by Weston Ochse
His control reasserted, Maxom circled higher and higher upon the updrafts. He headed towards the spot where he knew the small bright nexus to be. Maxom wasn’t keen on investigating the other portable nexus, especially since it seemed to be the source of the area’s Chill Blaine population.
As he flew, he remembered the faces of the cacti before the dog had almost become dinner. Not only had they been clothed, but someone had taken the time to personalize each one. The open tops of bottles were their mouths, accounting for the eerie whistling. Buttons had been used for eyes, each saguaro surprised and staring. The arms were raised not so much in a cruciform, but upward as if they were there to frighten, like scarecrows.
The landscape below was desolate and empty. The owl lamented the sad truth, searching and searching, but it seemed that very few creatures were out. Scrub bushes and small cacti dotted the desert floor. If he remembered right, they were approaching Mexico, the town of Sierra Vista only ten or twenty miles North of the border.
Out of the darkness, rising like a prehistoric monolith, was a singular saguaro. Where the others had been impressive as a group, this thing was impressive unto itself. The cactus was easily twice the size of any of the others he’d seen, evidence of a far more ancient ancestry. The very fact it had survived the years was a testament to its specialness. As the owl circled, Maxom became entranced. He tried to concieve of the permanence of the saguaro, wondering how many generations had come and gone equally amazed.
He was so deep in thought that he almost failed to notice the naked man sitting Indian-style at the saguaro’s base. The man’s back was to the cacti, his face to the North. A small fire burned beside him. Several strange devices were arrayed next to this, including what Maxom believed to be a human leg bone. The man and the saguaro were surrounded by a circle of white reminding Maxom of chalk on a baseball field. The man was making a complex Mandala. He reached into one of the many small bowls beside him, placed colored sand upon the end of the leg bone, and deposited it in the art.
As Maxom tried to figure out what the man was doing, he looked up. He stared at Maxom for a long moment, before his eyes narrowed. The man’s right hand shot out and pointed at the owl. Unintelligible words sprang from the man’s throat.
He knew Maxom was there! But how? Instead of seeking the answer, Maxom felt a powerful urge to run. He tried to get the owl to obey him, but it wouldn’t. He noticed he was circling lower and lower. The owl was preparing to land. He tried to reestablish control again, remembering the techniques he’d used earlier when it had dove for the dog, but nothing seemed to work. It was as though the man had cast a spell.
Maxom flowed up and out of the owl, returning to The Land of Inside-Out. He realized he’d made a terrible error. Below him was the life pad of the bird. Next to it and almost touching was the brightness of a nexus that could only be the saguaro. Partially merged with this was the strange mobile nexus with the phantom trails radiating outwards. This meant the man himself was a nexus. The idea was so foreign to Maxom that he couldn’t even comprehend it. But he didn’t have time to think about it, because huddled against the man was a single Chill Blaine, suckling like a baby.
The creature noticed him immediately, pushed itself away and shot towards him almost before he could react. Maxom’s dread was thick and instant, his every action slow motion. Terror clouded his mind. He felt the power of the strange nexus and wanted both to merge and escape.
Paralyzed, Maxom tried to imagine Lo Lo and the Old Mung’s description of The Land. It is what you make of it. The characteristics are based entirely upon your perceptions. Maxom followed those instructions imagining a universe with no distance and tried to move. The minute he felt motion, however, he knew he’d failed. If there was no distance, then there’d be no motion, and no need to move. He saw his problem, but didn’t understand how to solve it. As soon as his mind passed that particular kernel of logic, it twisted around in confusion.
Instead of instantaneous translation, he did manage to move away, though. He was at speed, The Land whipping by, lights from passing life pads stretching Doppler-like in his wake. Still he felt the Chill Blaine behind him. He tried to move faster but failed. He was moving as fast as he’d ever had, yet the creature was still gaining on him.
Maxom screamed as the Chill Blaine latched on, a fingertip grasp on his silver form. Although it was a tiny touch, it was enough. Even as he shot across the landscape, Maxom felt his energy draining away. He was inexorably slowing and there was nothing he could do about it.
It was only a matter of time.
* * *
Paradise Valley, Arizona
Skyclad, John walked past the vigilant deputy sheriff, passing close enough to smell the man’s Brut aftershave and the staleness of his breath. John kept walking, invisible to eyes which were watching specifically for him. He’d smile, but he was too angry.
For a full day he’d lain, incapacitated—not from the ATF Agent’s punch, but from the actions of the Old Soul, Nancy. She’d played with him and used him, just as she’d done when he’d been a child hiding in the darkness of his room. He’d been powerless to stop her then and almost as equally powerless to stop her now. It was only at the intervention of his constructs, those fragments he’d created himself to wile away the dark hours that had allowed him to escape.
The second he’d opened his eyes, John had grabbed one of the girls and descended to his room. A beautiful young thing with a soft, lilting Southern accent, she’d died loving him. With her help, he’d been able to pin Nancy down, the virginal blood a critical aspect of the spell. Even now he could feel the Old Soul struggling within the grip of his consciousness. He could almost hear her.
Come inside and play with me Johnny.
