His mother placed her hand on his father’s arm and tightened her grip on the knife.
“Today is the end. No more. Stand or return to nothing. I cannot… I can carry this no more.”
She drew the knife. Tears streamed down her face. The ironwood mask had returned. The knife’s stark whiteness matched his pale legs. Fen propped on his elbows and reached down to pull his knees to his chest. He curled forward, catching himself on his forearms, and braced a foot beneath him. The muscles in his soft thigh sent a weak but true reply writ by a white-hot pain. The leg held as he dragged himself up using the tent’s walls.
His mother slipped the knife into its sheath and held out her arms.
“Come to me!”
Fen glimpsed his father’s face and saw the endless weaknesses Fen knew must exist inside the man to make him crawl around the wreckage of the civilizations that ended the world. He was a good father but would not stop, could not stop his mother, and perhaps wanted to force this conclusion as much as she did but lacked her will.
Fen commanded his other leg forward. Yes, he remembered how to walk. It held. He stepped out on it and collapsed. His bruised knuckles caught him. They were hard hands, used to the hard ground. He pushed himself up again without using the tent wall.
“I… I do not understand.” His father’s mouth hung open. “For how long?”
“I do not know,” Fen lied.
He did not want to explain because he did not know the words.
“The night my cough broke, maybe. You watched me all night. The burning began where there had been only dullness.”
“We remember,” his mother said.
“It changed. It is still here.” he placed a palm against his chest. “But different. I saw the stones today and I… I… I…”
He felt his own tears now. They ran more freely than his mother’s did. He truly did not know the words.
“You saw the stones,” his father offered. “You understood. You took the choice and made this happen. You are well. You live.”
His father wrapped his arms around the shaking boy. He could not stand much longer. This must be enough to buy another day. His father kissed him on the forehead as his mother joined their embrace.
“Keep this inside you,” his father babbled. “You made this. You understand. You understand.”
Fen wrapped his mind around the simple thought. It must be planted like an acorn in fertile soil. It would take root right away and grow, he knew, because it was a true thing.
“Such is the way of things,” he said into his mother’s shoulder. “Such is the way of things.”
CHAPTER 5 – HYPOTHESES
The door to what was probably her office was open. This was the kind of school where they painted your name on the door’s frosted glass to make you feel special. Hell, it was the kind of place that still had doors filled with frosted glass. It was, Eliza admitted to herself, a special place. But she was lost, not special. She winced and grabbed the doorframe as her cramped calf tightened. Massaging the sore muscle didn’t help. A twenty-mile trail run through the forest had been a bad idea but when else would she have time to think? Not when she was sleeping or working. An unfamiliar ache fired beneath her kneecap.
ToldYouItWasABadIdeaKneePainWorseThanMusclePainGoodJob
Tim would be waiting inside. Tim, with the matching knee braces and the still-raw ACL scars. Because that’s all she could remember about Tim just now. She tried not to scold herself. It had been a long, strange weekend since her Friday evening trip to the countryside. It had been a longer, stranger summer. She pushed the door open.
“Hey Tim, who gave you a key?”
He dropped a book. It slammed onto the floor. He kneeled to recover it, stopped, tried to bend at the waist, stopped, and finally settled into a chair where he leaned over to grasp the book using his fingertips. He didn’t make eye contact until the book was back in his hands.
“Didn’t mean to startle you but you’re in my office at 7:30 AM on a Monday morning, so you kinda startled me.”
The fair-haired giant stopped cleaning the book’s dark leather cover. She saw it was her compendium history of Egypt. That book was a gift from Helena. Sticky notes filled its pages. She squinted at him and then the book. He started cleaning it again.
“You told me to be here first thing Monday, Doc. We had a lot of content to cover.”
“Not a doctor. And no… that doesn’t sound right. I would never tell you to be in my office this early on a Monday. In fact,” her knee was throbbing now, “I specifically told you to not come back until you’d finished reading that personally invaluable tome and two more comprehensive histories of Mediterranean seafaring cultures. You didn’t read those in three days.”
