Good Sex, Great Prayers

by Brandon Tietz

  Fire.

  Madeline’s house lies under a blanket of flame, boiling the paint and roof shingles until they bubble, turning to char. The smoke thickens to ash black and spreads, enough to taste it in the air on top of the daisy hill. Neighbors can be seen taking refuge on their porches, either gawking in horror or trying to make a call to the fire department on cordless phones. This is when Father Johnstone looks past Madeline’s house, down the street to where Dan O’Brien and his crew should be arriving at any moment with a fire truck. Instead, two Ford F-150s are flipped over on their sides, creating a barricade. They’re not damaged, the pastor notices. It’s almost as if they were parked nose-to-nose and were somehow tipped ninety degrees. No vehicles will be accessing the street anytime soon.

  Meanwhile, sections of Madeline’s roof are collapsing, falling into the attic and spreading to the interior of the home. Paint and siding are stripped. Windows burn to brittle brown, shattering like candy. The fire chews on the support beams of the porch overhang, searing the wood, and this is when Father Johnstone instinctively grabs Madeline’s hand. No words or forewarning. No plan.

  On the peak of daisy hill some thirty feet above the town, Father Johnstone stands with Madeline Paige of the Feri tradition. Hand-in-hand, they bow their heads as Mary plants herself at their feet. The pastor prays, feeling that warmth flush through his extremity, a crackling tingle that feeds from him on to Madeline.

  Then rain.

  Not a cloud in the sky. Just rain pouring heavy over a one-block radius. A sun-shower so thick the flames of the house thin to steam in no time. It’s a flash flood. A micro-typhoon. So much rain it washes the smoke out of the air and chokes every gutter. Enough rain to drown the flowerbeds and the sirens whaling from the fire truck in the distance. Even through the sheets of wet, Father Johnstone can make out Fire Chief O’Brien attempting to push the barricade of trucks so he can get through, a mostly futile enterprise.

  Madeline finally cuts the downpour, taking a moment to assess the damage to her home, which is mostly black now. Sections are missing from the roof and the paint has been all but scorched off. Thankfully, this is the extent of it. Smoke damage aside, the interior should be mostly unharmed, but Father Johnstone has a feeling this won’t be enough to console Madeline. She’s crying, clearly upset about the attack. Both the pastor and Madeline know this wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t random bad luck.

  Madeline points to the tract of land at the rear of her home, a small garden where she grows vegetables and herbs—probably for Craft purposes. Father Johnstone sees him, a frail-looking individual in black, running with a limp through the potatoes and muck, barely able to keep his balance. He’s pale with patchy hair, making a dash towards a field of corn crop that lies roughly fifty yards away from Madeline’s back door. Around his torso is a satchel not unlike Madeline’s.

  “That’s not Pollux,” she says. Madeline draws her left hand out, aiming it at the man in black who is now a mere ten feet away from the corn stalks. She squints one eye like she’s stalking deer with a rifle, breathing slow, steady. Concentrating. Father Johnstone feels Madeline’s fingers tighten their grip on him, tingling and buzzing, almost hurting. Her extended arm tenses, and the pastor realizes what she’s doing only a moment before it happens.

  Lightning.

  Hot white splits the cloudless sky once more, the clap of thunder so loud it needles the pastor’s eardrums. He instinctively releases Madeline’s hand, clamping his palms over the sides of his head and watching the man in black fall forward into the stalks of corn. She missed. Madeline failed to make direct contact, and now he’s getting away, escaping into a field of crop.

  She says, “Mary, track him—“

  “—Excuse me?” Father Johnstone cuts in, shouting over the ringing in his own ears. “You’re not using her for that.”

  Madeline says, “Some asshole just torched my house and I want to find out who it was.” She squats down, getting as close to eye-level as she can with Mary, telling her, “You’ll track, you’ll find that man, but you keep your distance.” She says, “Track only, okay? And then you come find us and tell me where he went, got it?”

