Each of them stumbles as they walk out of the warm house and through the front door into the cold night. It is still early, not quite 10 p.m., and the sky is as clear as Chris has ever seen it since he’s been in Scotland. The black and cloudless night is filled with a multitude of stars, so thick and clear that the outline of the Milky Way, a thick white ring, can be seen arching across the sky.
The priest opens his Austin Allegro and looks at Brad and points at the back seat. Brad frowns and climbs in the back, his oversized body very cramped and uncomfortable as he squeezes himself behind the pushed-up driver’s seat. He sits amongst a pile of debris, paper and wrappers and food containers. The priest has never bothered cleaning out the car since he purchased it.
Chris climbs in the front and slowly the car starts as Crowley pulls the manual choke and then returns it to the running position as the car begins to idle smoothly. He wipes the inside of the windshield with his sleeve; their breath has already cast a fog upon the glass.
Quickly he drives away, causing the tires to spin on the gravel driveway as he accelerates towards the main road out to the A92.
Something suddenly comes to Chris as he stares out the passenger window, searching the now empty and black fields that during the day contain sheep and farmhouses and trees, interrupted by the occasional side road leading towards another village.
If Crowley tends to have racist views, no matter what his justification, what was his role in the treachery of Lee Rodgers? Chris shivers. He fears what he has gotten himself into.
He is afraid to ask, but he must. He had asked Brad in the past if he knew about Lee, and Brad had said no, but he was skeptical even then and didn’t enquire any further for fear of having to know the truth. But now he must, as he has made a sort of commitment, willingly, with the priest, as if he has become a part of a family, a bizarre and macabre family more closely knit than the one from his past, who are now scattered from Scotland to Michigan to Arizona or god-only-knows where.
“Umm, Father Crowley?” Chris asks, retrieving his nearly empty packet of cigarettes from the shirt pocket of his best button-down shirt, his Sunday church shirt.
“Yes?” Crowley replies, knowing that he is too drunk to drive but also sensing that the angels from Valhalla, his white angels, are twinkling in the night sky and swirling around the Allegro as it cuts through the evening, speeding north several miles faster than the legal limit. Crowley is not concerned in the least, not worried in the least about the police who heavily patrol this highway, which is the main thoroughfare for Eastern Scotland. He now feels the white lights are elves known as the Alfar, the holy elves who reside in the uppermost part of heaven and who do Odin’s bidding, traveling to Earth to guide him and to protect his chosen ones.
“Well, no offense, but I know that Brad here and Lee Rodgers were friends, and I heard you were with him when he committed suicide. I heard about what he did, and from what you’ve told me tonight, you know, it just seems…”
Crowley is prepared for the question, and he fields it the same way he dealt with the halfhearted inquiries from his commanding officer, from Chaplain Lambert, from the base security department, and the easy questions asked with doubtful eyes from Chief Wilson, the master-at-arms.
“It must appear awkward,” Crowley replies without hesitation, “especially in light of my faith, but I assure you,” and he turns to glare at Hinckley, as this is a topic they didn’t think to address before bringing Chris into their fold, “that Lee acted alone. I wouldn’t condone such careless actions. I knew what he believed, and that in itself wasn’t bad, he just went about it the wrong way. Neither Mr. Hinckley nor I had any idea about what he was up to, but we did have discussions—you understand, discussions only—about the topic of race and the injustice the white man receives in American society, and how that injustice is especially amplified in the military, where there is no natural separation of the races. They are all forced to live together, unlike in the States, where people have instinctively settled amongst their own kind. Lee was a disturbed young man indeed, and what he did in Dundee and his suicide later can be marked as one of the most cowardly acts I’ve ever seen in all my years as a priest. I will agree with the Church on one score; suicide is indeed a most blatant act of selfishness, and a sign of weakness. Our religion tells us that weakness makes us vulnerable to attack, and whatever hardships we face only can make us stronger. Lee was faced with hardship. He had a deep sense of guilt and an even deeper fear of being caught and arrested for murder. He could have been a shining example for our faith and for our race. Instead, he chose to flee, in a most permanent way. Neither Mr. Hinckley nor myself had anything to do with his demise. Brad lost a dear friend, and I lost a potential student of the faith.”
