The Ends of the Earth

by Lucius Shepard

  After I’m done, I sit naked with pen and paper at my writing desk, and, unmindful of Marge’s pleading, begin the creation of my next day’s sermon. I have never felt so capable, so filled with thunderous verbal potential.

  “I won’t tell,” says Marge. “I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go.” In the half-light her breasts gleam pale, inspiring me further. I choose my text and scribble a brief introduction.

  “I swear,” says Marge, and breaks into sobs.

  Exasperated, I let out a sigh and set down my pen. My duty as lover must preempt my priestly duty for a while; I must finish Marge’s instruction, bring her wholly into the realm of the senses, unravel that dark knot in her breast that I have only begun to loosen. “Darling,” I say as I enter her again. “This, too, shall pass.” Though she twists her head aside, though she affects revulsion, her cry is of pleasure, not of pain. She cannot fool me. I am expert in these matters.

  I alternate bouts of lovemaking and sermon-writing. The two pursuits, I understand, are linked, and I come from each renewed and eager for more of the other. Marge tries every ploy to deny her feelings, to cozen me into releasing her. For a time she pretends to pretend enjoyment, thinking to tempt me into untying her, not knowing I perceive her true ecstasy, her absolute involvement, her delight in the bonds. I let her know that I am not persuaded by instructing her in several of the exotic practices I have picked up at the brothel in Corn River, disciplines foreign to Marge, yet ones to which she swiftly adapts, growing ever more silent in contemplation of the new sensations she experiences. And in that silence, the dark construct of her secret sin starts to lose conformation, to send out threads through her flesh and spirit. By first light she is all but its embodiment, and had I another hour before the service, I would be able to complete the work I have begun. But both it and she will wait. I check her bonds, kiss her on the brow, look onto her staring eyes, wide-open in the study of that internal unraveling. A bit vacant, I think. But her color is good, she will mend. Yes, the witch will bless my name for this night of liberation.

  Eleven o’clock, and showered, serene in a freshly starched surplice, I stand behind the griffin’s ebony beak, gazing out over the congregation, listening to thunder, watching the rainy light penetrate the segments of stained glass, spreading a gray gloom over all. My flock seems edgy, no doubt the result of my minute-long consideration of the words I am about to speak. Soon, though, they will be relaxed as never before, freed from the bonds of propriety to enact their sly wishes. I smile, nod, and they glance nervously at one another. It may be that—as do I—they sense some vast imminence. At last, resting my hands on the griffin’s head, I begin.

  “The first part of my text for today,” I say, “is taken from the French poet and playwright, Antonin Artaud.”

  This causes a general stirring…not that Artaud and his cabalistic creed are known in Fallon, but it unsettles them that I should stray from my usual course.

  “‘Do evil,’ Artaud says. ‘Do evil and commit many sins. But do no evil to me.’” I allow no time for a reaction, but launch into the body of the sermon. “This direct instruction might be taken for a misstatement of the Golden Rule, but in truth it implies the essence of the rule, it gives a new reading of that truth appropriate to our time. For we are all evil, are we not? Whatever good resides in us, it is mediated by a quantity of evil, and locked together these two forces intertwine and darken in us, until in the end one and one alone establishes dominion. We may by force of habit effect good works, love a good life, sin only minimally, yet mostly we are not impelled to behave thus by the empowering radiance of good, but rather by the fear of admitting to evil, of facing it and giving it its due. We have been taught that to master evil we must suppress it. And this is wrong. The act of suppression twists us. We become vessels filled with repressed desires and needs that without light grow into gnarled and mutant shapes.”

  Rustling everywhere. Women whispering together; men sitting expressionless, refusing to confront their discomfort; a child giggling.

  “This,” I go on, “brings me to the second part of my text, a quote from the magus Aleister Crowley. ‘Do what thou wilt be the whole of the law.’”

  The rustling increases, but I pay it no heed.

