The Scales

by Paul Sating

  Serenity struggled to grasp the context of what George was sharing. "But you make it sound as if you have some sort of…of…"

  "Relationship?" George's eyes danced with life. “We do. We have from our beginning."

  "But…" Her brain scrambled to understand all this. "How?"

  "With respect comes understanding," George said.

  Serenity shared a confused glance with Mitzie. She wasn’t the only one struggling to understand.

  The Chief allowed them a moment before speaking. "If I were to tell you that you two were sisters and, as such, you act this way or that even though you claim you aren't—"

  "We're not." Mitzie dismissed the notion.

  George didn't flinch. "Would you appreciate me assuming you are and basing my actions on that? Would you prefer I treated you as siblings, regardless of your obvious…differences?"

  Serenity grimaced. "That would be weird.”

  "How so?"

  She flushed, not wanting to point out age and racial differences, especially since she was the youngest one in the room by a great deal. "Well, because…I mean. It’s just that—"

  "But she is your sister," George asserted. “That is my view. My reality."

  "But…" She started to protest and then caught herself. "I see what you're saying. Because of my experiences with the Screecher I've convinced myself it is evil, bent on doing harm."

  George nodded even as she was still speaking. "As you can see, that's a difficult way to begin to understand something. Correct?"

  It was. But still.

  "My people have had a relationship with the water spirit for generations, dating back hundreds of years. We had to, for our own survival. That understanding has remained in good standing for many moons. We respect the water spirit because we understand it. We do not interfere with him and he leaves us alone." George’s gaze became unfocused, like he was staring at something in the distance. “We didn’t intrude on its territory and it allowed our people to live in peace. This came in quite handy when the white man moved here. They didn’t understand the spirit; they didn’t respect it. When they became aggressive, it solidified our understanding with the water spirit.”

  "Are you saying…it won't attack you?" Mitzie asked.

  Serenity had been thinking the same thing.

  George smiled. It wasn’t a mocking smile, or even one inspired by humor. "What did you notice about the desert as you were entering our reservation?"

  Serenity reflected on her unease about being away from Rotisserie and turning off the highway. Patch had told her she was not safe outside Rotisserie now that she'd been tagged. Patch was tagged decades ago, but…

  “Just because you’re outside the town don’t mean you’ll be attacked.”

  He hadn’t put them at risk.

  "Nothing," she finally answered. "I noticed nothing."

  George pointed a finger, jabbing the coffee table. "Exactly."

  15

  "The three of you have been tagged.” George sipped his coffee, a wispy ahhh escaping his lips. "Yet you're here, safe and sound. Do you think that's because of the number of us on the reservation or some fear the water spirit has? No, that’s wrong. For starters, we're only seventy-five people, counting the babies. But the water spirit? It could come if it wanted. It could rip apart our lives in a matter of moments."

  "But it doesn't," Serenity asserted. "Why not?"

  "That's why I brought you here," Patch said.

  George spread his hands. "There is nothing special about this place. We cannot even claim it as our ancestral home. We moved so often in our past. Yet, we remain safe. And that's because we see it for what it is. In part."

  "But what is that?" Mitzie asked.

  Her knee had been bouncing for minutes like she would jump from the chair at the first opportunity. That energy, whether excitement, stress, anxiety, or something else, had finally made its way to her mouth.

  The comment didn’t seem to bother the tribal leader.

  "That it has the same rights to this plane and all the gifts the spirits bestow upon us. It is sentient and deserving of treatment as such. Those men Patch is talking about who have formed up their army? They don't see it like that, and that's exactly why they’re in danger. But their opinions don't make it any less true. We are all one."

  "I've never had the desire to kill someone," Mitzie snapped.

  The more George talked, the more the entire room felt on-edge, precipitated by the older woman.

  "And you've never been threatened as the water spirit has," George countered. "Let me show you something. Get my box, please," he said over his shoulder to one of his ever-present escorts, who left and returned within seconds with a large mahogany box as wide as his shoulders. The wood was rich, its red tint nearing black. The young man set it on the table in front of George, backing away.

