Henry Halfmoon

by Huck Warwicks

  I’ll never make it in time.

  “I’m on my way, Mom.” My tears betray the shock of it all.

  I had so much I wanted to say to Dad. I wanted to show him I could make my way in the world. I wanted him to know I’d be okay, that he had prepared me sufficiently. I wanted to prove to the man who raised me that I ‘have what it takes.’

  I want to be just like him, but I thought I’d have just one more chance to tell him face to face.

  We don’t all get a chance to say goodbye.

  Chapter 9

  Dad knew all along. He had secretly arranged every detail with the funeral home in advance.

  He had us all fooled, even the doctors. The fight against his cancer and his optimism was his last gift to his family.

  False hope kept our minds eased enough to carry on about our daily lives.

  I stand at his casket’s side in the funeral home, a dank little house re-coated with whitewash too many times, and as old as the town itself. The carpet and wallpaper are outdated by several decades, but that would make sense since most deceased people who pass through this place are elderly. They would feel comfortable. But that’s the odd thing about funeral homes, they’re oriented towards the comfort of the dead, more than the grieving.

  And they’re expensive. The cost is rarely less than a burden of debt saddling the families left behind.

  My dad’s casket is a lacquered mahogany wonder. Trimmed in silver, and lined on the inside by red velvet. Oddly, my dad never cared for fancy cars nor ‘treated himself’ to anything that might draw attention. Yet he chose the Cadillac of caskets. He could have treated himself to a nice car, though. He found great success in his work as an artist. His client’s portraits hung in various venues, mostly government buildings, all throughout the country. Though early on, it was challenging just to keep the lights on, the poor artist and his hopeful young bride kept slaying the daily dragons and grinding away at his craft. Eventually, a young politician with an eye for the visual arts found my dad’s work and patronized him for a rendering of a portrait. That portrait still hangs in the White House. Suddenly, Mom and Dad were quite comfortable.

  That’s when I came along. An only child, though they tried several times both before and after my birth. ‘My little miracle’ and ‘my only begotten’ and ‘my firstborn’ and ‘child of the promise’ are my mom’s most cherished nicknames for me.

  Not surprisingly, the funeral home had been full of admirers and old acquaintances, paying their respects. On and on they would drone about his work, his talent, and his accomplishments. My hand still throbs from the pumping and shaking, with people I never knew, who never knew me. They didn’t know my dad either, apart from his work. They only knew his work.

  They didn’t know the man.

  I did.

  I do.

  And they missed the boat entirely. His greatest art wasn’t stroked onto canvas at the end of an oily brush. It was the long walks, the bedtime stories, the basketball games, the breakups with girlfriends, the endless hours of playing catch, and boardgames after dinner. It was him, reciting poetry or reading the great works of American literature aloud to me and Mom. It was the way he looked at her across the dinner table, and the soft pat on my shoulder for no specific reason, and the impromptu hugs, just because. It was the daily reassurance that I would be great one day, that I would find my way and that no matter whatever happened, he would be proud; that he was proud already.

  That’s the man I knew, the man they could never know or appreciate.

  And he was taken from me.

  His body lays before me, handsome and well preserved and presented by the funeral home in respectful decorum. But not even a master artist can paint life back into a dead man’s face. Not enough to make it look ‘normal.’ No matter how hard they try, it just doesn’t look like him. Because it’s not him. He’s gone. And I’m not sure where exactly he has gone.

  My mom claims to know. She said he was a man of deep faith, and he’s with ‘the Lord.’

  But I’m still not sure.

  No doubt, there’s something real and unseen that exists alongside our reality. I’ve had my glimpse at it. And so far, it seems terrifying. But where do the good people go when their spirits are rent from their bodies?

  My dad’s body looks peaceful. The room is now empty, and the burial is scheduled for tomorrow. Old-time gospel is softly playing in the background, church hymns I’m guessing. But it’s so cheesy sounding and tacky that no matter how softly it plays, it distracts me from saying my goodbyes. I hate that old music. Most people do, but it’s not about those left behind, remember? It’s about making the dead comfortable. Or at least giving the families of the dead (the paying customers) the impression that the dead are being kept comfortable.

