The Burn Palace

by Stephen Dobyns

  “And what do you do here?” asked Woody.

  “I teach various types of yoga and meditation, mostly to other teachers, but I also teach a master class in Raja.”

  “Is that a kind of yoga?”

  “It’s a system that attempts to control the mind.”

  Woody knew little about yoga, although Susie had gone to a yoga exercise class—violent activity in a room well over one hundred degrees. She’d come home with her face as red as a beet. “And how does it do that?”

  “By inhibiting the mind’s modifications.” When Woody didn’t respond, Chmielnicki continued: “Most mental activity leaves its mark, its muddy footprint—thoughts, feelings, memories, prejudices, ideas. These determine how you behave. Raja yoga sees these as impurities. Through its practice we seek to erase these modifications to allow us to regain our free will and experience our true selves.”

  “And you’ve done this?”

  “It’s a long process. We also study ways to change the modifications in others.”

  “What’s left when you take them away?”

  “Just the self, pure unadulterated self, free of deterministic restrictions.”

  “So you can see modifications? You can see mine?” Woody had asked the question before he’d known he’d ask it.

  “They’re all over you. The way you dress, the way you hold yourself, the way you speak. For instance, you clip your words, you hurry them out of your mouth, you put them under tight control. You keep your hands close to your body but your feet apart as if ready to jump. D’you think you were born like that? They express your relationship with your anger. You control your language in order to contain it. But your temper is a determinant factor in your behavior. It’s a modification. It expresses a defensive reaction, and you’d be happier without it.” Abruptly, Chmielnicki clapped his hands and watched Woody jump. “And you’ve got a pronounced startle response. Were you in the service?”

  Woody thought this had gone far enough. “So you’re a witch?”

  Chmielnicki’s laughter was of the booming variety, the very reverse of his manner of talking. “Now, there’s a serious modification. Most prefer to be called Wiccans rather than witches. They practice Wicca, which means they’re neopagans practicing a nature religion.”

  “Do they worship the Devil?”

  “Not necessarily. Wiccans aren’t Satanists, though there are some of those—the Church of Lucifer, the Temple of Set, LaVeyan Satanism—and some dabble in black magic. There’s also a wide range of gray magic—shape-shifting, for example. They follow the Left-Hand rather than the Right-Hand Path of conventional religion. Wiccans, in their various manifestations, are the largest group, though plenty of old-fashioned witches lurk about. The coin Mr. Hartmann dropped is a Wiccan symbol. Had the star been upside down, it would have indicated Satanism. I’m neither witch, Wiccan, nor Satanist, though I’m acquainted with adherents of all. To eliminate one’s modifications requires a certain neutrality.”

  “Are there Wiccans in Rhode Island?” It seemed to Woody a silly question. Was it the subject that made him uncomfortable or the man defining the subject?

  “We have several hundred divided into a number of covens. There are even Satanists. I should say that most Satanists don’t actually believe in Satan, or such is their claim; rather, Satan is a symbol of what they hold important, their carnality, and what they call our basic nature—extreme egoism, selfishness, self-indulgence. Their philosophies derive from Friedrich Nietzsche and Ayn Rand; their practice is taken from Aleister Crowley.”

  Woody found it hard to imagine witches without broomsticks and pointed black hats. “So how d’you find them?”

  “You may Google them. Most have websites. And many prefer to be called Neo-Heathens. They practice what they call pagan virtues. Some are also interested in shape-shifting. With spells and certain unguents they claim to be able to change into animals or birds: wolves, cats, coyotes, fishers, owls, ravens. No one cares to be a rabbit or chicken. They prefer carnivores with conflicted personalities.”

  “Why change into an animal, and why would you want to?” The subject chipped away at Woody’s sense of reality. Not that he believed it, but it worried him that others believed it.

