Living on a Prayer

by Patrick Donovan

  Living on a Prayer

  A Jonah Heywood Story

  Patrick Donovan

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Patrick Donovan

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition January 2018

  ISBN: 978-1-63576-477-2

  Also by Patrick Donovan

  The Jonah Heywood Chronicles

  The Ledberg Runestone

  Demon Jack

  Table of Contents

  Living on a Prayer

  About the Author

  Connect with Diversion Books

  “Wake up, Jonah.”

  I rolled over, burying my face deeper in the pillows.

  “Jonah. You need to wake up.”

  Maybe if I pulled the blankets up over my head she’d go away.

  “Jonah,” Gretchen said.

  I replied in a grunt that I hoped would appropriately convey my feelings towards my mentor.

  “Jonah, last chance,” she said.

  I grunted again.

  “Have it your way then.”

  I felt her hand grab my ankle. There was a quick pull, and I was on the floor, in my pajamas, exposed to the cold, cruel world. The sudden jerk to wakefulness left me dazed, and the spirit world bled into my vision, overlaying the familiarity of my bedroom. Colors became richer, more vibrant, pulsing with their own internal energy. Everything from my Batman poster to the Star Wars action figures on my shelf to the pile of dirty laundry in the corner seemed to glow, throwing motes of color into the air. My bed radiated a gentle green glow in the spot where I’d been laying only a few seconds before. A black rat roughly the size of a small dog lifted its head and stared at me from the corner. It was an animal spirit, something that Gretchen had sent to watch over me when we’d first met. It looked at me, briefly amused by my predicament, and put its head back down on its front paws and closed its eyes.

  Until about two years ago, I had existed in this state constantly. The spirit world was equal parts beauty and horror. For every kind nature spirit or creation of pure beauty, there was a madness inducing entity that existed solely for the purpose of spreading atrocities of all stripes, sizes, and colors. Every last one of them was an echo of humanity, their thoughts, desires, and fears, all given form.

  “Jonah, over here,” she said. “Look at me.” Her voice sounded distorted, like it was coming from thousands of miles away over a bad connection.

  Gretchen put herself in my line of sight. She was in her late forties, pushing fifty, but looked twenty years younger. Still, the first streaks of silver had started springing up in her hair. Her aura, a brilliant green that outlined her frame, shot through with veins of black and red, radiated out from her, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

  “Focus, Jonah. Take your time. Shut it down. Just like I showed you,” she said, her voice calm, gentle. “Start with the big stuff, work your way down.”

  I took a deep breath and focused on the rat first. I compartmentalized it, visualized myself locking it behind stone walls and under heavy cover. It took a moment, but he faded away. Next, I focused on Gretchen—her aura, her presence. After a moment, she just looked human—a little pale, a little tired, but human. Once I’d shut that down, I did the same thing with the various sources of energy in my room, locking them all behind invisible walls in my head. When I’d first learned to do this, it had taken me a lot of false starts, a lot of having that world I’d just shut out come slamming back in with painful clarity. Over roughly two years’ time, I’d managed to get the process down from eight hours to about three minutes.

  “You with me?” Gretchen asked.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Good,” she said, standing up. “There’s coffee in the kitchen. Get your stuff, get dressed; we’re going on a field trip.”

  I met Gretchen a few minutes later in the kitchen. I made myself a cup of coffee, gulped it down, and set the mug on the counter. Given that she’d had me get my backpack, and that hers was already on the table, I figured it was a safe bet that we were going to be doing some training. Again. Shortly after my sister had committed suicide and my mother had left, my father and I moved to Asheville from Portland, Oregon. Gretchen was the first person we’d met, and she, like me, was a shaman. She’d started out as my baby sitter when I was six. Once she’d discovered that what the doctors had diagnosed as Autism was really just my own shamanic abilities running rampant, she became my mentor. It had taken over ten years, but because of her, me and my old man could go fishing, have conversations—hell, have a relationship that was more than him advocating for me to doctors and specialists or arguing with school counselors. She was, in other words, the closest thing to a mother I had.

  • • •

  Half an hour later I was in the passenger seat of Gretchen’s Honda with a gut full of coffee and waffles, feeling at least vaguely human.

  “So where are we going exactly?” I asked.

  “I told you, Jonah. We’re going on a field trip.”

  “Right. A field trip where?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Gretchen, I’m sixteen. I won’t have that kind of patience until I’m at least as old as you, which is going to take like another fifty or sixty years.”

  Gretchen cut her eyes towards me. I grinned.

  “Keep talking,” she said, the corners of her lip pulling towards a smile. “I’ll turn you into a frog.”

  “Oh, please,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  Gretchen gave me a stern look, and for a second, I wondered if she was bluffing.

  “Wait, you can’t do that, can you?”

  She shrugged.

  “Keep pushing and we’ll find out.”

  I held up my hands.

  “You win,” I said.

  “Damn right. How’s your dad by the way?” she asked.

  My father, for the past few weeks, had been pretty sick with a respiratory infection. Gretchen had brought him some tea a few days ago, and whatever it was she’d put in it had knocked him right out.

