“I have not even begun to torment you,” said Lovethorn. “But I will. And I will thrive and drool on. I have cut off the toes and thumbs of kings and had them grovel under my table for scraps, and I shall do the same to you.”
Lovethorn approached with a dagger and slashed a slit in John’s favorite wrist. John cringed and closed his eyes against the pain. Lovethorn held a crystal goblet beneath the cut to catch the flow of blood. And when John opened his eyes again, he found himself still bound to the post, but now the ornate walls of a dimly lit cathedral surrounded him. Gargoyles, not unlike the jizz-critters in appearance, twisted their mouths up in snarls on the walls.
And at his pulpit, Lovethorn cried, “Most precious blood.” He held the goblet high above himself and tilted his head upward at the ceiling. Behind him, a choir of castrati sang in eerily high-pitched voices that were more appropriate to young boys. Their voices climbed the scale, rose in volume, and wavered on an unnaturally high note. Lovethorn swooned and sang over and over to the cup he held high, crooning, “In saecula saeculorum, in saecula saeculorum, in saecula saeculorum…”
The congregation before Lovethorn cringed and cried and chanted along with their leader, “In saecula saeculorum, in saecula saeculorum, in saecula saeculorum.” They shook their balled-up fists at the roof and averted their eyes when Lovethorn looked out into the crowd.
The Man in Black stomped about before his followers and kicked at the post that held John. And the post groaned and canted toward the floor of the sanctuary. But the cross remained embedded in the floor and did not completely tip. Greasy black hair tumbled over Android Lovethorn’s forehead and clung to his mirrored sunglasses. He flipped his hair back and ripped the shades from his face, revealing the gaping sockets that glared out at the congregation. He smiled at the congregation, and the black rot festering at his gum line stood in stark contrast to the blindingly white teeth. And though he had not so much as a limp, Lovethorn grabbed an ornately carved cane and used it to help him pace before his followers. The tip of the cane tapped out sharp clacks on the wood floor.
“You,” boomed Lovethorn, and he pointed the cane at a man in the front row of the nave. “Come forward and taste the blood most precious.”
And the gaunt man struggled to push himself up from the pew. He shook from hunger and fear and exhaustion. When he reached his position in front of Lovethorn on the stage, the man fell to his knees and averted his eyes to the ground. But Lovethorn did not offer the goblet to the sickly man. Instead he asked, “Who are you and why did I call you forward?”
The man said, “I am but a memory of the man on the post. I am a story in his head, a picture in his mind. I am nothing more than a wisp of smoke.”
Lovethorn did not give the man a drink of John’s blood. He asked the man no further questions. Instead, he lashed out with his cane, knocking it solidly into the side of the man’s head. And Lovethorn said, “A whip for the horse. A bridle for the donkey. And a rod for the backs of fools.” He struck out with the cane and thrashed the man until he moved no more. Lovethorn panted and stood over the limp body, winding up to smack it again. As he brought the cane down one last time, the man disappeared in a puff of black smoke that fumed up into the Man in Black’s face.
Lovethorn called more followers before him, one after the other, and beat them until they dissipated in whiffs of smoke. And each time, he breathed in the smoke and exhaled with a look of ecstasy. In between each thrashing, he sipped John’s blood from the goblet and muttered to himself, “Blood most precious.”
And John could do nothing to stop Lovethorn. Even if he could escape his bindings, John felt his strength waning with each thrashing Lovethorn dealt out to his congregation. With each time Lovethorn drank his blood, John found himself drifting closer to oblivion. He watched the Man in Black call one more of his congregants forward. The first lash of the cane knocked Lovethorn’s victim to the ground. John watched, helpless, as the cane thwacked at the defenseless man. Android Lovethorn stopped beating the man and turned toward John with a look of surprise and anger on his face. At the same time, the rope around John’s wrists loosened and he fell from the post, smacking his head on the floor. John’s vision tunneled as Android Lovethorn ran toward him. But before the Man in Black reached John’s place on the floor, Lovethorn dissipated in a puff of screaming smoke and left a black stain on the floor. The smudge on the floor filled John’s view, and his vision contracted to a black pinpoint.
