

SEEDS OF THE FALLEN

by

Keith Crews

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Keith Crews on Smashwords

Edited By Gavin Bennett

Copyright © 2012 by: Keith Crews

ISBN #

978-0-9868245-4-8

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Seeds of the Fallen
Chapter One

Out of the Fog

(1)

Jimmy O'Halloran had been the first to see that solitary spire rising out of the fine mist. The iron had stood tall to the world, its embodiment of power spiraling into the heavens before the cresting dawn. At first, he had thought that thin spoke a ship's mast cutting through the thick miasma. But as he approached the rugged shoreline, he could see that the object was in fact a twist of rusted scales that had laid deep its roots into the surrounding grassland. This discovery was quick to find the ears of those humble residents that called Sea Haven home, and within a few short hours, the tiny seaside community had awaken to the news that sometime during the night, a tall mysterious stranger had come to occupy an acreage of their hometown. By midmorning, a small group had assembled outside the local Tim Hortons coffee shop where they took it upon themselves to saunter on up to Major's Field to see if in fact that tall tale was true.

"Would you look at that," Denny Tremblay said with a whistle from atop the telephone truck's hydraulic cherry picker.

"What is it?" Jasper asked, straining his pale eyes upward into the gray mist.

"Greg!" Denny shouted to his coworker upon the dew swept field. "I think you'd better take a look at this!"

"What is it?" Greg asked, as he shifted his oil stained ball cap back upon his thinning hair.

"Come see for yourself," Denny replied.

"What does he see?" Pam Sussex asked, shoving an audio recorder into Greg's whiskered face.

"Good grief, Pam," Greg said. "I'll not know till I get up there."

Pam regarded the entwining spires shingled in metal scales that climbed up into the phantom mist like Jack's beanstalk. The poles, a double helix of corroded iron, planted its sturdy trunk deep into the fertile earth. Yet neither a throw of displaced soil nor upturned sod could be found beneath its pedestal. As enigmatic and as silent as a corpse's dream, the heavy spiral of iron had slipped into Sea Haven with nary a soul to loan it a thought or consideration.

How was that possible?

The solitary road that led to Major's Field was connected to the town's solitary main street. Thus, any heavy equipment that would have ferried such a colossal structure would have alerted someone's attention. Yet it had not. No stone laid tossed to the wayside. No wheel track disturbed the fresh cut meadow. No trail of mud marred the blacktop. Neither grind of gears nor roar of diesel had awakened the local residents. Nothing. By all accounts its very presence was considered an impossibility. Yet here it was: that coiled mast standing high to the mist, its summit hidden from view within the miasma.

Where had it come from? Who had placed it here? How had they done it?

The riddle begged a question and an answer would not give a troubled thought any degree of relief. However, Pam felt that if she could solve this conundrum, it would prove a substantial feather in her cap and perhaps advance her journalistic career beyond the limited frontiers of Sea Haven. After all, if this story went national, then the media attention could cement her position as a professional news reporter.

"I should go up there," Jasper insisted, expanding his barrel chest adorned in departmental issue Kevlar.

"You know how to operate a cherry picker, Jasper?" Greg asked, already concluding the answer.

"You could take me up there," Jasper said, trying to control a situation that technically was not a law enforcement matter.

"Not designed to carry two men," Greg said, blowing off the cop he didn't much care for. Jasper was too much of a bully and a know-it-all according to Greg, a sentiment shared by most folks in Sea Haven.

"That's bullshit and you know it, Boudreau!" Jasper snapped, his large head going flush.

"Okay," Greg said, signaling Denny to lower the cherry picker back down onto the slick grass of Major's Field. "Just don't move around too much, Jasper. This picker's seen better days."

"When can I go up?" Pam asked, tying her auburn hair up into a no-nonsense ponytail, a telltale sign that she was gun-ho to get down to business, not to mention the heavy fog was playing havoc with her curls.

"This isn't a carnival ride," Greg grumbled.

"Come off it, Greg," Pam said, tilting her cutesy head to one side in a gesture that suggested Greg was being pathetic, which he was. She knew his surly attitude towards her probably had to do with his numerous failed attempts to get into her jeans.

"Beer at Phil's," Greg bartered, openly eying her shapely body.

"Jesus," Pam muttered. She did not own a ladder, let alone a pair of stilts. Unfortunately, there was only one-way up and she knew it. "One beer," she agreed, reminding her self-esteem that life in general was a negotiation and that _"real reporters"_ sacrificed pieces of themselves in order to get the story.

"And a dance," Greg added.

"And a dance," Pam said through clenched teeth.

This sacrifice had better be worth it---Sistine Chapel worth it.

Greg gave Pam a wink that said someday, whether she believed it or not, he would bed her. Then, with that bit of sour business completed, Greg and Jasper Hancock climbed into the white fiberglass bucket and shuttled upward into the mist like a pair of potbelly Aladdins.

This brief time aloft was spent by two armchair athletes who did little more than scratch their heads and mutter several inappropriate expletives. Then, after what felt like forty-two tense hours of waiting, it was Pam's turn to take what folks in these parts called _"a gander."_

(2)

The ride up was bumpy, and Greg, being the pig that he was, used the hydraulic turbulence to fake stumbling forward so that he could rub his manhood up against Pam's posterior. Her reply had been a sharp elbow to his bony chest.

"Kitten's got claws," Greg said in a sarcastic tone.

"Fall on me again and you'll fall out of this bucket," Pam said in a polite voice that had just enough edge to let him know that she would go good on that threat.

"Ease up honey buns," Greg said. "I was just warming up for our dance."

Pam rolled her eyes in disgust as she readied her digital camera to capture that whispered curiosity. Again, she reminded herself that a position on LTV News waited at the end of the proverbial rainbow. After all, The Haven Bugle was just a steppingstone on her otherwise rocky career path towards something bigger and better, because being a TV news reporter with the number one media outlet in the Maritimes, was where she truly belonged. She would even go so far as to say it was written in the stars. Therefore, she prescribed to the foregone conclusion that her yellow brick road would inevitably lead to the coveted anchor desk, because it was in fact fate's calling. Not to say she wouldn't have to work for it. No, she knew there would be sacrifices in order to grab the brass ring, and that was okay, because she could put up with things like odd hours, unforeseen issues, and yes, even horn dogs like Greg Boudreau, because that too was something star reporters did: they sacrificed the self in pursuit of the story.

The cherry picker's bucket bounced to a halt, delivering an aspiring anchor with her sharp green eyes into a direct line of sight with that oddest of discoveries. And despite her self-purported professional attitude in regards to investigating a news story, she could not help but depart a soft gasp when finally confronted with that strangest of things.

(3)

The serpent's jaws emerged from the haze, its tall fangs cast within the pitted iron, yawned silently into the firmament, its venom a corrosion of rusted metal. The snake's massive tongue forked its prongs to taste the air, the source of its voice lost within the dark hollows of its cavernous throat. Its eyes, mute but menacing, glared onward with predatory fascination. The serpent's soul, forged in armor, contained its ire within the bars of its prison, its bite stuck in a pose that could not release its sting to mortal flesh. Yet despite its unnatural stillness, it nonetheless exuded an element of motion, its pretense given to attack. Atop its flat skull, a crown symbol lay carved into that hardest of obstructions. The mark was of evil and its symbolism, while cryptic, nonetheless bore its favor.

Beyond the serpent's glare, a snarling gargoyle lay in wait, its scaly head sculpted from that same texture of unyielding iron. Its hideous mug of serrated fangs, smiled with a bright cruelty, its blind eyes staring onward with a strangled effort. Past this grotesque accessory, lay a weeping cherub, its dewdrop eyes departing a bitter misery to the anguish of its own tears. Its delicate lips parted a silent moan, a whimper that called upon a heavenly father that neither cared, nor heeded a mournful plea. Yonder the wailing amoretto, a demon's head, bereft of its unholy body, scowled fierce and terrible, its razor sharp teeth tangled within the sour pit of its jaws. This lone member of legion stretched its hunger as to consume that mournful angel in an act of perpetual murder that would never be realized, for time, as ethereal as a daydream, was locked within the hard fold of iron.

Over and over the theme, or the variation thereof, played out within the warp of rusted metal: evil in pursuit of that noblest virtue. Dozens of miniature depictions of carnage lay woven within the elemental tapestry, and between each act of savagery, lay the twist of snakes. The vipers, coiled around the crooked branches of four massive arms that were set apart at ninety-degree increments. These bodily appendages converged at a solitary junction point where the double helix columns rose up into the gray firmament as if to challenge the very sky itself.

As the fog slowly dissipated atop the medieval menagerie, the serpent's lair, seen in its entirety, exposed its horror to each witness. The enormous heads of four demonic serpents lay perched atop the ends of those perverted limbs. Their piercing gaze lay mute, but nonetheless spoke to an ancient fear that all mammals must come to understand. And although they lay locked within a jail of iron, their predatory nature could not be quelled, for if its poisons could not be dispatched by the sting of its fangs, then its bite would seek to deliver its toxins by the weight of its regard.

"What are those things?" Pam muttered.

"Which things?" Greg asked in a tone that suggested that everything about the menagerie was open to interpretation.

"Atop the snake heads," Pam said. "Are they crowns?"

Greg squinted and focused upon the four giant serpent heads. He didn't much care for staring at those big snakes. It felt as though they were looking back at him.

"Maybe we should go back down," Greg said with a bit of a tremor in his voice. He suddenly felt very cold and his bowels felt far too loose.

"No," Pam objected. "I need to get a few pictures."

"Well...hurry up then!" Greg snapped. "This thing gives me the creeps."

Pam removed a trusty digital camera from her purse and then set that grotesque centerpiece of menacing snakeheads in center frame. Quickly, she snapped off a few dozen photos, and as each subsequent image was captured, she began to notice a pattern. Those strange crowns that sat perched atop the serpents' brows each resembled an English text character. One crown or symbol resembled the letter "N" the other, an "E" the next, a "W" and finally the last headband or emblem, looked vaguely like the letter "S."

"It's sort of looks like a compass," Pam whispered.

"What?" Greg asked.

"A compass," Pam repeated. "Perhaps it's druid or pagan, or something similar. I think those symbols atop the snakes are letters from some old form of writ. See...the thing that looks like an N is north, the E an east, the W a west, and the S is south."

"Hell," Greg grunted. "Don't look like that to me...just looks like a bunch of squiggly lines....have you been drinking, Pammy?"

Pam doubted Greg had even bothered to look at the symbols. He was probably too busy staring at her ass.

"Who built this thing?" Pam whispered as she snapped off another picture.

"Damned if I know," Greg replied. "Must've been one of those freaking art sands."

"You mean artisan," Pam corrected.

"Yeah, artisan," Greg nodded, drawing up a hawker which he then spat leisurely over the side. The goober almost nailed Denny square on the head, to which Denny responded by giving Greg the finger.

"Take a fellow years to build and cast something that big, I reckon. Not to mention dragging it up here with no one hearing ya. Hell, that's just as big a mystery as the owner's identity if you ask me."

Pam clicked another picture. "This thing...it's a variation on a theme."

"What?"

"The figures," Pam said. "There's dozens of figures depicted in this display, and for every good saintly soul, there's an evil opposite hunting them."

"Good versus evil," Greg said with a hapless shrug. "Nothing new about that, is there?"

"Except in this sculpture, good is getting its ass fed to it on a silver platter."

"It's all fairytales," Greg said, tilting his hat back to reveal the large mole on his oily forehead. "So the sick bastard who forged this here maypole got his paycheck bet on Satan. Whatever floats your boat, I say."

Pam fired off another shot. "Goddamn, who put this here?"

"What floats your boat, Pammy?" Greg asked. "That's what I'd like to know."

"Jesus!" Pam exclaimed, nearly dropping her camera.

Suddenly, the entire chorus of demons and angels raged to life, their ancient war given to live theater and waged within the scorching fire of molten iron. The heat singed Pam's flesh and for an instant, she thought her body might come to flame. However, that phantom fire spared her countenance from its cruel vandalism and instead tortured those things that had come to despair. The screeches that shrieked from within the crimson lake pierced her ears with a song of such sorrow that her heart would surely break. The abandonment of hope beneath the crushing sardonic wake of the inferno stole that promise of glory and replaced it with a bitter desolation. The perdition of the damned had claimed its victims with an insatiable gluttony and would forever keep it hostage within the malice of its undying spite.

"What's going on up there?!" Jasper yelled.

Pam blinked, and in that all too brief instant, that unexplainable phenomenon that had come to defile her eyes with its terror, gave way to a more reasonable shade of normalcy.

"I said what's going on up there?!" Jasper repeated.

"Did...did you see that?" Pam asked in a hushed voice, pointing toward the spire with a shaky finger.

"See what?" Greg asked.

"They...," Pam almost said moved, because her keen eyes were almost certain that those mythical creatures had done just that: moved. Her eyes once more scanned the idle production with an attention to detail. Had something changed within the solid folds of the iron sculpture since she had first come up here? Was that foulest of fang toothed demons sporting a ghastly smirk?

"See what?" Greg asked again.

"It was nothing, Greg," Pam replied as she quickly clicked off another volley of pictures, images that would offer her scale upon a later examination. "Please...just get me down from here."

"Are you screwing with me, hot pants?"

"Down, Greg," Pam said firmly.

"Yes ma'am," Greg said with a salute.

(4)

Back down on Major's Field, Pam shuffled through the crowd of curious onlookers towards her rusted pickup truck with its bald tires and three tone paint job. Once inside, she slammed the door shut and then set her digital camera down upon the passenger seat where she stared at it for an unusual amount of time.

"It was the fog playing tricks on you, that's all," she muttered.

She bit her manicured nails with nervous zeal, questioning the reliability of that logical practicality that was her rational mind. There were just two possibilities to contend with: either the sculpture had moved, or it had not. However, there was much more to consider in regards to the ramifications of those two outcomes, for if those figures had not moved, then that meant Pam had just suffered a medical episode. But if they had indeed moved, then something very sinister had come to lay its roots within the small community of Sea Haven. To which then was the greater degree of her concern to be given?

To be of questionable mind was in itself a terrible predicament. However, to be witness to a supernatural occurrence that offered no scientific explanation, save an act of magic, was equally discouraging. Yet she dared to wish on the extraordinary if only to secure a foothold on that treacherous hillside of reality.

Slowly, her hand crept toward that telling camera which would either dismiss or condemn her wits to madness. Within the memory chip would lay the testimony of what had been. Its truth would depart its knowledge unto her eyes with a detached sentimentality, for its lens saw the world for what it was and nothing more.

A knock on the driver side window startled her, and she almost yelped, but gladly caught hold of it before it passed off of her full lips.

It was Greg, and judging by the grin upon his homely face, he had something depraved kicking around inside his pea brain.

She rolled down the window.

"When do I get my dance?" Greg asked.

"Um," Pam said with a stammer. "I don't..."

"Come on now sweetie, you made a promise to old Greggy Weggy."

Pam had promised Greg a dance and she knew it. But still, she could not help but wonder why that old sexist had not seen those iron sculptures move as well.

"Ah...Greg...did you notice anything up there?"

"A real sweet ass," Greg grinned.

Pam rolled up the window, almost catching Greg's jugular in the process. It was obvious his eyes were on something, but that was of no use to her whatsoever.

"Hey!" Greg shouted through the sealed glass. "You owe me a dance now! I wanna know when I get to collect!"

Pam turned the ignition and drove off with Greg's voice trailing angrily in the distance. She did not have time to talk about dancing---she had other things on her mind---things like fleeing cherubs being eaten by hungry monsters made of molten iron.

Chapter Two

Playground

(1)

The dented junker of a Firebird with a mismatched paint job bounced across Major's Field, its rusty tailpipe coughing out a noxious fog into the already gray night. Guns N Roses blared _"Coma"_ out of the factory issue stereo. One of the cheap speakers buzzed static whenever band member Duff hit a powerful bass note, an angry bee trapped inside black mesh. The eyesore fish tailed along the slick grass, its rear tires tearing up muddy rooster tails in its wake.

Inside the car's ratty interior sat four potheads splitting a joint and a warm forty of Jack Daniels. The eighteen year old behind the wheel was nicknamed Bone Saw, a title he had picked up in junior high. His real name was Tim Morison, but everyone in Sea Haven knew him as bucktoothed Bone Saw, the pimply faced kid with the jagged overbite and the not too bright expression stenciled upon his otherwise sallow face. The oily hair that hung down to his meek shoulders was always topped off with an AC/DC cap, and rumor had it that if the hat ever came away from Tim's head, his skull would deflate and implode. Within the right breast pocket of his faded denim jacket laid a black handle comb that his friends frequently teased him about.

Hey Bone-Saw, Exxon says they want to buy your comb for oil!

Laughter always accompanied the remark.

Next to Tim in the passenger seat, sat Billy Dover, Sea Haven's yet to be caught arsonist extraordinaire. He held a chrome lighter with his short stubby fingers, his thumb working the flint-wheel round and round like an idiot savant locked into a mindless repetitive task.

Spin the wheel, make a spark, spin the wheel, make a spark, and so on.

Cranking the wheel was like breathing to Billy Dover.

He kind of resembled a toad: oval head, bulbous lips, and patchy skin that made it appear as though he hadn't bathed a day during his seventeen years of life. Pigpen was what most folks called Billy Dover, especially the girls. But Billy didn't care, because it was fire, not girls that made his wanker stand up in the morning. Girls were for those pillow munching jocks, and fire was for real he-men. Although, no one aside from the Firebird's immediate company would understand that reasoning, because everyone else in the world were assholes according to Billy Dover. They couldn't see the beauty within the orange-red flame as he did, those sensuous tongues that transfixed his attention like a basket viper before a snake-charmer's flute.

Behind Billy in the backseat, taking a hit off a crinkly hash joint, sat Dillon Macdonald, a skinny four-eyed geek with a long pointy nose. He was a sixteen year old beanpole that made Tim look a hardy lumberjack. He lived on french-fries and root-beer, although sometimes he would drink Pepsi if there wasn't any RB lurking about. But that's as far as Dillon's foray went into the exotic world of various cuisines. In fact, such a creature of habit was Mr. Macdonald that a teacher had once remarked: _"if that boy had just crawled across the desert and was dying of thirst, and all they had was water to serve, then he would probably just keep on crawling_. _"_

Admittedly, it was an extreme remark, but not that far from the truth, because Dillon didn't like to try new things, hated them actually. He had a comfort zone that was smaller than a broom closet, and to stray outside the box would just invite an anxiety attack. He usually had one of those blessed events about three times a week, which always seemed to coincide with a good flick on the Playboy Channel.

His parents had cable.

Beside Dillon sat a nineteen year old bag of trouble by the name of Brad Dolan, the worst villain of the group. People called him dick-head, but never to his face, because Brad was a big boy, burly with a barrel chest and a mean disposition. A bully in every sense of the word, and when he wasn't tripping strangers, or vandalizing property, or beating the hell out of friends and enemies alike, then he was ransacking seniors' houses while they were at the church on Sunday mornings. And as sad as that fact was, the irony of the situation was even worse, because Brad's father preached those gospel sermons to his son's victims.

Father Henry Dolan was that good shepherd with a sympathetic ear and a strong shoulder to cry upon. Beloved by his devoted flock, but nonetheless blind to the true nature of his prodigal son. However, unbeknownst to Brad, while he was out shoplifting a bottle of Jack Daniels for this evening, his father was busy rummaging in the attic for an old home movie. Suffice to say the video was not the only item Father Dolan had found stashed away in the piles of musty neglect, and when Brad got home tonight, he would be met not only by a distraught father, but also an officer of the RCMP.

Pictures could prove a very damning piece of evidence, especially when they involved a missing person's mutilated body.

Yes, it was going to get real tough for Brad soon, but for now, his only concern was seeing the damn oddity that everyone had been rambling on about all day, and according to that popular account, they were getting closer.

"Slow down!" Brad yelled, as he gave Tim a knock on the head with his fist.

Tim's buckteeth almost dug into the steering wheel from the hit, but he did not say anything to upset Brad, because he would lose those teeth if he did.

The Firebird eased up and the gang in the car searched the hazy mist for any sign of a purported iron sculpture.

"Turn the music down," Brad ordered, as he took a large gulp of Jack.

Billy stopped spinning his flint long enough to comply with the command.

"What do you think guys?" Dillon asked.

"Stop the freaking car," Brad said, spitting into the back of Tim's greasy hair for further effect.

"Sure thing, Brad," Tim said with a nervous laugh.

The Firebird lurched to a halt while the hole inside the exhaust pipe continued to rumble.

"Everyone out," Brad said.

Both doors on the Firebird opened and the car's compliment bailed out on queue.

"Freaking joke," Dillon snickered, pushing a pair of thick glasses up onto the wedge of his pointy nose. "There's nothing here."

Brad walked in front of the car and surveyed the field like he was Rommel preparing to roll a tank division over Africa. "Damn fog."

"Thick as shit," Tim said, craning his neck around like an owl. "Maybe it's gone."

"Maybe it's gone," Brad said in a mocking voice. "Maybe your mother takes it in the ass."

Billy and Dillon both laughed, because it was always good to chuckle at Brad's jokes. It made him happy and that was good for everyone concerned, especially when he was holding a bottle of Jack.

"Hey," Dillon said, pointing towards a torn up strip of grass not twenty yards away. "Looks like someone was stuck there or something."

The quartet sauntered over to the deep impressions, which denoted that some sort of vehicle had been lodged into the moist earth, something like a heavy telephone truck with a cherry picker.

"Looks recent," Billy said, giving his lighter flint another flick.

"What are you now?!" Brad snapped as he examined the tracks. 'A freaking Indian scout?"

The group snickered.

"You'd be lucky to find your pecker under that dickey-do gut of yours, chubba," Brad added, which sent the group into further hysterics.

It was always good to laugh at Brad's jokes, even more so when the liquor bottle was almost empty.

Brad knelt down and ran his large mitt of a hand, which sported several broken and reset knuckles, over the impressions within the damp soil.

"Yep...a big truck," Brad whispered.

Brad tipped the Jack bottle back and finished off the sour mash in one huge swallow. He then stood and threw the empty bottle at Tim's Firebird, effectively shattering the bottle and cracking the windshield in one loud pop.

Dillon and Billy cheered, because it was always good to reward Brad's actions with positive praise, especially when all the booze was gone. Meanwhile, Tim just stood there, grinning like an idiot, knowing he would have to replace the glass next month in order to pass the car's safety inspection, and that was something he could not really afford.

"Well Tim," Brad said, his homely face twisting around a slur of condescending words. "Do you like my renovation?"

"Yeah, Brad," Tim said as he continued to smile broadly. "Good shot."

"Screw you homo," Brad said as he walked back to the car and took a whiz on the engine bonnet, thus further desecrating Tim's ride.

"Look!" Billy said, his thumb excitedly flashing sparks. "It's that freaking sculpture!"

All eyes turned toward that thick patch of fog that had parted just wide enough to allow even the most inebriated of morons to see the treasure that lurked within.

"Lollapalooza," Dillon said with a nasally whistle. "That's one big mother."

"Come on girls," Brad said with a belch. "Let's check out the sideshow attraction."

With his fly zipped back up, Brad led his ragtag group through the vaporous channel that seemed to funnel its wispy partitions around the spire, as if an unseen hand had directed it to do so. In a way, the hazy separation sort of resembled the famous scene in the Hollywood classic, _"The Ten Commandments,"_ where Charlton Heston, adorned in the tattered robes of Moses, parted the Red Sea. Except in this rendition, the dark roiling water was wispy gray, and a phenomenon not observed by the faithful, but rather the witless. However, the strange gaseous parting of fog was a fleeting portal, and thus collapsed in upon itself just as quickly as it had appeared.

"Did you see that!" Billy exclaimed.

Billy's eyes grew wide and his lighter fell to the ground for Brad had just turned around and given him a firm tap to the nuts for no apparent reason.

"Shut up ass wipe!" Brad said with a hateful smile.

The Jack Daniels really had Brad's nastiness flowing, and the group knew that before the night was out, one of them would probably get a fist to the nose at the very least. But as always, it was better to just roll with the punishment, because as everyone knew, that made Brad feel better, and that was better for everyone.

The unexpected jolt to the testicles made Billy puke up his McDonald's Big Mac and fries all over his precious lighter. He took in several deep breaths to recover before bending down to retrieve his lovely fire starter, but before he dared to raise his eyes to Brad's, he assembled a weak smile, because it was better to grin and receive, than to grimace and suffer. And it would be suffering too, terrible suffering, like when Brad and Mark Holland had it out over a rock to the head last year. Mark had not appreciated the mean spirited act and had said so, and no one to this day knew where Mark was, except for Brad. So Bill towed the line, and Tim and Dillon laughed hollowly, thanking God it was Bill who had been hit, rather than they.

In the end, they were friends held together by a fear of reprisal, and their disdain for their tormentor was only outweighed by their terror of him.

The march toward the anomaly resumed with Brad stealing a joint from Tim's pocket and lighting it up with Tim's last match.

"If it's worth anything, we're lifting it tonight girls," Brad ordered.

"You think it's worth something?" Billy asked, his nuts still sore.

"Should be," Brad replied.

"Who'd buy an iron sculpture or whatever the hell it is?" Tim asked.

"Yeah," Dillon said in agreement.

"Jesus you guys are stupid," Brad said as he shook his burly head. "We cut it up and sell the scrap metal in Dartmouth you ass-wipes. Jesus H Macy...if it weren't for me, you'd guys would be lost."

No reply was uttered, but secretly inside, each of them got a warm fuzzy feeling at the thought of no more Brad Dolan hanging around to bother them.

"What'll we cut it up with, Brad?" Tim asked, tipping the AC/DC cap back on his head.

No sooner had the words fallen off of Tim's tongue, when he realized he had made an awful mistake. Brad obviously had not thought that far ahead, and when someone asked Brad a question he did not know the answer to, bad things happened.

Mr. Dolan's sizable right hand found Tim's jagged overbite with considerable force. But before Tim's bony ass crashed down upon the field, he knew to stay down, because if he tried to get back up before Brad said it was okay to do so, then he would get another whack across the gums. Of course, Brad might start putting the boots to him while he was still lying on the ground, and if that was the case, then Tim would have to run for it.

Luckily, Brad was blessed with some inspiration and came up with an idea almost immediately. And it was a good thing too, because Brad's size twelve feet sported a pair of cowboy shit-kickers with pointy metal toes. And as Mark Holland could tell you---that's if he was still alive---that the boy with the bull dog face could punt harder than an NFL'er on steroids.

"We'll pull the bitch down with your crapper Firebird and drag it, pole smoker," Brad said as he applied the joint to his frowning lips and took in a big haul. "Then we'll cut it up at your Uncle Stan's auto body shop."

Tim thought to object, because he knew Uncle Stan would not go for that kind of scene. One, because he hated Tim, and two, he was almost as big a prick as Brad. But in the end, the throbbing ache in Tim's jaw thought better of disagreeing with Mr. Dolan, and so he nodded, because as everyone knew, it was better to agree with Brad's plans than to disagree with them.

Things went smoother that way.

"Good," Brad said, giving Tim a glance that said it was fine to stand back up without fear of retribution. "Then let's check this freaking thing out before we drag it sparking down the one-o-one."

Tim found his feet and rubbed his jaw while looking sheepishly at Brad, lest the son of a bitch give him a further attitude adjustment. And so, with the single sided altercation settled, the quartet plodded forward, vaguely aware that within the steamy fog a dark silhouette had just streaked from nothingness back into the nothingness with preternatural speed. It was the sort of fleeting image that both caught and evaded the band's watchful eye, a black smudge that was neither real nor imagined. Subconsciously, it was concluded to be a byproduct of the lazy fog, and so its tangible existence could not to be trusted either way.

And so they continued to walk.

(2)

Tim was the first one to notice the geometric bars climbing out of the wet grass. Although, he wasn't sure what they belonged to. That prestigious honor fell to none other than Mr. Wonderful---Brad Dolan.

"Sculpture my ass," Brad said as he flicked away the spent roach. "It's a set of freaking monkey bars."

The group regarded the tangle of black steel rectangles, squares, and triangles. The assembly of sturdy iron rigging was spread out over half an acre, at least according to Brad's estimate. It was difficult to tell for certain just how far the network spanned, seeing as the fog swallowed up distance within its gray throat, making it impossible to gauge the structure in its entirety. But despite being unable to see the boundaries of this thing's finite dimensions, or the disappointing fact that it was not the reported spire, it was still a marvelous distraction, especially to a group of adolescent stoners with nothing else to do.

"Who put these here?" Dillon asked, inching his glasses up onto his nose.

"Same skid mark who built your glasses," Brad belched.

"Where is the spire thingy?" Billy asked, twisting his head around on his next to nothing neck. "I saw a tall set of poles twisting around each other...it kind of looked like---"

"---your ass," Brad replied with a self-amused laugh.

Tim was the first one to scale the cubed skeleton. The JD helped mask the pain from Brad's wallop to his lower-jaw, and as such, he was mobile enough to indulge his inner child's voice. Dillon followed suit, while Brad, not to be outdone by his subordinates, challenged the bars with such aggression, that he easily scrambled past the other two lest he be outdone by a pair of weaklings. In the meantime, Billy Dover remained on the ground. His soft pasty girth had no desire to defy gravity. It was too much like exercise. Besides, working out was for jock losers. Real he-men preferred fire, because fire was real power.

Brad hawked up a chunky luger and spat it onto Billy, catching his rounded shoulder with an audible splat. Tim and Dillon laughed, because despite the mean spirited act, it was still funny, and it was always good to reward Brad's actions regardless of how demeaning or sinister they might be.

Things went smoother that way.

"Good shot," Billy said with a grin that was lit by the brief flashes from his Zippo.

"Nice catch princess," Brad chuckled as he almost fell from the top bar.

That would have been a sight to see: the meaty frame of Mr. Dolan plunging earthward like a surly meteor, his thick linebacker neck cracking upon the damp grass. Unfortunately, he recovered his balance, and that agile feat was a bitter disappointment to his fellow cronies.

"Hey pyro," Dillon said with a giggle. "You coming up or what?"

"Jesus," Brad scoffed. "He'd bend every pole on the crawl. It's better you just stay put princess." A large belch resonated out of Brad Dolan with incredible sustain. "You just make those pole tugging hands of yours useful, and roll up another joint before I spit a goober into your mouth from the end of me cock."

More laughter was shared, and even Bill offered up a sincere enough guffaw to appease Brad's ego. Although, what he really wanted to do, was to light Brad's nuts on fire.

"Give me a smoke," Brad barked at Tim.

Tim dug into his faded denim jacket and withdrew a cigarette package that was one millimeter short of being a pancake. He then handed Brad a smoke.

"Give me a light," Brad ordered.

"I'm out of matches," Tim said with a shrug.

"Hey needle dick," Brad said to Dillon. "Fork over some sulfur."

"I don't have a light," Dillon replied.

Everyone's attention fell to Billy Dover.

"Give me a light pork rind," Brad ordered.

Bill's toad like eyes fell upon his precious chrome Zippo. It was obvious what Brad wanted and that was like asking Bill to give up his penis. Although, he didn't really need that organ, because only jock losers poked those miserable girls who called real he-men like himself, Pigpen. This Zippo was far more important to him than his giggle stick, and loaning it out to anyone, let alone a huge S.O.B. like Brad Dolan was unthinkable. Until now, there had always been an unspoken rule between the quartet, and that doctrine said to never ask Billy for his Zippo---period! But here it was, hell had frozen over and now a philosophical argument was being put into play.

"Chuck it up princess!" Brad said with a visible scowl.

Brad could sense his peon of an acquaintance was being reluctant to hand over the butane. However, the edge in Mr. Dolan's voice was like steel, a threat that said, " _I_ _f I have to come down there to get what I want Billy Dover, then you're not going to be very happy. I might even wail on you so bad that I'll kill you in the process."_

Amazingly, Billy tossed the lighter aloft, because in the end, he decided it was better to be dick-less than to swim with the fishes. "Please...be careful Brad."

"Be careful," Brad chided in a babyish voice. "You just get your ass back to the car and get some more Jamaican weed."

The thought of leaving the lighter behind was unbearable. But Billy knew it was better to do what Brad said, because things went smoother that way. However, as Billy began to walk back to the car, which was now smothered in a thick patch of Atlantic fog, he heard Brad say something to the order of: _"Hey guys, watch this."_ And judging by the merriment in his tenor, Billy knew that whatever it was, it was going to be bad.

Billy turned and looked over his shoulder just in time to see Mr. Brad Dolan pulling his arm back like a major league ballplayer preparing to throw a real smoker past home plate. Billy's mouth opened as to scream no, but the only sound to crawl out of his throat was a dry croak. It was obvious that Mr. Dolan was going to ding Billy in the noggin with his own lighter. However, thanks to Brad's buzz-on, his aim wasn't worth a pinch of guano.

The lighter tore through the air with an audible whip, sailing over Billy's oval head and out into the fog like a silver airliner bound for Europe. Before Billy knew it, his feet were dancing beneath his wobbly frame in a girlish kind of run. It was a hysterical sight to see, Billy Dover sprinting into the fog like a freaking pansy. So comical in fact, that Mr. Dolan laughed himself right off the monkey bars and down onto the wet grass with a hard thump.

Seeing Dolan fall was the icing on the cake for Dillon, who despite the concern for his own teeth, could not help but laugh harder. Tim however, went dead silent, because he was smarter than Dillon, and knew that when Mr. Dolan got his keel even again, he would be more than just pissed, he would be livid.

Tim kicked Dillon in the thigh in order to shut him up, and it was a good thing that he did too, because Brad thought Dillon was still laughing at Billy.

"Holy crap, Brad," Tim said, feigning genuine concern. "Are you okay?"

Brad rolled over onto his wide back, fighting back the urge to groan in agony. He did not wish to appear weak in front of such a collection of wussies. However, the painful signals coursing down the nerve fibers of his shoulder demanded that he coddle the injury immediately.

"Yeah ass-clown," Brad replied in the toughest voice he could muster. "I'm just going to take a leak."

Both Dillon and Tim stared at one another, sensing something was off in Brad's demeanor. However, there appeared to be no animosity focused in their immediate direction, and so they smoked their cigarettes and chuckled quietly amongst themselves while Billy chased gooses and Brad shook lilies.

(3)

Billy's dull brown eyes scanned the slick grass with a fastidious attention to detail as he searched frantically for a spot of shiny chrome.

"Goddamn it," Billy whimpered. "Why'd he have to go and do that?"

And then the voice in his head replied: _Because, he's an asshole Pigpen, a big jerk off with muscle to back it up._

"Where is it?"

If the cops find it, they'll put it together Pigpen. They'll know you were the one that burned down the fish plant, the co-op, and that mouthy little bitch, Tammy Macpherson's house.

"No, not possible."

You know it's just a matter of time before they pin those fires on ya Pigpen.

"Where is it?"

Folks in town have already got it in their heads it was you, don't they piggy?

"No, they can't know."

Where is it?

"Oh...why did he have to go and do that?"

From within the gossamer gray that wrapped the world up inside a dream like haze, a brilliant burst of light exploded in a brief flash. Billy froze, his breath short and labored, his mind in a tizzy.

"Who's there?"

Another fracture of orange light crept out of the swirling steam in reply. The abrupt display resembled a camera flashbulb or a munitions battery setting off a cannon volley, one galleon to another.

"I've got friends with me," Billy said, trying to sound intimidating.

A short crisp grinding noise accompanied the next rupture and Billy immediately made the connection.

It was his coveted Zippo!

Someone had it and was spinning the well-worn flint like he so often did.

"Hey, that's my lighter!" Billy shouted, plodding in the direction of the last explosion. "Give it back!"

The lighter cranked out another charge, except this time it moved to his left side.

"Stop messing around!"

He wanted to go back and get his drinking buddies, but was too afraid to leave this spot lest whoever had his lighter disappeared into the fog never to be seen again.

"Come off it already," Billy cried.

A good strong flash this time, to his right and closer, then another one to his far left and back a considerable distance, almost out of sight.

"No one can move that fast," Billy muttered, his fascination courting his fear. "Who are you?"

This time the fire stayed in one place, burning like a lighthouse beacon. At first, Billy thought it was a trick to lure him in one direction, and then when he got close, it would change position again. It was the kind of game he and his jag off friends enjoyed playing with hitchhikers. Pull the car over, wait till the thumb jockey got close and then peel away with gravel flying. Good wholesome fun that the entire family could enjoy.

But damn, he wanted that miserable Zippo so bad. And so he decided to risk being made a fool of, because he needed to feel that smooth steel in his hand so he could spin the wheel and make a spark, spin the wheel and make a spark.

His plump feet scuffed along the grass. The fire remained fixed, closer now, near enough to see that candle like flame burning a hot tendril into the gray miasma. A few more paces and the Zippo's high sheen surface came into view as did the tiny ashen fingers wrapped around its sleek exterior, fingers that belonged to a child. He wandered slowly into the halogen sphere of that hissing butane, a soft ginger orb that shone like a miniature star inside a dreary nebula.

"That's my lighter," he said in a low voice.

The smooth white face of a little boy appeared over the flame, his dew drop eyes black as caviar, his thin lips pale as grease paint, his feet bare to the field, his modest attire that of gray cotton PJs. For an instant, Billy thought to those old ghost stories as told by his Uncle Dan, the ones where he used to hold a flashlight under his chin. However, this kid did not need the eerie light to get the goose-bumps out of Billy's hide, those flat lifeless features and raven locks of his were element enough.

"Hi Billy," the boy's monotone voice said. "Lost something, I see."

"Wait a second," Billy said, pointing a stubby finger at the boy. "I know you. You're that sick kid. Mrs. Ryan's..." he almost thought to say brat, but here inside the gray cloak of night it didn't seem conducive to his situation. The boy, though sickly in appearance, seemed to exude a powerful dark magic.

"My name is Eddy," the boy said in a hollow voice.

Once again, Billy's eye found the lighter, his need to spin the wheel and make a spark overpowering his nerves in regards to this bizarre meeting.

"Make you a deal, Billy old boy," Eddy said, as he gently moved the flame back and forth, a path which Billy's muddy eyes followed faithfully. "I'll give it back and get you something even better than the lighter you were eying in Wal-Mart. That's if you do something for me." There was the faintest hint of a smile saddling the boy's smothered lips. "Then you can burn down the entire town of Sea Haven if you like."

Billy's eyes met Eddy's to which both boys reciprocated a smile.

(4)

Brad dragged his injured shoulder out of sight of Tim and Dillon. It was an arduous journey ridden upon the shaky legs of an arrogant bastard whose was determined not to appear vulnerable. Weakness after all could be construed by friends and enemies alike as blood in the water, and he knew once folks got a whiff of that sweet nectar, then the feeding frenzy would begin.

Make them think you're nothing short of being iron, and iron is what you'll be.

It was Brad's philosophy on intimidation, the means by which he controlled those around him. He understood that when people held you in fear, then you could make them do anything. And in order to do that, you had to rule with an iron fist. Any dictator could tell you that and Brad so very much liked dictating. Admittedly, it was a self-delusion. Eventually all despots met with an unfortunate end. However, that wisdom was lost on Mr. Dolan since brains were not his strong suit.

Confident that he was out of sight, Brad dropped the tough act and caressed his aching shoulder with attentive fingers. He could tell the joint was dislocated, for he had suffered this type of injury two years ago in a dirt bike accident. Back then, he had been wheeled into the hospital where they had popped the limb back into its socket with an audible crack. Of course, he had been looped up on painkillers at the time but he still remembered that awful feeling: that slosh of bone and cartilage as it ground back into its inflamed nook. It was an experience he had no wish to relive. But as he kneaded that sensitive area and appraised the damage, he knew there would be another visit to the hospital in his immediate future, unless---

He looked back at the bars, noting how they seemed to go on without end. It was no doubt an illusion of the fog but still there was something eerie about the way the pipes fed into the visceral grayness, as if those bars weren't actually real but rather something else, something unnatural, like deceptive vines spooled from snakeskin.

"Where did this crap come from?" Brad whispered.

Never mind! Get over there and do what must be done!

"Oh god...this is going to hurt," Brad muttered through a wince.

Yeah, it is, but afterwards, you'll be the stuff of legend and people will know once and for all just how tough you really are.

He plodded over to a pole that ran straight down into the ground, one of many such bars. According to a test conducted by the hand attached to his good arm, the pipe was rigid enough for what he needed. All that remained now was the commitment to follow through, which thanks to the Jack and the Jamaican weed, was in ample supply.

Carefully, Brad sized up the bar like a linebacker preparing to make an unusually tough tackle, when something unexpectedly spoke from behind him in a breathy sigh. He turned as quickly as he could without putting too much stress on his injury only to find that billowy fog hanging upon the listless sky.

"Just your nerves playing tricks," Brad whispered.

He readdressed that lean opponent once again. But before charging that short distance, he removed a thick leather wallet from his back pocket and wedged it firmly in between his nicotine stained teeth. Then, his two-hundred-and-thirty-pound hulking frame made steam and rammed that dangling limb into the black pipe. He had once seen Mel Gibson perform such a feat in _"Lethal Weapon Two."_ In fact, that's where this idea had stemmed from. Unfortunately for Brad Dolan however, Hollywood was often on the outs with most of the sciences it portrayed on the big screen, and tonight would be a rude awakening to that fact. And so Brad the bully with a head full of rocks and a heart stuffed with hate had just effectively turned a bad predicament into one much worse.

His ass fell onto the ground hard. His grimy teeth almost bit his leather organizer in half. He rolled to his good side and curled up into a fetal position. The nerve endings in his shoulder exploded with pain. The muscles around his stomach constricted, while those around his jaws ejected his wallet to allow for that sudden passage of projectile vomit. The night's salvage of fast food and Jack Daniels lay tossed upon the field in one great gush. The world teetered on the edge of blackness before his tearing eyes. Blood drained out of his face and genitals towards that hammering heart beneath his breastbone. There was no denying that he was in a bad way, and yet despite the need of immediate medical attention, he nonetheless hesitated to move. He did not want anyone to see him like this, lying in his own vomit whimpering like a whipped dog. It was too embarrassing a prospect to embrace: to be seen as being less than iron. And so he concluded that it would be best to get off the field without his posse seeing him.

But how was he going to move when he felt like dying?

A soft nudge on Brad's backside startled him. However, the severe pain swelling within his wretched body would not allow him to turn.

"How's she going Bradley D? Still pinching pennies from the old folks while they pray?"

Had a voice just call him Bradley D?

Only one person called him that, but he was at the bottom of the bay---six rocks and an anchor at the bottom! Mark Holland swam with the fishes, strung to a yellow nylon rope, six granite boulders and a rusty old boat anchor that Brad had swiped from Milner's Scrap Yard. Mark Holland, the guy who could tell you just how hard Mr. Dolan could kick, especially when he had those cowboy shit-kickers on.

"Still throwing rocks, Bradley D?" Mark asked in a chilling rasp. "I don't like it when folks throw rocks at me Bradley D. Did I ever tell you that? I think I may have mentioned it once before...remember?"

"Impossible," Brad whispered, his eyes swiftly shifting back and forth. "He isn't real! I'm hallucinating!"

Brad tried to draw in some air to scream, but that awful deep rooted pain would not hear of it. His collarbone had been snapped like dry kindling and a few of his ribs were badly fractured. He struggled to roll over onto his back so that his eyes might dispel Mark Holland to that of a dark fantasy. It took an incredible effort, but in the end, he managed to rotate his torso far enough so that he could spin his head effectively in all directions.

Much to Brad's relief, there was no sign of Mark Holland, just the wispy fog hovering above a rusty boat anchor and six granite rocks tied together with a yellow nylon rope.

(5)

Suddenly, a set of strong bony hands clasped onto Brad's ankles, effectively yanking off his cowboy boots. And so Brad Dolan watched helplessly as that crouching figure of Mark Holland robbed him of his coveted footwear.

The rancid ghoul wore a corpse's grin from one rotted ear to the other. Mark's former lush brown hair dripped cold dank seawater, its curls entwined within a slimy nest of eelgrass. His jawbone, visible through that jagged hole of decayed flesh, shone bright beneath a thin paste of decomposition. The solitary green eye that remained within its pallid socket lay putrid and glared onward with the sinister intent of the deranged. As to that other socket, devoid of the vessel of sight, it had forfeited its vision to Brad Dolan's violence and now gave nest to a tiny scarlet crab that skittered atop Mark Holland's cheekbone. Yet despite the absence of that visual array, the pyre that burned within was nonetheless recognizable. Mark's departed soul leered outward from that hollowed quarry and set Brad Dolan with a malevolence that sought to still the bully's heart.

"All the better to see you with," Mark rasped with a wink, to which that shallow nook of long lost eye squished like a sponge soaked in blood. "That was quite a kick Brad...right out of the park like."

"Not real!" Brad wheezed. "Not real!"

"You don't mind do you?" Mark asked as he shook the boots. "I've always wanted to try these things on."

Those damp feet draped in a loose wrap of tattered flesh adorned those fine boots. The squelching sound of their snug fit was sickly.

"Please," Brad stammered. "I...I'm...hurt."

Mark stood and arched his back, sending a series of cracks down along the exposed stairwell of his spinal column. "You know what they say about saltwater? Nothing fixes up a cut like a splash of east coast brine."

"It...it was an accident man," Brad said in a fragile plea.

He still could not believe he was actually conversing with the late Mark Holland. Brad had personally killed and dumped his body in the drink months ago. And although, Brad was a lackluster intellect, he nonetheless subscribed to the wondrous world of logic, where science shone an all seeing light into the mysterious nature of the unexplained. And that's all this situation really was: an unexplained incident. He had no doubt incurred a terrible injury when he fell, perhaps a concussion, and as such, he was hallucinating.

But still---why couldn't he dispel this ghastly fiend to a practicality?

Because, deep down inside that black pit of his hateful heart, Brad understood that a reckoning had come to avail his misdeeds.

This was indeed real.

By either divine intervention or a demonic charge, Mark Holland had been summoned forth from the abyss so that he might reap vengeance upon the wicked.

"Look," Mark said, pointing over Brad's head toward a dark shape that coiled a helix within the vaporous fold. "It's come to say goodbye, old pal."

Brad stretched his neck and gazed with wide eyes upon that twist of evil that mated within the gossamer gray. Those ethereal bars tangled an embrace, their voice warbling a strange melody as their bitter husks scraped together.

Still, despite that awful certainty within his mind's core, he endeavored to reclaim that familiar world that would ease his disposition. And so with eyes closed, Brad the atheist prayed to the Nazarene to deliver him from evil, and to let that deadest of friends sleep peacefully at the bottom of the ocean brine. Yet a prayer would not depart its grace unto him, and so the thing that sang out of tune within the deaf gray continued to croon its forbidden song while that deadest of friends prepared to dispatch its justice.

Brad's eyes stared openly upon the figure of Mark Holland. The fiend, adorned with a sinister grin, stood in horrific splendor.

"It's time to open your eyes, Brad!"

A rotted foot, stuffed within a tight sheath of leather, whistled through the air. The boot's toe, sharp and rigid, caught Mr. Dolan square in the head. His skull, fractured of bone, gave way its thick cover to the elements. And as one of Brad's eyes sailed aloft into that heavy mist, it finally saw the true identity of that foulest of things that had come to serenade him with its most deceptive of lullabies.

(6)

Tim and Dillon sat atop the monkey bars, laughing like a couple of chimps while they busily smoked another joint. Dimwitted grins lit up their faces, their minds afloat inside a dull halo of prime Jamaican weed. The joint burnt short, effectively ending their magic carpet ride. However, they were both still flying at a staggering altitude. It would be hours before they crashed back down into the cold hard daze of Sea Haven's mediocrity.

Dillon dropped the spent roach and it hissed upon the damp grass like an angry snake. "Man that's some freaking good weed."

"Better than BC hydro any day of the week," Tim concurred.

"What do you think happened to Brad and Bill?"

Tim gazed into the fog. "Either they're lost or the fog ate them."

Both Dillon and Tim broke into childish giggles.

"God, I could go for a pizza right now," Tim said. "How about you?"

"Fries," Dillon said with a grin. "A big old basket of taters from Perry's Pizzeria."

"Smothered in ketchup and salt."

"Yeah," Dillon agreed, his dry gums smacking together. "Let's get the guys and rally a vittles run."

Tim surveyed the lethargic smoke for any sign of their comrades. "Brad! Bill! Vittles Run!"

An eerie stillness stretched the moment into an awkward silence, until Dillon's voice broke the impasse. "Brad! Bill! Let's get some food!"

"They're messing with us," Tim muttered.

"Wanna go look for them?"

"What?!" Tim exclaimed with a curt laugh. "In this crap? We'll get lost in no time."

"Well, maybe if we went back to the car and honked the horn they'd get the message and double time it back here," Dillon suggested, the hole in his gut widening.

"Yeah, good idea."

As they began their descent, Dillon posed a question:

"I wonder who built this thing?"

Tim jumped down the last few feet to the grass with a dull thud. "I don't know. Some strange cat."

"Bet it was a Pedophile. Probably built it to bait little kids," Dillon snickered.

"Ah, then you're the one who built it," Tim said sarcastically.

Both boys chuckled as they walked to the car.

The Firebird's headlights were still on, and be it Jamaican smoke or the fog's ability to trick the eye, the car looked different somehow. As if it had perhaps traveled into another dimension and had only just returned this instant.

"Whoa man," Tim mumbled, placing his twig of a hand on the driver side door. "Is it just me, or this this fog really freaking strange?"

Dillon glanced around and shuddered. "Bad trip dude. Maybe that weed was sprayed with some methamphetamine."

"We need to burn the body."

Tim and Dillon both yelped in fright.

Billy Dover stood within the rolling haze carrying the small red gas can that Tim kept stashed inside the Firebird's dingy trunk. Tim called the can his " _gasoline credit card,"_ which he often used with a short length of siphoning hose to steal gas from unsuspecting mall shoppers.

"Jesus Pigpen!" Dillon snapped as his heart unlocked a beat. "You scared the crap out of us!"

"Why do you have my gas can?!" Tim barked.

"We need to burn the body," Billy repeated. "It's an awful mess too, so we need to clean it up good. Then I will get the gift. Oh...I've already siphoned the gas out of your Firebird, Tim."

Billy turned leisurely and then marched back into the fog without so much as blinking.

Tim and Dillon stared at each other with bemused shock, a strangled bit of laughter lodged within the pit of their throats.

"What the hell is he on?" Dillon asked.

"Definitely better than the Jamaican," Tim replied with a laugh as he slid his AC/DC cap further back on his head. "Let's go check it out."

Tim and Dillon jogged into the monotonous haze, following within the rolling wake of Billy's sizable quarters as Pigpen steamed through the fog like a wide body tugboat. It was a journey taken with tongue and cheek enthusiasm---the anticipation of a jovial punch line lurking just out of sight. The Zippo's sputtering flame as spun from Billy's hand added an element of strangeness to the already bizarre situation, a pyrotechnics display that seemed designed especially for magic carpet rides.

They soon traversed the stale distance to where Billy's potbelly frame finally came to a rest. It was here, before the Zippo's torchlight that a macabre discovery was made.

Tim and Dillon set their eyes upon the broken hulk of Brad Dolan as he lay fallen in a heap of blood stained murder. Dillon immediately turned and collapsed onto his knees, a spasm of vomit erupting from the back of his throat.

Tim went deathly pale, his eyes regarding Billy with an accusatory stare. "What...what did you do?"

Billy turned to Tim and shrugged. "Not me guys, it was the kid I reckon. But we better clean this up or we won't get our presents."

Tim reached over and grabbed Billy by the tee-shirt and held him so close that he could smell the siphoned gas upon his breath. "There's no kid here, Bill!" Tim exclaimed. "It's just us chickens in case you haven't noticed!"

Dillon found his feet and wobbled over toward Brad's mutilated corpse. "God, where's his freaking eye?"

"The kid did it," Billy replied.

Tim let Billy go and staggered back a step. "Look man, we're going to go get help, okay."

"Kid said they'd blame you guys, too," Billy said, his mannerism almost dreamlike. "So we better clean it up before the cops find him, or else we're all going to the pokey."

Tim and Dillon walked in tight nervous circles. Their magic carpet ride had just effectively crashed. They may have been stoned, but they were still sober enough to know that Pigpen was probably right. Sure, they may have hung out with Brad Dolan like good buddies do, but that did not mean they had not killed the miserable son of a bitch either. In fact, Brad's enemies and friends alike would have paid to see him end up the victim of an unfortunate accident. However, until now, no one had ever had the sand to go good on it.

Well, maybe Billy, except it was hard to believe that a sow bug like Bill could have actually brought down a lofty tree like Brad Dolan.

"Oh Jesus," Dillon whispered, a dry heave kicking him in the abdomen. "What...what do we do?"

"We dump him in the brine," Tim replied, his eyes growing shifty as he plotted the unthinkable in an effort to save his own skin.

"No," Billy protested. "The kid said I had to burn him. That way I get my---"

"---Screw your lighter Pigpen!" Tim shouted.

"This is your doing piggy!" Dillon screamed as he charged into Billy. Together, both boys tumbled into a heap, Dillon on top of Billy like a cowboy on a bull. "Confess! Tell them you done it! Say it! Say you done it!"

"The...kid...said," Billy stammered as Dillon punched and slapped him about the head, making his flat nose bleed.

"Tell the cops that you did it, damn you!" Dillon screeched.

"He's freaking gone man!" Tim grunted as he hauled Dillon off Bill. "Look at him...it's like he's in shock or something."

Dillon pushed his glasses back up on his nose, his breathing hard and labored. "We're not dumping Brad's body! We're going to the cops and we're turning piggy in!"

Tim looked down on Billy Dover and then the grotesque remains of Brad Dolan. "Yeah...you're right man...he did it...not us."