  George cracked it open, pulling the lid all the way back with tender care. Stacks of folded paper filled the box. George lined the arm of his chair with them before picking out small trinkets, and laying them alongside the paper, muttering to himself. "They're here…somewhere." He frowned. Then, appearing to find what he sought, he strained forward, setting a thick stack of rubber-banded newspaper clippings on the table. "There you are, young lady."

  Serenity tentatively picked it up. The top clipping came from something called the Rotisserie Rotator. The paper felt brittle but the rubber band looked new. "What are these?"

  "Look at the headlines. No need to read the articles unless you're interested in the gruesome details."

  She nodded and Mitzie, a whiff of lilac dancing in the air, moved closer to get a better view of what Serenity held.

  The first headline read: 8 Killed In Expedition. Serenity glanced at the two older men. Patch encouraged her to keep going with a flick of a finger.

  She set the clipping on the table and read the next: More Dead, Officials Concerned.

  Ten eyeballs followed her movements. In the corner of the room, George's clock ticked.

  The next read: Third Mass Murder This Month! The subtitle: Residents Shaken, Officials Clueless.

  She flipped to the next one, losing her concern for the brittle paper in her haste to satisfy the grim curiosity. Gruesome Discovery, Entire Family Slaughtered.

  The next clipping: Sheriff Perplexed As Death Toll Rises. The subtitle stated: Over 30 Killed This Month.

  Serenity tapped the paper with her thumb. The articles were within two months of each other. If her quick tabulation was even close, these newspaper clippings claimed over fifty people dead in that time.

  The next one, dated four days after the last: NO ANSWERS STILL! And underneath that angry headline the subtitle claimed: 5 Dead In Latest Attack.

  Another clipping, the very next day, stated: Sighted! The supporting subtitle: Farmer Watches Creature Kill Cattle!

  Flipping again, Serenity stared down at the last clipping. Authorities Attacked, 3 Dead. Its subtitle claimed: Sheriff Department Decimated! What Now?

  The paper shook in her hand as she set it down on top of the others.

  "That's just one bundle." George broke her reflection. "I have others, from a different time, though they’re much the same as you've just read."

  "Different time?" She raised an eyebrow.

  "Some bundles are older. But regardless of the time, paper, or region, the reports are the same."

  Curiosity and fear mixed with a dose of frustration. "Was this the Screech—the water spirit?"

  "Everything you see in that stack, captured in the other stacks I have stored away" —he tapped the lid of the wood box— "are about the water spirit."

  Serenity pointed at the upside-down pile of paper clippings. "All of that was done by the Screecher? Those papers are from the sixties! It killed so many people. I don’t understand why you showed us that. We don't need reminders about how fearsome that thing is."

  “We’re even more right about it.” Mitzie sniffed.

  George shook his head s
lowly. "The water spirit is of the gods. And it did those things" —he pointed at the stack of papers sitting between them— “because of what people were doing to it, because the people of the area didn’t respect it. Honor it. They still don’t.”

  "It kills now just like it killed back then. Nothing has changed,” Mitzie snapped before drawing a deep breath. “How do we protect ourselves?"

  "George isn't your enemy." Patch’s tone was stern, edged.

  "He sounds like he's on the side of that thing." Mitzie pointed a finger at George while keeping fierce eyes on Patch. "I don’t give a damn about understanding what people did to it before. I know what it’s doing now!"

  “If you would be patient—” George started.

  “No.” Mitzie was on her feet as soon as the word was out of her mouth. Mitzie’s hands shook, even as the woman rolled her fingers inward, as if trying to hide what she’d already given away.

  "Please, sit," Patch implored.

