Authors: Dean Koontz
Tuttle said, “What now?”
“We continue back to Walker’s Watch,” Curanov said.
“And tell them what we found?”
“No.”
“But,” Tuttle said, “we can lead them back here, show them these carcasses.”
“Look around you,” Curanov said. “Other demons are watching from the trees.”
A dozen hateful white faces could be seen, leering.
Curanov said, “I don’t think they’ll attack us again. They’ve seen what we can do, how we have learned that, with them, the prime directive does not apply. But they’re sure to remove and bury the bodies when we’ve gone.”
“We can take a carcass along with us,” Tuttle said.
Curanov said, “No. Both of your hands are useless. Steffan’s right arm is uncontrollable. I couldn’t carry one of those bodies all by myself as far as Walker’s Watch, not with my power as reduced as it is.”
“Then,” Tuttle said, “we still won’t tell anyone about what we’ve seen up here?”
“We can’t afford to, if we ever want to be promoted,” Curanov said. “Our only hope is to spend a long time in some inactivation nook, contemplating until we’ve learned to cope with what we’ve witnessed.”
They picked their torches out of the snow and, staying close to one another, started down toward the valley once more.
“Walk slowly and show no fear,” Curanov warned.
They walked slowly, but each was certain that his fear was evident to the unearthly creatures crouching in the shadows beneath the pine trees.
They walked all that long night and most of the following day before they reached the station house at Walker’s Watch. In that time, the storm died out. The landscape was serene, white, peaceful. Surveying the rolling snowfields, one felt sure that the universe was rational. But Curanov was haunted by one icy realization: If he must believe in specters and other worldly beings like men, then he would never again be able to think of the universe in rational terms.
TWILIGHT OF THE DAWN
SOMETIMES YOU CAN BE THE BIGGEST JACKASS WHO EVER LIVED,” MY wife said the night that I took Santa Claus away from my son.
We were in bed, but she was clearly not in the mood for either sleep or romance.
Her voice was sharp, scornful. “What a terrible thing to do to a little boy.”
“He’s seven years old-“
“He’s a little boy,” Ellen said harshly, though we rarely spoke to each other in anger. For the most part ours was a happy, peaceful marriage.
We lay in silence. The drapes were drawn back from the French doors that opened onto the second-floor balcony, so the bedroom was limned by ash-pale moonlight. Even in that dim glow, even though Ellen was cloaked in blankets, her anger was apparent in the tense, angular position in which she pretended to seek sleep.
Finally she said, “Pete, you used a sledgehammer to shatter a little boy’s fragile fantasy, a
harmless
fantasy, all because of your obsession with-“
“It wasn’t harmless,” I said patiently. “And I don’t have an obsession.”
“Yes, you do,” she insisted.
“I simply believe in rational-“
“Oh, shut up.”
“Won’t you even talk to me about it?”
“No. It’s pointless.”
I sighed. “I love you, Ellen.”
She was silent a long while.
Wind soughed in the eaves, an ancient voice.
In the boughs of one of the backyard cherry trees, an owl hooted.
At last Ellen said, “I love you too, but sometimes I want to kick your ass.”
I was angry with her because I felt that she was not being fair, that she was allowing her least admirable emotions to overrule her reason. Now, many years later, I would give anything to hear her say that she wanted to kick my ass, and I’d bend over with a smile.
* * *
From the cradle, my son, Benny, was taught that God did not exist under any name or in any form, and that religion was the refuge of weak-minded people who did not have the courage to face the universe on its own terms. I would not permit Benny to be baptized, for in my view that ceremony was a primitive initiation rite by which the child would be inducted into a cult of ignorance and irrationality.
Ellen—my wife, Benny’s mother—had been raised as a Methodist and still was stained (as I saw it) by lingering traces of faith. She called herself an agnostic, unable to go further and join me in the camp of the atheists. I loved her so much that I was able to tolerate her equivocation on the subject. Nevertheless, I had nothing but scorn for others who could not face the fact that the universe was godless and that human existence was nothing more than a biological accident.