Although, Tim was anything but sure that the cops would see it that way.

Perhaps it was the Jamaican weed, or the way the damn car looked inside the freaking fog, whatever it was, it told him things weren't right out here on Major's Field. That there was something unseen within the fog, something that could build monkeys bars on a moment's whim, and perhaps even create kids who told simpletons to burn bodies.

"Let's get out of here," Dillon said.

Tim followed Dillon as he set foot to heel back towards the car.

"They'll be sorry," Billy grumbled as he found his plump feet and retrieved the gas can. "The kid will see to that."

Billy Dover wiped the blood from his nose with plump fingers and then proceeded to pour gasoline all over Brad Dolan's resting corpse. And when he was finally done, he did what he did best: He spun the wheel and made a spark.

(7)

When they finally reached the Firebird, the smell of gasoline and burning flesh was pungent on the dead air. The terrible sweet stench sobered their minds and reinforced the reality that this was indeed, actually happening. The boys paused before jumping into the car, their bloodshot eyes regarding the curtain of gray with the certain knowledge that behind its bland exterior, Brad Dolan was being cremated. It was surreal, but that nauseating pong helped to cement that brick and mortar reality into being.

At long last, Sea Haven's bully was no more. And although nary a soul would shed a tear over his demise, there would nonetheless be those difficult questions that would seek to convict a criminal of guilt.

"We need to get the cops," Dillon said, the eyes behind his thick glasses searching Tim's face for moral direction.

"Yeah," Tim agreed, as he hopped in behind the Firebird's cracked steering wheel. "Let's roll."

The engine cranked and the exhaust coughed out black smoke. The rear tires spun mud as the Firebird streaked away from the scene of the crime. It was all about distances now---physical---emotional---and legal.

"I can't believe it," Dillon said, as he rocked nervously back and forth in the passenger seat. "Billy Dover killed Brad Dolan."

Tim almost said something to the contrary, but thought better of it. In the end, he needed Billy to be guilty so that he might be proven innocent.

"Do you think there was a kid hiding in the fog?" Tim asked.

Dillon shook his head. "I don't know man. Maybe...all I know is I didn't see one."

"Yeah," Tim concurred. "It was completely Billy's fault. Let's not confuse the issue by telling the cops about some phantom kid in the fog."

Both boys looked at each other and nodded, and with that said, their partnership to see that Billy Dover was the one to hang over Brad Dolan's demise was forged into being.

"What a freaking night," Tim muttered, as he wiped sweat from his brow.

"Look out!" Dillon screamed suddenly.

Tim went rigid, his eyes shooting forward. He tried to hit the brake and veer out of harm's way, but he was too slow on the draw. Too much Jack and Jamaican high-rise had taken its toll on his reflexes, and by the time his impaired mind registered the sight of that bony rake in the middle of the road, it was too late.

(8)

A thorny canopy of antlers tumbled up over the engine bonnet, their forked prongs piercing the car's cracked windshield with a splay of shattered glass. The monster buck thrashed about in agony, its shiny hooves and tree branch antlers sweeping aimlessly in an attempt to free itself from that twist of metal. The deer's dark eyes rolled over inside its head, its slobbering lips parted in a painful groan, a bray both garbled and shrill. The beast's broken legs kicked wildly, its sharp hooves walloping the Firebird's body like dead blow mallets.

The impact had driven Dillon's head into the dashboard like a wrecking ball. His pointy nose lay crushed against the scarlet mat of his face, the bones therein giving way to thick vinyl. His thick glasses had splintered, their jagged shards robbing his eyes forever of sight. The buck's haunches, warped at an extreme angle, pummeled what was left of his head into a runny paste.

Tim's pimpled face had plowed through the steering wheel's arc, his soft flesh challenging the sturdy rack to a union of blood and suffering. The deer's tortured crown had penetrated Tim's eye sockets, and as such, coupled his misery unto its own. Their marriage was grotesque and violent, bone mated to bone in a tug of war for mutual release. Yet their parting would not yield, and so Tim's countenance was disfigured beyond the scope of repair and his young life was amputated from the corporeal. For when at last, that wrench of unbridled muscle released its final death throe, Tim was finally relieved of his life.

Outside, steam billowed from the Firebird's radiator into the hazy fog while the car horn blared mindlessly and those rocks inside the engine sputtered to a wobbly stop.

Chapter Three

A Picture's Worth

(1)

Pam sat in an office cubicle, a photo memory stick held in hand. Her computer monitor's blue screen cast an eerie glow upon her face. She was alone. The paper's other three employees had gone home for the day. Darren Simpson, editor in chief, was probably in his living room watching TV with his wife right now. Tony Matthews, the Bugle's forty-three year old sales rep and format planner, was most likely in Halifax meeting with a gentleman, who to date, remained discreetly nameless. Patricia Walden, the Bugle's thirty-two year old press operator, a big uninviting girl, would be frolicking with her two dogs in the backyard at about this time.

The stick turned between her thumb and forefinger, a thin wafer that not only threatened to make a liar out of her, but even worse, a crazy woman. There was only one way to settle this matter of recourse, and so she eased the disk into her Apple computer and proceeded to download the image files onto the hard drive.

This was it, the decisive moment when questions found answers.

The mouse cursor moved over the appropriate icon and hovered briefly. It seemed her finger was having doubts about clicking the button, because if she was wrong, then she would have to consider seeing a psychiatrist. However, if she was right---well---what would that mean exactly? It would mean that she had witnessed a supernatural phenomenon. But if that was true, then what force of nature had manipulated those iron sculptures like they were puppets?

She hesitated, if only to secure some degree of logic. However, both choices felt morbid despite their options. But if her peace of mind was best settled with the thought of devilry, then she would encourage that lowest of fiends.

She mustered up some courage and then double clicked the photo icon.

There was an uncomfortable pause as the pointer arrow sifted sand through an hourglass as numbers talked to numbers. Then, those telltale images were unzipped and promptly deposited into the appropriate folder titled: _"Pam's pics."_

"Okay," Pam mumbled, as she took in a deep breath. "Fate favors the bold, right?"

The first exposure showed nothing out of the ordinary. However, this was only the first picture and it was the last photos in the data stream that she truly wanted to examine, those before and after snapshots that might show if the static had indeed transformed into the animate.

One by one the roll filtered down those foggy pictures of the grotesque and saintly. And when at last she had come to those final images, she found---nothing.

There was no evidence to support a contention, no proof that gave testimony that neither demon nor saint had freely traversed that hardest of prisons. The only fact that established a verdict was that those massive twin serpents, both primal and beautiful, were in fact quite dead.

"Oh god," Pam said, as she sat back in her computer chair. "I must be losing my mind." Her fingers kneaded the skin around her jade eyes, as if to milk the stress out of her head. "Okay, you got your answer. What do you do now?" Her anxiety proved a difficult nuisance that would not settle into an acceptance. She tried using her obligation of getting the story out as a distraction, but it was of no use. The very nature of the news article involved that mysterious arrival, a topic that confounded and divided her sensibilities.

Had she not seen those mythological beings lit to flame? Had she not felt that sting of fire upon her flesh? Had she not tasted that bitter sulfur upon her delicate palate? Questions rattled around inside her head like rabid bats, blind and searching. Yet there could be no denying the powerful truth within the photographs. They were unbiased, unemotional, unblinking and sticklers to detail. Their testimony held water, while hers leaked at the seams.

Demons, cast in iron, eating cherubs?

It was ludicrous, and like with any event that got the adrenaline pumping, the further away from the intensity of the moment, the more the mind seemed to seed itself with doubt.

Her hands shuffled the papers upon her desk as she rallied her thoughts around the task at hand. Here, she was supposed to be composing an exclusive story, yet she could not lend her fingers to the coordination necessary to type a clear concise sentence. She was unsettled to say the least, and could not help but dwell on that peculiar thing that had deceived her eyes.

Perhaps there was a brain tumor nesting within the hub of her mind, malignant and growing to a point that it warped her perception of reality. If that was the case, then madness would surely ensue and court her demise unto a terrible ending where nothing, not even the ground beneath her feet could be trusted as being valid.

Years ago, her mother had passed away from an aggressive form of breast cancer, and Pam was keenly aware that the big C ran in her bloodline and had cast a long cold shadow across most of her lineage. Of course, she had faithfully gone to those annual mammogram clinics and had been quite vigilant with her self-examinations. But she had never stopped to consider that her battle with the big C might come to be waged within the finite partitions of her skull.

Tomorrow, she would avail her doctor and see about getting a CAT scan.

However, there was another option that she could avail, something more immediate, something that might dispel a tragic diagnosis with a more fantastic explanation.

She would return to the scene of that questionable episode this night and face that fear if only to discourage another. Besides, a good reporter double-checked their facts, and if anything, Pamela Sussex was thorough. However, why would she dare to dispute the camera's evidence? Was her contention so adamant in its correctness that she would not accept any explanation beyond the supernatural in order to sooth her fear, her ego? Probably, but when she got it in her head to do something, then that's what she did, regardless of the consequences.

Besides, what sort of misdeed could she suffer by courting further adventure?

Regardless of whatever discovery might come to find her, she would nonetheless attend to that matter of her health on the morrow. It was a vow sealed with a pact that she should do so, for it was a credible threat that must be investigated given her family's medical history. She would not eliminate a cause to appease some misplaced sense of immortality. No, she was practical, methodical, and would not forsake a warning as to ease her concern. However, if fate had bestowed a story upon her that was worthy of grand recognition, she would be a fool to dismiss its narrative. Yet to group a paranormal occurrence with a mainstream news wire was in itself an invitation to ridicule. To suggest the uncanny as a potential cause was to link one's efforts to the likes of Bigfoot, UFOs and ghosts. But even if the monument's enigmatic nature was guilty of lowbrow associations, its enigmatic essence could not be disputed. A strange truth, however peculiar in the telling, was still the truth. And what Pam considered to be absolutely vital in regards to its expression, no matter how damning a tale, was to pursue its cause to the bitter end.

This was the sacred religion as worshiped by the ambitious.

Sure, a few toes got stepped on from time to time in pursuit of the story, and a couple white lies were told at the expense of her principles, but it was always in the quest of truth. And so what if she cried herself to sleep every once and awhile because she felt cheap for compromising her beliefs, or drank a little too much to take the edge off. In the end, it was all about the result: the truth. And that was a noble pursuit---wasn't it?

At any rate, a woman had to work harder than a man to make it in this business, had to be more ruthless. Although, the score to date as far as her lackluster career was concerned, was as close to being zero as one could get. The Bugle was not exactly The Toronto Sun, or the CTV National News, so one could argue what good it did to be abrasive in order to get a quote, or a hostile interview.

That was the question.

She felt karma, if there was such a thing, had decreed that she must endure a futile toil as to atone for those forgotten transgressions suffered in a previous lifetime. And so it was understandable why she had been reevaluating her life as of late, not just career wise, but spiritual as well. There was a real worry that she might be drilling a dry well as far as the news game was concerned. True, she was still young, but not a kid anymore. She was a mature woman with all the longings and rhythms that wound that fair gender's biological clock.

Find a mate---have a baby---find a mate---have a baby---tick tock---tick tock.

It wasn't a practical pursuit given the choices she had made in her life. Surely she couldn't drag a husband and a litter of kids off around the country in pursuit of her dream, even if she had them. It would not only be impractical, but selfish on her part.

She had squirreled away some money, not much, but enough to setup somewhere else, somewhere where things happened: Toronto, Ottawa, or maybe even Vancouver, a real bustling metropolis where crime was rampant and corruption abundant. The press imprint in those urban dynasties was huge with lots of opportunities. There, she could climb the media ladder until she had snatched the coveted goose that laid those golden eggs of childhood lore. But then again, she might fail, a dumb girl from the boonies who needed Greg Boudreau's help in order to cut through the fog.

And so there it was: that great terrible truth, for as talented as Pam was, and she was talented, she lacked confidence. The Bugle, while cursed in one breath, was also praised in another, because it was safe, a nest that nurtured her with, _"what would we do without you,"_ sentiments. That sort of dependency was not the mark of a great reporter, but rather a mediocre one, a scoop that lacked proper commitment and the will to act decisively. However, in her defense, that fatal indecision was in part, influenced by a fond connection to the community. In her heart, Pam loved the people of Sea Haven too much to leave. As a result, she had set deep roots into the maritime soil. It was a pitfall known as the _"comfort zone,"_ the one Pam had blindly fallen into. She was a Sea Haven lifer in denial, but as with all self-spoken lies, they served not only to keep a person's wits afloat, but also to give them momentum. Yes, Sea Haven may have been at land's end, and the Bugle little more than a bird cage rug-throw, but Pam was doing what she loved to do: being a reporter. So what if her career was running on a hamster wheel, at least it was moving, albeit in a relative way. And so for the sake of avoiding that great unspoken truth, she had learned to compromise "want," for "need," by keeping it tucked away on the periphery of her conscious sight so that she might never come to look upon too openly.

It was how she managed the fallout.

She stood, picked up her truck keys and linked them gently within her fingers as her eyes wandered over the computer screen. This peculiar story was the most interesting thing to happen in these parts since the Swiss Air disaster back in two thousand, a morbid comparison, but unfortunately a correct one. Around these parts, aside from the occasional fishermen succumbing to the cold hard wash of Atlantic brine or a seasonal forest fire, there wasn't much in the line of exciting tales to ink. Suffice to say, as far as the news biz went, Ms. Sussex had to employ her literary license in order to keep the Bugle competitive. She had done so by penning compelling stories about mismanaged school grants, senior citizen abuse, and the environmental damages of ship bilging into the local aquatic resource. If it was gloomy, then Pam could be counted on to shed a light upon the whole stinking mess. She alone had planted those big city troubles in the community's tiny backyard, a smelly flower that did not make her popular with some folks. However, those dire news stories had helped to sell copies, because bad news or not, people had to know what to look out for, who to trust, and more importantly, who to blame. And so if those unappealing news blurbs had offended some peoples' sense of comfort, then that was too bad, because in order to pay the bills, she had to ramp up sales and that meant sensationalizing the horrible.

" _Feed them fear and they'll keep on coming back for more, lest they miss some tidbit of information that might otherwise have saved their lives."_

That was what Pam's journalism instructor, Mrs. Argyle, had taught in college, a wisdom that sadly played out to be true. And so the mandate _"Bad was good and good was boring,"_ became her understanding of what was to be expected. Still, it was hard living life under a proverbial rain cloud twenty-four-seven, especially when you were the asshole always pointing the worst of things out to everybody else. The mantra had worn on her self-esteem and had made her vaguely aware that people tended to look at her funny, as if she were about to tell them they had cancer, or perhaps some other malignancy, which according to medical researchers was hopelessly incurable. Regardless of the negative results attached to her choice profession, the side effects were nonetheless to be expected. Life was a crooked obstacle course that ran on an uphill grade at the best of times. God, that lazy sadist with a pile of best intentions IOUs had built it that way.

Who was Pam to dispute that celestial bureaucracy?

She turned the computer monitor off, effectively placing herself in the company of a sole fluorescent light. Suddenly, she desired a gun with silver bullets or at the very least a sturdy cross to ward off even the most tenacious of supernatural entities. And then there it was again, that uncertainty posing its question as to what she had actually seen. The digital pictures stated one thing while her gut said otherwise. There was but one choice available to resolve this curious conundrum: she would venture back to Major's Field and confront that serpentine monolith that sat cloaked in mystery.

Chapter Four

Save the Last Dance

(1)

Greg Boudreau scratched on his opening break, effectively sending the cue ball into the top corner pocket. It was obvious that nine draught and three belts of rum had destroyed his aim to the point where he was blowing simple shots by playing too aggressively. Suffice to say, he was losing this game of eight-ball, and by the looks of things, another one of his twenty dollar queens was on its way into Daryl Forester's wallet.

Over all it had been a miserable day for Mr. Boudreau:

A stinging cut with a dull razor had taken a big slice out of his cheek during his morning shave. Then there was the flat tire on his way to work. The spare in the trunk had also been flat. Then there was the forty dollar towing fee topped off with a phone call from the bank saying they would repossess his flat screen TV if he did not make a payment by tomorrow afternoon.

And now---it was a snot nose punk, cheating him out of his hard earned dough, on what was widely regarded as Greg's personal table. Of course, Phil Blanchard really owned the velvet green along with all the furniture around it. But that did not matter to Mr. Boudreau, because he was a mean drunk who would smash a bottle across a person's face if they messed with what he perceived as his property. So the bar's proprietor along with everyone else in Sea Haven had an understanding that Phil's table was in actuality, Greg's. It was the sort of territorial claim that all primal animals engaged in. And as for Greg's lack of muscle to enforce his reign over that meager portion of barfly turf, he more than made up for with sheer craziness. Over the years, he had wrapped more than his share of pool sticks around people's heads, which in turn had secured his reputation as being a loose cannon. And here, this behavior came from a man who was supposed to be calm and collective under duress, because that's what volunteer fire fighters did, they managed the fallout. But then this was Sea Haven, and as any local yokel could tell you, the rules of a small town were different from those in the big city. Out in the sticks, the social hierarchy climbed a different kind of tree that grew in a different kind of jungle. Greg, however socially challenged, was still a spender, and the reality of commerce meant that Phil needed the Sunday to Thursday crowd in order to keep the Pub afloat. So suffice to say, the bingo bags, potheads, underage loiterers along with the just add alcohol assholes like Greg Boudreau, were welcomed guests, because in their own dysfunctional way, they kept the bottom line above water.

As for Daryl's reason for being in Phil's Pub tonight, he wanted to make a few bucks before heading back home to Pictou. He was an up and coming sharp shooter with an inborn knack for manipulating the velvet field. He was the great white shark of pool sharks, the top of the food chain, Mr. Ice Cube in an eight ball leather jacket, a pair of black denims, and a NASCAR tee shirt. He was a well-tempered kid, but could still throw hands if need be, a burly skill he had often used in self-defense against those drunks who would not accept defeat gracefully.

Some folks were just sore losers.

Amongst the pool hall riffraff that dotted the rugged Atlantic coastline, he was becoming a thing of legend. However, that recognition had proven a handicap when it had come to plucking pigeons. No one wanted to throw their hard earned cash down the toilet by setting their questionable talents against a confirmed sniper of the eight-ball like Mr. Forester. Instead, they would be more apt to challenge him to a no frills game just to see how good he was, or perhaps better stated, to see just how good they were in comparison. In the end however, it would always turn out the same---just when a challenger thought they had a chance---POW! Daryl would work his sharp shooter miracle.

Daryl's slender fingers reached into the corner pocket and withdrew Greg's scratched cue ball. He then carried the ball back down the length of the table with a certain degree of trepidation. This was the most dangerous time in the hustle: the tense, drawn out moment when the pigeon realized he had just been figuratively plucked by a fox. If Daryl wasn't vigilant and quick with his reflexes, then he just might feel the sharp jolt of a pool stick wrap around his noggin. And so he decided it would be best to sink this last shot, scoop the queen up off the table and be out the door before anyone could say: _"Brier Rabbit."_

"Where you from?" Greg asked in a low menacing voice. The question sounded more like an accusation than a genuine curiosity.

Daryl never met Greg's eyes. Instead, he lined up the cue ball for a quick and easy shot at the eight. "Charlottetown...Bowser Street," Daryl replied with a well-practiced lie. He had only ever been to the island once in his lifetime, but that did not matter, it placed his origin far enough away that if someone wanted to track him down, they would be looking in the wrong place.

"Bowser Street," Greg replied with a snort. "Never heard of it."

Daryl did not respond, instead, he drew back his special pool stick and let chalk fly. The cue ball cracked the eight with a decisive snap to which the ball quickly disappeared into the corner pocket. "Wow, I'm really lucky tonight," Daryl said with a whistle. He was certain that his simple cowpoke facade was wearing agonizingly thin, not only for himself, but for Mr. Boudreau as well. It would be best to get out of Dodge pronto before things got too heated. "I think I'll call it a night if it's all the same. I got a lot of things to do tomorrow."

Daryl reached over and took hold of the queen, but before he could pull it away, Greg's bar issue pool stick fell gently across Daryl's bony wrist like a railroad gate.

"So, did you drive here from Bowser Street?" Greg scoffed, a hateful glare lit within his otherwise unremarkable eyes.

"Yeah," Daryl replied, continuing to hold onto the queen. "Just drove over this morning."

"Visiting are ya?"

"Yeah."

"So, that must be your Grand National sitting out there in the parking lot?"

"Yeah, she's a nice..." Suddenly, Daryl's pupils dilated to ten times their normal aperture as he realized his mistake. "I just bought that car actually," he explained, back-paddling for all he was worth. However, he knew it was pointless. It was obvious Mr. Boudreau had seen the car's license plates, and those blue and white placards had read _"Nova Scotia's Ocean Playground,"_ not _"P.E.I.'s Birth Place of Confederation."_ He was sunk just like the eight-ball. But then that conclusion was a given regardless. He understood that had it not been the car, then it would have been either his clothes, or his walk, or perhaps even his Scandinavian features that Greg would have pounced upon, because in the end, Mr. Boudreau wanted blood.

"I guess you would have had to, wouldn't ya?" Greg snickered, a sour expression stenciled across his homeliest of features. "Cause they don't issue bluenose plates to Eddy Islanders, do they?"

This was it, the moment when that cheap discount glue that held the social fabric together fell apart. There would be no diplomacy here, no common ground to agree upon as to resolving their differences to a mutual satisfaction. This was the lowest common denominator in the great struggle of life, the battle of fisticuffs.

Daryl yanked his hand free and stuffed the twenty-dollar-queen into his pant pocket. He then retreated a step, clasping his pool cue firmly in hand like a Samurai sword.

Greg responded with equal haste, his knurled fist crossing that dim haze of second hand smoke towards Daryl's jaw. Luckily for Mr. Forrester, the pool table's corner stopped Greg short, and so the angry drunk missed him by little more than a hair's breadth. The Pictou pool maverick swung his cue. It connected firmly with Mr. Boudreau's ribs like a bullwhip. The impact sounded dull and hollow like a loose skin drum. The shot, however, was clean, and effectively knocked the air out of Greg's lungs. As a result, Mr. Boudreau's lanky knees buckled down onto the bar's sticky linoleum, and if not for the fact that there was no air inside his mouth, he would have surely groaned.

Daryl searched his fallen opponent for any semblance of reprisal, but could find none. It was apparent that Mr. Boudreau had just become a gentler beast.

A crowd of onlookers quickly gathered, but it was soon apparent that Daryl had no need of worry in regards to their retribution. Greg did not have a friend amongst the lot of them, at least not one who would back him up in a brawl. In fact, most folks were grinning at the unfortunate sight. Yet despite the benevolent nature of the folks gathered round, Daryl still felt the real need to make haste, and so he pushed past the well-mannered onlookers and made tracks toward the front door. And it was probably a good thing that he had, because over in the corner, Phil had just placed a call to the RCMP.

(2)

Greg found his feet, his pride more bruised than his ribs. He gave the gathered congregation a baleful eye, a look that said: _"I'll remember you sons of bitches when your homes are on fire."_ The group, however, sufficiently entertained by the kangaroo sideshow, withdrew back into the pub's shadows to peck on video lotto terminals and attend to the neglected needs of problem drinking.

Greg stood amidst the smoky air that reeked of personal defeat. The altercation with the kid had not even been a brawl. What it had been was Gregory Boudreau getting his bell rung by a solitary tap to the ribs. If he was ever going to walk back into Phil's Pub again, he would have to save face immediately. So Greg downed his beer and then ambled out of Phil's as quickly as his skinny legs could carry him.

(3)

Outside, Greg watched as that little bastard who had stolen his pride along with three of his queens, spun out of Phil's parking lot in a vintage 1984 Grand National. To Mr. Boudreau, the engine's throaty roar sounded like mocking laughter. But he would not forfeit the chase, could not. He needed an act of redemption, because to turn tail and walk back into Phil's without having exacted his retribution would be unthinkable.

He would pursue the miserable little puke, catch him, and then beat the hell out of him with his own pool cue. Then, Greg would return to Phil's and snap the custom cue across his knee for everyone to see. Then there would be no dispute as to who owned that tiny acreage of emerald barfly turf. And so he set his designs upon the kid's stick, which he now regarded as a nonnegotiable commodity. His pride would not accept anything less. It insisted that he not only took his honor back, but a trophy as well.

His shabby sneakers pulled his wiry frame to his run down Chevy sedan, which resembled a monument to the enduring state of oxidization. He jammed a well-worn key into the ignition and ground the starter to which a plume of gray-blue smoke sneezed out of the noisy tailpipe, effectively sending him underway. The fog rolled across the cracked windshield in moody grays as the six-cylinder engine whined and knocked. Greg's demand on the car's mechanics was unrealistic, not to mention dangerous considering the low visibility shrouding the two-lane blacktop. But the operator did not care. He was too wound up on booze and the need for vengeance to give a rat's ass about anything aside from getting his grubby hands on that damn pool cue.

Ahead, the shimmer of two square taillights came into view.

"There you are you little punk," Greg muttered through a set of yellowish teeth. "I'll get ya, and then we'll see who the man is."

The Grand National's taillights vanished, reappeared, vanished again and then came back. It was like chasing a carrot on a stick, infuriating, and each time the red bulbs winked out, Greg would drive his knurled fist into the dingy dashboard and howl a flurry of expletives. He was livid, lost inside his own red light of rage. However, he had lived in Sea Haven his entire life and knew these bumpy roads well.

Daryl did not.

So it was of little surprise when the Grand National locked up its brakes and veered a hard left when it came to a notorious hairpin turn that lay just shy of Major's Field. It was the dangerous turn Greg had been waiting on. He had anticipated a miscalculation by the snot nose kid, and as such, would avail the opportunity.

The Chevy gave Greg everything it had, which was not much, but was still enough to set his engine bonnet on a direct intercept course with the Buick's driver side door. It was a hair-brained idea for an already volatile situation. But then that was to be expected. Greg had grown increasingly desperate, and it did not matter to him that he might kill the kid or himself with such an idiotic maneuver. What mattered was that his honor demanded satisfaction.

(4)

Daryl's Grand National was a pepper pot with a turbocharged V-six-three-point-eight liter engine. The car had been won fair and square in a high stakes game of high-low in Pictou's notoriously rough tavern known as Zed's. The Buick's previous owner, Lance Monroe, had taken great care of the classic muscle car when it had been in his possession, and had almost cried when he had to pass the keys over to Daryl. However, Mr. Monroe understood that all was fair in cue chalk and loud breakers, and if you couldn't put up, then you shut up. At any rate, Lance had babied the Buick, tended to its moods and needs with fastidious detail, kept the fluids clean, the belts changed and had even gone so far as to perform a few custom modifications. Things like beefing up the suspension with racing struts and shocks, installing stronger springs, replacing the linkage's rubber bushings with polyurethane, slapping on four extra wide, low profile performance radials, and last but certainly not least, remapping the ignition to give the turbocharger more boost. As a result, the thing rode more like a performance sport's car: a bit bumpy but tight on the corners. It was a gear-head's wet-dream on BF Goodrich tires, sexy legs for sexy lines, and tonight the pains of all those labors were about to be put to the test.

As Daryl cut the wheel hard to make that hairpin turn, he noticed that those headlights that had been chasing him through the fog were now barreling down on him like a pair of hazy comets. He realized immediately that it was Greg come to settle what had already been settled. However, unlike Lance, Mr. Boudreau could neither put up nor shut up, but that tidbit of morality did not matter right now, what did was escape.

Daryl's foot tramped down on the gas pedal to which the turbocharger with the remapped ignition replied ferociously. Smoke rolled around the wheel wells and twirled out behind the Buick's back bumper, a yin-yang within the wispy fog. The sudden change in velocity made Daryl's body feel like a thousand pounds, as the Buick's sleek body shot out of harm's way by less than an a fraction of an inch.

It had been close, but close only counted in horseshoes and hand grenades.

As for the Buick and Mr. Forrester, they wasted no time putting as much distance in between them and Sea Haven as they possibly could.

(5)

The Chevy missed its mark, proving not only that Greg Boudreau was lousy at pool, but at smash up derby too. But that shortcoming was irrelevant, what mattered right now was regaining control of the Chevy. The car was in a fatal spin, circling doughnuts along the highway while Greg struggled helplessly to bring the ride to a stop.

Suddenly, he was reciting that familiar mantra of: " _just one more chance Lord, just one more chance,_ " because somewhere between the Chevy's first and fifth rotation, he had changed in a very profound spiritual way. In an instant, he was a born again Bible thumper that swore on his oath to amend his wicked ways if only God would be so merciful as to grant him continued life.

Just one more chance Lord! Just one more chance!

The Chevy flew off the blacktop with a high-pitch chirp as that smooth ribbon of bald rubber lost its grip. The car plowed through the gravel and a wooden guardrail where it quickly fetched up solid within the narrow crevasse of a steep service ditch. The drainage canal was deep, eight feet from trough to crest. It was damp and muddy after a hard fall of rain from the previous night. Alders bushes choked the manmade gully with thick vegetation, which poked their wet leafs in through the passenger side window. Outside, steam hissed from beneath the stalled engine's bonnet, while the car's headlights shone forward upon a scattered mess of mud puddles and granite boulders.

Greg's heavy breathing and thundering heart told him he was still alive. Yet as wonderful a concept as that might be, there was no denying that things were still slanted. The Chevy, Greg's thoughts, the wispy night, each hopelessly tilted at an angle like a ship listing to capsize. He was in shock and dizzy from the wild ride. The accident had happened quickly and now he had to deal with the fallout.

As he crawled out of the driver side window, his sour disposition returned with all its lackluster glory. Suddenly, he was Mr. Wonderful again, and as he climbed through the loam and up onto the greasy highway, the only thanks to be heard coming off his lips were thanks for nothing. He stood on the blacktop peering into the distance. The Buick was miles away by now. He had been cheated of both trophy and barfly dignity this night. His legs were shaky but held. He was high on adrenaline but its energy was useless without a means to release it. He had been defeated on his own table and left to stew in his own acidic juices. It was everything for him not to turn inside out. His eyes narrowed, his crooked teeth ground enamel to chalk, his bony knuckles wound into tight clubs. He needed a beer---a whore---something to smash---a smoke---and a freaking time machine.

Just one more chance Lord, just one more chance.

But he was miles from Phil's, so the beer was out of reach, and so too were those delectable whores in Halifax. He had no cigarettes and no time machine and nothing that could vent that awful pressure of frustration. He was all out of second chances, although he would never have admitted that he had ever gotten one in the first place, because Greg felt God was a sadist. His life was just too horrible for Jesus H Macy not to be into sadomasochism. According to Greg, he alone was the world's whipping boy. The loser who had hit rock bottom and the worst thing was that he was sober enough to know it. Tomorrow, he would wake up with a hangover and a repo-man banging on his door to take away his television set. Tomorrow, he would wake up a little bit lesser of a man, shorter in stature and minus a regular table at Phil's. Tomorrow, the hot poker would be shoved so far up his ass, that it would touch his tonsils.

What else was left for him now?

Inside his rusty mobile home's bedroom closet, beneath a stack of pornographic magazines and a case of sour mash whiskey, was a long nylon rope. It would fit snugly around his scrawny neck like a hillbilly necktie, cheap, but more than capable of handling a hundred-and-eighty-three pounds of dead weight. He would make a strange sort of a piñata, where the only things to fall out of his poorly sewn seams would be losing lotto tickets. Perhaps even that snot nose punk with the pool cue could swing by to take another whack at him while he dangled from the backyard tree.

Suddenly, Greg's ire wasn't so much cutting as it was depressing. He, like the Chevy, had also fallen into a rut, except Greg would need more than a tow truck to get out of his.

He turned slowly and headed back up the road as if being pulled by that nylon rope, but before he had taken three steps, he heard something stir within the fog. The clatter was mechanical, a truck engine's snarl as played through the mouth of a damaged tailpipe. He had heard that song today out on Major's Field, when that snobbish auburn queen with the delectable ass drove off before committing to a time and date for their dance. It was none other than Pam's wheezing junker, the tick of its bad valves standing out like the off-key notes of a poorly tuned instrument.

A devilish grin aligned Greg's pale lips.

It appeared that fickle mistress otherwise known as fate had just delivered him a means by which to reclaim his honor. He immediately decided that Pam was going to launch him into the stratosphere of local legend and that if anyone questioned his manhood in the future, they need only ask what it had been like to bang one Pamela Sussex. And when he told them, which he would regardless if they wanted to hear it or not, they would know without a question that Gregory Boudreau had a pair of balls bigger than King Kong's.

So what if he lost a freaking game of eight ball to some scrawny chimp?

He had nailed Sugar Box Sussex, and that sort of act nullified any past transgressions with kudos.

But how would he attain the goddess?

He was certain the purpose for her heading this way involved that stupid oddity out on Major's Field. So, if he just hid and let her pass, then he could cut through the woods and sneak up on her while she was busy satisfying that curious itch between her eloquent shoulders.

His bowlegged gait scampered back down to the trapped car, where he quickly turned off the headlights, lest Pam's bedroom eyes spot their frosty glow. He then hid his mangy hide within the alder bushes, like a snake lying in wait for unsuspecting prey.

It was an exciting game.

Dangerous, forbidden and arousing. It was all Mr. Boudreau could do to control himself, but manage it he did. This was not the time to go off half-cocked, this was the time for patience and he had been oh so very patient with her.

Pam's jalopy sputtered by the crash without incident, the fog blinding her as to Greg's presence. And when she was far enough down the road, Mr. Boudreau slithered out of his damp hole and followed after the truck's taillights as if they were a neon sign that read, _"young, hot, sexy, girls."_

Chapter Five

Wishing Wells and Shooting Stars

(1)

It had been touch and go for the first few hours, but once again, Eddy Ryan had cheated death for yet another day. It was becoming a regular thing for him, too regular by most counts, especially for his dear mother, Kimberly Ryan. In fact, these close calls had turned her into a nervous wreck and she had the nails chewed down to the nubs and the well-worn rosary beads to prove it. But her state of being was the last thing on her troubled mind these days. What mattered was that her baby boy was sick, and as any mother could tell you, the welfare of their child took precedent over everything, even their God. And that was saying something in Kim's case, because she was a devote catholic to the order of being fanatical. She attended church seven times a week, gave ten percent of her net pay to the collection plate, volunteered to clean both the hall and the rectory, and had even gone so far as to do Father Dolan's laundry---formals mostly, black robes and the like. So to think that a woman who had spent the better part of her forty three years of life in devoted worship could turn her back on her faith, was indeed a testimony not only to her desperation, but to her love for Eddy: the quiet unassuming child who sadly had one foot inside an early grave. However, betraying her faith had not been her intention, but done it she had. Yet to say that this change in moral direction had been a sudden decision would be incorrect, because that kind of failing always took time. The loss of faith was like a fortified beach head that slowly succumbed to a splash of waves over the years, drop after drop and tide after tide. Sin was patient and persistent, and before a person knew it, there were cracks in their spiritual foundation, and then those tiny cracks opened up into wide gaping holes. Here, that gradual alteration in her moral compass, which seemed so slight to begin with, had taken a hard sweeping turn and steered her soul straight into a spiritual crisis.

At first, Kimberly had denied those uncertain feelings, swept those doubts beneath the fine woven fabric of her faith. She had not dared to string God's plan to her rosary, and as such, banned her bitterness towards Jesus from ever setting foot inside the confessional. But deep down inside she could feel herself compromising what she felt were little bits of her sanity. Faith was infamous for being blind, but the more Eddy courted death's daughter, the thinner that dark fold grew. There was a cold harsh light shining beyond that reassuring blindfold, a ray of stark realistic truth, and that was that, Eddy Ryan was running out of time. So it was of little surprise to find that Kimberly Denise Ryan had begun to compromise her faith, because God's plan, however divine in purpose, was obviously fundamentally flawed when it came to her son.

Gradually, she had begun to spin deals within her prayers, negotiating flesh and bone as if it were a used car with a limited lifetime warranty. There were sacrifices and services placed upon the Lord's alter, which in a strange way had become a sort of metaphysical auctioning block. Bids were offered to do more around the church, give more to the collection plate, twenty percent of net pay no less, clean the hall faster, wash more of the priest's clothes, smile more, pray more, and last but certainly not least, the granddaddy keeper of all deals, to trade places with her dying son.

But still, Eddy got sicker, the bids got higher, and faith's blindfold wore ever thinner as that harsh cruel light beyond its delicate folds grew from a dim glow to a bright glare. Science only offered the heart a piercing truth and that gospel was all about inevitability. It was a vicious circle that stank of defeat, and no matter how many times she tossed pennies into fountains or wished on shooting stars, the end result was always that miserable diagnosis: leukemia.

And so this morning's desperate chapel prayer had slid over to allow room for an alternative kind of remedy. And although Kimberly Ryan did not know it, she had unwittingly committed a terrible sin. But just what that was will have to wait, because right now something is happening with Eddy.

(2)

"He's waking up," the ER's head-nurse, Monica Port said.

Doctor Tyler Matthews applied a stethoscope to his cauliflower ears and listened to Eddy's low heart rate and shallow breathing. Soon, a satisfied but concerned grin found his next to nothing lips, but that was enough to raise Kimberly's hopes up ever so slightly.

"He's got an infection again," Matthews said, his nasally voice not actually addressing anyone particular. "He'd better stay here tonight. We'll keep an eye on him. Make sure his fever and the fluid in his lungs doesn't get any worse."

Kimberly nodded in an agreeable fashion, because she had been down this road numerous times and was all too familiar with the intricacies of the overnight observation routine. Tonight, she would sleep in a chair next to Eddy's bed and in the morning eat bland food from the cafeteria, and then pray in the tiny hospital chapel just like she had dozens of times before. It was automatic now. She knew the floor lay out, where the vending machines were, and how the nurses liked to sneak out onto the fire escape to steal a quick smoke after midnight. In fact, the only thing different with each trip to the cancer ward were those sympathetic stares that grew ever more somber each time she saw them. Those sorrowful looks that said the end was getting closer Mrs. Ryan, so you had better prepare, because one of these days, he's not going to make it and that's the name of that tune.

But how could she possibly hope to prepare?

Buy a small coffin---pick out a burial plot under an old oak---write a poignant eulogy.

It was ridiculous to think that she could prepare and still maintain hope at the same time, and what made it even worse was that damn harsh light lying beyond the soft fraying folds. It was getting brighter every time she and Eddy came here to the point where its brilliant practical truth was burning her eyes. There was no turning away from it, because the truth had her scent memorized, and could track her anywhere she cared to run. Even into the deepest sleep where her worst fears found substance. Nightmares so horrible that she dreaded the very thought of letting her head hit the pillow. And lately those sour dreams had been of drowning inside a willful fog under the watchful eye of something that kind of resembled, well, she was uncertain about that. All she knew was that the thing that loomed over her was beyond evil, it was wholly satanic.

"Mrs. Ryan," Nurse Port said as she placed a tender hand upon Kim's shoulder.

Kimberly laid her tired eyes upon the familiar woman, her mind in a strange sort of limbo where mysterious oddities watched over her and a preternatural fog suffocated reason. "Yes."

"I know you like staying with, Eddy," Nurse Port said. "I'll get some extra blankets from linen and---"

"---Better than the one in Wal-Mart," Eddy whispered.

All eyes fell on the resting figure of Eddy Ryan.

"A deal," Eddy rasped, his eyes rolling wildly under his delicate lids. "Even better than the one at Wal-Mart."

Kimberly moved towards her son and laid a hand upon the boy's slick brow. "Eddy sweetheart. It's mommy. Are you hungry or thirsty baby?"

She was delighted to hear his voice. But still, she could not help but wonder what he was dreaming about and what was better than the one at Wal-Mart. Perhaps a skateboard or a computer game. Whatever it was, she hoped it made him happy, because he deserved an escape from his illness, if only imagined.

Eddy's eyes suddenly snapped open and held onto his mother's face with a strange preternatural glow. His small face looked of pallid wax, a haunted object that exhibited the kind of moronic evil that always proceeded the deranged. His once smiling eyes looked soulless despite their brilliance, and with these new black pearl eyes, he stared up at Kimberly Ryan with both condemnation and sadistic amusement.

Yet despite her wish for it to be otherwise, she could not help but think, " _this thing is not my child! This is not my precious Eddy!"_ But that harsh light beyond the soft fold told her that this was indeed her dying son, and may God forgive her, but at this moment, she wished him dead.

If only that hungry cancer would just eat him up then those horrible eyes would be extinguished forever. But the boy that was not a boy held firm to his station and would not yield his gaze to a prayer.

Doctor Matthews leaned over Eddy, a tiny flashlight in hand, his professional expertise more than a little perplexed with that odd radiance that shimmered within the boy's pupils. It was one for the record books, a scientific anomaly that bordered on the fantastic. The good doctor could not explain away that eerie spark with any degree of plausible theories.

It was a genuine phenomenon.

The only thing Matthews could take away from this incident was an awful sinking feeling, and those sorts of observations fell under the exclusive domain of a voodoo doctor. There was more witchcraft to this diagnosis than the explainable, and that was not something Matthews could treat. At last check, he had no magic pills nor incantations to fix that which was best handled with a spell-book.

"His eyes," Nurse Port whispered, unconsciously taking a step backward. "What's wrong with his eyes?"

Doctor Matthews too had also taken a step backward. Here, he was supposed to help this poor child and instead he was looking for an excuse to call it a night, anything to remove himself from this disquieting scene and the sight of those ghostly eyes. "His temperature is down. We'll get an eye doctor in here first thing in the morning."

By this time, Nurse Port was standing in the doorway.

Eddy removed his accusing gaze from his mother and leered upon the wobbly frame of big boned Port.

"Earl's seeing that whore from down the street again," Eddy said with a smirk. "If I were you, I'd go home early tonight, and don't forget that article in the den my dear."

Nurse Port went flush and aside from the fear eating away at her heart, there was a sting of betrayal. Here, this spooky kid with the dead eyes had seen into her personal life and spoken her husband's name, not to mention that he had also known about the affair, the one that her better half had sworn was over. But that indiscretion wasn't over was it, because as much as Nurse Port was afraid of those terrible eyes, she also knew she could trust them, because when it came to transgressions, those eyes spoke the truth about infidelities.

She immediately turned and stormed out of the hospital.

Three hours later she would be arrested and charged for a double homicide, thanks to the article that Earl had left loaded in the den.

Kimberly turned to Matthews, her own eyes lit with another sort of light, a tortured fire that begged for help.

"We'll monitor his vitals," Matthews stammered, trying to ignore the fact that Eddy was now staring at him as he had with Nurse Port. "The eye doc---"

"---You killed her cat, didn't you?" Eddy said with wide grin. "Buried Ms. Bethel's kitty in your garden. And why? Because it pissed on your hedge." A shrill laugh leapt out of Eddy's mouth like a screech. "You cut the poor thing's head off with a garden hoe, and then you went inside your million dollar home to surf porn before your lovely daughter got home from blowing three boys in the high-school locker-room. She's a real princess dad, you should be proud, swallows it down to the last drop, just like the girls on your computer do."

"That's enough Eddy!" Matthews snapped, both embarrassed and defensive about this supposedly hidden truth. "You're delirious."

"And you're not," Eddy grinned.

"We'll monitor him," Matthews said, as he tucked tail and scooted out into the hallway. Tomorrow, the good doctor would exhume poor kitty and move it to the dump. Then he would confront his daughter about things he otherwise paid cold hard cash to watch online.

"Eddy," Kimberly said as she moved to the foot of her son's bed. "What are you saying?"

"Tell the truth and shame the devil," Eddy replied. "Now, would you like to confess your sins, or shall I do it for you, mother?"

Kimberly's mouth fell open, but no legible words toppled out, just a single breath of air that sounded strangled.

"Don't be shy mother," Eddy said in voice that mocked his sympathy. "The confessional is always open."

"My confession is for the priest's ears alone my precious child," Kimberly said, hardly believing her own ears.

"The priest is a closet homosexual and God is a sadist," Eddy said with a note of bitter disdain. "You'd be better off putting your faith into shall we say...monolithic sculptures."

Kimberly crossed herself and said, "Saints preserve us."

"Come mother dear. Tell the truth and shame the devil."

"What's the matter with you, Eddy?" Kimberly asked, her voice one note shy of a whine. "Have I done something?"

"You know what you've done," Eddy said with a playful wink. "Tell the truth and shame the devil."

Kimberly became sullen and withdrawn as those guarded memories wormed their way out of her mind. "No," she whispered. "It couldn't be."

"That a girl," Eddy said in a soothing voice. "When you were out on the field of dreams, where you tossed the penny and it fell."

(3)

Kimberly Ryan stood on Major's Field, gazing at that lofty spire of iron snakes like it was an attraction in a circus sideshow. She stood quietly on the sidelines, while Jasper Hancock kept folks at a distance, and Gregory Boudreau shuttled people up and down inside a service truck's cherry picker. All around her, the locals busily speculated as to the spire's origin and creator. Several times, native artist, Trevor Van Buren's name had been mentioned as a possible culprit. But it was eventually agreed upon that this object went well beyond his abilities.

Once people realized that, there seemed to be only one other alternative. However, no one was eager to pipe up and be the first to say what that explanation was. No, that unspoken theory was best left for the nighttime when idle chitchat could entertain such farfetched notions over a cold pint of ale without fear of reprisal. No one wanted to be thought a fool let alone be proven as such by engaging in wild conjecture. It was safer to propose the outrageous while under the influence of drink, because alcohol was notorious for being an idiot every day of the year. Booze had no need to be coherent, it just needed a good sympathetic ear to scream into. And tonight, when a few of the town's drunkards spewed off some nonsense about a supernatural phenomenon as a potential explanation, later on they could simply blame the booze for having made them say such foolish things.

Sometimes liquor could provide the ultimate get out of jail ticket.

However, if someone in the crowd was to hail that this thing was evil, there would not have been a solitary soul to object the notion, for although no one had said anything aloud, they could all feel that unnatural power emanating from within the iron leviathan. It was the sort of knowing that rang off the bone like a hammer off an anvil, a certainty that told a person that a seemingly benign thing could in reality, be rotten to its core. Yet not one soul had stepped back from that strange entity in fear, because on a subconscious level, the damn thing spoke to the community in a soft inaudible whisper that sang of an intimate knowing. And so the crowd was bound to the iron works by a psychic tether that was as deceptive as a self-deluding lie, because no one wanted to believe that their volition could be undermined by a mindless instrument, nor believe that temptation could be planted into their hearts as easily as a farmer sowed a seed. It was too unsettling a concept to consciously entertain, and so despite the group's compelling urge to think on their inner most desires, no one dared to speak of such secretive fantasies aloud.

Who would?

It was social conditioning that orchestrated such restraints, the mettle of a civilized species that encouraged self-discipline in the spirit of not only maintaining law and order, but also a profound sense of personal worth. After all, Sea Haven's residents were not animals that heeded a command like a domestic pet. They were human beings capable of scientifically rationalizing away the universe that surrounded them. However, sometimes the trip down the evolutionary ladder could be as simple as misplacing a foot, and then before you knew it, you were lying in the devil's arms. Temptation was a consummate opportunist and continuously on the prowl for fresh victims. This morning, out on Major's Field, that failing of iniquity had not only spotted a herd of enticing prospects, but a potential marketing franchise that promised many interesting possibilities. And so the iron spire of snakes had enticed the entire congregation into purchasing a communal sin.

For Gregory Boudreau, it was lust over Pamela Sussex, for Pam, it had been a successful news career, for Jasper Hancock, it had been about playing hardball with a vagrant in the Rum Dumb Motel, and for Dick Orwell, it had been a daydream about destroying his political opponent, Bobby "the Dreamboat" Samuels.

The list went on.

Folks coveting objects and people, health and beauty, power and wealth, youth and vitality, each of them, tossing a proverbial penny down the double twist of a serpents wishing-well.

As for Kimberly Ryan, her wish had been offered forth on behalf of her sick son, Eddy. It was an innocent yearning, which in itself was an unformed thought, a moment of selflessness before that which was anything but selfless.

The request had not gone unheeded.

But just when and how that unholy prayer would be answered, only the iron spire knew.

(4)

"No," Kim protested. "It was a daydream...a random thought...nothing more...it wasn't real."

"Ah, but alas it was," Eddy said in a calm voice, which only made him seem eerier, deader than dead. "You've come part of the way, but there's still another step you have to take if Eddy is to get better."

Kimberly's suspicions lay confirmed when she heard that creature on the bed speak of her beloved son in the third person. The thing that stared out with those unholy eyes was not her son, but rather an element of that twist of serpents that lay within the tangled mist upon Major's Field.

"Where is Eddy?" What have you done with my son?!"

"Shhh," the thing on the bed hushed. "He's sleeping on a gossamer cloud out on the field of dreams. Don't worry Kim...he's not alone...he's talking to a boy right now even as we speak."

"Give him back!"

"In time Kimberly...in time," the thing grinned. "But first, you must help me, and then all things will be put well, Eddy included."

Kim's humble faith had just discovered a gray line of truth otherwise known as pragmatism. Apparently, the thing out on Major's Field was into negotiation. Yet she could not deny that a deal was better than bartering with the man upstairs, because as everyone knew, God was an all or nothing kind of guy. But what could she do about it? She was cornered by her love for poor sick Eddy, her sole reason for breathing, and that motherly love trumped the love of a man that she had only ever read about inside of some book. But still, would she deal with this thing that manipulated her son's body and possibly his soul like a puppet?

"What must I do?"

The question had flowed out of Kimberly's mouth with surprising little resistance, because truth be told, she had already compromised enough of her spirituality that there was very little left to be taken away. So when her church steeple finally came down upon her faith, it was not heralded by a loud crash, but rather by a gentle thud.

Kim's resignation made the thing that stared through Eddy's eyes burn brighter, except there was nothing warm or inviting to be found therein. But that was irrelevant, because Kimberly Ryan needed to take that one last step in order to close this unholy deal. And although she had no doubt it would save her son's life, she could not help but feel that it would also damn her eternal soul.

Chapter Six

Miranda

(1)

It was getting late and the fishing here was terrible. Nary a single vehicle had passed before Constable Hancock's trusty radar-gun, and that was a damn shame too, because if there was one thing the owner and operator of the Rum Dumb Motel had a real hankering to do, it was to write some bozo a good stiff ticket for racing past midnight. Of course, his personal favorite infraction was the coveted DUI. That violation was the winning lotto number as far as Hancock was concerned, a genuine voucher that was good for a night's stay inside one of the pissy backrooms of the Rum Dumb Motel. But sadly, there were no booze hounds jockeying the steering wheel tonight, the only thing that moved was the hazy fog, that and a fat porcupine that had waddled its prickly ass across the one-o-three in search of whatever it was that porcupines crossed the road for. No wonder those varmints were notorious for being road-kill, they moved like old people humped. Suffice to say, the porcupine had been the most excitement Jasper had seen since parking his cop cruiser behind a roadside billboard that welcomed tourists to Sea Haven.

He sat the radar gun down on the passenger seat next to his sturdy baton and let his large bull head fall back onto the headrest. His pale eyes were dry and tired, and it was exceedingly difficult to keep them open. If he did not get a coffee into his gullet soon, then he would end up sawing logs for the sheep paddock.

"Time to make a java run," Jasper said through a yawn.

As he reached down and put his big mitt of a hand on the ignition, he unexpectedly heard a strange noise cut through the fog like the soft warble of an exotic bird. At first, he could not tell what it was, but soon realized the ragged loops of this off key tenor belonged to that of a person whistling. His hand fell away from the key and into his lap while his ears listened intently. The song was erratic but strangely familiar, and although he could not discern the song's title or the crooner's name, he could tell one thing: Whoever was lumbering along the one-o-three in the middle of the night, miles from nowhere, was three sheets to the wind, and that meant the Rum Dumb Motel had just found itself a guest.

A broad grin found Hancock's surly mug. Regardless of his pressed uniform and spit shined shoes, the cop nonetheless courted a mental disorder that worshiped at the altar of chaos. He was a sociopath with the need to have others beneath the crushing weight of his authority so that he might satisfy his most sadistic tendencies. For to have control, was to have power, and the thing that Jasper sought to control most of all, was another human being.

(2)

A lanky silhouette stumbled out of the fog, its shadow moving with the grace of a person stricken with a brain injury. This mysterious bag of meat's ratty sneakers staggered along the blacktop, their gait that of an unbalanced pendulum. As the figure drew closer into view, Hancock appraised his latest victim with anxious intent. The drunkard was a man, had his hands jammed into a pair of jeans that lay torn at the knee. His flannel shirt fell open, revealing a set of pasty ribs. Long stringy hair hung down around the vagrant's disheveled features, his sallow face pitted on decades of hard acne. A cigarette lay perched loosely between his shoestring lips.

Jasper had never seen this scumbag before, but that didn't matter. If it had been the Queen of England, it would not have changed what he was about to do.

"Welcome to the Rum Dumb Motel, you miserable piece of crap," Jasper whispered.

Suddenly, the drunken man came to a halt, to which the sound of urine splashing onto the highway followed shortly thereafter.

Jasper clicked on the cruiser's spotlight, blinding the drunkard as he stood there pissing in the middle of the road. He teetered on the balls of his feet, urine spilling onto his thigh as he threw a hand up to cover his eyes from the glare. Unfortunately, that reflexive action took balance, which he did not have in abundance, and so he fell forward, manhood in hand, knees dropping down into asphalt with an audible crack where he toppled over onto his side, warm piss still spurting from his penis.

The cruiser's door opened and then slammed shut. The sound of hard leather soles clapped flatly across the road, filling the night with impending dread. Jasper stood over the fallen man, shining a powerful flashlight down into the drunkard's face.

"Evening occifer," the drunkard said. "Is there something...something I can do...do for ya?"