  “Seems alright. What about you? You look a little pale.”

  “Stomach thing,” she said. “I’m alright, though.”

  I nodded and turned my attention back to the scenery outside. We were outside of Asheville, driving deeper into the mountains and away from the city proper. It was early spring, and life was just starting to come back into the trees.

  “We still have a bit of driving to do,” Gretchen observed.

  “I wouldn’t know since you won’t tell me where we’re going,” I said.

  “Yeah, it’s a surprise. How about you pass the time by naming all the local plants that have magical capabilities.”

  “Again?” I groaned.

  “Yes. Again. Only this time in Latin.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously. That’s what you get for complaining. Now, go.”

  “Alright, alright,” I said and started to recite every magical herb, weed, plant, and flower I knew. In alphabetical order and in Latin.

  • • •

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.

  Gretchen didn’t say anyt
hing, focusing instead on navigating the massive tract of mud and potholes that made up the parking lot outside of the massive white tent. We were in the middle of nowhere, at the end of a long dirt road lined on each side by pine trees. A lone, dingy tent sat in the middle of a field, completely isolated and obscured from the street. Granted, the street was about a half mile in the opposite direction, through more mud and more pot holes. A hand painted, wooden sign outside the tent read “Righteous Ghost Tent Revival.”

  “Consider it broadening your cultural horizons,” she said, stifling back a bit of a cough.

  “It’s a tent revival,” I said.

  “So it is. I hadn’t noticed.”

  “The hell are we doing here?”

  “I told you. Field trip,” she said, parking the car. “Come on. Leave your bag.”

  Gretchen got out of the car, scanning the parking lot. I sat there for a long minute, watching a parade of people heading inside. Most of them were obviously sick, toting oxygen tanks, dragging IV drip stands, and using walkers. I got out of the car, my boots sinking about an inch deep in mud, and sighed.

  “Come on. Stay close,” Gretchen said, heading towards the tent. I fell into step beside her. Something in her demeanor had changed. She seemed wary and overly alert, her eyes darting from person to person.

  “Gretchen?” I asked, my own voice going low, just above a whisper.

  “Just keep your eyes open, Jonah,” she said.

  The air inside of the tent was thick, hotter by far than the early spring air outside. It smelled like sweat and hay, with a touch of body odor and stagnant water for good measure. A string of electric lights, wrapped around the tent poles, ran down the center. Two sections of folding chairs had been set up on the dirt, which had been covered with a generous portion of sawdust and hay. There was a small wooden stage with a pulpit at the end of the tent, opposite the entrance.

  Gretchen stood in the doorway for a moment, scanning the crowd. Satisfied with whatever she was looking for, she took a seat in one of the chairs near the back, next to the aisle. I took the seat next to her, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. Not with the fact that I was in a church, of sorts, but because of all the sick folk. Something about sick people got to me.

  Gretchen, sensing my discomfort, put her hand on my forearm.

  “Just watch. Be aware of what’s going on,” she whispered. “The show is about to start.”

  I nodded.

  I settled back into my little folding chair and waited. Soon the noise of the crowd died out, the lights dimmed, and the choir hit the stage. They were horribly off-key and out of sync with each other. Their swaying looked like drunken staggering.

  Their singing went on for about a half hour before they cleared the stage. A man took their place. He was whip thin with white hair and looked maybe sixty, but he exuded an aura that I couldn’t really describe. His very presence pulled the crowd in, drawing every eye to him.

  “Gretchen,” I whispered. “What the hell? Seriously?”

  “That,” she whispered, “is Eli Crouse. He’s a faith healer, of sorts, and the occasional snake handler.”

  “A faith healer? You took me to see a faith healer?”

  “Of sorts. He’s a good man. Couldn’t heal a case of the sniffles, but he’s a good man.”

  “Okay? And?”

  “And he needs our help.”

  The confusion on my face must have been evident.

  “I’ll explain later,” she said finally. I let it go and turned back to watch.

  I’ll give old man Eli this, he was a hell of a showman. He paraded back and forth across the stage, chanting, speaking in tongues, shocks of white hair sticking out in every direction. He stomped and shrieked, screaming at the devil and all his armies, condemning them to darkness and misery. It was, truth be told, pretty entertaining. When the time for healing came, I leaned forward in my seat, a little caught up in the festivities myself.

  “Watch the crowd,” Gretchen said, leaning in and keeping her voice low so that only I could hear her.

  I nodded.

  “What am I looking for?” I asked.

  “Just make a note of anything odd,” she whispered.

  “You’re the boss,” I said.

  “Yes. I am.”

  Eli paced the stage for a few minutes before finally pausing at its center. He stood there, completely silent, completely still, while a hush fell over the crowd. The air itself seemed to fill not just with anticipation, but with a sort of swelling of power, something I’d never felt before. It wasn’t malevolent, it just, for lack of a better term, was. It came on slowly, like a rising tide, and settled over the participants, bringing with it a calm, almost serene sense of belonging.