  As my annoyance grows, my legs ache a bit. So I take a chair directly in front of the casket.

  The music suddenly stops, and the lights flicker a few times. The silence is eerie and heavy. I can’t even hear the rustling of cheap suit coats and dresses in the adjacent room. Nothing. The lights brighten in a slow augmentation, until one by one, the bulbs burn out with a loud popping sound.

  The fixture directly over the casket is the last one. When the bulbs pop, I hear the tinkling of glass shards and see several of them fall onto my dad’s corpse! Darkness wraps itself around the room, and only the light of the moon spills itself through the old stained glass behind the casket's platform.

  It’s a half-moon.

  Furious at the funeral home for allowing this to happen, I rush angrily towards the coffin to remove the glass. Before I’m close enough to reach in, the lid slams shut with a startling boom. The impact is so strong, it kicks up dust from the carpet that hovers all about the room. The dusty air thickens into a light fog, catching the half-moon light and casting a soft luminescence.

  I turn my back and rush to the doors that lead to the funeral home parlor to get help. But the double doors slam shut on their own before I get there. I move to the side door that connects to the private grieving room, where Mom and some others are quietly gathered for prayer.

  That door slams shut as well.

  “Hey bud,” a deep familiar voice ripples through the fog.

  I spin around, peering through fog at empty chairs.

  “Over here, Henry.” It’s coming from the casket. When I turn around, I see him. Dad is sitting on the casket with his left leg casually crossed over his right knee. He’s a white vapor, but it’s undoubtedly him. His eyes burn brilliantly like blue stars, and his face looks so… alive and serene.

  “DAD!” I fall to my knees in a half-faint and crawl my way across the floor. I can’t stand to my feet for some reason, as if the ceiling were pressing against my back. But I’m able to make it to the foot of the casket podium.

  “Henry.”

  “I’m so sorry, Dad. I couldn’t make it in time to…”

  “I know, son. I know. It’s okay.” His airy voice comes from the fog around my head. But his mouth doesn’t move.

  “Henry… You’ve been chosen to do something great.” Dad’s radiating blue eyes pulse with every word, like a god.

  “Dad, I don’t think I’ll ever live up to what… you deserve.”

  “Stop talking nonsense, Henry! I’m not talking about that. You’ve been chosen to do something great… ‘for the gods!’” Dad uses quotation fingers, which at the time doesn’t seem that odd.

  My mind rolls off my self-pity, and like a splash of icy water on my face, I recall the events of the past week.

  “The Algolim?”

  “That’s right, son. The Algolim. I don’t know what they’re planning. It’s beyond me to know. But I do know that you have been singled out to stop them.”

  Singled out? That’s what Shipley told me in the park. I turned him down. It felt right at the time. I’m certain that I want nothing to do with demons, or gods or crazy professors. But I’m also certain that I don’t want to live a tormented life.

&
nbsp; “The gods? Did they single me out, Dad?”

  His eyes flash, and he nods his ghostly head.

  “Have you seen them!? Who are they? What do they look like? What are their names? Was Mom right?” The questions come pounding out of me in rapid succession.

  Dad’s spirit laughs, bouncing the fog around him. “Henry, you were always the most curious kid… and that curiosity can serve you well. You must learn. Read. Fight.”

  “I will. But what about the…”

  “And also beware of your curiosity, Henry. It can mislead you.” Dad’s spirit fades from view. “Listen to many voices for wisdom. And fight, Henry. Fight the Algolim. Stop them.”

  “I will, Dad. I’ll fight them.”

  “And tell your Mom… I love her.”

  Dad’s last words evaporate the fog in the room. The lights blink back on, and the music pipes its way back through the speakers.

  He’s gone. The casket lid is open as are the doors to the parlor. I’m still on my hands and knees in front of his casket, but I’m no longer being held down.

