Candlemas Eve

by Sackett, Jeffrey

  Lucas sighed with disappointment. "Nothin's happening."

  Karyn laughed. "Well, what did you expect? Some corpse to come trotting into the church?"

  "Wait a minute," Jeremy said. "Wait a minute. . . . Listen. Do you hear that?"

  They listened. "I don't hear anything," Karyn said.

  "No, neither do I," Jeremy agreed. "The wind has stopped."

  Lucas and Karyn listened more carefully. It was true. The wind, which had been whipping through the small town for hours, casting bundles of snow against the windows and the homes, had suddenly ceased. The silence was profound and unnerving.

  "Creepy," Karyn whispered.

  "Yeah," Lucas agreed. "Real creepy."

  As if propelled by a sudden explosion, a ferocious gust of wind thrust open the front door of the church and assaulted them with an almost vicious power. The candles were immediately extinguished, and a cold, biting winter wind wrapped the three naked people in its icy tendrils. "Shit!" Lucas shouted. "Where the hell are our clothes! I'm gonna freeze to death like this!" He began to grope about in the darkness.

  "Oh, Lukie, don't be such a—" Karyn began, and then screamed. "LUCAS! LUCAS! SOMETHING'S CLAWING AT MY HEAD!" She screamed again as a pair of wings beat the air around her ears and sharp talons scraped against her scalp. "IT'S A BAT! IT’S A BAT! LUCAS!"

  Lucas and Jeremy collided with each other in the darkness in their attempts to get to Karyn. "Sloan, turn on some lights in here, will you?"

  "But my uncle might see—" Jeremy began.

  "Fuck your uncle! Turn on some fuckin' lights!" In the blackness Lucas could hear Jeremy's footsteps as he rushed to the rear of the church, and then Lucas's screams mingled with Karyn's as wings began to beat near his eyes and he felt a claw rip through his forehead. "JESUS CHRIST!" he shouted. "MY HEAD IS BLEEDING! SLOAN! SLOAN! HURRY UP!" And he screamed again.

  The lights of the church interior switched on, and Lucas was startled at the blood which was dripping from his forehead onto his hands. "Shit! Shit!" he said. "What the hell . . ."

  "Look. Up there," Jeremy said, pointing at the rafters. "It isn't bats. It’s a couple of birds."

  Karyn and Lucas followed the direction of his finger. Two large black birds sat serenely upon one of the rafters beneath the roof of the church. "What are they?" Karyn asked. "Crows?"

  "One of them is," Jeremy answered. "I think the other one's a raven."

  "Well, what the fuck are they doing here?" Lucas asked bitterly. "Aren't they supposed to fly south or something?"

  "Yeah," Jeremy nodded. "These two are probably lost or late or—I don't know. I ain't no bird-watcher."

  "But why did they attack us?" Karyn asked, beginning to weep.

  "The wind probably blew them in when it blew the door open, and they panicked."

  "They ain't the only ones," Lucas said bitterly. "Look at me. Shit!"

  "Oh, honey!" Karyn said, noticing for the first time Lucas's state. "My God, are you all right?"

  "What do you mean, am I all right!" he shouted. "I'm bleeding, for Christ's sake! My fuckin' head's ripped open!"

  "Let me see," Jeremy said calmly. If he was less adventurous than Lucas, he was also less easily flustered by emergencies. "It ain't too bad," he said as he examined the cut. "The bird just grazed you."

  "Just grazed me!" Lucas exclaimed. "Are you nuts?! Look at all this blood!"

  Jeremy shook his head. "It isn't a deep wound, it's just long. I'll bet it won't even leave a scar. You ought to clean it up, though."

  "Do I need rabies shots?" Lucas asked in a panicky voice. "Do birds carry rabies?"

  "No," Jeremy replied. "Only mammals. But you should clean it out right away, before it gets a chance to get infected."

  "Yeah," Karyn agreed as she began to collect her clothing. "Let's get the hell out of here. This is one night I'd like to end right now." She began to dress.

  "Well," Lucas muttered as he daubed his head with the handkerchief he had pulled from the pants which he was holding, "until those birds freaked out it wasn't bad. It was kinda fun, wasn't it?"

