Halloween man
by
douglas clegg


A LEISURE BOOK® October 1998
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
276 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10001

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware
that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and
destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher
has received any payment for this "stripped book."

Copyright © 1998 by Douglas Clegg

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including photocopying, recording or by any information storage
and retrieval system, without the written permission of the
Publisher, except where permitted by law.

ISBN 0-8439-4439-0

The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "I" with design are
trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America.

For Matt Schwartz, of http://www.horrornet.com.

This must be shared with Raul Silva, and for all of those
people who love a tale of the fantastic and of terror on a
chilly October night.

Thanks to my mother, Aileen Naomi Clegg, for
introducing me to the spellbinding poetry of Edgar Allan
Poe when I was barely out of diapers; and to my father,
George Benjamin Clegg, III, for agreeing, when I was 22
and taking off to write and live in Paris, that a writer should
have many experiences from which to draw. I thank them
both for being nomads of sorts, and for instilling their shared
sense of adventure with me.

Special thanks to Ed Gorman for introducing me to my
editor, Don D'Auria, among other things Ed has helped me
with over the years. Thanks to Don and my agent, Jake
Elwell at Wieser & Weiser.

If you'd like to get in touch with me, E-mail me at
DougClegg@aol.com or drop by my website at http://www.hoiTornet.com/clegg.him.

Prologue

The shattering of glass and metal, as some unseen intruder
broke the window, did not wake him.

A voice in his head whispered, ' 'Your soul."

The boy shivered. The rain outside, and the wind that
blew across the near-desolate room, across the old
woman's face as she too lay back in some dream, he knew
this but none of it could draw him up from sleep; the
crunch and squeal of a door opening, of glass being
stepped upon, all of this played at the edge of his consciousness,
but he could not tug away from the dream that
had grabbed him.

The voice whispered, "Your heart."

His eyelids fluttered open for a moment, and then the
boy closed them again, as if the real world were the
dream, and his inner world, the truth.

Even the mindpain was only a shredded curtain,
blowing against a window of the dream.

The boy dreamed on. His inner eyes opened onto the
other world, the one of insane geometries, of orange light9

ning, of fire that rained from trees like leaves falling, of
the birds rising from the water, their impossibly pure
white wings spreading across the burning sky. As the sky
filled with bloody swans, he saw the dark ram with its
golden eyes shining as it galloped towards him across the
surface of the unbroken water. Then the eels wriggling
across the glassy surface, turning the brown water red
with their wakes. The ram rode across their backs, its
hooves beating like knives on stones. The Azriel Light
came up from its breath, forming crystalline in the mist
of air, and then burned across the world. What was unspeakable
found voice and its bleating froze the air for a
moment, hacked from the fabric of time as the secret of
all stabbed at his ears.

Someone tried to wake him from it. The mindpain came
back like a bolt of lightning, burning along his neural
pathways. The boy's eyes opened, his dream torn apart.

The man shook him awake and held a hand over his
mouth. The room came back with its shadows of curtains
and half-opened cupboards. The trill of a mockingbird
outside the window. The shroud of dawn. The room that
always seemed too small for all of them. The others slept
on around him.

The man wore a dark leather jacket and jeans, his dark
hair in need of a cut, and the smell from him was almost
sweet--like sage on the desert after a rain.

"You Satan?" the boy asked in a hushed tone of reverence.

Fear was not there. He didn't sense it. He didn't
feel it from the man, and it wasn't within him. He knew,
somehow, the man would be there. He knew just as he
knew that his dream had foretold something.

"I could be," the man whispered, his breath all cigarettes.

"If you keep quiet, you'll live. Understand?"

The boy nodded. The mindpain blossomed against his
small skull. When it came on, as it usually did after one
of the Great Meetings, it would blast within his head like
the worst headache. Sometimes his nose would bleed from

it. Sometimes he'd go into convulsions. He never knew
how hard it would hit, he just knew it was PAIN. He knew
it HURT. The mindpain didn't let go until it was good
and ready to.

The boy felt something pressed against his side.

Cold metal.

"That's right," the man whispered. "It's a gun. I will
kill you if you make a noise or try to fight me. Or if you
try to do what I know you can do."

The boy began shivering, and wasn't sure if he could
will himself to stop. He wanted to be back in his dream.

It felt like ants were crawling all over his arms and legs.

Ants stinging him all over, and then tickling along his
neck. He wanted to swat and scratch, but he was afraid
the man might use the gun. The boy had seen a jackrabbit
get shot clean in half once. He didn't need to imagine it
happening to himself.

But the markings on him, the drawings ...
He knew they were moving, the pictures on his shoulders.

He wished he could scrape them from his flesh. He
wanted to tell the stranger with the gun about them, about
how they meant bad things when they began moving, but
the boy knew this would do no good.

The man grinned as he lifted the boy up, wrapping a
shabby blanket around him. The boy's last view of what
he had come to call home was the old woman lying there
staring at him. Blood sluiced from between her lips, and
tears bled down in rivulets from her eyes. The mattress
beneath her was soaked red. Her fingers were still curled
around a small amulet she kept with her, nothing more
than a locket, a good luck charm.

The boy was too tired to fight, and weakened, too, by
the previous day's performance. Mindpain always came
after the show. Mindpain was like what the Great Father
had called a hangover. It was the morning after. That was
a problem for him, it sapped him of strength, and even

when he had tried to kick out at the man, he could barely
move his legs.

The man would probably kill him. The boy knew this
is what kidnappers usually did. He had watched late-night
TV shows like America's Most Wanted and knew that
kidnappers rarely kept a kid alive.

The boy tried not to think of the gun.

Tried to remember the Great Father holding his arms
out, his hands open to him. "I will be your comfort in
the valley of the shadow," the Great Father had said.

This was the valley of the shadow of death. This kidnapper
and his gun and his blanket and the red stain on
the mattress with the old woman's mouth wide open.

Thinking about it, the boy winced. The hammering in
his head grew stronger. Everything hurt.

The pounding of the rain on the roof seemed unbearable.

It was a terrible rain, it had come at first as ice and
then tiny pebbles hitting the corrugated tin roof, until finally,
it was just water. God is pissin' on us on accounta
our sins, that's what the old woman who took care of him
would say, her Texas twang increasing with her years. She was dead now. She was in whatever Great Beyond
existed, the boy knew. She was in the pictures that covered
him now, as were all things that were no more. If
the mindpain hadn't descended that night, weakening him
further, he might've been able to struggle against this evil
man who'd taken him. Even though the blanket covered
the boy's ears, it was as if the hoofbeats of wild horses
were beating down upon him from heaven.

The kidnapper threw him into the backseat of a car.

Slammed the door. As they drove off, the boy glanced
back at the place he'd called home and knew in his heart
he would never see it again. Dawn was just bursting from
the far horizon. Rain accompanied it, the first fresh drops
hitting the car windows, dirt rinsing down. The pain in
the boy's head grew, and he could feel the tingling begin
along his back and shoulders. He knew that whatever was

supposed to start, all the things that he'd been warned
about by the Great Father, would come to pass now.

Through him, the radiance would come, like electricity
through the idiot wires of the gods.

His skin felt molten.

PART ONE
THE STORM KING

' 'Down came the golden ship, plowing into the fallow

earth as if planting a new crop in a dry field ..."

from The Storm King: Intergalactic Knight, Vol. 12

The Damnation Highway

"It was drizzling and mysterious at the beginning of our

journey."

--Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Chapter One
The Kidnapper


You can't ever take this back.

The kidnapper heard the voice in his head.

You can't ever undo this. You must now follow it
through, what you've started.

You must now take it to its logical conclusion.

Try not to picture what you're going to have to do to
the kid.

The only emotion the man felt was an indefinable revulsion,
not even fear, for an adrenaline rush overcame
his cowardice. His sweat had dried up, his body no longer
trembled with the knowledge of what he had to do. It was
no longer a plan, or a plot, it was an action in fact. Yet
he had to have control over himself, or he would lose it.

He might just go over the edge, and then all that he'd
worked so hard to keep in place for so many years--the
lurker beneath his own skin--all would run wild.

If a place could have an aura, this one did, and it was

the aura that caused his revulsion. An aura of darkness,
and it was almost like a physical heaviness to the place.

A halo of nightmare, all around the periphery. He'd do
right by the world if he poured kerosene at its edges and
torched the whole place, and the dozen or so people sleeping
there. The Rapturists, they called themselves, but for
people of God they had quite an arsenal stored out in New
Mexico. The Feds were already surrounding their Quonset
huts just outside of Las Graces, out in the dusty hills,
ready for a Branch Davidian-style showdown, at least according
to the media. But the Rapturists had pockets all
over the United States and parts of Central America. They
were a big family of loons whose religious zeal tended
towards forming militias and announcing messiahs with
every change of the weather.

This enclave, small as it was, and apparently as harmless,
contained the only messiah that the man wanted:

The boy who they called Shilo, or Prophet.

Funny that no one's standing guard. Funny that they
don't feel the need to protect their little messiah from men
like me who might want to do something terrible to him.

He had one final protection with him in case they did
catch him, one little parachute of sorts.

Don't think about it.

All you want is the boy.

Funny though that no one is waking up, and funny
about that woman lying on the mattress. Too dark to really
get a look, but why didn't she wake up? Why didn't
she try to stop him?

Don't think about that either.

Don't think about what might have been done last
night, perhaps as some kind of God ritual among them,
some kind of Kool-Aid laced with People's Temple cyanide,
or some other nasty little "let's go to Heaven together,
shall we?" party.

These Rapturists are that crazy. Their whole sense of

religion is built around death anyway. No big surprise if
by sunrise all of them will be found dead.

All but the boy.

What had Fairclough called it?

Oh yeah, the Azriel Light, which was suitably biblical
since Azriel was the Angel of Death. The Azriel Light was
simply a phenomenon of idiot humans going crazy and
killing themselves when in the presence of the light of
Holiness. Leave it to Fairclough and the Rapturists to
describe their lack of survival skills with some bogus religious
phrase. "The Azriel Light," the blonde on the
Christian show had said, "is the warm glow of God's
love, but it is not of the flesh, but of spirit. The flesh is a
covering, like this blouse and skirt I'm wearing, and we
must shed it to move into the eternal light."

Ah, gimme that old-time religion!

This was a place of darkness. No dawn, and no damn
Azriel Light was going to make it any brighter.

/ know another name for the Azriel Light, he thought. Moonftre.

All he wanted was to get the boy hi the car and get the
hell out of this enclave of rundown homes out in the middle
of a Texas nowhere. The stink was everywhere-- Stony Crawford could smell it like the scent of old blood,
the way you knew that something or someone was dead,
had been dead a long time and had just lain there in the
excrement of death as if waiting for resurrection. He
couldn't wait to get out from among the shacks and mobile
homes, and back into his car. And those cages, full
of rattlesnakes, all still and eerie beneath the trailer that
sat up on cinder blocks. Christ, that was creepy. People
who would keep fifty rattlesnakes for their church social
weren't people you wanted to mess with.

The kid stayed put, which was good for both of them.

Stony had to make sure that no one followed.

Damn Death Cult. Damn superstitious backwoods New
Ager Gospel spouters believing in snake oil and storm

clouds and little boys who make rain come down over
parched land.

He trembled as he slid into the front seat. Thought he
saw a man standing off behind one of the shacks, just
watching the spectacle.

The Kidnapping of a Twelve-Year-Old Boy; The Miracle
Worker Kid of the Southwest; The Boy Who Predicted
the Assassination; The Boy Who Healed the Sick;
The Boy Who Raised the Dead; The Boy Who Made the
Blind See and the Lame Walk; The New Messiah of Texas
and the World, Shilo Incarnate.

Stony had read all the cheap magazines and lurid newspaper
reports, seen the television show that dragged the
kid before the cameras while some platinum blonde with
mascara for brains tried to suck money out of the viewers.

"The Rapture is coming, and Prophet is our savior!" she
cried. "Send ten dollars, twenty, five hundred, whatever
you can, be part of this great convergence of heaven and
earth!"

They sold the kid's spit at fifty bucks a loogie.

/ guess I must be the Devil, for stealing the Messiah.

I must be worse than the Devil, because I'm gonna take
this kid and ...
Don't picture it. You weaken when you think about it.

You start thinking stupid-ass warm fuzzy thoughts about
the innocence of childhood and about love and about care
and about how this is just after all a little boy, and for
all you know you didn't even get the right little boy, you
did what you did last time, you grabbed the wrong kid.

The voice within him whispered, You got the wrong kid
last time, remember? You were a dumbass twenty-year
old then and you grabbed the tot and ran, and when you
got out to the place where you were gonna blow him to
kingdom come, turns out you had just grabbed some kid
who was nothing but a kid. Ordinary. Sweet. Goofy.

Scared. And you had to shut him up somehow, but you
knew only killing him would do it.

So instead you just showed him something horrible. You
showed him that place inside you that no one wants to
see and stay sane. You let that kid see it, knowing it would
fry his little four-year-old brain and then he'd spend half
his childhood hoping that Hell wasn't going to open up
right under his feet.

Some wonderful as shit world you gave that kid, the
wrong kid.

And you're so damn sure this one here is the right one?

Who's da monster, Stony?

"I am," he whispered aloud.

They traveled by car, an old beat-up Mustang he'd bought
for a hundred and fifty-seven bucks in a town farther south
called Causeway Center. The old man selling the car had
told him he was a fool to buy it even at that price, and it
wouldn't take him all the way up the coast, but it might
get him as far as North Carolina, and from there, "You're
on your own. Only God or Fate is gonna take care of this
beat-up old piece of scrap metal from there on." The old
man reminded him--too much--of his own father, not in
the eyes, but in the mouth, that jug-chinned hangdog kind
of mouth. He hadn't really trusted the old man. He never
really trusted anyone. But he double-checked his various
maps, and he knew the Mustang was as good as any car
he could find after he'd smashed up his other one. He
didn't have a lot of cash left, and now he had this mission.

That's what it was. A pure mission.

Stony Crawford glanced at the glove compartment.

Don't think about it.

Even thinking about it might make him know it's there.

He ignored the image of it that his mind conjured. Keep
your mind on the road.

In the rearview mirror, the boy slept. The backseat was
outfitted with pillows and blankets. He didn't want the

boy to be uncomfortable. He didn't want the kid to get
too scared of him, not yet. The boy had dark hair, almost
too long. His skin was a deep tan on his face, from the
Texas sun. His pupils, when Stony had seen his eyes go
wide, were large and dilated as if someone had been putting
some sort of eyedrops in them to increase the boy's
sensitivity to light. But otherwise, Stony had recognized
the boy almost immediately. The shock of it almost threw
him backwards. He'd been searching for this kid for just
under twelve years, and finding him, he knew. He knew
why the other kid had been the wrong one, because he'd
been looking for all the wrong qualities. But seeing this
boy was like thrusting his hand into a bucket of electric
eels.

He had arrived at the small one-room schoolhouse on
the edge of a shit-dust town, and seen the boy from the
back of the room. That death stink was all around, and
the idiots there had brought in three corpses, as if the boy
would actually be able to raise them back to life. But oh,
those fundamentalist believers wanted to know that either
Christ or the Antichrist had returned, Hallelujah, it didn't
matter which. They just wanted the fulfillment of a book
written a long time ago, they didn't want the truth of what
the boy was. They didn't want his totality.

Hallelujah, he makes the wine taste like water! Hallelujah,
he maketh the lion to lie down with the lamb! Hallelujah,
he knows the fires of hell, and the fate of the
world is written upon him! Praise the Almighty, we found
our 1'il savior and now let's praise him before we put him
up on some cross and kick the living soul right outta him!

But Stony had seen him clearly. Known him, known
what he had to do with the boy.

This particular child.

His fingers tensed around the steering wheel. He tried
an old relaxation exercise, but the fear of what he had to
do came back to him.

He blinked, and in that split-second blindness,
He saw the red birds burst out of the skin, spreading
across the sky, swirling in the wind and then coming together
again, a wall of fire, its heat so intense it melted
glass.

"It was long ago, my friend," the comforting voice
within him told him. The voice of an old friend, someone
he had internalized over the years.

Nora.

"A long time ago, and what's past is past. All you can
do is look down the road and decide if it curves and if
you'll take the curve."

It rained like the devil from Texas to Arkansas. The
land turned from plains to hills, with great pine forests
springing up. Even the rain seemed unnatural for northeast
Texas, pouring down like the heavens had opened up. The
trucks ahead of him splashed water up onto his windshield.

The wash of color turning to gray-brown mud,
splattering across his vision as the day grew darker with
the overhanging clouds. The wipers swiped at it, but the
road did not clear from the blur of water and gray.

The rain stopped just outside Little Rock. Traffic was
light, and there were several motels along the roadside.

Their bright red flashing vacancy signs beckoned to him,
but he could not sleep. He could not sleep, and would not
let himself rest. Because he knew if he did, then he might
let the boy go. He might just stop, out of fear. Or out of
a sense that maybe he was wrong, maybe all of it was a
bad case of insanity, that his ever-present memory that
swirled around inside him was, in fact, fantasy.

He might kill himself, in whatever way it was possible
to do so.

To sleep for a thousand years, a voice in his head whispered. To be part of the nothing, the emptiness, and the
everything. The enormity of existence, spread across it
like fire. To not have to be trapped inside this prison of
flesh and bone.

Nora, in her inimitible way, scoffed at this voice of

dissent. "Oh Lord, there you go, ready to jump in a pond
with a two-hundred-pound weight tied around your neck when all you have to do is take it off. You have made
cosmic suffering an art, and you're just too talented in
that direction. Stony boy, when are you gonna just take
responsibility for yourself and turn these demons
around?"

By then, his hands were tense on the steering wheel.

He hadn't slept in forty-eight hours, and he wasn't sure
how much longer he could go. He tasted what he thought
might be blood in his mouth. It wasn't just the fear or
stress, it was the knowing. The knowing of it. Not of what
had been, but of what must be done. He glanced in the
rearview mirror constantly. He half expected to see a police
car following him. Or maybe the people from that
awful place back in a small Texas roadside town, a middle
of nowhere, a blind spot on the map. The kind of place
where things like this might take hold.

Those people.

The people who worshiped the boy.

"These ain't real demons, they're made up by you. If
you looked at them the way they really are, you'd see
they're just wake-up calls from the universe." Nora
seemed to be there, within him.

He knew that it was his imagination. Always his imagination.

He'd let the voices come out, especially in this
kind of situation.

/ am kidnapping a kid from Texas, and dragging his
ass halfway across the country, I have a gun, I have a--

(Don't think it and it won't really be happening--don't
look at the glove compartment.)

"Why do you live in me?" he asked the Nora-voice
once. Knew he was crazy for even asking one of the
voices in his head about itself.

"Because," came her reply. "You won't let me go."

He tried not to listen to the chaos of voices inside him.

"I'm not crazy," he said, and then realized he'd said it
aloud.

Glanced back at the boy in the rearview mirror.

7 am a kidnapper. Felony.

/ may be a murderer. Felony.

Oh, but worse. There's a law beyond the law, and a
justice beyond human justice.

Damnation is my only highway.

At some point in driving, he began seeing things on the
road, like movies sprayed across his windshield. Just images
from the past, people's faces, the big summer house
out on Juniper Point. He had to force his concentration to
see the highway through them, to see what was up ahead.

Moonfire burst across his vision--

The yellow-white moon, corona of red around it like
sunbursts--

A flashback as sure as if he'd dropped acid back when
he was a teenager.

Moonfire, searing, almost blinding him--

The vision of her.

Her face encased in a liquid white sac, the blue veins,
like a spiderweb, through it. The pulsing of the life fluid.

Then, it was gone as quickly as it had arrived. The road
ahead was dark and straight.

The sky lightened as storm clouds became as insubstantial
as a dream across the reality of midday.

The smell of steamy autumn in the air, the humid moss
of a warm October, caught in his throat. After the storm,
the moisture evaporated in the brilliant sun. He wiped his
sunglasses off, looking up at the open sky. A vast big
blue emptiness that stretched for miles. There was no end
to it as he glanced across the horizon. No clouds ahead.

Nothing in the beyond but clear skies, no apparent darkness.

It was a relief, for the rain had been like the pound27

ing in his head since he'd found what he'd been searching
for.

When the rain stopped, the memories quieted.

The rain had been like nails hitting stones in his head.

Or the soft thud of nails in hands.

Sometimes, it was just rain.

"I'm hungry," the kid in the backseat said.

"Later on."

"There's a war going' on," the kid said.

"Yeah, right."

"There is. Between Good and Evil, Heaven and Hell,"
the boy said as if this had been drilled into him since the
age of three. "All of us is part of it, and my part is like
a fire across the seas."

' 'And he bound the serpent for a thousand years and--"

"You know Scripture?" the boy asked, shocked.

"You ain't the messiah, kid, so just shut up about those
chuckleheads we just left behind," Stony clucked. Then,
"Sorry, kid. I guess you could say I'm just in a bad
mood."

The silence in the car became overbearing. Stony
switched on the radio. The choices were country or
preachers. Country won, hands down. Stony tuned into
the end of an old Charlie Pride tune, "Kiss an Angel
Good Morning." The kid began singing along softly to it
from the backseat.

"How about over there?" Stony pointed to the Waffle
Hut off the highway.

"I guess," the boy said. "You still in a bad mood?"

"Kid, I'm always in a bad mood. Waffle Hut?"

"Mcdonald's would be okay."

"You want to wait for the next Mcdonald's? It might
be a half hour."

"Okay, whatever you say, you're da boss," the boy
said almost cheerfully.

"You don't mind that I'm taking you," Stony said after
he'd parked in front of the Waffle Hut. "You don't mind
that a stranger put you in his car and is driving someplace
you have no idea of."

The boy shrugged. "You're the one with the gun, not
me."

Inside, the Formica table coated with a thin layer of
grease, the boy glanced at the spattered-plastic menu.

' 'My eyes must be bigger'n my belly. I want everything I can get."

"Easy, kid," Stony said. "Keep it under five bucks,
okay?"

When the waitress came over, she wiped down the table,
took the orders, and the boy said, "Grits, two sausages,
three eggs, two pancakes. Big glass of milk."

Stony checked his wallet. Depressingly few bills remained
in it. A small photo from the past: the fifteen
year-old girl with the dark skin and dark hair. Pretty eyes.

Sweet smile. Around her neck, a small gold cross. "Nothing
for me, thanks. Wait, maybe some toast. Yeah, just
some toast. Toast and coffee."

The boy glared at him. "I got to eat." He took a sip
from the glass of water. "Your car is a shitkicker, mister."

He could fix the car every time it died--which it did, and
often. Once, at a truck stop outside Memphis, he'd burned
his right hand getting the distributor cap off. Acrid smoke
filled the air, but he managed to toggle some switches and
buy a new temperature gauge, and it ran all right for the

night. The boy had to piss five times in the space of six
hours, and still he refused to give up his two-liter plastic
bottle of Coke, which he clung to as if for dear life.

On the road, no one really looked at the boy, who
mainly kept to himself in the backseat, flipping through
the stack of Time and Life magazines that had come with
the car, pulling the blanket over his head when daylight
came--and Stony assumed he slept. At the rest stops
sometimes a nice big-haired Southern woman patted the
boy on the head as he ran by her on his way to the snack
machines. "Your son is a real popgun," one woman told
him, smiling a smile full of Georgia peaches and
Southern-fried warmth. If only she knew. Every few hours,
the boy complained of hunger. He devoured two Big Macs
at one sitting that night, and then downed a large fries, a
Coke, and a chocolate milk shake. The kid was an addict
for Coke, with a secondary addiction to Snickers bars. The
candy wrappers Uttered the backseat, and when Stony
stopped for cigarettes or gas or a decent cup of coffee,
the kid always had to get him to buy some more Snickers.

A healthy appetite for junk food for a twelve-year-old. At
truck stops, the kid did his business, washed his hands,
stayed near him. As if the boy were afraid of the rest of
the world more than he was afraid of him. That was good.

He knew the boy would stay with him. He knew the boy
would stick to him like glue.

That frightened him when he thought about it too much.

He tried not to think of it at all. He was not a man used
to showing his fear to anyone, let alone a kid.

They didn't say much, back and forth, front seat to
back. It unnerved him to think of the kid in the back,
wondering what it would all come to when they reached
their destination.

They passed the Virginia state line at four a. m. Stony
was tired, but he wanted to wait until the sun was well
up before finding a place to sleep. The kid had no problem
sleeping, and seemed to be content with watching the stars

and other cars and the blur of trees and houses and the
great white blank spaces of the highway north.

Finally, as the sun was coming up, and he was too tired
to keep going, the boy asked, "Where you taking me
anyway?"

He almost cracked a smile, glancing in the rearview
mirror. The boy's accent was Southern cracker. He would
grow up redneck maybe, he would grow up and drive a
truck and own a gun and maybe have a Labrador retriever
in the back with some beer cans rolling around. He
grinned--God, he was tired. Tired and restless at the same
time.

"Hey," he said. They'd barely said two words to each
other in nine hours. "I'm thinking of pulling off the road
and sleeping. You mind?"

The boy shrugged. "Whatever. Long as I don't have to
keep smellin' your nasty cigarettes."

"Motel 8 or maybe an Econolodge," Stony said, keeping
his eyes on the road and then glancing up at the boy
in the rearview mirror.

For a half second, the boy's face changed, but it
might've been the shadows of early dawn.

Might've been sleep deprivation, too, for all he knew.

Something shifted on the boy's face.

Could he have really smiled like that, that kid? Could
he have smiled so it looked like all his teeth were sharp
like little knives?

"Watch out, mister," the boy said.

He had swerved the car onto the shoulder. It skidded
along the gravel. He took his foot off the accelerator, regaining
control, and pressed down on the brake. "Hang
on," he said. But the car slowed easily, and came to rest
at the roadside.

The boy whispered something, and it sounded to him
like a prayer of some sort.

"What?" he asked.

"The Madonna of the Highways," the boy repeated.

"Out there." The boy tapped on the windowglass.

Stony glanced out in the direction the boy had been
looking. There was a closed-down roadside stand, gas
pumps as ancient as the pyramids, with an enormous sign
that read, see the eighth wonder of the world! the

MADONNA OF THE HIGHWAYS! WHO IS SHE? WHERE DID
SHE COME FROM? WHAT IS HER MYSTERY?

"Can we go in?" the boy asked.

"It's closed," he said. "See? Sign says closed at five."

"Later on I mean," the boy said.

Stony said nothing. He glanced at the small shack,
painted a brilliant sky blue with its tar paper roof coming
off. The gas pumps, sad as they were, seemed more artistic
than anything near diem. Out in front, several statues
of Greek youths, all cheesy imitations, flamingos, and
plastic geese. On a wide, flat plywood board, a painting
of the Virgin Mary holding the Baby Jesus. She wore a
blue robe, and a diadem of stars across her forehead. The
Baby Jesus held a red jewel in his tiny hand. The morning
sunlight, coming up in the East, flashed across the chrome
of old hubcaps that surrounded this painted plank, like
round mirrors of distortion. Flashes of sunlight burned like
fire on the round shiny metal.

A sign by the highway, food-lodging, 3 mi.

"You ever gonna tell me who you are?" me boy said,
sounding only mildly interested.

He glanced at the boy in the rearview mirror. He was
already bundling under the thin blanket, getting ready to
fall asleep.

"Sure," he said. "Sure I will. Later on."

He wasn't sure if he would tell the boy anything.

He wasn't sure if he himself knew why he was doing
this.

Why he was going home again with a boy he had taken
from a shack in Texas.

The motel was a mom-and-pop outfit, twenty rooms. The
middle-aged woman at the front desk glanced at the car
parked in the shade off to the side of the parking lot.

"How many are there?"

"Just one," he said. "I'm exhausted."

"Traveling all night?" she asked, slowly reaching for
the key.

He nodded. "Going to Baltimore to see my sister."

"I've never been there, but I heard it's some place. I
heard that the traffic's terrible," the woman said. She held
the key up, its huge orange tag hanging down, jingling in
her hand. ' 'Room fifteen. First floor. If you open it without
pushing, you won't get in. You have to push and turn
the key. If you don't, you'll end up jamming the lock.

Then I have to call a locksmith and it'll cost me twenty
dollars for a room that only goes for twenty-two dollars."

"Yes," he nodded, holding his hand out. Thanks for
the Southern hospitality.

"Fifteen," she repeated, "to the left and down. Put out
your do not disturb sign for the maid."

Feeling slightly punchy, he said, "Couldn't you just tell
the maid not to go there?"

"I'm the maid," she said. "But I'll forget, Mr ..."

she glanced at the card he'd just filled out, "Rogers. I
have a thousand and one things to keep track of this mom
ing and I have yet to drink my coffee. You just put out
the do not disturb sign."

"Sure," he said. Mr. Rogers. It's a wonderful day in
the neighborhood, he thought. That's me.

"Fifteen," she repeated, as he took the key from her.



He kept the blanket wrapped around the boy, carrying him
into Room 15. Once inside, with the boy snoring lightly,
Stony locked the handcuffs around one of the table legs
near the television set. Some inner compulsion led him to
do this. He didn't think the boy would run, and the boy
had acted so far as if they were old friends or family. But
something within him told him that he needed to tie the
boy down. It's not that he was afraid of the kid running
away; it was what the kid might do to him, or at least
attempt The kid knew about the gun. He didn't know
about the other things, like what was in the glove compartment.

He set up a series of pillows around the boy's head.

Then he sat on the double bed. In seconds, he lay back,
staring at the ceiling. He would have to fall asleep, but
something within him didn't want to.

He watched three or four houseflies gather in the air
just above him. He smelled the musty yet clean smell of
the motel, hearing the buzzing of the large black flies.

Somewhere nearby, he heard car doors slam open, the
click of high heels out on the sidewalk as guests left their
rooms. His eyes fluttered closed, but behind their darkness,
he was still staring at the flies gathering in the still
air above his head.

When he awoke, he was in a sweat

The boy sat at the edge of the bed watching him. He
held the handcuffs in his hands, free. "It's an old trick I
learned from this book on magic tricks," the boy said.

"You just raise your hands so the blood drains out of
them. If you got small wrists and hands like I do, after
about an hour, you get loose."

He felt the old fear, as if it had always been caged up
inside him.

The boy reached into his lap, bringing up a wallet. ' 'I

went through your things, too," he said matter-of factly.

"You're a cop."

"Yeah," he said. "Sort of. I've been a cop, among
other things."

"Your name is Stony Crawford. You're twenty-eight,
almost. You live in some town in Arizona."

"Outside Winslow, yeah." A slight nervousness crept
into his voice.

"Don't worry," the boy said, looking slightly beat, as
if what he'd learned from the contents of the wallet was
not what he wanted to find out. "If I'd wanted to do
anything I already woulda done it. I held your gun. I don't
like guns all that much. So, am I under arrest or something?"

"No," he said.

"I don't get it. You bring me here, you're actually
kinda nice and okay if a little squirrelly."

"It's a long story," he said.

"You killed the old woman who took care of me,
Stony?"

Stony Crawford shook his head. "No. But I know who
did."

The boy glared at him. He started making goofy faces.

Then he glanced at the clock on the bedside table. The
boy shook his head. "I guess we got time, you and me.

You one of those men who does nasty things to kids?"

He shook his head. "Jesus, no."

"Then why? Why me?" The boy, who must've been
nearly twelve, looked wholly innocent for the moment.

Stony wondered, How could he not know?

It seemed so obvious, from the moment he'd heard the
stories in the mountains, the miracles, the boy wonder, the
little boy they called Prophet. Then, at a fair in the valley,
nearly nine months before, they'd taken him down there
to show him off, to show off that power that they knew
radiated from him. He recognized the boy without ever
having seen him before. Others would recognize him,
too. The wrong kind of others, like the family who lived
among the rocky crags at the Mentirosa Pass. The way
the boy walked, the smile, the hair, the eyes. Almost
everything about the kid. And then, those people who he
was with, the wild people who had somehow kept him to
themselves, like a totem, like a fetish. They knew too,
which was why they kept themselves secret.

They even kept the boy's own identity secret from him.

"If I told you, it might frighten you," he said finally,
sitting up. "Mind if I smoke?"

The boy shrugged. "Like I could stop you. That's a
nasty habit. Mind if I take a leak?" Then he got off the
bed and went into the bathroom. When the bathroom door
was shut, Stony heard the tap turn on. He lit up his Camel,
and breathed in the smoke. He was not a habitual smoker,
but took it up in times of stress. Then he went and opened
one of the small suitcases. Underwear, some colored T
shirts, and a newspaper. The newspaper was folded over
on itself, a string tied around it. He pulled it loose, opening
the paper.

The New London Day.

On the front page, a photograph of three men examining
what looked like the foundation of a burnt-down
house. A cloudy day. They wore rain slickers. Behind the
men, a lighthouse. Nothing remarkable in that photograph.

Beneath the picture, an article.

THE VANISHING ON HIGH STREET

by George Crandall, Special to The Day

In the aftermath of Hurricane Matilda, the mysteries at
Stonehaven are still unraveling. This is not an ordinary
hit from a hurricane, and the fires along Land's End were
not set by lightning. What remains the biggest mystery is
the disappearance of an entire town, not unlike the disappearance
of the Roanoke Colony in Virginia in the

1600s. Could everyone in this place actually have been
swept out to sea?

10

He turned the newspaper over. An ad for men's shirts
adorned the back page. He didn't want to read the articles
after all.

The hunting knife.

Souvenir from a memorable night.

A way to never forget what had happened. Or what he
had done.

Slipped it back in the newspaper, which he wrapped
over it. Tied the string around it. Dropped the newspaper
back in the suitcase, shutting it.

"Some world," he said, as he squatted beside the suitcase.

When he stood up, he heard the water in the bathroom.

After two cigarettes, he called to the boy, but there was
no answer. This worried him. He went to the bathroom
door, turning it, but it was locked.

"Open up," he said. He felt sweat break out on his
neck, but he told himself to stay calm.

Was there a window in the bathroom? He couldn't remember
seeing one, but maybe there was one behind the
shower curtain. Shit, he hadn't counted on this. In the
fourteen hours they'd been on the road, the kid hadn't
seemed interested in running.

He took a paper clip off his wallet, twisted it, and thrust
it into the lock. Turning it slightly, the door popped open.

The bathroom was empty, and as he pulled the shower
curtain back, the boy huddled, weeping, in a corner of the
tub, in his underwear, his jeans and T-shirt wadded up
behind him like a pillow.

"What is it?" he asked.

The boy wouldn't open his eyes. "They used to do
some bad things to me, those people down there."

"Like what?"

The boy lifted his arm up, showing him the scarred
flesh.

"Is that a tattoo?" he asked.

The boy shook his head, working to keep his teeth from
chattering. "It's them. What they do. If I touch it sometimes,
they move. They know where we are. They're
gonna find us."

"No," he said. "They can't."

"They can," the boy said. "They have the power."

The man shook his head, crouching down beside the
tub. "No," he said, flinching slightly as he looked at the
way they'd cut a design down the boy's side. "It's you.

You have the power." He didn't want to explain this. Or
dwell on it. Not till they reached their destination. "Let's
get out of here and get something to eat. Okay?"

The boy's vestigial eyelids, like a gossamer skin,
flicked down over his eyes for just a second.

The man blinked, too. Had he imagined it?

Or was it there?

He watched the boy's face, but the boy seemed to betray
no knowledge of what the man had just witnessed.

Chapter Two

The Madonna of the
Highways


"You get hungry," Stony said, watching the boy as he
seemingly swallowed the sandwich whole. Stony stubbed
the last of his cigarette out in his coffee cup. A thin ribbon
of smoke curled up from it. The tar caught in his throat.

His tongue tasted of ashes.

"And you get smoky." The boy tapped his fingers next
to the ashtray. "That's three in a row in the last ten
minutes. Maybe it's time to kick the habit, huh?"

"Just finish your sandwich, kid."

"I'm Steve. Them people, the Rapturists, they call me
Prophet, sometimes they call me Shilo, but they ain't my
real names." The boy chomped another bite of bread and
turkey.

His name is Steve. Can't even call him that. Can't think
of him as a little Stevie. Not with what I have to do.

' 'I know," the man said. ' 'I'm Stony. But my real name
is Stephen, too."

"Yeah, funny, huh? They wanted to call me something
else. But I knew my name. I wouldn't let them.

They had all these weirdo names and stuff. Hey, I got a
good joke. You know 'Confucious say' jokes? I love
'em. The old lady's brother used to tell me them. Here's
one: 'Confucious say, he who fart in church must sit in
own pew.' " He grinned. "Don'tcha think it's funny?

You never been in church and wondered why they call
'em pews?"

Stony dropped a dollar bill on the tabletop, and slid out
of the booth. The boy followed him. As he opened the
door to leave the Biscuit Heaven coffee shop, he asked
the kid, "Why'd you stay with them if you didn't like
it?"

The air outside was fresh and cool, with a slight nip in
the air. The parkway beyond was still green, with full
trees thick with leaves. October hadn't hit the South yet.

That's what Stony had always liked about the desert. On
the desert, there was no October, there was only summer
and hell.

"Where the hell else was I gonna go?" the boy asked.

"You tell me. They took care of me, it was the place the
Great Father told me to go to, and they treated me better
than you do."

They got in the car, the boy sliding across the pillows
and blankets in the backseat. The car stank of cigarettes
and old junk food, and maybe a little bit of body odor as
well. It had come with the requisite stink of old men and
whiskey when he'd bought it. The layers of its interior
smell were like excavations in an ancient cave. Stony
rolled down all the windows. "Comfortable back there?"

Stony asked.

"Mmm-hmm," came the reply. In the rearview mirror,
all Stony saw were the kid's eyes shining like red marbles,
reflecting the late-afternoon sun.

Stony scratched the back of his neck. "You're pretty

agreeable. I don't know who kidnapped who."

"You ever hear that song, 'You Can Steal Me When
You Wanna'?"

"Nope, can't say that I have." Stony had to keep telling
himself that this was just a kid. This was a little kid.

This was not some terrible creature. This was not some
monster. This was a kid, and he was a kid-napper. Likelihood
was, he would do something terrible to this boy
before their trip together was over. Likelihood was, he'd
take the hunting knife and plunge it into this kid's heart,
or slice it across his throat. Likelihood was, the kid was
just a kid who happened to be in the wrong place at the
wrong time.

And what if it was all a big damn mistake?

Self-doubt. The destroyer of all men, he chuckled to
himself.

"It's an old country song," the boy continued. "It goes
like--You can steal me when ya wanna, but'cha cain't
take me where I ain't already gonna." The kid's voice
was a pretty good alto, and he even managed to put in
the country twang and break his voice mournfully at the
high note. " 'Cuz I been down this highway many times.

And if runnin' off's a crime, then I better serve my time,
cuz yoo-hoo can steal me when ya wanna."

Stony clapped his hands twice. "You're the next Garth
Brooks. So, you trying to tell me you wanted me to take
you from that place?"

Then the boy glanced at the dashboard clock. "It's almost
four. That roadside place closes at five. Can we go? I want to see the Madonna of the Highways."

"Okay. Maybe for ten minutes. If it's cheap."

"Sure," the boy said, grinning for once like a kid his
age without malice or darkness or enigma.

The grin didn't fade until they'd paid the eighty-cent admission,
and gone through the turnstile. "You believe in
the Madonna?"

Stony laughed. "Well, I like some of her songs. 'Like
a Virgin'?"

"Ha, before my time, old man, before my time," the
kid said, moving ahead. For just a moment, Stony figured
the kid might escape through this maze of darkly lit
rooms. He had to walk fast to keep up with the kid. The
hallway was strung with the story of how the gas station
curio shop had gotten hold of the Madonna, where she
had been

"Ven-er-ate-ed by man-y" the boy read aloud
as he went. "Venerated sounds like venereal disease,
which I only know about on accounta I heard that VD'll
kill ya from the Great Father, who had it from time to
time." They passed through several small rooms, each
with various religious paraphernalia. "Lookit," the boy
said, pointing to a glass-encased rusty nail. Then he read
the placard below it. "This is from the Holy Land, Jerusalem.

From the Place of the Skull, this is one of the nails
from the kind of cross that Jesus was crucified on. Wow."

"No way," Stony said. "It's just a nail. Trust me, this
place wouldn't have the real thing."

The boy shrugged. "I guess you ain't a believer," he
said, and went off to the next room.

Stony glanced at the iconography along the walls, of
saints and virgins and martyrs. In the next room, a poor
imitation of a Bosch painting of hell, complete with little
devils poking red forks at a naked Adam and Eve.

"Eve has a rack," the boy said. He pointed to something
mounted on the wall. "What's that?"

A shamble of white feathers, a beak, all crusted over
and dried up.

Stony walked over to stand behind him. "Looks like a
dead dove."

"Gruesome," the boy said, a thrill in his voice.

A brass plate sat beneath the stuffed dove, its eyes perfect
small marbles, its wings spread outward.

"The Holy Spirit came to them as a dove from
heaven," Stony read aloud. He scratched the back of his
head. "What kind of sick person put this display together?"

Then he noticed the bottle of water set on a high table.

The water looked as if someone had put yellow and red
dye in it. It was almost like a lava lamp. A banner beneath
it read: "From the Miracle Waters of Lourdes, France,
where the Sick crawl on their Knees for Miles to be
Healed. One drink of this Water will Heal the Sinner."

Stony looked at the bottle for a moment, the red and
yellow swirling mixture.

The miracle of Lourdes.

The miraculous water of France, right up there with
Perrier and Vichy.

Then it struck him hard, like a punch in his gut.

The miracle of Lourdes. The mother of God. The miracle
...
"Dead doves and holy water, weird, huh? I want to see
the Madonna." The boy ran to the dark room at the end
of the corridor.

Stony followed. He stepped into a room lit entirely in
deep purple. The boy stood before a glass case.

No, Stony thought, it's a coffin.

A small shriveled mummy lay beneath the thick glass.

THE MADONNA OF THE HIGHWAYS--TOUCH HER FOR

good luck! read the placard set atop the coffin display.

Her skin had tightened like papier-mache around the
small skull. The only modesty allowed her was a long
blue cloth that was loosely draped across her bones, and
then rested like a pillow behind her head.

In her arms, what might have been a mummified baby.

"This is ghoulish," Stony said. Then he laughed, clapping
his hands together. "I can't believe how sick this is.

This is some little old lady and some little old monkey
they're trying to make look like the baby Jesus." He
shook his head. "Some people will do anything for eighty
cents a customer."

The boy tapped on the glass. "How can anybody touch
her for good luck when she's in this glass coffin? Ain't
this against the law?"

"You'd think."

"A dead woman all wrapped up like that," the boy
said. "And a baby. Cool."

Stony Crawford glanced at the Madonna of the Highways,
and tried to shake the image out of his mind--the
image forming from the jigsaw pieces of the past.

Nora's voice in his head whispered, "It's just something
you see. It's not real. They're just pictures like movies
or TV. Don't start fearing the dark, Stony, not now,
now when you got so much light in you."

But behind his eyes, he saw the statue of another Madonna.

He saw the crushed flower in her hand.

THE MADONNA OF THE HIGHWAYS! SEE HER! TOUCH HER!

FEEL THE MIRACLE OF HER EXISTENCE! WHO IS SHE?

WHERE DID SHE COME FROM? HOW CAN SHE CURE THE
SICK? HOW CAN SHE MAKE THE BLIND SEE? HOW CAN SHE
MAKE LEPERS CLEAN? YOU MISSED THE TURNOFF--TAKE
THE AMHERST EXIT AND GO BACK ON THE SERVICE ROAD
9 MILES. FREE LITER OF COKE WITH EVERY FILL-UP.

Stony glanced away from the last sign advertising the
Madonna of the Highways. The road ahead was all that
mattered. The road and the descending gloom.

"What's in the glove compartment?" the boy asked.

"Nothing."

"Why do you lock it then?"

"You try to get into it?" Stony asked.

The boy was silent for a moment.

The boy looked at Stony's reflection in the glass. "Who
are you anyway? Besides your name and stuff."

It was time. The boy was not going to fight him. The
boy was not going to try to run back to the others.

He told the boy, "Look at my face."

"Seen it," the boy said, but he turned around anyway.

A slight recognition seemed to come across the boy's
eyes, like the light of a distant fire. The boy walked over
to him and touched his chin. The boy's fingers were cool.

"Are you my father?" the boy asked.

Stony Crawford's eyes were dry, and his throat seemed
to go parched at that moment.

"Where are you taking me?" the boy asked.

"North," Stony Crawford said.

"What's there?"

Stony said nothing. He felt better for having let the boy
find out these things for himself, he felt that somehow all
this was a sign--as if the universe were not the malevolent
force he'd believed it to be.

Stony finally told him when they got onto the New
Jersey turnpike, and it was nearly dawn again.

"A town called Stonehaven, up on the coast almost to
Rhode Island."

The boy cried out, briefly, as if something had shocked
him.

"You okay?"

"It's the pictures on me. They're moving. It means
something bad is gonna happen." But the boy said it as
if this were nothing out of the ordinary.

' 'Why did they torture you?" Stony asked, keeping his
eyes on the road.

"They said it was for my own good. That I needed to
let something out. It itches when the pictures wriggle.

Like snakes or something."

"It hurt bad?"

"No."

"You hate me?"

"No."

"I hate me," Stony said. "For what I did. For what I
had to do."

"Whatever," the boy said. "Tell me about this place
we're going to."

"Not yet," Stony said. "We'll be there soon enough."

"Tell me," the boy in the backseat said, and again
Stony felt that something was changing--the boy's voice
was deepening, and the turnpike ahead seemed less a road
than a river full of trawlers where there should've been
trucks.

"It's almost dawn," Stony said. "I'll tell you at
dawn."

"Now," the boy said.

"All right, all right," Stony said. "I wasn't much older
than you, back then, maybe sixteen--no, almost sixteen,
but just fifteen. It was probably the happiest time of my
life."

"Yes," the boy said from the backseat, his voice so
startlingly adult that Stony felt a slight shiver as if someone
had traced ice down his back. "I'll tell you about
what you saw back then, Stony, I'll tell you everything
that happened in that place. Because I know the secret,
Stony, I know that secret. Sometimes it's good to take off
the mask, Stony. Sometimes telling all is the right thing.

Want me to whisper it to you?"

Stony kept his eyes front--an eighteen-wheeler was
trying to cut him off from the fast lane, and the bright
headlights in the rearview mirror were blinding in the dark purple predawn dusk. He felt the boy's breath on his neck.

"Here's the secret of your past, Stony," the boy said,
only it was not the boy, not his voice, not the Southern
cracker accent, not the uncertain pitch of a twelve-year
old, but the voice was much older, the voice of an October
day, sweet with late sap, the yellow jackets buzzing

around it, the smell of burning leaves in the air, of time itself, turned back years to that moment when he went
from child to man. The voice seemed to be of a woman's
timbre, and he remembered, with a shock, as if he'd forgotten
the old woman, working at her loom, or sitting by
the potbelly stove, sewing up trousers--it was her voice.

It was Nora. Only her voice was no longer in his
head--

At least I don't think it's in my head. I think I'm not
going mad. I think I'm still sane, hanging on to that last
shred of clarity before the wrecking ball inside me
smashes it all to hell. Watching the kid form the words
with his lips but with her voice--

Nora, is that really you? Inside him? Coming up from
his throat like a bird escaping its cage?

Then the boy whispered the secret of all that had ever
happened to Stony Crawford.

And you want to know what he whispered?

He whispered^
Once upon a time, long ago,
there was a village by the

sea

"The mystery of our birth is the mystery of those who

brought us into the world ..."

--Montague Thomas Jr., The Seven Seals of Mankind,
Chapter Three I Am Born


... And in the village, something remarkable happened,
at least once that anyone knows of, but it may have happened
a few times. Maybe never--you can never tell from
legends whether there's much truth to them or whether
they're just lies told by storytellers of a suspicious nature.

There are many tales from the past, and many legends of
Stonehaven. The one that began years ago and ended with the hand of God destroying the town--so say those who
lived at its periphery and saw the squall, heard the wind,
felt the power--began even before the beginning of Stony
Crawford.

The village of Stonehaven was founded in 1649. Imagine
the coastline then, with its ragged uninterrupted line
of primeval woods, rocky slopes, the touch of the rich
sea, and the scattering of newly settled villages above and
beneath what was then known by an unpronounceable Pe
quot word which meant, "Walk Alone." This was the

year that Charles I lost his head, and John Haynes was
appointed governor of Connecticut. Silas Crowninshield
was an Indian interpreter and displaced member of the
gentry from Sussex, England, who was originally given
the acreage that is now the village, as ten acres of planting
fields off the bogs in what is now Wequetucket. Then, it
was considered Old Pequot territory, a haven for Indians
and rascals, but Crowninshield carved out a large seaside
plantation by 1650. Others followed, exiles from the
North, up around the bay in Massachusetts, a few families
with gold, servants, and the ambition to create a purer
puritan. There was fishing along the coast of what would
later be called Connecticut, and the peculiarity of Stone
haven's geography--as if it were a thumb thrust slightly
into a sound between a few barrier islands--made it an
ideally inhabited place. The local Pequot Indians were, by
and large, friendly, and in fact, none of the natives quarreled
with the intruders taking the lands from Wequetucket
Woods all the way to the water. The Pequots would
not settle that land, although the new owners of it found
it quite a successful place to live. In those days, the borough
consisted of seven houses surrounding a Common.

The various epidemics that broke out along the coastline
on long hot summers would decimate the small population
of the fledgling village, but children were born every season,
and with them, hope. As the years went on, and revolutions
were fought, the village grew to nearly two
hundred homes.

In the 1800s, Spanish and Portuguese fishermen came
in, and helped establish an even more thriving fishing
trade than had been known before, but most of these families
settled outside the borough in nearby Wequetucket,
for real estate was hard to come by in the borough even
then. An ordinance had been passed in the previous century,
one that was never challenged, which limited the
growth of the borough. Only the summer homes out at
Juniper Point were added, and this because the Point was
not in the borough proper.

The famous writer Arland Bishop, a best-selling novelist
of the early part of the twentieth century, wrote a
short article for Liberty Magazine on Stonehaven's charm.

Bishop owned a house just off the cove, and wanted to
attract his New York friends up to the borough with tales
of its quaint and peaceful existence. But the residents of
the village were none too pleased with his depiction, such
as the line about "the local color here is both of New
England and almost totally without color." Or his damning
praise of the village's lazy approach to house maintenance,
"The rooftops are in disrepair, the porches
crumble, the clapboard warps, yet the houses are like its
people. Sturdy, long-lasting, ill-tempered."

Stony Crawford's great-greatgreatgreat-grandfather
ran the Custom House near the heart of town, and many
is the time his grandfather, when alive, would tell Stony
of the old piggery, or the great fire out at Land's End, or
the blizzard of '32 that just about wiped Stonehaven out,
or the time the cove froze over with swans still stuck in
it, and how his grandfather and four other young men had
to go out with guns and put the birds out of their misery.

"How we wept," his grandfather would tell him, "for
their plumage was beautiful, and we hated destroying any
kind of beauty. But they were suffering and there was
nought else to do."

"Did they have to die?" Stony, age four, had asked,
sitting on his grandfather's lap, looking up at the old man,
hunched over, the twin smells of whiskey and cigars emanating
from his yellowing skin and silver hair. Stony
liked to reach up and touch the silver hair, watching the
laughing eyes.

His grandfather touched the top of his head. "All of us
die, Stony. I'll die someday too."

"I'll never die," Stony said, and was determined to
mean it.

