Harbinger Island

by Dorian Dawes

  Justin had what was considered a nocturnal sleeping schedule, as was typical for most people his age. Most of his classes were in the afternoon, which meant bedtime for him was usually around the time that everyone else was about to wake up. Nights were a time of painting and songwriting or driving to the cliffs at the northern part of Wakefield to stare at the sea.

  Some nights were different. He lacked the energy to paint, write, or drive. He'd sleep to escape his own thoughts and throw off what he only cynically called a sleep schedule. These little naps were often poor respite as dark dreams took hold, tormenting him back into the waking world. Most of the time, he sat hunched over his desk idly staring at his computer screen, barely paying attention to whichever social media site he scrolled through or video game he played. A lot of it was about waiting, praying that the night would end.

  As anyone who has ever experienced that overwhelming, crippling, soul-crushing apathy would know, it doesn't take long for thoughts to turn to suicide. It's not even that death itself seems like a great idea at the time; in fact, it seems like a really fucking stupid idea. The only thing pleasant about the thought, and the most tempting part of course, is that everything just stops. Halt the ride, I'd like to get off. No more pain. No more endless, sleepless nights. Just one straight shot into sweet fucking oblivion.

  Ordinarily, during these dark moments, Justin could reach out to his friends for support. They would anchor him, help him continue living from moment to moment. Kara had once driven out to his dorm at four o'clock in the morning so they could drive around Wakefield, blasting their favorite rock songs at maximum volume.

  Tonight, he was left adrift. He found himself wanting to scream as the agony built up inside. It's why he grabbed his coat and rushed out into the night, running down the street, heart pounding. He was desperately trying to wear himself out, push his body to the point that he'd be too exhausted to do something stupid and hurt himself.

  Traffic in Wakefield was almost non-existent at this hour; people didn't like leaving their homes at night. This fact alone likely saved his life, as he didn't trust himself to not hurl his body into the first set of headlights screaming down the highway.

  For whatever reason, he was drawn to the Wakefield Memorial Park. There was a statue erected in honor of the Abenaki Natives who'd founded the town, though only one name was inscribed at its foot: Machi Niwaskw. Justin had always assumed it was the name of the smiling chief depicted in bronze. Below the chief were the figures of two children hugging his leg, while a dog before them pointed the way forwards.

  Exhausted after three hours of walking and running, Justin collapsed wearily into a park bench in front of the statue. He looked up at the smiling bronze face, illuminated in tasteful lights. Justin let out a weary sigh and let his face fall into his open hands. "If I know my history, the name on that plaque has always bugged me." It was the voice of a man who'd been smoking for many years.

  Justin turned to see the speaker: an old man in a long black coat holding a cigarette pinched between two fingers. He gestured with the cigarette to the park bench, asking wordlessly for permission to sit. Justin shrugged his shoulders and scooted to the side. His hair clung to the sides of his temples, dripping with sweat. He had no energy to argue.

  "What's wrong with the plaque?" Justin asked.

  The old man took a long drag of the cigarette before answering. "The Abenaki religion has two deities, Kechi and Machi. One good and one evil. Kechi first created man and woman out of stone and then, not being satisfied, destroyed them and made another pair out of wood; it's these original wooden humans that the Abenaki believed were their original ancestors. Machi was said to be the more evil and powerful one.

  "So, it perplexes me why the name of an evil deity marked across a statue is meant to honor the people who founded our community? Is our local government that culturally inept?"

  Justin gave the man a funny look. "Cool story, I guess?"

  The old man laughed. "Apologies, I was hoping to break the ice. I guess there's no right way to transition into what I really want to say, is there? I know how you got that eye. I've only ever seen one person alive with eyes as bright and terrible as those. He's a bastard, ain't he?"

  Justin's shoulders stiffened. He slowly turned towards the man with widened eyes. His perspective on the stranger shifted. The shadows that fell across his face seemed that much more ominous and deliberate, as did the faint glowing embers on the edge of his cigarette. His whole appearance felt calculated so as to inspire an intimidating presence. It worked.

