Summer's End

by Lisa Morton

  And they began to notice me.

  I wasn’t sure when the first pair of faint eyes locked with mine, but I knew that they followed me as I walked by. More began to track me. A small, wizened woman in a shawl stretched out a veined arm as I passed.

  I realized it was night now, and that was why they had changed, become slightly more substantial. I still felt no menace from them, but I did wonder how it was possible that night had settled in at the cemetery and I hadn’t been asked to leave. Didn’t they lock up graveyards at night? Wouldn’t they have at least noticed my car, even if they’d somehow missed me?

  I considered trying to find my car, seeing if I could leave, but I still didn’t have what I’d come for. I’d walked out now from beneath the oak tree, and thought perhaps I should return to it.

  Somehow I’d lost my bearings, and everything looked different in the gloom of night. Was that my tree ahead…or was it that silhouette against the sky behind me? The figures around me now were almost all Asian, some dressed in obsolete robes, and some in the loose-fitting clothing of nineteenth-century railroad workers. I also saw westerners here and there, but they didn’t look like those I’d passed in other areas of Evergreen; these people were noticeably poor, with gaunt frames and threadbare garments of another age.

  Potter’s Field.

  I remembered something I’d read about Evergreen: That it had once housed L.A. county’s Potter’s Field, where those too impoverished or just too forgotten to be buried elsewhere had been interred. But it wasn’t just the transients and addicts and outlaws who rested there. Back in the nineteenth century, L.A.’s ruling whites had refused to integrate Chinese into their graveyards, and had charged the immigrants to be buried with the indigents. Now their spirits stood side by side, taking no notice of each other, proving that intolerance died with living skin.

  A colder breeze caused me to tremble, but it wasn’t just the temperature—that wind was tinged with something else, the mental equivalent of the smell of rotting meat. Then I saw the spirits being pushed aside by some greater mass. Something was flowing up out of the ground of the Potter’s Field, something that was far blacker than the night sky. Even the dead were distressed now: I saw mouths open in soundless horror, hands upraised to ward off whatever it was that came.

  What the fuck was I seeing? I ran down possibilities: An unidentified murderer or rapist who’d been interred in the Potter’s Field, an accumulation of the misery the poor had suffered while alive, before the answer came: Surely this could only be Bal-sab. The black cloud was exactly what Mongfind had described, and a sense of immense hunger radiated from the heart of the thing. I turned to run, with no clear direction except away from it. My legs moved as if in a dream, they pumped furiously, my heart hammered, but my forward momentum was slow. Perhaps running through ghosts dragged on me, or Bal-sab had the power to pull me towards him.

  I knew he would be on me in seconds; reason was replaced by the flight impulse. There was something mixed with Bal-sab’s palpable hunger: he emanated glee at my panic, and I knew that if he caught me, he would toy with me, torture me, linger over every shriek and shiver, and it wouldn’t end with my physical death. My suffering would make the pathetic souls of the Potter’s Field seem blessed by comparison.

  This was why the Druids had protected themselves before calling on him.

  I could feel him closer behind me. My feet caught on headstones and tiny hills in the grass; I stumbled, but didn’t go down. If I fell, it would be my final act.

  Then, among the shades before me, I saw a woman who possessed more color than the rest. She faced me, fearless; she wore a sort of frock dress, and held something in one hand. I instinctively ran towards her, and she didn’t falter as she turned her attention to my pursuer. She raised her hand, which I saw held a narrow rod, and she pointed it at the Death that came for me.

  There was no sound or explosion of light, but the sensation of nightmarish pursuit vanished immediately. I knew without question that she’d somehow driven Bal-sab back, with only a gesture. I envied that confidence and power, regardless of the fact that she’d been dead for at least a century.

  I walked towards her, full of questions, but when I opened my mouth I couldn’t seem to speak. Who are you? How did you do that? Can you teach me? Are you a Druid?

  She smiled as I approached, and held out her hand…no, not her hand, but the length of wood in it.

  The wand.

