The Telling

by Mike Duran

  “This is insane,” he finally said. “So I’m supposed to hike up to that abandoned mine like Moses up to Sinai and—what? Bring the mountain down? Command fire from heaven?” His tone was full of sarcasm. “All that gift has ever brought people is pain.”

  “But I—”

  “I don’t care!” He lurched to the edge of the sofa.

  Annie gasped.

  The atmosphere bristled as he glared at her.

  Then, by increments, he sunk back into his seat. “You can have your book and your prophecy and all those pagan mythologies you said you don’t believe in. All I want is …” The anger drained from his eyes, his gaze faltered, and he hunched forward. “Just to be left alone.”

  Tamra had sensed it all along. His outburst confirmed it. Zeph Walker was a broken soul. His scars were more than skin deep. She worried about what her grandmother might say to the troubled young man.

  Annie studied him, and then her courage seemed to return. She scooted forward on the rocker. “What is it, Zeph? You know something about this, don’t you? You’ve been expecting this, haven’t you?”

  Zeph shook his head and looked to the floor.

  “You can’t keep running, son. The pain, it’s poisoning you.”

  He rocked forward and back, staring blankly, wrestling with whatever demons possessed his soul.

  “I can’t …” He rose to his feet. “Listen, I can’t do this.”

  Annie opened her mouth, ready to object.

  “You seem like nice folks,” Zeph said. “But you don’t understand. With the Telling, there’s always a price. Someone always gets hurt. Someone has to pay. I can’t let that happen again.”

  He stood, staring at the carpet.

  Whatever strange energy had filled the room moments ago was quickly replaced by a cloud.

  “Promise me,” Annie finally said, “before you make a decision, before you do anything, you will go up there. To Meridian. Zeph, you need to see the prophecy for yourself.”

  He continued looking at the floor, chewing at the inside of his cheek.

  “Please,” she prodded.

  “I had a friend once,” he said to no one in particular. “His name was Austin Pratt. We called him Ozzy. It was the strangest thing because whenever we were together, I would sense certain things about him. That’s part of how it works. But with Ozzy, it was hurtful things. Violent things. Things that most normal folks would cringe at. I was just a kid, seven or eight. I didn’t know how to process that, you know? Every time I was with him, I felt like he was in danger, that he needed to run. But how do you tell your kid friend he needs to run away from home? What exactly do you do?” He looked up, his eyes glistening with moisture. “I did the only thing I could. I just watched.”

  They were both staring at him.

  “Ozzy was beaten to death by his father. Technically, I guess, he died of a brain hemorrhage due to head trauma. They think he was kicked in the temple. Apparently he’d been abused for years. Picked on by some drunken old man who hated the fact that his only son was lame. So I guess all I’m sayin’ is,” Zeph smiled sheepishly, “even if I am a prophet, I guess I can’t save everyone.”

  His words distilled into the silence.

  Then Annie rose and limped to him. She stood directly in front of him, but he did not meet her gaze.

  “Zeph,” Annie said. “You saved me.”

  Chapter 26

  Plink.

  The fairy kingdom is but the germ of a larger mythology, a dimension of superior intelligences, which some call fetch.

  Plink.

  Suppose a formula existed to access that dimension.

  Plink.

  Seer, seer.

  Fergus woke with a start. He snatched the pistol from his lap and forced his eyes to focus.

  Yet no one was there. He’d fallen asleep outside again.

  Fergus heaved a sigh of relief. He kissed the barrel of the pistol and settled back into the ragged vinyl seat. Steam fogged the truck windows, and the windshield glowed with golden morning sunlight. He sat for a moment, recalibrating his senses, when he realized he was freezing. With a little nudge from his shoulder, the door ground open and he stepped out, groaning with stiffness.

  He couldn’t close his eyes anymore without the fetch haunting him. The way things were going, there was no telling where he’d wake up next. All the more reason they needed to leave this place.

  Fergus stuffed the pistol into his pants and checked to see if his ears were bleeding again. Thankfully they weren’t. Nevertheless, something was happening to him. His body was changing. His head and joints ached. Running away was no guarantee things would change, that he would get better. They had done something wrong. Really wrong. No matter how far he ran, running would never change that fact.

