Black & Orange

by Benjamin Kane Ethridge

  Then something slammed into the side of her head and that loop stopped. Martin said something that trailed away with consciousness. “I’m sorry... not gonna happen.”

  She couldn’t be sure, it might have been a dream, but somehow, somewhere, Teresa could feel rain sliding down her face. Martin had lifted her body into the air. She heard the jeep’s doors shut. Heard an engine turn over. The tentative raindrops pitter-patted on the Wrangler’s windshield. Her thoughts ended before they fully formed.

  Martin, no...

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Not long ago the grain silo had sat in obscurity on a bald hill, but now from the gateway’s mouth an overgrowth of poison-green vines laced the ground in a myriad confusion. While most vines stretched so far into the distance they were lost, a few journeyed downhill and coiled around a cell phone tower. Others explored a dismantled tractor all but vanished in a coiffure of weeds. Some vines were as thick as bridge cable, and others thin as spider web. The disparity in size extended to the pumpkins as well. Cloth’s pumpkin was a definitive monster in size, a Great Dane of gourds, but all the pumpkins shared the same cruel appearance, a horde of orange Pit Bulls. Cloth sat on his pumpkin, casting down his black and orange gaze, making for an odd-looking king atop his spherical throne. “How are you and the Priestess of Morning getting on?”

  Cole hadn’t heard Paul speak the entire way here. The man probably hadn’t been in a hurry to return here. Poor baby, thought Cole with an inward sneer.

  “Splendid,” replied Paul, though his voice had no flavor for the word. “We’re getting along just fine.” He pushed a shock of blond of out of his eyes.

  Chaplain Cloth’s ghostly lips spread with perfect pearl rows. He leaned back on the massive pumpkin and his voice sprang with mockery. “Did her royalness have any luck locating the Heart?”

  Paul’s jaw muscle twitched but he remained quiet. The kid at least had some smarts. This would be tricky, delivering news like this. Was it disrespectful to know more than Cloth?

  “She acquired them only for a moment, Chaplain,” Cole answered, filling the silence. “The Nomads left too quickly for her to take in the area thoroughly—but we have learned that there are four Hearts of the Harvest this year. Infants, Chaplain.”

  The black eye cooked with oily lust; the orange eye fermented tangerine. “Four? How did she discover that?”

  “A break in weather earlier. The Nomads... they were visiting the Bearer.”

  As he sat up Cloth’s black suit shhhhhed like fingertips running over an obituary. The sound made Cole grimace. “So the Nomads have them?” asked Cloth curiously. He adjusted his black necktie, though it looked perfectly straight.

  “The priestess said the Nomads were alone in their vehicle.”

  “It makes sense. The Messenger knows we’ve sighted the Nomads. This was a foolish way to track them.” Chaplain Cloth let go of his tie and nodded, processing something else.

  Paul spoke up, “The Priestess gave some clues to the Bearer’s location. It’s not much, but we have acolytes on the streets.”

  “We’ll find them,” Cole put in.

  Cloth’s dark form slid off the pumpkin. Cole was a foot taller than the Chaplain, yet felt as though he could sink between the grains of sand beneath his shoes. After all these years he’d never gotten use to the monster and he was glad to not be scrutinized. Instead Chaplain Cloth ran his eyes up and down Quintana. He stepped closer to them. The black licorice breath floated on the air. “Are you scared, Bishop Quintana?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? I need someone in this world to bring my children to me.” He studied Paul closely and decided. “No, you don’t look honored.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just that this isn’t what I’d planned for.”

  “Well, most good plans are malleable.”

  Cloth pressed his fingertips into Paul’s chest and closed his eyes. Paul looked to Cole, who nodded, and tried to communicate through his expression just let this be, for both our sakes. The corpselike hand twisted. Cole knew what the burning touch felt like and he even pitied Paul its silent torment.

  “The marrow garden inside you is interesting,” Cloth observed. “Unbalanced, but interesting. Curious.”

  “Unbalanced?”

  “If you draw too much, the blossoms wither and die. If you don’t draw enough, the blossoms overtake the vessel. A balanced garden distributes power equally like a fork in an efficient waterway.”

