Prelude (Part One)

Junius Beaumont leaned on his hoe, gripping the worn wooden handle with hands gnarled by age. Liver spots dotted their backs where thick veins rolled beneath the skin like earthworms after a hard rain. The knuckles were swollen from arthritis and a hot humid morning spent digging out weeds. Drops of sweat rolled down his face and the back of his neck. He pulled a bandana from the pocket of his bib overalls to wipe his forehead and . . .

There it was again.

He squinted, staring into the distant trees as he searched for another flicker of movement. Stray dog? Maybe. Could be another goddamned deer looking to graze on the hard earned fruits of his labor.

Looked bigger than a deer, though . . .

Bear, maybe?

But it had been years since anyone had seen a bear around these parts.

He kept watch for another five minutes or so, then—after observing no further movement—got back to work, taking comfort from the shotgun leaning against a nearby tree as he kept the corner of one eye on lookout.

The tender shoots of corn stood ankle high, a bright green in the June sunlight. It had grown better in his younger days, he thought. Back then he had shucked his seed from the ears, instead of buying them in little paper bags from the feed store.

But this year's garden wasn't bad. He'd started around the first of May, just like his father had, back in the days when Junius had barely reached the old man's knees. Vines clambered over the scrap chicken wire and rusting metal poles of his hand-rigged tomato cages. Sometimes he had to carry water up from the creek for irrigation for his Beefsteaks when the rains kept their distance, but the results were worth it. Not like those hard tasteless lumps the Faulkners tried to sell you over at the Shop N' Save.

He walked the rows, passing sprouts of okra and lima bean plants, furrows of summer squash and cantaloupe. Later, come August, he would reseed, add some kale and spinach. Not enough to sell, not anymore. But enough for him, with a bit left over for Margery and her kids.

Poor girl, she really missed her mama, Junius thought. So did he.

Perspiration rolled into his eyes, stinging them. He took off his bill cap and fanned his face with it. A lock of iron gray hair hung in a thin clump from the cap's plastic snaps. His grandson Petey had given it to his PawPaw the last time he and his mother had visited.

As he looked at the cap's legend (George's Pepsi Vending Service) he wondered—not for the first time—who the hell George was. And why didn't he service a decent soft drink, like Sundrop or RC Cola?

"Probably a Yankee," he muttered as he pulled the cap back over his brow. "Mebbe even a Republican."

A sudden gust of wind chilled his skin through the wet back of his work shirt. He looked up, frowning. A mass of black clouds had rushed in from the east, as though God Himself was whipping them along. He grunted while setting his hoe against a nearby oak tree, then picked up his Remington twelve gauge. The shotgun was forty-five years old, bought new in nineteen thirty-three. Its oiled length rested comfortably in his hands.

Then he put his back to the east and headed for home.

His swollen joints grumbled at the pace he set. Traitorous bones, he thought. Seemed like his whole body had turned against him over the years.

Huge rocks sat half-buried in the ground while smaller ones lay concealed in the thick grass, making walking treacherous. Navigating the meadow without incident, Junius stepped into the trees. A thin footpath wound through tangled vines of wild blackberry and honeysuckle. He stepped carefully, alert for stones hidden in the undergrowth. A sudden fall nowadays could mean a fractured skull, maybe even a broken hip.

The track writhed through the bushes and the pines into an open spot round as a wheel, with an enormous boulder at the center of its axis. Junius' eyes narrowed as he spotted two figures seated on top of the moss-covered slab. Boys, not even old enough for high school by the look of them. One held a rifle. The other grinned and let loose a howl like a bitch in heat. Both gazed intently in his direction.

Junius stopped. "What you fellas doing here?"

Neither spoke at first. "Hunting for rabbits," the one with the gun finally said. His head was shaved high and tight. Junius hadn't seen a cut like that since his days in the Army. His own hair hung in loose waves down to his shoulders.

"Uh huh." Junius reached into his pocket. The two boys tensed, then relaxed when he brought out a small plug of tobacco. He cut off a piece, then replaced the wad. "Y'all do know that this here's private property," he said.

"Yep," said the one with the gun. "My Aunt Milly said we could hunt up this way."

"Yeah? Well now, this ain't Milly Faulkner's farm, her property line ends at the creek yonder. This here's my land."

"Ain't what she says," piped up the second boy, the smaller of the two. His high strung voice made Junius uneasy.