When his grandfather died, Stony Crawford's world
changed, but there were things that had changed the world

of Stonehaven before he had even been a glimmer in his
father's eye.

Years before Stony came to be, in a distant country, a
man of forty-two stood outside what appeared to be a
cave, but on closer inspection was something of a cloister.

Many nuns had lived much of their adult lives within
these dark holes, and their paraphernalia had been abandoned
when they had left nearly a hundred years earlier.

The man stood outside for a moment, before entering
the cavern, with his workers and his feeble light and his
absolute knowledge that a great and forgotten treasure lay
within these rocks.

He had been sent to see what the workmen had found
beneath the rough-hewn chapel at the heart of the cavern.

The bones of some creature embedded in an amber-like
substance, a hardened resin from forgotten millennia. The
superstitious townspeople were calling it "dragon." Archaeologists
from distant places assumed it would be the
bones of some dinosaur. Word had just leaked out, and
the man had arrived from London on the first flight he
could book, and then had rented a car from Paris, driving
all night until he arrived at what seemed to be a lost and
empty village. It had taken him three hours, beginning at
dawn, to assemble a work crew, for he knew that if he
did not get what he had come for, and quickly, then others
would soon descend.

Since he'd heard the reports from one of his search
agencies, he had barely slept or eaten anything. His energy
seemed stronger, even so. It had begun simply as a
report of boys playing inside an old cloister. Finding the
cave paintings. Finding the relics.

Hearing about the light of dawn coming from two hundred
feet beneath the ground.

The Azriel Light, that's what it was called in one of

the old musty tomes he owned. Crowley? Fairclough was
positive that Aleister Crowley had been the one to call it
that, the Azriel Light, and the darkness that spread from
it. Azriel, Angel of Death. Azriel, Servant of God. Azriel,
symbol of the Radiance beyond understanding.

Azriel, demon.

Azriel, Angel of Death and of the Magnificent.

Finding a bit of what lay beneath the flooring that the
French sisters had laid down years earlier, perhaps three
centuries back. Beneath this, die rock wall had caved in
at one time.

He knew he would find something in this dark stone
world. He hoped it would shed light on the studies that
had swept him up since he'd been a young man.

But when this man entered the flare-lit cavern, he did
not expect to find what he had spent his life seeking. Only
its shadow.

His name was Alan Fakclough, and he had once upon
a time been a monk, and men an academic, and finally,
now retired, a man of some wealth, acquired through inheritance,
and much leisure.

He turned to one of the workmen. "I've had so little
to celebrate these past few years," he murmured, half to
himself. "And now this feels so close. So close."

"Oui, monsieur." The workman nodded, only half understanding
the language.

In French, Alan Fairclough asked the worker if there
was anyplace a man could go in one of the local villages
to satisfy certain appetites. He attempted to make it sound
as if he were interested in religious matters.

The workman nodded, giving him an address.

That night, Alan Fairclough tied the woman's wrists as
tight as the torn strips of her blouse would go, and leaned
over her, whispering, "You cannot even guess, ma chere, how long this night will be for you. But do not be afraid. I will not mate with you. I am saving you for something
finer."

The nun, whose mouth had been sealed shut with putty
and tape, closed her eyes and Fairclough was certain she
had begun to pray.

This was in southern France, thousands of miles and
several years from the small town on the Connecticut
coast where a boy would be born one spring morning.

In the village on the Connecticut coast, in a secret place,
there was a room that was always dark, lit sometimes with
candles, but even they did not vanquish the inner night.

Several rows of pews, side by side, an aisle running between
them. Two small steps up to an altar made of primitively
cut stone. The smell was thick, incense and musk.

Some wild animal was caged nearby. Some beast from
the nearby woods, snarling and snapping.

Upon the altar, a slaughtered lamb, its blood draining
into a chalice kept beneath the stone slab.

The little girl, her eyes wide with terror, as her father
guided her hand into the place where the animal's heart
still beat. She brought her hand back swiftly, wiping it
across her mouth, her small face, flickering in the candlelight,
painted dark with blood.

Shadows flickered in the candlelight behind the altar.

The little girl looked above the altar and prayed that it
would be over soon. When she opened her mouth to
speak, her tongue seemed to give off words other than
what she wanted to say, words that no three-year-old
could possibly speak, and the languages she used were
many.

On the altar, the obscenity began.

This was long ago, before there was light, before there
was summer, before the day when Stony Crawford was
born.

When you live in a village with just a few hundred residents,
legends of births and deaths tend to take on mythic
proportions. When Old Man Randall died, he didn't just
fall down the front steps and go, he keeled over and cried
out the name of the Savior three times, and as he lay
bleeding, his nurse from over in Mystic saw a flight of
starlings take off overhead and then vanish into fog.

"Starlings carry the soul to heaven, but if a hawk was to
get even one of 'em, then the soul remains earthbound,"
she'd tell folks outside the Stonehaven Baptist Church
after Sunday service. She fudged on the story, because
she had actually seen a hawk take out one of the starlings,
and she suspected that Old Man Randall still tried to pull
up her skirt when she made the rounds of her patients
down at the nursing home in Ledyard.

When Tamara Curry's widov/ed sister Jerusha gave
birth to twins, they weren't just stillborn, they were exhumed
from Jerusha's forty-six-year-old body and
breathed one gasp of Stonehaven air. Then in their angelic
wisdom, they got the hell out of this awful world as soon
as they could. Jerusha followed several minutes later.

Even at a distance, myth bloomed like an April crocus.

It was said that when Chad

"Mad-Dog" Madigan died
in Vietnam back in the '60s, he raised his hands to heaven
and called out to his girl Martha Wight at the distance of
all those thousands of miles. She sat up in her chair on
the front porch, clutched her heart, and heard his dying
words, which were, "I'm gonna miss those tits of yours,
baby."

Even the Doane sisters' Border collie's death was an
event worth talking about. "He went out to the dock on
the cove lookin' for Alice's old boat, and then he gave
one last ki-yi and dropped down to the wood planks. He
was gone. That fine dog was gone. It is a mystery to us

why he went so soon. But he called to us one last time.

As if to say, 'God take me!' "

Angels visited the dying; Jesus came to those who
wept; even Fiona Mcallister swore up and down on a
stack of Bibles that she'd seen a vision of Mary, the
Mother of God, when she came down with pneumonia
one winter.

Legends and belief intermingled, and from them grew
a small village's identity within itself. The mythology of
Stonehaven was as thick with significance as anything Homer
had ever sung about.

Stony Crawford's birth was no exception.

With all the stories surrounding his birth, you would've
thought Stony Crawford was the Second Coming. That's
what mean old Tamara Curry said, her of the twenty cats
and the prodigious breasts who covered them so well they
looked like great pumpkins beneath her many scarves. She
swatted Stony whenever she saw him, and she'd tell him,
as she wiped down the counter at her ice cream store, that
if he'd been born a second sooner he'd have hit the pavement
and gotten brained and that would've been the end
of his stealing candy from beneath her nose. "I wasn't
there, mind you, but I heard plenty. I heard you were ugly
and looked like a demon out of hell and all hairy. Disgusting
that good women like your mother would want to
bring you into this world, Stony Crawford."

His real name was Stephen, after his maternal grandfather,
but even at birth, they called him Stony because it
was in the borough that he first cried with life, laid out
on the cobblestone walk. Being small-town New Englanders,
and sea folk, and in a borough all but isolated from
the rest of the Connecticut coast, they seldom mentioned
how they felt about anything other than weather, work,
and scandal. They had a history of silence, since 1698,
when the borough was officially founded by a small group
that included the Crowninshields, the Randalls, the Clements,
and the Glastonburys, back when all of Stonehaven

was literally a stone haven, from the rocky point to the
granite of its quarries. The village was born in silence,
and only later would it tell its secrets. As he grew up, no
one ever mentioned that he was born on the same day that
Daniel Madigan threw himself off the top of the Land's
End lighthouse because of his unreturned love for Jenny
Lee Baker, daughter of the owner of Baker's Dozen Bakery.

Or that the Crown family had come early that year
to their palatial summer home out on the Point the night
before, and that their five-year-old daughter had bruises
all over her body that no one thought to question. The
summer people were different than the locals. They had
different ways, different means. A bruised little girl from
the big summer house on the Point was just a phantom
as her family drove through town in the early evening.

No one mentioned that Book Ends Books & Cards would
be set on fire later on in the day, after the rain, when
Alexandra Shoal dropped her cigarette in the wastebasket,
and then her cocker spaniel knocked the basket over.

Some later might've mentioned that this was Alexandra's way of collecting insurance, others might've said that it
was her way of clearing her unsold stock of books in one
fell swoop. And the cries of hundreds of birds, as if all
of the swans on the cove had flown at once up into the
air and had been silenced also at once--like a miraculous
ascension. All was forgotten later. Even his own mother,
Angie Crawford, didn't tell him the other thing that happened
that day.

The only thing his grandfather would tell him about his
birth was, "It was special. I saw a dozen shooting stars
the night before, and I knew you were going to be someone
I'd want to get to know."

They talked about the storm, and Johnny Miracle, and
the beer, and the priest--whenever they talked about the
day he was born.

Angie Crawford was on her way to the Package Store
down on Water Street to get the weekend's beers when

she felt the jolt within her. "I had been watching The
Holy Brigade on Channel 9 just the night before, and
they're all talkin' about how the Antichrist was comin'
and me thinkin', with my big belly, oh Lord why bring
another child into the world if it's going to hell so fast?

And then, not ten hours later, I hear you knockin' to get
out. I was wearing my whites," his mother told him, "because I was still on call even though I was eight months along." She dropped her purse right at the doorstep to the
store, and clutched the edge of the doorframe. She tried
to call out to someone for help, but the pain hit her fast.

Her young son, Van, looked up at her and asked,
"Mommy? What's wrong?" She managed to whack him
on the behind with her free hand and told him to shut up
because his little brother or sister was about to make an
entry into the world. She looked out at the street, and saw
people sitting in the tea shop across the way, all lost in
their conversations. The rain was light even while the sky
darkened with clouds. "I thought maybe there'd be time
if I just held you in," Angie told him more than once,
"because I know you were happy when you were inside
me. You didn't kick the way your brother did. And oh, I
was worried that we'd have those complications like I had
with Van--he was blue when he came out, and all kinds
of things had to be done. So I thought: I'd better get to
the hospital and fast!"

His father was still out on the trawler working the lobster
cages by the Isles of Avalon, and his grandfather
knocked out from the previous night's medication, so his
mother was pretty much on her own. After taking another
sip from a Budweiser can, she left her little one, Van,
with Martha Wight at the Package Store. The only man
available to drive her to the hospital down in New London
was Johnny Miracle. "He had been an idiot in search of
a village, and he found it in Stonehaven, of course," she'd
laughed when she recalled the day. Johnny was less a
half-wit than a three-quarters-wit who could do two things

and two things alone: drive, and quote scripture. He also
had a proclivity for setting trash cans on fire around town,
so he was as much a nuisance as he was a fixture. Since
no one ever trusted him with their car, nobody was really
sure about the first thing, but the scripture rang in their
ears when Johnny went on his shouting sprees. And at
least once in everyone's lives, they'd had to put out one of his little fires. Other than that, he occasionally swept
the streets, but was not much of a sweeper. Johnny Miracle
was not true to his name, either. Usually whenever
he touched things, they had a habit of never working
again. "He is the Antimiracle," Stony's mother would
laugh. Angie Crawford should've known better than to
entrust the birth of her second son to Johnny's aid.

As soon as Johnny got behind the wheel of her station
wagon, the car refused to start. Angie's water broke right
there in the backseat. ' 'It hurt, but I just forced my knees
together. You wanted to come out, and I wanted to keep
you in, at least for another half hour." Between that and
the storm that began, seemingly out of nowhere (at least
that's how his mother always told him the story), raining
down in buckets, Johnny didn't know what to do. So he
got out of the car and began shouting for help. Not a hell
of a lot of help around Stonehaven Borough, midday in
spring when half the shops had not yet opened for the
summer trade, and most folk worked in neighboring
towns. The idle were there, as the idle always are, but
they did what the idle are best at and just watched as the
woman in the backseat of the green station wagon began
screaming.

Still, one person came to help. From across the town
square, Father Jim Laughlin had heard Johnny's bleating
call and Angie Crawford's cries. Some said it was the only
time they'd ever seen a Catholic priest sprint across the
Common with his white collar coming undone and only one shoe on. "He was a handsome figure," Martha Wight
once told Stony, "he was only about twenty-three, a full



body from all that jogging

d to coach basketball at the

the. I once watched him take

md my oh my, Stony, if I
.-he weren't a good Catholic

ave had a notion or two."

„.««» Jim was able to calm Angie Crawford in the last
few moments as her newborn emerged, already bloodied
and somewhat battered from the birth passage. Angie
downed a couple of beers while the pain subsided, and
later told her son that it had been one of the easiest of her
births. "Of course, both you and me was stone drunk by
the time it was over," she laughed. The young priest wept
when he held the baby in his arms. Johnny Miracle, it is
said, looked up to the heavens and the downpour of rain
and cried out, "It's the bloodiest baby I ever saw in my
life! It's the goddamnedest bloodiest baby I ever saw! I
never seen so much goddamn blood!"

As Stony grew up in the village, he was often told
details of this story by various townfolk who claimed to
have been glancing out their windows, or sitting in the
Blue Dog Tea Shop across the way. "Johnny Miracle is
good luck 'cause God watches over drunks, babies, and
idiots--and all three of them were there." Stony also
grew up knowing that his mother was the one known as the drunk. He found out much later what no one, including
his mother, would tell him--that the nurse's uniform his
mother wore was soaked red before the morning was over.

That she stayed in the hospital for four months after his
birth.

That when he was just beginning to breathe the air of
the brave new world he had entered, his mother's body
was ragged and torn and his own father would not touch
him for the first year of his life from blaming him for it.

His father would never touch his mother again, either.

But the crying newborn could not know this, nor would
anyone tell him.

Someone else was there, too, that day, at his birth.

A woman, who was not watching him, at least not
watching him in the traditional sense. She sensed his birth
more than anything. She sensed something about the baby
that had just come into the world as she sat on the little
bench under the granite eaves of the Stonehaven Free Library,
the rain pouring hard. But her senses were sharp,
and above the storm, she heard the baby's first cries as it
entered the world. She turned to her older sister, and whispered,
"It hurts to hear the way that baby cries, doesn't
it? It just brings out the pain of living to hear it go on.

It's like he knows he's come from a better place and now
he's stuck here for the time being and can't do a damn
thing about it."

Her sister, sitting next to her, took her hand. "Nora,"
her sister said. "Let's go on home now."

"No," the other woman said, reaching up to her face
to pull the dark glasses from her eyes. "I want to hear
him. I like the way he's crying. It's like a song, isn't it?

He's telling us about the journey he's been on. He's saying
that he knows where he's been and now he's moved
on to us with the news."

Later, when they met, she would tell Stony about hearing
him cry at his birth.

Later, she would make him feel as if just by being born
he had done something remarkable for the world.

Only when he was fifteen, and fell in love for the first
time, did he feel that the world had done something remarkable
for him.

But until fifteen, Stony's life was like a shadow room. His
first actual memory at home was when he was three. His
brother Van grabbed his hand in the hall and drew him
into the bathroom. "Shh." Van put his hand over Stony's
mouth.

Then Stony felt the vibration in the door, as if some
great force were shaking the house.

The stomp of a giant's footsteps.

Then, the shouting, his father's voice, in the hall. "Damn it, Angie! I'm sick of all this, I'm sick of all this. I know the bastard's not mine!"

"Stop that, he's here." His mother's voice was
smoother. "Just stop it!"

"/ am so sick of working damn hard all the time and
coming home to this mess and Van with his bike in the
driveway and you getting' fat and sloppy and that bastard
eating the food I work hard for, wearing clothes I pay
for, it ain't what I dreamed of for us, Angie, it ain't what I dreamed when we met and started out, you damn--"

Then his mother's voice raised to a pitch. "Walter
Crawford, you just shut your yap, you drunk old fool! I
work hard too, and he is your son as much as he's mine,
and just because he doesn't look like your trash family
doesn't mean he isn't from you, you ignorant son of a
bitch!"

Stony, at three, could not possibly know these words,
but he knew that his parents were angry, and he knew that
the bathroom door vibrated whenever his father shouted.

He looked up at Van.

Van whispered, "I wish you'd never been born."

His next earliest memory was crawling under his parents'
bed during yet another fight of theirs, this time over paying
the mortgage. As he shivered, trying to crawl as far
under the bed as he could, listening to their screams--

He came across a small metal box. It opened easily,
and in it he saw all kinds of money. He was nearly four,
and knew well what money could buy (candy and toys).

As he sat there looking at paper money, piles of it, rubber
bands wrapped around it, he wondered why his parents

were fighting about paying for the house when it looked
like a lot of money was right there in the room.

He was thinking of bringing it out from under the bed.

The box was his mother's--it had her name scrawled on
the top. She had probably forgotten where she'd put it.

He could stop their fighting right there.

But his father's voice, booming across the room, and
then the sound of the slaps, and then his mother got so
quiet it scared Stony.

He stayed beneath the bed until long after his father
had stormed out of the house.

This was not all of his life. There were happy times,
and times when his father was wonderful to all of them.

His grandfather, on his good days, would walk with Stony
out to the lighthouse and tell him old stories of the sea
and of the village. All the stories were sweet, and tinged
with a sadness that the world changed with time. "It's
not the same place I grew up in," his grandfather would
say. "It was once--not innocent, Stony, not that--but it
was once undisturbed." Then he'd raise his fist at the
summer homes. "Those summer people coming down
here with their money and city ways. I don't care who
owns this village. I don't care. It's ruining itself. But
you--you, my boy--you will get out of here someday.

Do the one thing that my daughter--your mother--was
never smart enough to do. When you get older, get out,
go see the world, don't let this village stunt your growth."

"Daddy says--" Stony began.

"Don't ever listen to him," his grandfather interrupted
him. "Don't even pay attention. He's a bitter, unhappy
man, and he loves you, but he is not capable of showing
it. He and your mother crawled into a bottle a long time
ago, and they don't seem to want to get eut. Just let them
be. You keep your joy within you, Stony, keep your candle
burning even while, all around you, they snuff theirs
out."

Then his grandfather's tone turned grave. "You're too

young to know about a lot of things, Stony. But when you
get a little older, when you become a man, you'll find out
things about your mother and father, and you won't like
those things. You'll find out about what this village is all
about. If I was in better health, I'd get out of here, and
take you with me, something I should've done long ago
before your mother got rooted here. We tie ourselves
down, Stony, but we don't have to. Someday, you'll know
why your father is so awful and why your mother is the
way she is. But for now, trust that it will all come out all
right, will you do that?"

Stony nodded, never understanding him. The old man's
mind seemed to be erasing itself, and within months his
grandfather didn't even recognize him anymore.

After his grandfather died, there were still good things.

Christmas was always beautiful and magical. Summer was
usually peaceful. Sometimes he thought it was perfectly
normal that his dad sometimes hit his mother. Only sometimes;
other times he thought he lived in a crazy house.

But his mother didn't seem to mind all that much. Usually
he didn't like it, but did nothing about it. He knew his
parents loved each other, though, because of the way they
looked at each other over the dinner table, or because of
the flowers his father would bring home after a night of
shouting. Once, he'd come home early from school in
third grade, and his father was just getting hi from the
trawlers. Dressed in the heavy fisherman's mackintosh
coat, his rusty beard spattered with bits of his lunch, his
father gestured for Stony to come over to him. His father
placed his arm over his son's shoulder, his breath thick
with beer, and said, "You're a good kid, you know that,
Stony? You're a damned sight better'n I was at your age."

These were the only kind words his father had ever said
to him, but they were enough to keep him warm during
the more difficult times in the Crawford household. Other
times, he'd sit up with his mother to watch her favorite
TV show, The Holy Brigade. The man with the glasses

reminded him of his grandfather, and he'd shout out about
scripture and gospel and raise his hand up and call to
Stony and his mother--it seemed like he reached right
out of the television--to make them send in a donation.

When the man on The Holy Brigade looked right at Stony
and said, "We are raising a generation of vipers! It's true!

Look all around! We have false messiahs, and you! What
will you do about it?"--Stony was sure the man could
see him as he picked his nose.

Once, when Stony was walking down High Street, near
the bank, Johnny Miracle was sitting there on the revolutionary
war cannons that had been rolled out on the
cobblestones as a relic of old Stonehaven. He shouted the
very same scripture at Stony, and it gave him the creeps.

"No!" Johnny had shouted, "Don't run, boy! I wanna
talk with you! God wants to talk with you too!"

Such incidents made up his childhood memories.

And there was his favorite comic book, called The
Storm King. The Storm King had once been an ordinary
farm boy in Kansas, but by accident had discovered his
true abilities. He was a Rainmaker sent down by the inhabitants
who lived beneath the frozen seas of Yog Arren,
a moon of a distant planet. They were water element people,
and the boy had been sent to earth since he was the
last living son of the greatest of the Aquamers. All of his
other sons had been slaughtered in the wars with the people
of the Quillian Desert. But the boy who became Storm
King found his powers, and took storms and Lightning
with him wherever there was injustice, wherever a wrong
had been committed, "Wherever Evil Takes a Foothold,
the Storm King and His Powers of the Cosmos Shall Find
and Destroy It!" So said the advertisement at the back of
each magazine. The Storm King had even gone to Hell
and made the Devil beg for mercy as the rain came down
and put out Hellfire ... the Storm King had gone to the
ancient garden of Eden, which was now a desert, and he'd
brought rain to make it grow ... the Storm King had gone

to Mississippi and had called the great flooding river up,
up, up into the sky so that it would cause no more damage
... the Storm King had taken the tail of a cyclone and
wrapped the water up into it like it was a handkerchief,
No one on earth was more powerful than the Storm King,
but he had one weakness, what he called his Achilles'
heel.

He was alien, and a loner. There was no place in the
world upon which he'd been set which would accept him,
for although he was a savior, he also brought fear, and
his very touch might mean death ...
And one thing alone could destroy him:

Moonfire, the Fire That Burns in Water, in Air, in
Earth.

It is an elemental fire, neither spirit nor flame, it sears
and transforms those it touches.

Once the Storm King is touched with it, his powers
lessen, and he becomes like all mortal men.

He was an outcast from his own kind, and a creature
who had to disguise his inner alien nature with a hooded
cloak. The Evil Men and Women of Earth, when they
discovered his Achilles' heel, would steal Moonfire from
a Sacred Vault and use it against him. He would weaken,
and they would then capture him. But he usually got away
eventually and righted more wrongs. The Moonfire Effect,
as it was called, was only temporary.

Someday, the little boy knew, the Storm King would
come to Stonehaven, too, and right all the wrongs and
vanquish those who caused Evil to exist. The Storm King
could use the winds to suck out evil like bad blood from
someone, or he could bring rain on a dying land, or he
could chase evildoers with lightning bolts.

Stony Crawford had all twelve of the Storm King comic
books, and knew each practically by heart. He took comfort
in all this whenever the bad seasons came on and his
father began drinking. Stony had favorite TV shows, and
movies that made him roll in the aisles of the theater in

Mystic, laughing his head off. He had the world of his
books, which he read over an dover again, especially The
Count of Monte Cristo, his favorite. He had his childhood
friends, all of whom lived in other parts of the county but
who attended the Copper Ferry school on the other side
of Wequetucket. He had his Special Places, like the rotted
out old tree in the woods that doubled as a fortress, and
the dock down by the Cove where he could sit back and
watch the swans while he plotted his future escape from
Stonehaven. He had his dreams of the future, and of rockets
and jet-packs and intergalactic missions--all the
things that boys growing up in the last gasp of the twentieth
century cherished.

So even in the worst of his young life, there were both
hope and comic books.

The boy grew, and when he fell in love, his life seemed
to open up with a radiance he had never before known.

Chapter Four
Love Hurts


Remember how it tastes? The first time you really fall in
love, and you don't know then, no matter what happens,
that it's that first taste of love that is always best? You
don't know that truth until you're older and you accept
what life offers, then you forget. You forget that once,
when you were young, you burned with love.

Burned.

It's almost like that first cigarette you tried, a Camel
unfiltered, and it burned inside your throat just like love
burned inside your heart.

"You know what's cool about being fifteen?" his buddy
Jack Ridley from Copper Ferry High said, Jack's breath
an eternal cheeseburger-with-onions, his face peppered
with zits, his good looks still shining through undefeated

by adolescent ravages. Jack had grown up down the block
from Stony, and only recently, when his folks divorced,
had he moved out of the village halfway down the road
to Mystic. Still, Jack was a villager, and sometimes Stony
felt as if they were more brothers than Stony's brother
Van would ever be to him. But they were hardly alike.

Jack was cool, unlike Stony. Jack had always been cool,
it was a halo around him, ever since third grade. He even
smoked Kool cigarettes, and flashed the pack at Stony.

"What?" Stony said, but didn't give a damn because
he was wondering when he was going to see that pretty
girl again, the one who passed him the note in third period
that read, You're cute. You want to call me? That pretty
girl who just a few years ago had braces and no makeup
and hair pulled back and worn in a braid so she looked
dorky, only now she looked like the Babe of the Universe
as far as he was concerned with her slightly crooked
smile, those red lips, the Spanish eyes. How could a guy
resist?

"Here's what's so great about being fifteen: Absofuckin'lutely
nothin'," Jack said, laughing. "Jesus, I just
want to be away from all this ... this bullshit!" He withdrew
a cigarette from the pack, as if he didn't care if any
of the teachers caught him on the last day of classes. He
offered one to Stony, but Stony patted the pack of Camels
in his breast pocket. They'd both begun smoking just because
it was something they knew they weren't supposed
to be doing. "Hey, what you doin' this summer? I have
to go work for my mom in her office. New London, here I come. Pisses me off."

"Just gonna do the boring stuff."

"You gonna get some?"

"Please," Stony laughed, punching him in the shoulder.

"I will die a virgin. My dick's gonna fall off before
I'm sixteen from lack of use."

"Sure it will, the way you beat it five times a day, ya
wanker." Jack grabbed the last of his books from his

locker. He held each one up as if weighing their sins.

Biology was the heaviest. Jack had drawn a picture of
Mickey Mouse on the back of it. "Man, I just want to
burn these. Burn fuckin' bio, fuckin' geometry, fuckin'
Spanish. Wanna do a bonfire in my backyard? BYOLF.

Bring your own lighter fluid."

"Look at her," Stony said, nodding as the Girl of His
Every Thought passed by. "Huh?" he added, as if waking
from a dream.

Jack nudged him. "I saw the way that Spanish babe
winked at you. Lourdes Maria. She's sweet. Puerto Rican,
Mexican, Portuguese, or Cuban, I don't care. She is the
Latina goddess. She's fine. Fine as fine can be. But watch
out--I hear she's got a ton of brothers all of whom want
to make sure she doesn't date till she's forty. And you
know those Catholic girls, it's the wedding ring or
it's ..." Jack kept talking but his voice became indistinct,
and then Jack stepped off the edge of the world--at least
as far as Stony was concerned, because there she was
again. Looking at him. Moving in front of him so he could
get another glimpse. As if from some great distance, he
heard Jack's words, "She looks mighty fertile, Stony, she
looks like she wants you too, kiddo, those breasts, those
hips, those beautiful lips, her eyes--"

She was a goddess--

Like a dream passing by.

Lourdes. La chica mas bonita en todo del mundo.

Her soul was in her eyes, her depths were there, her
mystery. Her body was small and perfect, her breasts
cupped gently within her thin sweater, her hair sparkling
with black diamonds, her grin infectious, her warmth like
the sun.

She glanced back at him for a second, her dark hair
falling across half her face. He just wanted to touch her
hair and maybe talk to her. He wanted to be near her so
badly he could taste his own frustration.

Time stopped. He felt it. His heartbeat was the only

sound, and all the other kids, they froze, even the air froze
with motes of dust hanging ...
All that moved were her eyes, looking into him, opening
him up, freeing him.

Then, time returned, noise returned, all the students
scrambled to clear out their lockers, and Lourdes was halfway
down the corridor.

Stony raced after her, practically knocking down Ariel
Seidman and Ellen Tripp ("Sorry, Ariel, sorry, Ellen, I
didn't--"), then he tripped over his Nikes and his big
floppy blue shirt came half untucked as he caught up to
Lourdes and asked her out, and then summer began, summer
and the end of all things of childhood for him.

The beginning of manhood.

When love hits a guy whose hormones are already haywire,
it hits hard and fast, and love can be the most enthralling
of demons.

A flash from early June--

Sitting on the big rock by the pond in the woods, his
hand up her blouse, his lips on hers, the pounding of sweet
love in his head as he whispers too soon, "God, I love you, baby, I love you more than--"

"Hush." She stops up his mouth with her kisses. Then,
laughing, she pulls away. Buttoning up her blouse, shrugging
his hands away. "Give up those damn cigarettes,
Stony, it's like licking an ashtray!"

He nods, and picks up the rest of the pack and its cellophane
wrapper and flings them out across the pond.

"That's littering," she says sternly.

"I can't win," he grins, and for her (anything for her!)
he jogs along the narrow path to the far side of the pond
to pick up his trash. When he turns to look at her again
she shouts, "You are nuts!"

A flash from late June--

Laughing, both of them, him wearing his big goofy
swimming trunks, and her in her bikini that shows too
much and all the other guys on the slim strip of beach out
at Land's End are staring at her. Running through the
water, the spray bursting around their calves. He splashes
water at her, and she shrieks, and then chases him deeper
into the icy water while some little girl floats by on a
rubber raft shouting that there might be sharks in the sea.

A flash from late July--

Drinking ice cold beer stolen from his fridge, just
enough to get a buzz, not enough to do damage, and
they're out on the Cove in a little boat also stolen from a
neighbor's dock. He says to her, "I never thought I'd feel
like this about someone." She repeats it back to him. He
kisses her big toe and tells her that she has got to have
the most beautiful feet he has ever seen, with such perfect
toes. She calls him a pervert, and he laughs, "Yeah, I'm
so perverted I think I love you."

And then it all begins.

Dear Stony,
I have heard that everyone has one GREAT LOVE in
their lives. ONE GREAT SECRET LOVE. I didn't know
till I met you that I would have one. I thought I'd always
feel alone and maybe get married and have kids someday
but never really know REAL LOVE. I look at my
mother and I think, THAT'S GOING TO BE ME IN
TWENTY YEARS. Married with kids, cleaning, keeping
my mouth shut, wishing something better for my kids.

But when I saw you the first time, last spring, I knew
just by looking in your eyes. I mean, I'd seen you before,
you know that. But I had never really SEEN you. Did
you know it too? It was like there was a chalk outline,
or maybe a halo around you. When I looked in your
eyes it was like looking into an ocean that was there

just for the two of us. I knew that you were the one. I
knew that there would be no others. You are my ONE
GREAT SECRET LOVE. I don't know if we will always
be like this, but I know that I will never ever forget you.

NEVER. I want it always to be like it is between us
right now. ALWAYS. No matter what happens. And
things do happen. I know that. I know that sometimes
love is not enough of a miracle to cure everything. 1
just wanted you to know. What we did together is what I wanted. It was PERFECT AND RIGHT.

LOVE
LOURDES

p. s.

I don't love your smoking those nasty things. Kick that habit.

I mean it.

"Your hair," she says.

"Your smile," he says.

"Your muscles," she laughs.

"Your legs," he grins. "Whoa baby, those legs!"

"Your sweetness," she whispers.

"You," he murmurs. "I love you best about you."

Fifteen! And it's your first time. You know what that
means, you know how forbidden and natural and mind
blowing it is, you remember the half can of beer that gave
you courage, and the way your first love looked at you.

Beneath a tree thick with summer green, so thick it's
milk, not leaves, milk in the tree, mother's milk sap running
down its humid bark. The heat of August on your
back, the crawling humidity of night, the heat of August
inside your own body as it moves like liquid. Fifteen! You
lie beneath the spreading tree with your girl, not just your
best girl, your only girl, and it's after midnight, and this
is the experience that will blow your mind, the moment
that takes both of you and binds you to each other and

throws away convention and bursts your boy and girl consciousness
until your branches grow heavy with the green
of man and woman. You want it, not just the sensation,
but to get out of your skins, to change, to be more than
what you were a few moments before. You notice how
hairy you are, and how smooth and fresh her skin feels,
and you let that part of you, that delicious animal part,
take over and you let nature command. You close your
eyes because you want to be somewhere other than in the
sensation you feel, you want to be inside and outside at
the same time, you want to be cosmic and you want to
be small, and afterwards, as the two of you lie wrapped
in each other's arms, you shrink and the tree seems larger
above you, its hungry leaves flowing all around you.

Through its branches, you see the world now, filtered
through the veins and stems and twigs. Your hands feel
scored like the leaves, like the hands of an old man. It
has taken something from you, this summer night, this act
of passion.

Then you begin to look at her differently. She is already
not who you thought she was. Maybe it's love.

Maybe it's fear that there's a dream you've entered into
now, a dream from which you will one day awaken.

But now, you're fifteen.

After a while, you say, brushing off the dirt, buttoning
your shirt while she discreetly dresses, "It's almost morning.

We'd better go home."

"Yeah," she says.

You say, "Tomorrow, we'll meet at Nora's. Okay?"

"Sure," she says, and you watch as she picks bits of
a leaf, crumbled up like ash, out of her trammeled hair.

You reach up and touch the edge of her face. You both
have gone over into the land of secrets.

Fifteen, Stony, fifteen, and already you wish you'd
waited because there's a closeness and a distance that
comes with the secrets. There's someone else living inside

you now, and what is left of you is only the cocoon that
won't yet shed itself.

Dear Lourdes,
I love you like no guy has ever loved a girl before. You
are the light of my world. You got my heart in your
hands and I want you to have everything really good
there is. I wish I had lots and lots of money to shower
you with lots of gifts--like a Corvette or something!

Or a trip somewhere just the two of us! It's going to be
u + me till the end of time. I never felt this way before
either. Want to go see a movie this weekend down in
Mystic? And also I want you to meet my friend Nora.

She's an old lady but she's really cool.

STONY, YOUR STORM KING!

Within this note, a crushed purple iris blossom.

1

You can't know Stony Crawford, at fifteen, without knowing
the old blind woman who lived in the tarpaper shack
in the woods. He met her when he was a little boy, not
long after his grandfather had died. Certain times of the
year his father and mother fought more than usual, and at
those times Stony found it best just to make himself invisible
by being wherever other people were not. She'd
been outside doing her wash, deep in the old woods. He
thought she might be an evil ogre, but she convinced him
with the smell of a blackberry pie cooling on her windowsill
that she was actually just a human being. When
they got acquainted, she told him how she'd been there
at his birth. He had not believed her, but found that he
wanted to believe her despite the fact that people lied all
the time. He knew they did, even in grade school. His

father lied, too. He'd seen his father down at the Boat
wright Pub drinking when he was supposed to be out on
his trawler. He'd seen his mother lie, too, when she put
him to bed at night and told him his father hadn't caused
the bruise on her face.

But this woman in the woods, she told him what
sounded like the truth.

She was named Nora Chance. People said she had been
blinded when she was making soap with her mother, back
in the '30s, back when soap was made of lye and suet
and the lye had splashed up. She had rocked it, and it had
sprayed across her forehead. Before she could even
scream from the pain, it had gotten in her eyes. But she
never told this story herself. When asked, she would avoid
the question and instead go into one of her spins. It was
what she called them--her spins, her stories. She'd sit
down at her loom, blind and yattering away as she tossed
the boat through the threads, making one of the blankets
or rugs that could be sold down at Mystic. She did nothing
the modern way. She would not have electricity, she
would not have a telephone, she would not have anything
but fresh running water and a modern toilet, which according
to her, were the only true conveniences of the
past one hundred years. She had a clothesline of candles,
made the old way, with rolls of beeswax, hanging beneath
the eaves of her low roof. ("Who the hell buys all these
candles?" he'd asked once when he was fourteen and
feeling bold, and she had scolded him for his language
but had not answered his question. Then, once, she told
him that she didn't care if the candles were bought or not,
she made them out of devotion. "Candles bring light to
darkness," she said.)

She was three-quarters Pequot Indian, a Mashantucket,
and one quarter African American, a smart and nimble
woman who had survived four husbands over sixty years.

She had spent forty of those years weaving and taking in
laundry, which she washed behind her home in a great
black pot--thus she had been called the Bog Witch, for

she had spent many an afternoon stirring the boiling-over
pot with a great long stick, singing her old church songs.

Spied by malicious children in the crackling woods, she
was a wraith seen through the bog mist, calling to her
demons beside the crumbling cemetery of the town's outcasts
of yore. But Stony had known her since the days
she'd saved his pet cat from drowning in the bog, and had
brought the two of them in--boy and cat--to dry and
warm themselves by her stove while she took out her
knitting and wove the first story he'd ever heard another
human being weave. It was like magic.

"There was a woman from upcountry," Nora Chance
began, and upcountry was what the old-timers called anyone
not from the sea. Stony was shocked, then, when he
noticed that her backwoods dialect dropped away when
she told her stories. "She and her man didn't get along.

She had a little boy, about your age, maybe a little
younger. Maybe half your age plus two. And her man, he
was beating on the boy, too, so she had to run and get
away from him. It was winter, and fierce. She took the
train and wanted to go all the way to Boston, maybe, or
Springfield. But going through the hills to the west, the
storm became a blizzard, and the train had to stop a little
farther on. It was in a small town, smaller'n Stonehaven.

The train was surrounded by ice and snow. She thought
to sleep overnight in the depot with her boy, but the train
company had fixed it up so passengers could go sleep in
town in fanners' homes. This was back in the days when
that could be done, when you could sleep in a stranger's
house during an emergency."

As she spoke, Stony lay down with his black cat, stroking
her still-damp fur, watching the embers between the
slats of the great potbelly stove. "The people she stayed
with were good country people. He, a retired farmer, and
she, a woman who had mourned all her life for the children
she'd never had. They showed the lady, whose name I think was Ellen, and her son, to a small bedroom.

Strange thing was"--and this was the point that Stony

would learn was the departure from reality, the part that
Nora Chance strung across her stories the way she strung
a bright red thread through the grayness of some bit of
sewing--"Strange thing was, Ellen noticed the green and
black flies all along the lights on the walls and ceiling of
the little farmhouse. In the room, seven or eight of them
flew along the ceiling. She fell asleep holding her son in
her arms--her little boy that still had bruises on his face
and neck from what his awful daddy had done to him just
the night before."

"Is this gonna be a scary story?" young Stony had
asked.

"Don't interrupt me, child," Nora Chance chided him.

"I don't tell scary stories. All my stories are the truth,
and they're about human love. Human love comes in all
forms. Like this mother, Ellen, who loved her little boy
so much she ran from his daddy just to keep him safe.

Now, there's human love for you. So they slept all night,
and she began to dream of flies. Flies all covering her and
her little boy, flitting around his nose and mouth. Frightened,
she woke up. It was early. It was almost dawn, but
not yet. She glanced outside the window and saw the
snow shining like broken glass on the farm. She got up,
leaving her little boy wrapped up in the old quilt, and
went to the hall."

"Why'd she do that?" Stony piped up.

"I told you, don't interrupt when I'm weaving a story,"
Nora Chance said. "All will be revealed in the telling. As I was saying, she went into the hall because she was
thirsty. And as she went to get a drink of water in the
bathroom, she saw three small children standing half naked
in the darkness of the hallway. One was a girl of about
eight or nine, and one a boy of five, and the littlest one,
barely more than a baby, a little two-year-old. But they
all wore cloth diapers.

"And something even more shocking.

"She noticed that at the edges of their mouths, thread

had been sewn, and their eyes were closed, too, threads
also, little black threads, and their ears and nostrils, all
sewn shut. Ellen's heart beat fast, and she clutched the
bathroom door for support. She was unable to scream, and
she wondered for a second if she was dreaming.

"Then the little girl reached up and drew the thread out
from her mouth, humming sounds coming from her.

"And as she drew the thread, and as her lips parted
slightly ...
"A small green fly crawled to the edge of her lips.

Spread its shiny wings and flew, and then another
emerged from out her lips. And another. And another."

Here, Nora Chance fell silent.

"Is that the whole story?" Stony asked, after a minute.

Nora chuckled to herself. "No, but it's enough for you
now. Your cat's dry now, and it's getting dark soon. You
two get off on home for your supper. I'll tell you the rest
another day."

And so it had gone for six years, since Stony had been
nine years old, wandering with his cat out in the woods.

That cat, Liberty, had gotten hit by a car by the time Stony
was fifteen, but even she had become part of Nora
Chance's stories, woven into the tapestry of whatever tale
had been begun the time before his last visit to her. He
had begun getting her groceries for her when he was
twelve and had the New London Day paper route for
Stonehaven. He could ride his Schwinn around town, delivering
papers, and make his first stop his last: the Watchman
Goods and Package Store, where he'd pick up her
orders of flour, sugar, ham, milk, and beans. Her diet
rarely varied from this, other than the whiskey she
drank--but she seemingly had a never-ending supply of
this in her cellar.

All this he'd told Lourdes by their third date, and had
taken her to meet Nora. "But how does the story end?"

was the first thing Lourdes asked when she sat on the
threadbare rug by the potbelly stove.

Chapter Five
Legends ofstonehaven


"Which one you, talkin' about?" Nora asked, her nimble
fingers still working around a needle and thread. "I got a
million spins, some about Stonehaven, some about distant
lands and fascinating folk."

"About the children with the mouths sewn shut," she
said, for Stony had never finished the story for her.

"Oh, those children!" Nora said, and then quickly resumed
a story which she'd actually left off telling years
before. "Well, this woman named Ellen went back to her
room to get her child. She was going to leave. She knew
what kind of monstrous farmer and wife they were. The
kind to torture little babies like that. Why, she was going
to the police, she was going to find someone to take those
poor children away from them. But the farmer told her
the truth about it. See, he didn't torture those children.

"They been at then- threads again,' the farmer said. 'Damn
it, they ain't supposed to tear at the threads.' And Ellen,
she's fit to be tied. She's a ball of fury. The farmer tells
her, 'They got the minds of flies now,' he says, "They
need to let them out, Lord, but that means I got to put
them back.' And Ellen slaps him one and says, 'How dare
you stand here self-righteous when you're such a monster.' And the farmer, he looks at her. He's crying. 'We
love them babies,' he tells her. 'Only they ain't ours.

Mama, she cried for years for not having children of our
own. I thought she'd like to die. What was I to do? What
is a man to do? So I thought, other people have children.

They die. They get put in the ground. They just get left
there.' So this farmer, see, he goes and digs up these three
dead children. And he thinks: How does anyone know if
someone's alive or no? What makes us alive? And he
figures, if you move, you're alive. That's the bottom line.

And for most folk, it's true. So he sews up these dead
kids with maggots and such, and when the flies are born,
they move. 'But,' he tells her, 'they got the minds of flies,
and sometimes they got to let them out. But Mama, she
loves them kids. It's love beyond choosing, lady, don't
you know that?' "

"Oh, that's terrible," Lourdes said, shivering slightly.

"I ain't done yet, you hush," Nora Chance said, no
longer tolerant of interrupters. "So this woman and her
little boy go to get on the train. The boy's daddy is there,
and he's mad and he drags them back home. Months later,
she returns to the farmhouse. She's got her little boy in
her arms. His daddy might have hurt him real bad. His
mother, she loves her little boy too much to let Death take
him. She tells the farmer, 'Love beyond choosing, remember?"
and then the bundled-up little boy, he's so still he
might be dead, a spool of thread falls out of his little
curled-up hand, unraveling as it rolls." And here, Nora
dropped the spool of black thread she held in her hands,
and it rolled towards Stony.

"Oh my God," Lourdes gasped.

Stony clapped Ms. hands. "See? She's the best storyteller in the world."

"That's a cool story," Lourdes agreed, leaning back on
her elbows, looking up at Nora with awe. "Creepy, but
cool."

"I got a thousand and one," Nora Chance grinned, her
eyes never lowering. "Just like of Shehairyzade." Then
she grinned, and nodded. "You children get on home
now. It's almost twilight, I can smell it in the air. Twilight
ain't good 'round the bogs."

And so it was that year, when Stony Crawford turned
fifteen, that love came to him and swept him away, and
Nora Chance, in telling the rest of her story from so long
ago, blessed the union of the teenagers.

That was the summer before.

Autumn came in with the lobster trawlers, dumping its
catch on the streets, the smell of brine and barnacle and
seaweed across the cut-crystal day. Stonehaven was lovely
in the summer, but like all New England coastal towns,
did not bloom until the leaves had begun turning.

Are there places like this anymore? Where summer seems
to last nearly as long as the school year, where the houses
all have neat lawns, are made of brick or clapboard, all
neat neat neat; where all the neighbors' children play together,
play tackle football on summer afternoons down
on the small beach by the cove, where there doesn't seem
to ever be an end to the days until the fireflies themselves
appear in the nighttime veil of purple as it descends after
nine at night? Then the days shorten, until dark comes by
five, and the chill of fall sets in, with the scent of rotting
blackberries and crisp leaf mold.

Stonehaven, a small gem of a town, but a gem washed
over by sea and years until it was smooth at its edges but
sharp and prickly within, sat along a promontory of land

that poked into the Avalon Islands Sound. Hurricanes in
'38 and '60 swept the rooftops off the houses, and the
town clock off the old Meeting Hall, but by the time Stony
was fifteen, all had been replaced, all looked as it had
when much of it was first built in the 1700s. Officer Den
nehy joked mat the roads had not been improved since
then either. He'd sit out in his patrol car sipping coffee
from the Bess Eaton donut shop out in Pawcatuck and
watch the slow pace of the village, and then go back to
the station in Mystic and tell his envious colleagues,
"Well, again, the Village was quiet. I saw three pretty
girls, one black Mercedes, and I got a free lunch at the
Tea Shop just for checking the burglar alarm to make sure
it was working." His reports rarely deviated, except in the
odd suicide or petty theft and, at fifty, Ben Dennehy was
happy to lead such a peaceful existence as an officer of
the law. The best he could say about Stonehaven folk was
that they were good God-fearing people; this was also the
worst he could say about them. Down at the Water Street
Barbershop, where most of the older men gathered of an afternoon, the stories of never-forgotten storms and wars
passed around like influenza, and the tales coughed up got
larger and grander, until they'd have had you believe that
all Stonehaven was crushed by Hurricane Donna way
back when, and that all the young men of Stonehaven
single-handedly won World War n.

The village had always continued, through history,
through gossip, through neglect. Stonehaven was all white
clapboard, dark shutters, weathered boards of the old
abandoned houses out by the railroad tracks. It was filled
with newly remodeled houses of the summer people, now
ghost houses too; its skyline consisted of the steeples of
three churches, the rotunda of the two-room library, the
flagpoles above the U. S. Post Office and the trees along
the Common--the square emerald lawn of grass that occupied
the imperfect center of the borough. It was a community
just half an hour out of New Haven, but none of

the children living in the town knew much about the great
city an hour to the south, nor of Providence, an hour to
the north, nor even New London, and much less of Mystic
or Stonington, its nearest neighbors. Stonehaven was
hardly even suburban, for the houses, houses with names,
had all been built before the oldest man in town was born.

The Josiah Bishop House, the Nathanial Greaves House,
the Sarah Mclendon house, the Randall house with its
ancient slave quarters, the Portuguese Holy Ghost Society,
the Custom House, even the tiny Citizen's Bank building
(one teller, no ATM, and open one day a week, summers
only) on Ocean and Water Streets had been built just after
1814, after the town was under attack by the British
troops. Many houses were nameless, and some had not
been built until 1900, but they all were weathered and
lovely and the clapboard flaked with bad paint jobs by the
end of summer. The scraggling woods on its eastern edge,
full of bogs and ancient cemeteries, before the road led to
the highway which led to the interstate--it was like the
wilderness had not quite been burned back far enough by the early settlers of the region. It seemed so far away
sometimes, as if Stonehaven itself had not progressed
since the late 1600s, when it was founded. The town, as
summer turned to fall, stank of the overflowing lobster
boats that consumed the harbor as they spilled their clawing
catches onto the long docks to the south side of town.

The lobstersmell was so thick you could cut it, you could
inhale it and choke on it, it would open up your pores and
clog them with the red sea scum stink. Stonehaven, surrounded
on three sides by water, a finger thrusting defiantly
at the Isles of Avalon, all three, spotting the glass
of sea where it beveled at the horizon. How many bare
feet were pricked by thorns, how many hands and elbows
stung by yellow jackets, how many faces eaten red by the
powerful sun before Labor Day came and destroyed all
devices of escape? And then, with fall, all the summer
people left, and with them, the mansions out by the point

became shells, dark at night, the luxury boats sat on stilts
in the boatyard, the lunch and tea shops closed, and one
boy would have felt buried alive, if it had not been for
the intense love he had. The burning love that only the
very young can understand.

It was all Stony Crawford wanted at fifteen, his pure
white T-shirt blotted with yesterday's sweat, his swimming
trunks waffling as he ran in his old torn-up sneakers,
down the placid streets of Water to Seascape Terrace to
Swan Drive, then across the bridge at the cove, to the
other side, to the other neighborhood beyond the cove.

Wequetucket it was called, an old word that meant nothing
other than freedom from the village to Stony. Wequetucket
was beyond all the white people he had once
believed were the only people in existence in his real
world. It was the other side, where the apartments rose
up, where the people who worked the lobster trawlers
lived, where his heart seemed to beat faster and faster as
he ran. Spanish and Portuguese and Indian and Black-- the colors and tongues and legends were endless, just outside
the borough. It was a world where things happened.

Where love happened. Where Lourdes lived with her
mother--the rows of garden apartments, the highway, a
causeway between bays, that connected Stonehaven to the
outer world. To freedom. First down the streets of numbers,
three, six, four, down alleys without names, across
Barley Road and Myrtle Drive, to the Ninth Street Apartments.

See him run like he's a match trying desperately
to catch fire.

See him run.

"Bueno," her mother said at the door, but Lourdes Maria
Castillo stood behind her, glancing over her shoulder. Her
mother glanced back, glaring. "Lourdes, it's your
amigo." Her mother shut the door and turned to her

daughter. She waggled a finger at her, keeping her voice
down. "You must make them call you first. A boy should
never drop in like this. It shows disrespect."

"Oh, Mom," Lourdes said, exasperated, moving
swiftly past her mother to open the door. The door
creaked as she pulled it back and she felt a slight embarrassment
at the smell of the hallway--the fish, always the
fish from the boatmen.

Stony Crawford stood there, sweating, out of breath.

His brown hair too long over his forehead, the shine of
perspiration like glaze on his face. "I ran all the way,"
he gasped. His grin was wide and goofy. He waved hello
to her mother, who had already padded into the kitchen.

"Hello, Mrs. Castillo," he said, men he returned his look
to Lourdes, who blushed at its intensity. "Want to go for
a walk? We can go to the confectionary. I got some
money."

"You should call first." Lourdes didn't smile. She
looked slightly cross. She did her best not to look him
directly in the eye--otherwise, she'd have begun laughing
at the charade.

"Next time. I promise," he said.

"Okay." She nodded, continually glancing back towards
the kitchen as her mother banged one pot against
the other. "I have to do some chores later."

"I can help," Stony said, his voice deepening as he
caught up with his breathing. "Tell your mom I'll wash
her car."

"I heard that!" her mother called out from the kitchen.

"Tell him I want it waxed, too!"

Lourdes grabbed his hand, giving it a conspiratorial
squeeze. "Let's get out now while we can."