  “How do I bring balance back then?”

  “Sow more seeds from the healthy blossoms until you find balance. Takes time and patience, and depends on the fertility of your soul.” Cloth chuckled, as though he found the idea deplorable in regards to Paul. His hand dropped away. “You can only learn the power boundaries and stay within them.”

  “How do I discover my boundaries?”

  The chaplain twisted around, his bone white face twisted and disturbing. “I believe Bishop Szerszen will show you those boundaries right now.”

  Paul’s face shot over.

  “A Heralding can be deadly Quintana,” said Cole. “You must know when to hold back and when to surge forward, just as we practiced earlier. Keep yourself open to the Old Domain, no matter the pain that comes. You will know when to close again.”

  “And what will you do to help me along?” asked Paul.

  Cole leaned forward and whispered, “Oh you’re doing this alone. All my energy goes to the Archbishop. That will not be easy.”

  Paul’s eyes flared.

  “You owe me,” added Cole.

  “It only takes one to bring them,” said the Chaplain. “Whether you die or not makes no difference to me, Quintana. My children are calling and they deserve a guide that will light their way here.”

  “Your Priestess wanted this,” Cole reminded him. “Make her proud.” He guided a dejected Paul Quintana then, led him to an open area in the vines. Now he really felt sorry for him. Cole told Paul to lie down in the dirt and get comfortable.

  ~ * ~

  Paul knew now. It had always been strange that Cole would sell out Justin Margrave so easily. This was the payoff. Justin wasn’t stupid enough to agree to do this alone. Lying there, amongst the cold vines and gravel, Paul Quintana thought of ten thousand different excuses why he couldn’t do this alone—but all excuses were out. Cole’s hideous square face drifted in the night shadows above, a grim reminder of what may be in store for Paul. He could not see Chaplain Cloth but Paul certainly felt the freaky son of a bitch.

  “Open the shutter in your mind and let them through,” Cole said quietly. “Simple as that.”

  The vines became cold underneath Paul. They started to freeze to his skin to the point of burning. At first it reminded him of getting snow in your shirt. But here the flesh peeled at the touch. Icy parchment.

  “Something’s wrong.” He began to sit up.

  Cole’s loafer forced him down. “Stay calm. Let them through. It’ll hurt more if you don’t.”

  Paul swallowed, concentrated. The shutter had been closed tightly for most of the day. Since the training he’d cracked it open only slightly to keep the children at bay, but now they pushed with the knowledge of what was happening.

  The vines burned colder—Paul’s undershirt split and jagged hooks on coarse vines pulled his skin closer—when the hooks sunk in he sensed every pumpkin on every vine—a series of nerve centers in a colossal being.

  Thanksgiving to the Blood Feast!

  First a trickle, then a deluge. The children’s souls flooded through and scoured the tender planes of Paul’s body. The marrow seeds went up like torches. Darkness cut through. Paul was screaming, had been screaming, would keep screaming, even though it had taken time to realize the pain. His every cell felt about to give birth to something a hundredfold in size. Trillions of nether-babies. Down into his groin: his testicles were pulled forward with talons. Intestines went too. They slithered down into his colon. Every nerve was raw plasma. Pleasure and pain existed i
n the same place; relief became agony and torment became soothing. Everything pulled at him now. His face stretched into infinite boundaries, his chest and arms flowed out onto the universe in an energy ripple, and his legs pierced unimagined dimensions between space and time. A human body can’t be meant for this, Paul kept thinking. This is playing with godhood—this will kill me if I don’t fight it. I can’t lose her now that I have her—cannot let go and give up. He readily brought the marrow blossoms at attention. Both flowers—black and orange—readied to fill with incredible power, but the strain sent him grasping for one set and not the other. It was easier, quicker to invoke one color and not both. The black blossoms shed their power and exploded within, making him remember a grand finale fireworks display, but he knew the Heralding wasn’t over yet.

  Blood feast. Blood feast. Blood feast. Thanks to you. Thanksgiving to you.

