Deep Blue

by David Niall Wilson

  The room was silent for a moment, except for Brandt. He was playing gently, notes dancing in and around one another. It was a song of the hills, wild, and slow at the same time. Everyone sat back and listened until the notes faded.

  Liz turned to watch, curling closer to Shaver. She couldn’t recall if Brandt had been playing the whole time she’d spoken. As the notes faded, she whispered, “I had to go. I had to know the truth.”

  “And what did you find?” Synthia asked. “Did you find your grandfather? What did you do?”

  Liz let her head drop to Shaver’s shoulder.

  “He found me.”

  The world grew darker as Elizabeth stepped from sunlight to shadow. She had never been far into the woods alone. She and her father had gone there many times, chasing butterflies, hunting nuts and berries, fishing in the stream that came down from the mountain a few hundred yards in.

  Elizabeth had never been forbidden to enter them alone; the rule had been an unspoken understanding. When you walked beneath that wide canopy of trees, things began to look the same in every direction. Familiar landmarks repeated themselves on opposite sides of clearings.

  Elizabeth kept these lessons in the front of her mind. She was careful. She always listened when her father spoke, and this was one time it came in handy. She took sticks as she walked and propped them up, using the fork of one to point the tip of another, marking her trail. She didn’t know where she was going, but common sense told her if he lived in the woods, he had to live near the stream. Logic also told her that if she followed that stream, and marked the place where she started well, she would be less likely to get lost.

  It wasn’t as dark beside the stream. The trees stretched upward on either side, but that one strip of land was open to the sun and sky. It made her feel a little safer, but still she clutched her arms tightly around her as she walked. She wished her father was there, walking at her side, pointing out the different flowers and trees. She wished her mother was there to sing with her. Elizabeth’s voice was thin, and not very loud in the huge expanse of trees, backed up by the rushing of the small stream, and the bright, shrill voices of birds. Still, she sang. Songs from the church. Songs she loved, that she’d shared with her mother as she drifted off to sleep, or as the two of them worked in the kitchen.

  She didn’t let the image of her mother’s face, turning away from her father, intrude on that moment, or on the song. She sang, and she watched the trees, thinking of baking bread, and sewing her first apron, of bright smiles and stories read by the light of her bed-lamp. She saw nothing but trees and more trees, but she didn’t let it deter her. The sun was still high in the sky, and she was determined not to return without answers.

  The stream bed wound up the side of the mountain, and Elizabeth followed its banks at a slow, steady pace. She had no idea how long she’d walked or how far. The sun had begun to dip on the horizon, and the shadows were lengthening. She knew she’d have to turn back soon, or there was no way she’d find her mark, or her way.

  She also knew her parents would be looking for her soon. That thought was comforting, but at the same time it lent an urgency to her search. Her grandfather’s eyes haunted her, until each glance at the line of trees beside her, and the matching line across the stream, seemed lined with those eyes. It was this illusion that nearly caused her to miss them when they appeared.

  He was leaning out from behind the trunk of one of the larger trees, watching her as she nearly passed him by. Elizabeth caught sight of him in the periphery of her vision and stopped, uncertain she’d seen anything at all. He stood as still as one of the trees, his arms wrapped around the trunk of one, cheek leaning against the bark and his head tilted quizzically, watching her.

  Elizabeth turned slowly. She met his gaze and stood there, very still, watching him. She wanted that moment etched in her memory. He might believe as her parents. He might run if she moved toward him, and she wanted at least the memory of being close to him to stick with her. There was no indication that he would move, so she took a tentative step forward, and then another. Elizabeth’s heart pounded, but she couldn’t stop now. Her steps grew more and more hurried, and before she knew she would do it, she was running to his arms.

  He didn’t move. He watched her, an expression lost between amazement and reverence etched across every inch of his face. The image of Elizabeth’s father imposed itself over his, and she closed her eyes, dropping into her grandfather’s arms. He held her carefully, as if afraid she were fragile, that he’d break her or hurt her, or touch somewhere inappropriate. Elizabeth had never been held so lightly, or so completely.