  At first I thought she meant to cast some sort of enchantment on me – a protection, perhaps – but then I realized her true intent: She wanted me to take the wand. I held up my own hand, looked at her tentatively, and she nodded. I reached out, wrapped my fingers around the slender length of wood—And woke up.

  October 31

  Morning

  The sun was in my eyes, I was stiff and cold, and damp from morning dew.

  I was still in the cemetery, where I’d apparently spent the night. That shouldn’t have been possible…yet, as I sat up and looked around me at the headstones, the morning joggers, my great tree…it had happened.

  The fingers of my right hand were tight. I flexed them, and something dropped from my grasp. I retrieved it.

  It was the wand: A foot-long section of oak, twisted in a perfect spiral shape, with a neat nob at one end and a tapering point at the other. It was possible that it had fallen from the tree above me naturally-the wood felt slightly rough, and there was a slight center bend to it–but I recognized it without question:

  It was the tool that my savior used during the night to drive Bal-sab back.

  I didn’t even ask myself if it had really happened or if I’d merely dreamed it. At this point, the answer didn’t really matter.

  I was relieved to find my car where I’d left it, and the gates to the cemetery were open. I drove out without seeing a caretaker or guard.

  It was 7:33 as I left Evergreen, the morning of Halloween. The day was clear and already warm, with just a trace of L.A.’s perpetual smog blanket. I was surprised to find that I wasn’t tired or aching from my night on the ground. In fact, I felt…well, I can only call it hyper-aware. I saw every detail as I drove towards the 5 freeway: Every yard of cracked asphalt, every scrap of trash, every used hypodermic needle or empty bottle, every man who staggered along the sidewalk too young to have dead eyes, every woman who carried a jar of Vaseline in a cheap purse and looked for her next trick, every kid whose heart hardened a little as he saw the bullies coming and wanted to join them.

  At first I was glad to leave the city streets behind and ascend to the freeway that ran above the urban hell, but the morning rush-hour traffic was in full force and presented its own grim scenes: A woman on the shoulder, staring with grim desperation at her broken-down car; a man in a Lexus with a perfect haircut shrieking into a Bluetooth so loudly that I could hear him across two lanes of idling cars; honking horns, blaring ranchera music fighting discordant rock, a helicopter beating the air overhead.

  This world was mad.

  Two thousand years had led to this. It seemed ridiculous to think any of it could be reversed. The everyday difficulties of life, small and large, are too interconnected; severing one link can’t destroy the chain. But if part of the chain can be weakened, then maybe we can begin the act of freeing ourselves. Isn’t that why we vote, why we volunteer, why we donate?

  What part of the chain would break if an ancient death god were appeased?

  An hour later, I finally reached home. Roxie meowed unhappily at me, understandably upset over missing dinner last night, but even her irritated, shrill little cries lightened my mood. The world couldn’t be so bad when different species could live together, with joys, upsets, and experiences shared, and those rare times when simply nothing happened except each other.

  I fed Roxie, then she settled in at my feet, purring and grooming herself, as I checked e-mail. There was the message from Conor, with directions; he’d provided a map of the location where we were to meet. It was forty minutes
or so to the west, but I’d be joining the going-home traffic and so doubled the time. I’d need to leave here at around 3:30, then.

  I had six hours to prepare.

  And no idea what “preparation” should be.

  October 31

  I spent part of the day apologizing. I’d missed two interviews, one last night and one this morning. I’d disappointed a New Jersey radio station and a Boston newspaper. And my publisher.

  I called Ricky, but he only had a few minutes between takes. I lied, and told him everything was fine.

  I studied the Samhain ritual in the journal. We’d begin with a prayer to the gods, we’d sanctify our space, we’d offer an animal in sacrifice, and then…I had no idea how Conor expected us to create the triple-death that the Celts had employed, the simultaneous strangling/stabbing/drowning, unless we were breaking into the backyard of someone who had both an oak grove and a swimming pool. Southern California isn’t exactly known for its bogs and bodies of water.