  But I don’t stand. I roll onto my side, close my eyes, and try to burn into my memory the look of his eyes, the sound of his laughter, and the wisdom of his words.

  Chapter 10

  This is the strangest book I’ve ever read. It’s both everything I hate about astronomy, and all the baloney I despise about astrology overlapping in one volume. It’s the ancient understanding of how the heavenly bodies course through the night sky, and what that will mean for humanity. It’s full of oracles, strange symbols, and arcane names.

  But I can’t get enough of it.

  It’s right up my alley. And I’ve been anxious to dive into it for weeks. Now that I’ve scoured Titanomachy and have extracted Shipley’s notes, I can indulge in my plunge into Chaldean Astrology.

  “Henry.” A young voice breaks my thoughts away from the book. It’s Fritz. I say nothing but nod to him and offer him the space of the sidewalk next to me as I continue moving across campus.

  “Hey. I heard about your dad. I just, uh. Well, I’m sorry, bruh. Like, I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks, Fritz.”

  He continues to ask me questions about my family, my mom, and how I’m dealing with the grief. My best guess is that he’s probing my sanity, patrolling its borders, ensuring that I’m not about to jump off its edge.

  “I’m doing okay, Fritz. Really. But it hurts, you know? I just don’t understand why. Dad was perfect in every way, to me at least. He was healthy, successful, and kind to everyone he met. Why was he struck down?” The lump in my throat stifles my words. “It’s a hard thing to deal with.”

  “We’ll never know, bruh. I don’t know why God would take the best of us and let everyone else keep shipwrecking the world He made.”

  “Great point, Fritz.” That is surprisingly deep for my extraverted socialite compatriot. And the anger that comes with the thought overpowers my grief. “If we’re supposed to do good in the world, helping others, and making the world a better place, then how can a ‘loving God’ take the best of his people before they have a chance?” My voice gets louder as I dwell on the incongruity, letting my anger steep. “And tell me this. How can a ‘loving God’ strike a kind and loving father with cancer, while allowing crazy, murdering criminals to live to old age and wreak havoc on others’ lives?” I’m animated by my anger enough now to use quotation fingers with each loving God remark. It’s beginning to smack of mockery if I’m being completely honest with myself.

  Fritz believes in the Christian God. And it’s obviously his God that I’m accusing right now. I don’t know why, though. I don’t know what I believe about God, or the gods, or the Universe. That’s what I tell myself at least. But when something bad happens in the world, I’m not angry at ‘the Universe,’ or ‘Allah,’ or ‘Zeus.’ No one ever blames those gods. They only blame the Christian God, as I do now. They only blame the God they claim to not believe in. I blame Him, too. And He’s the only one to blame, and I don’t even know if He’s real.

  In truth, that seems a little off to me.

  Perhaps I’m just mad at the ‘God’ I watched my mom believe in. I love my mom. And I respect her faith, just not the object of it, decidedly. Where is her all-powerful, omniscient Savior now? Did she not follow Him her entire life? Did she not cry out to Him, begging Him to spare the life of my father? Was He not powerful enough to heal my dad? Is He not merciful and loving enough to heal his own followers? I’m sorry. At what point am I supposed to sign up for all that?

  And where is He now? Did He answer her prayer?

  NO. He did not.

  And all at once, I believe that He’s real, and that is His fault.

  “Henry? Are you okay?” Fritz stops and grabs my arm, forcing me to float back to the surface of the moment. Unaware that I’ve been getting tenser and tenser while brooding silently, my fists ache from clenching them in my pockets, and my teeth are sour from the tightness of my jaw.

  “You look like you’re about to murder someone, bruh.”

  I take a deep breath and shove aside the brew of vitriol that accompanies grief at some point. The anger. The blaming.

  “I’m just mad. If there’s a God, I’m mad at Him.”

  Fritz takes up alongside me again, and we cross under the arch. This is where I need to part ways with him. Shipley will be here soon. And I have a lot on my mind, big plans.

  “Thanks for walking with me, bud. But I want to be alone for a while.”

  “Nah, I get it. It’s cool, bruh.” Fritz pats me on the arm. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Bye.”