"I don't doubt yer right. But it's what Judge Perry said, and if it's good enough for him, it oughta be good enough for her. And I ain't fond of trespassers, so I figger it's time you boys get." Junius waited.

The two returned his stare. After a moment, Junius slipped his hand down the length of the Remington, resting his thumb on the shotgun's hammer. Then the older boy laughed as he leaped off the boulder, followed by his friend. Junius noted their easy grace with envy.

"Come on Pee-Wee," the boy with the gun said as he sidled off.

"I told you to stop calling me that," the boy complained. The two continued walking and vanished into the pines.

Junius waited until the noise of their passage faded. That youngest boy had a strange look in his eyes, like his good sense was a weathervane ready to shift directions at any moment. Junius stayed by the boulder, his ears straining in case they decided to double back.

Time passed. Nothing.

Still listening, he circled the giant rock and continued on his way. The wind had picked up considerably. Bits of vegetation blew into his face and clung to his damp skin. Branches and vines arched over the pathway as it took a downhill turn. Junius held on to tree limbs with his free hand as he half stepped, half slid along. Occasionally he looked back over his shoulder in the creek's direction; nobody followed. Then the path leveled off and he could see home.

Pillars of wedge-shaped rock served as a foundation for the tiny shack. Steps made from stone and mortared with red clay led up to the front porch, thin tree trunks cut as saplings and covered with branch stubs held up the narrow strip of tin roof. The door was one of the few store-bought items he'd used, though the knob had rusted out years ago. No way to lock it except from the inside by barring the door. Wax paper covered several panes once filled by glass. A rusting chain, a worn dog's collar on its end, lay in the bare, dusty earth. Houdini had slipped off his leash.

Junius grumbled. Damned mutt, he thought. Where the Hell is he? If he's done sneaked into my chicken coop again . . .

Something snapped under his right foot. He screamed. The Remington flew out of his hands. He flailed about as his leg gave way and he collapsed, head striking something hard as he hit the ground. Light exploded, he couldn't see. A flush of heat washed over his face. He tried to move, but the pain blinded him, so he stopped and laid still. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. After a bit his vision cleared a little. He looked down at his leg. The iron bands of an animal trap had bitten deep into his ankle. He moaned.

Junius heard a noise. He looked up to see a large fellow standing over him. The stranger was young, like the boys at the boulder, but older and bigger. He had a .22 propped on his shoulder as though it was a fishing pole. As Junius stared, the boy crouched down and clucked his tongue. "Huh! I'll bet that hurts like a sonuvabitch!"

Junius gritted his teeth. "Help me—"

The young man whistled. "You're lucky, old man. If that there spring hadn’t popped, it probably would have took your whole foot clean off. Lousy piece of shit."

He shook the trap. Junius screamed.

"Buddy! Hey Buddy!" a familiar voice cried. Junius groaned as the other two teenagers dashed through the trees.

"Look at that!" said the one called Pee-Wee. "Didn't I tell you it'd work? Huh? Didn't I?"

"Shuddup." Buddy reached out and grabbed the shoulder of the one with the rifle. "It broke, Jerry!" he said, shaking the smaller boy. "You hear me? Now what would I have done if it hadn't worked at all? I might've gotten my ass shot off, you stupid fucking redneck!" He shoved Jerry against a nearby tree.

"I'm sorry, Bud!" Jerry said. "It ain't my fault! I spent all day yesterday cleaning it up and putting WD-40 on it! Hell, I even tested it a couple of times! It was working then, I swear!"

"Huh," Buddy grunted, turning back to Junius.

The old farmer shrank back as the young giant squatted down beside him. The boy's dull flat eyes reminded Junius of a fish.

"Shouldn't we get him inside? In case somebody comes?" Pee-Wee said, looking around.

"The runt's right," Buddy said. "I'll hold the jaws open. Jerry, you and Pee-Wee grab the old bastard by the shoulders and drag him into the shack. Think you can manage that without fucking it up too?"

Junius cried out as they pulled him away from the animal trap. Buddy poked him hard in the jaw with the stock of his rifle. "Old man, if you don't shut your goddamned mouth, I'm gonna give you something to really whine about. You understand me?"

Junius gritted his teeth, but remained silent as the other two pulled him up the steps and inside the house.

"Dump him over there in the corner," Buddy said. Jerry and Pee-Wee dragged him to the opposite side of the one-room cabin and let him drop.