  “Why didn’t you come to see me?” she asked, not looking up. “Why didn’t I know you existed?”

  There was no answer. A slight increase in pressure told her he understood, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t get the chance. There was a crashing in the brush. Her father’s voice, loud, hoarse, broke the silence and for one moment, Elizabeth felt her grandfather freeze, gripping her shoulders a bit tighter, his head lifting.

  “No,” she said. “Don’t go. Please. I want to . . .”

  Nothing. She gripped nothing. He was gone that quickly, gray hair whipping over his shoulders, flitting from shadow to shadow, lost to her sight as quickly as he’d appeared. Elizabeth reached out, taking a step, then another, trying to follow. Her voice rose now, echoing through the trees.

  “No! Come back. Don’t go, don’t go!”

  Her words echoed emptily, and moments later, strong arms circled her from behind, scooping her from the ground and into a bear-like hug, scented by her father’s tobacco and cologne. Elizabeth struggled for a moment, trying to slip off into those shadows, trying to follow. She got a final glimpse: wide, bright eyes gazing at her, then slipping behind a tree and gone.

  “Elizabeth,” her father breathed hoarsely, tightening his hug. “God, why did you come here, why?” He was shaking, and though his hug was tight enough to make her squirm uncomfortably, Elizabeth felt the anguish in his voice.

  She leaned her head on his shoulder and whispered, “Why did he run, Daddy? I want to know him. Why did he run?”

  Her father only rocked her quietly, his own breath heavy from chasing her through the forest. When he found his voice, he ignored the question, turning toward the stream and starting the long walk home, not making a move yet to let her down to her feet.

  “I love you,” he said simply. “Come home.”

  Liz grew silent, and they all held their breath, expectant. Disappointed. She did not continue, only laid her head quietly on Shaver’s shoulder. He felt her sobbing gently, and drew her closer, leaning so his cheek rested softly on her hair. The silence unfolded slowly, washing over them and quickly driving Dexter past his limits. Only the soft notes of Brandt’s guitar trickled over them, and without the story to back him up, he only contributed to that emptiness.

  “What happened?” he asked. His voice wasn’t as soft as it might have been, his words were a bit too quick. The others glared at him, but Liz didn’t move.

  Shaver drew her closer. “Not now, Dex,” he said.

  Dexter blinked, as though just waking up from a long dream. His face flickered from curious to anxious. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Just . . . Jesus. Just want to know.”

  “We all want to know,” Synthia said, “but it can wait. I don’t know about the rest of you, but my body doesn’t function without food. When was the last time we ate?”

  Brandt glanced up from where he’d been watching his fingers flicker over the strings of his guitar. He stilled the sound, completing the silence. Then, leaning the guitar against the wall, he moved to the couch, crouching down before Liz and Shaver. He touched her knee lightly, his eyes too bright. “It wasn’t your grandfather I met, was it?”

  Liz curled tighter against Shaver, tucking her head low. Still, they could all see as she shook her head. Brandt watched her for a moment, then rose. He moved to stand beside Synthia, where she leaned into the corn
er of the couch, and squatted again, hugging her tightly.

  “I know where we have to go,” he said softly.

  If it had been silent before, the air was barren of sound following that remark. They all watched him, waiting. Brandt had turned his gaze to the floor, and was biting at his lip, deep in thought.

  “How do you know?” Syn asked. “What did you mean it wasn’t Liz’s grandfather?”

  Brandt didn’t answer, and slowly, Liz extricated herself from Shaver’s arms and sat up, wiping her eye with the back of her hand.

  “Brandt is right,” she said. “Grandfather died before I left home.”

  “Then who . . .” Dexter cut off his question mid-way and cursed. “Oh fuck.”

  Brandt nodded. “We have to go there. Not today, but soon. I can feel things building.”

  “Things?” Shaver asked. “What kind of things? I wish to hell I understood what you were talking about. Why would we want to go to a place like that? You feel a sudden urge to join the church? They’ll run us out on a rail, if they don’t sacrifice us all to some great pagan God. I mean look at us, Brandt. What could be waiting there for us?”

