The Fates

by Thomas Tessier

  The journey by foot seemed shorter than it had with Father Slomcenski yesterday morning, but that was probably because there were no cars along the dirt road to impede the pace. It was a cool evening but the priest worked up a light sweat as he hurried along.

  When he came within a hundred yards of the Mill field he stopped in shadows and looked carefully around. He could see no one and the only sounds he heard were of the stream and the crickets. There was nobody on duty here, he was sure of it. Father Lombardy stepped out into the bright meadow.

  Even in the silvery half-light he could easily see the jagged tear in the ground where the blue cloud had dug up the earth. He squatted down and felt it with his hand. The dirt was cool and damp, as expected, and it told him nothing. The surrounding grass was not much help either, having been trampled so much by the crowd.

  Closer to the Mill, Father Lombardy saw several wooden stakes driven into the ground, each with a strip of white cloth tied to the top. Presumably they marked the spots where the dead bodies had been. Did they form a pattern? He walked around, examining the cluster of small flags from different angles but concluded that they didn’t.

  He walked to the stream and sat on one of the large foundation stones that had supported the Mill. It felt smooth and glassy, almost as if it had been polished with care. Had the blue cloud done that too, or simply the passage of time? This, he reckoned, was the place where the thing had materialized yesterday, directly over these stones. The whole area seemed so peaceful and pleasant now. Only the white flags served to remind…

  Father Lombardy looked into the trees in the distance. Were lights flickering there? Yes. All over the place. But they were yellowish-orange and the thrill died in him as he immediately realised they were fire-flies. Lovely and harmless. Wait a minute! Both times he had seen the blue cloud he had noticed, as had everyone who saw it, that the centre of the thing was brilliant, burning. As if it were alive, or — fire. Hadn’t he thought of it as a burning light? Yes, of course he had. But why hadn’t it actually burned anything? The bodies of the dead were not charred, unless the police were hiding that fact and he could think of no reason why they should. He felt the grass around him and found nothing to suggest it had been burned. Like a fire, but not a fire. Could it be some kind of natural phosphorescence, like fire-flies or certain deep-sea creatures? It seemed entirely possible, and Father Lombardy was elated with this new turn of thought. However, it was difficult to see how he could use it. The thing couldn’t be some actual creature that no one had ever heard of before — could it? Appearing and disappearing at will, looking largely like a cloud of gas with a fire at the centre… no, it was highly unlikely.

  Unless… unless it was some kind of bizarre mutation, a once-only monstrosity compounded of — what? — swamp life and man-made poisons? Why not? In that case his original notion about pollution would be pretty much right. People were still in the process of finding out what terrible things chemical pollutants could do to animals and human beings. It was certainly conceivable that something far worse than anyone had hitherto imagined possible could in fact have come about, a kind of latter-day Frankenstein’s monster.

  He took out his notebook and by the moon’s brilliant light wrote down the words cold fire.

  Now Father Lombardy felt he was making genuine progress. Why had he tried to keep that line of thought down before? The religious and supernatural side, conjured up by people like Pomar, had intruded, distracting him. Throwback superstitions.

  What was happening in Millville was an acutely social problem, he knew that now. He felt as if his mind had suddenly been cleared of cobwebs and dust. Weren’t most of the problems a modern priest faced of a social nature? Birth control, abortion, drug abuse, ghetto crime — these things were manmade problems and issues, not religious. Of course, there were those in the Church who disagreed with him, but he believed firmly that the winds of change were blowing in the right direction. The Church couldn’t get by forever with the old answers. That’s why it was in so much trouble in the Third World, as well as here in the West. Pollution, environment — that was just another part of it.

  But how? Pleased as he was to come to these conclusions, Father Lombardy still felt a bit weak about the physical nature of the thing. It would have to be incredible — well, it was, that was obvious. But could such a thing evolve from a complex mixture of organic compounds? Perhaps. He recognised that he simply didn’t have the scientific knowledge to answer that, and he wondered if anyone did. But it was easy to imagine something bubbling up in a stagnant backwater of a swamp, something slowly but inexorably transformed by synthetic poisons, a science-fiction beast. Perhaps originally a bird of some kind, thus explaining its ability to move in the air. But its disappearing — that was harder still to accept. Unless… maybe it didn’t disappear. He knew all too well from his own personal experience that the appearance of the thing occasioned great stress in the observer. So it could be that the thing only appeared to fade away, or materialize in thin air. The mind can play tricks; it could be nothing more than an optical illusion. That, combined with increased adrenal activity, could explain it.

  Father Lombardy lit a cigarette with satisfaction. A look at his watch told him he hadn’t smoked one in nearly forty minutes. He was on the way back out of the miasma of uncertainty and anguish.

  But a new set of problems confronted him now. What to do about the thing. He should go to the police and tell them what he thought. But that could be embarrassing. He knew they were under siege from radio, TV and newspaper reporters, as well as special-interest groups such as the UFO-logists and occultists. If he went along with this theory they’d probably throw him out with the rest of the weirdos. Father Lombardy went over the whole thing in his mind again and decided that it was entirely plausible. It wouldn’t hurt to have the police check with scientists about the possibility, and also look into the chemical discharges from factories in the greater Waterbury area. Somebody could take the information and put it into a computer and come up with a probability factor, at least.