  A ribbon of smoke rose from the Williams’s ranch on the property below. The other campsites were vacant, as usual. There were eleven small plots in all, each containing electric hookups, fire pits, and water. Initially designed to house ranch laborers and grounds crews, the Williamses had scaled back, allowing rural areas of their property to fall into disrepair. Fergus had been given permission to park his trailer there long ago in exchange for shooing off trespassers and marauding coyotes. Occasionally he was called upon to stack firewood or fix the irrigation for the orchard. Now, virtually forgotten by the Williamses, the isolation had seeped into his psyche. The foothills were his, just the way he liked them.

  The morning sun cast a long orange glow across the Owens basin, illuminating pockets of fog below the snowy peaks. A jackrabbit darted from the brush nearby, followed by another. Fergus’s teeth chattered from the cold. He rounded the truck and passed under the makeshift awning. A six-cylinder engine sat on blocks of wood surrounded by greasy tools. He had allowed the junk to pile up: old computer parts, keyboards, braided cable, and motor parts. Nothing much was worth keeping, just Pops’s medals and Fergus’s tools. The rest could rot.

  He entered the trailer. It stunk of alcohol and tuna. Fergus walked into the kitchenette, massaging out the crick in his lower back. He removed the pistol and slid it onto the table next to beer bottle caps and stick matches. Opening the refrigerator, he reached past a crusty sandwich for a carton of milk, which he gulped down. Despite the cool liquid, his throat hurt with every swallow. Then he went through the narrow hallway and squeezed past a stack of cardboard boxes into the living room.

  “Moon Dancer.”

  Fergus stumbled back and slammed into the wall, sending the trailer rocking.

  Little Weaver sat in the recliner, his carved javelin leaning nearby. Biker goggles hung at his chest, and beneath his army jacket, tools and instruments lined his belt. The Indian was so large that his knees were practically up to his chest.

  “Ghaww!” Fergus stood with his heart pounding. “I t–told you ta stop followin’ me!”

  “I have not forgotten.”

  “Well then … stop!”

  “Perhaps you should be thankful I am following you.” Little Weaver’s small charcoal eyes remained intense.

  Fergus squinted. “Then it was you in the Rift last night.”

  Little Weaver’s gloved hands draped the armrest like the talons of an old dragon. “There is a story told of a great bird.”

  “Please,” Fergus spat. “Not another story.”

  “The greatest of all birds. Revered by all other creatures. Majestic! But she grew proud in herself, so proud that she fancied to fly to the sun. ‘If I can but drink of that golden bowl,’ she said, ‘I will live forever. The Creator Himself will not outshine me.’ She flew upward with her great wings, past the clouds and the stars. Onward to the sun! But as she drew near, her wings were burned. She had been deceived by her hubris. Her once-powerful wings turned to ash, and she plummeted to earth as a serpent. There she was forced to crawl on her belly. From the greatest of birds to the most despised of creatures. Such is the story of all those who misuse their power.”

  Fergus stared at the Indian
.

  “You have brought great evil upon yourself and your people, Moon Dancer.”

  “Stop calling me that. I’m no dancer.”

  Little Weaver raised an eyebrow. “You grow tired of my tales. Ah! Sad indeed is the soul who forgets the great stories.”

  “Your riddles bore me, Indian. The only story I care about is the one I’m writing now. And it has nothin’ to do with stayin’ around here.”

  Little Weaver scrutinized him. “Destiny can always be reclaimed. It’s irrevocable, as you would say. The prophet never loses his calling, only his way.”

  “Yeah? Well you can have yer destiny,” Fergus muttered. “We’re leavin’.” He strode across the room and snatched a cardboard box from one of the stacks. Setting it on the end table, he began packing random items, in seeming disregard for the Indian.

  Little Weaver pulled his coat around him and heaved himself from the chair. The tools in his belt clanked as he rose. The man seemed gargantuan in the small trailer, his shadow spreading across the yellowed ceiling like a wraith. Tightening his jacket about him, he scanned the cluttered room.

