A Long December

by Richard Chizmar

  I moved carefully down the opposite side of the hill, scanning the ground. If I lost my footing and turned an ankle or a knee, it would all be over in a matter of hours. I reached the bottom of the hill and ran for the treeline. The Canadian wilderness was beautiful in early autumn, and it served as both a curse and a gift for my cause. Unfortunately, it was one of the last remaining true wild-lands on the continent and if I had been anywhere else at the moment I could have reached civilization—and help—by now. On the other hand, considering the motives of the tracking party behind me, there were no better surroundings to hide in if forced to do so.

  I moved deeper into the wilderness. Forty minutes later, chest heaving, legs feeling like rubber, I reached the summit of a rocky ridge. I resisted the urge to take another drink, and instead, leaned against a boulder the size of a mini-van. The rock felt cool and smooth against my shoulder and I rested my cheek against it, closing my eyes, savoring its touch. Within seconds, a vision of snarling dogs snapped me back, and I quickly unshouldered the pack and eased around to the backside of the ridge, which was lined with a cluster of smaller but no less impressive boulders.

  The view was truly awe-inspiring. Miles of bright, sun-speckled autumn forest stretched before me like a quilt sewn with the richest fabric from every color of a rainbow. I could see acres of healthy woodland, peaks and valleys, streams and rivers snaking across the land like the pulsing veins of a giant, scattered lighter-toned green patches of rolling meadow, the occasional dark blemish of rocky bluffs similar to the one I was standing on. Not a single sign of civilization as we know it.

  God’s country, indeed, I thought, remembering one of Lucas Ransom’s favorite expressions. He was such a dramatic bastard.

  Somewhere in the distance, I heard the dogs. Impossible to determine if they were drawing closer, or if I was making ground on them. I searched the landscape but could not spot any movement. Suddenly, I thought of the camp—the evil place I was fleeing—and what they’d done to pitiful Francis. A shiver tickled my spine. No way were they going to take me. No way.

  I reached down and touched the heavy cloth of the backpack, feeling the rough edges of the Grail inside. And as my fingers caressed the material, a dark realization came to me: taking the Grail had been a mistake. If I had just snuck out of camp, they might not have followed me, thinking a city man could never cross hundreds of miles of wilderness. But they would never give up now. They would never stop searching until they’d found their Holy Grail.

  I slung the knapsack over my shoulder and jumped to my feet, inspired, actually energized, by the horrible thought. Drawing a deep breath, I ran—a bit too fast for the rocky terrain—up the slope of the ridge, pushing blindly through the heavy foliage ahead, out into—

  —nothing.

  The ground beneath me suddenly disappeared.

  Replaced by clear, blue sky.

  A sheer cliff laughed at me as I fell—

  —deeper into the hungry ravine—

  —toward the rushing white water below—

  Slow motion, spinning, arms flailing, knapsack feeling impossibly heavy, the sky so brilliantly blue it hurt my eyes—

  —and then there was only darkness.

  2

  Darkness…flames dancing dangerously close burning my face my body with their heat a screaming man inside the flames his face and mouth bubbling melting into a mask of blood his arms dripping black and yellow and red as he reaches for me he wants to take me with him into the fire a flame touches my hair my lips and i beat it out before it can taste me then the sound of singing a sickening evil sound then a gigantic cross jutting up into the air a white sword cutting the pure sky hundreds of men and women kneeling below the cross in flowing white robes singing chanting…

  Slowly, the darkness fades, is replaced by a dimly-lit room with a single small window, a sweet-smelling breeze kissing the air around me. I think I am safe until I try to move and cannot, my arms and legs restrained, until I hear soft music on the air, until I see a golden crucifix hanging on the wall, and then I know I am not safe. I must be back at the camp. They found me. I try to scream, but the pain is too much…and then there is only the darkness again.

  3

  I came to some time later to the sound of chirping birds and wood being chopped. Early morning sunlight streamed into the room through an open window. I stared at the empty walls, recalling the crucifix from my nightmare, the music, the flames. All horrible memories I’d taken with me from the encampment.

