That night at supper I asked Dad about the sink hole.
"Dad, how long ago did Virgil Carver live here on this land?"
"That was before your grandparents bought it. Fifty years, I imagine."
"Do you think he put bad things in the sink hole?"
Dad laughed. "You do come up with some stuff, Cam. What kind of things?"
"Poisons."
"What brought all this up?"
I shrugged. "We had that earthquake last month, and now -" I stopped, chewing on my lip, trying to figure out what to say. I didn't dare mention the Watchers.
"Have you seen something?" Dad asked.
"A weird looking frog."
"Grandpa told us Virgil used to be a mortician," said my mom. "Morticians use terribly toxic chemicals to embalm people. There's no telling what's in that hole. Don't you be playing around it, Cameron."
I slept on the porch again, but didn't hear anything. The next day was Saturday. I went with Dad to the farmers' market, and when we got back I rode my bike over to see Gus Bovene. He was sitting on his cabin porch in his old army fatigues, reading a book and swatting flies. He wore his long grey hair pulled tight into a ponytail and knotted on top of his head like a Samurai warrior. I wanted to wear my hair like that, but Mom kept making me get it cut. Some chickens were fighting over a dead lizard under the porch and his dog Cassy lay beside his rocking chair.
"Cam," he said as I got off my bike, "why do you think the Essenes wouldn't pass through gates with images on them?"
"I don't know," I said.
Gus looked at my sweaty face. "Go in and get yourself some lemonade. Bring me a glass, too." He swatted a fly on the arm of his chair.
"Now, the Essenes," he continued as I handed him his glass, "the Essenes were very exemplary people. They helped the poor, they healed the sick, they lived an incredibly pure life. So pure that the evil retarded spirits that plague mankind couldn't touch them. They were above sin. They were so pure they wouldn't pass through gates with pictures on them because evil might be living in the images."
"That's pretty pure," I said, drinking my lemonade.
"But here's the thing," said Gus, rubbing his grizzled beard. He leaned forward in his chair and the fly swatter fell on Cassy, making her jump. "Not everybody could be an Essene. If the whole world had become Essenes, life would have come to a screeching halt. Do you know why?"
I shook my head.
"Because there wouldn't have been anybody left to do the dirty work. The work the Essenes wouldn't do because they were too pure. So the world needs regular folks like you and me, too. Someone has to keep the wheels turning, you know what I mean?"
We watched the chickens a few minutes. Finally I said, "Gus, something bad's come out of the sink hole after the earthquake. Virgil Carver put poison chemicals in it."
"Did he now," said Gus. "That's terrible. Old Virgil unleashed something underground that shouldn't have been disturbed, and now your family has to deal with it. I don't see any Essenes around to clean up the mess, do you?" He shook his head and sighed. "Where will the nature kingdoms go if we poison their home?"
"I need to know how to fight them, Gus."
"Fight who?"
"The retarded spirits, the ones that plague mankind. They've come out of the sink hole."
Gus leaned back in his chair. "Don't try to fight them, Cam. Fighting only makes things worse in the long run. I learned that the hard way. No, it's our destiny to redeem evil, not destroy it. I'm talking about transmutation here, white magic. The Essenes knew all about it. They knew that evil comes in two opposing poles, and illness is always an imbalance between them. And the healer, when he makes his medicine, has to ask himself, how do I balance the poles? Do I need heat or cold? Moisture or dryness? Rest or activity? He might need to use a stabilizer or a dispersing agent, a coagulator or a dissolver. And when he gets it right, when the medicine does its work correctly, he comes face to face with the Mediator, who is the point of perfect balance between the poles. It's all about balance. Balance, balance, balance." He hit the fly swatter on the chair for emphasis. "The earth needs to be healed that way."
We talked some more and then I left. On the way home I found a dead possum in the road with three babies still clinging to her back. I stopped my bike and watched them a minute, then took off my shirt, wrapped the babies in it and put them in my bike basket. They were old enough to hiss at me, but didn't put up much fuss. When I got home Dad found a big cage in the barn and I got them settled into it, with wood shavings on the floor and a tree branch to practice climbing on. Mom mixed up some egg and milk and I fed them. Luckily they were old enough to drink from a saucer, so I wouldn't have to do the bottle thing.
"They'll be in the pear trees before long," Dad grumbled. "I don't know why you think you have to save every critter that comes along, Cam."
"I just couldn't leave them, Dad."
"I know," he said. "I know."
"I'll take them down by the creek when they're older and fix them up in a hollow log."
"Yeah, like they'll stay there," said Dad. But he sat with me awhile, watching the possoms explore their new home. We laughed at them trying to climb the branch.
At dusk the Watchers were back at the gate. I was sick of the sight of them.
"Retards!" I yelled, shaking my fist. They stood like statues, and I ran inside.
That night I slept upstairs. The coyotes were making a racket, and the Old Man was howling back. The sound worked its way into my dreams and I tossed and turned uneasily. I dreamed about twisted figures crawling out of the sink hole, blacker than the black night, slinking across the pasture in coyote shapes, slipping through the pasture gate, coming upright and walking silently to the house, gathering silently there on the steps, scraping at the screen, oozing through the cracks around the door. I woke up with a start, or thought I did, but I couldn't move. I was trapped in some twilight world between waking and sleep with a terrible fear pounding in my heart. A cold, dead weight pressed down on my chest. I struggled to breathe, making small, gasping moans. There was enough moonlight for me to the the black shapes passing my open door. They had come at last. With a huge effort of will, I flung myself out of bed and ran to Glen's room, standing beside his crib.
"Listen," hissed a voice in my ear. "We can no longer live in the earth, but neither can we live on it without bodies suited to its conditions. And so we seek out bodies to inhabit. That's why we've come. We've chosen the youngest child because he suits our purposes. So young and limber, we can mold and shape him to our liking. Stand aside, we mean to have him now."
"No you won't!" I yelled at them. "You can't have him He's my brother. I'll never let you. I won't! You'll have to take me instead." I tried to call out to my parents, but I knew they wouldn't hear. I was still trapped in that strange land of dream that wasn't dream, terrified because of what I'd just said. But I meant it, and the Watchers knew it. I could see them considering.
"Easier with one who's willing..."
"An older child will be stronger..."
"You have to give me a little time," I said, "to get ready."
They considered some more. "Just before the full moon, two nights from now, we'll come for you."
It was done. Somehow I found myself lying back in my bed. The weight lifted off my chest and I fell into a deep sleep.
coming Sunday, Part four....
No comments:
Post a Comment