"I want you two back here by three. Understand?" Her
mother's voice became shrill as it blended to Spanish,
"Maria Lourdes, entiendest'

"Si, Mommy," Lourdes said. "Promeso."

Then she went out the apartment door, and when it was

shut behind them, he grabbed her and they kissed and she
felt something wonderful blossom inside her.

It was always: to the lighthouse, to the lighthouse. Stony
might drag her this way and that in the cool October night,
she might linger down by the harbor where the trawlers
creaked along, abandoned till the following morning, but
it was always to the lighthouse, finally. The woods, too,
or the cemetery, or out on the docks late at night when
the sea was a flat gray glass and the few twinkling lights
of the Isles of Avalon beckoned. But the lighthouse was
better, for you could go inside and huddle in the low
ceilinged room, or climb up the tower and look out over
the Sound. Or you could go out to the sloping hill that
led to the rock wall before the sea, and lie camouflaged
by shadows and land. The lighthouse no longer functioned,
so it was the best possible place to make out and
speak softly, for it was all dark there, at Land's End,
across the cracked pavement of Lighthouse Alley, to the
dead end marker. Leaping over this, to find one of the
grassy bunkers that rose on the hillock over the wispy sea.

After Stony had told her of his love, and she had told
him of her love, and they had done all the things young
people are warned not to do,
And in his mind, he felt Moonfire bursting yellow red
almost a sunset--

Almost the pale light of a moon-- she told him.

That night, he wept for joy.

Then, by dawn, he wept for fear, alone in his bed,
knowing that the sun would be up in minutes and he had
not slept a wink. He could hear one of the wild dogs of
the docks barking as the trawlers pushed away, out to
check their lines and cages.

Words could kill, sometimes, he thought then. Words
could change everything.

Lourdes had whispered it sweetly, knowing that a boy
might not like hearing the words. Knowing that this might
destroy the wonderful thing they had together.

Knowing that this might destroy everything and take
from both of them all they had ever dreamed possible.

He felt his heartbeat accelerate, and something that
might have been adrenaline--or liquid fire--burst under
the surface of his skin when he remembered the two most
horrifying words any fifteen-year-old boy could ever hear.

Chapter Six
Consequences


"I'm pregnant."

"You can't be," Stony said, more startled than
shocked, knowing that of course she could be pregnant.

It was nature. It was their bodies reaching fertility, it was
hormones and the terrible price that came with them.

She didn't say anything for the longest time, but he
heard her breaths, slow and careful.

"I love you," he said.

In the morning, the full understanding of this hit him,
of what it would mean to him and to his future.

Mid-afternoon, a couple of high school punks skip school,
and one of them has a bright idea. "Let's pillage my
folks' room. I know they always got a couple of twenties
lying around," he says, and his name is Van Crawford

and he's lanky and has ears that nearly stick out, but he
has that aura of coolness with his knit cap on and pockmarked
face and terminally hip sullen sneer. He knows
these things about himself:

He hates life.

Hates his little brother Stony. Tolerates him but hates
him.

Hates his mother.

Hates his father.

Hates the fact that he has to live at all among these
fish-people in this fish-village.

hate is tattooed on his ass, only he's never shown it
to anyone in his family, but half the guys in gym have
seen it in the showers after soccer practice. Not that Van
is good at soccer, but hate can even fuel him through a
rough game. He got drunk one night down in New London,
and his buddies dared him to get a tattoo, but he
decided that hate was the word he wanted emblazed on
his left buttock for all eternity, although if he'd had his
druthers he would've had a flaming skull tattooed there
too, only he was too drunk and he couldn't afford it.

He sits on hate, he breathes hate, he lives hate.

If he could get drunk on hate, he would.

Van says, "Always beer in the fridge and maybe once
we get some cash we can go on to Mystic and meet some
girls or something'." He has this way of speaking that's
half snarl and half cough, his voice is too deep, his eyes
are set too close together. "I fucked Brenda last night."

"No way," his buddy says, his buddy named Del, who
lives in a rundown old farmhouse with his lobster man
father, but way out on the highway, way out hi the middle
of nowhere. Del lives far enough out from the borough
and the docks that he doesn't have the fishstink on him.

"You didn't fuck Brenda." His voice, drunken, giggling.

"Yeah I did. I rammed it in and got her to moan real
bad. She smells, though. She smells like barnacles down

there. Fuckin' townie. I didn't care. Just needed to get a
nut off," Van says.

"Holy shit. Think I can do her?"

"Fuck yeah. She ain't the kind of girl who's gonna
mind a few more," he laughs, and then they're rummaging
the fridge for beer, calling friends, lighting up the last
tiny bit of a joint and wondering when the hell their other
friends are gonna come over.

Van grinned stupidly, a can of beer in one hand, his other
clutched around his hunting knife. "Your knife is your
dick," he said, laughing. He lay back on his parents'
lumpy, messy bed, and looked up at the ceiling. "See?

And life is a great big pussy that you just jab at and slam
it home--" He sliced the air above him. The knife flashed
silver in the overhead light. It reminded him of fish beneath
water.

His friend Del Winter opened and slammed a dresser
drawer shut. "I can't find ten bucks in your mom's
dresser," he said, ignoring what Van said.

"You hear me?" Van said. "I said your knife is your
dick!"

"Yeah yeah," Del said, pulling out a strand of pearls.

"Shit, your mom has nice pearls. We could maybe take
these to a pawn shop. You people in this village, you got
nice things."

Van downed some beer. "Naw, they're fake. She don't
have nothin' of value, trust me."

"Last week you found a twenty," Del said, dropping
the pearls back in the drawer.

"Yeah and last week she got pissed off 'cause she figured
out I'd been taking it." He took another gulp from
the beer. He hated Bud, but it was the only thing his father
ever bought. So it was all he could steal from the fridge.

He sat up, looking at himself in the mirror above his
mother's dressing table.

"Your knife is your dick and your dick is your knife,"
he said to his reflection. "Who the hell asked you?"

Giggling, sipping, swinging the knife around.

Del came over and picked up a new can of Bud from
the floor. He popped it open. "You're getting' shit-faced,
my man."

"Yeah I guess I am fuckin' very getting' shit-faced."

He set the beer down at his side, heaving a bit. It overturned,
spilling the last of its golden contents on the white
comforter. The room spun slightly. His reflection in the
mirror wavered. "Your balls are God and your dick is
your knife, that is wisdom," he said.

"Yeah yeah," Del said, chugging his beer down.

"I would like to kill that Spic bitch my brother's fucking,"
Van said almost solemnly.

"Yeah sure. Hell, I'd do more than just kill her," Del
laughed, raising his beer in a toast. "I'd make her cream."

Van held his knife up. "Your knife is your dick," he
said.

4

Van Crawford lived by a single code: Survival of the fittest. It was fuckin' Darwinian.

"Throw out your line," Van said, nudging Stony's arm.

They were in the dinghy, which rocked gently back and
forth on a fairly placid current in the cove. The sunlight
was almost blue across the pockmarked sky, and swans
rested like feathered bowls not far from their boat.

"You'll get something."

"No thanks," Stony said. He leaned back against the

prow, and stared up at the sky. He watched the sun, wondering
if he would go blind from staring.

"Something's up," Van said. He reeled in his line, and
set his pole down in the bottom of the boat. "Tell me."

"No way," Stony said. Even when Van seemed warm
and kind, Stony had not grown up for fifteen years in that
house for nothing. He knew Van too well. Trusting his
older brother seemed impossible at times.

"It's your girl," Van grinned. "You get some pussy?"

"Shut up," Stony said. "Shut the hell up."

"Use rubbers, that's my advice." Van slapped a mosquito
on the back of his neck. "Damn skeeters ain't dead
yet. It's fuckin' October and they ain't dead." Then, an
afterthought, "Don't trust a girl to take the pill. They lie.

They all lie about that. Dad told me even Mom lied to
him. All women do."

Stony couldn't help himself. "Too late for that." Had
he said it aloud, or muttered it? He glanced at his brother.

To see what his face betrayed.

But Van was always on the lookout for the nasty side
of things, and the deep dark secrets. "Shit," he said.

"You're shittin' me."

"Shut up," Stony said. He reached down into the
cooler and brought out a Coke. Popped the top, sipped it.

Two swans circled around the dinghy. Stony tossed the
birds bits of his sandwich, which they gobbled greedily.

Van shut his eyes, shaking his head. "All that you've
known about sex, and you got her knocked up?"

"Shut up," Stony said. "We came out here to fish."

"I came out here to fish. You came out here to confess,"
Van laughed, and then, "Holy shit. Holy shit.

Stony, your life is over."

And then Van said, "That bitch. She let herself get
knocked up on purpose." Something tugged at his line.

Bringing it up, it was a small bass. He unhooked it
quickly, holding it in his hands. "That fucking bitch. We
quetucket Spanish Portuguese bitch trying to get a white

boy from the borough to take her and her bastard in. Just
like mom got knocked up and made Dad marry her. Just
like it's always been in this shithole. Jesus, these fucking
bitches. And you are such a dumb shit for knockin' her
up."

"Shut up!" Stony shouted, his voice echoing across the
water. Geese flew up from the surface of the cove, rippling
the sky as they went.

In the shower, Stony Crawford steps beneath the hot water,
and turns it up hotter. He isn't sure if tears are falling
or if it's just the spray of clean hot water that almost feels
hot enough to clean off the dirty way he feels. Don't
fuckin' cry, he warns himself. You cry and you might as
well be back in third grade. He grabs the bar of Dial soap
and scrubs it hard beneath his armpits, and along his
shoulders. The water and soap run across the light hair on
his chest, and the smell is fresh and new.

All he wants is to be clean.

If he could, he would scrub the soap across his mind
to erase his memory. To erase the part of him that told
him he needed to somehow take care of this. To eradicate
the fear he had about the future.

The steam and heat are almost magical, taking him out
of himself for a few minutes.

The Storm King is alone. If he touches someone they
might bum to a crisp or drown ...
And the Moonfire got him.

Then the water begins to turn cold.

He stands beneath the cold water, shivering, wondering
what the hell he's going to do about the baby that he made
with Lourdes Maria Castillo.

In the pocket of Stony's jeans, a note:

Things I love about you:

I love your smile.

I love when you get angry and stomp around like a
big baby.

I love all that hair on your chest and tummy. It's like
you're a puppy.

I love when you kiss me.

I love when you tell me you love me and all the reasons
you do.

I love the way you mow a lawn! Hubba hubba!

Your soul.

Your purity.

Your heart.

I love how sweet and kind and considerate and wonderful
you are Stony Crawford. Don't ever forget it. And
we're never going to be like your folks or my folks. I
think you're pretty special.

Love ya,
Lourdes

8

He walks into the living room where his mother, in darkness,
watches The Holy Brigade. The man with the glasses
is shouting that false messiahs abound, that "we live in
an age of miracles and nightmares, and God will send his
fury down upon sinner and saint alike, and there will be
war and rumors of war, and rumors of unnatural beasts
from the seas, and of fire from heaven!"

His mother glances up at him for less than a second.

"You might want to pay heed to this," she says in a
monotone. "Your father won't and your brother won't.

But you ought to."

Then she takes another drink from her small flask.

From the Diary of Alan Fairclough

... All my life I had been searching for this, but 1 did
not think in my wildest dreams that I would find some evidence
of it. We are raised with such beliefs in devils as
children, but as we grow older, our imaginations die. Our
beliefs transmutate like the consecrated wafer, but in reverse.

From flesh to bread, we believe that symbols take
over from imagination, rather than the opposite, that imagination
creates symbols from the genuine creation. Ritual
comes from our instinct, the way that salmon return to the
rivers of their birth. Ritual is not empty. Ritual is full.

If this damn business with the banks had not taken over, I would have remained there at my retreat, but it's always
the prosaic that draws one back from the abyss, time and
again. I would not wish the hell of finances upon anyone.

Let the poor remain happy rather than deal with the responsibility
of money when one wishes to be a hermit in
the wilderness, a scholar in the library, or a pilgrim at a
place of worship ... damn necessity ... damn properties
... damn worldly goods.

But without them, I could not have my home on the island, I would not have met these terrible yet wonderful
people. I would never have seen the creature, or watched
it open itself, change its geometry, go from beast to demon
to beauty as if it could no longer keep to one shape. There
is no god but the god of the flesh, and all sanctity runs
from profane images. All flesh is profane. All flesh is sacred.

All men are gods. Ritual is the key between the
worlds of the Old and the New.

The town is a crucible, a place to observe the effects of
our grand experiment, our foray into playing God, our
need to move humankind forward, to stop the endless spiral
of death that is mortal necessity. When I first saw it, in
its cage, its arms strong, its eyes golden and fierce, I knew
terror such as no man has ever felt. What must the ancients
have known who laid eyes upon these beings! What
must the holy sisters have felt when they heard its cries beneath
their sanctuary?

And yet my terror turned to love and longing, for even
in the darkest of daimons, the fire of heaven kindles and
threatens to rage.

When I touched its face, it gave in, it put aside fury,
softened.

Can I describe what I felt when I parted its warm flesh
and watched the transformation beneath my hands?

When this business is done, I will return to America, to
that crucible. The note I received from George Crown this
morning was full of urgency. There is more, he told me,
there is the beginning of the future now.

His note read simply, "It has taken hold."

Chapter Seven

The Life and Times of Alan
Fairclough


Alan Fairclough raised his hand over the young man's
face. The face was handsome. Alan would not hire anyone
without a handsome face for this. He liked seeing the
bruises beneath the eyes, the gashes that opened up above
the lips. He liked turning the very beautiful into the very
scarred.

When his arousal heightened, he went deep into himself,
losing the sense of the physical world, and entered
the domain of the gods.

From the Diary of Alan Fairclough

The story of my life is not a tragedy, but an adventure
from what we believe is true to the extremity beyond truth
and minor distinctions of Good and Evil. There is no Good
and Evil, there is only evil right now and good right now.

How life, as it got its hooks into you, moved effortlessly

from the sacred to the profane. All we can truly know of it
is the Light, the ever-brilliant Light of Divine Essence. In
the deepest cruelty, in the most saintly kindness, in the
brutality of human conflict, the Light sparks again and
again and again.

The purpose of my life, its mission, is to find the stone
from which the spark can be struck and set afire.

From his earliest years, Alan Fairclough had been destined
for greatness. His father was Lord Early, whose ancestral
fortune included three great castles in Scotland and North
umbria. His mother was Lady Elaine Romney, a diamond
heiress whose grandfather had been South African Dutch
and whose father had made a success of the Romney Ironworks
as well as the mining operations in Africa Alan
attended Harrow, made the cricket team eventually, and
then his world changed so swiftly that the shock of it had
never quite worn off. His parents died in a sailing disaster
off Majorca. Alan was pulled from school and sent to live
with the only living relative who would take him. His aunt
owned land in a particularly inhospitable part of northern
Scotland. While Alan had been protected from the worst
of life by his parents, his aunt was cheap and mean
spirited. To build character, she forced him to take freezing
baths, and when he disobeyed her, she had him
soundly whipped by a tall grim German named Ranulf.

His work was to keep on top of fifteen tenant fanners and
their rents. By the time he was seventeen, he had been
won over by what he then believed was the nobility of
poverty. He took to the streets, eventually joining a monastery
and foregoing any material comfort.

But just before his twenty-first birthday, lying on his
hard bench of a bed, he began to experience erotic dreams
for the first time in his life.

In them, he held the poor young street girls in his arms,
thrusting into them like a jackal. He tasted the first blood
of virgins, and whipped them until their screams turned
to moans of delicious surrender. In these stimulating torture
dreams, he was Ranulf the German, not peach-faced
Alan Fairclough the Good. Even in the dreams he was not
a willing participant in the pleasure he felt. He felt as if
he were being raped even as he slowly pressed a rusty
spike into the nipple of an altar boy; he tried to resist, but
was overcome by a greater force, which shoved him deep
into the body of a beggar girl from Calcutta ...
When he woke from these dreams, he also resisted
them. At first, he was disgusted with their vileness, then
he was merely curious at his own nocturnal imagination,
and finally, he grew to look forward to sleep and his night
of dreaming.

As he was in the middle of an orgy of beating up a
young hoodlum before raping the boy's mother, Alan realized
with dread that the dream had the texture of reality.

As if his memory had become a black hole, sucking in
the material world around it until he could not tell what
was substance and what was not. He felt his fist connect
solidly with the boy's shoulder as a sexual electricity
surged through his groin ...
"It's not a dream!" he cried out as the boy howled,
blood bursting from beneath his left eye a split second
after being hit. "It's not a dream!" He screamed at the
boy as if it were his fault. Beyond the boy, the mother,
her flowing dress torn down the middle, her hands tied to
a metal pipe above her head.

Alan let the boy go. The boy ran to sit beside his
mother, shivering. The boy was no more than sixteen. The
boy held his mother, and both of them wept.

Alan, awake, stared at his bloodied hands. For the first
time that he could remember, he began to weep as well.

His tears washed the gray walls of the room, wiped clean

the image of the woman and her son, until all he could
see was night. All he could say was, "My God, my God,
why hast thou forsaken me?"

Dawn arrived, eventually, without response. He untied
the woman, and dropped five hundred pounds into her
son's lap.

A small mirror, above a scummy sink, stood at one end
of the room. Alan Fairclough went and looked at himself
and saw a monster. Neither Alan nor his former tormentor,
Ranulf, stared back.

The face was so inhuman he could not place it as anything
other than a shadow.

Several weeks later, he embraced this image, and began
his voyage to seek God in dark places. At twenty-one, he
inherited his parents' vast fortune, and began discovering
the extent of flesh, suffering, and pleasure.

But even these had their limits.

One morning he'd awakened, naked, with two young
women and one young man sleeping beside him, curled
beneath his arms on a stained and ragged mattress--their
bodies so beautiful and fresh the previous evening--with
the tastes of laudanum and marijuana soaking him. Then,
in the noon sun slicing like a steel glint razor through the
slats of the cheap wooden shutters--now, these bodies
were great puddings of rot and disease, and smelled to
him of excrement. He noticed sores along the man's buttocks
from the whip, and one of the women had small
knife slashes on her left side along her rib cage. The all
consuming flesh lay there, one great tangled body. He had
hacked his way out of that den of melting skin. Rushed
to his shower, wiping himself clean of the night's residue.

And the darkness enfolded him. Not the darkness of
depression or regret or longing, but the darkness of a man
who knows what is true about himself and his appetites.

With that knowledge, all youth abandoned him. All
happiness faded, all satisfaction dissipated. He was thirty,
then, and had already heard about the creature held cap- I
tive in the caverns at Maupassane. There were stories of
its cries echoing through the small village beyond the
cliffs.

From the Diary of Alan Fairclough

After all this time, to be so close to the legend, to its
origin. I will find the creature if it's the last thing I do. I
will experience the miracle of its existence. I will touch its
essence and be transformed. The key has always been ritual,
this is what men have forgotten, what has been lost. It
is the ritual that turns the lock and opens the door.

My God is the Savage God!

I glory in His Presence!

I will find His Radiance!

Azriel, come! Come with your Light!

Since these particular holy sisters had died or moved on
two hundred years earlier, it had been difficult to track
down the precise cavern, but Alan Fairclough had a great
deal of wealth and he spent much of it excavating the
area.

Then, at last, one of the local workmen found the first
clue.

The remains in rock, crushed by some collapse in the
caves several hundred years earlier.

"Beautiful," Alan had said, as the flares were lit
around the remains, casting yellow and orange shadow.

"Look at its shoulders. Look at its ... magnificence."

It appeared to be a fossil to some extent, with the arms
and spinal column of a human, but its skull, crushed and
with the jaw separated, had the incisors of a lion, and what

appeared to be perforations along the forehead. The wings
that had been crushed behind it seemed like a pterodactyl's,
but this was Alan's fancy playing with him. He
could not tell for sure.

He knew that it was a daimon that the holy sisters had
kept within this darkness. Its secrets would never be
known.

In eleven months of painstaking excavation, he'd raised
the stones and carefully brought it forth from its resting
place.

When he beheld it in the light of day, his hair went
from jet black to pure white. His eyes, from sparkling
jewels to the dullness of cold stone. The light of the world,
he felt, had flickered and been worn down--both by the
majesty of this discovery and by the knowledge that it
was no longer part of life in the flesh.

It was on a trip back to his town house in Manhattan.

He'd heard a man say something quite remarkable. It had
been a regular afternoon at the private club, and the chap
mentioned something about a certain family. "The
Crowns," the man repeated when Fairclough asked.

"They're in all kinds of industry. Arms, mostly. Very
charitable clan as well. Six million last year to the Save
the Children Fund."

"I couldn't help but overhear--you said something
about ..." Alan Fairclough didn't even want to repeat it.

Perhaps he'd heard wrong.

"The beast? My brother saw it himself. Visited them
one summer," the man said. "They have a pied-aterre
up the coast a bit. My brother's place is on a little island,
right across the water from their place. He's selling his.

While he was doing some renovating, they had him and
his wife out to stay with them, briefly. He said for such
rich people they have fairly common tastes."

"The beast," Fairclough reminded him.

"Yes, so my brother tells me that they own some creature
that looks like the devil himself."

Alan laughed. "Your brother--does he drink?"

The man went silent. After a sip of whiskey himself,
he said, "Not these days. He died six weeks ago."

Alan Fairclough was about to inquire further as to this
information, but suddenly it was as if the noise of the
club--the laughter at terrible jokes poorly told, the chatter
from the men at the bar, the tinkling sound of the piano
keys being molested by a less-than-adequate musician-- all had been overwhelmed by his thoughts.

The beast.

The Devil.

Holiness.

Fairclough had tracked down the Crowns' penthouse in
the Lonsdale, off Central Park. He had no problem bluffing
and bribing his way up to it, but was sorely disappointed
when a lone butler met him at the elevator. The
butler was extraordinarily handsome, with dark hair and
round blue eyes, Black Irish if there ever was one, a trace
of a scar running down beneath his left eye.

"I'm terribly sorry," the butler said. "The Crowns are
in Bangkok this time of year."

"Liverpool," Alan grinned, recognizing the butler's accent.

"I thought you'd be Irish, but that tone."

The butler half smiled. "Yes, completely. And
you're ..."

"A man of the world, home nowhere."

"I would've said Sloane Square with a bit of Scotland
thrown in," the butler nearly laughed.

"Well, you are close to the mark, you are. Alan Fairclough."

Alan extended his hand.

"Pete Atkins," the butler said. Then, as if remembering
his own job, added, "They won't be back for another
month. Not till this nasty winter is over."

"Business?"

"And pleasure, one would assume. Would you like to
leave a message, Mr. Fairclough?"

After a moment's hesitation, Alan Fairclough said,
"Yes. Yes I would."

He scribbled down a note, folding it once, and passed
it to the butler. "How long have you been stateside?"

"Two years," Atkins said. "The Crowns are wonderful
employers. Not like people say at all."

"They say?"

"The usual malarky. Nasty rich people and all that.

They been like second parents to me almost." Atkins then
held the note up. "You don't know them at all, do you?"

Alan tried not to reveal the lie. "We're old friends. Tell
me, they still summer in New England?"

Atkins nodded. "Yes sir. Stonehaven. A lovely village
I'm told, right on the water. From the pictures it looks
like a castle to me. The property's been with them for
hundreds of years. Come on, then," he said. Then he led
Alan Fairclough into a modest parlor with three overstuffed
chairs, a long table, and a half dozen pictures on
the wall. "It's called The Shields." Atkins tapped a
photo. The picture was an old one. It showed a Bearcat
in the driveway, and a white mansion behind it. A rich
dowager and her driver stood in the foreground. "That's
Miranda Crown. They called her the Queen. She died a
ways back. I heard from cook she was fierce."

"The Crowns must have quite a history." Fairclough
glanced at the other photos beside this one. One caught
his eye. He stepped over to it for closer inspection. "This
one," he said, almost forgetting himself.

"1914," Atkins said. "I know because Master Crown
told me it was taken the morning his father was born."

In the picture, four men, one in military garb, stood
outside the mouth of a small cave. "That's Master
Crown's grandfather." Atkins tapped the glass.

"Where was this?"

"France. Outside Paris I think."

"The war," Fairclough said. "Doesn't look much like
they're concerned with war, does it?"

Atkins was silent for a moment. "You say you're an
old friend?" There was suspicion in his voice.

"Well, truth is, I lied," Fairclough admitted. "I know
old friends of theirs from the club. I wanted to contact
them."

"Good show," Atkins chuckled. "You had me fooled,
just about. But I knew if you were an old friend, you'd
know about them and war."

Fairclough didn't look away from the picture. "Yes?"

"Their girl, Diana, told me that they began all wars. I
believe her."

Fairclough barely caught this comment. "I've been
there," he said.

"France?"

"Yes," Alan whispered, almost to himself. "That
cave."

Rupert Lewis was the name of the man at the club who
had first mentioned what Crown possessed. Fairclough got
hold of him through some easy connections--the Rafael
Finches, with whom he dined occasionally, and with
whom he often entered New York's seedier S&M clubs
for a weekend of inspiration. On the phone, Fairclough
asked, "Did your brother ever sell that summer place of
his?"

"You have some memory," Lewis said on the phone,
obviously barely recalling their conversation. "No, and
now his widow can't seem to unload it either. It has some
structural faults from a tropical storm three years back.

It's quite grand, really, but his property is probably more
valuable than the house itself. It takes up most of a small
island. Less than a hundred acres. Interested?"

"Very," Fairclough said. "Make that extremely."

The next afternoon, Alan Fairclough drove up from the
city, taking 95 the whole way, past the usual and better- known turnoffs where he had known others' summer
places in Old Lyme or Saybrook, Stonington, Mystic-- until he found Route 3. Then another ten miles down a
two-lane road full of potholes and bumps, shrouded from
sunlight by thick brambly trees shorn of leaves by winter.

He thought he'd made a wrong turn--then the sun, a
small cove, woods everywhere. He drove past boatyards
into what he could only describe as the most quaint New England town, still fairly untouched by New York and
Boston on either side of it, both gradually growing out
like parasitic routes. But here, an abandoned Customs
House that looked as if no one had yet thought to use it,
a public library the size of a one-room apartment, three
churches with perfect steeples, and the empty streets of a
fishing village at midwinter. It almost made him nostalgic
for something he'd never had nor wanted.

At Land's End Point, he saw the small islands off the
coast, the three Avalons, and the smallest was no doubt
where Rupert Lewis's brother's summer home ate up half
its geography.

Then, losing himself again in the narrow streets, the
clapboard and brick piles of houses along frosty lanes, he
turned towards Juniper Point, and the row of enormous
white houses that formed a horseshoe just the other side of the village. They were close enough to join with the
Borough of Stonehaven as a unified architecture, but far
enough away for luxurious privacy. These were Hamptons
mansions in an antisocial geography.

A small brass plate attached to a low wrought-iron gate
proclaimed, the shields, all are welcome, none
shall be turned away. Stables to the north of the
house, a caretaker's cottage beside the six-car garage, a
boatslip off the south end, and a lawn that was smaller
than he had expected, with no garden to speak of. But the
house, a Georgian fake, its columns too short, its windows

too large, its flourishes barely regarded ... Yet it was
magnificent. The Crown place was itself more than a feast
for the eyes and soul.

It was a face of white carved from the very landscape
that surrounded it, holding in contempt all that it held
within its gaze: the Avalon Sound, the woods, and even
Alan Fairclough in his small black Mercedes as he parked
it in the circular drive.

8

His first impression of Diana Crown, who was then only
barely five or six, was that she was rather homely and
unkempt. He mistook her for the caretaker's daughter, until
her hackles got up at this suggestion. Then she became
a little tyrant.

"I am Diana Crown, daughter of Darius and Honor
Crown, and right now, sir, you are trespassing." She still
had that little girl lisp, but her vocabulary, and the authority
with which she used it, seemed beyond her years.

Her hair was blond, but matted impossibly with some kind
of gummy substance, as if she'd been rolling in clay.

' 'Well, I am Alan Fairclough, and I'm buying the Lewis
place out on the island. I wanted to meet your father if I
may."

"Mr. Spencer Lewis?" she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Yes, the very same."

"He was a very tedious man," the girl said. He chuckled
at her words. "And just what is so funny?" she asked
imperiously.

"Not a thing," Fairclough said. "You're charming."

She gave him a slight pout, and then turned to call out
to her father. "Daddy, there's a Mr. Faircough here--"

"Clough, Fair-clough," Alan said, emphasizing the
sound.

Diana grinned impishly. "Yes, I know. I was playing

with it. I prefer Faircough." As Alan Fairclough stood
there, listening for the sounds of Darius Crown's footsteps,
the little girl turned back to him, staring up at him
soulfully with her nearly transparent blue eyes. "Last
night I dreamed you'd come here, Mr. Faircough. I
dreamed that I was standing up in my bedroom and I saw
you driving up here in your black car. Only it was a nightmare.

Someone else got out of the car."

"Oh?" he asked, wondering if she had ever felt much
pain in her life yet, or if the pleasure of it was to come
as she reached adolescence. "And who was it who was
driving my car?"

"The Devil," she said. "But he looked like you. His
eyes were like yours."

"I'll tell you," Fairclough chuckled. "He's a distant
relative, from my mother's side. No wonder you saw a
resemblance."

That had been years ago, and Alan still felt the chill of
that first meeting with Crown and his family. The slow
beginnings of trust that grew between them. Alan bought
the Lewis place and fixed it up and found himself living
more and more on the island, spending time visiting the
Crowns in the summer and at their midwinter holiday.

He showed them the image that had been burned into
the stone in the French cave, and they in turn showed him
their secret, a treasure more valuable than all the riches
in Christendom.

And he taught them the words of bondage, and what
language their treasure understood.

Only Fairclough's appetite as well as his many financial
dealings drew him back to cities, to London, Rome, New
York, to the places of teeming masses where a half dozen
or more bruised youths or violated maidens would not
cause more than a raised eyebrow ... where he could

practice his form of spiritual growth in relative anonymity ...
But the Shields, and the Crowns, always called for him
in this little borough of darkness.

What he helped them do.

The atrocity, the glorious atrocity, the use and misuse
of power beyond the sphere of human endeavor--he was
part of something greater than anything any man had ever
been part of.

If it took and held, as it seemed to be doing, the world
would transform and slough off its old tired skin.

Alan Fairclough would shepherd the new age into being.

10

From the Diary of Alan Fairclough
Seventeen Years Earlier

I felt only impatience as Crown led me into his study. I
wanted to see. I wanted to experience. But he told me that
he had matters to discuss with me first. The usual talk, the
suspicious glances. My assumption is that Crown believes
the bullshit he's spouting, his falling back on Judeochristian
mythos, his reliance on words like Satan and Fiend, as if this could possibly describe what his treasure
held. He is perhaps a madman, and his immense wealth
has separated him from his fellow men. He believes his
own hogwash. He has even created a chapel for it. He
says that it remains trapped by the symbols of religion, but
he must be mistaken.

If it is trapped, it is for some other purpose. For nothing
in the world could hold this creature if it needed to escape
this house.

Finally, after showing me the ancient drawings of Hell
and Heaven and the conjuring of demons and all the ar112

cane foolishness that Crown in his megalomania believes,
he took me into the chapel.

I can only describe the emotion that held me in its thrall
as I entered that sanctuary. Fear? No.

Pure terror. 1 felt as if I were a child again, a little boy
walking into some great and mysterious cathedral.

Crown has the accoutrements of his belief strung around
what once must have been a quaint family chapel.

But I barely noticed the perverse nature of the place.

Instead, there it was. Caged and held like some sideshow
freak.

I spoke the ancient language known only to those most
Holy Sisters, and who knows who before them.

The celestial language of demons and gods and all those
who are the fire at the heart of the cave and are not the
shadows dancing about it.

Its golden eyes opened and watched me as I stepped
nearer. My bowels released involuntarily, and I felt a
shudder of electric energy shoot up my spine. My nose began
bleeding, but I didn't bother to wipe at it with a handkerchief.

I felt suspended.

For a moment, I felt disembodied and could not be sure
that my feet touched the ground or that I was even
breathing.

All sound ceased.

Should I write here of the great sorrow in those eyes?

Of the weariness, and yes, even fear, but most of all, the
sorrow?

And in that sorrow something more terrifying than this
vision of a creature from either nightmare or fantasy.

It began speaking with my dead father's voice.

What was it, what did it show me, what did it say?

All this it destroyed within my memory, and all I'm left
with is the image burned indelibly in my mind after this
first encounter.



The picture that he could not remove from his brain,
through no matter how many sleepless nights, nor during
those nameless hours before the first sunlight when all the
world seemed in the same state of sublime panic that he
felt within, that picture conjured itself in the blackness
whenever he shut his eyes.

A man screaming from a great oak tree, red sparrows
pecking at his palms, feet, and eyes. Upon his head, a
crown of fire.

It was not until much later, replaying this image in his
head like a dreaded movie, that Alan Fairclough recognized
that the man on the tree was himself.

Chapter Eight
In the Summer House

"Can't you stop it?" the young woman gasped, as the
servants held her down on the bed. She was trembling,
her body spasming, sweat pouring off of her. Her back
arched, and her blouse was shredded where she'd clawed
at herself before they got to her. "Can't you stop it?" she
began shouting, her voice soon going hoarse. "Somebody
stop it!"

Her father stood over her, wiping a sheen of perspiration
from his brow with a handkerchief. "Please, Diana,
it will pass. You must let it pass."

"It's burning me," she cried, her arms breaking free
of those who held her down. Tears streamed down her
cheeks. Her skin flashed with an ashen glow. "Daddy, it's
burning me! Get it out of me! Why can't you get it out
of me?"

Her father stepped forward with his handkerchief and
pressed it against her lips. Her eyes went wide with terror
as she looked up at his calm face.

"You must fight it. Keep it in. You have to."

"It wants out!" she screamed.

Then he stuffed the handkerchief into her mouth, gagging
her.

Chapter Nine
Nightmare

Stony awoke in a sheet-soaked fever, the sweat so filmy
and thick it was like pond scum. Someone was whispering
a phrase over an dover, and he realized with a start that
it came from his own lips. He felt a tickling around his
nose, and when he felt it, he also felt the blood that
dripped from his nostril to his lips. Grabbing a Kleenex
from the box on the windowsill, he wiped at it. Shit. He
sat up in bed, the end of the dream, just a hypnogogic
trace, left hanging over him like a spiderweb:

A memory of being four years old, and having cut himself
accidentally with his brother's hunting knife while he
was playing with it. But the blood didn't terrify him, what
terrified him was that he thought he saw a small fire burst
from his skin, from his blood, a momentary flash. Then it
was gone.

He sat up the rest of the night, unable to sleep. He
looked out over the shingled rooftops of the neighboring
houses, out beyond them to the sea, to its vast darkness.

The light of the moon cut across it, like yellow lightning,
and the word that he uttered seemed at first alien to him.

It was the word he'd heard when he was half in the dream,
the word that he'd said on waking. He said it three times
like an incantation, as if it would bring comfort to his
thoughts. "Moonfire," he whispered, "Moonfire, Moon
fire.' ' Something in the word itself terrified him, as if it
were something more than a phrase from a favorite comic
book. As if it insinuated something to him, something
about the world around him that lay just beneath its surface. Moonfire fuels the world. The thing that destroys the
Storm King is the very thing that flows in the veins of all
creation.

At fifteen, he felt again like a very small boy, not like
the man he knew he was becoming. What was a man
anyway? A walking erection? A fur-covered caveman?

His father? Sometimes Stony wondered what the hell it
meant to grow up and be a man when he still felt like a
little kid on the inside half the time.

He got out of bed, pulled on his briefs, and went to use
the bathroom. In the bathroom mirror, he looked at the
teenager in the mirror and wondered why the hell the little
kid from long ago wasn't gone yet from his features. One
final wipe at the last of the blood beneath his nose.

Moonfire, he thought. Christ, all this stress is getting
to you. Lourdes is pregnant, your school grades are dropping,
your parents are assholes, and you're having nightmares
like there's no tomorrow.

The words of his English teacher came back to him: "These are the best years of your life."

If these are the best years, Stony thought, shaking his
too long hair in the mirror, looking at the last bits of
Kleenex still stuck underneath his nose, what the hell is
the rest of it gonna be like?

It was as if a threat were contained within the word,
but he could not decode what that threat might be.

In the back of his closet, he found the old half-empty
pack of Camels that he hadn't touched for over twelve


weeks. He had promised Lourdes he would never touch
them again, but this was different. He wasn't going to get
through this night without some nasty little crutch.

He lit one, and inhaled deep. It was good. It burned in
his throat. The nicotine kicked in, and he coughed. Then
he put the damned thing out. Even a cigarette wouldn't
do it for him. His head pounded, and he felt ancient.

He watched the moon until the first light of day came
up.

PART TWO
MOONFIRE

"As the Outcast held up the metal sphere, a curious

light came from within. 'Weep, O Storm King! I hold

the mastery of the cosmos! Behold, THE

RADIANCE!'..."

from The Storm King: Champions of Darkness, Vol. 6

Chapter Ten
Initiation into the Mysteries


All human tragedies are tragedies of innocence waking.

Stony spent most of September brooding, when he wasn't
delivering papers and groceries and going to school. He
felt as if he were living underwater at the public school
over in Copper Ferry, a good five miles out of town. He'd
sit in class, nod his head during Geometry, doodle during
American History, watch his lab partner do all the chemistry
assignments and then just copy from his notes, and
pretty much sleepwalk from one end of the long corridor
to the other. Half the time in gym class, while he was
running cross-country, his mind was elsewhere, off in a
private zone of worries and musings about raising a kid,
or aborting a kid, or just ignoring the whole damn thing.

When the bells rang between classes, he no longer saw
the individual students, he saw the sea, the melting tide
of faces, intoxicated with secrets or half asleep and moving
zombie-like from English to Geometry to Spanish--

through the dingy, dirty halls, their giddy excitement at
some scandal of adolescence, their surliness, their many
faces making one face. Even his old best friend Jack Rid
ley was lost in the crowd, and he shunned talking too
much to anyone. And there, among all of them, Lourdes
Maria. Her face, the first time he'd seen her, the tan of
her Spanish and Portuguese forebears, the hair dark as
night, and her lips sweet. He was still wanting her. Her
yellow sweater, and the small gold cross on the slender
chain around her neck ... But now, in the sea of others,
between classes, he turned away from her, from the one
he thought he had loved but now knew he had destroyed.

Stony felt caught between a dream and a reality too complicated
to handle.

Lourdes finally grabbed his arm one day, and he felt
like he might wake up.

"We need to talk," she said. He could barely look at
her. He resisted, and instead looked at her hand as she
grasped him. Her fingers, with their red nails, the two
rings on her finger--the other grandmother had given her,
the one that she had bought for twenty dollars at a flea
market in Mystic ... the olive cast to her hand ...
Stony looked at her for only a second, but as soon as
he saw her eyes, those dark stones brilliant with an inner
sun, and the curve of her lips, bright red lipstick glossing
them, he could not look away again.

"We do?" he said, feigning good humor. He still loved
her. He felt that in his heart. He knew he loved her. But
he also knew that her having a baby meant that what he
wanted his life to be, the dream of what he wanted his
life to be, was not going to happen. What was going to
happen: He would work at the cannery or on the lobster
boats like his dad, and he'd stink of fish and come home
to some cramped apartment or worse, a trailer out by
Route 63--the trailer park nicknamed The Lightning Rod
of God because of the way it always got destroyed during
the frequent summer hurricanes--Lourdes would be pre124

maturely old by twenty, there'd be another baby, he'd be
in a prison of his own making.

Still, he loved her, and he wanted to try to find a better
dream for the two of them. He followed her outside, and
they sat along the concrete steps overlooking the blacktop
where the ninth graders were doing calisthenics.

Lourdes pressed her hand in his. ' 'You're afraid of all
this, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "I know I love you. I know that."

She leaned against him, kissing him on the cheek.

"Good. I love you, too."

Silence. She let go of his hand.

"You haven't come over much in the past few days,"
she said.

Another shrug. "I had a lot to get done."

He could practically feel her trembling, even though
they were not touching.

"I found out something today," she said.

"What's that?" he asked.

"I was wrong."

"Huh?"

"I was just late. That's all."

"You mean ..."

"Yeah. It's not what we thought." Then she amended
this. "What / thought."

For the first time in a week, he looked in her eyes again.

He felt like he'd been a jerk. He was happy, but something
inside tugged him downward. He'd shown his true
colors. Yellow. Cowardly. Chickenshit. She shaded her
eyes with her hand--from the sun, not from his stare. He
wished she'd smile. He wanted her to smile and throw
her arms around him.

"I guess you're thrilled, huh?" she said.

"No," he shook his head, throwing his arm around her.

' 'I guess I was just scared. I mean ... I didn't know what I was going to do."

"Me neither," Lourdes said. "My father would've

killed me. Thank God, huh?" He thought her eyes were
getting watery, and knew it had been a terrible experience
for both of them. Dumbass! Stupid! Two idiotic kids getting
in trouble. Thank God she wasn't pregnant!

"Yeah," Stony said, and tossing his head back he
stared up at the cloudless blue sky. "Thank you, God!"

Then he kissed her. "Do you think I was acting like a
jerk?"

Lourdes shrugged. "A little. I guess I would've too.

But it's different when you think it's inside you. It must
be hard to understand if it's not inside you."

At that moment, Stony felt alive again. Engaged in life,
where he had disengaged two weeks earlier, when she'd
first told him. "I really do love you. I was just trying to
figure out how we were going to handle ... all this
shit ..."

"Let's not talk about it again," she whispered. "I need
to get back to English. See you on Friday?"

Stony nodded. As she got up, he grabbed her hand
again. Squeezing it. Something seemed cold when he
touched her.

He looked up at her face. "Are you telling the truth?"

She turned away and walked back into the building.

Van Crawford, hanging out on the steps of the Package Store on Water Street in Stonehaven, tossed back a Pabst
Blue Ribbon, neatly wrapped in a small brown bag. His
buddies Del and Rich the Roach took turns watching for
Officer Dennehy, and then swiped the can of beer and
passed it back and forth.

"I need some pussy, bad," Del said, wiping the sweat
off his neck, watching one of the local girls go by in her
daddy's Volkswagen. "It's been two weeks."

"Bullshit," Van laughed, making another grab for the
can of beer. It was empty, so he tossed it in the trash and

reached into the green backpack resting on the pavement.

"Like you ever get any." Then, as he popped up the tab
on the can, he saw her, walking out of the Stonehaven
Country Store, a basket in her arms, her dress all of summer
and sheer audacity--for he could see through it to
her creamy thighs, and her breasts, too, like twin scoops
of ice cream.

"Who the fuck is that?" he heard Rich ask, but Van
was already transported--his heart beat fast, his tongue
shriveled, and his dick seemed to ache with a longing he
didn't know a body part could have.

She had nearly blond hair, to her shoulders, and eyes
like blue stones, and a set of thick lips, juicy lips, and
confidence--a sexual confidence, he could tell just by the
way she walked, the way her head stayed high, the way
her posture was relaxed but perfect. Her lips made him
want to fuck her. There was no other reason for lips like
that.

She had legs that were near perfection, and where her
waist was narrow, her hips were wide. She looked like a
sexual thoroughbred. To him, she looked like the whore
bitch of the universe, the one who could take in all of
him, drink him in, and he would never be tired of it.

"Jesus, look at her," Del gasped.

Van actually dropped to his knees, holding the beer can
in both hands like a holy relic. "Oh sweet Mother of
God," he said. "Bless the fruit of your womb. Jesus. Jesus."

He grabbed his balls with one hand, looking up.

"Man, I want some of that."

She was a stranger to town, probably a tourist. A day
tourist. Someone from New York. A model, maybe. No,
better than a model: a wet dream with legs. "Who the
fuck is she?" Van asked.

"She's a Crown I think," Del said. "I never saw her
much, but when I was a kid, remember? Didn't you ever
see her and her weirdo family out on their boat?"

Van shrugged. "A rich bitch too. Cool."

His buddy Rich whispered, "Man, she's trouble. Leave
her alone. She's a Crown. They're bad."

"Yeah, fuck you," Van muttered.

And then she stopped, watching the boys.

Van closed his eyes, almost embarrassed.

When he opened them, she smiled at him. It was a
blessing, all right.

She smiled and nodded, as if she knew what he was
thinking.

As if she knew what he was thinking, and it was all
right with her.

He got up, dusting off his jeans, passed the beer to his
buddies, and trotted off across the street.

Picture this:

You're a horny seventeen-year-old boy and you are
used to the dregs of teen girldom, of girls that lie deathlike
on soiled mattresses while you slobber and push into
them, of girls who smell like the docks, of girls whose
makeup smears and beneath it you see the chapped lips,
the small eyes, the skin not quite mottled, not quite
smooth ...
Girls like Brenda Whitley with her uneven boobs, and
her barnacly taste, and her way of whining when you get
to third base ...
And then you see a girl who looks as if she just stepped
out of a Hollywood movie, with a nearly perfect body,
with sexual confidence, with an aura about her that's like
fire from the moon. Hormone is her perfume and what lies
at that goal there, that place you want to get into, is
nothing less than the garden of paradise.

You think: Maybe she will get me out of this miserable
existence.

"What's your name?"

"Diana."

"Diana what?"

"Crown."

"Yeah, I guessed that."

"You know my people?"

Van almost laughed. The way she said, "You know my
people?" It was as if she was talking about a tribe rather
than a family. Rich people were so different. All the summer
people were. They weren't from the same world as
Van and his family and the other families who lived in
town year-round. They occupied the same world, but they
weren't from it. Summer people were always like that.

They were from New York or Washington or even England
sometimes. They didn't have boats; they had sloops.

They didn't have maids; they had servants. They didn't
have money; they had wealth. And they didn't have a
home, but homes. Homes everywhere. One for work, one
for summer, one for winter. The Crowns were like that-- the Crowns were rich. A Crown had once stolen money
from a railroad in the north in the late 1800s, and then
another Crown had bootlegged liquor from Canada, and
another Crown had even funded part of the Nazi Party in
the '30s. There had once been a picture of Frederic Crown
in Life magazine, standing with Adolf and Eva, and the
caption read: "The Crown Prince spends Easter with the
Fuehrer." This had been meant to discredit the Crowns,
but in fact, it barely touched their lives. They profited
from the war, they profited from the peace. The Crowns
even set up a Jewish Refugee Fund in 1945, and then in
1960, Michael Crown reopened the textile factories on the
Monangetowga River in Pennsylvania, and produced the
popular Crown Cotton Shirt in no time. They were different
from the rest--everyone in Stonehaven knew it.

They were a family with power beyond the ordinary doings
of mankind. They owned property all over. Van
heard that they owned half the shops on Water Street,
maybe all of them.

And here, Diana Crown, in all her monied glory, her
hair swept by pearl and her breasts raised in cups of gold.

He could barely see anything that resembled a real girl to
him, since the girls he was used to didn't have the shine
to their faces, or the hips that begged to be squeezed in
his filthy hands. She looked not only like class and style,
she looked like she knew why God had given her this
body, these tits, these lips, the fire he saw in her eyes.

Van had had poor girls and middle-class girls before,
many of them--he was used to seducing all the local girls.

He'd been unsuccessful more times than not, but there
were always a few, the Brendas and Mary Lynns of the
world he knew. He had never gotten into the panties of
girls like Diana Crown. As far as he knew, there were no
other girls in his limited knowledge of the world that were
anything like this Diana. This earthy vision, with the purity
of good genes and some inner intelligence, all bound
up in a package of hormonal vampirism. That's what she
was: a vampire. He sensed it. She wanted what boys like
him could give a girl: not money, not prestige, but the
flesh heat that Van dreamed of giving her.

And here she was, presenting herself to him. So easy.

So available. So fuckable.

"I worked for your father one summer." His voice
deepened, and he showed his appreciation for her beauty
by looking down to her feet and then back up to her face.

There were only two places he cared about, and they both
looked delicious.

"You did," she said.

"I thought your family left after Labor Day."

"Some of us did. Some of us stayed. What's your
name?"

"Van Crawford."

"Van Crawfish?"

"Funny. You're funny, Miz Crown."

"Don't call me that," she said, stopping. "Diana. Call
me Diana."

"Sure, Diana. Sure. How's the house?"

"Fine."

"You going to stay through the winter?"

"No," she said. "Just till November First."

"Sure," he said. "Just till it gets cold. You summer
people."

"Yes," she said, with a formality that irked him. He
wanted to throw her down right then and there and tear
her summer dress off, covering her face, and expose her
thighs, just holding them apart with his hands. He would
squeeze silver coins from her loins.

"You're thinking something, aren't you?" she asked. "I like a boy who thinks. How old are you, Van Crawfish?"

"Seventeen. Almost eighteen. Eighteen in two months.

December Third."

"That's a magic age," Diana Crown said. "How old
do you think I am?"

"Maybe twenty?"

"I could be," she said. "Here, let's go to my car. I'll
need help with the groceries. Mind if I hire you for an
hour or two?"

Van shrugged.

"I'll pay you twenty-five dollars," she said. Later,
much later, after the trip to the grocery store, after a glass
or two of wine, when she had brought him on to the
screen porch of her family's summer house, and as he
looked out over the water, she said

"No, make it thirty
dollars, if you'll take your shirt off for me."

He felt cold when she said it.

He felt October in his heart.

He began unbuttoning his shirt.

Later, when he began bucking into her, uncontrollably, as
if she were milking him, as if he were a cow that she was
drawing some strength from--but he didn't want to think
this, not while his senses were frayed and spitting electric
juice from his pores--later, when the sweat stung along
his chest as they bonded together, he felt as if there were
something that she was taking away from him. Some indefinable
piece of him, the virginity of a part of Van
Crawford that he had never been able to name. A hidden corner of his consciousness, a sprig of life, pressed into
her ice-glazed fingers that aroused him still, even while
he lay against her, spent.

"I want you," she whispered.

"You got me," he said, drawing back to look at her
sweaty beauty, the curl of her hips, the gentle curves of
her small belly, the breasts that all but cried out for his
lips. "You got me."

Chapter Eleven
Village Life, Autumn


The threat of winter so soon, not in great frozen breaths
of air, but in the fists of wind. It was October coming in,
the chill increased, the townsfolk moved a little more
slowly, but not so much as to be perceptible to an outsider.

If it wasn't rain, it would be wind, and if not wind,
then snow, and if not snow, then an overhanging miser-ableness--once winter announced its coming, there was no retreat. Other autumns might be mild clear through
Thanksgiving, but this was not to be one of those seasons.

Guff Hanlon, with his furniture business, shut the shop
down for the whiter; his sons would take the rest of the
inventory down to shops in Greenwich and Rye for the
winter, selling them off at half price to the dealers. Guff
then went to his winter job, as assistant librarian at the
Stonehaven Free Library, which was all of two small
rooms beneath a dome at the edge of the town Common.

Guff was probably the tallest man in Stonehaven, at least

for the months after Labor Day and before Memorial Day.

He was six foot four, and strapping, even at forty-six, a
barrel chest and a constitution like an ox, that's what Doc
Railsback always said. "You'll live till you're a hundred
and three, just like your grandfather," Doc would say, and
Guff would wonder how that might be, since his grandfather
had been down at Yale-New Haven hospital on
machines for the last twenty years of his life. Guff's father
had been lucky--cut down in his prime, hit by a bus in
front of Grand Central Station in New York in 1961, a
healthy man, gone at fifty. That was the way to go.

