Scarecrow Gods

by Weston Ochse

  “I bet he was beaten as a kid,” said The Ghoul. The cameras worried him. It wasn’t that he was afraid of getting caught doing something, it was the forethought they evidenced. If someone was to make a point, what better way than to have it available to the masses through their favorite media device? He spied several young men moving through the crowd unmolested, expensive hand-held video cameras out in front of them.

  Saul grinned at the remark. He was about to say something but the noise, which had already been making them shout to be heard, doubled. Electricity filled the air as the crowd morphed into something angry. The people surged into the line of deputies. A siren began blaring from one of the police cruisers. This wasn’t the big city. There just weren’t the assets to deal with such a thing. What they really needed were some gas masks and some riot canisters. A little CS gas would disperse the folks and give them a severe rash for a week or two.

  “There he is. Blasphemer!”

  The Reverend Phillips’ voice could barely be heard over the cacophony of screams and chants and sirens. Still, his chant was taken up and the crowd began shouting Blasphemer. It was only a matter of time before someone got hurt. The Ghoul could only imagine what would happen if someone had a rifle. The presence of this pseudo-cult leader had never been popular—it would be too easy for a bullet to come from out of the crowd.

  The Ghoul stared up at the top deck of the bus where the Reverend was encouraging his followers. If he could be there, he’d be able to scan the crowd. If there were weapons, he’d be able to spot them—especially a rifle. Without a word, he stepped forward, shouldering the lawyer aside. He took the steps two at a time.

  “Wait. Stop. You can’t do that.”

  “Yes he can,” said Johnny, pointing to the back of the ascending man’s jacket, where the letters ATF were prominently displayed. “And he don’t even need a warrant.”

  At the top of the stairs, The Ghoul removed his glasses. It was almost dusk, getting too dark for him to see through the polarized lenses. Most of the rows of seats, which had been part of the original bus, had been removed. Only two in the front still remained, leaving the rest of the space a clear platform. Besides the Reverend, there were two other people. One was a younger version of the Reverend, dressed in an identical cream-colored suit. Most likely his son, the younger man was in his twenties and wore a headset with a microphone. One hand was cupped over the transmitter near his mouth. The other person was a woman, too old to be either man’s wife. She was staring through some binoculars when she exclaimed suddenly, “There she is. It’s my Bonnie.”

  His presence still unnoticed, The Ghoul followed the woman’s trembling arm which pointed to a group of people approaching the line of deputies from inside the compound. The leader he recognized as John the New Baptist. With him were seven young women dressed in shapeless long white robes. Their heads were clean shaven.

  “Dean, she’s there. My granddaughter’s there,” exclaimed the woman. “Last one on the left.”

  The young man nodded and spoke rapidly into his microphone, his demeanor military precise.

  John the New Baptist wasn’t a large man, but his presence was unmistakable. Even from his perch atop the bus thirty yards away, The Ghoul felt the cult leader’s draw. He began to smile as he noticed the other’s smile and caught himself. He’d seen pictures of Jonestown and of the cult members who’d killed themselves by drinking cyanide-laced Kool-Aid all because of the charismatic power of one man. The Ghoul felt that power now and fought against it.

  The cult leader brought out a small white megaphone of his own and spoke into it. “Peace my brothers and sisters. This is not the time to wage war upon me. This is the time to wage love.”

  The Ghoul felt the strength of the man’s words. Sections of the crowd stopped pressing forward. Many of the protestors fell silent, as if they were waiting for him to say something else. The momentum of the mob had stalled. Those who still had fight in them had pushed against the line of deputies, but hadn’t yet passed the point where emotions overrode common sense.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young man, who’d been addressed as Dean, step-up and tap the Reverend on the shoulder. A look was exchanged then the Reverend turned his attention back to the crowd.

  In his clear practiced tenor he yelled through the megaphone.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil. For thou art with me.”