  Mary nods. She bolts down the daisy hill, and Father Johnstone follows her with his eyes as she speeds down to the washed-out yards, past Madeline’s home and through the waterlogged vegetable and herb garden. At the edge of the corn crop she gives pause, taking a moment to pick up the scent of the man in black before she disappears from view, beginning the hunt. He prays for her safety. Father Johnstone demands the Lord return her in the exact condition in which she left.

  “Thank you,” Madeline says.

  Father Johnstone nods, placing a finger in his ear and rattling it around, attempting to regain his hearing. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, tracking down the man in the fields is their best bet on finding a lead to Pollux. Mary can do that, but Father Johnstone no longer feels paranoia regarding his own safety. It’s all out in there in the fields: Mary in unfamiliar territory tracking a stranger. He’s most definitely not from Pratt. The pastor has been in this town long enough to know that the man in black isn’t a resident. The limp and overall look of malnourishment is definitely something he’d remember, or perhaps this is a man who’s undergone a great change of his own.

  “She’ll be okay,” Madeline says, giving the pastor a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Mary’s smart. Smarter than you probably realize. And look…” she says, bringing up her left hand into view. The palm is still seared and flecked with scorch marks, however, the condition is no worse than when she made the first lightning cast. “My aim was shit but at least I didn’t blow my hand off.”

  Father Johnstone knows what she’s really saying, that the tribute of Travis Durphy was indeed successful. It worked. The Goddess has bestowed additional strength upon her, amplifying Madeline’s ability. This is the formula that Father Johnstone still hasn’t come to grips with: sex equating to power. Not only in regards to morality, but the scientific logic behind it doesn’t add up in his mind.

  “You’re confused,” Madeline says, beginning the trek down the daisy hill, carefully sidestepping down the incline to ensure she doesn’t lose her footing. She briefly turns to look back at the pastor, telling him, “That’s okay. So were a lot of Israelites when the Red Sea parted for them. Even Moses wasn’t exactly sure what the hell was going on.”

  “And what tribute did Moses have to pay to swing that?” Father Johnstone asks. “What did he sacrifice?”

  “I imagine he did whatever it took to get the job done,” she says, either missing or outright ignoring the pastor’s austerity. “You learn a lot about yourself when you’re backed into a corner.”

  It is the compromise, Father Johnstone thinks. This is what one learns when faced with a potential threat to their own person or the place they live. They will bend or break their own rules, turn against their maker, or in the pastor’s case, form an alliance with someone who’s been deemed ‘impious’ by The Good Book.

  “I feel like we’re already backed into one.” Father Johnstone continues to ease down the slope of the daisy hill, the scent of smolder getting thicker as they near Madeline’s home. It mixes with the smell of the rain. “You said this was a chess game. Now you’ve got people setting your house on fire,” he says. “In broad daylight.”

  “Maybe it’s the other way around,” she says. “Maybe they’re the ones that feel like they’re trapped.”

  Madeline and the pastor reach the foot of the hill, immediately greeted by the head of Pratt’s fire department, Dan O’Brien. Down the street, his truck remains parked by the blockade of Ford F-150’s turned on their sides. A few of the neighborhood kids gather around it, pointing at the flashing lights on the roof of the vehicle. Pratt’s fire-related incidents are few and far between, so seeing the truck with all its hoses and levers is a rare sight, as is the opportunity for Chief O’Brien to exercise any authority. Unlike Sheriff Morgan, he takes little joy in it.
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br />   “You know I can’t let you go in there, Miss Paige,” he says. “Not until we’ve had a look around and made sure it’s safe.”

  “And you know that I’m going to go in there anyway, Mr. O’Brien, so I guess we’re both ahead of the curve today.” Madeline continues to walk briskly towards the home with the pastor in tow. “Besides, Father Johnstone will be looking after me, and I’m sure you’ve heard by now he walks in the Lord’s favor.”

  “There could be structural damage, Miss. Paige. Hate to see a beam fall on your noggin just because you were too damn impatient to give us ten minutes to poke around,” he says. “No offense, Father,” he offers the pastor an apologetic look. “You could be walking into a deathtrap is all I’m trying to say.”

