Dark Arts

by Randolph Lalonde

  Maxwell took a belt of the amber drink in his hand and winced. “God, that’s awful stuff,” he muttered.

  “Here,” Jerry said, putting a joint in Maxwell’s hand. “I grew it myself.” Maxwell finished the glass of bourbon and put it back on the table.

  Miranda stole the neatly rolled pot joint from him. “I’ll light this for you,” she said.

  “Sure,” Maxwell smirked. Jerry finished checking Maxwell and sighed. “Any other injuries?”

  “I’m a little sore on the left, think I hit the truck there somehow,” Maxwell said.

  “Shirt off,” Jerry told him.

  He pressed on Maxwell’s ribs, causing a little wincing when he got under his left arm. “You’re going be all right, but don’t be surprised if your shoulders and back are sore. I recommend you finish this,” he said, extending his hand out to Miranda, who took a drag from the joint and passed it to him. It was rolled using three or four papers, slightly large compared to what Maxwell typically smoked with the band when weed was around. “Share it with this one, because it’s always better with two,” Jeff said as he handed the smoldering joint to Maxwell. “Then right to bed, no sugar tonight though, got it?” he said, looking to Miranda.

  “He wasn’t getting lucky tonight anyway,” Miranda said, exhaling a small cloud.

  Maxwell took a deep pull on the joint. The throbbing pain of his head and bruised neck began to fade immediately. “Thanks, doc, this beats a lollipop.”

  “Anesthesiologist,” Jeff said. “Training to be a doc though. Take that thing, and her back to the big cabin. Sleep.”

  Susanne came out of the bedroom, sniffing, her eyes found the joint in Maxwell’s hand just as he was starting to hand it back to Miranda and he froze. “I thought that’s what I smelled.”

  “He’s an anesthesi-man,” Maxwell said, trying to hold his breath and pointing at Jeff with a ring-bedecked finger. “It’s on the up-and-up. And I’m up and up.” Maxwell exhaled, Miranda took the joint from his fingers. “Allen going to be all right?” he asked.

  Susanne let Jeff into the room and nodded. “He’s going to be fine. If you two plan on smoking that whole thing yourselves, you should start walking now.” She looked to Miranda, who was taking a more conservative drag than before, as though behaving a little for her aunt. “And you’re not injured at all, so take it easy on it, yes?”

  Miranda nodded and handed the joint back to Maxwell, who was standing up. The fog descending on his senses made it clear that he really didn’t have much time to get back to the main cabin and his bedroom gracefully.

  The farm and the cabins a short way down the road felt safe, and the night air was finally cooling. Miranda and Maxwell didn’t have trouble finding their way together.

  IX

  The heat of the day was just starting to creep in through the windows of Maxwell’s room. He watched Miranda sleep as he woke up slowly. She’d borrowed one of his t-shirts late the night before, it bunched up overnight, riding half way up her back. She spared him questions, didn’t try to hold him accountable for what he tried to do, or the trouble he caused. For her, it seemed that it was enough that everyone made it back, and she was surprisingly unshaken by the events.

  Instead of giving him the tongue-lashing he deserved, she offered companionship and comfort. Most remarkable of all, he was sure he fell asleep first, and his ease with Miranda was partly to blame.

  With great care he slipped out of bed, immediately regretting the act of moving at all. His back, his shoulders and especially his neck were stiff and sore. He didn’t bother dressing, but crept from his room in his boxer shorts, picking up his pants, a shirt and his guitar case on his way out.

  The door creaked as he opened it and he cringed, Scott was right outside in the hall, staring at him with an amused grin with a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Quiet,” Maxwell whispered.

  Scott peeked over Max’s shoulder and smiled. “You guys had a good night after all,” he whispered, taking Max’s guitar case.

  Max carefully closed the door and started putting his jeans on. “We were too tired and stoned, nodded right off,” he said.

  “I got it on with April, man she’s a handful in all the right ways,” Scott said. “She must be adopted, can’t be from the Sands family. How they could make an angel like that, I can’t see it, she’s a pure sweetheart. A dirty minded, playful sweetheart. I love her laugh, maybe more than anything. It’s hard to think she’s from that family. I don’t think her dad knows she’s come here though. She takes off when the sun comes up.”