  I moved my head and a wave of pain and nausea washed over me. Bits and pieces slowly floated back to me. The dogs…the cliff…the river…falling! I was afraid to look down at my body. A dark vision flashed in my mind: that of a sideshow freak with no limbs. My arms and legs were not restrained at all; they just weren’t there anymore. I lifted my head slowly, moaning, and caught a glimpse of two feet under a white blanket.

  The bad news was it felt like I had a broken bag of bones for a body and was strapped to a bed in the middle of nowhere. The good news was I didn’t think I was back at the camp.

  From what I could see, head perfectly still, eyes still blurry, the room looked like it was part of a larger log cabin. The walls were undecorated, a single naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling. I could just see the top half of a fireplace against the far wall, and I couldn’t help but think of the flames. Real flames—like the ones back at the camp—not the kind that frightened me from my dreams.

  “Hello,” I croaked, mouth impossibly dry, not recognizing the sound of my voice.

  The chopping stopped outside the window.

  Footsteps.

  A door opening and closing.

  A long, breathless moment.

  “Well, I’ll be,” a man’s voice came from somewhere beyond my vision. “My friend has awakened.”

  I didn’t know the voice, so I kept quiet.

  “Don’t be afraid, partner, I imagine you’re wondering where you are and how you got here.” Movement in the room. “Let me pull this chair up and get you a sip of water.” A man’s grinning face appeared directly above me and, for just a moment, I thought I was staring at the face of my long-dead father. The man had to be damn near seventy—the same age my father would have been—his face a friendly ball of wrinkles, a balding brow, deep tan, eyes the color of clay, a smile enough for two men.

  “You just relax yourself and take this water down real slow like.” He lifted a paper cup to my lips and I tasted the nectar of the gods. “Whoa, partner. That’s enough for now. Too much will do you more bad than good. Trust me.”

  “Where am I?” I managed, water running down my chin. I wanted so much to lick my lips, but my tongue wouldn’t cooperate.

  “You’re in the home of the honorable Lewis Perkins, that’s me, halfway down the south side of the Levathian Valley. Where should you be?”

  “How…where did you find—”

  “I didn’t exactly find you, partner. The river brought you to me. I was heading upstream, and instead of fish, I found you. Thought you was dead at first.”

  I swallowed and said, “I feel like a corpse.”

  The old man chuckled and whistled loud enough so that it hurt my ears. “Partner, you are one beat-up individual. Near as I can see, you got a broken leg, broken wrist, bruised ribs—don’t think you broke any of them though cause you ain’t been spitting no blood—and probably one whopper of a concussion.”

  I groaned.

  He shook his head and real concern crept onto his face. “I fixed you up best I could. Cleaned the cuts. Set the breaks. But you were out cold for more than two days, partner. And when you finally started coming to last night, I had to tie you down to keep you from hurting yourself worse. You kept hollering about flames and crosses and other crazy stuff, sounded something like singing. Heck, I had to turn my music off, and yank that there crucifix off the wall just to keep you calmed down. Weirdest thing, it was.”

  “My God,” I said, a tear slipping down my cheek. “Y
ou saved my—”

  “No reason to thank me yet, partner,” he said, loosening the ropes from my legs and arms. “You could die on me next hour for all I know.”

  I tried to smile. “Well, in that case, I’ll hold off on the gratitude.” He smiled back and gently patted my arm. He had rough, weathered hands, the hands of a good, hard-working man. I decided right then that I would have liked this man even if he hadn’t saved my life.

  “Listen,” I said, “this is very important. Could I use your phone?”

  “Sorry, no phone this far out. Lines don’t run anywhere near here, and I ain’t never had one of those satellite jobs; too expensive, and who would I call anyway?”

  “Anyplace nearby I could call from?”

  “Closest place would be, ummm, over near Rockton or in Riverdale. It’s a toss-up as to which is closer.”

  Riverdale…the camp was just north of Riverdale. “Has anyone…anyone come around here looking for me?”