  Mitzie flinched. "I can’t. I’m sorry…but this, this is too much. We already know how vicious that thing is, and now we know it’s been like this for at least a few decades.” She paused to smooth her pant legs. When she eyed the two men her chest was puffed out. “Gentlemen, I thank you, but if you’re not willing to help, it’s best we find someone who will. The only thing we need is for you to tell us how to kill it, and you don’t seem interested in telling us that. I’m sorry for wasting your time."

  "Can we give him a chance to explain?" Serenity pleaded.

  Mitzie stared at her. "Explain what?” She waved a finger at the box. “There’s everything we need to know. Instead of being here, wasting time, I could have been supporting the men who are out in the desert right now, trying to do something. I’m sorry, sweetie. You can, dear, but I'm not. I'm leaving. And, I think it’d be best if you came with me."

  "You're making a mistake." George’s flat statement left clear implications.

  "Am I?" Mitzie arched an eyebrow. “Because I don’t see us accomplishing anything here. A history lesson, context, whatever you’re attempting to do with all this, none of it is helping the people looking for that thing. You said yourself, Patch, they are in danger and now we see how much danger they’re in. Great. But what are we doing? Nothing, that’s what. We don’t need a history lesson or philosophical discussion; we need action. We need help.” She tilted her chin, turning toward the door. "And we’re not getting that here. I may be making a mistake, but at least I’m going to try to do something to help. Are you coming, Serenity?"

  If George meant to help, it didn’t feel like it. His insistence that they understand the Screecher’s nature was frustrating and disrespectful to Lance Webster and anyone who waited for him to come home from a volunteer event with a bunch of teenagers, only to find out his fate would deny them that. To everyone killed by it. Forgiveness and understanding didn't bring anyone back. More conversation wouldn't help the men searching for the Screecher.

  Biting back a plea for George to give them something useful, she stood. Patch’s slumped shoulders and downturned gaze almost compelled her to stay.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "Serenity, don't." Patch struggled to stand.

  Mitzie was at the door, holding it open.

  Serenity sighed. "I've got to, Patch. I'm going to get in trouble."

  She spun and left.

  Stepping outside was like walking into a sauna. The hundred yards to the car felt like a thousand, the combination of heat and crushed hope sapping her energy. Two men stood in the shade between a pair of houses, eyeing them. They were close enough to have heard the rising voices. All those who stared without shyness were certainly scrutinizing her rejection of their leader. But all George had done was confirm the Screecher’s maleficent nature.

  Why, Patch? Why’d you bring us here to listen to that?

  As the car’s engine sputtered to life, Serenity looked for Patch, hoping she'd see him trudging along to join them. Only the silence of the reservation responded, the only thing moving was the occasional swaying curtain from someone peeking at them.

  As Mitzie backed the car out, Serenity held back the rising anger at Mitzie’s impatience and George’s stubbornness. The village’s existence proved George could keep them safe from the Screecher. This far into the desert and life here looked so normal, despite the obvious financial struggles the people on the reservation had. Whatever George knew, it was working. They were at peace with the Screecher. Peace was possible for them, but they weren’t being attacked. Mitzie was right; they had to do something.

  "He's not coming," Mitzie's said.

  "Yeah." Serenity blinked away a tear, still hoping against hope Patch would appear.

  And the determined, older woman drove them toward the highway.

  Back to Rotisserie. A world away from being able to stop the Screecher.

  16

  "You're dead," Jerrod said.

  His words lingered like dark clouds on the horizon. She had rehearsed her excuse a hundred times on the way back from the reservation. If she couldn't get by Jerrod, there was no hope of fooling her mother.

  "What are you talking about?" She hoped she sounded as calm as she did in her head.

  "I'm talking you skipping out of study session," Jerrod said.

  He narrowed his eyes easily seeing the lie as only a sibling could. Serenity tried not to squirm.

  “How did you—”

  "I went to school to pick you up,” he said. “Momma needed us to do some shopping for her. Your little circle of friends ratted you out. Sorry, Porkchop. What the hell were you thinking?"

