. “Let’s get a move on the day. I thought we could practice some more baseball after we get the paper.”

  Rodney hollered over his eggs, “No way!”

  From the kitchen he heard laughing, then there was a clatter of dishes. “No scraps for the scalawags!” Ray bellowed and returned to grab Rodney’s now empty plate. “Too bad. So what time will you be off to the library?”

  Rodney scooted back from the table. “Probably bike over now. They’ll be open by the time I get there.”

  “Ya sure I can’t tempt you with some of my books?” he said while hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s some exciting stuff back there.”

  “Dad makes fun of all your novels.”

  “Yeah,” he said with contained mirth. “Why so, you think?”

  Rodney shrugged. “He says they’re silly, especially to reread them like you do.”

  Ray considered this while stroking his beard. “Hm, I dunno, Rod. Stories can contain a lot. Might miss something if you only read it once. I’ve learned a lot from the masters of storytelling and not just about Mars and laser guns.”

  “Yeah, maybe I can read some later.”

  Ray nodded at this, satisfied. “Well, if you go by the drugstore you can pick up the new Superman comics for me. Mr. Edison will have them saved for me.”

  Rodney looked at Ray in disbelief. “You read Superman?”

  “Of course, don’t you?”

  Rodney climbed the stairs back to his room. He could never tell when Ray was serious or not, but Ray was never normal.

  * * *

  Rodney rode out of the long looping driveway and onto the well-grooved highway into town. The heat was already wafting off the road; the air rippled with it, and he cut it with his bike tires.

  Ray had entered his workshop just as Rodney was mounting his bike for the trek to the library. The moment he heard a saw crank up and the whine of cut wood, he dashed over to the trees where he had tossed the strange plans. He stuffed the tube into his backpack and scampered back to his bike.

  The road back into town was at a slight but steady incline. Skeleton Mount loomed ahead like some low-hanging thunderhead. The first houses came into sight through the trees that hedged the highway on both sides.

  Twin Rivers was a farming community built between the two rivers from which
it took its name. The farms were set in the fertile plain north of Snake River, the town filling the triangle of land between the river and the curve of Skeleton Mount where the Second River descended.

  It was proud of its small size. Main Street was the chief artery through the town. It carried traffic exiting the highway, showed it through the town, bent westward, and continued on until it rejoined the highway right where Snake River was swallowed up by Second River.

  The post office was in the middle of Main Street, flying the state and national flags. The police department, the drugstore, the diner were nearby. To the west sat the school and hospital and other marketplace ventures; to the east, nestled against the mountain, was the library where Rodney aimed. Churches were sprinkled throughout the town.

  Rodney felt a trickle of sweat down his back and his jeans stuck to his legs. He sat back on his seat and slowed his pace. He followed the curve of the road into town, looking for signs pointing to the library. Spying one just ahead, he took the right-hand turn it directed. Ahead of him was a sign for White Pine Baptist Church. Ray’s church. He remembered Otis’s story about Ray “ruining” the building, so he decided to take a quick detour to check it out. He turned onto Goat Horn Road, which swept north, and he saw to his left a simple white building with a steeple on top. He slung his bike down in the parking lot and examined the building. There was nothing strange about it from the outside.

  In the front of the building was a series of blooming azalea bushes. They climbed well over his head, aflame with pink blossoms. He saw the darting of bees in, above, and around the flowers. He became aware of their dull hum. He looked around for the door. He didn’t see one, but he saw a walkway off the back of the parking lot. Walking across it he thought it was odd to put the entrance at the back. He climbed up the concrete stairs and pulled on the door. To his surprise, it opened.

  He entered and let his eyes adjust. The only light came from the sun shining through the windows alongside the building and from a large window above his head. He was standing on a stage; two tables were set against the walls on either side of him. In front of him were the pews, an aisle running between them, and then a small table. A rope hung down behind the table and off center to that was the pulpit.