by Bruce Jones
Only Scroogie remained exempt.
He stood as before, right where he’d been. There in the middle of the clearing, legs a little bent, skinny knees turned inward and a little knocked, tennis shoes pigeon-toed and wide apart, on rubber soled edges Scroogie was about to pull a Milton Berle, walk on the sides of his feet. His plump face was red. No. Scarlet.
Eventually, in tandem, like a well-trained team (the Enders did everything in subconscious tandem, as though reading one another’s thoughts) everyone peeked at once around the edge of his spruce, or Sycamore or rock or deadfall. All at the same time to stare, and all to stare balefully at Scroogie. The hefty Ender stood there in the middle of the clearing on the sides of his flat feet, the only Ender still standing upright, the only one who hadn’t dived in terror for cover. The one who had started it all with his panicked oh shit!.
Rich Denning was the first to spot the stain. It spread upward from Scroogie’s crotch. Rich was the first to spot it and realize Scroogie was flushed red not from fear but humiliation.
“Fuk, fuk, fuk…I fukin’ pissed myself!”
And there was something so ludicrously sad and excruciatingly funny in Scroogie’s plaintive wail and outraged, scorched face, Denning couldn’t suppress the burble of laugher building behind his compressed lips, which soon enough escaped into unbridled guffaws that quickly became contagious and consumed the others.
This time, even Shivers.
And it was good to laugh. So good they did it loud and hard and far longer than they should have, certainly past the point that was merited by any real humor, each of them knowing deep inside that it was a laughter of pent-up relief from a sunny fall day gone abruptly dark and chill, and maybe just maybe if they laughed long enough and loud enough it would chase away whatever terrible demon was treading softly just out of eyesight.
“It’s all yer fault!” Scroogie leveled at Shivers, unzipping with an angry ratchet yank and whipping out his pink stub of dick with a gesture that made all of them—still laughing—step back a foot or two for fear of being hit. “You and all that goddamn turning around stuff, all that goddamn fruggin somethin’s behind us shit!” And the first hesitant squirt, the ensuing dry rattle of his stream across woodland leaves set the others off into paroxysms of rib-clutching spasms again, all of them realizing at once that this—this yellow spray of liquid Scroogie across the dry leaves—this was the unearthly sound that had sent them diving in terror for the nearest cover.
“Had to piss like a big injun ever since I left the house!” Scroogie told them in self-pitied defense, launching another loop at Shivers’ tennies for good measure--finally turning to lean against a fat elm with one arm above him and let loose in earnest with a grateful groan of pleasure.
They let him finish, the rest of them, jabbing each other and poking and laughing but mostly talking again--blessedly talking again and breaking the dreaded silence—talking about any damn thing; about school--it was the seventh grade opening stretch--and how much Algebra stunk (the word ‘sucked’ not yet a part of the general vernacular) could you believe those tits on Marsha Matheson this year and would the Royals ever get out of this fruggin’ losing streak? It was good to talk and better to laugh and it almost got normal there for a few minutes, almost as normal as hanging around Marcie’s after school or the Sunflower Bowl of a Saturday night, almost so normal that, to a boy, they all began to wish very much that’s where they were. Marcie’s candy store or playing pinball over at Sunflower Bowl--anywhere but here.
Then Shivers had to go and get all moody-quiet on them again, just as they were getting underway and starting to feel good. Had to go stiffly on through the darkening woods, holding The Pyx too close to his chest again and acting, every three minutes, like he wanted to crane around and look behind them at whatever was following back there, though he never did this, not once, just kept trudging stiffly and solemnly ahead across the crackle-crunch of leaves and twigs and hard sod until the trees grew slightly thinner and the ground slightly harder still and the land around them dipped down a degree or so into a kind of broad bowl, not so you’d notice it by looking, but until the vague pull at your Achilles tendons and the back of your calves told you that you were moving downhill gradually; then came the large slabs of limestone poking through the skein of moss and then the even larger ones after that and finally the largest one of all, jutting up by itself like a miniature Rock of Gibraltar at nearly the center of the clearing, the empty earthen bowl.