  “Careful there,” Maxwell said. “Steven Sands is dangerous, her whole family is worth their reputation.” He took Scott’s pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and popped one into his mouth. His band mate offered a flame with his lighter, and Maxwell nodded his thanks. They moved down the hall to a bench and sat down.

  “I’m telling you, Max,” Scott said. “April knows all about that stuff, we talked about it. She wants to be initiated here, but it breaks her heart to know that there’s no way. Samuel would probably allow it, maybe encourage it, but her dad and the rest would make a huge stink, or try to wedge themselves back in.”

  “They’ll never get back in,” Maxwell said. “Tell her to stick around, get to know people, try to make it right with her brother at least so she doesn’t have to walk away from her whole clan. She’ll get her initiation,” Maxwell said. “It’ll take time, but if her heart’s in it, it’ll be worth it. I feel like I’ve survived the gallows, then got knocked out with a bat,” Maxwell groaned, massaging the back of his neck.

  The sounds of plates, voices and other breakfast activity drifted up from the first floor. Maxwell’s stomach grumbled. He craved a hot shower more, and from the slant of the sunlight, he could tell he had gotten up early enough to catch the hot water tank before it was empty.

  “What happened last night? No one’s talking, but I caught a look at Uncle Allen, he’s got two stitches on his lip and scratches all over.” Scott said.

  “I tried to dump something I found on the road,” Maxwell said. “I think it’s been the cause of what people have been seeing, the good and the bad.”

  “Yeah, that’s another thing, I’ve never heard of what happened at the lake yesterday with that family. Not outside of fairy tales and old stories about spirits in the night and shit. You know, from when people thought they could still meet their Gods in person and get up after being dead a few days.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Maxwell said. “The Dawn Shard, I think it throws gasoline on the fire whenever spirits were around, or when someone’s performing a ritual. It definitely has some big blokes attached to it already. I was afraid that someone would get an enlightening surprise during their morning prayers if I kept it around here. We do have some people here who pray to the holy trinity, and I’m all for them getting a visitation from one of their high spirits, or even the Man himself, but the Dawn Shard seems to attract as many charlatans, and those souls love a believer. I dumped it and sealed it in the ground.”

  “But, if that’s really what brought the spirit world into Technicolor, then it made what we saw on the beach happen, right? I mean, sure, if you felt there were spirits in need of release, and you performed that ritual without the shard around, then maybe you’d get the same result without seeing the spirits, but what we saw was like a miracle or something. That was all good, right?”

  Maxwell looked down the hall at the sound of the shower flow stopping. He would prefer to take a shower in the main cabin as opposed to having to use the public ones in the bathroom building outside. “Check this out,” Maxwell said, raising his chin and showing the rope-shaped bruises around his neck. “That shard is definitely a bad news, good news situation. You saw the good news, and when I went to bury the thing, I got the bad news. Bugger who was holding that family we released tried to hang me. Bloody hell, he did hang me. Bernie, his dad, and Miranda’s Aunts got th
ere just in time to save my ass. Didn’t end there though. The bad pastor and his whole congregation got a hold of Allen. Felt like I stepped into one of those old medieval paintings with the demons inflicting torment on a trapped soul. I’ll never look at one of those the same way again.”

  “That’s why you’re wearing your medallion, and why you’ve got that weaver’s blade,” Scott said, saddened a little. “Yeah, maybe it’s not worth it, glad everyone came out okay though, really. Uncle Allen looked beat up when I saw him downstairs, he was helping out in the kitchen.”

  “That’s a relief,” Maxwell said. “Any idea how Zack’s doing?”

  “He passed out with a bunch of hippies late last night,” Scott said. “I think he found a few fans who took care of him after he came down and Southern Circle let him out of sight.”

  “Good, we need to start playing, our last gig is coming up,” Maxwell said.

  “So we’re setting up in the barn today?” Scott asked, his mood visibly improving.

