by John Oakes
“I don’t know. But what other options we got?”
“Remind me, my French is a little rusty. What’s the word for magic?”
“La magie.”
“Easy enough. Should be able to stumble through the rest.”
“Key is to make it quick, but make it something to remember.”
They returned to Rabelais’ home and assessed that Rabelais was asleep. No TV flickered in the living room and no lights were on. Julius took the screen off a living room window with a fan stuck in it, then helped Winton up and into the home.
The place smelled like farts and stale beer, even through the damp linen. Winton traipsed trough the dark, trying to avoid barking his knee on a foot stool or anything. Cool fog flowed past his legs, and he could smell the dry ice evaporating in the bucket he carried. A mist began to gather around him as he stood still. He had to walk fast enough to stay ahead of the cloud so he could see.
His foot cracked into an empty beer can. Winton froze, but luckily the can just spun on the floorboards. Winton made it down the hallway with only the slightest creak in the floor.
A loud peal of thunder jolted him worse than if Rabelais had appeared in the hall with a gun. Winton was sure it would wake the big Cajun, but it didn’t. He was close enough now to hear soft snores.
Winton appeared in the doorway to Rabelais’ bedroom. Lightning struck again and brightened the room momentarily.
Rabelais lay in his boxers, arms and legs spread, big belly rising and falling.
Winton’s dry ice was still evaporating, billowing out from below the sheet to radiate and fill the room. He took one long breath to steady himself for the performance of his lifetime.
“Rabelais,” Winton said in a high-pitched ethereal whine. The big man didn’t stir. Winton shook a rattle under the linens. “Rabelais.”
Rabelais snorted. “Huh?”
“Rabelais,” Winton said again. “Je suis ici.”
“What?” Rabelais got up on an elbow, just as lightning crashed again.
“Je suis l’esprit de l’enfant d’or,” Winton said in his high whine.
“Who is it?”
“Je suis l’esprit de l’enfant d’or.”
“L’enfant d’or?” Rabelais asked in French.
“I have come for you. To give you wishes and great power.”
“Oui.” He rubbed his eyes, but still he wobbled on his elbow appearing half-drunk as well as sleepy.
“You must take my bones for yourself. Only you have the magic inside. For me to animate and cast my spells, you must be the one.”
“Moi?”
“Remus fails, for he is too proud, and Elgin loses faith.”
“I have to steal it? I am the one?”
“My spirit is near.” Winton let his voice fade. “You are the only one who can let me live again. You must take it.” Winton made a high screech, shook his rattle and disappeared into the mist.
“Wait!” Rabelais shot up in his bed. “I have so many questions,” he shouted in English.
Thunder shook the old house, as Winton ran out the back door and ripped off the sheet, stuffing it in the bucket. He crawled under the patio through a break in the lattice and hid while Rabelais searched the darkness in his underwear.
“I will do it, golden baby,” he promised. “Can you hear me? I will take it!”
He ventured back inside, and Winton pumped a fist in silent celebration.
TWENTY-FIVE
The windshield wipers worked double time as they drove away from Rabelais’ dumpy house. Julius pulled over, struggling to see through the driving rain. “What do we do now? Should we get some sleep?”
“We can’t keep an eye on all three of them twenty-four seven,” Winton said with a yawn.
“But at least we can track Rabelais and Elgin. Too bad we didn’t slip a phone into Remus’ vehicle.”
“Sounded like he was gonna do surgery on that enfador all night.”
“Yeah, bet he sleeps there if he sleeps at all. So, we get some shut eye, and then watch the—Oh shit.”
“What?” Julius asked.
“He’s going.” Winton pointed at the screen. “He’s going right now.”
“Rabelais?”
“His truck is moving. He’s heading for the causeway.”
“Shit. You pulled it off.” Julius did a u-turn. “You spooky son of a bitch.”
“What does he think he’s gonna do?” Winton thought aloud.
The words seemed to ring and echo around the cab of the truck. Their gazes met. Julius looked back to the road. “Oh, hell no. You think?”
