Everyone Says That at the End of the World

by Owen Egerton

  Occasionally the crab allowed the teenage girl or the bald man to carry him in the palm of their hands, his arrow leading the way. But more often, they walked behind his crawl. Each felt protective of the crab. There was something electric, magic, flamboyant, neon, statically shocking about him.

  Sometimes the followers sang. Often Beatles songs because everyone knew the lyrics, even the teenage girl. “With a Little Help from My Friends,” “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” “Yellow Submarine.”

  The sun moved, the wind brushed the trees, the road stretched on, others joined. Rain sprinkled. Clouds passed. The people had never known such purpose, such joy, such trust. Lead on, Arrow-Crab.

  The day was filled with silent whys.

  Why was I a lawyer for so long? Why have I never forgiven my brother? Why do I own so many pairs of shoes? Why do I detest waking in the morning? Why do I avoid thinking about death? Why do I hate quiet?

  The whys were so numerous that they may never have reached the question, Why am I following this hermit crab? Then, in the late afternoon, they stopped asking questions. Instead they watched the clouds and grass and road cracks and bird shadows and tree bark. Slow walking. Three hours to a mile.

  Family and friends tried to save the walkers.

  “It’s a dangerous time right now. You need to come home.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Your children miss you.”

  “Yes. Tell them I send my love.”

  “You’re going to lose your job.”

  Giggle, giggle.

  Click liked his new friends. He never quite saw himself as leading them as much as being on the same path. And what was that path? He didn’t know. He knew the next inch. That was always sure. And once he had covered that inch, then the next inch was sure. Almost glowing with certainty. But he also sensed that the final goal was many thousands of inches away.

  Something far and rich. More than he could grasp. So he didn’t try. He let the unknown shine on him like a warm, distant sun.

  Shining, shining, even as the night fell.

  The sky rolled dark. Stars appeared. Click and the walkers traveled on.

  All Christian, all the time

  AMI JAMES WAS huddled in a dark corner of the KRST studio. She was shaking. She was alone. She had been alone for over twenty hours. Music was blaring. She was chanting.

  “All Christian, all the time. All Christian, all the time.”

  Oh God, why hadn’t she believed harder?

  Two days before she had been so happy. She was a radio-television-film major at Sul Ross State University in Alpine by day and an intern at KRST assisting Rich Van Sturgeon by night.

  She loved the job. Filling out notice sheets, fetching CDs and news updates for Mr. Van Sturgeon, even occasionally answering the call lines. Not since helping to build that house in Mexico two spring breaks back had she felt so needed, so on track.

  Working for KRST was a dream. Richard Van Sturgeon’s voice was silk, his shoulders could lift a small car, he smelled of a woodsy musk, and he had a heart for Jesus. Every song he played was perfect. He knew the classics like an artist knows colors. Every night he crafted a masterpiece from the songs of Keith Green, Jars of Clay, Michael W. Smith, early Amy Grant (before her sexy secular phase, please), and, of course, Pearl-Swine.

  Friday night there had been four people at the KRST studio. Van Sturgeon, Ami, Susan from marketing, and Pedro, Susan’s boyfriend. Susan and Pedro were working overtime on an upcoming Easter food drive. A basket of food for each needy family and chocolate bunnies for the children. They were in the office searching for the perfect verse for the giveaway bumper stickers they’d include in the baskets. Ami shared a smile with the two of them as she passed through carrying a cold Red Bull for Van Sturgeon.

  “Know any good chocolate verses?” Susan asked.

  “Gosh, no,” Ami said. “But thank God it’s not a sin or I’d never be forgiven.”

  “Amen, sister,” Pedro said, laughing. Ami hurried on. She loved making the folks at KRST laugh. That was her spiritual gift, she thought. Lightheartedness. She made her professors laugh in Alpine, she made her youth group laugh, she even got laughs out of the tattooed sculptors and musicians who hung out in Marfa coffee shops, though less frequently.

