by J. R. Mabry
“Sacrifice ’em!” one of the sycophants exclaimed. The outburst was met by several cheers. A couple of people even held up mugs to toast the notion, but whether they contained liquor or coffee Richard couldn’t tell.
“You don’t need them awake for that. They’ll still sacrifice just fine. Whatever magickal working you’re planning, their blood will be just as efficacious unconscious as conscious. Plus…they’ll be easier to manage. I mean, who needs all the screaming and thrashing about? I hate it when a victim squirms off the altar in mid-sacrifice, don’t you?”
The Goat King’s eyes narrowed as he considered Richard. It was obvious that he didn’t know what to make of the friar, but he also looked so angry Richard thought he might rupture an internal organ.
“Are you even doing a real magickal working?” Richard asked. “Because most magickians I know wouldn’t care about whether the victims were conscious, so long as the blood was real and alive and virginal. Or…” Richard cocked his head. “Oh, I get it. It’s because you won’t get to see the fear in their eyes as you raise the knife.” Richard feigned a look of pity. “Poor baby. I wish I could say I feel for you, but that would just be silly.”
“When they get here, you will wake them up,” the Goat King seethed. “I want them awake for our feast.”
“I can’t wake them up, because they’re not asleep. They’re truly elsewhere.”
“Then go and bring them back!”
Richard stroked his chin theatrically again. “Um…No.”
“I swear by the god of goats I will kill them right now.”
“You do that. But you can’t actually hurt them. They’re safe.”
“I will kill their bodies!”
Richard shrugged. “They’ll get other bodies. Or haven’t you ever heard of the resurrection of the dead?”
“Bring them back or I’ll kill you!”
Richard hesitated. If I die now, I’ll never be famous. I’ll never get the glory I deserve. He felt a wave of shame come over him the moment he had the thought.
“Ah, I see you have something to live for,” the Goat King’s lip curled up into something between a smile and a grimace. “Bring them back. Now.”
Richard struggled. He closed his eyes and saw himself on the beach with Jesus.
Jesus’ smile was kind and sad. “This is a fine kettle of fish.”
Richard sighed. You should have warned me about days like these.
“You wouldn’t have believed it.”
You’re probably right about that.
“But even so…did you think this would be a walk in the park? When I said, ‘Pick up your cross and follow me,’ did you think that would lead to fame and fortune? Really? I’m sorry to break it to you, but it only leads to a cross.”
Jesus’ words landed like a blow to the gut. Jesus grasped Richard’s hands roughly. “And not a metaphorical cross. Not ‘Oh, sometimes life will be hard.’ Following me can lead to your death, if you do it right.” He chuckled. “I ought to come with a warning sticker.”
Jesus lifted Richard’s chin so that he was looking into his eyes. “But it doesn’t end there. This Goat King, as he calls himself? His name is Jerry. Until last week he lived with his mom. He just got fired from the last remaining video store in Berkeley. He is ridiculous. All tyrants are. You have absolutely nothing to be afraid of. Trust me. Lean on me. Lean on me hard, like you’ve never leaned before. Don’t be worried about what to say, just open your mouth and I’ll do the rest.”
Richard’s eyes snapped open. “No.”
“Then I will take your life.” He snapped his fingers.
“My life doesn’t belong to you. You don’t have the power to take my life.”
“I will kill you where you stand,” the tyrant said, raising his voice.
“Then stop flapping your gums and do it! At the resurrection of the dead, we’ll see who gets to gloat.”
“Surely you don’t believe religious nonsense like that. That’s just a metaphor, and a metaphor can’t bear that kind of weight. Life might go on somewhere in the universe—people might even remember you—but you, sir, will be dead as dust. Forever.”
“Is that all this is to you?” Richard said, gesturing at the Goat King’s court. But his action implied much more. “A metaphor? Is your Father Below just a metaphor? Are the demons you summon just metaphors?”
“Of course,” the Goat King’s eyes shifted back and forth uncertainly.