  Justin's hands shook. He tried to keep his voice from shaking as well. "Who are you?"

  The man let out a chuckle. "Names are unimportant. For now, though, people call me the Warden. It suits me well enough. No need to bother with introductions; I already know who you are, Justin."

  "It's not the biggest town, and I've got a reputation," Justin sneered, trying to maintain the upper hand. "I'm a provocateur extraordinaire, damn good at pissing people off. Of course you know who I am."

  "Oh yes, that's right. You're an artist." Warden smiled. The way he said 'artist' caused Justin to cringe. "I have little interest in your smut pieces. I have even less interest in you."

  "So what is it then?" Justin asked, his voice quivering. "You like creeping on young homos?"

  "Charming." Warden laughed. "Despite your most pleasant company, I'm really only here for your eye. You know, the golden one? If you'd like, I could tear it out of your skull and leave you lying here screaming for an ambulance, or you could accompany me for a short while. I might even divulge some exposition."

  Justin stared, mouth hanging open. "My fucking eye? What are you going to do with it?"

  Warden took a long drag of his cigarette, then exhaled slowly. "It's going to help me find someone very important. It might even save the world."

  "Really?" Justin raised an eyebrow.

  Warden chuckled. "All right, the last part may be an exaggeration. But you're curious now, aren't you?"

  "And if I don't go on the little trip with you you're just gonna rip my eye out anyway," Justin said.

  There was a twinkle in Warden's eyes. "That about sums it up. Would you like to see my tools? They're very sharp. Very precise. It'll hurt, but maybe you like pain. It's up to you."

  Justin threw up his hands in surrender. "I get it, I'll come with. One condition though?"

  "Now you're learning how to play the game, excellent," Warden said. "All right, fair's fair. What are your terms?"

  "You're buying me something to drink. I'm parched, my legs are sore, and I'm exhausted. No occult shenanigans before I get some hydration, a'ight?"

  Warden threw back his head and laughed. "Fair enough. Let's go."

  The old man stood as a set of headlights flashed on behind them. Justin's heart-rate accelerated. He heard an engine whirring to life and turned around to see a shiny black car that was parked close to the park bench. How long had it been there? He couldn't see the driver's face behind the tinted windows.

  "Where are we going?" Justin asked.

  Warden opened the back seat car door and gestured inside. "Come into my parlor."

  * * *

  It was the feeling of something like spikes being pounded into his skull that woke Justin the next morning. He was slumped back against the edge of a gnarled tree. The front of his shirt was stained black and there were small cuts up and down his forearms. He squinted and covered his eyes with his hands, struggling to bring himself to full consciousness.

  All his memories were blurring together into distorted dreamlike visions. He couldn't separate what was real and what was fragmented hallucination. They pieced themselves together in jagged, nonsensical patterns and broken images. He saw a pale-faced grinning man wearing aviator sunglasses and a black shiny chauffeur's hat. There were men and women in black robes with white crosses emblazoned across their chests encircling him. He heard Latin chants and the scent of incense burned its way into his nostrils. Hi
s stomach hurt from vomiting.

  One phrase he remembered: "Your azoth has been tainted."

  They'd bandaged his discolored eye in tape and gauze. He cursed weakly and struggled to stand. He kept a steady hand against the base of the tree until his legs stopped wobbling. They felt stiff from all the running he'd done last night. Vibrations emerged from his pocket, startling him for a moment. He'd forgotten his phone was even a thing that existed, he was so disoriented. Whoever was calling, they'd blocked their number. "Hello?" his voice came out slurred, barely conscious.

  "Ah, excellent. You're awake." Warden's voice came out in that familiar crispy tone. "The Paladins tend to have a rough way about them. Still, my association with them demands results, not finesse."

  "Paladin? Like a D&D class?" Justin slurred out, still confused. "Warden, what the fuck? What the fuck did you do to me?"