  “Ah, yes. Intern Ami is bringing me a chilled Red Bull to keep the night going,” Van Sturgeon said into the microphone in a low melodic whisper. She loved it when he mentioned her by name. He reached out for the can, winking at Ami. “Because, friends,” he told KRST’s hundreds of listeners, “the time is so close. Any minute. I wouldn’t worry about next month’s bills, or taking that blood pressure medicine.”

  He’d been pushing the end times message for a while now. Ami preferred his grace kick or his “life to the fullest” stories. The Judgment and Apocalypse talk all landed heavy and cruel.

  “Listen, people. It is time to say good-bye to time. It is time to prepare for eternity. Right now! Because the end could happen before I end this sentence, before I complete the thought, in the blink of an—”

  A blast, like hearing a car horn with your head trapped under the hood. Van Sturgeon vanished. Simply gone. The Red Bull can fell to the floor and rolled under the control board, trailing yellow liquid.

  Ami screamed. She ran to the office. “Rich disa—” The office was empty. Nothing of Susan and Pedro but a half-filled Easter basket. Ami screamed again. A salmon-pink Bible lay open on Susan’s desk. Ami knew. She knew immediately. They had been taken and she had been left. She ran back to the studio. And again, back to the office. Oh, God, why hadn’t she believed more? Why hadn’t she tried? God had left her. She vomited onto Susan’s desk.

  All those shoes she owned. So many shoes when so many were shoeless. Or the way she treated her sister. Or that one night with the boy in Mexico. That wasn’t working for the kingdom. And pride. Always pride. Oh, God was right to leave her. Oh.

  She grabbed Susan’s Bible. It was worn and heavy. She squeezed it to her chest and walked back into the studio. She paced back and forth, her head filled with sick slugs of guilt, crawling and sucking.

  The red sign reading ON THE AIR was still lit. Ami sat in Van Sturgeon’s empty chair. She could still smell his aftershave. With a shaking hand she shuffled through the CDs lined up for the next hour of play. She found Pearl-Swine’s Pearl-Swine and placed the disc in the player. She selected the last song and hit repeat, sending “Who’s Gonna Park the Car” out onto the airwaves.

  She let her body fall from the chair onto the floor. The room seemed too large. Dangerous. She pushed herself back into a corner and pulled her knees to her, sandwiching the Bible between her thighs and chest. She rocked back and forth to the rhythm of the song.

  All those that love the Lord are going to take flight . . .

  Over the music she heard cars pass. She heard voices. She never left her corner. It was a test, she was sure. Jesus loves me, this I know.

  She slept in fits. She dreamed in shadows. No narrative. No sense. The sun rose, rays of light cutting through the open blinds. More cars, a police siren, some yelling. Then quiet. At noon she crawled to the toilet. She peed and drank palmfuls of water from the sink, still clinging to the Bible. She found a pack of Tic Tacs in Susan’s purse and poured them into her mouth. This is stealing. You are a thief. She crawled back to her corner.

  “All Christian, all the time. All Christian, all the time,” she chanted.

  Night came again. Ami was sure her mind would not survive it. She tried to close her eyes, tried to sleep. But no sleep came.

  She heard a rumble outside. A car close. It was pulling into the KRST parking lot, making her insides spin. Oh God, she thought. UN Peacekeepers. They’re going to shoot me. She crept to the window and peeked through the blinds. A green Volvo station wagon was parking in front of the studio. A very pregnant woman was climbing out, followed by an old man with long, gray hair and a beard to match. Oh no. Hippies.

  A short younger man walke
d from the driver’s side. His face. She knew that face. She jumped to the pile of CDs, tripping over Van Sturgeon’s chair as she did.

  There. Look. There. She peered through the blinds again. “Who’s Gonna Park the Car” swung into its bridge.

  “Oh God,” Ami cried out. “Jesus sent Pearl-Swine to save me!”

  Are you live?

  AMI STOOD AND tried unsuccessfully to smooth her wrinkled skirt. The door that led to the main office was closed. Pearl-Swine would be walking right through that door. She could just hear them call out over the music. She wanted to call back. She tried, but a choked breath was all that came out. She stepped back and knocked a clipboard to the ground.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice called. Ami saw the dark shadows of feet beneath the door. Panic grabbed her by the ears and kissed her full on the mouth. “Anyone in there?”