I despised all who bent their knees to humble themselves before an imaginary lord of creation: all the Methodists and Lutherans and Catholics and Baptists and Mormons and Jews and others. They claimed many labels but in essence shared the same sick delusion.
My greatest loathing was reserved, however, for those who had once been clean of the disease of religion, rational men and women, like me, who had slipped off the path of reason and fallen into the chasm of superstition. They were surrendering their most precious possessions—their independent spirit, self-reliance, intellectual integrity—in return for half-baked, dreamy promises of an afterlife with togas and harp music. I was more disgusted by the rejection of their previously treasured secular enlightenment than I would have been to hear some old friend confess that he had suddenly developed an all-consuming obsession for canine sex and had divorced his wife in favor of a German-shepherd bitch.
Hal Sheen, my partner with whom I had founded Fallon and Sheen Design, had been proud of his atheism too. In college we were best friends, and together we were a formidable team of debaters whenever the subject of religion arose; inevitably, anyone harboring a belief in a supreme being, anyone daring to disagree with our view of the universe as a place of uncaring forces, any of
that
ilk was sorry to have met us, for we stripped away his pretensions to adulthood and revealed him for the idiot child that he was. Indeed, we often didn’t even wait for the subject of religion to arise but skillfully baited fellow students who, to our certain knowledge, were believers.
Later, with degrees in architecture, neither of us wished to work with anyone but each other, so we formed a company. We dreamed of creating brawny yet elegant, functional yet beautiful buildings that would delight and astonish, that would win the admiration of not only our fellow professionals but the world. And with brains, talent, and dogged determination, we began to attain some of our goals while we were still very young men. Fallon and Sheen Design, a wunderkind company, was the focus of a revolution in design that excited university students as well as longtime professionals.
The most important aspect of our tremendous success was that our atheism lay at the core of it, for we consciously set out to create a new architecture that owed nothing to religious inspiration. Most laymen are not aware that virtually all the structures around them, including those resulting from modern schools of design, incorporate architectural details originally developed to subtly reinforce the rule of God and the place of religion in life. For instance, vaulted ceilings, first used in churches and cathedrals, were originally intended to draw the gaze upward and to induce, by indirection, contemplation of Heaven and its rewards. Underpitch vaults, barrel vaults, grain vaults, fan vaults, quadripartite and sexpartite and tierceron vaults are more than mere arches; they were conceived as agents of religion, quiet advertisements for Him and for His higher authority. From the start, Hal and I were determined that no vaulted ceilings, no spires, no arched windows or doors, no slightest design element born of religion would be incorporated into a Fallon and Sheen building. In reaction we strove to direct the eye earthward and, by a thousand devices, to remind those who passed through our structures that they were born of the earth, not children of any God but merely more intellectually advanced cousins of apes.
Hal’s reconversion to the Roman Catholicism of his childhood was, therefore, a shock to me. At thirty-seven, when he was at the top of his profession, when by his singular success he had proven the supremacy of unoppressed, rational man over imagined divinities, he returned with apparent joy to the confessional, humbled himself at the communion rail, dampened his forehead and breast with so-called holy water, and thereby rejected the intellectual foundation on which his entire adult life, to that point, had been based.
The horror of it chilled my heart, my marrow.
For taking Hal Sheen from me, I despised religion more than ever. I redoubled my efforts to eliminate any wisp of religious thought or superstition from my son’s life, and I was fiercely determined that Benny would never be stolen from me by incense-burning, bell-ringing, hymn-singing, self-deluded, mush-brained fools. When he proved to be a voracious reader from an early age, I carefully chose books for him, directing him away from works that even indirectly portrayed religion as an acceptable part of life, firmly steering him to strictly secular material that would not encourage unhealthy fantasies. When I saw that he was fascinated by vampires, ghosts, and the entire panoply of traditional monsters that seem to intrigue all children, I strenuously discouraged that interest, mocked it, and taught him the virtue and pleasure of rising above such childish things. Oh, I did not deny him the enjoyment of a good scare, because there’s nothing essentially religious in that. Benny was permitted to savor the fear induced by books about killer robots, movies about the Frankenstein monster, and other threats that were the work of man. It was only monsters of satanic and spiritual origins that I censored from his books and films, because belief in things satanic is merely another facet of religion, the flip side of God worship.