  “Yeah, going to see if Miranda will join in. Get some of the other musical folk up on stage too, maybe we can make our last show our biggest. Backup singers, tambourines, keyboards, I’ll take horns if there are good players around. Everything but the kazoo.”

  “My cousin brought his accordion,” Scott said.

  “Maybe we can get him on the old Hammond organ if Darrel doesn’t want to,” Maxwell said.

  The door to the bathroom opened, a puff of steam rolling out and just far enough down the hall to precede Bernie. “Good morning,” he said to Scott and Maxwell. “Better get in there before someone jumps in. They’re already out of hot water in the main house.”

  “Done, and done,” Maxwell said, butting his cigarette out in the freestanding tray beside the bench.

  “Oh, did Scott tell you that we went out and got your bike this morning? I was afraid to leave it so close to the road.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Maxwell said. “Thanks, I owe you one.”

  “De nada,” Bernie replied. “I’m going to start setting the barn up. My dad’s already told me I’d get a list of chores to do if I hovered around him.”

  “Cool,” Scott said. “I’ll give you a hand.”

  “Oh, who rode my bike back?” Maxwell asked.

  “Scotty,” Bernie said. “I hate riding two wheels on gravel, remember?”

  “Thanks again,” Maxwell told Scott. There was something wrong there, maybe he scratched his Harley, or something worse, but Scott had a guilty look about him.

  “No problem, Max.”

  The bathroom was still steamed up while he took care of his morning needs, and it didn’t have a chance to clear before he got into the shower with a disposable razor he found in the cupboard. He shaved, then turned and let the hot water massage his sore neck and shoulders. The day before had left him with more questions than he could handle. Three of them nagged heavily.

  Why were he and Miranda separated when they were young? He understood that her aunts didn’t live in the country, but he’d heard there was more to it. Everyone seemed afraid of the book, but from his experience, the shard was far more dangerous. The biggest question on his mind was one that he was sure other people shared: why was the spirit world interacting with him and people around him so much more clearly, so aggressively.

  These questions, and thoughts of Miranda took turns occupying his mind as he selfishly, guiltlessly used up almost all the hot water left in the main cabin’s tank. He felt the water begin to cool, and hurriedly finished washing. By the time he was finished, the water was getting colder by the second. If he stayed in another minute, he may as well be bathing in the lake.

  There was a line of five people with towels in the hallway when he finished, and the fragrance of freshly fried bacon was in the air. “Sorry folks, you’ll have better luck finding hot water in the public bathroom,” he said as he passed, causing groans and shaking heads all down the line. None of them should be trying to use the main cabin’s bathroom, as far as he was concerned, they weren’t staying there.

  He carried his guitar case downstairs into the main room, which had two old, wooden folding tables set up so more people could sit and eat from platters of eggs, bacon, toast, sausages, waffles, English muffins, and a yellow-orange casserole. Maxwell headed to the dining room, and the main table, where a plate was put into his hands by Gladys who said; “Mangiare a sazietà,” gesturing to the table.

  Amongst a full table with children in high chairs and people moving in and out of a crammed kitchen, there were several older people there who Maxwell recognized, including Scott’s mother and father, Nadia and Desmond. They both smiled at him from their seats, and Maxwell shook Desmond’s hand. “How’d our boy do out there?”

  “Best drummer on the circuit, and he didn’t fall into any trouble. He spent most of our time chasing after Zack and Darren,” Maxwell said as someone spooned a helping of the deep-dish egg and cheese casserole onto his plate.

  “I wish he’d shave more,” Nadia said. “He has such a nice face.”

  “I’ll remind him,” Maxwell said. “I’m sure that compliment will get his attention if it comes from me, that’s if I can get him away from April when she gets back,” Maxwell said, forgetting that she was from a family not well liked by the Webb’s. It was difficult to think of the smiling blonde girl as a Sands, daughter to the only family that had been exiled from Circle events and ceremonies.

  Nadia changed the subject right away. Her husband’s mood darkened as he continued to pick at his eggs. “I hear you’re getting initiated this week?”