  Another look of concern, mixed with suspicion this time. I didn’t blame him. “No, no one comes around this side of the valley except for hunters from time to time. But my land’s posted so they don’t come in this far if they know what’s good for them.”

  He paused, as if considering his next words carefully. “I found a knapsack that belongs to you.”

  My heart skipped; I’d forgotten about the backpack.

  “And judging from what’s in that there sack, I think you’ve got some kind of story to tell. And, if I’m gonna be caring for you, I reckon I’ve got a right to hear it.”

  I opened my mouth, but he “ssshed” me quiet.

  “Not today, partner. You’re a sight. You get some rest right now, and we’ll get some food in you soon.”

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling helpless and foolish. A strong man like myself transformed into a child.

  He patted my arm again, turned and left. A moment later, he returned. “You don’t worry, partner. If anyone does come around here looking for you, as long as it ain’t the law, I’ll tell them I ain’t seen a sign of you. I’ll get rid of them real quick like. You don’t go worrying about that, hear?”

  I nodded and whispered a hoarse “thank you,” suddenly exhausted from the conversation.

  The old man winked at me and closed the door.

  4

  A full day passed before the old man mentioned the backpack again.

  He’d spent the past twenty-four hours pumping food and drink into me and tending to my injuries best he could. The pain in my leg and arm was just bearable, but I counted myself lucky that neither injury had broken the skin and neither limb appeared terribly deformed. The old man sure wasn’t a doctor and he wasn’t the best cook in the world either, but his genuine concern and gentle manner of care more than made up for it.

  There was one thing the old guy—Lew, he asked me to call him—was good at though, and that was talking. I was his first company in years, he told me, and he was making up for lost conversation. By that first day’s end, I’d learned everything I needed to know about him, even though he still knew nothing about me.

  Lewis Perkins. Sixty-two-year-old retired Air Force man. Aircraft mechanic. Living on just under 600 acres of his father’s land. Wife, Carmella, deceased. Cancer. Buried in a meadow a few hundred yards behind the cabin. No phone. No communication with the outside world. Had supplies flown in four times a year to a lake a mile-and-a-­half north of the cabin. If the weather was bad, and the flight had to be aborted, they flew in exactly a week later. Last shipment came in less than a month ago. Spent his days hiking the countryside. Fishing. Hunting. Some watercolor painting from time to time. Most nights spent reading. Smoking his pipe.

  It was during dinner on that second night—deer meat, green vegetables, and hot bun rolls—that Lew brought up the knapsack again. He did so in a sly, roundabout fashion, and as usual, it was some time before he stopped talking.

  “You know, Bill,” he said around a mouthful of deer meat, “you’re not the first fella that river brought to me.”

  I stopped pushing my fork across the plate and leaned my head back on one of the pillows he’d propped under me on the bed. A fire crackled in the corner of the room, its warmth mixing with the cool night air coming through the window. The painkillers Lew had given me before dinner (he told me that he used them a couple times a winter for his arthritis) were taking the desired effect. My stomach was full, and I was ready for a good story.

  “No, sir. ’Bout two years ago, I found a man about a mile from where you washed up. But this fella was still in the river, hooked on some fallen brush like a trapped beaver, and he was deader than dead. Had been that way for a few days. But, you see, this guy had a full pack with him. Looked like he belonged out here. I even found his camp some ways upstream. Probably slipped on the rocks or, heck, he could’ve had a heart attack for all I know.”

  He stopped, and looked away, plucking a strand of meat from his teeth with pinched fingers. He swallowed a drink of beer and looked back at me. It was obvious that he was waiting for me to talk, and when I didn’t, he continued.

  “What I’m getting at is this. After I found you, I didn’t find no camp and, believe me, I looked. And the only thing you had on you was some old backpack, all tangled around your arm. Just a few pieces of food, a canteen, a little old .38, some waterlogged notebooks, and a fancy-looking gold cup all wrapped up in a flannel shirt. No supplies, no warm clothes for the night. It looked like you’d lit out from somewhere in a big hurry and—”

  “I’m a journalist,” I said, pushing the dinner plate further down on my lap. I knew it was time for me to do the talking now.