  “We’ve known these stories a long time. Circe turns men into pigs. Daphne turns into a laurel to avoid rape. Gregor Samsa turns into a cockroach. They’re found in every culture—it’s risky to reject them out of hand. Sometimes a person is changed into a beast as a punishment. Sometimes a person changes himself. Or it’s something a person has no control over. As to why they choose to change their shapes—it gives them the animal’s strength and frees them from human inhibition. It’s said to be liberating. As for how, that’s a good question. They might be lying. It might be a form of mass hysteria. It might be self-induced hallucination. Witches once smeared themselves and their broomsticks with unguents composed of belladonna, opium poppy, poison hemlock, monkshood, and animal fat, which created hallucinations. They called it flying ointment. And there’s a final possibility: they might actually do it.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  Chmielnicki laughed. “Those are your modifications talking. Ninety-two percent of our genome contains the basic genes for all vertebrates; the rest carry the differences between all vertebrates. Half of one percent separates us from Neanderthals; three percent separate us from other mammals. But within a chain of DNA are inactivated intragenic regions called introns whose purpose isn’t understood. We also have disconnected genes that are to the DNA what the appendix is to the body—useful once but useful no longer. Some believe that within them lie the secrets to alternate forms and to activate them might make shape-shifting possible.”

  “By cutting open the brain?”

  “Not necessarily. Chemicals might do it. Even the control available in forms of yoga might affect it. A teacher said, ‘Yoga limits the oscillations of the mind.’ Through yoga one can control one’s involuntary muscles, one can control pain, pierce flesh, and close the wound. One can walk on burning coals and not be burned. So why can’t we activate our dormant genes to change into another creature?”

  Woody’s discomfort with the subject made him feel as though he was on precarious ground. “So what’s the animal of choice in South County?”

  “Coyotes seem most popular.”

  “Could they commit murder?”

  “Woody, anybody can commit murder. Haven’t you learned that? But if, through shape-shifting, one becomes a predatory animal, the terms change. Do we call it murder when the cat kills the mouse?”

  “Could you commit murder?”

  “I like to think not. My teaching attempts to free me of those desires. But you surely have known people you wanted to kill.”

  Woody could almost feel the touch of those blue eyes on his face. He was sorry he hadn’t turned Chmielnicki over to the FBI agents to question.

  “Like most people,” Chmielnicki continued, “you have a conflicted nature and are vulnerable to the emotional changes brought on by unexpected circumstance. You seem to have recently had a loss. Everything you look at you see through the fog of that loss. Your anger today has been increased by it. Is it a death? No. A great rejection? Possibly. Woody, did your wife just leave you, or possibly a girlfriend?”

  And so it went.

  SEVEN

  NIGHT WAS APPROACHING. The sun was already low in the west when clouds began to move in. Harriet Krause stood at the living room window, watching Hercel bike out of the driveway and turn down Newport. Seeing him disappear filled her with worry. He seemed strange to her, but she knew that wasn’t the right word. Introspective was what she meant, clear-sighted—it seemed too much for a ten-year-old. Whatever it was, he didn’t take after her, or his father, either, for that matter. Maybe he was like her grandfather, who was said to be moody and too smart for his own good. Harriet had never known him. He had disappeared when she was still a baby. Some people said he’d walked into the ocean.


  Hercel spent too much time by himself, although that Bonaldo boy had come with him after school. But was he a suitable friend? She was sure he was the one who left the rubber dog mess on the living room rug. If Carl had seen it, he’d have absolutely killed Randy, her miniature dachshund. It was pure luck he hadn’t, because he had come home early from work for some reason. Now he was upstairs banging around, opening the door and slamming it. She knew she had to talk to him, but she didn’t know where to begin. At least he wasn’t drinking. When she’d met him at church two years ago, he had seemed kind and intriguing. Now he didn’t go to church anymore.

  The door slammed open again. Harriet waited for it to slam shut, but instead she heard Carl’s heavy feet on the stairs, coming down fast. She braced herself.

  “Stop her screaming!” he shouted. “If you don’t make her stop, I’ll do it myself!”

  He had begun shouting halfway down. Now he was in the living room, facing her. He hadn’t shaved, and the deep creases on his cheeks formed dark gullies. The gray cat took one look at him and ran from the room. He swung a foot at it and missed.