"Hey old man, you got anything to eat in this place?" Buddy said as he rummaged through Junius's cupboards.

"We ain't got time to eat!" Pee-Wee said, trying to look in every direction at once. "Somebody might come by. Make him tell us where it is and then do what we gotta do, all right?" Jerry nodded in agreement.

Buddy shook his head. "He ain't going anywhere. Uncle Mike once told me that if you want to make people talk, hurt them bad and wait. After a while, they'll talk your ear off. And he ought to know; he did two tours. One in Vietnam, and the other in Wayne County prison. 'Sides, I'm hungry; Momma didn't fix no lunch today. And we want to wait till it's full dark before we leave anyway."

The other two looked unhappy, but said nothing. They raided the shelves, eating anything that did not need to be cooked, throwing everything else on the floor.

The cabin grew dark as thunder rolled in the distance. "Make a light," Buddy said as he tore open a package of crackers and began spreading peanut butter on them. Pee-Wee found some matches and lit the kerosene lamp.

The three continued to eat after the dim glow from outside had faded. Buddy stepped over Junius, brushing crumbs from the front of his T-shirt as he looked down.

"It's like this," the boy said. "Uncle Mike told me you've been collecting money from Social Security for almost twenty years, and getting a check from the army for even longer than that. His girlfriend at the bank says you come in and cash your checks, but you don't deposit them. Uncle Mike thinks you got all that money buried out here somewhere. I think he's right." The big fellow crouched down beside him. "So? Where's it at?"

Junius looked up at the boy. "Yer daddy must be nearsighted as hell."

"Why's that?" Buddy said with a grin.

"To hit the wrong hole when he squirted you out."

Junius heard Pee-Wee laugh. Even Buddy grinned. Then he straightened and stomped down hard on Junius's injured ankle.

The old man screamed. Buddy leaned forward, grinding down hard with his heel. Then he turned and walked away.

Junius felt his stomach spasm, and he vomited, then rolled away to avoid the mess. As he did, everything went black.

When he came to, he looked around. He couldn't see past the darkness outside the window. Rain pounded on the roof; it sounded like hot grease on a griddle. He wondered how long he had been out.

The three boys sat, their backs to the wall, watching him. He tried to hunch away. The slightest motion lit the fire in his foot again. He tightened his jaw so they wouldn't hear him sob.

Then there was a loud creak from outside.

Jerry stood up. His chair tilted and fell backwards. "What was that?"

Pee-Wee looked around. "I dunno. His dog, maybe?"

Buddy shook his head. "Naw; I cracked that fleabag's skull more'n five hours ago, while y'all were down by the fields."

My dog, Junius thought. You killed my dog? You bastards . . .

"I bet it’s the sheriff!" Jerry said as he backed away from the door, stopping next to where Junius lay underneath the window.

"Keep your voice down, goddammit!" Buddy said. "And it ain't the sheriff; what would he be doing out here in the middle of the woods? Nobody ever comes out this way, I know. Been planning this ever since Spring Break." He picked up his rifle and walked quietly to the door.

"Maybe it's a bear," Pee-Wee said as he retreated to the corner.

"You think?" Jerry said, his voice cracking.

"Shuddup before I bust open your heads too." Buddy pressed an ear against the warped wood. "I don't hear nothing. Jerry Wayne, go outside and take a look around."

"I ain't going out there!" Jerry said as he crouched next to the window sill.

"Go on! It's probably just a raccoon."

"Then you go!"

Buddy sighed and turned around. "Pee-Wee—?"

The small boy shook his head violently. "Nuh-UH!"

Buddy hefted his rifle. "Motherfucking bunch of cocksucking faggots. I oughta—"

The window above Jerry's head exploded. Something grabbed the boy and snatched him halfway through before Junius could even blink. He watched in dumbfounded amazement as a loose nail ripped through the boy's jeans, gouging a deep furrow in his leg. Blood sprayed in a fan as the boy's feet vanished through the hole. There was a scream.

Buddy howled and fired his rifle through the hole where the window had been. He shot twice, a third time. The screaming stopped.

Buddy stepped over to the hole and looked out. Pee-Wee crouched in the corner, his face pale and tight.

"What was that? Is Jerry all right?" the younger boy screeched.

"SHUDDUP! How the hell should I know?" Buddy yelled. He turned back to Junius. "What the fuck's out there, old man? Huh!" He raised the stock of his rifle over Junius' injured foot.

