Swallower looked down, his face twisted, his eyes glowing with anger. The sphincters on his body opened and closed quickly. His mouth, a twisted hole, opened and he screamed loudly and slowly, like a tape on slow speed.
"Haaaate youuu!"
They were trapped, Rand knew, but he felt suddenly calm. Tanya had her hand on his shoulder and Bumpa too was touching his chest.
Swallower looked down on them, stepped forward. "Hate you!"
The words tore into Rand and he felt Tanya's hand slip from him. His head filled with pain, he wondered if he was bleeding from where he had hit the ground, the tree. Then Tanya touched him again and his thoughts became clearer. He rose slowly, stepped out of the cover of the roots. The others followed him.
"I know you," Rand said, looking up. The words felt very strong.
"You're--you're Stephen Haydes."
Swallower stopped walking and his face, a rictus of anger, flashed with sudden confusion. He froze then shook his head. He stepped forward and reached slowly towards Rand. Rand stood still and he felt Kari behind him and knew Tanya was holding her hand and that Bumpa was there too, all of them connected.
Swallower gently touched Rand's face. His fingers were cold and smooth. Rand could see veins like rivers on a map making their way up Swallower's arms. Swallower's thumbs explored Rand's cheeks, slowly making their way up to his eyes. And Rand thought he saw a touch of softness and warmth in Swallower's face, his eyes blue like the sky.
Then the eyes flashed yellow and red hatred. "Kinniwaw killed me!" Swallower hissed and his hands enveloped Rand's head, his thumbs pressing into his eyes. Burning pain shot backwards into Rand's head.
Rand panicked, the clearness fled his mind. He grabbed for his knife, but somewhere in the blur of flight it had fallen out. He felt something hard through his jacket. He reached his hand in and there was a feeling that he was intended to reach there, that that moment had been put there on purpose. There it is! he thought, not knowing what he meant. Every movement had slowed, time had been stretched out like thick rubber. He slowly pulled the thing out of his jacket pocket, not knowing what it was, his eyes blinded, eyeballs sinking back toward his brain. He heard Kari or Tanya shriek in his ear, the noise dulled by Swallower's palms stretched out for an eternity. The thing in Rand's hand was smooth and rough at the same time, heavy and light. He freed it from his jacket. Doorways, he thought and the night opened up, time snapped forward, and a sluice poured through him. And even though he couldn't see with his eyes what he was holding in his hands, he could see it glowing in his mind. He thrust it forward.
A hissing sound filled his ears and Swallower's grip loosened. Rand could see again, his eyes blurry, filled with blue light as if someone were welding right in front of him. Bright light was in his hands and as he held it up his vision cleared and he realized he was holding the carving Bumpa had given him. Kari and Tanya and Bumpa were close now and it was almost as if he were a shield that they were holding up. And he felt their togetherness, all of them joined in effort. Their voices floating nonsensically through his mind whispering calming words. Here, Rand. Behind you. Always. Try. Love you. Push. The carving glowed in his power, another wave coursed through him. Doorways! he thought again and he held the now emerald colored carving in front of him. It looked both like a sword and a cross.
Swallower's eyes narrowed in rage and he screamed, rushing forward just as another sluice of power flowed through Rand. It was as if a dam had burst inside him and all his potential—not just his but Kari's and Tanya's and Bumpa's—had unlocked and all that he was supposed to be, not just flesh and bone but spirit, empowered him. The carving glowed yellow as bright as the sun. He thrust it into Swallower. Swallower screamed and tried to twist away, but he was caught.
Swallower began to jitter as if he were receiving a shock. Rand pressed forward and the others followed. But he wasn't pushing Swallower back, it was as if he were shoving into Swallower, pushing through him. Swallower's body shrunk before them, the muscles wasted down visibly and Rand knew the carving was drawing out the very essence of Swallower—all the hatred and pain that bound him together. His eyes twisted back and his mouth opened and smashed closed over and over as if he were biting a gag.
Emerald light glowed like a nimbus around Swallower. The carving flashed suddenly, hurting Rand. Swallower fell back and the carving was pulled out of Rand's hand, embedded in Swallower's chest.
Rand felt suddenly empty, whatever had been passing through him had drained, fled, and was now working solely on Swallower. Swallower's body started to shake even more, the light grew brighter. His skin smoothed, his hair shortened and turned dark. He drew himself into a fetal position and became human.
And for one moment all the processes stopped and Swallower, who was once again Stephen Haydes, looked blindly at the four of them, his blue eyes filled with a child's pain. Strangely beautiful and handsome. "They hurt me," he whispered, "hurt me." The light flashed and the body aged in a second, withered to bones, to dust, until finally all that was left were a few chittering bugs, black beetles that scattered across the floor of the forest. Little multicolored lights floated around like burning ashes then winked out.
Rand breathed in, feeling a sadness and loss he didn't understand. The connection that had grown between him and the others was broken and he felt empty, alone. Kari held him and they all stood close together, silently, staring at the place where Swallower had been.
A few minutes later they turned away and walked towards the road, silent, like worshippers towards a church.
Epilogue.
And life goes on.
In his mind there are memories, playing out one by one. He is listening to old records and the songs remind him of days gone by, of things done, of friends laughing and drinking together. The past swirls in his mind, a tapestry of light and dark and colors.
He is crying because things have passed, people have passed, and life has gone on. He is crying because he needs to cry. But he is not sad as much as nostalgic. For there is a sort of joy in tears, a pleasure at the expulsion of fears and pain. It has been seven months since he held a burning carving in his hand and looked into the eyes of a monster. Seven months since his friends died and a town came undone. That time of darkness is mostly a dream in his memory.
Fall and winter have passed, spring has brought greeness to his doorstep. His life has had a sense of calm, of almost fulfillment, and he is enjoying the lull. He has not found mercy street, but he has found a warm place to stay. To gather his thoughts.
He no longer lives in the town, he lives on the coast near his cousins, where the crashing of waves soothes him, gives him life. Where the rains are soft. He is alive and he understands now the fragility of life.
He has a job now, he works at a store. But he has money and he dreams of investing it, of building something new. He is not sure what, but it will come to him. He writes, too, when he is sad or when he is happy and things appear to come out of him the right way. Not perfect, but not strained.
The record spins, the songs play on. Each eliciting a separate memory.
And later, when the needle is scratching against the end of the record and he is staring, she comes into the room. She resets the record, the songs begin again. She smiles and they hold each other, listening to each song.
And later that night he phones his grandfather, to tell him about the coast, to read his latest poems across the lines. And when he is done, he and the woman leave their apartment and go for a walk, out along the sidewalks and the beach. They talk about a young girl who touched their lives and they decide to invite her out to visit them. Soon.
Then later, they sleep. And neither stirs until morning.
And life goes on.
THE END
About the Author
Stephen Shea is the pseudonym of a semi-famous genre author who has decided to experiment with several other genres. He may live right next door to you. He is also the author of The (NOT SO) Simple Life.
Connect with Stephen Shea online:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/WriterStephen
Damage Page 20