But Guff knew in his heart he'd end up like his grandfather,
for his life was without event. He worked in his
woodshed building furniture, he worked at the library because he loved books so much, he worked at home with
his wife, keeping her calm through all the things she worried
about, and he worked keeping his sons, both in their
twenties, employed and active so they didn't run off and
be lazy good-for-nothings the way Guff had for a good
ten years before he straightened himself out.

"Well, good afternoon, Guff," Fiona Mcallister nodded
to him from behind the front desk at the library, as
he slammed the screen door behind him, then shut the
thick oak door against the slight wind.

Guff nodded. "Fi, good to see you."

"How's Marcy?"

"Just good. And Alec?"

"Just good, too," Fiona said.

"I guess I need to go down and clean up the stacks,"
Guff said matter-of-factly, his folksy New England way
of speaking sneaking out as if this were a hook for a fish.

"Yes," Fiona nodded. Then, she removed her wedding
ring, setting it inside a small card catalog file.

She always did this when she followed him down to
that dark musty room below, where they made love as
passionately as they could before he had to clean up, and
she had to return to help someone check out a book.

James and Alice Evarest sat in front of the Evarest Bakery,
on the small green bench. She had a small rhinestone
studded calculator on her lap, and was totalling the week's
grosses, while James, his white hair covering half his face,
smoked his pipe and noticed that the shingles on the barbershop
across the street were falling loose, and he noticed
that kids just didn't play football in the streets the
way they had last year. Their afternoons were ones of
boredom, and James often felt as white and unnatural as
the flour that powdered his apron and shirt. The barber,
David Smith, known as Cutter, busily sawed at the thick
tresses of Mike

"The Mule" Mueller, getting him down
to a military buzz because Mike wanted to go to the Coast
Guard Academy down in New London in another year,
and he wanted to start looking the part.

The Railsback Butcher Shop, on the corner, was probably
the liveliest place, because before five, the business
was as fast and furious as at the Package Store down at
the other end of the street. Housewives and the unemployed
lined up on the sidewalk--it was Friday, and
Butch Railsback, cousin to Doc Railsback, who was also
second cousin once removed to Stony Crawford's mother,
Angie, was all decked out in his bright white T-shirt and
old ship's cook's white pants, but his huge apron that
covered him thigh-to-neck was already bloodied in the
battle of meat.

His great arms were muscled like a stevedore in overdrive,
and he wielded the cleaver freely across the chopping
board, turning a once crimson steak into the thinnest
of slices for Mrs. Partridge's Steak Diane that she was
making for Father Rimmer for Friday night dinner at her
house with the Prayer Meeting Group. Butch was thirty
six and gorgeous to the town's women, as only a muscled
and cocky hunk can be, and perhaps it was the spraying

blood of the meat, or the gentle way he took their orders
--for his voice never rose higher than a masculine
whisper when he asked, "And what would ya like wit'
dat, Mrs. Partridge?" He had the good looks of his Polish
mother, who had been a blond and ravishing beauty,
trucked over from Albany by his father sometime in the
1950s, and Butch was a poster boy for meat and dairy
consumption--even his one lazy eye, the left eye, with its
milky blueness, could melt the heart of most of the
women and some of the men who stood in the line. Chop!

Chop! The cleaver to the block, the meat laid out, or
pounded down with his mallet, making the chicken soft,
the meat tender, and the pork edible. This was a town
thick with fish, so butchered mammal was prized like
gold. No wonder Butch was one of the wealthiest young
men in town.

When Angie Crawford made it to the front of the line,
she said, "Is there any good lamb this week?" She held
her purse in front of her, demurely, and tried not to glance
at the pretty-boy face. Butch here was eternally young,
for the image of who he was at this moment, this crossroads,
was burned deeply and painfully into all who beheld
him.

Butch leaned forward, tipping his white cap, scratching
just beneath the shock of strawberry blond hair that fell
across his forehead. ' 'You want good lamb, huh? I maybe
might have a little, yeah, sure," he said, his accent thick
and sharp. He sounded like a thug from Boston. "How
much you want? I got a good side in da back."

"Oh," Angie said, "Nothing that big, maybe ...
maybe a shoulder and a good leg."

"Sure," he said, but it was always

"Sho-ah," and it
never seemed a word with him, but an expression of an
ox pawing the ground. "Hold dat t'ought." He held his
finger up, and went over and grabbed a clean blade from
his rack. Turning his back to his audience, Butch opened
up the walk-in refrigerator, and then walked down a hall136

way. He opened another door, but this was as far as Angle,
or any of the others waiting in line, could see. Butch
Railsback did not exist beyond the front counter.

When he returned to the front of his shop, he had a
shoulder all wrapped up. "Don't got no leg right now.

Might try back on Tuesday."

"A shoulder's fine," Angie said, opening her purse to
root around for her cash. "Just fine."

"How're dem boys a yours?" Butch made small talk
as he rung up the order on the register.

"Van is thinking of UConn next year," she said, fully
believing the lie. "Stony's okay. He gets in some trouble
sometimes."

"You can't be a boy wit' out getting' in trouble, Miz
Crawford, 'specially when dey're young like dat. Dey're
like spring lambs, all hoppin' around." Butch nodded,
passing the package across the curved counter to her.

"You send him 'round 'ere if he needs some toughenin'
up. Next!"

The Doane sisters, Alice and Mary, were out in their
garden digging up bulbs and gathering up the broken clam
shells that the seagulls had dropped onto the paved walkway.

Their backyard ended abruptly at the seawall, and
the inlet, still calm and glassy, was packed with cormorants
and seagulls floating lazily on its surface. Alice Doane
had a little used-bookshop at the front of their shared
dwelling, but it was always closed after Labor Day--still,
the occasional book fancier bothered them into opening it
up for a few minutes.

Down the other end of the shops was the Ye Olde
Shoppe, which was mainly for the summer tourists, but
stayed open through December, because it sold Christmas
decorations and spices and old-fashioned candles. Lorraine
Paglia ran it with her son, Giuliano, but most days
she ran it by herself while Giuliano sat in a corner of the
shop, brooding. One display case, over next to the potpourri
bags, all neatly tied up with ribbons, held thirty137

six beautiful one-of-a-kind candles. The Kind, the small
card beneath them announced, That the Early Colonists
of the Area Made and Which Cannot Be Found Anywhere
North of Williamsburg, Virginia, or South of Stonehaven.

This was an out-and-out lie on more than one count,
but Lorraine was in it to sell to the last of the tourists,
stragglers who got lost off old Route One and came across
the village accidentally, charmed by its old houses and
shops.

The candles were like long thin fingers, and the dappled
wax overdripped layer upon layer across itself as it formed
around the wick.

Nora Chance made these candles out at her little house
in the woods, and she'd been taught by her mother, who'd
been taught by her grandmother, and so forth, back into
unrecorded history.

It was Lorraine who, that day, wanted some more of
these, since her supply was running low, and she was
worried that Nora might start to get better offers on the
candles from one of the shops in nearby Mystic. And
since Lorraine could sell them for ten dollars each when
they cost her twenty-five cents a candle, this was not a
profit she wished to lose.

As soon as she knew the school buses had gotten back
into town, she picked up her phone and called up the
Crawford house, hoping to find Stony at home.

Which he was, having just run inside, thrown his books
down, and heard the phone ringing. Stony raced to get it,
and said, "Yallo."

"Stony? It's me," and Lorraine's voice was so distinct,
like a sharp clatter of silverware, that Stony didn't need
to ask. "I need you to ride over to Nora's and see if she
can get me twenty more candles by Monday. Also, tell
her the Christmas shawls are not in yet, and they need to

come in by November. Tell her I'll raise the rate. Okay?"

"Sure," Stony said.

"Good," Lorraine said, "and when you're back I'll
give you a tip. All right?"

"Yeah," Stony said, dropping the phone back in its
cradle. He always needed the money, from lawn mowing,
raking leaves, running errands for the shopkeepers, sometimes
even cleaning the sailboats for the rich summer folk
when he could get the work.

He glanced at his watch. Nearly four-thirty. Nora would
be having her afternoon tea.

These were the typical pursuits of a typical October day,
but as with all life, and all towns, it was not all surfaces.

Calvin Stowe, who ran a tourist boat in the summer,
spent most of his afternoon at the Fisherman's Catch,
down on Juniper Point, drinking himself under the table
before getting into his Toyota and checking out to see if
any schoolchildren were available to come over to his
house to watch his special movies. Sophia Randall, a descendant
of Jeptha Randall, who was a member of one of
four early Stonehaven families, waited desperately on the
front porch of her Captain's Walk home, a home built
first in the early 1700s, then rebuilt after the town was
burned in the War of 1812, and further rebuilt in 1901
after the Great Hurricane came through--a house and a
two-acre lot with history. Here she waited, wringing her
small, perfectly formed hands, her face glowing with fever,
her normal beauty reduced to a labored moment of
intense anguish. Then a Harley-Davidson roared around
the Common, and its rider parked it by the house. Rather
than run out to greet him, Sophia retired within her home.

The young man with the golden goatee jogged up the
walk, leaped onto the porch, and only stopped once when

he dropped what appeared to be a syringe and a small j
packet of white powder.

Down at the loading dock, where the lobsters were
dumped unceremoniously from the overflowing cornucopias
of the trawlers, four men, all under thirty, decided
the fate of the summer girl who had stayed past the season
--the girl at the Crown place, out by Land's End, the
girl they'd watched from their trawlers, the girl who'd
stood naked at her back window at five in the morning,
watching the sea, as if she were just there for them to
take.

Lyndi Potter, who lived on Cold Spring Road, almost
out of the borough, in the small clapboard house at the
north edge of the cove, had already begun kicking at her
five-year-old son, Rupert, when he didn't clean up the dog
piss in the front hallway. She raised her foot and aimed
for his gut, and her son, who was wise in ways that most
five-year-olds are not, remained silent and felt no pain.

Out on the lobster trawler marked Angela's Bounty, Gerald Crawford, Stony's dad, nursed the last of his whiskey,
and wished to hell he had never gotten trapped in
the life he had, with kids and a wife and all the weight
of the world on his bulky shoulders. All the weight of this
damned gone-to-hell world.

Stony Crawford rode his black Schwinn bike past all this,
ignorant of what lay beneath the anthill of town, and then
veered off Cold Spring Road, onto the dirt path that led
into the scraggly woods.

The smell of a dead animal was nearby, a physical heat,
as if the death of the creature created a larger life in odor.

The woods stank also of the damp of the bog and marsh.

He rode beside the ancient and crumbling stone wall that
marked off the cemetery, and finally took the left fork of
the path. As the withering grass grew higher here, and the

leaves piled as if building new earth, he dropped his bike,
walking the rest of the way.

Going to Nora's always made him feel like a kid again,
no longer saddled with adolescence, but a more innocent
and wonder-laden time. He felt the tug of adulthood at
him most days, but he still enjoyed heading out into the
musky woods to find her at her loom, or out washing her
mountain of laundry.

The tarpaper was falling in several places from Nora's
roof, and two dozen candles dangled from the roof's edge,
setting. Her great black pot boiled over with soap and
laundry, and there she stood, stirring the pot with a great
thick staff. The smell of the soap could burn, but the
breeze was going the other way, towards the bog.

"Nora!" he called, waving his hand.

Nora Chance turned slightly at the sound, nodding.

When he reached her side, she said, "I knew you'd be
coming along sometime soon. Your voice--I can't get
over it. Last year you were still my little boy, and now
you sound like a man of the world."

They sat hi the front room, Stony on the floor with his
legs crossed, his back to the warm potbelly stove, Nora
in her rocking chair. In her lap, the freshly made candles.

She rolled each candle into several squares of tissue paper
while she spoke. "I got an October story for you, Stony.

You know the story 'bout the resurrection?"

"You mean Jesus?" Stony asked, almost sullenly.

"No, not that one. I mean the resurrection right here in
Stonehaven cemetery. Happened in 1746. My great
grandmother told me this story on her deathbed. She had
heard it from her grandmother, who worked the Randall
and Crowninshield places back then, and she was just a
little girl when it happened." Nora nodded to herself as
if she were just being told the story for the first time.

"Yes, that's right. Something happened back then. Nobody's
liked to talk about it since, although you can bet
some people in town like the Doanes and the Mainwarings
and the Randalls and even the Slatterys know the story,
'cause no one forgets this story once it's in their blood.

It's always in October, like now. You ever hear of the
Reaper?"

"Sure. The Grim Reaper."

"No, boy, I mean the Reaper who used to live out at
Juniper Point. He owned most of the land out there, and
he was called the Reaper because he looked like Mr.
Death most of the time. Pasty white face, gaunt like a
skeleton dug out a hundred years after he was buried. He
married a gal from up in Marblehead, brought her here
back before the Revolution. She was a sickly thing, and
they thought when she was gonna have her baby that she
was gonna die. They spent three nights tending her while
she gave birth, but that little baby near ripped that frail
gal up and down like a bayonet, and they had to use
knives--it was something awful. I heard that the folk in
attendance fainted at the sight of what they did to that
little gal just to get the baby out. Story was that a farmhand
couldn't take her screams no more, and came up to
the bedroom like he was possessed and raised his scythe
over her belly, just ripping her open and pulling that baby
out. The baby was all twisted up and upside down, his
head turned, his legs misshapen. His gal survived that
night, stayed in bed from then after. And the baby--it
was a little imp of a thing, and from its first day would
only drink one thing from its mamma's breast, and it
weren't milk, oh no. The stories are terrible, Stony. Terrible.

You want to hear more?"

Stony nodded. "Yeah."

"Good. Go make us both a cup of cat's claw tea, and
I'll tell you the rest when it's steeping."

Stony rose, and went to put on the tea. "How can
someone live who's been scythed open?"

"It happens, boy," Nora said, stretching her fingers in
the air above her head. "I get so tired sometimes, working
all day. Know how old I am?"

"Sixty?" he ventured.

Nora let out a big belly laugh. "No, not even close.

Older than these woods sometimes. That's what I feel like.

You getting the jar of tea?"

Stony glanced up at the crude wooden shelf, packed
with jars full of jams and herbs and roots. He grabbed the
cat's claw jar, and dumped some of it in the clay pot that
Nora used for tea.

"How's that gal of yours, anyway?" Nora asked.

"She's okay."

"That's it? Okay?"

"Yep."

"You still cotton to her?"

"Sure."

"You know about nature and how to avoid it?" Nora
asked.

"You mean like birth control?"

"I never said nothing of the kind," Nora said, shaking
her head. "I mean nature. It always gets you into trouble."

"Sure," he said. When the tea was steeping, he brought
her cup over to her. "Tell me about the baby."

"Oh, the Reaper's baby? It was something fierce," she
said, her voice sinking into her familiar storytelling cadence.

"That baby wasn't satisfied with his mother's
milk, it had to suck her teat till blood run out of it. It was
an abomination more than it was a baby. Old Reaperman,
he accused her of sleeping with the Devil or some such
nonsense, and took her to the tribunal over in Copper
Ferry, which back then was called Copperfield, on account
of the farmland near the water. There she was, this gal
who was always fainting and sick and practically no blood
in her, and there was that Reaper, holding up his baby
Reaper with its snarls and sharp little paws and the way

it was suckled with blood. They drug that gal off and
hanged her up on Gallows Hill near Hartford, and the old
Reaper went back to his house here in town and shot
himself through the head with a little flintlock pistol. He
didn't die, but lived for a few more years. The hands, they
said that he had wanted to kill the baby too, but something
human in him hadn't. The hands, they raised the baby out
in these here backwoods, and nobody ever saw that baby
again as far as townfolk knew. And then, one October-- years later, when the Old Reaper was living up at the
house on High Street, with his brother--a man came into
Stonehaven. Well, it wasn't really a man. It was a thing-- not much taller than a six-year-old boy, and all hunched
over, and it stank like the bog, and it half crawled and
half walked. It came up to that old mansion, and there
was Old Reaper, Old Mr. Crowninshield, sitting in a chair,
half his own body frozen, his mind barely there. And he
knew. He knew it was his son, come back for him. Come
back to punish him for what he did to the boy's mother.

Come back for revenge. Reaper tried to cry out to his
nurse, who was in the kitchen preparing a sandwich for
him. This was in broad daylight, in the afternoon. People
saw him, the young man. They say he had little horns on
his head, but you can't believe everything you hear. No,
he may have been deformed, but he was a man. And he
went up to his father. His father was shivering like he was
seeing a ghost. And that young man, all hunched over,"
Nora said, her eyes widening despite their milky whiteness,
"that son of his threw his arms over his father's
shoulders and began weeping. And his father, that awful
Reaperman, grabbed the scythe, the very one he always
kept by his side, the very one a farmhand had used to
open up this boy's mother--and that awful man brought
it against his boy's neck and slit his throat while the
young man wept for finding his father." Nora paused. She
sighed, shaking her head. "Tea's good, Stony."

"Jesus, did that really happen?"

"As God is my witness," Nora said. "The boy gave
one cry to heaven and then died in his father's arms. That
evil, evil man. My own people saw this, for some of them
worked in the house. They buried that poor boy just outside
the cemetery, which is always a mistake."

"Why's that?"

"You don't know?" Nora clicked her tongue. "This is
all Pequot land, boy. You white folks jump off your ships
a few hundred years ago, and you think you understand
the land? This ain't ordinary land. This is sacred."

"You mean like an Indian burial mound?"

Nora cackled. "No, nothing as stupid as that. Our burial
mounds are sacred, and maybe a curse or two'll come out
of them. Why do you think we let you people settle this
land? Because of your guns? Because we were nice? No,
boy, this land around Stonehaven wasn't just sacred to us,
Stony, it was magic. It was absolute magic. You can plant
anything, and it will grow. Ever notice that? You plant
corn here and it shoots up high. Now, we gave you white
folks the cemetery for your dead and the land to the water
for your borough, but we told you not to plant in this one
area. We all know about it, we know where to plant and
where not to. But you, you and your families all forgot
that. That Mr. Crowninshield, he should've known. Hell,
the entire borough back then should've known, but even
then it was thirty years after Stonehaven got settled. You
don't bury your dead where things grow. We never
have."

"You mean like the deformed guy was buried in this
magic place and he rose up alive again?" Stony asked,
half in wonder and half in wondering if she really expected
him to fall for this bullshit.

"Nothing as asinine as that," Nora said. She rose up
from the rocking chair, the tissue-packed candles hi her
hands. Her full height was nearly six feet, and she towered
almost to the low roof. ' 'Don't you know about what you
white people brought to these shores?"

Stony shook his head, half smiling, hoping she'd laugh
or grin or do something to show she wasn't getting angry.

"No, ma'am. What'd we bring?"

"The Devil," she said. "And he took root here. He
grew here just like the crops did. And it ain't ever been
the same since."

Chapter Twelve
Nora's Story


This didn't end with the Imp's burial--for that's what
they called the young man that the slaves and hands had
raised up. Imp. There was a woman in town named Mrs.
Randall--she was a coarse-minded woman who liked to
create difficulties and intrigues. She made sure that Imp
was buried in the bog, just thrown in, without ceremony. I heard she stood there, her cape across her shoulders, her
old biddy white cap covering her hair. They said she
didn't even let them weigh his body down with stones,
but just let it sink and then rise, and float again. Eventually,
it caught under the low-hanging branches of a birch,
covered with leeches sucking the last of the blood out of
poor little Imp.

And then it sank again into the muddy water and lay
in the silt.

People in town didn't much want to talk about Imp, or
of what had happened. You know how people are--once

a judgment is made, and a sentence carried out, we tend
to find ways of agreeing with it, and we build up superstitious
ideas around it. The summer went by, a swift and
bountiful season. By the time the harvest moon came up,
from sharp crescent to full, the maize and barley crops
were doing good, and the sea's harvest was plentiful as
well. Back in those days, Stonehaven still had the Harvest
Festival on the Common, with music and even a little
dancing--'course nothing like the party the hands and the
slaves and the servants had. Our people were back in the
woods here, dancing in the moonlight.

And something else came out that night to dance.

Something rose up from the bog, clothed in the slime
and covered head to toe with leeches. In his hand, the
rusty scythe that his father had used to kill him. His face
was no longer his own--it was a mask, bloated and pulled
by water and leeches and insect larvae--it was a face
without eyes in its sockets, and when he opened his
mouth, water and leaves poured forth. Yellow jackets
burst from the festering sore beneath his chin. He was no
longer just Imp, the son of that Old Reaper bastard.

He was the force of nature we knew about--we who
knew about the magic land. But not just that force, but
another, for he was born from the seed that the white man
had brought to our land: the Devil was in him, the Devil
as only my people could understand the Devil: an ancient
god That you white people hold close to your bosom, not
the opposite of your Heavenly Father, but a long-ago banished
god, a god of the Harvest of Humans.

There is a name for this god, but it is long forgotten.

He is called by many names, Stony, but he is known
by his actions.

On All Hallow's Eve, four hundred years ago, he first
came from this bog.

He was the god resurrected by the magic of the land.

God always has got to die and get reborn before he has
his true powers. Everybody knows that.

He was the god of vengeance and the devourer of light.

And he is still here in the land, hi the water, outside
the churchyards and beyond the reason of man.

Waiting for his chance.

After midnight, he came, crawling across the land with
the scythe in his mouth.

He is the father of scarecrows, come to reap the harvest
of flesh!

Stony laughed when she screamed this last part.

"What, you don't believe me?" Her voice was slightly
teasing. Her eyes were, as always, milky white. Sometimes
he dreamed that they were the warm cinnamon she
always said they'd once been. She grinned. "It's absolutely
true. My great-great-great heard it from her great
great-great and so on and so forth."

"The father of scarecrows? That sounds goofy."

"It ain't goofy. You know what scarecrows are, don't
you?"

"Sure. Dummies on sticks to scare off birds."

Nora threw her head back, laughing. "You ever see a
crow scared off by a dummy on a stick?"

Stony thought a moment. "Not really."

"That's right. Scarecrows go way back. Old words, sa
cree croix. Means sacred cross in French. They were statues
of Jesus up in the middle of the fields. They protected
the crops, at least in the Old World. But the scarecrow
ain't no Jesus. The scarecrow is older. He's thousands of
years old. He's the King that's been killed and his blood
makes things grow. He's the Magic One. He's the Halloween
Man. You got to understand that everything we
know now is as under a layer of dust. But one day, each
one of us sees clearly. I once saw--"

"You saw?" Stony said, and then regretted it.

"Yep, I used to see. I ain't been blind all my life. I

once saw a scarecrow out at the bog, let loose from its
cross, looking for his mate."

Playing along, Stony asked, "So who's his mate?"

"The Corn Maiden," Nora said, nodding her head as
if this were perfectly logical. "You can't have a King of
anything without a bride for him. That's why I have that."

She took up one of the candles, pointing it towards the
doorway. Stony glanced over at the little corn husk doll
on the threshold. "It keeps him away from my place when
he comes searching. He won't cross over a house where
the corn doll is."

"You're making this up," Stony said.

"Maybe I am," Nora chuckled, but something in her
tone did not feel humorous to him. "And maybe there's
just a bite of truth in it. But when the scarecrow sees the
corn doll, he respects her. He must die to be reborn, but
she lives and is reborn through her children. She is the
giver and taker of life. This is why male and female are
separate: strength and recklessness together is a world
beater. But they're like magnets--they both attract and
repel each other. So he won't ever cross my threshold."

"Wait. You said that this Halloween Man was the harvester
of flesh. So did he kill the Reaperman?"

"Oh," Nora's voice dropped to a reverential whisper.

"Something much worse than that."

The Rest of the Story

So after midnight, he comes crawling across the land,
the scythe in his mouth. Remember, this was both Imp
and the Halloween Man in one body--the Halloween
Man used his body to rise from the earth and the water.

Imp shoulda never been buried in that old bog, outside
the cemetery, with no blessing of any kind on his head.

So in the night, that most dreadful night of the year, he

comes, and into the twenty families; he crawls up the
stairs on all fours, leaving a trail of damp and leaves and
leeches. What he did in the night was laid out for all to
be seen on the Common in the morning. As the sun rose,
people came from their houses, victims of terrible nightmares.

And since back then all the houses of the borough
were around the Common, even those who did not leave
their houses could see the terrible handiwork of the Halloween
Man:

Strung like pigs, by their legs, twelve of the men and
women from town, the most devout, those who in church
cried out in tongues to God, those who kissed the foot of
the cross daily, those who were most godly and worshipful,
their throats slit, their blood dripping down, strung
from the two great oak trees, the ground soaked with their
blood. And between the trees a great cross had been
erected, and on it, nailed with spikes, Old Reaperman
Crowninshield--his eyes and mouth sewn horrible shut,
and his nightshirt torn open.

On his chest, carved the words:

/ came to save you

In his one hand, his left hand, tied as if a hook, was
the scythe that had butchered the villagers. This hand was
not nailed to the crossbeam.

Of course, the white people thought it was Reaperman
who had done the killing. They always thought he was
crazy, even though he was rich and mighty in the village.

But we knew. We who had been here since Man had
first been on this land. We who had avoided planting on
the Magic land, and instead planted near it, but away from
it. We who buried our dead not in bogs but in sacred,
protected earth--we knew it was the Old One, risen again
for his night in the flesh of Imp.

It was a wicked time.

It was a great stain of death on Stonehaven, that night
and morning.

And it took one of my own people to go find the body
of Imp the next morning and do the work that would seal

the Old One into that flesh until it returned to the damp
earth and slept again.

It ain't hi the history books, but that don't mean it
didn't happen just like I said it did. Or maybe, Stony baby,
it hasn't happened yet, but will one day. That's how legends
are.

"Even if you made it up, it's a great story," Stony said,
wiping his dusty hands off on his jeans. "A great story."

"I don't have to make these things up," Nora said, her
voice tinged with a serious tone that made Stony look at
her strangely. "They come to me. I heard them from my
grandmother who heard them from her grandmother."

"But I don't believe in a Halloween Man or in the
devil," Stony stated, slightly embarrassed.

"You believe in God?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I guess so."

"God ain't a guess. Either He is or He ain't."

"Well, I don't know yet," Stony said.

Nora grinned. "Good enough."

"Do you believe in the Devil?" he asked, trying to
tease her. "The horny-tailed red Devil with the pitchfork
in his hand?"

Nora stood slowly and went over to her front door,
opening it. The last of the sunlight was merely a whisper
through the tree branches along the bog beyond her property.

"The Devil ain't just one thing, Stony. He's an army.

"I am Legion,' he says. He can be a woman, too. He can
be a country. He can even be a summer's day. But the
one thing you can be sure of about the Devil: He's the
reflection of what we want."

"I'm not sure I get that," Stony said. He walked out
to stand beside her on the porch. A flock of dark birds
flew across the sky, blocking all light for a few seconds.

"You ever want something so bad you forgot everything
else?"

Stony nodded. "Do you?"

"Ah," she sighed, and her sigh was like an ache on
the breeze. "To have my sight back. To see you, the
young man you are, the boy you were, the man you'll
become. That I would want badly enough to embrace even
the Devil." Then she shivered slightly. "Next time you
want something that badly, look in the mirror and see
who's gonna be waiting there for you. Could be the Devil,
could mayhaps be the Halloween Man. Halloween's
comin' up, maybe someone here's gonna take off his
mask and show himself again, who knows?" Nora was
grinning, her eyes seeming to sparkle even with then- emptiness.

She reached out her hand. Stony took it in his. Her
hand was warm and strong. Her voice softened. "Tell me
about your girl. Why didn't you bring her? You never
bring her to see me no more."

"We've had some problems," Stony said.

"Stony," Nora said, pulling her hand from him.

"You're hurting me a little with all that squeezing."

"Sorry. I didn't know I was doing it." He wanted not
to talk about Lourdes. He wanted not to think about what
he'd narrowly escaped. About what he had wanted more
than anything else. "People think I'm nuts to like you so
much, you know that?"

"Oh yeah," Nora said, her husky voice breaking like
a wave on a rock as she laughed. "The old blind lady in
the woods who won't get a phone or electricity, she's half
black, half-Indian, and all crazy. I bet they think you're
nuts. I bet they're gonna start callin' you by your Indian
name, Crazy-Likethe-Moon."

"Maybe I am," Stony said. "Yeah, I am crazy like the
moon." He stood there with her for several minutes until
she told him it was time for her to go say her prayers.

"Do you like to hunt?" Diana asked, riding beside Van
on her steed, while he rode the mare. Van was having a
hard enough time staying on the horse. He wasn't much
of a rider, but he was not about to show her any weakness.

Not her. She wore a tan riding outfit, her dark boots as
shiny as a storm trooper's. Over her shoulder, a quiver
full of arrows, and a small bow.

Are we gonna play Cowboys and Injuns? he wondered.

/'// be the big bad cowboy coming upon the helpless
squaw. She will beg for mercy, and I will give it to her.

Give it to her. Over an dover. Give give give ...
"Yeah!" he shouted. "I love to hunt. Bagged lots of
deer over at Blue Point last year."

"What else?" she shouted.

"What do you mean?"

"What other kinds of prey?" Diana slowed her horse
to a trot, and then finally a walk. She kept perfect form
upon the saddle.

Rich bitch probably's been riding since she was three. Van watched how her hips undulated as her thighs pressed
into the saddle. Mmmmm.

"Well, shit, I've fished. I've shot some rabbits," Van
said, but kept watching those thighs. Pressing down and
in. Clinging to the horse's side.

"Little bunnies, how adorable," she said, her words
dripping with sarcasm. ' 'Brave of you. I come from a long
line of hunters."

"Girls don't hunt," he said.

"Of course not," she laughed, riding ahead of him.

"Come on, Crawfish!"

She was a bitch, but he had to follow. They had been
fucking so much, he felt drained of any will to resist her.

He wanted to be with her, inside her, around her. He hated

most of the local girls, but Diana Crown was different.

He wanted her to want him. Badly.

He pressed his heels into his horse's flanks, and the
animal took off after its companion.

When they came to the edge of the cove, she held her
hand out to indicate that he should stop. "Stay in the
shadows," she whispered, as his horse approached hers.

The cove was full of swans. It looked to Van like a
mirror with a bunch of zit pops on it, or the little flecks
that hit the bathroom mirror when he flossed once a
month. It looked like his mother's round mirror in fact,
the one she kept in the bathroom, the one that made your
face large and when Van looked in it, he could see all the
pores and zits and invisible whiskers and ugliness on his
face.

"They're like angels," Diana said. "Angels on the water."

She reached back and drew the bow from her back. It
was crudely made, and fairly small. She took an arrow
and set it, tightening the bow, her shoulders drawing back.

"Watch this," she said, letting an arrow fly.

Van thought she was magnificent.

Birds flew up, their white wings spreading as if one
great white bird were bursting upwards to heaven.

As Van watched the arrow go, he saw the girl out on
the dock.

It was that bitch who was going to ruin Stony's life.

That fuckin' cunt girl from out of the borough who had
got herself knocked up. Probably not even by his brother,
but by some immigrant boyfriend of hers.

He wished he could shoot an arrow at her.

He closed his eyes. He wished Diana would miss the
bird.

Hell, he prayed she would miss the god damned bird
and hit that bitch in the heart.

"Let's get out of here," Diana said when she was done.

Her breathing accelerated, and she had the ruddy glow

that Van had seen after he'd done her hard and good. "I
got one. Let's ride back, I want you now." Quickly, she
turned her horse around, and they raced back through the
woods, Van clinging to his saddle horn, having lost the
reins. He kept his head low, and felt that at any second,
he would be thrown to the ground.

Somehow, he made it back to the Crown place.

Somehow, he ripped her riding pants open and pressed
his face into that salt-sea moist garden that grew wild at
the center of her womb.

Chapter Thirteen
The Swan


Lourdes stood at the edge of the dock, watching the cove
as if half expecting some secret of life to be revealed to
her. Stony crossed the bridge, and waved, trying to get
her attention. They often met here, for his family didn't
like her calling, and hers often left the phone off. He
couldn't wait to hold her. It had been too long. He knew
that despite the fact that they'd had a scare about the baby,
they were lucky. Damn lucky. Look at her, he thought,
shielding his eyes from the last of the sun. The sky
sprayed pink and yellow light across the distant clouds.

The trees along the opposite side of the cover seemed
deep blue. Seven swans glided across the slightly choppy
water, colored a blue-green like marble rippling. Lourdes
wore her blue jeans and an orange sweatshirt, but might
as well have been wearing the most beautiful gown--or
nothing at all as far as Stony was concerned. He stepped
off the bridge, onto the flattened yellow grass. Moving

through the drying thickets that had, in the summer, been
blackberry tangles, now just dry twigs. In his hand, a
small flower he'd plucked from a garden on his way to
see her. The closer he got to the small dock, the more he
sensed something not quite right. Something about the
way she stood, like a statue at the edge of the water, made
him think he shouldn't give it to her. He pressed it into
his pocket, crushing it.

When he called to her, she turned and he saw, even at
some distance, the tears on her face. Later, he couldn't
remember how he'd moved from one end of the dock to
the other, but suddenly--it seemed--he was there, his
arm around her shoulder, as if time had skipped.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he asked. He felt a shuddering
from her. "What's wrong?"

She turned her face into his neck. Her hair smelled
always of spice and lavender--he would know her from
her smell. Sometimes she smelled of cigarettes, too. He
didn't like this odor, except from her, on her lips. "What
is it?"

She whispered something so faintly he barely heard.

Had she said, "I'm dead?" What flashed through his
mind was the baby they'd thought had been within her.

"It's dead?" That was what she'd said. He kissed the top
of her head.

She pointed to the water that lapped at the pylons.

Something small and white floated there--like an old
towel, thrown into the sea by some bather.

Then he saw it more clearly. It was a swan, not as large as the others that glided along the water near them. It was
dead. An arrow through its back.

"It's dead," she repeated. Her tears became a current
from her eyes to his throat as she pressed against him. "I
was feeding it." She unclenched her fists and balled-up
Wonder Bread dropped onto the docks. "Someone shot
it." She pointed across the water to the thick woods.

"Over there."

Her voice trembled, but what trembled within Stony
was not the dead swan but his love for Lourdes. "It's all
right," he said. "Probably some asshole over at the Par
kinson place. Someone should shoot an arrow at one of
those jerks." It was all he could think to say. When he
looked at the swan, its blood black in the water, its feathers
so brilliant white and somehow untouched by blood
... all he could see was that something that had seemed
so pure--something so innocent and wild--that had been
cupped in his hands, in his and Lourdes's hands, now lay
dead with an arrow through its heart.

The sun began to dimmish against the sweeping clouds.

Like dust whisked across a room, the light scattered. It
was as if the world had turned over, a restless sleeper,
and woken momentarily as Stony woke at that moment-- a millisecond of time--a photograph of her face. Lourdes.

He knew. She didn't have to say it. It was like a sudden flash of telepathy between them, or perhaps merely intuition.

You knew all along. You knew even when she lied to
you.

Lourdes was still pregnant. He was sure.

"Why did you lie?" he asked, holding her closer. Now
her tears blotted at his cotton shirt, mingling with his
sweat. The river was between them--she cried, he
sweated--and the reservoir held the truth. "Why?"

She didn't speak. She wasn't like him in that way. She
couldn't go on and on with words and phrases and well
articulated thoughts. All she had was a telepathy in her
silence. All that needed to be said was in the warmth and
tears.

Finally, "Because I was thinking of getting rid of it."

Silence.

The wind was icy and bitter, as it came down suddenly,
and then the air calmed.

"But I can't do that. I just can't."

Silence.

"Christ," he said. "What are we gonna do?"

"I don't know," she said. "I don't know." The crying
stopped. He felt their two hearts pounding together--and
then he remembered the third one--the baby. Would the
heart be pounding there, somewhere between them? It had
been four months. The baby was four months old now.

"Other people do this. All the time," he said. He
reached up to stroke her thick dark hair.

"Yeah. I guess they do."

Then she said, "I don't want us to get married or anything."

"Why not?"

"That would be dumb. We'd be divorced in less than
a year."

"Maybe," he shrugged. "Maybe not. People get married
all the time. If it lasts, it lasts. You can't predict
anything with much accuracy." He felt something overcome
him, a feeling of how good Life was, despite the
terrible parts. Despite the fact that at fifteen he knew his
life would change whether he wanted it to or not. A curious
calm came over him. He wanted her, he wanted their
child. He wanted what life was throwing at him. He loved
her smell, her warmth, and as he held her close, he
thought: / could wake up with her next to me, her face,
her smell, her warmth, every single day of my life. I could
do this. I really could.

"Shit, you can't even predict the weather," Stony
laughed, feeling the rain come down fast and furious.

"See? God is pissing on us!" The heavens opened up
with rain suddenly, a crackle of thunder, a flash of light
... pure rain began pouring down on them as they stood
on the docks. He lifted his face up to the rain, laughing
at its chill, opening his mouth to take in the drops.

"Why are you laughing?" she shouted, but began
laughing, too.

Feeling completely insane, he began dancing around
her, nothing brilliant, no steps, no special moves, just

dancing the way he felt children must dance when they're
happy. He was laughing, and she began dancing too.

The joy was absurd. He had gotten her pregnant, she
was going to have a baby, they were far too young, it
would never work. He'd probably work the lobster boats
now, no college in his future, maybe no high school graduation.

... They'd live in some tiny one-room apartment
and she'd get fat from boredom and he'd get sullen from
resentment, and they'd raise a goofy child. We can get
around that. I know we can, something within him whispered.

Nora had always said, Everything can work out fine
if you just plant your feet on the ground and look straight
ahead. Nothing is a tragedy unless you buy it a suit of
clothes and give it a free meal. Something within him told
him it would be okay, and better than okay, it would
somehow make itself work. It would fall into line. There
was a dead swan in the water, but other swans, together
two by two, far off in the cove, ignored the dead and
moved in tandem across the disturbed surface.

"Why are we so happy?" Lourdes shouted, clapping
her hands together. Her dark hair was flying side to side,
her hips moved in circles to an invisible Hula Hoop, her
grin was enormous, infectious. The world can go to hell! Stony thought. It can go to hell and we can be here dancing
on this dock.

"Because I love you!" Stony cried out, throwing his
arms up in the air, the rain pelting them.

"You look stupid!" Lourdes yelled. Her voice echoed
round. She was laughing too, drawing her hands up to her
mouth as if to stop the laughter. "You look like a fool!"

"I love looking stupid! Let me be as dumb as they
come! I dare the universe to strike me with lightning!

Come on, lightning! Hit me now!" He almost jumped into
the water, but when he got to the edge of the dock he
thought better of it. He raised his hands up, looking at the
sky as the pale blue clouds darkened above him. He
wanted to reach up and feel lightning in his hands. He

felt it all surge through him--the power of the world, the
power of his youth, the power of love. It was insane what
he was feeling, but he looked at the sky as if it held all
the mysteries of the cosmos. "I know the secret of the
universe now! I know it, yahoo! I know it! Life can do
its worst and it won't touch us!" He began to jump up
and down, rocking the dock. The dinghies tied to it
bobbed up and down. Small fish came to the surface of
the water, attacking the raindrops.

The raindrops felt fresh on his face. He closed his eyes,
face up to the sky, and opened his mouth slightly to taste
the freshness of the world. He imagined touching the
clouds, his hands clutching at their vanishing ... and beyond
them, the moisture of heaven. I am a Rainmaker! he cried out within himself. / am the Storm King! Come
on, rain, hit me with all you got! Throw the bolts down
on me and the buckets of tears and the drums of thunder! I am the Storm King, and I'm gonna bring the heavens
down on us, down on me and Lourdes and we're gonna
have heaven on earth right here and right now! I am in
love and we are gonna have a child and it will be the
most wondrous child this stinkin' piece of hellhole earth
has ever known!

Sweat all over Van's face, from riding the horse, from
excitement, from a fever that grew within him at the
thought of her touch.

"What is it you want from me?"

Diana wiped her hands across her skirt. She looked Van
Crawford directly in the eye. "What everyone wants."

"People want different things," Van said.

Diana glanced out the window, into the darkness. ' 'All I can get. It's all I ever wanted." Then she smiled. "Want
to see something?"

"Depends," Van said. "What is it?"

"Our own private chapel."

"Shit, I don't want to see a church. 'Specially after
what we just did."

"It isn't a chapel like you think."

"No crosses?"

"No Jesus, don't worry," she said. "Come on."

He followed her as she took him through the pool room,
with its wide Olympic-sized swimming pool, the billowing
cover stretched across it. Past her father's orchid
greenhouse, and the small gymnasium full of weights and
bicycles. One wall of the house was made almost entirely
of glass. The glass was warped in some way so that when
Van looked out across the dark water, it seemed to have
flecks of yellow and green light dancing on its surface.

"Come on," Diana said. "My, you're slow."

"I'm coming," he said, slightly testily. He didn't like
some girl telling him things, nagging him. His father got
that too. He did not intend to end up in that kind of life.

Diana was a rich girl with a hot body, but that was it. He
was sure that as soon as he could, he would move on to
some other local girl.

Finally, they came to a small door. It was curved in an
arch, and looked positively medieval to Van. "What the
hell kind of chapel is it?"

Diana turned, her mood solemn. "No teasing. What are
you, Catholic? Baptist?"

"None of the above. A god damned atheist," Van
chuckled. He stepped forward, slipping his arm around
her waist. He tugged her against him.

She pulled away. "You're something. Everyone is
something. You a good Christian boy, Van?"

"I don't believe in nothing," he said. "How many times do I have to tell you? All right," he finally relented,
"I believe in this." He pressed his hand down to the cleft
between her legs, feeling that part of her that he most
desired. She let out a small gasp. "And this," he said,
reaching up to press his fingers around her left breast.

Then he covered her hand in his, and brought it down to
the bulge in his jeans. "But mostly I believe in this."

He felt colder than he'd ever felt in his life, yet there
was some spark he wanted to ignite. Something had been
missing in his life up to this point. This shitheel town,
this dead existence, the way he knew where he'd be if he
just went along with things: He would be in a god damned
lobster boat looking at his old friends getting older, smelling
the fucking lobster and crab on his skin till it got into
his blood ...
Warmth emanated from her hand beneath his, and he
felt all of a fever there.

"I am your religion," Diana said, her voice turning
throaty the way it had when they'd fucked before. "I am
your church."

Her mouth pressed against his lips, swallowing his
mouth up in shimmering moisture, her greedy tongue
thrusting across his teeth as if trying to find the heat and
excitement within his body. Just as quickly, she drew back
from him. She reached her hand up and wiped her wet
lips. "Inside," she whispered.

She turned her back on him again, but his body would
not let her go. He wrapped himself around her back as
they stood there, his lips finding her delicate smooth neck.

She shrugged him off. "Inside," she repeated. She turned
the key in the door, and opened it. The door swung outward.

A musty scent assaulted him. A rush of warm air
from inside the dark chapel. "Follow me," Diana said.

She stepped into the darkness. It was too dark to see. Too
dark, but still he followed her.

He stepped over the threshold.

Diana was already lighting a third candle by the time
he walked down the center aisle between the pews. "Holy
shit," Van said. "Oh my God. Oh my motherfucking
cocksucking God."

Diana kept her eyes on the altar.

"It was a gift to my great-grandfather at the end of the

First World War. A token of appreciation."

"Jesus," Van said, feeling the piss run down the inside
of his pants leg. "Goddamn."

He closed his eyes. His mind was blank, he could not
escape the darkness that surrounded him. He began shivering
all over as if he'd been sprayed with ice water. But
within that growing pain, something else pushed at the
back of his head as if there were something in him, some
darkness, waiting to find its moment of freedom.

"Once a person looks upon it, he will never be the
same." Diana's voice faded even as she spoke, and then
it grew and he wondered how the hell she managed to be
talking inside his head.

Then he remembered how much he wanted this, wanted
this kind of experience. To break free from this village
and its small minds and the horrible existence that
doomed him to a prison of family and dead ends. The
darkness within him seeped across his mind.

Opening his eyes again, he felt the fear, like a thousand
lasers, graze his skin.

Chapter Fourteen
Our Lady, Star of the Sea


It was as if something busted inside Stony Crawford. He
squeezed Lourdes's hand, and pulled her along. They ran
laughing across the bridge, towards the Borough. Rain
pelted them like endless tears, and they were soaked to
the skin by the time they made the Common. "The library!"

she shouted, but when they got there, it was was
closed. (back in ten, the sign read.) "No, there!" he
cried, pointing to the church next to the post office. It was
Our Lady, Star of the Sea.

"Oh my God!" she said as he grabbed her hand and
pulled her. They almost slipped on the muddy grass. "I
can't! It's sacred ground!" She laughed nearly as hard as
he was, and her hand was warm within his grasp.

He drew her into the church, its inner whiteness like
the bone of some desert animal. As soon as they got inside,
they slowed, quieted by the statue of the Virgin
Mary. It stood sentinel next to the font of holy water. They

both stood there shivering before it, the chilly dampness
soaking them through.

"Oh Mary," Lourdes whispered, nodding her head
slightly, crossing herself. "You who are the blessed
mother of God, bless this child." She pressed her hand to
her stomach. Stony noticed for the first time that her stomach
was getting a little bit of a paunch. The baby was
forming. The baby was growing.

He went to her, pressing his hand over hers to feel it.

"It's a lump," he said.

Lourdes put a hand over his. "Look at Maria," she
said.

Stony glanced up at the statue. It was pure white, like
ivory. The statue's face was almost expressionless. Round
white eyes, Romanesque nose, rose-petal lips. It bothered
him, all these statues that Catholics had. It seemed idolatrous.

"I don't worship statues," he said.

"I don't either, you Protestant-atheist," Lourdes whispered.

"It's not a statue I'm looking at. It's the idea of
purity and holiness. It's a human face for that idea. Do
you believe in that?"

Stony shrugged.

"I need to know if you do," Lourdes said, applying
more pressure on his hand against her belly. "It's important
to me."

Stony closed his eyes. The idea of God or Jesus or
anything like that had always been abstract, like a cosmic
tangle of nerve endings shooting out the birth of the universe
and then pretty much staying in the background. He
rarely attended church with his mother, and his father
never went. But for Lourdes's sake, for her sense of religion,
he concentrated. In his mind, he saw a woman who
might have been the Virgin Mary, but then all the color
drained from her face until she was white as bone. ' 'Do
you really think she was a virgin?"

"I think she was pure," Lourdes said. "To give birth
to God, she had to be pure. Do you believe in purity?"

Finally, opening his eyes, he nodded. "Yeah, I do.

You're pure." He leaned forward and kissed her lightly
on the lips. Drawing back from her, pulling his hand
away, he glanced at the statue. It almost felt pagan, not
that he considered that so awful. He pulled the crushed
flower from his pocket. It was purple and red. He pressed
it into the statue's open hand. "Sanctify our love," he
said.

"Silly, she doesn't need it." Lourdes grabbed the
flower and set it up behind her ear.

Van felt the power of the universe thrust through his skin,
burning his blood, sending him wild-eyed into the rainy
night.

"The horses!" Diana shouted. "We hunt!" Her hair
twisted in the wind, practically a mane itself. Her clothes
clung to her slender form, outlining the breasts he had so
recently sucked at, the belly he'd nuzzled, the legs, so
smooth and refined, that he'd spread like she was the
cheapest whore from New London ...
"That's fuckin' crazy!" he laughed, but he raced her
to the stables. "Fuckin' nuts, it's damn insane!" He
shouted against the rain, feeling the spirit of her life overtake
his, raise him up, make him feel as if there was a
purpose to this damned existence.

He no longer felt like stupid Van Crawfish, the lout
who could never understand why his mother disliked him
so much, why his father disciplined him too harshly, why
the whole damn town wasn't on its knees to him--

He felt bigger than life itself, and here he was, with a
goddess from the summer houses, a fucking beauty, and
they were mounting horses in a rich man's stable, they
were riding out across the gravel road, through the mud
of rain, beneath the sheltering trees, great canopies of orange
and gold and yellow leaves above them, holding

back all but a trickle of rain. The lightning brought instant
daylight to the trail ahead.

Van felt like a goddamn god himself, he felt beautiful
and strong and unstoppable. Within minutes, Diana had
spotted their prey, a deer that bolted at the sound of the
horses. But Diana had her bow out, and aimed an arrow--

She let it fly, and it was the most perfect arc--

Her fingers, the bow, the arrow as it moved, and the
deer as it leapt up to dive into the brush, with the arrow
that caught its left flank. And then another arrow, then
another, and the horses seemed to know the trail of the
woods, and followed the wounded doe.

Finally, feeling as if wings were on his ankles and a
tidal wave of pure energy carried him, Van leapt down
and grabbed the doe's throat, exposing it in the lightning
flash. His hair was wild and floated in static wind, his
eyes redder than he could've known, his grip on the deer's
throat as the animal breathed its last--

"The knife!" Diana clapped, pure joy coming from
within. She was so fucking beautiful, and it was all for
her. He was going to finish off this deer for her. She had
brought the animal down, and he would glory in the kill.

He reached around to his belt, bringing out his hunting
knife. Unsheathing it, he raised the blade up. Lightning
whitened the woods around them--

The trees, for a moment, seemed to be men and women,
shrouded in cloaks, the branches and leaves their hah-,
their eyes on him as if in some solemn event--

The knife flashed as the early dark of evening returned.

He brought the blade deep into the deer's heart, once,
twice, raising it and hacking at the creature--

Blood flowed across his arm--

Diana, throwing her head back, laughing--

"More!" she cried. "More!"

Lightning flashed--

She held her hands near him to catch the spray of red.

It felt like he had struck oil deep in the creature's wound.

The torrent did not cease for several moments as the
woods went from white to black and white to black again.

His energy grew as he dropped the dead animal--his
dick got hard, he wanted her all over again. It burned
inside him, this unquenchable fire she had kindled. Both
of them, covered with the animal's blood, like wine, her
skin, her breasts ... she crawled to him on her knees and
their tongues entwined, their lips, their hands, he felt her
buttocks moving rhythmically as they coupled against the
carcass in the leaf-shattered woods as night and rain descended.

Just as he was about to climax within her, she drew
away. "No, no," she whispered, "Later. One more creature
to hunt tonight."

But his arousal began to hurt, he wanted to be inside
her, not just his dick, but all of his body, his soul ... he
wanted to stay within her wet heat and not be outside
anymore. Rage filled him, then exhaustion. He lay back
on the blood-dampened animal. "I'm too tired to hunt.

Too tired, baby."

He closed his eyes for what seemed like the first time
in days, and the darkness behind his eyes exploded--shattering
his mind--he saw demons leaping from the fires of
Hell, smelled the tortures of men, the cries of women as
they were thrown into lava pits--

When he opened his eyes to a flash of lightning, she
was so close to him that her face was out of focus. ' 'One
more hunt tonight, and then you have me forever," she
said, licking blood from his cheek. "And I have you."

Stony Crawford followed Lourdes as she passed the statue
of Mary, and went into the main part of the church. The
stained glass windows depicting the Stations of the Cross
were dark with the pelting rain. It felt so clean, the way
the rain hit the glass, the way the colors in the glass mu

tated from light to dark. It was as if they were being
washed, yet kept dry by the church. A coldness settled
into the church, dispelled only by a lingering scent of
incense. Above the altar, a great wooden cross, with a
nearly naked Jesus nailed upon it, agony across his gaunt
features. It made Stony think of Nora's story about sacred
crosses and scarecrows and the Halloween Man. Was the
carving of the man any different from Nora's tales? Could
one man, being tortured to death, actually be a god, and
not just any god, but the God? It was as hard to swallow
as the Halloween Man story. It was a nice legend, but
how could it be? How could a man be God? Men could
be monsters, men could be devils, but there was no way
in heaven or hell they could be better than other men.

Christianity was a nice fairy story. He would have to play
along with it if he wanted Lourdes to love him, but he
did not really believe in any of it. It seemed ridiculous.

