Father Johnstone holds the gun in his hands, attempting to acclimate himself to its weight and architecture. Forged steel and wooden stock that’s been sanded and stained—ingredients to make parts, and parts that compose a weapon. The pastor is put at ease, no longer defenseless or dependent on forces he doesn’t completely comprehend. “Thank you, David,” he says.
“My phone.” Dr. Keller retrieves a small Nokia from his front pocket, handing it over to Madeline who slides it into an unoccupied space within her jacket. “I’ll stick around here with Mrs. Wright,” he stresses. “You call when you get wherever you’re going.”
Father Johnstone nods. He shakes Dr. Keller’s hand, telling him, “Thanks again, David.”
“You’re welcome. Good luck out there,” he says. “And don’t forget to call.”
“We won’t.” Madeline squats down, addressing Mary now, she says, “I know you’re tired, but I need you to take us to the man you found. The man from the fire. Can you do that?”
Mary sighs, tilting her head slightly down. She sniffs the air before walking east at a slow jog, and the pastor and the witch follow closely behind. They follow her into that dark unknown, hunting that which would hunt them.
Procedeu XLIII: Renaştere
The following process is based upon Divine theory (teorie), and has not yet been successfully executed (executat), although it’s been reported that many have attempted it in vain (zadar). Absolute purity (puritate) of intention is required—not to be confused with momentary desperation (disperare) or infatuation (dragoste nebună), renewed, manufactured, or otherwise. Divine connection (conexiune) must be established prior to the death (moarte) of the primary (primordial). The deceased female (femeie) should be stripped nude and laid face-up upon a bed of roses (trandafiri) and thorns (spini). Blood (sânge) will discharge from the wounds (răni), soaking into the earth (pământ), thus communicating directly to the Divine God (zeu) that her mortal shell has expired (expirat). Rosebuds will also collect blood essence for a later step in the process. No attempt to purify (purifica) the female corpse should be made, nor should the mortal body be altered or modified in concurrence with vanity (vanitate) or for self-indulgent reasons. The male must be a sub-primary. No common male (masculine) is capable of executing this process, therefore, it should not be attempted. Adverse effects (repercu-siune) would instantly manifest in the form of death or physical decimation, even if their intentions are pure. Only a sub-primary will have the requirements necessary for execution, and even then, the chances of success are low to non-existent. The male will need to begin the process within a half moon (Lună) cycle of the female’s mortal body expiring. He will lie upon her, also nude, and penetrate the vaginal cavity with Divine purpose and a refined sense of will while reciting the Prayer of Revival (Renaştere). Thorns will also puncture the physical body of the man, and his blood will also soak into the earth and rosebuds, mixing with that of the primary. Upon climax (punct culminant), the sub-primary will need to pluck seven(şapte) of the rosebuds from their stems, stuffing them into the vaginal cavity of the female in order to contain the life (viaţă) seed. This should initiate the revival process, and if done correctly, will bring the female about in due course. However, it should be reiterated that no successful attempt has been made, and the most likely outcome is death, decimation (spiritual and/or physical), or a permanent dream (vis) state in which the sub-primary is forever tortured (torturat) by an anti-Divine presence, which is said to be worse than death. If the sub-primary should attempt this process, then they should establish a third-party executioner that is spiritually unbiased as an exit (ieşire) clause.
The Party
The trio has been walking for close to an hour now, well beyond Father Johnstone’s quiet residential area with its modest homes of under 1,000 square feet. Every yard is blanketed in strands of lemon chiffon that used to be plots of heavy grass. Decomposing flowers bow in arid beds, arcing in defeat. Dead ground. Dead air. Everything rots at an accelerated pace.
“How much longer?” Father Johnstone asks.
“Not sure. All we can do is follow until she stops,” Madeline says, lowering her eyes down to Mary who is walking briskly in the middle of the street.
“No.” Father Johnstone shakes his head. “I meant Pratt. How long?”
At the market, white and blue mold spots every tomato and strawberry. Apples and pears are browned within their storage crates. Even the cider has deformed to a sweet sludge, more like sand than liquid. Everything sours or rots or depletes. It all dies, and so it’s only a matter of time before the people follow in suit.
“Won’t be long,” Madeline says. “You taste that? The air?”
