While Santiago tended to his friend, Joad brought water from the river that paralleled the red brick road. Joad retrieved fluff-hen eggs and figs and bloodfruits, but Santiago refused the food, only taking water after giving it to John. And John, twisted and deranged by Lovethorn’s demons, accepted no sustenance other than the water. Joad tended the camp and pissed a protective circle around them each night. He kept watch, always alert and never sleeping, ready to dispatch Android Lovethorn’s men or lunkheads should they attack.
And the stink-pigs gathered and stood in a circle around the trufulla tree. More and more pigs arrived and joined in the vigil, scratching their feet and snouts at the ground, squealing and stinking up the air. By the third night of John’s ordeal, nearly a thousand stink-pigs amassed around the site of his possession. The pigs did not move from the site and they neither ate nor slept. The rank stink of their feces and urine polluted the air and sickened Santiago and Joad, but the men did not move from the site and they failed at their attempts to chase the stink-pigs off. Joad reluctantly snapped a stink-bitch’s neck to scare the pigs off, but they did not shy away this time. Instead, the remaining pigs merely made a small clearing around the dead pig, marking the spot of Joad’s offense against them.
On the third night under the trufulla tree, John’s heart beat an off-tempo rhythm and his breathing slowed. One-Eye lay on the ground beside John, marinating in his own piss and shit, his breath, too, growing shallower. And John screamed at the sky: “Deah ym fo tuo teg. Deah ym fo tuo teg.” He inhaled one last time and then deflated with a soft hiss.
And while Joad and Alf the Sacred Burro retrieved more water from the river, Santiago slapped at John’s face and chest, trying to make him wake up. He stood and kicked at John’s legs and arms. “You sad, sorry ass, piece of donkey shit,” he screamed, accentuating his words with light kicks to John’s defenseless body. “Suck some air into your talk-hole. Get up and get moving again, brother.” But the random onslaught of kicks did nothing to revive John. And Santiago, thinking his friend dead, fell to the ground and beat at it with his hands and cried a great sobbing boo-hoo of a wail.
The river of fire above roiled and tossed off a fury of flames. And from above, a ball of fire hurtled downward and crashed at the foot of the trufulla tree. The explosion temporarily scattered the gathering of stink-pigs and slammed Santiago to the ground, knocking him unconscious. Stepping from the fire, John’s flaming doppelganger strode toward him and bent down at his head. Fire-John knelt and straddled John’s chest. Bending down with his face inches from John’s, Fire-John whispered, “Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde.” He spat fire on his flaming hands and clapped them to John’s face, touching John’s ears and ramming his fiery thumbs into his nostrils. John seized, his back arched, and he tried to buck his doppelganger off. But Fire-John rode out the effort and stayed on John’s chest. He bent again, his thumbs still jammed in the nostrils, his hands still touching the ears, and whispered into John’s ear, “Ephpheta, quod est, Adaperire.” And John’s eyes flew open. They burned with madness. Fire-John continued, “In odorem suavitatis. Tu autem effugare, diabole.”
John’s body bucked like a brainsick bull and unsuccessfully tried to throw Fire-John aside. Fire-John gripped at the thick beard on John’s face and once again rode out the seizures and spasms. John spit and bit and fought and fit, but Fire-John held on. And he leaned in again and whispered in John’s ear, “Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde.” And John screeched a two-tone discordant creach that made the surrounding stink-pigs panic. And the pigs crashed into and trampled each other. This time when John’s body flailed and lurched, Fire-John did more than ride out the spasms. Fire-John balled up his flaming fists and slammed them against the sides of John’s head. He beat the fists on John’s chest and neck and face and chanted, “Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde.”
And at that place on the ground, under the fluffy trufulla tree, the flaming being on top of John exploded in a white-hot burst. And fire and smoke and screaming demons poured from every hole in John’s struggling, shaking body. The unclean spirits tore at John as they exited him and left bloody streams flowing from every orifice. In their haste to find hosts, those demons (those sick and broken bits of Lovethorn’s essence) dove into all other living beings surrounding John. They penetrated and possessed Santiago, and his body leapt from the ground and danced a herky-jerky jig like a marionette under the control of a mid-fit epileptic. And the spirits, they possessed each and every one of the stink-pigs that milled about around the trufulla tree.
