by Edward Lee
Her father’s eyes opened.
His mouth was moving, and he was looking at her.
“Dad!” Ann jumped up, raced to the bed. Her father’s own gaze followed her. He’s conscious, she realized in a burst of exuberance. “Dad, it’s me,” she said. “It’s Ann…”
She could see his mouth working. It opened and closed; it was obvious to her that he was trying to say her name. Ann’s heart was racing.
Next, his crabbed hand took hold of her wrist. It felt cool, dry, wriggling in infirmity. The other hand faltered, rising over the bed. It moved around in some cryptic gesture.
“What, Dad? Can you try to talk?”
He clearly couldn’t. It crushed Ann to see the frustration on his infirm face. The mouth moving but giving no voice, the futile concentration in efforts to communicate to the daughter he hadn’t seen in over a year.
“Dad, what…”
His hand moved furiously, not pointing but seeming to mimic an act.
The act of writing. Thumb pressed to fingers, the withered hand made gestures of writing.
“A pen, Dad? Do you want a pen?”
He actually huffed in relief. His tired face nodded.
He couldn’t talk but he wanted to write. He must be much more lucid than they’d thought. Ann took one of Dr. Heyd’s notepads and sat down on the bed. She lay it against her knee. Then she placed a ballpoint pen into her father’s right hand.
“Go on, Dad. Take your time.”
First just scribble. The old man chewed his lip as he struggled to wield the pen. Ann felt tears in her eyes, witnessing her father’s desperation at so simple a task.
He began to whimper, eyes fluttering, then closing. “Dad, Dad?” she cried. He fell unconscious again, and the monitor slowed back to its normal pitch.
“Ann, what’s happened?”
Dr. Heyd came back into the room, rushing over. She excitedly explained what happened. But he only half listened as he quickened to take vital signs. Suddenly, Milly and Ann’s mother were crowded into the room, both in robes and slippers. Ann repeated everything for them in desperate joy.
“He was seeing me,” she went on. “I know he knew it was me.
But Dr. Heyd seemed disapproving, busying with an injection.
“What’s wrong?” Ann asked, dismayed. “Isn’t this good?”
“No, Ann, it’s not,” Dr. Heyd replied. “You should’ve called me at once.”
“But he was writing, he was trying to talk. He recognized me. I’m sure of it.”
“Ann, you’re forgetting what I told you the other day. Undue excitement is the worst thing for him right now. The excitement of suddenly being conscious and of seeing you at the same time made his blood pressure and heart rate skyrocket. You should’ve called for me first, so I could give him something to keep his heart rate at a lower level.”
“Why!” Ann objected. “He was conscious!”
“My God, Ann,” her mother muttered.
“What the hell is wrong?” Ann continued.
“The drastic rise in blood pressure caused a physical strain against the occluded blood vessels in his brain. You shouldn’t have encouraged him to write, because that only increased the strain further. It challenged him to a physical task he’s no longer physically capable of.”
Ann still didn’t understand. All she understood was that her father had been conscious, and now everybody was acting like Ann had done something grievously wrong.
“Before trying to induce him to write, you should’ve called me so I could lower his heart rate to a safe level. All that excitement at once was too much for him. The rise in systolic pulse more than likely forced some of the clot apart, sending pieces further into the brain. He may die now.”
Ann felt paralyzed in turmoil.
“My God, Ann!” her mother yelled.
“It’s my fault,” Dr. Heyd offered. “I should have explained more specifically before I left the room.”
“It’s not your fault, Ashby,” Ann’s mother hotly replied. “The problem is my fine daughter doesn’t realize the fragility of anything! She has no forethought at all!”
“Mom, I—”
“I invited you home to see him, Ann, not kill him!”
Ann’s mother stormed out of the room. Ann stood teary-eyed. Milly put her arm around her shoulder.
“It couldn’t be helped, Ann,” Dr. Heyd said, watching the monitor. “You didn’t know.”
I may have just killed my own father Ann realized.
Ann watched in mute numbness as Milly and Dr. Heyd tended to her father. In a few minutes, Dr. Heyd confirmed, “He seems to be stabilizing for now. We’ll know more by morning.” Then he looked down at Ann’s hand. “Is that what he wrote?”
