by Greg Ness
The duo continued the trek. Their reason was simple: Bruce heard from a friend at school about a cult that performed bizarre rituals in this forest every time there was a full moon. Bruce had traversed the forest days before and found what he thought might be the remnants from the ritual. Instantly interested, Bruce set out to do two things: see what they were up to and disrupt them in epic fashion. Unfortunately, the ritual was deep in the heart of the forest and would take a while to find.
Stephen doubted they would find anything. Over the years, he heard plenty of stories of cults. In order for all of them to be true, every town in the state had to have at least two practicing cults. It was just nonsense.
A bright white flash erupted in the distance. It provided a burst of light that lasted only milliseconds. “Did you see that?” Bruce asked. Stephen nodded. He saw it. Probably a picture flash. Big deal. More kids looking for the mythical cult. “We need to head that way,” Bruce asserted.
A shadowy figure walked by. It startled Stephen so much, he tripped over a branch and crashed to the ground. As he fell, a yelp escaped his mouth. Bruce darted to a knee to avoid being seen.
“Who’s there?” An adult male voice yelled.
Bruce looked at Stephen with wide eyes and shook his head. “Don’t make a sound,” he said with his eyes.
Footsteps crunched in front of them. This was where their all-black attire would hopefully come in handy. The sounds of crushing sticks daunted closer. Stephen lay on the forest floor and Bruce knelt next to him in silence. Stephen held his breath just for good measure. It couldn’t really be a cult, could it?
A group began chanting in musical rhythm. It sounded like a twisted Gregorian chant. Yes, there really was a cult in this forest. The figure reverted back toward the chanting.
“We found them!” Bruce exclaimed as quietly as he could. The chanting was loud enough to provide them some cover as they tried to make their way closer.
A tiny fire burst in front of them, about ten yards away. It illuminated the surrounding area and allowed them to see the full extent of what was going on. The fire was only inches high and formed a circle on the ground. There were thirteen people standing around it dressed in blue robes. Hoods attached to the robes drooped over their faces and concealed them. Their lips and chins were visible, but little else could be seen.
Bruce helped Stephen to his feet and they inched as close as they could to the chanting men. “What is that?” Bruce asked, “KKK?”
Stephen shook his head. “I don’t think so.” The hoods weren’t pointy and the robes were blue. That didn’t seem to match any KKK footage Stephen had ever seen. He didn’t know much about the KKK, but he was pretty sure they didn’t chant in song.
Bruce looked on, bouncing around and giddy as ever. “Let’s do it. You got ‘em?”
Stephen calmed him down. He was gripped by what was unfolding. “Hold on, I want to see what happens.”
The blue-robed men methodically paced around the circle of fire sprouting from the ground. They continued their chanting, which was clearly not English. Stephen couldn’t decipher what language it was. This could be a peaceful ceremony, but it didn’t feel that way. The robed men simultaneously stopped and faced the fire circle. They slowly extended their hands and raised them slightly in the air. They crossed their feet and bowed their heads. The pose was distinctly familiar: they looked like Jesus Christ on the cross. Maybe this was a religious cult. Even worse, Stephen worried, a crazed Satanic Cult. Would they start microwaving babies? Wait, what? Stephen’s thoughts escaped him. There was no baby and definitely no microwave. Even so, he didn’t feel safe.
One man stood with his arms at his side, not posing like the rest. That man must have been the leader, Stephen figured. The man yelled, “We await your arrival!” The robed men stood in silence.
Bruce chuckled. “Seriously?” It was one of the most ridiculous things he had ever seen. What a bunch of buffoons. Time to show them who ran this town. He nodded to Stephen, “Now.”
Stephen reluctantly agreed. If there was a time to do this, it was now. He pulled two firecrackers out of his pocket. They weren’t the kind that launched in the air: these firecrackers would explode in place and sound like gunshots. Painfully loud gunshots.
Bruce instructed, “Ok, we light them at the same time. You throw toward the left and I throw toward the right.”
The robed leader chanted, “Redeo! Redeo! Redeo!” All the robed men who were assuming the Christ-like position hummed in unison.