And they were there.
With only one ceremony left now.
Shivers said, “This is it,” to make their arrival somehow official, and sat his blue jeaned butt down on a length of fallen juniper and carefully, very carefully, placed The Pyx beside him on the mossy bark. And everybody was relieved. Mostly because Shivers, while not exactly garrulous, was at least talking again like the Shivers they knew, and not peering creepily back over his shoulder anymore.
And that might have been the end of it right there.
That might have put the whole thing to a finish or at least changed the course of events so the outcome would take on a different color, a less fearful texture, but wouldn’t you know it, the least talkative of the group, good old Bobby Maser, had to stand there in his jeans and madras shirt and Beatle-length hair, stand there with one hand high and leaning against a big spruce, and old ever-practical, ever-analytical Maze had spoil everything by proclaiming: “I don’t like it.”
Which got everyone’s attention.
And everyone turning to look up at him (most of the others had squatted or outright sprawled on the soft loam, weary from laughter and fear.)
“The fuck’s crawled up yer ass?” Shivers demanded. Another anomaly of the day, Shivers second only to Denning in his lack of use of the other ‘F’ word. Which showed everyone at that moment just how relatively high the tension level still was.
Maser shrugged, still holding up the big spruce. “Nothin’. I just don’t like it now, okay? Free fruggin’ country last time I checked, Shiver-Shit.”
Rich Denning was getting unaccustomedly irritable again as he turned from his stump to look up at Maser. “What exactly is it you don’t like, Bobby? What precise particle of this is bugging you as it is, after all, something the four of us agreed wholly on before setting out on this little afternoon sojourn.”
Without looking at him, Bob Maser replied to Richard, “Hey, Denning, why don’t you take the phony three-dollar vocabulary and stick it up your tight would-be writer’s ass?” an unexpected retort from the normally mild and philosophic Maser, which gave both Denning and the others an unforeseen start. And raised Richard’s already climbing internal thermostat. When he started up threateningly, Scroogie was conveniently near enough to press him back down with a gentle palm, preventing a fight nobody wanted (what they wanted was the hell out of these woods, the sooner the better) and saunter casually over to the still tree-supporting Maser with a what’s-up? expression.
“I already told you, lard ass” Maser informed him, not needing a verbal question, “I just don’t like it. I got a bad feeling, okay?”
Denning was about to say something but Scroogie cut him off with an uncustomary if without malice, “ Shut up, Richard,” and came to stand companionably before Maser—a standing-his-ground Maser--still leaning against, still balancing the weight of that tree against his shoulder. “’Bad’ how?” Scroogie asked unhurriedly and with sincere interest.
Maser had to think about it a moment. “I don’t know…bad.” He shrugged, searching for it. “First off, there’s the big rock there,” and he pointed at Gibraltar.
“Which we all agreed on.” Shivers put in as if finishing for him, “all voted on as the place to bury it.”
The Maze nodded, patient but not mollified. “Yeah, we agreed, only now I don’t fucking like it anymore. And who the hell made you entertainment director, Shiver-Shit?” ‘Entertainment director’? Was studious, analytical Maser picking a fight?
A general
restless air blanketed the group, followed by disjointed mumblings.
Scroogie quickly dispersed that before it got out of control. “Okay, Bobby. Fine. We all respect that.” He turned to look at the others sitting or lying in the shallow hollow by the big Gibraltar chunk of limestone. “We all respect that, right, guys?” Nobody said anything. Pete Shivers spit at a twig.
“So tell us about it,” Scroogie pursued. “What would make you feel comfortable about this? You got a new spot in mind for the burial?”
Maze toed a mushroom with his shoe, looking down at it in vague petulance. He shrugged.
Now Shivers, The Pyx carrier himself, was becoming irritable. “C’mon, Maze, freakin’ state yer case or get off the pot.”
And Rich Denning, the writer of the group who might normally have jumped on Shivers for his mixed metaphors, said nothing and only stared with the others at Maser.