Ann still held the piece of notepaper her father had scribbled on. She looked at it now, for the first time. Just scrambled letters, nothing coherent. “It doesn’t make sense,” she said, and gave the note to Dr. Heyd.
“To your father, though, it probably does,” the doctor told her after reading the note himself. “Unfortunately, orbital strokes of this magnitude frequently obfuscate the learned memory faculties in the brain. In other words, he was writing without a sequenced memory of the alphabet. It’s quite common in these cases.”
Dr. Heyd, it seemed, had a professional answer for everything. Ann felt disappointed. She would never know what her father, in what may have been his last conscious moment in life, had been trying to communicate to her.
What he’d written was this:
BLUDCYNN HÜSL — DOTHER FO DOTHER
—
Chapter 21
“Secean we,” bid the wifmunuc. Becloaked, she knelt before the blessed nihtmir.
“Eternal mother, bless us!” came the chorus.
Yielding to the rushes of love, of bliss and sanctity, the wifmunuc remained solemn. In silence, then, she prayed before the slab, Her holy sweosters joined her from behind, menteled in black, in the cirice.
“Modor, Druiwif, Dother fo Nisfan,” the wifmunuc bid, raising her arms. “We give lof fom eard, os hüslpegns, in yur soo, we fi wuldor, lar, gliw.”
“O, Blessed One, hear our prayer.”
“Ure heofan yur nisfan.”
“Receive our prayer.”
Each wifhand then dropped their mentels, nude beneath. They bowed in the cirice, sweat shining on their backs. Several wreccans stood to the rear, blank-faced, bearing torches to give light in their conqueror’s eard. Then the wifmunuc rose and stepped out of her own cæppe, which was black as the others’, but sewn of the finest silk. Naked, she pressed a hand to the slab. Untold wonders bloomed on her face, the most holy visions, unspeakable, incalculable. She looked into the slab, staring.
Two more wreccans dragged in a hüsl, who had been properly gagged so as not to disrupt the wifmunuc’s muse. Now the wifhands broke. A second hüsl, a female, was removed from one of the pens. Wreccans gagged her, stripped her, brought her forth.
The male hüsl was held upright. He was typical, a stray drunk picked up hitchhiking. But the wreccans had sought well—this one was young, muscular, handsome. As they stripped him, the terror in his young eyes was beautiful.
Yes, the pig would make a beautiful sacrifice.
More wreccans—the cokwors—stoked the great fire in the cooking pit. Each stoke flooded the cirice in lovely, hot waves. For a time, the wifhands took turns touching the male, reveling in the sensation of flesh. They caressed the chest, buttocks, and genitals, their faces grinning in firelight. Then:
“Wîhan!” ordered the wifford.
The male was laid upon the dolmen, which was encrusted from countless feks. Wreccans tied him down. Pots of leahroot smoked fragrantly about the dolmen, charging them all with the sweet passion of their god. The wifford began to fellate the male, while others stroked his flesh with flaxbalm. They took turns, moving in a watchful circle, each taking the helot unto their mouths. Soon the leahroot and balms had seeped into his blood. Despite his terror, his
genitals hardened.
The female was forced to watch. Her tainted features proved her distance from the bludcynn. Stringy white-blond hair, blue eyes, faint pink nipples on large breasts. She shook, sweating, as two wreccans held her up. Urine streamed freely down her tanned legs.
In the nave, though, the wifmunuc continued to supplicate their god, her face peering into the nihtmir. The cold stone against her fingertips filled her with coruscating heat. Her vision delved; it was being led away deep into the stygian field. Deeper, deeper…
Each wifhand took turns straddling the male helot, their faces turned up in bliss, while the others looked on.
…and down. She was in a different realm now, where madness was the only order, darkness the only light. It was beautiful…
The helot shuddered in his own sweat as he lay there to be taken again and again. The wreccans brought the blonde closer still, to see. When she dared to close her eyes, a white-hot stoking rod was lain across her buttocks. Two more wreccans approached the dolmen, with knives.