BAM! Dozens of loud pops went off. It sounded like a Chicago mob gunfight landed right in the middle of the cult. The members all jumped, startled out of their wits. Some ducked for cover and others let out yells of surprise. Stephen and Bruce laughed and soaked in the mayhem they had caused. The whole ceremony was ruined. Everyone looked around and panicked.
Everyone except the leader. He never flinched. He pulled up his hood, barely revealing his eyes, and stared at the circle of fire. Stephen and Bruce were still unable to fully see his face. The leader looked straight in their direction. His robed head didn’t move.
“I think he sees us,” Stephen nervously blurted out.
“Run!”
Bruce and Stephen turned and ran. Bruce, of course, seemed to hover away from Stephen, who did his best to keep up. The sticks and branches poking from the ground stabbed Stephen’s legs through his pants and prevented him from moving quickly. He ignored the pain and ran as hard as he could. The trees brushed by as he twisted and contorted his body to avoid colliding with them. Bruce was ahead of him and falling out of sight. He was just too fast.
A hand yanked on Stephen’s shirt and violently pulled him back. He was caught.
The leader stood behind him and put him in a headlock. Stephen kicked and flailed to escape, but it was no use. The man had him in his grasp.
“Do you know what you’ve just done?” Stephen didn’t know what to say. He was scared for his life. The chanting started again. Stephen could hear it in the distance. “You almost ruined everything,” the man muttered.
Stephen had a black eye. Ronnie, the class bully, punched him square in the face. He was picking on Stephen and taunting him in front of the whole school. Stephen was in first grade at Lincoln School and had been there for almost two months. He was a shy kid and struggled to make friends. Being smaller than most of the other kids his age caused bullies to target him. During recess, Stephen had tried to talk to a girl he had a crush on. Apparently, Ronnie, the big tough third-grader, didn’t like that.
Ronnie pushed Stephen against the side of the school and banged him against the bricks. “You don’t talk to her. Only I talk to her.” Stephen nodded, wanting to get away from him. A crowd of kids stood around, watching the unavoidable beating. Most of them laughed and cheered. The first-graders were ripe for the picking; it was a rite of initiation to be picked on by the older kids.
“You going to cry?” Ronnie asked, hoping he would. Stephen looked to the ground with heavy eyes, surely close to it. Ronnie punched his shoulder. Hard. Stephen shrunk against the wall.
Stephen begged, “Please Ronnie, I’m sorry.”
“Mommy and Daddy aren’t here to help you, first-grader.” Ronnie pulled back his fist, about to deliver another blow. But unexpectedly, he felt a tapping on his shoulder. Distracted, he wondered who would dare interrupt him. He turned to find the source of the tapping, worried it might be the principal, Mr. Ixley.
Ronnie was instead greeted with a fist pounding to his face. The ‘pop’ could be heard and felt throughout the playground. It was Stephen’s classmate, Bruce. His fist flew through the air like an eagle swooping for its prey; it soared with a screaming ‘whoosh!’ On impact, his fist smashed Ronnie’s face. With one punch, Bruce obliterated him. Ronnie stumbled, confused with the weight of the world that just crashed into his face.
Bruce was the biggest first-grader. He was taller and more built than even the third-graders. He slammed Ronnie against the wall with a t
hud. Stephen dodged out of the way. Ronnie, terrified, glared at Bruce.
Bruce demanded, “Say sorry.”
Ronnie shook his head. He was stubborn. It wouldn’t be that easy. Bruce punched him in the shoulder.
Bruce shouted to Stephen, “Come here!” He obliged. The crowd was silent as they waited to see Bruce’s next move. He instructed, “Punch him as hard as you can. In the face.”
Stephen looked wide-eyed at Bruce. He couldn’t hit Ronnie.
Bruce declared to Ronnie, “You will never beat up a first-grader again. Do you understand?” Ronnie, on the verge of tears, nodded. The message was clear. “Good.” Bruce turned to Stephen again, “Now punch him.”
Stephen stared at Ronnie. He had been picking on him since the day he arrived at Lincoln School. With Bruce on his side, it wouldn’t happen anymore. He smirked. Why not? Stephen pulled back his fist and prepared to deliver the final blow.
