The Digger's Rest

by K. Patrick Malone

  ‘Adam stood in prayer before his Creator: 'Sovereign of the universe!' he said, 'the woman you gave me has run away.' At once, the Holy One, blessed be He, sent these three angels Senoy, Sansenoy, and Semangelof, to bring her back. Said the Holy One to Adam, 'If she agrees to come back, what is made is good. If not, she must permit one hundred of her children to die every day.' The angels left God and pursued Lilith, whom they overtook in the midst of the sea, in the mighty waters wherein the Egyptians were destined to drown. They told her God's word, but she did not wish to return. The angels said, 'We shall drown you in the sea.’

  “Leave me!’ she said. ‘I was created only to cause sickness to infants. If the infant is male, I have dominion over him for eight days after his birth, and if female, for twenty days.’ "When the angels heard Lilith's words, they insisted she go back. But she swore to them by the name of the living and eternal God: 'Whenever I see you or your names or your forms in an amulet, I will have no power over that infant.' She also agreed to have one hundred of her children die every day. Accordingly, every day one hundred demons perish, and for the same reason, we write the angels names on the amulets of young children. When Lilith sees their names, she remembers her oath, and the child recovers.’”

  “The Alphabet of Ben-Sira is the earliest surviving source of the story, and the conception that Lilith was Adam's first wife became only widely known with the 17th century Lexicon Talmudicum of Johannes Buxtorf.”

  By the time Simon had gotten to the end of the article the pain had found its way to his fingertips, his hands trembling out of all control as it overtook him in the chair. His head swam as he slumped in the chair, but not like it used to, not like he would faint, but like he was receiving something, become something…more. He was himself, but heightened.

  His heart started to beat wildly at the imagery the article conjured in his innocent young mind, sex, sex, sex. MY Mitch and a…monster! His eyes rolled up in his head, not fainted, a rapture, full, aware, more aware than he’d ever felt before in his young life, engulfed in emotions so strange and powerful, they overtook him. He swooned in them and swam in them, like floating, his chest heaving with new breath, new life.

  Chapter XXI

  WEST OF EDEN

  I dream of rain, I dream of gardens in the desert sand I wake in vain, I dream of love as time runs through my hand I dream of fire, those dreams are tied to a horse that will never tire And in the flames, her shadows play in the shape of a man's desire This desert rose, each of her veils, a secret promise This desert flower, no sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this And as she turns, this way she moves in the logic of all my dreams This fire burns, I realize that nothing's as it seems I dream of rain, I dream of gardens in the desert sand I wake in vain, I dream of love as time runs through my hand I dream of rain, I lift my gaze to empty skies above I close my eyes, this rare perfume is the sweet intoxication of her love I dream of rain

  Desert Rose,

  ……..As performed by Sting

  Jed had to help Mitch to his room that night, drunk, stumbling and mumbling nonsense about being cursed. He couldn’t make much sense out of it. He had enough on his mind. With Malcolm in the hospital, Deck sick and Ivy in a temper, he’d practically been running the inn by himself. Then with the added stress of worrying, caring for and…loving Sandrine, it was a wonder he hadn’t taken to drinking himself. He was so tired he just wanted to see his bed. So, after he dropped Mitch off in his, he went straight to his own, leaving Ivy and the girls to finish closing up.

  Mitch just lolled to one side, mumbling to himself. “…wolf…Jack…Sean…Simon. Cursed. Help.”

  He heard a woman’s voice in a language he didn’t understand, but somehow did. “Open your eyes,” she said, and he did. He was standing at the entry of the path to the site. It was dark, pitch black. He heard another voice, muffled, echoing, calling to him, pleading. “Help me, Mitch. I can’t breathe.” It was Simon. It was coming from the site. He ran into the path.

  “Simon, where are you?” he called out into the night. A vision came into his mind; Simon was locked away in a dark, wet dungeon. He was dirty and his clothes were torn. He was shackled to the dripping wall, his big blue eyes staring at him, pleading with him. “Help me. I can’t breathe. I’m dying.” Then it was gone.

