Epoch

by Timothy Carter

  Max turned and left. The movement distracted Vincent, and he lost sight of the creature. When he looked under the table again, it was gone.

  “What,” he asked no one, “was that?”

  “I don’t know,” Big Tom said, thinking Vincent was talking to him.

  Vincent could have said something silly, like, “Did you just see that?” but it was clear that Big Tom had not. Vincent sat back down, and stared at the spot where the thing had been. A shiver went through him. There was only one thing he could think of that the creature might have been. Something his parents, brother, and priest had warned him about all of his life.

  A demon.

  Only last Sunday, he’d been subjected to a sermon on demons.

  “They are everywhere,” Pastor Impwell had preached to their congregation of forty-two people. “They seek to do harm to our souls, lead us away from the Truth, and into a Web of Sin. That is why we must be ever Vigilant. Listen not to those who would accuse you of paranoia or fear mongering, my friends. Demons are real, and we must educate the world of their existence.”

  The sermon had bored Vincent to tears at the time, but now it didn’t seem quite so stupid. That creature he’d seen might have been a demon, a possibility that held terrible implications. If demons were real, did that also mean the Triumvirate was real as well?

  Because if they were, he was in some major spiritual trouble.

  The drive home was torture, but Vincent had expected no less. His parents had listened very carefully while Max gave his report of Vincent’s shortcomings, then they expressed their own grave disappointment.

  “You’d better have a good explanation for not preaching the Message with all your Strength,” his father said.

  “Indeed,” added Max, who didn’t want to be left out.

  Vincent had heard it all before. “You’re letting the Triumvirate down, Vincent.” “I don’t know what Pastor Impwell will say, Vincent.” “Don’t you feel the Fire in your soul, Vincent?” “You know how important the Message is, Vincent!”

  Vincent said, “Yes, Mom,” and “Yes, Dad,” when expected, responding on autopilot. His mind, however, was on greater issues.

  He’d seen a demon. That, at least, was what he feared the creature to be. He’d considered telling his brother about it, but Max would have thought he was making it up to get himself out of trouble.

  Of course, if Max had seen it, he would have declared it a demon immediately. There would have been no doubt at all in his mind. Vincent’s mind was more open, and he hated to pass judgment without first knowing all the facts. He’d never seen a demon before, and didn’t know what one was supposed to look like. That creature could have been anything.

  But what if it was a demon? The thought terrified Vincent, but his open mind forced him to consider it. He’d dismissed his family’s religion as a stupid waste of time, but what if they’d been right on the money? What if demons really were trying to lead his soul away from the Triumvirate and into the fiery clutches of Hell?

  To get his mind off his impending eternal damnation, Vincent gave his attention back to his parents.

  “There will be no supper tonight for you, my son,” said his mother. “For your own good. You’ve got to learn … Oh. It’s that girl.” Her voice, already harsh, had grown a shade darker.

  Vincent had a look out the right side of the car and saw a teen girl sitting on the front lawn of a small bungalow. She had long, dark hair that had been dyed purple below her shoulders, and she wore a dress of the same color. She sat with her eyes closed on a small blanket, her hands turned upward in her lap.

  “Chanteuse Sloam,” Max said with distaste.

  “What is she doing?” his mother wanted to know.

  “Probably communing with evil spirits,” their father replied knowledgeably.

  “She’s meditating,” Vincent said, leaning to get a better look. He remembered she was pretty, but he’d forgotten how pretty.

  Chanteuse had babysat Vincent and Max, back when they were kids. Max hadn’t liked her much, but Vincent took to her immediately. She’d played with him and told him about mystic energies, astral travel, and worlds beyond our own, and Vincent had sat listening to her for hours.

  He missed those days.

  “I don’t care what that witch is doing,” his mother said. “Why can’t she do it somewhere else where we can’t see her?”

  “Maybe she likes the front lawn,” Vincent said.

  “You will go down to the chapel as soon as we get home,” his father said. “You will pray for better Guidance, that you might preach the Message more competently in the future. Friday in particular.”

  “Yes, father,” Vincent said, turning away from the Sloam house.

  “Are we still going to the movie?” Max asked.

  “Yes, dear,” his mother replied. “As soon as we drop your brother off. Would you get the picket signs out of the garage?”

  “Yes, Mother, I will,” Max said, beaming a bright smile.

  “You guys are actually protesting a movie tonight?” Vincent asked.

  “If we get there quickly enough,” his mother said.

  It wasn’t often that the Drear family, or indeed any Triumvirite, got to protest outside a movie theater or book launch or any other media-related event. They wanted to, but those opportunities were usually gobbled up by the other True-Faith groups. Such groups, being the One True Faith, refused to share when it came to their outrage, so the Triumvirites were often forced to picket other things.

  Like acne. The sin they hide shall rise to the surface, the Book of the Triumvirate said, so Triumvirites often staked out drug stores. Exercise gyms were another no-no, for attempting to change one’s body was to reject the form God had given you. Protests at such locations caused little more than quizzical glances, but for Triumvirites it was the thought, and the effort, that counted.