“It’s bitter,” he says. “Like orange peel.”
“That’s the oxygen being replaced with something else,” she says. “Eventually, it won’t even be breathable.”
Mary pauses in the middle of the street, the coal-black nose inspecting the air. She releases a small cough as she lumbers on, nails clicking on the pavement at a much slower pace than when they left the house. Father Johnstone doesn’t need to consult Madeline to know that she’s on the brink of exhaustion. They’ve practically crossed the entire town on foot, having started on the eastern side where the pastor’s house is. They’re now nearing the western fringe where only a few of Pratt’s more upscale homes remain, one of those being Dr. Keller’s. Beyond that, it’s nothing but fields of brittle crop and gravel. Acre upon acre of diseased ground that reeks of corrosion.
“You’re worried,” Madeline says.
“Yes.” Father Johnstone slings the shotgun over his shoulder, letting the cool barrel rest against the side of his neck. For the first twenty minutes or so of the trip, he was concerned about being seen walking the streets of Pratt so brazenly with a firearm in-hand. He realizes now, this is the least of anyone’s worries.
“Not about the town, though,” she says. “Or yourself. This is a fear you tried to forget.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Then put it another,” she says.
“As pastor you tend to preach certain virtues, hitting some harder than others such as forgiveness and refraining from temptation,” he says. “‘Hate the sin; love the sinner.’ I’ve told the flock on many occasions that there’d be times when the Lord tests them, pushes them past their own threshold. I thought I led the flock well, but Mason Hollis changed all that,” Father Johnstone says. “He showed me what this town is capable of when the circumstances become dire.”
“You mean the Graybel girl?” Madeline confirms.
He nods. “They acted—not with the Lord in their heart—but with pure unmitigated wrath. They let hate dictate their actions. To deal with a monster, they became monsters themselves. And when it was all said and done, we got stories…stories about what he did to little Betty and the reprisals he paid…stories I don’t even want to repeat.”
“I’ve heard a few,” Madeline says.
“Have you ever seen Betty?”
She shakes her head. “Can’t say that I have.”
“There’s a reason for that. When something happens in this town, these people like to wipe away any reminders,” the pastor says. “You saw how quickly this town came after me. That’s the culture we’re living in. Even though little Betty did nothing wrong, everyone looks at her like she’s an eyesore. Like she’s some kind of scar they want to buffer out. Raped and molested, and yet, she’s the one that’s cooped up in her own home, hiding out like a prisoner.”
“I would think that sort of injustice would make you angry,” Madeline says.
“It does.” Father Johnstone nods, briefly scanning the ground for Mary who continues to trot along a few yards ahead. They’re passing Dr. Keller’s home at the moment: a three-bed, two-and-half bath ranch style so immaculate with its smoke white paint and cherry shutters, it completely detracts from the travesty of his lost lawn and infirm flowers.
“Then what are you afraid of?” Ma
deline asks.
“I’ve compromised. My fear is that if I encountered Mason Hollis, he could do to me what he did to this town,” the pastor says.
“Fear is an ingredient, Johnstone,” Madeline says. “As is your morality…as is the inadequacy I feel in you each time you remember you’re carrying a loaded gun. Certain individuals are counting on your reluctance as a weakness.” She gives her head a little shake. “I don’t want you to forget yourself, but I don’t want you to forget what we’re doing out here either.”
“We’re following a trail to God knows what,” he says.
“Not exactly.” Madeline stops. She nods at Mary who is stationed at the center of the cul-de-sac, legs quivering from fatigue. Her head turns to Father Johnstone and Madeline, back to the house in front of her, growling. “Mary says this is it.” Madeline pulls the scalpel out of her pocket, her forefinger bridging over it like a splint. She nods to the white house numbered 1811, asking, “Who lives there, Johnstone?”
At the center of the cul-de-sac, Mary eyes the estate of Mayor Andrew Farnsworth, who is currently celebrating his fourteenth year in office. And although the length of occupation may seem suspect, politics functions much like the law in Pratt, and is subject to its own jurisdictional rules and the personal whims of those who govern. People like Dr. Keller and the pastor had to earn their designation of ‘pillar.’ For Mayor Farnsworth, it was a position acquired through purchase.
