“I’ve been translating them ever since I got here. Translating and practicing,” she says. “Book XVIII, however, is not written in any language you’d know.”
Madeline leans over, picking a nearby fragment of a bee off a flower petal. She examines it—what’s left of it: the head, half a thorax, a couple legs and one shattered wing. Her fingers pinch down, crushing the remains to wet ash and wiping them off on her dress. Father Johnstone notices that the petals of the daisies are beginning to brown at the tips, wilting slowly. Grass fades to saffron.
“When you fall out of favor with the Goddess like Pollux did, you are marked. A curse follows you wherever you go,” she says. “You can’t run from it. You can’t stop it. One way or another, everything around you is destroyed.”
Brown fades over every petal, reaching out to the yellow buds of the daisies. They shrivel and wilt, drying at the stem until the weight of the flower is too much. One by one, thousands of daisies snap or bow into rotten yellow grass. Father Johnstone watches, remembering what Madeline said about all the places she had been before, and ultimately, how she left them. The tornadoes of Joplin and the hurricane of New York, the earthquakes and droughts and coastal floods. For Pratt, Pollux brings about a plague.
“Some books talk about how to amass and control power, how to pay homage to your god,” Madeline says. “Others, like Book XVIII, talk about how to overthrow them…to become one yourself. In theory, anyway.”
The sun sets on Pratt and everything dies: every flowerbed and blade of grass. Life drains out of the trees, the bushes; their leaves wilt, molt, turn to dust. Rainwater absorbs into the earth, a once-rich soil that is drying, hardening. Father Johnstone watches the daisy hill petrify until it cracks, and he begins to pray. He prays the Lord save them from this sickness in the earth. He prays God intervene and defend Pratt from evil men.
“No, Johnstone. Not this time,” Madeline says, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. “I can feel what you’re doing and—unfortunately—we can’t simply will this situation away.”
“Then what do we do?” he asks.
Still gripping the pastor’s hand, Madeline leads him so they are facing away from the hill, looking down the street to where Chief O’Brien is stationed. Red lights flash on top of the fire truck as local residents mill about, still talking and gossiping. Mr. Jergen’s silhouette crosses the muck that used to be his lawn; he attempts to survey the damage to his home in the fading light of day. It’s not nearly as bad as Madeline’s, which is virtually unlivable now. She stares at the trucks, the Ford F-150s laid nose-to-nose on their sides creating a blockade to her street.
Madeline reaches out, straining, trying to pull them towards her. Father Johnstone can feel this. The fillings in his teeth quake as Madeline attempts to move over four tons of vehicle towards them. Slowly, they pivot, the pair of them opening like French doors, disturbing the local residents gathered about the Jergen’s household. Metacarpals swell out the top of Madeline’s hand from the effort, pulling thousands of pounds of metal from an entire block away. She relents, releasing her grip on the pastor and breathing hard. Blood trickles from her nose and there’s a sheen of sweat glazing her brow. Madeline leans over at the waist, bracing herself on her knees, panting. Bleeding. A light current of blood flows down her lips and chin, dripping to the dead ground beneath her feet.
“I think we’re going to need another tribute,” she says.