  He fought to contain his energy and drew from the boundless pool beyond the gateway. This was where Cloth lived, where he grew powerful. The pumpkins drew those nether-babies out with a single tug on a billion points. Keep the shutter open. The children were almost through...

  And with one final rush, like passing a bowling ball, the pain clapped like thunder and fragmented into departing pieces. Paul blinked at the drizzling sky above with a relief he’d never known possible, gratefully sucking up mouthfuls of air. His soul felt scarred forever and the world would never be the same—a part of his humanity had been maimed for this genesis, but Paul had power greater than before.

  He closed the shutter and almost fainted. Another breath of fresh air revitalized him and he felt good, better than ever, in fact. Dizzy and sweating, he leaned up on one arm, feeling satisfied after performing something he’d been born to do. Something inside him was... stronger for it. Paul understood the force of chaos that Chaplain Cloth was, although he’d never be able to describe it completely.

  The chaplain turned to Cole. “You did well by this one. He didn’t succumb or even so much as pass out. I daresay we can use him on the Hunt.”

  “He has acute control,” Cole whispered.

  The Chaplain regarded Paul like a successful science project. “Fine,” he said. “That’s fine.”

  All of the pumpkins, even the giant Cloth had sat upon, had grown. Their skin had sharpened to a glowing orange, like orbs of cooling magma. Paul staggered to his feet and turned in circles, dumbfounded. “Where are the children?” he asked.

  “Incubating,” Cloth said, returning up to the silo.

  Something cool ran down Paul’s back and he checked through his ripped shirt. His hand came back with rich, glistening blood. He wondered what scarring had been left behind on his back. His nose caught a whiff and he flinched. The blood smelled like pumpkin guts.

  TWENTY-NINE

  A ghost blew through Melissa’s bones as she stepped into Archbishop Pager’s suite. She didn’t know why he’d called or what he wanted, but it had to be about the missing marrow seeds—if Pager knew who stole them, she was dead. It was easy. That reality had crept up as the sentinels allowed her entrance. One of the meatheads actually gave her an impatient shove.

  Sandeus Pager had taken the liberty of decorating, as was his way. The hotel suite, though expansive, was crowded with antique furniture and the gilded excess of a man with too many resources and too much time to ponder creative uses for them. Strawberry incense burned; she couldn’t see the smoke, but the choking sweetness powered through the air.

  Standing in this room, in the presence of the Archbishop, put her in danger just to save Cole’s ego, and made her silently hate him. It couldn’t be helped. Melissa began to wonder if she’d ever loved him as much as she once thought.

  “Come into the bedroom, sweetie,” Sandeus called. He laughed and said to somebody else, “No not you, Archbishop Kennen. Of course, if you have a bedroom handy, by all means.” Another chortle.

  Melissa edged by a bronze replica of Medusa into the spacious bedroom. Melissa’s shoes shifted through coils of black and orange potpourri layering the carpet like a forest bed. The Archbishop stretched out under the canopy bed next to someone. Somebody naked and female. Somebody naked and female and with a cavernous red mouth of gore smiling in her throat. Wires connected to the organic circuitry led to a phonograph that had been placed on the bloody pillow beside her. Sandeus lay on his side in an evening dress almost identical to the orange get-up the Priestess of Morning had worn at conclave.

  “You’re not lying to me, are you Sandeus?” the voice on the phonograph implored. “The Priestess hasn’t lost sight of the Nomads, has she?”

  “I don’t know what else to say, Kennen, other than we have them.”

  “But the Hearts?”

  Sandeus looked at Melissa and winked, then patted the side of the bed. She treaded over. The body of the dead woman came into full view. The corpse was arranged as though she were doing snow-angels. Melissa recognized the woman. She worked janitorial. Such a pretty thing. Lupita, she remembered the name plaque had read. Before Melissa left for the restaurant that day, she’d given this dead woman a ten dollar gratuity. A shy smile in return. Now Lupita’s body served as an audio conduit to another world. Sandeus had festively adorned her breasts and pubic hair with black and orange glitter.

