He was only five.
Again, from across the single room of the dilapidated shack she had chosen for their home: “Momma, I’m scared.” A sniffle. “They’re comin’ … ain’t they, Momma? Them bad men are comin’ for us.”
In the dim light of the room she could barely see more than the whites of little Cecil’s big brown eyes. His Papa’s eyes.
She swallowed loudly, fidgeted with the bottom of her ragged dress.
“Yeah, honey,” she finally whispered, her voice like silk. “They’re comin’. But don’t you worry none, baby … I ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to you.”
In the quiet of the night, she could hear his stomach growl. It broke her heart.
“I don’t understand why they hate us so bad, Momma,” he intoned with that knowledge far beyond his years that always made her so proud. “We ain’t never hurt nobody.”
“No, honey,” she replied, a bit ambiguously. “Not us.”
He scooted closer to her in the dark, the bark of his rotten chair sounding a bit too loud on the hardwood floor below. She flinched, but did not scold him.
Off in the distance, past the chorus of crickets just beginning their nocturnal songs outside, she could hear them coming. Closer.
The bad men.
And a few women, too.
With their torches. Their crosses. Their off-white hoods and cloaks to hide their hideous bigot faces.
She fidgeted in her seat, balled her slender hands into fists. She wondered if these were the same men who had killed Uncle Virgil and Aunt Emma only last week. Or maybe those whose burning cross had spread from Cousin Reese’s lawn into the new house he had worked so hard to build …
Reese and his wife and precious baby Sarah … a mixing of the races their side had deemed “unholy.”
Self-righteous bastards. She gnashed her teeth, swore she’d see them all in Hell.
She sometimes wondered if they didn’t realize they had lost the ‘War! Or perhaps they did know, they just refused to acknowledge the fact.
“Payback tiiiiiime!” that one hillbilly with the birthmark on his face and the Confederate Flag on his cap and the rotgut rye on his breath had cackled so evilly as he slaughtered little Cecil’s poor Papa.
(“STRING ‘IM UP!!!”)
She remembered it as if it had happened only yesterday––though Cecil was merely a toddler then––remembered that vile, laughing man with his redneck war cries and his misguided views of “the Lord’s Work.”
“I kin hear ‘em, Momma,” Cecil said now, and suddenly he was in her arms. She exhaled sharply beneath his weight, could feel his tears upon her bosom and his frantic, tribal heartbeat beating in synch with her own.
“They’re gettin’ closer,” he said. “Shouldn’t we go now, Momma?”
She held him tight––a bit too tight, perhaps, but then he didn’t seem to mind––as she watched the sun complete its fiery descent beyond the Great Smokey Mountains.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Any minute now.”
He didn’t argue. He never did. Little Cecil knew the routine.
The night grew darker. The chill grew bolder. And the voice of the mob grew louder. Across the valley she could already see the angry glow of their burning crosses, their torches … she could even make out specific words and phrases now as they gradually drew closer and closer.
Racial slurs. Epithets. Cruel, cruel names they had chosen long ago for her people.
Words that hurt even more than the Clan’s cheap array of weapons.
Weapons like …
Crucifixes. Plundered from local churches, or more often than not just two crooked oak branches nailed together in haste.
Garlic. Grown in abundance in their own sloppy gardens behind white trash trailers and shanties.
Holy water. Blessed by a priest who sometimes traveled with them, carried in flasks made from the bellies of their prey.
She took a deep breath now, wiped her eyes.
“You ready, honey?” she said at last, so pretty in the wash of the moon through the window.
He looked up at her, nodded but said nothing. My, how he loved his Momma.
She stood. He stood. Their eyes locked.
Cecil smiled.
And then the Change began.
Leathery bat-wings burst forth from olive flesh; bodies became furry and small. A bit of pain, but not too much, as bones popped and snapped and shrank. As teeth grew to curved razor-fangs and the frightened voices of mother and son––the hunted––transformed into the high-pitched squeals of night hunters. They took to the air as one, two soaring silhouettes against the night’s full moon, one considerably larger than the other but both with the same burning crimson eyes.