  “The dark angels roam freely now,” Little Weaver said. “Like a great bear awakened from her slumber. Hungry, they are. Consuming! Someone must pay for this.”

  “Them ain’t no angels. Besides, that hellhole was there a long t–time before us.”

  “Yes, but there is still time. You can stop the march of the shadow.” Little Weaver approached and stood at Fergus’s side, towering over him. He smelled of wood smoke and raw venison. “You have the power, Moon Dancer.”

  Fergus stood rigid and spoke through clenched teeth. “I told you, we’re leaving.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Does it matter?” Fergus looked sideways at the Indian.

  “The shadow will not allow it.”

  “They can’t stop me.”

  “But your father—he cannot be moved.”

  “Then I’ll leave ’im!” Fergus bellowed, separating himself from Little Weaver’s intimidating presence. “Give it a break!”

  As he did, a sound rose inside him.

  Plink.

  Fergus winced, and then he clasped his hands over his ears and stumbled backward, sending the lamp careening off its stand.

  Seer, seer.

  “Ghaww!” He doubled over, gripping fistfuls of hair in an attempt to force the fetch out of his brain. “Make ’em stop!”

  As the presence subsided, Fergus rose to see Little Weaver’s penetrating gaze upon him.

  “The poison of the underworld runs deep in you, Moon Dancer.”

  “Kill m–me,” Fergus whimpered.

  Little Weaver’s brow furrowed.

  Fergus squared his chest and yanked open his flannel, sending buttons flinging across the room. “Then kill me!”

  Little Weaver peered at him. “I cannot harm the prophet. Nor the land. The dark angel alone is my enemy. You insult me with your foolish charge! Bah!”

  Little Weaver snatched his javelin. He brought the end up and ran the metal delicately through his gloved fingers as if it were a fine sword. With that end raised, he approached the corner of the room.

  Hanging from the ceiling was the skin of a fetch, nothing more than an empty sack. Fergus had hung it there as a trophy. The only time Fergus had used his pistol, it was to kill this one. He had stopped it mid-metamorphosis. While it still had wings. The creature’s face, or what was left of it, looked identical to Fergus Coyne.

  It had been trying to imitate Fergus.

  Little Weaver took his javelin and poked at the dry, withered epidermis. Reaching the single bullet hole in the chest, he inserted the tip and looked over his shoulder.

  “Next time,” Little Weaver said, “you won’t be so lucky.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” Fergus growled. “We’re leavin’, I said. By tomorrow I’m outta here. I’m takin’ ’im and … and we’re goin’. I’ll just keep drivin’. Get as far away from you people as possible.”

  Little Weaver stepped back and settled the end of the javelin on the floor.

  “The shadows gather, Moon Dancer. Many eyes are watching. You have the power to speak the word. While there is light, you can speak the word.”

  “I’ve spoken enough,” Fergus said. “It’s time for someone else to start talking.”

  Chapter 27

  Maybe this was a bad idea.

  The cashier slid a perspiring bottle of orange juice across the counter, trying hard not to stare at Zeph’s scar. He’d missed his morning cinnamon roll, so this would have to suffice. However, the way this woman was looking at him, Zeph knew she had something she was dying to say.

  “They call him Earl,” said the woman, scrounging his change from the register. “He’s an oddball. But anyone who lives up there’s gotta be.”

  “Thanks.” Zeph took the bottle, regretting that he’d stopped along the way.

  As she plucked coins from the tray of an old cash register, she looked sideways at Zeph before finally asking what had, apparently, been on her mind.

  “Ain’t you that kid? The one that used to perform?”

  Zeph glanced out the door of the market as a diesel barreled past. “I’m afraid so.”

  She gasped. “I read about you! Terrible how that happened.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “Hey! I don’t wanna be rude, but can you predict something for me?”

  Zeph adjusted his sunglasses. “Listen, I–I don’t do predictions.”

  “Well, can you tell me my future? Like, if I’ll get married again? Or when I’ll die?”

  “Can I have my change?”