Virgins giving birth. Gods being crucified and then rising
from the dead to point out their wounds. Drinking wine
and eating bread and pretending it was blood and flesh.

It made no sense at all.

Stony and Lourdes sat down on a pew, and she knelt
to pray. Then she sat back.

"Someday maybe we can get married in a church,"
she said. "If we decide that's what we want."

"I want it," Stony said. He glanced at the saints and
the windows, and no longer felt tied to the town or his
family. The church was a world where they could not
touch him. "Come on," he said. He stood up, offering
his hand. She looked at him, questioning, but took it, and
rose. They went to the railing before the altar. Kneeling
down, he said, "I take you until the end of time to be my
lawfully wedded wife."

She cracked a grin. Out of the corner of her mouth, she
whispered, "You're crazy."

"To love, honor, and cherish till the end of my days,"
he continued. "To protect and care for in sickness and in
health--"

"That's not the exact wording."

"Tid death do us part. No, till God parts us, till you
don't love me anymore, till the universes collide," he
said, and looked up at the cross.

"You don't believe in God, heathen," Lourdes said, shoving him slightly.

"If you do, I do," he said.

"I do," she said.

"I do," he grinned, leaning over and kissing her, feeling
his mouth open to her, and hers opening in return, not
devouring as when they'd made love, but sweetly, as if
inhaling each other's breath.

Lightning lit the church, the blues and reds and yellows
of the stained glass flashing for an instant.

"I better go," she said after a while. The rain had let
up, and they'd been kneeling at the altar for several
minutes. He didn't want to let go of her hand.

"I'll walk you," he said.

"No, I think maybe I need to be alone. Just to think.

We both have a lot to think about, Stony. If we get married
--"

"If? Now it's official. Before God," he said. "You,
me, and the baby. A family."

"Ah, I see." Lourdes shook her head. "You tricked
me."

"There's no divorce in heaven," he said. He helped
her get up.

Tears played at the edge of her eyes. "It's not a joke."

"No." He kissed her eyelids. "I meant every word."

"My father will kill me."

"Mine won't be too happy either."

"I mean it. He will."

"Then let's run away."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I mean it," he said. "I can borrow my mom's car.

We can get away and I can get work somewhere. I've
saved some money."

"From what?"

"All those rich people's lawns I've mowed," he
grinned. The lie hurt. But he wanted to make her confident
now. Right now.

"We'll talk about this later on."

"When later? You're beginning to show," he said.

"They'll guess soon. You'll need to see a doctor and stuff
too."

"Please," she said, wiping her tears back. "If we run
away, we'll end up back here. And it'll be worse."

"Tell you what," Stony said, and he almost could not
believe the words spilling from his mouth, but he felt an
urgency. "Meet me at Nora's tomorrow morning before
school. Maybe at seven. We can decide then, okay?"

She nodded. She looked at him curiously. "Okay. But
I'm not promising anything, Stony."

"Okay," he said. "Let me walk you home, though. We
can talk."

"No, I really want to be alone now, just to think about
all this," Lourdes said, and touched the edge of his face
sweetly before she left.

He remained behind, sitting at the railing, after she'd
gone. What was he doing? What the hell was he doing? Fifteen, married, kid, wife, responsibilities ...
He imagined his father's face, his mother's tears, his
brother's disgust ...
"Can I help you with anything?" a man asked.

Stony turned around. He hadn't heard the man come
in. Not just a man. A priest.

"Hi," Stony said, fumbling in his mind. Was it illegal
to go into a church without permission? "I was just ...
admiring your church."

"It's a nice one. We've lost a lot of the congregation
over the years to the churches down the road, but this is
one of the most beautiful ones, in my opinion." The priest
was in his forties, and a light frost of gray had settled
along his light brown hair. He walked up to the altar,
extending his hand. "I'm Father Jim."

"Stony Crawford." Stony shook the man's hand. A
very cold hand.

"I know," the priest said. "I was there when you were
born."

Stony felt a slight chill. He had lived his whole life in
the Borough and had never run into this priest before. He
stood up. "Yeah? I've heard every story in the book about
that day. How Mom was in the station wagon, and Johnny
Miracle was yelling."

"Rain coming down." Father Jim nodded. "I heard
Johnny from across the Common, and came over to help
out. But you'd already come into the world."

Stony grinned. "Well ..."

"You feeling all right, Stony?"

"Sure."

"You look a little pale is all."

"Maybe a little bit cold."

"Good," Father Jim said, touching him on the shoulder.

"Well, if you ever need any counsel, be sure to come
see me. All right? Catholic, Protestant, even if you don't
feel very Christian, we're all one fellowship in the divine
light. Do you understand?"

"Sure," Stony said. He could not wait to get out of
that church. He had never liked churches all that much,
and priests bothered him. Father Jim in particular, now
that they'd met. Father Jim had something in his eyes that
seemed less than priestly, and Stony was not sure what
that was. He just didn't want to see it again.

"Stony," Father Jim said when Stony was halfway out
of the church.

Stony turned. "Yeah, Father?"

"You look so much like your mother in some ways. It
amazes me."

On his way back home, Stony thought that was the
strangest comment of all, since he and his mother looked
nothing alike as far as he could tell.

' 'What are we hunting?" Van whispered, his tongue lapping
at the back of her neck.

Diana remained silent, crouching down beside her
horse. The rain was letting up, and the moon, nearly full,
shone across their domain of tangled vines and branches.

/ have my knife, he thought, clutching it, unsheathing it
the way she'd unsheathed his manhood just minutes earlier
and wiped it across her womb--it wasn't a pussy or
a vagina or a cunt with her--it was a womb, it was a
sanctuary there between her legs. And my knife is ready,
we will hunt! I am a hunter of all I see! he wanted to cry
out, but remained silent.

A lone figure walked along a slight ridge near the opening
of the woods.

"Our prey," Diana whispered, rising up on her
haunches, bow and arrow in her hand.

Then she did something that confused him. Her voice
was somehow inside his head. Like a mosquito wriggling
into his ear, and moving to his brain, it tickled and buzzed
at first, and then he heard her clearly--

Who do you want to kill more than anyone in the
world?

No one.

Oh yes you do, Van Crawfish, you want someone to
vanish from the face of the earth.

No.

Yes. Don't hide from me Van, tell me who it is, te//| me--

The bitch.

Who?

The bitch trying to stop Stony from having his freedom.^

Her name?

Lourdes Maria. She's a Spanish bitch from Weque^
tucket, she wants to get her claws into him and bring him]
down.

You want to kill her, don't you?

Yes! Yes I want to kill that damn bitch before she does
to him what my mother did to my father!

You want to take your knife and open her up.

Yes! I want to open up that bitch with my knife and\
make her blood spurt out like juice! I want to tear thatn
baby out of her! I want to make her taste her own skin!'"', I want her to suffer as much as a bitch like her can!

Stony sat out on the back steps to his house before going j
in to supper. He was wishing he'd just grabbed Lourdes;
and brought her with him, that they had run off tonight,
just to get it over with before either had a chance to
change his or her mind.

He glanced up at the emerging stars.

Closed his eyes.

Life was beautiful. It was. He loved her, she loved him. 1
In spirit, they were already married.

It's starting now, he thought. My life. My real life. The
future of all I will be begins tonight.

I've been bad before, I've done terrible things, but from >
here on, if you're up there listening, God, from here on,
because you have given me such a beautiful wife and such \
a happy beginning to a family, I will never do bad things I
again. I won't lie, I won't sneak beers, I won't even look I at another girl as long as I live. I won't be all the things

that my dad and brother and mom are. I'll be the best
damn Stony Crawford there ever was.

If ...
And there's always an if, but you'd know that if you're
really God and you're really listening.

If only you'll promise me that I'll never have to come
back here again, not to these people, not to this place.

Promise me we'll get far from here, just me and my baby
and my baby's baby.

Then, Stony felt it. As if God had answered. As if whatever
ran the universe was in accord with his wish. He felt
something inside him give, and an overriding calm came
over him.

He felt a strength inside him, and all anxiety vanished
for a few moments as a cool salty breeze blew in off the
water.

"Thanks," he said, knowing that it was all his imagination.

But he didn't care. He felt confirmed in his conviction
and he knew that marrying Lourdes was going to
be the right thing, and that he would be a good father and
everything would turn out better than just okay.

Sometimes, shit happens.

But from here on, miracles are gonna happen.

Chapter Fifteen

Lourdes stepped cautiously over a low tangle of dried
vines, her feet smashing down in the mud. She felt stupid
for not having thought to bring a flashlight. She usually
did. But then, you could walk through these woods blindfolded
and you wouldn't trip over much. She had been
walking these trails her entire life. She had fallen in love
with loneliness at an early age. Her family was smothering.

Her four brothers hovering around, either teasing their
only sister or trying to protect her. Her father, with his
old ways, believing that she should never leave the house
unchaperoned until the day she married. Maybe not even
then. Her mother distrusted Stonehaven Borough as well
as the apartments and gas station areas out where they lived. By the time Lourdes was seven, she had managed
to sneak away on summer afternoons and just roam. She
would spend hours gathering berries, or hiding from yellow
jackets, or watching the shadows for fireflies. She
created make-believe creatures among the trees, and every
bog and pond contained a mermaid or two. She spoke

with the invisible spirits of Indians, too, who she still believed,
at fifteen, wandered between the thick bundles of
birch and oak. Nothing scared her here. Nothing ever
could.

These were her woods.

Within them, she felt protected, and knew every tree,
every moss-covered rock, every pond and bog, every
blackberry bush. She even knew the ancient stone wall
that was full now of hibernating snakes, and she knew
where the mosquitoes attacked the most aggressively in
the summer and how to avoid them.

Now, following the thinnest of trails, the fallen wet
leaves slippery like eelskin, the mud sucking at her sneakers,
the only thought that frightened her was the idea that
she and Stony would be running away from all this.

Every childhood has to end. It was something her
grandmother used to tell her when Lourdes was eight or
nine and asking about when she would grow up. Every
girl becomes a woman, and there is often sorrow on that
day. Do not rush ahead to meet the woman you will become.

And now, this will be it, she thought. Tomorrow mom
ing. He wants me to meet him at Nora's and run away
with him. Like prisoners escaping. I just can't. But I love
him. We're going to have a baby. We're going to bring
life into the world.

After their moment together in Our Lady, Star of the
Sea, something felt even more sacred to her than it had
previously. The baby growing inside her had a family
around him, a father and a mother. The Virgin Mary had
blessed the baby, and she and Stony were bound together
at the altar, before the eyes of God.

It was stupid, she knew. As she crossed a thin trickle
of stream, Lourdes felt what seemed to be a spark leap
within her. We are one. Stony and I are one. No one will
separate us. Not my parents, not his, not anyone.

She pressed her hands upon her slight paunch.

(The baby!)

(Hola, hijito, your mama is in love with your daddy!)

What would he be like? Or she? Would he have Stony's
eyes, or hers? Her hair, she hoped. His smile. Then, a
terrible thought occurred to her as she slowed to a stop.

What if the baby looks like my father?

Or his mother?

(It's okay, hijito, you will be the most beautiful baby
who was ever brought into the world. Don't worry!)

Carefully avoiding the low-hanging branches which
shivered as she touched them, Lourdes giggled aloud. She
imagined a child with all the worst physical and mental
attributes of both their families. Moles on the neck. Large
ears. Crooked nose. Wolfman hairline (her Tio Ruly).

Lazy eye. Nonexistent lips. Short and fat. Boxy ...
She had to remember to make a joke about it with
Stony in the morning.

(Don't worry, hijito, you're gonna be as gorgeous as
your mama!)

All her life, she'd known she would one day marry and
have children. Her mother had been only seventeen when
she'd married, pregnant with Lourdes's older brother, Mi
guel. Mom was two years older than me. Not that much
different.

Please, blessed Virgin Mary, bless us three, protect us
with your love and purity. Don't allow temptation or the
shadows to fall upon us.

Praying like this, in her woods, seemed as natural to
her as breathing.

Lourdes's father had warned her not to ever think of
marrying a huero. This was the word for the blue-eyed,
blond-haired Anglos, but it encompassed all non-Latinos.

Lourdes had an Aunt Elena who had married a huero, and
they divorced within four years. "They never work out,
ever," her father had warned. Her father considered Stony
a huero too, and had told her so. This had led to the first
actual fight she'd ever had with him. He called her every

name imaginable and she had thrown those words right
back at him. In the end, she'd cried and her father had
gone off angry. Only her mother had comforted her, telling
her that her father would eventually come around to
liking the

"Anglo boy."

And now ...
Marriage.

A baby.

God, what will Dad do now?

The moonlight turned a small oval pond into liquid
gold. Lourdes looked up for the source of its light.

The moon was huge and round, filling all the sky that
could be seen beyond the greedy treetops. It was turning
an orange hue, almost like a sunset. She closed her eyes. Harvest moon. God, please make sure this is the right
thing. Please help me and Stony.

Without realizing it at first, Lourdes found she was saying
the prayer aloud now in the cathedral of wood.

"Please make sure our baby is healthy and help us learn
to handle my family and all the problems we're gonna
have. Mother of God, who looks out for babies and mothers,
keep your hand upon me, let us have a good life
together as you will."

Opening her eyes again to the expansive moon, she
shivered. The temperature was dropping. She could feel a
difference between a few seconds before and now. The
smells of the bogs and wet leaves were almost humid
despite the cold. She glanced down at her own dark reflection
in the moonlit water. "Two in one," she whispered,
touching her stomach. "Be safe, hijo."

She turned about, thinking (Hijito, you had better not
make me sick tomorrow morning like you did yesterday), when a flashlight beam blinded her.

She put a hand up to shield her face from the light.

"Who is it? Stony?"

All she could see was a silhouette and the round white
beam.

"Victor? Miguel?" But her brothers would not do this.

Not at this hour. Maybe later at night, but not when it
could not be much later than six o'clock. It wasn't even
suppertime yet.

Then the flashlight moved up beneath the chin of the
boy who held it.

A ghostly light distorted the features, but Lourdes recognized
him. "Oh, Van, it's just you," she sighed. "You
scared me for a sec."

Van grinned. His smile, wide and gap-toothed, reminded
her of a jack-o'-lantern.

"So," he said, his voice low and almost a growl,
"here's the bitch who's trying to fucking ruin my baby
brother's life. I've been looking for you all day. I got a
game we can play. You and me."

Then the flashlight shut off.

"Let's play 'Skin the Bitch,' " he said.

Interlude:
Dawn, Several Years Later

Chapter Sixteen

A Man, a Boy, and the Road
Home


It seemed like yesterday. Tears streamed from his eyes,
and he felt like an old man. He felt that awful thing inside,
too, that thing that he'd managed to keep down within
him, that terrible feeling that meant only bad things were
going to happen.

He could not stop the tears, and when they had all
poured from his soul, he wiped at his face.

The boy had told him all and more than he could himself
remember. Nora's voice from the boy's mouth ... Every detail of his past life was laid bare for him. How
could this child know? Had he been there? It was as if he
had raked his small fingers through the hair of Stony's
memory. Stony, now twenty-seven, driving a car up 95,
nearly there, nearly to the town of his birth. Time had
held and stopped as the tale had spun out, and he glanced
in the rearview mirror at the boy. He was sound asleep.

He had not been telling Stony the tale of Stony's past, of

things Stony could not have seen, but somehow did see,
and did know. He had known it all as if from a distance,
watching--part of him that did not even know he was
then watching the world unfold.

The sign up ahead indicated that the turnoff to what
had once been Stonehaven was coming up. It didn't read
stonehaven borough, which once upon a time it had.

The sign merely read land's end lighthouse.

Stony took the exit. Dawn clung to the trees along the
potholed road, the ghostly light of five a. m. filtered
through trees and thin fog. When he hit one of the many
bumps in the road, the boy called Prophet groaned in the
backseat.

"You okay?" Stony asked.

"Yeah," the boy said groggily. "We there yet?"

"Almost. About seven miles."

"Good," the boy said. "I'm hungry."

"Still have some doughnuts back there. Water's in the
thermos." Stony reached over and grasped the thermos,
handing it back to the kid.

"I have to pee," Prophet said. He took the thermos and
a moment later Stony heard him gulping down water.

"Okay, I'll pull over." Stony slowed the car to a stop.

"You trust me?"

"To pee? Sure."

"No, I mean to not run away."

"You haven't run yet."

The boy got out and stepped into the woods. Stony
opened the glove compartment and checked to make sure
the timing device was still there. He hadn't checked it
since Texas, mainly out of an abnormal fear that he would
take the small sphere and throw it out and forget his plans.

Forget why he was bringing this boy back to this place.

Why he intended to protect the world from what had begun
when he was fifteen years old.

It was not much of a bomb, actually, something he'd

learned about by accident when the Feds from Phoenix
had come into a small Arizona burg to handle some old
fart building a bomb in his outhouse. Stony had been
called in to help, on a local level. The old fart was named
Jaspar Swink, and had spent half his middle age building
small bombs and then sending them in gift-wrapped packages
to little old ladies in Tucson and Phoenix from the
Heavenly Fudge Factory. The little old ladies, delicately
pulling off the ribbon, then unwrapping the gold paper,
could not have been more surprised when the first thing
they saw was a tiny clock and some C-6 all bound together.

Swink had timed his devices perfectly. He was an amateur mathematician and logistician, and had determined
at precisely what time the ladies would get their
packages, and approximately what time they would open
them. "They first have to look for a card," he had told
Stony, sitting in the backseat of his patrol car. "They look
for a card because they want to know who to thank. They hope it's their son or daughter or an old beau they'd forgotten
about. Then they take one minute and look at the
gold wrapping paper as if it tells something about the
sender. Then they are two minutes unwrapping, to save
the paper and ribbon. When they see the timer, either they
will know what it is and throw it, or they will look at it
curiously for the sixty-second margin of error I give myself.

And then, my friend, kaboom. Kaboom. Little-old
lady confetti in every direction."

Kaboom.

Stony had salvaged one of the small bombs. He knew
as soon as he saw it what he would do with it. He knew,
in the months ahead, when he finally found the boy, what
he would need to do.

It hadn't made him nervous having the device in the
glove compartment. Swink had told him that he kept six
of them regularly in the back of his Chevy truck. "You
can have these C-6 devices for twenty years. You can toss

'em in the air, you can smash 'em with hammers. Nothing.

Not until you attach a detonator. A spark is the only thing.

You can even get it hotter than hell, but until it sparks,
you got just a lump of shit in your hand."

Stony had asked him, "How big is the explosion?"

Swink winked at him. ' 'How big do you want it to be?"

The boy opened the front door. "Can I get in up here
with you?"

Stony shut the glove compartment. "Sure."

"Cool," the boy said. He slid into the seat, reaching
back for the seat belt. "Your seat belt's broken."

"It's a lousy car. I bought it for practically nothing."

"Yeah, I noticed it's a piece of shit but I was too polite
to say it."

"Actually you said it a few times."

"Oh, I guess I did." The boy grinned. "I feel I can
tell you anything. Your car's a piece of shit and you are
one twisted bastard." The boy chuckled. "It's just a joke. I don't mean it." The tattoos on the boy's arms looked
like eels wriggling. It was just the morning's dim light
playing tricks. Stony glanced back to the road ahead.

Stony felt a trickle of sweat at the back of his neck. He
started the car up again, putting it in drive. They drove in
silence for a few minutes. Then the boy said, "Why are
we coming here anyway?"

Stony, trying not to think of the bomb in the glove
compartment, said, "To end something that should've
ended a long time ago."

"Oh," the kid said. "All that stuff you told me last
night"

"I told you?" Stony felt his throat clutch.

"Yeah, I mean, this stuff about town and your girl and
all that."

"Funny," Stony began, but stopped. Funny, I thought
you were the one telling me.

"You know that man," the boy said.

"Which?"

"The one who took me to Texas in the first place. We
had to call him the Great Father, but that was a crock. I
mean, I remember him a little. When I was like three, and
four maybe," the boy continued. They passed farmhouses,
in disrepair, off the wild fields beyond the trees, like sentinels
at the outer edge of town. The village. It was coming
up. It was coming. He hadn't been there since he was
fifteen. He hadn't been physically in this town in all those
years. The memories should've been wiped clean, but they
were fresh wounds. The sign to Wequetucket at the crossroads
--where Lourdes had lived. The sign for the opposite
direction to the community college. A small truck
passed in front of him, narrowly missing him.

' 'Your lights are off," the boy said.

"Oh damn." Stony reached forward and popped the
headlights on.

"He should've seen you, but it's a little dark still."

"A little. Sun'11 be up in ten minutes completely."

"You think?" The boy glanced out the window to his
right. They passed an old gray barn beside a pond, a light
steam rising from it. "This is nothing like Texas."

"Why do you think he took you to Texas?"

"Well, we were in Mexico first. He had a place down
there. It was nice. A big old house. I don't remember a
lot of it, just that this one maid was really nice to me. We
used to even play marbles sometimes. She liked kids. She
had two kids, too, she told me, further south."

Out of nowhere, Stony flashed on a memory he had
never had:

A short Mexican woman, her face nearly serene, her
hair tied back and up, her thick body covered in a blue
dress.

Someone had taken a needle and thread and sewn her
lips together.

When she opened her eyes, he saw that one of them
had been replaced with a cat's-eye marble.

The world flashed back to him, the road ahead. He
slowed down as they drove beside the cove. "This is
where I grew up," Stony said, ignoring the damning vision
he'd had just a moment before. The cove was placid. The thickets had grown up and wild and died down with
the death of summer. It was a dead place. No swans glided
upon its surface. No seagulls circled overhead.

The boy gave a cursory glance to the cove, but his mind
was on other things. "I remember when we went to El
Paso because it was so hot that day. We had to wait forever
at customs. It was so hot I could barely breathe."

"It gets hot down there, huh," Stony said. He searched
the cove for swans, but there were none.

"Yeah, especially in the trunk."

Stony laughed. "You weren't in the trunk."

"Yeah. They put me in there. He told me that no one
was supposed to know I was alive. I don't know why.

But he tied me up and put me in the trunk. It was hot as
hell. It felt like I was in there for nine hours."

"Jesus."

"Yeah. And even then they opened the trunk."

"Customs?"

"Yeah."

Another vision:

A man in a tan uniform lifting the trunk lid, and his
face beginning to turn waxy, and then his lips beginning
to melt down like a burning candle.

Then, his eyes bubbling with heat.

Then, the screaming begins.

"Why Texas?"

"Search me," the boy shrugged. "He had this thing
about the Wild West or something. When I was six he
told me that there were people out there who were be190

lievers. That's about all I remember. Sometime around
then, he took off. Down to Mexico, I think. The people
who got me, the Rapturists, I heard them talk about how
the old guy was a pervert and he did drugs and shit. They
said he was useless and old. Some of them told me that
maybe the Azriel Light got him, but between you and me I always thought it was a bunch of bullshit. He's probably
just livin' down in Chihuahua. It wasn't like I was real
attached to him."

"Alan Fairclough."

The face of Alan Fairclough, its pockmarked skin, its
shiny pallor, its eyes like mirrors.

Alan Fairclough was an it.

"Maybe," the boy said. "Could be. I just always called
him the Great Father. Ever since I can remember." Then,
"Hey!"

Stony slammed his foot on the brake. "What?"

"You almost hit it." The boy pointed to the thin slice
of road. A stag leapt from the woods, darting across the
road. In the headlights and fog, it was a shadow of antlers
and a blue-gray blur.

"Christ," Stony gasped.

"Whew. Hey, can you read?"

A sign on the old bridge that led to the borough: private
PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE
PROSECUTED. NO HUNTING. NO FISHING.

Someone had spray-painted at the bottom of this:

No nothing

"Pretty funny," the boy said. "Hey, I got a joke."

"Not up for jokes right now," Stony said. His unease
grew as he drove across the bridge. The vibration felt bad
here. It felt like no one had come here, no one would ever
trespass here, if he could help it.

You're a fool to do this.

Worse than a fool.

You are the most despicable being who has ever existed.

You are the bogeyman and this boy is an innocent

despite himself. You are an abomination on the face of
the earth and you can't keep hiding behind who you make
other people think you are.

You are the Devil and Hell doesn't even want to let
you back in.

You will do something terrible to this boy.

"Here's my joke. Okay? It goes, this guy is like a
punker freak and he's on this train. And his hair is all
orange and spikey and he has tattoos and he has noserings
and nails through his hands and feet and eyebrows and
stuff. This old man is staring at him. Real rude. And the
punk guy goes, why the hell are you staring at me, old
man? Didn't you ever do anything wild when you was a
kid? And the old man goes like, Yeah, I did, when I was
in the army I got stationed in Singapore and I got drunk
and screwed a parrot. I thought maybe you was my kid."

The boy howled with laughter.

Stony smiled. "That's a nasty joke."

The boy kept laughing. "Only if you think about it.

Think about it." His laughter was infectious. "I bet if
someone screwed a parrot for real they'd kill the parrot.

Or get their pecker bit off!" He roared louder, slapping
his stomach when he laughed. "Oh man that was a good
one!"

"I guess kids are different now. When I was a kid I
would never have talked like that to a grownup."

"Kids are different now," he said. "Well, I'm different."

Then the boy's laughter died. Quickly, he rolled
down the window. Inhaled deeply. "Oh man, I really
smell the ocean! It's so clean! Oh man!" he shouted,
holding his hand out the window as if trying to catch the
wind. "Smell it?"

Stony nodded. "Smells good."

"Smells like everything" the boy said. "I can smell
crabs and fish and all that clean cleanness." He laughed
at his words. "Cleanness of sea-ness."

"Look," Stony said in a hushed tone.

Stonehaven Borough came up with the sunlight over
the sea.

What was left of it.

Again, he stopped the car.

"Looks like God smashed it," the boy said.

"You believe in God?"

The boy shrugged, looking at the ruins of the buildings.

"No. I just said it because you were thinking it." Then
the boy began shifting uncomfortably. "I don't want to
go here. Please. Not this place."

"Don't do this to me," the boy said.

"Don't do what?"

"Don't take me in here."

"Why?"

"I can feel it."

"Feel what?"

"You son of a bitch. You brought me here because you
want me to die here. You want me to know everything
about what you did. All the evil things. All the nasty
things. You brought me here to kill me."

"What is it you feel?"

"Torture."

"Is it the pictures on your skin?"

The boy nodded. His face was threatening to crumple,
as if he had tears or nightmares or pains in his mind that
rippled across his scalp and down his nose and eyes and
lips.

"Take off your shirt. I want to see."

"Leave me alone."

"Just calm down. Take off your shirt. I want to see the
pictures. I'm not going to hurt you."

The boy pulled the T-shirt off over his head. He looked
sullen. No longer that happy kid of five minutes past. He
looked up at Stony with sunken eyes. He seemed younger

with the shirt off, more like a boy of nine or ten than his
twelve years.

"On my back," the boy said. He turned around in the
car seat.

His back was scrawny, his ribs stuck out, his shoulder
blades jutted as if not quite in place.

Stony had not fully understood the extent of the tattoos.

They were swirls of color all across his skin, interconnecting
stained glass windows, faces, houses, the sea, and
the heavens.

"Who the hell did this to you?"

"I don't know. Maybe he did. He always said I was
born like this."

"Holy--" Stony gasped.

From the swirl of earth tones on the boy's shoulders, a
face began to emerge as if from a pool of oil-slicked water.

It was a face Stony had not seen in twelve years.

"Lourdes," he whispered. His eyes felt heavy. A fog
hi his mind blurred his vision. He felt the tears as they
coated his face, tears as he watched her slowly open her
mouth in a silent cry.

Then the boy's back seemed to grow, his skin stretching,
the picture of her face deepening, enlarging, until it
was as if the skin was a canvas of the world, and Stony
was watching her. No, it was as if he was in someone
else's skin, raising a knife on a night of an orange-yellow
moon, a knife that glinted and flashed and made a noise
like a fist going into mud as the knife went into her breast.

At first, it was the orange-yellow moon.

The Moonfire grew pale from this and stretched and
burst.

Until the world of all he could see was lit by Moonfire.

The Moonfire.

And at its cold blue heart:

The past.

Alan Fairclough stood before him, his hand out.

"Come on, Stony. Let's go. It's all over here. It's time
now. You'll understand. You need to know what this is
really about."

Then the other pictures swirled around this one, Our
Lady of the Sea, as he held Lourdes's hand, the stained
glass windows dissolving in a rainbow of colors and then
reforming as Nora Chance's old shack, the tarpaper roof
peeling back in a strong wind. Stonehaven itself was
there, with the lighthouse at Land's End, and the summer
homes on Juniper Point, all mixing and then reforming
into other shapes, other colors, other remembrances of a
place of years ago--

And then he saw his brother, Van, who was still seventeen,
his body soaked in blood, his hands held up, a
hunting knife gleaming in the moonlight.

What the Boy's Skin Shows

Chapter Seventeen
Skinning the Bitch

Time was a river of blood and fire. Van Crawford waded
through it, the jagged pebbles cutting his feet, his arms
raised above his head. It was only clear, clean water, and
he was up to his waist in it now.

He looked about. For a moment he thought he'd been
in the woods near Stonehaven at night, but now he was
in a place that was like a summer's day, with the heavy
sun beating down on him. He leaned over and grabbed
something that flashed and shimmered in the clear water.

It eluded him.

Diana stood on the far bank, her blond hair hanging
past her shoulders, her skin pale, her breasts full. She
looked perfectly natural there, as if this was where she
should be, naked at a river's edge waiting for him. "Catch
it!" she said, when he glanced up at her. "We need it!"

He looked at her for a long moment, not wanting this
dream to disappear.

(He knew it was a dream, it had the feeling of dream,
and he knew that a river of blood and fire could not suddenly
transform itself into a clear beautiful summer river
full of silvery fish.)

Then he reached again into the rushing sparkling water,
and grabbed it, wriggling, bringing it up to the sunlight.

A knife.

It's not a knife, but a silver fish wriggling in his grasp.

Its small mouth opened and closed upon air, its eyes
staring at the spherical world as he squeezed it. It felt slick
and slimy, and as it paddled its small fins at him, he felt
a series of small stings run along his palms.

(I don't believe it.)

Believe it, she said, but she said it without being near
him. All it takes is your belief, your faith. Let yourself go,
let it take over, let it move you.

(Move me? Where?)

To the other side.

(Heaven?)

Come over and find out.

To Diana, crouched down on the far bank, looking
down into the water. Flowers seemed to blossom from her
silky hair. The sunlight created a halo behind her. "Come
to this side, Van, come on!" she shouted gaily.

He glanced down into the rushing waters, and saw another
face there, beneath the surface.

A face that might have been a young Latina girl of
sixteen whose dark hair streamed behind her in the distorting
current. The water turned red as it passed over her,
and her left eye was red, as were her lips, red as a rose,
red as blood. All was red.

"Lourdes?" he asked, holding the wriggling silver fish
high. "Lourdes? That you? You okay?"

She opened her mouth in a scream, and several small
flat worms spiraled out of her mouth, dispersing in the
bloody water.

He glanced over at Diana, but something was wrong

with her. Her skin moved across her features like heat.

Emeralds seemed to shine along her arms and shoulders
in the intense sun, which felt warmer by the second. An
unfelt wind whipped her hair back, until it looked as if
Diana were going to be blown away, yet the air was calm
where Van stood in the water.

Lourdes came up from the river, like a mermaid, like
a dream, and wrapped her wet arms over his shoulders,
closed her eyes, pressed her lips to his. His mouth opened
at her tongue's insistence, and he tasted the warm water,
and their tongues flicked over and under each other. Her
flesh was sweet and firm, and her breasts pressed against
him, making his manhood swell.

Manhood.

For that's what he was now, a man, it was his manhood
growing, and Lourdes the Bitch was bringing it all out for
him, the slut was making him do this to her--

He knows he's in some kind of fabric of unreality, of
dream without the comfort of sleep, even as he raises the
knife up. Night, October, the woods, Diana, hunting,
Lourdes, BITCH--

It all comes to him.

The summer day rips apart like a paper screen, and the
dark woods return, the freezing night, and the knife in his
hand. Moonlight and blood splash against each other,
across the fragrant skin of her, of Lourdes, of the girl who
has flowers of crimson through her hair and down her
neck.

' 'And up," Van gasps, and down! The blade goes in-- ooh, with a sucking sound--am I the only one who hears

it? The sucking sound of knife in breast and out it comes,
up and down and all around--

The night, the moon, he no longer feels like Van Crawfish,
loser of the cosmos, the chill is under his skin, others
look out from his eyes ... he is more than just the son of
a lobster man and a nurse with fat ankles. The look on her
face in the moonglow. The look. Eyes still so lovely and
dark. / can see why my baby brother fucks you, I can see
why now, I couldn't before. You're something, you're a
piece of work and a piece of ass and you have really
pretty lips that curl around your white white white teeth when you scream, only I'm a-gonna cut that scream outta
you through your lungs, Lourdes, Lourdes Maria Castillo
bitch. You're really Russian, right? Lourdes Castillobitch.

Ho ha ha ha. Mmm, listen to that knifey go cutting--lovely
lovely music of squish and squash and gush and spurt--

She fights like a girl, hee hee ho--she raises her hands
because she doesn't understand what he's doing or even
why he's doing it, but the knife knows.

The knife always knows.

Rule of thumb: The knife has a mind of its own and is
in fact pulling the levers in his hands. Officer, I didn't
mean to plunge it into her fourteen times but she got in
the way of my knife. She pushed against it over an dover. I tried to pull back, but she kept coming at me with her
skin.

Up and down and all around, the knife slices and dices
and flays and makes the mushy stuff come out.

Can't scream no more, Lourdes Maria Castillobitch,
can't scream, and I bet right now your eyes are going
pink with blood and you're not even feelin' nothin' because
you can only get cut so many times before it's just
like a summer day in the park and nothin' can touch your
pretty pretty skin--

He looks back in the dark as he holds the wet body of
the girl against himself and wonders why Diana isn't joining
in.

What he sees behind him makes his hair turn white,
and he knows it's turning white because he can feel it, he
can feel the girl's blood all over him and how his skin is
wrinkling and how his hair turns thin and white in just a
moment, in the moonlight, in October.

Holy Mother of Jesus! What the hell am I doing? Why am I doing this? Why is my hand doing this, bringing this
knife under her skin, making her bleed, making her hurt?

The other voice, that bored like a worm through the
rotting fruit of his brain, told him,
You're making love to her.

She feels so damn good! She feels so hot, writhing with
your touch, with your thing going into her, in and out and
in and out! Her whole body is pussy/ It's all pussy/

Again, the lightning flash of a summer's day with the
crushing sunlight, all around the river, as Van's manhood
rose up to meet her, to dip inside of her river, to fathom
what mystery Lourdes held, inside her, deep within her,
so deep it was almost like crawling up inside her womb.

The river water splashed across his face, chilly, and it
gave him goosebumps. He looked up at the sun as he
drove into her, and thought he saw great birds flying there,
so huge and massive they could not possibly be what he
thought they were, their wingspans so enormous and
broad--

Then the fabric tore, the hymen of the dream, and behind
it, the woods, the blood, the knife, the girl.

Van felt his pecker grow huge, a mastadon pecker, so big
and thick, but not even that--it was his skin moving outward,
his flesh taking over hers as he pressed himself
against her body.

Lourdes was beautiful in the red light, her eyes were
glowing with lust, her hands swept over his back and buttocks
as she drew him into her ... into the red light ...
his flesh melding with hers, washed with the crimson
moisture ...
The knife was no longer a knife in his hand, it was a
tool of the ultimate love, and he brought it to her and she
accepted it like a flower in her hair. He gave her red
poppies for her hair, and then the poppies sprouted along
her neck, and shoulders. Her breasts became a garden, her
belly a wild row of poppies blossoming.

"I love you," he whispered, tasting the opium that
spilled from the prolapsing flowers, their petals curving
and turning and spilling. He lapped at her for the sweetness
of the drug, and still more flowers bloomed rapidly
along her body.

Her breathing became faint, and she made a series of little moans as he held her, his face pressed to her neck.

No wonder Stony loves you so much, you are so beautiful,
you are so desirable, he thought as he rubbed his
face along her shoulders, tasting the copper opium.

Chapter Eighteen
In the Night


At night, along the sliver of coastline that is Stonehaven,
the few lights of the village snuff out before ten, leaving
the flash and spin of the lighthouse at Land's End to
sweep the gently tossing waters of the Sound. The mist
of October moves like fine motes of dust in an old room,
across the moonlit waters, until finally even the amber
moon's sheen dulls. Across the bay, on one of the three
sister islands called Avalon, a richly modest two-story
clapboard, an enclave made to look like a weathered Cape
Cod summer home, glowed with its many lights flicking
into high beam against the encroaching night. By midnight,
the temperature on the island had dropped to forty
two degrees. The seagulls all perched along the rooftops
of the three houses, and down on the paved driveway, the
refuse of cracked clamshells and crabs dropped from great
heights by the ambitious birds.

Alan Fairclough, his expression taut, stepped out

among the lights of his courtyard. Raising a small pistol,
he fired at the birds. The gunshot echoed, and the gulls
scattered into the darkness beyond the white lights. The
three houses, interconnected with breezeways between
them, had been his since his purchase of the island and
all that was within it years ago from the widow of Spencer
Lewis. Lewis had been a curious sort, a collector of rare
religious artifacts, an obsession not unlike Fairclough's
own. He kept the Coptic crosses and iconography in the
smaller of the three houses, and lived completely alone in
the largest. Fairclough's goal in life had always been majestic
isolation, although he hadn't truly felt it before. He
felt this even here, in these modest digs, compared to the
places and manor houses of his youth. It was not mere
aloneness, but a feeling that he participated in something
greater, something more magnificent than any man had
ever touched ...
It was a warmth, a heat he couldn't explain. The grace
he felt illuminated his flesh, opened the pathways of his
mind ...
He was more than just a man now.

He was a creature of history.

He was the engager of the future.

The midwife of a change in humanity, a ripple in evolution.

He had enjoyed his life on the island, punctuated occasionally
by the arrival of a willing sacrifice to his pleasures,
a youth bought and paid for to take punches to the
stomach and face; a young woman or two who could be
tied up and made to commit unspeakable acts. Alan Fair
clough had grown bored with it all over the years, for the
fire that was in his blood often thirsted for darker and
more profound pains and eroticism. He'd gone from
punching and molesting to more transcendent practices,
the breaking of spirits and wills, the numbness that set in
that was beyond pain. He winced sometimes, thinking of
what he had done to them, how he'd disfigured them, how
one of them had--

Had--

Made him do something terrible to him. Something terrible
that Alan Fairclough didn't even like to conjure up,
the image that pulsed in his brain.

The boy was a runaway who had lived on the streets
of New York City for four years, living an existence in
darkness and squalor. Pete Atkins, the Crowns' butler, had
found him on one of his diligent searches for Fairclough's
subjects. Atkins had called Fairclough that morning. "I
caught one, sir. Young. Needy. Willing. Shall I send him
up?"

It had been like ordering groceries.

But Fairclough's divine depravity had grown and festered
like constantly retorn scabs over juicy wounds.

"Yes," he'd said to the butler. "Tonight, if that's possible."

And then, several hours later, the Crowns' boatman had
arrived on the island with a tall, lanky eighteen-year-old.

His hair was long, his face was gaunt.

"You look like me when I was your age," Fairclough
had said. "Just like me. You are all alone. You feel life
has nothing to offer. You don't know where to turn."

The boy looked at him, hard jewels in his eyes. ' 'Fuck
off. Where's the money?"

After payment had been made, Alan took him into the
Dark Room.

"Why the hell you call it a dark room?"

A flicker of a smile across Alan Fairclough 'sface. ' 'It's
where I develop."
Sometimes, he could blank out his memory of what had
happened in the Dark Room since he'd set it up, but other
times the images came at him like flashes of a strobe light.

In the Dark Room, the other Alan Fairclough came out.

Not the man of God, or the man of the Devil.

What came out was the true Alan Fairclough, the one
beneath the skin.

The one that got high from the feeling a razor gave him
as he brushed a young man's back with it.

The one that waited until they begged to be killed, until
they looked through the streaming blood on their faces
and asked that he push the slender spike into their heart.

The one who never satisfied this request.

Until the runaway boy who had just become a man,
and within six hours lay on the drainage floor of Alan
Fairclough's Dark Room.

Fairclough pressed his face against his throat, feeling
the last of the young man's life pour from him. "It's all
right, it's all right," he cooed, "just sleep, just sleep."

When he rose from this, he went to the bathroom to
shower off the blood. He was still in his fever, caught
between an erotic dream of flesh torn by pincers, and fire
escaping from the slashes of epidermal armor. There, in
the mirror, he saw it.

He saw the thing of his dreams, the creature of red fire,
its skull consumed in the burning.

Me.

I am the Devil.

Not just a true believer in the Faith of the Almighty
Creation.

I am the Arch-Fiend of that Creation.

I am the Abyss.

I am the Betrayer.

The ritual of it all rejuvenated him. It was all in the
ritual, that's what priests had always known, that was
what all great religious men had known. Even the Holy
Sisters of Maupassane, they had guarded it with ritual,
they had held it with ritual until they no longer existed.

But the ritual existed, still. The ritual would outlast all.

The ritual was what brought the power to mankind. "Hallelujah!"

he'd shouted, reaching up to wipe the blood

across his face and smear it like jelly until his features
were obliterated. "Praise God from whom all blessings
flow! Praise Him, all creatures here below! Praise Him
above, ye heavenly host! Praise Father, Son, and Holy
Ghost!" His cries echoed and carried out into the night,
and as the young man breathed his final breath, Alan Fair
clough was certain that he had gone on to the true heaven.

Then the old words came to him, the words of magic
and truth, as they always did when the ritual of blood
had begun, "pari nue sathath yog alaai tekeli tekeli li
aluana--"

When Diana came to him the following morning, she
held him in her arms while he wept and she whispered,
"It's going to be soon, my love. Don't be afraid. Don't
be afraid. We'll open the door together."

The lights in the courtyard between his compound's
houses were as bright as day, which was how he liked it.

The night bothered him now. The night no longer held
warm dreams, but a vague terror for him that there was
something Other out there ... another Alan Fairclough
perhaps, whom this one would not want to meet. The low
roofs were bathed in flat white light that even the fine
mist could not cloud.

Fairclough held up The Anubis Mysteries, a translation
from the Coptic, reading the passages to himself again,
eager for what was to come:

"The fire from heaven is upon the earth once in a generation.

It has been known by many names, and before
there were names, it was known by its radiance. When
the first man walked upon this earth, it burst forth from
the mind of Ra and traveled like a flaming arrow across

the body of the earth. It parched the Nile, and blackened
Isis's beauty. At the heart of its flame was the secret of
the gods' powers, and man and woman both were struck
as by lightning with its touch. It comes with the dying of
the crops and the season of the barren land ..."

He compared this with the Gnostic Gospel of Judas the
Betrayer.

"As we sat together, my beloved master turned to me
and kissed me lightly on the cheek. I said unto him, 'Why,
Lord, do you touch me so?"

"And Jeshua ben-Joseph saith, 'Jude, you are closer
than my brother to me. We were born of the same moment,
and made of the same fire. Yahweh gives us this
fire from the touch of his finger, and it cuts like a burning
sword into your heart, and mine."

"I said unto him, 'Lord, Lord, if we are brothers, why
do you gaze with such terror upon me?"

" 'The divine fire is too much in you,' Jeshua said. 'In
the miracles and healings, what was within me awoke
something within you. You have been too close to me.

You will betray me."

" 'What is the nature of this divine fire?' I asked of
him.

" 'It is that which darkens the sun. When Adam walked
in the Garden, it came like a flaming sword from the archangel,
to separate man from paradise. The Angel of Death
possesses its radiance, and it is said that a man dying sees
it but once and then sees no more. But it is within us now.

Within you, within me. Its nature is to turn against itself."

"I wondered at his words, and when the meal was done I said thrice, 'You are most wondrous in your supreme
countenance, oh Lord."

"Jeshua turned to me and nodded. 'It is in your nature
now. Do what you must do.' "

Then Alan closed the two books. All his life he had
searched for this, all his life had been drawing him towards
this place, this village, these people.

Finally, he opened the manuscript he'd purchased at great expense at private auction three years earlier.

The Devil's Own, The Profane History of the Archfiend
and All His Works, by Cagliostro, recopied in 1923 by
Aleister Crowley.

... It was in Paris that I first heard of the nuns of Maupassane.

These Holy Sisters had lived in the catacombs
of this city from the time of the Dauphin, but were expelled
by the church for harboring various perversions
among them. Several of the sisters were bound together
and set afire in the Chambre Argent, but most managed
to escape. Devout to the Holy Word of God and to Jesus,
they were hid by good folk in the countryside of Bretagne,
and then managed to resurrect their small order in a series
of caves once inhabited by the earliest people of Gaul.

They had been there for at least one hundred years
when I traveled by coach through the rugged and backward
countryside with three very agreeable companions.

One was the young Loup Garou, the wild boy of the Pyreness,
so famous now that he had been educated at court.

At seventeen, he was a strapping youth who, it was rumored,
could speak with animals and birds. It was also
rumored that he had been sired by the Devil himself, owing
to his wolf-like demeanor and excessive hair. My
other two companions for the journey were the ever
youthful dowager from that backward and savage country,
Countess Erzebet Bathory, along with one of her lovely
young maid-servants, Minoru. The Countess had some

ugly rumors following her, one of which, to my great
amusement, was the story that she was already three hundred
years old, but through black magic had retained the
youth of a girl barely out of her teens. We laughed about
these tales, since Erzebet often commented that if she
were truly three hundred years old, she would not still be
depending upon her husband's money, for she would have
soon run out of it, given his gambling and general licentiousness.

She was quite amiable, and her maidservant
not only pleasant to look upon, but with a delightful
wicked streak and an unusual tolerance for her mistress's
constant caresses and pinches. The wild boy and she exchanged
the longing glances of the very young, something
which the Countess very wisely discouraged.

It took us six days to reach Maupassane, and not without
some hostility were we four met by the locals at the
tavern, owing to both the Countess's finery and infamous
reputation, Minoru's childlike beauty, my own sorcerer's
demeanor, and of course Loup Garou's notoriety. These
country hicks believed that if someone were from Paris,
he might very well be the Devil's own. We were deemed
bad luck, and it seemed the only folk who would give us
shelter were the Holy Sisters themselves.

It was among the sisters, in that cave, that I first came
to learn how Good and Evil were twin aspects of the one
Source of All. The sisters were of an order older than
much of the Roman church, and had a creed which included
the snake in the Garden of Eden, and believed that
Christ on his cross was the fulfillment of temptation into
redemption. The snake on the tree of Knowledge of Good
and Evil was their emblem. "The snake is the fruit of the
tree. Christ is the fruit of the tree," so went their creed.

This heretical belief had divorced them from the true
Church, but their connection to Rome was never quite
severed. It seems the Holy Pontiff himself (or so went the
local legend) had visited the waters nearby and spoken
with the Mother Superior of the Sisters. He had not given

them his blessing, but had refused to allow the usual investigation
of their heresy. The local priesthood did not
touch them either. They were a peculiar sect, and my traveling
companions and I were looking forward to meeting
them. I, of course, was there for something I'd heard, the
rumor of a rumor, the spark of something I'd heard of in
the salons of Paris.

"It is said the Holy Sisters of Maupassane have a relic
with them that is more powerful than Rome itself," a
charlatan of disputed reputation whispered in my ear.

"They are witches more than nuns, and their convent
reaches down to the very seat of Satan himself."

These words echoed through my head as we were escorted
into the famous caverns.

First, we stood in awe of the great and ancient paintings,
depicting ape men hunting great horses and beasts
along a rugged plain. Then, the pictures on the rock wall
showed beasts with the arms and legs of man, but with
the antlers of Satan, and the tail and buttocks of deer, and
the chest of a bull. The Holy Sisters told us that these
frightened them at first, but that they were Brides of
Christ, and therefore Brides of Truth, they believed.

And finally, they showed us what they had captured
deep in the bowels of their cavern.

A glimpse of the eternal, there. I knew even when I set
eyes upon its fire that it was of the Devil, that its great
countenance, its jaws, its monstrous eyes, could be none
other than tools of Helh'sh design to lure even these Holy
Sisters into perdition.

One sister told me that there had once been two, a mate
for this one, but it had burned like a sword of fire across
the earth, returning to its home.

"If it had a mate," I ventured, "then perhaps it had
progeny?"

She took me to a farther well, and there, evidence of a
mating between a human and this terrible creature. I cannot
begin to describe what I saw there. Were I to do so,
I believe I would go mad, for madness is its name, madness
is its form.

We slept at the feet of the trapped creature for seven
nights before departing. As we left, the Countess Bathory
drew me aside and whispered something to me which I
shall never forget.

She said, "These holy women will burn in hell until
kingdom come for what they have done here. They are
monsters of the worst sort." Then she offered up a curious
smile. "Perhaps you and I shall see them again one day."

I must say that her words could not seem more true to
this humble servant of the Arts of Spirit and Darkness ...
Alan shut the book when he heard the phone ringing. Slipping
into his loafers, he got up from the porch table. He
walked across the slight landing, up a half dozen steps to
the central house. Opening the door, he flicked on the :
inner light. >.

Directly across from him, the huge stone with its fossil.

The bones crushed under some great weight, the wings
splayed up and behind its hunched shoulders.

He went to the large oak table in front of the stonework.

Picking up the phone, he pressed the speaker function,
and set the receiver back hi its cradle. "Yes?"

Out of breath, the woman on the phone gasped, "Oh,
it's ... yes ... it's happening ... it's taking ... it's opening
... I can feel it ..."

8

A gull cried out above the sister islands, and flew out
across the water, joining a half a dozen other birds as they
soared up and then down, slamming the choppy waters,
and then up again, now at the mainland, over the towering
lighthouse, over the shingled rooftops of Stonehaven.

Tamara Curry took her slingshot and aimed for one of
the gulls. "You flying rats, get out of my trash!" she
shouted when the small stone she'd shot missed the bird.

She ran out to the waterfront behind her house, and began
picking up the wadded-up papers the flying rats had scattered.

"I wish my guardian angel would tear those damn
gulls to bits," she muttered.

As the birds flew up, against the mist-covered moonlight,
someone was crying out It was a boy, perhaps a
little boy lost in the woods, raising his voice to the skies.

No word could be distinguished in the sound, but folks
heard it Those who lived on the edge of the woods heard
the cry.

Nora Chance, making her last cup of tea for the night,
felt a pain in the back of her skull as if someone had just
driven a needle of ice into her.

She reached for a bottle of aspirin up on the shelf over
the stove, and tried to block out the memories that
throbbed in her head.

Stony tried calling Lourdes twice, but each time one of
her brothers picked up, and he hung up the phone. He
stared at the infernal machine for another hour, willing
her to call him. But it remained silent. Occasionally, he
walked into the small living room, and glanced out at the
street. Watching for her, or waiting for his mother to come
home from her workday at the hospital, or his father from
the bars. Made himself two baloney sandwiches and drank
one of his dad's beers from the fridge. This gave him
courage. Or maybe it was just a goofy feeling, he couldn't
tell.

Have to follow through on this.

It won't just get better or disappear if I do nothing.

He went up to his small room, and looked through the
closet What do you take with you when you're gonna run

off with your girl and never come back? His jackets all
seemed inadequate. He glanced down at the jeans he was
wearing. They were filthy and threadbare in parts. He
drew out a pair of khakis and a flannel shirt. Okay, good
start: clean clothes. On an upper shelf was a stack of
Storm King comic books. He drew them down and
plopped them on his bedspread. Tossed them around,
opening one at random. The Storm King was fighting the
Ancient Enemy, also known as the Outcast. Stony
grinned. He hadn't looked at these since he was younger.