Searching eyes … hungry eyes.
The eyes of monsters, some would say. Goddamned fang-heads who didn’t deserve to live, who oughta just go back where they came from.
And so they did, mother and son. They left that place.
But first there was the matter of finding food, sustenance.
Then a new place to stay before dawn.
Banalica
MICHAEL LAIMO
I remember the very first time Juan-Carlos and I made acquaintance nearly fifteen years ago, when the mission first broke ground in Haslet, south of Baja. Father Sandi, head chaplain at my current post at St. Aquinas of Mercy, informed me of my transfer to oversee the final stages of growth at the new mission, Our Lady of Hacel.
Our Lady of Hacel was a modest tabernacle, erected in most proper fashion at the center of the quaint southern township, and I had been elected to assume all oversight of the sect. I believe the good Lord had been looking over me that day, granting my lifelong wishes to become a father of community. It had been perhaps the most glorious day in my career.
Juan-Carlos was the first to approach me the day I set foot in the new church. I remember the event so clearly, the gleam of the freshly polished pews reflecting the yellowish light from above onto his cloth-draped shoulders as I quietly paced down the center aisle––my aisle––for the very first time. He smiled and approached me with great open arms, and I had felt so dearly welcome at this start of my days at Hacel.
From that point on Juan-Carlos played a very special role in my life. Every day for fifteen years, through sickness and all, he made certain to welcome my entrance into the anteroom prior to mass, cloaking my neck with blessed rosaries, kissing the cross before draping them, crossing himself upon completion of the light ritual. He hadn’t missed a day in fifteen years, had always been there for me, a true inspiration, and I in turn had become dependent to his waiting pretense as if God Himself had placed him there as a gift to ensure a cloak of sanctuary.
How badly his unanticipated absence one day then tore my soul to shreds, and I experienced great difficulty proceeding through the service that followed, my hands trembling so badly that it became an anguish to simply place the host upon the tongues of the worshipers.
Following what was perhaps my least inspired performance, I unexpectedly located him as I entered my quarters. “Miguel,” he greeted me, his voice solemn, preoccupied. I turned and found him seated at the chair I kept alongside my only window, the same chair I sit in daily to contemplate the possible evils in the world and how I might stifle their influence upon the faithful people. He gazed into the wooded area just beyond the quartered panes of glass, and I knew at that moment, a voice in my mind told me, that Juan-Carlos would be leaving the mission.
“What does the sun tell you today, Juan-Carlos?” As a philosopher, he gazed often into the day and night skies seeking logic in the exertions of the world. When speaking of the world, he never offered to reveal his travails even though I knew his principles at times suffered from great misunderstandings.
He placed his fingertips upon the glass. “El Sol … ” he said, his breath fraught with fear, a patch of condensation forming upon a single pane. “He is wearied, but continues to struggle.” I walked to the window and peered
out. The sun was strong and vibrant, the woods bright and glorious. In this proximity, I looked for the first time into Juan-Carlos’ face and saw tears streaming down his cheeks.
I knew not what troubled him, and dared not ask, allowing the brave man to work out his inner evils on his own. A confession I never solicited, only accepted if offered, and this day Juan-Carlos did not seek my counsel. He left not an hour later, placing the rosary around my neck and kissing me on my cheek before hoisting a single bag around his shoulder and departing on foot.
The mystery of his sudden departure ate at me for weeks. My confidence as a man of the cloth waned, and I wondered with great sadness how I had failed my best friend. I held his picture close to my heart at night in prayer for an answer to his deciding to leave––with great dismay I pondered the possibility of him deciding to leave the church altogether; the thought of which tore me to shreds. However, somewhere deep inside my soul I felt this to be an unlikelihood.