  “Crowley was not advising us to rape and murder, to do unnatural deeds. Rather, he was encouraging us to liberate our evil natures, to give vent to sin before it can grow great and malignant. And Artaud: ‘…do no evil to me.’ This bespeaks a comprehension that evil thus vented rarely involves a crime with a victim, that it expresses itself in mild forms such as lust. Once expressed, then our good works—when we attempt them—become the products of a true saintly intent and not of fear.”

  The word lust might have been a needle thrust into the bony rump of every old woman in the church, for they all sit up straight, fully attentive and unanimously grim. My fingers clench the griffin’s skull, and I feel a force surging through the black wood. The stained-glass animals twitch in their rectangular confines. The moment is near. I lean forward, becoming folksy, gentling my tone.

  “We of St. Mary’s are much blessed,” I nod, imbuing the gesture with a thespian measure of sagacity. “Much blessed. For our sins, though multiplicitous and diverse, have each a complement among our body. And so we need not venture out into the world and risk humiliation in order to express our desires. We need only do what we have always done, and that is, trust in the fellowship. Here amidst friends and neighbors, we can bare our secrets…and not merely bare them, but indulge them with those whose secrets are partner to our own. Here we can share joy and pleasure free from spying eyes and moral judgments, and in so doing find the new meaning of God.”

  Indignation and anger are creeping into their expressions, but I am not concerned. The truth will set them free.

  “I know your sins,” I say. “I know them as you believe only you know them. There is no reason for shame in this place. Here you may admit and openly engage those forbidden pastimes of which you have long dreamed. Join me now in an act of liberation, empty yourselves of the vile. Taste and touch and know the flavors and textures of freedom.” I pause to let them absorb my meaning, to let them prepare for what will come. “I have chosen this day to introduce you one to the other, sin to compatible sin, desire to desire. This morning we will initiate our adventure in the prurient, and bring God’s bud to bloom in an exaltation of joyous camaraderie.”

  I favor them all with a loving gaze; their agitation and discomfort compels me to cut short my preamble. I will not allow them to suffer more the imprisonment of joy. “Miles Elbee,” I say, “meet Cory Eubanks. Submissive meet dominatrix.” A gasp from the back row where pretty, plump Cory sits with her husband. “No need for alarm, Cory,” I cry. “No need to hide those black leathers and spike heels in the closet any longer, for in Miles you have one who will bleed for you, who will crawl to kiss the braided tip of your whip.”

  Miles jumps to his feet, sputtering, and the stunned pale faces of the rest are fixed on me.

  “Emily Prideau,” I say. “Meet Billy Taggart, Joey Grimes, and Ted Dunning. Their dream, like yours, entails a three on one, the Holy Trinity made flesh.”

  Emily ducks her head into her mother’s arm, but the boys smirk and nudge one another.

  “Carlton Dedaux,” I shout above the growing babble. “Meet little Jimmy Newly. Look into each other’s eyes and see the wet imprint of your kindred lusts.”

  They are all standing, shaking fists, berating me as I continue to make my introductions. My voice falters. Could I have been wrong? It seems so. How can I have misjudged their temper, their readiness for the new?

  Miles Elbee strides to the base of the pulpit. “You son of a bitch!” he screeches. “The bishop’s going to hear about this! I’ll…”

  Anger forks through me, and I lean down to him. “Go ahead,” I say. “The bishop’s underwear is the same style as yours, only his lace trim is a bit more provocative.”

  Miles glances at his w
aist to see if anything is showing, then backs away, cursing at me. Other men, Emily’s father among them, are being restrained from attack by their fellows, and the women are streaming out the door. Children are laughing, playing tag around the baptismal font. The entire concept of spiritual advancement is in disarray, the revolution I have envisioned is overthrown before it is begun.

  They bunch at the front door, looking back at me, and as the last of them exits, hopelessness takes the place of my anger. A rock splinters the window of the old bear, shattering for once and all his search for a honeyed philosophy. Someone calls to me, accusing me of evil as if evil were something I have avoided confronting. They did not hear a single word I spoke.