  "Yeah," said Jeremy, recalling Rowena's face as she ran out of the church, "lots of fun." He looked around for his clothes and found them where he had left them. He began to put them on.

  "Come on, honey, let's go home," Karyn said after pulling on her boots. "We gotta get that cut fixed up."

  "Yeah, yeah." He turned to Jeremy. "You need any help here?"

  Jeremy shook his head. "No. I'm just gonna leave everything like it is, open door and busted communion table and everything."

  "But your uncle—"

  "The wind blew the door open, shattered that old lock. He'll just think the wind knocked the table over also, busted it up."

  Lucas nodded. "Makes sense. Listen, I'll come over tomorrow and help you repair it."

  "No need, no need," Jeremy said. "Thanks anyway. Just needs some glue."

  "Lukie, let's go!" Karyn demanded.

  "Okay, okay. You comin', Jeremy?"

  "Yeah. Just let me turn of the lights. Gather up the candles and that cup. Don't forget your father's book."

  "No, no, I won't," Lucas replied as he walked about, picking things up from the floor and the pew. "Hey, won't Dad get a kick out of this when we tell him about it?"

  "Lucas!" Karyn snapped. "You will not mention this episode to your father!"

  "He won't care, Karyn. He'll think it's all kinda funny, what with the wind and the birds and everything—"

  "Lucas!" she repeated threateningly. "You will not tell your father what we did here tonight! I have to look the man in the face, you know. Just because I go along with the nutty things you think up all the time doesn't mean that I want to broadcast it all over the place!"

  "All right, all right! Jesus!" he said, quite disgruntled. "First Row brings her wet blanket in here, then you two start gettin' to be drags, then those fuckin' birds mess everything up, and now we can't even tell anybody about all of it." He sniffed. "Well, my night's ruined!"

  "Poor Lukie!" Karyn and Jeremy said in unison as they walked out the front door of the church.

  "Ah, fuck you guys," he muttered.

  Before walking away from the church back out into the still-heavy snowfall, Jeremy cast a last look up at the rafters of the church. He reached over to the light switch on the wall beside the door and turned on the lights in the entrance way. These afforded illumination sufficient for him to see the two birds still perched upon the rafters. They stared at him impassively as he looked up at them. "Dumb birds," he said softly, and laughed. "Scared the hell out of us." He switched of the light and left.

  The birds remained seated upon the rafters in the darkness of the now deserted church. After a few moments the raven began to preen itself. The crow continued to stare at the door.

  Chapter Seven

  November 1

  The early morning fog had descended upon the river valley shortly before three, and the automobile which had already been moving cautiously along the narrow, winding country roads moved even more slowly as the visibility became increasingly poor. The chubby, freckle-faced young woman who was driving muttered under her breath with annoyance. Her companion, a skinny, acne-scarred woman of about the same age, turned to her and said, "What?"

  "Hmmm?" was the reply.

  "What did you say?"

  "I said 'Goddamn fog.' That what I said," she spat. "Oh," the other woman replied. They drove along in silence through the dim half-light of the empty hours between darkness and dawn, the first woman straining her eyes to pierce through the dense mist, the second woman biting her nails nervously and drumming her fingers on the dashboard. "How much longer?" the second woman asked.

  "I don't know. An hour, maybe. I'm not certain where we are."

  "Would have been quicker if we'd taken the highway instead of these little—"

  "I know that," the first woman said irritably. "It just looked shorter on the map. How was I supposed to know that we'd be driving on th
ese winding mountain roads? And I couldn't very well have predicted the fog, either."

  They fell silent again for a few moments. Then the second woman asked, "Do you think he'll be expecting us?"

  "He should be," the first woman replied. "We sent him a letter."

  "How do you think he feels about having us try to—"

  "How the hell should I know?" the first woman interrupted. "We'll find out when we . . ." She stopped speaking and slowed the car.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing." She shook her head. "It just seems . . . look up there, in the middle of the road. You see anything up there?"

  "No," she replied, squinting. "Just fog and the yellow line."