Işlem XXVIII: özü toplama
The female (kadin) will need at least three males for this next process. It’s preferable that she has more: seven is an ideal number, but anything past eleven and the female runs the risk of drowning, being overpowered, or raped to death (ölüm). Sound judgment will need to be exercised when determining the number of males (erkek), although higher risk yields higher reward (ödüllendirmek). The female must first guard her skin, either using animal venom (zehir) or fish toxin (toksin) over a layer of rose oil. Wood paste may also be used, however, this gives the female a skin texture that the male(s) might find unappealing. If the female fears that her anus or vagina (vajina) may be violated, she should occupy them with the leaves of poison sumac or ocotillo spines (refer to: defensive plants). The protective elements (elemanlari) may be stuffed into a sac of thin animal hide and inserted into their respective cavities within the female. She may also choose to sew up her orifices, however, this will likely leave scarring and the male can simply cut the stitching. Earth-based protection (koruma) is best. After preparation, the female should say the Divine Prayer of Safety before attempting the process. She should have a hollowed-out bovine horn that has been blessed (refer to: sanctifying tools) and a blessed blade for further protection. The female will then lure the males into her bedroom chamber, clarifying that she will pleasure them orally and/or by hand, not anally or vaginally. It’s recommended that she pretend to be a whore (fahişe), and for this purpose, she may wear the garb of a whore. If the whores of the region are distinguished by specific markings, it’s recommended she feign those, too. The female will sit on her knees in the circle of men, starting with the one closest to where the moon (ay) rises and then moving clockwise. She will use her mouth to stimulate the penis of the man, alternating with her hand in a stroking motion to bring them to climax in turn. The process will be exhaustive and arduous, and no male should leave until they have climaxed. All seeds should be collected in the bovine horn (boynuz) and stored collectively (refer to: storage methods). The higher combination of seeds will yield better results, exemplified by the health, physical strength, and dexterity (maharet) of the male(s). After all males have climaxed and the seeds have been stored, the female should immediately purify herself (refer to: purification methods). No attempt to harvest should be made.
The Second Tribute; The Second Sign
At Larpe’s Pond, the disease hasn’t spread. Not yet.
“It will though,” Madeline says, “Just give it time.”
Much like the daisy hill, the grass will yellow and blanch, turning to dust. The trees will dry out and petrify. Even the pond itself will spoil, making it uninhabitable for the many bluegill and carp that live there. The plague has intensified, a second wave of ill effects that poisons the land itself.
“When you start to see fish floating dead at the surface, that’s when you’ll know the water has officially soured,” Madeline says. “Everything here—all of it,” her hand motions to the pond, the trees, the bushes, “it will cease being part of the circle of life, retrograding to dust. A sickness. Cancer of the earth,” she says.
Like every grasshopper, fruit fly, and black beetle, the land will harden and die. Trees will no longer produce oxygen. Water will be incapable of accommodating plant and marine life.
‘Remember that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return,’ the pastor recalls. He takes it in one last time: the mossy scent of the pond and the sound of leaves rustling overhead. Under his boots, the grass is so soft and lush you don’t even need a blanket to lie on it. Couples utilized it in the afternoons, sharing cheap gas station wine and the shade of the trees. Talking and kissing. Numerous burgeoning lovebirds of Pratt spent their inaugural dates this way, but that era is coming to an end. Only the locust tree will reveal what this place once was. All those initials and hearts chronicle the moments in which true love and commitment existed, even if it’s since wilted away. Like a tombstone, the locust tree will continue to tell the story.
“A bullfrog can be harvested for useful materials in regards to healing and restorative spells. Poison sumac, as strange as it sounds, has properties that can relieve migraines,” Madeline says. “We operate within a system of ingredients and alchemy, so what happens when all this dries up and dies?”
Madeline pulls a clump of dandelions out of the ground, which drip soft dirt from their roots. She sniffs the bundle, then proceeds to discard all but one of the flowers. The bud is rubbed vigorously against the top of her hand like an eraser, staining it yellow, and she sniffs again.
“I thought you said you needed to pay another tribute,” Father Johnstone says. Now that he’s seen the damage that’s being done to Pratt, the idea no longer seems impractical or one of sacrilege. Desperation outweighs his morality.
“We are,” she says. Madeline whips around to the locust tree sitting on the edge of Larpe’s Pond, dragging her fingers down many inscriptions and carvings: initials and multi-cornered hearts. “You may think you’re looking at a moment in time or an empty promise, but these are contracts,” Madeline explains. “A covenant.”
Travis Durphy had been wed for some time without the crucial act of consummating the relationship. In a sense, Madeline assisted the church, although to justify her own ends of assuming power. It is the ‘gray area’ that she’s often warned him about: bending rules for the greater good.
Madeline touches the inscriptions, sometimes placing her entire hand over an area and pressing her weight against it. Her eyes close and she concentrates, breathing deliberately. “They are stories,” she says. “Penned in pocketknives, screwdrivers, sharp rocks. I can feel each one of them in that moment…like a time capsule.”
