by Steph Post
“Let him be. It’s not important.”
Ramey turned back to Judah.
“One of these days, though, it will be.”
Judah shook his head slightly. He kept his fingers on her arm.
“Listen, there’s something else I don’t buy about what Shelia told you. Why would Weaver want to kill me? I mean, nothing happened when I talked to him. I wouldn’t say we parted as friends, but I figured, if anything, he’d come after the business. Want to tear it down, take it over or whatever. Why want to kill me? And you? And the others? It’s too personal to make sense.”
Ramey twisted in her chair so that she was facing him.
“It is personal with him.”
Judah drew back from her.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Shelia, she said that after that guy gave Weaver the information on you, Weaver told this story. About how Sherwood had stolen his girl like forty years ago or something.”
Judah frowned.
“Forty years ago?”
Ramey nodded.
“Yeah, back in 1971, I guess. Up at the Navy base in Jacksonville. For some reason, I always thought Sherwood had been in the Marines, like my dad.”
Judah had a strange look on his face as he slowly shook his head.
“He wanted people to think so. The Navy was too cushy. He didn’t want people to think he was a chickenshit taking the easy way out. And 1971…”
Judah’s voice trailed off as he stared down at the felt top of the poker table. Ramey dipped her head, trying to catch his eye.
“What about 1971?”
She could see Judah’s jaw muscles working as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.
“I’m just wondering how she knew. The Navy. 1971. How she knew the exact year Sherwood enlisted and went to Vietnam.”
“You mean, how’d she know if she was just making it all up?”
Judah didn’t say anything. Ramey waited, but finally reached for another cigarette and continued.
“According to the story Shelia overheard, Weaver had this lifelong vendetta against Sherwood over this girl. But since Sherwood is dead, and you just fell right into his lap, he’s gonna make you pay instead. I guess killing you and everyone connected to you is his way of getting Sherwood back. It’s like Old Testament revenge or something.”
Judah slowly shook his head.
“That’s just insane.”
Ramey tapped the end of her cigarette on the table, but didn’t light it.
“I think he’s insane. Shelia said he shot those people in the bar, just out of nowhere. Like it wasn’t nothing.”
“And yet, she survived.”
Ramey looked at the cigarette in her hand and then shoved it back into the pack. She sighed.
“I don’t know, Judah. I just know what she told me. And I believe her.”
Judah raised his head.
“You do?”
Ramey flung the pack into center of the table and turned toward him.
“Come on, Judah. You just said so yourself. 1971. The Navy. And she knew about Cassie and Stella, too. There’s no way she’s just making this all up. And think about it, why would she even want to?”
Judah looked away from her.
“Okay, but why come here?”
“She knows this guy wants to kill her. And he wants to kill us. It sounds like she thought that if she told us, warned us, we’d have a better chance of killing him first. She made it pretty clear that it was a decision born out of necessity and survival, not compassion.”
Judah flicked his eyes back to her.
“Well, at least that part sounds honest.”
Ramey bit her bottom lip as she looked at his downcast face.
“So, what do we do?”
Judah looked up sharply.
“Do?”
“Yeah. Shelia wants to meet with us tonight. She said she’d tell you anything you asked. Anything she could remember that you think would help. We need to come up with a plan, fast. We might only have a day or two before Weaver shows up in Silas and I think we need to hit him before he gets here. Maybe we can catch him off guard, maybe we can—”
“Whoa, slow down.”
Judah gave her a slight smile that made Ramey’s stomach turn. Something was wrong. It was that look again. That look telling her not to worry. Ramey dug her nails into the thighs of her jeans.
“What?”
Judah raised his eyebrows.
“I’m still not buying it. It’s too, well, come on, Ramey. All right, so she knew some details. But the rest? Seriously, the whole story Shelia told you about Weaver sounds like something off a daytime soap. Men don’t really act like that. Women just think they do. So just calm down. And if anything does come up again with Weaver, I’ll take care of it.”