  ***

  “Okay, Fi. You can go now. I’ll finish up the kitchen myself,” Ivy said, starting to load the professional sized dish washer with the cutlery.

  “Are you sure, Vee? I don’t mind staying.”

  “No. I’ll finish up. I’m going to need you again early in the morning anyway. With Malcolm in the hospital and Deck not feeling well, I’ll need to count on you more until things sort themselves out,” Ivy said, pushing her hair out of her face, exhausted.

  “That’s alright by me. I could use the money. I’d really like to go to Spayne this winter anyway,” Fi said, grabbing her coat from the hook by the back door.

  “So would I,” Ivy said with a sigh, waving to Fi as she walked out the door, then stood with her hands on her hips at the mountain of pots, pans and dishes on trays in front of her. “Better make a start of it,” she said out loud to herself and picked up the large roasting pan closest to her.

  The bottom of it was swimming with grease and blood from the special of the night, prime rib. The look of it made her nauseous as it swirled around the bottom of the pan. She put it back down and went to the dishes, more blood and more meat juices. Her head started to spin and she backed away so she wouldn’t have to look at it again. “Touch it,” she heard a voice say in the back of her mind.

  She moved back to the table slowly and reached out, putting her hand in the pan; running her fingers over the blood and juice wet bottom. She raised her fingers to her face and smelled it. “Taste it,” the voice said to her, so she did. It was salty and…greasy.

  She felt warm, so warm she had to take off her apron, then her over shirt. “More,” the voice said to her, and she rubbed her whole hand in the pan. God, I’m so hot, she thought, and took off her under blouse, leaving her in only her bra.

  ***

  He ran as fast as he could toward where he’d heard the voice, but the path seemed endless. He heard Simon cry out in pain, a shrill, terrified scream of agony and another vision appeared before his eyes. It was Simon in the dungeon, he was sobbing. But he wasn’t alone.

  There were other sounds, wet sounds of something crawling in the mud around him, slithering and the grinding of teeth. He looked down towards Simon’s feet. There was something the size of a large cat, then two of them, and they were gnawing on his lame foot. Simon screamed, his face twisted in agony. He called out to him. “Simon, I’m coming!”

  The things turned back and looked at him. They were like nothing he’d ever seen before, or not alive anyway, only in stone carvings on his trip to Syria with Jack when he was young.

  They turned back and bit into Simon’s foot again. Simon screamed. Then it was gone. He was standing in front of the two towers. “Simon, where are you, please tell me. I can’t find you,” he called out. The earth moved under his feet.

  ***

  “Touch yourself,” the voice said to her. She dipped her hand back into the roasting pan and wiped the blood and juices all over her chest. The smell of it rose in her nose.

  She took off her bra, then her jeans and panties. “More,” the voice said and she began rubbing the blood and drippings from the pan all over her naked body; her hair, her face.

  She heard music, rhythmic tribal music with…flutes.

  “Dance,” the voice said, and she began moving. The rhythm engulfed her and she stretched her arms out over her head, twirling in a circle, working her naked hips around, undulating.

  Chanting came from somewhere off in the distance to match the rhythm of the music; the pace rising to a fever pitch. She began to spin wildly, gyrating and writhing uncontrollably in the middle of the kitchen floor, pulling at her soaking hair, whipping it as she whirled. �
��Fly,” the voice said.

  ***

  He looked down at his feet. They were bare. The ground was rumbling, vibrating, pulsing like it was alive, breathing. He heard Simon’s muffled cry, “I’m down here. Please hurry. Iiiiiit’s eaaaaatttting meeeeee.” Another shrieking scream. “You pro-mised you’d never let anything hurt me again,” he begged, then another scream. Mitch’s mind splintered, his heart exploded.

  He ran to the cross. “I’m under here,” he heard Simon’s voice cry out. “Down here. Please hurry,” and he screamed in pain again.