  “Not what,” Brandt answered, turning to grab his guitar again and moving to slip it carefully into its case. “Who.”

  Shaver growled, but before he could speak again, Liz’s hand dropped to his knee.

  “I think Brandt is right. I don’t know why. I thought I’d never go there again, swore I wouldn’t set foot on that mountain in this lifetime, but now I know it was all an act. I always knew I’d have to go back and face him. Face her.”

  “Who?” Shaver and Dexter demanded in unison.

  “Daddy,” she said softly. “And my mother.”

  Eleven

  The cottage sat low against a backdrop of heavy foliage and an almost solid line of trees. The windows were open, white curtains bright with lace. The door was open, as well, and a soft trickle of smoke rose from the chimney. Over the front door, a whitewashed wooden sign proclaimed, “He is risen.” The letters were red, stark against the virginal white backdrop.

  To either side of the door, crude plywood signs had been nailed. One held the 23rd Psalm, carefully lettered with a small black brush. The other was an equally careful rendition of John 3:16.

  Crosses lined the porch. Large, small, some ornate—others crude and simple. A few of those that were wide enough bore messages.

  “JESUS” vertical and “SAVES” horizontal.

  “REPENT” vertical and “BE SAVED” horizontal.

  They ringed the porch, cocked at odd angles, and nailed firmly to anything solid. The walls, and to the frames of windows, which also held tracts and biblical paraphernalia pressed tightly to the glass from the inside.

  The signs didn’t stop at the porch. They stretched into the yard, lined the walk, and circled the fence. There was a single large cross pounded into the dirt in the center of that yard, and from it hung a figure that had been carved poorly from a single fallen log. Its branches stretched to either side, bare arms, and its roots curled to the sides at the base of the cross. At first glance, a tree, but if one stared long enough, the piece took on the life its discoverer, crucifier, had intended. Warped, twisted, the top of the severed stump curling back, bent neck and face staring skyward. In red letters, on the front, were the words, “Why have you forsaken me?”

  He watched from the shade of one of the larger trees, taking in each sign, lingering over the scribbled messages. His gaze swept along the front of the house, noting the candles in the windows, the crosses and the biblical verses. Protection? As his gaze swept up and down the twisted tree-corpse sculpture in the center of the yard, he smiled. The morning sunlight glowed on the dark skin of his arms, and glinted too brightly from the flint-gray depths of his eyes. His smile was empty. No emotion, just a wrinkle of lips and a quick flash of white teeth.

  Stepping from the shadows, he skirted the fence closely, watching the windows for any sign of motion. There was nothing. The house could have been abandoned, empty for years. The door swung slightly in the breeze, creaking loudly. He stopped for a second, as if he might turn down that walk and enter, then seemed to think better of it and turned toward the trees once more.

  In the distance, church bells were ringing. He shifted his attention to that sound, drifting back to the shadows from where he’d appeared. The house remained as he’d left it: the door open, the candles burning, all-but-invisible in the bright morning sun. Inside, the steady creak of a rocking chair echoed softly, keeping perfect time with the bells.

  Moments later, the creaking stopped. The curtains of one window were drawn aside with a nervous jerk. Madeline glared out through the dingy glass at the line of trees. She’d seen him. She’d felt his presence, even before he came from the trees and approached her house. She always knew when the dark ones were near. She didn’t fear them, but she knew. Her fingers slid up and down the silver chain about her neck, fiddling with the gleaming cross at the end.

  There had been a bunch of them over the years. Beggars, demons, men claiming to be preachers, and preachers claiming to be God. Since Reverend Forbes had died, there’d been a slew of pretenders. No one would listen to her. No one understood about the sin. About the one who could cleanse it. The old ways fell steadily aside, and Madeline drew just as steadily back from the town, and the church.

  They still met like clockwork: Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesdays for Bible study. They sang, and they praised the Lord their God with happy, senseless hymns and bingo dinners. They lived, and they loved, and they ignored the lessons of the past.