Chris is satisfied, mostly, with Crowley’s answer. He opens a can of beer. He drinks it greedily, as the effects of the alcohol previously consumed are starting to recede, leaving a dull headache in its wake.
“Okay, good. I was kind of wondering, you know, because of some of the things you said tonight and all that stuff he did. It seemed kind of like, you know, you could have been doing things with him. I’m sorry for doubting you, Father.”
“No need for apology. I suspected you may ask about that situation, a situation I wish to discuss no further.” Again he turns to glare at Hinckley in the back seat, who already has a collection of empty tins of beer gathering at his feet. “Leave in the past what belongs to the past. Life moves forward, not backward.”
“Okay,” says Chris.
“I will say this,” Crowley says, scratching his cheek. “Lee did give me an idea for our initiation rite tonight. This I will reveal to you as soon as we arrive in Aberdeen.”
The rest of the drive is silent in the smoking of cigarettes and the drinking of beer while Chris stares at the moon, which hovers full over the ever turbulent North Sea. Chris stares at the sea and wonders about the life on the other side. Crowley stares at the sea and longs to be on the other side, Norway, where he knows there are many adherents to his faith and he could find friendship in between the fjords and the mountains and the infrequent cities.
As Aberdeen approaches and the signs loom indicating the turn-offs for the city center, Crowley retrieves his map from his pocket and unfolds it on top of the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve and causing the cars traveling in parallel lanes to sound their horns, but he is oblivious to their irritation. He is in deep concentration and in frustration hands the map over the seat to Hinckley. “Find me Dee Street, and get us there.”
Hinckley takes the map and flips it over several times, unable to detect in the moonlight and the now present street lamps which way the map should be read.
“Hell, I don’t know,” he says, too intoxicated to focus on the seeming irrational lines of the map. “I don’t know where the hell we’re at now.”
“Chris?” Crowley looks at Chris, and Chris understands that he is looking to him for help. Chris takes the map. He knows they have just entered the southern edge of the city along the A92. The light is better in the front seat than in the back, and the lights from the buildings along the edge of the city provide even more illumination. Chris quickly finds Dee Street. After a quarter of an hour, they cross a bridge over what must be the Dee River and find the street they’re looking for.
Crowley slowly drives down the street. A line of cars forms behind Crowley’s Allegro, and again the sound of horns slices through the night. He is looking for an address, number 74, and all his attention is focused on the numbers on the buildings, which are hard to distinguish, as many of them are only seen in recessed doorways.
Finally, he finds the building and speeds up to drive around the block. He points to the building and things start to make sense to Chris.
It is a synagogue.
Crowley parks the car illegally a few streets over, in front of an institution of some sort, perhaps a school. The sign indicates they are parked in a fire lane, but Crowley ignores it. He instru
cts Brad to stay in the car, to keep an eye on it, as he and Chris have business to conduct.
They step out of the car and walk back towards Dee Street, the Friday night sounds of downtown Aberdeen audible nearby. Chris can feel the edge of the oncoming spring in the air, a feeling that he has always enjoyed, even as a child. The air has a warm and damp quality, and the odorless chilly air gives way to an air that carries all the smells of its surrounding earth, soil, and the grass and flowers and trees that are about to enjoy a reincarnation.
“Chris, you are a lucky young man indeed. Very few are initiated so quickly into our faith. Often, months of study are required, but I can tell you’re an apt pupil, and time is wasting. We have a war on our hands, and you are about to enter into the fray.” Crowley says this as he walks hurriedly down the street, Chris’s shorter legs working hard to remain in a walking stride to keep up with him.