He remembered his own imaginary battles in the backyard
at eight years old with the Outcast. The Outcast had nine
hundred eyes and seven arms, and each finger on his
seven hands was a curved talon. One of the pictures
showed the Storm King down on the ground, the Outcast
slicing his talons through the air.

Stony tossed this comic aside, and opened another.

What he saw almost made him weep.

A note in a childish scrawl had been thrust between the
pages:

Mommy loves me I know
Mommy loves me I know. I know Mommy loves me. I am scared of her.

A memory from years before flashed upon him.

Something he had forgotten, had burned out of his
memory ...
10

He was seven and his mother and father were having
another of their big fights. He and Van hid in the bathroom,
and Van covered his mouth to keep him from crying
out. Van had been doing this since as far back as Stony
could remember--they'd duck into the bathroom because

it was the only room in the house with a lock on the door.

They'd lock themselves in, and Van would cover his mouth
to shut him up. This time, Stony was tired of not being
able to stop the fighting. So he bit down on Van's hand,
and Van released him.

Stony unlocked the door and went running out of the
bathroom to find his mother. As he ran into the center of
their bedroom, it took him a minute to realize what his
father was doing to his mother.

He was holding her down and punching her in the gut.

Stony stood there for a moment as if he could not understand
what was happening, and then he began screeching.

He ran into the middle of it and grabbed his father's
arm.

"No! Daddy, don't!"

His father looked at him, then at his mother.

His father pulled away, shouted some obscenities, and
stomped off. A minute later, the front door slammed.

Stony looked up at his mother. "You okay, Mommy?"

And something was different about her. She wasn't crying,
she wasn't the Mommy he knew.

Something had come into her.

Stony knew it was the Outcast.

Something evil had seeped into her.

She said, "You fucking bastard, you ruined everything
for us! Everything!"

Then, she lifted him up.

Stony Crawford, fifteen, picked up the note from the
comic book.

Closed his eyes.

"You want to know what happens to little boys who
ruin things for people?" His mother was shouting and
crying, and Stony cried too, flailing his arms and legs
around--

And she took him into the kitchen, and dropped him
down, still clinging to his hand--a viselike grip. "You
want to know what happens to bad boys who fuck every217

thing up?" Her voice was like bombs blowing up around
him, and he couldn't see for the tears--

"Do you want to--" she began, and he saw the blue
hearted flame of the gas stove as she turned the front
burner on--

And she took him up and brought the edge of his face
down so close to the burner that the heat felt as if it were
all around him

He could see the blue-white flame turning to yellow and
then orange--

Moonfire, he thought. The Storm King could be destroyed
by one thing, fire from the moon. It would take
his powers away on earth. It was the one thing that could
turn him to dust, to nothing ...
He was numb and was perfectly quiet and still, expecting
that the Outcast in the guise of his mother would
now destroy him.

The heat on the side of his face grew intense.

But then she let out a small yelp.

She brought him back up, hugging him, her tears soaking
his face and shoulders as she muzzled him, her breath
all gin, her kisses smothering. "I could never hurt you, I
never could hurt you, oh you poor baby, you poor baby,
how could I hurt you? I'd go to hell if I hurt you, I could
never--"

Stony set the old note back in the comic book. Closed
it.

Time to go, he thought.

Time to leave all this behind.

I will never be like them.

11

In his parents' bedroom, he hunkered down. Beneath his
mother's side of the bed, her candy wrappers and magazines.

He pushed some of these aside, and felt around until
he located the small box.

Drawing it out, he opened it.

The money was still there.

Because he had only seen it once or twice before, when
he'd been too young to know how much was there, he
was shocked to see that the bills were all hundreds. Why
did she have all this here? Why hadn't she ever used any
of it? Or did she replace it? Did she hide some of her
income from his dad?

These were the questions he'd had ever since he'd first
seen the little box beneath the bed. It wasn't even all that
well hidden, yet covered with so much dust it looked as
if no one had ever touched it.

"I'll pay you back someday," he said uneasily to the
silent bedroom.

He counted out two thousand dollars.

It would be enough for a start.

He and Lourdes needed it

His mother would understand.

She would.

12

Pulling on his heaviest sweatshirt, bringing the hood up,
Stony left his home. He thought he might take his bike,
but then figured he'd be better off on foot. He and Lourdes
would catch the bus up the highway. In the morning. It
all starts tomorrow at dawn. They needed to travel light.

The village was silent that night, or so it seemed to
Stony. Perhaps he was feeling guilty for stealing the
money, or perhaps his mind was too clouded with worries
about the near future, but as he walked out along the damp
lanes, the only sound he heard was a dog barking in the
distance. The clapboard houses were dark, and only the
smoke from the chimneys indicated that anyone was
home. This was part of what he was looking forward to
leaving behind, the life that seemed to close up on itself
like a snail in its shell when night came ... the way peo

pie in Stonehaven never seemed to exist once the sun went
down ...
He looked at the neighbors' houses. The Glastonburys
and their adult children took up three houses in a row.

Stony had spent much of his childhood running between
their houses during the summers, watching them sit on
their porches with cocktails and lemonade, raising their
glasses to him, nodding, but not ever really talking to him.

And the Wakefields, with their German shepherd that got
hit by a truck years ago, still mourning the dog after all
those years as if they'd lost a son. The Railsbacks, who
owned the butcher shop, used to give Stony old National
Geographies to root through for pictures for elementary
school projects. He had rock fights with their nephew
when he'd come to visit for his summer vacations.

He had known all these people here, and now, he was
not going to see them ever again. Not that he was close
to them, but he could only imagine what the world beyond
Stonehaven would be like. He knew from TV, but he was
not stupid enough to think that television contained everything
about the world. There was more to life than Stone
haven, and more than even Connecticut, more than New
England. They could go down to New York by bus,
maybe, and he'd get a job and they'd somehow get a place
and raise their kid.

Somehow it would work.

It had to work.

God, I hope I never have to come back here again with
my tail between my legs.

He took the route back to the Common, passing the
library, feeling colder than the night air, feeling more
alone man he had ever felt before in his life.

When he followed the roadside trail to the edge of the
woods, he saw the feeble candlelight of Nora's shack
glowing within the woods. Stepping over the ditch, and
through the moon-scraped trees, he went to the one place
he knew would take him in.



"Tired?" Nora asked, as she stood in the doorway.

"Yeah."

"I got a little supper still. Hungry?"

"No, thanks."

"Sleepy?"

Stony nodded.

"What time is Juliet coming?"

He almost grinned, but something felt heavy in his face.

"Morning."

"Well, I got a sleeping bag with your name on it all
ready. Come on in, Romeo."

14

Nora awoke in the middle of the night, clutching her heart.

"Stony!" she cried out.

Stony sat up quickly, tossing the sleeping bag cover
away. "Yeah? You okay?"

Nora gasped. "Stony, I can't tell you what it means,
but I had a dream. Not a good one. It was a dream like
one of my spins, and it was about Lourdes, baby. It was
about your girl." Nora leaned over the edge of her flat
bed, lighting a candle on the floor. Her eyes, white and
empty, full of tears. "She's in a place of ice, Stony. She
won't come tonight, or tomorrow. She's been taken."

"It was just a dream," Stony said. He rose from the
floor, and went over to turn up the gas lamps. "It was
just a dream."

"True," Nora whispered. "But dreams aren't for nothing."

They were both silent for several minutes.

"I can't really sleep much I guess," he said.

"After my dream, I don't think I can either. You want
to just sit up?"

"Wish I had a watch. I wonder what time it is."

"I got an internal clock. I say it's four a. m."

"I'm hungry. You hungry?" Stony asked.

"Well, I see you recovered nicely from your starvation
diet."

"Do you think they miss me yet?"

"Maybe."

"I know my mom'11 miss me."

"Your dad, too."

"He doesn't miss people all that much."

"He'll miss you. I guarantee it."

"Van I won't miss."

"You stole some money, remember? They'll at least
miss that."

"She'll understand."

"Will she?"

Stony snorted. "What's she ever gonna do with it, anyway?"

"Well, it was hers to decide that, wasn't it?"

"I think it would have just sat there till kingdom come.

That's what I think. I think she would've squirreled it
away until she was sixty or something, and then she
wouldn't have known what to do with it."

"You think sixty's ancient, don't you?" Nora grinned.

Stony bowed his head. "All I mean is, it isn't young."

"Your mama was once your age. I wonder if she ever
stole from anybody so she could be happy."

"It's not the same," Stony said. "I'll pay her back.

Somehow." Stony went over to the small pantry, and
glanced around at its contents. "You don't have any good snacks here."

Nora laughed. "You're feeling guilty."

"If I told you I was, would it matter?"

"You're just going to wait here till morning when
Lourdes shows up, feeling guilty because you stole your
mama's secret savings account from right under her
nose."

"She's a drunk."

"And drunks should be robbed. You got a peculiar kind
of morality. She's a drunk, you're a thief."

"I didn't ask for this," Stony spat. "Will you just quit
with the nagging?" After he heard the echo of his voice,
he said, "Sorry."

"For what?"

"For sounding like my dad."

"Maybe now you understand him a little better."

"I don't want to be from them."

"Can't help how we're brought up or who by."

"Like it never bothered you. You were raised by humble
angel saints."

Nora laughed even louder. "Oh Lord, Stony, you are
gonna have me bustin' a gut in a minute. Stop!" She
laughed, waving her hands about. When she quieted, she
said, "My father was a decent man. He never laid a hand
on us and he worked hard. But he drank and caroused and
more than once my sister and me had to go into one of
the bars over in Somerville and pull him off some woman
just to get him home in time for supper. And Mama was
one of those long-suffering women. Lord save me from
anyone who is long-suffering. She prayed all day long and
worked her fingers to the bone. But a martyr is its own
kind of hell, too. She turned suffering from a hobby into
a lifelong mission. Martyrs usually take down a few people
they care about because they want some company to
suffer with. That was Mama. Family is putting up with
each other's shit sometimes, I guess."

They were both silent.

Then Stony said, "How much shit are you supposed
put up with?"

"I guess whatever you're willing to," Nora said.

"Why'd you come to me tonight, Stony?"

"You know why."

"To run away with your girl and have a baby in some
lonely place? To steal your mama's savings, just so you

can get out of town for a couple of weeks?"

"I guess."

Nora sighed. She wiped her long fingers across her face.

Then she patted a space next to her on the bed. "Come
on, sit up here, Stony."

"I'm fine where I am."

"Of course you are. I forget sometimes that you're
nearly a man. Remember when you were a little boy and
you'd come out here to hear all my spins? We'd sit on
the rug in front of the stove, or up here in my quilts, or
out on the porch ... Those sweaty summer nights. I'd tell
you all my stories. Seventy years' worth."

Stony nodded. He walked over and sat down beside her
on the bed.

"Well, I miss those times. Can't turn back any clocks,
but I miss that little boy. But you can turn the clocks
forward if you want. I want you to think of yourself in
fifteen years. You're thirty. You have a good job maybe.

You and Lourdes are happy. Your boy is your age now.

And he's going to ask, 'Dad, how did you and my mama
meet up?' And what are you gonna tell him? How you
fell in love with his mama? About the purity of that kind
of love? About how you never loved any woman except
his mama? About how men do the right thing, no matter
what?"

Stony looked down at his hands, curled upward in his
lap. He remained silent.

"I'm not gonna tell you the right thing. All I'm going
to tell you is you're welcome to stay here till morning.

When Lourdes comes, you two need to talk. Then you
need to think about that boy or girl of yours in fifteen
years and what you're gonna say to that child."

Stony got up and went to fix a peanut butter sandwich
at the table. He glanced out into the dark night. If there'd
been a phone, he'd have called Lourdes and told her that
he was going to come get her. He would've told her that
it was all right to steal his mother's money because it was

worth a little time in hell for their happiness. It was worth
some guilt. It was worth a little lying and stealing and
pretending that they were doing the right thing. The universe
wanted them to. The universe was made for those
who took when the time was right, who jumped and
grabbed what it was they needed for happiness. Happiness
was all.

He saw his reflection in the window. It barely looked
like Stony Crawford anymore.

15

The calls of night birds in the woods punctuated the more
distant horn and warning bells of the train as it passed up
from Mystic on its way north to Providence. The temperature
dropped to thirty-eight, a jagged wind grabbed the
last leaves on the trees along High Street, rushing down
the narrow lanes that grew perpendicular to it. The oaks
and maples held onto their colors for a future fight with
the early winter wind off the sea. Clouds moved across
the face of the moon like a bridal veil, to cover her beauty,
to protect her chastity, to increase her mystery.

Johnny Miracle! The voice boomed from the gathering
clouds. Johnny Miracle! Again, like a clap of thunder
through the trees that scraped the hazy moonlight.

Johnny Miracle stood shivering on Water Street, just
outside the Blue Dog Tea Shop. The voice was both inside
and outside of him. It boomed louder than any surf he'd
ever heard.

"What?" he asked, looking up to the sky. "What?"

The sky was swallowing every utterance from his mouth
until he was sure it just sounded like the bleating of lambs.

He glanced at the passersby with their baby in a stroller,
and at the old lady watching him from behind the Harper
Real Estate Office sign. Oh, but they were ghosts! It was
late--no one was watching him, no one was on the street,
but in flashes of lightning he saw them--people standing

there, mouths open ... He blinked, and they were gone,
these Watchers, these Spies for Them.

Them were the evil ones, Them were the people who
made him do it, who made him do it. Johnny often struck
matches against them, struck matches to the burned bits
of leaves, set fire to small trash cans, burned his fingers
at times, too. Fire chased off Them, fire made Them
scared. He always kept his pockets and busted-up old
shoes full of packs of matches just so he could strike
Them in the face with the fire if it got to that point. Them
were so scared of fire it amazed him sometimes. God told
him fire purified things sometimes. God told him fire defeated
the darkness and if anyone was darkness it was
Them.

Alone again, in the night, he raised his hands up to the
sky as the first drops of rain began to fall. He tried to
strike some matches against the dark, but the rain
wouldn't let him. "Lord God!" he bleated, "What have
you done here?"

And the voice that came back to him was a whisper,
tickling his ear.

The voice was always inside his head.

Every night for the past fifteen years.

16

In his head the images roiled and spun like multicolored
taffy, turning in upon itself:

The man with the red eyes like rats, holding his hands
as he stood in front of the church, as the people in the
church raised their hands up--

As he, a boy, looked up at the man with the red eyes,
who was dressed like a priest but not really a priest, the
boy knew, not a priest like the way he remembered
priests--

And how they'd pressed the blade to the lamb's
throat--

He -was seventeen, working in the butcher shop, a strapping
young man, ready to take on the world. The Crowns
had paid for his upbringing and now he lived in their
caretaker's cottage. The world was a terrific place, and
Stonehaven, the home of his ancestors, was the only place
for him. And then they brought him, that night, that night
of Halloween, that night--

The flashes grew more intense--

That night--

' 'It's something you must do," Mr. Crown had told him
as he unbuttoned Johnny's shirt, a starched white shirt
that Johnny had bought for twenty dollars from the mailorder
catalog. Diana was there, such a pretty little girl,
smiling up at him. Mr. Crown gave him the piece of paper
and told him to lick it. "Like it's a stamp," Mr. Crown
said, and Johnny licked the paper, which had a sugary
taste to it. Then he started to feel funny, the faces in front
of him became flowers and then it was like everything
turned into a big cartoon. "Lick it more," Mr. Crown
said, and then someone pressed Johnny's face into the
paper, and his tongue swirled around on it.

Someone said, "We should've just put it on a sugar
cube."

"Or injected it," a woman chuckled.

"Oh," Johnny screamed inside his skin, "I wish I had
my matches! I'd bum 'em all to hell if I had my matches
on me, I would!"

"Shut up, he's like my son," Mr. Crown said, and this
made Johnny feel proud. "He'll take it all."

But Mr. Crown now looked like Mr. Magoo, and Diana
looked like Little Orphan Annie, with blank eyes, and
some of the people in the chapel looked like they were out
of The Flintstones and The Jetsons.

Johnny hadn't even struggled as he was told to pull his
jeans down, too. The blue jeans melted off of him, they
went down like seawater around his feet--

Naked, he stood at the altar, and four of them held the
struggling woman down--

Struggling?

Was she?

Was she struggling?

She shimmered, too, a ripple on a golden pond--

Like silver fish darting beneath the surface of a glass
lake--

The screams began and he looked at her mouth.

But they didn't come from her.

(She's not a her. She's an IT.)

It was the cartoon characters that held her--their skin
blackening and crackling--

But Johnny was gone somewhere too, he was in the
swirling pattern of the stained glass window, the window
with the picture of the angel holding the flaming sword
to shut off the Garden of Eden.

And then he felt the rumbling within his flesh, as if his
molecules were bubbling and transforming and getting all
twisted up and bouncing around until, for a moment, as
he felt the intense heat all around him, he thought--and
this was one of his last coherent thoughts--that his skin
was ripped off and he stood there at the altar, a figure of
blood and bone and meat, looking out at all of them, all
the cartoon characters as they sang praises and he felt
his brain scramble--
And then, nothing.

17

"Johnny," God said, or was it Mr. Crown and Mr. Magoo
together telling him things? It may have been the man
with the red eyes, but it seemed like God. God had so
many faces, and Johnny could always see through the normal
face to the inner one where God lived. Sometimes he
was so jumbled on the inside he didn't know who was

who, but God always came through. "Johnny, remember what time of year it is?"

He nodded.

"It's time," God said. "What happened was wrong.

What we all got caught up in. It was a terrible thing to
do. But it has to play out. We can never go back, can
we?" God handed him a plate of food, which included a
Burger King Whopper and coleslaw. "I got you some
things. I forgot about the pear. Maybe tomorrow."

"Am I a sinner?" Johnny asked, his voice like a bleat.

"No, you're not. You're a good man. You've always
been a good man," God said. "We just reached too far,
that's all. It's something we should've stopped years ago.

Maybe the moment it started. I was too caught up in it.

I'm the evil one. But to experience it--"

"No you're not," Johnny giggled, picking over the coleslaw. "You're God, you can't be evil."

God gave him a look that he couldn't figure out. "I
just wanted you to know that I am sorry for what we all
did." Then God pulled his hat on and got back in his car.

God drove a Thunderbird, and kept the windows down,
even as cold as it was.

Johnny watched the T-Bird dissolve along the road, and
then the air shimmered with its vanishing.

Chapter Nineteen

Flesh and Lust in the
October Palace


"Diana Crown stood in the half light of the hallway, naked,
and put her hand on the back of Van's scalp. She grasped
his hair in her hand.

"Drink the blood, which is holy," she whispered.

Forced him down on his knees before her. Brought his
head to her thighs.

Smeared the blood on his face.

"Did you love it?" she asked.

"Yes. God yes, I loved it." Van Crawford, his eyes
wild and quivering in their sockets, his hair matted, his
face crimson. "Baptize me, baby, baptize me in the holy
blood!"

Diana smiled. Almost innocently, she said, "I think you
may have killed her, Van. That's very very bad."

Tears sprang from his eyes. "No, I loved her, I promise. I loved her and I gave her red poppies to wear all
over her face and body."

"She's dead, Van. Her heart stopped beating," Diana
said, her voice firm and cold. "But I understand, baby, I
do, come here." She let go of his scalp, and held her
hands out to him. "Come on to me, Van." And as he
rose up, her arms enveloped him, pulling him to her.

"How I love you, my strong killer. Driving your knife
into her, the heat I felt, the thrust in every wound, the
taste of her life--"

"Oh, yeah," Van said, his tears drizzling down across
his bloodstained face, pushing the rusty liquid into his
mouth, down his throat. "Oh God, but I didn't mean to
hurt her--"

"Hurting is good sometimes," Diana whispered, pressing
her lips against his ear and biting down ever so
slightly. "Pain is a ritual we all must endure."

Van didn't know what had come over him, but he was
chasing her up the stairs, up to the master bedroom where
he'd first entered her, first made her feel like a real
woman, she'd told him, taking her on the bed she'd said
had been her mother's. That had excited him further, and
now, bounding up the stairs, two at a time, after her bloodstained
flesh, watching the curves of her small, high
breasts bounce as she went, her ass like smooth melons,
he was going to have her again.

He was going to conquer what seemed just beyond his
grasp.

She was giggling like a schoolgirl, her hair red, her skin
red, too, slick and shiny as he pressed himself to her. She
had surrendered, his Diana, his Diana of the Hunt who
had stood by and watched him press his knife into the
garden of Lourdes, had--

Remember what you saw?

Remember when you turned in the dark?

Turned and saw something there--

Something other than the girl you know as Diana
Crown?

The voice was like a worm in his mind, but he ignored
it as he took her up in his arms, and the room was spinning.

Her legs surrounded his waist, and his pants began
dropping to the floor almost of their own accord. He felt
more powerful than any boy of seventeen had ever felt
before. He felt lightning inside him, muscles of steel as
he held her, as he pinned her--

Beneath her face, in the dark, in the moonlight, you
saw her.

You saw the cracks along her eyes, along her lips ...
What was it you saw, Van Crawfish?

As you push yourself into her, into her depths, into that
woman who changed in the October moonlight as if she
were not a woman at all, but something made of red
bright lava--

It was the blood!

No, it wasn't blood, it was something else, something
that looked out at you from the skin you now hold--

Lava.

It was like a fuckin' volcano burstin' out at you--

And mere it was again, as he held Diana in his arms,
awkwardly shoving himself into her flesh. There it was in
her eyes, as if the thin layer of her iris were pushing
outward and something that looked like the pink of inner
flesh showed through. Pink and then orange, then red, then
... And as she pushed him backwards, onto the bed, he
saw lying next to him the body of Lourdes Castillo, and
he screamed, "What the fuck have you done to her?"

Chapter Twenty
The Tales of the Stones


When the sun came up, Stony began to regret his decision
to run off, but he still didn't think he could go back home.

He stood on the little wood porch that overlooked the bog,
a mug of cat's claw tea in his hand.

"Second thoughts?" Nora said. Nora had gone back to
sleep for a bit, and had only just awakened. She emerged
from behind a screen, where she took her sponge bath in
a large aluminum basin filled with cold water and hog-fat
soap. She looked refreshed in a pale pink sweater and
dungarees, and poured herself some tea before joining
Stony outside.

"Maybe," Stony said, when they'd started walking out
across the flagstone path in front of her shack. "I just
wish Lourdes would show up."

"Maybe she's having second thoughts too. Or maybe
she's just sleeping. She didn't steal money. She has less
to feel guilty about." Nora grinned, reaching out to find

Stony's shoulder. When she did, she drew him close to
her. She smelled like lavender and vanilla. "She'll come.

Don't worry."

"Yeah, I guess," he said. He was uncomfortable with
her touch. He pulled away.

"Watch out that you don't step in that mud," she said.

He glanced over at her. "Sometimes I wonder if you're
really blind."

"Sometimes I do too," she said, her grin growing
broader. "Let me tell you, you live seventy years at the
edge of these woods, you learn where the mud seeps and
where the prickerbushes are real fast. Listen, Stony, seeing
as how it's Sunday and the last day of October, why don't
you lead me over to the stone garden? I need to pay my
respects."

"You got a stone garden? I never saw it," he said,
eyeing her suspiciously. "What you got up your sleeve?"

"Oh, nothing," she said, almost gravely. "Just something I think you should see before you run off with your
girl. Follow me."

She led him around grasping vines and fallen and rotting
trees, between laurel, and around undergrowth. "Mind
your feet," Nora said as she took him down a narrow
strip of muddy land between a pond and sticker bushes.

Then he saw it.

A rusty gate, barely noticeable for the tangle of dried
vines that clutched at it, stood in the middle of a clearing.

Ferns grew up around it, and within: a circle of stones.

Some of the stones were large, some small, but all were
neatly arranged. When they went through the gate, Nora
stepped carefully over stones the precise location of which

she must have memorized. She knelt down in the middle
of the circle, and patted a small place beside her for Stony
to do likewise.

"What is this?" he asked, squatting down upon the
damp moss-covered ground.

"My family," she said. She felt along various rocks,
and then lifted a small stone. "This was my sister, Angelina.

She chose the stone herself when she died. It's not
like we could afford expensive grave markers, Stony. And
Mama never wanted any of us to be buried in the village.

She said all my grand-daddies and grand-mamas were put
in the sacred place, not in those devil places."

The stones around him all had initials carved into them.

Then, as Stony glanced about the soft earth, he noticed
the slight mounds. The stones formed a small circle, but
radiating out from them were the mounds. "It's a graveyard."

"Yes sir, Mr. Crawford," Nora said. "My grand-mama
told me that all of us Chances and Owldeers--that was
my grand-mama's side--were buried here clear back to
before the village even existed. Back when I could see, I
used to tend these graves and mow down all the new
growth from the woods, but as you can probably tell, the
woods have reclaimed much of it."

Stony nodded, noticing how even further away, where
the prickerbushes grew, the ground was raised or dropped
like a brief trench. "Amazing."

"I come out here when I'm troubled, to pay my respects,
to put things in perspective, sometimes," Nora
said. Then she picked up a small stone, and held it out
for him. "Take it."

Stony hesitated.

"Feel it first. Feel this stone. They say stones can speak
if we listen."

No initials were carved along its edge. It was nearly
smooth.

"Let me spin a story for you, Stony. One last story.

One I've been saving for a long long time, but now that
you aim to be a man, I think you can hear this one. I think
you're ready. Many years ago," and Nora began her final
tale. "You listening, Stony?"

"Yeah," he said.

"Stony, now, you got to listen to this one. And not just
listen but really hear it, you understand? This is the last
spin you're ever gonna hear from my lips, because this is
the last one I know. I told you all the others. But I been
holding back on this one.

"A woman who drank too much gave birth to a baby.

The baby didn't have much of a chance. The baby was
too small, came too soon, the baby was twisted around
and backward inside this woman. It wasn't the baby's
fault. It wasn't even the woman's fault, even though her
drinking didn't help. Didn't help that she got kicked in
the stomach that morning either. But it was just life doing
its worst to the most innocent of us, I guess. This baby,
he tried to get born, but he couldn't. He mighta had two
minutes of breathing clean air and seeing daylight, but
then the Lord took him back. Maybe it was the Lord's
plan. Maybe it wasn't. But this baby did not breathe too
long or suffer more nor less than any of us will suffer in
this life."

"Was it yours?"

"No. Nor was it one of my friends' or relatives' child,
but I come from a long line of guardians of the innocent
lost." She pointed to another grave. Stony glanced at it.

The initals carved in it were IMP.

Nora leaned back on her haunches. "Remember that
story about the misshapen Crowninshield boy?"

"The Halloween Man," Stony nodded. "Sure. He
slaughtered a bunch of people and crucified his father."

"That's the story that's told. But there's a deeper truth
to it. The deeper truth is, Imp knew that something was
in the blood of this town. Something that turned bad the
way milk turns sour, the way flies hover around a corpse.

He was almost killed by the people of this town, and
something maybe from the Devil got into him and he went
on a rampage. But we knew, we who were of the slave
families and natives, we knew ... it was the earth here
and it was the darkness within some of the people who
had founded Stonehaven in the first place. Both within
and without. That family called Crowninshield and the
Randalls, they weren't just nice Puritans coming here.

You know their history? They got expelled from the Massachusetts
Colony."

"Witches or something?"

Nora smiled gently. "We woulda been lucky if they'd
a been witches. No, these folks were too good as Puritans.

They were too close to the source of divine evil."

"I never heard of divine evil." Stony would've laughed
at the term, only Nora looked too serious.

"It's worse than any other kind. You know how a fire
can warm your bones in a hearth? But that same fire, if
it jumps, can burn your house down? That's what divine
evil is. It's the power from the source of all, taken out of
itself. That's what those people did. That's what Imp came
from. That's what he tried to destroy. But it got him, too,
finally. But not before he fathered a child. Deformed and
twisted just like him, that child fathered a child and so
on. Imp had a bloodline."

Stony looked at her curiously. "Maybe we should get
back." He glanced beyond her, towards the trees beyond
which was her shack. "Why did you bring me here?"

Nora put her hands on Stony's shoulders. "Your mama
and daddy are not who you think they are."

Stony, holding the small stone from the grave, felt

something squeeze inside his head--a pressure he hadn't
felt before. Swiftly, it became a throbbing headache. Then
he felt warm, too warm, warm like he had a fever.

Nora leaned closer, her breath against his face, her
glassy white eyes almost seeming to watch him. "The
stone in your hand, that is who you were meant to be."

"What? I don't get it."

"A baby was born fifteen years ago and breathed for
only a few minutes. Then he died. His mother was in a
station wagon down on Water Street. The rain began to
fall. I could not see, but I saw within my mind. I am the
last of my family here, I am the last who knows the true
history of this place. I was afraid I might die before telling
you. But you and this girl are going to start a family, and
you need to know."

Stony looked at the rock. It was as if something in his
brain were squeezing, like a sponge, and it hurt so badly
he couldn't make sense out of what she was saying to
him. He looked from her to the stone, and back again. He
was not even sure if he could breathe. "What--I don't-- what is ... If this is my mother's baby, who am I?"

Nora wrapped her arms around him. He tugged away.

"You're angry," she said.

"I don't believe you."

She drew him back to her, her arms around him, pulling
him so close, her heat, her love, it was smothering, it was
something he'd never felt ... His mother had never even
held him like that ... not like that ... not where he felt
both safe and afraid ...
He felt her breath near his ear as she whispered the
damning words.

"You're from the bloodline of the Halloween Man."

Stony pushed her away, and Nora fell back slightly. He
stood up, brushing dirt from his knees. "Shut up, just shut

up. You and your stupid stories. Your stupid stories all
these years I been listening to and buying into and making
believe, because I thought you made up--"

"You're a man now," Nora said. Her voice was deep
and firm. Nothing about her face betrayed any emotion.

"You should know. They should've told you, but I know
they never would have. Not until it was too late. And
now--"

"Stupid bitch," Stony snapped. Then he said, "I'm
sorry." Then he was almost afraid to ask the next question.

He stood over her, not knowing where to turn. Who
else could he trust but Nora? Who else would ever tell
him ...
And then all the fights came back, the nasty knock
down-drag-outs of his childhood, of his father screaming,
"That bastard! Ever since he was born, things just got
ruined for us!"

And his mother, holding him over the flame of the gas
stove, his face so close to it. The Moonfire burning, weakening
him.

It was almost a surge of relief that went through him
now.

"So who is my father? My real father?"

"Your birth father is Johnny Miracle," Nora said.

"And he, in turn, is the descendant of Imp."

Stony caught his breath. He felt blood pounding
through his body like hammers. His heartbeat zoomed. He
felt feverish, his hands trembling. "I came from Aim?"

"Don't judge that man," Nora spat, and for the first
time Stony felt venom in her tone. "Do not dare to judge
that man! He is from a sacred bloodline. You too are from that bloodline and you should look at what it means. You
people in town with your cold ways and your white attitudes,
judging those you'd best not pass judgment upon!

Your birth father is a man of divinity, and if you knew
yourself better you would understand ..." Then she knelt
down again. Her tone softened. "It's too much for you to

understand. Sometimes I don't even believe or understand
it."

"Who's my mother then?"

Nora was silent

"Something I know nothing about."

"Is it someone in town?"

Nora closed her eyes. She brought her hands up to
cover her mouth, as if wanting to keep something in, to
keep it from escaping over the dam of her lips. A hissing
sound came from the depths of her throat. Tears pressed
from her eyes like wine from grapes. She brought her
hands down to her lap, holding them together in a fist of
prayer. "I wanted to never have to tell you any of mis. I
wanted you to grow up and I wanted to hope that all these
years it could be forgotten. Buried like the baby from your
mama's body, buried beneath that stone. But I can feel
them, I can feel them."

"Feel who?"

"Them. Those people."

"Who?"

"The ones who own Stonehaven," she said. "The ones
who did this."

"Someone owns Stonehaven?"

"They've always owned it. They own every piece of
property in the village. They've owned it since the village
began."

Stony brought his hand up to Nora's face. He cupped
it beneath her chin. "I always wished that you were my
mother. I mean, I sort of wished that my mother was like
you."

"And I wish I'd had a son like you, Stony, as badly as
I've wished for my sight to return, I've wished for that,"
she whispered. "But I'm not your mother."

"I know. But in a lot of ways you are."

When she calmed, she said, "I told you all those spins
about the children with flies in them, and about the icehouse
of damnation and about the Halloween Man, be240

cause you needed to know. Your mind needed to work
those stories out."

"What were you trying to tell me?"

"It's not everyone in town that knows. Some are
strangers, and have only come here in the past thirty years.

Some commute in the summers from New York. Some
just don't know. But others do."

"What's so secret?" He felt the chill of morning seep
into him, and the sun's light felt cold on his back as it
cut a swath through the trees.

"You've always heard about how you were born,
Stony. And it's almost the truth, what you heard. You've
always heard stories about how things happened before
you were born and it's almost the truth ... but I have lied
to you. So have others. Oh, I have bed like the worst
sinner on the face of the earth."

Something went placid like the calm surface of a pond,
only inside him. "I don't care. I forgive you. I really do.

What is it? Tell me. Tell me the truth."

She opened her white round eyes to him, and began.

Chapter Twenty-one
Nora's Past


This was back when I could see just like you can. I had
pretty brown eyes flecked with cinnamon. They were my
best feature, my mama told me. They say the eyes are the
windows of the soul. My windows were always sparkling, I can tell you.

You know we got two lives, sometimes more. I don't
mean like reincarnation, I mean like we have our life of
innocence and then it rams right into the real life, the life
where innocence is just a mirror--looks nice, reflects a
lot, but it ain't the real thing.

I was not a God-fearing girl when I was growing up. I
ran wild, and had men right and left. I was always down
in Wequetucket at one of the roadhouses. I never finished
grammar school, and never worked. My mama was always
chasing me with a broom, and telling me I was
going to hell. When I was seventeen, Mama threw me out
of the house. I lived in the streets most nights, searching ;

trash cans for food, or going to the back doors of restaurants
for scraps, like a dog. This was over fifty years ago,
and I can tell you that in a little village like Stonehaven,
black girls with no jobs were not well-treated. I drank too
much, too, which always got me in trouble, and then one
day this nice man told me that he needed someone to help
with his sick wife. I refused at first, but he told me I'd
have a warm bed to sleep in, a roof over my head, and
three meals a day. Plus all the liquor I could hold when I wasn't working. Something about his offer got to me,
and he seemed not only kind but also enormously wealthy,
at least to me. "I ain't no nurse," I told him. He told me
that was all right, his wife didn't need a nurse, mainly a
companion to sit with her, perhaps play cards. This
sounded like the easiest job in the world to me then.

I went to this man's house. Did I just say house! Stony,
it was a castle. It was the biggest place I had ever seen
the inside of. Marble and big fireplaces and views of the
water and martinis as big as lobster traps. No fish-stinking
men pawed me, no cheap whiskey, no sleeping under a
gutter while the rain got under my bones. My room was
small to this man who took me in, but looked like a room
at the Ritz to me. I had my own big bed, and a private
bathroom with a full tub. I thought I'd made it. My mama,
she thought I was his whore, but she didn't understand.

The man never touched me. I spent mornings and afternoons
sitting beside his wife. She seemed to be in a coma
to me, but sometimes she'd flutter her eyes open and look
at me almost serenely. I'd sit there and sometimes talk
about nothing but the weather and what was in the magazines.

Or I'd turn up the radio and we'd listen to the
good shows, and I'd laugh when Jack Benny came on,
and she'd flutter her eyes open. Easiest living I ever had. I was drunk half the time and I didn't have nobody looking
over me really. Sure, sometimes I had to spoon-feed
the old lady tapioca or wipe spit from her lips. But someone
else did the bedpans, and another nurse was there for

her at night. I never asked what was wrong with her, since I figured you don't kill the golden goose, right? It was
their business anyway. I was just happy to have a spring
of comfort and good living.

Then, one morning, I had me some beer. It was a hot
summer day. Beginning of June. A cold beer with a little
lemonade in it. I came up to her room and drew back the
heavy curtains. "Rise and shine, my mama always said," I told her.

When I turned around, the bed was empty.

It had been neatly made.

I stood there looking at the bedspread as if I didn't
understand what this meant.

I went downstairs, looking for one of the other servants,
but couldn't find anyone. I had never looked around the
house all that much. Never had much interest in it. But I
had gotten a little attached to the old lady, lying there
practically dead but still there, still a resident, if you know
what I mean. She was really the only person I ever spent
time with in that house. The servants didn't talk much to
me--they were too good for me, I guess. So I figured, oh
Lord, she died, or they took her down to the hospital or
something. I wandered from room to room, trying to find
the man. But everyone was gone. I went into the kitchen,
made me a cup of tea, and sat for a bit. It was just too
silent. Too damn silent.

I was feeling a little bad, too. I mean, I had this gravy
train in this house, I could have whatever I wanted there.

And now, if the old lady was dead, I'd be out on the street
again. I didn't want that. I went over to the liquor cabinet
and pulled out a bottle of gin. Uncapped it, took a good
swig. Then another. I started crying and crying.

Poor little me! I thought. Poor little Nora Chance! Poor
little girl whose mama didn't love her, whose men had
abandoned her, and now this old white lady went and died
and took away Nora's only shot at living the high life!

Poor poor girl!

I was wandering that house, in a daze aided by booze,
and then I see this door that looks like the door to heaven
or something. The place was spuming around from all my
drinking. I see this door with an arch, and it's all dark
wood. Around its edges are these cute little carved angels,
and in the middle of the door is this inlaid picture of the
Virgin Mary, Mother of God. I look at her a long time.

She's a white woman, too. I think, damn white women
and their fluttering eyelids and their sleeping in bed all
day listening to the radio and then dying in the middle of
the night.

I say to Mary, "Look, you may be the mother of baby
Jesus, but you ain't got the right to take away the old lady
from me. She was my bread and butter." I raised the last
of the gin up and just splashed it across the picture of
Mary.

Then I'm feeling repentant, drunk and sorrowful. I just
blasphemed the Virgin, I know my life is a damp hell,
and I need to get down on my knees and beg Jesus' forgiveness
right then and there. Words from my childhood
come up, words of preachers, words of my mama, the
words I saw written above the little chapel door:

Bless the fruit of her womb.

And I'm thinkin', now what the hell does that have to
do with nothin'? The fruit of her womb? What fruit? She's
made out of stone, this particular Virgin. I open that little
door, and walk into this room. Only it ain't just a room,
it's a little chapel with pews and banners and little stained
glass windows, and I walk down and then drop to my
knees. I look up at the cross, only there ain't no cross, or
it ain't where it's supposed to be.

The chapel gets cold, real cold. I'm weeping and asking
Jesus' forgiveness, and then I hear something moving behind
me.

The door closes, and the room gets real dark. Some
kind of smoke comes at me--it's incense, it stinks, and I
start coughing. When it clears, a yellow mist seems to

come off the altar, and I go up. I know I'm drank, so I
know this is half me and half a miracle, because I know
now Jesus is there with me. I know how wrong I've been. I see the error of my ways. I'm begging Jesus! Beggin'
him! "Help me, Lord! Help this poor sinner Nora Alice
Chance!"

My voice echoes in the room. I'm raising my hands.

The bottle goes crashing to the floor.

And I see something behind the altar as I crawl up to
it. The altar ain't ordinary either. It's stone slab on stone
slab. And as I crawl up to it, penitent sinner that I am, I
see metal behind it, some kind of metal box. A big one,
one almost as big and long as the altar itself.

I pull myself up and I see the mist coming off the top
of this box. It's made of copper or something. Looks real
old, all hammered out, and it has this ... this figure sort
of dented out around the top ... this thing sort of sleeping
in the picture, as if dead, and I think it looks like one of
those Egyptian mummy cases, you know, and I'm won
derin' what in hell these Crown people are up to.

This gets my curiosity going, and I look at it for a
minute, thinking it's strange.

And then I hear someone weeping from within the box.

Or maybe it's just a child outside the chapel. Or maybe
it's some animal in it.

And then, I see its hand reach out from the small square
window on the copper box. Bars like a prison there. The
hand.

Nora took a long breath, pausing in her story. Then she
continued.

I don't remember what I thought then, whether I wondered
if this was a child playing a game or if this was
someone trapped there--

But it didn't matter. The chapel door opened and light
flooded the place.

I turned around, and there, standing in the doorway,
was the man.

"What the hell are you doing in here? I told you never
to go wandering," he said.

I didn't know what to say.

"Look, half-breed girl," he said, as he swiftly walked
towards the altar. "You come into my house and I clothe
and feed you and ask so little of you, and now you betray
me."

He walked right up to me, grabbing me by the back of
the neck with one hand, and slapping me hard across the
face with the other.

Then he looked from me to the box.

"You see it?" he asked. "It's what you came in here
for, isn't it? You want to see what has been forbidden
from mankind for centuries to get near, don't you? You
want to gaze upon it, you drunken whore."

I pulled away from him, but he grabbed me around the
waist. I was too drunk, I felt like I had no strength at all. I started screaming and kicking out, but he lifted me up
and then threw me down in front of the box.

"You want to see it! You want to!" he's shouting.

"Then look! Gaze upon its radiance!"

He opened the door to the cage, and for ten seconds I
saw what seemed to be the burst of a thousand suns. Dazzling
yellow and green light, and within it something else.

A being.

A creature.

Something that you only read about, but never see.

And then, the colors melted, the light dimmed, and a
pain shot through my eyes as if someone had taken their
thumbs and pressed them deep.

I was thrown back, and the wind got knocked out of
me.

When I came to, the light still seemed dim, and I had
a pain in my eyes. I was lying in bed in my room, and
two of the servants were holding my arms and feet down.

The man leaned over me, his eyes wide and blank as
if he were not looking at a human being but at a thing.

In his hand, a small blade that was bright orange with
heat.

"She's coming to," he said. "Quickly."

Someone pushed their hands down on my forehead and
the flat side of the red-hot blade came down on my left
eye. As I screamed, I realized that rags had been stuffed
in my mouth. I felt as if I were choking. Then he raised
the blade and brought it to my right eye.

4

"I wandered for days in these woods, until my mama
found me. I had been sleeping in the mud, eating grass
and weeds, talking to myself. If someone had shot me
then, it would have been a kindness. But my mama was
a good woman. She took me in, and she and my sister
never spoke of what happened, and neither did 1.1 learned
to make candles and bring in peoples' wash, the old way,
the way a blind woman could. And my mama built this
shack for me so that I would never again have to go into
that village. She told me the old stories, and she gave me
the corn doll for protection," Nora said. "She warned me
about the village, but I still went back sometimes, Stony. I still wanted to know what that was, that light--as if by
some miracle the old man could bring my eyes back to
me."

Stony remained silent. "Who was it?"

"It was Mr. Walter Crown. He got killed doing some
business deal in the Far East, years ago. But his son, who
is now Mr. Crown, was eighteen by then, and took over
the duties of the family. But before they were Crowns,
they were Crowninshields. And it's they who own this
two hundred acres of land called Stonehaven. The lady I
had sat with, her name was Miranda, and she was Walter's
older sister, not his wife. I don't know what became of
her that day, whether she died or whether--as I suspect-- she was destroyed by the demon in that cage."

"It couldn't have been a demon. Nora, come on," he
said, almost playfully. "Come on. Demons? Monsters?

That's for movies and junk."

Her face seemed to shine, as if there were ashes and
fire beneath her skin. "I saw its hand, Stony. It was almost
a human hand, but it had this ... this ... smoke coming
off it. And when I beheld it ..."

Then he said, "Why are you making all this up?"

Nora pushed herself up from the ground, using one of
the large stones to help balance herself. "Truth and lies
get mixed up with people, Stony. You know that. But I've
been preparing you your whole life for who you are and
what you're part of. You are a Crown. You are the son
of Johnny Miracle and a Crown. And the Crowns are of
the Devil. It's a blessing that they gave you up to your
mama and daddy rather than letting you be raised by those
Devil worshipers."

Stony squinted at her as if trying to understand. "This
is ridiculous. This is totally ridiculous. If this happened
.. if this really happened ..." He shook his head violently.

"Not that I believe it, it's totally nuts, but if this
did happen, why would they give me up?"

Nora reached over and held his hands still in hers. Her
face, lined and dark, was nearly calm. He knew she was
not a liar. She had never been one to lie outright. She was
a storyteller, but had always separated her spins from the

truth of things. He wanted her to be lying to him. He
wanted it badly.

"When you were born, Mrs. Crown could not give you
life. She could not take care of you. They needed a
mother, and they needed a mother who would keep this
secret. And I suspect that the woman you call your mother
never told you that she worked as a nurse in the Crown
house the year you were born."

"Why are you telling me this?" Stony asked, feeling
numb.

"Because you are going to be a father soon, and a man.

There are things you must know," Nora said, her voice
gentle. She reached up to the sky, her hand balled into a
fist. "I vowed to God I would tell you everything when
you came of age. I vowed I would not let them do to you
what they intend." Her voice grew in strength, and a cold
wind blew down through the trees, bringing with it damp
brown leaves. She turned her face upwards, sweat shining
on her dark skin. "I am not gonna let this lie live any
longer. It has eaten at my soul as surely as if a wolf had
crawled into my bed. I will not let them have the little
boy who I came to love as my own son!"

Chapter Twenty-two

The Village, at the End
of October


So many things happened that morning in Stonehaven
Borough, so many threads that invisibly emanated from
Stony Crawford, that to know everything, one would have
had to spread like fire from house to house, to see the
Indian corn on Alice Everest's front door, which she had
just finished nailing up, and the fat little jack-o'-lantern
she'd put out, hoping that the teens in town didn't throw
it into the street for just one Halloween night--

Yes, Halloween, Johnny Miracle laughed within himself,
hanging onto a tree branch. All Hallow's Eve! It's
glorious, it's glorious and it's coming in the wind, all has
been foretold, all that has been until now will be--

From his mouth, words that were mangled, spreading
like the red leaves of the nearby birch across the drying
grass of the Common. He struck match after match as if
trying to set the air around him on fire.

Down at the Package Store-cum-General Store, Martha
Wight had the cheap plastic masks and flimsy costumes
of fairies and goblins and superheroes from half a dozen
comic books all hanging from a wire above the dry goods.

Few children came in to buy them anymore, and even
fewer would be trick-or-treating. Times had changed, and
even though some of the adults would have Halloween
parties in the houses on High Street, the children more
often than not were warned of candy corn gone bad, or
Snickers bars stuck with heroin needles, of apples poisoned
and studded with razor blades by wicked witches
right out of Disney's Snow White. But the old ways of
Halloween still showed through the cracks in Stonehaven.

The multicolored corn strung across doorways like mistletoe,
the pumpkins and stacked sheaves of straw leaning
against the sides of the clapboard houses, the pumpkin
head scarecrow that the Doane sisters set out on their
porch swing, all of it bespoke a remembrance of the harvest.

The sons and daughters of Stonehaven had harvested
the sea for centuries, from the now near-extinct whales
off the islands, to the lobsters, crabs, clams, mussels, herring, and cod that they were still supplying to restaurants
along the coastline.

Harvest and bounty were two words that were strong
in the soul of New England, and Stonehaven for all its
isolation was no exception. The sea and the earth had
provided all that the town had really needed for centuries.

All outside influence was superfluous at best; at worst, a
curse. The forests of the area had provided the material
for boats and housing, the granite quarries to the south
had laid the foundations and sidewalks, the bounty of sea
and woods and field had fed the original founders of the
village, and although now tourists in the summer tossed

coins in the local coffers, you'd never see this acknowledged.

Tamara Curry was the only resident who did not love
the signs of Halloween as it approached. She felt it was
far too pagan, too far removed from Jesus and the Bible.

She told this often to Fiona Mcallister at the library when
she went to get her romance novels from the paperback
section. "It all comes from witchcraft," Tamara said,
pointing across the desk to the poster of a big orange
moon with a witch flying across it. The text of the poster
read, Halloween Is for Scary Reading, which Fiona tried
to point out to her, but Tamara would have none of it.

"It's worshiping the Devil, bottom line," Tamara said.

"And I only wish we were living a couple hundred years
back. They knew what to do with Devil worshipers back
then."

"You know," Fiona said, a sly smile across her lips.

"It used to be assumed that a woman with a lot of cats
was a servant of Satan."

"My cats are all Christian cats, you know that better
than most, Fi," Tamara huffed. "All of them been baptized
good with the sign of the cross and no one can say
otherwise, and blessed. You know how they're blessed."

She grabbed her books and stomped out of the library.

Walking down the granite steps, and then across the
Common, she saw what seemed to her to be one of the
signs of the Devil in Stonehaven itself.

Johnny Miracle, sitting up in the great old oak tree.

"That tree has been there for hundreds of years,
Johnny, you just quit polluting it." She raised her fist at
him. She was in a bad mood now, what with Fiona's smart
mouth making a blasphemous joke about her cats.' 'You-- you--spawn of the Devil!" She spat.

Johnny Miracle smiled, as he usually did when someone
yelled at him, and waved from his perch among the
thick autumn-gold tresses of the oak.

Stony heard Nora calling to him, but it was too late--

He had to ran, he had to ran and get the hell away from
her. Something was wrong with her, maybe living in the
woods had gotten to her finally, maybe it had been there
all along--her insanity--but the stories she was now telling
could not be true, they had to be the imaginings of a
crazy old woman he had got too close to--

He ran across the mud and damp leaves, nearly slipping
at points, wondering why the hell Lourdes hadn't shown
up--if she had, if she had, he would never have heard
Nora's ravings--

Nora, whom he had trusted] Nora, who told him these
crazy stupid things that could never be real! Nora, who
believed in demons and devils and old Indian curses and
old slave ghost stories, and was not logical--and had no
electricity, for Christ's sake, she didn't even own a phone
or a TV, how could she possibly know anything about anyone]

When he got to his house, he flung his bike across the
yard, and ran up the steps. Throwing open the door, he
shouted, "Mom! Where the hell are you?"

He took the stairs two at a time, and when he came to
the landing, his mother stood there in the doorway. She
wore her bathrobe, and her hair was greasy and hung in
strands around her face.

"Stony? Something up?" she asked, almost suspiciously.

He pulled the roll of bills from his pocket. Taking off
the rubber band, he threw the hundreds down at her feet.

"Where the hell did you get this money?"

She was silent. She looked from him to the floor. Her
lips trembled. "What you been getting into?"

"I want to know where the hell you got all this money.

Two thousand dollars. In a box under your bed. I saw it

when I was four, and it's been sitting there ever since.

You can't pay your bills on time, but you have two thousand
dollars in cash sitting in a box under your bed."

"Your father put you up to this?" she asked, her voice
a whisper.

"No one put me up to this and I don't give a damn
what you think, you just tell me about this money. And
tell me about when you worked at the Crown place. When
you worked as a nurse there."

"Who told you that?" she asked. "What liar told you
that filth?"

"Just you tell me. Never mind anything else."

"Don't you come into my house acting like some nasty
little man," she spat. "You don't know nothing about
what my life is. And you going through my things and
taking money. Money I been saving for you and Van all
these years."

"For me and Van? Is this how much it cost to keep
you quiet? Is this how much it cost for you to raise me
up? I know who my father is, Mom. I know I'm not your
son! I know that's why Dad always fought with you, because
he knew. And you knew too. You knew and they
paid you off and now you're gonna tell me just what it is
that's so damn secret that no one in this town is giving
me a straight answer!"