  Harriet tried to stand her ground but could hardly look at him directly. “What do you mean? Who’re you talking about?”

  “Your kid! She’s screaming! Are your making her do it?” He had stopped shouting; when he spoke it was almost a growl.

  “Lucy? She’s watching TV in our bedroom.” What used to be our bedroom, Harriet thought.

  Carl strode down the hall and threw open the bedroom door so it crashed against the wall. Lucy was sitting on the floor, watching The Electric Company. She jumped up. The sound was turned low; nobody was screaming.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” Carl shouted.

  Harriet hurried to get between Carl and her daughter. She could see Lucy was frightened. She was a thin girl with short brown hair, wear-ing jeans and a green T-shirt decorated with light green frogs. She had kicked off her lighted sneakers—the heels flashed red with every step—which lay some distance from each other. Harriet hated to see her frightened. It made her angry.

  “She’s not doing anything. Can’t you see you’re scaring her?”

  “She was screaming. She’s hiding it now.” Carl bent toward her and spoke with ferocious conviction.

  Harriet turned to Lucy. “Sweetheart, were you making noise?”

  Lucy shook her head and kept glancing at Carl.

  “What’s happened to you?” Harriet took a step toward her husband. “We’re supposed to love each other.”

  Carl opened his mouth to speak and Harriet was sure he was going to deny it, deny that he loved her. He looked almost sly. Then his anger came back. “You always defend her—she and the boy. You don’t see what they’re up to.”

  “And what are they up to?”

  “The boy sneaks upstairs at night. He sneaks up and down the stairs. He thinks I can’t hear him, but I do.”

  Harriet put out a hand to touch his arm, but he pulled away. “Carl, we need to see someone, get some professional help. We can’t go on like this.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll get the name of a counselor.”

  “No way I’m going to go to someone. No fucking way. Been there, done that. Tricks, that’s all. You think I don’t see what’s going on? I got eyes. People tell me stuff, lots of stuff. And that fucking cat. I know all about cats.”

  With that, Carl walked down the hall. The dachshund yapped at him and then yelped and came dashing into the bedroom. In another moment, Harriet heard Carl climbing the stairs. Then she burst into tears.

  • • •

  As Hercel saw it, he wasn’t frightened of Mr. Krause, but Mr. Krause scared him. The first was a more or less permanent condition; the second happened now and then, like that afternoon when Mr. Krause had growled at him. Hercel understood that Mr. Krause was still mad because he’d brought policemen into the basement, but it was, after all, Hercel’s snake. It wasn’t like Mr. Krause had had a snake stolen.

  Hercel had come home after school with Baldo, and after they’d had a snack and watched some TV, Baldo had gone home. Hercel had been taking the milk from the fridge when Mr. Krause came quietly into the kitchen and growled. Hercel nearly dropped the carton.

  “I know what you’re doing,” Mr. Krause had said.

  It had taken Hercel a few seconds to understand that Mr. Krause didn’t mean the milk. He also understood it wouldn’t do any good to ask Mr. Krause what he meant. It would only make Mr. Krause mad. So he’d just stood there facing Mr. Krause but not looking at him too much, because Mr. Krause didn’t like that, either.

  “How’d you like somebody standing outside your door at night. Would you like that, boy?”

  Hercel said he wouldn’t.

  “You got a lock?”

  Hercel shook his head.

  “That’s a shame, boy. You hear what I’m saying? It’s always good to have a lock.” Then Mr. Krause had left the kitchen and gone back upstairs.

  Hercel had decided he didn’t feel like any milk right then, and he put the container back in the fridge. Then he went to find his mother. He explained he was going to visit Tig. She had invited him. It wasn’t very far, and he’d ride his bike easy. He was surprised when she agreed, surprised she didn’t ask a lot of questions. She had just looked sad.

  “Be careful,” she’d said.

  He had said okay. Then he got a sweater, put his toothbrush in the back pocket of his jeans, and was on his way.