…so beautiful to be led into their god’s wondrous lair. Her physical body behind her, the wifmunuc seemed to float through the shifting blackness like a feather on the wind. Soon she drifted out of the chasm and onto a strange precipice. It was another time, or, perhaps, another world…
“Soo, soo,” hotly whispered the wifford. It began with her, and it would end with her. She pushed a sweoster off and restraddled the helot, penetrating herself upon his penis. She grunted, thrusting down.
…yes, a precipice backed by the strangest twilight, scarlet and flashing black stars. Two masci guarded the summit, hairless, swollen-faced things, eyes long since healed over. Blindly, they sensed the wifmunuc’s presence, tilting up their heinous, misshapen heads. They let her pass, then went back to their meal of bones, black maws cracking down to expose the succulent marrow. Suddenly, the wifmunuc was reborn. She was a child, naked in twilight, standing amid the highest trees. A sound could be heard beyond the forest, a presence could be felt. The wifmunuc lost her breath…
“Wîhan,” panted the wifford. She leaned back on her hands, to deepen the penetration as her orgasm spasmed. The helot, too, began to tremor, his semen exploding into her sex, and then—
“Wîhan, wîhan!” she shrieked.
—the wreccans sliced his belly open at the same time. The helot convulsed on the slab; the wifford chortled. Blood flew this way and that as the wreccans’ hands delved into the rive to expeditiously extract the more delectable organs. The wifhands rejoiced, in awe of the scarlet spectacle. The blonde was in shock now. Very quickly, her ankles were tied, she was hung upside down against the wall on an iron hook, and her head was cut off with a machete. The body still twitched for a time, as the stump bled like a spigot into a small chettle. The helot’s head, too, was cut off, and both were tossed into the fire, to cook. The blonde was gutted similarly, then all of the organs were thrown into the chettle. Seasonings were added, and the chettle was set on the fire.
The wifmunuc’s eyes widened in wonder, in love. The lambent figure approached, beautiful in its grace and perfection.
Lean, naked, dark hair flowing behind it like an endless mane. The wifmunuc, still a child now, began to sob in this vision of holiness. Moonlight dappled the dell through high branches. The moonlight was pink…
While the festival meats were left to cook, the orgy ensued. Wreccans were taken aside, ordered to perform for the whims of each wifhand. The wifford, sated and bespattered, stood aside to watch. Moans rose palpably into the cirice. The floor became a carpet of moving flesh in firelight. Sweating backs, legs spreading, buttocks plunging. One wreccan was ordered to fornicate with the helot. Meanwhile the cokkers stirred the chettle as the blood began to boil.
…perfection could be the only word—the perfect being in perfect light. The wifmunuc stared up, faced by the radiant, perfect flesh.
“Ure give wynn!” she rejoiced. “Wi give lof bi soo ure folclagu!”
“Joindre mi in me wudu fo nisfan,” the figure whispered back, flesh glowing in the pinkened moonlight. “Give lof, give wîhan, ond joindre mi on doefolmon.”
“Modor!” cried the wifmunuc, reaching out.
The Ardat-Lil gazed down. “Soon my time will come again,” she said. “Until then, fedde me.”
Suddenly, she was back before the nihtmir, in her old body, her old world. Behind her, the hustig rose to revelry. But it took the wifmunuc a moment to get her breath back, to readjust herself. Her flesh shined with sweat in the excitement now, and in the grace of what she’d just witnessed. The wifford came into the nave and kissed her. They rejoiced.
They all ate heartily of the hot meat pulled from the chettle. They filled their bellies. The wifmunuc, enlivened now, chose the newest wreccan and raped him on the dirt floor as the others watched, their eyes full of joy, their mouths smeared red.
Before the hustig was ended, they passed the engraved cuppe. They each took a sip of the blood and sighed.
The wifmunuc gustily swallowed the rest.
«« — »»
Erik hoped his white hair didn’t give him away. He’d left the van covered by brush miles back in the woods. Skirting town was the only way. He felt certain they were expecting him.
He wore dark clothes. He brought a flashlight and carried the shotgun across his back. The pinkened moon followed him; it seemed to harass him as he wended through the dense woods.