  All her energy had been focused on presenting a good lie to her mother. When George assured her there wouldn't be a problem with the school, it was easy to get lost constructing a believable story. Her good-for-nothing friends and Jerrod had slipped out of the equation.

  "Yea, I thought so." Jerrod smirked the annoying smirk that older brothers did when they had juicy dirt on a younger sibling. "Listen, you've got to be smarter about stuff like that. Mom is a watchdog. You're not going to get much by her because you're not as good at lying as I am. As a matter of fact, you suck at it. Don't you remember how often I got in trouble?"

  Oh, she remembered. A period that started in his junior year and extended all the way through his graduation when he was constantly challenging the rules or breaking them. Ida never got peace with Jerrod, who was lucky Jerry was too busy dealing with his distractions to act like a father. Hardly a day passed where Ida wasn’t screaming at Jerrod about his latest escapade.

  Serenity closed her eyes and groaned.

  "You're almost out of here and you're smart. You're going to a university, not some raggedy-ass school like I did. A real university. Where's your head at?"

  "I wasn't—” She started to defend herself, but it wasn’t worth it. "You're right." She lowered her gaze to play up the faux guilt. "I wasn't thinking." Serenity stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him. He stiffened, then relaxed. "Thanks for looking out for me."

  She used his body to hide the smirk spreading across her lips. His hand soon found its way to her shoulder, and he patted it in a ‘you’re welcome’ gesture. He tried to pull away, but Serenity refused to release her grip, making it awkward, just like she’d planned.

  Ida walked in, doing a double-take at her children. "What are you two up to?"

  "Nothing, Ma," Jerrod said, while Serenity remained locked onto him, shielding herself from her mother's examination. "I'm just giving Porkchop some crap about not making up her mind about which school she's going to."

  Serenity took a chance and glanced up. New stress lines creased her mother’s eyes. After all this time, all these conversations, it was still too difficult for her mother to entertain the thought of Serenity leaving.

  "Hmmmm." Ida grunted before moving over to the sink and glancing out the window, giving no sign she suspected Serenity’s betrayal. Best to act normal.

  "Are you okay?" Serenity asked. />
  Ida turned, those stress lines deeper now. One hand gripped the lip of the counter while the other pulled at her skirt, ruffling and crumpling it in tight ripples between rough, thick fingers.

  The need to protect her secret actions forgotten for the moment, Serenity released Jerrod, sure that she’d made it awkward enough for him to leave her alone now. She went to her mother and took her mother’s hand away from crimping her dress.

  "Momma, what's wrong?"

  Ida squeezed Serenity's hand before motioning toward the kitchen table.

  "Sit," she said, before letting go.

  Serenity stood behind a chair, holding the top rail. Jerrod moved to the table.

  "You look upset, Ma," he said. "Let me get you some tea."

  "No, no," Ida said, weakly. "Don't bother. I don't have the stomach for it right now. There's something that's been on my mind all day and I need to talk to you two about it. I didn't want to pull you out of school to do it, Serenity."

  As difficult as it was, Serenity resisted the urge to exhale a day’s worth of stress. Something troubled her mother, yet all she could feel was relief that it wasn’t what she feared.

  Jerrod reached across the table and gripped Ida's hand. "Ma, what is it?"

  Ida dabbed her sweaty lip with the back of her hand. "Something happened."

  "What? To who? Is everything okay?" The questions poured out before Serenity could cut them off.

  When Ida spoke again Serenity stopped caring about skipping school.

  "Some men came by, asking about you two." Ida's eyes flitted back and forth between them.

  "Who? What did they want?"

  More questions, too fast. The guilt of her deception put Serenity on edge, like her unraveling was in-progress.

  Ida shook her head; her eyelids fluttered.

  "I don't know who they were; they wouldn't say. Two of them. Pulled up in a Cadillac, wore nice suits and sunglasses. They looked official and said they were helping the sheriff's department with their investigation into…into that thing you saw. But then they started asking questions. About both of you. Questions that didn't feel right."