Ramey stood up; she was shaking.
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll take care of it. Weaver’s not going to just storm in here, guns blazing…”
Ramey slammed her palm down on the table.
“You’re willing to bet your life on that? Or my life? Just because you’re too goddamn stubborn and full of pride? Because you can’t get your head out of your ass for five minutes?”
Judah’s face went dark.
“You don’t understand, Ramey. You’re not the head of this family. You’re not seeing the full picture of everything I’m trying to do here.”
“And what is that? Die?”
She wished Judah would stand up and face her. She wished he would yell back, but he had closed her off completely instead. He spoke very slowly and firmly, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him. His fists were resting on the edge of it.
“Ramey, I will take care of you.”
She crossed her arms and barked out a laugh.
“What does that even mean? Am I supposed to just blindly trust you?”
“It’s been enough before.”
He slowly looked up at her, crestfallen. But Ramey didn’t miss the edge of a threat in his voice. She forced herself to hold his gaze.
“Well, it’s not enough now.”
Judah clenched his jaw and looked away.
“I don’t know what else to tell you. Just let me handle things. If it comes to it, let me handle Weaver and let me take care of this family.”
“In other words, let you be a Cannon.”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Be a Cannon. But you best remember that I’m not.”
“Ramey…”
She couldn’t take it anymore. She was done. Ramey turned on her heel and stalked out of the garage. Judah didn’t go after her.
Tulah passed beneath the Sickle’s Door, a crumbling stone archway half buried underneath a web of suffocating kudzu, and silently entered the Forest of Anat. The moment her bare foot touched the dark, loamy soil, Tulah knew she had left her former self behind. She raised her head and peered up through the spidery canopy of hickory, oak and chalk maple branches. The full moon hung pendulously in the star-scattered sky, a lucent Charon, ferrying her across the threshold of time. She set her eyes on the wooded expanse before her, a snarling tangle of lichen-dusted trees and jagged limestone outcroppings, some barely visible in the beryl shadows, and felt the curving line of energy trembling beneath the earth, compelling her forward. Now that she had found the conduit, all she had to do was follow it to the source.
For three generations, since Reverend Benjamin Irwin had first been led by God to the Sacred Wall in 1904, the one-hundred-and-forty-four-acre Forest had been sealed and protected. To reach it, Tulah had driven west and then north from Cave Spring, veering off onto ever more narrow and nameless roads, until she had arrived at the unassuming cabin of the Keepers. The Bouman family had been guarding the Forest, running off the occasional naturalist or hiker and maintaining the perimeter, ever since Irwin had dedicated the site and appointed them the task. The Keeper who waved her through the high, wrought iron gate and took the keys of the Navigator from her hand was the
same flat-faced, vacant-eyed man who had first welcomed Tulah to the Forest back in 1987 when she was a new initiate to The Order. The man had nodded to her solemnly, glanced at the sickle hanging among the folds of her long white robe and pointed left, down the rocky, serpentine trail that encircled the breadth of the Forest. Tulah had felt a secret thrill as she began her trek; never before had she been directed to the left. She had hoped this meant that her rank had improved this year. Each member of The Order arrived at the Keeper’s gate separately, at a specific, pre-ordained time. No one was allowed to see or hear another once the journey had begun. They all must travel alone.
Tulah stumbled over slippery mounds of mossy stones and rotting logs, but she never once questioned her direction. Once inside the bowels of the Forest, she was no longer a preacher, no longer a woman. She was now, singularly, one of the Watchers. The darkness did not trouble her; she was following the Sickle’s trail and could have navigated the Forest with her eye closed. At one point, a scintillant cloud of fireflies gently swarmed her, but she did not let herself stop in wonder. Tulah did not pause and scoop a handful of tangy water from the Chebar as she trudged across the swift and shallow stream, even though she was desperately thirsty. She trusted the carefully orchestrated timing, but was also cognizant of the moon climbing overhead, the earth spinning slowly toward dawn. Tulah knew that she must arrive in the Glade of Anat at the exact right moment. She had never failed before and didn’t intend to start now. An hour passed, then two, and finally Tulah glimpsed the flickering glow of torch light seeping through the trees ahead. Tulah stopped and braced herself against the craggy trunk of a holly.
