Inflictions

by John McIlveen

  “We better find us some water and a place to pack up for the night,” Lucas said. “Before somethin’ disgustin’ happens.”

  “Okee-dokee Lukie-wookie,” Tommy chimed.

  “Boy?”

  “Un-huh?” Tommy giggled.

  “You call me that again, I’ll shoot you.”

  Tommy giggled again.

  In another hour they had arrived on the southern edge of the San Andreas, and the prospects of finding water and a safe haven had faded with the daylight. Tommy had fortunately lapsed into silence when the sun set. His chin was a discomfort on Lucas’s shoulder, but it was better than the serenade, especially since Tommy still had a handful of Lucas.

  “Ain’t lookin’ too good, boy.”

  “Hmpff,” said the drunken Tommy. “Wha?”

  “Place for us to set camp.”

  Tommy clicked his tongue thickly. “I woulda shet camp in the canyon. It looked all cozy and romantic. No one woulda found ush there,” he slurred.

  “What canyon?”

  “Back yonder.” Tommy motioned with a lazy arm. “The mountain pash.”

  “I didn’t see no canyon.”

  “Thash what I mean. Wassh hidden real good.”

  They backtracked for half an hour until they came upon the canyon. It was an unforeseen gash in the cap rock that remained invisible unless you were specifically looking for it … or apparently if you were three sheets to the wind. Tommy nipped Lucas’s earlobe and Lucas eyed him warily.

  “What’s on yer mind, boy?”

  “Nushin,” said Tommy. He laid his head on Lucas’s shoulder.

  Lucas spurred the horse. “Git on, Nomad!”

  “Git on Nonads,” Tommy added.

  The horse stopped cold.

  “Aw, don’t go insultin’ my horse. He’s sensitive about that.”

  “Shorry.”

  Lucas had to bite Nomad’s ear to get him moving again. Nomad was influenced by teeth.

  They rode a mile into the canyon and had the good fortune of finding a mountain spring carving its way through the desiccated soil. Lucas and Tommy dismounted the horse and all three of them quenched their thirst at the spring.

  It was while Lucas was bent over the water to fill his costrels that Nomad sidestepped and brought one of his massive hooves down on Lucas’s right boot, shattering a couple of the bones in Lucas’s foot.

  Lucas howled in pain. “Git off my foot, you nutless lummox!”

  Nomad paid no heed. He snorted in the water as if he found it all quite humorous.

  “Don’t just sit there, you knob-buffing idiot!” Lucas screamed at Tommy. “Help me!”

  Tommy knelt drunkenly over the stream, either uncomprehending or too drunk to care.

  “What’s the matter with you, you fur-coated imbecile? Get off my foot before I bite yer dick off!”

  Nomad looked numbly at Lucas, seeming to calculate the gravity of his threat. He removed his hoof from Lucas’s crushed foot, but not before applying his entire bodyweight.

  Lucas sprung up as the release of weight brought about another blossoming inferno of agony. He hopped around, clutching his injured foot, and spouting off a string of obscenities as long as a novel. He sat on a large boulder and tenderly peeled his boot from his throbbing foot, which was swollen and turning ugly shades of purple and black. Nomad and Tommy watched with muted interest.

  “You broke my gawd-darn foot!” Lucas hollered.

  Nomad turned away and began grazing indifferently on some shrubs bordering the stream.

  “Boy, reach into my saddle bag, the one on the right side,” Lucas ordered. “Grab me something to wrap this with … and my other flask of whiskey.”

  Tommy became alert at the mention of another bottle. He stumbled over to Nomad and extracted the bottle and a blue pair of trapdoors. After awarding himself a healthy swallow, he handed the bottle and clothing to Lucas. Lucas wrapped his foot tightly using a dried branch for a splint. He downed most of the whiskey to relieve the pain and had Tommy gather his blanket and a bag of cash to use as a pillow. Tommy polished off the rest of the bottle.

  “Nomad!” Lucas called, and was answered with a snort. “Daylight!”

  Lucas had trained Nomad to wake him at the crack of dawn when prompted with this keyword. Nomad proved dependable. Lucas wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down, weary from the hectic day.

  “Don’t try anything funny during the night, boy,” Lucas warned. He waved his gun. “These here bullets move a might faster than you do.”