  “Can’t fight it any longer,” Maxwell said with a slightly forced smile. “Time to step into the circle.”

  “Good, it’s about time.”

  Maxwell’s plate gained weight again as an older woman speaking a language he did not recognize stepped out of the kitchen, dropped two steaming waffles onto his plate, grabbed a big spoon and then added scrambled eggs and a few sausages. She flashed him a smile, dropped a half dozen strips of bacon on top of everything then gestured for him to move along. “I’m being directed,” Maxwell said to Nadia and Desmond.

  “Where’s my son right now?” Desmond asked.

  “Scott’s setting his kit up in the barn, he’ll be there a while.”

  “Thank you, Max,” he said.

  Feeling as though there was a reckoning coming for his friend, Maxwell decided that it was none of his business. Whatever happened with Scott, April and their parents would be too complicated for him to get into, especially considering the little he knew about the feud. He spotted Samuel in the corner, sitting alone at a card table, treating a plate of yellow casserole as though it was chocolate cake. Maxwell stopped to stand beside a chair there, and Samuel said; “Please, have a seat, boy. It’s a good day, and I have this,” he gestured to his plate. “I keep asking what it is every year when I come here, and that Gunnering woman says some name I could never pronounce, and I know nine languages. Doesn’t matter, best thing I eat all year.”

  “I remember it’s yellow and filling,” Maxwell said. “Don’ think I’ve had any in a couple years. Need my coffee though, be right back.” He stood and fetched himself a cup of coffee from one of the side tables and was reminded of the previous night’s events as he dumped two creamers and a couple sugar into the steaming hot black. By the time he returned to Samuel, Allen was joining him, trying to keep his smile small so he didn’t aggravate his stitched lip. “They kicked me out of the kitchen,” he said.

  “Ever since I was a lad, I’ve offered to help the ladies in the kitchen, and I have been shooed out almost every time. At my age, with my lungs, I’ve given up, they seem happy telling me what to eat and feeding me too much of it.”

  “Maybe I should stop offering too,” Allen said.

  Samuel’s fork stopped half way to his mouth. “Oh no, not until you’re wobbly kneed and wheezy like me. The offer is worth four times the favor.” He shoved the forkful of egg casserole into his mouth a
nd looked as though he’d eaten ambrosia.

  “How are you this morning, old man?” Allen asked.

  “Better than you,” he said after finishing his mouth full. “Nice clear weather, it’s not the heat that gets me, it’s the humidity, none of that nonsense today. How are you? That looks painful from here,” he said, gesturing towards Allen’s face with his empty fork.

  “Lip bothers me more than anything,” Allen said. “Pretty good otherwise.”

  “I’m sorry about all that,” Maxwell said. “I brought that on, should have been better prepared, handled it myself.”

  “You needed to cast a circle before what you tried last night,” Allen said, trying not to move his lip too much. “Just don’t work alone when you don’t have to, and with everyone here, you don’t have to. There’re more folks around here willing to do something foolish than you’d guess. All’s forgiven, boy. Just hold off on anything else until initiation.”

  “My last one, you’re lucky,” Samuel said. “You’ll have this one leading it next year, or maybe we’ll break tradition and finally have a Priestess running things?”

  “That’s more likely than me taking over. Susanne is our best weaver, and she’s staying in Canada, so you’ll see it happen,” Allen said.

  “Oh? That’s going to be good.”

  Maxwell couldn’t hold his questions any longer. “I sealed the Dawn Shard in the ground last night,” he said quietly.

  Samuel picked his watch out of his pocket, opened it, nodded, then snapped it shut. “I know,” he replied. “We’ll see where that leads, I’ll say it’s worth trying once.”

  “All right,” Maxwell said, a little surprised that he wasn’t subject to an epic lecture. “So why does it seem like that’s the thing to watch out for, and the book is about as scary as harsh language.”

  “The shard is a heavy burden, as far as we can tell, that’s true,” Allen was interrupted as Gladys dropped a plate with casserole, bacon and hash browns onto the table in front of him.