  Antigone, or Tig, lived six miles from town, and by the time Hercel was halfway there the sun had set. Several times she’d invited him to see her sheep. He could stay the night and help her feed the chickens in the morning. He didn’t like to think this was an inappropriate hour to arrive, the dark coming on and almost dinnertime. Anyway, his mom had said it was okay.

  And he didn’t want to see Baldo; he’d had enough of Baldo for one day. Hercel had told him he had done his trick with magnets, that the marbles were really ball bearings that looked like marbles, that the magnet was a short rod he hid in his palm, and he added something about positive and negative poles. Baldo hadn’t believed a word, but he didn’t want to call Hercel a liar. These were qualities Hercel admired—skepticism and loyalty, but it didn’t mean he’d tell Baldo anything. At last Baldo had gone home, but Hercel knew he would ask his dad about magnets and positive and negative poles. But Hercel didn’t care about that, because now he was out of the house.

  As for his “trick,” as Baldo called it, Hercel didn’t know how it worked, except it gave him a headache. He looked really hard at the marbles and pushed them somehow with his thoughts. He concentrated, imagined one of them moving, imagined it rolling and lifting, and then one rolled, then another. How could he explain it to anyone, much less a kid? Anyway, rolling a marble three inches or lifting it three inches, what was so special about that? Small potatoes, as his dad used to say.

  Few cars passed, which was just as well, because Hercel had no reflector on the back of his bike and no light on the front. Whenever a car came, he would pull onto the dirt. The road was lined with trees, and he thought it would be just his luck to hit one. It meant he had to go slower, which was too bad, because soon he wouldn’t be able to see anything. Some houses were set back in the trees, and their lights helped. He just had to make sure he saw the turnoff to Tig’s farm. Otherwise, he’d be stuck.

  Luckily, another car passed as he neared the turnoff. It passed and blared its horn, which nearly sent Hercel into a ditch. Then he got moving again and made the turn. By this time, it was dark. No lights anywhere. He figured he had a mile to go, but after he’d gone about twenty yards his front tire slipped off the road. He pulled hard to the left, but the tire slid along the lip of the pavement and he went down, scraping his hands on the gravel and knocking the wind out of him. He picked up the bike and rolled it a few feet. It seemed okay. He limped beside it, because he had banged his knee. Hercel wasn’t happy, but he figured what happ
ened was what he would expect might happen, all things considered, and he had to put up with it. He was only sorry he hadn’t brought a flashlight, but he’d been in too much of a rush to leave.

  It was then he heard the yapping. At first he thought it was a dog, but it was higher than a dog’s bark. He heard one, then a second and a third. He moved more quickly; he couldn’t tell if he was moving straight until he stepped off the road and almost fell. He put the bike back on the pavement and got moving again.

  The yapping grew closer. At times it was almost a scream, like a siren or cat. Hercel jogged forward, pushing the bike. Next time he went off the road, he yanked the bike back and jumped on. He wobbled forward in the darkness, trying to stay parallel to the edge of the road, or where he imagined it must be. The yapping grew louder. Had it been light, he would have seen them.

  He had seen coyotes before, and a week earlier he had seen two in the tall grass down by the beach. And he knew they took people’s pets; kids talked about it in school. They got in people’s trash and skulked around at night. But he had never heard of them chasing anybody. He pedaled hard, keeping his hands evenly spaced on the grips, trying to go straight. He thought he saw the shadow of a tree and turned away from it. The coyotes’ yapping was almost like singing.

  Moments later, Hercel saw a light ahead of him through the trees. The coyotes were right behind him. In the bits of silence within their yapping, he heard the click of their nails against the road’s hard surface. Hercel stood up and pedaled harder, slipped off the road but kept his balance and yanked the bike back on the pavement. The muscles in his thighs ached, and his fingers hurt from clutching the grips. The light was brighter. Ahead, to the left, he saw a stone wall and then a gate. It had to be the farm. He heard the coyotes panting. Trying to quiet his terror, he aimed at the wall.

  • • •