Jasper did not reply immediately, he just stood quietly by, aiming his flashlight into the drunk's eyes, grinning that self-righteous grin of his. "Have you been drinking this evening sir?" Jasper asked in pleasant enough tone.

"Oh, I had...had...um...a few...yes sir," the drunk stammered. Miraculously, his smoke still lay perched between his lips. "How about yourself?"

Jasper's grip tightened around his flashlight as the toes inside his right shoe curled up. He then let that departmental issue leather fly, catching the fallen man square in the kisser. The cigarette flew out of drunk's mangy mouth, as did most of his front teeth. Hancock then dropped a tree stump of a knee down onto the injured man's jaw, where he quickly snapped a set of steel bracelets onto the bum's bony wrists.

"You have the right to remain silent, maggot!" Jasper scowled. His flush face was a scarlet mask of rage. "But then, you already know that, don't you maggot?!"

The drunken sot tried to shift under the crushing weight of Jasper's knee, but it was hopeless. Hancock was a solid two-hundred-and-eighty pounds, and no matter how hard the vagrant tried to wriggle out from beneath that overwhelming mass, the more the agony spread throughout his skull.

The sound of a jawbone cracking under the pressure of his malice delighted Hancock to no end. Perhaps if he pushed harder, he could get the maggot's head to split like an eggshell. But then that would be counterproductive to his plans. After all, the real fun took place in a back cell of the Rum Dumb Motel, not out here on the blacktop.

"Am I hurting ya?" Jasper said with a laugh. "If I am, feel free to scream."

After giving one final twist of his body weight, Jasper then lifted the drunk's willowy frame up off the pavement courtesy of that thin mop of hair atop the bum's aching head. The sadistic cop had nearly scalped the poor bastard in the process, but that never gave the mean son of a bitch one iota of apprehension. As far as Constable Hancock was concerned, he was simply picking up the trash. So what if this bag of garbage got ripped en route? Life was full of hard knocks as Jasper could tell you, and if there was one thing he knew about the everyday world of bumps and bruises, it was better to give than to receive. And so the liquor pig that dangled from his meaty paw was going to get a private lesson on that subject matter, because if there was one thing that Jasper loved to do, it was to educate those of lesser consideration.

(3)

The vagrant was thrown into the cruiser's backseat, his head walloping the adjacent door with a dull smack. There, he laid face down, blood pouring from his toothless gums, welts growing across his hide while that prick of a cop rummaged through the bum's pockets.

"Where's your wallet, maggot?!" Hancock barked, a string of saliva leaping off his thick bottom lip.

"Why, in your ass of course," the bum replied with an unusual amount of calmness.

Jasper flinched slightly, taken aback by the drunk's insolence. "Well now, what do we have here? A spirited hobo, is that what it is?" Hancock stood to his full impressive six-foot-five inches of intimidating stature and smiled broadly upon the drunken pig that bled a steady flow of scarlet upon the cruiser's floor. "I guess we're going to have to find out just how much kick you've got inside those brittle bones of yours, maggot." Jasper slammed the cruiser's back door and then plopped his ass in behind the steering wheel of the mobile dungeon. "We've got a date tonight you and I, maggot. It's a little place I like to call the Rum Dumb Motel."

The drunk's mouth spat out a runny hawker in order to make room for some unwise words. "Is that where you take little boys to play hide the wiener?"

Jasper's flush face turned an even deeper shade of cherry. "Oh boy, are we going to have some fun tonight, maggot. Just you, me and your girly screams."

The drunk began to hum an eerie melody that was both alluring and repulsive at the same time. As a result, Hancock's ears had started to itch and his stomach felt unusually queasy. Was it that oddly metered song that had him feeling so out of sorts? On a subliminal level, he understood the answer was yes, yet he would not dissuade the bum from crooning that enchanted melody, because it was captivating.

"What you got to sing about maggot?" Jasper asked, as he started up the cruiser and pulled out onto the road. Hancock could almost recall the tune's lyrics within the dim recess of a distant memory. But what words had they sang?

"Oh, you'll find out what I've got to sing about, ass munch," the drunk giggled. "You'll find out."

It was everything for Jasper not to lock the car up and drag the miserable bastard out into the middle of the road to suffer the swing of his baton. But the cop maintained discipline. Soon, the maggot in the backseat would be begging to answer questions that had not even been asked yet, because people in the Rum Dumb didn't just talk, they rambled. There, in the piss stained corners of the motel's tiny cells, folks said all kinds of crazy things. Things like _"stop"_ and _"I'll do whatever you want,"_ if only this and only that. It was universal of everyone: negotiating with the tormentor in order to forego the pain. But that was what the tall man with the shiny handcuffs and leather nightstick wanted them to do: beg for mercy, because that proved that he was in control of the situation and that his word was law! He alone was judge, jury, and executioner. And so the nasty cop let the banged up maggot lying in the backseat make his disrespectful remarks, because soon they would be inside the Rum Dumb Motel, and once there, Hancock would inflict the kind of misery that was otherwise regarded as medieval.

However, that miserable fog that had been saturating the waking world, including Hancock's sour thoughts for more than a month, had just grown even denser. It was so bad in fact that he had no choice but to slow the mobile prison down to a dreary crawl, lest that aching bag of meat along with the cruiser's driver wander off the pavement into hostile territory.

"You drive like my grandmother piggy," the drunk said through a cough that was wet on blood.

Jasper's thick knuckles tightened into white rings around the steering wheel. "Anxious to reach the end of the line, are ya?"

The drunk sat up in the backseat, blood dripping down his disheveled chin and onto his sallow chest. "Aren't you going to ask me my name, bacon dick?"

The veins in Jasper's neck throbbed hot blood into the dark stale recess of his brain. "Shut your mouth, maggot! I swear, you're fixing to get your head caved in, right here and now!"

The drunk began to hum his little ditty once again, a blood bubble puffing from the corner of his mouth as he did.

Jasper froze in mid-rant, his rage defused by a strange kind of confusion. "What...what is that song?" His eyes were stuck forward, staring at a short stretch of road that may or may not have actually been there.

"You know the song," the drunk snickered. "We all do."

"It's the sacred song," Jasper replied, a strange sort of grin appearing upon his bewildered face.

"And what is my name?" the bum asked.

Confusion fell across Jasper's bushy eyebrows. "I don't understand...what did..."

"What is my name?!" the drunk demanded.

"Joshua," replied Jasper, a crooked sneer held upon his bulbous lips. "Your name is Joshua."

Joshua had been Hancock's older brother, a miserable bully with a strong disdain for little brothers named Jasper. The tormenting had begun shortly after Jasper had been born, and it was not hard for Jasper to imagine dear brother Joshua performing all kinds of nasty little deeds to his infant body. He could even hear Joshua's churlish voice inside his head the more he thought about it: _"Don't worry mom. I'll baby sit little Jasper tonight."_

Then the fun would begin with the suffocating game, followed by the hot water game, the shaking game and many other sadistic forms of entertainment that were equally fiendish in design. Bits of morbid playtime whose sole intention was to inflict as much misery upon poor little baby Jasper as Joshua could get away with without being caught. And big brother was really good at it too, a veritable genius when it came to tormenting and getting away with it scot-free. In fact, the only remnant of those awful babysitting sessions was a very agitated infant that cried a lot and seemed to have terrible recurring nightmares. That was Joshua's twisted legacy: a cycle of evil that extended beyond his own illness and into his younger brother, a disease that led Jasper into an unbalanced adulthood. Of course, Jasper had eventually taken revenge upon his loving brother at the ripe age of eighteen, and to this day, Jasper continued to make a pilgrimage every year to visit that unmarked grave in the Annapolis Valley. This trip always took place at the beginning of the Apple Blossom Festival, which of course heralded the celebration of spring. Jasper was certain that Joshua would have liked those activities, and the thought of that always made him sneer, because Jasper finally had the upper hand in their relationship, and that meant Jasper decided who went to the fair and who rotted inside the cold wet earth.

But that sour slice of childhood history was yesterday's news. At present, he was having a bizarre conversation with a bleeding maggot. However, at this moment, the topic seemed perfectly natural, because there was a twisted degree of logic within the drunk's words, sensibilities that knew not only of the sacred melody, but also what Hancock coveted most: a rematch with his dear brother, Joshua.

That had been Hancock's fantasy this morning out on Major's Field, a casual daydream of picking up a stranger that nobody knew and then hauling their sorry ass back to the Rum Dumb Motel, where folks said _"please stop,"_ and _"I'll do whatever you want"_ if only this and only that. That reverie had been brief but surprisingly vivid as he recalled, and yet despite the uneasy feeling wobbling around inside his head about the topic, he could not help but feel elated, because he had received that which he longed for. But the idea of that was crazy, and if it wasn't for that sacred melody being hummed though a drunk's swollen lips, then he would have dismissed the coincidence as nothing more than simple good fortune. Yet here it was, the song that everyone knew, blessing Jasper Hancock with fair winds. Still, questions plagued Hancock's sense of scientific correctness, for that lingering remnant of rational thought had not yet departed his wits completely.

Who was this Joshua? How could he croon that forbidden melody? And how had Jasper even known of such a song? There seemed no reasonable resolution, for the scope of the situation defied human comprehension. At the moment, Jasper felt he should stop the car and toss his whipping boy out into the foggy night and drive off as fast as he could. But he could not, because he was hooked deep in the guts by whatever it was that had granted his wish-slash-yearning. It was a case of sweet temptation, a pusher selling a drug that big daddy dirtball needed. The sickness was in Hancock's bones like cancer, and although the question of his volition may have been in dispute, there was no attempt at arbitration, for Jasper, the drunk, and the forbidden melody were of like minds when it came to anguish.

So Jasper set aside his control issues and accepted this external influence with a considerable degree of gratitude, for the melody had delivered Hancock meat for the grinder, a willing lamb that would dance the macabre two-step until the Rum Dumb's floor ran red with spilled blood. However, windfall aside, Jasper felt a provision yet to come, for the man who called himself Joshua would surely come with a string attached.

"I'll be Joshua all night long, Officer Hancock," Joshua smiled, his cold dark eyes and blood stained features wrapped up inside a mess of bad intentions. "And you can wail on this mangy hide until its bones are talcum powder. But first....there's something you have to do."

Jasper's dreamy eyes gazed into the fog without actually looking at it, while the forbidden melody echoed within his inner most thoughts.

"I'd like that, Joshua."

"I know you would."

"What must I do?"

The drunk's smirk widened, a clown's insane grin smothered in red grease paint. "First thing you need to do is pick up a very special passenger."

Chapter Seven

The Dick Orwell Campaign Trail

(1)

The federal election was in four months, and if there was one thing the Conservative Party needed, it was seats, and they didn't care how small of a political riding that seat came from. As always, it was a numbers game, from the media's political polls all the way up to the hard cast ballots on Election Day. Unfortunately for Richard Orwell, Liberal Party Candidate, Bobby Samuels had Dick's number on speed dial when it came to making his honor look like a bumbling idiot. Not to say that Dick wasn't one to begin with. However, there was nothing worse than having some smart ass pointing it out to everyone else. That was Bobby Samuels' talent, the blonde haired rogue that crap never seemed to stick to. He was all that plus a Desert Storm war vet to boot, a poster boy to courage and integrity, which of course were the coveted credentials of any would be leader.

And as for Dick, what medals did he have pinned to his sallow chest? What elevated him to the heights of inspired leader and put him ahead of Bobby "the Dreamboat" Samuels? That was what Dick was trying to figure out as he stared into his cold glass of Kentucky bourbon, which of course was the renowned Orwell family recipe for whatever ailed ya. After all, those blue grass spirits had been good enough for his Granddad's embezzlement fiasco---his father Rick's divorce from dear wife Katie---his brother Earl's Dry Cleaning bankruptcy---his sister Kelly's miscarriage---and by God it was good enough for Dick Orwell's concern over Bobby Samuels too.

Of course, the Orwells hadn't just turned to the sauce in times of crises alone. No, they did quite well on weekdays and weekends as well. In fact, many an Orwell had blown over the limit on their drive to Sea Haven, where the family owned not only a luxury resort, but also a sizable portion of the lobster business. Those violations, however, had a remarkable tendency of going away seeing as Dick's father, Rick, had a few well-placed connections whose influence spanned all the way to Ottawa's exclusive parliamentary cabinet. However, Rick's talent for sweeping a misdeed under the carpet was more impressive than most people realized. In fact, Rick had made all kinds of dirty little sins disappear over the years.

In certain polite social circles, it was quietly rumored that once, good Old Rick, had killed a hooker in Halifax while in a drunken rage. Of course, nothing had ever come of it, because it was also widely whispered that Mr. Orwell could make a body disappear if he wanted to as well. And although that was an awful bit of gossip to engage in, it also rang of a certain degree of truth. Rick had those kinds of shady connections, and those who knew the man, even dear son Dick, would not have put such a crime past him. By nature, Rick Orwell was cold, never smiled and most certainly kept more than his share of secrets, possibly even about a strangled call girl who slept inside a condominium's concrete foundation. All in all, it was the kind of hearsay that made people leery of the Orwells. And to this day, not even Dick could tell you the specifics on that particular prostitute story, because honestly, he just did not know. But what Dick could tell you, was that daddy dearest had strange scratches on his cheek around the time of the supposed incident, and that shortly thereafter, Katie had decided to call it quits with her husband of seventeen years. But as far as the hard proof went in regards to that missing young woman from so long ago, the only evidence to be found to this day resided exclusively within the realm of gossip and useless conjecture.

Dick was the runt of the Orwell litter, short, thin hair, weak chin, poor posture and an insincere disposition. It was amazing to think that he could ever be in charge of anything, let alone be a politician, because although he may have had the drive, he did not have a very trustworthy persona. No one had much faith in Dick Orwell's ability to lead, especially those who were in the employ of the Orwell dynasty. In fact, a popular rhyme was widely whispered amongst the Orwell servants: _Dickey Orwell meek and mild, his claim to fame is he's Ricky's child!_

Shortcomings aside, however, there was one thing that Dick Orwell had in spades: smarts, or perhaps not so much smarts, but rather a sneaky character. And although Dick's dad, Rick, had been rotting in the ground for more than a decade, thank Jesus, Dick still knew enough of poppa's old crowd to wheel a few favors in loving memory of the decaying tyrant. And so with an expert political machine backing him, and numerous lessons in public speaking courtesy of The Toast Masters Society, Dick the prick Orwell had achieved the impossible: won a municipal election.

Sure, Haven wasn't Halifax's historic Province House, but it was a stepping stone towards that prestigious throne of provisional power, perhaps even a good leg up to Parliament Hill, where the kickbacks alone could set a man of questionable virtue up like a golden idol.

Dick could be that man.

It was in his nature, but then there was more to it, because he craved the kind of clout you could not buy with a luxury resort or a lobster monopoly. Of course, there were the chronic yes men kissing his ass from dawn till dusk, and the gold digger harlots hanging off his wallet, but they alone could not afford him that elite social standing for which he yearned. That could only come from a seat of power, where important decisions fell to those demigods who were the wisest of the wise. The exclusive club where you could be a king and reign over the peasant masses for four years at a stretch.

Now that was freaking clout!

Politics was the ultimate backstage pass to the world. It was the kind of job that assured your name went down in the history books, and by God, Dick Orwell wanted in, and he would pledge to any fraternity in order to see it willed into being. Unfortunately for Dick, however, he was always stepping into crap, and that sadly was where Bobby "the Dreamboat" Samuels came into the picture.

If only Dick had not gone to see Tinker tonight, then things would have been just peachy. But he had, and as a result, he was now staring into a melting jumble of ice cubes trying to figure out if he should use the gun or down the sleeping pills. Here, he had an important decision and there was no demigod around to make it. What would big daddy Rick have said about such a thing? It didn't matter, because in a little while, a fist would pound on the front door and then Dick's political career along with everything else would be over forever.

If only he hadn't gone to see Tinker. If only Bobby "the Dreamboat" hadn't shown up. If only he had more ice for his bourbon. If only.

He gulped down the last kick of Kentucky red eye and slammed the glass down on the audacious dining room table that had once belonged to Louis the Fifteenth.

"Bobby Samuels," Dick muttered. The name felt like a canker sore inside his mouth. "Why'd you have to be such a freaking boy scout?"

If only Monty had not gone home tonight, goddamn him. This mess with the dreamboat was all his freaking fault, the damn no good for nothing houseboy!

Dick slapped the glass onto the white marble dining room floor where it shattered into a thousand pieces. "There's a mess for you to clean up, Monty, for all the good you're worth." Dick picked up the prescription bottle of sleeping pills and shook them awkwardly like a cheap Mexican maraca. "You're a miserable useless bastard, Monty! You hear me?!"

The grandfather clock in the hallway replied with a steady tick tock.

"Screw you! You should've been here with me you little Filipino bastard!"

Monty Perez was Dick's domestic servant and go to man when it came to getting certain things done, especially those sorts of errands that his holiness the Honorable Richard Orwell would never be caught dead doing lest his image be tarnished in some inane shape or form. Heaven forbid the commoners see his righteousness buying hemorrhoid cream or a potion for explosive diarrhea. No, that would not do at all, because the seat of power was a throne, not a toilet, and to think that a provisional king got the porcelain trots or anal acne from time to time was unthinkable. After all, Dick had to be more than a man in the eyes of the voters, he needed to be a force of nature. So the idea of his greatness ducking out to the local drugstore to get a bottle of snake oil was quite out of the question, because that sort of triviality was for lesser mortals, and that lesser peon of a being was Monty.

But where was the glorified pizza boy tonight? In Pictou at Dexter's Elder Care visiting an ailing mother who was supposedly knocking on Heaven's door with an aluminum cane in one hand and a version of the King James Bible in the other. And according to Dick's sense of correctness, the entire situation was quite laughable: the scene of the loving son holding the frail hand of his mother while she sucked air through a ventilator and drank soup through an IV line. Folks croaked everyday as far as Mr. Orwell was concerned. So what was so special about an old bird with a bum ticker and a glass eye anyways? Nothing, that's what, especially when Monty had very special errands to run. But no, the former pizza boy had to hop into his cheap Corolla and drive three hours so he could sit next to a woman who was so far gone, she wouldn't even know he was there. It was ridiculous, and what made matters worse was that Monty's unscheduled emergency had left Dick without a go to man, and that as it turned out, had been disastrous.

(2)

Tinker Bell had been his street name, a nickname tagged to his muscular black hide back in the disco glory days when he used to sell angel. Of course that had been years ago, and since then, the name had been cut down, much like the low-end dope that he sold to the college punks who didn't know any better. In the present, the man known as Markus Tremont, was now just Tinker, and that title was only known by an elite circle of coke heads, which Dick Orwell just happened to belong.

Not every Orwell lay constrained to that Kentucky red eye alone. Dick was also into experimentation, and in the spirit of self-discovery, he had managed to conjure himself up an expensive cocaine habit. And it was a costly one at that, because Dick didn't sniff the crap Tinker pawned off on those dumb kids. No, he breathed the good stuff, the Columbian Gold that found its way to Nova Scotia's rocky shores via a complex network of trade routes. Dick did not know who managed that smuggling ring, but he suspected an inside connection at the Coast Guard was helping to get the junk ashore. But where and how the dope made its way into Sea Haven was irrelevant. No one asked the cow where it took a dump, you just stabbed it with a fork and fed the hole, and cocaine was no different.

That had been the problem: Dick desperately needed to fill the hole and Monty was off in Pictou playing the good son, leaving a damn monkey to crawl on Dick's hairy back all day long. The urge to scratch the itch had been so strong, that Orwell couldn't take it anymore, and so he had decided to take matters into his own hands. Besides, what were the odds that he would ever get caught buying nose candy from Tinker? One in a million, a billion maybe?

One thing was for certain, the deeper the hole got and the more the monkey screamed, the better the odds of not getting caught seemed to pan out. In fact, by the time Dick had crawled in behind the wheel of his Cadillac, the house was taking bets on a trillion to one of anything remotely bad happening. However, something bad had happened, and wouldn't you know it, Bobby "the Dreamboat" Samuels was holding the winning lotto ticket when it did.

Life, like politics, was a numbers game too.

(3)

Tinker had been surprised to see Dick Orwell himself drive up the cobblestone driveway of Tink's million-dollar home on the beach. Tinker immediately concluded that the strange sight rang of a desperate stoner in need of a good stiff fix. When Tinker greeted Dick's sour disposition hanging inside the mansion's doorway, he knew right away that he had been correct on that assessment. Dick looked like a man covered with itchy termites. His cow paddy eyes were bloodshot husks, the corner of his non-existent lip twitched nervously. Orwell looked like he was either going to burst into tears or go on a killing spree.

Dick pushed past Tinker and ambled across the elaborate foyer and down into the sunken living room, where he poured himself a shot of the Orwell family recipe from Tinker's well stocked bar.

"Good to see you, Dick," Tinker said, as he shut the front door and followed in after Orwell, who was already working on a second drink. Tinker did not much care for the fancy pants politician, but he did care a great deal for his money.

"And where's Mr. Monty tonight?"

Dick gave Tinker a look that said he was anything but patient. "I need blow, Tink. The primo cut, too."

"I got some snow coming in two days from now," Tinker replied, as he sat patiently down on his leather sectional coach.

"Don't give me two freaking days!" Dick snapped, between healthy swigs of bourbon. "I want some blow right now!"

Tinker raised his hand disarmingly and nodded in a slow easy fashion. "Calm down Mr. Orwell. We're friends you and I. And if there's one thing friends do, it's help one another."

Dick seemed to ease up a little, but the trembling hand brushing back his thinning hair said he was anything but relaxed. "What do you have in the box?" Dick asked as he finished off his drink in one hard toss. "Not the shit you sell to those damn kids, I hope."

Tinker smiled broadly. "For you Mr. Orwell...a baggie from my own personal stash. How would that be?"

"That'd be fine," Dick said, taking a brief sniff and adjusting his tie with an anxious effort.

"Good," Tinker bowed, as he stood back up so that he might attend to that errand. "Oh, but there's one thing."

"What's that?" Dick asked, trying not to snap at Tinker seeing as his nerves were so damn frazzled.

"It's a bit more expensive," Tinker replied, as he rubbed his white silk shirt with cocoa fingers.

"And how much is a bit?"

"Three-hundred."

"Jesus," Dick muttered. Orwell had more than enough cash, but he was notoriously cheap when it came to spending it, except when it was taxpayers' money.

"It can't be helped," Tinker shrugged. "The risks associated with transportation are driving---"

"---Just get the freaking blow, Tink," Dick sighed, as he removed a Gucci wallet from his back pocket.

Tinker threw his head back and laughed softly. "Of course, Mr. Orwell. And believe me, you will not be disappointed."

"I won't be as long as it isn't that crap you sell to the kids," Dick said in a tone that suggested he could tell the difference. Truth told, Orwell's itch was so bad that he would have snorted Ajax with bleach if there was a chance it would get him off.

"I'll be right back, Mr. Orwell," Tinker said as he left to loot his personal stores.

As Dick poured out another drink, he inadvertently caught sight of his own reflection inside a novelty mirror on the wall, which read: _"Only Losers Use Drugs."_

The sobering interlude that followed was something he would rather have done without. But here, in that brief interval between the aches of need and a soon to be realized self-gratification, he had blundered upon a personal insight. To most people the message would have been educational, but to a man like Tinker, the phrase was simply a joke. However, at this moment, Dick Orwell could not help but feel the words mocked his situation. The mirror chided that he was old and haggard, and that provisional kings rode the monkey's back, not vice versa.

How had he gotten so mixed up with this rollercoaster ride of drug dependency? That history along with its sordid details seemed too caught up inside its own bullshit to offer forth a straight answer. Drugs were a big lie, and Dick Orwell was an even bigger liar. Together, their marriage was of deceptions, and as such, they would not place their belief in mirrors that reflected inconvenient truths.

Dick eyes fell back upon his bourbon, while that insatiable hunger within the pit of his addiction dismissed the mirror's wisdom as being unworthy of his consideration. After all, he was a provisional king, and as such, was in complete control.

Or so he told himself.

Tinker returned, carrying a clear plastic baggy full of white magic. "Dinner is served, Mr. Orwell."

Dick made tracks towards the man that would continue to feed his sickness until he was dead, or ran out of money. "You're a Godsend Tink, you really are." Dick's entire mood had changed, elevated by the sight of the sweet powder inside the baggy. In fact, if Bobby Samuels would have showed up at that particular moment, Dick would have given him a cordial wink and a good evening Mr. Liberal Candidate, because that's how things were when you were riding the cocaine coaster, lots of crest and valleys, and right now Dick was climbing up into one hell of a crest.

"Anytime my good friend," Tinker said, as he took the cash from Dick's hand. "Is there anything else I can help you with this evening, Mr. Orwell? A sweet young whore perhaps?"

Dick earnestly stuffed the baggy into his jacket pocket and headed towards Tinker's front door. The idea of mounting some teenage girl intrigued him, but then, managing the potential political fallout of such an indiscretion, if discovered, would prove nary impossible. Besides, there would be time for those sorts of indulgences after he had secured the throne. And when he had, those girls would not be common streetwalkers, but rather top end personal assistants with university degrees and tight tongues.

"Not tonight my good man," Dick said with a smile. "I've got a date with a few lines of happiness."

Tinker did not object.

(4)

Dick clambered into his burgundy Cadillac with the Vote for Orwell sticker plastered on the rear bumper. He was finally on his way to scratching that damn itch at the tip of his brain. He had entertained the idea of snorting a line inside Tinker's place, perhaps even off that damn mirror, which said: _"Only losers use drugs."_ But he had thought better of it. He did not like people watching him when he did blow. It felt like going to the bathroom in public and that was not something provisional kings did.

Besides, who knew what kind of poor choices he might end up making while flying without a net. Perhaps he would snuff out his own hooker just as dear old dad had supposedly done so long ago. Or perhaps he would end up overdosing, and that wouldn't help his career aspirations in the least. But damn, he wanted to stop the car right here in the middle of the road and inhale a little piece of his own blue heaven. The urge was overwhelming, and the more he drove, the more the itch screeched and the more the numbers lied. Besides, what were the odds that he would get caught snorting a line of cocaine along the roadside in the dark? Even more remote than getting caught buying dope at Tinkers, that's what.

Dick parked the Caddy on the road's shoulder where it idled rhythmically, its headlights and taillights an eerie glow within the thick patch of fog. He clicked the dome light on and then fished the baggie full of itching powder out of his jacket pocket and examined it with a smiling eye. The white grind was without sin nor judgment, just a harmless lump of happy dust that should never have been declared illegal in the first place. Perhaps when Dick became the provisional king, he would remedy that situation. But for now, good times awaited.

He opened the seal and let his hungry eyes take in the ivory highway. He didn't really care where the stuff came from, only that it took him to that special place where provisional kings occupied the castle of the mind. He retrieved a tiny silver spoon from his back pocket, a gift from Tinker courtesy of a large purchase three years ago, and scooped out a heaping portion of forbidden crystal. The smile on his face threatened to split at the seams, and if anyone were to see him sitting before this ill-gotten treasure, they would have said: " _There's the happiest man in Sea Haven."_ And they would have been right too, because nothing was as satisfying as scratching that hard to get at itch, and as for Dick, he was going to bury his nails into that difficult niche until he hit bone.

The spoon scooped out a measure of joy and then settled beneath his nostril. There was a quick sniff followed by the sight of ivory dust taking the express elevator up to Mr. Orwell's bell tower. As a result, the world immediately softened as that feverish itch was figuratively scratched. He closed his eyes and laid his head back, smiling the smile of a content man. Suddenly, that quirky idea factory inside Orwell's head was busily churning out campaign posters, buttons, and a full-page advertisement inside the ratty pages of Sea Haven's Bugle. He had even come up with a slogan that was sure to snag everyone's attention: _All's well with Orwell._

He laughed with delight at his inspiration. "You're a genius, Mr. Orwell. A veritable..."

A loud knock on the car window made Dick jump in startle. The silver spoon in his hand flew up onto the dashboard, a few precious grams of nose candy spilling down onto his expensive suit, car seat, and steering wheel. He had been so busy marveling at his own ingenuity that he had failed to notice a person had approached from behind.

"Jesus!" Orwell snapped.

He was more angry than concerned over this unannounced stranger that had dared to tread upon his happy moment. After all, Dick had just had a brainstorm, and then along comes some idiot and disturbs him in the creative process. And what made matters worse, was that he had accidentally spilled some of that special medicine. He was pissed and apt to give this visitor a piece of his mind. However, that priority quickly changed when he took a second to consider the ramifications of what he had been doing out here in the first place.

Suddenly, he was not sure how to proceed. Should he hide the spoon and the baggy in the glove box? Should he turn the dome light off, start the car up, and then peel away with gravel flying? Was there any point to those options considering that he had been caught red handed by whoever was standing out on the road, looking in on him? Regardless of the choices, he had to act quickly, because with every second wasted, suspicion grew. Every fiber of his person screamed to run for it. But for some reason, Mr. Orwell could not gather up the coordination necessary to operate his vehicle. He was hopelessly stoned, frightened, and worst of all, trapped.

Another tap knocked on the window, this time quicker and more forceful.

Dick dropped the baggy with Tinker's prescription between his fashionable loafers and took a good sharp sniff as to clear his head. He was unaware of the chalky residue stuck to his left nostril and he had also forgotten about the tiny spoon upon the dashboard. And although he lay confused as to what to do next, he nonetheless gathered up the presence of mind to roll down his window. Fortunately, for Mr. Provisions, the fog had placed heavy dew upon the Caddy's glass. There was a chance, albeit a slim one, that whoever had tapped on the window had not seen into the car's interior well enough to discern if any inappropriate activity had taken place. That meant that Dick "the Prick" Orwell was still in the game, and that the yet to be crowned provisional king was still heir to the throne as long as he could spin this situation in his favor.

But how could he do that?

If only his brain didn't feel like a helium balloon then perhaps he could salvage this debacle. But his thoughts were erratic and saturated with patches of paranoia. He would have to play it cool, talk the leg off a chair kind of smooth, because if this uninvited guest happened to be a surly gentleman by the name of Jasper Hancock, then the Orwell campaign trail would abruptly come to an end. Sure, his father Rick may have known those types of wise guys that had no problem making a hooker disappear. But as for Dick, when it came to sweeping dirt beneath a rug, he didn't own one freaking broom.

He stuck his weasel like head out of the Caddy's window, his car salesman smirk assuring that: _"All's well with Orwell."_ However, that insincere grin quickly soured as his bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils took in the unwelcome sight of a tall handsome man dressed in casual denims, green sneakers and a white turtleneck sweater.

It was none other than Liberal Party dreamboat, Bobby Samuels.

Somehow, "the Dreamboat" had managed to sail through the fog without the aid of a flashlight, and the provisional king in waiting figured that Bobby had probably navigated by the virtue of his brilliant white smile. After all, such a miracle was not outside the realm of possibility when it came to "the Dreamboat," because as far as most people were concerned, the man was---dare Dick say it---a demigod. There was nothing provisional about Bobby Samuels, not the rugged masculine landscape of his muscular physique or the fall of his curly blonde hair. He was the genuine article, no makeup or penile implants necessary, an equestrian thoroughbred from a prestigious lineage of thoroughbreds.

So, who then was Dick Orwell in comparison?

The serpent on the vine, that's what, the vile creature that Christ said should taste the dust all the days of its miserable life. Of course, if that had been Tinker's dust, then that would have suited the provisional king just fine. But it wasn't, it was Bobby's dust, and come Election Day, Dick would be eating it by the handful.

Dick reoffered Bobby a shallow grin along with some counterfeit amiability. "What the hell are you doing out here, Samuels?"

The question sounded a bit like an accusation.

Bob knew how Orwell felt about him. But then that was to be expected considering that they were political opponents. Still, he suspected Orwell's disdain ran much deeper than politics. But just where the vile poison stemmed from went beyond Bob's comprehension. Of course, Bob expected some people to hate him, because that was just the nature of politics. He figured that if everyone liked you, then you probably weren't doing your job properly.

"I'm looking for my boy, Allan. You haven't seen him have you, Dick?"

"He's not here, Samuels."

Bob noticed a powdery residue on Dick's flared nostril along with his bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils. It didn't take long for Bob to put the evidence together. At first, he had thought that Orwell was just sitting in his car blowing his nose when he had walked up behind him. But now he could see that his excellence was engaged in another kind of nasal sport.

Bob had heard rumors about some guy up the road who supposedly sold cocaine to the college crowd, teenagers of which Bob's son Allan was a part. In fact, that was why Bob was out here tonight, looking to catch Allan doing something, he wasn't supposed to be doing. But what had Bob found instead? Dick Orwell taking a hit of nose candy.

"What are you gawking at, Bob?" Dick demanded, as his nose took a short telltale sniff.

Bob's eyes spotted a tiny silver spoon lying on the Caddy's dashboard.

Dick shuffled his feet nervously, mindful of the baggy lying next to his ankles. He had also just remembered that damn spoon on the dashboard, and so laid his upper chest across the door's open window as to minimize the view of the car's interior. The body language proved that Dick was indeed hiding something.

"Are you okay, Dick?"

Bobby knew he shouldn't give a rat's ass about Orwell. But he couldn't help but feel a sting of compassion towards this man who obviously loathed him. Here, they were polar opposites, north from south. But still, Samuels could not curtail his humanity. Bob was certain that Dick needed help, drug counseling, and although most politicians would have used the opportunity to cast down their rival, Bobby the born again Christian, could not.

"Don't you worry about me, buddy boy," Dick said in a sarcastic tone. "You just worry about your polling numbers."

This was an idiotic thing to say, considering Bobby held the lead as far as the stats went. But then Dick was stoned and none too happy to see "the Dreamboat."

"Maybe I should call assistance." Bobby had said this in a reassuring voice, which Dick perceived as a belittling remark. "You can't drive in your condition. You might kill yourself, or God help us, someone else."

Bobby immediately thought about Allan, and said a quick prayer that asked that his own son use sensible judgment this night. Unfortunately for Bobby, however, Dick began to panic. Suddenly, the heir to the provisional throne was in danger of not ascending to his rightful station. Here, the fledgling prince with a snout full of Tinker's magic dust was in great danger of being thrown into the castle dungeon. Of course, Orwell's high price lawyers would see that he eventually ended up inside a private hospital where the wealthy dried out in between sauna sessions and tennis matches. But first, he would have to be criminally processed. There, he would suffer the indignity of a cavity search. He would have his fingerprints taken. He would pose for mug shots and then be fitted in standard issue coveralls. And then finally, a chubby cop with a handlebar moustache would pass him a shiny caribou-head quarter for his one phone call.

" _Make it quick your highness."_

And after a restless night's sleep on a stale, urine stained mattress, he would wake to find that Sea Haven's trashy rag, otherwise known as the Bugle, had run his scandalous story on its front page. The headline banner would read: _"Provisional Prince Falls from Grace."_ And to make matters worse, there would be an official statement from Bobby "the Dreamboat" Samuels, expressing his sympathy and how he hoped Dick would get better real soon. But Bobby wouldn't want that recovery to be too soon, would he. The election was just around the corner, and so it was probably better that Dick was left inside a psyche ward to color with crayons and listen to Kenny G melodies, while Bobby stood on a soapbox in the town square and rallied the local dullards to ink their X on a ballot next to "the Dreamboat's" name.

The idea of that rose in Dick's throat like bile, and as the weight of those impending circumstances pressed in on him from all sides, he decided to do something about it.

(5)

Bobby's eyes softened as he stared upon the miserable man that hung his head out of the Caddy's window like a convict locked inside a set of stocks. That otherwise toxic glare inside Dick's unremarkable eyes had transformed into a defeated gaze. There was nothing saucy or guarded about Mr. Orwell any longer, just the empty shell of a man who was coming to terms with what he had done to himself. Here, Dick had finally been caught, and although he was considerably stoned, the man was sober enough to know that his life had just become horribly complicated. It was a sad thing to watch, a middle-aged man crumbling under the weight of a terrible sickness that had taken control of his life. Yet despite Bobby's sympathy for his incidental nemesis, there was nonetheless a duty that "the Dreamboat" had to perform. It would be a messy bit of business involving a phone call to the local authorities, but it was nonetheless unavoidable. If there was one thing Bobby Samuels was mindful of, it was the law. He was a good citizen, Mr. Neighborhood Watch in a cashmere sweater and a sensible pair of shoes. Kids were home before midnight, church was every Sunday, sex was after marriage, and cocaine puffers rode inside the shotgun taxi. Those were the rules according to Judge, Jury, and Jesus H Christ incorporated. Bobby had not written the doctrine, he just abided its wisdom, and by God, so too would Dick Orwell.

Later tonight, Bobby would kneel and pray beside his bed, and ask forgiveness not only for Dick, but also for the guilty conscience that Bobby would have to carry on Mr. Orwell's behalf.

Bobby placed a tender hand upon his opponent's shoulder. "Come on, Dick. Let's walk up to my place and see about getting you a cup of coffee and a bit of help. What do you say?"

Dick's reply was sudden.

The Caddy's door sprung open, letting that supposed castrated cow named Dick Orwell out to rage like a bull. His lackluster eyes transformed into soulless glass, his thin lips peeled back unto a set of barred teeth. That chalky residue aside his inconsequential nose, flared to the rhythm of a quickened breath. He looked rabid, a lunatic that was quite beyond negotiation. And although, Dick knew that he had gone completely over the edge, he was powerless to stop that war drum from thumping. It was like watching someone else at the end of a long narrow tunnel, or within the warped lens of a dream. Yet aside from the oddly removed vantage point, there was a disturbing feeling of familiarity. It was as if he knew exactly what new horror would result after each sequential bit of violence, which bone would break, which vein and artery would explode. It almost felt choreographed: Dick a puppet on a string in a well-rehearsed play about settling problems with murder. And the more Mr. Orwell wailed on that meat bag named Bobby Samuels, the clearer his recollection became. And that was what it was to: an intimate memory harkening back to earlier this morning when he had been out on Major's Field playing the part of the competent leader. At that time, the cocaine monkey had not quite fully mounted his back, but it definitely had one hairy foot wedged into the stirrup. Of course, Dick had no idea that his go-to-boy, Monty, would have to rush off to Pictou as to attend to his dying mother before the mid-morning Tinker run. Before that inconvenient emergency had happened, the itch, while annoying, had been manageable as long as that damn monkey still had one foot on the ground. However, there had also been another kind of primate dogging the provisional king beneath the large branching arms of that unexplained phenomenon this morning. And that eight-hundred pound gorilla had been engaged in a vivid bout of reverie. That daydream had foreshadowed that which would transpire beneath the gray fog this night. Yet despite the eeriness surrounding that uncanny realization, Dick "the Prick" Orwell continued to forge that horrid imagery into being, because deep down, he reveled in its misery. After all, it was better than sex, it was control personified, the authority to end life, the exclusive privilege of not a provisional king, but a totalitarian one. It was social patriarch against social patriarch, the rules reminiscent of the old days when matters of state were decided by a sword's edge, not by some x marked ballot box. This was a battle between political gladiators, and at this moment, Dick Orwell felt pumped up on Coliseum rage, and as such, vowed an oath that no stuffed shirt boy-scout would stop the would be king from attaining his provisional throne!

_Hail Caesar!_ Dick thought as he pummeled his kindhearted opponent without mercy. _Reap the whirlwind dreamy! REAP IT!_

(6)

Agony settled deep into Bobby's gonads like a stiletto blade as the Caddy's door impacted his groin. He doubled over in pain, the threat of projectile vomit percolating inside his innards like hot poison. He wanted to call a foul, but unfortunately for "the Dreamboat," the weak chinned maniac with the cocaine stained nostril and the expensive Italian loafers wasn't playing by any rules.

Dick moved to Bobby's left with an uncanny tempo, as if performing a well-rehearsed dance step and not some act of barbarism. There, the _"would be king"_ threw his scrawny arm around the dreamboat's regal neck in a tight headlock as he guided Bobby's tall slender frame into a kneeling position. It was down there, beside the plush floor mats that the dreamboat realized what horror was about to befall him. But before it did, he couldn't help but notice the spilt baggy of Tinker's magic dust laying beneath the brake pedal, and for a brief second, Bobby wondered if that drug could stop the ache throbbing inside his testicles. But that question was rendered moot after the first impact cracked across his neck. All Bobby wanted now was to get away from this horrific situation or to fall into a deep state of unconsciousness, anything to escape the pain. However, he understood that if he closed his eyes, they would never open again, because Dick Orwell wasn't just an all or nothing guy, he was a raving lunatic.

Sadly, it was the kind of lesson Bobby would learn on the fly.

By the time the second impact slammed across Bobby's neck, he pretty much knew that there wouldn't be any more touch football games with dear son Allan, or early morning romps with his darling wife Allison before setting off on the campaign trail. There would only be a lingering question about whatever had happened to the political poster boy that everyone called "the Dreamboat." Had he snapped under the pressure and secretly committed suicide? Had he run off with some woman that no one in town knew about? Had there been foul play involved in his mysterious disappearance? Those questions would be asked in the coming years, and poor old Bobby would not be there to answer them. He would be dead, and what was worse, was the certain knowing of it, the slow motion march he would have to walk before finally falling down into that shallow grave at line's end. Yet despite that bitter pain, he would nonetheless drag his feet all the way to death's doorstep, for in the end, life was sweet, and he would do whatever it took to keep tasting it. Anything to keep from lying down inside that terrible unmarked hole, even enduring the misery inflicted upon his hide by some whacko who knew as much about murder as he did about running a fair campaign. But unfortunately in the matters of mortal demise, a victim's choice seldom altered the outcome.

When the Caddy's door walloped Bobby's neck for the third time, he finally passed into that exclusive domain otherwise known as an unsolved mystery. There, despite "the Dreamboat's" objection to the matter, a wannabe demigod had made his final choice for him. And in the coming days, it would be said that Bobby "the Dreamboat" Samuels had conceded a defeat to his political opponent, The Right Honorable Richard Orwell, via a forfeiture in lieu of an unexplained absenteeism.

(7)

Dick watched the last ice cubes melt away inside a shallow pool of spilt Kentucky red eye. His thoughts lay brooded, detached, lost in an impenetrable fog. If only "the Dreamboat" had not shown up, then things would have been just peachy. But he had, and now things would never be the same again. Killing a man had a funny way of doing that.

If only Monty had not gone to visit poor old mom, then none of this would have ever happened. But it had happened, and as a result, Dick now waited for that hard knock upon the door to announce that the guards had effectively come to collect the fugitive so that his provisional ass could be tossed into the tower.

If only Dick was a demigod, then he could magically create a bottomless pit to receive his fallen adversary's remains. But he was not a demigod, so he would have to wait until Monty got home so that the go-to-boy could help hide Bobby Samuels' body. As always, it was best to leave the grunt shovel work to the manservant. But then, would Monty even help his surly master dispose of "the Dreamboat's" body? Would Monty bloody his hands for money, or would he toss Dick's mangy hide to the wolves? The uncertainty of that proposition was driving Dick mad, and he could feel his sanity collapsing under the pressure.

Would the police trace Bobby's disappearance back to him? Had there been any witnesses that he had failed to notice? Perhaps a little old lady---sitting alone in a darkened window---nursing a warm glass of milk and a bout of insomnia---watching as a provisional king killed a political rival? And most importantly, what would he do with that dead body in the Caddy's trunk?

If only he had not been so stoned on Tinker's dust, then perhaps he might have figured out another way to deal with Bobby, like driving off while giving "the Dreamboat" the middle finger salute. Goddamn, Dick was an idiot and he knew it. Here, he had royally messed up a simple situation and now he had to manage the fallout.

"Good God," Dick muttered. "Where the hell are you, Monty?"

Just then, a loud knock echoed off the front door. It sounded authoritative, mechanical, like a huge wrought iron ring falling against the knurled beams of a castle gate, a castle that contained a tall cold tower. It was the worst kind of sound, a noise that said: _"Sorry, but your time is up Mr. Orwell. Too bad you didn't pull a Big Daddy Rick and bury your road-kill in a condominium foundation next to a dead hooker. Oh well, it's too late now. So if you wouldn't mind putting these shackles on, then we'll be on our way to the tower."_

Dick's heart froze.

The only thing ticking in the house right now was that grandfather clock in the hallway. He desperately wanted that rap to belong to Monty, the scamp houseboy who was so upset over the condition of his now deceased mother, that he had forgotten his key. However, Dick knew that to be wishful thinking. Whoever had just knocked on the front door was not the lowly go-to-boy, but rather someone who had serious business to discuss. He was not sure how long it took for the second knock to come---perhaps a second---maybe an hour. Whatever the duration, it wasn't nearly long enough for Dick Orwell to think up what he should do next.

Oh please let that be Monty, the freaking paperboy, anyone but that asshole Jasper Hancock!

Miraculously, his skinny legs found the strength to stand, although his knees were threatening to fail without warning. The walk down the corridor beneath the high cathedral ceiling felt like a funeral march, and beyond the front cedar door no doubt laid an opulent casket with its fine silk linens and polished brass rails waiting to receive him.

The grandfather clock's lonely voice was silenced by the boom of that pounding organ, which was close to exploding inside his sallow chest.

Goddamn you Monty! This is all, your fault!

His hand trembled as it reached out and gasped onto the door handle. It felt freezing to the touch, electrical, a portal into another realm where provisional kings were cooked in oil and fed to the peasants at a banquet feast.

How can they be here this fast? They couldn't...could they? Unless someone saw me! Some old fart with insomnia and a pair of high power bifocals!

He took in a deep breath and summoned up a casual veneer, that of the baby-kissing politician who had just awoken from a horrible nightmare. Yes, that lie would explain away any perceived uneasiness. It was cleverly inspired and completely plausible.

The handle turned and the cedar door opened onto the tall imposing stature of Jasper Hancock. The big meaty cop looked down on Dick Orwell, his surly face either an expression of mild confusion or slight dizziness.

Dick manufactured a false smile. He was quite good at doing that. "Good evening officer. Is there something I can help you with?"

Jasper's large head motioned back towards the squad car, which idled in the paved driveway. There was a silhouette sitting in the back seat, possibly a man's, but it was impossible to tell given the thick miserable fog shrouding the car.

"He said you've got to come with us, Mr. Orwell," Jasper said, a weird glint shining in the cop's pale eyes. "But before we get there, we have another stop to make."

"Who said?" Dick asked.

It was here that a strange thought occurred to him: that somehow "the Dreamboat" had come back to life and was now sitting inside the prison taxi, waiting to take the provisional king to the tower. But of course that was impossible, because Bobby wasn't just dead, he was also stuffed inside the Caddy's locked trunk. Still, he was uneasy about the shadow waiting inside the jailbird limo, as if the person wasn't actually a person at all, but rather a phantom.

"Joshua says," Jasper replied, assembling a sinister kind of smile.

Somehow, Dick summoned up the courage to confront the impressive specimen with the nightstick and the nine-millimeter automatic. "Look...I'm very tired this evening, Officer Hancock. If you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate it if you'd postpone any business you might have with me until the morning."

"Joshua told me about Bobby, Mr. Orwell," Jasper said quite flatly.

Dick's bladder suddenly squeezed out a few drops of urine into his otherwise pristine silk underwear. "I...I...don't..."

By this time, the figure in the back of the squad car had crawled out into the wispy night, his face partially lit by the soft glow of a smoldering cigarette.

"Please, Mr. Orwell. Our place is not to judge, but to understand," the strange man named Joshua said.

Jasper placed his big mitt of a hand on Dick's slender shoulder and pressed just hard enough to let the man in the expensive Italian loafers know that it was in his best interest to comply with the smoking man's requests.

Dick's eyes searched Jasper's for any semblance of compassion, but they came away empty. There was nothing understanding inside the big cop's face, just a weird expression that seemed trapped between a look of terror and idiotic bliss.

"It was an accident," Dick said finally, in a tone that was just shy of a whisper.

"Of course it was, Mr. Orwell," Joshua said as he dropped and then stepped out his cigarette. "It always is."

Chapter Eight

A Walk in the Fog

(1)

Pam's jalopy bumped down along the potholed road towards Major's Field on a creaky suspension. Her low-end stereo hissed out a melody that may or may not have been The Eagle's _"Hotel California."_ It was hard to tell for certain what selection was playing thanks to the heavy fog that had scrambled Halifax's Q104 broadcast signal for the better part of a month.

She turned off the radio with hardly a thought as the truck crept down onto the even plane of Major's Field. Her visibility was close to zero, but that hindrance would not stop her from pressing onward, for somewhere amidst the bland gray laid the answer to her questions, and so she would endeavor to claim a degree of closure regardless of the outcome. The serpent's spire would either come to prove itself as either a supernatural object, or the innocent byproduct of a medical hallucination. But if that twist of iron would come to confess its paranormal nature to her remained to be seen. Of course to pen a surreal story for public consumption would be to ask the reader to believe in the fantastic. And although she would have to clear a tall obstacle of doubt, she would nonetheless secure her worth of followers with the serpent's genuine physicality. It was an enigma by nature, as colossal and grand as a world wonder. The spire would claim its fifteen minutes of fame for lack of a conceivable origin alone, and Pam would secure her dream to that mystery so that she might claim its fame as well. She had perhaps twenty-four hours, maybe less, before that greater entity known as the network media descended on Sea Haven as to investigate the municipality's latest addition. She would not let them walk away with what she regarded as her news story. After all, this was her town, not theirs, and she would be the one to break the story and solve the mystery, no one else. Regardless of the spire's significance in the grand scheme of things, she felt the static compass was the very thing she had been wishing for since she had begun her choice profession as a reporter. If this finding panned out, it would catapult her career into the media stratosphere where a satellite signal could put her face on every idiot box from Acadia to Zimbabwe. The potential for that sort of instant fame overpowered her sense of caution. And so, she ignored the racing heart beneath her bosom and managed that stubborn fear's fallout as to court her ambition. The off chance potential to secure a Pulitzer Prize for journalism tempted both her vanity and practicality. She felt due for success, and would not retreat a step when she felt so close to something, dare she say, phenomenal. Besides, like any good reporter who was worth a damn, she would take that which had to be taken and would give that which had to be given as to forge her aspirations into being. Sure, it was self-serving, but dame fortune always favored assholes over saints when things needed to get done. Besides, good reporters weren't known for their meek and mild attitudes. They were either miserable bastards or high parading bitches on broomsticks, take your pick. But to say that Pam had not the courage to face this serpent's spire without some kind of personal enticement would be an insult to her character, because it took real sand to confront the unknown, especially when it involved a potentially paranormal occurrence. Most folks would have been just as content to call it a day and leave the questions about hungry gargoyles and flying cherubs inside a comfortable shade of amnesia. But as for Pamela Sussex, she needed more, because that was also what good reporters did: they tied up loose ends and that meant she would have to dig until she struck casket.

The truck's headlights lit up the fog's stagnant smoke. Beneath the monotonous gray, the grass lay saturated on a month's worth of dew. The scent of brine from the nearby ocean lay tangled within the fog's breath. The world lay deathly still, haunted. Pam wound down the driver's side window and stuck her head out into the hollowed fog. Her jade eyes peered into the depths of the unseen, her ears ignoring the grunts and groans of the wheezing junker. The truck needed to be put out of its misery, a mercy killing that Pam's tight budget could not afford. It was too expensive to have towed and too costly to fix up. She was mindful that every time the engine shut down, it might never start back up again. If that happened, then she would be down to two feet and a heartbeat when it came to getting around town. That mode of transportation was not how good reporters traveled. But until she figured out just how to remedy that situation, like purchasing something more reliable, then she would have to roll the dice every time she sat behind the steering wheel.

The truck eased to a halt, as Pam reluctantly turned off the motor, mindful that it might never run again. The fog was too thick to navigate. If she was not careful, she might drive off a cliff edge and down into the harsh Atlantic where the brine split granite and bodies got swept away in a powerful undertow. Still, it wasn't easy shutting down that laboring sputter, because the engine's hiccups and coughs were the only things that kept her company. She had no desire to be out here alone, even if her only companion was just a clattering bucket of bolts. However, she had nonetheless turned off that poorly tuned engine, and as a result, her only friend had stopped speaking to her.

She clicked open the driver's side door and stepped out onto the greasy surface of Major's Field, and for a brief instant, she thought she saw a tiny sliver of light flicker in the distance, like a match being struck. She turned, withdrew a red backpack from the pickup's passenger seat and laid it down upon the damp grass, where it was promptly unzipped. The carryon's inventory was that of a smartphone, a powerful handheld spotlight, and a six-inch bowie knife that had once belonged to her late father. He had used that knife to skin deer, and so the blade had tasted more than its share of animal blood, seeing as her father had always been a good shot, at least when he wasn't drinking. But when he was sober, there was nary a white tail alive that could escape his crosshair.

As for Pam, she hated hunting, never had the stomach for it, a trait that no doubt made her father wish that he had sired a son rather than a daughter. But none of that historical relevance mattered right now, because she had more pressing concerns, issues that might need the cold steel of something that had spilled so much blood. In that regard, the knife was almost holy, an heirloom that had been baptized by the death it had tasted.

It was the closest thing she had to a good sturdy cross.

She paused to consider the situation before heading out into that ashen twilight. It was obvious that this expedition was reckless, an undertaking that had been set out upon by a foolish woman who felt the need to prove something, not only to herself, but to the entire world. For surely someone with the common sense that God gave a mule would have called in the cavalry, or at the very least, had the foresight to pack a good sturdy cross. But here, Pamela Sussex, that practical gal with the anal retentive penchant for neatness and fine detail, hadn't alerted anyone. Here, she was playing it cowgirl. However, that was what good reporters did: they threw caution into that blustery wind in order to get the scoop. Besides, it wasn't like she was in a warzone where Kevlar jackets were more than just a fashion statement, or in some exotic locale where the native language required a tongue limber enough to roll quarters. She was in the safety of Sea Haven. But still, she felt as though she had just fallen off the edge of the world. If only she could blame that sinking feeling on the ethereal fog which seemed consciously intent on concealing the serpent's spire, or perhaps on the fact that she was just scared. But she could not, because it was more than that, and whatever that thing was, it felt almost---tangible.