Her desk chair squealed as he spun. The boy had to weigh what, 240, maybe 250 pounds? He was almost twice her size and a solid head taller. She braced for another impact as his knees swung too close to her desk but he stopped and pivoted back in time. He held the other books in his hands.
“I did. Five days. You gave me the books on Wednesday.”
“No you didn’t. No I didn’t. Did I?”
Tim froze. A pair of pale blue eyes watched her from behind heavy dark circles. He had gunslinger’s eyes. Would he know that book? She decided not to say it. Had the boy even slept?
“I did, though...,” his voice trailed.
She moved past him and dropped her backpack on the secondary desk beneath the lone window. The desk already sagged under the weight of the hundred or so books she brought from… no, that wasn’t home anymore. It was only the place she spent four grueling years as a doctoral candidate that gave her nothing in return except a shabby office at a mid-tier university with a recently retired defensive lineman for a teaching assistant. But he was here, wasn’t he?
“And what did we learn, young Timothy?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You learned a lot if you read all three of those. They pretty much define Mediterranean culture. Every single kingdom, war, and treaty from 1200 B.C.E. to present can be extrapolated from those books. Hell, the impact of the Sea Peoples alone explains most of modern Mediterranean history.”
“I need to read more books. Can we talk then?”
She turned back to the book desk. These all needed to be sorted and shelved. She made a mental note to make Tim do that, too. A teaching assistant wasn’t so bad. Her dark eyes darted from title to spine to cover until she found the next volume.
“Here we go. It’s about Mussolini’s rise to power. If you can’t connect the dots between your weekend homework and the 20th century nadir of Italian power, you’re no use to me.”
She smiled as she said it but heard her own voice and regretted it. He wouldn’t understand her humor. People rarely did.
“I’ll get there. How was the party?”
“Party?”
“On Friday. With Doctor Behema. Oh! Shoot. You need your chair.”
He stumbled to his feet. Eliza’s knee hurt as she watched his bend, though the sophomore didn’t show any discomfort. His limits seemed more mechanical than painful. Tim took the book from her as he rose. He flipped to the table of contents. She watched him read the page for almost a minute. No way had he read all three volumes already. He must have skipped his entire weekend and his other classes. But it wasn’t like he had football practice anymore. She stopped her fist from clenching.
“Oh, yeah. It was…” she paused to consider him.
Who was this kid? Eliza watched him memorize the table of contents and turn the page. How many times would he go back to that page in his mind? What kind of connections was he making? His memory must be remarkable. Hers obviously wasn’t. She didn’t even remember telling him about her invitation to Behema’s party. He turned another page, cracked lips forming silent words as he read to himself, and she decided to trust him for a moment. Who else was there, anyway?
“It was strange. Really strange. I was late, shocking, and a whole bunch
of people were there. Weird people. That’s not a helpful description. Not like weirdos, you know,” she waved her hands around her head, “but different. Almost like they weren’t exactly people. That doesn’t make sense. I’m rambling.”
He was lost in the book. How much had he heard? It didn’t matter. Someone knocked on the door. She hobbled to answer and found Dr. Behema standing there.
“Good morning, Eliza. I was hoping you had a moment to…”
His bushy white eyebrows dipped behind his glasses as he peered past her into the office loaded with jumbled boxes, rolls of maps, and an oversized student.
“Ah, I’ve interrupted.”
“No you’re fine. I just forgot I asked Tim to meet me so early. He’s my new teaching assistant.” She chewed her bottom lip. “We get one of those, right? I thought I remembered that in the onboarding paperwork. But he’s zoned out reading that book. Isn’t that right, Tim?”
“No ma’am, I’m listening,” he muttered.
She waved him off.
“No you’re not.”
He took another page between two thick fingers and held it up as he alternated back and forth to the page’s sides.