Providence, he thought. It was almost funny now. Was it providence that he die here, in their hands? Why am I even doing this? he asked himself. And what am I really doing?
He wasn’t sure how to answer himself, for it was true. He really didn’t know what he was doing, did he? If all his suspicions were real? What would he do? What could he do?
It was well past midnight now. Eventually, the woods broke at a quiet residential street. The street was dark, but several windows were lit. Erik followed close to the shadows.
Headlights flashed around the bend. Erik dove for cover. A car seemed to be slowing. He unshouldered the shotgun and lay still. A spotlight roved the top of the hedges he hid behind. Cops, he realized. The spot moved along the trees, head-level. He could hear a radio squawking. Had they seen him? Was providence so cruel to let him come all this way only to die by the same police who’d sent him away years ago? No, no, he thought. The shotgun grew slick in his hands. I’m going to die right here.
The car idled past. Erik noted the crest and letters on the door: Lockwood Police. The moonlight unveiled the driver’s face. It was Byron, the kid who’d arrested him.
Soon the headlights disappeared around the next bend.
He resumed his advance through the town. He struggled to recall exactly where everything was. Here was Meade Street, and here was Lockhaven. He would have to approach from behind the town square, to avoid the police station. In jest, he pictured himself strolling openly down Pickman Avenue, whistling, waving to Chief Bard.
A block down, through high trees, the white steeple spired.
Home again, Erik thought.
The moonlight painted the church’s white walls pink. He crept around very slowly, eyes peeled. And there they were: the little stone steps which led to the access beneath the church. At the end of the steps, he could see the door.
Erik stood still a moment. Memory flashed in and out of his head like a grueling nightmare. Was this really providence? Or his own horror? It was more than just a door that stood waiting for him. It was his past.
And it was waiting, he knew, with open arms.
«« — »»
Martin awoke in bed, dizzy, nauseous. The darkness was like mud in his face. He’d been dreaming, but all he could recall were streams of repugnant blurs and streaks like images of vivid muck. He felt gritty and he stank. He reached over for Ann, but her side of the bed lay empty, unruffled. Where could she be at this hour? The clock read 1:30 a.m.
Jesus, the thought muttered. He lay back, straining against the force of memory. Where had
he been all day? He remembered stopping in at the Crossroads, having a few beers with Andre and some of the other guys. Then…
What?
He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even remember coming home. All that remained were wisps of what could only be nightmare. He remembered odd tastes and smells. Heat. Sweat. Waves of moans and—
Jesus, he thought again. One of the dream’s images surfaced to completion: being straddled, a hot body pinning him to the ground. Sweat dripped onto his face and chest, breasts were joggling as bizarre words seemed to ooze like sooty smoke around his head. And then he remembered the face that looked down at him, between the breasts. Not Maedeen.
It was Ann’s mother’s face.
What the hell is wrong with me? he asked himself in disgust. Not only was he dreaming of infidelities… I dreamed I was fucking Ann’s mother, for God’s sake.
The realization made him feel even dirtier. Part of it he could figure now. He’d come home late, drunk. Ann was pissed, so that’s why she wasn’t here. She was probably downstairs sleeping on the couch.
Can’t say I don’t deserve it. He’d had a problem with alcohol in the past, but he was sure he’d defeated it. He’d never be anything if he let his life’s old demons come back to him. He was a poet, an artist, and he had responsibilities now, to Ann and Melanie. I better get my shit together, he told himself.
He turned on the night-light and got up, grabbed his robe. He couldn’t stand the smell of himself. He padded down the hall but stopped before the bathroom door. He heard water running. Jesus, who could be taking a shower at this hour? He peeked into Melanie’s room and found it empty, the bed unslept in.
She must’ve been out late too. Of course, Martin could not justifiably scold her, given his own state. He sat on the bed to wait for her to finish. The room was plush, full of antiques. He looked around, waiting, but felt distracted. Next, he found himself standing at the window.
Low in twilight, the moon looked back at him. It was nearly full. Its odd, bright-pink light seeped into his eyes, lulling him. The light seemed to show him things—indeterminate, yet absolutely awful things—beyond its fixed glow.