Father Johnstone sidles Madeline and Mary, giving the latter a little scratch along the jaw. She grinds her face into his fingers affectionately, purring. “I take it your little meeting with the deputy went well, then?” Madeline asks.
“He seemed a little too eager to let me know he’ll be keeping an eye on us,” the pastor answers. “It’s like the sheriff never left.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ve got my ways of keeping an eye on things, too,” she says with a smirk. Madeline strokes Mary on the crown of her head, pushing back the caramel and ashen fur. “They came here after the sermon.” She gestures towards the house, the men.
“On their own?” The pastor cocks a suspicious eyebrow.
“I wouldn’t waste the good stuff on a little home repair,” she says. “Consider it a bonus for putting on an exceptionally good performance today.”
“It felt pretty real to me.”
A couple of the guys on the rooftop offer the pastor a friendly wave, which he promptly returns. He smiles at them, unsure what Madeline meant by calling it ‘a performance,’ as if what they had just done was all for show. Mr. Gibson and Ms. Doakes had indeed left the church in a better state than which they had entered it. To imply it was fake does a disservice to them and the people it inspired.
“Despite what you believe, we did a good thing today,” the pastor says.
“Some gestures are simply a way to send a message. Clevenger, for instance,” she mentions. “It was a sloppy move. Tactless. Far too aggressive, but in this game we’re all sharing the same pawns.”
“You think he was sent?” Father Johnstone asks this, but he knows the answer the moment the words are uttered. Kurt Clevenger is a consummate lush, a blight on the town, yes, but definitely not the violent type. Even for him, charging into a church with a pistol is way out of character. Contrasting reputations and practices notwithstanding, Kurt Clevenger has always gotten along with everyone, and that includes the men of God.
“He’d be a likely candidate to be sent, yes,” she says. “Old man Clevenger, the lush. The drunken fool. That is what you refer to as sloth, yes?”
“Correct,” the pastor says.
“And is that not a deadly sin?”
“It is,” he nods, suspecting she’s building up to a point.
“And what is deadly sin, Johnstone? What’s so dangerous about them exactly?” She asks this, not so much out of genuine inquiry, but more to see how the pastor fields it.
“They are the path to damnation,” Father Johnstone says. “The gateway to hell.”
Seven in total: wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony. To commit them is to disobey God, to oppose His will, and is sure to keep one from entering the Kingdom. This is what the pastor learned during his stint in seminary school, anyway. He’s sure Madeline has other ideas about the subject, notions that adhere to a more radical system.
“They are more of a gateway to control,” she says, giving Mary a couple scratches behind the ear. Madeline lowers her voice so as not to be overheard by any passing workers, stepping aside so her shoulder is touching that of the pastor. “In the 4th century our people came into contact with a man, a Christian monk by the name of Evagrius Ponticus. Greek. Highly intel- ligent for the time. Forward thinker.”
“The name sounds familiar,” the pastor thinks aloud.
“It’s because he’s the guy that got the ball rolling on the deadly sin concept, which at that point in time, was more or less just a list of bad thoughts he put down on paper,” Madeline explains. “Vices, I guess you could say. And if you wanted to put it yet another way—”
“—Ingredients,” the pastor says.
“Right,” she nods. “Craft was still very much in its infancy, but there was a breakthrough when we started to figure out that the composition of a lustful individual was very different from that of someone who was happily married. They were vulnera- bilities. These deadly sins, as they’d be referred to a couple centuries later, became the main elements in our periodic table, so to speak.”
“To exploit, I take it,” the pastor ventures.
“Imagine the clergy freaking out over every drunk or whore or gluttonous individual stuffing their face. The greedy, the vengeful…any one of them could have been a puppet, a weapon,” Madeline says. “So imagine that going on for a few centuries: witches having priests attacked and their churches burned, and the clergy responding with secret executions and kidnappings and torture.”
“Why secret?” the pastor asks.
“Because when you have a weak point, the last thing you want is for the people to see it. You’ve already seen firsthand how bad it can get…how quickly people can turn.”
The pastor nods.
“Faith is a delicate system,” Madeline says. “And certain individuals decided to use their knowledge of the Craft—not for betterment of the spirit or personal progression—but for war. Two beliefs trading blows, sniping at each other, and then in the late 1400s, what happens? The whole thing reaches a fever pitch and we got witch-hunts. Tens of thousands torched at the stake, and most of them weren’t even guilty of anything.”
“I remember reading about them,” the pastor says, not knowing whether or not to offer empathy. Madeline is frowning, upset.
“Yeah, your history,” she says critically. “There’s two sides to every story. My aunt spent most of her life keeping part of the other half safe. How do you think this town would have reacted if they found out what she was?”
“Poorly, I imagine.”
“And me?” she asks, turning away from the house and the workers. She looks at the pastor. “What do you think they’d do to me?”
“If you’re lucky?” the pastor considers. “Exile. Kick you out of town. Tell you to never come back.” He’s seen this happen before on more than one occasion.
“And if I’m not so lucky?”