  It was the first and only time I’ve ever felt the real power of faith, of belief in something bigger than us. It was awe-inspiring. Thing was, it wasn’t even magical. It was just natural talent and belief. Even Gretchen looked surprised, though no one else would have noticed it beneath her poker face.

  “It’s strange,” Eli said. “It’s strange that the Lord will grant me the gift of being his conduit, of showing you how to heal what it is that ails you with but a touch.”

  Someone in the back gave up a “hallelujah,” which was followed by an “Amen,” a “Praise Him,” and a few other statements of devotion. Me, I just listened to what the man had to say.

  “It’s not me that does the healing, or the choosing for that matter. That’s in God’s hands. I just help you open your eyes, let you see that which he’s already put inside of you, his love, his healing hands,” Eli continued.

  Eli walked back and forth again, once more resuming his pacing as he spoke. He had a Bible—one of those worn out, dog-eared, scarred-up numbers that had probably been passed through generation after generation of the Crouse family before ending up in his hands.

  “Sister Winona, are you here?” he stopped, asking finally, eyes moving over the crowd. Gretchen gave me a nudge with her elbow, and I scanned the crowd with him.

  A woman stood up. She looked to be in her early thirties, with strawberry blonde hair, and was wearing a pastel suit that was somewhere between pink and a shade of orange that I was pretty sure didn’t occur in nature. Despite the god-awful taste in wardrobe, she wasn’t the person who caught my attention.

  There was a kid about my age in the back row, staring at the stage with an intensity that completely betrayed the general vibe in the air. This wasn’t a kid who was feeling acceptance. This was a kid who was on the outside looking in and seemed none too happy about it. There was a little girl a few pews back, dressed in her Sunday best. It didn’t seem like anyone was there with her either.

  It was the teenager that my eyes drifted back to. Roughly my size, long greasy black hair, worn jeans, black t-shirt. To say he looked out of place amongst the floppy hats, cheap suits, and dress shirt and jean combos that most of the other parishioners were wearing would be a gross understatement.

  Gretchen looked over at me and then followed my eyes before turning back towards the stage.

  The rest of the revival went off as you’d expect. There was a bit more healing, some more speaking in tongues, a few more quasi-seizures, another round of singing, and then everyone started filtering back out into the muddy, rain soaked world. Sadly, no snake handling tonight.

  Eli stood at the opening in the tent, wishing the parishioners well as they departed. Gretchen and I hung back, staying at the end of the line. The kid from the back of the tent was nowhere to be seen.

  “Did you see that kid?” I asked, making sure I kept my voice low.

  “The one at the back? Greasy hair?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about him?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Something off, I guess.”

  Gretchen glanced back towards the opening of the tent, staring after it thoughtfully. She coughed into her hand again, and then shoved both hands into her pockets.

  “Let’s go t
alk to Eli,” she said, once the line finally started thinning out.

  The next few people in front of us said their goodbyes and ventured out, leaving us alone at the door with the preacher man. When he saw Gretchen his face lit up, tired leather skin pulling back into a smile.

  “Gretchen,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. She returned the hug as easily as he’d given it. It was the kind of hug you see between friends who don’t see each other often enough, and may not see each other again for quite some time.

  “It’s been a while, Eli.”

  “It has,” he admitted, then looked towards me. “And who’s this young man?”

  “Who?” Gretchen said nodding towards me. “This pain in the ass? Some stray I picked up.”

  “Ha. Freaking. Ha.” I frowned.

  “Well, go on. Don’t be rude,” Gretchen chimed in.

  “Jonah Heywood,” I said, offering out a hand.

  “A pleasure, Mr. Heywood,” he said, taking my hand in his and giving it a quick shake. There was a warmth radiating off his skin. Nothing magical, or at least nothing I was familiar with, given my limited knowledge.

  “Likewise,” I said.

  “Okay, Eli, what’s going on? Why the three a.m. phone call?” Gretchen asked.

  “Maybe we should talk somewhere else,” Eli said, looking back out the door at the dispersing crowd. “Most folks are heading home right now, but there’s always a few stragglers. I’d rather not have them hear this. Besides, there’s something you ought to see.”

  Gretchen quirked one thin brow.

  “Suit yourself.”

  “House is just up the road a spell.”

  “I remember,” Gretchen said.

  • • •

  Eli’s house was an old, plantation-style number. From the looks of it, once upon a time it had been white. Now, its age was showing. The paint had mostly worn away, leaving the boards underneath exposed. The tin roof, like the walls, had worn down to almost nothing, the paint long gone and given to patches of rust.

  The inside of the house was more of the outside. The furniture, most of it old, maybe even antique, boasted upholstery that had long since had its color bleached out by one too many sunny summer days. The floors needed a polish, the wallpaper was peeling, everything was just…fading. That said, there was an energy here, something warm and pleasant. Despite how tired or strained the furniture looked, or how broken down the house itself was getting as it put on years, it was undeniably and unequivocally a home. There was a sort of comfort in that feeling.