“Have you even successfully summoned any demons?”
“I thought I felt a wind once—”
“So not only do you suck as a terrorist leader, you’re a crap magickian, too.”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t run you through right now.”
“The bad reason—but the only one that is likely to make any sense to you—is that I have something that you want—the ability to bring these children back so you can bathe first in their fear and then in their blood.”
“I hear a good reason coming—one that won’t mean anything to me, I presume.”
“The good reason is that while all this is just a Society for Creative Anachronism playdate for you, I have been there. I have seen it.” He took a step closer.
“Been where? Seen what?”
“I have visited the other worlds—the in-between places. It’s where I stashed those kids, so I know how safe they are. I have been to worlds of light and seen glory you cannot even imagine. I have been a tourist in hell—and I am not using that as a metaphor but as a fleshy, physical place. I have seen what happens to people there and I know what awaits them—what awaits you.”
Richard’s voice thundered with authority. The Goat King’s eyes grew wide, and the friar at least knew that he had his attention. He took a step closer to the faux sovereign and lowered his voice. “Jerry, God didn’t reject you because you’re rebellious and cool, you rejected God because of some pathologically narcissistic need to be special. But you’re not special. You’re weak and needy and sad. So listen to me, asshole, and listen good. I have fought with demons—not gusts of wind that might or might not have made your nostril hair twitch, but infernal rulers with crowns and scepters sitting astride great beasts with teeth and claws. I have been visited by a procession of infernal majesties and fed them my own blood. You don’t need to ask me if the resurrection is real—it’s all real: angels and seraphim and Sandalphon—they are all real. Thrones, powers and dominions? Real. The resurrection and the judgment of the dead? It’s coming like a fucking freight train. No one alive is going to escape the separation of the sheep and the goats—and you, my friend, are backing the wrong farm animal.”
The Goat King’s eyes drifted into space. Richard could tell he was reeling a bit. He watched Jerry close his eyes, regroup, and regain his footing. His eyes snapped open again and narrowed. “How do you see this ending, priest?”
“What? The world?”
“No, you apocalyptically-obsessed ass. I’m talking about our little standoff.”
“You and your menagerie are going to pull up stakes and move on down the road.”
“And why should we?”
“Because you can’t win here. You want fear and you are not going to get it. Not from these kids, and not from me.”
“I could kill your dog.”
“Dog?” Richard said, his voice faltering. He looked down and saw Tobias sitting by his leg. The yellow lab’s tail began to thump. “Oh, Christ, Toby, what the fuck are you doing here?”
The dog’s mouth opened, and it seemed to Richard that he was eating peanut butter or something sticky. Instead, though, the dog was simply trying to get his mouth around something uncomfortable and unfamiliar—language. “R-r-r-un!” the dog distinctly said, before jumping up and bolting for the door of the tent.
100
Susan woke before the sun was fully up. There was just enough light to see by, and as she emerged fully into consciousness, the events of the last evening rushed back in, filling her brain with
images that would drive her therapy sessions for years to come, and jolted her with adrenaline. She forced herself to relax so as not to disturb Chicken or Dylan before she needed to. They were all sleeping like puppies in a pile on the dusty loveseat in the small parks department cottage. Dylan’s head rested on her shoulder, his steady snoring punctuated by an occasional wet blockage explosion. That was probably what had woken her, as it often did. Chicken was spatchcocked across their laps, arms and legs splayed out but bent double at the elbows and knees. It didn’t look comfortable, but she was sleeping peacefully.
She took advantage of the silence to pray. Her own ferocity scared her, and in her mind’s eye, she brought that fear and laid it before Jesus. They looked at it together, and together they sat in the silence. She had done what had to be done, but it didn’t excuse the relish with which a part of her had acted. She had read about the ecstasy that came over warriors in the heat of battle, and perhaps for the first time, she had tasted it. She rolled it on her tongue and decided that it was both sweet and bitter—a flavor not entirely to her liking, but one she suspected she could easily develop a taste for, and because of that it was dangerous. These realizations she gave to Jesus, too. Finally, she confessed to him what she had been circling around in her prayer, but not directly addressing. I killed a man, she said to him in her imagination. Jesus appeared sitting on the desk in the corner.