  Madeline’s gaze shifted to the shelves along the walls. Amid a small jungle of potted plants and endless rows of tracts and biblical reference books, a single framed photograph stared back at her. His eyes were as deep and caring as they’d been the day she’d married him. Elizabeth’s smile was angelic, as though there were no evil in the world. As if it didn’t threaten to smother them every moment of every day. As if the Lord would never punish them for spitting in the face of the old ways.

  “I knew you would be the one,” she whispered, “when I married you, I knew.”

  There was no answer. There had been no answer in over a decade, and each day he had been gone Madeline had said a prayer in his name, lit another candle, and worked on her “wards.” The time was coming when she would need them, every one. There was a strength in the words of the Bible that many missed, a protection that sealed one away from dangers most never even acknowledged. Madeline saw those dangers every night in her dreams. She knew the words of the Bible to be true; she’d lived them, Genesis to Revelation, night after night.

  More often than not she dreamed of the one she loved. She dreamed of feasts, and candlelight. She dreamed of the sins of the community, those who’d died since Reverend Forbes. Those who he had not attended. Sometimes she dreamed that it all faded, and he returned, but those dreams ended the same each time. Cold. Alone.

  Sometimes, those cold empty mornings, she had visions.

  Sometimes she prophesied to those who passed her doors.

  Sometimes she cried.

  She could still hear the voices of the choir singing low and mournful the night her world crumbled. She could see the candles flickering all along the road that led toward the church. Brian had stood beside her that night, watching. It wasn’t a church night, but the bells had begun to ring early on, and had not ceased since.

  “What is it Brian?” she asked. “What in the Lord’s name is it?”

  Elizabeth had crawled out of her bed, sleepy-eyed, creeping down the hall quietly. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be up, but this time Madeline allowed it, concentrating on what was happening outside. Between the long, doleful tolling of the bell, the voice of a choir rose gently, pulsing on the breeze.

  “I don’t know, Madeline,” Brian had said. “But you know I have to find out.”

  She’d shivered, leaning in close against his side. “Don’t,” she’d wh
ispered. “They will come to us.”

  Brian had turned then, leaning down and cupping her chin in one strong hand. “I’m an Elder. I have to go. Reverend Forbes will be waiting for me. I should not have waited so long.”

  Madeline knew she’d shown the weakness of her faith that moment. She’d clung to him, eyes brimming with tears as she turned to kiss his wrist. “They will be fine without you. Please?”

  There had been no further words. Brian had kissed her deeply, just once, and turned away. Elizabeth, who’d been watching from the shadows, cried out then, and Brian turned back. Moving quickly, he gathered his daughter into his arms, hugging her tightly.

  “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “The Lord is our strength.”

  And he’d gone. Just like that. One moment, a family, joined by their faith; the next the world shifting on the Devil’s axis. Madeline had wrapped her arm around her daughter’s shoulder as the girl moved to her side, but her eyes were locked on Brian’s back as he marched resolutely down the road, one moment in shadow, the next backlit by the candles lighting his way, then to shadow again, and finally out of sight.

  “Where is he going, Momma?” Elizabeth had asked.

  Madeline couldn’t answer at first. The lump in her throat was far too large, and the bells were tolling again. “The Reverend is calling him,” Madeline choked out at last. “All the Elders must go to such a summons, Elizabeth, you know that.”

  There was a momentary silence, then Elizabeth said, “There have never been so many candles, Momma. Why do they lead to us?”

  Madeline had whispered her answer. “They don’t, baby . . . they lead to him.”

  The vision ended differently, sometimes. Sometimes she was granted images of what had happened in the church that night. Other times she saw things through her daughter’s eyes, or through those of one of the ladies who’d once called her friend. Other times she saw nothing but the candles, and Brian’s back, through a halo of salty, stinging tears. Prophecy, they said, was a gift. Madeline was uncertain where the line between gift and curse should be drawn. She knew only that, when the time had come to stand at his side and to prove her faith, she’d cowered in their home, falling asleep at last, on the floor beside the bed Brian had left and never returned to, her mother’s hand-sewn quilt wrapped tightly around shaking shoulders and stained with her tears.