  Tonight, however, the local Triumvirite congregation had a chance to picket an actual, honest-to-gosh motion picture. Assuming, of course, they beat the other One True Faiths to the cinema.

  The Drear home was a large two-level house, made with red bricks. Max leapt out of the car the moment they arrived, and he ran to the garage and unlocked it. Inside were all their picket signs, ready for every occasion. Max shuffled through the anti-acne signs and the say-no-to-the-devil’s-gym sandwich boards until he found the ones for tonight’s event. He chose the three best ones, and had them loaded into the trunk before Vincent and his father reached the front door.

  “So what movie is it?” Vincent asked as they entered the house.

  “It’s the latest one with that boy wizard,” his father replied as he steered him down the stairs.

  “Ah,” Vincent said. “You’ve got a good chance, then. The other groups gave up after part four.”

  “We could have used your help,” his father went on, “but you clearly aren’t in the Spirit. I just pray the Light finds you again in time for the event on Friday.”

  Vincent said nothing. He already had a plan in mind, and he didn’t want his father to ruin it by not locking him in the chapel.

  “Can I have a snack, at least?” he asked.

  “No,” his father said. “Fasting will do your spirit good.”

  “Won’t do my tummy any good,” Vincent muttered as his father shoved him inside.

  “That’s enough!” his father bellowed as he slammed the two chapel doors together. “Start praying, and may the Triumvirate have mercy upon you.”

  The chapel was a small room with no windows, with an altar set up at the far end. The walls were bare and the floor was cold concrete, and the door had a thick padlock on the outside. Pastor Impwell had encouraged all in his congregation to construct one in their homes. They will be needed during the End Times, he’d said, when it will be too dangero
us to venture out of doors even for Church. And until those End Times, they would serve as excellent discipline for wicked children.

  Vincent knelt on the cold concrete floor and pretended to pray. His father snapped the padlock shut and stormed back upstairs.

  Vincent waited until he heard the car tear off down the road. When he was sure they were gone, he escaped.

  Vincent had learned a lot from his many hours locked in the chapel. He’d learned to entertain himself with his mind, and he’d learned to stop fearing the dark. He’d learned how to sleep on a hard surface, and he’d learned to rely on himself.

  Most of all, he’d learned that while the padlock was nigh indestructible, the hinges holding up the doors were not. They were loose; one good upward shove would dislocate them from the wall.

  Vincent grabbed one of the doors by its handle and bottom, then pushed up. He’d also learned he didn’t need to pop both doors; when one was free, he could push the whole thing open like a regular door. Vincent lifted slowly, carefully, until the right hand door was free. Then he swung the door out, stepped out into the basement, and closed the door again.

  Perfect. Now he had more than four hours to himself. There were an infinite number of things he could have done with the time, and on any other day he would have hung out at Big Tom’s house.

  Tonight, however, he needed to talk to someone about the creature he’d seen at the science fair. He could talk to Big Tom, but his friend would have no answers for him. He couldn’t talk to his parents or brother, either. They would only confirm his fears. Besides, they were gone for the night.

  That left one person. Vincent hurried up the stairs, grabbed his jacket, and left the house. Five minutes later, he reached the house of Chanteuse Sloam.

  As he’d expected, Chanteuse was still meditating on her front lawn. He’d often seen her meditating on her front lawn when he passed her house going to and from school. People in cars would honk their horns and call her nasty things, and Vincent was always impressed how she never let it affect her. He’d never seen her lose concentration, and he’d only seen her upset once…

  • • •

  When he’d been ten, Chanteuse had told Vincent about performing simple magic spells, unaware that Max was listening. Max had rushed off to call their parents, who in turn rushed home and fired Chanteuse on the spot.

  “How despicable!” his mother said. “Trying to teach my boys the ways of the Devil.”

  “You are a horrible creature, less than human,” his father added. “You will suffer an eternity of torment for your sins.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Chanteuse said, calm and pleasant. “I meant you and your family no harm … ”

  “Deceiver!” Mr. Drear shouted. “You mean nothing but harm for all of God’s Children.”

  “I understand now,” said Vincent’s mother, “why your mother never shows herself in public.”

  “That isn’t her mother,” Mr. Drear said. “This girl was adopted. Probably abandoned on that horrible Sloam woman’s doorstep when your real parents discovered how evil you are.”

  Vincent felt the air around him change, as if it were getting thick and heavy. Chanteuse’s face contorted into a visage of rage, and it was a terrifying thing to see.

  “Miss Sloam is my mother,” she said, “and you will never speak that way about her! Ever!”

  “This is my house, I’ll say what I like,” Mr. Drear said, but he was visibly shaken. “Now get out of here and never come back.”

  Chanteuse left then, tears streaming from her eyes. Vincent would have protested, but a slap in the face from his brother stopped him.

  “You should have known better,” Max said.

  “Your brother is right,” his father agreed, taking Vincent’s arm and yanking him down to the basement. “You will spend tonight in the chapel to contemplate your sin.”