  Mitch pushed the cross with inhuman strength; toppling it over. He dropped to his knees and began to dig furiously with his bare hands as he heard Simon cry out, “Huuuuurrrryyyyyy!”

  “I’m coming, Simon. I’m coming,” he cried into the hole in the earth. Somewhere above him he heard another voice, a woman. He looked up. It was the statue, the one from the desert dream that he’d forgotten, twenty feet high with haunches like a lion and long talons like a hawk on its feet.

  He looked higher and saw its many arms and wings and breasts. He looked higher and saw its face, horns and row after row of fanged teeth; hungry eyes. “Dig!”

  ***

  As the music reached its frenzied crescendo, Ivy ran to the window and opened it, crawling onto the counter top on her hands and knees. “Fly to me,” the voice said again, and she leapt out into the darkness.

  ***

  Mitch woke up in his bed, screaming and calling out for Simon. He looked at his watch. It was already after noon. Still dressed in the clothes from the night before but shoeless, he bounded out the door and down the hall, dazed and disoriented. “I’m coming, Simon,” he called out to the air as he ran down the hall, through the courtyard and into the SUV.

  ***

  Hours passed before Simon realized he was conscious again. He looked down at his hands and for the first time in his life they looked like a man’s hands, veins pulsing in their backs and he felt strong, so strong inside himself. He started, feeling another hand on his shoulder. “Thou art complete now, my boy, Holly. Thou art a man called upon to do a man’s work and love with a man’s heart,” The old man said with a sigh from behind him, shaking his head, his voice trembling and echoing with his own emotion. “But we must hurry. His father is here, coming for him.” Simon didn’t understand.

  “But he doesn’t have a father,” Simon said aloud, perplexed, still groggy from his transformation, his face still wet from the sweat and tears he couldn’t remember. He wiped his face in his sleeve.

  “He has two, one good and one…and they’re here,” the old man said, his tiny black eyes getting even blacker. Simon looked into the black eyes, puzzled.

  “Two?”

  “All I can tell is that one smells of fertile earth and the other like…rotted earth and they’re here, close.” He put his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “But more important, she called him last night and he has gone to her. We must prepare.”

  Simon jumped out of his chair. “Let’s go!”

  “Wait,” the old man said, putting his hands out in a ‘slow down’ motion. “We have time. We must wait until she is at her weakest. We have until nightfall. We must deal with the fathers first.” This time they walked out the door and out into the courtyard, standing behind the tall hedges at the side of the inn, waiting.

  When the limousine pulled up, they stood hidden behind a tall shrub and watched as the driver opened the door. Simon gasped as he saw Jack Edgeworth get out slowly, holding onto the car door to pull himself out. “Dr. Edgeworth?” Simon whispered to the old man.

  The old man nodded and said in his soundless voice, “Go to him and bring him here.”

  Simon stepped out from behind the hedge and called out, “Dr. Edgeworth!”

  Jack stopped, turning to him. “Simon, am I too late?” he asked with tears in his eyes, walking slowly toward him, his face ashen, his lips already an alarming shade of blue. Simon took him gently by the arm. He was weak and struggling to breathe.

  As soon as they turned the corner behind the hedge, the old man swiftly took Jack by the shoulders, pinning his back against the wall and bringing his face close to Jack’s chest, smelling him.

  “What the fuck?” Jack croaked, barely having the energy to move his lips, his frightened eyes looking to Simon.

  “Fertile earth,” the old man said to Simon with his soundless voice, then raised his hand in front of Jack’s face.

  “Wait!” Simon said.

  The old man stopped.

  “You’re not too late,” Simon said quickly to Jack. An expression of relief came over Jack’s face. Simon turned to the old man, “Now!” and the old man finished waving his hand in front of Jack’s face.

  “Sleep.”

  Jack’s body crumpled against the wall. Simon grabbed him to steady him. The old man took his other arm and said, “Walk.” Jack’s feet began to move, shuffling as Simon and the old man guided him into the cottage to Mitch’s room. “Sit,” the old man said, and Jack sat. From there they laid him down on the bed.