"You just shut up, you bastard," his mother said, her
voice stranger than he'd ever heard. She pointed to the
money. "That is blood money, and you are lucky that
your head wasn't smashed against a rock the minute you
were born. I'll tell you who you are, you bastard. I'll tell
you how you changed this family when you were born.

How my husband would never touch me again. How I've
had to pretend I cared about you when you didn't even
smell like a baby, you smelled like nothing when you
were a baby, you wouldn't even cry. You just stared at
me like you knew everything, and I had to put your mouth
to my breasts and it would turn my stomach when you

suckled. It would make me want to vomit." Her mouth
was a snarl. "My son had to die and you have to live, and I had to take care of you because of this money that I can't even touch because I know what I did. I know
what I was part of."

Stony dropped to his knees. He covered his ears.

"You want to know it? Did that bitch in the woods tell
you? Did she? I knew she would one day. I knew she
couldn't be trusted. Did she tell you that you would be
dead today if not for me? Did she tell you that I lost my
little boy the minute he was born and then I had to decide
in one minute if I was going to take you? And all I wanted
was my little boy and something in me thought that you
could be him. You could be him. And I spent the past
fifteen years of my life pretending to love you, to love
you, and hoping that it would somehow just work, but
even your brother Van knew early. He told me when he
was six that you had something wrong with you. He told
me that you looked like other babies but you had something
that made him think you were evil. And I knew you
were, but I just pretended for so god damned long! And I
tried to kill myself but I couldn't! Even though I hated
you, I knew you were a baby, and I knew that God would
send me to Hell for eternity for killing myself and abandoning
my children! Jesus tells us to bear our burdens
gladly, but I couldn't! Not with you!"

Stony dropped his hands to his side. It felt as if steam
were building inside him, and he felt a ripple--a movement
within him that he could not identify, as if his blood
were heating up, as if the sounds of distant waves crashed
along his bones and muscles. He opened his mouth and
the words that came out did not feel like his. "Tell me
who my mother is! I want to know!"

"Listen, you little ungrateful bastard, the only reason I
took you is because a priest put you in my arms and gave
me that money, because I needed to know that I could get
away from here if I ever had to. I took that money as

payment for you and your sorry sniveling little ass and
now you throw it up in my face. Now get the hell out of
my house. Get the hell out of my house!" Tears streamed
down Angle Crawford's face, and she looked uglier than
he had ever seen her, uglier than he thought any human
being could look. Her eyes were wild, her hair tossing up
and down as she shook her head, as she slammed her fists
against her stomach, screaming.

In the Castillo household, Lourdes's mother turned to the
police officer from Mystic who had shown up early and
said, "She hasn't come home all night I told you people
something happened. I told you last night. She's a good
girl. She doesn't stay out all night. Something's wrong. I
bet it's that boy. That boy from the village. That village
has always been bad. He's been up to no good with her."

This was the most composed she had been in nearly
nine hours, since she'd sent her sons out into the woods
and to town to try to find their little sister.

Others in town detected a slight change, as if the coming
winter had just drawn a breath closer, for frost was in the
air, frost and something about the light of this day that
seemed on the verge of going out completely.

Stonehaven Borough was arranged in a series of neat
and tiny paths, all crisscrossing as if part of a labyrinthine
design. At its heart, the Common with its old library, and
at its autumn-yellow edges, the Post Office and churches.

The old Customs House on High Street, the apartments
above the few stores in what might generously be called
downtown Stonehaven, the old venerable captains' and
their widows' houses along Water Street ... all intersecting,
all winding around each other until, smaller and

smaller, the village ended at Land's End. There, the glassy
water surrounded the stubby finger of rocky land. The
gulls and cormorants rose and fell with the water, and
Guff Hanlon was taking his morning constitutional before
going back into the village to work his winter hours in
the public library. A few boats were out upon the shining
waters, and the Isles of Avalon were just gentle slopes of
haze out in the Sound. Guff saw, as he rounded the tip of
Land's End, what looked to him to be a strange light
coming from over at Juniper Point, back by the summer
mansions. The light was yellow-green, and flashed for
only a few seconds. But it was enough to startle him. He
checked the position of the sun in the east, and thought it
might just be light glinting off one of the windows of the
Crown place. Something about the light seemed interesting
to him, so he went and sat at the edge of the water,
crossing his legs on one of the large rocks that shored up
the point. He watched the summer homes from this great
distance for a few minutes, and then decided he had just
imagined it. For nothing could produce a light quite like
the one he'd seen.

He was about to get up and continue his walk, when
he saw the light again.

And something else, too.

Later, as he pushed the cart of books down the oriental
rug in the center of the Stonehaven Free Library, he gave
a nod to Fiona Mcallister. She wore her low-cut peach
blouse, and the tan skirt he liked so much on her. She
followed him past a few early-morning patrons, into the
narrow hall of the book stacks. In the dark, dusty room,
he turned to her. She tried to kiss him, but he kept his
distance. "Something's wrong," he said.

"What is it?"

"It's not you. It's me. I saw something this morning.

Something that bothered me. No, wait, it didn't bother
me. It ... terrified me."

She put her arms around his shoulders. "Tell Mama,"
she whispered.

Guff shrugged her off. "Not now, Fi. Not now. I
thought the Crown place was on fire this morning. I
thought it was burning ..." Then tears poured from his
eyes, and he no longer looked like a man in his mid forties,
but like a boy of nine. "I wanted it to burn. I wanted
it to ..."

"You imagined it," Fiona said, trying to comfort him.

"Don't say these things, Guff."

"No," he said. "I saw it in the clear light of day. It's
getting stronger ..."

"Oh, baby," she said sweetly, and this time, he fell
into her arms, and she kissed him all over, she kissed his
neck, his closed eyelids, his nose, his lips, his chin. His
tears mingled with hers. "It was a long time ago," she
whispered. "A long time ago. We were all so young then.

All so young and innocent. It's all right. It's a good
thing."

"I was there," he moaned, a little too loud, not caring
if others heard him. "I was there. You ... all of us ..."

"Where the hell you been?" Del asked. He had just managed
to escape the school bus, and was down at the docks
by eight-thirty a. m., drinking beer and skipping stones
across the water. He had his wool cap pulled down almost
over his eyes, and his sweatshirt was covered with seagull
shit.

Van stood over him, not exactly looking at him, not
exactly looking through him either.

Something was funny about the way Van looked, but
Del couldn't quite figure out if he was just dirty or what,
on account of the way the sun was gleaming so damn
hard and striking the water too, so it made flecks of light
dance around Van's face.

And then, as Del shaded his eyes, he knew.

It's blood.

It's god damned blood.

And Van--his face, his hair, all crinkled and wrinkled
and white as a worm--

Van was soaking, his clothes, his skin, and he left a
trail of blood as he stepped closer to Del and took a beer
from the six-pack. Van hunkered down beside him.

"I'm fucked," Van said.

The village had its own morning bustle, as Officer Den
nehy walked shop to shop with a picture of Lourdes Castillo
in one hand, and a Styrofoam cup full of coffee in
the other. He stopped first at the Package Store, and
walked among the rows of wine bottles to the cash register.

Martha Wight, her white hair flecked with pepper,
sat flipping through a copy of the National Enquirer, cigarette
in one hand nearly singeing the pages. She glanced
up, a ribbon of smoke curling around her craggy features.

"Ben?" she said.

"Good morning, Marti," he said. He set his coffee
down. Tossed the photo on her counter. "She's been
missing since last night. Parents are worried."

Martha Wight gave him a curious look. "Never seen
her before. She from the village?"

He shook his head. "Wequetucket. But she was over
here yesterday. You got any rock candy?"

"Never seen her before," Martha repeated, giving a
light shrug of her bony shoulders. "Rock candy's over in
the jar." She pointed to a series of small jars on the far
counter. "You eat enough of that stuff, your teeth're
gonna fall out."

"Too late. Half of 'em are already gone," Dennehy
said. He walked over, lifting up the lid. The rock candy
was blue, and on strings. He lifted one strand up, popping

a bit of it into Ms. mouth. He glanced around at the cos
turners and the liquor and magazines as if he'd never seen
the Package Store before. "You probably know every kid
in town, huh? Probably always trying to get some beer or
candy or something?"

Martha Wight shook her head. "I don't sell no beers
to minors, you know that, Ben. These kids. They're all
the same. This one probably run off with some boy, or
just took off on her own. They run wild." Taking a long
drag off her cigarette, she raised her eyebrows. Exhaling
a powerful lungful of smoke, she added, "If I see her, I'll
send her home."

The cop hit three more shops, but reached a dead end
on all of them, until he came to the Railsback Butcher
Shop.

Butch Railsback, hacking at a side of beef, his apron
smudged with blood and entrails, glanced at the picture.

"Yeah, dat's Angie Crawford's boy's girl. Lourdes. Like
that miracle place. Lourdes. She's a cutie. Hope she's
okay. She and Stony, dey're prob'ly off somewheres to
get'er."

Then Officer Dennehy asked, "You know, that's what the girl's mother said. But when I stopped by the Craw- fords' a half hour ago, Angie told me she had no idea
who this girl was."

Butch shook his head. "It's her. I seen 'em together,
kissin' behind my shop. Maybe Angie never seen her before.

Could be. Could be Stony boy don't take his girl
home to meet Mama."

When Dennehy was out on the street again, he noticed
that more than a few shop owners seemed to be watching
him.

As if waiting to see where he'd go next. He waved to
each of them and thought, Dear Christ, what a beat I got.

Save me from old New England and the way they watch
and wait and then never really step in with information
until it's too late.



The kitchen at the Crowns' house was long and wide,
meant for entertaining company with dinner parties. In the
early part of the twentieth century, it had been used precisely
for that. Dozens of the almost-rich, the almost
famous would arrive in droves in the summer. Coming
from Manhattan or down from Boston were the flappers
and their feckless beaus with slicked-back hair, the
charmed circle that the Crown family drew to them--
never men as powerful as Crown, never women as
wealthy as Mrs. Crown--but those who needed something
from them, or got something just by being among the
Crowns. Nouveau-riche movie stars, oil tycoons, upscale
gangsters and their mink-glazed molls, all gathered for
frolics and dalliances, and the kitchen was often the center
of the hive as illicit liquor was more often than not hidden
in one of its secret compartments beneath the long sink
with its six faucets. You could almost hear the echo of
laughter and gaiety as couples ran around the cooks, dipping
their fingers to taste the sauce, or uncorked another
magnum of Dom.

But the wild times and parties had ended, and within a
few years, the summer home became a reclusive place.

By the time Diana was born, so little entertaining was
done there that they no longer employed a cook in the
summer.

Alan Fairclough stood in the kitchen, and poured himself
a glass of aged Scotch. Sipped it, looking about the
place. Glanced at his watch. Eight-thirty A. M. He had slept
well, and was not surprised by her call two hours earlier.

"It's happening. I can't believe it, but it's happening,"
she'd said, her voice thrilling, her excitement palpable.

"All Soul's Day's coming," he had told her. "The rituals
are the fine-tuning."

"Yes," she whispered. Then, after a pause, "There's a
lot of blood."

"That's all right. Don't let it worry you. This is part
of the plan, Diana. There's nothing to fear. You know that
better than anyone."

"I'm not afraid of it. I'm afraid of--"

"Of losing yourself to its totality. Don't be," Fair
clough said softly. "Look, I'll have some breakfast and
then I'll bring the boat over."

Then Diana said, "I did the ritual. Just like you taught
me. I wasn't tainted with the sacrifice."

Alan smiled, glancing out the window of his home,
across the Sound, to the thrusting finger of Stonehaven,
and the great white house at its edge. "Purity. Did he love
her when he did it?"

' 'I think so. Yes. It ... it almost brought ... it out ...
in me," she whispered.

"That's all right, Diana," Fairclough said soothingly.

"It's natural for that to happen. It's nothing to fear."

Now, two hours later, in the grand kitchen, Alan Fairclough
felt as though everything he had ever searched for
was at hand. Everything he'd ever believed in was coming
true.

In a few moments, Diana Crown appeared in the doorway
to the kitchen. "It's happening," she said, sweat
along her forehead. "Just like you said it would."

Alan raised his glass. "Sometimes one has to prod
these things along. For the sake of religion."

Her face could not be more perfect, he thought What
she was, what was within her--

The magnificence of it.

All his life he'd been searching, and to find it here,
among this family, tucked away ...
"I have something for you," she said.

"Him?"

Diana nodded.

Alan tasted the bitter fire of whiskey at the back of his

throat. "Do you think he has much fight in him? Last
night must have been ... well, exhausting to say the least.

You had to push him over the edge, no?"

She shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Alan Fairclough grinned like a little boy on Christmas
morning. "Oh, infinitely so. I want to give him a sporting
chance."

Chapter Twenty-three
Van


"What's all that?" Del asked, but looking at the blood
on Van's shirt, he didn't need to be told. The smell was
enough. It was like sticking his face into an open wound.

"I fuckin' killed her," Van said, and then began giggling.

"Shit, does that sound goofy. I killed her."

Del cocked his head to the side. Took another swig of
beer.

"It was not like killing her, though, Del. Man, you got
to believe me," Van said, his words coming out rapid
fire. "It was more like making cosmic love to her, it was
like fucking something that opened like a flower. It was
sweet. I know it was wrong to do, I know it was bad,
man, but it was not like killing her, it was like she whispered
to me to make holes all over her and then she
opened them all for me--for me, man, for fuckin' me-- and then she said, well, come on in, Van, baby, I want
you inside all my flowers--she was like this garden ..."

Both of them were silent for a moment. Del heard the
cries of the gulls overhead, as they dropped crabs and
clam shells along the pavement behind them.

Van popped the tab on a beer can, his eyes squinting
as he glanced around at the sun-spotted water. "I'm
fucked, man."

"Is this a joke?" Del asked, and then it struck him-- of course it was a joke, man. Van was always playing
pranks and shit. One time he pissed on six different doorsteps
in one night, and another time he took a dump on
Tamara Curry's back porch just so that when she went to
feed her cats in the morning, she'd step right in it. Van
was a rucking genius at practical jokes and stuff. "I know,
you went down to Railsback's and got Butch to let you
wipe like a dead pig or something all over you and that's
the blood and shit." Del raised his beer can, "Good Halloween
costume. Me, I'm going' as Dracula, but you-- Man, you are one sick mother, but my hat's off to you,
dude--"

Van's expression nickered like there was a translucent
mask of happiness over a face beneath it. A face that was
like imploded flesh, like someone had stuck a hand grenade
down Van's kisser and pulled the pin, only it blew
up behind the skin.

"I mean, it's pretty freaky for you to do this for a damn
costume, but man, it's gonna scare the bejesus out of the^
bitches from Wequetucket if we haul ass down there to;
night--" But even as Del said these words, somethings
about them felt hollow, as if in saying them he was hoping |
to cover up whatever black hole Van was sitting in.

"I killed that bitch who my baby brother knocked up,"
Van said, his lips quivering, as if all the awfulness of the
previous night had just hit him. He squinched up his face,
looking like a wizened old man for a second. He drank;
the rest of the beer.

The sunlight felt good. Del looked out across the water4 to the south. He could see Stonington and Mystic down|

that way, and some trawlers pushing out to the east. The
curve of land, and the yellow-gold of trees as their brilliant
colors swept the sky with a chilly breeze, all seemed
part of the world of normal life that gave Del some comfort.

He didn't look back at Van. "You're shittin' me,
man."

"No, man, I'm not. I really killed her. Look, she was
walking home through the woods. Like she always does
when she and Stony get together. Remember when you
and me spied on them?"

"Yeah," Del said, wanting to chuckle at this memory,
but something icy caught in his throat. "Yeah, I remember.

Last summer."

' 'Yeah, he was getting some off her, and whore that
she was, she put out good. Well, it was like that, only it
was me and Diana--"

"Something's wrong with that bitch," Del interjected.

"And then something got inside me, man. It was like I had swallowed some yellow jacket or something and it
was all jiggly inside me and I heard these voices--"

"You're looney tunes, man."

"Shut up," Van snapped. "And then, it was like she
gave me permission, and I had this knife, this knife--"

Del glanced over at Van. Van drew a large hunting
knife from his belt.

Several strands of dark hair were stuck to the blade.

"And it was like she gave me permission, like that
bitch Lourdes gave me permission to jab her, only it
didn't seem like a knife, it seemed like my wang each
time I entered her and it didn't seem like I was stabbing
her, it was like--like--I was doing her--" Van caught
his breath. Del wasn't sure if he was weeping or laughing,
but suddenly Van raised his hands over his head, the knife
held high. "I'm gonna kill myself right now, right now,
man, I need to take myself out!"

"Shit!" Del said, pivoting to the side to make sure that
he didn't get stabbed.

Van dropped the knife. It clattered to the dock. Then be bent down, wobbling as he went to retrieve it.

"You really kill her?" Del asked, and wondered if he |
could get up and run fast enough to get away from his;
friend, who looked like he was Charles Manson on a-<
bender. "You really really kill her?"

"I stabbed her so many times, dude, that she squished
when I hugged her," Van whispered. Then, exhausted, he |
grabbed another beer, sinking back onto the dock. "What |
the fuck am I gonna do?"

Del, considering his options, shrugged. "Whatju do
with the body?"

Van, a gulp of beer in his mouth, sprayed it. "Shit!"

Alan Fairclough took his time walking up the stairs. Hisj
morning glass of whiskey still in his hand, he glanced out|
the windows towards the stables. It was good to be alivel
at the end of the two thousand years since God had de-j
scended, it was good to be alive when the Age of
Spirit was upon the world.

It was good to be the priest of the new age.

When he came to the bedroom on the second floor, facf)
felt the old excitement. The tumescence in his groin,
feeling of youth within his muscles. That surge of energyj
that always accompanied his blood sport. The Crov
had, over the years, supplied him with a steady stream I
youths and maidens, and it brought out the minotaur il
him. He loved sparring with an athletic young man,
young man who felt that he could easily take out the oh
bastard who tried to punch him.

But Fairclough enjoyed the sport too much. He'd le
the boy have a hit or two at his expense, and then he'c
begin the battering. The bewildered youth wouldn't eve
understand what was going on, what this would lead
Wouldn't even guess at the power that grew in Faircloug

the pleasure that burst from his brass-knuckled hands as
he punraieled a face into pulp. Or the girls, how he could
torture them just by holding them down and doing nothing
but slicing a gentle razor against their fine brows.

Killing was not his game.

The youths were paid and sent on their way, hustlers
and whores all to some degree, paid handsomely for the
privilege of Fairclough's brutal touch.

But this one, this boy, this Van Crawford, who had
done the sacred duty, who had shed the innocent blood
of the lamb--

Who had unwittingly begun the work of the Gods--

He would be delicious.

His pain would be like communion wine.

To know the light of God, one had to know darkness
first.

Alan Fairclough opened the bedroom door, and saw the
blood-soaked sheets, the indentation where Van had rested
his head in the night, and the bloody footprints to the
window.

Out the window, he saw the red stains along the flagstone
walk.

"Damn it," Fairclough said, setting his glass down on
the windowsill.

"He'll be back," Diana said minutes later, when Fairclough
came storming downstairs, shouting curses. "He
needs me too much. He needs what we have. I know him
inside and out now. He'll want me again."

Within a matter of minutes, her words proved true.

Glancing up, Diana saw what seemed at first the face
of a deranged clown, his hair matted, his face pale with
redness around his eyes and nose. Van. He'd been crying.

He was incinerating himself from the inside out with his

need for her. His hunger. What he got from her was like
an addiction, and he needed his fix.

She leaned over the sink, reaching up to push the window
out slightly.

"Please," he said. "We need to talk. Let me in."

Van's hunger for her was immense. Away from Diana, he
felt weak and spent, but close to her.. breathing the
same air ...
His brain felt as if it were at war with itself. The bloodj
dripped from his scalp, blinding him as he went down thej
hall. Always, the house was in shadow, as if the Crowns|
did not want too much light in their sanctuary.

Van wiped at the blood on his forehead. He tasted the;
fire of his own fever.

Thefuckin' bitch! Look what she made me do! She senfi
me to Hell! She's such afuckin' cunt! Oh my God w/wrff she made me do!

He looked down at his hands. The blood burst and su
purated like lava wounds, flowing across the palms, trick||
ling down his fingers. Stigmata fountains--and in each <
his hands, a mirror. In the mirror, a reflection, not of ;
face, but of a mask. A mask ripping apart like paper,
showed the yellow fat of life beneath it. Something gil
bered and spat like a creature made entirely of nerve en
ings.

That's me!

That's fitckin' me!

He screamed, slamming his hads against the wall^
"No! You can't do this to me, you fuckin' bitch!"

Diana came out into the hall. Reaching over, she flicl
on the hall lights so the morning shadows were wip
clean.

He had expected to see her in the light of day, a me
ster.

But she was not one. She was still beautiful, too beautiful,
too damn alluring, her hair falling loose along her
shoulders, her eyes full of sunlight. She wore a beautiful
sheer white dress, showing off her pale thighs. Didn't she know what she was doing to him? She probably had not
even slept, yet she looked stunning.

"You didn't even say goodbye, Van Crawfish," she
said.

Couldn't she see the hell he was in? Couldn't she feel
the pain that shot out around him like an aura?

"I almost called the police on you," she added.

"Ha!" He laughed, clapping his bloodstained hands together.

"That's a good one!"

"Look at you," she said, her voice low, "coming in
here, out of control, tracking blood, reeking of dead
meat."

She stepped forward and he saw what he had seen in
her in the dark the previous night, the thing that had
zapped his brain somewhere, the thing that didn't seem
right, for when he looked at her, it wasn't like looking at
a woman at all, not a woman named Diana Crown, but it
was like looking at a dark creature with golden eyes that
shot fire--

He remembered then all that he had seen, all that had
been wiped clean from his brain in the past month, since
he'd met her, all that had somehow hidden in his mind,
as if it was too terrifying to contemplate--

"You're a fuckin' devil worshipper!" he screamed.

"You made me do that last night! And that thing you got
in the chapel! That thing from Hell! Oh my god, I'm
gonna go to Hell! You're makin' me go to Hell!"

Then Van thought he heard footsteps coming up swiftly
behind him, but when he turned to look, someone slugged
him hard in the jaw and he thought:

Damn, it's true! You really do see stars--

A tall, skinny old man stood over him, holding the oar

from a boat. "You piddling little fuck. Time for me to j
have a little fun."

Van tried to push himself up, but could not.

"There's nothing I like better," the man said in al
clipped British accent, "than a local boy with a high tolerance
for pain. Ah, what I will do with you, Mr. Craw
ford, will open up vistas you now only imagine. When
the pain becomes too intense, like fire, it numbs. Then
you don't feel anything. I would never want to get to that;
point. I want to almost get there, Mr. Crawford. Almost.

Just to the brink. Just enough so your nerve endings con- ] tinue to scream for as long as possible. But don't worry.! I never kill a boy unless he begs me to do it."

The man dropped the oar. It clattered on marble. The|
man crouched down over him, holding his face up. "You)
know what I get from this? No, of course you don't. Let
me tell you my little secret. I get closer to God, Mr. Craw- 5
ford. I get a little closer to the secret of creation. It's one
of the rituals that's necessary for me to feel anything at]
all. I get what you might call a 'charge' from it. Permit» me to introduce myself. I'm Alan Fairclough, and this,|
my friend, is your finest hour."

The man raised his fist and brought it down, but that
was only the beginning.

Eventually, it was over.

Eventually, the man named Fairclough, whom Van hadl
begun to call God, stopped slapping him, hitting him,;
whacking him, kicking him.

Eventually, Van lay in a heap, and was not sure justj
how long he lay there, or even if he was still alive.

The last words he heard from Fairclough were a wormy |
whisper in his ear:

"Now, Van, you have proven satisfactory. Thank you. I
Should you live, I'd advise you to get out of this house|

soon, before my appetite returns. If you're too weary to
leave, I'm sorry, but as you know, sometimes the blood
and the fight are enough of a charge, even without the
kick inside, that little feeling you must've gotten when
you stabbed her--what was it? One hundred and six
times, yes, that was the number, one hundred and six
times, but you know, that was part of the ritual too, Van,
that was part of opening up something that God has sent
to us, and I thank you."

Perhaps an hour, perhaps two, passed before the will to
live flickered within Van Crawford's soul. All that was
left within him longed to just make it right, to just somehow
make it right again.

Chapter Twenty-four

God, Stony, and Johnny
Miracle


"You said I looked like my mother," Stony Crawford
said, his face flush, his eyes almost wild, his hair falling
across his face as if windblown.

The priest glanced up from his desk. "Stony," Father
Jim Laughlin said. He closed the magazine he'd been?

reading. Picked up the rosary, fingering the first bead.

"You said I looked like my mother," Stony repeated,
"What did you mean?"

"I--" Father Jim began. Then, "Have a seat."

"Just tell me."

Father Jim nodded. Closed his eyes. "All I meant--

"Not Angie Crawford. I already know. I know Johnny*
Miracle is my father. Who is my mother?"

"When I was younger--" the priest began.

Stony interrupted. "Listen, I don't want to hear
private history, Father. I want to know who my mothi
is."

274

»»j

"I can't tell you that."

"Well then who can?" Stony asked.

Johnny Miracle climbed down from the tree when he saw
God coming with the teenager. God always wore a smile
for him, and God always took care of him and brought
him food.

Johnny ran across the Common, and greeted God with
a great big bear hug that made God groan slightly. Then
God said, "Johnny, I want you to meet someone. Someone
you probably have watched grow up here--" and
Johnny looked at the boy, the tall gangly kid he'd seen
ride his bike down the streets so many times. Johnny nodded
to the boy, whose face seemed to be set in stone.

Then God said, "Johnny, this is your son."

Johnny Miracle felt as if his breathing had stopped, as
if his whole body had split apart, as if God were touching
the lining around his heart as it beat. Tears came to his
eyes without his knowing fully why; he bit his lower lip
to keep from shouting.

"My son," he said. "My son."

Stony felt nothing but pain in his head, and a feeling as
if he were somehow a ghost and not real anymore.

"All I want to know--" he began, but before he could
say another word, Johnny Miracle grabbed him up in his
arms, hugging him tight. Stony pulled away, but Johnny's
grip was stronger than he'd expected. It was like being
hugged by a grizzly.

"My son!" Johnny shouted, weeping, his smile as big
as a jack-o'-lantern's. "My son!"

After Stony managed to extricate himself from
Johnny's grasp, he asked, "Who's my mother?"

Johnny Miracle didn't seem to hear. He raised his hands
up to the sky and shouted, "Thank you!" Then, looking
at Father Jim, "Oh, God, thank you thank you thank
you!"

Stony waited for the shouting to die down.

"Who is my mother?"

"Oh." Johnny tilted his head to the side as if rattling
the marbles around in his skull. When he spoke, his voice
was its usual slurred nonsensical sound. What Stony's
mother--not my mother, not anymore, he reminded himself --had called

"Village Idiotese."

"Oh, your mother, your sweet mother, she was sent by
God Himself, she was an angel, she was all beautiful and
pretty and when they mated us--and they were all there,
my son--oh, when they mated us, it was like heaven and
hell meeting in the middle."

Stony glanced at Father Jim. "Who are they? Who's
he talking about?"

Father Jim hung his head down. "I can't speak of it,
Stony. All I can tell you for now is, you were brought
into this world, and you needed a family. You needed the
Crawfords. You didn't need the Crowns--"

"Fuck you," Stony said, suppressing an urge to punch
out the priest, feeling his fifteen years bubbling with steam |
that needed to get out and quit with all this bullshit adults
were passing around.

"Don't you talk to God that way!" Johnny Miracle
shouted, his idiot grin turning maniacal. He raised his |
arms and swatted at Stony, clipping him on the chin.|
"Don't you ever talk to the Lord Your God that way!"
He swung his fist through the air wildly, but Stony:|
ducked. "No son of mine is ever gonna--"

Stony was already running, running but not knowing
where he would go, running past pumpkins piled on door- s
steps, past the Blue Dog Tea Shop, past the Packages;!

Store, past the policeman who shouted for him, past thejj

streets, back to the lighthouse at Land's End, back to
where he could forget that this morning had ever occurred.

Wake up! Wake up! he shouted inside himself. It's a
dream! It's a nightmare! You're gonna be late for some
math test! You had too much of that cat's claw tea at
Nora's and now you're hallucinating in her shack! None
of this can be real, none of this can change so quickly!

Nobody has been lying to you all your life!

When he reached the tall yellow grass behind the lighthouse,
he looked across the Sound and screamed at the
top of his lungs just to get it out of himself, just to let it

go

He looked back to Juniper Point, to the Crown house--

The Crowns.

He sat down on the ground, and lay back, staring up at
the hazy sunshine.

Oh Lourdes, wherever you are, I hope you're far from
this, I hope you're at school, sitting in Chemistry class
wondering why I'm not there. Wondering why, because
you decided not to run away with me, that it was all
foolishness. And you're sitting there wondering why you
can't tell me about how you couldn't slip out of the house
this morning, or how you had to tell your mother you were
pregnant and she and your dad threw a major fit and now
they won't let you talk to me anymore ...
Lourdes Maria, I know you 'II understand all this, all
this bullshit. I know you will.

And then something snapped inside him, so loudly it
was as if a twig had been stepped on near his ear.

Something snapped, and he felt the world going black.

"See? I knew it was a dream. I knew it," he muttered,
and then pinpoints of dark and light fluttered in front of
his eyes. A pain inside his head seemed to burst--

He thought he heard the hoofbeats of distant horses
galloping along a shallow surf.

Then he blacked out.

Inside a dream, he saw the cove, and Lourdes stood
out on the water, wearing the dress she wore to church.

She held her arms out to him, but when he stepped onto
the still water, it turned red, and the swans all rose, their
wingspans enormous, as they took to the skies.

He glanced up, watching the beautiful white birds, and
saw fire erupt from their wings until the entire world
burned from their beating.

Then Stony Crawford opened his eyes. His head was
throbbing. He wiped at his dripping nose. His hand came
back bloody. "Shit," he muttered, sitting up. He'd only
been out a few seconds. He felt exhausted.

Officer Dennehy said, "Hey, kid. Stony, right?"

The policeman stood on the edge of the path by the
lighthouse.

"You okay, kid?" the cop asked.

Stony sat up, heaving a sigh that felt larger than his
six-foot frame. "Yeah, I guess."

Dennehy stepped off the path, walking over to him.

"Let me help you up, okay?" He squatted down, and put
his hand under Stony's elbow.

Chapter Twenty-five
The Cop


"I've been looking for you all morning," Dennehy said.

"You want some rock candy?"

Stony shook his head. He leaned back in the seat, glancing
out the window to the Sound. Seagulls dove down
and up from the choppy waves. "I've been around."

"You okay? Looked like you passed out. I don't smell
any alcohol.

Stony felt very arch. "Let's just say I'm having a shitty
morning."

"Hmm." Dennehy cocked his head to the side, considering
this. He popped a piece of the transparent hard
candy into his mouth, crunching down on it. His back
molar hurt, and he knew this probably meant another root
canal for him.

"Why've you been looking for me?"

Dennehy brought out the picture of Lourdes. "This
your girl?"

Stony nodded. Then, "Something's wrong?"

Dennehy shrugged. "She's missing. Know where she
might be?"

"You tried her home?" Concern in his voice. The teenager
was worried. Dennehy could see right away that
Stony had little to hide; but he did look like someone who
hadn't gotten any sleep for a few nights.

Dennehy gave him a flat stare. Then, "Kid, you look
like you've been through hell. What's up?"

"You don't want to know."

"Sure I do."

"No, you really don't."

"All right. So tell me about you and Lourdes Castillo."

"She's my girlfriend," Stony said. "We were going to
run away together this morning. We were gonna get married."

"Whoa. So what happened?"

"She never showed up."

"Tell me about you."

"Why?"

"Because," Dennehy said. "Geez, kid, this village is
full of you die-hard New England types. Get back into
the world. I'm here to help. I'm here to find your girlfriend. I ain't the enemy."

Then, both because Stony didn't know what else to do
and because something in him felt like he would burst, he opened his mouth and let the story out, beginning with
the revelation from Nora, all the way to the encounter with
Johnny Miracle and Father Jim.

Afterwards, Dennehy said, "Holy shit. That is a mother
of a morning, kid."

"Yeah." Stony nodded. "It's Halloween and I keep;
hoping it's all a big joke on me." His voice cracked,
fragile. Dennehy had a sudden impulse to drive the kid;
the hell out of the borough, down to Mystic, pass him to j
his sister Irene to give him a big bowl of clam chowder
and a sandwich, and tell him to wait down there till Den280
nehy could locate his girl. If half of what the teenager
said was true, this was not exactly the best time for his
girlfriend to go missing.

Dennehy started up his patrol car. Voices from dispatch
mumbled from his radio, but he turned it down. ' 'Stony,
tell you what. Let's go out to her family's place and
maybe we can figure out where she might've gone.

Okay?"

Stony shook his head. "No way. If she's not there, I
don't want to have to take bullshit from them too. I need
to find her."

Dennehy drove back up to High Street, taking the curve
a little too fast, almost hitting a lazyass cat that stomped
proudly into the street and then ran like hell when the
police car was on it. Then, on impulse, he pulled over
again. "Listen, you want to go take a nap or something?

My sister's got a spare room down in Mystic and you
really look like you need a few hours of shuteye."

Stony shrugged, his eyes blinking closed. "No, I'm
fine, seriously."

"Yeah right," Dennehy sighed, as he drove on out of
the village, out to Route 1, down to old Mystic and the
gray clapboard on Greenmantle Drive where Irene would
already be making lunch.

The teenager in the seat beside him was already asleep
before they'd even reached Wequetucket.

Stony awoke in darkness.

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck.

He heard voices out in the hallway. A needle-thin shaft
of light from beneath the door. For a moment he thought
he was a little kid again, and his parents were fighting,
but these voices were more soothing.

"It's only been four hours, let him sleep some more,"
the woman said.

"Yeah, but he's got to go back, he can't stay here." It
was Dennehy's voice. "Besides, maybe his girl is looking
for him."

"Why are you so concerned?"

"I just am. He's been through hell."

"That cockamamie story you mean," the woman
huffed. "He's a teenager. Teenagers make up stories
sometimes. You were like that."

"No, Irene, I know he was telling the truth. Nobody
lies about that kind of stuff. And you know about those
stories--"

"Oh, good grief, and you believe them. A bunch of
fundamentalists in Wequetucket spread a rumor nearly
twenty years ago about devil worship in that village
and--"

"It's my beat. It's a weird town. I've seen a few
things--"

"And you're a cop. You gonna tell me that you believe
that a bunch of Satanists are living over there? The evil
rich people who use the villagers for their sadistic black
masses?"

Silence. Stony stretched, sitting up on the featherbed.

He swiped at the sleep in his eyes, and tasted the sourness
of the last of some dream in his mouth.

"You know I don't believe that," Dennehy said. He
cleared his throat. "My point is, maybe this kid should
never go back there. The situation with his family, with
his--"

"That's not your business," the woman said. "Remember
the last time you tried that? What was her name?

Natalie?"

"Stop it. I did what I could for her."

"Yeah, and now she's a ward of the state and probably
will never be the same again."

"Well, they beat her. They probably would've killed
her."

"Maybe. Maybe." The woman's voice softened. "You

can't save everyone, Ben. You just can't. Whatever that
boy is going through, you have to let him."

"It's just that ..."

"Ben?"

"It's just that ... I was there, Irene. I was there the day
he was born."

"That boy?"

Silence.

"I was doing my rounds, just wandering, and I heard
the mother screaming, and I went over ... It was raining
hard. It started raining so hard I couldn't see straight, and
when I got there, the priest was there, and others were
there, too, the Crowns, and well, lots of people, maybe
ten or twelve, and it was like they formed a protective
circle around the mother and I swear, Irene, I really am
positive I saw two babies. One all bloody and the other
all clean and not precisely a newborn and ..."

"Ben?"

"Both of them were crying. Both of them were alive.

But the priest, he--"

"No!" the woman shouted, and then Stony heard a
muffled cry.

' 'I could not believe my eyes. I would not believe them.

But now, with this kid, fifteen years old, Stony Crawford,
and the story he told me ... It all fits."

"They killed the baby? You're sure?"

"That's the sad part. I'm not sure. The rain, it was so
hard, and I couldn't really see, and then later I asked
somebody--maybe Marti Wight, or that woman with the
cats, Curry--and they told me there was only one baby.

That I'd imagined--"

"And you'd been drinking," the woman said, her voice
softening again.

"Yeah, that was before. My six-pack suicide badass
cop breakfast. Back in the bad old days."

"Oh, Ben," the woman said. "Oh my God. I'm sure

this isn't like that. Nothing is that bad. People aren't that
terrible."

Silence.

Dennehy said, "Aren't they?"

Stony got up out of bed, and went to the window. He
pulled the blinds up, and saw a little garden in the light
of early evening. Beyond it, a pack of trick-or-treaters, all
about three feet high, were walking along the sidewalk of
the opposite street, one of their fathers guiding them with
a pumpkinhead flashlight.

Carefully and quietly, he lifted the window, feeling the
chill of night brush past him.

To get from Mystic to Stonehaven was a five-mile hike,
but Stony grabbed the six-fifteen bus up Route 1, jumping
off just beyond Stonington, and then walked the final two
miles along the dark slender offshoot highway that went
into the borough. He thought of going on up to Wequetucket
to see if Lourdes had returned home, but decided
that if she had, it might be good if she stayed there awhile.

His blood was boiling, and he felt an anger surge
through him that he hadn't known before.

There were lies and lies upon lies, and he felt a fury at
his family, and at the village that had raised him up only
to slap him hard when he'd nearly reached manhood.

As always, Halloween night in the village rarely meant
children trick-or-treating, it almost never meant anything
other than darkened houses with their harvest displays out
on front steps. The few kids that did trick-or-treat were
usually taken up and down one block, but the neighbors
tended to not open their doors, preferring instead to leave
out bowls of candy for the little kids to grab up in their
bags. Stony felt a breeze come up as he walked alongside
the cove, over the bridge, into the village. The temperature
had dropped several degrees in just a few minutes. He:;

drew the hood of his sweatshirt up. He noticed that he
stank, which came as no surprise since he hadn't showered
in twenty-four hours, and his exhaustion and anger
seemed to come out of his pores. When he finally reached
his house, it was nearly seven at night. It was silent,
empty. His mother would still be on-shift at the hospital
down the road, and his father would probably be drinking
with his lobstering buddies down at the docks. Well, not
really my mom and dad, he thought. The idea of it was
vaguely comforting. Fuck 'em all.

He took the longest, hottest shower of his life, and felt
like he was scrubbing the past off his hide, Ivory-soaping
all the memories, rinsing the badness that had infected his
life.

He watched the filthy water run down the bathtub drain.

After he dressed, he went downstairs, and tried calling
Lourdes. Her mother answered. "Bueno?" she said.

"Hola, Senora Castillo, es Lourdes en casa?"

"Stony?" Mrs. Castillo asked, and the voice was one
of suspicion. "That you?"

"Yeah," he said. "Is--"

She cut him off. "What have you done with my daughter?

Where is she? Why was she not home last night?

What did you--"

And then the line went dead.

Stony stared at the receiver, trying to make sense of
what she'd said.

Last night?

Lourdes hadn't even come home last night?

Stony felt the presence of someone behind him, perhaps
a slight sound had clued him, perhaps it was the fetid
breath ...
He turned.

Van stood there with the phone cord, unplugged from
the jack, in his hand.

"No calling out. Not right now. Not right now, Stony

baby brother. I done something real real nasty." Van
dropped the cord.

In his other hand, his large hunting knife, unsheathed.

"You trying to call her? Ha! You ain't never callin' her
again!" Van, his face barely recognizable beneath a mask
of blood and torn flesh, stood before him in the living room. "I killed Lourdes. I killed her."

"Bullshit." Stony felt his heart leap, felt something
scratch at the back of his throat. His limbs felt heavy.

This was pure hell, the day and now the night, this was
pure hell, and he had somehow been plunked right down
in the middle of it. His world had turned into a nightmare
of questions and confusions, and now, this ...
"She's at the Crown place. They put her in this bed.

They're sick fucks. Diana Crown is ... is ... she's something
fucked up, Stony. She got this thing in her eyes. She
got this power!"

Then Van drew something from his pocket.

Passed it to Stony.

It was the small purple flower that he'd given Lourdes,
that she'd put in her hair. Last night. Standing in Our
Lady, Star of the Sea. Put it into the Virgin's hand, but
Lourdes had laughed and said how Mary didn't need it,
and had put it in her hair. How beautiful the flower had
looked in her dark hair.

Only it was no longer purple.

It was red and small and pulpy and smelled of blood.

Three long strands of black hair were entwined around it
as if they'd been pulled out violently at the roots.

"What the--" Stony looked from the flower in his
hands to his brother.

Van grinned, half his teeth rotted and yellow, his white
hair almost on end. In his hand, his hunting knife. "You

know you're the one doing this to me. You are. I can feel
you inside me making me do this!"

Stony stepped back, sure that Van was going to plunge
it into him.

"I never fuckin' liked you, baby brother," Van giggled,
and then he thrust the knife into his gut, twisting and
turning it as he brought it up to his throat.

Van Crawford spilled across Stony's shirt.

Chapter Twenty-six


"Jesus!" Stony cried out, falling back, wiping the blood
off him, tearing his blue shirt off, pulling his soaked jeans
off. The blood seemed to go right into him, into his skin,
into his throat. He felt the electricity of his brother's life
go through him.

A bloody grin spread across Van's face, and he drew
the hunting knife out just as if he still was there, still
inside that bloodied and chopped body, and he held the
knife out to Stony--

Take it, a whisper within him said.

Take it. Use it on them. I couldn't. I'm not that strong.

You're the strong one.

"No! Van!" Stony shouted, his skin soaked with his
brother's blood, watching the last of his brother shivering,
falling like a marionette whose strings have just been cut,
falling down in a heap of dark red-brown mess. Steam
rose up from the body.

Some wire overheated in Stony's brain, and he felt as
if he were teetering on the edge of a chasm--

It's just a nightmare, none of this can be happening,
none of it. All of it has to be a joke, a trick, a dream.

Feeling a power surge through him, he held his arms
out and screamed at the top of his lungs. His voice echoed.

The screams came back at him, multiple screams, all
with his voice.

Stony felt a strange rumbling inside him, as if a volcano
within his own body threatened to erupt. I'm going crazy.

I'm watching this going crazy. It can't be happening. This
shit doesn't really happen. He held his hands to the side
of his head. Don't lose it now. Don't lose it. Find Lourdes.

Somehow you'll find her. She can't be dead. She has our
baby.

Then a deep calm swept over him. The room shifted,
as if cleaning something horrible from it. The body still
lay there, the cheap blue carpeting soaking up the pour of
blood.

But Lourdes was his only thought.

Stony went and grabbed clean clothes from the hangers
in his closet. He put them on. Don't think about this yet, some part of him instructed. Don't think about what you
just watched your brother do. Lourdes is the only thing
you need to think about. If she's in some trouble, if she's
at that house, then you need to find her.

He took his mother's station wagon, the station wagon
that had contained the mythic story of his birth, but not
his--oh no--the birth was of some other Stephen Craw
ford, this one, this Stony was born in the Crown house.

Every damn thing in his life happened at the Crown
house, only he hadn't known it, and now it was all so
fucked up he didn't know which way to turn. He had only
driven a car once before, with his old friend Jack the

previous spring, driving out on the dirt roads down in
Wequetucket once, in Jack's father's car, just dirt roads,
and he'd learned how to use the brakes and all the other
fun stuff, but now he didn't care if some cop pulled him
over. Who the hell cared? Ha ha ha, Officer Dennehy, my
brother just drove his hunting knife from his nave to his
chops and you're worried about me driving without a license?

Something had become so calm, so peaceful, as if his
sense of--God? Was it God? Or was it just his sense that
nothing could be this bad, nothing could be worse than
his brother driving his hunting knife into his own stomach
and (don't think it, don't conjure the image up, something
inside is gonna erupt if you think too much about it)--

The hunting knife was on the car seat next to Stony.

He couldn't even remember taking it from his dying
brother, he could barely remember thinking that he could
use the knife. He barely could remember holding the knife
in his hand ...
His sense of something he felt he must have always
known, always felt inside, his differentness, his stranger
in a strange land sense, his feeling that he was like the
Storm King, from another place, from another family--

Johnny Miracle and--who?

Who was his mother if not the woman named Angie
Crawford? Who was she? Why couldn't Nora tell him?

He almost crashed into the black iron gate at the Crown
driveway. Opening the car door, he got out and looked at
the mansion. How could Lourdes be here? Dead or alive?

Why would she be in this place where she knew no one
and no one knew her?

At the second-story window, Diana Crown pushed the,
curtain aside. She pulled the large window open, and the
chilly October wind blew her hair back.

"Get out of my way," he said to her as she greeted him
at the front door. "Get the fuck out of my way." He held
the hunting knife up.

"Stony, you don't need to be upset," Diana Crown
said. "It can all be explained. It's all set up to be--"

"Just get the fuck out of my way," he said. "I don't
even know you. Who are you people? Where's the room?

Where is she?"

"Upstairs," she said. "On the left. The first bedroom."

In a daze he walked up the stairs. It seemed to take
forever to get to the landing. Once there, he turned left,
counting the paces. This was too unreal. It was not really
happening, but he would play along. It was just a big
Halloween joke, it was just--

Then he saw her--

In the bed--

The mattress soaked.

What the--

What the fuck--

What the fuck did they do to her?

Then, he thought the wildest, craziest thought--

Van lied. He killed himself in front of me, but hefuckin'
lied! That bastard!

Lourdes lay on the blood-soaked bed.

Lourdes, alive ...
But her body--

"My God!" he shouted, "What the fuck have you done
to her?"

--like a whitish pink larva of pulsing liquid around her
face and neck.

Through a layer of mucus-scum, her face. Her body,
covered with translucent skin, with a clear liquid--

Veins running outside her body--

--To areolas and what seemed to him like the abdomen
of some kind of insect larva--

Like a coating around her--

Like a protective shell--

But her eyes, fluttering open--

Beneath the layer of pulsing clear liquid, and blue-red
veins branching out to the edges of the new skin that
covered her from head to toe--

Blood pumping--

She can't even see me.

She doesn't even know where she is.

She's in some kind of womb.

She's--

A nearly clear pinkish liquid drained from the six dark
areolas on the left side of her body. The liquid environment
that covered her seemed to flow upward to her face.

Her mouth opened slightly, and for just a second he
hoped--no he prayed--he would hear her voice just once
more--

But then, her lips shut slowly, almost a smile on her
face, almost a look of perfect calm across her features,
and her eyes closed again.

PART THREE
OUTCAST

"The Storm King, weakened by the Outcast's Moonfire
sphere, cannot bring himself to save his earth-parents'

farm. The earth is doomed ..." from The Storm King: The Burning Citadel, Vol. 2

Interlude: The Dead Village

Chapter Twenty-seven
Twelve Years Later


"Holy--" Stony shook his head. It all came back: the
year, his age, the moments ...
Her face beneath the watery pulp that covered her like
a mucus membrane clouding over a wound.

But he was older now, late twenties, the past was a
whisper, a photograph.

The pictures on the boy's back stopped, a last image
of Lourdes's face still there, her face beneath the yellow
white pulsing sac. She looked strangely peaceful. She was
at peace. Some kind of peace in the picture. It had to be
peace, he told himself after all these years.

The boy called Prophet pulled his shirt back down.

"Seen enough?"

"This is evil," Stony gasped. "All of this. Coming
back here, what you are."

"What I am is what you made me," the boy said.

"Smoke?" Stony asked ironically, drawing a pack out

of his breast pocket. The car smell came back, the filthy
old Mustang, then the road they were on, at the rundown
bridge overlooking the cove.

"Kids can't smoke."

"Most kids can't do a lot of things that you can do."

Stony lit up the cigarette. The smoke filled his lungs, but
tasted awful. "Christ, Steve. I can call you Steve, right? I don't go in for this Shilo or Prophet BS."

"Yeah. Sure. I like Steve."

"Christ, Steve, that's some etching you got on your
skin."

"As long as I can remember, I had it. The Great Father
said that it was the map of the world."

"He would say something like that." Stony felt the
sweat soak through his shirt. "I wish Mr. Fairclough were
still around, Steve. I'd like to expand his horizons, so to
speak."

"What are we gonna do here?" Steve asked, almost
innocently. He glanced around the battered chain-link
fence that had been clumsily erected with its no trespassing
sign, and then some wiseass, probably a kid, had cut
through the chain-link and made it look like a big exploded
spiderweb. On the road, the fence had been totally
torn apart. Hungry vines pulled back what was left of it.

"We're gonna go look at the houses."

They drove down what had once been Water Street, its
dark pavement potholed, roots jutting from overweening
oaks. The Common was nothing but dirt, and the trees
that had been torn out at the roots lay rotting, sprouting
lichen and fern as if the woods just to the northwest of
the village would take it over after all these hundreds of
years. What had been the Stonehaven Free Library was a
pile of rubble. "That's where the P. O. was." Stony
pointed across the Common. "Three churches stood over
there." But the churches were still there, only their steeples
and crosses had come down, their doors torn off their

hinges, their stained glass windows blasted out years earlier.

"I want to see the ocean." Steve clapped his hands
together. "I never saw the ocean."

"Okay," Stony said. He drove the Mustang out to
Land's End. The car was at its last gasp. Stony could feel
it in the bump and lurch as it moved over the jagged road.

He thought he smelled oil burning, but none of the warning
lights worked on the car, so he could not tell what
precisely was going wrong. Everything was shot on this
old classic, but it had done the job that Stony needed
doing. It had gotten them here.

Along the road, nothing but the foundations of houses,
rubble, as if the bomb had been dropped. Nature had begun
to reclaim this territory. A slender new growth of
trees grew above tangles of berry vines and dried grass.

Hedges had gone wild, and snaked and burst around the
old granite stones. Then they came to the seawall, and the
Sound.

"Wow!" Steve shouted, rolling his window all the way
down. "Look at that! I never seen the Atlantic Ocean!"

"You still haven't, flu's is just Avalon Sound," Stony
said. "See those islands?"

"Barely."

"That's where you were born," Stony said, closing his
eyes, trying not to bring it back.

He didn't want to remember it.

"Let's get out of here. We have somewhere else to
go," Stony said after a minute. The air was fresh and
clean, and as it pushed out the cigarette smoke in his
lungs, it brought back too many sensory memories. The
taste of fresh fish, of saltwater when he and Lourdes swam
on the small beach, the same air he'd breathed when they
made love and created this boy.

The car died a quarter of a mile down Juniper Point, so
they got out to walk. Stony wrapped the small bomb in
newspaper. Then he brought his bags out and put them
on the hood of the car. Opening them, he brought out the
hunting knife.

"This was my brother's," he said. "Before him, it was
my father's. It's soaked in the blood of innocence. I figure
that's as good a mythological weapon as any. You ever
hear any Greek myths?"

The boy--No, think of him as Steve. You can. He is
Steve. He is your son--shrugged.

"Well," Stony said, as he drew the gun out and stuffed
it into his belt, "there was this guy who had to go kill
this really awful woman. She had snakes in her hair, and
half of her was lizard, and her eyes turned men to stone.

She was a monster called a gorgon."

"I knew women like that in the Rapturists," the kid
joked.

"Yeah, well, this one was dangerous, and this guy had
to go cut off her head without looking her in the eye."

