Authors: Daniel Syverson
He had the one consolation in that tomorrow he
would hold the longest, most obnoxious 'I told you so' session ever. They would
get an earful. He couldn't wait.
He turned the last corner toward home. He was
feeling the cold now. In fact, for jeans and a tee shirt, it was
damn
cold.
He leaned a little harder on his cane as he limp-hitch, limp-hitch,
limp-hitched his way down the sidewalk, now becoming dangerously slippery.
His limp was getting a lot worse. It was getting hard to
see, with the snow now blowing like a regular, mid-winter blizzard. He wiped
his face again, not bothering with the handkerchief.
The trees were having the worst time. Normally,
in winter, all the leaves are gone, letting the wind through easily, letting
the snow drop to the ground, except the small amounts dusting each branch like
white chocolate on pretzels. Now, though, the leaves were attached, and strong;
catching every gust, holding every snow flake. Several large branches were
already down, and even large trees, like the great old oak trees that lined the
old streets, were all writhing in the wind under the weight of a snow these
leaves could never have imagined.
Now, almost home, he had to step over, no,
climb
over, a large branch from the oak tree in between his yard and Miller's. He
stepped carefully - the branch was covered with snow, and the bark was
slippery. The last thing he needed was a broken hip - his fishing would be shot
for the rest of the year. At least, only a branch came down, and thank God it
missed the fence and shrubs. An entire tree that size, with all the snow
weight, in this wind - he didn't even want to think about what it could do to
his house.
Then, so close to home - he was on his steps,
almost to the protection of the home he had lived in for so many years, when a
shot rang out.
Not a shot exactly, more of a sharp
CRACK.
To its credit, the tree tried, it really did.
It had maintained with all the dignity of over a hundred years of growth,
weathering a thousand storms, shading the occupants of both houses, whether
deserved or not. It had born the indignity of tree houses, and with pride held
the swings of some two dozen children from nearly as many families. But now,
this was too much, and with one final, shuddering groan, the tree went, and
with it went the Miller's house, and the Miller's dog (
damn dog barked too
much anyway but it's too bad just the same
). And with it went Oscar's
fence, and the front of Oscar's house, and Oscar's porch.
* * *
And
Oscar.
* * *
And
the snow kept coming down. Kind of like in '76. End of July or early August, l
think.
(Northwest of what is
now Greece, 1202 A.D.)
The
cold rock against her back was in sharp contrast to the hot flames surrounding
her. The blood on her wrists and ankles had long since clotted, as exhaustion
and pain had proven the struggle to release herself futile. She now lay quiet,
waiting, strangely calm. No peasant; she would not be beaten; she would not cry
out. She would die before begging or showing any outward signs of weakness,
yet, there was no denying the fear.
Who would not be afraid? Her anger, her outrage - these were
what kept the fear at bay, just below, just behind those fiery eyes, where the
flames danced. Not just the reflected flames from without, but those of the
aristocracy, the proud lineage, from within.
The
twelve hooded specters encircling this altar stood motionless - silent partners
to the dancing shadows each produced on the rock walls behind them. The hoods
were deep, and absorbed the firelight, faces deeply hidden as if each robe were
hollow; which in truth, may have been the irony. Hollow bodies, without souls, motionless.
An evil so pervasive the very light refused, it seemed, to illuminate. As if
the shadows started even before the light reached them.
At the foot of the stone altar was a rough, black, porous
stone. The Demon-Star. Word of this stone had reached even their king. Many
believed this was the sign spoken of in the ancient writings. A great fire had
filled the sky, and this stone had been cast down from above. Many had died in
the village from the explosion of the impact, thus giving the stone its name.
She had heard tales, and seen drawings, and now recognized it as it lay on the
altar between her feet.
A
low murmur escaped from one hood, though she could not hear it clearly, or identify
which hood emitted the sound. A second, then another, and then all joined in
not a murmur, but a low chant- slow, soft, insistent. With no motion, it was as
if the sound were coming from some deep recess within the earth rather than
this black gauntlet.
One
figure, to her left, bent over, retrieving a large, heavy mallet. Unlike those
she had seen the artisans use in the king's service, this was no ordinary stone
bound by leather to a wooden handle. This mallet was larger, much larger. And
fashioned entirely of stone. Not just the head, but the entire mallet. The
mallet had been chiseled out of a single piece of stone, and even in the
dancing light, she could see the symbols cut in relief into the handle and
surrounding the head.
No
ordinary mallet. Though raised in privilege, she knew this was not a mallet
used to form the swords and spear tips used by the warriors, nor the type used
to create works of art. She was intelligent enough to realize that a mallet
made entirely of stone would not, could not, be used in the normal sense
because it would be too brittle for the constant pounding the normal mallets
had to endure. This was different. With the symbols chiseled into the massive
tool, it was clearly ceremonial.
Fear,
still barely in check, rose higher in her throat, threatening to escape with
the sharp bile also rising within. She strained to raise her head further, so
she could better see him as he walked around the fire to a small break in the
flames she hadn't noticed towards her feet. Looking down between her breasts,
she saw him standing there, motionless, the great stone mallet held in front of
him at his waist, one hand near the base of the handle, the other near the
head. Unable to see his face, she felt rather than saw his eyes staring,
burning into her. Finally, he slowly brought his hands together, and began to
raise the impossibly heavy mallet.
As the mallet rose, so did the volume of the chant,
increasing in tempo, urgency pouring from the robes as heavily as the palpable
fear running with the perspiration off her body. Blood again began oozing from
wrists and ankles, as well as dozens of other raw areas where her back and legs
had ground against the rough-hewn altar, as she again unconsciously, then
consciously strained against her bindings.