  "I mean like King Charlemagne, you ignorant fuck." Warden's voice became icy, and then he chuckled, returning once more to that calm, placid façade. "I had some friends do a thorough examination on you. Their methods can feel invasive. It'll all come back to you in a few days, and you can feel free to hate me then. In the meantime, I hinted I would give you some information, and you were so cooperative - well, I thought it'd be rude to not scratch your back a little."

  Justin put his back against the tree. "Yeah, okay. Shoot."

  "Your ex-boyfriend, the charming little shit-heel who gave you that eye, is not the first of the Old Ones to reach out and mess with our lives here on Harbinger Island. From what my sources tell me, dear Rhamal is an exile, cut off from the great big daddy figure who's pulling the strings of all this chaos. Now, it's Rhamal's fault that the powers-that-be are extremely interested in breaking through to the other side in order to get to the big guy. After all, without his meddling in human affairs we might not even be aware there were any others, let alone be tempted by whispers of untold power and forbidden knowledge.

  "You may have heard the whispers. They may have already crept into your songs What do you sing about these days?"

  Justin shuddered. "My songs are based off sex … sex and nightmares."

  "Where do you think the nightmares come from?" Warden asked. "Hell, where do dreams come from? They worsened after your little brush with the Old One, didn't they? One theory I saw said that maybe our dreams are really the memories of them, a fragmented reflection of their own twisted alien psyche."

  Justin began sweating and his whole body shook. He looked down at the black substance staining the front of his shirt. He'd vomited something like it the last night he saw Rhamal, the man he'd called Pharaoh. He felt sick again and clutched his stomach.

  "I'm really not enjoying this conversation, Warden," he said nervously.

  "Oh? I find it most elucidating." Warden breathed directly into the phone. "Have you ever been in a position of power over someone else? I'm certain you've held a magnifying glass threateningly over an anthill once. If not, you've at least entertained the notion of kicking it, just to watch them scatter and see how many are crushed accidentally beneath your heel.

  "See, whether or not you acted upon that impulse or entertained it consciously, it entered your head - that you could do it, that it was within your power to completely destroy someone. It may not be in your nature to do so, and you may never willingly ever entertain or even act upon those impulses, but they are there. Why? Because that power dynamic exists, whether you want it to or not. To those ants scurrying around trying to go about their lives, you are an alien god of chaos and uncertainty. It is a small mercy to them that they are unaware of you and what you could do to them.

  "That is what they are to us. It is what Rhamal was to you. You were never more than a bug, a play-thing to him - all so he could entertain an exercise in impulse-control, see how far he could truly go before he got bored of holding back and destroyed you. It's an abusive relationship magnified on a cosmic scale.

  "Now imagine that there are more of these beings who could so casually toy with us. That's the easy part. What is difficult to conceive now is the hubris and arrogance of those who have set out to weaken the protective barriers between us and them. Are you afraid yet? I am. I'm pissing and shitting in my pants terrified, but not of the things that sleep in other worlds, oh no, no-no-no. I'm fucking blitzed out of my head that I share a species with those so fantastically and willfully blind.

  "This is the knowledge I impart to you, boy. Every one of us secretly longs for oblivion. It's the only explanation. We're all hastening ourselves to the end. Because of that, we will destroy ourselves and each other at every possible turn. You have no friends, you have animals acting on pure self-destructive instincts. We only congregate 'cause it makes it easier to run to the slaughter in pairs. Trust no one. Fear your own instincts."

  "You're a pretentious pie-hole, you know that?" Justin sneered. His headache hadn't abated in the slightest, but now it was making him mad. "Where'd you pull that little rant? Some Reddit screed? How old are you, anyway? Sounds like something some MRA classmates I have might post. I'm just waiting for the Matrix or Nolan-era Batman references to come popping in throughout your little mantra.

  "I'm real sorry if the people you've met in your life have been so shitty. I know that feeling, I've been in that same spot. My dad abused me and held my gender over my head for fucking years. I still get this sick feeling in my gut whenever people talk about their fathers.