  As my only true friend saunters back the way we came, he steps off the sidewalk and into the manicured grass to avoid a group of students. Oddly, he leaves light-brown footprints, as if the grass has instantly withered. It’s probably the way he shuffles his feet when he walks.

  He stops suddenly and turns completely around. It’s a little awkward because whatever he’s going to say will have to be loud due to the distance between us. With a smile on his face, he calls out.

  “The world doesn’t have a desperate need for more people who are angry at God, Henry.”

  Again, surprisingly deep for Fritz. The thought settles like a heavy stone in my gut. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m angry. But in a way, it makes so much sense that it snuffs out the flicker of hatred, recently sparked against the Almighty. At least enough to keep me from embracing an open rebellion against my mother’s God.

  But I still blame Him.

  “My condolences, Mr. Halfmoon.”

  I spin around, and the professor stands behind me. His hands are clasped behind his back, as if he’d been waiting for me. He seems to come out of nowhere, and I’m not sure how I could have missed seeing him as Fritz and I passed under the Arch.

  “Thanks.”

  “Fritz isn’t wrong, either. Not entirely. It serves no purpose to fume against the Unseen. Do you have my books?”

  “I’m not done reading them. I just started Chaldean Astrology.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, boy! Get on with it, will you? How long does it take for you to finish a simple reading assignment?” Shipley feigns his annoyance. I can tell by the twinkle from under his bushy white brows.

  “And have you made your decision? Will you help me?”

  There’s so much I want to tell him, especially about the vision of my father at the funeral home.

  “Wisdom is found in many voices,” I regurgitate. “And I’ve thought about it a lot. I’ve talked it over with…”

  “You shouldn’t be talking about what’s happening, Henry! Not with anyone! That’s dangerous.”

  “…my father’s ghost, I’ve decided that I’m going to help you. I want to fight!”

  Shipley’s magnificent white eyebrows lift his entire face, eyes bulging with surprise. Relieved that I have chosen to answer the call and supremely intrigued that I spoke to my dead father.

  “Splendid! Wh
a… did you actually… your father? Come. Walk with me, Henry. Tell me what you saw. Every detail, now. Tell me what happened.”

  We head back to Shipley’s subterranean lair, and settle ourselves in his wingback chairs. The fire blazing and his pipe chugging, he listens intently to my experience back home.

  “So, your father confirmed that you’ve been chosen to fight the Algolim!”

  “Yes. And from your notes in Chaldean Astrology, they come from Algol, the Demon Star?”

  “Correct, Mr. Halfmoon. In the constellation Perseus, Beta Persei is known as the ‘Demon Star.’ Every three days, it dims…”

  “I know. I remember reading that Algol is a binary—two stars that revolve around each other. When the bigger star passes in front of the smaller, brighter one, Beta Persei dims.”

  “Winks, actually. Beta Persei, Algol, Demon Star… call it what you want. But in the constellation, it’s the eye of Medusa, still winking every three days, even as Perseus clutches her severed head.”

  “And the demons come from the actual star?”

  “Not quite, Mr. Halfmoon. When the Demon Star ‘winks,’ it rends a tear in our, uh… dimensional plain, if you will. They pass through the tear and descend to the earth.”

  “I always thought that demons came from the earth? That they’ve always been here.”

  “No. They’ve always come through Algol. But they never leave once they get here. And that cursed star has been winking for thousands of years… every three days.”

  The thought of vanquishing millions of demons, Algolim, seems a little overwhelming to say the least.

  “I don’t see how I’m going to be able to fight them all.”

  “You’re not supposed to fight them all, Henry. You’re only supposed to stop the Nine.”

  “The Nine?”

  “Good grief, boy. If you’d had just read the books. Enoch, Henry. It’s all in there. All my notes.”

  I sit soundly admonished for delaying the assignment. Embarrassment and frustration keep me quiet while the professor chugs away at his Sherlock Holmes pipe. His eyes peering at me through the cloud of cherry scented smoke in disappointment.