  "Look along the line. Up ahead. Is that people?"

  The second woman paused. "Yeah," she said dubiously. "Yeah, I think so. Maybe."

  Two black shadows seemed to be standing in the midst of the swirling fog, visible dimly in the inadequate headlamps of the car which now crawled toward them at a snail's pace. When the car was no more than six feet from the two figures, the first woman stopped the car and leaned out the window. "Hey, assholes! You wanna get out of the way?"

  One of the two figures approached slowly, seeming to float gracefully through the mist. The driver glared at her angrily, but then became uneasy as the figure drew close to the window. The black cloak which the figure wore was wrapped around it from head to foot, with only the sparkling green eyes visible through the narrow slit formed by the folds of the black fabric. "Come," said the deep, rich, melodious female voice. The second figure remained motionless in the center of the road.

  "Come!" echoed the driver. "Are you kidding? Get the hell out of the way!"

  "You serve the Dark One, " the melodious voice said. "You must come."

  "Listen, asshole," the driver said, "you tell your friend there to get out of the way, or I'm gonna drive right over her." As she spoke, her companion nervously locked the doors of the car and made certain that her window was rolled up tightly.

  The figure leaned over and gazed into the driver's eyes. The woman behind the wheel grew suddenly weak as the green fire of the figure's gaze burned into her. "Come," the figure repeated.

  "L-listen," the woman said shakily, "we're g-going to see Simon Proctor. We're—"

  "I know whither you go, and why," the figure said. "You go not of your own volition. You go unknowing to serve the Dark One."

  "Are—are you a friend of Proctor's?" the second woman asked.

  The figure laughed softly, a laugh without humor, a cold, frightening laugh. "Aye, I am a friend of the Proctors'. An old, old friend." She paused, and the laughter ceased. "You must come."

  "Come where?" asked the driver, shaking as the green eyes bored deeper into her.

  "To serve the Dark One," the figure replied. "Come!"

  The driver reached forward spasmodically and switched off the engine. Not knowing why she was doing so, she opened the door and stepped out into the night fog. "Get back in here this instant!" her companion said. "What do you think you're doing?"

  The green eyes turned on her and gazed at her, and the second woman felt her limbs grow weak and her heart begin to beat fast with fear. "Okay," she muttered. "Okay, okay—just—just—"

  "Come," the black-cloaked figure repeated in the same soft, patient, but unrelenting voice. The second woman opened the door of the car and followed her companion into the swirling fog. "Come," the figure repeated yet again, and then began to move slowly from the road off into the woods which bounded it. The two women followed the figure, and the other shadow which had until then stood motionless before the car followed behind them.

  In silence they walked deep into the woods until they came to a small clearing in the midst of which burned a smoky fire of twigs and sticks. "Sit," said the cloaked figure.

  The two women looked around at the snow-covered ground. "Sit on what?" the second woman asked.

  "Sit," the figure repeated. After looking discontentedly at each other for a moment, the two women sat down upon the snow. In a matter of seconds the moist cold began to seep through their clothes. The figure turned to her counterpart and said, "I shall dream and you shall summon."

  "You shall dream and I shall summon," the other agreed quietly.

  The two figures sat down in front of the fire and began to chant softly in a language unknown to the two bemused, nervous women. The chant went on for a long while, and then there was silence but for the crackling of the dying fire. A sound from deep in the black forest startled the two women, and they looked around them uneasily. A third black-cloaked figure emerged from the darkness and asked, "Who has released me?" It was a man's voice, old and tremulous.

  "I," said the second figure.

  "To what end?" the third figure asked.

  "You know," the second figure replied.

  The third figure nodded. "Aye, I ken, I ken. Know that I am Thomas of old Elcebourne, hight the Rhymer. I shall teach you what I may."

  "I know," said the second figure.

  "How long am I free of the pit?"

  "You are free at the Master's pleasure," the second figure replied, "as are we."

  The third figure looked around him. "And what is here? What do these others?"

  "She sends forth her spirit," the second figure said, nodding in the direction of her companion. "These others serve in ways they know not."

  "As did we all," the third figure said sadly.