  She shouted into the back room. “Johnny! Johnny, come ’ere! Hurry!”

  “Keep the change.” Zeph headed for the door.

  “No! Wait, kid! You gotta meet my Johnny. He’s got the gift too. I swear it. He can predict things. Johnnyy-y-y-y!”

  Zeph hurried out of the country store. If he needed a reminder of why he rarely went out, this was it. He tossed the bottle onto the seat, climbed into his truck, and backed onto the shoulder. Any second Johnny would probably shamble out with a cigarette dangling from his lips and his gut showing, hoping to catch a glimpse of the phantom of the opera. Instead Zeph plowed across the gravel, fishtailing, and he swerved onto the asphalt highway aimed at the Black Pass.

  The Endurance basin was a sixteen-mile oblong granite bowl, bordered on its northern end by a narrow granite pass. At its pinnacle sat the rickety tourist stop named Meridian. As Zeph left town, warm air beating him from an open window, the residential homes became more scattered, yielding to stretches of farmland and rock outcroppings.

  Meridian loomed now, a beacon to something Zeph had always feared.

  The land awaits.

  The Telling had always been his own private burden. He had the scar to prove it. Yet the notion that others had a stake in him, that Zeph’s gift, that his well-being was somehow tied to the land seemed preposterous. And terrifying.

  He passed the aqueduct and then the small adobe mission. Jesuits came to Endurance in the late eighteenth century on their trek through California, hoping to convert the Indians to a higher form of religion. The mission was a decaying testament to their spiritual impotence. Now Zeph wondered if they hadn’t run into something more powerful than all their icons and imagery.

  The land awaits.

  It wasn’t a coincidence that Annie Lane had used that phrase. The magic was stirring. He used to believe it was everywhere, that God never slept. That every leaf, every circumstance was infused with His divine presence. What a fool to think he could run from Him! He couldn’t just settle down and seep into the woodwork like normal folks. Zeph Walker was not normal! He was a freak of nature. A regular polycephalic. Why couldn’t he get that through his thick head?

  He wrung the steering wheel, his thoughts grinding bone against bone.

  He should not have left his house this morning. That was where everything went w
rong. If he would have just left the book under the porch, bought a cinnamon roll and freshly squeezed orange juice, and returned to his house, none of this would have ever happened. Now here he was, driving to some silly roadside attraction to see a cave painting about the Prophet of the Plains.

  Perhaps it was her eyes that got under his skin. And her little laugh.

  You’re a fool!

  Zeph stared through the bug-splattered windshield across the dry flatland to the dark, volcanic peak at the highway’s end. His stomach churned as he watched that dark, fabled monument approach.

  However, it wasn’t his decision to go to Meridian that most troubled Zeph Walker. Nor was it the possibility that something inhuman had broken free to possess people’s souls.

  It was what he knew about where this was headed. He had seen it in their eyes.

  Annie and Tamra Lane were headed for a collision with darkness. He knew there would be casualties. There always were. Just ask Austin Pratt.

  Chapter 28

  The early afternoon sun cut an orange swath across the basin, and boulders hugged the highway, casting elongated shadows. As the road ascended, Zeph’s truck passed a billboard with the word Meridian spelled in a groovy sixties font.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this far out of town.

  Ahead the Black Pass rose, a cleft in the mountainside framed by two uneven rock columns through which the 395 passed. At its peak a dirt turnout ringed by brittle piñon pines overlooked the vast northeastern wasteland. The tree roots grappled the rocky soil like gnarled witch’s talons, and between it perched a sign proclaiming the dusty outcrop a scenic lookout.

  He turned off the highway, stirring dust, and came to a stop in front of the roadside attraction.

  Meridian was a chain of irregular wooden structures—cubes, spires, and boxcars—joined by a long narrow porch with a sagging overhang. A wooden rocker listed in the breeze near a weathered statue of a mermaid that appeared to be sculpted in sand.

  Shutting off the ignition, Zeph sat with his hand poised on the keys.

  He believed in prophecy. And prophets. Yet believing in a prophecy about himself posed a whole set of problems. Especially the kind of prophecy found at a roadside attraction.