“He’s just gonna do Remus?” Winton asked.
“Maybe. Remus is exposed out there.” Julius pointed to the east with all five fingers. “Who even knows he has a cabin? Rabelais might take advantage where we didn’t.”
“The man is a follower and a blunt instrument,” Winton said. His own words struck him. “He took orders from Elgin and Remus, but now he answers to a higher power. My god, he could be capable of anything.”
“Winton.” Julius shot him a furtive glance. “What if we just leave him to it?”
“I don’t see how we’ll get there in time to have a choice in the matter.”
Julius accelerated five miles an hour faster as they approached the causeway across Lake Pontchartrain. He drove as fast as he dared in the conditions, passing slower cars, then getting back in the right hand lane.
“Another thing I like about you,” Winton said. “Even under pressure you use good driving etiquette.”
“I’m an OG like that.”
“If we survive all this, Julius, I think we might just have to become friends.”
“They say men don’t make friends after thirty.”
“All the more reason to cherish the companionship of Winton P. Chevalier.” Winton looked at his screen. “We’re probably five minutes behind him.”
One pair of headlights grew brighter behind them, until a car passed them going at least eighty miles an hour.
“Holy shit,” Winton said. “That looked like Elgin’s car.”
Winton clicked over to Elgin’s tracker and saw his pin ticking down the causeway.
“Rabelais must have called him for backup.”
“Didn’t you tell him to do it alone?”
“Yeah,” Winton said. “Well, no, not as such. It was in a language I haven’t practiced in ages. I thought it was implied. Jesus.”
“Rabelais is a believer,” Julius said. “Maybe he thinks he can help Elgin in return for backup.”
They completed their third crossing of the lake that night and found the dirt road leading to Remus’ cabin. Julius doused the headlights when the cabin came into view and rolled quietly into the clearing, pulling to a stop along the dark edge near the surrounding trees and underbrush.
Winton made sure to take the small caliber handgun he’d borrowed from the Subaru — stuck it in the pocket of his makeshift Hammer pants — and Julius slung a submachine gun taken from the ship over his shoulder.
They heard shouts as they neared the cabin.
“It don’t work, Rab.” Elgin’s voice cracked like a whip. “Give it up. He’s a fake. Just a lonely weirdo. I’ve had enough of this shit.”
“It’s real,” Rabelais said. “He just isn’t the one who can do it.”
Winton took a knee in the shadows and peered through the binoculars.
“Both of you shut up.” Remus raised his hands. “This isn’t a drive-thru. You don’t just take your order. It’s arcane. It’s difficult, but it is worth the struggle.” Remus bunched his fists. “If you only knew the power available to us, untapped in the spiritual realms.”
Winton motioned forward and ran right up to the corner of the cabin so as not to be seen through the windows. He found an old crate and hauled it below the nearest window, careful to be silent the whole way.
“Even if it is real,” Elgin said to Rabelais, “what if that’s not our power to be playing with?”
“I’ve told you art is for humans,” Remus said. “It is part of us. It is natural.”
Elgin shook his head and pointed at the floor. “I think we’re either kidding ourselves, or we’re touching the devil’s power.”
“Do not be fooled into the false binary between God and the devil,” Remus implored. “That is how our art died away to begin with.”
Elgin shook his head. “There’s you, going on about art again. You really are insane. I don’t know how I ever let you talk me into this.”
“Talk you into it?” Remus touched his temple, growing larger with moral indignation. “So I forced you to lower yourself to our ways?”
Elgin put his hands on his hips. “Reckon not.”
Remus took a step toward him, waggling a finger. “You certainly didn’t end up here because God heard your prayers and answered them.”
Elgin hung his head.
“You’re here because you’re desperate to control what no other human can control, not even with the best of so-called science. Only for me the art is enough in itself.” Remus took another step closer and adopted a softer, more passionate tone. “To touch the power of the other side is—”
“Y’all don’t understand.” Rabelais interrupted the moment, face reddening, brows shot up. “I’m the high priest now.”
Remus looked at him with eyes practically squinted shut, then to Elgin as if to ask for explanation.