  “Then pray for our sake that that won’t be the case,” Madeline retorts.

  Chief O’Brien places himself between Madeline and her home, taking a more stern approach. He says, “The hard way, then. You either stay the hell out or I’ll radio the deputy…and word has it he’s been itching to throw his weight around.” He stares at her a moment, pleading with his eyes to not be forced to do this.

  Madeline reaches back suddenly, clamping her hand around one of the pastor’s wrists. She winks at one of the houses down the street, not far from where the chief’s fire truck is parked. One corner of the Jergen’s residence breaks out into flames, no bigger than a small campfire. It covers just enough area to cause the distraction Madeline needs. She points at it, telling Chief O’Brien, “I think you’re needed elsewhere right now.”

  He follows her finger to the Jergen’s household, cursing. Chief O’Brien looks at Madeline, the fire, back to her, eyes squinting. Father Johnstone can tell he’s putting together what just happened, but Madeline is walking again before the matter can be discussed. “Sorry about that,” she says. “We really don’t have time to be dealing with regulations at the moment.”

  “Did you have to set Mr. Jergen’s house on fire?” the pastor asks.

  “It’s a baby fire, Johnstone. Let the chief have his moment,” Madeline says. “Better he’s down there than snooping around my place.”

  “Because he might see something?”

  There’s a particular weight the pastor puts on that word, the word ‘something.’ Spell books, strange historical texts, odd tools and ingredients for casting and Craft. God only knows what else Madeline might have lying around. Father Johnstone hasn’t exactly seen much beyond the kitchen and the living room.

  “We could be walking into a deathtrap,” Madeline says, pacing through her own waterlogged yard with sloshing footsteps. “Not the structural kind. Like, there could be something set up in there for us,” she warns. “Best we look around first, yes?”

  Father Johnstone prays that this is not the case. He prays that no threat is lying in wait for them, that the home isn’t rigged to collapse. He prays, and when he does so, feels the Lord communicate back to him that all will be fine for now. Not in words; a feeling. The two of them ascend the stairs of the porch and arrive at the front door, which is now scorched dark, paint either seared away or in a frozen state of boil from when it was extinguished.

  Madeline positions a hand inches away from the deadbolt, fingers clenched like she’s holding an invisible baseball in a fork grip. She turns at the wrist, twisting in a jerking motion to the left. Father Johnstone can hear the metal of the lock being shifted within the wood, unlocking the door without key or contact. She’s using magnetism.

  “You didn’t touch me that time,” he says. Madeline turns, looking at the pastor. She leans in close, inspecting his face, not saying anything. He tells her, “Normally you grab me before you do something like that.”

  “What color are your eyes?” she asks.

  “Huh?”

  “Your eyes,” she repeats. “What color are they supposed to be?”

  “Blue. What to you mean ‘supposed to be’?”

  Madeline reaches into the leather satchel, fishing around a moment before she pulls out a silver compact. She opens it, bringing the mirrored portion into the pastor’s sightline.

  “They’re brown,” he says. “Why are they brown?”

  Madeline shakes her head, frowning. She ignores the question, turning the knob of the door and entering her home. A wave of moist smolder hits them, causing the pastor’s eyes to water. Char is in the air. It’s thick, so overwhelming Father Johnstone can taste it on the back of his tongue. It reminds him of the sulfur smell from his backyard, the curse.

  “You didn’t answer me,” the pastor says, watching Madeline investigate. Besides the wet sulfur smell the home is mostly intact, although no longer fit for habitation. Not unless Madeline can live with the smell of wet char and the random breezes sweeping through the empty windowpanes.

  “He took one.” Madeline is at the shelf that holds the many volumes of spell books and historical texts. She plants herself on the wet carpet, leaning in close to read the spines. Madeline checks the sequence of the preceding volumes to determine which one is missing. “Book XVIII, Johnstone. Do you have any idea what’s in Book XVIII?” She asks this desperately.