“I know,” he said.
I’m sorry, she said. But not very sorry.
“I know,” he said.
What am I supposed to do with that? she asked.
“You could carry it, or you could give it to me and let me carry it,” he said. His eyes were sad, but kind.
I think I need to carry it for a while, she said.
“I’m not surprised,” he said, smiling. It was a sad smile.
But only because I think I need to suffer for it somehow, she said.
“I understand.”
Do you think I need to suffer for it? she asked. I mean, I know what Lutheran doctrine says about that, but I know we’re not right about everything. So I’m asking you.
“It’s not a simple question,” he said, playing with a paper clip. “I want to liberate you from everything that enslaves you or limits you or hurts you. That includes your own guilt and shame. But you have your own relationship to your actions, to your feelings, to your self-image, and you have to work that out yourself. Just know that when you’re done with it and you want to stop carrying it around, I’ll be ready to take it.”
She opened her eyes and felt the moral wound hanging heavily on her soul, dragging at her like the Ancient Mariner’s albatross. It was disturbing, but it also felt good in a way she couldn’t define. Yes, she needed to carry it. In time she would confess it and give it to Jesus, but for now she needed to confront the reality of who she really was and what she was capable of in the darker pockets of her own heart.
She heard the roar of an engine coming closer. She tensed, waiting for it to pass by on the road, but it didn’t. It got closer. And closer, until she thought it might ram the little house. She heard the engine turn off.
“Shit! Up, you two! Now!” She shoved at her husband and stood up, depositing Chicken on the floor with a painful thud. Dylan’s eyes flickered and he looked around wildly, trying to figure out where he was and what was happening. Ordinarily she’d feel sympathy for him—giving him grace for the PTSD he would no doubt be experiencing from the events of the past couple of days—but there was no time for that now. Chicken stood and rubbed at her eyes, apparently no worse for having fallen to the floor.
“Someone’s coming, hide,” Susan said.
“It’s those men,” Chicken said.
“What men?” Susan asked.
“The guarding men. They brought me here yesterday.” She pointed to the kitchen. “I’ll talk to them.”
Susan grasped what she wanted her to do, and she made a decision to trust her once again. Dylan was still oblivious, so she tugged at his arm and steered him into the kitchen. Once out of sight of the living room, she propped him against a wall and put her finger to her lips. “Shhhh…”
No sooner were they hidden than Susan heard the turn of a latch, followed quickly by the sound of boots on the cracked linoleum that ran throughout the cottage.
“Hey, little one. How are you doing?”
The voice was kind, but that didn’t stop Susan from pulling the revolver from her jacket pocket and checking the chambers to see how many bullets she had. Four. She quietly snapped the cylinder into place and held her breath, listening.
“We’re sorry we have to keep you here. Have you been terribly bored?”
Susan imagined Chicken shaking her head, flashing them a cheerful smile.
“Wow. You’re quite a kid, then. Is the bathroom working okay?”
Susan could almost see Chicken nodding her head with the exaggerated loopiness she so often displayed.
“That’s good. That’s good. Well, I brought you some pizza. It’s cold, but it’s only from last night. I’ll just put it in the fridge—”
Susan tensed and pulled the hammer back until she heard it click.
“—Oh, shit, okay, it’s not going to last that long. I guess you would be hungry. I brought you some candy bars and some string cheese, too. Just…put those in the fridge when you’ve had enough, okay?”
“Okie-dokie,” she heard Chicken say with her mouth full.
“Look, kid, I don’t know how long this is going to last, but we need to keep you out of sight. The mayor thinks you’re…you know, not alive…and if he sees you we’ll be in a lot of trouble for helping you. So you have to lay low here, maybe for several days. As soon as we can get off the island, we’ll take you to Oakland. Understand?”