And outside the circle of demon-infested pigs, Joad and Alf returned with water. They stood, shocked and confused as the entire stink-pig gathering ran around and past them, like a wild river flowing around a solid rock. And the pigs tore at each other as they ran, some gashing at others with great bloody tusks. And in the maddened torrent, Santiago’s possessed body ran past Joad and Alf the Sacred Burro. Santiago screeched the same words as John, “Deah ym fo tuo teg. Deah ym fo tuo teg,” and tore thick clumps of hair from his head and face as he ran stumbling along with the stink-pigs.
The entire community of demon-infested swine ran away from El Camino de la Muerte and down a steep embankment, crashing and splashing into the river. Santiago ran with them and collapsed, facedown, into the river. His face remained in the water and his body struggled and thrashed. And then he calmed and gave up the ghost. The bedeviled pigs swam no better than Santiago. They tumbled down the embankment and into the river, kicked about, and drew water into their lungs until they were no more. The current of the river carried the stink-pigs away. And just before Santiago’s limp body caught the strong current, Joad rushed into the water and tossed dead and dying stink-pigs out of his way. He fished Santiago from the water and carried him back to the trufulla tree. He lay the madman’s corpse on the ground beside John and One-Eye.
Still unconscious, but no longer bewitched, John remained on the ground. The trauma floored him. He lay exhausted from the ordeal and did not regain consciousness. One-Eye also rested easier but still looked little better than a lunkhead. Joad saw that all were safe and then he collapsed under the trufulla tree. The combination of a deep sadness and three days and nights of sleep deprivation won over and Joad leaned his back against the trufulla tree. And though he only intended to rest his teary eyes momentarily, sleep crept up on him and temporarily rescued him from his grief.
By the time Joad awoke, John had already risen and dragged Santiago’s body off to the side of the red brick road. All alone on the side of the road, John dug a shallow grave and piled rocks on top of the corpse until Santiago’s final resting place was covered with a waist-high mound of small boulders and stones. John piled the rocks until he could find no more of them. He said, “This will save you from the buzzards, my friend, and leave you to become one with the land.” And that pile of rocks remains there to this day.
The heavy hand of Joad fell on John’s shoulder. He moved beside John at the grave and got down on his knees out of respect for Santiago. His head now at John’s level, Joad said in his deep rumble, “His return to the soil is peaceful. It is the flow of nature, an eternal decay and renewal. Accepting this brings enlightenment. Ignoring this brings misery.”
John said nothing. He stayed and knelt at the pile of stones with a bowed head. Alf the Sacred Burro approached, sat on his haunches, and heaved up a large bezoar at the head of the grave. Tears stained a streak on each side of his ratty donkey snout. And he brayed a sound of pure misery at the sky.
“Do not let it bring you down,” said Joad to John and Alf the Sacred Burro. “Since life and death are each other’s companions, why worry about them? All beings are one. He is not gone. He is in the rain and the dirt and the dire wolf that howls at night. He is in the fluff-cock that crows in the morning. He swims in the flow of the river of clouds and walks the path with us.”
“Yes,” agreed John. “He is one with us and one with all. I don’t grieve his loss because he is not lost.
He is here,” he patted his chest. “And here,” he pointed to his forehead. “And here,” he grabbed at his crotch. “He is not lost to me because he is me. He is in me.”
Alf the Sacred Burro brayed in agreement and coughed up another fuzzy donkey-ball. They all hung their heads in a moment of silence.
And while they marked the passing of Santiago, One-Eye awoke from his catatonic state and ran an all-out wild sprint, fleeing in blind fear from the trufulla tree. And he ran for miles in a straight line, miraculously not bumping into anything, until being intercepted by another desert scurve. One-Eye tried to keep running, but Three Tooth held tight onto the back of his buckskin jacket. The sight of the sickly scurve with one sewn-up eye and one empty socket drew a heavy tear from Three Tooth’s weepy eye. So Three Tooth invited the wreck of a man into his misfit tribe and One-Eye gladly accepted.