And John regained his vision. The red glare of the sun assaulted his eyes and blurred his vision. Many hands tore at the vines that covered him. The many hands freed John from the poppy tangle and helped him to sit up. And he blinked his vision back into clarity and saw that he was surrounded by many versions of himself. The men all sported the same beards and flowing hair. Their faces were identical to John’s. He reached out and touched one’s face and stared into the eyes and knew that he was looking at himself. And the other John stared back and smiled.
“I’m still dreaming,” said John, his mind reeling from twenty days of ingesting the poppies. “I’m still stuck to the ground and I’m still dreaming. This is just another dream, but much nicer than the last.”
Another John lookalike handed John a skin filled with cool water. The water soothed his scratchy throat and helped to bring more clarity to his poppy-addled brain. “Thank you dream-clone,” said John. He struggled to stand and the other Johns helped him to his feet. “Thank you all. Who are you and why are you here?” But the other Johns said nothing and only nodded at him.
And the red poppies flourished and filled the air with their sweet perfume. But, their spell, having been broken, no longer held sway over John. The scent was pleasant, but it no longer compelled John to eat the flowers. Instead, he only felt thirst. And he quenched the thirst with the entire contents of the water skin that was given to him.
The water washed away the haze in his head. As he looked around, John saw men tearing vines from Joad’s and Alf the Sacred Burro’s unconscious bodies on the ground. Closer inspection showed that the men clearing the vines were more of John’s doppelgangers. Also helping Joad and Alf were carbon copies of Santiago and Joad. They helped Joad and Alf sit up and gave them full skins of cool water to drink. John watched in amazement as the men helped Joad shake off the ill effects of a poppy hangover. Alf sat up, lapped at the water spilling from a skin that a Santiago held for him, and choked on something stuck in his throat. He brayed and blew a spray of water from his lips, and puked up a bloody bezoar that looked more like an enormous, glistening ruby than a donkey vomit-ball.
John looked around and as far as he could see, there were clones of him, Joad and Santiago. And there were donkeys that looked like Alf the Sacred Burro. And the clones all milled about in the red pasture, trampling the flowers and nodding and smiling at each other, but saying nothing. And then from behind him, John heard it…
“Hallllooooooooo!” said the voice, starting low and climbing to a falsetto ewwwwwww. And then Two-Dogs-Fucking burst out in his overly joyous laughter, “Bwaaa-ha-ha-ha.”
And the multitude of Johns and Joads and Santiagos finally made noise, mocking Two-Dogs-Fucking with their own attempt at his laugh. Throughout the valley, the sounds of “Bwaaa-ha-ha-ha” rang out. And the sound went into Alf the Sacred Burro’s ear and pierced his brain like a spike. The donkey rose to his wobbly legs and brayed his loudest in protest. The Alf clones brayed in response. And the braying spurred the men to further mimic the ridiculous laughter.
Two-Dogs-Fucking laughed more, along with the crowd, and then smiled at John. And the teeth missing from his broken smile told a tale of serious injury. In addition to his mouth, Two-Dogs-Fucking sported a multitude of bodily injuries. Scabs covered his arms and legs and torso. Abrasions and contusions and lacerations throbbed and leaked and glared an angry red. Scratches streaked across his face and told of fingernails scraping away flesh and beard. Stretch marks radiated from his chapped lips. The ragged bath towel, cr
uddy with grime and blood and crust, barely clung and hung at his rotund waist, threatening to drop and reveal perhaps even more startling injuries.
Two-Dogs-Fucking held a poppy in his hand and nibbled at its petals.
“Don’t eat those,” John warned, trying to snatch the flower. “They will kill your mind. They will drain you of your will.”
But Two-Dogs-Fucking dodged John’s attempt to take the flower and bit off more petals. “Nonsense,” said the Melungeon with the bloodshot eyes, smiling at John. “I have been eating these all morning and have never felt better. It is amazing the energy that I feel right now.”
And then all around them, the clones of John and Joad and Santiago began dropping to the ground with flowers in their hands and petals falling from their lips. Donkeys fell over on their sides, thumping on the ground. And while the flowers had the opposite of the normal effect on Two-Dogs-Fucking, they managed to lure in the extra Johns, Joads, Santiagos, and Alfs, and knock them unconscious.