Perhaps it was a sort of musk that permeated the air like an exotic poison, infiltrating the fog's breath with a toxic gas. Perhaps it was a byproduct of the spire as it slowly rusted beneath the fog's wet plume, a noxious fume as vented from its bitterest of corrosions. She could feel that supposed odor upon her smooth skin, could feel that scent worm its way into her brain. That preternatural musk had a chemical voice, as perceptible as a pheromone built upon another's fear. The musk spoke on a subliminal level, and said that Pam's quiet friend, Mr. Pickup Truck, had just cranked its last piston, and that unbelievably, cherubs and gargoyles really could swim through iron. That unusual feeling that sank into her flesh was acrimonious and harsh, a philosophical sin so potent that its deeds felt corporeal. Yet as much as she wanted to resuscitate that supposed deader than dead pickup truck and drive away, she could not, because the truth, however obscured by the mindless gray, was out there waiting to be discovered. And as much as she may have wanted to deny it, at the moment, she was a good reporter, and venturing out into that unknown was what she would do.

She attached the smartphone along with the bowie knife to her leather belt while clasping the powerful spotlight in hand. She regarded the wall of depressing overtones with a reluctant eye as she gathered up the necessary nerve to invade that wispiest of partitions. Suddenly, she wished for a pocket full of breadcrumbs to trail in her wake, so that she might find her way back again. There was a genuine concern that perhaps within the damp gloom she might vanish into thin air just as easily as the spire had materialized from within it. She told herself that kind of thinking was nonsense and so set her feet forward in the direction of her intuition.

The spotlight clicked on and the blowback from the bulb's brilliant glare immediately bounced off the fog's soft walls with an equal measure of brightness. The light's high power flare was its Achilles heel and failed to get good penetration in such a heavy mist. What she needed was a yellow fog light, something that shone in the lower E-M spectrum. Unfortunately, she did not own such a device, and so, would have to make do with what she had. The light would work well-enough, or so she hoped.

Pam's left hand brushed her smartphone as to reassure her that it was indeed still there. If she did have to call in the cavalry, she would want to have quick access to her speed dial option. Of course, everyone that lived in Sea Haven knew that cellular reception in these parts was bad at the best of times. Most phone antennas seldom got more than three bars on a good day, let alone one clear solid bar in a thick soup like tonight's house special. In fact, such an inconvenience was the poor reception in these parts, that the problem had turned into a huge political issue, one that Dick Orwell promised to remedy, if re-elected, by petitioning the phone company to construct a new signal tower. But if that pillow talk ever went beyond the silk sheets was a matter far removed from her current thoughts. At this moment, she was stuck in the present, not someday, and the best she could hope for out here beneath the pressing fog was one good reliable bar in case things suddenly went south.

She drew in a deep breath, and with that, set forward, leaving her silent partner to quietly rust. She lost sight of the old pickup in less than thirty paces. It was an anxious moment, one that induced a feeling of mild suffocation. Here, that nurturing tether to the ordinary world had just been figuratively cut, and as result, she felt cut off from humanity.

She slowed her breathing and calmed down to a steadier equilibrium, mindful of that deceptive perception that would abandon her to panic if she was not careful. It felt as though the fog was digesting her within the innards of an ancient dream, one that had been dying for countless eons. The lethargic mist seemed to embody a sort of philosophical emptiness that threatened to erase her existence if she dwelled within its formless borders for too long. She concluded that to court such a fear was ultimately self-defeating, and so she discarded the notion for a more rational train of thought. However, it was a task not easy in the issuance.

The spotlight searched the ground for any clue as to the spire's whereabouts, as if the damn thing left recognizable footprints, or---

\---something white suddenly crossed the beam, small, like a spit shined gumball. Pam stopped, took a step backward and let the beam sniff out the object. However, the cone of light found nothing to appease its view. She chalked it up to the fog playing tricks on her eyes, that consummate prankster with the---

\---another white speck lay wedged into the grass, except this time the flashlight's brilliant funnel did not let its image go. She knelt slowly, careful not to let her jeans touch the wet grass. Her hand reached out, its manicured nails gently picking up the oddity. It was soft, damp, squished easily between her fingers, a tiny white sponge with a speckle of brown on its outer periphery. She passed it beneath her slightly upturned nose and detected a distinct aroma. It was bread, or more to the point, a breadcrumb. Its unexplained presence put an awkward grin on her delicate face, a look that said how curiously perplexed she was to see it, because she had just been thinking about this sort of thing not sixty seconds ago. It was a discovery that put her in mind of a foreshadowing or a psychic phenomenon. Had she predicted finding this morsel of bread, or was it just an extraordinary coincidence? The peculiar situation stank of a tabloid exclusive whose title banner would read: _Fog enables women to see the future!_ It was a comical notion, but also disquieting, because she felt that this soggy crumb had a connection to that mysterious spire. Perhaps that iron pylon was fishing for her, casting out bits of bait for her to find. She dismissed the idea as best she could, dropped the wet morsel back onto the ground and then stared forward into the gray abyss.

What mystery lurked within that gossamer web? Was a supernatural entity waiting on her arrival, or was there a cancer tumor the size of a golf ball growing within the fertile garden of her imagination?

She looked back over her shoulder, wanting very much to go home, but also quite certain that her only bridge back to the real world remained figuratively burned. She felt that to whichever direction she set course, she would invariably be led back to that cursed spire, because for some unknown reason, the tangled sculpture of demonic iron wanted to be found.

There was no going back now, and so, there was no choice, save one.

Pam stood, set foot to heel and cautiously lumbered forward, mindful that her destination might already be set.

(2)

Gregory Boudreau snuck along Major's Field, his dirty socks soaked up to the ankles by the damp grass. However, his thoughts were not of cold feet, nor of strange spires, but rather focused on an auburn beauty who owed him a slow dance with interest. Here, he had come to collect on that debt much like the repo-man would come to gather up his television set tomorrow. This debt, however, was not about a monetary settlement, but rather securing the bragging rights to one Pamela Angelina Sussex. With that kind of conquest notched upon his belt, he would be guaranteed reentry back into Phil's Pub, or so Mr. Boudreau thought. He did not believe that he was about to engage in a premeditated crime, or that he would end up rotting away inside a Dorchester jail cell, because that chess wizard champion, otherwise known as Gregory Boudreau, had failed to understand that life was full of consequences. In fact, inside his twisted mind, he was quite certain that Phil's barflies would simply hoist him upon their drunken shoulders when they had learned of his sexual conquest, this while they filled his potbelly with frosty beers. He would be king shit for a day, complete with the complimentary table next to the neon jukebox and the broken down cigarette machine. It all seemed perfectly plausible to Greg, or at the very least, the fantasy aspect of it did. However, in reality, Mr. Boudreau knew that Pam would certainly resist his advances, that there would be a struggle and he would probably have to smack her around a bit in order to get her to comply. That was a certainty and yet the ramifications of those actions felt open ended. Of course, he could just kill Pam after he was done with her. Then she wouldn't be able to cry to the cops about what the big bad wolf had done to her out on Major's Field. That would be the most efficient method. But was he up to it? Could he take it that far? Yes, he had planned to kill that snot nose punk back on the highway. But then that act of justice would have been rendered by virtue of Greg's car, not by means of his bare hands. This situation with Pam was completely different, it felt colder, and it was. But his fixation on the auburn queen was quite singular. To know her lips, her hair, her feminine treasures, it was those yearnings that ultimately made up his mind. And so he decided to ravage her, and then to toss her eloquent body over the edge of Major's Field where the brine split granite and the undertow was mighty. There, it would look like she had suffered an unfortunate accident. That the fog had been so thick, that she had not seen where she was going, and as such, had accidentally ventured off the cliff edge while looking for that stupid spire. And perhaps if Greg was really lucky, the crabs would have at her flesh before they discovered her body tangled up amidst the kelp beds. Then, there would be nothing left to connect him to the crime. It was too perfect, too tempting, and too good of an opportunity to pass up. Finally, he would have his dance. But then, what of his bragging rights? What would he tell the regulars down at Phil's pub? There was a gaping hole within the pit of his devilish plan, and yet he could not speak to any degree of logic on the matter. In the end, he was a complete moron, incapable of thinking two steps beyond the present. And while that fact may have made him laughable in most regards, it did not make him any less dangerous.

Greg followed the fresh tire marks within the slippery grass, mindful that at any moment, he might chance upon the auburn queen's pickup truck. The anticipation of that forbidden passion yet to come made his heart gallop, his breath run shallow, his soulless pupils dilate to a hundred times their normal aperture. At present, he looked more like a greasy goblin than a man, a fiend with oily pocked skin and wafer thin hair soaked by the fog's damp gray.

From within the laden mist, emerged the geometrical dimensions of a jalopy. It was silent, lights off, rusting peacefully, unattended. Greg listened intently, letting his hairy, wax filled ears search through the night for his auburn queen. In the distance, there was the soft gurgle of ocean waves falling onto coastal stone---the mournful cry of Mallard Point's solitary foghorn---a marker buoy's bell gently clanging out a predictable rhythm. However, there was nothing to suggest that an attractive reporter was out on Major's Field, working on a scoop.

He snuck round to the driver-side door and peeked into the cab's interior. It lay abandoned. He thought to test the door's lock, but refrained. If Pam saw the truck's dome light come on, then she might get spooked, and then Greg would never get his dance. So he passed on by, letting that elusive sixth sense better known as his instinct, guide the way.

Once again, he was alone in the fog, the eyesore of a truck abandoned to the mist that shrouded all things. This time, however, he felt as though he had just sailed away from a safe little port and out into a gray abyss. He could feel it, that sense of security bleeding away courtesy of a coldness that ran deeper than any frigid Atlantic current. The fog, although dead, suddenly seemed willful, a great spiritual entity that dwelled on the negative aspects of karma.

He stopped mid-step and shuddered hard enough that his nicotine stained teeth chattered. That strong fixation on the auburn queen quickly dissipated in favor of his well-being. He was not alone inside the fog. That sixth sense of his had just tuned into a bitter psychic frequency, and although he tried to convince himself that it was just case of nerves, he could not convince that omnipresent eeriness to release its grip from upon him. He felt emotionally debilitated, as if a corpse's finger had stabbed into a spiritual pressure point that he never knew existed. It was primal fear unleashed and yet vaguely familiar, as if on some fundamental level of understanding, a forgotten memory had crept up the genetic ladder and allowed itself to be realized. Perhaps if he concentrated hard enough, he could recall just what that intuitive whisper was trying to tell him, or mayhap sing to him. But it was impossible. He was too stupid and too damn scared to figure out much of anything.

He tucked tail and scurried back the way he came, the fog gliding past in a smoky corridor that seemed without end. Things such as pool tables, Buicks, and auburn queens were lost to an unnamable fear. Was it a ghost, a monster, an alien creature that inspired such a terrible sense of dread? The answer felt as insubstantial as that fleeting fog.

As he ran, he waited on the truck's shape to waltz out of the gray, a junkyard milestone on the pathway home. However, instead of finding the rusty pickup, his lackluster eyes found something completely unexpected.

(3)

Pam could not decide if she should hasten her step, or continue to drag her feet to that preordained finish line. It was like tearing off a Band-Aid: would it be one quick yank, or a slow easy effort in the hope that there would be a minimal amount of pain? She could not decide, seeing as the situation's argument rang of pointless conjecture. Perhaps her gait was a predetermined speed set by that twisted spire of enchanted iron, that to some degree, the object held a certain amount of sway over that uncompromising commodity otherwise known as fate. Mayhap the spire could adjust the scales of karma, as if it were a provisional asset to barter in exchange for broken promises. Mayhap the iron coil understood that the universe was a theater of improvisation, trouped by a choice bureaucracy that exercised an exclusive license on behalf of the powers that be. Those hidden delegates, mysterious by nature, and quite removed from the toils of the lower-world, had decreed from age long since passed, that such a state ignorance should be. Theirs was a self-professed proclamation: to govern the creatures of lesser consideration and wield executive privilege upon the fancy of a whim. Of course, there could be no resolution in regards to such metaphysical matters. Knowledge, that coveted roadmap to the future, would empower a mortal soul to a specific course of action, and The Lords of Karma feared that initiative, for from such deeds an act of leverage might be born, and that tool could unbalance everything. Human beings were meant to be blind in the matters of existence.

Pam had realized this cruelty at an early age, shortly after her mother had passed away. That spite had helped to shape her outlook on that hypocritical religion that promised nothing, save spiritual salvation, if only a soul would abandon their worldly hopes and place their dreams on layaway. For Pam, the hereafter was not nearly close enough to secure her wants, and she would not submit her desires to an uncertain possibility. Time was precious. Life was precious. What sort of entity would ask a spirit to forgo those sacred gifts and to bind their faith unto a daydream that dwelled beyond a cold dank grave? God would, he, that asked everything and offered nothing in return except for a book of misinterpreted words and a self-righteous disposition that reveled in persecution. Of course, aside from that omnipotent no show that folks prayed to on Sundays, there were also the cosmic alter egos otherwise known as _"The Fates,"_ and those heedless creatures cared even less about people than Jerusalem's Almighty King. For had not those celestial titans, also stood idly by while Pam's mother shrank away from cancer? Had not those cosmic deities failed to remedy her father's problem drinking? The answer was yes, and by lying so impotent, those spiritual dynasties had proven their indifferent nature in regards to human suffering by virtue of their inaction. Pam's disdain for that stagnant bureaucracy was without measure, and at her core, the emotional poison was every bit as malignant as a tumor.

Her heels locked up within the damp grass as she quietly listened on a telltale sound, something to solidify her assertion that she was not alone. And in that pause, she considered a possibility if only in passing: If she kept in place, would those iron serpents come in search of her? It was a ludicrous question, but not entirely beyond the realm of chance, for nothing seemed out of the question beneath the goose down gray. Her heart thudded against her breastbone, her breathing lay shallow. Within the fog's lazy curls stirred a stew of malformed shapes: A demon's thorny head, a cherub's weeping eyes, a set of serrated jaws. The disjointed imagery floated past on a listless breeze, each piece a part of a greater puzzle that disturbingly resembled a horrible menagerie that sat perched atop a coil of iron snakes.

Were those phantom shapes a byproduct of her imagination? The uncertainty had caused her trepidation to climb up onto an even higher plateau. It was hard to manage its fall out, to keep those cold shivers in check with those prickly goose bumps. Fear fed the fog, the fog fed the specters, and the specters fed the serpents. It was a morbid food chain, and it put Pam in mind of the song: _"I know an old lady that swallowed a fly."_ Was she the fly? She was going mad with anticipation and decided that there was only one thing she could do in order to reclaim her nerve.

"Come out and face me damn you!"

The words had screeched out of her mouth without the process of due consideration. She was fed up and would not heed the consequences of her challenge. If this was going down, then it would be on her dime, not some yard ornament that stood next to lawn jockeys and special occasion pink flamingos. The serpent's spire was nothing more than a perception, and she would not feed its ego on superstition let alone fear. She was a sensible woman that would no longer support the spire's malevolent guise, its marketing image, for in so doing, she afforded it power over her entire being.

Silence outside of quiet permeated the fog.

Whatever was out there, it did not like being told what to do, and it did not like being thought of as inconsequential. Not at all. She could feel it. It was not just a telepathic sensation either, it was something as tangible as an enemy's glare, the kind of hard currency you could take to the bank. Suddenly, she had doubts about raising her voice to the spire, for its claim of dominion over those lesser things that were foolish enough to quarrel with its influence, were not to be suffered, but rather, turned under foot. Still, her proclamation, the fog's menagerie, the sense of doom, it all felt scripted, prearranged, that this encounter was to be expected by both parties, Pam and the spire, because somewhere in the past, perhaps in a previous life, they had agreed that it should be so. Of course, any semblance of choice that she held onto in that regard was purely for appearance sake, for the spire was the true ringmaster, and it alone decided such things as when reporters jumped through flaming rings of fire, and when that accomplished fat lady finally sang.

Once again, Pam steadied her nerves, but if this act was of her own volition or not, was a matter of semantics. What mattered, was staying alive, and although she knew she had little choice in that decisive outcome, there was still something that told her there was a chance, however marginal it might be. That her future was not written in stone, and that sometimes, God and the Fates provided small legal loopholes to lesser beings as to keep the cosmic game show interesting. It offered hope, and that was what she needed more than anything.

The beam swept through the fog, a lighthouse beacon that moved steady despite the jittery hand, which held it. Again, that wispy imagery of saints and demons paraded by, their march stomping upon silent feet, their corporeal substance, one part imagination and one part reality. Beneath the ethereal theater, a white spec wandered into the lantern's ray. Once more, she knelt down to retrieve the evidence. It was yet another morsel. Except this was no breadcrumb, but rather a damp popcorn kernel, the pink, candy-coated kind they sold at carnivals. Most of the sugar had washed off the seed thanks to the heavy dew. Still, there was enough artificial flavoring, clinging to the lumpy surface to let her know what kind of corn it had been. The discovery put her in mind of those white and blue boxes with the smiling elephant stenciled upon the cardboard cover. She recalled seeing stacks of them at the county fair when she was just a kid, a colossal monument of pink jolly elephants, auctioned off by a mangy carnie.

Toss the ring win a prize! Cotton candy! Stuffed animals! Flavored popcorn! Step right up folks! Don't be shy!

As a result, the discovery had tilted her perception further toward that dreaded state of mind where sanity and a potential brain tumor threatened to collide. However, that concern aside, she still did not know what she was supposed to do with the damn kernel. Was she supposed to eat it? Perhaps the seed was enchanted, one bite and the whole sordid mess of your life made sense. Regardless of what it did or did not do, there was no denying one thing: the morsel had proved to be yet another rocky stone upon the path towards the surreal. However, she felt it wise to discard that feeling to a sense of paranoia, yet she could not, for those things that would come to mark the way forward felt as though they had been sown within a garden of fate.

She stood, tossed the kernel back onto the grass and moved forward, ever mindful that the path ahead would only get stranger. And then surely enough, it did.

The measure of paces beyond the damp seed did not exceed twenty, when the next absurdity came out of the fog. This latest curiosity was neither a discarded bit of bread nor a piece of sugarcoated candy, but rather a soft flowing melody. The tune felt intimately familiar, yet she could not place its title. It was like, first love's kiss, heartbreak, childhood innocence, all rolled into one, and given an angelic voice by which to express its joyful mourning. It was an exquisite composition to behold and yet a terrible sonata to embrace, for its notes pulled upon a soul's wits in an unnatural way by stretching its foundations in opposing directions. And then, just as suddenly as that wondrous reminiscent feeling had settled into the delicate nook of her heart, and that dreadful dagger had pierced deep into the center of her mind, it departed without so much as clue to its origin.

As a result, Pam's mind fell into the deepest well of thought, as she tried to recreate that enchanted melody with the utmost concentration. What had she just heard? Why was it so familiar? She looked schizophrenic, an attractive woman damp on a shade of midnight mist trying desperately to hum a simple ditty, which in the same meter was all so impossibly complex. It was yet another obstacle along the path to the surreal, and judging by the force it exuded, a big one.

Pam shook off the tune as best she could, but its bittersweet aftertaste lingered on in places not easily discarded. She felt like a mouse, stung by a wily rattlesnake, drugged on an efficient poison that had cut straight to the heart. The circumstances waiting at journey's end felt truly inevitable now, and yet despite the awful finale she would most certainly reap, Pam did not care. She would follow that Pied Piper over Perdition's Falls in order to hear that enchanted melody one more time. And if that meant succumbing to the brine where the rock was jagged and the undertow was mighty, then so be it.

It was in that realization that she knew without a doubt that the serpent's spire could take her down into the graveyard dust whenever it pleased. There would be no fighting it, for the spire knew the ancient tune's mystical notes, and Pam, like every other hapless soul that toiled under God's dominion, could only spin like a marionette on drunken heels when met by its preternatural charm. It was the way of things---nature---inevitable. And it was here that the first flash of light appeared.

(4)

Greg gazed upon his trusty pool table from Phil's Pub. It sat inside the dreary fog, a velvet bed, warmly lit by the soft neon of a circa 1950s jukebox. The machine played his favorite song from the Man in Black, Mr. Johnny Cash, as he crooned that timeless classic, _"Ring of Fire."_ Suddenly, that malevolent presence that had stalked him through the dead gray had fled. Its absence was a welcomed feeling. But still, that potent fear that had lent flight to his heels remained on the periphery of his thoughts. True, the world had softened, but it was not quite normal, because at last check, pool tables did not walk out of taverns on their own and jukeboxes needed electricity in order to spin the Man in Black's prestigious vinyl.

So the question was, how in the hell did this stuff get here? That kind of contemplation required an accessory: a beer. But no one had bothered to set one out for him.

Here, it appeared that for some unknown reason, that twofaced patch of fog had taken on a different persona: that of a close friend. It soothed Greg's agitation with a shiny jukebox along with that coveted field of velvet green. And so he relaxed his guard and gradually eased into a casual mindset where the fog's past transgressions for scaring the B-Jesus out of him could be easily forgiven. But still, how had these items come to be here? There was obviously ground for caution despite the fog's insistence that things were just peachy. True, Greg may have been stupid, but he was not a complete moron. He could walk and chew gum at the same time, and so that common ability alone gave him enough mental prowess to be leery of mysterious gifts that sat inside a dreary mist.

He looked around and grinned mischievously. Apparently, his strange friend that continued to hide within the delicate folds of fog had decided to reward his endeavor. Yet as pleased as he was to be encouraged for his efforts, there was nonetheless a treasure missing from this gracious ensemble: one Ms. Pamela Sussex. Her memory had been forfeited to Greg's fear. However, that once perceived enemy had buried the hatchet and had come to support his campaign of conquest. And although there was a part of Greg's mind that questioned these gifts, it could not rally a formed thought as to dispute the matter, and perhaps that inability to seize onto his volition had something to do with that other melody that sang just below Johnny's _"Ring of Fire."_ It was an odd warble, a distortion that he sort of recognized. However, he could not place the tune's title, let alone its place of origin. The song seemed extremely old, mayhap even ancient. Yes, that was it. The song was primordial. But how did he know that?

In the end, it did not matter. At the moment, there was a loose end that needed to be tied up. Sure, he could stand here and shoot a game of eight-ball, while Mr. Cash crooned his classic tunes out of Phil's juke, but then there would be that unsettled matter of a promised dance.

He turned his back on the familiar objects and set his gaze out into the fog's depths, searching for that which would quicken him in a way that no other thing could, when a strange noise caught his attention. He turned abruptly, eyes on the hunt. At first, he was not sure what he saw, but soon recognized this latest oddity as none other than his prized fifty two inch television set, the one the repo-man would collect tomorrow. It sat beyond his unmade bed, throwing blurry light upon the fog's curtains like an electric rainbow.

He ventured closer, wondering how these things had materialized out of thin air. How did they get their power? Were they real? On an instinctual level, he understood these things to be material, and that his conditional friend in the fog had placed them there for a reason. But why had that mysterious presence done that? There seemed no practical resolution, just that ongoing sideshow that felt exclusively staged for Mr. Boudreau's benefit alone.

The high definition screen splashed static, yet there was structure within the chaos, shapes that emerged out of another kind of fog that was otherwise known as poor reception. Greg hoped that a pornographic reel would broadcast out of that salt and pepper mixture, something with a storyline that involved a sexy auburn harlot, succumbing to the advances of a serial stalker boyfriend. But instead of choreographed passion on a G-string budget, there was the recognizable image of none other than his truly: Mr. Gregory Boudreau.

In this X-rated production, he wore a sallow birthday suit and knelt on the very bed, which currently sat before the television set, his thin member, short and hard. There was a nude woman spread eagle beneath him, her discarded clothes torn to shreds and scattered to the damp field. On screen, Greg's body double prepared to mount an unwilling victim. But just whom was he prepared to defile?

He moved closer, sat on the foot of the bed that existed in the real world so that he could watch the show closer---his show. It was a surreal experience, out of body, dreamlike. He could not understand why this was happening or what it meant. Was it dangerous? Despite his confusion, he was nonetheless fascinated by the events that unfolded before his wide eyes.

Who was this woman beneath his counterpart? Was he about to finally nail Pam? If only the TV version of himself would move its lanky shoulder, then he would know for sure.

Meanwhile, in the background, Johnny sang about the _"Ring of Fire,"_ while the TV reception became clearer. Soon that speckled picture grew thick with rich color, the large moles on Greg's back as brown as mud, the woman's auburn hair the shade of healthy fall foliage. It was Pam, had to be, and this depiction had to be of the future, he was sure of it. It was almost more than Greg could take. The erection in his grungy pants throbbed, burned and threatened to explode spontaneously if not soothed of its passion.

He pulled his damp trousers along with his soiled underwear down around his bony ankles and prepared to offload a shot of venom. It was here that a flash of light went off.

He turned quickly and discovered he had an audience. Pam stood next to the jukebox, a filtered cigarette perched between her full lips. There was a strange glow inside her eyes, and it fixed Greg with an uncharacteristic sensual daring. Even her manner of dress was unusual, a short black leather mini skirt with matching high heel stilettos and fishnet stockings. She wore a silk halter-top, her hair big and puffy on half a can of hairspray. Her makeup had been caked on with too much mascara, rouge, and crimson lipstick so that she looked like a whore without the crack habit. She was dirty and cheap, the way he always imagined her in his sexual fantasies, and she was here for the taking.

But how had she known he was coming? The sensible question was lost to a need to appease his overinflated ego. Instead, he told himself that it was just as he had always suspected: that Pamela Sussex had a serious thing for him. Sure, she had played hard to get, brushed him off and rolled her bedroom eyes in disgust, but that was how Pam liked her foreplay, because truth be told, she got all moist whenever old Greg paid attention to her. Little Ms. Prim and Proper who could suck a golf ball through a garden hose. And now, she was finally here to confess her intimate longings and to show him just how much she wanted to hump his brains out.

It was a wish come true, just like the one he had this morning when they were together inside the cherry picker. Oh, how he had wanted to bed her right there and then on Major's Field, to lay her down on the damp grass and ravage her beauty with all his lust. And perhaps, if they had been alone, he would have done just that. But instead, he had played it cool, pursued and negotiated, and as usual, he had been put off until later by little Ms. Tease. Now, none of that mattered, because Pam had come to her senses and now they would have that slow dance with interest.

"Need a hand with that big sausage?" Pam asked as she blew out a sexy smoke ring into the dreary fog.

Greg stood, his dime roll erection admiring the pasty underside of his potbelly.

"Get over here and lie down!" he demanded.

His desire had whipped up a violent sensual hunger. He had been more than patient with her and now she would pay for having teased him so.

Pam came without hesitation, just as he imagined she would. Here, that modern assertive woman wanted a man to command her, and Greg would satiate that appetite with a long list of depraved demands. She stood before him in all her sexual magnificence, eyes strangely lit by a quality that he could not define. Her irises appeared lessened on a coldness that perhaps emitted its own bluish light, as if ice could burn. Greg told himself it was due to her arousal over him, and so he dismissed that jagged edge so that he might explore her feminine treasures.

His hands worked her firm breasts as clumsily and eagerly as a teenage virgin's. The silk felt smooth, exquisite, but not nearly as inviting as the mounds of flesh held within. In a swift stroke, he tore away the halter top, awestruck by the beauty that spilled forth. The woman's endowments were perfect, symmetrical, worthy of an alabaster statue. The subtle nipples, a pinkish hue of health, rolled awkwardly beneath his cold fingers. He glanced upon the eloquent contours of her face, noting the gentle parting of her full crimson lips, the delicate rose of her tongue as it nested softly between her perfect teeth. He could see her passion stir under his advances, and it was that forbidden admission of Pam's lust that really stroked Greg's ego like a velvet glove. He was king of the world, physically, emotionally, and sexually, and he would take his pleasure from her like a lion.

His hands fell to her leather skirt, his anxious fingers fumbling with the zipper. The garment fell to her ankles and revealed an absence of panties. He ogled the auburn patch between the cleft of her shapely thighs, the juices of his mouth flowing generously. It was to this organ that he had made his pledge of conquest, and the sight of her womb, captivated his attention like no other jewel could. He grabbed her eloquent shoulders and threw her naked body down onto the bed so that he might wage his campaign. Pam looked up at Greg with a daring grin, her eyes still lit by that cold cutting edge of borderline malice. Yet its spirit did not hinder his pursuit, and so he pressed onward as to breach that final barrier that had restrained his lust for so long.

Pam shimmied further up onto the sheets, legs spread, breasts heaving in anticipation of the passion to come. By her intentions, she lured him forward to claim that noblest prize that all men desire to possess. And so, he came eagerly without pause for consideration, for his mind was lost to the want of her flesh.

"Oh...you little bitch," Greg whispered in a harsh tone. "So high on your horse... so untouchable...now you're going to get it."

His feet yanked free of that tangle of pants and underwear that encumbered his legs as he quickly climbed onto the bed where he knelt between the parted legs of Sea Haven's elusive goddess. She was incredible, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and she was now finally his for the taking. If only those losers at the Phil's could see him now, Mr. Boudreau mounting the sweetest filly on the south shore, then there could be no doubt as to impressive manhood. He was riding high in the saddle, no doubt about it, and what made it even better was that Pam wanted it to be so. Here, he would not have to toss her dead husk into the brine in order to cover his ass of a sex crime, because she had willfully consented to his touch. And if she consented now, she would consent later on, too. Why, this might be the beginning of a long sexual relationship together, and that was something Greg had no intention of just tossing to the seagulls.

He positioned his virility for entry as to thrust that most erotic of daggers into that sweetest heart of virtues, when something unexpected happened. His member, harder than hard, had hastily released its payload all over Pam's flat delectable stomach, and that forfeiture was a commodity he did not have in abundance. Here, he had been so excited, that his organ had airburst and spent its precious wad on the idea of having her, rather than that of the actual taking. As a result, that slim roll of dimes quickly went soft, while that boiling ointment within his pouch cooled off with a disturbing speed. He had just been figuratively disarmed, and cheated of his prize by means of a premature ejaculation. He looked down on the pool of cum as it slipped to the sides of Pam's firm belly, an ounce of passion that had missed its mark by several inches. He felt embarrassed, but most of all, angry.

"Son of a bitch," Greg grunted, his pocked skin blushing all the way from his gangly shoulders clear on up to his receding hairline.

Pam's eyes examined the slippery puddle of a misfire, her grin widening into a full out smile. "Oh, poor baby," she giggled in such a way as to belittle Greg's manhood. "Sorry, but there's only one ticket per ride, and you've gone and thrown yours away."

Greg's pupils dilated to a hundred times their aperture. His arm drew back, his fingers balled up into a fist. How dare she mock him. How dare she! When his gun was reloaded, he would not just bed her, he would ream her. In his rage, Boudreau let his knuckles fly, but the angry swing missed that spiteful woman and only found the soft linen fabric of the bed's damp comforter. Pam had vanished before his eyes, lost to the damp fog that laid about the bed like graveyard smoke.

His menacing eyes sought out the impudent harlot that had just debased his sexual prowess. At the moment, it didn't matter that nothing around him made sense, that she had vanished into the nothingness, or that Johnny Cash still sung about a _"Ring of Fire."_ All that mattered was revenge, about getting that slow dance with interest.

"Come back here, you bitch! You hear me?! I said come back here!"

The jukebox needle suddenly scratched across the Man in Black's classic cut of vinyl, replacing the song with a high pitch squeal that screeched mindlessly out of the speakers. The television set screen burst its colorful pane to shattered glass, its inner workings set to flame and a dash of bright sparks. The metal bed frame stretched out its steel, its structure twining into a tangle of dark serpents. Together those metallic reptiles bound Greg's narrow wrists and ankles unto their cruelty as easily and swiftly as any knot could ever hope to contain. The steel's cold unyielding grip cut deep into his paltry flesh, its bite as fierce as a meat clever upon bone.

Greg's head fell backward, his mouth split open as to release that tartest of screams, but no sound would spill forth, for the obstruction within his throat was of rusty razors and their jagged edge would not lend an ear to a soul's plea. Those demon snakes, cast within an impure element, had violated his innards via the anus. They had crawled violently through that dank nest of intestines and guts until they exited from within that yawning pit of his mouth. Those twisted vines of iron splayed their horrors before the dying's eyes, their canopy decorated on the vile fruits of his vital anatomy. Upon the warped canopy of serpent steel that rose from the depths of his gullet, the eviscerated remains of his worldly engine glistened on the grotesque fluids of their despair. But before Greg passed into that merciful oblivion, he once again heard that ancient song play out of the jukebox. The tune sounded like a carnival carousel as sung by an old Wurlitzer and brass pipe calliope, and although the melody sounded intimately familiar, he could not place where he had heard it before. But then, that didn't matter anymore.

Greg Boudreau was dead.

Chapter Nine

Taxi

(1)

The squad car rolled to a gentle halt in front of the Halifax Infirmary. It was late, after midnight. The city, like Sea Haven, lay deep beneath a cover of goose-down gray thanks to that miserable patch of Atlantic fog that would not lift. The cold smoke masked the downtown core, making the streetlights that ran along Summer Street look like ghostly halos. The fog had even cocooned the scenic Public Gardens inside a spider's mist, drowning the exotic flora and the tall crown trees beneath its depressing overtones. The mist had dulled the city's vivacious life with a dank energy that felt soiled by an ancient misdeed. It was everywhere, inside everything, casting all things into a state of limbo that was somewhere between life and death, or perhaps better stated, between dead and dying. As a result, the fog had turned the downtown roads into empty corridors where pedestrians, taxicabs, delivery trucks and even cops seemed to avoid---save one.

Jasper Hancock was very much on the beat this evening, or that's to say, he was moonlighting as a chauffeur. After all, he had two passengers and a scheduled pickup to perform, not an incarceration, so it was safe to say that he was wearing two hats. But then, Mr. Duality had been wearing two hats most of his life. Here, the self-proclaimed upholder of the law was also the very same son of a bitch who constantly broke it, because when you ran the poky like it was your own personal Rum Dumb Motel, well, let's just say that you weren't exactly enforcing departmental policy. In fact, one could say that Jasper had compromised his oath to serve and protect, and that maybe he had suffered a psychological split. And he had, too. Hancock was a sociopath trusted to carry a gun and a badge, a protector who was in fact a serial killer who had buried more than his share of sins in Sea Haven's deep waters. In fact, that murky bottom had begun to resemble a shipwreck graveyard. And he could recall each of the unfortunate faces he had put to rest down there, too. Those men, women, and sometimes even children who said _"Please stop! I'll do anything"_ if only this and only that, their missing person pictures a menagerie on the Rum Dumb's concrete wall. _"Have you seen me lately"_ hopefuls that owed their disappearance to a tall surly man with a flush complexion and a head full of hate, a cop who had had a psychological split.

How many times had he stared at those portraits on the wall? A hundred---mayhap a thousand. It did not matter, the only thing that did was the face in the mirror, the one that spoke to itself with a shark like grin and wide fierce eyes. The twisted face that giggled and spoke in strange voices, as if there were more than just one sick personality inside that bull head of his, each character more crazy than the one before it.

" _Look officer! There's the killer! I'm staring right at him! See...the Mounties always get their man!"_ A broad grin followed by a harsh snicker had always followed those statements, a demented psychopath delighted by his own cutting wit.

Jasper's right eye caught sight of itself in the mirror, and both the Jasper behind the wheel and the one reflected in the glass smiled at one another knowingly. They shared a special secret after all, an inside joke that was unknown to the others in the cruiser. Well, maybe Joshua knew. He seemed to know all sorts of things, like the forbidden melody for instance. So suffice to say, it was more than likely that Joshua understood about the loopy conversations Jasper had with himself via the mirror.

Hancock let that mad eye of his focus on the sad soldier sitting in the backseat. Mr. Richard Orwell looked pale, about to either pass out or toss his cookies onto the cruiser's floor. He didn't look like much of a provisional king at the moment. In fact, he looked hopelessly lost, which of course he was. There were no go to boys named Monty to boss around, nor big daddy Ricks out here to sweep dead bodies under the rug. There was just a middle-aged man tangled up inside something he could not understand, let alone control, and that was not a place for a _"would be leader."_

(2)

If only Dick knew what was going on, why Jasper and the ratty looking stranger were taking him into town and not to the RCMP holding tank, then he could think about making the proper provisions, like placing a phone call to his lawyer. But he couldn't figure out why he was in the heart of Halifax, and not in Sea Haven's lockup, and as far as his travelling companions were concerned, neither of them was talking.

Wasn't he supposed to be under arrest for murder? Of course he was, and here the big moose of a cop hadn't even bothered to read Mr. Orwell his Miranda rights. Dick squirreled away those details inside his devilish little mind, things that he could hand to his lawyer later on when the murder trial inevitably started. Sure, the ensuing media circus would make certain that his holiness would never become the nation's provisional king, but so be it. If matters kept progressing the way they were, like the big cop not reading Dick his Miranda rights, then that meant Dick would not become Bubba's bitch, and that was more important to a piece of prison currency like Mr. Richard Orwell than anything else. So he placed a chip on Miranda, and bet on a get out of jail free ticket courtesy of a mistrial, for it would take a technical screw up in order to save his greatness from riding the lightning. As everyone knew, the law wasn't just a consummate ass, but also a stickler to detail, and when you reached the docket, you had better have your Ps and Qs in order or else things fell apart damn quick.

However, Dick was still understandably worried. The Miranda oversight felt hollow. There was something off about his two companions. Something that said, they did not care about legal procedures, or that Dick had just killed someone. They only cared about whatever that something else was, and it scared the B-Jesus out of him. So much in fact, that Mr. Orwell could not decide which fate was worse: a stretch in Dorchester Penitentiary, or discovering what the mysterious something was. Dick, however, was in no position to question the dynamic duo. At present, he was meat for the locker, and at last check, the burger never presented issues to the bun, it just fed the hole. So he kept quiet and gave the assholes at the helm as much rope as he dared, hoping to gather up just enough to hang them with.

Dick looked out the cruiser's window. A woman in a black raincoat stood outside the hospital doors. She appeared middle-aged, but the anxious glow that hovered above her brooding disposition made her look older. He presumed she was an early spinster whose legs had been bolted together at the knees shortly after she found Jesus, a schoolmarm with a fondness for the kind of discipline that was administered at the end of a ruler. She was Victorian conservative, and kind of reminded Orwell of a nun without the traditional habit. Still, he would bet credits to navy beans that she had the nun's rosary stuffed away in one of those raincoat pockets. Perhaps even a tiny Gideon Bible as well. Yet despite the religious hardware, she still looked like a woman who had lost faith, a lamb that had become hopelessly lost amidst an aimless fog.

But then, who hadn't?

(3)

Kimberly Ryan watched the cruiser quietly idle. Although the car lay brightly lit, it still felt dark, a vessel that shuttled the damned into an underworld like the gothic funeral carriage of a Brothers Grimm fairy tale. Did Death sit behind the wheel of that unlikely hearse, its bony fingers draped coldly over the steering wheel as it waited to whisk Kim away to her doom? No, of course not. The Grim Reaper only performed those kinds of pickups at the morgue, a place where a guy named Earl answered the phone jokingly: _"County morgue. You stab'em, we slab'em."_ It was the kind of sick humor that took the edge off the job, or the Reaper's scythe depending on how you looked at it, because when you dissected kids and grandparents all day, something had to give. There had to be a release or else you'd end up ballroom dancing into the psyche ward where the crayons weren't nearly as colorful as the permanent residents.

Kim had spent enough time inside this hospital waiting on Eddy that she had overheard more than her share of morbid conversations. Between the cruel internal gossip and the harsh circumstances surrounding the poor unfortunate souls that had come to lie here, she had discovered an awful truth: God was a sadist.

It was as if the suffering had bled out of the hospital beds and into the good folks who worked there, although you would never know it to speak with them, because that kind of disease was subtle. It hid behind the eyes, the genuine smiles, the attentive care, and it stole away the best parts of people. Mercy, compassion, humanity, and by far worst---hope. It slowly poisoned a heart on contempt and placed cataracts within peoples' eyes so they could not see the effects of its sour labors. But Kim could see, even though she was almost completely blind herself, she could still see. Those eyes that not only said how close Eddy was to dying, but that he was just one more baby onboard the kiddy train that was bound for the boneyard, eyes that said she should get busy making those final arrangements, something under a tall oak perhaps.

The carriage waited.

(4)

Jasper leaned his bullhead forward and looked at the woman in the doorway. He immediately recognized her as Kimberly Ryan, the woman with the sick kid, the church going do good who always looked a little too self-righteous for her own good. What possible use could she serve in regards to Joshua?

"That her?" Jasper asked.

Joshua nodded, never bothering to take his eyes off the timid shape of Kimberly Ryan.

"Want I should go collect her?" Jasper asked, a smug grin aligning his flush face. He would enjoy intimidating Ms. Ryan. Maybe he could squeeze her delicate hand hard enough to crack a joint. That would make her rosary harder to hold.

"No," Joshua whispered in a raspy voice. "She must come willingly, or it'll all be for not."

Jasper wanted to question Joshua on the subject, but thought better of it. Why chance pissing him off? It might jinx the evening, and Jasper did not want that, especially since The Rum Dumb had itself a willing meat bag to work over in its musty lockup.

"Come on Kimberly," Joshua muttered. "Come take a ride."

After a tense hesitation, the woman finally began to walk forward. The sight made the man with the shabby clothes and blood stained face grin with the utmost satisfaction.

(5)

The woman approached, her gait as slow as a funeral march. At first, Dick had not recognized her, but when her haunted gaze found the cruiser's backseat, he immediately placed her. He had once spoken to Kimberly Ryan during a campaign rally. He recalled her main concern at the time had been about the sorry state of Haven's historical churches, and the questionable morality of the government leaders. New shingles, a fresh coat of paint, and more gospel in the political cabinet, those had been her issues. And the passion with which she had spoken of them had made Dick extremely uncomfortable. She was a selfless nun without the habit, and that quality had made his feigned interest wane most quickly. After all, what he had wanted to hear was a _"pave the roads and fix the schools"_ proclamation, not _"lord help us and save our souls."_ That sort of crap was for the hardcore bible thumpers, not a provisional king. Although, he knew that a bit of religion when spoken from the political podium went a long way with the senior vote, and perhaps that was just how old folks hedged their bets with the man upstairs. And who knew? Perhaps St. Peter actually checked to see which way a soul had voted in life.

Whatever their motivation, Dick realized the religion card's usefulness for what it was: political leverage. But damn, if he didn't hate standing toe to toe with those true believers. The nuts who thought everything began and ended with prayer. What he had really wanted to say to those misguided individuals was to get a freaking life, because God did not exist. But he had held his tongue, nodded patiently, grinned the idiot's grin, and in the end he had won the election, which only proved to Orwell that there was no God, for if there was, then the Almighty's holy rollers never would've elected a miserable son of a bitch like him into office. But they had. And now here he was, a provisional prince waiting on a creeping nun.

It was almost laughable.

(6)

Kimberly approached the car on weighted heels, a woman about to prostitute her spirituality at the price of her immortal soul. She thought about praying to her father in Heaven for courage, but it felt hypocritical, a further blasphemy upon a pile of transgressions that were already far too high. No, she was on her own with this one. There would be no spiritual counsel from the priest, no praying the rosary, no Hail Mary mother of Jesus, just Kimberly Denise Ryan, mother of the sick kid they called Eddy, the poor frail boy who had fallen prey to more than just a terminal illness.

She was here to take that final step for his sake, and although, Eddy hadn't said anything about a cop car waiting outside to whisk her back to Sea Haven, she knew intuitively that the cruiser was here for her specifically. As it turned out, it was, and if she needed any proof as to that presumption, she need only look to the stranger who sat in the front seat grinning at her with a warped sense of excitement.

He was homely, an unkempt bum with flat dark hair that was graying into ash, his oily skin poorly lain, his facial features unremarkable. Yet there was also something striking about him, a crude beauty that transcended the corporeal as if he was not entirely human, but rather something else, perhaps the god of vagrants. Whoever he was, she didn't like it, and although she tried not to judge a book by its cover, she knew without question that this book was telling. It was sinister. Its pages parched on desolation. Its cover bound by misdeeds. Here, this mysterious person, who may or may not have been a man, was undoubtedly linked to the serpent's spire by means of an unholy union, and that made him evil to the core.

Kim wanted to cross herself and take up the rosary, but she abstained. Such fortifications would be an insult to this beast's sensibilities, and at the moment, she did not need an adversary, but rather an ally in the war against the cancer that chewed away at Eddy one cell at a time. So her desperation allowed this strange bedfellow, because she needed a cure, and although she knew there would be a terrible price attached to this backroom miracle, she would pay it, because Eddy was too young to die.

The stranger opened his door and got out of the cruiser, where he loomed over Kim's short stature like a dark mountain. It felt bitterly cold within his presence, as if the surrounding fog had suddenly crystallized into finely ground bits of dried ice. His dim lit smile was broad and put Kim in mind of a vulture eyeing a ripe morsel on a gut wagon. She was fresh meat for the locker, something Dick Orwell could reciprocate.

"Welcome," the stranger said in a cheery voice. "We've been expecting you."

"I...Eddy...you see..."

"Shhhh," the stranger hushed sympathetically, his finger pressed upon his ropey lips. "There's no need for an explanation, Kim. Each of us does what we must, and sometimes if that sets at odds with our sense of moral correctness, well...we learn to live with it in the end."

Kim shuddered. "Who are you?"

The stranger's pale eyes narrowed with a sort of mischievousness that denoted the deranged. "All in good time Kimberly. I swear. But if you must call me something, call me Joshua for now. Your friendly law enforcement officer does."

Kim peeked past Joshua and into the cruiser's front seat to find Jasper Hancock at the wheel. His large flush head sported its usual sadistic grin. She had seen the large bull of a cop on patrol enough times in Sea Haven, but they had never actually spoken. And although she knew absolutely nothing about him, she did know one thing: she didn't much care for him. There was just something off about his mannerisms, the way he stroked his leather baton constantly, the way he looked down his nose at folks. He put her in mind of a Nazi SS officer, minus the spiffy threads and German accent. To Kim, Jasper was the worst kind of man: Godless.

"Evening Mrs. Ryan," Jasper nodded. "Hope your boy is feeling better."

Everyone in Sea Haven knew Eddy Ryan was sick, because they had all donated a few dollars towards Kim's cancer drive at one point or another. Even the cold hearted S.O.B. named Jasper Hancock had tossed a quarter into the bucket, if only to give the appearance of kindness.

Kim ignored Jasper and let her eyes find Joshua's, for she knew that Eddy's fate was somehow tied to this man alone. "What must I do?" Kim asked, her voice a weak quaver.

Joshua reached over and opened the cruiser's rear door. "Get in, Kim. We've got important work to do this night."

Kim didn't care for the sound of that, but she shuffled slowly towards the back door regardless. After all, she needed a cure, not a confrontation. But before she slid into the dark backseat, she gave one last pause to consider her situation. Was this the last step she had to take, the one that Eddy had spoken of? Somehow she doubted it, because whatever work Joshua had spoken of, it involved the spire, and that abomination alone would decide which step would be her last. She could feel the certainty of it poison her blood much like the leukemia that destroyed Eddy's. But none of that mattered at the moment, just the cure, always the cure.

She sat down in the backseat of this strange taxi whose meter had been figuratively set to a hefty fare, her prostitution well underway.

(7)

Dick Orwell and Kimberly Ryan gazed at one another with the sort of nervous anxiety that hostages felt when they were flying at thirty thousand feet onboard a hijacked jetliner. They also shared a brief familiar recognition that reminded them of a common past in which they had once spoken of government corruption, and churches in poor repair. That campaign trail felt as though it existed in another lifetime for both of them, and perhaps it did.

Dick nodded slightly, and Kim reciprocated the courtesy, their eyes locked in a silent conversation that begged an understanding of the other.

"Kim and Dick," Joshua said as he merrily retook the cruiser's front seat. "I trust you know one another."

Kim thought to reply, but her mouth was too dry.

"Yes," Dick said nervously. "A few years back when---"

"---You were rallying up votes," Joshua interjected with an uncanny knowing. "She voted for Patterson by the way."

Dick turned to Kim, and for a brief moment, his fear transformed into a deep displeasure with this woman who he had pegged as an easy toss for an Orwell ballot.

"So did I," Jasper concurred, as he tightened his big strong mitts around the steering wheel as if to strangle it. He then put the car into gear and pulled back out onto the road, his destination Sea Haven. "Goddamn thing was rigged, I bet."

"Now now," Joshua scolded Jasper with a fiendish little grin. "I'm sure Mr. Orwell is a real straight arrow. In fact, I'm sure the entire incident was nothing more than a simple accident." Joshua craned his oily neck around and aimed his disagreeable face toward Dick. "Those electronic voting machines are tricky things Mr. Orwell, aren't they?"

Dick suddenly felt even more uneasy, because he knew that this Joshua was about to speak a horrible truth, and that was not something his holiness cared to hear right now. He had already eaten enough of a shit sandwich this night, and as such, did not desire to sip piss from the pitcher either.

"I'd blame the miscount on the faulty software if I were you, Dick," Joshua said with a playful wink. "Too much emphasis is placed on technology this day and age. It's more trouble than it's worth if you ask us."

Everyone in the car's ears perked up when they heard Joshua speak in terms of the royal familiar. Who was this _other_ that Joshua spoke of?

"Besides, you only lost by forty-seven votes," Joshua said with a sigh.

It an instant, Dick's perceived future was cast into uncertainty, because as it turned out, his previous political triumph was nothing more than an illusion. Here, he wasn't a champion of the people. He was just a bastard politician with an expensive coke habit and a receding hairline. How could he possibly hope to become a provisional king if he wasn't even the rightful heir? And if he wasn't a provisional prince in waiting, but rather a spoiled ballot, then what chance did he have of seizing the national grail? None, because on that political level where kings promised change, a loss of forty seven votes turned into four point seven million real quick, and the odds that Dick "the Prick" Orwell could win an election of that magnitude due to a computer malfunction, was absolutely ridiculous. He'd end up a water cooler joke, the guy who got clobbered on national television, and that was not supposed to be his legacy.

He closed his eyes and prayed for this night to end, and if that meant he would end up serving a lengthy stint in the poky, then that suited him just fine.

"Oh cheer up, Dick," Joshua said. "You're still the belle of the ball, a veritable chosen one."

"Chosen one," Kim whispered. "Chosen for what?"

"All in good time my dear Kimberly," Joshua replied as he set his gaze out the cruiser's window. "Besides, I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise."

Chapter Ten

Annapolis

(1)

A brilliant flash of yellow and orange exploded in the distance, followed by a burst of scarlet red. The colorful hues lay masked within a halo of mist, but were nonetheless powerful enough to cut out a clear beam. What were they? Pam could not tell. The lights lay too shrouded by the fog's haze to ease her eyes with an answer. This time, a flicker of blue and green pulses shot off in rapid succession, manufacturing a veritable rainbow within the miasma. Next, there came a loud roar of music that accompanied a pyrotechnic display. The song echoed out of the syrupy gray, its bright notes crooned upon an old Wurlitzer organ and brass pipe calliope. Together, the instruments performed a carnival tune, the kind that always escorted a carousel of ponies as they circled a column of flashing lights.

The delicious scent of caramel corn, freshly spun cotton candy, and juicy hotdogs wafted out of the mist. The telltale odor was strong and tied tightly to a childhood memory, and for a brief moment, Pamela Sussex wasn't a mature woman who had ventured out onto Major's Field in search of a mystery, but rather a twelve year old girl who had snuck away from her aunt's house as to attend the Annapolis Valley's _"Apple Blossom Festival."_

Her fear subsided somewhat, leaving her mind free to wander back through time to an afternoon in the month of May. The day had been beautiful, blessed with a cloudless sky that breathed of fresh air and the sort of early summer heat that could easily flush a child's cheeks to burn, especially those ones that had fed on an abundance of short winter days. But Pam had not cared about those sorts of things back then. The sun had felt good upon her youthful skin and the spring air was still a relatively new experience to her prepubescent lungs. Back then, there had just been a glorious day out on the parade grounds, and of course that strange forgotten bit of business with an old fellow they called Bojangles.

(2)

It was an honest mistake, but nonetheless a messy one. Pam had not been watching where she was going, and as a result, the apple cart had tipped over, allowing hundreds of shiny red apples to tumble down the gently sloping hill and into a nearby stream that wound majestically about the parade grounds like a bronze ribbon. And as each apple plunged into the river, she could not help but cringe, for she knew it was gone forever. By the time she gathered up enough sense to chase down that fallen food, dozens of apples had already set sail for parts unknown. But still, she raced down to the river's edge to try and save them regardless. Frantically, her small hands scooped up as much fruit as they could carry, her arms quickly working the apples back onto the grass. It was a desperate effort to keep the apples from taking their final dip. Yet despite the seeming futility, she continued the valiant effort.

She felt like a lousy juggler, and for every apple saved, two more launched offshore into that slow dark current where the water was deep and seasonally cold. It was indeed a mess and to make matters worse, a couple of adults stood atop the hill having a real good hoot at the expense of her dignity. Together they yelled things like: _"way to go kid, what do you do for an encore?"_ and _"What are you doing...bobbing for apples?"_ The lowbrow comments had been accompanied by boisterous bouts of laughter that made Pam's cheeks glow red on both humiliation and anger. She could not understand why those people were not helping her, or why those damn apples seemed to keep rolling back down the hill, and most importantly, why she had not kept a closer eye on where she had been walking in the first place. Of course, it had all been the horse's fault, that white thoroughbred stallion that shone like African ivory. It was just too damn pretty _not_ to look at, and as a result, she had walked straight into the apple cart.