  Still, the police angle worried him; not because he thought he might be wrong, but because he doubted his ability to penetrate their steel-plated scepticism. Maybe Father Connors — no, he wouldn’t bring the old fart into it again. He would have to try the police, that’s all there was to it, and if that didn’t work he could go to — who? Perhaps someone at Yale or the University of Connecticut, a biologist or a biochemist.

  It was a mystery now, difficult and dangerous, but a mystery on a human scale, back where it belonged. It could be solved.

  The trees in the distance looked funny — greyish. No, bluish. Father Lombardy gasped and twisted his head — blue was settling on him! He stood up and tried to jump away, but it had him firmly in its grasp, surrounding him completely now. He struggled to keep his mind clear and free of panic. He could breathe, he could hear his own grunting, laboured breathing, and he could still see things around him — though they were cast in drab monochrome. The thing seemed to have a million fingers picking at him and forcing him to the ground. No, both feet were just off the ground now, then touching lightly. He could barely move against the force, but it was like swimming in molasses. It was painful now, and his fear grew. He knew if he gave way to it he was lost, and he wouldn’t accept that yet. He struggled desperately. If only he could tear loose and jump away, he could get a proper look at it. His face was pushed about and he could no longer see. What about the centre, he thought? I missed it. He felt himself being turned in the air and pushed down to the ground sideways. He was losing, he knew. He sobbed violently and that used up more of his flagging energy. He felt the smooth, glassy surface of the foundation stones against his face and the pushing only increased. It was like he was in a hydraulic press now. He could barely open his mouth but he managed a last shriek, ‘No-o-o-o!’ It couldn’t happen now. He had to tell people. He knew, and he had to tell them. He knew.

  Too late.

  *

  Earl
y Monday morning Dave Corwin found Lombardy’s car. He pushed it to the side of the dirt road, removed the barriers and drove up to the Mill. From the road he could see the body across the field on the grey stone. Corwin radioed in to the police station.

  ‘Hey, we forgot one.’

  *

  Lasker put his papers, wallet and recorder on the coffee-table. He kicked off his shoes and peeled the sweaty damp socks from his feet On his way into the kitchen he removed his shirt and let it drop to the floor. If this goes on much longer, he thought, I’ll end up like Lutz, with my entire wardrobe scattered all over the place. He took a new quart carton of grape juice from the refrigerator and walked back into the living room. Still standing, he opened the container and took a long drink of the cool liquid. He bent over to place the carton on the table and completed the motion by falling heavily onto the sofa.

  It had been another long day. Looking back on it, he found it difficult to think of anything useful he had done, but the running around, listening, talking — it was all more than enough to leave him dead tired. For a long time he remained sprawled out on the sofa without moving, eyes only half open. Finally he reached for the grape juice and took another large swallow. Some of it dribbled down his chin and onto his bare chest. It felt good, and the thought of a long cool shower suddenly appealed to him.

  First, however, he had to go over his notes yet again. He picked up his note pad and turned to a clean white page. Let’s start again. Somewhere it must connect, tie up. What am I missing? Only a brain. Keep going over it all until something comes through. He began to write a list of all the incidents he knew of that had taken place in the last couple of weeks. The same list he had stared at so many times before. He had the strange idea that a message might get through if he kept writing it out anew every day, like a schoolchild forced to write something out fifty or a hundred times.

  He studied the list for several minutes, unable to find anything running through the items that would click, and so reveal something about the forces at work in the town. He flipped through his old notes looking for odd and irrelevant facts that might be juxtaposed into some kind of relevance. Twenty minutes later he had a few things that could only feed a paranoid fantasy. Still, he added them to his new list.

  1.Bondarevsky:selling land for new development

  2.School (Lutz): new building on old farm land

  3.Pachman’s Car: car

  4. UFOs (Marge): seen near highway ext. & chemical plant

  5. Donner: ?

  6. Church Street: ? (old neighbour dying)

  7. Library: ? (new building)

  8. Richters: new apartment building

  9. Field (Lutz): near new airport site

  10. Mason’s Mill: near new airport site

  There was something in it, all right. A clammy feeling came over him and he was sure he was close to it. He would have to go downstairs and check in his old textbooks from the Classics course he had taken at college. Or maybe the encyclopaedia would have it. It needed a lot more thought and confirmation, but it was there.

  He was sure he knew.

  PART THREE

  THE FATES

  ‘To-day grieves, tomorrow grieves,

  Cover me over, light-in-leaves.’

  - T. S. Eliot

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jackie rocked back and forth distractingly, first putting her weight on her right leg, which was propped on the second step of the back porch, then leaning back on her left foot, which was planted firmly on the ground. Her hands were on her hips. Dave Lutz wondered if she was trying to look sexy or merely had to go to the bathroom. Perhaps it was a new kind of exercise. Whatever, it was pleasant to watch.

  ‘Are you going to the Prom, Mr Lutz?’ the girl asked.

  Lutz poured himself another vodka tonic, sipped it and said, ‘No. Once is enough in my life.’