A loud whistle filled the air. Uh-oh. That could only mean one thing. He turned around to see Mr. Ixley, standing over them with his arms folded looking angry.
Bruce despaired, realizing that Stephen lost his chance to punch Ronnie. He looked at Mr. Ixley and back at Stephen, who were busy staring at each other. Bruce turned to Ronnie and knocked his fist into his face. One last, quick punch. Ronnie fell to the ground and wept.
“Boys!” Mr. Ixley declared, “In my office, now!”
Stephen and Bruce sat in Mr. Ixley’s office waiting for him to arrive. Stephen fidgeted in his chair while Bruce coolly waited for his punishment to arrive. “You okay?” Bruce asked.
Stephen smiled at him. “Yeah. Do you think they’ll call my mom?” This was the first time Stephen had ever been in any real trouble.
“Yeah. They will.” Bruce replied. He, on the other hand, was used to it.
Stephen stared straight ahead. He had a shell-shocked look on his face. Bruce picked his nails as they continued to sit amidst the awkward silence. Bruce knew Mr. Ixley well. He spent a lot of time in his office and felt right at home. Truth be told, Mr. Ixley hated Bruce. Every day was made just a little more difficult and frustrating, all thanks to Bruce. Whether Bruce was interrupting class or getting into fights, Mr. Ixley was always there to stop him. At least temporarily.
Stephen blurted out, “Thanks for helping me.”
Bruce shifted in his chair. He leaned toward Stephen, donning a confident smile. “No problem.” He held out his hand. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Stephen.” Their hands connected. Bruce nonchalantly shook Stephen’s hand. “I’m Bruce.”
The door opened. Mr. Ixley walked into the office and proceeded to sit behind his desk. Mr. Ixley was not a large or intimidating figure. In fact, he was a skinny bookworm with a nasally voice that wouldn’t scare a bird. Nonetheless, he was the disciplinarian.
“I’ve had it with you, Bruce!” he said in his trademark nasally tone. “These next few years will not be pleasant if you continue these transgressions.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ixley! Ronnie was beating him up so I helped. Stephen is my friend. So I helped him.”
Stephen shot a glance at Bruce. Bruce was his friend? That would mark his first at Lincoln School. This made Stephen happy. All it took to make a friend was to get beat up. He looked at Mr. Ixley and smiled, as big as he ever had. Bruce was his friend!
Mr. Ixley asked, “And what are you smiling at, Mr. Pandora?”
Stephen locked his eyes with Mr. Ixley’s. He continued smiling, bright as ever. “Bruce is my best friend.”
This perked Bruce’s ears. What? His best friend? He just met him! Bruce had plenty of friends but never had a best friend before. This made him ecstatic. Most kids were afraid of him just because he was a little bigger than everyone else. Now he had a best friend. And all he had to do was beat up tough-guy-wannabe Ronnie. Bruce smiled at Mr. Ixley.
Mr. Ixley looked at both boys, who were smiling brightly at him. This was not the reaction they were supposed to have. It was clear that nothing he could say would work. “I’m going to call your parents right now,” he threatened. Stephen and Bruce remained unfazed.
They had just become best friends.
Stephen was in a headlock by a crazed cult member. The man’s face remained hidden. Stephen struggled, “Let me go!” The man had no intention of doing that. Stephen kicked and flailed his body around to no avail. The man’s grip was too strong.
The man wasn’t going to hurt him, but he had to be taught a lesson. “What’s your name?” he whispered into Stephen’s ear.
Stephen defiantly remained silent.
“What’s your name!?” The man grew agitated and gripped Stephen’s neck even harder. It was becoming hard for Stephen to breathe.
The man turned to lead Stephen back to his cult, where their ritual was back in full swing. Unexpectedly, the man felt a tapping on his shoulder. Who could be tapping him? It definitely wasn’t any of the cult members. They wouldn’t…POW! The cult leader was clubbed in the side of the face by a log. Bruce swung it like a baseball bat and mercilessly followed through. The pain stung the man like a thousand volts of electricity jolted the side of his face. The man fell to the ground, freeing his grip on Stephen.