“They’d hurt you. Hurt you in a way you’d never forget.” The pastor opts for brutal honesty. “You’d be beaten, raped, and tortured. They’d cut you up, let you scab over, and then they’d cut you up again. These are simple people, Mad. Simple and intolerant.”
“And weak,” Madeline adds. “It’s the culture. I get it.”
“What do you want me to say?” Father Johnstone gets a little short with her, still on edge from his meeting with the deputy. “That this is a bad community? That they don’t deserve protection?”
“No,” she shakes her head. “I’m merely pointing out how these people here working on your home, painting and re-shingling and fixing windows—not long ago they showed up with knives and pistols looking to turn you into a pincushion. They’re fickle. Irresolute.”
“They’re sheltered,” he counters. “The flock panics easily, and they’re terrified of change.”
“And the one that sent Clevenger out today knows that,” Madeline says. “He knows how to bend these people, to get them to do what he wants, and unlike you or me, he doesn’t care what happens. They’re just pawns,” she explains. “Sometimes you send one out to take a piece; other times it’s so you can see how the other player will react. Doesn’t matter how many he loses though. He’ll make more.”
He’s reminded of what Madeline said: “…you’ll compromise by the end of this. Eventually. You can’t play by the rules forever when the other side isn’t.”
Father Johnstone could never actively use someone, not even an old drunk like Kurt Clevenger who’s dying to be put out of his misery. That line seems too damning to cross, despite the recent danger he’s found himself in. Kurt’s actions at the church today bring up yet another issue that the pastor can’t wrap his head around. Although his understanding of Craft and the mechanics of it are elementary, there’s something that doesn’t add up when taking into account all he’s seen so far.
“When I was cursed, it came on slow,” he says. “It took well over a week before it became unbearable and it started to really affect me. That doesn’t seem to be the case with e
veryone else.”
“You’re a man of the cloth, Johnstone. You’re not like everyone else.” Madeline looks to the left, to the spot in the yard where the dogwood tree is planted. White blossoms soak in the afternoon sun. She points at it, saying, “Pretend that tree represents every person in Pratt: you, me, these workers. Everyone.”
“Okay,” the pastor nods.
“It starts with the trunk there, which extends into a limb, and then that extends into a branch,” she says. “And then those branches keep extending until you get to the twigs at end there…so frail you could snap them with your fingers.” Madeline pauses a moment, allowing the analogy to soak in. “It’s the hierarchy system, and it’s in almost everything: this town, the government, the Catholic church,” she says.
Pope is above cardinal, which are both above archbishop. ‘Pillar’ is the informal term for ‘person of great worth or impor-tance’ that has endured over the years, a status that makes someone like the pastor a viable target.
“Clevenger is like one of those twigs,” Madeline says. “Weak, pliable. It’s not going to take a lot to break someone like that.”
“You’re saying I’m one of the main limbs, then,” the pastor assumes.
“I’m saying you’re the foundation,” Madeline corrects him. “When a tree gets sick, it cracks, it decays. The leaves turn yellow and wilt, and the branches die. It’s very much what happened to this town, because it wasn’t just the flock that turned. It was nearly everyone.”
Father Johnstone watches the men working on his home, painting, repairing. They spread mulch and plant flowers. These men, along with everyone else showed up at the church today, arrived angry and ready for some type retribution. They wanted blood.
“You are the pillar, Johnstone. The keystone, the main support,” Madeline says. “Whether you want to accept it or not, you have the most influence. What happens to you is going to have a ripple effect on the entire town, flock or no.”
Father Johnstone sighs. The gravity of his role in Pratt has gotten that much greater—not just as the shepherd, but as a protector.
“You said that the other side sometimes makes a play just to see how the other side will react,” he says. “So what now? Are we to expect more of that?”
“He’s tried cursing you, controlling you, turning the town against you,” Madeline lists. “Shooting you didn’t work either. He knows we’re aware of him, but he maintains the advantage in that we don’t know where he is. He’s close though.”
“You’re saying he’s in town somewhere?” Father Johnstone confirms. “Hiding out?”
“Oh, most definitely. Probably in one of the houses,” she speculates.
“I’m not disagreeing with you here, but you know how this town feels about outsiders,” the pastor says. “If there was someone new lurking around Pratt, we would have heard something by now.”
“No, you wouldn’t have, and that’s the point. I told you, Johnstone, we’re either hiding in plain sight or just plain hiding,” Madeline says. “He’s around here somewhere.”
“Should we talk to Kurt perhaps?” he asks. “Maybe he knows something.”
“I’d venture he knows too much,” she says. “He let that much slip at the church today, right before he took a shot at you.” Madeline pauses, frowning. “He always finds me.”
“Who does?” the pastor asks. “Kurt?”
“No. Pollux,” she says. “His name is Pollux.”