Maser toed the mushroom until it broke apart, releasing a waft of musk to the group. He cleared his throat once. “Okay, I mean, we picked the big white rock here so’s we all could find the place again someday, right? Am I right?”
The group’s mumbles conceded he was.
“Yeah, only the thing is, I mean, if it stands out for us as a white flag, it’s gonna stand out for someone else too, right?”
Nobody said anything until Maser quit toeing the mushroom and looked up at them expectantly.
“He has a point,” Scroogie turned to the others.
“On his head,” Pete Shivers injected impatiently, “this is bullshit! We all agreed on this crap months ago! And I didn’t tramp out here to the middle of Tick Acres at the exact prearranged time at exactly the right phase of the freakin’ moon to go scrounging around in the fruggin’ dark for a new freakin’ hiding place!”
Yeah, the collective silence seemed to say, Shivers has a point there too.
Maser kicked the rest of the mushroom until it exploded across the humus. Geez, Scroogie thought to himself, he’s really upset about this. “What if some goddamn Eagle Scout troop comes boppin’ through here a year from now and our secret little clearing is just dandy ideal for their next campout? The big rock just neato-keeno for roasting wieners?”
Shivers made a sour face. “That’s why we’re burying it, shit-for-brains! And you don’t dig a campfire under a fruggin’ rock, ya stupid turd!”
“How the fuck would you know, smart-ass?” Maser demanded.
And Shivers met the verbal challenge by vaulting to his feet. “Because the smart-ass smoke gets trapped under the smart-ass rock and blows back into yer smart-ass face!”
“C’mon you guys,” somebody said, and the sun, darkened by a sudden cloud, seemed to underscore the statement; more a fearful warning than a threat.
Everybody chilled out for a few silent minutes.
Finally Rich Denning stood up and walked to Shivers’ log, bent and picked up The Pyx. He turned to the group. “I go with Shivers. Nobody’s going to dig a campfire as deep as we’re gonna bury this.”
“An animal might,” Scroogie informed him.
And everyone thought about that for a second.
Finally, Denning—maybe because he felt foolish standing there holding the cigar box after his dramatic gesture of retrieving it—countered with: “Animals only dig down for food, or something with an odor.” He shook The Pyx once to underscore his point. “Nobody’s put anything edible in here.” Feeling good about himself, mainly because the others—not writers--probably would have said ‘eatable.’
“How do you know that?” Maser challenged again.
And Denning was already forming the word ‘Because’ on his lips when he came up short. Realizing, suddenly, that he didn’t know that. None of them knew that, because none of them knew what the other guys had put into the cigar box. The Order demanded little from the group, but the one thing it was adamant about was that whatever article an Ender wrapped in its paper Passage and placed within The Pyx was be kept secret from the rest. It could be anything a person wished, anything at all, so long as it was personal, belonged to him, and was kept hidden from the group. Denning had certainly not smelled anything organic like food during The Ceremony Of The Fifth Moon, but he had no proof someone hadn’t place it in The Pyx as his Gift. And animals do dig deep for anything even vaguely resembling food, even bones…
He heaved a theatrical sigh, turned and handed the Muriel cigar box back to Shivers. “Fine! Great! Let’s go find another fucking hiding place! Why don’t we get a fucking plumb bob and backhoe while we’re fucking at it!” And a second ago he was priding himself on his vocabulary.
That’s when Bobby Maser surprised everyone by throwing up his hands and pushing away from his tree. “Oh, screw it! Just screw it! I mean, what the hell difference does it make anyway, am I right? It’s all bullshit, the whole thing! Nothing’s gonna happen whether we bury the damn cigar box or not! Because we never completed the most important part of the damn ceremony! Right?”
And everybody just sat there or stood there and stared quietly at him. It was growing darker by degrees and he who wasn’t sick of all this was at least beginning to think of dinner and familiar surroundings.