The initiation rite that Crowley is about to administer is a fictitious one, one he made up on his recent trip to Edinburgh, but the idea came to him as an epiphany as his mind raced throughout the week to come up with a way to quickly indoctrinate Chris—and a way to make him culpable also, at least to make him think he’s culpable, for whatever they may attempt in what is the very immediate future.
They approach the synagogue. Crowley is disappointed that so many cars are streaming by and their actions will not go unobserved; the doorway to the building is quite well lit underneath the high streetlamps and the harsh moonlight.
But as they approach the front of the synagogue, Crowley rubs his eyes and there he sees dancing in the streetlights and in the air above the door and walkway of the synagogue the white and flickering lights he has come to know and love so well.
“Alfar,” he says, and Chris looks at him. Crowley points into the air. Chris follows his finger and sees nothing, just a long sidewalk going uphill in front of shop windows and cars parked in the road.
“Don’t you see them?” asks Crowley, hoping that Chris, too, has been deigned significant enough to be given that glimpse of the hand of Odin.
Chris shakes his head. “Do I see what, Father Crowley?”
“Never mind,” replies the priest, sighing with a certain gravity. “The emissaries of Valhalla are here, here for your initiation.”
“Really?” Chris asks. He believes Crowley is sincere, as the man seems very spiritual to him, as if he is gifted with an extra sense of the world unseen, the world of spirits and realms and principalities that Chris has read of in many of his horror books, but has never known.
“Yes, really.” Crowley loses his fear of being seen by any passersby. He feels again somewhat invincible, and he removes a safety pin from the pocket of his leather coat. The coat seems phosphorescent as it reflects the artificial light of the illuminated night.
He grabs Chris’s right hand and says nothing in a sort of mock Icelandic, a language he longs to speak but is too lazy to attempt to learn, and his mind is too pre-occupied with the scope of his own private race war to devote any additional intellectual energy. The artificial Icelandic is for Chris’s benefit and deception; it is meant to lend credence to this mock ceremony and to help ensure Chris’s belief in Crowley’s spiritual prowess.
He pokes Chris’s right index finger quickly. Chris can barely feel the prick, as the air and evening breeze mixed with the alcohol of the beer serve as a sort of anesthesia. Crowley squeezes the finger until the blood comes in a current. Still holding his hand, he leads him to the front door of the synagogue, a darker door than the one in Edinburgh, but this does not discourage the priest. He takes Chris’s hand and with his index finger leads him to draw a swastika, though a vague and sloppy one, and again signs it “The Trinity”.
Crowley is still holding Chris’s hand he steps away from the door to get a look at their work. Satisfied, he turns and walks away. Chris shakes his hand loose and reluctantly, the priest loosens his grip.
“There, there,” the priest says. “There is no turning back now. You’ve just committed in blood.”
“What did all that mean?” asks Chris solemnly. “Why the swastika? What is the Trinity?”
“Well, the swastika is quite intimidating to the Jews. As you know, it is a symbol for the German Nazis, who were on the right track, I must say. The Trinity is you, me and Mr. Hinckley. You indeed are one of us now. We were ‘The Trinity of the Great White Brotherhood of Eastern Scotland’, but the name is too grand sounding and a bit bombastic. I—we—simplified it. The Trinity is much neater sounding, more precise. Holy. It’s a name that can mean different things to different people, but it carries a certain power.”
“Oh,” says Chris, not sure of what certain power the priest is referring to.
A god whispers in Crowley’s ear, and the white lights swirl around his eyes. “Don’t trust the boy.”
He is startled. This is the first time a god has spoken during a conscious moment. The voice in his ear was powerful yet old. It spoke with a certain authority that causes Crowley to feel fear for the first time since his father was alive.
I’ve just heard the voice of Odin. Instantly, a plan is hatched in his brain and he thinks the inspiration is Odin-sent. His mouth forms words that come from nowhere in mind, but deep, deep from the caverns of his much-blackened heart.