A crash like thunder shook the cabin walls. Jars of pickles and grape jam bounced off their shelves and shattered on the floor.

"BUDDY!" Pee-Wee shrieked.

The older boy looked down at Junius. "We're gonna make a run for the truck, Pee-Wee." He prodded Beaumont with his boot. "Get on yer feet, old man."

Junius tried to stand. "I can't—"

Buddy grabbed him and pulled him up. "You'll fucking walk or I'll blow your goddamned head off right here! Come on!"

Junius fought to stand on his remaining good leg. Buddy held him up and pushed him towards the door. "Hurry up!" he told Pee-Wee.

"Why're we dragging him along?"

"If whatever's out there comes for us, we'll throw him to it; maybe then it'll leave us alone. Now get the door."

When the small boy balked, Buddy shoved him forward, hard. Crying now, Pee-Wee removed the wooden bar, then pushed the door open, squawking as Buddy shoved him outside.

Junius blinked, trying to see past the light from the kerosene lamp. Buddy forced him ahead, holding him when he almost slumped to the floor. Junius couldn’t see the youngest boy, but he heard him snuffling. The steps, wet and slippery, almost caused him to fall.

"Pee-Wee, you're gonna have to reach in my pocket and pull the keys out, you hear? I can't get them and hold Beaumont and my gun at the same time," Buddy said.

No reply.

"Pee-Wee?"

Junius squinted as he stared into the darkness past the porch. The smaller boy had vanished.

"PEE-WEE!" Buddy cried as he moved forward, dragging Junius along. "Where the goddamned hell are you?"

Then Junius heard a snuffling cough from above.

Buddy must have heard it too. Both looked up where the roof overhung the porch. An enormous shadow stood out against the blue-black sky. As Junius watched, a dark shape plummeted towards them.

Shoved from behind Junius stumbled, crying out as he fell to the ground. The black mass struck the boy Buddy, knocking him down, then bounced and rolled next to Junius.

It was Pee-Wee, eyes wide open, his chin resting between his shoulder blades.

A loud thud spattered rain everywhere, blinding Junius. He spit, blinking furiously to clear the water and mud from his eyes, then looked up at what had to be the largest man he had ever seen.

The giant stared down at him. Light from the open door split the darkness like a wedge, allowing Junius to make out a few details. The man was almost naked. He reminded Junius of a statue he had seen over in Europe during the war. Muscles like small boulders stretched the man's skin taut. Several rags hung from a wide leather belt, barely covering the man's privates. Long black hair fell past his shoulders, a thick beard just touched the top of his chest. Bits of dead leaf and pine straw cluttered hair and beard alike; mud and rain streaked his skin. Junius could see the man's feet through the cracks in his boots.

The giant held Buddy by the shirt with one massive hand. The boy's neck hung at an unnatural angle. As Junius stared, the man let go. There was a flat crack as the boy's head hit the bottom stone step.

Junius coughed, his throat burned. "Who—what . . ." he said.

The man grunted. "Yasir jo vendal fi camina?" he mumbled, then waited.

"Huh? I, uh, I didn't hear you right."

The giant stared down, his eyes as grey as flint.

Then he turned and walked away.

Junius watched the man disappear into the darkness. Then he laid his head down, and the world went away.

He woke to bright sunlight and the face of a deputy sheriff crouching over him. There were people everywhere, and he saw Margery talking to a couple of men in white. She noticed he was awake and rushed over to him. "Daddy, are you all right?"

He said nothing, instead looking around. White cloths covered long bundles lying in the dirt. He noticed a thin stream of ants flowing beneath the nearest sheet.

“Mr. Beaumont, these fellows here are going to take you over to the hospital,” the deputy sheriff said. “They’ll take a look at that leg, see about getting you fixed up. When they’re done, and you're feeling up to it, I would deeply appreciate it if you and I could have a sit down so you can tell me exactly what happened here. Okay?”

Junius frowned. What exactly had happened? he wondered.

"Daddy, I’ve had enough of you living out in the woods like this,” his daughter said in a determined tone. “This time you're coming home with me, soon as they let you out of the hospital. Roy's just going to have to learn to live with it.”

He nodded as he looked around. "Mebbe that's best," he said, staring into the surrounding trees.

Two men lifted him onto a stretcher. He kept watch on the woods until the ambulance doors closed and they pulled away.