  I step down from the pulpit, walk along the aisle, and slump into a pew beneath the lion, whose expression now seems one of disapproval or—at least—of stern judgment. He is right to think badly of me. Not only have I failed in my intent, I have lost my sinecure. What, I wonder, awaits me? Will I join the homeless, wandering the streets, my possessions in a Hefty bag? No, no, it will be worse than that. There’s Marge to consider, after all. I doubt she will be forgiving in the face of my failure to enlist the congregation. An asylum, perhaps. Possibly jail. I think I would prefer the penitential solitude of jail to the gibbering complexities of straitjackets and Thorazine and electroshock.

  Outside, the gray light darkens, and the eyes of the lion grow balled and leaden. Thunder, the scent of ozone as lightning cracks the sky with a ripping sound, starting me from my morose reverie, alerting me to a change in the atmosphere, in—it seems—the very fabric of reality. Steam is billowing from the griffin’s snout, the walls are trembling, and except for the lion, all the stained-glass animals are pacing in their windows. I jump up, amazed. This is what I expected at the culmination of my sermon, at the conjoining of my flock. How can it be…I have failed, have I not? And then comprehension dawns. I see it clearly now. My sermon was not the event essential to provoke this change, or if it was, it was only the spark and not the true burning. And I see, too, that I have not failed. Oh, my flock will publicly disavow what I revealed, will disparage me. After the scandal dies down, however, they will look around at one another, recalling my litany of sins and compatibilities, and slyly at first, then more openly, they will seek each other out for the purposes in which I have instructed them. But what of the burning that must take place before this can come to pass? Suddenly dismayed, I sit back in the pew. Maybe I am seeing things, maybe nothing will happen, maybe the griffin is not writhing, tossing his ebony-feathered head, and maybe…A noise behind the choir stall, a white shape moving in the shadows.

  Marge!

  Naked, with shreds of rope trailing from her wrists and something shiny in her hand.

  On spotting me, she freezes, then starts forward, haltingly at first, but growing more assured with every step. Her eyes are black, no whites showing whatsoever, ovals of griffin-color, and as she descends from the altar to the aisle, she raises high a shining knife.

  For an instant I am afraid, and I start to come to my feet, thinking to run to take the weapon from her. But a moment later understanding banishes fear. Of course, of course! Everything is plain to me. As with the birth of every new religion, a sacrifice is necessary. I’ve been a fool not to anticipate this, and now that my fate is at hand, I rejoice, because I also understand that for me death will be liberation. That it has ever been the one means by which I might elude the gravities of the ordinary. Marge is speaking to me in some pagan tongue, some evil parlance, drooling spittle, and from this evidence and that of her pupilless eyes, I reach a further understanding. I have been hasty in debunking the myth of Jeremy and his victims, shortsighted in assuming that the supernatural would play no part in the infinite congruency of events and moments essential to the creation of divinity. It’s an obvious truth that every fleck and fragment of the past must be represented in this seminal act. Marge’s aspect is unshakable evidence of witchy possession, a spirit given purchase by the trauma of rape (perhaps this was the knot within her, no real thing itself, but rather a nest in which an incubus could lodge); and recalling my venomous abuse of her, seeing in new light the particular definition of my madness, it is apparent that Jeremy and I are more closely connected than by tradition alone.

  Marge stops beside me, the knife trembling above, and with her sweaty breasts heaving, her deep sin unraveled and leaking forth, never has she seemed more beautiful; an object of pure license, pure chaotic principle.

  “Ah…ah!” she says, seeking to translate the dictates of her Satanic duty into words I will understand, unaware that my understanding is at last complete.

  “Do what you must,” I say, fixing my gaze on the lion. Why does he refuse to bless me with his powerful knowledge? Soon it will be too late.

  Another incoherent gasp from Marge, a spit-filled sound that seems to me redolent of frustration, of some internal struggle.

  “No reason to feel remorse,” I say.

  Our eyes meet, our darknesses commingle, and I turn away, rapt in contemplation of my release, yet not wanting to witness the downward arc of the instrument of release. Several seconds slip by, and I begin to worry that some human weakness is restraining her.