‘Boon money,’ the pastor has heard it called. Money that wasn’t earned, but handed over as part of an ancestral inheritance. Instead of starting a business or investing in a corporation, he assumed control of Pratt—viewing the population more like employees than friends and neighbors. They are part of the industry, a workforce, and Mayor Farnsworth has never been one to ‘mingle with the help,’ as they say. He and his third wife, Cady, tend to keep to their own kind, the other well-to-do living at Waterstone’s end.
“Hm, well I guess that makes sense,” Madeline says.
“What makes sense?” Father Johnstone asks.
“The mayor,” she says. “Makes sense he’d come here.”
“I never said anything about him.”
“You didn’t have to,” she says. Madeline clicks her tongue, crouching down in the middle of the cul-de-sac. Mary paces over, breathing shallow, tongue hanging out and panting. “We’re going to the house. If you see anybody coming, you have to warn us, okay?” Madeline says, giving her a little scratch under her chin. A tuft of fur breaks off from her jaw and drifts to the dead ground. “Go on,” she says. Mary takes off at a jog, her gait uneven and labored. She weakly hops the curb that separates the cul-de-sac from dead ground. Brown grass breaks as she runs through it. Father Johnstone and Madeline watch her veer off to the left of the Farnsworth household, disappearing into shadow.
“She’s not up to this,” the pastor says, shaking his head, remorseful. The air tastes significantly worse than it did two blocks ago, a more pronounced bitterness. “It’s killing her, isn’t it?”
“Keep that gun ready.” She ignores the question, marching toward the home with the pastor following close behind. Madeline pauses at the curb, looking right then left, saying, “We’ll check the windows first.”
She follows the path that Mary cleared in the front yard, boots kicking up dust and debris that looks like compost. Father Johnstone has trouble breathing, gagging quietly on the stench of sour earth. Dead earth. Air laced with mold and poison. He prays for Mary, prays she doesn’t see a single person out where the streetlights don’t touch. He prays the good Lord provide safe passage. Father Johnstone prays, and Madeline feels every one of them.
“It’s okay. Relax,” she whispers to him. At the side of the house, pressed against white siding, Madeline brings her lips to his ear, telling him, “We stay quiet. We listen and play this smart, okay?” She pulls back, her cheek brushing his. Madeline feels him spiking, nerves shot. Father Johnstone’s hands shake with adrenaline, fear. Anxiety. It’s making her skin cook, so Madeline does the only thing she can to ease the tension.
She leans in, letting her breath mix with his, then pressure applies as Madeline kisses him. She kisses him gently, lovingly, and he lets it happen, lets all his worry and angst soak into her. He allows himself to have the moment because it could very well be the last time, and then Madeline pulls away. Slowly. She stares at him in the dark.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because now you’re not thinking about being caught or killed,” she says. “I need you calm.” Madeline hooks a finger inside the waistline of the pastor’s jeans, pulling him along the side of the house. “Now follow. Quiet.”
They approach the first window, Madeline careful to duck her head under the sliver of light slicing through the curtains. She eases her back against the house and places two fingers to the corner of the glass. Father Johnstone waits, giving a quick check behind him and off to the left where it’s nothing but dark dead yard and a few crumbling oak trees. Madeline removes her fingers away from the glass, motioning for the pastor to keep following.
She repeats this process at the second window, then the third: stopping, touching the pane and listening through her fingers. Madeline will wait a moment, shaking her head as if there’s nothing suspect happening within these rooms, but the pastor thinks otherwise. He can hear noises in each one, can see bodies moving through the cracks in burgundy curtains. There’s definitely something of interest happening in these rooms, but before the pastor can voice it, Madeline turns to him, mouth to his ear, saying, “I hear it, too. Tributes.”
A ritual, the method in which homage is paid to the Goddess, Madeline explained. Father Johnstone would like to believe that Mayor Farnsworth is too respectable of a man to allow this to happen under his roof, but it’s not beyond possibility. Farnsworth has never been one of the flock, has remarried twice over to women many years his junior. Word around Pratt is he’s terribly unfaithful.