  “He’s very sick, dying,” Simon said to the old man.

  “And he loves thy Master very much,” the old man said, shaking his head.

  “What do we do now?” Simon asked, panicking.

  “We wait,” the old man said, taking Simon back out the door, past the church and down the lane to his own cottage, “…and prepare for nightfall.”

  The other father, Julian Bramson, the third, was just stepping off the plane in London, still six hours away.

  ***

  Dr. Mitchell Bramson arrived at the site and walked, his mind muddled with images of death, destruction over thousands of years; plagues, wars, faces of men and women, corrupt and decaying before his eyes; languages and costumes from the deserts of the ancient world, Egypt, Babylon and Persia to Phoenicia and Crete, from Rome and Gaul to Renaissance Italy, and the dark ages of France and Spain. His mind whirled with images of demons and carved statues coming to life, voices in languages both modern and long dead calling to him.

  Above it all he heard Simon’s voice crying out, screaming in pain as the creatures gnawed at him. “I’m coming,” he slurred, no longer able to maintain any of his normal balances. “I’mmmm Cooommminngg, Siiiiimmmmoonn.” He couldn’t stand. Something was draining the life out of him, weakening him to his knees until he was crawling past the two towers into the heart of the site.

  Coming to the cross, he pulled himself up on it and pushed with all the strength he had left, toppling it, more with his weight than with his strength, falling over with it, passing into blackness as he called out to the sky. “I’mmmm cooommminnnnggg, Siiiiimmmoooonnnnnn.”

  ***

  Simon and the old man sat in front of the fire at his cottage, drinking strong smelling tea and marking their faces with symbols from the small pots of color, each wearing a garment of sack cloth; sack cloth bags at their side. “‘Tis almost time,” the old man said in his soundless voice. “Do not be afraid. I have taught thee well and given thee my power, and thou hast learned well and accepted what I have given thee. The strength of thy heart is all that matters now.”

  Simon looked deeply into the old man’s eyes. “I will die before I let her take him away,” Simon said, the knowledge of what he learned about her making his eyes darker and bluer than ever in the firelight.

  “Aye, lad, so shall we both,” the old man said and stood up, touching Simon’s face. “‘Tis time,” and they both walked out the door, Simon limping, the brace on his poor leg feeling heavier than it had ever felt before in his young life.

  Chapter XXII

  THE HOLLY AND THE IVY

  Yeah, we all need someone we can bleed on Yeah, and if you want it, baby, well you can bleed on me

  Let It Bleed

  ………As performed by The Rolling Stones

  Mitch’s eyes opened just as the sun was setting over the horizon. He had been there for hours. He didn’t know where he was at first. All he knew
was what he had to do, dig. He stumbled up and looked around for a shovel, finding one against a far wall. He went back to the area where the cross had stood and began. It wasn’t long before he hit something hard and flat. He got down on his hands and knees, digging furiously with his hands.

  The ground beneath him began to rumble. Slightly at first, moving up and down as if it were breathing. It loosened the hard flat square under his hands. He took the small garden spade and began to clear the area. “Simon, are you still down there?” he called into the hole. Low rumbling, the ground heaved. “Simon, I’m coming,” he mumbled as he cleared the flat surface, dusting off the final layer of loose dirt.

  With each inch he exposed he could see more and more of what lay beneath; a mosaic of…a monster, a head and breasted torso, arms entwined with a wolf and a serpent, vibrantly colored tiles and black lettering in Latin, ‘Genetrix…mother.’

  ***

  The old man and Simon walked slowly and quietly along a narrow back path through the woods. The sun was just setting as they came to the stream on the perimeter of the site. The old man sniffed the air curiously then heard a faint moan come from a rapidly shadowing growth of large bracken and ferns not far to their right. The old man stopped and held Simon by the arm. “Wait,” he said, listening intently, sniffing at the air; another moan and the sound of water being disturbed.