Susan imagined Chicken nodding and stuffing her face with cold pizza. She imagined tomato sauce smeared on her cheek, and suddenly some maternal floodgate in her breast opened up and her heart swelled and gushed. She longed to pick Chicken up, to swing her around, to hold her close, to rest her cheek against hers. Susan swallowed and blinked back a tear.
“Okay, little one, I gotta go to work now. You sure you’re okay? Okay then. Uh…be good.”
Susan heard the door shut firmly, then the catch of the deadbolt sliding into place. She met Dylan’s eye and held it until she heard the vehicle, whatever it was, pull away and disappear.
“Ah’m awake now,” Dylan said. “What’s fer breakfast?”
“Cold pizza, apparently, if Chicken hasn’t eaten it all.”
“You all right, honey-pot? ’Cause you look like you got somethin’ in yore eye.”
“I’m…fine. I’m carrying a lot of things I didn’t think I was carrying.”
“Give ’em to Jesus, that’s what Ah do,” he said.
“I will,” she took her husband’s hand in hers. “In time.”
Chicken walked into the kitchen holding a medium pizza box from Mike’s Pizza Emporium.
“That’s not mushroom, is it?” Dylan said. “’Cause Ah hate mushroom on mah pizza.”
“Pepp’roni,” Chicken said with her mouth still full.
Chicken tripped and the box flipped into the air, spilling its contents. Dylan dove for the floor and scooped the pizza back into the box. “Five-second rule,” he said. “It’ll just make it all taste better.”
Susan rolled her eyes but was too hungry to pass when Dylan held the box open for her. She picked something unidentifiable off the piece she held and then took a bite. A moment later, she pulled a piece of fuzz out of her mouth.
“Best not to think ’bout the toppins,” Dylan said, grinning at her. The lid on his sightless eye drooped, and she realized his lovely, broad, Melungeon face would never be the same. She coughed as her love for him rose up in her like a geyser. I’m too emotional, she thought. It’s not safe. She willed herself to master her feelings.
“You all right?”
Her eyes were shining with tears as she nodded.
“You don’t seem all right.”
“We’ve got to get off this island, Dyl.”
Dylan cocked his head. “Where we gonna go?”
“There’s a ferry to San Francisco that runs twice a day. At 7 a.m. and 7 p.m.”
“Ah thought it was more often than that—”
“It used to be, but…that’s the emergency schedule.”
“How do ya know about this?”
“Casey was talking about it when you were…in the hospital.”
“Oh. What about Terry?”
“I’m going to go find Terry,” Susan said.
“So who’s goin’ to San Francisco?” Dylan scratched his head.
“You and Chicken. I want you to get her off this island. You heard those men. And you’re in no shape to fight anyone. I want you…I want you to get to safety, too.”
“Honey, Ah ain’t gonna leave you and Terry—”
“Yes, you are. You are going to let me play the hero this time. And you’re going to take Chicken to safety.”
“Where am Ah supposed to take her?”
“Cell phones are probably working there. Take her to wherever Kat and Mikael are, or where Brian is. Just…get away from here.”
“And what are you an’ Terry gonna do?”
“We’ll be right behind you as soon as I find him.”
“Promise?”
For a moment, she saw his neediness, the desperation of his love for her. She kissed him. “Ah promise,” she said, mimicking his accent.
101
Terry woke to bright light, a cool washcloth on his face, and a powerful pain in his shoulder. “Hey, sleepy head,” Casey said, removing the washcloth and putting it back in the bowl of water in her lap. She was sitting on the edge of Terry’s bed. A hospital bed, he noted.
“What happened?” he asked. His tongue was cottony, and he cast about for water.
“What do you need, big guy?” Casey asked. She was wearing tobacco-colored cargo pants and a red-checkered flannel shirt.
“Water. And call me ‘big guy’ again at your peril,” Terry said.