  ‘Lots of the teachers go.’

  ‘That’s their tough luck. Besides, you’re only a sophomore, you won’t be going to the Junior or Senior Prom.’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ Jackie smiled. ‘My boy-friend is a senior.’

  ‘What do all those poor sophomore boys do, go out with twelve-year-olds?’

  ‘I can’t help it if my boyfriend is two years older than I am.’ Jackie stopped her rocking and tucked her tee-shirt into her jeans, emphasising her bust in the process.

  Lutz had groaned to himself when the student walked along and dallied for a chat. He had just stretched out on the recliner on his back porch and a full pitcher of drink and a Philip K. Dick novel. Still, he had to admit Jackie was easy on the eyes.

  ‘How can you worry about the Prom when the whole town is under siege from that thing, whatever it is?’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do about it, is there? I mean, if the police can’t take care of it…’ She finished the sentence with a shrug.

  ‘True,’ he conceded.

  ‘What do you think it is, Mr Lutz?’

  ‘One of Rilke’s angels.’

  ‘Who’s Rilke?’

  ‘A poet who worried a lot.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jackie lost interest at the mention of something that might be school-work. But she couldn’t quite let it go without checking. ‘Is he going to be in the final exam?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘What do you think it is?’ Lutz inquired.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Millville monster.’

  ‘Oh. I don’t know. My father says it’s an electrical storm in the atmosphere caused by putting too many expensive satellites up in space.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Satellites weigh tons, you know, and he says all that metal up there does something with the electricity in the air and the result is what’s happening in Millville. He says it could happen anywhere. He’s mad, because he says that’s what they do with the taxpayers’ money. Cause trouble.’

  ‘Maybe he’s right,’ Lutz said.

  ‘Yeah? I think it’s kinda dumb.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘How could satellites do that? I mean, it would have happened before now, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe. What do you think it is?’ Lutz repeated the question pointedly. Why are these kids so slow to think for themselves?

  ‘I don’t know. I just wish it would stop.’

  Naturally, Lutz thought. The monster could pose a threat to the Prom.

  The desultory conversation came to an end a few minutes later when Jackie looked at her watch, announced she had to meet friends and departed. Lutz watched her round bottom disappear up Sundrive Terrace and poured himself another drink. He picked up the novel, but after one paragraph he felt lazy and couldn’t concentrate, so he put the book back on the side table.

  Why am I always feeling so tired and lethargic, he wondered? Perhaps it’s mononucleosis, he thought, but then discarded the idea. Unhealthy living — that’s what it is. Too much drink, too much trashy instant food, depressing work, a disordered life style, lack of exercise — that was more than enough to account for it He would have to reform. He would have to give up drink — well, cut down considerably, a little, at least Start eating good, natural, organic health foods; he could afford it. Take up some activity on a regular basis: swimming or walking or cycling. Clean up his apartment. The more he thought about it, the more repellent the whole notion seemed to him, and he took another large sip from the cool glass.

  What was the point? His life wasn’t going to change significantly anyhow, unless he got out of teaching — and he couldn’t see that happening. He wasn’t equipped to do any other kind of job, except unskilled labour, and that was out of the question. No, he would remain a teacher, all right. His grimmest vision was of himself in twenty more years, looking much the same as Bugs Belicki, the biology teacher he had had when he was a student at Millville High only a few years ago. Bugs was fat, bald, lecherous with the girl students, smoked like a fiend and probably drank too much. Lutz saw himself riding down the same st
reet. Bugs died at the age of fifty-one, from coronary occlusion, the year before Lutz returned to Millville and took up teaching.

  Well, that’s crazy thinking, Lutz suddenly chastised himself. People get fat, bald, lecherous and become alcoholic ashtrays in any line of work. Teaching wasn’t bad, as jobs went, in fact it was pretty damn good. The few good students who were genuinely interested, more than made up for the great majority who couldn’t care less if Shakespeare happened to be a poet or a gerund. Life was like that.

  What rankled was really the feeling that at the age of twenty-five Lutz was permanently wrapped up and consigned for the rest of his natural life. It all seemed to be over too quickly. ‘Twenty years of schooling and they put you on the day shift. Look out, kid,’ Bob Dylan had sung and the words came back to Lutz. He shouldn’t feel so old, tired and settled, not now, not yet.

  Perhaps some plan of modest reform was called for after all He could let himself go steadily to seed if he wanted to, just through neglect and inertia, but it wasn’t necessary. For one thing, he should do something this summer, maybe take a trip to California, instead of sitting around on his butt for two months. Meet more people, do things. You have only yourself to blame if you become a sedentary fixture in Millville, he thought.

  Lutz’s considerations and the quiet evening were interrupted by the sound of breaking glass and shouting voices. He looked up Sundrive Terrace, but the street was deserted. The noise continued, increased even. Then a man rushed out from behind the shrubbery by the side of one house. He stopped briefly, looked over his shoulder and then began to run down the middle of the road in Lutz’s direction. When he reached the building where Lutz sat, the man halted for a moment and then hollered, ‘They’re coming! They’re coming!’ Then he ran off out of sight.