  “No,” he says, short. “Why is my appearance changing?”

  Madeline stands up, her knees and boots glistening from rain water. She makes her way over to the kitchen, taking a quick peek at the counter space to verify her suspicions. “The muffins are gone and so is the Thermos containing the remainder of the curse fluid. Are we still worried about your eyes?”

  “That’s what I’m asking,” the pastor says. “Should I be?”

  “The question was rhetorical,” Madeline says. She leans against one of the walls, sighing. Spring wind pushes against the house, mixing the smolder with the scent of rain and the flowers on the daisy hill. The wooden framework creaks, a few pieces of roof debris breaking off and hitting the attic floor. “I was wrong, Johnstone.”

  “About what?”

  Madeline stands up, smoothing out her dress. She looks disheveled, tired. “We’re the ones being backed into the corner,” she says. “There’s a reason my Aunt Josie was the one to look over these books, and it’s because she never had any intention on using them.”

  In all her years in Pratt, Josephine Paige never did a single thing to draw attention to herself in a negative way. Nothing was ever said about her to indicate she was ‘odd’ or ‘strange.’ If that were the case, the town would have filtered her out long ago. She was quiet and kept mostly to herself, which is probably why she fit in so well. If people knew what she was hiding in her home, the mob would have burned her house down years ago.

  “There is Craft far more dangerous than what you’ve seen so far,” Madeline says. “And I just helped weaponize the other side with it.”

  “You couldn’t have known someone was going to break in and set your house on fire.” Father Johnstone’s old habits kick in, attempting to console the inconsolable. The difference is he can’t spout off his go-to lines regarding the Lord and how He is in control. He can’t tell Madeline that God has a plan and that she should just let life happen as He would will it.

  She snickers, looking at him, the new eyes. “I can feel you wanting to counsel me,” Madeline says. “You want to tell me it’s going to be okay but you don’t want to lie.”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “I did know that someone could come here,” she says. “It’s always been a possibility. I just assumed they wouldn’t. It’s too brazen. It’s not how we do things. We’re not the type to go around committing arson.”

  “I suspect they took advantage of your assumption,” the pastor says. “As you said: ‘You can’t play by the rules forever when the other side isn’t’.”

  Quoting Madeline Paige—it shouldn’t feel so natural, the pastor thinks. It really shouldn’t, but the words flow out of him organically, much like when he reads from The Good Book. It makes sense to him.

  “Come outside with me, Johnstone,” Madeline says. There’s a good two-or three-second p
ause before she reveals in a cryptic manner, “It’s about to happen.” Madeline takes the pastor by the hand, walking him through the entryway of her home, beyond the scent of sulfur and burnt paint. Spring air offers relief as Madeline leads Father Johnstone back to that place: the pile of popcorn. They look at the daisy hill together as Chief O’Brien waters the flames of the Jergen’s household down the way. Children look on with their parents standing by, gossiping amongst each other about random fires and freak rainstorms. They exchange theories on how those two Fords ended up on their sides in the middle of the street, none the wiser to what’s about to transpire.

  “What did you want to show me?” Father Johnstone asks.

  “You may have noticed the books are in different languages,” Madeline says, ignoring the question. She has a habit of doing this, the pastor’s noticed. It usually means what she’s telling him takes precedence over what he wants to know.

  “I really had no idea what I was looking at,” he admits. Spanish, Greek, Chinese, Russian—he couldn’t make sense out of any of it.

  “That’s more or less the point. It’s a security measure,” she says. “The volumes were compiled that way to complicate the translation process…just in case they fell into the wrong hands.” Madeline explains, “Unlike the Bible, these books aren’t meant to be read by a wide audience.”

  Beyond the hill, the sun dips lower and lower, a shadow stretching down the street. Madeline pulls Father Johnstone along, bringing him to the foot of the hill where the daisies begin to sprout. They slope all the way up to the top, which is a good twenty-five feet above street level.