I allowed him Santa Claus until he was seven, though I had a lot of misgivings about that indulgence. The Santa Claus legend includes a Christian element, of course. Good
Saint
Nick and all that. But Ellen was insistent that Benny would not be denied that fantasy. I reluctantly agreed that it was probably harmless, but only as long as we scrupulously observed the holiday as a purely secular event having nothing to do with the birth of Jesus. To us, Christmas was a celebration of the family and a healthy indulgence in materialism.
In the backyard of our big house in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, grew a pair of enormous, long-lived cherry trees, under the branches of which Benny and I often sat in milder seasons, playing checkers or card games. Beneath those boughs, which already had lost most of their leaves to the tugging hands of autumn, on an unusually warm day in early October of his seventh year, as we were playing Uncle Wiggly, Benny asked if I thought Santa was going to bring him lots of stuff that year. I said it was too early to be thinking about Santa, and he said that
all
the kids were thinking about Santa and were starting to compose want lists already. Then he said, “Daddy, how’s Santa
know
we’ve been good or bad? He can’t watch all us kids all the time, can he? Do our guardian angels talk to him and tattle on us, or what?”
“Guardian angels?” I said, startled and displeased. “What do you know about guardian angels?”
“Well, they’re supposed to watch over us, help us when we’re in trouble, right? So I thought maybe they also talk to Santa Claus.”
Only months after Benny was born, I had joined with like-minded parents in our community to establish a private school guided by the principles of secular humanism, where even the slightest religious thought would be kept out of the curriculum. In fact, our intention was to ensure that, as our children matured, they would be taught history, literature, sociology, and ethics from an anticlerical viewpoint. Benny had attended our preschool and, by that October of which I write, was in second grade of the elementary division, where his classmates came from families guided by the same rational principles as our own. I was surprised to hear that in such an environment he was still subjected to religious propagandizing.
“Who told you about guardian angels?”
“Some kids.”
“They believe in these angels?”
“Sure. I guess.”
“Do they believe in the tooth fairy?”
“Sheesh, no.”
“Then why do they believe in guardian angels?”
“They saw it on TV.”
“They did, huh?”
“It was a show you won’t let me watch.”
“And just because they saw it on TV, they think it’s true?”
Benny shrugged and moved his game piece five spaces along the Uncle Wiggly board.
I believed then that popular culture—especially television—was the bane of all men and women of reason and goodwill, not least of all because it promoted a wide variety of religious superstitions and, by its saturation of every aspect of our lives, was inescapable and powerfully influential. Books and movies like
The Exorcist
and television programs about guardian angels could frustrate even the most diligent parent’s attempts to raise his child in an atmosphere of untainted rationality.
The unseasonably warm October breeze was not strong enough to disturb the game cards, but it gently ruffled Benny’s fine brown hair. Wind mussed, sitting on a pillow on his redwood chair in order to be at table level, he looked so small and vulnerable. Loving him, wanting the best possible life for him, I grew angrier by the second; my anger was directed not at Benny but at those who, intellectually and emotionally stunted by their twisted philosophy, would attempt to propagandize an innocent child.
“Benny,” I said, “listen, there are no guardian angels. They don’t exist. It’s all an ugly lie told by people who want to make you believe that you aren’t responsible for your own successes in life. They want you to believe that the bad things in life are the result of your sins and
are
your fault, but that all the good things come from the grace of God. It’s a way to control you. That’s what all religion is—a tool to control and oppress you.”