  Of course here I was considering participating in a murder, and I was more concerned with the method than the act.

  I left early. I couldn’t stay in the apartment anymore, thinking about what was to come. I took the wand and the netbook that had Mongfind’s manuscript. Conor said he’d have everything else.

  An hour later, I’d driven into the hills, down a road marked for construction, but which was still surrounded by undeveloped land. I parked, and hiked a short trail to the spot Conor had indicated. I had to admit that he’d chosen perfectly: The area was hidden in a slight depression, was surrounded on all sides by gorgeous old oak trees, and would be a lovely area to kill someone in.

  I had to stop thinking that way.

  Sacrifice has been practiced by cultures throughout history and around the world. Among the Celts, it had been considered a great honor to be chosen; those who were, accepted death willingly to ensure the prosperity of their clan.

  This was the right thing to do.

  But no matter how many times I repeated that to myself, it still felt like a lie.

  I spent an hour there, trying to enjoy the sun, wondering if it would rise again tomorrow, watching a small brown lizard scuttle up the trunk of a tree, before ó Cuinn arrived. I heard an engine, and was surprised to see a rented four-wheel-drive SUV come bouncing up to the edge of the grove. Conor parked and got out.

  “Ah, good—you’re already here.” He moved around to the rear of the SUV, opened it up, and revealed a cage holding a small goat. There was also a metal tub, a five-gallon bottle of water, and a duffel bag. Aside from the goat—a little gray-and-white kid who kept squalling piteously—he was alone, although I couldn’t tell if there was someone else in the SUV.

  “Aren’t you…missing something?”

  He nodded towards the front of the car. “I told our special guest to wait until I called for him. I thought that might be easier on you.”

  I started to walk toward the SUV to look in, but realized Conor was actually right about that. “Yes, it probably will be.” The kid pressed its little face against the wire mesh of the cage and bleated at me. “A goat? Doesn’t Mongfind mention sheep?”

  Conor shrugged. “There aren’t a lot of sheep in the L.A. area. The goat was hard enough to find. I don’t think it much matters exactly what species the animal is.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  He set the tub in the middle of the grove, opened the five-gallon container, and poured the water into the tub. “Ahh,” I said, watching him, “so that’s how you plan to satisfy the drowning requirement.”

  “Yes. Again, when in L.A., like a good actor you learn to improvise. What about you—did you have any luck with the wand?”

  I showed him my find, and his eyes narrowed as he examined it. “Where did you get it?”

  “A cemetery, just east of downtown.”

  “You just found it there?”

  “Well…not exactly…it was given to me in a dream, by a woman. I still had it when I woke up.”

  “A woman in a dream?”

  I nodded. “Yes, but not Mongfind, or the Morrigan, if that’s what you’re thinking. From her dress, I’d guess this woman had lived about a hundred years ago, and I’m assuming she lived in L.A., since her grave is here.”

  Conor touched one finger lightly to the wand, held it there for a second, as if somehow gauging it, and then pulled his hand away. “She must have been a powerful wise woman. A witch, I guess you’d say.”

  I remembered how easily she’d repelled Bal-sab. “Yes, she was quite powerful.”

  “And now,” he said, moving his eyes from the wand to my face, “so are you.”

  If he’d meant to flatter me with that, it didn’t work. All he succeeded in doing was making me uncomfortable again; although I certainly had no objections to accruing power in some areas, magic I hadn’t even believed in a week ago wasn’t one of them. “Any power I have is…an accident.”

  “No. Not an accident. Call it what you like—destiny, fate, luck—but I believe that you were born for this night, just as I was. Most people go through life wondering if they have a real purpose; well, yours and mine is to set history back on its proper track. Tonight.”

  No, I wanted to say to him, I’m a writer. That’s my purpose. Not this. But I wasn’t interested in arguing with Conor ó Cuinn, so I kept quiet.

