During her isolation, since the first attack, there had been no other flashes, no spasms of hot white pain. No peeks into places that don’t exist, not yet anyway. No trips to the past either, though the name Wormi was still freshly scaled in her mind. Searching through her father’s books, his collection of ancient text concerning, her lineage and other historical data, the word Wormi had appeared, only once. There was a story, penned by Donefer Quigley in the year 1819, who had heard the tale from Marcus Turney, who had been told of the legend by his father’s father, who likewise had heard the story from his father regarding a ruthless profiteer that had come up through Mississippi from the Gulf in search of gold, or so the story goes. There were many legends during this period, the famed Seven Cities of Gold and the Fountain of Youth, to name a few. The conquistador was known by the name of DeSoto, and upon landing on the shores of Mississippi, he encountered warring tribes of native Mississippians and it is said DeSoto, or so they called him, had used one of these tribes to gain access into what is now known as the Delta. The Saquechuma led DeSoto and his men through the interior to the tribe of Quisquis, and from there the Spaniards slaughtered them all. Everyone perished in a great fire, including the soldiers themselves, or so the legend says, all but for one, a native, one of the guides that had led DeSoto to some sort of temple. The story is written that the guide had gone insane. He carried with him a black stone and muttering one word, over and over, “Wormi, wormi, wormi.” There was nothing else. The expedition had been abandoned. All traces of the Quisquis village, if it existed at all, have been wiped from the records of history.
—Wormi?
What could it mean?
There was nothing regarding that name in any of the rest of her father’s books that now lay thrown about Memaw’s living room. Books opened randomly. Books closed, stacked on top of one another. Notebooks with scribbled thoughts and names and places. But for all her examination, there was nothing that could be gleamed. Her father had spent years pouring over this collection, a wealth of knowledge he had spent his life putting together, now so utterly useless.
Luna stood at the front window, gazing out at the dead leaves scattered in the yard. Beyond was the woods. Silent sentinels in the bitter cold. The once worn pathway her grandmother had taken countless walks was nearly covered with brush now. Farther along, past the deadfall and pine and spruce and fern and elm, an alien observer among the native trees, the Great Willow, the place where Memaw was buried, opposite that hideous cursed man underground. One body, four voices moaning and moaning, until the world becomes swallowed by the sun.
Tipping a pile of books out on the floor, Luna grabbed a thick wool shawl, her tennis shoes, and then went out on to the porch. The sun was out, giving a welcoming warmth to the otherwise chilly air. Jumping off the steps, she bounded into the woods, towards the path her grandmother frequented. She had to move more branches out of the way then last she walked the path, but that was to be expected. The woods were quiet, all but for her crunching feet, dusting decaying brown leaves and twigs. Ahead, the willow tree stood as it always had, among the clearing. The elongated gnarled branches sweeping high and coming low towards the ground, like a curtain of lush green. Strange, she thought, how the leaves do not change color, as if even the winter could not touch it.
The place where they had buried Ronna Blanche stood out with a hump. The soil still slightly darker than the rest of the clearing floor. For reasons all her own, she dared not look at the opposing burial site.
“Hi, Memaw.” Luna knelt by the grave.
“Wish you were here.”
Standing, Luna came to the base of the willow.
“Maybe this is stupid, but I thought…Memaw loved you, more than anyone else I guess. As if you were…jeez, look at me, I’m talking to trees now.”
The willow swayed, as if a gentle breeze had taken hold of the upper branches.
Memaw’s voice in a whisper, from memory or from some other heavenly plan, Luna did not know, nor did she care. She listened, attentively to the echo of the old woman’s warm voice.
You youngins. No communion with nature. No respect for the older powers, of spirits. Too caught up in worldly comforts to sit and listen. God forbid you turn your phones off and let the hustle and bustle be as it be. Modern? Hush. Nothing modern in ignoring everything around you but your own concerns. Listen, Lulu. You need to get away from your books. There ain’t much in those dusty ancient pages you can’t learn by simply communing with the woods.
Lulu, I want you to close your eyes.
—My eyes? She could hear herself say, old words made new again.
Yes. Close them.
Luna sat upon the ground at the base of the Great Willow. She touched the trunk, tenderly, thankful. Turning back around, she crossed her legs, resting her arms and hands as if in a meditative prayer. She closed her eyes, smirking a bit as she did.
Feel the energy. The woods here are very strong. This willow is strong. Primal. Raw. Ethereal. This you won’t find in no book.
Her grandmother’s voice faded in the late afternoon sun, as if absorbed in the rays of light that broke through the tall canopy. The world was brisk, chilled, the fragrance of wood and the sap of oak and the smell of burning wood from somewhere far away. Some house in the residing neighborhood must have a fireplace burning, the taste of a sweet mulberry kindling carried in the wind.
Breathing deep.
Exhaling slowly.
Breathing deep.
Exhaling slowly.
Luna focused her mind, not on Bobby Weeks or the strange tales from her father’s books, but of the space around her. First, the Willow and the great energy it possessed. Spreading outward, she felt the leaves dancing in the wind, tussling among the sticks. Squirrels pranced about, spying upon the Delta floor was sort of nut or berry to take back to their cozy drey. The many oaks and elms standing steadfast, barren of leaf and color seemed as though they were sleeping, waiting for the return of movement and life.