“Now, Chris,” the priest says, inspired by the voice as they approach the car, where an unconscious Hinckley is slumped in the back seat, “there is no turning back now. You’re with me one hundred percent. Ours is a faith not without discipline, and it will require a certain amount of devotion and a certain amount of work. All religion has a cost. I suggest strongly that you keep no other friends other than Brad or myself or whomever we let in. Our secrecy must be maintained, and the risk of compromise is too great.”
This the priest says without looking into Chris’s eyes, unlike the rest of the evening’s conversations, as he has constantly kept eye contact with Chris throughout every verbal exchange.
Chris thinks of Karen, and already he can feel her slip away. This gives rise to a certain amount of anxiety. In his mind he can see her waving farewell to him, as if all they have shared would now only be a memory and not an active friendship or relationship that he longed for. However, Chris realizes that she doesn’t feel for him the way he feels for her, so he can justify the severing of his longing and transfer that emotion to the priest and whatever the priest requires.
The priest’s words do cause a certain amount of fear; there is a finality in what he says, in his call for unequivocal devotion. Chris feels like he has just stepped off of a deep ledge and he is feeling terror for the first time in many years, perhaps the first real fear he has ever felt.
They approach the car. Hinckley is unconscious in the back seat, a collection of empty tins of beer surrounding him. Chris thinks briefly about leaving on his own and severing his ties with the priest as quickly as possible, but he doesn’t. He climbs into the front seat and resigns himself to fate.
Chris returns to work on Monday, the thought of what he has become in the back of his mind.
Subconsciously, he knows there is something wrong with the priest’s beliefs and his own acceptance of those beliefs. He rationalizes it consciously with the fact that the priest is the only adult to show him any sort of respect, as if his opinion and well-being were of value. The priest also invited him to be his friend, and the priest is not a nobody, unlike the only friends he ever had in his past, a small collection of boys that he spent most of his schooldays with, a collection that found itself in the margins of the school-age society.
He is not sure what approach he is going to take with Karen, as the priest has all but forbidden him from having friends other than him or Hinckley. This makes Chris anxious, and he is trying to decide if he should act the same or if he should treat Karen with indifference, perhaps avoiding conversation with her as much as two people stuck in a room for twelve hours together possibly can.
He decides to act much the same as he has in the
past, but this idea is discarded when he sees her and their watch begins. He doesn’t feel the same, so it is difficult for him to act the same.
He adopts a sullen approach and doesn’t speak to her for the first hour of the shift, a time when they usually engage in small talk while reading the reports from the previous watch and updating the logbook.
Karen notices this but doesn’t take offense. She is not unversed in human nature, especially the nature of young men. She writes it off as a mood swing that men are prone to suffer, though the fact that women are notorious for this trait always strikes her as sexist.
They spend the watch in near silence. Chris doesn’t look her in the eye once.
The second watch in the string comes along and again, Chris’s behavior is unchanged. Karen is now concerned and wonders if it is something she said or did that is affecting him so much. She searches her brain and recalls their previous conversations—the words exchanged and the mood—and she can remember nothing unsavory. She is also concerned because he may be hurt in some way, regardless if she offended him or not. She wants to help him.
This is puzzling and somewhat disconcerting for her. She is not sure if her concern for Chris is maternal instinct or something she fears even stronger: her attraction to this boy.
When the watch is nearly a quarter complete, Karen can stand it no longer. After a few attempts to goad Chris into their normal flow of conversation, she asks in exasperation, “What the hell is the matter with you?”
He stares at his computer screen. “Nothing.” He doesn’t turn to face her, but he can see her reflection staring at him in the illuminated blackness of the blank monitor.
“Bullshit.”
Chris is startled by her unusual use of profanity. His gaze remains on the computer monitor, and he can see her forehead and her eyes crease in what appears to be anger.
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