  Lucas figured Tommy would slip away while he slept, which wasn’t a concern. Not that he could give chase anyhow. Just as Lucas’s thoughts started melting into the dream world, he felt the boy slip under the blanket beside him.

  “Whatcha doing?” Lucas asked, warily.

  “Nushin. I’m cold.”

  “Well, go cuddle up near Nomad.”

  “No blanket.”

  “Too bad.”

  “But, you’re sho warm and cushy,” Tommy said. His breath, sour with whiskey, made Lucas nauseated. Tommy ran his hand over Lucas’s stomach. Lucas sprung upright, pain flaring through his foot as hot as a branding iron.

  “AHHHH! You get away from me, you pecker-polishing heap of shit!” he bellowed, his voice carrying like a rifle shot throughout the canyon.

  “No blanket,” Tommy whined. He sat up and spread a geyser of puke across the blanket.

  “You can have the blanket,” Lucas said.

  Lucas’s sleep was limited by the cold and the repeated spikes of pain every time he moved his foot. He had finally dozed off, aided by another half-flask of whiskey. He dreamt of standing beneath a waterfall, the warm water washing over him, cleansing his hair, his body, his face, tasting the salty water …

  Warm? Salty?

  Lucas opened his eyes. They instantly filled, blurring his vision. He wiped at his face and cleared his sight in time to see the falling stone just before it landed on his forehead. The concussion was devastating, but Lucas surprised himself by staying conscious. He kicked out, trying to remove himself from the assault, but pain ripped through him, reminding him of his injury. Lucas thought he heard laughter.

  “Nomad!” Lucas hollered.

  The horse released another boulder of shit onto Lucas’s forehead. When Lucas regained his bearings, Nomad was standing at Lucas’s feet, watching him impassively.

  “What’s the matter with you, you half-brained jackass? You been chewin’ on peyote?” Lucas roared. “What you pissing and shittin’ on my head for? I ought to shoot you where you stand. Would, if I didn’t need you.”

  Lucas sat up and pulled his injured foot to him. “Nutless beast,” he mumbled.

  A crazy fire lighted Nomad’s eyes. He turned and walked away, crushing Lucas’s other foot on the way. Lucas grabbed his left foot, threw his head back and howled in agony.

  Lucas heard laughter again … a lot of laughter. He looked up to see at least twenty Apaches gathered before him, all astride horses. They laughed openly, enjoying Nomad’s antics at his expense. At the head of the pack, perched straight and dauntless on his steed, Cochise stared severely at Lucas. His eyes, coal-like and indecipherable from beneath his notorious headband, turned toward Nomad and then to Tommy.

  “Oh, shit,” Lucas mumbled, nursing his mashed foot. “What do you want with me?”

  He tried to keep his voice firm and his stare direct, but the morning sun glared harshly over Cochise’s shoulder, and Lucas had to squint to see the Apache chief.

  “Why do you travel these lands?” the Apache leader asked.

  “I’m riding from Las Cruces to Alamogordo to see Doctor Hanson.”

  “A doctor. For your foot?” Cochise asked. The hint of a smile raised the corners of his mouth.

  Tommy stood slowly, and all eyes turned distrustfully to him. Two braves pointed rifles at the boy.

  “Uh …” Tommy said cautiously. “It’s Doc Hanson. He’s a barber.”

  “A barber?” roa
red Lucas, realizing he’d been played for a fool. He scratched his burning crotch and all guns aimed at him.

  “He’s got the critters,” explained Tommy.

  “A barber?” repeated Lucas.

  “Critters?” asked Cochise.

  “Where he’s scratching,” Tommy said.

  “You have bugs on your baby-maker?” Cochise’s smile grew and many of his men chuckled. “Are there no barbers in Las Cruces?”

  Lucas looked to Tommy for an answer.

  “Well, uh, yes, but Lucas McAdams is not exactly wanted in town.”

  “You’re Lucas McAdams?” asked Cochise, apparently familiar with the name.

  Lucas nodded.

  “You?” Cochise grinned widely now. “Little man with big mouth?”

  “I said yes.”

  “You nodded,” said Tommy.

  “What you doing boy?” Lucas asked, eyeing Tommy.

  “He killed my father,” he said to Cochise, pointing at Lucas. “I’m Tommy Lawson. He was gunning for my brother, Bobby, and killed my father Bob Lawson instead.”