Everything was prepared. In his right hand, he held a bag with the things he needed to exorcise himself. He had everything he required, except for the nexus. He needed the power of the ancients.
Half an hour later, he arrived at the titanic saguaro and went to work. Pouring white sand in a circle around him and the tree, he concentrated on his Chakras. He drank from his bota, Karmic Tea the fuel for what might be an Olympic odyssey through the MacroMind. With a length of bone he’d removed from a Tibetan Mystic a dozen years ago, he began shaping the Mandala. The designs would allow him the concentration needed to focus his energies and send the soul back to its depository. He was almost through when he spotted the owl circling overhead. John understood the great carnivore’s significance right away. The image of a maggot superimposed itself upon the owl, the image supplied by his constructs.
Was this the thing he’d been afraid of? Was this what Mason had warned him about? This was too easy.
He shouted the spell of transference, the Hindu slipping easily from his lips. He felt Nancy’s attention shift and with a joy he hadn’t felt in years, watched her lunge at the easier prey. Old Souls like her scared him. Now she was someone else’s problem. The maggot would find his hands full.
Good riddance to the both of them.
He spent another hour at the saguaro, then packed up his things and returned to the compound. He’d earlier possessed the mountain lion, enjoying the sport of chasing down illegal border crossers. He was too wired from the Karmic Tea to sleep and considered finding it again.
CHAPTER 21
Tuesday—July 3rd
Ooltewah, Tennessee
Maxom hung unmoving in his hazardous waste suit, suspended from his harness like a fly caught by a great dark spider. Someone had shut off the electricity. Twin rays from a pair of emergency lights pinned him in the air like the gaze from an alien machine. The aluminum stirring rod was still. The soft sucking sounds of the million maggots were amplified by the cold metal of the vat. Muffled shouts came from the other side of the thick steel door that had been locked from the inside. A storage locker had been tipped over, blocking the entrance further.
Banging sounded both from hands and something metal striking the door. Someone screamed from
far away. The scrape of metal like claws snipped the shadows.
Maxom hung unmoving.
* * *
Somewhere in the Sonoran Desert
Danny stopped running when he collapsed against the side of a wadi, the incline holding him up. His legs were too tired to propel him any farther. His sides ached as they’d never ached before. He gasped, fighting furiously for each breath. His heart thumped rapid-fire against the inside of his chest.
He’d been scared in his life, but this was the worst ever. From the mysterious evil of the Chill Blaines to the chicken hawk to the crash to the devil in the darkness, he’d felt nothing but alternating levels of fear since he’d arrived in Arizona. He was trying hard to be brave, but every time there was a new event, his mind rebelled by reminding him he was only thirteen and should be back home in bed. In more helpless moments, his traitorous imagination showed him all of his possible deaths in ghastly detail.
Turning onto his back he stared at the half-moon. Where was Maxom? He’d counted on the man being there to help him. From his earlier scouting trip, Maxom had made the map Danny now carried. They’d gone over it several times, all the major landmarks including the strange nexi.
I don’t know anything about the one near the border. I never had a chance to go there, but the one by the mountains seems to be a good place. There were some Chill Blaines trying to get in, but couldn’t. You ask me, anyplace they can’t go is a place you should be.
He wiped at his nose and fought back a sob.
Maxom had said he would be there as a Great Horned Owl. So where was he?
There was no way he could do this without Maxom. For all of Danny’s professed bravery he needed a grown-up. He decided to make his way to the nexus they’d spoken of in the hopes that Maxom would find him.
And if that didn’t work, he didn’t know what he’d do.
* * *
The Scarecrow Gods
“Leave us alone,” came the voice, a static blend of male and female.
“Name yourself.”
“Leave us alone, Brother Asshole. I’m not hurting anyone. I just want to rest.”
This had been going on for almost a full day and a night. He’d tried the Fire and Brimstone approach, but that had done nothing more than anger the spirit. The fight had been long and hard, with Simon’s victory still in question. Using betadine and gauze from the first aid kit he’d found stuffed among the odds and ends of the shelter, he bound his own wounds. Mostly claw marks, they ran up both of his arms and across one cheek, twenty-three of them in all, the result of the feisty spirit who’d turned Billy’s mind into a home. The bite was the worst. With his broken teeth, Billy had managed to bite through Simon’s pants and the skin of his left leg. Each drop of betadine stung like acid. He had to force himself to cleanse the wound, only screaming a little.
Now Billy was bound at his wrists and ankles, lying in the middle of the circle of Scarecrow Gods. At first Simon had been terrified by the exorcism, the voice and the strange knowledge of the spirit truly disturbing. Images of Linda Blair with spinning head, levitating furniture and split-pea bile was foremost in his mind. But just as the prospects produced a certain earthy terror, the event also served to forge his new-found faith.
“Name yourself.”
“I’m Billy Bones, Simple Simon,” said the voice, now wholly masculine. “Simple Simon and Billy Bones voices rant on.”
“Billy, is that you?”
“Sure it is, Simon. What’s wrong?”
“Means movies, Billy? Means movies?” The voice had yet to figure that one out. Simon knew that if it was really Billy, he’d answer.