She caught her breath and adjusted the crowned mask over her sweating face. It was heavy, made of hammered steel and burnished copper, and shielded her forehead, nose and cheekbones. A narrow slit at eye level allowed her to see and the crown of the mask rose above her head in seven horns, encircling the loose gray hair straggling down past her shoulders. Before she had entered the Forest, Tulah had been apprehensive about being able to see through the mask with only one eye. Now, it seemed such a foolish thought. With the light from the Glade finally in her sight, it seemed folly to have been worried about anything. Tulah untied the golden sickle from her belt and grasped it tightly in her left hand. It was time.
All around her, Tulah could hear the rustling of other Watchers moving through the trees as they, too, prepared to step into the clearing. More torches were kindled, and then the low melody of the Angels’ singing came to her ears, signifying that the moon had crested the apex. She wove her way through the last stand of ancient oak trees and finally emerged from the Forest, into the Glade, where she took her place beside the small Sickle stone and joined her fellow Watchers, under the glittering, revealed sky.
Without moving her head, which was forbidden until she was called, Tulah shifted her eye to look around the clearing of trampled earth as best she could. The Watchers, each standing next to a torch and their token landmark, were spaced out evenly in two parallel lines, forming a gauntlet running down the center of the Glade. Directly across from Tulah, dressed in an identical robe and mask, stood the Flaming Sword. On one side of the Sword was the Lamp and on the other was the Candlestick. She couldn’t see who was beside her in her own row, but she was pleased to be standing even with the Flaming Sword. Her rank had most certainly improved this year and was quite a step up from her last appointment as the Key of Hell. In the sputtering torch light, Tulah tried to calculate exactly where she now fell in the hierarchy, but when a booming voice rang out through the Glade, Tulah’s mind instantly turned from the thought. The Angel of Man had spoken. The Night Recompense had begun.
“Brethren! We are here on the Night of Nights. The Moment of Moments. When our true likeness shines forth. When the Wing and the Wheel and the Whirlwind rain down from the sky in a shower of sparks. When the Great Cloud from the North sweeps over, when the Amber Brightness envelopes all the Land, when the air divides and the Spirit goes forth out of the midst of the Fire. We arrive for The Reckoning. We arrive for The Recompense. The Order of the Luminous Sevenfold Light arrives to celebrate and honor the Everlasting Reign of Attar.”
Tulah let the sound of the Angel’s voice fill her until she felt that she was nothing more than a million insignificant particles, floating heavenward in lazy ascension. Then a rush of flame replaced the voice and the tonal song of the other three Angels began again. Tulah gripped the sickle in her hand as the Angel of Man began the Calling. Tulah could not yet see the Angels and was forced only to listen. The first Watcher called was the Book.
“And it was written within and without: and there was written therein lamentations, and mourning, and woe.”
From somewhere near the end of the opposite row there was a stir of movement, and then a robed figure swished by Tulah like a ghost. The Watcher carried a rolled scroll in its left hand and its mask gleamed in the fire light. A few moments later, the voice of the Watcher responded to the voice of the Angel.
“It was in my mouth as honey for sweetness.”
Next, the Crowned Woman was called.
“And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars.”
The Watcher standing beside Tulah stepped forward and she was only able to catch a glimpse. It wore a crowned mask identical to the others, but from its raised hands dangled a circlet made of twelve silver stars. Over the susurration of the Angels, Tulah could barely make out the hushed response of the Woman, but Tulah knew the words by heart.
“And she being with child cried, travailing in birth and pained to be delivered.”
The Broad Arrow, the Seal, the Eye of the Lamb and Wormwood were all called and then the Glade echoed with the herald of the Sickle.