“What are you talking about?” Elgin asked to Rabelais.
“Yeah.” Rabelais backed up a step toward the main table. “That’s right. I’m the new priest. I’m the one with the magic.” He held his hands up and waggled his fingers. “I’m the only one the enfador has been helping.”
“The enfador?” Elgin protested. “You lost five pounds, Rab. You’ve taken bigger shits than that.”
“So?” Rabelais asked defiantly.
“So tell me,” Elgin said in a grumble. “This thing’s supposed to get you women. How many women have you rode this week, Rab?”
Rabelais bunched up his mouth, getting redder in response.
“You got the brain of a catfish,” Elgin said.
Rabelais snarled and jabbed a finger. “Fuck you, then. Thought you were my friend.”
“Well, just goes to show how dumb you are.”
“Y’all are just jealous, because it’s my time now.” Rabelais backed up into the table.
“Don’t you even think about laying one of your sausage fingers on that,” Remus said.
“What are you gonna do about it?” Rabelais traced his fingers along the ribcage.
“I’ll kill you,” Remus growled.
“You ain’t doing shit.” Rabelais gave a menacing look, eyes hooded, lip curled.
“Now both you two, calm down,” Elgin said.
Rabelais laid a second hand on the enfador. “I feel its power.” Rabelais began breathing as if experiencing sexual pleasure. “I feel your power. Je suis ici, maintenant.”
Remus balled his fists and stepped forward. Rabelais held up a hand. “Freeze.”
Elgin held Remus back with both arms.
“I warned you,” Remus said, lips pulled back, big teeth showing.
Rabelais boomed, “You have no power here!”
Remus stormed from the room and out the back door of the house. He stalked to a spot fifty feet from Winton where a stump sat with a stack of logs next to it. Remus wrenched an axe from the stump, and turned back to the house without glancing in their direction. He took quick strides back into the house and reappeared in the main room, not slowing down.
Rabelais ordered the enfador to rise, but nothing happened. “Enfant d’or,” he pleaded in French. “Rise!”
Rabelais had only a moment before losing faith. He reached for his pistol with one hand and held the other up defensively. Remus hacked the axe blade behind the arm, right into the meat below the shoulder. Rabelais bucked, eyes going wide and white. He hit the floor and flopped like a fish. A rising, keening wail emanated through gritted teeth.
“You are high priest of nothing!” Remus shouted. He wrenched the axe head out of Rabelais’ flesh and swung it high over his head. “Nothing!”
TWENTY-SIX
Remus chopped into the pistol in Rabelais’ hand. Rabelais grunted in pain. The pistol broke apart, and bits of his fingers spun away. Remus held the axe aloft, as Rabelais turned to his side. “You inbred cow. You want to see your abs? Well here they are!” He swung down and sunk the axe into the bottom of Rabelais’ belly, splitting him open down to the floor boards. Rabelais went oddly silent as he stared at the massive wound in horror. Yellow fat glistened in the lamplight before blood rushed into the ravine from all angles.
“Remus, stop!” Elgin jumped in, hands reaching for the axe, but Remus jerked it away. He spun and smacked the blunt side into the back of Elgin’s head. The bull of a man crumpled to the floor, face first and slid under the table the enfador lay upon.
“Jesus.” Julius turned away from the window. “We got those men killed.”
“Only sorta,” Winton whispered. “Besides, they’re not dead yet.”
Inside, Rabelais hyperventilated, looking at his bloody hand.
“You wanted women to look at you? To turn their heads? This oughta help.” Remus hacked at Rabelais’ belly again, but this time, Rabelais had the presence of mind to spin away onto his back. Such insolence made Remus growl in anger. He chopped into Rabelais without aim or preamble.
Rabelais began to scream. “Sarge!” he screeched, as Remus chopped into his arms held up defensively. “Sarge!” A blow landed on Rabelais’ face and then his chest.
Winton had to look away. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the sound of the rain falling off the eaves.