Could they blame her for being distracted? Surely anyone would have done the same thing in her place. So why the hell were people laughing? Didn't they understand it was an accident? Pam decided that those adults up on the hill were not worth a pinch of rat poop, and when she finally rallied up all the apples, she would turn around and give them a good blast of steam. Then they would know that they weren't dealing with some dumb kid who was as clumsy as a drunken ballerina, but rather Pamela Sussex, spelling-bee champ extraordinaire. And there were a few choice words that she would spell for them, like K-I-S-S-M-Y-A-S-S! Of course, deep down inside, she knew she would never do such a thing. It was not in her character. Nonetheless, she fantasized about chastising them like naughty children.

Pam flinched as a man ran past her towards the river bank. He carried a long pole with a blue nylon net attached to its far end. Whoever he was, he seemed genuinely amused about going after those apples, and not Pam's conundrum, and that was probably due to the fact that he saw this situation for what it really was: comical. And when Pam heard this kind man's jubilant laughter spill out over the flowing stream and the warm green meadow, she too fell into a fit of laughter. It was hysterical, a simple blunder that was comparable to a clown slipping on a banana peel, or a scene out of an old Charlie Chaplin movie where the little tramp fell face first into a stack of cakes. When she realized this, it immediately took the sting out of her resentment towards those adults on the hill, because if their roles had been reversed, she would have been smiling too.

The friendly man with the dip net fished the apples out of the stream and then laid them back onto the grass in large bundles at a time. And when at last the harvest had all been accounted for, he laid down his handy apparatus and politely introduced himself.

"How'd you do young miss," the man said with a nod and a broad inviting grin. "My name is Luke Bojangles. But folks around these parts calls me, Banjo, even though I don't play a lick of the gee-tar."

Pam smiled at Banjo while marveling at the blueness of his eyes. They were like Mediterranean Oceans. If the eyes were indeed windows to the soul, then this soul was beautiful. She felt as though she had just been reunited with a dear friend from a previous lifetime.

Banjo was a tall man with a slight slouch to his rounded shoulders, which she had once heard her father refer to as a boxer's hump. His gray eyebrows bridged a hooked nose and his whitish locks lay atop a receding hairline in a wispy nest. His aging cheekbones looked rosy and flush in the afternoon sunshine and his large hands appeared to be no stranger to hard work, rough and calloused. He looked like a farmer in a Norman Rockwell painting, except for those impossible to duplicate eyes.

"I see you got yourself all mixed up with me apples," Banjo said, his wide thumbs tucked comfortably into the sturdy straps of his denim overalls. "Well I guess that's an Adam for ya."

"Adam?" Pam asked, still captivated by the wonderful glow that surrounded this unusual man. "But my name is---"

"---Pamela Sussex," Banjo nodded knowingly. "Your mother and your Great Aunt Matilda are my cousins, which would make you another type of cousin, I suppose, but a cousin nonetheless. So with that said, what are a few apples between family, especially if that clumsy little miss just happens to be an Adam?" He said this with a wink that implied an inside secret. "Now your granddaddy's name was, Ike Adam, God rest his soul," Banjo continued, his marvelous blue eyes turned towards the sky with a sort of schooled recollection. "He was a good honest man. Hard worker. Always had a kind word in his mouth. Salt of the earth. He used to work the..." He let those miraculous eyes of his meet Pam's, and after a thoughtful second, he shook his head with a hint of sadness. "Well now...judging by the furrow above those pretty little eyebrows of yours, I'd say you ain't never heard of him before."

"Well...not much," Pam replied somewhat sheepishly, feeling as though she might indulge in some sort of awful transgression if she did not know the name of her very own grandfather. God rest his soul indeed. Truth was she had heard his name mentioned before, just not his surname. Besides, she was only twelve years old, and such genealogical knowledge fell well short of clothes and boys according to her list of simple priorities. "It's just that mother doesn't speak of him often. Perhaps it's too painful a memory."

Banjo paused to consider this explanation, and after a second of introspect, he accepted this notion as sound policy and so moved on. "Still, it's a pity nonetheless. Anyways, your granddad used to work the heavy machinery for Jacob Manley in the Prospect Lumber Yard back in the day when there was such a thing. Now his daughter, your mother, met herself a fellow from the city who used to fix them their heavy machines whenever they broke down."

"Daddy," Pam said with a smile. "Mommy told me they met in a coffee shop."

The truth was it had been a sleazy bar called The Crow's Wing, and both of them had been loaded at the time, but that was not something a parent told their child.

Banjo shrugged his hunched shoulders. "Don't know much about the details surrounding their coupling. Just that she fell in love with a kid who wasn't a local. You see there weren't no trade schools in the Valley back in those days, so when folks needed a skilled tradesmen, they searched outside the town to find'em. One of those skilled tradesmen was your father."

"Robert," Pam said, enlightening Banjo as to her father's actual name.

"Aye," Banjo nodded in a way that suggested he had in fact heard the name before, but had forgotten it. "Robert it is."

"My mother's name is Jennifer," Pam volunteered. "Daddy doesn't fix machines anymore. He fishes lobster and drives a snowplow now and again....that's when there's a good falling of snow down."

"I see," Banjo said, letting his gaze briefly consider the stream's current. "Well, your daddy fell victim to the mill closure just like your granddaddy had." He stopped to study Pam carefully, and for the first time since they had met, she felt an unexplainable darkness emanate from within him, something that spoke of a troubled history that went well beyond depressed economics. "So your daddy had to take your mother away in order to find work," Banjo continued. "Anywhere else in the world, I'd guess that'd be just fine. But round these parts, folks like to settle. To stay put right where they are. Especially when they're an Adam." He said this last part as if it was an omen, one that perhaps insinuated that her parents had willfully engaged in a kind of residential heresy by moving to Sea Haven. "Now, your granddaddy fought to keep'em both here, and he had even threatened to disown her if she left."

"But why? Didn't he understand that they needed to live?"

Banjo sighed an agreement that nonetheless spoken of provisions. "That may very well be so, but in the Valley some things are more than just tradition...they're a God given obligation."

This statement confused Pam and she could tell Banjo knew it had.

"Don't you fret the why or how of it missy may," Banjo said with a smile, his angelic warmth returning with vigor. "You're young, but still...you mind what your mother tells you about the family, lest you lose your connection to the past, and a proud heritage it is at that."

"You're an Adam?" Pam asked. "I thought you said your last name was Bojangles?"

"'Tis," Banjo said with a nod. "My father was a Bojangles, my mother was an Adam. God rest their souls." He then crossed himself in the catholic tradition. "There's plenty of folk in town related to the clan who ain't got the actual name. Phone book's jammed packed with'em. But by god they'd be more than proud to tell you that they're butter come from the same cow, they would. Just like me-self here."

Pam adorned an awkward smile which generally accompanied those who were comically perplexed. "What's so great about being an Adam?"

Banjo cocked an eyebrow in surprise. Never before had he heard such a thing fall off the tongue of a family member, especially the granddaughter of a true blueblood Adam.

"Your mother's been negligent in your teaching child, yes she has at that. Best you talk with your aunt when you get back home. Maybe she'll sit you down and explain a couple of things, like the amazing history of our line."

"Can't you please tell me?' Pam asked, enthralled by this well-kept, but also well-known family secret.

"Sorry child, 'tis the guardian's obligation it is," Banjo nodded. "Always has been, always will be. I've said too much already, but not nearly enough as well...if you get my meaning."

"But you're family," Pam argued cleverly. "Why can't you tell me?"

"I've told you this much because you are family," Banjo replied. "And I've no doubt that your parents and your aunt will most likely be displeased with my having done that much. But it's not up to them or I to keep this chronicle from you, gosh darn it." He pursed his lips and became quite thoughtful. "You see child, fate's got a funny way about it. It saw fit to bring you back to the valley, and it saw fit to see that you'd knock over my apple cart so we'd meet. Fate knows there are things you need to learn, but I'll have no walk with that beast on such a glorious day. That's for the guardian to bestow, not a straggler, even if he is family."

Pam was more confused than ever, but also somewhat understanding of this man's reason for silence. It was obvious that he did not want to step over some preconceived social boundary, because according to him, there were rules to how this sort of thing went. She may only have been twelve years old, but even a young girl like Pamela Sussex understood that society lived and died by its own innate rules. Besides, Banjo had told her enough to set her on the path of knowledge, and that was a good thing. If she needed answers, which she did, she could get them from mom and dad, and even dear-heart Aunt Matilda. As for Banjo, he had played his role in the matter, and there could be no doubt that the seed had been figuratively planted. The rest was up to Pam to discover, and when she got back to her aunt's place on the hill, she would do just that.

Pam smiled upon Banjo and the old man took the gesture to heart. He knew the girl's curiosity was unsatisfied, but still, the kid hadn't whined for the answers. She was wise beyond her years, and that too was something that set her aside from others---made her worthy of that prestigious family name---Adam.

"Regardless if it was meant to be or not, I'd like to apologize for dumping your apples out all over the ground," Pam said most sincerely.

"'Tis neither here nor there my darling girl," Banjo said with a dismissive gesture. "But be mindful where you place your foot in the future, because regardless if fate has a say in it or not, I'd hate to see anything unfortunate befall such a fine young lady."

Together they gathered up the remaining apples and piled them back into the cart without so much as a single word passing between them. But before Banjo pushed his humble wares down between the long narrow avenues of crowded concession stands, and Pam wandered off to pet ivory stallions, they faced one another with an understanding that Pam's education about the family would soon begin.

"Matilda is an Adam matriarch," Banjo nodded with a kindly grin. "Keeping something real special in the attic she is. Perhaps she might even show it to you if you ask her nice enough."

"Something in the attic?" Pam asked, intrigued by this further mystery.

"Tell her you met old Banjo at the fair. See what she has to say about that young miss. You see what her eyes have to say on that subject."

He tilted his head in a farewell salutation and then he and the apple cart slowly teetered off amidst the rows of ring-toss games and trinket shoppers for wherever it was he was destined to go.

(3)

It was dark. Aunt Matilda's Victorian homestead was church quiet. The white house had stood for more than a century, its oak timbers were well settled, and its beach stone foundation had fully consummated its relationship with the surrounding hillside. But like any old house, it had a voice, and that voice spoke out of the dry frame and hardwood floors. The hand planed boards that lay stuffed on a helping of age complained the most, planks that creaked underfoot, rafters that moaned in the wind and cedar shingles that snapped under the weight of a heavy frost. But as for tonight, the house laid strangely silent, as if it too were deep in thought, much like the girl who sat inside one of its four, upstairs bedrooms, a room which just happened to overlook the Annapolis parade grounds.

Outside, the fair continued to roll along despite the fact that the sun had set hours ago, and that a brisk chill now hung in the air, that former semblance of summer long since departed. Against the starlit horizon, a Ferris wheel turned a great neon cog inside an amusement park factory, its steel skeleton wrapped within the vines of electric hues. Beneath the turning monument laid a tangle of thrill rides, each mechanical monster filled with the joyous shouts and screams of a delighted crowd. It was a celebration of spring and those wondrous blossoms which decorated the Valley's numerous apple orchards with their clean white plumage.

These things, however, were of little interest to Pamela Sussex, for she was hopelessly fixated on the words from an old peddler by the name of Banjo. What was the family mystery he had spoken of? Had her meeting with Banjo been a matter of fate? And what did Aunt Matilda keep hidden in the attic?

"I have to ask her," Pam whispered absently.

However, there was a problem she would first have to overcome. Truth told, Pam had snuck away to the fair without her aunt's permission, and as such, she was deeply worried over what dear-heart would think if she found out that her niece had disobeyed. Pam had no desire to be labeled as a child that was not to be trusted, for surely such a youngster would be banned from any future visits to the big old Victorian. Then, there would be no more sleeping on the goose down mattress beneath the big warm comforter with the colorful red tassels, or picking blackberries in the backyard with cousin Jill, or swimming in the lake by the meadow, or riding the tire swing beneath the big maple, for she would no longer be welcome, and that would be more than just a shame, it would be downright awful.

A sigh escaped her tense lips, and for a moment, she thought she might cry, but she abstained. No good would come from such childish tears, however, sincere their sentiment might be. As she thought, it occurred to her, that her short but otherwise eventful trip AWOL would eventually be discovered regardless of what she did or said. It was only logical that Banjo and dear-heart Matilda's paths would cross someday, and when that happened, Pam's Christmas Goose would be figuratively cooked. That realization tied a knot inside the pit of her stomach. It was obvious that the inevitable loomed within the not too distant future. But just what would happen exactly on that dire day induced the sort of uneasiness that always accompanied an open ended threat. Surely, they would not burn her at the stake for heresy, but she would almost certainly be punished. Perhaps a simple grounding or a loss of entertainment privileges, those sorts of hardships were something she could manage, but to be cut off from the Victorian---the Valley---that was something she did not wish to consider, because its hurt cut too deep.

In the distance someone set off a roman candle, and for the first time since Pam had sat down on the windowsill to contemplate her fate, she had become consciously aware of the carnival's activity. Her keen ears listened to the loopy notes being sung by the old Wurlitzer organ and brass pipe calliope. It was here that a strange idea took root, an alien concept which owed its weird inspiration to those oddly warbled notes from both the carousel and the carnival anthem. It was true, she was still young, but she had been around long enough to have heard this kind of midway music dozens of times before. Tonight however, there was something different about it, something mournful, a cry that had managed to cross an ocean of time in order to reach her waiting ears. It was heartbreak, joy, despair, hope, hate, love and every other virtue and failing known to the human heart.

At any other time those familiar melodies would have proven inconsequential. But tonight as they crooned together, they took on a whole different dimension, one that spoke to Pam on a level she never knew existed. It felt spiritual, perhaps the way God spoke to his disciples and prophets whenever he needed them to take a note of dictation. Except this message was foggy, a signal overlap in a gray mist of dead static. In concert these dueling tunes played a strange kind of harmony, pieces of the same song that ran at different intervals, a few seconds out of synch one way or the other. And as she strained her ears in an attempt to listen closer, she could not help but feel as though she had heard this song or something like it before.

But where had she heard it? It felt like dejavu. Perhaps the melody had been sung to her as a lullaby when she had just been an infant. She could not remember, and her attempts to explain away the intimate connection she felt towards that haunting song felt hollow, because somehow there was far more to it---much more. She could feel it within the core of her bones, her DNA, and as far down as her family tree's roots dared to go. Whatever the answer was to that mysterious melody's origin, it was buried too deep for her conscious mind to dig out of the mire.

A light knock on the bedroom door dragged Pam back into the real world and effectively severed her connection to that one possible past. Of course, it could only be one person, seeing as Uncle Will never bothered to climb the stairs on account of his bad hip. It had to be dear-heart Matilda, come to see how her niece was doing, and to no doubt suggest a game of Monopoly or Scrabble. But then again, it could be to talk about why Pam had snuck out to the fair this afternoon without permission.

But no, Banjo and Matilda could not have crossed paths that soon. Or could they have? Perhaps when she was in the shower, Matilda had stepped out briefly to get something from the local co-op, and while there, she had ran smack dab into good old Banjo and they had talked about a visiting relative from Sea Haven and also about some fallen apples.

What was she to do? Confess or hold her silence?

The solid oak door opened and in stepped the aged frame of dear-heart Matilda. She had a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies perched in one knurled hand, and a cold glass of milk clutched in the other. She wore green polyester slacks and a white cashmere sweater with a brown puppy embroidered on its breast. A tiny gold crucifix hung about her leathery neck, while an awkward looking hearing aid nested within the hub of her ear. She had Banjo's rolled shoulders, which probably had more to do with osteoporosis than poor posture. Yet despite her slouch, Matilda exuded an illusion of height. This most likely had more to do with her compelling presence than anything else. She was regal and worthy of respectful consideration, not by virtue of her advanced years, but rather by the fine quality of her decent character.

Matilda shuffled across the room, her gait a bit jittery with age. She looked upon Pam with hazel eyes that were as sharp as her niece's, perhaps even more so. There was no judgment set upon Matilda's graceful but otherwise withered face, and that immediately set Pam's heart at ease. She was safe for the time being. But that sense of comfort was conditional and she knew it. Sometimes it was better to just have at it, for the anticipation of a fear made that fear even worse to contend with. And so she decided right then and there it would be best to come clean with Matilda, and as such, prepared to offer forth her confession, mindful that it was always best to play it straight with someone you loved, especially when they were a dear-heart.

"Brought you a treat angel-heart," Matilda said as she placed the milk and cookies on a small table next to Pam's goose down bed.

"Thank you dear-heart," Pam said, a weak smile briefly touching her full lips.

Pam could tell that departing her truth would be difficult, and what made it worse was that the horrible truth was so stupid, childish even. After all, it wasn't like she had killed someone or burned a village to the ground. She had simply wandered off for an hour or so to take in the fair, that was all. So what harm was there? None, that's what. But she knew it had been more than that. She had been sneaky about going off, and that kind of transgression always rang of a moral principle. Here, Pam's mother had entrusted Matilda with her daughter's safe keeping, and then Pam jeopardizes her mother's good faith in Matilda's ability to care for her niece, by running off. And if that wasn't bad enough, Pam had put her own good character into question. With a single poor choice she had become the sneaky girl, the not to be trusted girl, and in the end maybe that's what she really was. And what also bothered her terribly was that she did not know why she had snuck off. It was so completely out of character for her, so unlike the goody-two-shoes spelling bee champ that she was. But she had, and she was well aware that once you took a bite out of the cake, then you owned it.

A heavy feeling grew inside her chest until it pushed a sizable lump up into the grotto of her throat.

"Would you like to play a board game before you slip off to bed angel-heart?" Matilda asked. She knew Pam preferred Scrabble, seeing as she was so good at spelling words.

"I..." Pam paused, drew in a gulp of air, something to carry those words she must speak. "Aunt Matilda, this afternoon when you took a nap, I..."

"Yes dear?" Matilda asked, her gentle features drawn together with concern.

Pam closed her eyes and balled her hands up into two tight fists. This was harder than she thought, and to make matters more complicated, that music from the fair was filling her head with all kinds of crazy ideas. What song was that? Where had she heard it before?

"I met Banjo today."

"Luke stopped by here?" Matilda asked, curious, but not troubled by this bit of news, seeing as Banjo was known to stop by once in a while.

"No," Pam replied softly, her eyes turned down towards the floor.

"I don't understand," Matilda said, her thin lips shaped into a good-natured grin. "Where'd you see old Banjo now?"

Pam hesitated, mindful that there was no going back now. "I saw him at the fair."

"The fair...I don't understand...when did you go to the fair?"

"I'm sorry!" Pam blurted out. She was on a roll and needed to testify if only to lay down her burden. "I don't know why I wandered off without permission. It's just that the day was so warm and the sights and odors coming from the fair were so tempting, so inviting. Besides, I didn't go far...I could still see the house from the parade grounds." This latter statement stood on shaky legs but she fielded it anyways. "Forgive me Aunt Matilda. I know I should've asked you first. It won't happen again. I swear it."

Matilda raised her next to nothing eyebrows into a pleasant arch. But still, there was something within her old, but alert hazel eyes that said she had a greater concern than Pam's little adventure abroad. And God help her, Pam was quite certain she knew what it was.

"Banjo said it had been fate that we should meet," Pam reiterated, which of course had been Banjo's genuine belief. Besides, if that fact was true, then it took the heat off Pam's being there, because fate had ultimately dictated that she must sneak out to the fair, or so she hoped.

Matilda, however, remained unmoved, distracted, as if listening to that loopy carnival music that continued to drone on outside, and not to the explanation being spoken by her angel-heart of a niece. Truth was the melody had stolen a part of Pam's attention too. But still, she managed to remain lucid.

"Fate," Matilda muttered, as she eased her posterior onto Pam's bed. "Is that what he told you?"

"Yes ma'am."

For the first time ever, Pam could see just how old Matilda had grown. It was obvious that lovable old dear-heart had one foot on the funeral home floor and the other inside a silk sheet casket. It was an image Pam wanted cut from her mind, for it spoke of the sort of inevitability that no child should ever have to accept. Death was for goldfish, not beloved dear-heart.

"Is that all he said?" Matilda asked.

The question sounded more like a test than a general curiosity, and perhaps it was.

"No," Pam replied, as she took a seat next to Matilda on the bed. "He spoke of mother and father...of granddad and the Valley...about being an Adam."

Matilda closed her eyes softly, crossed herself in the catholic tradition, and then set her hand gently upon Pam's. The elderly woman's skin felt dry, an ancient parchment that threatened to come apart at the slightest bit of movement. Still, there was a radiant heat inside her old blood, a resilient fire that owed its vigor to spirit, not organic chemistry. She was a strong old bird, despite the fact that she was ready to fall apart at the rheumatoid joints.

"Did he speak of the family tree...the details of our heritage?" Matilda asked in a whisper, as if someone or something unseen might be listening.

"He said it was for the guardian to bestow such knowledge," Pam answered. She too had begun to whisper, although she had no idea why.

Matilda nodded an agreement and then paused to think deeply, contemplating what to do or say next. For the first time since Pam had met her, Matilda looked uncertain.

"It should be your mother's place to tell you of such things. Although, I doubt she would ever sit you down to do just that. You see, your momma doesn't put much faith in the old tales of family lore." Matilda smiled, although it held no humor, just a sort of reminiscent sadness that spoke of differing opinions and beliefs between close kin. "They're like fairy tales to her and your father. Seems like most of the younger generation these days doesn't put much merit in our heritage...too fantastic a tale I reckon." Her eyebrows hunched and then she nodded decisively. "Probably so, but that don't make it untrue either."

"Would you tell me dear-heart...please?"

Pam was ready to explode. She was also glad to see where this unusual conversation was headed, and that was in the opposite direction of where she had feared it might lead: to her domestic exile. True, she wasn't out of the thorn bushes yet, but she could see the garden path and that hidden ancestral trail led to all things Adam, perhaps even into the musty coffers of the Victorian's attic. Suddenly, she could hear Banjo's voice speaking within her thoughts: _Matilda is an Adam matriarch. Keeping something real special in the attic she is. Perhaps she might even show it to you if you ask her nice enough._

Pam decided against it, to pace herself and let Matilda lead the disclosure.

"I'm sorry angel-heart," Matilda replied regretfully. "I'm not your guardian. Your mother---"

"---But you are my guardian...at least for the weekend that is," Pam debated, citing a potential legal loop hole that might actually slice through the bureaucratic nonsense.

Matilda considered Pam's logic, not just because it sounded reasonable, but because she had a genuine desire to educate her niece in the matters of family tradition.

"You're a clever girl angel-heart," Matilda said thoughtfully. "More clever than I was at your age. They say it is a gift inherent in all the Adam women: book smarts. But there's a real difference between learning a thing and the practical application of it. Isn't there my dear girl?"

Pam offered a knowing grin, which in itself was an answer.

"The family has always been a brainy lot," Matilda said with a note of pride, which also sounded tainted on something sour, as if the Adam lineage had perhaps acquired its considerable knowledge illegally by cheating on some kind of a genealogical IQ test. "Don't you think so, Pam?"

"Yes," Pam replied after a second of introspect. "I know mom is as smart as a whip, and that Cousin Tabitha has a photographic memory, and that Aunt Priscilla and Miriam are excellent at advanced physics."

"Do you ever wonder how they can do the things they do, angel-heart?"

"It's a product of genetics," Pam replied. "It's in our family's genes to be smart. Just like diabetes gets passed down from one generation to the next. It's in the blood."

Matilda did not pose an explanation to the contrary, which in itself hinted at something unusual. But what was it? Pam was ready to turn inside out, but she kept silent, waiting on Matilda to either send her great niece to sleep on a belly full of milk and cookies, or a head full of forbidden answers.

Meanwhile, outside, that strange ethereal carnival music continued to drag on. It proved to be an annoying distraction, a mosquito in her ear. However, the conversation with Aunt Matilda had her completely enthralled to the point of obsession. If an atomic bomb were to explode outside she would not have blinked an eye.

"There's something I'd like you to see angel-heart," Matilda said. "Maybe old Banjo mentioned something about it."

"The thing in the attic."

Pam said this so quickly that it sounded like one word.

Matilda knew then that her niece's thoughts had probably been bent on its discovery ever since old Banjo had first mentioned it. It was an understandable curiosity, but still the kind of inquisitiveness that could kill that cat if it wasn't too careful.

"Yes," Matilda replied with kind warmth. "The thing in the attic."

(4)

The way was narrow. The hardwood stairs creaked underfoot. The passage was dimly lit by a weak light bulb that seemed charged by an exotic elixir, not electricity. It shone cold upon the oak panels, which were faded on a century's worth of quiet age. At the height of the stairs stood a mahogany door with a tarnished knob set within an equally tarnished plate. Below the handle lay a dark groove that accommodated the brief comings and goings of a crude skeleton key.

As Pam watched Matilda use that type of key to unlock the door, she could not help but think that this was not an attic, but rather a secret closet that hid all the Adam skeletons from over the years. Perhaps even the family stronghold where the Adam women kept all those carefully guarded IQ test answers.

There was a slight scrape and jingle, followed by the audible click as the lock released its bolt. Matilda turned her frail head and gazed down upon Pam, her hazel eyes worried but also reassuring. Pam reciprocated her darling dear-heart with a weak smile that tried to look confident, but came off hollow, a little girl who was more than a tad bit nervous.

"Do not fear angel-heart," Matilda assured her with a quick wink. "There's nothing in here but the past, and it cannot harm you."

Pam nodded, but still she felt uneasy about going inside the attic, and that probably had to do with the fact that she could sense Matilda's keepsake, heirloom, or whatever the hell it was, waiting for them. Of course, she told herself it was just her imagination busy working the redeye, but it was still a hard sell to make.

The door cracked open with a painful moan, the way a castle gate ground back on a corroded iron hinge. The sound was accompanied by an indistinct sigh that crept upon the breath of a cold draft.

The answer to the mystery was close now _._

Matilda reached in and felt along the attic wall. "You'd think after all these years, I'd be able to find this thing with my eyes closed," she grumbled. "God be praised if he'd give an old woman sight in the dark and a kidney to set the hour by."

The switch clicked and white light cascaded out through the doorway.

Pam was relieved to see that dear-heart had not been thrifty when it came to lighting the attic with low watt light bulbs. Still, the light felt frosty, too white, too artificial for its own good, if that made any sense.

"Saints be praised," Matilda sighed, as she stepped into the attic's garish light. "I should have that light switch moved into the stairwell." She turned to see her niece dawdling on the stairs. It was obvious that Pam's eagerness to discover the Adam mystery was not quite as strong as her apprehension about coming inside. "It's okay angel-heart," Matilda assured again, a hand held out to receive her hesitant niece. "Remember what I said? There's nothing in here but the past, and it can't harm you."

Pam let her wide eyes wander through the nooks and crannies of the cluttered room. The rafters lay silted with dust and cobwebs. Tattered boxes loaded with junk lay to and fro in haphazard piles that seemed to defy gravity's insistence that they should fall over. A cedar armoire stood sentinel against a far wall, its nook filled with old dresses and moth eaten jackets. An old rocking horse sat idly upon a set of rusted springs, its flowing mane and smiling eyes faded by the passage of time. An old traveler's trunk with frayed leather straps and tin hinges lay beside a pine crate that had been planked together with old fashioned iron nails. The entire attic read like a mausoleum, a place where useless things came to die. Yet aside from the obvious disarray there was the telltale odor of forgotten age, a faint mustiness along with something Pam could not quite identify, a subtle sweetness. It was an exquisite aroma that seemed to beckon her hither.

"Aunt Matilda?" Pam asked, her nostrils twitching.

"Yes angel-heart?"

"What is that wonderful smell?"

Pam's eyes rolled dreamily beneath her closed eyelids as she breathed in that heavenly fragrance. She felt drunk on its eloquent bouquet. All her anxiety and curiosity fell into abandonment in favor of that finest perfume. Suddenly, she no longer stood inside dear-heart's musty attic or the Annapolis Valley for that matter, but rather in a garden of absolute perfection. The ground beneath her feet sang of ultimate joy and expressed its delight through the beatific magnificence of its floral utopia. Pink, white, and red roses swayed within a soft seductive breeze of a virginal kiss. Thick plush grass spilt underfoot, an emerald carpet so vibrant in color that it bordered on the impossible. A rainbow of orchids aligned the gentle meadow before the tall rooted wood of exotic trees that bore delectable fruits that came wrapped in all manner of sizes, shapes, and husks. There were pears that were not pears, mangos that were not mangos, and so on, and each of them a variation on the familial theme of what Pam understood to be the ordinary world. Except these fruits, plants, and trees were infinitely better, as if nature had tried to copy their angelic glory but had fallen woefully short of their ideal example. Here, Pam's world was nothing more than a mutation, an ugly misfit in the presence of such utter perfection that it was an insult, and that realization wounded her deeply.

Her tearful eyes glimpsed a slow winding stream of pristine clarity that skirted the field like a ribbon of superbly blown crystal. The water sang a hymn in celebration of its existence, a gospel in praise to its divine creator, as did all things here. A tranquil sky shone cerulean blue, its air a warm gift that held neither dust nor blight. This shire was woven from the pages of a fairytale. Perhaps _"Alice in Wonderland,"_ except it had been Pamela Sussex who had fallen through the looking glass. There was no denying that this place was paradise incarnate, and such was her love of its poetic majesty that her spirit sobbed in despair, for it was removed from humanity by such a distance that no journey could ever hope to reconcile its division. Here, this holiest of sanctuaries was truly home, and somehow all worldly things had fallen away from it.

She could sense it in her bones, that separation of human spirit from God and this hallowed dominion, like wheat that had been violently cut away from the chaff. Humanity had fallen from grace within this sacred garden and would never come to feel its splendor embrace their spirits ever again.

Her sorrowful gaze fell upon a solitary tree that stood within the garden's center and instinctively understood that humanity's spiritual indiscretion had taken place there. The Tree of Forbidden Knowledge stood tallest and most beautiful in Eden's Garden, the tree that all other trees failed to emulate. Its heart shaped leaves were liken unto jade glass, which sparkled and shone like heaven's treasure. Mighty branches supported a lofty canopy, which gave shelter to an otherwise broad straight trunk that buried its vigorous roots into the meaty soil that was anything but soiled. Its bark was earthen brown and gave no sign of crease nor carving, just an unblemished symmetry that invited the touch of a hand or a cheek. Crimson-gold apples glistened like summer heat personified. The forbidden fruit nested within the rich foliage, plump on sweet exotic juices, a ripe delicacy that was so tempting to the soul that every ounce of her essence called out to be nourished. The glorious tree also sang a tune, except its song was intimately familiar, and its lyric was not of the Lord's praise, but rather of feasting on the rewards of ultimate knowledge. The chorus made Pam's stomach rumble and her saliva glands sweat profusely. It was so close, that unique understanding that could satisfy even the most stubborn of whys.

She had to have just one bite!

She moved forward, hand outreached to receive that crimson-gold trophy of the spirit's harvest, that mystical object which promised to make all things new again. She bawled uncontrollably as she crept across the meadow, tears burning her flush cheeks, and just when she felt her heart might explode with unconditional love over this spiritual reunion, she was jolted back into the polluted everyday world by a sharp explosion of pain that fell swiftly across her left cheek.

(5)

Pam sat on her posterior inside of dear-heart's stale attic, trying to figure out where the hell she was. Matilda knelt next to her niece with a caring hand placed upon the very spot she had just slapped.

"Forgive me my dearest angel-heart."

Pam winced from the sting that still resided inside her cheekbone. What had just happened? She looked upon her dear-heart with wide eyes that were overcome for questions.

"You were gone from me, Pamela," Matilda explained, a pang of guilt heard within her anxious words. "I tried to snap you out of your trance, but you would not waken. Forgive me precious child, for I have never raised a hand against anyone in my entire life, let alone my dearest angel-heart."

Pam shook her head and gathered up her senses, which felt every bit as scattered about the attic floor as those ramshackle boxes. "What happened?"

Matilda and Pam helped each other to stand.

"I've never seen anyone react as you have," Matilda said, as she continued to check Pam over for damage. "If I had known you'd react like that, then I would never have brought you up here, dear child."

Pam's balance found steady footing as the room once again took on its familiar textures. She could remember a little bit now, the breathtaking garden with the beautiful flowers, rich blossoms, and the unadulterated air. What a contrast this attic was in comparison to that incredible garden, this world that felt so soiled that Pam felt she might vomit before its squalor.

"What happened, angel-heart?" Matilda asked, cradling Pam's face gently within her frail hands.

"I saw...a garden," Pam stammered. Her eyes darted back and forth, eyes that in this world lay dry of tears. She tried to recall the memory which felt doomed to fade under the sight of her waking eye, for it was just too incredible a recollection to retain within this diseased world. "It was like nothing I've ever seen or felt before. It was perfection...bliss." Once again Pam's ears caught wind of that distant Wurlitzer and brass pipe calliope, which continued to churn out its oddly warbled notes. Didn't Aunt Matilda hear that surreal melody within the carnival music? The bizarre harmony that skirted the music's jagged edges, which in itself was another song that failed to fully surface. Was she deaf? The melody's presence was undeniable, and here, Matilda had not batted an eye nor given an inkling that she had heard anything out of the ordinary. It was enough to make Pam---

\---But no---it wasn't coming from the carnival at all, it was closer than that. The tune came from within the house itself, and not just the house, but this very room, the attic. Her eyes and ears searched past Matilda towards the wall which stood at the house's front end. There, a small table carved from west coast redwood, lay beneath a crescent window on a single pillared leg with four lion like paws attached to its lower pedestal. Upon this table sat a small cube that resembled a music box. Pam approached the object slowly. It seemed that even the air in this world felt weighted by comparison to that garden's, or perhaps it had to do with that yearning that lingered on inside her heart. True, that aching emotion of separation had faded quickly enough, like a dream evaporated in the soft glow of a breaking dawn, but its sharp residue continued to stain her jade eyes to the point where she was almost blind to everything else.

"Pam," Matilda whispered, her hand draped lightly over her niece's shoulder. "Let us go angel-heart. I'm worried you shouldn't be here." The urgency had swelled in Matilda's voice, for she could not understand Pam's mysterious reaction to the box, and that ambiguity spoke of trouble, she was most certain of it.

Pam reached up and cradled dear-heart's hand within hers. "It is okay auntie...I must see...I must know."

Matilda released Pam, so that her niece might settle her curiosity once and for all. Besides, Matilda felt the decision was ultimately out of her hands regardless of how she may have felt on the matter. Whatever spell had taken hold of her angel-heart, no doubt wielded its powers over both karma and fate, and those issues went well beyond her understanding.

Banjo would have most certainly agreed with Matilda on that wisdom.

Pam stood before the pine box, which wasn't actually pine, and studied the artistic design that had been intricately carved into the wood's fine grain. The lid depicted a tall statuesque tree whose hearty roots sank deep into the fertile grassland. Its massive canopy was held aloft by mighty branches, the arms of Atlas as he supported the weight of the world.

Within the pit of her dying memory the tree's come-hither song passed into shadow. Sadly those glorious notes had faded away within the hub of the waking world. She let a cautious finger trace the amazing artwork. The subtle contours blended together so evenly that the portrayal almost passed for a photographic picture. Beneath the press of her flesh a strange vibration stirred like a tuning fork placed against an instrument's rosewood.

"It's been in the family for generations," Matilda explained, assuming the role of museum curator. "It dates back to our banishment from paradise...from Eden."

Pam felt an icy draft slip down her backbone. Here, she had just been to _paradise lost_ in spirit, but it nonetheless still felt like the thing of legend, a childish daydream.

"Our banishment," Pam whispered. Her eyes lay fixated upon the box's forward face, which portrayed yet another drawing. This artwork showcased a complex network of emblems, which may have been text. The symbols ran from top to bottom, curved and overlapped, zigzagged sporadically, and yet for all their seemed randomness, they still exuded a sophisticated order.

"Our family is the direct descendants of Adam and Eve," Matilda said in a hushed tone. "God knows how they got this bit of heaven out of the garden, but they did."

Pam thought to question Matilda on the validity of such a grandiose remark, but it didn't just feel rude, but stupid considering her recent incident. Besides, Pam had not just gone there, she had bought the damn tee-shirt as far as she was concerned.

"I thought everyone was a descendant of Adam and Eve," Pam noted, as she knelt before the box as to better examine that web of splintered lines.

"No," Matilda replied. "Not everyone's butter comes from the same cow, angel-heart. There were others outside the Garden of Eden...savage dwellers....lesser folk who toiled the land for crops and hunted game for meat. Their blood does not run nearly so rich as Adam's blood does, I reckon. They are the bastard children of the wildwood earth. Animals blessed with a human soul, thanks be to the Almighty God."

Pam did not much care for that description of humanity, it felt too racist, too self-righteous for her liberal ears. Although, she was certain dear-heart hadn't meant it that way, or so she hoped.

"What are these lines auntie?" Pam continued to search for a pattern within the knotted canals. It kind of reminded her of those puzzles in a newspaper where you had to find your way to the center using a ballpoint pen, except that this riddle led to something infinitely more important.

"Some say it represents the family's future lineage," Matilda replied. "That perhaps there is a prophesy within the tangle of lines that has yet to be discovered."

"Could it be a map?" Pam asked, as she pointed towards the oddly shaped symbols on the outer edges. "This cryptogram looks like an N, this one an E, this a W, and this one an S...yes, definitely an S, I'd bet on it."

"Aye," Matilda nodded. "It could be at that. But I've never seen any map that looked like that before. There are too many miserable lines cluttering it up. How would you know where to go?"

Pam supposed Matilda was correct on that assessment. It did seem highly unlikely that you could find your way by using those twisty lines as a guide. But still, there was something inside her that said those symbols represented some geographical topography, and that those symbols on the periphery were in fact compass bearings. She checked the remaining surface areas. There were no additional carvings. The artist had posted no more clues as to the box's creation and purpose.

She straightened back up. "What's inside dear-heart?"

That possibility intrigued her creative imagination with many different scenarios. Could it be a fang from that miserable serpent on the vine? Could it be one of the fig leaves that Adam and Eve had worn to cover up their modesty? Could it be the rotted core of the one and only forbidden fruit? She struggled with an overwhelming urge to reach out and lift the box's thin decorative lid in order to appease that snarling beast called curiosity, but she politely abstained. She did not dare engage that which did not belong to her, not only because it would have been disrespectful to its caretaker, but because she wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of what might lie within.

"Open it," Matilda coaxed with a wan smile.

That smile made Pam more than uncomfortable, it made her nervous. Where had her aunt's glow gone so quickly? It had to do with the presence of the box, she was sure of it. Here, dear-heart looked as though she was about to cash in all her Catholic bingo chips, and again Pam could see just how close her aunt was to swinging her remaining foot up into the casket.

She forced the image of Matilda's corpse out of her mind's eye and addressed the pine box, which was not actually pine. She recalled Matilda's words: _"_ _There's nothing in there but the past and it can't harm you."_ However, Pam wasn't entirely certain anymore and suspected that dear-heart probably felt the same seeing as her darling niece had zoned out so inexplicably earlier. Yet, if the old girl did have reservations about Pam taking a gander inside the mystery box, then she kept it under lock and key. And that no doubt had to do with a belief that these matters involved that stubborn bitch otherwise known as destiny.

Pam's fingers touched the box's lid. Again, she found that strange vibration. "The music," Pam whispered. "It really is coming from inside."

"What music?" Matilda asked, fearful that her angel-heart might be headed for another episode. She wrung her hands nervously, mindful that this disclosure should have been performed by the true guardian and wondered if she had inadvertently committed some sort of sacrilege by assuming that role. Regardless if she had or had not, it was too late to go back now, for the deed had been rendered.

"Don't you hear it?" Pam asked with her eyes fixated on the carved image of the Forbidden Tree. "I thought it was the carnival carousel outside, but it's not. It's coming from inside the box."

Matilda fiddled with her hearing aid, trying to tune into a better channel, one that broadcasted music box melodies. "I don't hear it."

The fact that Matilda could not hear the sickly tune did not surprise Pam. It was as if there was an unspoken understanding emerging between her and the box, a subliminal tether that perhaps expressed itself through telepathy. Her connection to the box was like an unformed thought veiled inside a deaf fog, elusive. But why had it only given part of itself over to her consciousness and not the rest? Was it fishing for her the way a dip net fished an apple out of a meandering stream?

"It is of no consequence auntie if you hear the melody or not," Pam said in a distant voice. "For such are the flights of fancy with young girls."

Matilda doubted this, but nonetheless accepted Pam's explanation as being of sound mind. If there was indeed music singing from within the box, and she could not hear it, then so be it, and if there wasn't, then that was fine too. In the end, all that really mattered was the disclosure.

The box lid came away from its lower compartment and briefly hung in the air, a thin balsam shield that stood between Pam and an untold knowledge. It was here, that those off-kilter loops of magic box music finally stopped, leaving the attic to wallow within its own stolid silence---that was except for the old Wurlitzer and brass pipe calliope which continued to whirr on out of doors.

From beneath the lid arose the scent of apple blossoms, an odor so strong that it felt as though a bouquet of flowers had just been stuffed into her tiny nose. It made her feel a bit dizzy. However, this time she did not zone out and take a leisurely stroll through Eden's scenic garden. Her feet remained bound to this spoiled world for all their miserable worth, and that disappointed her deeply, for she would have very much liked to have taken another trip over the rainbow.

Oh, if only she could feel that penetrating warmth again, to touch that plush emerald grass, to see that glorious jade tree that had crooned so beautifully and to perhaps taste one of its sumptuous crimson-gold apples.

The lid was laid aside on the table. The inner confine of the pine box, which wasn't pine, was exposed to the attic's garish light. Pam's eyes strained within the hollowed nook as to see that coveted family treasure. However, there was neither the glitter of gold nor a pile of sparking sapphires to satisfy her curiosity, there was just a sullen shade of unremarkable emptiness.

"There's nothing inside," Pam said with an audible note of disappointment.

"Reach in," Matilda urged. "There's more that is unseen than seen in this world my dearest."

Matilda was quietly relieved to see that her beloved niece had not fallen under the box's unusual spell once again, and that development gave her hope that this evening would end out relatively uneventful.

Pam cautiously buried her slender hand into the box's dark alcove, her fingers in search of that thing which was unseen. It was true: her eyes had lied to her. According to her fingertips, the box was very much full. That flat blackness that had suggested an empty void was in fact a ruse. The family treasure was not diamonds, nor gems, nor crimson-gold apples, but rather a dreary content whose countenance shone as dark as coal. The treasure felt cool to the touch, fine like sand except meatier, smooth and symmetrical, hundreds if not thousands of small flawless stones of similar size and texture.

Pam isolated one of these pieces and withdrew it from the box as to study its physical makeup with an analytical eye.

"It's a seed," Pam said, her eyebrows drawn together.

"Yes...an apple seed," Matilda said with a bit of a sigh. Dear-heart had not been sure what wonder Pam's young hand might have exhumed from that strangest of bins. After all, tonight's tutelage on family history felt burdened with issues that may or may not have involved an ancient prophesy that had lain dormant for untold generations. Such a notion gave Matilda fodder for consideration: Was there something special about Pam as it pertained to the family's lineage? Was her niece here to fulfill a divine role that had been preordained by the powers that be? Matilda wasn't sure. All she knew was that she was glad to see that tiny kernel in her darling niece's hand, for that discovery was supposed to be there, and nothing calmed dear-heart's nerves as much as the expected.

"There are thousands of them as you have no doubt gathered," Matilda said "It's said they are seeds from the Garden of Eden. However, no one knows for certain."

"Has anyone ever tried to plant one?" Pam asked as she rolled the small pit between her thumb and forefinger, examining its texture. She then placed the seed within her line of sight with the box and compared the two as if trying to fit a piece into a puzzle.

"Heavens no child!" Matilda replied with a nervous laugh, her hand thwarting off any evil spirits that might be listening by signing the Catholic cross. "Those seeds stay inside the box. They are not to be tossed upon the ground like common grain or to be sown for a coming harvest. They're special. Do you understand angel-heart?" The question sounded shaky, as if Matilda was not so much making a declaration but rather seeking an assurance.

Pam cupped the seed gently within the soft folds of her hand and then offered her aunt a cordial smile that felt tacked on with clothes pegs. "Of course, I understand. It was just a silly question." However, she felt to court such a notion was a natural progression in regards to the scientific method. After all, the seeds were meant to be sown, and she could not believe that someone in all these years had not attempted to do so. Weren't her ancestors the least bit curious to see what wonder would sprout forth from such an endeavor? Superstition, that's what it had been, pure nonsensical superstition that had stayed their wits from embracing a practical discovery. They had feared the fruits of that labor, and as such, had abstained from committing some self-perceived sacrilege that they had felt would incite God's wrath. She concluded that her ancestors loaned credence to foolish legends and nonsensical myths, and as such, had endowed the common seed box with supernatural attributes. Of course that judgment of her predecessors was admittedly harsh, for Pam also knew that the pine box, which was not pine, was anything but common. Her cavalier attitude stemmed from a youthful disposition that was often a fatality in regards to a lack of wisdom. Yes, she was smart, but she was still only twelve years old, and until she had walked those long arduous miles to adulthood, she would never completely empathize with others until she had fully matured.

But then there was more too her willful desire to dismiss her aunt's sensible caution in regards to planting one of those smooth dark seeds, and that lack of insight involved a very common human failing. The ego was an infliction that accepted no age limit and often set itself at odds with those of good care. It was that prideful ego that had told Pam that she could handle any sort of plant that might dare to sprout its leaves while under the attention of her watchful eye. After all, what would be the worst thing that could happen? The risk not only seemed minimal, but laughable as well. Besides, what if she actually succeeded in growing an offshoot of the one and only Tree of Knowledge?

She recalled that fair tree's wondrous song and captivating beauty. Surely such a blessing would only serve the world's benefit rather than to mire it. That purest of trees, if properly cultivated, would sing its praises to all humanity. Its song would unify the peoples of the world and the multitudes would set forth on a pilgrimage from the four corners as to marvel upon its eloquence. The tree would prove a shrine to the faithful, and in so doing offer hope where there had been none before.

Perhaps to feast upon that holiest of bounty's, the sumptuous crimson-gold apples, would invite a transformation of both mind and spirit. Mayhap that from an act of consumption, one might attain that highest of enlightenments and finally answer that age old question of _why._ Surely that end would justify the means. Surely no misdeed would blossom forth from such a noble ideal. Surely the risk was worth the pursuit of that finest of quests that sought to fulfill a soul's betterment with the understanding of the self.

As Pam deliberated the possibilities, she reflected on Aunt Matilda's apprehensions. Could she defy dear-heart's warning in regards to undertaking such an errand? Would she steal a seed as to satisfy that innermost of cravings? Would she add thievery to her character's assassination? Her thoughts lay conflicted on a proper course of action.

"Does anyone know where the Garden of Eden is located?" Pam asked. "Does it still exist?" That possibility intrigued her deeply and filled her imagination with images of seasoned explorers braving a great thick jungle in pursuit of that patch of paradise lost.

"No one knows where the Garden is, or if it has survived the troubled days that have led into this modern age," Matilda replied with a sigh. "The box and our family chronicle are the only proof we have that Eden once existed. The box has traveled around the world and has exchanged many different hands as you can imagine. But from whence it came...what continent....what country...I cannot attest."

Pam bowed her head and twirled the seed thoughtfully within her fingers. "What a pity."

"Yes," Matilda agreed. "Well...at least now you know what it means to be an Adam, the burden our clan carries. It is a difficult thing to learn, but it's important that the family not forget our heritage. It is important that we stick together, that we keep in touch, that we educate the young in the matters of our proud history."

"Proud," Pam retorted in a somewhat haughty voice. "Forgive me dear-heart, but what's to be proud of? We're the direct descendants of the two idiots who screwed things up for everyone else on the planet. We're the children of original sin. No wonder my mother never told me...she probably wants to forget. If folks knew who we were, they'd probably stone us in the streets."

"Aye," Matilda nodded in more of a makeshift agreement. "You're most likely right. But it doesn't change the fact about who we are, and if we deny that, then we deny ourselves."

Wisdom spoken was wisdom gained, but nonetheless hearsay to a twelve year old girl.

Pam studied the seemingly harmless seed with eyes that looked elsewhere. Had this seed truly come from one of those juicy crimson-gold apples? And if so, could such a thing germinate after all those long centuries of sitting docile inside a small wooden box? It seemed unlikely, but at the same time, plausible, for this was no common apple seed.

"Put it back dear-heart," Matilda said in a soft voice. "Let us go downstairs where it's warmer. Save ourselves from getting pneumonia in this drafty old place."

Matilda rubbed her hands up and down her chilled biceps in a telling gesture, while Pam weighed an important decision. "Of course," Pam sighed with a weak smile. She placed her hand back into the box to return that which belonged in its proper place and then reset the lid.

The music did not return.

"Maybe we should keep this trip up to the attic a secret for the time being," Matilda said in an encouraging tone. "Your uncle isn't comfortable with the Eden topic let alone having that box inside the house. Not to mention that your mother is most certain to frown upon such a thing, if only over concern for your feelings."

"Yes," Pam nodded, noting how reasonable the suggestion sounded. "It'll be our little secret."

Matilda approached her niece and gave her a big heart felt hug. "Are you okay sweetie? No more visions? No more strange music?"

"No," Pam replied, wondering why she had experienced such an odd thing in the first place. "Forgive me if I frightened you."

"Don't fret that precious," Matilda replied with a motherly laugh. "It wasn't your fault. What happened, happened for a reason, I'm sure, even if we don't know the why or how of it. Besides, such mysteries are in God's tender care, as are we."

Pam could hear the uncertainty stitched into that hopeful assertion, which no doubt had been spoken solely on behalf of easing her darling niece's worries over such a strange bit of business. Still, it was what she needed to hear regardless. As always, the best lies told were the ones we told ourselves.

"What now dear-heart?" Pam asked. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"The next time you come back to the Valley, we will go visit dear old Banjo," Matilda said with a playful wink. "He has a book full of pictures and stories involving Adam members from over the years. It's quite an interesting read."

Pam smiled warmly and then nodded an agreement. "I'd like that."

"Then let us get you back downstairs and ready you for bed angel-heart," Matilda said on a chipper note. "You've got a long trip back home tomorrow and you'll need a good night's rest."

"I wish I could stay here with you auntie," Pam said, a sincere sentiment if ever there was one spoken. She loved the Valley, the Victorian, and her precious dear-heart deeply. Not to mention that there was something special about the people here, and after tonight's events, she knew exactly what that was.

"I wish you could stay here, too," Matilda said. "Perhaps someday your parents will see fit to return to the Valley permanently. Then you can visit as much as you want."

"I'll pray for it to be so."

"As will I."

(6)

They arrived back home in Sea Haven just as evening was settling into a hazy dusk. The day had grown quite dim but the setting sun still had plenty of strength in it, a precursor to the sweltering summer that would soon arrive on the heels of a fleeting spring. Pam had sat in the backseat in relative silence on the trip, her thoughts contemplating those strange issues of county fairs, apple seeds, and forbidden melodies. Several times her parents, Robert and Jennifer, had pressed her with questions about the long weekend visit, and each time their daughter had politely given them the shortest of replies. As a result, the trip had sounded quite boring by her parents' account. Although, unbeknownst to them, it had been anything but. Yet there was something inside Pam's mother's eyes that expressed a certain knowing, a suspicion that perhaps Pam and Aunt Matilda might have taken a trip up to the attic to have a biblical discussion, which wasn't quite as traditional in the telling as most folks would have cared for. Pam had seen that peculiar look in her mother's eyes when she had stepped out of the car and looked at the Victorian, that haunted gaze that had searched the attic's half-moon window for that special something that was seldom thought of, but never forgotten. That knowing stare was something Pam would have missed before had she not been enlightened in the matters of the family history. However, if Jennifer had suspected that Pam might have been let in on the family secret, she offered no words on the matter, and that self-imposed omission most likely served her genuine desire to avoid the unusual situation all together. Besides, unbeknownst to Pam, Jennifer Sussex had bigger issues to contend with. She had just been diagnosed with terminal breast cancer and had been told she had six months to live. But as for right now, she looked and moved around well enough, a tall drink of water that husband Robert referred to as his auburn angel. She was sharp of wit, as were all the Adam women. But today, she was understandably distracted, and perhaps that was really why she had not pressed her daughter on matters involving the small wooden box. After all, life was too short to go around arguing the little things. Jennifer understood that now and in the coming days, Pam would learn that, too.

(7)

After the family had unpacked their personals, they ate a quick supper that consisted of a leftover tuna-casserole with three slices of homemade blueberry pie, topped off with a generous scoop of whipped cream. The meal had been eaten in relative silence. With their stomachs fed, Pam and her mother cleared the kitchen table while Robert stepped outside to check on the car's engine oil level. It was here, while mother and daughter put dirty plates and soiled cutlery into the dishwasher that they engaged in a peculiar conversation.

"I went to see the doctor the other day," Jennifer said in a matter of fact tone.

"Was everything alright?" Pam asked.

Hearing the word "doctor" mentioned caused an immediate concern, but even so, her mind was moreover fixated on the Victorian's attic along with those dark seeds inside the wooden box. This lack of concern had to do with the fact that Jennifer was a mom, and mothers weren't allowed to get sick, they just got sick and tired.

"I've got a condition," Jennifer explained with a smile that was intended to place her daughter at ease. "They're not really sure what it is, but I'm going to have to make a few trips to the hospital over the next little while, but there's nothing to worry about. I just thought, I'd let you know in case you got to needlessly fretting."