“You told me that it’s strange. Really strange. I was late, shocking, and a whole bunch of people were there. Weird people. That’s not a helpful description. Not like weirdos, you know. Then you waved your hands around your head to indicate crazy people. Then you said it’s different. Almost like they weren’t exactly people. That doesn’t make sense. I’m rambling. Then Dr. Behema knocked on the door and you startled because you’re anxious this morning. Then you went to answer the door but you’re limping because your calf is cramped and your knee hurts, and then…”
“Allllright. Enough. You’re paying attention. Jesus.” She shrugged at Behema. “He’s listening. Is that an issue?”
Behema had backed into the department’s corridor.
“Not at all. In fact, since you’ve brought him into your employ and he is obviously a student of…” he scratched a bushy eyebrow, “particular attention, he is invited.”
“Where?”
“Alas, I promised time to make yourself eager and must now renege on my promise. The situation has evolved, as all things do. Someone I admire is in need of your assistance.”
“The world is changing. Right. Who is waiting?”
“The man who discovered our good friend Mr. Hyun Minseok.”
He shuffled down the hall. She started after him, hopped on one foot as her calf cramped again, and leaned on the wall. Tim’s hands hovered behind her. When had he moved? How was he more mobile than she was? She waved him off.
“Let’s go,” she said.
They limped after Behema together.
◆◆◆
Behema’s office was somehow more crammed than hers. The simmering comfort of tenure had given Behema enough time to fill his office’s walls, shelves, desk, floor, door, and even the ceiling with artifacts. Eliza had not been in here before. She noticed some items belonged in a museum case, not lost in his office. Soft yellow lamplight cast overlapping shadows that blanketed the corners in black. A shelf near a man-sized standing marionette held a faded globe with bright blue pins stuck in random locations across the Sahara, Gobi, and Atacama deserts.
She ignored the room’s many small wonders to inspect the overgrown puppet. It was disproportionately constructed, with arms and legs too slender to belong to a person that size. Tim moved beside her, providing a useful reference.
The door’s closing click broke her momentary trance and she turned to see Behema easing into his chair. She looked back. The puppet was inhuman in proportion and feature. Someone had dressed it in an ill-fitted Depression Era suit, complete with pinstripes but missing the hat. She fought the urge to check its boot for a flask of bathtub whiskey.
The thing looked wrong, like a statue carved by a blind person who had only been told the features of a man. The face was taut, high cheeked, with a diminished but sharp chin daggered towards the neck. She raised her hand to test its faux flesh. Tim pushed her away as he moved between her and the puppet. His hands were shaking.
“Michael,” Behema said, “perhaps you’ve given them enough time to adjust.”
The puppet’s eyes flicked open, revealing tar-black pupils nearly as large as its eyeballs. Eliza gasped and stumbled backwards. Tim didn’t retreat. His shoulders flared and his chest began to heave. The puppet looked beyond its human obstacles to Behema.
WhatInHolyHellsGoingHeLockedTheDoorDidntHeThisIsTheEnd
“Eliza, Tim, please step away. I would advise, based on your reactions, that you break eye contact with our guest.”
Tim stepped back but kept his arms and legs in stance. It was his blocking stance from years of football practice, she saw. He was protecting her and himself. She drew a breath and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Tim. We should…” her voice broke.
A hard lump choked her. Was this what it felt like to swallow actual fear?
“Should back up. Behema…” She tried to modulate into her professorial voice. “We could use some kind of explanation.”
Her heel connected with a low table. She glanced back in time to see an inverted Cross of St. Peter begin to fall and then back to the puppet in time to see that it was gone. By the time she and Tim had turned to face the door, the puppet stood between them and Behema with the rescued relic in its spindly hand.
“Shouldn’t that be burning you?” she spat as she began to back away again.
The puppet steadied the table, placed the cross back on its stand, inspected its hand, and retreated to the door. It stalked across the room like a man on stilts, arms held tight against its body. Behema moved to stand between them all.
“Eliza, please. This is Michael. This is our guest.”