  “Yer father?” Lucas raged.

  “Shut up, little big mouth,” said Cochise.

  Lucas did.

  “Why have you not avenged you father?” asked Cochise.

  “I planned to, when I got the chance. I have no gun.”

  Cochise looked to one of his warriors and motioned him to give Tommy his rifle.

  As Tommy moved toward the Apache, Nomad released a tremendous whinny. Cochise raised his hand and everybody stopped. He dismounted his steed and walked up to Nomad, who pranced excitedly in place. He pulled the horse’s head down to meet him eye to eye. They stared at each other momentarily and Cochise released the horse with an understanding grunt.

  “I see,” said Cochise. “It is done. An Apache doesn’t stand between a man and his revenge.”

  Tommy and Lucas looked at the horse, baffled, as Cochise returned to his mount.

  “His spirit searches for release,” said Cochise. “Tie him up,” he instructed Tommy.

  Tommy took a coil of rope from Nomad’s saddlebag and tied Lucas’s hands and feet securely. He moved toward Nomad and looked at his eyes. The horse returned the gaze.

  “Dad?” Tommy asked.

  “Hmmm.” Cochise grunted and with a wave of his hand the great warrior led his men out of the canyon.

  Lucas, Tommy and Nomad watched as the Apaches disappeared around a bend in the canyon.

  “Good! Now untie me!”

  Nomad snorted and swung his head repeatedly. Tommy recognized the gesture, and followed the route the Apaches took.

  “Come back, you coward!” Lucas screamed from behind him. “Don’t leave me here with this monster! Tommy! I have money! Lots of it! You can have it!”

  There was the sound of a scuffle, which Tommy ignored.

  “Tommy! We can cuddle! Honest! Ow! Leave me alone, you nutless mound of dog food! Ow! Mommmmyyyy!”

  Tommy fought the desire to look back as a bloodcurdling shriek echoed throughout the canyon, but knew it was best not to. He thought of Kitty and sang love songs to block out the cries, and he wept for his departed father.

  An hour later, Tommy was pulled from his reverie by the sound of hooves as Nomad galloped up beside him.

  “Dad?” he asked, but the horse looked blankly at him, the intelligent shine had left Nomad’s eyes. He was merely a horse again.

  Nomad lowered his head and dropped something to the ground.

  Tommy looked at the fleshy, blood-soaked package and the countless critters scurrying frantically over it. Tommy understood.

  “I guess he owed you that, huh?”

  Tommy climbed on Nomad and headed for Las Cruces.

  Finding Forever

  Henderson silently smiles as he approaches the immense stairway. Slabs of stacked dark granite loom before him, seeming to expand and steepen as he gets closer. He sprints up the stairs, accidentally spilling some ale from a bottle he carries. He mechanically mouths thirty-six as his foot settles on the landing. He isn’t aware that he had counted the treads, and he’s a little surprised by the height from the top. A part of him wants to double check the number of steps, but he’s in a hurry. He is late for his appointment.

  Although he is a tall man, rugged and athletic, the huge granite landing and the massive set of heavy oak doors make him feel irrelevant. It is a sensation that is uncommon to him. Gothic sconces of hammered iron are mounted on either side of the doors, slanted forward like medieval leering condors. A subdued orange glow oozes through narrow slots in the lamps, contributing too little lighting to the murky surroundings.

  The forged iron door handles are cold, weighty, and solid, with a flowing curve that fails to add delicacy. Simple engravings of fish, crosses, and doves adorn the handles and back plates—iconic symbols of Christianity. They seem a product of the same mind that created the sconces. Henderson pulls open the weighty door to the cathedral and enters a silent antechamber that offers entry to the inner cathedral through a set of sturdy interior doors. A large bulletin board mounted to the dark mahogany walls looms to the left. It is riddled with computer printouts of benefit drives and from parishioners promoting goods or services: blood drive Saturday/Sunday, babysitter available nights and weekends – call Jenny, Dell laptop for sale – software included. They’re as conspicuous as weeds in a rose garden, an obscene testament to a contemporary age. The antechamber is otherwise empty and has the gloomy and cold atmosphere common to churches … especially older ones. It humors him that Christianity, a faith that regularly refers to the light, is represented by so much darkness. I am the light, walk in the light, the Lord is my light, let there be light. We’ll leave the light on for you, Henderson thinks and chuckles.