“Yes, means movies. In fact, here’s a movie for you. Simple Simon met a pieman going to the fair, said Simple Simon to the pieman let me taste your wares. Said the pieman to Simon, get the fuck out of here!”
Simon sighed and sat back, wiping the spittle from his face. All he seemed able to do was disturb the spirit. He’d yet to have it name itself, which was a critical aspect of the Rites. Then again, the rites weren’t working. What had his mother always said? You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. So all he had to do was make the spirit believe in the vinegar. Simple.
He decided to let the spirit rest a while so he could gather his thoughts. An hour later, about half past midnight, he’d tried his new approach.
“Billy? Oh, Billy. Wake up.” Simon was in a playful mood that belied his exhaustion. He had a plan and was praying it would work. “Come on, Billy Bones. Voices rant on.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you.”
“Is no amity, Simple Simon. Is no amity. We want to rest.”
“Tell you what. You want rest? I’ll give you rest. Just open your eyes a minute and let me talk to you. I have something to show you. Something I know you’ll be interested in.”
“What could you possibly have?” asked Billy in a girl’s voice.
“I have Gods.”
Billy Bones opened an eye. The master of the inhabiting voice peered out. “You got nothing.”
“No. Really, look around you. You’re surrounded by Gods. Old Gods of the desert. Powerful Gods. Gods that can capture you and make you forever theirs.”
Simon allowed Billy to sit up. The night was cool. With the half moon, the desert was lit in a crisp light, the saguaro highlighted as they rose toward the dark heavens.
“I don’t understand.”
“Then you aren’t looking close enough. You aren’t listening.”
Simon had thought long and hard about this. Several times, he’d threatened the voice, only to have the tables turned when it accepted his threats. The thing inhabiting Billy Bones had no qualms about harming the man’s body. After all, it seemed to be a purely spiritual entity. It had become very clear that threats wouldn’t work.
“Can you hear them? They’re calling to you. They want you to come home.”
He needed the spirit to believe in the power of the Scarecrow Gods. For them to work, the spirit had to believe they’d work.
Billy Bones didn’t answer. His head was down. He refused to look up. The Scarecrow Gods murmured in the soft desert wind, the sound unmistakable.
“They’re calling to you. I can understand them. They want you.”
“I want to go home.”
“Then why don’t you go?”
“Lost…” the voice keened into the wind.
“Tell me where you’re from. Maybe I can help you return.”
“Can’t…This is my new home.” Billy shivered as if freezing. “Different. I miss… I miss…”
“How’s it different? What do you miss?”
Suddenly, Billy sat up straight and stared off into the night. In the sing-song of a young girl, he began a nursery rhyme. “Little little dumpling, my son John. Went to bed with his stockings on. One shoe off and one shoe on. Little little dumpling, my son John.” He slumped, the rhyme ending in a sigh.
“Who are you?”
“Margaret,” said Billy, matter-of-fact and girlish.
“How old are you Margaret?”
“Sixteen.”
“I bet you’re very pretty,” said Simon, not knowing what else to say.
“They all say that,” said Billy Bones in the girl’s voice. He brought his bound wrists up to his face. Sucking on a thumb, he began to rock back and forth. Just as quickly, he stopped. “Wanna fuck?”
Simon’s mouth fell open. “No. No, of course not.”
“Sure you do. They all wanna fuck me. You wanna fuck me. A girl can tell those kind of things.”
“Where’s your mother, Margaret?”
“She’s dead. Dead bug. Bed Bug. Dead Bed Bug.”
“What happened, Margaret?”
“They killed her.”
“How’d they kill her?”
“They cut her chest open and ate her heart.”
Simon really didn’t want to hear anymore, but he had the spirit talking and needed it to continue. If his p
lan failed, at least he’d know more about the spirit and the knowledge might help him on his next attempt.
“Margaret. You feel the power of this place don’t you?”
“Yes. It’s hard to hang on. The brightness of the light is almost blinding.”
Although he didn’t understand the reference, Simon pressed on. “The Gods are very powerful, aren’t they? How can you hold on?”
“I want my Little Little Dumpling. I want to go home.”
And suddenly he understood.
“You want John?”
“Yes. I want my Dumping John. He needs me to protect him. I need him.”
“You like to protect him, don’t you? You’re very good at it I bet.”
“I am. When he was little, I kept him company in the darkness. We talked and played games together. When he got bigger I taught him how to fight, how not to care.”
Simon noticed she hadn’t said when we got bigger.
“Do you know where he is?” she asked.
There was only one John even halfway capable of doing this unthinkable deed. A thousand ideas were percolating, refining into one immensely improbable hypothesis. But no matter how impossible it seemed, the evidence of the spirit before him was undeniable.
“Sure do,” he said. “See those lights over there? That’s where he is. In those lights.”
“I’m afraid,” said the voice, cracking. “The night is so dark.”
“But the light is so bright,” he responded, still not sure what it meant.
“Yes, the light. It’s blinding. So much power. I’m afraid, Simple Simon. Help me.”
“It’s the Gods you’re afraid of. They will attack you if you stay here. The sounds you hear are other captured spirits. John will protect you. He’ll make you not afraid.”