  Ami watched the door. She did not want it to open. But she desperately did not want to be left alone again. Couldn’t they just stay close? Could they stay in the office and slip her notes and pancakes under the door? The doorknob was turning. Everything else, the walls, the music, her hunger, the pink Bible blurred into a distant background. The door opened with a slow squeak. Ami felt the squeak unwind like a ribbon and fly around her neck, tightening with each inch of open door.

  “Hello?” Roy Clamp’s face was peeking around the door. “Are you okay?”

  Ami’s eyes filled. She gasped and the Bible fell from her arms.

  “Are you alone in here?”

  Roy Clamp’s eyes. Ami opened her mouth to answer. A high, quivering voice came out. She was singing.

  I lived to die so by and by you could have my Heart Gift . . .

  “Oh, poor girl,” said the pregnant woman. She stepped forward and put her arms around Ami. Strong arms. Ami felt she could fall if needed. “You’re okay now.”

  The old man moved past them and was staring at the control board. “Are you live?” he asked.

  “I know you’re low. I know you need a lift . . .” Ami kept her eyes on Roy Clamp. He had a bandage on his neck. He was hurt!

  “Milton, we have to get her out of here,” the warm pregnant woman said.

  “Which button to work the mic?” the old man asked.

  Ami turned to him. His eyes and gray hair were exploding. He was frightening and wonderful. Elijah was going on the air. Elijah.

  “Blue button,” she said.

  Elijah nodded. “Take her to the car. I’ll be right out.”

  Pregnant Woman and Roy Clamp took her arms and led her through the office and out through the glass door. It was cool outside. Good air. What is he saying? What is Elijah saying to the KRST listening family?

  “Would you like an M&M?” Pregnant Woman asked her. Ami ate a yellow one. It was delicious. She ate a red one. Just as tasty.

  In less than two minutes, Elijah walked out the glass door. “All done. Let’s go.”

  “What about the TV actor?” Roy Clamp asked.

  “Don’t worry,” Elijah said. “He’s near.”

  Brendan’s blood

  SO MY SPIRIT trembles within me,

  my heart turns to stone.

  Compline. Night Prayer. Brother Brendan had Hayden beside him.

  I remind myself of the days of old,

  I reflect on all your works,

  Brother Brendan had chanted these same chants before, countless times before. He loved them as a man loves a brother.

  I meditate once more on the work of your hands.

  I stretch out my arms to you,

  The Psalms. Praise poems and songs that cry to God. Bright, burning words.

  I stretch out my soul, like a land without water.

  They were Brendan’s blood, they ran through him and his days, through his veins and the veins of his day, carrying life. Chanting is the pounding heart muscle that powers the Psalms though the veins. Each day, each night, seven times in the passing of the sun, always worship, beating in this chapel, beating here before the Host. These voices all seeking more than salvation, more than heaven, more than sanctification, seeking God. Seeking only God.

  Same words he read, until the reading was no longer needed, for the words were written on his chest and eyes and tongue. Same words he heard from all the brothers, each voice a man alone, each voice together; sometimes he heard just one monk, one brother, and felt his life. Sometimes all the voices were one voice, one buzz hum, a thick cloud rising from the desert, from this hidden church, up to the sky, to God.

  They soaked the walls with chant and words. Leaned against the wall and stained a robe with mud and Psalm.

  Same words he chanted too loudly on his first day here a decade and more ago, hoping to impress (foolishness), the same words his mind used to see flowers and towers and trees. Same words he had whispered before he came here, walking the streets after teaching children, finding parks, lying under day-sky night-sky. Using these words to pop clouds and bring rain. The words with the rain and the wet soil he lay on.