#

Vines coiled about his legs like wet rope, their thorns carving long, deep scratches into his skin. Blood seeped in narrow trails down the length of his exposed shins. The hateful plants seemed to be everywhere, he stepped high to avoid them. His barely-shod feet trampled the undergrowth and crushed slow-moving insects. Blinking in the light of the morning sun, he forced a path.

Just where the ground sloped, he spotted a stream below. Small circular ripples dotted the brook as tiny fish swarmed just below the surface. He pissed on the rotted trunk of a dying tree, then stepped to the edge of the creek and crouched. Droplets seeped through his fingers as he drank his fill from cupped hands.

A gap in the trees above allowed a coppery puddle of sunlight to trickle down to the murmuring waters. He bent forward, staring at his reflection, at a face darkened by the sun, marked by twin gray eyes crowned by dense brows. The face of a stranger.

Who is that? he wondered.

A bird's screech lit a throbbing ache deep in his head. He whimpered as the pain came again, swelling in the confines of his skull till he knew the blood must soon pour from his nose and his eyes before splitting his bones. Tears flowed down his cheeks in rivulets, and he clawed them away with a howl before falling backwards to curl into a ball. Far away, someone screamed in agony.

No. Not far away. Not far away at all.

His limbs shivered. He took breaths to still them as slowly, very slowly, the pain receded, to leave him trembling in the wake of its passage.

Mud covering his left arm and leg, he crawled into the stream. Then he noticed the stains on his hands. Dark stains.

What is this? he asked himself.

He could not remember. Must not remember. Only the moment was real. He could recall nothing else.

He reached into the water to wash his hands, and when he was done he stood.

Where from here? he wondered.

Then pain flickered inside his head like distant lightning, and he stopped trying to think. Instead he picked a direction at random and walked away.

Prelude (Part Two)

I roll over in the enormous bed and realize, as I tumble into the warm, empty space next to me, that I am alone.

This wakes me fully. I sit upright, the night air a humid blanket weighing heavily upon my skin. This high in the tower, a mere one hundred feet below the crown of its apex, the walls are so much thinner than the massive supporting ones below. After a day spent soaking in the heat of the summer sun, the stones spend their evening radiating that selfsame heat throughout my chambers, once night has fallen.

I slip out of bed, shadow my only raiment as I pad in bare feet through the arch leading to the outer stairway. Other women, from young girls who have yet to bleed to old crones who cannot remember their first lay, snore and slumber all around me.

But even if it were morning, it would not matter. For none would dare gainsay their Queen.

A cool breeze caresses my damp forehead as I step out onto the landing. Here I pause, sparing a moment to luxuriate in the wind's soft hands.

Then I begin the climb.

I spare the occasional glance over the chest-high wall bordering the stairway as I make my way up. Patches of buttery yellow smears glow like distant fireflies in the windows of countless homes, whose shutters have been flung open by a citizenry seeking blessed relief against the heat. Clouds obscure the sky like a thick curtain, masking the pale gleam of the Three Sisters in their nightly orbits, making it difficult to spy individual structures below me, despite the oil lamps that burn everywhere this early in the evening, as far as the eye can see. For it is a large city. My husband's city. My city.

Attilan.

By the time I reach the landing my hair is mostly dry. The zephyrs are stronger here, stirring my hair with their anxious fingertips. I look for her, knowing she will be swathed in grey as usual, and almost invisible in the gloom.

There.

Not too far. Like myself, she is staring out over the city. If it were day, she would see its streets and alleys, while below we would look down into the depths of Mirror Lake, on whose island we rest, her chill waters an autumn's child to the frigid northern rush of the mother that feeds her, the river born from the melting glacier the Hidden Ones (it is said) once called Nhalhap.

Pausing at the upper landing I remember, so very long ago, watching my daughter as she stood where my oldest friend stands now to drop a pebble so the child could count until it reached bottom.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine . . .

 I slip behind my friend, circling her slender waist with my arms while taking in her scent, a powdery fragrance like dried flowers. As I do this, I realize something is wrong. She is stiff, inflexible. Unyielding.

Then I understand.

I pull her childlike form closer, offering what little comfort I have to give. Because she knows. Just as I do, now.

Leaning back against me, I feel the hitch in her breath. And as I rest my chin atop her head, I close my eyes and listen as she whispers the words I have waited to hear from her lips for more years than even I can remember.

"It has begun . . ." 

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