  He pours his remaining ale into the stoup mounted beside the doorway to the main worship hall. Challenged as to where to put the empty bottle, he sets it in the stoup as well and then strides through the doorway and along the nave, his footsteps ringing hollow and as loud as hoofbeats in the vast emptiness of the cathedral.

  A solitary figure sits alone in the dusky distance of the front row of pews. As Henderson approaches, the silhouette becomes a man, and then even more distinguishable as his black shirt and white clerical collar becomes visible. The young priest crosses himself and looks up as Henderson reaches the first row. He is handsome in an earthy, country-boy way, with curly light-brown hair, ruddy cheeks, and a fresh complexion. A baby-face, some would say.

  “Father Lowery?” asks Henderson.

  The priest stands up and extends a compact hand. “Ah yes, you must be Patrick White. How can I help you, Mr. White?”

  The priest motions for Henderson to have a seat. He obliges and sits hunkered forward, nervously kneading his hands.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice, Father,” Henderson says.

  “Nonsense. It’s what I’m here for, Patrick.”

  Nonsense is what I’m here for, Henderson nearly chuckles. It’s amusing how the smallest of tweaks can completely alter the meaning of words … like in the Bible. He smiles appreciatively and offers a contemplative look.

  “I hear you’re a healer,” says Henderson.

  “Not me, I am simply a vessel through which our Lord God works.” Father Lowery says and smiles humbly.

  “Ahhh, yes. Of course you are.” Henderson hesitates and considers his words. “You see, Father. I’m having a little bit of … trouble. I need to know, Father Lowery. Are you an honorable man? I mean, do you live for and by the cloth?”

  Father Lowery’s brow furrows, a little surprised by the question. He says, “I’ve always tried to serve our Lord with supreme devotion. I believe in my heart that he is pleased with my service to him.”

  “In your heart. Good … good. Dedication is very important.” Henderson looks at the young priest. “You see, I’ve got this … predicament.” He repositions himself, turning more to face the priest. “You might think this is crazy, b
ut there’s this ancient shrine tucked away in an Egyptian village that I’ve recently visited, and it seems there’s a queen who is mummified and entombed there. The locals believe she’s a real high-maintenance sort of gal, but the story goes that whoever pleases her most will be rewarded with great wealth and immortality.”

  Father Lowery sighs deeply and rests a comforting hand on Henderson’s shoulder. “Patrick, the scriptures teach us that we are all immortal, and those who aspire to heaven will reap the wealth of Paradise for eternity. God has promised this to us all. We don’t need to seek other … pagan means to obtain these rewards.”

  Henderson says, “Well, that’s all well and dandy, Father, but that’s not where my problem lies. What I need is to know for certain is whether you are a truly holy man or not. The last priest I relied on wasn’t. He was crooked as a bobby pin, and I think maybe he had a taste for the little boys, which seems a common quandary among your sort, am I wrong?”

  Skepticism clouds Father Lowery’s face. “I fail to see where …” he starts saying, but Henderson interrupts.

  “Father, you’re missing the point. The last priest, he put on a good show, but underneath it all he was a dirt bag; had a soiled heart. Naunet will only accept a holy man with a truly pure heart.” Henderson draws a large blade from within his blazer and drives it upward, beneath the priest’s ribs. He leans forward and whispers into the Father Lowery’s ear. “It pisses me off when people waste my time. I hope you’re not wasting my time, Father.”

  The priest’s body twitches as his blood runs over the knife handle and onto his attacker’s hand. Henderson reaches into his left pocket and retrieves two matching emeralds. He rubs his hands together coating the gems with the still warm fluid and drops them into a small pouch.

  Utter darkness. All is silent except for the sound of slow, tortured breaths rattling damply with illness. The air is fetid and damp, and reeks of moss and disease.

  A heavy, metallic clack breaks the silence. It is distant, but echoes loudly throughout the vast chamber, startling the sickly breather. A great latch activates, followed by the distinct sound of a heavy door opening laboriously on ancient hinges, the stubborn scraping of stones and primeval rust. An unsteady yellow light is born into the stale vault as the door is wrestled open. A figure enters carrying an excruciatingly bright lamp, though a candle would glare like the sun to the breather, who hasn’t seen light in what feels like eternities.