From the leather satchel, Madeline pulls out a small blade, no longer than a #2 pencil. For a moment, Father Johnstone believes that she’s about to carve her own initials on the locust tree. Instead, she introduces the edge of it to the palm of her right hand, applying enough pressure to puncture the skin. Blood trickles from the slit; it looks black under the low light of evening. She presses her hand to the tree, allowing the blood to stain the shaved bark and lettering, soaking into the fibers. A signature.
“Now you,” she says, motioning for the pastor to come a bit closer. Madeline takes the pastor’s left hand into her own, cradling it. Sticky blood blotches his knuckles and the tops of his fingers. The edge of the knife is pressed against his palm, right across what is known as the heart line. She says, “This is an older form of Craft. The blood serves as a pledge to the two individuals we’re about to reunite.”
Madeline presses the blade into the pastor’s palm, applying enough pressure to split the skin. It weeps, blood pooling in his hand to the size of a dime, then quarter. Letters on the locust tree are stained from Madeline’s blood, glistening. The inscription reads: RF + JS
“Tonight, we enter into a contract of our own,” Madeline says, guiding the pastor’s dripping palm to the still-wet initials. “We commit to them the same way they committed to each other.”
Father Johnstone allows his hand to be pressed onto the tree, his blood mixing with that of Madeline’s—they cover the memory. He contemplates the initials, flipping through his mental Rolodex of Pratt and trying to recall a name. There’s too many, though, and the range of dates is decades wide. Unlike Madeline, he isn’t able to feel the intangibles.
“Don’t worry, you’ll know who it is soon,” she says. “We’re going over there right now.”
Not a moment later, Father Johnstone finds himself in the passenger seat of the Challenger with Madeline at the helm. Even with the threat of being randomly tipped over like the Ford F-150s on her street, Madeline said that it wasn’t practical to walk all the way to the pond on foot.
“It’s also fairly difficult to flip a car that’s in motion,” she said. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Even with these reassurances, the pastor remains ill at ease, expecting the Challenger to randomly fishtail or careen into a ditch. The engine block could catch fire or the tires could explode just as they’re rounding a particularly unsafe piece of road. If Father Johnstone has learned anything by now, it’s that the fear of getting caught, being publicly exposed to the people of Pratt—it no longer matters. The attacks are more tawdry now, aggressive. Madeline’s home being torched in front of an audience proved that much to him.
“You’re going all electric fence on me again. You need to relax,” Madeline says. “I can feel you in my fucking teeth.”
“How are you doing that?”
“You’ve counseled these people,” she says. “In your church. You brought them into your office and tried to give them advice…about their marriage or their sins or their relationship with God,” Madeline says, eyes never leaving the road. More blood on the steering wheel; it glistens like oil under the moonlight. “These people come to you with a problem, but they never really come out and say what it is, do they? They never flat out tell you: ‘I’m sick of my wife’ or ‘I’m afraid of what will happen if I drink again.’ They need someone like you to dig it out of them,” Madeline says. “Someone who can sense these things, the intangibles, the feeling in the air.”
Half the time, Father Johnstone knows a fledging couple is on their way to a divorce before they know it themselves. He can spot a cheating spouse a mile away. All the angry and violent have a distinct temperament about them, something beyond simple facial cues and body language. For three decades, he’s honed this skill: excavating the fault, the dirty secret. Their contrition. He digs it out of them, isolates the problem, and through the good Word of the Lord, curbs their behavior back to the Divine path.
“I feel these things, too,” Madeline says. “In objects, like Sheriff Morgan’s gun. These items develop a history and personality based on how they’re used.”
“You could barely hold it,” the pastor recalls. “Looked like you were about to be sick.”
“He’s a twisted individual, Johnstone. More than you know,” she says. “When I took Shelby, I didn’t just see what he had used it for—I saw the intentions behind it. Takes a certain kind of person to enjoy bringing harm upon someone. It’s the exact quality that Pollux would look for in a Secondary.”
Father Johnstone looks over from the passenger seat. ‘Secondary’ is a term Madeline hasn’t mentioned before.
“It’s the nomenclature we use for someone like you working with someone like me,” she says.