  "You think I haven't seen my fair share of shitty fucking people? I'm a black trans guy who dresses like an Afro-punk. You're an old cis-het white dude, the very definition of privilege. What the hell would you know? You've not even gotten close to seeing the depths of stupid people are willing to sink to."

  Warden laughed on the other end of the phone. "Then you should already know that what I'm saying is true. Humankind is doomed. Stewing in our own bigotry, completely ignorant of the big-picture. Deep down, we all know it and that's why we're rushing to meet that oblivion."

  "Shut the fuck up, all right?" Justin groaned. "I've had about enough of this crap. What is this, baby's first nihilism? Okay, so maybe people are doomed. Whatever, that's fine, but really that's gotta be the least productive mindset I've ever heard.

  "I was on the verge of killing myself last night, that's how fucking bad I got, and even then I'm willing to hope that someday we'll get our shit sorted out."

  "You are young," Warden said with a sigh. "Young and naive. You've suffered much, but not enough. You've still got sparks of fire and hope running through you. Fine. Maybe it'll suit you better than an old man's bitterness. I'm sorry for upsetting you. I'll be in touch. You don't have to like it."

  He hung up without saying goodbye. Justin pulled the phone away from his ear. There were several text messages, both from Kara and Helena. He sent Helena a quick text for her to pick him up at the park. He knew that he looked worse than he felt, and he felt like shit.

  * * *

  Several minutes later, Helena picked him up at the park. He was lying barely conscious on the bench staring at the statue. She quickly rushed over to help him back to his feet.

  "What the fuck happened to you?" she demanded. "I saw your blog post, and responded as soon as I could, but you stopped answering."

  "Where were you before?" he asked.

  "Kara's mom was an evil witch who led a coven of ritual torture and abuse when she was a kid and her ghost came back to try and kill her last night," Helena explained. "Also some other fucked up stuff involving the old Blackerly place where a lot of said abuse occurred. Some asshole tried to kill me and that kid Dayabir from the Historical Society. And you?"

  "This old guy kidnapped me and had his lackeys perform some ritual on me 'cause they needed my eye for something," Justin said. "After that, I'm not sure."

  Helena nodded. "Right. Okay, I'm going on record in saying that I hate this town and I'm never getting a good night's rest ever again. Let's get you back to your dorm, you smell like shit."

  "Tainted �
�" Justin trailed off, fingering the flakes of black stains on the front of his shirt.

  Helena gave him a funny look. "What?"

  Justin walked to her car and threw the passenger side door open. "They said my azoth was tainted. Do you think that's what this black filth is?"

  Helena shrugged. "This is where having Bartleby around would be great."

  Justin frowned. "Do you think you have the keys to his place? Maybe we could stop by there and take a look around. Try and get to the bottom of this."

  She climbed into the driver's seat. "You sure? You look like hell. I don't know if I'm ready to do any more digging into this stuff. Seems like every time we start probing into this shit, it comes back and bites us."

  "Like you with your magic?" Justin said. "Why didn't you tell us you were a witch?"

  Her shoulders tensed. "Kind of getting tired of that question, Justin. Maybe I wanted to, but was kind of waiting for the right time. Magic is weird and scary, and it opens you up to a lot of weird and scary things."

  "It at least gives you an advantage." Justin turned to look out the window. "You've got something to fight back with."

  "Not much of one," Helena said in a snippy tone. "Otherwise, don't you think I would have used it to find my dad by now?"

  Justin flinched. "God, I'm sorry."

  "No." She sighed. "I am. We're all a little fucking stressed right now. Anyway, I don't have the keys to Bartleby's place and I'm not exactly comfortable about breaking in there."

  "That's fair, I guess."

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Listen, Dayabir and Gloria are at the Historical Society. They're smart people who know a lot about this island. Gloria may even be more of an expert occultist than Bartleby. I'll totally drive you over there to see them later. It can be you, me, and Kara."

  Justin smiled. "That sounds promising."

  "One condition. I take you back to your place to shower and change first, 'cause I'm not taking you anywhere else looking like that."