Madeline peeks around the corner of the house, making certain that no one is standing guard by the back entrance with a shotgun of their own. The rear deck of the Farnsworth household is sizeable, and the floodlights fixated on the back of the home illuminate it well. Too well to sneak around without being seen, but Madeline eases onto the wooden planking anyway with Father Johnstone close behind her. The cedar two-by-fours haven’t gone completely rotten yet, but they’re on their way. Splits and soft spots are emerging already, making it more like walking on a very hard Styrofoam as opposed to wood.
Father Johnstone thought the plague would only extend to the elements: the soil and foliage, the water and wildlife. Now he realizes it won’t stop there. Homes will gradually weaken and crumble. Cars will be devoured by rust. Whether or not he and Madeline will live to see it remains to be told, but it’s happening already. Pratt is dying. Fading fast.
Madeline scoots along the back wall of the house, nearing the sliding glass door that separates the cedar deck from the main living space inside the house. Light filters through sheer curtains, glowing less harshly than the high-powered LEDs over the frame. Father Johnstone trails along, always mindful to check behind them and beyond the cones of halogen. He holds the shotgun firmly, ready to fire at the first sign of movement.
“Our guy is in there,” Madeline says, peering through the edge of the sliding glass door. There’s an inch or so of space that the curtain doesn’t cover, allowing her to look inside. She reaches back with her non-scalpel hand, tugging on Father Johnstone’s shirt cuff to bring him over. “Look,” she tells him.
Father Johnstone sees Mrs. Farnsworth pushed up against an antique credenza, completely nude except for a pair of flesh-toned pumps. Mr. Neilson is between her legs, pumping her, oatmeal-textured buttocks flexing with every thrust. The furniture shakes violently as he penetrates her, framed family portraits wiggling, falling flat. A symbol is drawn on both their foreheads.
“They’ve been marked,” Madeline says, picking up on the pastor’s inquiry. “Like cattle.”r />
He sees Mr. and Mrs. Aames, Deputy Clarke and his wife, the Halstons, however, none of them are paired up with their spouses. Each is with a foreign partner, fornicating upon a couch, against a mini bar, on the living room rug. All of them have that same marking swabbed upon them, the same blood. The same vacant look in their eye, as if they’re miles away from themselves.
“Now look at the back table there.” Madeline drapes her chin on the pastor’s shoulder, her mouth in his ear again. “See anything familiar?”
A silver serving tray is stationed near the back wall, surrounded by bottles of red wine and dark liquor, glasses and flutes at varying stages of emptiness. Soft morsels of cake populate the tray, no larger than a standard crouton. Most of them have already been consumed.
“They’ve been eating my curse,” Madeline says. “They’re not themselves right now. Just like what happened to you…at the church,” she whispers, eliciting a spike of shame in the pastor. He desecrated the Lord’s House, stained the floors with lust. “It’s not their fault,” she says. “No one is to blame but him.”
Then the man emerges from a hallway near the back of the room, the man from the fire at Madeline’s home. Father Johnstone remembers the patches of baldness spotting his scalp, although it appears to be more severe now. Only a few wispy strands remain. He’s still wearing the black cassock and pants, a clerical uniform sans the white inner collar enveloping the neck. Mud and grass stains streak the fabric, as if he’s been sleeping outdoors for weeks. Even at this meager distance, Father Johnstone doesn’t recognize him as a man of Pratt or otherwise. The face is grizzled, chapped. Sickly pale like a cancer patient. Eyes are gaunt, receding into the socket as if they can’t wait for death.
He approaches Cady Farnsworth and Mr. Nielson, now having concluded their affair upon the credenza. A wedding photo of Cady and the mayor has fallen to the floor, spreading cracked glass over their smiles. Mr. Nielson steps away her, already wilting at the waist. He walks out of the room as the man in black squats down between Cady’s legs, readying a small receptacle. His fingers pry her vagina apart and Father Johnstone witnesses what appears to be her pushing, straining to eject the semen of Mr. Nielson into a stone bowl. Her abdominal muscles tense from the effort. The semen sputters unevenly, chunky, a few sprays of urine unintentionally hitting the bowl and the shoulder of the man in black, adding to the mud and grass stains already embedded in the uniform. He doesn’t seem to mind. Like everyone else within the room, he too seems miles away from himself.
Good Sex, Great Prayers Page 33