  Same words, though mumbled and mixed from a child’s tongue, he stuttered in the water well his sisters lowered him into, leaving him there as a game. Clinging to a bucket, cold water wetting his pants and shoes, damp brick walls, the circle of sun and silhouetted heads above. He chanted there dangling alone, too long, too long, and as his father pulled him up, the dark running off him and falling below, and as he reached the sun and sky and father’s arms, he knew he would be a monk, before he knew what a monk was, he knew.

  These words.

  Same words mother mouthed while father lay dying in the wheat. Same heard as a child, his grandfather’s spittle on his hymnal, his sister covering her laugh. Yes. The same words. They hold those years and the years before, before years, buildings unbuilt taken back stone from stone, unmaking of the bricks themselves, returning to dirt and water. No building. Meeting under tents, under tree branches, on boat decks crossing a salt-sick Atlantic, in hidden caves in English hills, these words whispered, half an ear listening for protestants passing who also read these words and also kill. Yes, and back. Francis spoke these, and Benedict as his monks served him poison and pushed him from the church and the glorious heretics chanted these words. Pelagius, you rolled and rolled from Wales to Rome and home again. And farther, and farther, desert fathers, and women, too. Alone. Chanting in huts and caves as the devils came as seducers, children, false Christs. They chanted and the devils dissolved. These words melted them like saltwater on slugs. Fathers and mothers alone but not alone. He knew he was there as well because he spoke these words and these words were said by them. Communion of the saints. And Jesus. You said these words. And your father said them and your blessed mother and brothers and your cousin John. You disappeared to lonely places to pray and chant and be. You still disappear to lonely places. We still seek you and tell you of hungry crowds asking for you. You bless bread and hand us baskets, nibbled only after followers, all followers, carried the bread to the people. He was there, carrying the basket from Christ to the people, chanting as he worked. The bread in his arms is heavy, the day is heat, his mouth waters seeing the eating, but he will wait to eat, hoping the miracle is large enough. Psalms, these words, soak up the saliva from his mouth, absorbing the want. You said these words on the cross. Father? Father? Why . . . These words became the language of God’s broken heart, and they pierced your heart, and blood flowed and water flowed, wetting the soldiers’ feet . . . Surely this man . . . surely . . . Yes. And back and back. The words stinking of burning fat and sticky with lamb blood, covenant blood. The words said on the shores of the Nile. Exile calls, mothers beating their children so they might remember a stone temple that no longer stands. Know the words. Cry the words. Mix the words with tears. Make mud, shape cups. Let them dry in the pagan world heat. Drink from them. Make temple bricks, save them for the return, for return. And the rape of the concubine, she said these words, cried out. Was she heard? Father, Father? Why . . . And back again to the king who wrote these words, a holy
demon of a man with a blood-soaked throne and bird’s eye view of waiting wives. Waiting and waiting. Why weren’t you at war, David? And back before the words were sung or said, they rattled about, ghosts waiting for a body. Moses could hear them in a fire’s crackle, in his own stutter, mourning mothers of Egypt cradling dead babies. Words fell from heaven but would last a day. Try to save them for the next day, and they would rot in your mouth. And the sons, and Ishmael, and the stolen blessing, and midnight wrestling. Words dropped with flood rain, these words covered the land and drowned the women and children and men and animals. All made into mud that dried into dirt that became a desert. A tower built with human words reaching up to steal the dew of heaven. God let one drop fall and wet the stones back into mud and sent the children running with no words they all knew. No words to build with. Further. Eden, when sin was not a sin and humans walked with God and these words needed no words. And before. Father. The words used to shape, carve, and craft. God-spit and God-dust making mortar and building.

  The world was soft then, like new gold. God pressed his hands against the soft. And yes, before. The words in God’s silence. Before there was God because when there was nothing but God, no names were needed. And the words were God. And the words were not heard, not spoken.

  And here now. Same words. Speak them. Chant them. Each holding all.

  I have touched fire

  “THESE WORDS BUG me,” Hayden said in a low whisper. Brother Brendan didn’t seem to hear. His eyes were closed and his mouth opened in chant. Hayden turned to the other monk on his right. “Don’t these words bug you?” The other monk growled at Hayden.