She couldn’t tell if Behema had called the man Michael or Mikael. It looked, somehow, more like a Mikael.
“Guest? That thing is a nightmare. Jesus, Philip. What is... Er, who is that? That’s your guest?”
It opened its mouth to speak. Gooseflesh crawled her forearms.
“Doctor Reyes, please forgive the deception. If you would allow a few minutes for a brief explanation…,” it gestured to the seats in front of Behema’s desk.
“No!” Tim boomed from behind her.
He was trying to move between her and the puppet again but Eliza pressed her hand against his chest.
“Wait, Tim. Just… wait.”
WhatAreYouWaitingOnAlwaysWaitingAlwaysChokingNoThinkAboutFriday
“You weren’t there Friday. You didn’t see…”
“Almost like they weren’t exactly people,” Tim whispered.
“Yeah.” She forced her body to relax as she drew in several long breaths. “But they are, aren’t they, Doctor Behema?”
“Indeed they are. Please, be seated. Michael traveled a long way to request our assistance. I intend to render it.”
Eliza moved for a seat at the desk. She was halfway there when she realized Tim hadn’t moved.
“Tim, come on. He won’t bite you.”
Instant nausea choked her. Her body was obviously on Tim’s side of this argument.
“I think. No, he won’t. It’s kind of helping me to not look at him. Might help you.”
His hands trembled. Sweat beaded on his pallid face.
“Hempstock! Let’s move!”
Her shout broke the spell. He gasped, looked from Michael to Eliza, and moved into a chair, careful to orient so that Michael was never behind him.
Eliza spoke first.
“What’s his deal? Is this some kind of trick? I feel… I feel…”
“It helps some people to explain the effect he has on them. Please do try.”
Behema’s gentle tone calmed her.
“I feel like he’s a thing… like a hyena, maybe…”
“A spider. A predator,” Tim mumbled as he stared at his open palms.
“Yeah, that. A spider. Like a me-s
ized spider is staring at me from the ceiling in my bedroom at 2 AM. What the hell is this?”
“The unfortunate effects of a series of useful affects, Doctor Reyes,” Michael said.
“I’m not a doctor.”
Michael turned his head to Behema while the rest of his gaunt body loomed in place like a tormenting gargoyle.
“In name only, this is true,” Behema said. “However, Eliza’s current lack of official credentials is amply accommodated by her singular prestige in the field. She is Helena Haim’s prize pupil, after all. I could not recommend a better candidate from all the world.”
“Not even yourself?”
His voice made the air itself shudder. Eliza wanted to find his off switch and jam a rusty butter knife into it. The way he spoke made the air taste like copper and bile.
“I am too old for this grand adventure, Michael, too tired, and Eliza is better qualified still. I assure you that she is not a substitute but an upgrade. Helena herself would be less useful than Doctor Reyes.”
“Useful for what?” she asked.
“An investigation,” Behema said when Michael refused to look away from him.
How was he unbothered by this monster? Eliza felt her sweat-soaked shirt stick to the chair’s wooden back. The air stank of her fear. Tim was still hyperventilating into his hands.
“I can’t help… Jesus, whatever’s wrong with you, I can’t figure that out. That’s not the kind of doctor I am. I mean… ugh.”
Michael craned his lengthy neck to focus on her. She regretted speaking up but continued.
“Really, that’s not what I do. You have some kind of mutation or something. A series of defects. Like Marfan Syndrome but worse. And I only know about that because Lincoln had it. Explained his strange look.”
Her mind raced through explanations. It felt good to focus on something she understood. Yes, Marfan Syndrome made a kind of sense. His limbs were stretched thin and his connective tissues were obviously atypical. His facial structure was harsh but not misshapen. She forced herself to look at him. His black eyes stared back. The face was perfectly symmetrical, identical lines of black eyebrows adding texture to pale skin stretched over identical cheekbones. Even his lips were symmetrical. The bile settled back into her stomach.
The Sin Eaters Page 4