“Thrust in thy sickle, and reap: for the time is come for thee to reap; for the harvest of the earth is ripe.”
Tulah stepped out into the gauntlet and turned, finally able to see the brush arbor at the north end of the Glade. The ground was soft and damp beneath her feet as she plodded forward, the golden sickle in her left hand at her side, her right arm stretched out, palm turned upward. She knew the Watchers on either side were looking at her as she passed, but Tulah was concerned only with what was before her: the Angels, the Fire Arbor, the Sapphire Throne and the Sacred Wall.
The arbor had been constructed of ash and hickory branches, twisted together and tied with ropes of vine to form an arch high enough to shelter the Angels standing beneath it. The branches were on fire, the flames sweeping high, filling the night with smoke, and sending a scattering of sparks drifting down onto the Throne. The hoary seat of Attar Himself. Its worn limestone arms and back were inlaid with thousands of star cut sapphires, still brilliant despite the spreading patches of dusky lichen and the lacework of choking creepers. A shallow bowl of iron, four feet across, rested on the seat and in the bowl blazed a brilliant indigo flame. On either side of the Throne stood the four Angels. Tulah stopped when she was a few feet away and held out the sickle to the Angel of Man. Her voice was clear and true.
“And he that sat on the cloud thrust in his sickle on the earth; and the earth was reaped.”
Tulah looked at each of the Angels in turn. Like the Watchers, they wore long robes, though theirs looked as though they had been dipped in blood, and copper masks crowned with seven horns. Whereas the visages of the Watchers’ masks were featureless, the Angels’ each bore the likeness of the Spirit that had descended upon them. The radiant faces of an Ox, a Lion, an Eagle and a Man all beamed at Tulah and each Angel nodded to her in turn. She stepped to the Throne and held the sickle over the fire. The flames popped and spit, licking her wrist, but she couldn’t feel her flesh burning. Tulah dropped the sickle into the bowl and bowed her head.
The Angel of Man stepped forward and took her by the shoulder, guiding her around the Throne to a wide, jagged rock face, jutting up out of the earth behind it. The surface of t
he rock was blanketed in kudzu and curved around the edge of the clearing until it disappeared back into the Forest. Tulah could hear a faint trickle of water as the Angel led her over to a rugged wall made of natural stones, piled up against the rock escarpment. One of the stones was missing, leaving a small opening in the center of the wall, but before Tulah leaned down to peer through, the Angel brought its mask close to her ear and whispered.
“And he brought me to the door of the court; and when I looked, behold a hole in the wall.”
Up until now, The Night Recompense had been ritual, an enactment and dedication to Attar, the True God. A test to determine if she was worthy enough for this moment. Tulah had knelt before the Sacred Wall seven times before and each time, a different prophecy was revealed to her. Tulah bent her head, aligned the slit in her mask with the crevice in the wall and looked.
At first, she could see only the flat blackness of the rock only inches away from her face. The space began to open up, however, and an amber light, tinged with a crimson glow, flooded toward her, expanding her view. Out of the center of the glow came a black shape, growing larger as it came closer, and once Tulah could see it clearly, she saw that it was a crow, flying toward her and swooping upward through a red sky. The crow landed on the branch of a dead tree and the tree turned to ash beneath the bird’s spindly feet. The crow flapped its wings and flew back the way it had come, a speck that finally disappeared over the horizon, taking the vision with it. Tulah stood up, but did not think to interpret what she had seen. It was not for her to understand. The Angel of Man put its mask close to hers and Tulah whispered the correct response.
“Upon his shoulder in the twilight, and shall go forth: they shall dig through the wall to carry out thereby: he shall cover his face, that he see not the ground with his eyes.”
The Angel nodded and stretched its right arm out, gesturing for Tulah to continue. She bowed her head and followed the curve of the rock face, back into the labyrinth of trees. She was ready to make the Descent.