Yes I realize that I, as a holy man, see the world through much different eyes than most––eyes filled with an unbalanced mix of uncertainty and optimism. The world holds many different types of people, those that love me, those that hate me, all those including myself fragile human beings with no true understanding of life as it should be understood. We breathe, eat, love, hate, desire, and we act out on our feelings in effort to appease the hankerings in our souls and the word of God.
This, I truly believed, is what Juan-Carlos had done.
St. Hugh of Lincoln in Taos fifty miles north of here acknowledged my petition and graciously initiated the transfer of a deacon by the name of Tomas. Tomas arrived six days later and briefly announced his presence at my parsonage, desiring a rest before attending confessional in the afternoon. I placed him in Juan-Carlos’ empty residence. In doing this I perhaps resigned myself to the fact that Juan-Carlos would not be returning after all, even though I knew in my heart that the moment he left, his presence would never grace my church again.
Less than an hour later, Tomas returned to my door, his knocks urgent, almost burning. Although I had no acquaintance of the man and his traits, I knew that something was amiss.
“Yes Tomas? What ails you?” His face carried beads of sweat, his features drawn downward in a mask of consternation. He looked much different than the man occupying my room just a short while earlier.
He paced the room in circles, shaking his head, and I wondered for a moment if Tomas was burdened with personal troubles that I had not been made aware of. “I … I found something in the rectory.”
My heart pressed against my ribcage with apprehension for whatever secret he had suddenly unearthed in Juan-Carlos’ quarters perhaps held an indication to his hasty departure. I guided Tomas to my chair, the one by the window, and asked him to sit, in which he did, however tentatively. I kneeled alongside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was hot and damp, rigid with tension. It was then that he reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a sheet of yellowed parchment. I unfolded it and viewed a handwritten note penned in nervously shaken script. It had been addressed to Juan-Carlos:
Dear Juan-Carlos:
It is with great hesitation and trepidation that I must contact you, but I foresee no other option at this time. God’s grace has never failed to shroud you, and it is now that I must plead for your endowed blessings. Please hear my words, accepting them as truth and nothing else, for you are my only prayer.
Banalica has succumbed to a great evil, and those unfortunate enough to have crossed its path have perished. Our crude fight, albeit a courageous one, has proved to be futile, and we now hide from its unrelenting grasp, relying on faith alone to deliver us from sure and certain death. I dare not reveal the true source of this evil that has invaded our tiny villa for fear that you will translate these messy writings as the ramblings of a madman. But I assure you I have not surrendered to any disease, be it mentally or bodily. We, the people of Banalica, are dwindling, and your empowerment of God is our only last hope, dear brother. Many have fled Banalica’s domain (with success I can not answer), many have perished, and those beyond the perimeter of evil have remained at a distance, for any man without the dignity of the Lord’s blessings would dare not step foot in this town again.
Please dear brother, return to Banalica and aid us in our battle against this evil.
And brother, this is my third attempt in reaching you. I will try five times, at which time if I do not hear from you I will assume the worst has happened.
Your brother,
Roberto
I read the letter twice, leaning upon the deacon’s shoulder for support. I felt hit hard, and I could not fathom what this terrible evil could be. Evil rears its ugly head in many forms, in many potential menaces, plague, famine, disease, the list runs endlessly. Yet it still delivers an aftermath that affects all in its path with a similar burden: death.
A bitter tear ran from my eye, a lump of indignation forming in my throat. Juan-Carlos should have shared this plea from his brother with me! He should have beseeched my support! Now to sit here mute and speculate on the situation would be time and energy wasted. I would have to join my friend in his plight to extinguish this possible bane in order to appease my soul.
I would have to go to Banalica.