Breathing deep.
Exhaling slowly.
Her thoughts floated upward into the yellow sun and drifted earthbound, settling back onto her own image in her mind.
Breathing deep.
Exhaling slowly.
Focused.
Still.
Silent.
Breathing deep, Luna exhaled a single word, “Wormi.”
Breathing deep.
Wormi.
Breathing deep.
Wormi.
Nothing flashed hot nor painful as Luna pressed her thoughts inward this time. Instead, the landscape in her mind shifted and transformed at an even pace. She was in control now, unlike how she felt before, before when John Turner had to coach her back from the brink, back when she first heard the word, Wormi. The wood line in her mind decayed, giving birth and death and rebirth of many various species of oaks and elms and ferns, until at the very epicenter of where she now sat, huts rose from the ground, built by ghostly fingers of yesterday. Scarcely clothed natives danced around a roaring bonfire, shouting obscenities to whatever gods they worshipped. Above the huts on a cliff that has since been worn down through the ages, a temple stood overseeing the village. Chieftains in feathered robes and crowns addressed the huddled congregates. Around the neck of what she could only assume to be some sort of priest or shaman, a necklace roped with leather, and at its center, the oddest looking black stone. The stone seemed to pulse, yet somehow absolutely absent of natural light, refusing to reflect any hues from the sun. The stone pulsed, as if in some strange way, communicating with those that gathered near. The rest seemed to go insane, ravaging and dancing and beating their drums, consumed in a whirlwind of demonic possession.
And there was a woman.
A sacrifice?
Conceiving a child.
Luna struggled to maintain her connection with the past, but the rope was slipping between her psychic grasp. Forcing her mind, she peered into the woman’s womb. Life was there. Beating. Pumping. Mov
ing. But the life was not human, it was—
Screaming, Luna let go. The landscape shifted again, snapping back to the base of the Great Willow. Opening her eyes, gasping for breath, she could see John Turner watching from the shadows in the woods.
“What do you want?” Luna huffed, struggling to catch her breath.
John stepped out from the woods and came to the clearing. “What did you see?” he asked without much curiosity in his voice, more of a question of habit, perhaps one he asked of Ronna when she was still alive.
Luna glared, uncertain why she should divulge anything with this murderer.
“Something…evil,” she said sighing, not seeing the point in keeping her vision a secret.
“There are plenty of evil things in this world.” His arms crossed his massive chest, as was his customary posture. His thick wooly trench coat billowing in the late winter breeze.
“Not this, this is something…I’ve never felt before.”
“Will you be going?”
Blinking, Luna gazed back at the Willow. Though silent, the tree seemed to be listening. Agreeing. Reaching out, she patted its trunk.
“Yes. I think so.”
John looked up toward the sky, unafraid it seemed to allow the glow of the afternoon to brighten his mangled stitched face. His eyes were closed, as if pondering or simply taking in the warmth of the sun.
“Be careful,” he said finally.
“Do you care?” Luna stood, legs numb she braced herself against the willow.
“Rougarou are dangerous.”
“I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”
John grunted, laughing perhaps at her youth, or maybe some secret joke only those who’ve lived long enough would understand. He turned to walk away. Entering the thick of the woods, he looked back. “Be careful.”
Luna frowned. “I will,” is what she said, but in her mind she wondered why the creature would even care. Even if her grandmother had in some way forgiven this thing, why should she? The crime was still fresh in her mind, still new among the screaming dead in her dreams.
“Goodbye, Luna.” Without response, John disappeared into the darkness of the trees and brush. Luna watched him until she could no longer see his massive dark figure, listening instead to his heavy footsteps when finally even those seemed to vanish in the silent cold winter breeze sweeping along the forest floor. She wrapped her woolen shawl, shivering from the sudden chill.
“Goodbye, Sad Man.”
Chapter 26
Highway to Hell
Bobby
On the portion of Route 77 after leaving Giddings, before entering Hobbsburg, north by northwest, there’s a mountainous hump in the highway, giving that quarter mile or so stretch of road an overlook of the town known as Jotham. Bobby Weeks slowed Luna’s grandfather’s Harley Fatboy at the cusp, looking down into an otherwise flat valley. The meaty chrome engine rumbled between his legs, and would have chattered his teeth if not for the gnawed cheap cigar he found sitting idly at a truck stop several miles back. The flame had gone out, so, pulling out a plastic Bic from his denim jacket pocket (another gift of Luna’s grandfather to which he now claimed his own), he relit the stogie. Puffing on the white smoke, he noticed how there were no other cars on the road coming or going from the picturesque American Dream below. Nor was it much of a surprise. Once within the city limits, nothing came back out, or so it seemed. No one comes back from death. But now even that wasn’t true, was it. He came out. And those college kids with the silver knife and revolver. Those kids that’d left Jotham to kill him. They came out too. But why? What’s really going on in this damned town?