  “Don’t worry so much, Kennen. The Heralding has begun.”

  Lupita’s lips frothed with words from the other side. “I sacrificed my wife to smelt visions of the Nomads’ future. I had to choose the time. I changed reality so that the Priestess could find them. So why are we learning information about the Hearts in fragments—this diminishes everything my church has suffered for. This was to be the year, Sandeus.”

  Sandeus shared a smile with Melissa. “They haven’t gone to retrieve the Hearts yet,” he lied and tapped Lupita’s cold purple lips. “But I look forward to giving you the good news.” He lightly lifted the needle off the phonograph plate. His eyes moved over Melissa’s clothes for a while, beaming under his peach eye shadow. “Why we keep our women in those hideous suits, I’ll never understand.”

  Melissa felt her cheeks warm. “Yeah.”

  Sandeus reached forward. “I like your glasses. So cute.” He pulled them off with a coil of his finger and her world turned into a blurry wasteland of black, orange, and red. She could tell the man had put on the glasses, but really couldn’t see.

  “They hurt my eyes,” he told her, handing them back. “Can’t you wear contact lenses, honey?”

  “They hurt my eyes when they dry out.” She put the glasses back on and found Sandeus’s smile had vanished. He sat cross-legged now in his evening gown, his hands folded in his lap.

  “I asked you up to talk about Bishop Szerszen,” he stated. “Point is, I value Cole. Hell, he’s a better politician than a face like his would usually permit. But the sad thing is, lately I don’t think he values me in return. Actually, truly, honestly, I don’t think he cares whether I live or die.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Cole’s no dummy. He sees things are changing and wants to be able to change with them. Plans have a funny way of flipping and only the smart roll with them. You’re in on his insurrection, aren’t you, Melissa sweetie?”

  “He wants what’s best for the Church. What would cause you to believe anything besides that?”

  Sandeus leaned forward. His spicy perfume made her eyes water. “I don’t mean to scare you, even though I know I am.”

  “Not scared,” she mumbled.

  “Yes, yes you are. But you don’t have to be. I need Cole on my side. You two are lovers, and that makes you a perfect go-between. If he’s planning something, I want you to try and convince him otherwise.”

  “He would never—”

  “Let me be clear. This is between you and I. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  This didn’t satisfy him. “Say, ‘Yes I understand.’”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Every October 31st I take a vigorous dose of marrow seeds. I
experiment with the new power they bring to my garden while our worlds have connection. And Melissa, this process brings me more power than Cole could abide. I tell you this, not as your Archbishop, but as your and Cole’s friend. If he tried something this Halloween, he wouldn’t survive.”

  “What makes you—?”

  “Melissa,” he said. “Just stop. Okay? Now if you love him, encourage Cole away from the idea. I saw how the envoys were clinging onto him and giving me the stink eye. I didn’t get to this position by being foolish. You just have to know that I will re-cultivate my garden again and Cole doesn’t want to swim in these waters, believe me.”

  She shuttered. He still didn’t know the seeds were gone! He hadn’t checked? But for how long? Taking the seeds might actually work out for the best in the end—

  “He hasn’t mentioned any plan, Archbishop. It’s silly to think of him in that way, but I will ask him and honestly report anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Fabulous. I’m just a paranoid person, I guess.” Sandeus petted Lupita’s brown tresses and gave her cheek a few reassuring smacks.

  ~ * ~

  Paul watched the rain while he waited for the elevator. The light gradually went down the floor buttons, taking its time. He leaned against the wall and tried to collect himself for another night with the Priestess. Everything was slow. The atmosphere of the Doubletree felt like a big vat of syrup. The Heralding had left his body charged but his mind tarred and feathered.

  The elevator opened and he nearly collapsed inside. The marrow blossoms clenched and unclenched. Paul should have felt better now that the children’s voices had left his mind. He despaired though. He wanted to understand their absence. It was easy to feel betrayed by the loss. He’d mentioned this to Cole in the lobby just before parting ways. The Bishop’s cracked face had looked grave. “Don’t worry Quintana. They’re never gone forever.”