Pam set her gaze upon her mother, although her attention was hopelessly locked up inside the Victorian's attic, wondering if the seeds would grow if sown, and what kind of plant would spring forth from such husbandry. A vision of Jack's bean stalk building a green leafy spire into the clouds suddenly came to mind, and she almost giggled out loud, but held it quietly within her chest lest she be thought of as rude.

"Do you understand sweetie?" Jennifer asked, trying to gauge her daughter's mental state. Children could be difficult to read sometimes. Information had a tendency to either pass through one ear and out the other, or unexpectedly lambaste them emotionally.

"Un uh," Pam said with a habitual nod. At present, her mother could have just as easily been asking her to vacuum the carpets or scrub down the shower tile, because she was totally engrossed with the idea of seeds growing, and strange plants springing forth. "Doctors...tests...but you're fine," Pam replied. Of course she was fine, after all, she was a mom, and moms didn't get sick, they just got sick and tired.

"Yes," Jennifer said, placing a caring hand upon Pam's rosy cheek. Her daughter was a beautiful girl, smart, driven, and would survive well enough without her mother. It was most certain that her death would break Pam's heart, but that pain would fade in time. What mattered now was that Pam finished school in a few months with a good grade average, and she couldn't hope to do that if she knew her mother was about to die.

"Can I go out for a while mom?"

"Of course sweetie."

Pam tucked tail and bolted out the backdoor.

"Be home before it gets dark!" Jennifer called after Pam.

"Yes momma!"

To Pam, everything was just fine. Yes, her mother had a condition, but according to Jennifer, it was nothing to worry about. As for the Victorian, it was still welcome to her even though she had snuck off to the fair. And last, but certainly not least, she had a lineage that was sensationally unique. Yes, life was good, weird most definitely, but for the most part, good.

So when Pam raced down the back steps en route for the shoreline, it was of little surprise that she had failed to notice her father standing behind the plywood shed nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels. After all, she was too preoccupied with the wild idea of leafy things that popped out of the soil and climbed majestically into the sky like a creeping vine on steroids.

(8)

Robert sucked back a healthy swig of whiskey and then let the bottle swing down beside his able thigh. The booze had filled his belly with a cold fire, one that numbed both stress and despair. It was a makeshift remedy for whatever ailed ya, a patch that would temporarily plug the hole of his sinking ship. However, that amber prescription would soon founder and when it did, he would be set adrift inside that tearful misery where wives drowned on tumors and daughters sank in sorrow. Unfortunately, Robert had neither a magic potion nor a pressing favor to request on behalf of the Lords of Karma. What he had was a dying wife and a little girl that would need him to be a rock when the time came. He would need to be the eye in the storm, the shoulder to cry on. He would need to be the rallying force that circled the wagons and met the battle head on. But where could hope to find such strength? Within the inspiration of God's prayer---from the medical text wisdom of a quack psychologist---or perhaps within Jack's amber remedy. Maybe he would just let Pam and Jennifer drink their woes away. Then they could all get good and hammered and no one would have to deal with anything. But that's not how this sort of thing worked. There were financial obligations, medical treatments, family counseling sessions, and then in the end there would be those goddamn final arrangements: the church service, the casket, the flowers, the eulogy, and the headstone.

Jennifer Sussex

Beloved wife and mother

May she rest in peace

It was too much to take, too much to bear for just one man. He wanted to explode, to scream, to smash the bottle of Jack across God Almighty's smiling face.

Can you say amen brother!

His fist tightened on the bottleneck while his teeth ground enamel. The bottle was raised, preparing to hurl its venom into the blue ribbon toward that complacent deity who didn't know his divine ass from his sanctimonious elbow, when he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps on the backstairs. Robert looked over his shoulder and saw his darling Pam heading out to play. Quickly, he hid the whiskey bottle and eased his hardened expression into something more amicable. He had no wish to display his anguish. There would be plenty of time for that in the months to come. The cancer would see to that.

Pam saw her father standing next to the shed. Despite his thin smile, he nonetheless looked uneasy, his rugged features lost within a deep train of thought. She could not help but feel as though she had just interrupted him in the middle of something.

"Hi dad, is everything alright?"

Robert grinned but it looked too pained. He was not an accomplished drinker, and as such, he felt most out of sorts. "I'm just peachy kiddo. How about you?"

"Good," Pam replied. "I'm going down to the shore for a walk."

"Be careful honey. Some of those rocks are slippery. Watch you don't take a tumble and fall in." That's all he needed right now, to deal with the remorse over a drowned child.

"I will."

Pam began to walk out of the driveway when her father spoke again.

"You're a beautiful, intelligent girl, Pamela."

Pam stopped and looked back at him with a pleasant smile. It was an awkward moment, considering she was not good at accepting compliments. "Ah...thanks dad."

"You make me and your mother proud, you know."

A bit of an embarrassed smile touched Pam's lips. "Thank you."

"If there's anything you ever want to talk about...well, I just want you to know that I'm here for you."

Pam nodded. "Okay."

She started to head off again, when she suddenly paused. There was something wrong with her father, she could sense it. His voice sounded a bit slurred and she knew he only ever drank when something bad had happened, like when his brother Ike had been killed in a car wreck on highway one-o-one, or when his Uncle Neale had unexpectedly passed from a stroke. It was with this realization that Pam's heart suddenly began to race.

"Are you sure you're alright daddy?" And as she posed the question, she could not help but think upon her mother. _A few tests...a condition...but she would be fine._ An inexplicable iciness emanated from within her chest, and before she knew it, she was running back into the house.

"Pam!" Robert shouted.

He knew right there and then that he had been correct in regards to her character assessment: she was indeed an intelligent girl. He grabbed the bottle of Jack and tossed it into the firmament, hoping to smash that thick wedge of glass into God Almighty's all-seeing-eye.

(9)

"Momma what's wrong?" Pam asked, as she stormed back into the kitchen. Those thoughts of dark seeds and mysterious boxes had departed her in favor of news on her beloved mother's condition. How could she have been so insensitive? It was obvious that her mother had been shielding her from an awful truth, and here, all Pam had cared about were those miserable stinking seeds.

Jennifer sat by the kitchen table, her nicotine stained fingers cradling a cigarette while her haunted face courted a set of vacant eyes. She regarded her daughter with an almost defeated effort, and while she tried to look spry, her features seemed to empty from the struggle.

"Momma, what did the doctor say?" Pam had asked the question, but she was pretty sure of the answer. Aside from high IQ scores, there were cellular mutations residing within the family genes: cancer. Many a Sussex and an Adam had died from that lonesome patch of misery, and by the look residing within her mother's tired eyes, she would bet all the Victorian's magic seeds that Jennifer Sussex was courting the big C.

"Please momma, tell me."

Jennifer reached across the table and twisted her smoke out inside a tiny glass ashtray that was in the shape of a heart. "I'm sick Pamela...real sick...lung cancer."

"But you said..." Pam almost threw her mother's previous assurance back into her face, but she refrained. There was no point in it. Her mother was sick, and no well thought out argument would change that.

"I know what I said," Jennifer replied softly, which only made her sound closer to death's doorstep. "But I...I wanted to spare you as long as I could, honey." Her eyes struggled to keep hold of Pam's, and as they did, she fought an overwhelming urge to burst into tears. Here, she had let her family down by getting sick and that had not been a part of the deal. She was supposed to die of old age, not in her prime. Perhaps if she had not taken up cigarettes and had gone for more medical checkups, then none of this would be happening. But it was happening, and in a few short months, she would break up the family unit and lie down in the cold obstruction, never to get back up again. "Forgive me baby. I was thinking of you, always you."

"Were you ever going to tell me?!" Pam's cheeks lay flushed, her eyes wet. Here, her mother had betrayed them, and although that made absolutely no sense, it was still how Pam felt. She hated Jennifer for having the audacity to get sick. It was unfair, and if there was a God, which according to that box full of seeds there was, then that God was an idiot.

Just then, Robert sauntered back into the house, his agreeable face drawn and haggard. "Pam honey, I...."

Pam quickly turned on him. "Why didn't you say something?!"

"Well, honey. We decided it would be best if..." But Rick never got a chance to finish his sentence.

Pam pushed her father aside and ran outdoors, sobbing as she raced down the driveway and out onto the gravel road that ran past the house. Robert bounded out the door after her, but her youthful legs and hale lungs easily exceeded his stamina. And so he fell short in her wake, his shouts fading to the distance as Pam challenged headlong into the winding miles with a child's strong healthy heart and swiftly placed feet.

At the moment, she would have no part of them. She was too far gone to think clearly. All she wanted was to run, to escape to that mystical place where cancer had no teeth. And as it turned out, that place had been Major's Field.

(10)

She sat upon a large granite rock that lay on a remote patch of Major's Field, knees tucked beneath her delicate chin. It was cooler now, a breeze had blown in off the icy Atlantic, effectively sending the mercury south by a few critical degrees. She shivered inside a skin that felt too snug for her bones, as if she was growing too fast for her flesh to keep up. She stared upon the field's damp yellow grass, wishing she were back inside the safety and comfort of the Victorian.

"Oh dear-heart," Pam whispered, almost in a prayer. "What am I going to do now?"

She closed her eyes and tried to spiritually pass over that mystical threshold that led back to Eden's palatial garden as she had inside the Victorian's attic. If she could just embrace that stunning paradise once again and taste its exquisite air, then her burden would be lessened of its desolation. Granted, it would only be a form of escapism, but that was okay, because sometimes folks just needed a vacation---it was how they managed the fallout. Unfortunately, no matter how hard she strained both spiritually and mentally, she just could not bridge that elusive rainbow. Her feet were hopelessly bound to this soiled world, where mom's got more than sick and tired, they got the big C.

Her emerald jade eyes looked upon an ocean that seemed to stare back, as if some great evil eye lurked just beneath the soft rolling waves. It gave her a further shudder. Her attention abandoned the sea and focused on a fertile patch of earth that ran along the outer most edge of Major's Field. The sight placed her thoughts back inside the Victorian's musty attic, where that peculiar notion had first availed her scientific curiosity.

Would one of those seeds from the box grow inside that soil?

She hopped down onto the damp grass and walked over to the dirt patch upon slow heels. She had been up here a thousand times but had never noticed this section of the field before. The ground resembled used coffee grounds, black with an abundance of vital nutrients, a farmer's field minus the toss of cow manure. She did not have much of a green thumb. In fact, she once had a cactus plant die on her. Not an easy trick, but she had managed it just the same. Today however, she felt a strange connection to the clay and that relationship felt nurturing. She wanted to knead her fingers into that dark soil, to feel its potential to bring forth life grow between the smooth delicate palms of her hands.

She dipped a hand into her front pocket and withdrew a tiny pink envelope that had come from Matilda's correspondence stationary. "Forgive me dear-heart," she whispered softly. "But I need to know."

Her fingers worked the letter open. It was still there, a solid little lump. Inconsequential, but as they say: _"from tiny acorns mighty oaks do grow."_ She fished out the miniscule apple seed that she had stolen from the wooden box inside the Victorian's attic. The seed felt unnaturally warm between her fingers, like a small slice of radioactive uranium. Was it vibrating? Humming that odd melody as it had inside the box?

She hid the seed within the palm of her hand and thought back to when she had taken it. It had been when she was supposedly placing it back inside the box, which of course she had not. The seed had been small enough to palm like a magician cupped a quarter. So it was of little wonder why Matilda hadn't suspected a thing. It was a slight of hand performed by the person she would least expect to take something from her. And as always, trust was the sort of thing that never failed to be exploited. But why had Pam done that? Why had she taken this miserable seed and not told Matilda? She had no immediate answer, but she did know one thing: she felt horribly guilty for having done so. However, there was more to that awful theft than she could readily explain away. It felt as though she had not been able to control herself, not to mention that taking the seed just felt--- _right!_ Perhaps it was a matter of that thing called fate, which old Banjo had spoken about. It would have been comforting to think so, but in the end, Pam could not help but take responsibility for those actions that had transformed her into a sneaky little thief. That realization was an insult to injury, guilt and grief tag teaming her out on Major's Field for the championship belt. But still, despite those ill feelings, there was work to be done, and it involved satisfying that thing which had killed the cat.

She knelt down, eyes searching for the best place to press a small hole into the cold obstruction. She found a clear level spot that looked graded by a gardening tool. Was this another example of fate? Had the Lords of Karma prepared this spot for her? Her fingers ploughed a shallow grave to accept that which had probably died centuries ago. However, before letting that odd seed fall into the malleable soil, she paused to consider the ramifications if any. Had not the forbidden tree grown like a cancer inside of Eden's palatial garden? Was this seed a disease like the one that fed upon her mother? Perhaps her ancestors had been correct not to sow this strange kernel, for nothing vital could ever hope to spring forth from its spiritual shortcoming. Yet she told herself that this act of cultivation was about abolishing superstition, for no plant could be evil by nature. To suggest such a thing not only invited the absurd, but the crazy belief that trees had souls. It was a preposterous concept, one harkening to a time when people worshiped stone idols and sacrificed virgins in order to appease an angry God. Pam's generation lived in an age of science, not sorcery. There was nothing that could grow out of this soil that her investigative measures could neither explain nor dispense if necessary. But then, there was much more to her motivations than simply satisfying scientific knowledge. What if something truly fantastic grew from this darkest of seeds? What if that finest of trees stemmed forth upon the common, its mighty branches burdened down with a myriad of crimson-gold apples, its offering a gracious bestowment of untold knowledge to those who feasted upon the fruited vine? The opportunity tantalized the mind's eye with that kindest of outcomes and tempted the spirit with a promise that made hope anew, for within that deed there would reside the knowledge of a cure for that which plagued her dear mother.

The seed purred in her hand, an enticement incarnate, promising a cure for that crudest unsightliness. "Even Matilda would agree," Pam muttered, as she tried to justify her choice in taking the seed for such a noble end. "Banjo would, too, because it is fate, it has to be."

The seed fell from her hand into the small damp hole where it disappeared from sight. She covered the pit with the cool dark earth, careful not to pack the soil down too tightly lest that forbidden blossom choke. With the effort rendered, she stood and watched that hallowed spot with attentive eyes, waiting for something extraordinary to happen while the wind blew in off the chilled Atlantic and the sun faded into a scarlet depth. But nothing beneath the labors of her toil ventured to move.

"It'll take time," she sighed. "But how much time does mom have?" Banjo's cordial voice spoke within her troubled thoughts: _"Sorry child, but that sort of thing is up to fate, too. But I'll have no walk with that beast on such a glorious day."_

Reluctantly, she turned her back on the lonely garden and slowly walked towards home. She vowed to return tomorrow as to check on that seed, but she never did. And just why she had not gone back involved something else that took time. She was growing up, and deep down inside her heart, she knew that nothing magical would spring forth from that tiny dead seed. There would be no enchanted apples or untold knowledge to save her mother from cancer, just a patch of mud that looked a little too much like a grave plot.

That sadly, was reality.

And as Pam trudged home, head down, she failed to notice a fog rolling in, or that her Aunt Matilda's pink envelope had just been lost to a strong breeze that carried it up and away into the encroaching night.

(11)

A pink envelop landed before Pam's feet. It had fallen silently through the fog with all the grace of a dream and now lay upon the damp grass like a sentimental heirloom. With a bit of hesitance, she knelt and received that mysterious offering if only to quell that question of validity. Her finger traced the envelope's dimensions. The smooth grainy texture felt real enough to pass for genuine paper. But was it the same envelope she had used to ferry that forbidden seed all those years ago? It felt impossible, but yet despite that shadow of doubt, she could not dismiss its relevance. The press of her touch told that no seed lay wedged within the narrow fold, just the even symmetrical contours of geometric angles. However, the packet was not empty. The letter held the weight of a note perhaps. She flipped open the sealing flap and squeezed the envelope open. Inside, there lay a card of scarlet fire, its face engraved with stylish gold calligraphy.

She carefully withdrew the card and read the following caption: _"_ Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's"

She recognized the Bible quote from the book of Matthew as spoken by Jesus Christ in regards to the issue of taxation. However, she could not understand the passage's relevance to her immediate situation, if any.

The card shook within her hand while her legs threatened to buckle at the knees. The urge to tear the scarlet paper into pieces felt irresistible, but she dared not deface the note for risk of offending its author. The solicitation had been placed in her care, and as such, she would see it carried unto its final destination, despite her wish to vanquish its memory to the dreary fog.

She drew in a slow easy breath and concentrated. Within the card's narrow fold would lay further words, and although she felt to gaze willingly upon those directives, committing her fate to a series of unholy events, she dared not discard the message for fear of losing her scoop. After all, it's what good reporters did: they dug until they hit casket. Although there _was_ one answer she had just discovered and it was an absolute given: the serpent's spire was in fact connected to the seed. The pink envelope had just confirmed it. But what was their relationship? Should not there have been a tall tree with crimson-gold apples hanging from its sturdy branches hiding inside the fog instead of a double helix of iron snakes? Of course there should have been, so why the discrepancy? The answer felt close, and the only way to get it was to continue to play the game. And so she peeled back the invitation's cover, mindful of those dire consequences that would soon come to pass. Several more lines of gold calligraphy lay scrawled across the parchment's fine grit. Her eyes narrowed as she attempted to decipher the chicken scratch, but her efforts failed to reap a reward. The text characters might just as well have been written in Egyptian Hieroglyphics, for those illegible symbols surely belonged to some lost forgotten language. Yet there was still something recognizable within their unusually crafted shapes, and it harkened her memory back to the Victorian's attic. These text characters resembled those carved upon the Eden seed box. And although, Pam could not read a lick of this message, she nonetheless gathered the spirit of the meaning. Perhaps it was an innate understanding which was more telling than the indecipherable words upon the crimson slip, for she knew the scripted passage spoke of a ceremony that served a hidden agenda within the deader than dead fog.

Was she to be a sacrificial virgin upon a stone altar? Not likely, seeing as she had lost that virtue at the tender age of sixteen to a high school senior by the name of Vince MacDougal. But still, she could serve as mutton for the hounds.

She folded the crimson paper and slid it back inside the pink envelope, which was then subsequently stuffed inside her front pocket. She raised the spotlight and set its beam upon the fog in attempt to find the source of those colorful lights. The delicious scent of caramel popcorn, cotton candy, hamburgers and hotdogs remained on the air, while the tinny drone of the Wurlitzer and brass pipe calliope continued to sing at full volume. Was there actually a carnival lying just out of sight within the mist? She could not dismiss the possibility, for nothing seemed impossible within the dreary gray. And so, she stepped closer, almost tiptoeing, as if sneaking up on a rock concert. However, a stealthy approach nonetheless felt warranted considering the situation, and so she continued to lay her footsteps down in quiet increments.

The electric lights returned, except this time they did not vanish within the drab gray, but rather anchored themselves to the background as if to cement their reality into being. Against the artificial splendor, a fleeting silhouette moved in and out of shadow, its gait as swift and graceful as a serpent's. The ringmaster of this special get together had just arrived. She clasped onto the high-watt flashlight and withdrew the sharp knife from its well-worn sheath. This was it, the moment when the figurative shovel struck casket. It was everything for her to hold ground, but she vowed not be removed by virtue of a faint heart. The anticipation of what foul deed might come to pass stoked those darkest of possibilities within her innermost being. Still, she would not lessen her imprint to another without just cause, for her answers needed to be remedied, and as such, she would suffer the terrors of her perceived torments until such anguish had found a bodily substance.

She breathed deeply, envisioning winning a Pulitzer Prize for journalism at the end of her efforts. It may not have been a good sturdy cross, but its inner glow helped to cast off those grimmest of shadows from within. At the very least, she began to take a strange solace in the fact that this phenomenon, if anything, had issued her a clean bill of health in regards to her condition. That once questionable sanity lay comforted, for these events made it obvious that her brain did not feed the rancid belly of a cancer tumor. However, that diagnosis cut with a doubled edge, for the thing that would ease her burden, also presented a stark realization: something wicked dwelled within the miasma and its belly just might need filling as well. If that was the case, then she would lose to the coin's toss regardless of what side fell up. Here, as the fatted calf was born to suffer the knife, so too would the woman born of original sin also suffer. Yet she steeled her resolve as to rectify such matters by the means of her wits, for the Adam women were gifted intellects in regards to such conundrums. If by chance, she could negotiate her fate with adept cunning, then she would seize the opportunity with both hands and pray for release. But before she could set her feet upon the path, she would have to engage a dialogue with that hidden mystery within the gossamer gray. If ever her tongue needed to hone its words, then it was now, for the hour had fallen well beyond that tallest hour and time's hands would not carry her soul unto dawn's fair shore without first securing a means to get there. It was with this understanding that her posture hardened and mobilized her form as to challenge that entity within the empty gray to a duel of uncertainties.

Chapter Eleven

Party of Five

(1)

The cruiser rolled to a gentle halt on Major's Field where it idled quietly beneath the dismal mist. The forward lanterns made good penetration but they still could not part that ubiquitous gray. The world beyond that shifting fold held a hidden mystery that longed to be realized. It was if a psychic tether reached out of the ethereal vacuum as to bind those who would come to bear witness to its misdeeds. The four souls in the car lay linked to that spiritual restraint. To Kim, the unseen chain felt like a burden of transgressions that not even Jesus Christ could ever hope to unshackle. To Dick, it felt like an iron ball had been clamped securely to his otherwise bony ankle. To Jasper, it felt like an umbilical cord secured to an old familiar nightmare. And finally, to the thing that allowed the others to call it "Joshua," that imperceptible chain was the perfect mechanism by which to imprison lost souls.

"It's time to put on the old top hat and brush out the tails," Joshua said with a greasy smile. "We've got a gala to attend and we dare not be late, so giddy on up partners." He stepped out into the fog and took in a reinvigorating breath of air. "It's going to be one hell of an evening ladies and germs, you betcha!" He turned his attention to the reluctant occupants in the backseat. "Don't be such dour pusses. This is a celebration, and I won't have you kids sulking all night long." He looked over at Jasper who had just climbed out of the car, his blushed face dizzy on a head full of Forbidden Melody. "Why, just look at your cousin, Jasper. He seems happy enough. So come on, let's turn those frowns upside down."

Jasper opened the cruiser's backdoor and reached in with a big mitt and hauled a very timid looking Dick Orwell out of the car by the scruff of his pencil neck.

"Ouch!" Dick said with a whine. His balding head went blood red with both pain and anger. Never before had someone manhandled him in such a way, and his provisional holiness did not much care for the ill-treatment one damn bit. "That's police brutality!" Dick snapped. "I could have your badge you..." Dick suddenly remembered where he was and what was happening. He went dead quiet and bowed his head in docile submission. He knew if the big cop wanted to wail on his sorry ass, there would be nothing he could do to stop it. Why, Dick might end up getting his neck snapped inside the cruiser's door just like the Dreamboat had with the Cadillac, and that wasn't how Dick wanted this evening to end.

"Good doggy," Jasper said with a sadistic grin. "There's no need to run that mouth of yours, is there?"

Dick studied his shoes, mindful not to make eye contact with the psychopathic cop, lest he set him off.

"Now now," Joshua said. "Leave Dickey alone, Jasper. He's not himself this evening."

Joshua opened Kim's door. "We're here Madame. If you'd be so kind as to give me your hand, then we'll be on our way to the ball."

Kim looked up at Joshua from the backseat, noting the unusual symmetry of the man's face, and how it had somehow changed since she had first laid eyes on him back at the hospital. He was now kempt, his hair healthy as opposed to ratty, his skin smooth and clean, not pocked by acne scars. He almost looked--- _human_ \---that was except for his strangely lit eyes, which seemed to hold their own fire, which looked almost identical to---

\---she gasped and held a trembling hand over her quivering mouth, because she could see it now, the resemblance to Eddy's possessed eyes.

Joshua smiled broadly. "Don't you fret it none Miss Manners," he said with a playful wink. "Kid's got a real good chance of beating the pox, I'd say. Strong like his mom, he is. Smart too. What do you think of that, Kim? Think he's got a chance?"

Joshua offered a hand to Kim, a gesture which spoke on a subliminal level of forging deals with devils. She studied his fingers, expecting to find razor claws or suckers running along their narrow length, but thankfully found no such grotesqueries. And so she slowly reached up and took hold of him, dreading a touch that would no doubt feel dead and clammy. However, much to her relief she found the flesh was not only warm, but also felt genuinely human.

"That a girl, Kim," Joshua said in a reassuring voice. "I'd wager that Eddy will be on the mend in no time. Just you wait and see."

Kim climbed out of the car and looked upon the veiled expanse of Major's Field. "Where are we going?" Of course she knew the destination involved that mysterious serpent's spire, but she ventured the question anyway.

"Ah," Joshua said with a gleeful clap of his hands. "Lose lips sink ships Miss Manners! Don't they Jasper?"

Jasper grunted in reply.

Dick found the courage to meet Joshua's eyes, mindful that Jasper might give him a good hard smack for doing so. "What are you going to do with me?" There was no "us" in the question, for his holiness did not give a rat's ass about the flying nun or the psycho cop from hell. All Orwell ever cared about was Orwell.

"That's not entirely up to me," Joshua replied, as if everyone here should have already realized this. "Besides, you really wouldn't want me to spoil the surprise, would you?"

"Yes, I would as a matter of fact," Orwell said, a slight semblance of his snotty disposition rearing its ugly head.

Jasper tuned the music down inside his head and focused a disdainful frown upon Orwell. "Little smart ass, aren't ya?"

Jasper pulled his massive hand back to clout Dick a good one to the ear, when he suddenly froze. The man-thing named Joshua had thrown back his head and shrilled out a screech of enjoyable laughter, which was so strident, the group felt as though someone had just jabbed a set of hot pins into their ears.

Kim's hands shot to the sides of her head for protection, while Dick cringed painfully. Jasper in the meantime gazed upon Joshua with a vacant expression that seemed hypnotized by the sound, a cobra captivated by the notes of a snake charmer's flute.

"Jesus," Orwell muttered in disgust. "What are you?"

Joshua stopped laughing and looked at Dick with a dangerous kind of affection. "You'd have made an interesting provisional king, Dickey, there's no denying it. Too bad you didn't inherent your father's balls though."

Dick felt his temper flare, but he kept cool because Jasper still had that whoop-ass look about him. "My father was a great---"

"---Bastard," Joshua interjected with a slow easy shake of his head. "He was an impotent little pecker head who couldn't get it up when it mattered Dickey boy, that's what. So what did he do about it? He smacked the little misses around from time to time to prove to himself that he was still a man. And if that wasn't bad enough, he strangled a teenage hooker because not even her skillful talent with the Johnson rod was able to make his wedding tackle stand at attention."

Dick's face went even flusher than before, except this time it was not anger that colored in his rosy cheeks, it was utter embarrassment.

"Please," Kim said in a half-whisper. "Can we just go and get this...whatever it is, over with?"

Joshua addressed Kim with a sympathetic tenor, although there was nothing compassionate beneath the soft easy flow of his words. "Of course my dearest Kimberly. There's no need to air the dirty laundry out in public now, is there. Let us keep Dickey's secrets safe, and let us keep your unmentionables inside the hamper as well. Yes, that would only be polite."

Joshua gazed upon Kim with a sadistic grin that hinted at an intrinsic ability to know a great many, if not all things. And as he leered at her, his inhuman eyes alight on their own malevolent fury, she felt as though he was leisurely flipping through the pages of her life with a remarkably insight. He could see the slow erosion of her faith, the rebellious acts of her mischievous adolescence, the few men she had casually laid with, the things she had placed inside her body for pleasure, along with those grapes she had eaten and not paid for in the grocery store. The list went on and on, a lifetime of little white lies and little innocent transgressions. They were the kind of things a catholic could argue before the Almighty on grounds of a moral technicality. The devil made me do it perhaps. But this Joshua knew that God did not bargain the small stuff, for his name alone was on the deed to Heaven, and wouldn't you know it, he was an all or nothing kind of guy.

Sorry Kim, the rectory has never looked cleaner, but unfortunately two grapes stolen from the produce aisle still equals an eternity of smoke and flame!

Joshua walked to the front of the car and basked in the hard glow of the cruiser's headlights. It was here that the others finally noticed just how much he had changed. His hair was fuller, thickened by yarns of flaxen gold. He stood at least four inches taller, elevating his stature to a smidgen higher than Jasper's. His shoulders had widened, and he now looked more like a running back rather than a scraggly hobo. But it was his face that had undertaken the most remarkable transformation of all, for it was now perfectly symmetrical and flawless in its presentation. His teeth shone like sunlight on ocean brine. His alabaster skin exuded a supernatural glow. His jawline lay pronounced and authoritative. His rugged features were masculine and regal. In an instant, he had changed from an ugly caterpillar into a stunning butterfly. And as Kim, Jasper, and Dick looked upon him with awe struck eyes, they could not deny, that however evil this Joshua might be, he was still absolutely beautiful.

"Come...it's time we took a short walk my friends," Joshua ushered, his muscular arms extended in a peculiar sort of welcoming embrace. "We've dillydallied far too long, and that sort of inconsideration is downright _unforgivable_."

Jasper tried to contemplate Joshua's enigmatic nature. The source of the hobo's magical evolution confounded the part of his brain which had not yet been subdued by the Forbidden Melody. There was almost a second of clarity when Jasper the lowly meat puppet was consciously aware that he was being manipulated by this evil puppet master's strings. However, that confusion was short lived. Jasper's doubts were quickly replaced by that memorable tune, which Joshua had crooned back on the highway. That oddly metered music both soothed and suggested things that he could not entirely understand. But then that did not matter. He had been effectively pacified once again.

"You heard the nice man, ass-wipe," Jasper growled at Dick as he shoved the provisional king forward. "You've wasted enough time gawking, so get to walking."

Joshua turned his back on his mismatched congregation and marched confidently into the swirling fog, his large burly hands folded casually behind his equally impressive back. Within his wake, Kim trailed with meek footsteps, arms hugging her body for both warmth and emotional security. Inside her purse, the rosary begged to be prayed, but she ignored its pull, for this was neither the time nor the place to engage in such heresy, not to mention that she needed Eddy's cure, always the cure. Dick in the meantime, busily formulated an escape plan. There was no hope that he could overpower the redneck cop, but then he might be able to lose Jasper inside the heavy fog. His only concern was that the sadistic oinker might throw down on him while he was in flight, and Dick had no desire to be shot in the back while trying to escape. He would have to be patient and sharp of wit and wait for the right opportunity to set his plan into action.

The group trailed a procession, Jasper minding Kim and Dick like a dog tending to a flock of sheep, making sure that the two reluctant meat bags towed the line. Hancock was still very much on duty, and as far as his ego was concerned, he was still in charge. Even the man-thing named Joshua would come to know his authority when they eventually ventured back to the Rum Dumb Motel, where folks said _"please stop"_ and " _I'll do whatever you want"_ if only this and only that. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Jasper withdrew his sizable watchmen's flashlight from his utility belt and shone its bright beam forward into the masked gray. The canon lit up the fog like a lightning burst, but despite its impressive force, it like the cruiser's lanterns, failed to get good penetration.

"Stuff's like soup," Dick muttered.

"Shut your cake hole, Dickey," Jasper said in low threatening tone. "Or the only soup you'll ever be able to eat again will be through a straw."

Kim stared at Joshua's back as he walked three paces ahead, wondering if they had seen the last of his miraculous metamorphoses this night. And if not: how far would his modifications continue to go? In her mind's eye she could see that now handsome rogue turn into a horned devil with a long sharp tail, his faded denims given over to a flaming cloak of fire engine red. And that's when it occurred to her: his clothes had changed too. Somehow the garments had grown with him, and that fact for some reason unsettled her more than the remarkable change of his physical attributes, for such a phenomenon surely courted the darkest of magic.

"Lift those legs, cause we're almost there kiddies," Joshua said merrily.

Both Kim and Dick thought to ask where, but they knew the answer would not be forthcoming. After all, it would ruin the surprise.

Joshua stopped suddenly, and Kim almost came aboard his backside, and as she did, she caught the slight odor of apples. Of course, it held no relevance to her, so she dismissed it and backed away from that strange specimen of a man lest perchance she be devoured as a light snack. That line of thinking did not seem outside the realm of possibility when it came to this man-thing, however attractive it might be, for even sharks had a dangerous beauty about them.

Dick stopped and watched Joshua with keen interest, wanting very much to escape this peculiar stranger. However, he could feel the large bull of a cop breathing down his neck, guarding him. This obviously was not the moment to bolt, so he kept in place, waiting for his break. So he continued to watch the man with the long flowing locks and the sturdy broad shoulders, waiting for that split second so that he might run into the thick fog. And when he knew he was safe, he would grab his passport and head to the airport, and then it would be off to the remotest place on Earth where no one had ever heard about Dick Orwell let alone a provisional king. Yet as he waited, he could not help but dwell on a string of coincidences. Perhaps all this craziness had to do with that damn serpent's spire everyone was talking about. He factored in the spire's and Joshua's arrival, along with that fantasy he had had about killing Bobby Samuels this morning while the monkey was climbing on his back. At present, those events still existed in that otherwise mundane reality of a common coincidence. Yet despite the poor company of maniacs, there was something very unsettling about being out here. Dick could feel that the fog or perhaps something within it, was alive, watching them. However, he tried to convince himself that it was his nerves, but he nonetheless kept coming up short on the sales-pitch. On a subliminal level, he understood that today's happenings were connected in a way that had yet to be fully realized, and that did not inspire his belief that he would escape that, which had been playing him all along like an old fiddle.

"There is more that is unseen than seen," Joshua whispered, his cold dead eyes scanning the lifeless fog for something recognizable, a landmark mayhap. "Just as there is more that is unknown, than known...at least to those lowly wretches who toil the sour gardens of the ever dying earth."

Jasper grinned hard. He liked the way Joshua explained things. They sounded so maniacal, the kind of disturbed genius that alluded to a grandiose plan that only the deranged could appreciate. As the night wore on, it was becoming more evident that this Joshua was more than just a punching bag for the Rum Dumb Motel, he was a visionary to something that owed its inspiration to that, which drove the gears of a preternatural malice, and that alone set him above all others. Could it be that this Joshua stood upon an evolutionary footing that was equal to Jasper's? Was this Joshua a messiah of pain also? It seemed possible given the vagrant's fantastic bodily transformation along with his seemingly innate knowledge of the Forbidden Melody. But then, if that was true, then should not Jasper reconsider his regard of Joshua? Here, Hancock had a willing punching bag for the Rum Dumb Motel, or so that had been Joshua's promise, and as such, Jasper found it difficult to imagine administering such a cruel punishment upon the man he now placed upon the altar of his worship. Surely, he could not offend the messiah of pain's flesh with the wanton baton. Surely, he would not whip the conductor of the Forbidden Melody's flesh to bleed. Or would he? The question was oddly troubling, and for all its confusion, he could not assert a claim over what he should do in regards to the outcome. To smite the worthy was righteous, but to lay harm upon the saintly Joshua would be the quintessential epitome of rudeness. One did not violate their messiah so that he might suffer the anguish of the lesser beings, especially when he had gone to such painful lengths to lead him to that---well, whatever it was, it obviously waited inside the haunted fog. Jasper could feel its inhuman eyes upon him, and its ill-favored stare stoked his fear to a point of orgasmic ecstasy. He loved this slow dance with terror, which seemed wonderfully metered to the oddly loops of the Forbidden Melody, which continued to whir and sing within his head. Regardless of what the night brought unto his care, he would not cut into his savior's hide without due consideration, for Hancock was not a mindless beast, but rather a reasonable man.

(2)

Joshua closed his cold eyes and whispered a soft chant of serpent like hisses and guttural groans into the dead miasma. The breathy murmur was like an ancient form of Latin, but was not. The cadence was older, a lost language that superseded all tribal dialects or manmade words that had ever been inked upon a faded parchment or engraved upon a slab of stone. The incantation was chilling in its mystical telling, the dangerous music that a demonic serpent sang before baring its fangs. Joshua's invocation prayed to the extraordinary, to the thing that hid in the mist, and when he spread wide his muscular arms unto that shrouded partition, the entity within replied without reservation. The velveteen smoke withdrew its barrier to the outskirts of a vast perimeter. The vapor puffed out a dying breath, a silent band of steam that circled the field's furthest edge like a vicious predator. Joshua fell to his knees and bowed his head, whispering that strange hex into the pit of his chest. The miasma harkened to his prayer and churned its current into an angry tempest that spun at an impossible pace. The distance now resided within a blur of ashen gray, and yet despite its unnatural momentum, it made no discernible sound. No howl screeched a freight-train wind into the night, for the storm, as deaf as a vacuum, was of a supernatural nature, and as such, did not abide the laws of the lower-world. The only sound to be heard across the damp meadow was the eerie incantation as spoken by the man-thing named Joshua. His foreign words ramped up into a bellow that raged from within the cavern of his throat. Slowly, he took to his feet and called forth that hidden thing within the gossamer gray.

The reply was swift.

The fog spat forth a column of smoke upon the wetted grass. The tornado vortex spoke with a haunting moan that challenged the ominous silence to remain mute. Still, no wind gust its fury upon the moist blades nor did it throw its draft into those wide eyes that had come to be its witness. The tower of spiraling mist soared high before the humbled and kept its place well within the fall of their sight.

"Now," Joshua said in a monotone voice that sounded putrid, as if the vile words he had just chanted had rotted away those lingering bits of his tongue. "Behold the shadow of a day bereft of its place in time."

The soft sinuous fog retreated back into the swift torrent at the field's outer edge. Within the absence of its footprint dwelled the recognizable backdrop of a common fairground. Big top tents striped with crimson-gold ribbons pitched tall peeks before the meadow. Log fence paddocks corralled a pack of empty animal pens whose soil lay rich with loam and manure. Food and game concession stands hoisted up a plywood shantytown that channeled the pedestrian rows unto a mangle of carnival rides. All things that both stood and lay upon the lea kept idle beneath the wispy canopy, a forgotten fun-world vacant of fun. Neither a coupling of lovers, nor a throng of delighted children availed this amusement park. It was eerily cold, stagnant, as if this wistful place had just inexplicably traveled into an evil dimension and then back again, and the cost of that fare had been the very souls that had sought to engage its exhibitions of merriment. This theater lie bereft of joy, its testimony witness to something unspeakable. The misery of the place seemed to ooze out of the very soil beneath their feet, to bleed out of the stuffed animals, to flash out of the blinking light bulbs of the mirrored carousel. Everything here was a shadow of a scream that echoed on despite the unholy stillness.

The aroma of caramel corn, cotton candy, hamburgers and hotdogs drifted upon the lazy air. But below the sweet hunger lie something else---something sour---a bitter residue that tainted the experience with a stench that could not be readily identified. Perhaps it was a remnant of that other dimension, a leftover from a world so vile that it polluted every particle of this fairground down to its individual molecules. Whatever the source of the rancid odor, there was no denying that Joshua had been correct in his assessment: this place was but a shadow of its former self, and it was unmistakably bereft of its place in time.

Joshua approached the carousel, his unblemished skin lit by the radiance of those numerous tiny electric lights that systematically flickered in mechanical sequence. In contrast to the gloomy fog the bulbs were positively beautiful, but nonetheless tortured in a way that went well beyond human understanding. The merry-go-round's high sheen ponies sat motionless, their wide glossy eyes fearful, their braying mouths in strangled pose. Within the center column's tall mirror, the world lay warped and distorted by a bent prism. It was a fitting reflection, for the world felt wholly out of focus.

Dick glanced at one of the concession stands where a greasy skillet lay covered with a scatter of onions and sizzling hamburgers. For a second, his fear gave way to the gnawing hunger inside the pit of his stomach. Did he dare to ask Joshua for a treat, a last supper for the condemned _"would be king"_ before he swung in the gallows? He thought better of it, for although their host seemed congenial enough, Dick doubted that Joshua took dinner orders.

Kim hugged her arms as she watched both the carousel and Joshua with a mindful eye. She believed that this carnival was not what the man-thing wanted them to see, for she could still feel those elusive eyes staring at her from within the fog. That entity was the true source of power and the reason for their being here, not an empty merry-go-round in the middle of nowhere.

Jasper eyed the park, astonished by the preternatural speed by which it had been erected. However, there was also something here that captivated his attention in a way that was hard, if not impossible to articulate. The park held an unusual quality that would not betray its presence to that of the eye. No, the invisible energy kept hidden beneath the mundane veneer, its malevolence infecting every nut and bolt of the midway like a terminal disease. He reciprocated that elusive value, for it spoke to the need within his own heart to inflict suffering.

Joshua turned and faced the ramshackle congregation. He stood tall with a confident posture, his cold eyes staring down on the group with condescending self-importance.

"Come on kiddies," Joshua said with a sly wink. "Pick a pony and climb aboard. This is a celebration, and what better way to kick off the evening than with a little fun on the old round and round."

Kim and Dick stood in place, studying the carousel as if it were perhaps a giant blender that demons used to grind up people. Joshua sensed this apprehension and so he hopped up onto the sheet metal platform as to show his guests that the ride would in fact not eat them.

"Oh come on," Joshua said with a roll of his eyes. "You used to love to ride these things when you were a kid, Kim. It'll be fun, you'll see."

Joshua offered her a hand just as he had back at the cop cruiser. Again, Kim inspected the appendage, fully expecting the hand to transform into a tentacle or a slimy claw. However, the touch felt not only warm, but very much human as it had before.

"That a girl," Joshua said with a bow of his head as he helped Kim up onto the platform. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Isn't that what they say?"

Kim did not answer, she instead shimmied up onto the back of a white stallion whose green eyes stared blindly upon the world and whose gray hooves lie suspended in a perpetual prance. It felt insane to be engaging in such a bizarre activity given their current circumstances. Here, she was supposed to be on a quest to remedy poor Eddy's ailing health, and yet this sadistic fiend had her perched awkwardly upon a child's ride. Kim was not only humiliated, but infuriated as well. When was this man-thing going to help her dying son?! Her patience, like that figurative blindfold, was wearing thin. Still, she would not confront the stranger lest she forfeit the prize to her ill-temper.

"What do say you, Dickey old boy," Joshua said with an exaggerated British accent, his hand adjusting an imaginary monocle upon his hollow eye. "Come on gov'ner...don't be silly...come mount a filly."

Dick paused for a second and considered his limited options. The sizable goon of a cop still stood behind him, so there would be no running off without getting clipped by a handgun shell, especially since that damn fog had suddenly decided to give them such a wide berth. It would be one hell of a sprint to reach the safety of the dull gray, which hugged the distance like a grim horizon, too far for an armchair athlete such as Dick "the Prick" Orwell to traverse. Why, he might just as well win an Olympic gold medal for track and field as to span the length of the fairground without getting caught. Needless to say, he wasn't up to it. And so Dick, with a bowed head, reluctantly mounted the carousel platform and took a pony next to Kim. It was a red pony, its eyes closed and its stiff mane tucked down as if prepared to buck a cowboy in a rodeo corral.

"When do I get my ice cream?" Dick muttered.

Joshua flashed Orwell a perilous smile, to which Dick promptly decided it would be best to shut up.

"And what about you, Officer Hancock?" Joshua asked. "Care to take a spin?"

Jasper eyed the idiots sitting on the carousel ponies like a couple of snot nose kids. They looked foolish, and he had no wish to appear the same. He was a representative of the law, spit shined and polished. However, the loopy melody inside his head was the equivalent of having a good snoot full of booze. And so without much ado, he mounted a black Arabian, its dark hooves arranged in a full out gallop.

Joshua hopped down onto the field and examined the trio with an amused grin. "My...what a fine group we have here this evening. Yes, this will indeed be a special gathering. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and retrieve one more guest." He fixed his gaze upon Jasper. "Please keep a close eye on your siblings for me while I'm gone. I won't be but a moment, but I fear your playmates might get a bit antsy in my absence, and we wouldn't want them stumbling off into the fog now, would we."

Jasper nodded a slow easy agreement.

Joshua set off to leave, but then suddenly stopped and readdressed the small congregation. "Oh my, where are my manners? What kind of a host goes off and doesn't provide some sort of entertainment to amuse his guests?"

Joshua waved his big hand and the sparkling carousel roared to life, its Wurlitzer organ and brass pipe calliope tooting out that enigmatic classic otherwise known as the Forbidden Melody. The trio grasped onto the riding poles for dear life as the carnival ride ramped up to a breakneck pace. The whirl of electric lights as well as that phantom backdrop was lost to a blur of motion while that oddly metered music further impaired their sensibilities. Their thoughts fell to confusion, overcome by a mystical sound that was hell bent on rewiring their minds. It was everything for Kim not to throw up from the sensory overload, everything for Dick not to crap his finely pressed pants, and everything for Jasper not to laugh hysterically.

As Joshua sauntered away from that reeling carousel that creaked and moaned upon its overworked bearings, he casually whistled along with that strange forbidden tune. At the moment, he was very much the cock of the walk, the man with the plan, and soon he would have what he and the spire coveted most of all: soon they would have the _chosen one_.

(3)

Pam continued to clasp onto her father's hunting knife and flashlight with a veritable death grip, both hands given to a mild tremor that courted her panic. Hot streams of adrenaline coursed through her veins, ramping up not only her flesh and bone, but her wits as well. The fallout of fear was extensive, but manageable as long as she wore the reporter's chain mail. However, if that coat of armor would protect her against that, which would inevitably come to call, remained to be seen.

She watched the silhouette of a man glide out of the fog, his hands wedged contentedly inside what appeared to be a pair of denim pockets. He whistled along perfectly with that strange little tune that continued to toot out of the Wurlitzer organ and brass pipe calliope. It was the song from Pam's childhood, the one crooned by the attic box inside of Matilda's scenic Victorian, and this person knew every off-kilter note by heart.

How was that possible? She thought to the pink envelope stuffed inside her pant pocket. Had the note therein been written by this--- _man_? She had finally come to that place where questions and answers collided. But what if those facts turned out to be lies? If this was a supernatural phenomenon, how would she check out the source to see if it was credible or not? She couldn't, at least not without a Ouija board or a psychic hotline, neither of which were in her possession. But then, this meeting was about more than gathering information, this was about fulfilling some other sinister deed. Perhaps she had entered into a prophecy in which case there would be little she could do except pretend to make choices. However, she would not lend an ear to such defeatisms, for her disposition, while stubborn, nonetheless subscribed to that uncompromising state of freewill.

"Who are you?" Pam asked. Her question had sounded reedy and absent of authority, the efforts of a frightened woman trying to be assertive but who had fallen woefully short. To offset this shortcoming, she quickly steeled her spine and narrowed her eyes to that of a piercing glare.

An imposing man stepped into the bright cone of her lantern. She had fully expected a monster to avail her sight, a creature with no discernible eyes, maggots for hair, earthworms for a rotted face, hands knurled on rigor-mortise. However, what she found was quite the contrary.

He was tall of stature, wide of shoulder, a barrel chest, legs sturdy as stone. His flax woven hair hung like a mane atop his muscular shoulders. His countenance deceived an angelic face with skin that was smoother than smooth. His features lay stitched together with delicate but otherwise masculine contours. His symmetry was post-human, a being that perhaps had one foot further up the evolutionary ladder than everyone else's. He was a Greek God incarnate, the ultimate man, except for one critical thing: his eyes. Those telltale windows to the soul were not in synch with his other captivating features. And although they sparkled brilliantly, they were as distant and as cold as a northern star on a midwinter's night. Those eyes had abandoned his beauty to the misery of death. Those eyes alone said that this man-thing was fundamentally flawed on many levels: emotionally, psychologically, and by far worse, spiritually. If only she could find some semblance of compassion within those lost menacing eyes, then maybe she could stop trembling, but it was pointless. This thing, however striking in appearance, was rotten to the core, much like an apple that had fallen from the highest branch of the tallest tree in Eden's palatial garden.

"Hello," Joshua said with a smile that looked a little too practiced. "Long time no see."

"Who are you?" Pam repeated, her hand raising the knife into a defensive position.

"Folks round these parts call me, Joshua," he replied with a slight nod, his haunted eyes examining Pam's cutting utensil with almost comical amusement. "But we both know it's something else...don't we?"

Pam's eyebrows hunched sharply as she fell into deep thought. Had she met this man before? And there it was, a splinter in her mind, an uncertainty that she could not explain away. There was something familiar about him, but she was most certain that they had never met before. So what then was the connection? The hole in her memory itched her sensibilities every bit as much as that damn melody, which fluted on and on with its mechanical rhythm from within the clouded fog.

"Have we met?"

Joshua gave her a teasing wink, and a cruel juvenile smile, which seemed to say: _"I've got a secret."_ "Why my dear, we're old friends from way back in the day you and I. Don't you remember?"

Pam stared at the handsome specimen with a mixture of ravenous curiosity and mild sexual attraction. She was lost for his name let alone the place where they had supposedly met. How could she have forgotten such an exquisite face? It seemed impossible. However, there was one weird thing that she did know, and that was that this gorgeous male with the dead eyes was telling the truth. She could feel it in her soul.

"I don't recall ever having met you before."

Joshua giggled softly. His pearly white teeth glistened in the bright cone of Pam's lantern. He was stunning, but tainted by something vile, a white orchid that had been dipped into an inkwell of blood.

"Pamela Sussex," Joshua said with a slight shake of his head that conveyed a sense of pathetic amusement. "Isn't it said that all the Adam women are supposed to be smart cookies?"

It was obvious he knew the details surrounding her ancestral lineage. Was he an Adam relative? She doubted it deeply, for whatever this man presumed to be, he was not human, of that she was most certain. No mortal woman had ever born such a remarkable specimen, not even in a classic fairytale.

"You know my family name," Pam said, trying to sound firm, if only to convince herself that she was not scared out of her wits. "How do you---"

"---I said you and I are old friends from back in the day," Joshua reasserted with a hint of impatience. "God, must I always explain everything?" He tilted his head back slightly in a snooty gesture. "Smart cookies indeed. My, but hasn't this apple fallen far from the tree...such a pity."

"What is going on out here?" Pam asked, almost blurting it out, which only made her sound more frightened. "Who are you? Where's the serpent's spire?"

"Questions that beget questions," Joshua said, his former merriment falling away to leave a surly man in its place. "And answers that spawn new questions. You're a reporter all right, Pamela, a pest just like all the rest of them. God, you should see yourselves. Sensationalizing the horrific. Beating the masses about the head with the morbid details of social decay. Depressing the population with dismal economic forecasts. Scaring the B-Jesus out of everyone until they think everything they eat and touch is going to kill them. You and the people of your world live inside nothing but a tiny stinking box my dear, a rotten moldy coffin. You're already dead. You just don't know it yet." He gave a single curt laugh. "Questions indeed. My goodness child. Don't you know who you are?"

"I don't know what's going on!" Pam shouted, surprised by the amount of fury inside her own voice, an anger that had briefly shoved her fear aside. "Tell me or I'll---!"

"---You'll what?" Joshua snapped, his soulless eyes transforming into two bright sunsets that lit up his face with a murderous shade of red.

Pam instantly shrunk down, her rage easily subdued by her fear.

"Will you stab me?!" Joshua asked, his teeth barred in a wicked snarl.

Pam felt the knife inside her hand contort like a muscle spasm. She immediately looked upon the blade and found a menacing black adder hissing and thrashing wildly about, its poisonous fangs in search of flesh. She yelped, dropped the serpent, and then hopped back to a safe distance, her eyes wide as they watched that scaly reptile slither through the damp grass and off into the thick deaf fog.

"We had a deal you and me," Joshua grumbled, his eyes cooling down into something better resembling a person's, but not quite. "Remember?"

Pam pulled her eyes away from the wriggling serpent and let them settle upon the mysterious fiend named Joshua. Any doubt that she may have held that he was not human had vanished along with the snake. It was obvious that he was much more than a maniac out for a casual stroll on a foggy evening, he was a genuine true to the article supernatural phenomenon, and that meant a few things: that the hungry gargoyle had indeed swam through the spire's cold metal, which also meant that she was not crazy, and that she was also in very deep trouble, for this handsome rogue had not only claimed to know her, but that they had an agreement of some sort. And although she could not recall that transaction, she could not help but feel as though it had occurred.

"I told you," Pam said. "I don't know what's going on."

"Then let us a take a stroll down memory lane," Joshua said in a menacing voice.

He faced into the fog towards that oddly metered music and to that dim twinkle of lights. He raised his arms, to which the drab fog swiftly parted, thus further proving that Joshua was not a man, but something else, something paranormal by nature.

In the mist's absence, a fairground dotted with big top tents, thrill rides and tawdry concession stands, held the way forward. However, this was not just any makeshift midway or carny shakedown, this was none other than the Annapolis Fairground from Pam's youth.

For an instant, she forgot the fiend named Joshua and ventured a step forward, her eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar as she marveled at the intricate detail. It was exactly as she recalled: the way the gaming shanties had been haphazardly pegged together, the striped tents, the jumble of the thrill ride equipment, even that delectable aroma from the food vendors. Each sensory queue was a recognizable milestone on the path to yesterday, except for one thing: they seemed smaller. Of course the last time she had been here, she had only been twelve years old, so it was understandable why the structures felt shorter, the distances closer, for she had grown a foot taller since then. But still, in this place, at this moment, her heart felt every bit as fragile as that child from yesteryear who had accidentally blundered into old Banjo's apple cart. Except this time she felt as though she had blundered into an iron spire and from its twisted canopy had fallen that most terrible of fruit.

She felt overwhelmed by circumstance, and despite her experienced age and adult height, she still felt small before that dark impending shadow that had come to watch over her. Here, she was nothing in the grand scheme of things, and although, she would question her significance in regards to fate's keeping, she nonetheless sensed that she had an important role to play in God's cosmic plan. And if that was indeed true, then perhaps she had some sort of spiritual leverage. But if she did, what was it worth? What tool had been gifted to her good custody? To discover that secret, she would need to pay close attention to what this Joshua-thing did and said, and maybe, just maybe, if she was clever, she might chance to wield its influence to her advantage.