Looking behind, the road he’d driven thus far, longing to turn back; not just the miles, but time itself. Such thoughts were fleeting, Bobby knew. “If you’re not careful looking back, you could trip on your own feet moving forward,” was a favorite saying of his uncle’s. He didn’t have the luxury of Sight, like Luna. He worked from his gut. And his gut was telling him he needed to keep moving forward. Always forward.
Puffing away, he recalled with some hesitancy searching for the girl, the one he’d cursed. Risking going to Mainland Hospital in search of some clue to who she was and where she might have gone, police tape and reporters covered the entire wing, holding back the flashes and scribbling pen marks of the carnage held within. It only took Bobby five minutes to realize the hospital was a waste of time, searching for her maybe as well, or so he found out later. He had been able, at least, to discover the woman’s name. Jo Harwood. Twenty-one sophomore of University of Houston Clear Lake. An English major. Graduate of Dickinson High, home of the Gators. Former cheerleader. Daughter to Nancy and Brian Harwood. 1561 Sycamore Lane.
But it had all been a complete waste of time.
Jo was on the run.
Bobby had driven to her parent’s residence on that first hunt.
By the time he got there, the police had beaten him to it. And Jo, Jo was in the wind, as trackers are fond of saying when dealing with an allusive prey.
He followed her trail as best he could. Always returning to Luna’s grandfather’s batting cage on the third week on every month, for fear of the full moon.
For a time, the papers had been blessedly free of news of some bizarre animal attack. But in January, months later, in the back section of Hitchcock Daily News, there was a small blurb of a couple torn to shreds by some unknown animal. The attack happened at Dayton Lakes, some campground near the water. No survivors. Strange wolf-like prints in the mud. Bobby drove the Fatboy out there and found nothing, except wild reports from locals scared out of their minds.
—And for good reason.
The next month, there was another report. Nichole Parris, a National Park Service police officer, working out in Big Thicket National Preserve, was found mauled to death by, once again, an unknown animal. Local authorities claim it was a black bear. But Bobby knew better. He drove out to Thicket, just as he had in Dayton. And gained nothing from the trip. Nothing except a clear indication Jo was heading east and keeping to parks, places least populated. Smart. Considering.
The next month there was nothing in the paper. No strange animal attack. No unexplained deaths. At least none to be found in the small local Hitchcock paper.
Regardless, it was clear to Bobby that Jo was heading east. But she’d gone too far for him to feel safe about following. Not with his own condition to worry about. She was now another failure to add to his growing list of accomplishments.
—If you’re not careful looking back, you could trip on your own feet moving forward. His uncle’s words came back to him.
And his uncle was right.
Need to focus on what I can do.
Jotham seem to stir below, brining Bobby back to his Harley and Route 77 and the near-extinguished stogie pinched between his teeth. Thoughts of murder and the massacre at Rudy’s Tavern. But who was to blame. Those kids? Himself?
Those bastard delinquents didn’t set themselves in motion. Someone else was pulling the strings, this much Bobby knew. And whomever the puppeteer was, they had a lot to answer for. Because those kids, Rudy, and a bunch of other people are dead now…and the one who didn’t die no doubt probably wishes she had. Cursed. Lost in the world somewhere far beyond his reach…and if he was to be really honest, care. She’d figure things out, as he did. Yes. The veteran knew he ought to have gone after her, but how far? When would he stop? Weren’t there bigger fish to fry, as the saying goes? Indeed there were. He could almost taste them below. A surge of electricity humming in the wind. Something was going on in Jotham, something beyond some rickety old house and wheat fields, something at the very heart of the town itself. Pumping. Growing. Death.
And blood.
So much.
Bobby took a long puff from the cigar, letting out the smoke slowly, ignoring the sting against his glassy eyes. The motorcycle rumbled still, waiting to be set in motion. In his mind, the dream he’d had of the chow hall, seeing his old Army unit,
Murdock and Johnson and Pierce…and there were his childhood friends too, his Suicide Squad, complete and whole except for him. He was the outsider looking in on the banquet. Weeping. And if death was the bridegroom, how he longed to be the bride. How he longed to be with his friends.
But they were dead.
He wasn’t.
Maggie was as she had been, beautiful and radiant in her own tomboyish way.
Johnathan looked young and whole.
Ricky was alive with wild jokes, just as he had been when they were boys.
And Jake. He seemed happy and at peace.
But not Bobby. Not him.
Not yet.
He couldn’t join the table.
Not yet.
Soon.
There was still some matter to be settled first. Whatever was going on in Jotham, whatever was setting the fire to the wind, it had to do with that damn school, Baelo University. The same school from that kid’s wallet Bobby found under his bike, something the cops and forensic goons obviously missed. How his motorcycle hadn’t been impounded was a stretch of luck he never bothered questioning. Sometimes things are overlooked and that’s the end of it. What mattered was what he found in the wallet along with the unused condom and pictures from home, the Texas Driver’s License and Bank card. The student ID of one Justin Gotaas from a college few have ever heard of. Even the website was down for construction. There was nothing; nothing but an address. It was all very strange.
What college kid would want anything to do with murder?
Conceiving (Subdue Book 3) Page 18