  Overhead, the sky had started to dim, the blue taking on the deeper, almost metallic shade of approaching dusk in autumn. The sun was dipping below the hill that defined the west side of the grove, and Conor turned his attention to the duffel bag. “We need to move quickly. It’s almost time to begin.”

  He handed me what at first looked like a white sheet. “Put that on.” I shook it out, and realized it was a simple robe, fashioned from bed linen, probably by Conor himself. I pulled it over my head, and he handed me a large sash I used to belt it. He’d even picked up three cheap lanterns that he now lit and set on the ground.

  He put his own robe on, handed me a printed out version of the ritual, picked up his own copy…

  We began.

  Samhain

  I won’t give you the details here of the first part of what we did. It was hard not to giggle through some of it, although I thought of Bal-sab as we created the protective circle and any derisive laughter died in my throat. I’m not proud of my part in killing the goat. The poor little animal kicked and cried and shook, and even though its life ended quickly, it seemed like hours for me. Somehow assisting Conor with the sacrifice of the goat affected me far more than sharing a murder with the Morrigan had. I grew up with a hunter and tried to imagine this as no more than cleaning fish with dad, or watching him dress a deer; but I thought even my father would have a difficult time with a small, howling goat.

  Conor, however, seemed to have no such compunctions. He performed his part of the ritual with clenched-jaw efficiency. I wondered if he’d done it before.

  The goat’s body, head submerged in the tub of water, had just ceased trembling when the air in the grove changed. The sky, still a faint shade of purple, abruptly darkened; the temperature dropped, my skin goose-pimpled.

  Conor’s steel melted. He looked up, eyes widening. “My God…” he breathed.

  Yours, maybe. Not mine.

  Bal-sab had arrived.

  I went over the protection spell in my mind, hoping we’d done it right. The Lord of Death’s unrelenting appetite would easily take us if we hadn’t. We waited a few seconds, breathless—but the circle held. Bal-sab would be taking only what we offered.

  “Let’s finish this,” I said to ó Cuinn.

  His attention snapped back to me, and for a minute I saw him sag. After the way he’d dispatched the goat, I expected the next sacrifice to be easy for him. He didn’t move, but only gazed towards the SUV.

  “Conor…?”

  Without a word, then, he trudged off to the parked SUV, opened the middle door, and reached in.

  When I saw our intended victim, I understood
his hesitation. My own resolution, which I’d spent the day—days—trying to build up vanished instantly.

  “Your son…?”

  Because it was a five-year-old boy he’d brought out of the SUV. The little boy—Alec, I remembered—looked like Conor, but like the Conor I’d seen in the photograph on his desk: Younger, fuller, happier. The boy still clutched some sort of little talking stuffed animal in one hand. He seemed small even for five.

  Five.

  “No,” I said.

  Conor clutched his son’s hand in fingers still stained with goat’s blood. At least his voice broke when he said, “We have to.”

  “No. This isn’t what we talked about.”

  “It has to be an…extraordinary offering. We’re trying to correct two thousand years of mistakes with one night.”

  I felt Bal-sab roil with anticipation above me. I felt the Morrigan’s lingering presence within me, telling me Conor was right. This would work.

  “Daddy?” said Alec, his accent thick even in two simple syllables. He looked up at his father with love and confusion.

  I tore off the robe.

  “What are you doing?” Conor released his son and started towards me.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t. I can’t finish it alone. The ritual requires both of us.”

  I’d nearly reached the edge of the circle then. “I know. That’s why I’m leaving.”

  “You won’t be safe once you step out of that circle.”

  I knew that, too. And I’m ashamed to admit that I’m enough of a coward that I stopped. For a second. Long enough to say, “None of us are.”

  Then I stepped past the lines we’d drawn and walked out into the night.

  I expected Bal-sab to engulf me. The last thing I’d feel would be agony, or intense cold, or the breath of eternal suffering.

  Instead there was nothing. As soon as I was out from beneath the oaks, the sky returned to normal, I heard the distant sounds of freeways, saw the glow of the valley to the east…

  And knew that I’d just damned the world.

  Halloween