When John and Joad and Alf the Sacred Burro turned away from Santiago’s grave, they saw that One-Eye had left them. John scanned the land on both sides of the red brick road and did not see One-Eye anywhere. He said, “I hope that he’s alright. He has left the path and we can’t go searching for him.”
Joad said, “Every man has his own path that he must follow. It is not up to us to make that decision for him. The best we can do is hope that his path takes him to his destination.”
Alf blew a rancid donkey burp in agreement. And they decided it was time to move on. So they set their feet to a steady rhythm and walked the red brick road as it wound its way to the distant mountains. They allowed the flow of the path to wash them along. Alf stuck close to John’s side and Joad walked behind them, scanning the land for Lovethorn’s men and other perils. They did not talk because they didn’t feel like it. Mostly John either thought of Santiago or just shut his brain down and let his legs carry him forth. And though he missed Santiago, John did not feel a void where his friend should be. Instead, he felt that Santiago was with him. He felt an urge to eat and to fight and to fuck and he knew that that was a part of Santiago that he took on himself. The urges were something that he accepted and welcomed like an old friend.
And they walked for days, not encountering people or peril or problems. The sun warmed them and the cool water from the river refreshed them. Their supplies did not dwindle and their sleep did not suffer. As the flow of the path pushed them along, the snow-capped mountains seemed to creep their way.
“La Montaña Sagrada,” said Joad, sweeping his thick hand before him. “That is the name of the mountain directly before us. It is part of the LaSals range. It is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said John. He looked to the sky and saw that the river of clouds crashed into the side of the mountain and broke up into a spray of disorganized fog that rose and swirled in a giant vortex just above the snowy peak. “And I’m guessing that is where I’m supposed to end up.”
“It would seem that you are right,” said Joad. “It appears that is where your path leads.”
And they continued walking. La Montaña Sagrada loomed over them as they neared. As the red brick road sloped upward and the ascent became steeper, the land grew greener and fuller. Along the side of El Camino de la Muerte, enormous red poppies with plump black stigmas at the centers bloomed on woody stalks, their blossoms growing as large as John’s head. Among the poppies thrived other flowers of red and white and black. As they neared the base of La Montaña Sagrada, the poppies grew fuller and crowded out the other flowers. And the crimson carpet of flowers grew so thick that it completely covered the ground on both sides of the path. The sweet fragrance of the poppies filled the air and lightened the men’s steps. And as they pushed on, the meadow of red flowers crept over the path, obscuring the red bricks and slowing the men. John and Joad swept their feet across the ground, uprooting flowers to make sure they were still on the red brick road.
And then Alf the Sacred Burro stopped. He sniffed at an enormous poppy blossom and shivered with delight. He brayed a happy donkey sound that caught both John and Joad’s attention. And they turned to see Alf chewing a mouthful of red, velvety petals. In front of Alf stood a headless poppy stalk – the victim of his hunger. They watched as Alf chomped down on another blossom and swallowed all of it, except for the scraps the fell from the sides of his mouth.
“He really does like those flowers, doesn’t he?” said John.
“He does,” said Joad. “Perhaps the donkey is onto something.” Joad tore the bloom from a poppy and sniffed at it. His eyes glazed over and he pushed out a satisfied, low rumble of a grunt. He nibbled at the petals. The sweet and silky flavor of the flower filled his mouth and fed a hunger he did not even realize had existed.
John saw the delight that the flowers brought to both Joad and Alf the Sacred Burro. And a flood of childlike sayings flashed through his head. “Monkey see, monkey do,” said John, pulling a poppy bloom from its stem. He plucked off the top of the flower and laughed, saying, “Momma had a baby and its head popped off.” He crammed the poppy into his maw, and the taste of the flower was delicious and satisfying beyond all that he expected.