For this process the male () will need either: a horse () a ram () or a bull () Smaller animals, such as the feline () or fox () may also be used. They will lack size and strength but possess a certain cunning that larger mammals () do not. You should make your selection based on the desired attributes () Gender () of the animal is without significance, however, the individual performing the process must be male. To penetrate is to establish dominance () and therefore, a female will not be able to do this. The male will first need to capture specified animal, however, it is of the utmost importance that this is done without harming or killing () it. Spears, arrows, or bladed objects should not be used. High level poisons () should also be avoided. A sleeping draft is preferred, but it’s important to keep in mind the dosage in ratio to the weight of the animal. Too much or not enough may have dangerous consequences, and killing an innocent beast () isn’t without reprisals. Ideally, the animal should be laid on its left side facing the sun’s origin () point in the east, legs bound together and muzzle secured. Garnish the beast in red rose () petals, sage sticks, and the blood () of its opposing gender; same species () Sheep are the easiest to accomplish this with as they are traditionally found in flocks, however, this is a weak and stupid animal, and should be avoided. Unclean animals should also be avoided: pigs () rats () and dogs () After the preparation stage is complete, the male may proceed to penetrate the animal while reciting the Divine Prayer of Dominance. The male must fornicate () with the animal until the point of climax. If climax is not achieved, then you have just partially fornicated with a wild animal for nothing. Upon orgasm, the seed () of the male must remain inside the beast and all bindings must be cut so that it may be set free. Effects of the process will transpire after three moon cycles () The seed will more than likely not manifest into offspring, however, in the event that a half-beast/half-human child () is born, it should immediately be killed and harvested. Attempts to love () or father it will be met with violence at the wrath () of humans, which is the majority of the reason why the centaur race was unable to flourish.
The Feri Tradition
“I’m going to be a little more transparent about what I know,” Madeline says, sitting cross-legged on Father Johnstone’s couch with Mary coiled in her lap. She strokes her head, combing the fur with short chewed nails, lulling her to sleep. To Father Johnstone, she discloses, “There are going to be points you disagree with or don’t believe—”
“—That’s been occurring quite a bit anyway,” he interjects.
“However,” she presses on. “You need to listen. Because if you don’t listen, I can’t help you. Or your town. Understand?”
Workers are still crawling all over the outside of the house, hammering nails and applying fresh paint. They’re planting flowers in beds of woodchip mulch, trimming the perimeter of the foundation in spring colors, the kind that brighten a home’s curb appeal. It’s a soft din of thumping and swiping brushes against the composite siding, and although he hasn’t said this out loud, the pastor feels protected having company around. Safe from harm, from this Pollux individual that Madeline refuses to speak of until she’s had her say.
“I will listen, but on the condition I finally get some answers,” he says. “No more half-truths. If people are going to shoot at me, I think I’m entitled to know who’s behind it.”
“Careful what you wish for, Johnstone.” She smiles, testing the pastor. “You almost skipped town once already. I’d hate to scare you off.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “I want you to tell me about Pollux. Why is he here?”
“I can’t. Not without putting him into context first,” Madeline says.
“Why?”
“Because if I just told you outright that he’s better at this than I am, that what we’ve seen so far is nothing compared to what he’s capable of, and if we’re being totally open right now, things will probably get a lot worse—if I told you all that, you’d probably want to leave, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” the pastor says. He remains seated though, waiting. He waits for her to speak.
“The Deschutes Forest, just outside Bend, Oregon,” Madeline says. “That is where we’d learn about the Feri tradition.”
Father Johnstone shakes his head. “Never heard of it.”
“I’m not surprised,” she says. “You’re a man of the cloth, a Christian. I’m sure your interests in other cultures were sparse, what with you having it right and all.” Madeline pauses, allowing her jab to sink in.
“Continue,” the past
or says.
“I want you to imagine that tree again, the one that represented all the people of Pratt,” Madeline requests, receiving a nod from the pastor. She says, “Think about it, but in terms of faith this time. Just as Western religion has a limb and its many branches of Christianity and Catholicism and the like, so too do we. There’s hundreds of them, existing all over the world.”
When Father Johnstone was shown the spell books, every page was in a different handwriting, a different language. Dutch, Mandarin, Russian, English. Sometimes the script was nothing but symbols or drawings. Other times: the universal language of numbers, or ‘numerology,’ as Madeline said. The pages varied in age and author and origin, however, were always bound by the their common thread of belief. It didn’t make sense to the pastor. It would be like taking pages out of the Bible and the Quran and the Torah and blending them together, shuffling their history, their views on God.
“There are many covens and tribes, all with their own views on Craft and rituals—the difference being that we’re not battling over who’s right. We’re not going to war over who God loves most,” Madeline points out. “We learn, we share. It’s the reason why you never see us fighting amongst each other.”
“Excluding right now, you mean,” the pastor observes, returning the favor for Madeline’s previous comment.
“Fair point, but you only know about that because I told you,” she says. “Think about if I hadn’t stepped in.”
The ripple effect: first, the pastor is compromised. Then it spreads to the flock.
“At a very early age, we go over every religious war, every massacre, every line of slander,” Madeline says. “That way, when our parents tell us to not draw attention to ourselves, we know exactly why. We’re aware the consequences. I know you think of the Bible as a guide, but I grew up viewing it as a warning.”
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