* * *
I waited until the following morning before leaving Haslet, as I knew the journey to Banalica would take much of the day and I wished not to arrive by moonlight. I traveled south for nearly three hours on a bus crowded with locals. The ride seemed agonizingly long, spent in sweat, and I read Roberto’s letter over and over again to pass the time. I listened to the starving babies aboard wailing for their mothers’ milk, swatted mosquitoes and flies, and watched the remaining passengers shake along in their tattered clothes and ripeness. When my stop finally arrived, the joints in my legs cracked and popped as I stood to depart the bus in the town of Cocina.
Cocina’s streets bustled, the center of trade for the inland villas. It sat beneath the boiling sun upon a stretch of land that ran for nearly three miles along the coast. The entire length had been built up greatly over the years, incorporating nearly every provisional trade imaginable. I had visited here on other occasions, so the scene was familiar: piers jutting out into the waters, fishing vessels unloading their catches for the day. Chickens frenzied in their coops awaiting fate, squawking in the neck-grips of their purchasers. Side-street vendors peddling their fruits and vegetables for a few coins to purchase drinking water or a few pounds of meat. And now and then, a car would race by, a wooden wagon in tow, clouds of dust spraying up from the wheels in whorling clouds, coming to rest on the dirty children playing in the streets.
It was here in Cocina that I hoped to find transportation to Banalica.
I immediately gathered that the presence of a holy man here in Cocina was a rarity, given the stares I elicited from most of those whose paths I crossed. I smiled periodically, nodding and moving for ten minutes through the marketplace until I locked gazes with a black man who leaned against a car that looked as if it had been left to die in the street.
“Good day,” I said approaching him.
He offered a curt nod, nothing else. Sweat ran from his pores in rivulets.
I wasted no time. “Can you supply me with transportation? I will pay handsomely.”
He grinned, exposing a mouth of empty spaces and brown rotting teeth that jutted from his gums like tree stumps. His gums bled red, a sharp contrast to his wet purple-black skin. “To Banalica?” he asked, eyebrows raised in question.
I felt a sharp twist of discomfort in my gut, and I remembered what Roberto had said in his letter, that those beyond the perimeter of evil had remained at a distance, that any man without the dignity of the Lord’s blessings would dare not step foot in the town. I at once assumed that this man knew something of the evil Roberto wrote of.
“How is it that you know where I wish to go?” I asked him.
He folded his arms in a defensive posture
, as if I carried a disease. “Many men of the cloth have traveled from great distances to go to Banalica. But none have returned. Only one padre remains in our house of God, and he has learned a valuable lesson from the padres that have tried to rescue those rumored to still be untouched in the villa. Banalica is an evil place, and those who enter bow down to the devil, never to return.”
He remained silent after that, closing his eyes in thought. I was trying to make sense of his statements when he said, “I will take you to within two miles of the villa. From there you can follow the road into town. It will cost you.”
We agreed on a price and rode in silence. The ride was long and the old vehicle did not handle the rough terrain very well. It shook along harshly, and I felt pains in my buttocks. I wanted dearly to solicit information from the black man, but he remained in prayer for the entire journey, lips trembling, undecipherable mumblings escaping his lips. Between his palm and the steering wheel a rosary dangled, half its beads missing. In my pocket I gripped Roberto’s’ letter, the sweat from my hand dampening the stale parchment. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but thoughts of evil kept my mind and body at bay.
* * *
We arrived two hours later at a nondescript spot where the brush grew thickly at roadside and the jungle towered just beyond its perimeter.
The man continued to pray, shaking presumably with great fear, and I hesitated speaking to him for fear of interrupting his invocations. But I had no choice, as the day was getting late and I needed to move on.
“Where do I go from here?” I gently asked.
He quieted, quite abruptly in fact, then said, “Straight ahead, about a mile and a half, this path will lead you into town. You must go now.” Not once had he looked at me throughout our journey, and he continued to lead his gaze away even in this conversation. I paid him and exited the car saying thank you, but received no acknowledgement. The car hastily kicked dirt up in my face as it turned around and sped back towards Cocina. I watched the car until it disappeared from my sights, then turned and began my walk to Banalica.
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