But the shrill cries carried on along with Remus’ grunting with every strike of the axe. As the blows began to sound wetter and wetter, Rabelais’ screams died down to a whisper.
Winton held a hand over his mouth as he peered back in.
Remus stood tall, breathing deep, having left the axe stuck in Rabelais’ back like the tree stump out back. He took off his shirt and bent down, looking more fit and lithe than Winton would have expected. He scraped up some of Rabelais’ blood and drew a circle on his torso, then an x within it.
“I always asked Maroulis if we could see the power of human blood,” Remus said to himself. “The power of human sacrifice. He said it was not his way, that it had no place in art. But it must have, or why do we remember it in legend?” Remus stepped around Rabelais, who Winton could now see was clawing weakly at the floor, barely alive. “Maroulis was just too squeamish. I even saw him cry once over killing a rabbit. I had to do all the animals for him.” Remus spat to the side in anger. “He was high priest of nothing.” Remus pulled the axe out of Rabelais and pointed its bloody edge at him, speaking with venom. “You are less than nothing.”
Rabelais continued to whine on the floor, blood spurting from his mouth. He crawled, making only an inch a second. Was he moving toward the enfador or Elgin?
Remus put a shoe on his face and planted his head into the ground. “Enfant d’or, I call you,” Remus said in stilted, high school textbook French. Then in English, “With the blood of human sacrifice, I beckon you. Hear my supplication. Take my offerings.”
Remus stepped off Rabelais and brought the axe behind his back in an arc, heaving it down through Rabelais’ thick neck.
Winton flinched away again, but curiosity drew him back. Remus knelt, bent over Rabelais, but behind him Elgin was stirring. Remus brought a fist full of bloody viscera over to the table, standing right over Elgin. He squeezed his hand over the enfador, mumbling words Winton didn’t recognize. Remus lifted his other hand up, appearing supremely confident that any moment his avatar would animate.
Beneath him, Elgin took in the sight of Rabelais’ mangled body. His shoulders swayed as he struggled to see and move, still wobbly from a certain concussion.
With a sublime expression on
his face, Remus loudly called for the enfador to rise, his own arms aloft.
Elgin slumped onto his back, but had something in his hand. He raised his pistol at Remus from point blank range. Fired.
Bap.
Winton jumped as the shot rang out, hands jerking up to the sides of his head instinctually.
Remus staggered back, looking down at his chest with the strangely calm appearance of total shock. Fresh blood ran down his torso, over the blood he’d drawn on himself. He put his hand to his heart as if reciting the pledge of allegiance and fell near the fireplace.
Elgin’s arms dropped, and he rolled to his side, taking big breaths, looking like a man who’d drank five shots too many and was about to hurl.
“Holy shit,” Winton said. “He shot him. Elgin killed Remus.”
“Then let’s get the hell outta here.”
Winton ran to Rabelais’ truck and pulled the cell phone out, while Julius did the same in Elgin’s car. They ran down the dirt road toward the old green pickup.
A crash sounded behind them from inside the cabin loud enough to reach their ears. They skidded to a stop in the dark, and their gazes met in the scattered moonlight. Frozen in place, Winton trained an ear. At first he only heard the pitter-patter of rain. There was another thud, then voices.
“Voices?” Winton said.
He started jogging back in his awkward gait and pulled out his pistol.
“Did that demon baby rise up?” Julius asked, walking fast beside him.
“I have a feeling it was a different demon.”
Winton headed for the front door, and Julius stayed beside him.
They stepped onto the porch and stood on either side of the door. Inside, someone roared, and there was another sharp sound like the cracking of wood. Winton and Julius exchanged a nod. Julius flung the door open and they both pointed their weapons inside.
Remus was on his feet somehow, axe in hand. He swung at Elgin who’d also gotten to his feet. Elgin blocked the blow by swinging a wooden dining chair. The axe broke through a cross piece on the legs, but the rest of the chair stopped it. Elgin ripped the chair away, catching the blade on a leg. He tried to wrench it away from Remus, but the older man’s grasp was too strong, and Elgin was too unsteady, still rocked from the blow he’d taken to his head.