  What next took place caught everyone by surprise. A huge explosion towards the rear of the compound drowned out the sounds of protestors and dueling preachers. John the New Baptist whirled as a brackish cloud mushroomed from behind the most southern dormitory. Then, as if it were a signal, the two hundred members of the milling mob coalesced into a synchronized unit. About fifty men locked arms and formed a wedge. This group ran at the line of deputies, their path clear as the protestors stepped aside.

  The moment became a razor’s edge as the deputies tensed, prepared for the impact. At the last minute, their determination wilted, however, and they stepped clear of the charging mob. The wedge continued through and onto the cult compound…where they inexplicably stopped. As they approached within ten feet of John, serendipity occurred on an unheard of scale. Each and every one of the fifty men tripped and fell sprawling in a tangle of pain as ankles and legs twisted and cracked.

  A second attack followed close behind as a motorcycle left the line of cars on the westbound side of the highway and shot over the grass directly towards the cult leader. After covering only half the distance, the front wheel hit something and the motorcycle flipped, the rider hurtling in a bone-breaking somersault that made even The Ghoul wince and turn away.

  Then it was over.

  The men picked themselves off the ground and retreated to the road, several detouring to grab the fallen motorcyclist. As the men reached the mob, they separated until even The Ghoul had a hard time determining which ones had participated in the attack.

  The deputies reformed their line, but were equally uncertain what had just happened. It wasn’t until the scream of outrage erupted from John the New Baptist that people truly understood. The Ghoul watched as the man paced back and forth on the edge of his property like an angered lion, shouting at the deputies.

  “Return the girl to me. She’s mine! It’s your job to protect me,” he screamed, pointing an accusing finger at the police. “It’s your job to keep them away. Get her back or I’ll—”

  Reverend Phillips interrupted and drowned out the cult leader, his voice so loud and on the edge of distortion the gain must have been turned up all the way. And as the reverend spoke, The Ghoul counted only six young ladies now standing beside their fuming leader.

  Cease from anger, and forsake wrath,

  fret not thyself in any wise to do evil.

  For evildoers shall be cut off,

  and those that wait upon the LORD,

  they shall inherit the earth.

  For yet a little while, and the wicked shall not be,

  yea, thou shalt diligently consider his place and it shall not be.

  But the meek shall inherit the earth,

  and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace.

  * * *

  Chattanooga, Tennessee

  11:19 said the glowing red letters of the clock beside his bed. Danny had the covers pulled to his chin. The temperature was almost arctic with the air conditioner turned up so high. If it was up to Danny, he’d have it turned off and the windows open so he could get the cool breeze off the lake, the scent of magnolia blossoms and lake algae filling the house. Then again, no one asked him.

  He’d just finished listening to another audio adventure from Mystery Theater on his radio. The show was out of St. Louis and most nights he could pick it up static-free. When he’d first received the radio as a Christmas present two years ago, he’d spent many late nights seeing how far away he could receive. One night in March he’d finally heard a station from Seat
tle, Washington, cinching his collection of the forty-eight contiguous states. He doubted he’d be able to get Alaska and Hawaii, but he wouldn’t give up trying. After all, he could have sworn that he’d once heard German.

  Collecting states was how he’d discovered Mystery Theater. With the sound effects and the dramatic music, the radio show had become a nighttime favorite. He especially loved listening to The Shadow. It was the perfect show for a young boy. With titles like The Bubbling Death, The Chill of Death, The Circle of Death or Death Coils to Strike, Death From the Deep, Death is an Art, he couldn’t go wrong.

  Only Bergen knew that Danny listened to radio shows. The other boys would’ve made fun of it, calling it stupid and sissy for sure.

  Tonight’s show sounded like it had been a good one. He’d heard the usual echoing footsteps, a few gunshots, a woman’s scream and the must have creaking door. Even with all the possibilities they presented, he’d barely listened, however. His mind was too wrapped around the day’s events and admission by Maxom. What he’d been told had not only answered many questions, but had given rise to others. No matter what he did, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. His life had changed in a big way.