  "As did we all," the second figure agreed.

  The third figure remained standing as silence descended once again upon the small company. One of the women began to ask a question, but a peremptory "Shhh!" from the second figure silenced her, and she and her friend sat, cold and shivering, upon the snow in the dark wintry silence.

  An hour passed, and the fire died out. The two women huddled together for warmth. Each tried to rise at one time or another throughout the dim dawn hours, but neither could get her legs to move. At last the first figure snapped its head up and said," 'Tis done. The seed is planted."

  "All is well?" the second figure asked.

  "All is as I had hoped," the first figure replied. She glanced over at the third figure, which still stood at the edge of the woods. "The Rhymer," she said, a statement, not a question.

  "Aye," the third figure replied.

  The first figure rose to its feet and moved slowly over to the two seated women. "Whom do you serve?" she asked.

  "Satan," the women replied in unison, their teeth chattering and their limbs numb with the cold.

  "Then know that he has chosen you to perform a service," the first figure said as she walked around and took a position behind the two women. "Be joyful in his service."

  The two women looked at each other in confusion, and then both turned their heads upward so as to be able to see the shadowy figure which was addressing them. The figure reached up and grasped the edge of the black cape which was wrapped about its head. With a rapid yet graceful motion it whipped the cape around and discarded it. The two women screamed, for the piercing green eyes which had so overpowered them were set into the sockets of a decaying skull.

  The women rolled over onto their hands and knees, still screaming, trying to force their numb limbs to move, trying to crawl away from the grinning monstrosity which gazed down upon them. The creature reached beneath its cloak and drew forth a dagger. It leapt upon the back of one of the women and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her head upward and forcing her to gaze into its eyes. And then it placed the edge of the dagger against the left side of the woman's throat and drew it across to the right. The blood from the severed neck spurted onto the white ground. The creature then jumped onto the other woman and, rolling her over onto her back, plunged the dagger into her chest.

  The creature rose to its feet and faced the other two figures. "We must begin," it said.

  "We have begun," the second figure said softly, a hint of sadness in its voice.

  "Give me heed," said the third figure
, "and mark well my words . . ."

  Simon Proctor awakened in a cold sweat. He bolted upright in his bed and his eyes darted frantically around the room. His muscles were tense and his body was shaking. Then he seemed to relax, and he wiped his brow with his hand.

  "Holy shit, what a dream!" he said aloud, softly.

  Simon grabbed the small clock from the night table beside the bed and looked at the illuminated dial. Four-thirty in the morning. He glanced over at the window, at the snowfall and the few dim rays of the incipient sunrise. A wave of tension struck him and he reached over to the lamp on the night table. He turned on the light, and became immediately calmed by the familiar surroundings.

  "What a dream!" he repeated. He turned off the light and lay back down, but a sudden impulse warned him against going back to sleep. "Think I'll make some coffee," he said to himself. "Have a drink, maybe."

  He turned the light back on and fumbled with his toes for the slippers beneath the bed. He had been sleeping in his underpants, as was his custom, and he pulled on an old pair of dungarees before leaving his bedroom to go down to the kitchen.

  He walked down the second floor hallway of the old colonial inn and stopped in front of the door to Rowena's room. He pushed it open as quietly as he could manage and peered inside. He was able to see the sleeping form dimly in the dark, quiet room, and satisfied that his daughter was sleeping soundly, he pulled the door softly shut and continued on down the hall. He did not stop before Lucas's door—he has Karyn in there after all; don't want to intrude— and then began to descend the stairs.

  Simon turned on the kitchen light and walked over to the coffee pot. Pulling off the lid, he could see that it had not been washed since the previous morning. The prospect of doing dishes soured him on the idea of having coffee, so he instead took a bottle of brandy from the cupboard above the sink and poured himself a generous glass. He sat down at the kitchen table and poured some of the fiery liquid down his throat.

  "What are you doin' up this time of night, boy?" his father's voice demanded. Floyd was standing in the doorway, his bent and shriveled body clad in an old-fashioned, long nightshirt. He was probably the last man in the United States who still wore a nightcap.