The certain breeze of defeat drifted through the group, followed quickly by a waft of chagrin. All at once nobody wanted to look at anybody else. Because everyone else was feeling real stupid suddenly. And tired.
And childish.
Shivers heaved a big Shivers sigh in that way only he could, and looked down at The Pyx in his hands as if seeing for the first time that it was not a Pyx at all, not an arcane vessel, just a plain, slightly used, dime store, cheap-ass cigar box from a smelly cellar. Let’s go home, guys—
--and he almost said it. Almost got it out, couldn’t have been more than a fraction from having the words leave his lips, when the sound came behind him.
And Shivers and Denning looked up at the others at the same time—the others who were facing toward them and looking beyond them, with the same stupefied expression.
“I’ll be frugged,” Bobby Maser whispered.
Richard Denning and Pete Chevalier turned in tandem to look at the thing with the terrible eyes and drooling lips coming out of the woods behind them and into the clearing.
That changed all their lives forever.
ONE
“Human beings are the only animals on Earth aware of their own mortality.”
* * *
The day he discovered he was going to live forever was a good one.
It came only a few short hours after he discovered he was going to die.
Balding, going slightly to weight in the gut, arthritis nibbling knuckles and knees, pretty much stone deaf in one ear, Richard Denning eased his middle-aged bulk from the lawn chair beside his good wife Allie and went to answer the ringing phone.
It was late afternoon on an early June Friday, a postcard perfect afternoon and not even all that humid for a Midwestern summer day. The WIBW TV Topeka weatherman (“First With The News From America’s Heartland!”) had predicted another mild summer. Lawn mowers buzzed, suffusing the air with newly cut grass smells across manicured suburban quadrants. Young kids jumped through sprinklers. Older kids rode racing striped skateboards, some of the boys actually wearing helmets. Fireflies stirred with the first long shadows of evening and prepared for their illuminated dance. Young love blossomed in dog-eared diaries behind locked adolescent doors. The ritual hope of replenishment and things growing rode pre-sunset breezes. The latest Spielberg blockbuster played local cineplexes. But not for Richard, not these days. Spielberg was fine but Rich Denning had been weaned on the blockbusters of another age, the War Of The Worlds as seen through the Technicolor eyes of George Pal. Richard and Allie, who was almost fifteen years younger than he, didn’t go to movies much anymore. What use to be a breezy night out had become crowded, noisy, and sticky. If he needed a blockbuster he preferred the old ones, in his own chair before his own big screen HD monitor. And when he did watch a DVD or catch something on
that Turner station, that TCM, it was always one of the oldies, always something with Richard Carlson battling outer space shape-changers or Richard Denning (no relation to him, but Richard wore the name proudly) fighting swamp-crawling gill-men. The ones he and The Shiv and Scroogie and Maze had watched together on Friday night Shock Theater or caught in re-release at the Jayhawk or Grand Theater. And even these movies—golden classics though they were—even these he didn’t watch often. He preferred real life to movie life these days. Movies, and everything that went along with his associations of the word, were behind him now, in another time, another land, as far away and mysterious itself as the current sci-fi epic playing the local malls. Summer had begun, looked to be a nice one, and Richard Denning was feeling good about it, at peace with the world and with himself. He was pretty sure about that. Pretty sure.
He heard the quote about human beings and their singular awareness of their own mortality on the living room TV as he was passing through to the kitchen to snag the ringing phone.
Allie had left the TV on when she’d joined him on the patio to await the sunset. She did that now and again these days, left things on, TV’s and lights and other energy burning things she wouldn’t have dreamed of letting run a few years ago. Or maybe it was Richard himself who had done it; truthfully he couldn’t remember. He had begun sliding into that middle-age phenomenon of forgetfulness all who pass fifty or so experience sooner or later. Some call it senility. Others scoff at this notion—usually the “you’re-only-as-old-as-you-think” camp—insisting that it was a normal part of aging, that your brain simply becomes so crammed full from years of data that it just occasionally lapsed into what they politely describe as a “senior moment.” Both camps secretly feared it was approaching Alzheimer’s.