  Lew shook his head. “A writer, huh? I knew you were something special. I sure did.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not from around here.”

  “Oh, no kidding,” he said with a smirk. “I thought you were a mountain man or something. Maybe a fur trapper.”

  I rolled my eyes and continued. “I live in Philadelphia. Have all my life, all thirty-nine years. Write features for a few of the national magazines. Public interest stories. I spent the last three weeks on an undercover assignment over near Riverdale, at the New Order camp. You heard of it?”

  “Those religious folks?”

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  Most people had heard of the New Order. Founded three decades ago by New York business tycoon Lucas Ransom, the highly publicized cult of religious fanatics had built their own village—their camp—in the Canadian wilderness, where they worshiped a Holy God of Nature and lived almost completely off the land. Many of their methods and practices were controversial and the group itself was under investigation by several law enforcement agencies.

  “What were you doing there?” Lew asked.

  “Last month I got an assignment to go undercover and infiltrate the New Order. Pose as a new member, a convert. Take a good look around, take a few pictures, talk to some people, and then disappear. We’d checked the area out pretty good and there was a spot close to the camp where a helicopter could land. I was to stay in camp for five weeks, then sneak out in the night and rendezvous with the chopper pilot and escape with my material.”

  “Five weeks, huh? That’s a long time,” he said, looking up at the cabin ceiling, thinking. “Then that’s who you were running from. Something went wrong, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah. Something went wrong all right. Murder went wrong. I watched them kill a man in that holy camp of theirs.” My breath hitched and I reached for my glass and took a drink.

  “Take it easy, Bill. Take it slow and start over again.”

  I took a few even breaths and asked, “Lew, are you familiar with the myth of the Holy Grail? Have you ever heard of the Sinner King?”

  He shook his head.

  “Okay, bear with me here. This’ll take a few minutes but, when I’m done, I think you’ll understand everything.”

  “Take your time,” he said. “Ain’t got no place to go.”

 
I nodded. “According to history, the Holy Grail is the cup from which our Saviour drank at His last supper. He was supposed to have given it to Joseph, who took it with him to Europe, along with the spear, which the soldier had used to pierce our Saviour’s side. Well, the Grail and the spear were supposedly handed down from generation to generation and the men who watched over these treasures were supposed to be men of great purity. But one of these men failed and thus began a terrible myth, that of the Sinner King. This man was supposed to have looked at a partially disrobed female and, according to legend, the sacred spear then fell upon him, inflicting a fatal wound, thus crowning this man as Le Roi Pescheur or the Sinner King. Do you follow me so far?”

  The old man nodded, clearly entranced by my little history lesson. “Yes, yes. Go on.”

  “Well, soon after arriving in camp, I discovered that the members of the New Order have their own Holy Grail for worship. Certainly not the Grail of historic legend, but a fine substitute with an undeniable power over the congregation.

  “Now here comes the ugly part. You know the saying: history often repeats itself. Well, it certainly did in this case. One of the four guardians of this Holy Grail—a fella named Francis—was discovered to be having an affair with a teenaged girl in the camp. This man was brought before the holy men of the New Order and sentenced to death. I…I watched helplessly as they burned him at the stake.”

  “My God.”

  “It was horrible. Barbaric. I’ve been a journalist for twenty years and I’ve never seen anything like it. They held a ceremony and every person in the camp was there. It was like a celebration, singing and dancing…it was incredible.”

  “So you decided to run?”

  “No, I wanted to wait the final two weeks for my pick-up. But a few days later, while cleaning inside the chapel, I overheard two of the high priests talking in the confession room next door. It seems that somehow, one of the congregation had discovered my true identity and the priests were going to, that very night, spring a little surprise on me. On impulse, I grabbed the Grail from the altar and took it with me. I’m still not sure why I did it. Then I got my backpack and my story notes from my room, stole a Jeep and drove as far as the airfield road would take me.”