  “I want to teach you to do what I can do.”

  Maxom had explained all about Vietnam, detailing his torture and the old man in the village named Lo Lo, a witchdoctor who’d given his life so that Maxom could live. Maxom had explained about how he could leave his own body and enter that of a crow—how he had a special freedom that allowed him to live a life that his body found impossible. Maxom said that he could teach Danny to do it as well.

  Fear and excitement coursed through him. He could feel his heart race, even now, hours later as he thought about the possibilities. No more did he have to read or watch or listen to stories about heroes who could do magic. He could become one. He, Danny, a medium-sized, twelve-year old, white kid from Chattanooga, Tennessee, could be a hero.

  “That boy you shot up in the Mustang was the one who beat up your friend. Him and another boy did it.”

  And now Danny had a target for his enmity.

  Greg and the other who was probably Ernie.

  What the boys had done to the car was wrong. Just yesterday on the way to Maxom’s house, Danny had seen the Mustang parked in front of the Golden Gallon. Pink spots from where Greg had tried to scrub it clean and small dents covered the formerly immaculate white surface. What had been a chick magnet was now most certainly ruined.

  But that was a car. A ton of metal and plastic and leather. What Danny was talking about was a life. And nobody, not even Greg was allowed to be less than human.

  Still, Maxom had brought up some ideas of how to get back at the boy, all of them nasty and fun. All Danny needed to do was to learn how to do the magic.

  The magic…

  CHAPTER 15

  Tuesday—June 26th

  Ooltewah, Tennessee

  “I just can’t do it.”

  “You’re trying too hard.”

  “But you said to concentrate, so I’m concentrating.”

  “Is that what you call that? I thought you were just constipated and trying to squeeze out a long one.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I thought so.”

  “It’s not helping.”

  “Just concentrate.”

  “I am.”

  Five minutes later, Danny stormed out of the house and into the yard. He grabbed the swing blade from where it leaned against the back porch and attacked the ferns and saplings at the edge of the yard. Like a psychotic Samurai, he hacked and slashed his way through invisible armies of Maxoms.

  Why was it so damned hard? He’d been told exactly how to do it. Lo Lo had told Maxom that the ability was within everyone. If that was true, then it was in Danny as well so then where the heck was it and why couldn’t he find it.

  Arrrgggghhh.

  Everywhere he saw Maxom heads. Some saplings were thicker than others, sending the blade bouncing back. This only infuriated him more. He redoubled his hacking. Growling at the clouds of clinging gnats he sought things to decapitate. Finally, he stopped, sagging against the swing blade, allowing the long wooden handle to hold his weight as he sucked in air. Sweat dripped from his head in a steady stream. His hair was matted. His red Star Wars t-shirt was plastered to his skin.

  “Did that help?” came a voice from off to his left.

  “Yep.” Danny turned his head and saw Maxom standing on the top step. One hand was on the door jam, the other held a sweating glass of iced tea. Danny licked his lips, but was still too angry to ask for a drink. The man had called him a sissy. He’d said that he was untrainable and he’d go to a kindergarten and pick the first girl brave enough to talk to him. As if.

  “Let’s call it a day, then.”

  “No!” Danny stalked towards the back porch, the swing blade digging a furrow in the ground as he dragged it behind him.

  “I’m not done, yet. I wanna try just one more time.”

  Danny’s tone had gone from plaintive to confident in three sentences. Maxom took a long drink of the tea, then nodded.

  “All right. One more time then. Come on.”

  Danny left the swing blade leaning against the porch and trudged up the stairs and into the living room. He took up his position in the center of the floor, sitting Indian style, his hands resting gently on his knees.

  “It begins with the breathing,” Maxom said. “There ain’t any particular rhythms to look for. You just need to breathe regular. You’re trying to find your center. You’re trying to be calm.”