And a gluttonous frenzy of a poppy feast ensued. A cacoethes for the petals possessed them. Leaves and stalks and the occasional non-poppy flowers flew about in the air as they tore at the blossoms and crammed them in their mouths. And before they realized it, their stomachs were bloated and taut. The red from the petals stained their lips and faces, making John and Joad look as if they had baked in the sun too long. And the rouge from the flowers reddened Alf’s full donkey lips. John and Joad laughed loudly and too much at the foggy vision of the jackass with the sensuous lips. Sensing that he was becoming a spectacle, Alf lay himself on the poppy-covered red brick road and closed his eyes.
“I think the donkey has the right idea,” said Joad, plopping down to a sitting position on the road. “I am suddenly exhausted.” Before he could say more, the giant’s body slumped and he thumped over on his side, fast asleep and beyond reach.
John laughed a thick, drunken laugh at Joad and Alf. “What has become of you fellows?” he said. And he sat on the red brick road in front of his friends and laughed that they should be so tired. John held the stalk of a flower before him and gazed into its round, black center. And the flower’s center looked like a dead, blank eye staring at him. He bit at the flower petals and ruminated on them like a cow chewing its cud. Without realizing what had happened, John’s muscles turned to jelly and he found himself with one cheek pressed to El Camino de la Muerte. Alf’s tired old face confronted John. The donkey’s lips, covered with dirt and bits of chewed flowers, funneled off stinking donkey drool from his rotten old mouth. One glazed eye remained open and Alf breathed heavily. All muscle-control left John and he lay on his side, staring into the donkey’s blank eye and allowing himself to drift off. And the plump black button at the center of John’s poppy blinked at him just before he slept.
Android Lovethorn’s eyelids blinked over his dead black pupils. From his tower he looked down to the valley at the red swath of the poppy field. And though he was too far above to see it, he knew that John had fallen under the spell of the poppies. He knew that John would sleep long and deep and that when he awoke, he would be driven to eat more of the sleep-inducing flowers. And the cycle would continue and keep John close below in the valley, unconscious and harmless, where Lovethorn could draw on John’s power. Despite his attempts to keep John far away, Lovethorn now found that he liked having such power over him. He could feel the energy buzzing up from the valley, tickling at his feet and coursing all up through his body. And he laughed and stared down at the poppy field for hours before turning away. Once satisfied that John was locked in sleep down below, Lovethorn threw a handful of blood red poppy petals into the wind, and they blew down the mountain toward John and Joad and Alf the Sacred Burro.
And it was all a blur. John slept and he dreamed and he awoke. The hunger and the crushing headache gripped him with each waking and he crammed the flowers into his mouth to stop the pain. Joad and Al
f the Sacred Burro did the same. With faces full of poppies, and blurried vision, they stood and stumbled and dropped again to the ground like dopey baby birds failing miserably at flight. And each time they nodded, the vines grew all around them and the flowers flourished, completely obscuring the red brick road. They lay that way for twenty days and nights. As they lay comatose, the vines crawled around their arms and legs and bound them to the road to the extent that they no longer rose when they awoke. The vines did not allow it. They only allowed John and Joad and Alf the Sacred Burro to raise their heads and feed on sweet, full flowers. Above El Camino de la Muerte, the trail of clouds stalled during the day and the river of fire refused to move at night.
On the twentieth night of the stupor, John dreamt of Android Lovethorn. In his dream, John was chained to a post on the red brick road. And on the cross-bar of the post, coarse ropes bound his wrists so that he could only move at the expense of his own pain. His tongue was thick and his head heavy. He thought to himself that nothing seemed to change and the bad times all stayed the same. Android Lovethorn – dressed in his priestly collar and black leather pants, his eyes hidden behind the mirrored sunglasses – walked in circles around the post and laughed at John. Lovethorn ripped a poppy from the ground and with great violence crammed the flower into John’s mouth, bloodying his lips and loosening teeth. John’s numb tongue refused to cry out in rebellion and the sweet petals in his mouth blocked any protest. He chewed at the petals and swallowed the black juice that the flowers produced. And Lovethorn pulled off the sunglasses and revealed the rotting sockets where his eyes should have been. John’s revulsion at the sight humored Lovethorn. He put the glasses back on and puked out a sick laugh.
“What do you want from me?” asked John, red petals fluttering from his lips on a wave of sour breath. “Why do you torment me?”
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