  “Hurry, Marge,” I tell her.

  “You…uh…” she says, her hand scrabbling at my shoulder. “You!”

  She needs encouragement, needs to know that I welcome this ending, that I comprehend the requirements of divine resolution.

  “Marge,” I say, “you have never seemed so desirable as now. How much I truly love you.”

  A shriek breaks from her lips, and I feel the force of her firmed commitment in the instant before the knife sinks home. The pain is sharp, the shock all-absorbing. Yet there is sweetness in the pain, in the strength it dredges up, the profound confidence it rips loose from the recesses of my being. I refuse to fall, I want to savor every instant of my passage, to know everything left to know. The griffin howls, a long keening note, and I feel wetness on my chest. Truth is everywhere, the church is black with God. I am not dying, I realize. In some element of that dark force, I will continue. Like Jeremy, I will go on and on, the shadow of a shadow, the hint of a spectacular possibility. Marge shrieks again, weakness overwhelms me. My heart—though pierced—is glad, my soul at peace. And as I topple sideways on the pew, looking up to the window glowing with supernal light, the stained-glass lion—always my favorite—lifts its head and roars.

  I

  Four miles due south of the Gay Head Lighthouse on Martha’s Vineyard lies Nomans Land, an island measuring one mile wide and a mile and a half in length, rising from sand dunes tufted with rank grasses and beach rose on its eastern shore to a cliff of clay and various other sedimentary materials some thirty feet high that faces west toward the Massachusetts coast. Prior to 1940 the island was the site of several small farms, but during World War II when German submarines began to be sighted along the coastline, the government confiscated the land, removed the inhabitants, and erected large concrete bunkers on the beaches from which military observers scanned the sea by day and night for enemy periscopes and conning towers. Following the war, the island was ruled off-limits to civilians and utilized as a target area for bombers and fighters stationed at Otis Air Force Base, a practice that continues, albeit sporadically, to this very day; on winter nights when the din of the tourist season has passed, it is possible to hear the rocket bursts as far away as the island of Nantucket some twenty-five miles to the east. Yet in spite of this, thousands upon thousands of gulls and terns and a lesser number of old squaw ducks—often seen flying in peppery strings against the sunsets—have chosen the island for their nesting place, and as a result it has been designated a National Wildlife Preserve. It may seem peculiar that a wildlife preserve should be subjected to bombing runs and rocket fire; however, the point has been made—and to many conservationists it is a point well taken—that these intermittent attacks do less harm to the avian populace than would the influx of human
beings (no matter how high-minded their intentions) that would occur should the island’s restricted military status be voided. And so Nomans Land remains isolate, its silence broken only by wind and surf, the mewing of gulls, the occasional barking of seals at sport on the beaches, and the inconsequential noises of the moles and other rodents that tunnel through its soil. All except the newest bomb craters have been filled in with grass and sand, but walking is a difficult chore because much of the land is dimpled rather like the surface of an enormous golf ball, and it is easy to make a misstep. Scrub pine covers most of the island, hiding all but the tallest ribs of the splintered farm buildings, and the sight of these ruins in conjunction with the lonely cries of the birds, the evidences of war and warlike activity, give the place an air of desolation wholly in concert with its name. And as to that name…could there be some profound significance to the running together of the words no and man, to the lack of an apostrophe implying possession? Or is this merely due to the carelessness of a clerk or a mapmaker? And even if it is such, does the inadvertency of the nomenclature reflect an unconscious knowledge of uncommon process or event? There are no evil rumors associated with the island, no legends, no sailors’ lies about strange lights or wild musics issuing from that forlorn shore. But a lack of legend and rumor in these legended waters, where every minor shoal is the subject of a dozen supernatural tales, seems in itself reason for suspicion, for wonderment; and perhaps a more compelling reason yet for suspicion lies in the fact that despite the island’s curious past, despite the penchant among New Englanders for collecting and transcribing local histories, not one has come forward to ask the many questions that might well be asked concerning Nomans Land, and no human voice exists to give the answers tongue.