"We have guests," Joshua said, pointing toward a distant carousel that spun unusually fast. "They're a rather dim witted lot...well, that's except for Kim, but she's lacks imagination, unlike yourself, Pam."

"You talk as though you know everything about me," Pam said, as she watched that reeling carousel drag its victims round and round in frantic circles. How much longer would it take before those poor people were thrown to either injury, or perhaps even death?

"I know everything," Joshua replied. He eyed Pam with an arrogant smugness. "And don't you forget it."

"What do you want from me?" Pam asked, trying to make it sound like a calculated question and not one that beseeched mercy.

"That you honor your word," Joshua replied. "Nothing more."

"And what agreement was that?"

His eyelids narrowed as the irises within transformed into amber-gold snake eyes, this as his tender full lips parted to reveal a set of dagger like incisors, teeth as sharp and as biting as a steel bear trap. "Come...we've much to discuss this night."

An icicle stabbed into her heart. She willed herself to breathe, lest she collapse under that terrible weight of fear. It was not easy, but she managed the fall out just the same. It was obvious that Joshua wanted to intimidate her, and he had succeeded most admirably to that end. However, Pam was fashioned from fine timber, and although, her panic courted a submission to his will, she would not allow its passage without an effort of defiance.

Joshua strode forward, mindful that his companion heeded his lead obediently. "You're still beautiful. Almost as beautiful as that day when we..." He gave her a considerate glance, one that suggested that they had once been friends, or maybe even more. It made her horribly uneasy, guarded. "But then again, such superficial trappings are the lures that bind spirit to flesh, flesh to bone, and bone to wood, aren't they?"

Nothing this Joshua had to say made much sense to Pam. He read like the hen scratches on the invitation inside her pocket: illegible. But yet there was a sensibility tangled up amidst his words. This thing did not ramble, it knew of what it spoke. What Pam needed to in order to understand him, were the missing pages from his history book.

"Are you asking me if I'm caught up in the temptations of the earth?" Pam asked, attempting to engage this thing in a civilized exchange in the hope of gathering information.

"A rhetorical question," Joshua shrugged. "For all men and women have sinned, and thus have come short of the glory of God."

"Does that please you?" Pam asked, risking the wrath of this thing's ire. But then that's what good reporters did: they asked the hard questions.

"The only thing that will please me, is when you honor your word," Joshua replied with a note of strict restraint. "Although, we both know you're not a woman of honor."

That latter statement had been a direct disparagement of her character. However, she let it slide. This was neither the time nor the place to argue with a thing that could change its eyes and teeth at will. Besides, she could tell this man-thing was spoiled to its moral core, a fiend that did not deserve her respect. Yet despite knowing this, the remark had still wounded her deeply, and she could not understand why.

They stopped before the spinning carousel, watching the white knuckled trio blur past at a dizzying speed. It had been a silly act on behalf of Joshua, trapping them on the merry-go-round like that, a petty cruelty which showed the nature of his character. He was a sadistic son of a bitch that enjoyed torturing others for his own twisted amusement. And although, he would argue that it was all in good fun, there was still an undeniable truth to be had from such ill-had leisure. When someone's entertainment came at the expense of another person's suffering, then it was not fun, it was deranged. Joshua, albeit powerful and knowledgeable in matters that defied human comprehension, still had psychological and spiritual issues. And no matter how high up on the food chain a predator claimed to perch, they were always bound to the lowest common denominator whenever they acted poorly. In that realization, Pam knew that Joshua, although mighty, was not superior to any mortal being in regards to his morality. However, there was no denying that this wicked fiend had them all over a flaming barrel, and that meant he held a superior vantage point.

"I trust my children have had enough!" Joshua shouted over the music. A hearty chuckle shook the brawny shoulders beneath his faded denim jacket.

"Please!" Dick called out. "I'm going to be sick!"

"I can't hold on!" Kim bellowed.

"Stop it!" Pam exclaimed, unable to hide her concern from Joshua. This made her feel weak within the pit of his cruel eyes, but it could not be helped. She would not abide this treatment of others, and as such, would have her thoughts known on the matter.

Joshua looked down upon her with an expression that might have been either disdain, or curiosity, she could not decide which. However, his posture seemed to ease, and that perhaps was a sign of compliance on his behalf.

"Anxious to get on with it, are we," Joshua said with a decisive nod. "Alright then."

Pam did not like the sound of that, but what else could she do? Wait until these people were spun to their deaths? She braced for whatever possibly might happen next, mindful that another sadistic cruelty could be visited upon them.

Joshua waved a hand in a nonchalant gesture, a sorcerer casting a dark spell. The carousel groaned upon its foundation as the ball bearings scraped sharply like a freight-train's wheels fetching up on a set of iron rails. The ponies immediately ceased their gallop. The sudden change in velocity and had almost bucked the riders clear from their varnished saddles. Joshua doubled over with laughter. It was a harsh grating noise. He was in near hysterics, head tossed back and bellowing out a thunderclap of piercing mirth. Kim teetered upon the pony, eyes rolling. Her arms ached from holding onto the support pole and her stomach churned a load of vomit. But she defied that urge, because she needed a cure, always the cure. If this was a test of her resolve, then by God, she would pass it even if it killed her, even if she had to endure those ragged notes of the Wurlitzer and brass pipe calliope's terrible tune for all eternity. Dick however, was completely washed out, and he did not care who knew it. He also wanted to hurl, but unfortunately his gut would not cooperate. It was too empty to accommodate the moment, and so his holiness was left to suck on a bad case of dry heaves, that and listen to that ethereal music that seemed to make his ears itch and burn. Meanwhile, Jasper watched with bitter annoyance as the world spun before his hard pale eyes. He could hear Joshua laughing at them, and he didn't much care for it, even if the man-thing was his messiah. However, Jasper could endure this humiliation, for deep down he understood that this pilgrimage would inevitably lead him to a place where he alone would crack the whip across the backs of a countless multitude. Or so he believed.

Joshua's merriment settled into a state of cool calculation with disturbing speed as he fixed the carousel riders with a shrewd stare. Once again, his hollow eyes, fired by that dreadful shade of blood lit scarlet, shone forth upon their misery. The sight of those pyres tied a knot inside Pam's stomach, for she knew that an evil deed was about to be offered forth on behalf of Joshua's bitterest of charities.

The poles that anchored the ponies unto the carousel's floor and ceiling tore free of their anchored couplings and let loose those beasts of timber from their mechanical paddock. The yawn of failing steel spoke to the mangle of scrap iron as those candy striped poles softened into spools of metallic rope, which swiftly lashed the riders about their waists and tied them firmly to their unyielding saddles. Kim, Dick, and Jasper struggled in vain against their bonds, lost as to a means that would undo this unearthly magic.

"Come forth," Joshua said in a booming voice. "There's business at hand and the hour has grown late."

The sound of wood snapping accompanied the movement of those artificial limbs, as those dead ponies placed their painted hooves down upon the fairground's damp trail. The high sheen replicas mocked the living, their cold dead eyes fixed on nothing, their carved mouths parted into callous grins. The scaled down miniatures supported their passengers easily, for their bodies lay fashioned from strapping cuts of maple and their innards lay endowed with an energy that drew its force from a deep cosmic well. They were minions for the master of ceremonies: Joshua. And if he so wished that they fly, then it would be so.

Kim yelped, battled awkwardly against her restraints. In the struggle, she dropped her purse, to which her precious rosary along with her pocket bible tumbled out onto the field. She felt the sacred heirlooms possessed a source of white magic, perhaps enough to thwart the demonic ponies that pranced about like the genuine articles. But although those saintly tools lay exposed to everyone's sight, those religious artifacts nonetheless did nothing to dissuade her captor let alone his obedient monstrosities. In God's war against evil, those holy trinkets lacked both venom and teeth. The reality of that awful truth broke Kim's heart, and she could not help but wonder if her loss of faith had anything to with their inability to act. For an instant, she almost ventured a prayer to her heavenly savior, but abstained. Even in the face of eternal damnation she felt no good would come of it, for the willful transgressor was unworthy of God's fair grace.

Dick pulled on his pony's mane, trying to steer the damn thing like it was an actual horse. It would have delighted him to no end to gallop off into the fog and to freedom on Joshua's ticket. Mr. Lone Ranger and a high-ho Silver away! But the beast would not heed the provisional king, it only hurt his fingers the more he struggled with the whittled wood. Sadly, he had begun to resign to the fact that perhaps his goose was already on the dining room table. The only thing he could do now was to wait for the blade to cut deep into his mangy hide.

Jasper felt indignant, but the forbidden melody kept him on the pilgrimage and stayed his side arm from dispensing some six gun justice. Still, he was growing impatient and could not help but feel that a time of reckoning was at hand. The song's disagreeable notes had suited his fancy just fine up to a point, but that time was quickly coming to pass. He had suffered the music's whims without protest, and as such, was due to receive that noblest of rewards. Still, he could not help but feel as though the messiah of pain was holding him back, belittling his potential for greatness for at his core, this Joshua envied him. If only Jasper could avail that unseen entity that dwelled within the supernatural framework, then he mayhap secure his hand upon fate's whip handle. But until he could figure out how to secure a greater knowledge, he would have to serve as Joshua's lowly disciple. And although, he did not care to dwell in anyone's shadow, Hancock understood that all things had an innate pecking order. He would have to wait, bide his time, and when the moment came, he would step up and claim his destiny without reservation.

"Whoa," Joshua said to the ponies in a John Wayne accent. "Looks like this here posse has done gone and rode from hell and back again, I'd reckon." He spat a thick splotch of brown juice upon the grass, which was none other than genuine tobacco. It was yet another one of his impressive tricks. "Come by way of the Comanche Pass they have...a full day's ride judging by the dust on their heels, I'd say."

Pam stared at Joshua with an ever increasing disdain. This game of his had gone on for long enough, and she had had enough of it. Sure, she was scared---terrified actually, but there was nothing worse than living in the anticipation of a fear than the actual fear itself. In that regards, Shakespeare had been correct: _"cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once."_ She could not speak for the others, but she so very much wanted to be valiant.

"We're all very impressed with your illusions, Joshua," Pam said, her jade eyes fixed and narrow. "But we've grown tired of these games. You said we had business, so if you'd be so kind, then commence it. If not, then we bid you good night and ask your pardon and that you would let us be on our way." Pam's heart hammered steadily. She had just figuratively thrown down the gauntlet and she was not sure what kind of duel might commence as a result.

Joshua's grinning face went blank, a hint of surprise caught within the gray webbing of his deceitful eyes. "In the old days you were always quite formidable my dear...a presence to be reckoned with once you'd found your footing." His hand went to touch the side of her face as to cradle it caringly, but it fell short. "As you wish precious. The hour is late. Let us banish the meek and have at it with due diligence."

The ponies obediently found a knee while their candy cane ribbons unfurled to release their saddled prisoners. Kim, Dick, and Jasper quickly dismounted their steeds lest they be trapped forever. The music from the Wurlitzer and brass pipe calliope ceased. The lights of the midway stopped blinking and held candle bright and steady. It was obvious the time had come to barter the livestock.

Joshua looked around the fairgrounds with a surveying eye. "This had been the place where you had lost your innocence all those years ago," Joshua noted, as if he had been there, and perhaps he had. "Old Banjo plucked you a tune, a ditty that spoke of a family tree." He shook his head with wretched bewilderment. "The cosmic twists and turns of the timeline. It serves the Lords of Chaos, and that sweet Jesus, is mine."

No one understood what Joshua's rambling meant, but they nonetheless felt his words were of paramount significance.

"I've given you clues, my darling Pamela," Joshua said. He fixed her with a piercing stare that sought an indulgence. "And I've gone to such great lengths to weed out those undesirables who might have interfered with our business, namely, those rowdy punks in the Firebird along with that greasy pervert by the name of Greg Boudreau."

"What are you saying?" Pam asked, sensing an answer lay dipped in cold blooded murder.

"This is our party," Joshua replied with a casual shrug. "No crashers. Besides, it was rude of them to come here uninvited...unforgivable...the pinnacle of poor manners as a matter of fact. I detest such people. They're uncivilized"

Once again, Pam thought to the envelope inside her pocket. She was glad it was there, for if it had not been, then perhaps she too might have ended up in ill-repair.

"Why are you doing this?" Pam asked. The question sought a resolution not only for her own curiosity, but on behalf of those who had paid in blood.

Joshua looked down on her with an odd kind of startle, as if he could not believe what his perfectly shaped ears had just heard. "Why Pam...you should know...you're the one who called me here, remember?"

Pam took a tentative step backward and almost fell flat onto her posterior. She did not want to believe that she had had anything to do with Joshua's being here. But it was pointless. She knew that she had everything to do with his presence in Sea Haven, for it was she who had planted Matilda's apple seed in the fertile earth of Major's Field all those years ago. It was she who had defied her aunt's warning about engaging in such a wanton desecration. It was she who had been arrogant enough to disregard that wise caution in order to satisfy that which had killed the cat. And now, she would reap the misdeeds of what she had sown. Of course the ramifications of her blunder had not been intentional, but that did not change the fact that her misplaced effort had been put forward. With that realization, she was beset by guilt, for she had inadvertently played a part in the demise of those boorish guests who had lacked the good courtesy to call ahead and book a reservation. She should have been sacrificed in their place for that most careless sin, but here she was, still breathing. That cruelest fate, it seemed, felt that Ms. Sussex was not quite ripe for the harvest, but was definitely in season.

"I can tell you feel responsible for my overzealousness," Joshua said with a hint of empathy. "Your sin was pride. Mine was wrath. Not to mention that sixth commandment which is?" He looked about the small group as if addressing a classroom of students and eventually let his finger fall upon Kim. "Come now, Kimberly. I bet you could quote the good book from cover to cover. Tell us what six is?"

"Thou shalt not..." Kim swallowed hard, for the answer felt as dry as desert sand inside her throat. "Kill."

Joshua clapped softly. "Bravo, wonderful, head of the class."

He looked back at Pam, noting how withdrawn she had become. He could taste her guilt for his transgression, and surprisingly it did not give him nearly as much satisfaction as he had hoped. He would have to do better.

"Oh go on...blame me," he said with an almost endearing kind of smile. "Ah, but then you won't completely, will you? You'll carry that cross all the way to your grave, even though you had nothing to do with it. Bear my sins just like JC did on Calvary." He sighed and raised his thin eyebrows into a pleasant arc. "You'll need to purge, to be baptized and cleansed of sin." He chuckled softly, an act which showed his disdain for those he considered to be weak. "Go then, say your amendments, your penance. It's the price you pay for being human, Pamela. But be mindful honey child, cause dominos fall, and events come into play, so suck it on up. It's a bitch, but that's the way the path twists and turns en route to the future." He shook his head and became sullen on an intimate pain, which spoke of an old regret. "Ah, but alas...consequences... I'm all about them. In fact, I invented the word." He craned his head back and stared up into the deaf grayness that hung overhead like a low bearing rain cloud. "As for penance...well...let's just say that there are some things that can never be undone."

"Have you tried?" Kim asked in a voice that was jittery on nerves.

Joshua gave her a considerate gaze, and then extended his large hand out to her. It was balled into a loose fist, palm down. Kim was hesitant at first, but soon reciprocated the gesture with her own trembling hand as to receive that which was to be given. Joshua opened his big mitt and let Kim's rosary fall into her hand. It was warm, and she immediately seized it and held it close to her heart. She offered Joshua a set of grateful eyes that were burdened with a threat of tears.

"Thank you," Kim said in the breathy voice of a woman who had just been figuratively given back her faith.

"Pray for me Kimberly Denise Ryan," Joshua said with a cordial nod.

"I will." Kim closed her eyes and did just that.

Pam watched Joshua, amazed by the fact that part of her felt sorry for him. He was a killer with an alligator's grin and she knew that he was psychologically toying with them. It was a head game, sport, something to while away the hours of his otherwise empty existence. It was everything for her not to call him on his lies, but in the end it was better to have an agreeable maniac, rather than a raving one.

"You said I called you here," Pam said as to maneuver the conversation into a direction that was better suited for finding hard answers. After all, knowledge was power and would be the only arrows afforded her this night.

Joshua addressed her with a calm exterior, although the eyes were of frost. "The seed, Pamela," Joshua acknowledged. "Three six in an age ago."

"Three six in age ago?" Dick asked, stirring briefly from his silent stupor. He glanced at Jasper, expecting a sharp swat to the ear, but the sadistic lug with the spit shined shoes was too busy staring at the man-thing named Joshua to pay him much heed.

"Eighteen years," Jasper replied with a grin. He did not get puzzles right very often, but when he did, he was singularly delighted with himself. Tonight was no exception.

Joshua gave Jasper a decisive nod that showed he was pleased by his meat puppet's deductive capabilities.

"Three sixes," Pam mumbled.

"Symbolism," Joshua said. He once again lifted his eyes heavenward towards a God that he was quite certain had an all hearing ear out this fine foggy evening. "We're all about metaphors and boogey boards folks! That's the jargon that'll get ya barking! Woof woof!"

Pam pursed her full lips, her doe eyes set on Joshua with singular attention. This was it, the moment when she tossed out the big questions, the point in the interview when those hard to believe, incredible answers found their way into the garish light of truth. Still, her first question sounded ludicrous in open company. How should she field such an inquiry and still sound like a reasonable woman? She took the breath necessary to deliver the words.

"Are you the Devil?"

Had she actually just asked that question? It sounded even worse coming out of her mouth than she had feared. A foolish thought as spoken by a foolish woman. Her face went flush. She felt as though she had just asked someone if they might in fact be Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. But then, the inquisition had not been that outlandish a concept given Joshua's supernatural abilities and mannerisms. However, Pam still could not shake the idea that perhaps she had bought into a very clever prank, hook, line, and sinker, and as such, had very much proven herself quite the fool.

Joshua's gaze left the sky and found Pam's face with an uncanny speed. There was an excitement within him, an eagerness that itched to tattletale all that he knew. But would he?

"My goodness, that's quite a thing to ask someone, a bit personal don't you think." He feigned a hurt expression. "I mean, would I ask Jasper if he was a serial killer who used his position in life to get away with murder? Would I ask Dickey old boy if he was a shifty eel of a politician who killed his political opponent with a car door tonight? Would I ask Kim if she was a church going do good who was ready to sell her soul in order to acquire a cure for her poor sick son?" The playfulness bled out of Joshua's face, leaving the hard appearance of a man who was done kidding around. "Or would I ask you, Ms. Sussex, what it was like to taste of that fruit from Eden's Forbidden Tree?"

Once again, Pam felt as though she might fall flat on her ass. Joshua's charge, let alone his assertion that her company was nothing more than a band of cutthroats unsettled her deeply. Yet as she gauged Dick Orwell's and Jasper Hancock's eyes, she could see the terrible sadistic truth therein. The fruit on their vine had indeed withered and spoiled. However, despite their transgressions, Pam knew the threat did not lie within the folly of these men, but rather within the man-thing that knew a great many things. This beast was not to be trusted, and although, he spoke to a matter of fact, he nonetheless courted a clever deception. In that regard, how then could she hope to accurately weigh the worth of his words? Joshua had charged her with a preposterous claim, yet he had balanced that proclamation with a believable veracity, and as such, she lingered on a doubt. But was his assertion a fabrication of sheer nonsense? Was it a twisted game? Yes, she had buried that forbidden seed on Major's Field all those years ago, but never once had she indulged her appetite on one of those sumptuous crimson-gold apples. Not because she had resisted the temptation, (she would have loved to have taken a bite out of that finest delicacy,) but because those sumptuous orbs had lain hopelessly out of reach in another world and in another time long since forgotten. So what then was this Joshua sputtering on about? She waited for a sign of jest to deceive his veneer, but his stolid surface held onto its unyielding form. She thought to disarm this nonsense with a laugh, but her best placed effort could not summon up such merriment, however insincere its tone might be. Unfortunately, she could feel something deep down inside that spoke to her subconscious realization, and that whisper in the dark said that she and Joshua were indeed old friends.

It was here that the proverbial shovel hit the casket.

Joshua's stern surface eased a smug grin. "Pam...or should I say...Eve...it's been a long time."

The name sounded natural within the hub of her ears, even more so than her given name of Pamela. But did that perception denote a hidden truth? Was she in fact the first woman as written of in the book of Genesis? Was she in fact the reincarnation of Eve?

"Reduce, reuse, and recycle," Joshua said with glowing satisfaction. He had waited a long time for this moment and now it was finally here. It was everything for him not to do back flips and break into song. "She's born again folks! Praise Jesus, hallelujah! Do you see the light? Yes sir, I does see it! I does! Then step forward and testify!"

Despite the risk of offending Joshua, Kim crossed herself and kissed her link of rosary beads and called onto the Lord to shine down and save them all from Perdition's flames.

Unfortunately, nothing happened.

Dick in the meantime, eased back a step from the dysfunctional group, waiting for a chance to hightail it out into the fog. He had it all planned: he would drain his sizable bank account come first light and then take an extended vacation to South America. Down there, he would be safe from the big mitt cop, the freak named Joshua, and the thing whose menacing presence hid inside the deaf gray. Besides, this weird line of business had nothing to do with him personally, this fiasco had to do with the little tart of a reporter and the shape shifter with the ghoulish eyes. Dick had no reason to be here, and so he primed his skinny legs to carry his portly frame on what would no doubt prove to be the sprint of a lifetime.

"Can you feel it, Pamela?" Joshua asked, raising a clenched fist to denote a sense of power. "You've fought long and hard, and as result, you have altered your own destiny. You alone have wrestled the Lords of Karma and brought them to their knees. And so here you stand...poised on the edge of greatness...the first woman come home again to restore that which was unjustly taken from her...your birthright!" He smiled broadly, cold dead eyes lit by the pyre of an untold expectation. "You are like a beautiful queen, Eve...and you are." He bowed gracefully, one leg extended forward in the ancient tradition, his hand at his side as if holding a musketeer's hat with a frilly feather stuck into its silk ribbon.

Pam was speechless. Her thoughts in part were given over to a strange bout of reverie by which the world beneath her feet could not accept. If only she could remember, then perhaps she could secure an intellectual equilibrium. But her long lost life, if real, felt a victim to a time unimagined. To consider such a possibility was to ask a soul to recall that primordial stay in mother's womb. Such a retelling was lost to the blackness beyond black where a deaf and blind oblivion preceded that which had not yet come to speak of sentient thought. But according to her empathic sense of recollection, there _had_ _been_ a time before conception, a dimension that was every bit as shrouded as the eerie fog that covered all things. Had that forgotten land been in a purgatory-like-world, or was that notion nothing more than whimsical fantasy?

Her mind dwelled upon the possibility of a spirit realm, for if there was such a place then it had been from that perch that she had waited an age and a day as to acquire a mortal skin by which to navigate the lower-world in human form. Yet those brain cells that gathered up the sum of her mortal experiences could not retrieve that sacred knowledge from the memory-well, for the present mind had been crafted well beyond her soul's manufacturing date, and as such, had no tangible filament to clasp onto. However, she nonetheless felt a peculiar inkling within the hub of her existence and could not dispel the possibility that perhaps some sort of spiritual door might blow open at any second and allow that misplaced history to walk into her forethoughts like an old familiar stranger.

If only she could remember.

"So, you're saying that I'm the reincarnation of Eve?"

Joshua nodded. "You are, and I am the highest archangel next to that of my Master Lucifer." He tapped his foot merrily as if in time with a song only he could hear. "And here we are...just a couple of crazy kids...doing our dance...singing our song...oh say it isn't so." He then stopped his little dance and became quite serious once again. "Oh what's the use? You people have no sense of humor."

"How do I know you're not lying?" Pam asked. Again, those emerging feelings crept along that thin twine of her synaptic pathways, as if searching for a door by which to realize its ego.

"Ah, I see," Joshua said. "I'm evil, and evil always lies." He slowly moved up to Pam, until his handsome face surrounded by its golden mane of hair was just a few inches from hers. He then reached up and gently placed his large warm hands aside her smooth face and drew her in close for a kiss. "Taste what I have tasted, Eve, and then you shall know from whence ye came."

She did not resist, could not, for deep down she wanted him to kiss her, to feel those perfect lips pressed upon hers. He was gorgeous, a fiend most certainly, but a striking one at that, and she could not deny her attraction. His eyes closed as did hers, and a second later, she was washed away inside the hot wet torrent of a passionate kiss. Her head swam with dizzying delight, thoughts and feelings drunk on a vintage wine so sweet and quenching that it filled every want or need of her soul. She knew then and without question that she had just tasted that which Joshua had tasted: a crimson-gold apple from the Tree of Knowledge, and it was better than sweet, it was utter bliss.

In an instant, she could conceptualize all possibilities. The universe and the meaning of life were so simplistic in reason that they were almost laughable. She had become alpha-omega, the beginning and end. Time held no meaning, centuries and eons were measured in nanoseconds, the rise and fall of civilizations nothing more than an irritating dust to be blown about in a heedless wind. She understood those celestial matters of Heaven, Hell, and the lower-world known as Earth, the divisions of Fallen Angels from God, Man from Nature. The unfortunate history of those dynasties was so complex, yet in the same meter, measured in childlike simplicity. And in her soul's eye, she could see Heaven's Glory, its palatial gardens, majestic winding streams, streets of gold, alabaster bell towers, and winged angels soaring high against the cerulean blue. So too had she seen Eden's magnificence, its vibrant forests that resembled the lower-world's trees, but whose countenance lay in superlative finery, their fragrant flowers of delightful shades and textures that exceeded any and all worldly orchids, the unadulterated innocence of creation that would set a soul to weep at their beauty, the Man, Adam and the Woman, Eve, blessed without sin and bound to each other by unconditional love and the absolute worship of that, their God. So too had that soul's window gleaned the love between Lucifer and Yahweh, the first and most beautiful of angels and the one God of Heaven. Their adoration had gone well-beyond that of creator and creation, but rather father to son, brother to brother, spiritual lover to spiritual lover. They were kindred intellects with the hearts of giants, and they had rallied all things of Paradise to be made anew in their courtship, for even the universe itself was but a fledgling foundation on which their aspirations had yet to be fully realized.

All such knowledge was bestowed within the telling kiss, their paring of Yin and Yang. Yet for all the wondrous knowledge that threatened to burst a blood vessel within Pam's mind, she failed to understand certain things: the ethereal puzzles that were too alien for her human brain to comprehend. It was as Matilda had once said: the difference between book smarts and common sense. If you had not walked that mile to the mountain or tasted the native cuisine while on holiday, then you were left to familiar hearsay. Yes, she could name every star in the heavens, speak every alien tongue in the galaxy, but there was still a piece of information missing from the experience: the flavor that only firsthand knowledge could bestow, of actually being there and seeing it through the narrator's eyes. Here, she had read Lucifer's autobiography from beginning to end, but she had not lived his life, nor had Joshua, and thus the subtle nuances which were the bones of any good story, lay lost in translation. And so she was left to wonder about Satan's motivation. It was true: the Devil was genius, but also a fool, for he had taken on that which would ultimately be his undoing. But why would someone who knew better, do that? Lucifer would have known the consequences, so why the rebellion?

Despite the seemingly open exchange of minds, she had begun to realize that Joshua was guarding a great deal not only about himself, but also his Master. That alone said that she in fact was not being shown all things, but only what Joshua wanted her to see. But that discrepancy did not matter, for his kiss had achieved its goal of awakening her memory.

Their lips gently parted. Joshua stepped back, examining her with unearthly eyes. Most of the vast knowledge she had attained while in his angelic embrace immediately fell away, leaving an emptiness that sought to be filled like a set of lungs hungering for air. Sadly, she had not retained the meaning of life, nor the nature of the universe, nor much of anything else for that matter. Those grandiose concepts had winked out like a wick flame in a high wind. All that remained now of that brilliant enlightenment was a dying thread of smoke. Yet not everything had been lost, scattered pieces remained, angelic writings clattering around inside the dim shadows of her psychic remnants. But aside from those few anomalies, nothing else was to be seen within her waking eye. The gift that had allowed a brief glimpse of eternity had departed her, and as such, she felt lost.

"Do you see?" Joshua asked. His face was a false mask of compassion that fell out of sort with his demonic eyes.

Pam felt the world steady despite feeling like a woman who had been suddenly yanked out of both time and place and thrown into a chaotic future. She was split down the seam of her spiritual core into two distinct beings that existed within the same fleshy shell, two distinct minds that had become one and the same, but separated by alternate histories. Yet there was a cohesive harmony within the marriage of their minds, for those colliding brains both cultivated rational thought. In fact, they were identical in almost every way except for that uniquely divided path, which wound backward in time unto a fractured lens. It was true, Pam's feet had never wandered through the palatial path in Eden's garden, but in an essence they had. And although, she had not tasted a crimson-gold apple upon her delicate tongue, in an essence she had. And although, her eyes had not beheld that glorious face of God, in an essence they had. Suffice to say, she could not decide who she was, for both parts of her being had succumbed to an identity crisis, and although they embraced gently and did not struggle against one another, they were nonetheless locked in a battle for intellectual supremacy. Who then would take the helm now that the storm raged? Her waking mind felt like a shattered mirror whose jagged shards reflected alternate realities. Was Eden the dream, or was it Sea Haven? Those familial landscapes overlapped, but despite the confusion there was an emotional consensus within both aspects of her being that said things in the here and now had grown perilously urgent.

"Yes," Pam nodded, her thoughts singularly trying to focus on the living moment. "We...I see."

Joshua bowed his regal head and placed a sturdy knee upon the damp grass where he chanted an incoherent prayer. It was through the flow of these enigmatic words that he summoned forth that which was his greatest metamorphosis.

The faded denim jacket that wrapped up his brawn within tattered fabric, gave way its weave to the thrust of silver daggers as his enormous wings discarded their mundane cocoon as to realize the scope of their reach. Within that exotic symmetry, each barb laid an interwoven pattern into an intricate tapestry of a magical shield. This arch of steel hung over his imposing stature, fanning the fog with a sharp plume of quilled daggers. His strapping arms, sculpted from ethereal bronze, flanked his barrel of a chest and sinuous abs. His flaxen mane, each strand a golden thread as spun by a mystical sewing wheel, had grown fuller, brighter, longer, and seemed to glow like electric neon. Joshua had transformed once again, this time into a creature that resembled a beautiful bird of prey, his hawkish gaze fixed upon the timid as if eyeing a ripe morsel for consumption. In the daunting presence of such a formidable entity, Pam continued to hold ground, while Dick, Kim, and even that bull of a man named Jasper Hancock, took a step back from that unearthly specimen. In Pam's mind, she could see that fallen angel using one of those quilled daggers to jot down those oddly looped words that lay woven between the covers of her scarlet letter.

But what did that message say?

Given Pam's recent enlightenment as it pertained to her family lineage, she could not help but feel as if she should know what those lines read. Yet every time she thought to place a symbol, its definition would slip back into the dim lit shadows of her failing memory. However, there was someone who knew exactly what that unusual script meant, and what Pam needed to do was to set her ego aside, and let that person come forward.

"I know what it's like to be cast out of paradise," Joshua said in a melancholy tone. "We have the same foe, you and I."

"We spoke in the Garden once," Pam said, letting Eve's voice speak through her mouth. "Remember? Before your Master tempted me with the forbidden fruit and separated me and my kind from God's fair grace."

Joshua nodded as his silver strand wings settled down upon his back in a gesture that made him appear less menacing, although not by much. "I recall our talk, yes." The admission sounded hollow, a bastard not owning up to the fault of their contribution.

"We talked of our common love of beauty," Pam reiterated. "Of God's goodness, the smell of flowers, the way the grass felt beneath our feet."

"Yes," Joshua said in agreement. "And when I spoke to you of passion, of adult love between a man and woman, of you and Adam---"

"---I hadn't the slightest notion of what deed you spoke," Pam replied, almost blushing at the idea of ever having been so innocent and naïve. "But you knew I loved Adam with all my heart."

"And when I told you there was a way to show him how much you loved him."

"I reciprocated you with a _how_."

"And I replied: eat of the Tree of Knowledge and you shall know of what I speak."

"But the tree was not to be touched, so I declined."

"But you were an intelligent creature and thus curious about such a thing, and so the seed of an idea had been figuratively sown, and in essence, you had already sinned in your heart even before you had tasted of the forbidden fruit."

Pam paused briefly to deliberate that logic. She had not considered that possibility, but it nonetheless spoke to a sound policy: that she had sinned without ever tasting a crimson-gold apple, and so by virtue of a moral technicality, she had already committed an act of evil by wanting to show Adam her love. This provision had been a clever chess move on behalf of Joshua, and had no doubt helped to set the stage for Satan's eventual part in the twisted saga.

To be like God---to know good and evil.

"Yes," Pam nodded in acceptance. "You are right. I coveted a greater understanding of love for, Adam."

"And yet God did not come to smite you or break your husk down upon the stones of those gentle meadows," Joshua almost sang gleefully. "Here, you had already sinned in your heart although you had not set the act into deed. And yet, not a drop of rain, nor a clap of thunder had announced your falling, nothing to suggest that the sun had already begun to set on your time in paradise."

Pam felt a pang of resentment towards God raise hot blood within her cheeks. Had The Almighty been watching her that day? Had He not seen and understood why she had done what she had? The whole situation stank of a rigid bureaucracy. However, she could still recall the genuine yearning she had felt upon hearing Joshua's words. The desire she had felt to make her man happy. Had that truly been a sin? To a human being, perhaps even an angel, it would not have been, but to The Almighty God---well one never knew, because he played his cards carefully, and as always, Heaven's house made its own rules.

"It is madness, isn't it?" Joshua posed rhetorically. "To sin for the want of offering more love...a selfless act punishable by divine abandonment."

"But she had not been cast out yet!" Kim blurted this fact out without thinking as to the consequences of unleashing her tongue. But she could not quell her spirit, for her God's honor was at stake. This conversation between this supposed reincarnation of Eve and this lower minion of the Devil was blasphemous. None of this nonsense had ever been spoken of from either a church pulpit or a bible, and as such, had to be lies.

Dick and Jasper glanced at Kim, fully expecting a lightning bolt to touch down atop her head, but none came.

"No, she had not," Joshua said to Kim with an unexpected gentleness.

"So what's the point?" Dick asked, surprised to have heard his own words pipe up in regards to the conversation. Still, he could not help but interact, for the story had him so engrossed that he had to remind himself that he was supposed to be waiting for an opportunity to hightail it up into the hills---the Columbia hills preferably.

"Ah," Joshua replied with a frown that looked every bit as dismayed as Kim's. "There's the crux of it." He glanced at Dick, nodded, and then redirected his attention solely to Pam. "Dickey old boy has got a real knack for cutting to the chase, don't you think?"

"The point Mr. Orwell is that God isn't perfect," Pam replied.

"That's blasphemy," Kim said in a hushed voice as she crossed herself.

"Is God perfect?" Joshua posed to Kim. "Does Eddy think so?"

Kim's certitude wavered and then came crashing down around her. Joshua was right and she knew it. For how could God's plan allow her little boy to succumb to leukemia? It couldn't, and so it was obvious: God's plan, however divine in nature, was fundamentally flawed, especially when it came to her son. Kim bowed her head and began to cry softly.

"The music," Jasper said, pointing toward the silent carousel, which sat motionless, its tiny bulbs beaming with unearthly light. "What song was that thing playing?"

The entire group perked up at this question, for they were so curious to know the name of that sour composition. Although, Pam was pretty sure she already knew, and its significance owed its inspiration not to a box laden down with ancient apple seeds, but rather The Garden of Eden itself.

"Well now," Joshua said, his ivory teeth alight with a cruel smile. "Jasper has engaged the group with a question. How cute."

Joshua began to whistle the Forbidden Melody with almost perfect pitch and meter, although his angelic lips could shape the song in a manner that no mortal mechanics, nor hand carved instruments could ever hope to recreate. It was a piece of Heaven as blown through a golden flute, but nonetheless soured on something rancid. Pam knew the melody had nothing to do with the box in Matilda's Victorian, for that aspect of her being known as Eve had placed the song's origin elsewhere.

Kim wedged her fingers firmly into her ears as to thwart that masterpiece. She had no desire to hear that haunted sonnet again, even if it was being played on such an exquisite instrument. But despite her attempt to shield out that bitterest of noises, the composition still managed to worm its way into her head and make her stomach queasy.

Dick clenched his crooked teeth and winced as if in pain. The disagreeable song slid down his spine like grating fingernails on a chalk board, but far worse. This spoiled sound went deeper, into the cavernous roots of the human soul.

Jasper let the ill-favored music feed his sadomasochistic nature. It was like shoving a nest full of snapping beetles into his itchy ears until his eyeballs bugged out. Yet he was helpless to resist its vinegary charm, for he was an addict that craved self-mutilation.

Joshua stopped whistling and overlooked the disapproving congregation, amused by their revolted expressions. They were clearly uncomfortable and that was understandable. None cared to hear that song. It was too painful, too much of a reminder of how far they had fallen from grace. He could see that none could place the song or its relevance, and that too was understandable. Not many had heard the melody's off rhythm outside the Ancient Gate, and those who had, had long since fed the worms and maggots inside of forgotten graves. But still, there was a part of them that recalled, an inbred piece of their spiritual psyche whose genetic memory had marked the tune like a salmon marked a stream. It was from the source after all, the point of origin.

"Follow in tune and I'll grant you the moon," Joshua rhymed with a jovial laugh. "For the moon far above is but a---?"

"---reflection thereof," Pam replied without thinking.

How had she done that? It had to have been Eve's knowledge come to reveal itself.

Joshua began to hum the musical score from "Final Jeopardy," his index finger writing in the air like a maestro's baton directing an orchestra. It was obvious that the halfwit panel consisting of Dick, Kim, Jasper, and Pam were on the hot spot for some sort of an additional answer, which may or may not have been in the form of a question. But what could it be?

Pam watched Kim quietly sob, her state of mind too emotional to concentrate on this latest cruelty. As for Jasper, his flush head looked ready to explode. Whatever was going on inside his big red melon, it was taking its toll on his questionable sanity in a big way. Dick looked shifty, as per usual, but genuinely engaged in what was going on. Pam however, doubted if he would come up with a solution, because she knew intuitively that the answer lay within Eve's past, and no one else's. So she continued to encourage that previous life to grasp hold of the reins, in order to put this sadistic business out of order.

"The song is from Eden," Pam said, trying to account for each of the ragged notes of the Forbidden Melody. "It..." Her jade eyes flashed bright as a vivid memory made a solid connection within her mind. "The song was sung by the Tree of Knowledge in Eden's Garden, except you've altered it, you're whistling it backwards."

"Ah," Joshua said, a light applause thudding from his finely crafted hands. "Very good, but not quite correct now, is it?"

"No," Pam replied, surprised by the fact that she was actually smiling. "Even the trees and beasts of this world are but hollow shadows of that greatest utopia. In this world, nothing can attain that purity. The song cannot be sung as it should be, not even by you, because this world is soured on sin, and as such, nothing pure can exist within it."

Joshua nodded an agreement, his eyes as close to being human as they had dared to appear this night. "It's like back in the old days, when kids used to spin those old vinyl heavy metal albums backwards, hoping to hear a message from my master. None of them were aware that they were acting upon a spiritual instinct." He gave a pathetic laugh and shrugged his immense shoulders, his wings rising and falling gently as he did. "God beats his drum and Jesus screams amen."

"Is this what you wanted us to know?" Pam asked.

"Always the reporter," Joshua grinned. "Is it too much to ask that you indulge an immortal being, my darling Pamela? You see, I do enjoy the game of it? Even God Almighty has a penchant for metaphor and symbolism, don't you know." His eyes looked heavenward. "Tear down this temple and I shall rebuild it in three days." He stared at Kim intentionally, certain she would understand most of all. "Christ was in actuality speaking of himself, but rather if he were to be crucified, then he would arise again in three days. The temple he spoke of was a metaphor for himself." His mouth crooked in a sad expression that showed scorn for his contemporary. "No wonder there are so many different religions kicking around. Your teacher is a complete loon. The truth should never be shrouded, it should be obvious to even the most simplest of dimwits."

"Please," Kim beseeched. "For my son's sake, what would you ask of me?" Kim's wits had reached the limit of their tolerance.

Joshua sighed. "You're right, as I said earlier, the hour is late, and here I am shaving kindling for the fire. Ease your heart Kimberly, soon all will be put well." He set his eyes upon Pam. "So then, let us cut our deal."

To Pam the word "deal" sounded like an open ended word, a loaded word. It was here, that those mute carnival rides and idle concession stands began to collapse in upon themselves like a star giving way to the crushing weight of a black hole. The metal support beams yawned and groaned under the violent distortion of a ghostly form of gravity as those colorful rides stretched like pulled taffy. The incredible amount of structural tension made the metal plates sing with a warbled voice like a taught saw blade touched by a horse hair bow---the Devil's violin. Those subservient ponies from the carousel tucked their wooden heads down between their wooden legs and rolled up like balls of scrap paper bound for a wastebasket. Their sound was of tree branches cracking under the weight of an avalanche. The carousel's trellis platform with its remaining ponies and shiny bulbs, pulled its weight up into the neon umbrella of its canopy until it was but a tiny dot lost to the fog's gray amnesia. The sound of that implosion had been horrendous, the anguish of iron giving way to the death of steel. An unnatural silence followed within the wake of that strange departure, the drawing of breath before a blood curdling scream. The carnival had literally packed itself up, but if it were en route for another town to terrorize, no one but the grinning angel with the feather daggers knew.

Then suddenly from within the sallow gray, that hidden presence that had tugged at their wits without mercy finally made itself known. The serpent's spire parted that stale fold and erected a corridor unto its pedestal by means of an ethereal gauntlet to where the iron stood tall before the night, ominous, its hazy backdrop lit by a crimson-gold hue. The sight resembled a near death experience where a glorious aura laid in wait at journey's end. _G_ _o into the light._ But of course this version was a polar opposite, or that is to say, the white light's scarlet nemesis. This narrow path led to worldly sensation, transgression, the realm of woe, which was the Kingdom of Hell. None of sound mind would set foot upon that thorny trail, for it was the way of lost souls.

Atop each of the serpents' crowns resided that foundry cast insignia. The emblem shone forth its quality with an orange ember glow. The harsh scarlet lit up the fog and challenged an understanding to its riddle. Pam regarded the spire with an eye that had been versed in angelic script, and as such, she endeavored to level its deceptive lore to a rational fact. She studied the first symbol, noting how it sort of resembled the letter N, except it was slanted more to the left, its cross downward line, jagged like a lightning bolt with ringed bookends at the top and bottom of its sharp edges. The second text character was that of an E, its spine like a C while its center horizontal line lay jagged and ending in what looked like a tiny C. The third symbol looked like the letter T turned on its side, its vertical pedestal kicked to the right on a forty five degree angle with a ringed loop at its bottom. The fourth emblem was a form of an S, except at either end of its serpentine tail there lay a sharpened tip, which sort of resembled a devil's pitchfork prong.

Pam thought to the paper in her pocket. Were the letters written therein part of that odd alphabet? She could sense a connection. If only that aspect of her consciousness named Eve could recall the significance. Pam concentrated on the T like symbol, for she felt that this character was the key to unlocking the puzzle. There was a law connected to the letter's grammatical function, of that she was almost certain, like the elementary school rule that said: _"I before E except after C"_ (which of course had its flaw when it came to such words as science) but what was the angelic rule's association in regards to its language?

The riddle was more than worthy of a former spelling bee champion.

(4)

Dick watched as the spire's iron cross glowed hot on a shade of scarlet. There was life inside the pyre, and its hideous nature was not a thing he cared to embrace. And as crazy as it may have sounded, Dick felt that he was being led into Hell, and he was damn sure that would be a far worse fate than going to prison. If he was going to make his move, now would be the time. The others were too busy watching the ghoul's variety hour to notice that he had retreated well back from their numbers. If he could just make the cover of fog, then he would be home free. He harbored little doubt that if Joshua chose to pursue him, then that fallen angel would have no trouble nailing Dick's hide to the iron mast. But still, it was obvious that Joshua's beef was with that bitch named Pam, or Eve, or whoever the hell she purported to be, and not with Dick personally. So what difference would it make if he did not attend the monster's ball? None, that's what. So he appraised Jasper one last time, noting the stupid awe struck expression that lay stenciled across the mean cop's otherwise surly face. The big goon sort of looked like a cult worshipper, perhaps a Manson Family Disciple. If this had been any other time, Dick would have most certainly chuckled at Jasper's expense. But this was not the time, nor the place, and if he was going to skin out, it would have to be pronto.

Dick drew in a deep breath, preparing those organs to sustain his need of air. He then put heel to pace, balding head down, frail arms pumping for every ounce of their miserable worth as he challenged the hazy distance. Within fifty paces, he could already feel his out of shape lungs sucking for air. If only he had some of Tinker's cocaine to take the edge off, to give him that get up and go he so desperately needed. But he had no magic dust and his go to errand boy named Monty was far away in Pictou playing the good son. Still, if he could just pass through that barrier's membrane, then he could hide until he found that second wind. From there, he would stagger home, grab a passport, wire some money to Grand Cayman and then be off to sunnier horizons where houseboys who ran errands were a dime a dozen.

The fog closed in, its boundary slowly reaching out to Dick Orwell, wrapping him up within its wispy cloak. Soon he would be out of sight and then he would be free. He thought to look back to see if Jasper or Joshua was in pursuit, but feared he would fall with the effort. He would not consult his backside until he either hit the highway, or had a heart attack, whichever came first. He thought to the rugged coastline ahead. The cliff that ran along Major's Field was treacherous at the best of times. He would have to be careful that he did not suffer a misadventure and---

\---a sharp pain burrowed deep between Dick's slouched shoulders. The fire was fierce and stabbed straight through to the breastbone. He staggered a few steps and then fell flat onto his regal face. Despite the gentle terrain, the impact fractured his weasel like nose and knocked two front teeth free of his overbite. The ensuing pain seemed to come from every part of his miserable being, his toes, fingers, eyes, testicles, and even his thinning hair. What had just happened? Was it a heart attack? He was not sure seeing as he had never had one before. He tried to roll over, but there was nothing in him to move. His body had spent its gas on that short flight from the law, and as a result, he was wiped out. The grass that pressed into his bloody nostrils smelt wet, earthy. Still, he could not help but wonder why his lungs were not pumping for air, or why his heart was not pounding wildly within his sallow chest. It was apparent that his corporeal vessel was sleeping on the job when it should have been working overtime, and that sort of laziness was not worthy of a provisional king. But then deep down, Dick Orwell knew it was over, and that suffice to say, this was how his campaign trail would finally end. There would be no trip to South America, nor go to houseboys named Monty running errands, nor cocaine excursions to that castle of the mind, there was just a cold dank grave waiting to claim it latest victim. And so, Dick the provisional king in waiting, eased his sight to that of the dimmest shade of darkness and set off as to attend to that final judgment on behalf of his worldly deeds.

(5)

Jasper holstered his nine millimeter automatic. He was quite confident that he had just nailed Dick well inside the kill zone. It had been a great shot with the side iron, snapped the spine and lodged the slug deep into the heart by the look of it, a damn fine kill. If only he could have a poster print made of that skillful handiwork, then he could pin it to the Rum Dumb Motel's moldy fridge. Jasper turned to the others, fully expecting a round of congratulations. However, what he found was the do good, Kimberly Ryan, with eyes large on terror, and the news scoop, Pamela Sussex regarding him with a cold steel gaze of judgment, and last but certainly not least, the messiah of pain known as Joshua, smiling with amusement.

"Why Jasper," Joshua said. "Where art thou brother?"

Jasper's tongue took a spasm within the pit of his mouth and uttered these words, which were not of his volition: "I know not Lord, for am I my brother's keeper?" Jasper wiped his fingers gently across his frowning lips, thinking on the dark magic that had made them move so easily. His thoughts fell to the gun, wondering if the messiah might choose to wield the weapon in his hand by a similar means.

Meanwhile, the aspect of Pam that was Eve, felt the folds of an old wound open within her heart. To hear those words spoken, _"my brother's keeper"_ brought back an awful memory. How hard had it been to toil the earth outside of Eden's Garden. How much they had suffered. And when word had reached her ears that Cain had slain his only brother, Abel, Eve's heart had broken in two. It was unthinkable to lose a child after everything else she had lost. And never again would she look upon Cain's image, for she had loved Abel dearly, and would have no part of his killer, even if that monster be her own son.

The poison within Eve's soul had grown more potent with each passing day thereafter, her hatred of God bitter and beyond restitution, this while dear husband Adam sought reconciliation with their Heavenly Father, the very God who had cast them out of paradise. Perhaps in the end that was why they had gone their separate ways, or maybe Adam just could not bear to gaze upon the woman who he felt had cost him so much, for their relationship had strained under that unspoken accusation of blame that had come to lie between them.

Pam glared daggers at Joshua. She wanted to pluck every single feather from his silver wings and ram them down his angelic throat. She could tell that he had done that _"brother's keeper"_ bit on purpose, for he had wanted to make a point in order to stir up her ire, and he had succeeded in spades.

"Why did you allow that?" Pam asked of Joshua, spitting the question at him. _My son, my precious son!_ She thought. _Murdered by his own brother! How dare you throw that at me!_

Joshua placed a hand to his bronze chest, feigning injury. "Moi?" He clicked his tongue and shook his long sculpted finger. "Jasper acted of his own free will my dear. I had nothing to do with---"

"---That's not what I asked you goddamn it!"

Joshua's features became as hard as metamorphic stone. He did not care to be spoken to in such a manner, even if it was by an old acquaintance. "Mind your place, little one. You misspeak yourself."

Pam regrouped, swallowed her anger, and tried not to let him unbalance her, for if he could do that, then she would be easier to manipulate. The fallen angel wanted her pissed at God, so that she would---what exactly? So that she would go good on her promise, whatever that was.

"I guess Dick was never actually a part of our business here tonight, was he?" Pam's words were chilled on disdain. "He was just a pawn. Someone to maneuver so you could speak that damn biblical line, _"brother's keeper."_ He was just a punch line, nothing more."

Pam's eyes narrowed as they set their sight upon the serpent's spire. It was here, in the heat of the moment, that she attained a state of mental clarity that could only be described as an epiphany. In an instant, she understood the spire's hidden meaning. The twist of iron depicted several themes grouped together with the sort of metaphorical theatrics that were worthy of a fallen angel. Those symbols atop the serpents' brows were indeed letters---N---E---W and S. The text characters spelled the word _"NEWS"_ which of course was Pam's choice profession. _"NEWS"_ also represented the pursuit of truth or in the instance, _"Knowledge,"_ as in _"Tree of Knowledge."_ Thus, the spire's message was intended for Pam personally. However, the variations did not end there. The letters also held significance as it pertained to _Angelic Script_ , and when grouped together, the translation went as follows: N in _English Written_ when translated into _Angelic Script_ became the letter T---E translated into the letter R---W translated into the letter E---and finally S also translated into the letter E, because _Angelic Script_ adhered to a strict grammar rule similar to the one taught in elementary school---the _"I before E except after C"_ rule. So when a word was read in _Angelic Script_ , the W, when accompanied by the subordinate vowel of S, translated the S into an E because the S was a dominant vowel. Those were the rules, and only an angel or someone familiar with the dialect would ever pick up on such a subtlety whose hidden message of course spelt: _"TREE."_

And still the symbolism did not end there. The spire was also an exhibit of oppositions, good versus evil, which portrayed its dichotomy through a visage of polar directions. The snakeheads represented the four points on the compass needle, north from south and east from west. It also represented the four winds in the book of Revelation that would be unleashed upon the earth at Armageddon. It also represented the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse that would release their sorrow to the world upon the eve of Judgment---the white horse being the false prophet---the red horse symbolizing war---the black horse an interpretation of pestilence---and the pale horse depicting that most final of conclusions, death.

In Pam's mind, she could hear the voice of Sea Haven's resident Catholic Priest, Father Dolan, as he preached Revelation, Chapter Six hellfire from the pulpit to the Sunday morning church congregation: "I watched as the lamb opened the first of the seven seals. Then I heard one of the four living creatures say in a voice like thunder, "Come and see!" I looked, and there before me was a white horse! Its rider held a bow, and he was given a crown, and he rode out as a conqueror bent on conquest.

When the Lamb opened the second seal, I heard the second living creature say, "Come and see!" Then another horse came out, a fiery red one. Its rider was given power to take peace from the earth and to make men slay each other. To him was given a large sword.

When the Lamb opened the third seal, I heard the third living creature say, "Come and see!" I looked, and there before me was a black horse! Its rider was holding a pair of scales in his hand. Then I heard what sounded like a voice among the four living creatures, saying, "A quart of wheat for a day's wages, and three quarts of barley for a day's wages, and do not damage the oil and the wine!"

When the Lamb opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say, "Come and see!" I looked and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.

In the end, the serpent's spire was nothing more than a clever disguise for the _Tree of Knowledge_ , a veritable puzzle box built for one person in particular to solve---Eve. Do you see? Yes, she most certainly did see. It had been right there in front of her the entire time.

"Well if you must have an answer, Pamela, then no. Dick was nothing more than background noise. He was no more important in life than he is in death, thank Jesus!"

She thought to the card inside her pocket and constructed the bendy lines into something recognizable from Eve's memory by translating _Angelic Script_ into the _English Written_. The words were of an ancient tongue that Eve and Adam had heard on numerous occasions whenever God's angels came to visit Eden. She recalled the symbols of that ancient dialect, which the angels had carved into Eden's numerous fountains and inspirational monuments. It had been a beautiful form of graffiti, which spoke of nature's perfection, Heaven's glory, the tranquility of music, and their unconditional love of Almighty God. Eve had learned much in their company, knowledge she never would have believed would assist her long after she had fallen from grace.

But what did that note say?

"If Dick's presence didn't matter, then what significance do the others have here?" Pam asked as she continued to mentally decipher the angelic text. "Why not let them on their way, for these matters involve only you and me, not they." She wanted to remove the note and read it, but she dared not reveal its presence just yet. Something inside told her that now was not the time.