“Wait…are you saying that the man running out of your house—”
“Yes,” Madeline cuts in. “The man in black with the limp—he’s like you,” she says. “Well, not exactly like you, but he’s being utilized in the same way.”
As Father Johnstone understands it, he—or more accurately, his faith—it serves as the power source. It is what Madeline draws upon to cure cancer and manipulate metal and even overturn death. He is the battery. Without him in the equation, Madeline’s abilities are limited.
“You’re putting it together now, aren’t you, Johnstone?” Madeline says, driving a steady 25mph into the town. “You’re wondering how a man like yourself could work with a man like Pollux, what with all the rules and everything?”
“Well, technically, I’m not even supposed to be working with you.”
As the Good Book says: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’
“But your heart’s in the right place. You’re trying to save a town,” Madeline counters. “What you need to remember is that belief isn’t static.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asks.
“I’ve been out there. I’ve seen groups holding signs on street corners that say ‘God Hates Fags’ and ‘Pray For More Dead Soldiers.’ I’ve seen kids brainwashed into thinking their Lord created AIDS to wipe out gays and minorities,” Madeline says. “These are hate groups, obviously, but in their mind they think they’re serving God. When they read the Bible, this is their interpretation.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Father Johnstone says. “Hatemongers. They protest military funerals and whatnot.”
“And as skewed as it might be, my belief is that Pollux has found a man like that…someone more aligned with his own radical disposition,” she explains. Madeline pauses for a moment, looking over to the pastor and giving him a small smile. “It’s the reason I can feel you so clearly. We’re harmonized, in a sense.”
“And what about those that weren’t ‘a good fit’?”
“
All things can go sour,” she says. “Even this.” Madeline puts her right hand on top of the pastor’s, the one with the slit in it. The bleeding has since been staunched, clotted over with crust and tree grime. “If you believe that God has a plan, though…that there’s some grand design all plotted out ahead of time and we’re just game pieces following the path—if that’s what you believe, then this will end at the exact moment it’s supposed to.”
Father Johnstone thinks about that, sighing heavily. This is indeed what he used to believe, what he preached in his sermons: that God is in control. There’s a blueprint. “Even if you don’t understand it,” he used to say, “just take comfort in the fact that there is one. Even when things go wrong under the duress of tragedy, there’s a reason behind it.” He used to believe that; now he’s not so sure.
“You’re uncertain. Conflicted,” Madeline says. “And that’s okay. All it means is you’re more willing to be open-minded.”
“As opposed to having it all figured out like I thought I did,” the pastor adds sourly. He drags his thumb across the slit in his palm that Madeline administered. It doesn’t even hurt.
“Your faith makes you capable of great things, Johnstone. You brought a woman out of her wheelchair, brought sight to the blind,” Madeline reminds him. “Travis Durphy’s marriage stands a chance because of you. Regardless of the actual method, you should take pride in these things.”
“I thought this was a two-man operation,” the pastor corrects her. “Isn’t that what you keep saying?”
Madeline smiles. “Now you’re getting it.”
The Challenger cruises the main roads of Pratt at low speeds, passing dead grass beneath the sparse streetlights. Moths that would normally be bouncing off the glass are dead on the ground, ash to spoiled earth. Mrs. Yates picks through what used to be her flower garden, flashlight in-hand with water can and seed packets by her side. She appears to be crying as she plucks dead-yellow orchids and snapdragons from dry soil plots. Roots slide out all too easily, molting like the hair of a chemo patient. Father Johnstone witnesses other residents diagnosing their trees and bushes, either attempting in vain to nurse them back to health or mourning their apparent loss. Only he and Madeline could reveal the true extent of what’s happening. Only they can stop it, and it is under this pretense that Father Johnstone discovers the compromise he’s able to tolerate: if Madeline Paige and her abilities can bring Pratt back from this state, then he will bend for her. Father Johnstone won’t stray from the core teachings of The Good Book, however, he must adapt to a modern evil that it never prepared him for. When the other side isn’t playing by any inherent sense of rules, then he too must forgo some of his own.
Good Sex, Great Prayers Page 29