“See,” said John, waving his hand at all of the unconscious men on the ground. “See what the flowers will do to you?”
“Funny,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking. And he took another bite of petals from his poppy. “I’m not tired at all.”
“Who are these men?” asked John. “Why do they look like me and Joad and Santiago? Where did all of the donkeys come from? What is going on here?”
“These are your sons,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking. “These are the children you made with the blumpkins. Don’t tell me that you didn’t realize that you were reproducing?”
“Blumpkins,” said John, shaking his head. “The blumpkins made these?”
“Well,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking, “you had a little to do with it, too. Didn’t you, now?” He winked a lascivious wink and let loose with his laugh, “Bwah-ha-ha-ha.”
“So, I screwed some blumpkins and they created adult-sized clones of me?”
“That’s about how it happens,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking. “Except they are just babies at first and then they grow quite rapidly. Your sons are all only one moon’s phase old. They are as physically mature as adults but still are like children intellectually. But all aspects of their development occurs rapidly. Any day now they should be talking and working on complex thoughts. They have all of your knowledge and memories that you imparted when you coupled with the blumpkins. Before you know it, they will be both physical and intellectually on par with you.”
“So that’s how Chelloveck had so many sons,” said John. “And why he was not despondent at the loss of some of them. He really could make more just like them.”
“That sounds right,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking.
“And that’s why Chelloveck was so upset with Santiago,” realized John. “Because he was going to have a small army of Santiagos in his camp. The blumpkins were most important to him and Santiago fouled them with his seed. And to add insult to injury, Chelloveck is going to have to see Santiago’s twitchy, bearded face everywhere he looks.”
“Wouldn’t that upset you?” said Two-Dogs-Fucking.
“I suppose I can see his point,” said John. “But I do find it kind of comforting seeing his face again.” He looked at all of the sleeping Santiagos strewn about in the poppy field and smiled.
“What of the donkeys?”
“What of them?” said Two-Dogs-Fucking. “The donkey also had knowledge of the blumpkins, didn’t he?”
“Okay, maybe that’s more than I want to think about,” said John. He looked at the clones on the ground and shook his head. “So, I’m a father now. Why did you bring them here?”
“I stayed at Aguacaliente at first so that I could be with my Missy Niksik. Oh, she was a beautiful ball of sphincters,” Two-Dogs-Fucking sighed as his countenance took on a dreamy look. “But after several days, our lovemaking was interrupted when your sons began crawling from the springs. And I had to take care of them, feeding them and teaching them to walk and whatnot. I’ll tell you, I was not motivated to get up from my Missy, but I also felt an obligation to your sons. So I nursed them and cleaned them and helped them along.”
“Well, thank you,” said John. And he looked around at the unconscious versions of himself scattered about on the bed of flowers. Powerful feelings welled up in his chest. His eyes leaked warm tears. The sight of his clones moved him. A strong emotion, one he assumed to be fatherly love, burned in him. “Thank you for bringing them here. I assume it must not have been easy.”
“It was not easy,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking. “I neglected my Missy Niksik and one day, she pooted her rotten air, spit one of her teeth at me, and rolled back into her bubbling cesspool. I thought that she was just moistening herself for me. But, before I even realized what had happened, she sank into her puddle and did not return.”
“I’m sorry,” said John. He patted Two-Dogs-Fucking on the shoulder as a showing of sympathy. But the act was not sufficient to comfort the Melungeon. And before John had time to step back, Two-Dogs-Fucking quickly embraced him and cried and snotted into John’s shirt. Uncomfortable and disturbed by the physical interaction with Two-Dogs-Fucking, John patted him awkwardly on the back and said, “there, there.”
And when Two-Dogs-Fucking pulled away from John, his scabs and scars and weeping wounds were gone. The healing touch from John made him healthy again.
And John drew rejuvenating power from the healing. His body buzzed. His senses sharpened. And the grogginess from the poppies evaporated and blew away on the wind.