He continued walking forward, her feet funneling him in,
raising the mallet higher, now stretched entirely above and slightly behind his
head. The chant reached a crescendo as the mallet fell, her scream mixing with
their chants as if the final note in a grotesque opera.
* * *
She
awoke in Hell.
Demons moved purposefully around her, with flames around
the periphery, the orange light flickering on forever. As her mind cleared, she
realized that yes, she
was
in Hell, but one created in this reality. The
demons were the same hooded specters surrounding her earlier from outside the
ring of fire. The walls of Hell were the same rocks she had been among, still
lit by the same fires, but, with the demons now inside the ring, the fires
seemed to go on forever.
Amazed
that she had not been crushed by the mallet, she looked down at the focus of
their attentions. The Demon-Star had been crushed by the mallet, not her. The
stone mallet had shattered on impact, leaving pieces hardly recognizable among
the fragments of the Star. Even a portion of the stone altar had broken off
just beyond her right foot.
There were several small wounds on her legs - new wounds,
apparently from some of the stone shards as the mallet shattered. The Hooded
Ones ignored her as they went about their business. Two of them were removing
the hard, dark, rough fragments that had shattered on the impact of the
behemoth hammer, tossing them aside. As they reached the center of the object,
both demons slowed, and moved closer. All was still quiet except for the
crackling of the flames. Not a word had been spoken, as far as she knew. The
remaining Hooded Ones stood quietly around her, faceless, motionless, as if
viewing a friend at a visitation.
One
of the two demons at her feet raised his hand, and stepped back, while the
other began to carefully scrape out the very center of the Demon-Star, saving
the scrapings in a shallow stone bowl. When complete, he had perhaps enough to
hold in the palm of his hand. Carefully, he transferred this into a larger,
deeper stone bowl.
Without even looking at her, as if she was a basket on the
shelf, the Hooded One who had raised his hand picked up a knife, and without
hesitation cut a three-inch gash lengthwise along her left wrist. She screamed
involuntarily, but there was not as much as a glance upward by the Hooded One.
To her surprise, she realized that on top of all the terror, the raw wounds,
the utter humiliation of her naked bondage, and the certain knowledge that this
night was to be her last, the slash on her wrist was not that painful. She
watched as her own blood drained into the bowl of dust.
Apparently,
there was enough blood in the bowl. The specter turned, and stepped back towards
the foot of the altar. Another, one who had stood to the side the entire time,
stepped forward, and carefully washed her arm, then tightly bound her wrist in
a clean cloth.
She
almost laughed, despite her situation. Binding a cut, before being sacrificed.
Did they fear her developing a fever before her death?
Bowl-Man
began to slowly mix the blood and star-dust, carefully mixing and pulverizing
it, much as one of her alchemists would. Slowly, stirring, pressing, stirring,
pressing...
Bowl-Man
stopped. Setting it down, he again picked up the knife, and stepped up onto the
base of the altar, to her right, just above her stomach. Carefully, he held the
knife, not in his fist, as if to stab, but along his hand, as if to slice a
piece of her at dinner.
Slowly, deliberately, he began a long, shallow cut.
She
felt the burn as the blade penetrated her skin. A red line followed the blade
as it traced across her stomach once, twice, three times, then a fourth, and a
fifth. Then, one final curved cut ran around the edge.
A perfectly inverted five-pointed star, placed within a
circle.
Hooded Man number two, the one who had scraped the dust
from the stone, handed the bowl back to Bowl-Man. He silently lifted, then held
the bowl up high in both hands. She again heard the sound of the chanting, low
and slow at first, gradually building. This time, though, there was no fevered
pitch, just a steady, insistent, droning chant.
The
bowl was lowered. Slowly, it was tipped forward, and the gritty, crimson soup
poured along the same lines the blade had already scored. The bowl was then
brought to her lips, and tipped again, spilling into her mouth. She tried to
turn her head, but a pair of strong, yet gentle, hands held her, gripped her.
She could swallow, or drown. For a moment, it was a choice to consider, but
then the moment was gone, and reflexively, she swallowed.
Satisfied,
Bowl-Man removed the stone chalice. She tried to spit out the remainder, but
the warm, thick, syrup would not leave her mouth, nor would its coppery taste.
The
Hooded Ones all stepped back. Back, behind the flames again.
All but one.
Bowl Man tipped the vessel up himself, and he began to
drink the deep, crimson liquid. In the firelight, the rivulets that ran down
the side of the bowl and off his chin looked black. After several swallows, he
set the bowl down, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
He moved to her feet. From where he stood, her
legs invited him, and she was again aware of her nakedness. Slowly, he removed
his robe, standing naked before her, finally revealing a human male, rather
than the demon she had expected. He stood motionless, then raised his hands
upward, tilting his head back as well. Again, she heard him murmur something,
words she could not identify.
He stopped, lowered his arms and gaze, now
looking directly at her, his eyes burning into hers.
* * *
As he climbed on top of her, the chanting began
yet again.
"You want mushrooms on 'dem bagels?"
The cook never turned around, directing his
question to the wall behind the grill. He laughed, and shook his head. Something
about it must have amused him.
The man sat at the diner's old breakfast bar,
holding his cup of coffee with both hands wrapped securely around, as if to
absorb every calorie of heat before downing it. It seemed like a place he used
to know, back when... back when... back what? He lost his train of thought.
Doing a lot of that lately, he told himself.
"You want mushrooms on 'dem bagels?" And
another laugh.
Not a funny laugh.
He looked down at his coffee, then turned left,
right, and then, spinning around on his swivel seat, looking all the way behind
him. One other person, the only other living thing in there, a young girl,
sitting at a booth, looking back at him. He turned back around, looking back
down at the orange juice in his hands.
Orange juice?
"You want mushrooms on 'dem bagels?",
a little louder now.