"Because," Joshua replied. "I will have what I want, and until I do, then no one leaves!" His eyes remained cool, but they nonetheless looked fearsome. "Besides, one does not turn family out into the night now, do they?"

Had he just said family?

Pam looked upon both Kim and Jasper, trying to spot a genetic resemblance between the two. They did not match in physical appearance, but to loosely quote old Banjo: _"that didn't mean their butter hadn't come from the same cow."_

"Are you an Adam?" Pam asked of Kim.

"On my mother's side," Kim replied, her brow creased.

"Jasper, are you an Adam?" Pam asked.

Jasper nodded his big head. "My father's grandmother was an Adam. She was born and died in the Valley."

"Then we're all cousins," Pam said, directing her attention back to Joshua. She had not anticipated this turn of event, let alone what hidden meaning it surely held. Perhaps it was another sort of metaphor, although she highly doubted it would be something so benign. As for Jasper and Kim, they too had no idea what bearing this unexpected news would take. Although they felt it was of the utmost importance. Unlike Pam, they had never heard of their proud family heritage, and as such, were blind to the matters that involved their unique connection to Adam, Eve, and The Garden of Eden.

"Fish out of water ye be," Joshua winked, mimicking the cadence of maritime fishermen. "Fell out of the Valley's apple cart and rolled on down into the cold dank waters of the boondocks, ye have. The children of Eve...toilers of the lobster pot...the gill net...sinners one and all. But Jesus will make you fishers of men yet, he will. But I'll tip a pint in yer favor regardless of where ye shit on the stool, I will, for we have a common foe we does."

It was an insane sight to behold. This huge gorgeous angel speaking like he was an old privateer with a gammy leg and a worn leather patch covering a dead eye. It was yet another form of play, something to amuse that highly intelligent, but otherwise disturbed mind of his. However, Pam supposed it was better than his pulling the wings off of flies or the limbs off of people for that matter.

"What purpose does this family connection serve?" Pam asked. "Why have you brought us here?"

Joshua paused. He could sense something was off with this reporter woman. He could see it within her spiritual aura, for her soul's brilliant whiteness lay tainted by a delicate shade of bluish-gray, which of course was the telltale color when someone was being deceptive. But what was she hiding?

"And so we come to it my children...the why of it...and so ye shall have it." Joshua appraised them with a belligerent gaze, weighing their worth in a value that went well beyond the measure of coin. "There is something that I desire...something that I alone...that _we_ alone cannot induce." His cold eyes briefly slid back toward the spire, inviting the idea of its ominous presence into the discussion as if it was a living being, and perhaps it was. "I have called Hell and this world home for an era beyond reckoning. It is true: Hell is my Master's Kingdom, which I'm sure you're all aware. But it is a lifeless void of burning brimstone and sulfur. It is also true that in comparison to Heaven, this world is like a rotten apple. But when compared to Hell, it is an oasis for a creature such as me. For a time this Earth had served our longing well enough, but no more, for an untold age has passed, and we grow weary of such common things, for they are beneath us." He became introspective, adding up the years of an immense lifespan, and for a second it looked as though he might actually begin to weep. "But there is a place upon this sour world that is unspoiled...it is in the Valley...a hallowed spot. It is there that I would have you go, for it is there that you must do this one thing for me, and in turn, I shall grant you fair favor amongst the beasts of this cursed land." He fixed Pam with a stare that sought not fear, nor pity, but rather an understanding. "I would have you plant my seeds."

And there it was, the sound of the proverbial shovel hitting the granddaddy of all caskets.

"What seeds?" Kim asked.

"The box seeds," Pam replied on Joshua's behalf, mindful that both Jasper and Kim were ignorant to the matters of the family's history.

"What box?" Jasper grumbled. His head hurt, and as such, his patience had worn thin. He was fed up with these parlor games, and wanted his big prize from the pain messiah right now, not some talk about damn seeds.

"Why, this box," Joshua replied. He gestured toward the scarlet radiance that pulsated softly from within the damp folds of fog, which lay just beyond the serpent's spire.

Everyone watched as a short plump figure emerged from within the burning horizon. Within his plump hands, lay the very box from Matilda's Victorian. This little troll had an idiot's grin upon his thick homely lips, which kind of put Pam in mind of a toad. She had seen the kid before, hanging out with that no good Dolan Gang, (God rest their souls) and she had once overheard a group of teenage girls refer to him as Pigpen. Pam recalled the kid always had a lighter inside his mitt, and if he wasn't spinning the flint, he was flicking the shiny chrome lid open and shut with an almost obsessive compulsion. But why was this disturbed kid here? It didn't really matter, because the punk had something that did not belong to him, and Pam wanted it back!

"Where did you get that?!" Pam exclaimed. She bolted forward and yanked the heirloom from the pudgy kid's grip. "How dare you take this! It belongs to my family! You stole it!"

Pigpen looked at Joshua, but the angel gave no sign that the boy should try to reclaim the box, so Billy Dover remained in place, patiently waiting.

"I have taken nothing," Joshua assured Pam. "For it was I who had given the artifact unto Eve's fine care in the first place, and that transference was done so in the spirit of safe keeping."

Pam felt a cold stark fact permeate her bones, and she knew there could be no denying what truth would find its way out of the troubled past. She was bound to it by a vow, and if she had any doubt about its legitimacy, she need only direct her eyes to the scribing etched into the forward face of the box, which read of her oath.

"You do remember, don't you, Eve?" Joshua's eyebrows arched, a creature pleased by its ability to manipulate others. "Ah, but alas the things we choose to forget. But there it is, carved into a branch that my Master ordered removed from a tree in Eden's palatial garden, just before the big eviction notice was tacked to the door by The Man Upstairs. Please Eve...you have such a lovely speaking voice. Why don't you read it out loud to the others. I'm sure they'd love to hear what it has to say. In fact, why not pretend that you're an anchor woman when you do so."

The box under her arm felt weighted down with a heavy burden, a crate loaded with bricks. The keepsake did not feel like much of a family heirloom at the moment, but rather a family curse. She let her shimmering eyes meet Joshua's, and for a moment, she understood what he had done. He had wanted her to remember certain details and the rules surrounding _Angelic Script_ , so that she might string the letters together of her own accord and to let her think that she had been oh so clever in doing so. And why had he done that? To show that he was smarter, more powerful, and beyond any trickery Pam might have felt she possessed. The message was simple: it was pointless to resist, for Joshua was not just in the service of the most beautiful of God's angels, but also in the employ of the smartest. And if Pamela or Eve had any doubts to the contrary, they need only read those words scribed into the wood.

But how could she have recalled everything else, and not the writing on the box? Had it been a matter of intentional amnesia? Was she in denial? Here, the answer had been within her reach for the better part of her life, three six and an age in reach, and she had not the common sense to see it. She felt like a stupid fool.

"After the banishment from Eden, we spoke outside the Garden," Pam recalled, her eyes sweeping through the grass without actually looking at anything, her voice distant, almost despondent. "I was crying...I was angry...you came to me as a sympathetic ear and I spat on you...cursed you for having been one of those who had tempted me."

"Yes," Joshua nodded. "And then we spoke at great length about the cruelty of God...of how you and I had both been misjudged and mistreated."

"I recall," Pam said. "And I had agreed with your silver tongue as you took advantage of my emotional state and tricked me."

"No," Joshua replied quite calmly. "I opened your eyes."

"It seemed the way at first...that you were a liberator, an idealist who believed that we deserved the right to choose. But we should have had more faith in God, trusted his good counsel, his wisdom. He loved us, and we let him down."

"He let us down!" Joshua exclaimed. "And we deserve better than that!"

"You knew what the future held," Pam said, setting her jade eyes upon him. "You could see it...a prophecy of what was to come. So you had the foresight to construct the box from Eden's wood, and harvest some seeds before the East Gate was barred by flame, and you had me carve out this oath and then left it in my good care."

"Yes," Joshua replied, his voice soft and distant. "I knew that the wood would keep the seeds within viable. And so I gave you instructions that the box should be passed down after your death from one generation to the next, so that when you were reborn, you could reclaim it as your birthright."

"And it was, and I have."

"And we also agreed that you would perform a task for me when your soul escaped the gray foggy smoke of spiritual limbo, and graced the soil of this Earth once more."

"To plant your seeds."

"And in return we would give back that which was taken from you along with more, and so we shall."

"A cure," Kim said as she stepped closer to Joshua, preparing to offer up her body and soul in an exchange for her son's. "A cure for my Eddy, and I will help plant your seeds."

Jasper nodded, and moved forward in kind, a very different request carried within his black heart. "I want a special place in Hell, and I want my brother to serve beneath me. I want him as a child, and I want him helpless. Give me this, and I will plant your seeds as well."

Joshua smiled keenly upon Kim and Jasper, a single nod of his regal head signifying that their will would be done on Earth as it is in Hell. "And what say you, my precious Eve? Would you be so noble as to honor your oath? Will you help me to recreate paradise...Eden?"

"You want to grow an orchard...to grow a slice of home," Pam almost whispered.

"Yes, for we have lived outside the beauty of Heaven and Eden for an age unimagined," Joshua acknowledged. "And we long to walk amongst the orchards of old and to taste the fruit that only such beatific grandeur can bestow." He glanced briefly heavenwards, as if to make sure that he was indeed being heard by The Almighty. "I have worked eons to secure a patch of fair dirt upon this decrepit world, an acreage that would be worthy enough to receive Eden's Harvest, and so I have, and now the season for sowing has come."

Pam put the box between her well-manicured hands and studied the angelic text with educated eyes. "Why do you need me to perform this act, which would best suit the talents of a common farmer?"

"It is fair that you ask, and only fair that I respond," Joshua replied with a bow of courtesy. "The seeds will only grow for a direct descendant of Eden...namely you or Adam. Unfortunately for myself, Adam made peace with Heaven's Landlord in his first lifetime, and now sits at the right hand of God."

This news eased Pam's mind, to know that at least Adam had attained salvation even though she had not. Perhaps there was hope for her yet.

"As for the timing," Joshua continued. "This coincides with my acquisition of territory within the Annapolis Valley, and your reincarnation, a marriage of moon to blossom."

"What makes this place in the Valley so special?" Pam asked.

Joshua grinned cleverly. "I'm afraid that I am not at liberty to divulge that information." Joshua crossed his impressive arms smugly, an angel that was more than confident in what it must do. "Now, what say you Pamela Sussex, reporter at large, daughter of Eden? Will you honor your oath?"

Pam held the box beneath the fall of her sight and translated the text that Eve's hand had carved out so long ago. " _I,_ being the mirror of _Eve_ , will plant these seeds in the Garden of the Lions, so save my soul." She let the box lay about her slender waist, recalling how odd the writing had been when she had first written it down all those years ago. But now, it had come full circle. She was the mirror of Eve, and the Garden of the Lions waited for her to fulfill her destiny---to complete the prophecy, so save her soul.

"It sounds harmless enough," Kim said, trying to justify the means to secure the ends. "No one dies. No evil prospers. It's just a garden he wants, a piece of home. That doesn't sound so bad."

Pam agreed, it didn't sound bad, just a homesick angel who wanted a few incredibly beautiful trees to look at. What harm could there be in that? Besides, this world could use all the beauty it could get. But still, there was a warning in her heart and it would not keep its silence.

"Give him what he wants," Jasper said, his hand resting on the butt of his gun in an effort to intimidate Pam.

Joshua raised a hand in warning to Jasper. "Do not harm her...she must do this of her own free will, or else the seeds will not blossom, for like the tree, they too have a will of their own."

It was here, that the serpent's spire spoke up as to have its voice heard.

(6)

Suddenly, that corroded spire's iron began to yawn under the stress of a dark magic as its spine gave way to an ethereal form of motion. The pitted steel, rigid in an unyielding form, forsake that mantle and eased its stance to the pliability of softened clay. Those thick inflexible necks that planked outward towards those biting fangs rendered the quartet of quarreling snakes to the mild nature of wood while that hale cut of lumber gave way its symmetrical heads to that of branches. The reptilian scales, altered and migrated their husks unto that of heart shaped leaves that had come to lie gently upon the splintered trellis. The double helix of serpents mated their bodies into a seamless unified post of sturdy timber, a trunk whose pedestal dug deep into the damp loam with a tangled nest of sturdy roots. The cherubs and demons that had dotted the skeletal frame of iron, sacrificed their bodily manifestations to that of crimson-gold apples. And for a brief instant, as it stood tall before creation and that scarlet hue of devilish light, it sang its song as no other instrument could. The music was heavenly, its tone so exquisite that it would place a pearled tear into that most hardened of a soul's eye. But then such magnificence was not meant to last in the lower-world, and in so freely giving of its purest virtue, it would come to reap that harshest penalty. The beauty that encased its element, withered with preternatural thrift, and so its leaves and bark and branches came to lay in the sourest of decay. And so those sweetest of fruits upon the knurled vine spoiled and fell unto a moldy death. And although the sacred tree had grown arthritic with rigor mortis, its mystical essence remained, a decrepit vessel hollowed of life but still haunted of spirit.

The serpent's spire had briefly transformed into the very tree from Pam's childhood Eden vision, except that this tree was spoiled to its core, tainted by the acerbic soil of the sinful world in which it had come to grow. This tree no longer sang, it wept, its malformed leaves dull and absent of their former jade, its scarlet-gold apples blotched by disease. Yet despite the fact that it was now a deader than dead tree, it still held a terrible power, and it was by no means without purpose, for somewhere amidst its canopy, thoughts or something that resembled thought, plotted and schemed.

"As you can see, nothing pure can exist in this world," Joshua explained as he rested his sizable hand upon the peeling bark in a gesture of comfort. "The Almighty's decree and is a reminder to us all of how far we have fallen."

"My son," Kim said, keeping her business with this proxy devil in focus. "You said the seeds would only grow for a direct descendant of Eden. Will they not blossom for us...the family descendants of an Adam?"

"I'm sorry Kimberly," Joshua replied. "No...they will not."

Kim glared at Pam, sensing the reporter woman's doubt about doing this simplest of things. Here, none of them had to sell their souls, (well maybe Jasper, but he had offered his freely anyways,) and so that meant that when this was over, Kim would not only see her son grow up, but she could go to the church and pray in penance. Then she would be on good terms with The Man Upstairs again, and that was the clincher as far as she was concerned.

"You are going to honor your word, aren't you Eve?" Kim asked, choosing to forgo Pam's given name as spoken in the present.

Pam looked at Kim, sensing the urgency inside her voice. "If we do this, it would anger God. We would be breaking his decree and that would invite his wrath."

"It's just a few seeds," Kim beseeched. "My son is dying. Have you no heart?"

Pam flushed and her eyes softened. Would she dare to let this woman down, especially with a child's life at stake? The lines of right and wrong had begun to blur, and she felt every bit as divided morally as she felt in regards to her previous life as Eve.

"If the seeds will only grow for her, then what do you need us for?" Jasper asked of Joshua.

"Because, the soil I have picked in the Valley is hallowed ground," Joshua replied. "None, but those direct descendants of an Adam shall venture foot upon it, or else suffer the pain of death."

"Then we're to help her toil the earth," Kim said, her eyes never leaving Pam's.

"A fitting act, considering it was what God had decreed would be Adam and Eve's punishment for their sin," Joshua replied. "A good many people stood before the tree this morning, and each of those lost souls had coveted something within their hearts. This evening, those dreams have come true, a testament to the power of their faith within us. Tonight, husbands will sleep with willing wives...women will look into their vanities and see the beauty they have always coveted...men will feel as vital as they had in their rambunctious youths...lotto numbers will grace many a ticket stub." He turned his gaze to Kim. "And sick children shall be made whole."

Kim looked at Joshua, her lips trembling into a smile. "Eddy?"

Joshua nodded. "Even as we speak, his strength grows in leaps and bounds."

"Thank you," Kim gushed as she fell to her knees.

Joshua raised a finger that spoke of a provision yet to come. "But alas, these seeds of goodwill and fair intention maybe cast upon the fire, if satisfaction is not met."

Kim and Jasper looked at Pam.

"Would you let him die?" Kim asked of Pam in a heartfelt plea. "Would you let my child die?!"

"What harm is there, Ms. Sussex," Jasper agreed, curbing the urge to wring her slender neck. "A few trees planted and then everyone is happy."

"I thought you couldn't pressure me?" Pam posed to Joshua. "That the seeds wouldn't grow if I was forced?"

"True," Joshua replied. "They won't. All I'm trying to do is make you see reason my dear. I'm not forcing you to do anything against your will. In fact, I'm trying to ease your conscience on the matter."

"How's that?"

"Think about all the good you would do for these poor unfortunate people in Sea Haven. Think of the lives you would save and make richer. Is that not enticement enough?"

"Enticement," Pam replied, all too familiar with the word. "You and your kind tempted me once before, and what did it get me? The shitty end of the poker."

"This is different," Joshua shrugged.

"How?!" Pam snapped. "Once again, I would break God's decree. Once again, I would draw his wrath. Once again, you would have your way, and I'd be stuck holding the figurative seed box. If your intentions are truly so benevolent, then you'll let these people keep what ill-gotten treasures you have already given."

"I make no allusions to sainthood, my dearest Eve," Joshua said. "I would not waste yours or my time trying to sell you that brand of snake oil. We are very much into the _"Us"_ business, and right now what " _We"_ need is for you to consider what else " _We"_ have to offer."

Upon that drab gray beyond The Forbidden Tree, appeared a flutter of images as thrown by a reel to reel movie projector. The ethereal film breathed of color and sound and offered forth its portrayal with a spooky clarity that denoted its supernatural nature. The scene depicted a modern television newsroom with none other than Pamela Sussex herself seated behind the anchor desk. Her auburn hair lay in a French twist, her athletic body adorned in classy news room finery. She was hosting the six o'clock news hour, and by the twinkle within her eye, Pam could see that she had never looked happier, nor content in her entire life.

She approached the image, captivated by its realism, by how professional she looked. It was her dream, Pamela Sussex, larger than life, reliable, dependable, integral, and laying it down on the line for mass consumption. She was on screen reading a story about corruption on Parliament Hill, when she suddenly stopped and set down her news copy. She fixed the Pam who stood on the field with a kind considerate stare. "It's the right thing to do," assured Pam the news anchor. "It's harmless...it's vegetation for goodness sake. Give him what he wants. It's best for everyone if you do. And just between you and me, nothing compares to anchoring the dinner hour baby. It's the living end." She sat back and smiled warmly, her eyes brimming with a joy that Pam never knew they could possess. "See you at six."

The image slowly faded, but its message lingered. What would she do now? The answer felt as gray as the fog.

"You see," Joshua said in a calm voice, never hinting at any semblance of desperation. "You can have what you want most, if only you'll plant my seeds." His eyes softened, and for a second they looked completely human. "Don't do it just for everyone else Pam, but for yourself."

Joshua was appealing not to Eve's desires, but Pam's. True, they were one in the same person, but they were also driven by different goals, and that was the water, which had split the stone. Eve may have learned her lesson when it came to ignoring God's decree, but as for Pam, she had never tasted that vineyard selection, and as such, held a bias in regards to her own keeping.

Pam felt the cool smooth surface of the box between her hands as she weighed a critical decision. It was a simple thing actually---a yes or no answer---nothing in between the two choices to muddy up the waters with unforeseen complications. She faced the group, her eyes seeking their emotional support, but only finding that terrible hunger of need.

"I don't know," Pam said humbly. "It defies God's decree, and what good should come of that."

Jasper lurched forward and snatched the box out of Pam's hands with such impressive force, that he almost broke her wrists. The Forbidden Melody was driving him mad, and his patience with this woman had reached its end. "Listen to me you dumb bitch! You're going to plant these seeds or I'm going to plant you!" He ripped the box's lid off and threw it upon the ground, his eyes wide and wild on rage. "Now, take these seeds or I will choke you with them!" His big meaty hand jammed inside the heirloom and grabbed a fistful of seeds.

In the background, Joshua yelled for Jasper to stop, but it was too late. The seeds had crawled up the mean spirited cop's arm with preternatural speed and circled his bullish head like a swarm of angry wasps. They made no noise as they ate away Jasper's beefy flesh, but as for that huge specimen of a cop, he screamed with the sort of anguish that denoted that most sinister of torments. In an instant, that sacred grain had gone cannibal, and it would not let its appetite for flesh settle until it had taken its quart. The black seeds covered his skin from head to toe, eating with mouths that had neither perceptible jaws nor substantial teeth, but whose bite was nonetheless as fierce as those untamed beasts of the earth. And so with a speed that denoted that these things were of no worldly creature's spawn, they took their fill with gluttony and left nothing of meat nor organ within their terrible wake. And so the bones of that insatiable feast fell to the man's ruin, and all that remained of that corporeal fiend were the tools of his trade and the garments with which had once covered his modesty.

With the banquet concluded, those voracious seeds funneled back inside the box where they sat as they had for thousands of years: silent but nonetheless, ominous.

Kim swooned briefly, hands clasping over her mouth to silence that shrillest of screams. Pam in the meantime, scrambled retrieved the lid and slammed it back down onto the box, lest that horde of black locusts seek out another victim to devour before the night was through.

Joshua shook his head and clicked his tongue. "Oh well, there are plenty of those in the Valley to choose from, Pamela. Don't you fret it none. I'll see that you get another family member to help you work the field. Besides, we still have Kim, don't we?"

Kim eyed Joshua, tears meandering down her face. At the moment, she could not move let alone entertain the idea of sowing a crop of trees. She wanted to turn and run into the fog, but as always, the cure held her in place, always the cure.

As for Pam, it was the kind of moment that she called a _"decider."_ Sure, the killer cop had deserved his fate, but that did not mean it was right either. She guessed the box, like the tree, had a mind of its own in regards to such matters. And so as she stood with the box tucked tightly under arm, her keen eyes seeking a moral direction from those things which could not hope to advise her sensibilities to any degree of competence, for Joshua and Kim were every bit as blighted as the deader than dead tree, and perhaps Pam was as well. To take the farming gig would be to follow the easiest path, not to mention that it would save a child's life, advance her news career, as well as secure the community's happiness.

It was indeed a make or break moment.

Her hand wedged into her pant pocket and withdrew the pink envelope that contained the crimson-gold letter. She bowed the packet open between her fingers and the colorful card fell out into her other hand which secured the seed box. Suddenly, Joshua understood why that bluish-gray color had contaminated Pam's aura. It had to do with that strange card in her hand, the one that kind of looked like an ace up her sleeve.

"What do you have there, Pamela?"

Why had Joshua asked her about the card? Had he not given it to her?

"I thought..." Pam paused on a consideration, and then thought it best to level her response with a lie, for it was obvious that Joshua had no part in delivering this note unto her care. "Just a second, I want to read something...a reminder to myself." That response breathed with the stink of deception, the subtle flicker of bluish-gray within her aura that spoke to the outcome.

Joshua thought to query her as to the contents of that note, but then to do so would reveal that he had a blind spot in regards to certain aspects farseeing, and that sort of weakness might have her behave unpredictably. No, he would wait and gather intelligence before sliding his queen across the chessboard. He would maneuver her by a means unto his own end, and she would come to cultivate that hallowed patch beyond the scarlet hue of her own volition. He would not push her too hard lest she falter. Of course, Joshua could have her comply by an unspeakable means. However, such an act of spiritual barbarism might sour her milk and thus render her soul's light to a shade too dim by which to ignite the seeds' enchanted spark. So he told himself to be patient and that there was nothing to fear. Regardless of what the damn card said, in the end, he would ultimately have his seeds sown just as it had been foretold in the dead city of Diavalo's prophecy.

(7)

Pam recognized the _Angelic Script's_ passage immediately, an easy translation thanks to the remnants of Joshua's kiss which was also the very knowledge and means by which he hoped to maneuver her unto his own end. Intuitively, she understood that this message had not been written by Joshua's hand, but rather Adam's. As a result, Pam's own hand had begun to tremble, for in her heart, she still loved that first man of Eden, and here, he had reached across the ages as to speak on matters regarding her affairs. Here, after having been separated for so long, he had come to her aid. It gave testament that not only did he still love her, but that he had forgiven that unfortunate misdeed rendered unto them both so long ago in the garden of paradise.

Her jade eyes lay washed within the fall of tears, for in her heart she understood that she had not been forsaken to that lowest pit of damnation. Her future was not cast in stone, for within the written passage, a viable choice had been offered.

Joshua watched as Pam's spiritual aura grew in strength, a beacon that would give hope to the world. He knew then that she had just discovered something important, and whatever it was, it not only served her optimism, but a virtue that went beyond his understanding.

But what had it been?

Pam stared at Joshua, eyes baptized within the spirit of her integrity. There was no fear to garner her doubts, there was just a tranquility that owed its purest quality to the author of that poetic sonnet. Its grace had placed her upon a foundation of spirit so sturdy in fortitude that it could bear the weight of eternity itself. Her armor, bright as Heaven's Glory, shone like love personified. The force of those few words jotted down on that thin piece of paper, invigorated her spiritual essence, for those vowels and consonants had been woven by none other than her soul mate's caring hand.

(8)

As soon as Pam spoke the first word of _Angelic Script_ in the ancient vernacular, Kimberly Ryan immediately set to prayer, for those choice words could have only come from Heaven itself. And when she heard them, she despaired deeply, for Kim had compromised her faith in order to interfere with that mournful end, which was ultimately managed under God's exclusive dominion---death. Yet there was an understanding within those musical words, and it addressed Kim personally. It bestowed its glorious blessing upon her for loving her son so much, and begged her indulgence in the matter of God's plan, for there was indeed a greater purpose to life. And that sadly sometimes kids named Eddy had to die in order to fulfill it, and for that, God was truly sorry. The message touched Kim's heart and soul intimately, and as such, eased her terrible burden by allowing an acceptance of that which must come to pass. Here, that cold stark light that had burned beyond faith's blindfold had finally shone through, and to Kim's surprise, it was not harsh nor cruel but rather satiated with unconditional love. She could let him go now, for that brightest of lights vowed to reunite them again someday, and that death was not _goodbye_ , but rather _so long for now_. And that allowed Kimberly Denise Ryan to finally make her peace.

Amen.

(9)

The words within Pam's mouth tasted like an exquisite wine as squeezed from a harvest of crimson-gold apples. Except that vintage stock did not herald from the _Tree of Forbidden Knowledge_ , but rather its nemesis, which was none other than the _Tree of Life_. The smooth delicious bouquet of _Angelic Tongue_ had transformed Pam's human voice into a resonating proxy with the dialect of Heaven's highest of Archangels. It was _God's Choir Speech---The Vernacular Veritas_ \---and Pam spoke it fluently. Each mystical word held an infinite depth of meaning and enough information that it dwarfed the combined knowledge contained in all of Earth's greatest libraries. It was the speech of inspired genius, the _Vernacular Veritas_ which had called all creation into being. Its _word_ was _law_ , and none could oppose its singular will. And tonight it spoke on matters that involved apple seeds, fallen angels, and deceptive serpent spires.

The passage spoke in complex layers, each word in harmony with the other until they sang the _Choir Speech_ _Veritas_ in perfect chorus. The impossible pronunciations went far beyond a human's ability to enunciate, but for one night only, Pam had been granted a limited license to distribute its divine wisdom. Mixed into the passage was a message for both Pam and Eve, and it spoke of former transgressions that had been forgiven, such as crimson-gold apples that had been tasted, and apple seeds that had been sown out of season. It spoke of reconciliation with its earthly daughters, who were in fact sisters with one soul and two heads of the same coin. The lines sought their forgiveness and understanding, which in itself was a confession that God was not perfect, and for that too, he was truly sorry. The note also requested that the sisters resist that bitter enemy in Satan's Legion, for a terrible knowledge would benefit evil if those black seeds were ever to be sown. It warned that together those Forbidden Trees would drain the soil of all goodness and cast the entire world unto shadow, that the sacred trees would unlock the secrets of the _Choir Speech_ of the _Vernacular Veritas_ , and with such power, Evil could unseat Heaven's King and eternity would fall unto shadow. However, those blessed words of caution had not fallen onto Kim's nor Joshua's ears, just the sisters, for such was the majestic subtlety of the _Vernacular Veritas_ , that it could pick and choose whose heart and mind it would touch.

(10)

When the first exquisite word sang out of Pam's mortal mouth, Joshua immediately recognized it as the _Vernacular Veritas---the Choir Speech_ as spoken exclusively by Heaven's Archangels. Yet here a common female spoke its eloquent phrasing with such ease that it rivaled even Joshua's former skill. He had not heard anyone utter its wondrous music in eons, and to hear it spoken so beautifully, reached deep into his heart and cut him deeply therein. An old wound had reopened, the one inflicted by God's chastisement, and such was its anguish that Joshua could not help but lend a tear to his cold hard eyes. It was the closest he had come to being his old self before the fall from divinity in an age beyond reason. Oh, to hear those precious words once again, their sweet fluidic harmony as spoken by the daughter of Eden induced a pain so horrible that it threatened to unhinge his mind. He thought to reply, to speak the _Choir Speech_ , but he knew it would only come out soiled and backwards, much like the Tree's melody had, for such Heavenly beauty was forbidden in the presence of his lonely company, for so said God's decree. It was a terrible experience: to be so close to that total love, and yet so impossibly removed from it in the same breadth. Here, the voice of salvation was hopelessly beyond him, and that ached of a terrible abandonment. In his misery, he thought to tear that card out of the daughter of Eden's hands, but knew it would only invite God's swiftest wrath, and today out here on Major's Field was not the place that they had agreed to do battle. That killing field was far removed from this humble place, and its dark hour had been set to the first red dusk of the Demon Moon. If only he could smite the woman and sow those precious seeds by the labor of his own hand so that he might reap that bitterest of harvests. But the task went beyond his skill and those hidden blossoms would not appease a demon's touch. Unfortunately, when the sword's hour hand fell upon the high hour, Legion would be minus a powerful weapon, unless he acted quickly.

Joshua cast off the effects of the _Vernacular_ and set his claim upon those potent seeds before Yahweh cast their black husks down upon the molten lake of fire.

(11)

The note had been short, but deeply profound. To the untrained ear the words would have sounded like an exotic form of Latin poetry that would have set even the blackest of hearts to tears, for such was the innate beauty within its musical like notes. And as Pam spoke the last word upon the card, she immediately set off to complete the task that had been placed upon her.

She slipped the lid off the seed box and laid it on the ground by her feet. The scent of apples that leapt out was overwhelming, sweet, but strangely pungent, as if the seeds had been spoiled on Jasper's rancid soul. She placed the stench out of mind and then set to that most singularly important errand.

She knelt with card in hand and---

"Wait!" Joshua exclaimed. His handsome angelic face smiled warmly, his eyes imitating a human's perfectly, right down to their humbled frailty. "You made an oath to us once, Eve...you promised us that you would sow our seeds." He nodded in understanding. "I know how the _Choir Speech_ of the _Vernacular Veritas_ can be. I've written many a poem with its eloquent loops and finely set lines. I've sang in Heaven's Courtyard before the Council of Elders with the _Choir's_ affectionate tongue." He bowed his head briefly and then set his eyes upon Pam with the utmost urgency. "Do you not think that I do not know of its power? It deceives the heart and sets course to the witless. Be thy own minister of such grace, for it is within thee as surely as gold lay within rock. Do not be given over to emotionalism, for such things are as fleeting as the wind upon the sea. Think Eve, think from whence ye fell! How unjustly your burden beset thee. Of thy son Abel who befell the Reaper's scythe well out of season beneath the cold unyielding glare of the Scarlet Moon. Let not this tyrant offer unto you an ivory crown, where fair queen is set to promenade upon the squares of hall marble, for thou wilt most certainly be made a pauper's pawn in which to sacrifice for none other than King's deed."

Pam's jade eyes held onto Joshua with both caution and compassion. However, it was Eve's voice that came forward to address him one last time, not Pam's. "Oh silver tongued devil. How quick thee are to speak of honor and oaths when they serve thy own selfish course, for such is the way with Jackals in the fields. You who would seek to bind this daughter of Eden as you would bind the daughter of Annapolis to a vow carved in simple wood, when one cannot possibly bear testament to the recourse of the other." Eve smiled upon him softly, because despite his treachery, she felt sorry for him, for at his heart, he truly longed for the beauty of Heaven, and who could condemn him for that. "So then, I say to you fallen angel, this daughter of Annapolis owes you no fare, for she was reborn of a woman's womb, and as such, has paid her debt to karma, and shall not be taxed for the purchase of another."

With those words spoken, Pam understood the meaning in Adam's message: _"_ Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's" Pam's flesh had once been bound to evil's taxation, but not that of her immortal soul, for it had been reborn anew, and as such, cleansed of those former misdeeds.

Joshua's eyes glowed like a flaming pyre as those daggered wings of his spread outward in all their magnificence. His muscles grew and swelled on misdirected rage. His finely honed teeth gnashed together between his full lips. He was completely livid, stung by a stupid technicality as spoken by a witless woman. _Shall not be taxed for the purchase of another!_ Oh how treacherous a thing this woman was. How dare she mince words with him. She owed him goddamn it, and she was going to pay!

Joshua charged forward, eyes on fire, hands spread into murderous talons. He would claim the box before it would come to ruin. Then he would escape to the dead city, the Diavalo where he could plot his next move in regards to seeding his misguided aspirations. There, the forsaken soil would preserve the seeds until the Demon Moon, and there he would keep them until he and his Master had figured out a way to harvest their unlimited potential.

(12)

Joshua snatched up the seed box, his momentum carrying him forward toward that scarlet horizon beyond the serpent's spire. There, lay the dead city beyond the red passage and it would be to that sourest patch of desolation that he would flee. There, the ruined landscape would shelter him from the eye of good. There, the sacred seeds could be induced by his sinister handiwork. There, he would avail the wretched soil as to sow and reap that bitterest of harvests. Perhaps in time, he and his kindred would discover a means by which to re-introduce that fallen wonder back into the lower-world so that they might gather up the forbidden knowledge. But until such a time, he would lie low and bide the hours while his counterparts rallied their immense forces as to that final battle between the spiritual dynasties. Yes, he had been cheated of that grandest of prizes for lack of an insight into God's divine intervention, but he would nonetheless remedy that situation in time, or so he vowed. After all, Joshua was the servant of that most beautiful of angels, that smartest of angels, Lucifer, and together they would palaver and secure the means by which to realize their aspirations. Mankind's fall was inevitable, as too was that King of Jerusalem's, for the powers that be had shifted and the cosmic boundary lay cracked and worn to dust upon its ancient foundation.

The harvest of destruction was at hand.

(13)

Joshua bellowed out a spell into the bloody mist, and from those resonating words a fracture in reality split open a dimensional portal. From within the scarlet hue a great heat blew out across Major's Field, drying the wet grass to a rigid spike of ash. The scent of desert alkali lay pungent upon that demonic wind that howled across the barren plateau beyond that deader than dead tree. But the fallen angel did not ease his step on approaching that land of ruination, but rather hurried his pace so that he might slip into that unholy cleft and escape whatever wrath might come to smite him.

Beneath the fall of his mighty feet, the grass had transformed into sunbaked hardpan, dry and desolate on an eternity of thirst. He took the distance in powerful strides, his stolen treasure tucked firmly beneath his muscular arm. But before Joshua had managed to challenge those few remaining paces into the barren wastes, his rapid gait had begun to ease on an uncertain bout of apprehension, for beyond the fissure lay a figure adorned in a long black robe, its presence as ominous as death itself. But there would be no retreat for that foulest of fiends, for the dead lands had claimed its trophy.

(14)

Pam watched as that lowest minion of the Devil called forth a magical passage and then fled towards that crimson hell. Joshua had grabbed the seed box, his motivation bent on an act of theft. And although those seeds had been in her family's possession for an age untold, she could not regret their loss, for they had brought nothing but fear and suffering into her life. As far as she was concerned, it was good riddance to bad rubbish. And although, she knew that Joshua would not relinquish his quest to have those seeds sown, she felt that their security was best met elsewhere as opposed to remaining in her tenure or that of the lower-world's. Those cursed objects did not belong outside the Gates of Eden, and so if they be vanquished to another realm beyond the scope of her reach, then so be it. She would not pursue nor venture to reclaim that property which had not been hers to begin with.

Beneath Pam's feet, the grass suddenly gave way to the harsh terrain of rugged hardpan as that alternate dimension spilled out of the crimson hue and into Sea Haven. She could feel that wrap of dead air bleed into her lungs and permeate her skin, its stench of tart alkali. The heat of some distant Demon Sun lashed her flesh to bleed, and threatened to set her body to flame, that decrepit world of woe that would soon pull her and Kim into its godforsaken realm. Together, they stood upon the threshold of a spiritual event horizon, a purgatorial black hole, a world of dead lands and lost ghosts.

Pam reached over and grabbed hold of Kim, and together they struggled against that imploding vacuum, plodding laboriously back toward those steadfast remnants of Sea Haven. The wind funneled past them with gale force speed, the fog venting steam as that empty gullet of fire swallowed the gray miasma with reckless abandon. Slowly, the women crawled beyond those forsaken stones of a scorching desert and back onto the damp grass of Major's Field. They huddled together, watching as that fallen angel faded from sight amidst the tangled thrash of dust and wind, the destination of his journey lost to an unanswered mystery.

And as that fiend Joshua went, so too, went his accomplice. The deader than dead tree or its alter ego, known as the serpent's spire, relinquished it limbs to the gusts of wind, its thorny canopy burst to flame and quickly leveled to the substance of cinder ash, its fleeting vestige given to sand that lay scattered upon an ungodly wind. And in its wake that scarlet fissure that had split reality in two distinct worlds, collapsed in upon itself, its exit heralded from heaven with that of a massive lightning bolt.

And so it was done, those not so gentle beasts had finally gone.

Chapter Twelve

The Harvest

(1)

Pam watched as Eddy Ryan ran past the churchyard tombstones, a healthy glow lit up inside his bright eyes, a happy boy who had miraculously whipped leukemia into remission. He never gave the grave markers a second glance nor thought as to how close he had come to lying beneath one. He just kept right on running, grinning, and best of all breathing. He was a beautiful sight to behold, a child in all his innocent glory lost to the warmth beneath the radiant sun of a spring afternoon. It was as it should be, that death's scythe should not cut so low upon the wheat's fledgling stalk, for the boy was not in season, and would not be until the end of a long mild winter that was still decades away.

Pam stood on the granite steps of St. Augustine's Church, her auburn hair tucked neatly into a ponytail, her manner of dress everyday casual---jeans, sneakers, and a white cotton blouse. The look inside her piercing green eyes was pleasantly compassionate, but nonetheless tainted by things they had seen and learnt out on Major's Field. She still felt lost for direction, still caught within that spiritual limbo, which was the gray foggy border that separated the daughter of Eden from the daughter of Annapolis. But still, she felt steady, secure, because somewhere within the silk knit mist, a fog horn had sang out to her, and as such, she knew that someday her ship would reach her port, it was just a matter of time.

She stepped in through the church's double oak doors and walked slowly up the hardwood aisle towards the pulpit altar, which kept a quiet vigilance over a dozen rows of flickering prayer candles. The hall's agreeable scent tasted of sweet incense, bibles, and something else---perhaps a crimson-gold apple. Whatever it was, it made her feel safe, and that had to be good.

Kimberly Ryan sat on a front pew, dressed in a simple black dress, her head bowed in silent prayer, her well-worn rosary in hand. She looked peaceful, and that too had to be good considering what she had been through with Eddy. Pam had no wish to disturb her, but before she could turn around and exit the church, Kim's eyes suddenly snapped open and caught hold of her. "Pam," Kim said with the soft endearing smile of a woman who had come to love this daughter of Eden. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I didn't want to interrupt you, Kim...I was just getting ready to head out and I thought I'd track you down to say goodbye."

Kim stood, set her weathered rosary within her tiny black purse and then took a place before Pam. "Are you really going?" Pam had spoken of possibly leaving Sea Haven over these past few days, but nothing had been conclusive. Obviously that had changed.

"Yeah," Pam replied with a gentle laugh. She hated goodbyes, always felt awkward with them. "I sold what few things I owned and used the money to get my truck up and running again. Here's hoping it'll hold up till I reach the Valley." She rapped gently on the oak pew for good luck.

"Then you're going home?"

Pam nodded. "I've got family there."

"You've got family here, too," Kim said, reminding Pam of the fact that they were cousins, and Adam cousins at that.

Pam glanced at the church wall where a large alabaster statue of Christ hung. His head lay tilted to one side, wounds bleeding from his hands and feet, thorns dug deeply into his tormented brow. "It doesn't make any sense, does it? The why of it. Even now, after all I've seen, there's still a part of me that doubts if any of it really happened."

Kim addressed the statue and nodded. "I guess that's why they call it faith."

"Yeah...maybe."

"What about your job at the Bugle?"

"They tried to talk me out of going, but in the end, they had no choice but to accept my resignation."

"They'll be lost without you."

"Like anything, it'll take time for them to adjust, but in the end, the edition will roll on."

Kim nodded, because she knew such wisdom to be true. No one was really indispensable, they were just provisional. "You know, they're still looking for witnesses to come forward with details on the deaths of Bobby Samuels, Dick Orwell, Jasper Hancock, Greg Boudreau, and those Dolan boys, God rest their souls."

Pam nodded, her eyes conveying their deep rooted guilt as it pertained to such matters. If only she hadn't planted that damn seed, then none of this would have happened. But she had, and perhaps that was why she had to leave, to distance herself from that misdeed.

It was how she managed the fallout.

"I know...but we mustn't say anything Kim...if we did, they'd lock us both up in the loony bin for sure they would."

"I know," Kim sighed with a lingering note of regret. "But still, there are those who need closure...to understand what and why it happened."

Who didn't?

"Don't wear Christ's crown on such affairs," Pam said, as she set a reassuring hand upon Kim's shoulder. "God takes what he takes and owns what he gives." Pam smiled softly. "Make no mistake Kimberly Denise Ryan, you have no blood on your hands, and don't you forget it."

"But I had sinned."

"We all sin."

Kim reached up and placed a tender considerate hand on the side of Pam's face. "You saved my soul out there...thank you."

Pam gently took hold of Kim's hand and cradled it. "He saved both our souls, Kim."

They both stared at one another for a moment in reflective silence, both aware that deep down, they each owned a part of this messy bit of business. That no one was without sin, no one. It was the price you paid for being human. The tax everyone had to pony up for the purchase of another. Kim had paid the tax for Pam's transgression, as did all those who had fallen into ruin out on Major's Field, just as the entire world had paid the tax for Adam and Eve's sin---the purchase of another. It made Pam wonder if anyone truly owned anything that they did, or was it just a tariff to be passed on to the next generation, for we were all born with original sin, and that sweet Jesus was the tax of another.

"Will you ever come back?"

"Someday," Pam said in assurance, although she wasn't entirely sure on that matter. Besides, it just felt like the right thing to say. "You could always come back to the Valley."

Kim nodded. "I've thought about it, but all of Eddy's friends are here. He'd hate to leave them behind, but maybe someday, when he's older." That too felt like the right thing to say when you were caught up in a goodbye. But very seldom did folks ever go good on it, because part of life was letting go, and that sadly meant that sometimes people went their separate ways. Humanity was a _let's do lunch sometime_ type of society.

"Well, you can always visit," Pam said encouragingly.

"I will."

"Good."

"And speaking of Eddy, what are the doctors saying?"

Kim smiled broadly, which made her look unusually young, a woman who perhaps would not end up an old spinster. "They call him the miracle boy. He's got no sign of the cancer in him. He's as fit as a maritime fiddle."

Pam thought to question that miraculous transformation, but she knew it would not only sound cynical, but also give Kim pause for concern. After all, deep down Pam was certain that his cure stemmed from God's hand, and not Joshua's. But still, there was no guarantee, and that uncertainty she told herself was where faith came in. Even after all she had seen, there were still doubts. How could that be? How could she not trust in God? Hadn't she spoken the _Vernacular Veritas_ , the _Choir Speech_ of Heaven's Archangels? Perhaps it had to do with the reporter inside her heart, the one that needed everything to make sense so that she could box it up and then sell it not only to the masses, but also to herself. But faith wasn't like that, it made unrealistic demands on the sensible. Its very nature by definition existed entirely within the improvable, because the second that faith strayed outside of a philosophical argument, it became a fact, and that sweet Jesus was a completely different word. Needless to say, Pam had certain spiritual issues to reconcile. But that was okay, because she knew the port would always be there when the fog lifted, and that in itself showed that she indeed had faith.

People were funny that way, they asked questions about things they already knew the answers to, and maybe that's just the way folks were built. Suspicious by nature, because they knew that sometimes the magician kept your wallet even after the trick was over. As always, it was best to be leery, because coin and coffer were often robbed blind if faith didn't at least peek once and awhile.

"I'm sure he'll remain that way," Pam said with a decisive nod. "He's strong and has his mother's love behind him."

"Praise God," Kim whispered, a motherly glow shining within her doe like eyes. "He's my gift from the Almighty."

"Yes," Pam agreed, very much enjoying that kind of sentiment. It sounded not only good, but morally centered, as all things should. After all, kids weren't supposed to die, just goldfish. "Does he remember anything?"

This time it was Kim who briefly glanced at the statue of Christ hanging on the wall. "No...none of it...thank goodness."

"Yes," Pam nodded. "It is best left forgotten in his case."

"Although..."

"What?"

Kim shook her head and drew in a slow easy breath. "Sometimes he has dreams."

"What kind of dreams?"

"Nightmares about being lost in the fog and about some ugly boy with his thumb on fire, if that makes sense."

"Billy Dover," Pam said. She had never actually seen Pigpen work his magic thumb, but somehow she instinctively knew who Eddy had dreamt about.

"Yes...at least I think it's him...the boy who brought forth the seed box."

"That's Billy," Pam acknowledged, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. No one had seen hide nor hair of him since last week, and Pam couldn't help but think the kid might be hurt, or worse, dead. She had no doubt that the kid had been nothing more than a pawn as far as Joshua was concerned. But then again, who wasn't? Still, Pam knew at heart that Billy himself wasn't evil, he was just messed up. And although that was unfortunate, it was still a hell of a lot better than having his spirit rotted to the core. Some things could be forgiven where as others were just goddamn deal breakers. True, Billy had walked on the edge, but he hadn't fallen in as far as Pam was concerned, and in the end that was what really mattered.

"Do you think it means anything?" Kim asked. There was a silent desperation within her eyes, a concern that said that perhaps Eddy had another kind of sickness that might even be worse than cancer.

"He's been through a lot," Pam replied, as she rubbed the back of Kim's hand in comfort. "It's just the mind's way of sorting things out...he'll be fine...try not to fret the small stuff."

Kim paused to consider that and then nodded an agreement. It was what she needed to hear right now, not to mention it sounded like it held scientific merit. "Of course, you're right. He's been through a great deal. God knows, I've had a few nasty dreams myself since that night out on Major's Field."

So had Pam, but she didn't think that was something Kim needed to hear right now. It would've upset her, made her think that perhaps there was some kind of hidden message they were expected to see, when the truth of the matter was much more simple: they'd been scared out of their wits, and that kind of trauma came with all kinds of emotional baggage. Dreams---Pam felt she would be having them the rest of her life.

"It's normal Kim...to be expected...they'll pass in time."

"Yes," Kim smiled wanly. "They'll pass in time."

Pam leaned forward and gave Kim a big hug. "I'll keep in touch."

"You'd better," Kim said with a weak, but genuine laugh. "You're the only other person I can talk to about this crazy business."

Pam pulled back and gave Kim a wide smile that showed not only an appreciation of her new found friend and cousin, but also an inherent understanding that they both shared an incredible secret, an Adam secret.

"Goodbye Kim."

"Goodbye Pam."

(2)

Pam sat behind the wheel of her repaired pickup truck, her hand on the ignition, when she heard something unexpected. It was the sound of someone whistling, but the tune they crooned wasn't just any old song, it was something very special. She sat back and looked into the side view mirror, and watched as the figure of Eddy Ryan slowly made his way up to her door.

"Do you like that melody?" Eddy asked, his eyes brightly lit within the hub of his peaceful smile.
At first, Pam was too shocked to reply, too taken aback by something that should not have been, something that was completely impossible. But here, this odd bit of business with the supernatural obviously wasn't quite over yet, and she didn't know what to make of it.

"I dreamt about you last night," Eddy volunteered. "You were in a Garden with ferocious Lions, but they were afraid of you. And when I got scared, you sang me this song."

Once again, Eddy crooned the melody, and it was everything for Pam not to break down into tears. It was a beautiful gift from above, a little piece of music from Eden's Tree of Life, and the boy whistled it perfectly.

"How can I do that Eddy?"

"You said it would be our song," Eddy grinned. He was more than quite pleased with himself for he had a special gift, a secret gift. "And to keep it just between ourselves."

Pam nodded, her eyes wet with happiness and pleasant astonishment. "Yes...that's a good idea Eddy...other people wouldn't understand it...would they?"

Eddy shook his head. "Nope, not one bit of it, I'd reckon."

"Then it will be our song alone."

"Our song," Eddy agreed with a wink and a nod, because deep down inside he instinctively understood why the melody was so important, and why it must be kept secret.

Pam could not help but feel how much of a shame that was, to hide something so precious and wonderful away from the rest of the world. But in the end she knew if they did not, then the kid would be exploited by the powers that be. _Step right up ladies and gentlemen and hear the angel boy whistle!_ The media would turn him into a circus freak inside some sideshow attraction, because that's what society did to those who were special, and Eddy didn't need that hassle in life, he just needed to be Eddy. It may not have been what a good reporter would have agreed with, but it was how Pamela Sussex felt on the subject.

"Whenever you have a bad dream, Eddy, you just whistle that tune, and I guarantee you nothing or no one will ever bother you again...okay?"

Eddy nodded and then smiled warmly. "I will."

"Good boy."

He stepped back from the truck, lingered for a second, eyes holding onto Pam's face as if to embrace her memory, and then he went back to running like all healthy carefree kids did on warm spring afternoons.

Pam cranked the starter and the engine sputtered to life as a puff of blue smoke coughed out of the truck's rusty tailpipe. She then lent an eye to her rearview mirror and watched as Eddy Ryan ran through a nearby field of apple trees that were in seasonable bloom. She smiled and laughed softly. "Our song."

(3)

The road forked at the stop sign. No other vehicles moved along the two lane blacktop, not even a clumsy porcupine. Ahead, lay a simple choice of either Highway One-O-Three East or One-O-Three West. Pam had traveled this route a million times, but today it looked different, as if the sun's rays were perhaps artificial, and nothing that dwelled within was in fact real. Of course she soon realized that she was regarding the bitter landscape through Eve's discerning eyes, and what those eyes saw was just how spoiled this world was in comparison to Eden's exquisite garden. It was a moving moment, an episode of vivid clarity in which a person took pause to reflect on what's been and what is. Still, there was a crude beauty within the scattered stones, wild grass, tangled weeds, and coniferous trees, and that alone appealed to Pam's sense of geographical correctness, and allowed her to make this tarnished reality bearable.

Be it ever so humble.

It may have been a dump, but it was still home. Besides, in a few short hours, she would be back in the Valley that she loved so much. There, she would stay with her cousin Harold who was the present caretaker of Matilda's scenic Victorian, God rest her soul. There, Pam would contemplate the future, network with other family members, and take time to pray. It would be a spiritual sabbatical, a place where she could take time to recharge her batteries before she set her life off in a new direction. But just what direction would that be? At the moment it did not matter, because now was about kicking back and not sweating the small stuff. The answers would come in their own time, not hers. There was no set schedule, just the open ended journey which was life.

She looked to her left and down the road, and spied a silhouette standing in the distance. It was a hitchhiker by the look of him, but he was too far off for her to see him clearly.

"One more soul on the road of life who just happens to be going in the opposite direction...oh well, sorry my friend, but my business takes me east."

She clicked on her signal light and then slowly pulled out onto the road. The air that blew through the open window felt good on her skin, the heat from the sun which cooked the dusty dashboard announced that an early summer had arrived. She reached down and turned on the radio, which was pre-set to the "Rock of the Atlantic," Q104 FM. It was here that her piercing jade eyes caught sight of something odd. It had been brief, subtle, perhaps a trick of sunlight, but she would swear that it had been there nonetheless: a bright flicker of fiery light that had flashed within the rearview mirror, a shaky reflection of that distant hitchhiker, their thumb a burning tendril of demonic flame. Pam locked up the brakes, put the truck into park, and then hopped down onto the cracked surface of the two lane blacktop. Her eyes anxiously worked the distance, searching for that illusive figure which she believed to be none other than Billy Dover.

There was no sign of him.

After a moment of indecision, she concluded that there was nothing to be had in chasing down that unusual anomaly, however, curious she might be. After all, what possible relevance could it have? None, as far as she could figure. And so she got back inside the truck and drove off, questioning the fact if Billy Dover had even been there. It seemed pointless conjecture, the kind of weird thing you always wondered about but could never actually prove. She guessed that too was like faith: you either believed in your eyes or you doubted them.

Meanwhile, on the radio, the DJ prattled on about what great sunny weather Nova Scotia was going to receive over the next week or so, and that a large number of recently laid off people in Sea Haven had just won a forty-seven million dollar Lotto Max jackpot. It was welcomed news to a woman who felt guilty about letting a bunch of people's happiness get flushed down the toilet, and one more miracle that made her wonder if perhaps God's hand had been at work on her behalf. Somehow it felt like it had, and because of that, Pam could not help but smile.

The End

SEEDS OF THE FALLEN

Novel by:

Keith Crews

Edited by:

Gavin Bennett

Published by:

Diavalo Publishing on Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 by: Keith Crews

ISBN #

978-0-9868245-4-8

www.keithcrews.com