  “For how long?” Vincent replied as he rubbed his cheek.

  “Until you are cleansed of her evil,” his father said as he shoved Vincent inside the chapel. “Kneel, and pray for cleansing and forgiveness.”

  “I don’t understand!” Vincent protested. “What did she do?”

  “She is a witch,” his father said as he locked the door. “‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ It’s in the Text of the Triumvirate. So she is lucky I let her go. Kneel and pray, Vincent.”

  Vincent knelt on the cold concrete floor and began to pray. It was not the first time he’d been locked in there, nor would it be the last.

  It was, however, the time that Vincent started asking himself some serious questions. What kind of a God, he’d wondered, would think Chanteuse was evil? If the Triumvirate preached Love, why did they insist their followers practiced so much hate? And if demons really are everywhere, spreading their lies and wickedness, why hasn’t anyone ever seen one?

  Vincent had prayed all night for answers to his questions, but none came. And the more he’d thought about the Triumvirate, the less any of it made sense. Vincent hadn’t realized it then—realization would come in the weeks and months that followed—but his days of being a Triumvirite were over.

  • • •

  Vincent didn’t want to disturb Chanteuse, so he sat on the ground in front of her and patiently waited. It had been a long time since he’d talked to her, not since the incident with his parents. Would she still be willing to talk to him?

  “Hello, Vincent,” Chanteuse said, her eyes still closed.

  “Oh. Hi,” Vincent replied, amazed but not really surprised. “How did you know it was me?”

  “I sensed your energy,” she said. “Everyone has a unique presence. I told you that.”

  “Yeah, I remember now,” Vincent said. “Look, if you’re not done … ”

  “I was just finishing,” Chanteuse said, opening her eyes. They were emerald green, and Vincent could have sworn they glowed. “The Earth is restless, troubled. And so are you.”

  “I’m okay,” Vincent said as she stood and picked up her rug. “But I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Come inside,” she said. “We’ll have tea and talk on the back porch.”

  Vincent followed her into the bungalow. It was a small home, with only two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen and a tiny little basement. Chanteuse’s adoptive mother, Miss Sloam, sat on the living room couch across from the front door, snoozing. Miss Sloam was a big woman; big boned, not fat.

  Vincent had never been inside Chanteuse’s house before, and he wondered briefly if she’d been embarrassed to have him over. His mother once told him that poor people were ashamed of their poverty. Vincent dismissed the thought straight away. He couldn’t imagine Chanteuse being embarrassed about anything.

  “Will you put the kettle on?” Chanteuse asked. “I need to get a fresh box of tea from the pantry in the basement.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Vincent said. He filled up the kettle and plugged it in, then went in search of milk, sugar, and two cups. The milk was easy, right in the fridge where it should’ve been. The cups were in a cupboard, also an easy find.

  The sugar was harder to find, and when Vincent did find it he lost interest in it immediately. He opened a cupboard and saw a bag of sugar on the first shelf, but his attention was immediately grabbed by the creature.

  It was short and spindly, with almond-shaped eyes and big floppy wiener-dog ears. In fact, it looked exactly like the creature he’d seen at school.

  And it was looking at him.

  “Do you mind?” the thing said. “I’m trying to eat!”

  Vincent stared at the creature in his former babysitter’s cupboard, unsure of what to do. He’d come to talk about a creature like this, but here one was in the flesh. Was it a demon? Was it proof of the Triumvirate’s existence? Vincent needed to know, but was too scared to ask.r />
  “Got a staring problem, kid?” the thing said.

  “Apparently, yes,” Vincent replied. “Who, and what, are you?”

  “I am a creature of Magic,” the creature said, “who does not like to be disturbed. Flee before my dust of power!” And he threw a handful of sugar into Vincent’s face.

  “Ow!” Vincent said, staggering back and blinking the sugar out of his eyes.

  The creature dropped to the floor, dashed between Vincent’s legs and made for the back door. He almost made it when, like lightning, Chanteuse’s hand lashed out and caught him by the ear.

  “Ow!” the creature cried as he was lifted into the air. “Ow, ow, ow!”

  “What have I told you about coming into the house?” she asked, holding the creature at eye level.

  “What’s going on in there?” Miss Sloam called from the living room.

  “Just having a word with one of the wood people,” Chanteuse replied.

  “Another one?” her mom said. “We need an exterminator.”

  “What,” Vincent asked, “is that thing?”

  “I’m not a thing!” the creature said as he struggled in Chanteuse’s grip. “I’m a magical being of power!”

  “You look more like a shaved monkey,” Vincent said.

  “Stop, you two,” Chanteuse said. “Ah, the kettle has boiled. Vincent, will you please make the tea and join me on the back porch?”

  Chanteuse opened the back door and left before Vincent could ask anything else. Vincent took a moment to collect his thoughts and steady himself, then he prepared the tea. He had no doubt Chanteuse would fill him in when she was ready.

  “Oh, thank you, Vincent,” she said when he came out. He carried a tray loaded down with the teapot, milk, sugar, and two cups. “Grimbowl, please help my friend with the door.”