“Come on!” Bruce yelled. He had returned to save Stephen from a forest of cult members. He wouldn’t leave him behind. They were best friends.
Stephen ran with Bruce as they ventured out of the forest. The man lay on the ground, screaming in pain.
The next day at school, Stephen and Bruce found themselves in the dean’s office. It was a little, dimly lit office meant to intimidate students. Stephen stared straight ahead, bored as he waited. Bruce picked his nails. They sat amidst the silence as they waited for the dean. “There’s no way he can get us for this,” Stephen asserted.
“No way,” Bruce agreed.
“Things happen in dodgeball. Patty shouldn’t have left herself unguarded.”
“She we asking for it.”
“We’ll be fine.”
They sat in their seats waiting. It was a spot they’d been in countless times before. “Oh look, he got a new painting,” Stephen noticed.
Bruce noticed it too. “How about that? Wasn’t there last week.”
“Ixley’s got good taste.”
“He’s doing a nice job with the office.”
“Agreed.”
Mr. Ixley had become dean of the high school. Unfortunately for him, it coincided with the arrival of his rivals from his grade school principal days. Mr. Ixley hated the thought of having to deal with them for four more years. But after that was over, he’d never have to see them again. Stephen and Bruce couldn’t have been more delighted for the opportunity to gray his hair for four more glorious years.
Behind them, the door of the office opened. They continued to look ahead, anticipating Mr. Ixley to proceed to his desk.
“Hey Ixley,” Bruce said, “you’re settling in nicely.”
Stephen asked, “How’s high school life, Ixley?”
“Boys, you need to call me Mr. Ixley…” He walked over to his desk in front of Stephen and Bruce and sat down. They gasped as they witnessed something different about him: he had a large bruise on the side of his face. It was bright red and purple, a wound obviously inflicted recently. It looked like one side of his face was hit by a truck.
Or in this case, a log from the hands of Bruce.
Bruce’s eyes widened and made their way to Stephen’s, whose eyes were equally wide.
9
Three years later, Stephen and Bruce were seniors in high school and not much had changed. Bruce was the star quarterback of the football team and Stephen was the leader of his class, on pace to be valedictorian. The two were arguably the most popular kids in school, a fact that pained Mr. Ixley. Stephen and Bruce were the model citizens: the ones who dictated to the rest of the student body what was ‘in’ and what was ‘out’. And what was always ‘in’ was driving Mr. Ixley crazy. Last year, they held the first annual “Mr. Ixle
y Is A Dick-sley” event. The whole thing, of course, mocked Mr. Ixley. Unfortunately for him, it also made the school a record amount of fundraising money so the event was scheduled again and approved by the school board.
Away from the mayhem, Mr. Ixley sat at home. He was in his reading chair, wearing his glasses and reading a book his daughter bought for him. It was a Friday night, so thankfully, there would be no school the next day. In his reading chair, he found solace. It was a majestic place where he could get away from the stresses of working in a high school with hormone-raging lunatics.
Mr. Ixley was waiting up for his daughter, Sara. He told her she had to be home by 11. If she wasn’t, she’d be in big trouble. She was a teenager, so she was prone to rebellion. What made matters worse was that she was a junior at his high school. Mr. Ixley had an eye on her at all times. She lashed out every now and then, but the bond between them was strong. He loved his daughter more than anything in the world, and she loved him just as much. She just didn’t always show it.
He checked his watch: 10:58. He took his glasses off, placed his book on his lap, and watched the front door. She’d be walking through any minute. He folded his hands. Waited. The door handle sat idle. It would jump to life and she would walk in, excited as ever to see her dad. He took a deep breath as his eyes became heavy. He continued to watch the door. The ‘tick’ and ‘tock’ of the clock seemed to grow louder every second. The time between them seemed to stretch. What interesting patterns the wood in the door had, he thought. He could almost see faces in some of them. It would be any second now. He relaxed his eyes for a minute. Closed them. She would be home soon. Real soon. Any second.
Mr. Ixley fell asleep.