  Danny closed his eyes and breathed. In through his nose. Out through his mouth.

  “If you try to hard, it just makes you angry. Anger, like any emotion, just gets in the way.”

  Danny glared sidelong at Maxom, then closed his eyes again.

  “Feel the air enter your lungs.” Maxom spoke slowly in a monotonic rhythm. “Feel it change into blood and enter your veins. Follow the life giving air as it travels through your body, feeding it. First your legs, then your torso, then your arms, then your head.”

  Danny felt tired. Much more so than before. Earlier he’d been boiling over with excitement, now it was a vague memory. As he breathed he concentrated. He was supposed to forget everything around him. To be truly centered was to be the only thing in the universe. No clammy humid air, no scratchy carpet, no flies buzzing around his head.

  Nothing.

  Just him.

  Danny felt himself centering and moved on to the next step.

  “You leave your body in stages,” Maxom said from farther away. “From the bottom up, until all you feel is your head floating in your own universe. In the end, you hear a high-pitched whining noise. This is your soul squeezing through your third eye. There’s a pop when it’s done and then you’re out and floating and free.”

  Danny shifted his concentration to his toes. One by one he erased them from existence. This was his universe and he could do anything, and right now, he didn’t want any toes. As he erased them with his mind, his body followed suit by forgetting to feel them. Next came his feet. Danny willed them out of existence, as well. He didn’t need any feet to fly. Feet were for walking and you couldn’t walk to the place where he was going. Then his legs. Beginning with his ankles, the nothingness crept up the bones, painlessly eating away muscle and tendon. The nothing of the universe erased the lower half of his body. His stomach disappeared. His chest quickly followed—then his arms and his shoulders and his neck, until all that was left of him was his head.

  Concentrating, he sought the center of his forehead where his third eye was supposed to be and willed it to open. From far off came a sound rising in pitch as it came closer. Higher and higher came the sound until it became a painful whine. His concentration threatened to shatter. The sound was what Maxom had spoken of. Danny’s soul was about to leave his body. He was about to float free as a new entity in the universe.

  A spark of doubt appeared in his m
ind.

  What if he couldn’t return?

  The doubt changed into fear and the fear took hold.

  The whining stopped. Danny suddenly felt the weight of his own body as the gravity pulled him back. Within seconds it was over and Danny had become again.

  He opened his eyes, jumping up. “I did it! I was right there.” Grins and frowns traded places as fast as he could make them. “You weren’t lying. Wow! I got scared though, I got real scared.”

  Just then, a car horn sounded. His mother had arrived to pick him up.

  Danny stared longingly at the space on the carpet where he’d created his own universe. He glanced at Maxom, who smiled and nodded.

  “We’ll pick this up where we left off. Get your things. Don’t want to keep your mother waiting.”

  The sound of the horn came again and Danny snatched up his backpack. As he opened the door, Maxom spoke. “You did good, boy. I knew you could do it. I knew it all along.”

  Danny grinned, closed the door behind him, and sped across the yard to the car. He whipped open the door and launched himself onto the cool leather seat.

  “How was your day, hon?”

  Danny turned to his mother. What could he say? “It was okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m hungry.”

  “Just what I was thinking. How does fried chicken sound?”

  He nodded, staring out the window. The trees and bushes didn’t exist for him. His attention was entirely on that one tiny universe he’d created and all the possibilities it represented.

  * * *

  Chattanooga, Tennessee

  To say Danny couldn’t sleep would be an understatement in the extreme. Never before had the Sandman been so elusive. A hundred times he’d closed his eyes only to lay dwelling upon the possibilities of his impending super heroism. He thought of The Shadow and of all the bad people the radio star had brought to justice. He thought of the green comic book Hulk, misunderstood mutant creation who could be as soft as a kitten or as hard as a concrete block. He thought of Spiderman and Superman, and of the Green Lantern who had the potential to be more powerful than the strongest of Superheroes or weaker than the least of them.