“I feel much better,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking, talking both about his physical and mental wounds. “It really was a hard time, you know? A gang of lunkheads attacked at Aguacaliente at one point. I did what I had to keep them away. I led them on a chase away from the springs and from the babies. But I tired quickly and had to rest. They caught me while I napped and were awfully rough with me. They had their way with my face and nethers over and over. And I could only pleasure them for so long. I was unable to walk for several days thereafter. It was horrible.” But the tone of his voice sounded as if he were relaying the details of a pleasant meal instead of a brutal rape. He smiled and gazed toward the horizon as he spoke, as if watching for someone. “Just horrible.”
“Well, I thank you,” said John. “These are all my children. And Joad’s and Santiago’s, of course. And Alf’s, too, I guess. You did a fine thing in protecting them. I will not forget that.”
Two-Dogs-Fucking nibbled at his poppy and smiled at John. “I would do it all again…for them, of course.”
John and Joad walked about the poppy pasture, studying their clones in amazement. John knelt down before one of his copies and swept the man’s hair from his closed eyes. He stared at the face and knew that he was looking down at himself. Slapping gently at the face did not rouse the man. Neither did shaking his body. The poppies’ power took hold over the field of unconscious men, and it would be some time before any of them awakened.
A great sadness stirred in John’s chest. For perhaps the first time, John recognized and understood the emotions that bubbled up in him. His heart hurt because he did not have time to stay and tend to his children. But, the river of clouds above resumed its flow and the current of the path pulled at John. Though conflicted, an urgency compelled him toward Android Lovethorn. And he decided that he could not wait.
“I need you to stay with the children,” said John to Two-Dogs-Fucking and Joad. “They will need you. And I have a feeling that I’m going to need them. So stay and tend to them. Be here for them when they wake and do not let them eat any more flowers.”
“You cannot go up the mountain alone,” said Joad, and his deep voice cracked with heartfelt concern. “I will go with you. I will fight for you. I will fight with you if you try to stop me.”
John said, “No, I have to go by myself. I’m not worried about Lovethorn’s soldiers. You don’t need to protect me from them. They won’t harm me. I’ll cut through them like the birds through the sky. Android Lovethorn cannot keep me away. I just know thi
s. And I know that I have to go alone.”
Joad wrinkled up his bony brow and cleared his throat while he gathered his thoughts. His voice, deep and muffled and forceful, flowed slowly from his chapped lips like lava down a slight incline, “Nothing ever exists entirely alone; everything is in relation to everything else. I will stay here with our children. But, I will be with you, too. My spirit carries on the flow of the path with you. My will is born over to your plan. I am here and I am with you. You will not go entirely alone; an empty sack cannot stand upright; a wheel is useless without its spokes. I am your spokes and I am the content of your sack. I will be with you, no matter where I am.”
“I, too, will be with you in spirit,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking. “I will do anything that I have to. I don’t even care if more lunkheads come along. I will divert and distract them, even if it means them ravishing me again.”
“That will not be necessary,” said Joad, smashing a fist into his open hand. “I can take care of any problems that come along.”
Disappointment washed over Two-Dogs-Fucking. In a flat tone, he said, “That is quite a relief. I don’t know that I would survive another attack from those beasts.” He crammed the rest of his flower into his mouth and ground it between his molars. His already slumping shoulders sloped even more.
“You won’t be left behind,” said John to his friends. Alf the Sacred Burro nudged up against him and rubbed his ratty head against John’s hand. “I take you all with me here,” and he placed his hand over his heart. “But I have to go alone. And I need you to stay with the children and be ready. If I need help, I’ll scorch the sky with fire and rain down lightning. You will know that your time has come when I send my signal. And when that time comes, bring our children and bring your fury on all that block your path. And we will be together again when it is all done.”
And John was on the road again, followed only by Alf the Sacred Burro. John reluctantly turned his back to his children and friends and set to walking the path again. Poppies grew thick on El Camino de la Muerte and obscured the road. John kept his eyes on the winding river of clouds above to make sure he followed the trail. The road emerged from the poppy pasture and snaked up the mountain. The bricks, now free of the poppy vines, glowed a bright red in the glaring sunlight. Far above him, John could see a dark fortress near the top of the mountain. Behind him, John knew nothing of the arrival of Three Tooth’s tribe at the poppy field.
Sloughing Off the Rot Page 19