"Kind of cowardly, you ask me," Steve said.

"True," Stony laughed. "See that house down there?"

He pointed with the knife.

Steve nodded. -;

"It's the house where they kept your mother."

Steve took this in, and then looked up at his father.

"Why are you doing this? You brought me all this way, and I can't figure out why."

Stony opened his mouth to say something, but thought
better of it. *

"I've made people die before," the boy said as they began
walking towards the ruins of the Crown place. The
morning sunlight slanted across the horizon and seemed
to flatten the woods to their left. It was almost like the
picture on the kid's back. It was almost unreal. "I've
made them hurt."

The magnificent day was a good one for confessions.

"I know," Stony said nonchalantly. "It's the Moon
fire."

"The what?"

"Moonfire. It's like exhaust. Those people back in
Texas, where I took you. They were already dead when I
came, weren't they?"

Steve nodded, a tear coming to his eye. "They called
it Azriel Light. The light from the Angel of Death."

"Shit happens," Stony shrugged. "They brought it on
themselves. You can't turn the key in the door of the
tiger's cage and not expect that maybe now and then the
tiger's gonna jump you."

When they reached the house, Steve said, "You're
gonna kill me, aren't you? You brought me here ... to
kill me."

"You don't even know what you are," Stony said.

"After all you know, you don't know that much."

"I know they worshiped me."

"Weaklings. Idiots. Fools," Stony nodded. "And those
who weren't, like Alan Fairclough, used you. He was
weak in his own way."

"I am a prophet," the boy said.

"Of what?" Stony spat, almost laughing.

"Of ... of ..."

"They sold you a bill of goods, kid. Truth is, you're
my son, but you should never have been born."

"They told me my father was evil."

"Did they? What's evil? Hurting? Killing?"

"If killing is righteous--" the boy began, but Stony
reached out his free hand and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"What do you mean by righteous killing?"

"If killing is ordained by the living god and if it flies
like a lightning bolt to sinners!" the boy shouted, as if by
rote.

"Then kill me." Stony shook his head. He chuckled
mostly to himself, remembering the drama of childhood
and how it made every kid feel like the center of his or
her own universe. "Kid, you have a lot to learn about
how people sometimes use you, don't you? People who
claim they believe in Jesus and God and then they do
really terrible things because bottom line, Steve, everybody
wants to be King of the Mountain. And to be King
of the Mountain, you have to kick everybody else in the
ass."

Steve looked hurt. His face crumpled as if he were going
to cry. They had spoiled him, those cultists. They had I
massaged his little growing ego until it was stunted and:
misshapen. Fuck you, Alan Fairclough, for doing this.

"They didn't use me. They loved me."

"And you loved them." Stony nodded. "I saw that old;
woman in the shack I got you from. What did you call;
her, Gramma? She take care of you when you were sad?|
But still, when I went in to get you, you'd already killed s
her. Okay, maybe it was the 'Azriel Light.' Those biblical*
names sure cover up a lot of sin, don't they? She hem-jj
orrhaged right there. I didn't even have to fight her. She|
was gone."

"Sometimes ..." the boy said. "Sometimes it gets!

out."

"Yeah, it leaks, I know. I learned just like you did.1
Sometimes, when you do something you think is good, M
leaks. You think you're healing somebody, or making the j
rain come down on parched land, or you--"

"You save a puppy's life. That's what I did, I saw a
man beating the life out of a puppy, and I--"

"Sure, I know," Stony cut him off. "Been there. You
think: If I just get him to stop, if I just make the puppy
all back in one piece again, no bleeding, then maybe it
won't leak this time. If I just make it so that little girl's
legs aren't all twisted, it won't leak. If I just help that old
man with his pain, maybe ..." Stony let his voice trail
off. "I've lived as far away from other people as I could
most of my life. Just so I wouldn't let it leak."

"You said ... you said you were from some town."

"Yeah, but when you're like us, kid, you're not from
anywhere. My P. O. Box is in Winslow, Arizona. But I
live up in the desert, farther out than that. Away. But even
then, it's not far enough."

"How do you stop it from leaking?"

Stony squatted down in front of the boy. He held his
shoulders. Tears came to his eyes without him even knowing
why. He blinked them back. "Son, you can't."

The sign in front was no longer there, and the house itself resembled the Parthenon after the centuries and the tourists,
for its columns stood, its roof had been rebuilt, the
walls were still up, but it looked as if its meat had been
sucked right out.

They walked in silence through the gaping hole of the
front door.

A purple darkness permeated the house. Some windows
were boarded up, others were still rimmed with the jagged
teeth of broken glass. Rat and bird droppings were everywhere,
as was trash--moldy bits of food, torn and wadded
papers, something that might've been human excrement
wiped across the walls as someone tried to write an indecipherable
graffiti phrase. Tattered curtains fluttered like

moth wings in the morning breeze. The stench was strong ^
and rose and fell with the air.

Finally, Steve looked up at his father and grabbed his
arm for comfort. "It's breathing."

Stony glanced down at him.

"The house. It's breathing."

Stony felt his skin change, and goosebumps rose along his arms just with the kid's voice. He glanced up at the
ceiling, which undulated slightly. "It's her," he said.

"It's like residue is still here."

"Who is she?" Steve asked.

"She is what we've come to destroy," Stony said. He
hefted the thing in his left hand, the thing wadded up in
newspapers. "In this unclean house. Your Great Father
and the others were here. I even had a hand in it. Look--"

He pointed to a corner of what had once been the living
room. It dripped with some viscous liquid, like a light
slow drizzle of rain.

He felt the hallway tremble slightly.

"I'll bet some Crown heir is still around, keeping track >
of this place, watching for omens." Stony heaved a long,
drawn-out sigh. Christ, this was the moment he'd always
dreaded, coming back to this place. "There's a chapel
here. That's where we need to go."

Now! he thought, do it nowl

When he walked in behind his son, into the darkness j
of the Crown chapel, Stony set the newspapers down on|
one of the pews. Then he reached into the pocket of his|
leather jacket and withdrew the handcuffs. When they I
clinked together, Steve turned. His face, even in the shad-J
ows of the chapel, was visible. His expression was not|
one of shock or fear, but of resignation. He held his hands '
out

Stony got down on one knee, and looked up at his son's

face. His beautiful doomed son. The boy who should
never have been brought into this world, and was not
meant to be here, just as Stony should never have been
born.

He handcuffed the boy's left wrist to his own right
wrist.

"Bound together forever," he whispered, and touched
the side of his son's face. "You and me, kid."

"I guess we're gonna kaboom?" Steve asked. "That's
why you brought me."

"We have to," Stony said, reaching up to comb his
son's wild hair from around his eyes.

"Is it 'cause it's evil? The Azriel Light?"

Stony thought a moment. "No. It's because it was
never meant to be here. It should never have been here
on earth."

"Yeah," the kid said, sighing.

"You know how different you are?"

Steve nodded slowly.

"Do you love me?"

Steve nodded again. "I always wanted a dad."

"I love you too, Steve. You are my only child. Your
mother was beautiful then. She was the most wonderful
and beautiful human being on the planet. You look a little
like her."

' 'But I should never have been born," the boy said, his
eyes glistening with tears. Stony could not resist. He
tugged his son close to him, and hugged him hard. Perhaps
the tears had all been cried out, for his eyes no longer
filled with diem, but he felt as if his soul were weeping,
he felt as if his entire flesh and spirit cried out to the
universe, Why have you led me here? Why have you done
this? What did this boy ever do to deserve this!

He squeezed his son until he was afraid he would hurt
him. When he drew back, his son's inner translucent eyelids
closed over his eyes briefly, then opened. The tears
were gone in him, too.

"I always thought I was some kind of alien, like from
another planet," Steve half grinned, but then his face fell
again, a flat line. He was resigned to this fate.

"No, you're not from another planet," Stony comforted
him as best he could. "You're from me and your mother.

But you were part of something terrible, like an experiment
these people did. You know the Rapturists? How
they used you for their beliefs? Used the Azriel Light too
until it got some of them? Well, these people, that Fair
clough and the Crowns, they had tried to do to others what
they did to me, and to your mother and you. But it never
worked. It never 'took.' It almost did sometimes, I guess.

They tried it before, but ..."

And the images came to him, images he couldn't possibly
know, but they came nonetheless as if the history of
what was within him showed him the attempts--the girls
with their bodies burning, the boy of sixteen who caught
on fire at his crotch and it spread up his belly, up to his
face until he was a pillar of fire-- "It didn't work, not
until the rituals were used, and then all they needed was
one or two, just enough to bring it into the world. Just
enough to make it flesh where it was not wholly flesh
before."

"What was it?" his son asked, but Stony didn't answer.

He felt what the boy had said; the Crown place was
breathing, and as he looked at the jagged empty eyes
where the stained glass windows had been, he saw how
the membrane had grown across it, a stained glass of its own, a pulsing life taking over the house, unable to die,
unable to do anything but survive.

As Stony unpacked the small bomb that the mail
bomber Swink had taught him to use, the boy watched
carefully. It was a cheap device, and he might've used it
earlier, but he knew that he owed it to Lourdes and to
their son to do this here. This earth, this place, was tainted
with the past crimes against nature. This was the unholy;
sanctuary. To bring it back to where it had begun, just as'

Fairclough's ritual had tried to do. To bring it to a cursed
spot, an unclean place, a land even the natives had
shunned because it was the devil's playground, it was the
place of Walks Alone. As he brought the bomb out, careful
of the wires, careful of the small timing device that would
set off the spark, his son whispered, "Dad, I love you,
don't do it, I don't want to hurt--"

He set the timer down. Ten minutes. That was enough
time to say goodbye to the world, to his son, to what had
taken over this house.

9:33
He glanced at the digital watch face, at the melting liquid
that pooled around the altar of the chapel.

9:25
He heard the breathing, as of some monster, an architecture
of a being, all around them, containing them.

9:00
Nine minutes, and it would be over.

Nine minutes, and then peace.

It was an eternity until the timer got to five minutes,
and Stony felt as if he could no longer hold in what he'd
held for so many years, over so much pain and distance.

"There must be some redemption!" he shouted at the
darkness. "It can't be for all this pain! It can't be for all
this nothing! There must be a purpose!" He slammed his
fist down, bringing his son's hand down too, and the boy
cried out as if hurt. "There must be some redemption! I
don't believe that I could come this far and not find it! I
did not imagine it! I know what happened here! I know
what I set free!"

Then, all around them, encompassing the chapel and its
shadows, a woman's voice. "I knew you would come
back."

Stony turned, and saw her face for the first time in
twelve years, the face that lay beneath the face, like the
developing butterfly inside the pupal sac, beneath silken
layers of cocoon.

A vision of a ghost of a shred of memory, and then
gone.

Lourdes.

In less than seconds, Stony Crawford relived that night,
so many years buried, so quickly resurrected in her glance.

Comes the Halloween Man,
Reaping

Chapter Twenty-eight
All Hallow's Eve


Halloween night, and he is fifteen, and he watches as the
nearly clear liquid pulsates along the blue and red veins
within the outer covering, the thin sac, that surrounds
Lourdes's body. He is weeping, unable to touch her,
afraid of hurting her with that thing--that liquid environment
floating around her, pulsing and flashing with red
and pink and blue. When his weeping is over, the other
one, the one called Diana Crown, touches him lightly on
his shoulder.

"She's more beautiful now than any human being has
been since the dawn of mankind. Your son won't let her
die," Diana said. Her breath was warm on his neck; he
moved forward slightly to get away from it.

"What have you done?" Stony gasped, and felt as if
he were choking on his own words. He could not take his eyes off Lourdes. It reminded him for a moment of Snow
White, the fairy tale he'd read as a kid, sleeping in her

glass coffin. That's what it was like, it was like she was
sleeping under glass, or under some stream--

Diana chuckled lightly, but her voice was strangely
soothing. "Nothing. It's your child inside her that does
this. If you were to try to open the covering, it would kill
her and the baby instantly. This keeps her safe. That's
what you want, isn't it? What you--and I--have within
us, you were able to pass on, to ensure our survival in
this species--"

"This species? You ... and ... me?"

He turned to face her. He was beyond shock, beyond
tears. He felt a coldness grow within, as if he were turning
to stone.

Diana Crown was beautiful. Sure, he'd seen her around
town in the summers, not often, but now and then while
he rode his bike past her house, or saw her in town picking
things up at the Package Store. Sure, she'd always
been beautiful, but in a cold and not appealing way to
him, but now he saw something else. Like smoldering
ashes beneath the surface of her pale skin. She wore a
thin white dress, opened down the front so he could see
the curved edges of her breasts, her smooth whiteness--

Her eyes, pale blue and full of some inner radiance.

"Who the hell are you, anyway?" he asked, or thought 1
he asked, but could not hear his own voice.

Her smile curved, and she seemed warm and more fa-j
miliar than he wanted her to be. // 's a dream. I'm in some j dream.

"I'm your sister," she said, reaching her hand out
touch his. When she touched him, he felt a jolt of eleo|
tricity. He struggled to pull away from her, but it was
if the electric current held them fast together.

Then it stopped.

And he knew.

She spoke inside him now, and as she spoke, the images
of what she spoke of played across his mind--

"We are half brother and sister, Stony. I was born five years earlier than you, and my mother was my flesh-and
blood mother. My father--well, this will be difficult to
understand--but there's something not right in me that is
right in you. I did not turn out as well as they wanted,
the Crowns, but they loved me and raised me, since I was
of their flesh. But I was there when you were conceived, and when you were born, Stony. It was the most beautiful
act ever committed with a human being, it was a moment
of triumph for those who live only in the flesh, these animals
all around us. Your father--"

' 'Johnny Miracle ?"

"Yes, he was handsome and smart and--"

"Johnny was smart?"

"The act of a human coming into contact with divine
fire can destroy that human, but it did not destroy Johnny. He has a bloodline of fierceness, he was forged from the
bloodline of a god older than any these humans know of
to worship, the same bloodline the Crowns came from.

They were originally Crowninshields, Stony, a noble family,
and before that, their name was Sacrecroix, and before
that it was--"

"You're joking. You're crazy--" Stony gasped and in
his mind he saw a thick nail being driven in by aflat rock
to a man's wrist on what might've been a cross in a large
and seemingly endless garden. "Jesus Christ---"

"No, not Jesus Christ, Stony. Far older than that, in
the fields of western France, a god that walked the granaries
and gardens and all that was planted, a god who
was king for a season and then was inhaled by certain
men, a god that was ritually killed every season, whose
blood drained into the earth--"

' 'Stop!" Stony pressed his hands over his ears, opening
his eyes to try to stop the sounds and images that came
after him.

"It is only legend that says that Johnny is from the
same bloodline, it is only legend that says that Johnny is
the first son of the first son of the first son--going back
to all the Sacrecroix--"

Scarecrow. Nora's words came back to him, the words
spat across his mind. Sacrecroix, Scarecrow, Crow
ninshield, Crown, the lineage of the Halloween Man.

"And you, too, are the first son, Stony, and so is your
child in Lourdes's belly. You are descended from the
Kings of the Gods. Do you know why they call him Johnny
Miracle? Do you? Do you know that he died when he was
seventeen, hit by a car out on the highway? And they took
him for dead, these people. They took him for dead and
they buried him and he rose from the dead, he scraped
his way up from the earth like a madman, and he came
back to town covered with the dirt of his own grave, smiling
as if none of it mattered, all his wounds seemingly
healed. That was his miracle. But only his first, Stony. His
second was his fertility with your mother."

"Who is my mother?"

She grinned. ' 'Your mother and my father are the same
being. There is no differentiation of sex in the realm of 1 pure radiance. But you are finer than I am, Stony. I was
not born of her womb but of the seed of her loins. You were born from within her, you were nourished from her I
blood, you were made flesh from that which is without I
flesh. I have waited so long for us to meet, to talk, Stony, I have waited so many years to truly love my brother."

The voice died within his head. Diana stood there, seeming more ordinary now. The|

dim light from the bedside barely illuminated the bedroom.

"It's in you, Stony," Diana said. "The reason why she
won't die. It's in you. You planted the seed of greatness,
of divine fire inside her ... She is no ordinary human
now, she has been touched by the gods."

"What the fuck--" Stony said, fighting the urge within
him to collapse, to wring the last ounce of strength he had
left within him. "What are you talking about?"

"You are the Halloween Man, Stony. You have the
bloodline within you, and your mother was--"

Stony pressed his hands to his ears to drown her out,
his body shaking involuntarily, the sound of wild horses
stampeding inside his head, the feeling that a crack in the
world had taken hold and was growing, and all of hell
was seeping from it. "What the fuck is going on?"

She reached up, touching the center of her forehead.

"It's time, Stony. Time to take off the mask, to show who
we are, to run free. The feeling you'll get will be like
breathing for the first time in your life. Both of us. The
rituals--"

"Rituals?"

"Rituals are the keys that unlock the many doors," she
whispered, her fingernails pressing into her skin. A thin
line of blood ran down from where her fingernail cut into
her skin. "Fairclough knew them. He knew how to
open ..." Then she smiled, her teeth shining white. "You
know, Stony, I was there when your brother stabbed her.

Your girlfriend was beautiful too, with blood. He
slammed it into her over a hundred times. Her blood burst
out from all over her body, soaking us through, baptizing
us in her--"

Stony felt something surge within him, and he brought
Van's knife up. "Just shut up!"

"That's the knife," Diana said. "That's the one. Did
your brother tell you how he felt when he killed her?

How he got aroused from it? How he felt wave after
wave of--"

Stony stepped close to her, holding the knife threateningly.

"Just shut up! I don't want to hear--"

Her voice within him, and the images, telling and showing
him everything--

Van slicing the knife into Lourdes's breast--

The look of terror, the pain, the fear as Lourdes tried
to scream but the knife went into her throat--

"No!" Stony screamed, squeezing his eyes shut, and
when he opened them he had already brought the knife ,
down into Diana's flesh.

He stared at it a moment. At his fist around the knife. Oh my God, what the fuck is going on? What have I done?

What is this?

He looked into her eyes.

A calm flooded him, as he saw warmth and yes, even
love within the blue pools of her eyes. I

"You have done what you needed to do," she whispered.

Coming to his senses, he drew the knife out of her and
opened his mouth to speak, but only a thin stream of air j
escaped his lips.

He heard a tearing as of paper, and then the sounds like 5
liquid and mud splashing--

Diana Crown tore at the place around her heart, where|
the knife had come out--

A split of flesh ran from it in spiderweb patters
her flesh, up to her face, around her eyes--

She was--

Oh God, no.

--pulling off her skin, while splits in her face ran dov
the length of her chin, and then her neck, and where
openings grew--

MOONFIRE!

MOONF1RE!

Something within him smashed like a doll, and he felt
himself curling up in a fetal ball--

DON'T WANT TO LOOK AT HER.

DON'T WANT TO SEE HER.

NOT WHAT SHE'S BECOMING.

NOT THAT.

The nausea rose in his stomach, up to his throat, but
he held it in, forced it back down--

DON'T LOOK AT HER, IF YOU DON'T LOOK YOU
WON'T SEE--

"Flesh is just a covering, it's our upholstery," the thing
that had been Diana gibbered, as the last of the Moonfire
shed the bleeding elastic skin--

THE OUTCAST STARED AT HIM WITH EYES OF
MOONFIRE.

What the hell are you?

What the hell is that?

Her body turned to what seemed like spinning and
burning molecules, thousands of tiny fireflies spiraling
amongst themselves in the shape of the body of the young
woman who had been ...
Had been ...
Opened. Set free.

Inside his mind, she answered him, We are what men
have only dreamed. We are touched by the divine fire,
Stony, you and me. Thousands of years ago men and gods
mated, but the age of magic and gods has long died, until
now--until now, Stony! You are the strongest, but you
don't know it, you have within that weak flesh of humanity
the divine fire of other worlds! We are the first to take,
and your child, growing inside her, is the future. Do not
fear for her, for she feels nothing. It is like a deep sleep,
and when she awakens, she will remember none of this,
but she will give you a child, and that child will be of our
kind--

They tried for decades for births, but none took. Young
girls burned up from the fire, and could not conceive ...
but then we took, you and I ... They thought I wouldn't
make it, but I did ... and now you, too ... and they ...
Stony shouted, "Who are they?"

The creature that stood before him, fire like an aura
around its form, opened its mouth and said, "The devout.

The faithful. Those who believe and have been touched
by it."

"By what?"

The creature's light wavered, turning blood-red, its eyes
feral and sharp. "Your mother. Your real mother."

"Who is my mother?" he shouted, and as he did a
strong wind broke against the window, bringing with it a
small bird that broke its neck, breaking through the glass.

The wind blew the window open, the curtain fluttering,
and it seemed as if air was sucked out of the room as the
wind thrust across and out again.

"Who is my mother!"

Then the thing that was Diana was caught on a gust of
wind, and shimmered before him--

What was beneath her skin, fragile as glass stained red
and yellow--like sparks, separated--

Let your mind go, Stony. Be free. Let the Halloween
Man out of his prison, the Sacrecroix, you who are most
sacred, most loved of the Eternal, you are part miracle
and part human and part God, rain down on them all,
your torture is in the secret. Let it out, let it go--

You are Holy.

Like red red poppies bursting into bloom, petals
blowing--

Humans sacrifice themselves for us, Stony. We are;.

Gods. We are the future of life. We are Creation itself!

--out across the night sky, like blood spattering along|
a sheet of wind, and then the thousands of bits of red light Jj
that had been Diana returned and glowed across the sur-J
face of the ceiling, which began dripping with droplets of |
crimson.

He felt fear in the back of his throat, a tickling up and
down his spine as the blood spattered the top of his head.

It's in the blood, our power, our light, it's mixed with
what humans have now. We are eternal and we are mortal
at the same time.

And then Stony was no longer afraid, no longer terrified,
no longer within the grasp of a nightmare.

The flesh that had contained what was inside Diana
Crown fell like dust to the floor. Her skull cracked as it
hit the floor, and the jaw dropped. Steam rose up from
the last of her viscera.

He turned to what Lourdes had become, to the bedside,
and knelt down beside her. The sweat had dried on the
back of his neck. He clasped his hands in prayer and said
the two or three prayers he could think of.

Above him, red sparrows flew from the ceiling, reforming
across the bed from him, forming again as Diana
Crown, in a vision of molten silver, an aura of yellow fire
around her body. "The rituals are complete, brother. And
now it's the night of the harvest. We own all of Stone
haven, and all who dwell there are meant for our pleasure."

"What the fuck are you?" he gasped.

"I am a god." She licked her shiny lips. "And I hunger
for my flock."

Her metallic skin glowed red, and burst again like
sparks from a fire, like fireflies, no, like burning wasps all
heading to the open window. Her voice was like wasps,
too, a humming of words. "Join me, brother, join me, and I will show you the the pleasures of freedom that even
the gods don't know!"

Stony rose up and ran towards the swarm, but the spiraling
lights flew out into the night, across the strip of
water, to the village. "No! Diana!"

He heard a single scream, as of a child who has thrust
his hand into a nest of yellow jackets.

He prayed to Lourdes, / am not going to let them hurt
you. I know you can hear me, Lourdes. I love you. God, I love you more than anything. You, me, and our baby
will get out of this somehow. Somehow ...
Then he began to hear more screams, echoing across
the water, coming from the village.

He reached out and touched the shimmering edge of
the sac across Lourdes's face. A thin ripple, like gelatin,
ran across its surface. Her eyes opened, blank, staring out
into the watery nothing surrounding her.

It's protecting her.

"Lourdes, I'm so sorry. I need to go. I need to go find
help. Somehow ..." Stony wasn't even sure where to go
for help, who to turn to. He thought about the cop from
Mystic, but it was too far. Part of him wanted to run off
into the woods and just hide. He thought of Nora, wondering
if she could help--but how? How can you fight a
nightmare? How can you stop what Diana had become?

And then his own voice within him told him:

You are the Halloween Man.

Remember the story.

Remember what he did.

The story wasn't everything, was it? The story wasn't
about Imp killing children, or about crucifying an evil
man. The story was not about revenge, even though that's
how Nora told it.

No, the story was told to prepare you for something.

The Halloween Man ... Sacrecroix ... the bloodline
... Sacred. Holy.

The story went that they killed Imp, and buried him.

But he rose from the dead, with a greater power within
him. And he went on a bloody rampage.

Or did he?

Perhaps what the Crowninshields were, and what the

Randalls, and all the other old families in the village
were--

--was evil.

And the Halloween Man stopped their evil once. They
had found ways to revive it, they had found some great
secret for their evil, their beliefs, some way to bring a
supemature into Diana, into him, too.

Nora's words in his head:

"The Halloween Man ... He's thousands of years old.

He's the King that's been killed and his blood makes
things grow. He's the Magic One. He's the Halloween
Man. You got to understand that everything we know now
is as under a layer of dust. But one day, each one of us
sees clearly ...
' 'As the sun rose, people came from their houses ...
even those who did not leave their houses could see the
terrible handiwork of the Halloween Man:

' 'Strung like pigs, by their legs, twelve men and women
from the village, their throats slit, their blood dripping
down, strung from two great oak trees, the ground soaked
with their blood. And between the trees, a great cross had
been erected, and on it, nailed with spikes, Old Man
Crowninshield--his eyes and mouth sewn horribly shut,
and his nightshirt torn open.

' 'On his chest, the words:

"I CAME TO SAVE YOU

"... And it took one of my own people to do the work
that would seal the Old One into that flesh until it returned
to the damp earth and slept again ..."

"I've got to find Nora," he said aloud.

All this time she's been trying to tell me who I am, to
warn me.

Gerald and Angle Crawford were at it again, fighting like
cats, unaware that if they had but moved from the kitchen

into the living room, or even the narrow hallway, up the
stairs, they would've seen the blood on the carpet and on
the floor, and upstairs they would've found their dead and
mangled son, Van. But instead, Angie was shouting at
Gerald, who stank of fish, whiskey, and another woman's
perfume; while Gerald was shouting at Angie because
supper was late and the house stank and where the hell
were the god damned kids anyway. When the kitchen window
burst wide, glass flying, what Angie thought at first
was a meteor brushed past her face, burning her skin
slightly.

Angie looked at Gerald, and he at her. Their eyes were
wide, but Gerald's took on a suspicious aspect as if he
were about to blame her for this meteoric intrusion as well
as everything else.

The fiery ball burst upward in a column, and when Angie
stared at it long enough--surely minutes went by, she
told herself, surely it's hypnotizing me in some way--she
felt as if the room were spinning. She heard Gerald shouting
from across the room, but the beautiful fire branched
out like a tree and suddenly she was not hi her house at
all, but shot back nearly twenty years to when she worked
her night shift at the Crowns', checking to make sure old
Mrs. Crown had her oxygen on right, taking her blood for
tests, massaging her legs when they swelled up too much.

Angie turned, and there was little Diana Crown, not more
than three years old, a smear of blood on her face.

"What happened to you, dear?" Angie asked.

Diana, looking like the most perfectly made little girl
doll in the world, looked up at her with those innocent
eyes and said, "I just drank blood from Father Jim. He
let me."

Angie stared at her, wondering if she should smile or
laugh at the little girl's joke.

And then, behind Diana, Mr. Crown stood, dressed in
a dark suit. "Hello, Angela," he said, nodding. Then he

grabbed Diana's arm. "Come on, little moppet, we have
to go to the ceremony."

"Someone getting married?" Angie asked.

Angie heard a strangled sound from poor old Mrs.
Crown from the bed, and she turned to look and see what
was wrong.

Mrs. Crown, who could no longer speak, opened her
mouth slightly, and it reminded Angie of a fish pulled out
of the water. Her eyes went wide with some kind of terror.

Angie was sure that Mrs. Crown was mouthing the
words Kill me.

Then this vision memory from the past burst into fire,
as Angie heard Gerald screaming, and she was back in
her kitchen, and red and yellow hornets circled around her
husband, moving so fast it almost made him look like he
was bound up by lasers spinning around him.

Then he burst into flames, running to her, falling
against her, tearing her flesh apart with his burning fingers
and teeth.

She fought him off as best she could, but the fire ran
all around her, slicing into her, and when her eyes melted
from the heat, she tasted the red-hot coal of death.

What had been Diana, now Azriel Light, burned across
the house, and from that house, burned across the grass
to others, dancing wildly as rain began falling from the
sky.

As the light singed the doors and melted windows,
screams along the village rose in the night, and strangely
enough, as the sounds carried across the water to Mystic
and Stonington and other boroughs and towns along the
coast, the screams took on the quality of hymns, as if an
entire town were somewhere in the distance singing the
praises of the Lord.

Stony went and looked down upon Lourdes, whose eyes
fluttered open and closed as if some invisible current
pushed her eyelids back and forth.

"I love you, Lourdes. Somehow I'll make sure you're
safe. I promise."

Then he ran as fast as he could, out of the bedroom,
down the stairs. He thought he heard some kind of singing
--but how could there be singing?--from another end
of the mansion, but he didn't stick around to find out. He
ran out onto the porch, down the steps, and into his
mother's car. Starting it up, he drove down the gravel
road.

To his left, he saw what looked like houses burning out
along Land's End, but he didn't care, he didn't give a
damn about what happened to anyone--

All he cared about was Lourdes. Lourdes and why.

Someone had to tell him the why.

Nora's shack was dark and silent. He pushed through the
front door, out of breath, and quickly grabbed one of her
long matches, lighting the candle near the front door. When the feeble light came up, he carried it around to her
bed and work area, but she was not there.

But there, on the small table next to her bed, a note
she'd begun, and then left off in mid sentence. In a scribbled
handwriting, the best that Nora had ever been able
to do, owing to her blindness:

Stony,
Forgive me. I wanted to

He set the candle down on the note.

He was beyond any feeling, as his mind seemed to push
down on itself.

After a minute, he left the shack, walking on foot
through the dark woods, back to the station wagon.

The screams from the village grew louder, and he knew
that the thing that had been freed from Diana's skin was
taking its harvest from the village, and he cared less than
he ever thought he would care about anything in all his
life.

He longed for sleep, and even death.

Even death would be a relief now.

But Lourdes.

Your baby, too.

I just want to die.

He heard the wind push Nora's door closed, and then
open again. He turned at the sound, and the candle went
out in the breeze. Silhouetted against the moonh'ght, in
the doorway, a stranger.

"Stony," the man said from the doorway, his accent
clearly British. "Let's go. It's time for you to know who
you are." Then, "She needs you. Lourdes needs you. She
won't survive without you being there."

As if this were the most normal thing in the world to
say, the man added, "Look, it's starting to rain. A storm is coming from out at sea. Let's go, Stony. It's time for
you to meet your mother."

8

Clouds gathered around the enormous harvest moon, and
the scraggly trees grasped at its light. They walked along
the old path, alongside the bogs, through the woods. The
rain trickled down, the wind died for a brief while.

Stony felt a great heaviness grow within himself. His
urge to run had long passed; his urge to die was still there
within him. Lourdes--his only thought. He would go
back, and he would get her out of that place, that madhouse,
this nightmare. He could not leave her there ...
The stranger walking beside him might've been fifty,
thin, his hair silver and cut short, dressed in a white shirt
that had mottled dark stains across it--the moonlight
seemed to make him glow as if he were absorbing the
night. "I know this all must be a shock. We should've
prepared you better--"

"Who are you?" Stony asked with no interest in his
voice. He glanced down the dark trail, watching the way
the moonlight jagged along the tree trunks and branches.

"Alan Fairclough. I am the--"

"I don't give a fuck." Stony kept walking slightly
ahead of him.

"One day you will. Part of the ritual was not preparing
you. If we had, you might not have mixed with us. You
might not have created a child. Do you know what that
means?"

"You one of the devil's own, too?"

Alan Fairclough didn't answer until they'd reached the
edge of the woods, with the Crown mansion ahead of
them. Several cars were parked in the driveway now, and
the house was completely lit, its outside lights glaring.

The wind picked up, and the rain began to come down
faster.

"Are you Satanists?" Stony asked, knowing that there
probably were such things, but even when he asked it, he
doubted any worshiper of Satan could be this terrible. He
doubted anyone could be as evil as the people who had
been inside this house.

"We're not of any devil," Fairclough said. "You and
your sister are part of something that will change the destiny
of humanity. It will probably save us, too. Our future,
anyway. There was the Age of the Father, and then the
Age of the Son. Now, Stony, it is the time of the Holy
Spirit. It is the fire from heaven that comes among us."

"Why did you do this to Lourdes?"

"I didn't. It was your child growing in her that did it.

If it makes any difference, the child has also protected her
from death. You believe, don't you?"

Something went calm inside Stony. "Yes."

"She's beyond any hurting. She's in a beautiful dream,
and when she wakes, she'll be holding your child in her
arms."

"This is all crazy--" Stony said.

"You know deep inside it isn't. Part of you knows that
what your sister told you is true. You've never felt like
part of the world, not like other boys did. You've always
felt separate."

Stony kept his mind's eye on Lourdes's face. "My
brother said he killed her."

"He thought he did!" Fairclough shouted, raising his
fists to the wind and rain like a madman. His voice became
like a storm, as he cried out against the night, as
the clouds covered the brilliant moon until a harsh gray
shadow covered the earth. "It's the beauty of it! It was a
ritual, Stony! Rituals of sacrifice are nothing new, and
after every sacrifice, a rebirth! Lourdes was reborn as the
mother of your child the moment that your brother
thought he had taken her life away. It was proof of your
son's divinity. If he'd been purely flesh, they both
would've died, but they didn't, he wasn't, and his life
created protection for his mother."

Stony took a long slow breath. "She doesn't hurt?"

"Not one bit."

More screams carried on the growing wind.

"What's that? More tricks?" Stony asked.

The man shook his head. "No. It's Diana. She's on a
rampage through the village. No one can stop her, not
once she found release from flesh. She is like a ravening
wolf among a flock of young lambs. She's not like you,
Stony. They didn't know the rituals when she was born.

They didn't know how to make the sacrifices. She is the
shadow of what you are. The Azriel Light within her is
darkened--"

"Cut the bullshit."

Fairclough turned to Stony, and his grin seemed enor

mous in the shadowy light from the house. Then he
slammed his fist into the side of Stony's face. Stony felt
as if he were flying across the gravel, and when he fell,
stinging pains blistered along his back and arms. Fair
clough went over and lifted him up, kissing him on the
forehead. Stony struggled to pull away, but Fairclough
had a strong grip. Stony hawked a loogie as hard as he
could, hitting the man right between the eyes. Fairclough
looked deep into Stony's eyes and whispered, "I am the
one who set the ritual at your conception. I am the one
who coaxed your mother into a form for taking the seed
of Johnny Miracle and carrying you for nearly eight
months. If you wish to despise someone, despise the
woman who raised you, whose silence was bought cheap.

Do not fuck with me, little god, for I know the ancient
words, I have the knowledge, I have gone through the portals of Hell and the smashed gates of Heaven just to
bring you into this world. I have smashed the brains from
boys twice your size. You have a power within you, but
you are still made of flesh and blood, and I know a hundred
ways to make boys like you suffer for their insolence."

Alan Fairclough set Stony down again, pushing
him forward. Stony glanced back. Fairclough's face was
pale and shiny, like a worm's, in the house lights. The
man gestured forward. "Go, boy. You want to protect;
your girl, your baby, you want to know the mystery of all \ of what you are? It's hi there. I can show you. Mankindl
is dying out, you can see it, you can feel it everywhere.

We've lost touch with the divine spark, the fire of creaj
tion, ancient savagery. We have lost it, we are destroying
all that is fertile. Men used to walk with gods, Stony. Meal
used to sacrifice to the Almighty. Abraham took his soa5j
Isaac to be sacrificed to God. He did, in fact, did youj
know that? But the words were changed to make it all|
nice and sweet so that God was no longer a force of thes
cosmos, but merely a nice father sitting in the clouds.!

When the Age of the Son began, we put ourselves higher|

than the Divine, we set ourselves up as gods. That is unnatural.

That is blasphemy. No, man is doomed as a species,
but you, and your progeny ... What I did--what I did with the Crowns, with what they sheltered--what I
did was I brought the rituals, I brought the means of communication
with the Divine. We midwifed the gods when
we brought you into this world, and through you and your
children, slowly, over time, mankind will be saved. Diana,
she was brought forth in ignorance. These Crown people,"
he said with contempt, "they have no respect for
the rituals, they think they're all just so much ancient
history, but there's a reason that religion, in all its forms,
exists, Stony, it exists to create a bridge to the gods, to
God, to the divine fire--the ritual is the way of controlling
the power rather than just setting it loose upon the
world--"

The screams from the village continued unabated.

"Listen," Alan Fairclough said, cocking his head to
the side. "That is what she is. She is like electricity without
a wire to conduct its flow. Her fire leaps from tree to
tree, house to house, a wild talent of the gods, but without
control, without conscience. But you, you were born with
the rituals, with the respect for the power, with the old
words and keys."

"I don't know anything," Stony said, now crying, not
wanting to, feeling such great pain within him, such agony,
as if his bones longed to push outward from his flesh,
as if his blood wished to burst from its veins and arteries
--

"Ah, but you do not know what you know," Alan Fairclough
said. He threw his head back, opened his mouth,
and began ki-yiing like a wild dog, and through the howling
sound, crazy words. "Ya thaeia nue pan sothga," he
sang into the rain. Stony's ears began ringing as the words
were intoned.

"Within you, they mean things. They are the language
of your spirit."

"No!" Stony shouted, thinking he might run, thinking
--he had the knife, he still had the knife, thrust into
his belt, he could draw it out--

Fairclough pushed him towards the driveway, almost
making his knees buckle. In the driveway, so many cars,
as if they'd begun a party inside the mansion. Stony recognized
some of them--the Glastonburys' Volvo, Mrs.
Doane's Buick Skylark, Tamara Curry's Subaru--what
were they all doing here? Why? Fairclough's voice softened
to an insinuating whisper as they stepped up on the
porch. His words came out rapid-fire, spittle flying from
his mouth as he declaimed, "All Hallows', Stony. This
isn't just happening by chance. This is the harvest from
the ancient days. It is the rite of passage for you. This is
the night when gods may walk with humans. It's the space
between the two worlds. The birth of Christ was not in
December, Stony. And it wasn't in midsummer, as many;
scholars seem to think. No, it was at the end of the bar- >
vest, and across thousands of miles, harvest kings like I
your Crown ancestors were being cut down with scythes;
in fields and resurrected within days at the same time the!

Nazarene cried from the cave in which his mother gavel
birth. Gods are never born in grand palaces, they are borol
in stone, they are cracked like egg yolks from the sheltf of rock, from the earth, from the place which is both bel
neath our feet and controls our lives. And she is at the ]
heart of it. She is growing stronger after centuries
weakness in her captivity."

"Diana?" Stony asked, entering the foyer, glancing
briefly up the stairs, wanting to see Lourdes so badly,
hold her, to never let go of her.

"Not your sister," Fairclough said, coming up bet
him. "Your mother."

Chapter Twenty-nine
Mother


"In there." Alan Fairclough nodded to the open door of
the chapel. Over the arched doorway, Stony read the
words, Bless the Fruit of her Womb. The door was open,
and the sound of voices singing died almost immediately.

The chapel was lit with dozens of candles. The smell of
a dead animal permeated the place, mingling with the
thick smoke from a powerful incense. The walls within
the chapel were carved from rock, and the effect was of
a cave that had been transformed into a small church.

Great stained glass window light mixed brilliantly with
the candlelight within and the flashes of distant lightning
without, the saints and the Virgin and the crucifixion and
many martyrdoms, all arranged in beautiful colors. It was
not that much different from the main section of Our
Lady, Star of the Sea, only on a smaller scale.

Stony saw a lamb, its throat cut, on the great stone slab
of the altar.

The candles were tall and thin, and Stony had never!

seen so many in one place. When he looked at all of thenvf
thrust along the stone wall, among the stained glass win|
dows, on small holders at each of the pews, something!

about the candles themselves seemed to tell him some!

thing.

(But they're tall and white and old-fashioned, and yow| only know one person who makes them like that.)

The chapel was full of people, some of whom he rec-j
ognized as he passed, others he did not know. Martha|
Wight was there, and Tamara Curry, her breasts bulging
under a low-cut dress, a fat gold cross hanging atop he
mounds; Father Jim nodded to him, a half smile on
face, his hand held out as if for a handshake, which Stonj
declined; Butch Railsback the butcher and Fiona Mcal^
lister from the library sat side by side; others, too, and
then strangers, all dressed as if for church in their Sundaj
best, suits, ties, some of the women wore hats, and a fen
of the older women wore white gloves as well.

Stony laughed when he saw his friend Jack Ridley, best friend growing up, the friend who had shared all
secrets, or so Stony had thought. Jack winked. "I knet
you'd understand," Jack said, somewhat nervously,
was all ordained from--"

"Fuck you, traitor," Stony said, shaking his head,
reached into his belt, drawing the knife out.

Stony held the hunting knife up, vaguely threatening il
case anyone tried anything, but they just sat quietly watci
ing him. Not as much fear in their eyes as he'd
hoping. Not as much fear as he himself was beginning I
feel all over again.

Alan Fairclough stayed behind him until he reached I
foot of the altar. Then he went around Stony, beckon
with his hand.

Stony shivered now, knowing that no matter what J
pened to him, the knife would not defend him if the
insane people leapt up and attacked him.

As he approached the altar, the dead animal across it,
he remembered Nora's story about coming here. About
being shown this.

About seeing the thing in the long metal box.

And there it was.

A dark metal box, jewels embedded along its lid. The
outline of what looked like a Renaissance angel crudely
battered along it, a round halo surrounding its flowing
hair. It was the size of a small coffin, with slatlike windows
in its sides and a reddish glow as if of burning metal
from within.

Alan Fairclough went and stood behind the altar.

"You have something trapped inside there?" Stony
whispered, unsure what he was feeling.

"Not trapped. It contains the divine fire."

"What is it?"

Then Alan Fairclough brought Stony's hand to the top
of the box. It was warm. "It is her. Your mother."

"How?" Stony trembled.

"Let her out. You can. You alone, her son, can let her
out."

"But ... I don't understand ... I don't ..."

"She is the Great Mother who searches the world for
her children," Fairclough said, and his words took on a
quality of chanting. "She is the Eternal Mother, she lost
her daughter to the Underworld, Her son, Her son is come
amongst us."

"Her son has come amongst us," the people in the
congregation whispered.

"Come amongst us to bring new light to a dying earth," Fairclough intoned.

"To bring new light to a dying earth," the people whispered.

Then Alan Fairclough opened the cage, and Stony saw

the dazzling light that was like a blue and yellow fire in 1
the shape of a body, and wings--

An angel?

She's an angel?

her eyes were large and warm

and full of some pity

as if a terrible sorrow had overtaken her

as if she looked upon him with a knowledge of loss toj
come

She reached her burning arms out to him, and they dis
sipated into thousands of points of light spinning in
air, surrounding him, covering him like fireflies,
were hot and his body erupted with sweat, but she didn'J
hurt--

MOONFIRE!

He felt her embracing him, all over, within the light
within the warmth that was her fire--

and words from another language whispered in his I

words he understood as if it were the language of
dreams--

Others saw Jesus, or a great white-bearded figure, or |
cosmic kaleidoscope, and the congregation rose up as I
and began singing hymns, speaking in tongues, shout
hallelujahs to the creature that surrounded Stony.

"My son," she said. "I love you so much. I love you
much, and I weep for you."

But who are you?

What are you?

The light that encompassed him shimmered, and
ened so that he could see nothing but light, and wit
the light--

What are you? Are you an angel? A god?

And then the laughter began, not the laughter of

sweet mother's voice he'd heard but something terrifying, like the growl of a wolf in the dark or--

Other, the voice came back, a deep growl. Just say that
I'm Other than you. That I'm something that has been
held in stone, something that once walked freely, and
these ... these humans ... centuries ago--

And the light became pictures, moving, and Stony saw:

Perhaps fifty young children screaming, tied together
with thick ropes, while several men pushed an an enormous
rock over the mouth of a cave. With the ensuing
darkness, a buzzing sound, and then a light, and then
thousands of black flies flew from among the rocks, into
the children's faces, into their mouths, their eyes, eating
at their skin while they screamed--

"I have been called the Lord of Flies," the voice said.

The men outside the cavern, dressed in little other than
animal skins, covering their ears while the children
screamed--

And then the Holy Sisters inside the cavern, blessing
and consecrating the cavern and the creature that moved
beneath them in a dark pit--

"I have been called the Eternal Enemy," the voice
whispered in Stony's ear.

You're the devil? Stony tried to speak but his mouth
wouldn't open.

"No, I am none of these names, I am the Mother of all
Life and I am its taker, I am the Father of Dreams and
Nightmares, and I am the source of all that breathes--"

and the voice was like lions roaring in his ears. "I was
in the Garden when man and woman were created, not in
flesh, but as bacteria and fungi, a flesh born of decay
which must return to it. I was superior to all that lives in
*e flesh then. I still am. And you are my son."

Are you God?

Again, the laughter, only now it seemed like the laughter
of a thousand children.

/ am that I am, the voice said. And you are my son.

Then she stood before him, and the awe he felt made!

his entire being shudder.

At first it seemed to be the statue of the Virgin from!

Our Lady, Star of the Sea, but its flesh burned with life,|
and her eyes were warm with red blood.

"Good and evil are within my glance," she whispered,!

red tears flowing from her eyes. "Do not judge either, fon
life is made up of All. Men and children shall live and!

die, but my power--our power--comes from the sourcej
of all creation."

And within this vision, he saw others:

A demon from hell with a great wingspan like
dragon's--

A creature with a human face but with stag's antler
on his thick-haired scalp and deer's legs--

A beautiful woman with hair piled high, naked, three,
rows of breasts along her torso--

Another woman in her place with many arms and leg$
moving swiftly, a necklace of skulls around her neck,
curved blade in her hand--

A lovely man wearing flowing white robes and grea
swanlike wings settling behind his golden hair--

I am the image of all that men have worshiped, but i
am unknown to man--

Then, the Virgin Mary stood before him, in blue rot
her eyes doelike, her lips full and gently curved
wards--then this even split into infinitesimal bits of lig

"Do not be afraid of what you have within you,
son. They fear it, because they fear death, but you
never fear death."

"What about the others?"

"Others?" the being asked, the light wavering.

"Those we love?"

Again the laughter. "I gave birth to you, my son,
that you would raise a generation against those who ha^
kept your mother prisoner for so long."

"How do they keep you?"

"With the metal, the rock from the caverns, with the
rituals passed from ancient sorcerers, with what little
magic men have."

"But if you're all-powerful--" Stony said.

The light flashed red and then a deep blue.

Then Stony whispered, almost to himself. "You're not
a god. You're just some creature. You're something ...
something mat doesn't belong here. Something that
should never have existed."

Again, the Virgin Mary stood before him, her tears of
blood coursing down her beautiful face. She reached out
to him, her palm upturned. "I am and have always been.

As you too shall be."

And then Stony felt a swift pull on his Sesh, as if a
giant vacuum was sucking at his pores, and the light
whooshed by him in the wind, shooting upwards and then
down again.

And there at the chapel, in the candlelight, Alan Fair
clough stood beside him.

And the creature of burning light, the shape of the beautiful
woman, leaned over the dead sheep and began licking
the blood from its neck.

Alan Fairclough reached out to him. "Stony, we did this
for all of mankind."

"It's a monster," Stony spat. "It's a god damned monster.

And you--you and the Crowns have been feeding

it."

"No," Fairclough said. "It's a goddess. It's the Mother
Goddess. It's an Angel from Heaven."

The creature licked its flaming lips as it wolfed down
pans of the sheep's throat

"Don't you see what it's doing?" Stony said.

Fairclough nodded, smiling. "I see the Divine Fire ac4|
cepting our sacrifice."

"It's some kind of monster, and you're breeding it, fo
God's sake, you made me part of it! All of you!" Stony!

turned towards the congregation, and without wanting to,|
felt that surge of energy, of some inner fire that he could
no longer hold back. He shouted at the top of his lungs,!

"You used me to make a son, you used Johnny Miracle j
to make this cave-dwelling monster breed! You're bring-J
ing it into the flesh when it's just been a vision, a fire.|
It's an element, not God--you damn evil--"

And then he saw her, at the back of the chapel.

Nora, standing behind the last pew.

"Oh shit," he-gasped. "Not you, Nora. You aren't one|
of these--"

He walked slowly, carefully down the middle aisle be|
tween the pews, as the faithful turned to watch.

"You're not one of them," he said coldly, as he ap
preached her. "Tell me you're not one of them."

Nora was silent.

He held her face in his hand, raising her chin slightrjj
so that he was looking down into the milky white of he
eyes.

"They brought the devil with them. I told you," she
whispered softly. "But I've always hoped it was an ange
from God."

"It's not the devil. It's no angel either."

Nora attempted a grin, but it grew faint. "I could never
fight them, Stony. I tried. But I couldn't. From the
ment you were born--"

"No more lies, Nora. No more spins. No more tales.'*^

"Please forgive me, baby. Please forgive me. I shou
have told you before, but you weren't ready. You weren'l
strong ... even now I'm not sure. You're so young."

He cupped his hand against her cheek, her tears dampening
his fingers. "I can give you something now. You
know that."

"Don't," she said.

"I can do it. I can feel it now. I guess I could've done
it before, but it--"

"Hadn't been awakened," she finished the sentence for
him. "I know. Some things are not meant to be awakened
within us. Don't--"

Then he pressed his thumbs lightly against her eyes,
barely touching her eyeballs.

' 'No," she murmured,' 'If that part of you wakes up--"

But it was too late.

It felt like he held a rose, a small rose, a rosebud so
tiny and pink in his hand that when it broke open, he felt
the warmth of creation--

Her eyes, cinnamon, looked up at him.

"The bund shall see," he said, remembering a line
from Sunday School.

"Stony," she whispered, seeing him for the first time,
seeing the face she had loved like her own child all the
while he'd been growing up. She reached over and
touched the edges of his face.

He felt a prickle of heat ran along his skin; then a series
of sparks where her ringers touched him.

Her eyes grew wide with terror, as if the first thing she
could see after all these years was a horror greater than
anyone would want to see.

A rushing sound filled his ears, as of the beating of
thousands of wings--

"You've let it out," she gasped, drawing back froi
him as if from a fire. ' 'It's the light of creation. You can'tl
let it--"

Her body slammed back against the wall, her
splayed as if some great invisible pressure forced her int
that position. "You let it out! Stony!" she cried, but the!

wind that had pressed her like an insect to the wallf
stopped up her breath. "That's why it gave birth to you!

That's why! It had to travel through you!"

"No!" he shouted, but the very force that grew from!

him held him back. "Nora! No!"

"It was waiting for you to do this! It needs your mir-1
acles! You let it out! Stony! No! You have to put in back--" She screamed, and then the tears from her newlyl
born eyes turned to fire, running like lava down her face, f
devouring her features in its wake.

Nora's face steamed with the growing heat, and hel
knew just looking at her that she was trying to be brave,!

maybe for him, maybe for those who watched. Trying tojf
fight back the pain.

Oh please let me take it back, he prayed. Please.

And then, she was a fountain of blood.

8

Where she had stood moments ago, a mass of pulp andl
blood and bone. He couldn't look at it anymore, nor couldl
he weep, nor could he think clearly. Was he shivering!

still? He couldn't tell. The world shivered. Covered in her|
blood, he turned towards the congregation.

"A miracle!" Tamara Curry shouted, pointing back to|
wards the altar. "The Angel of God has given us a sign!"

At the altar, the creature of light had shifted, and had|
become a handsome angel, wearing a great white robe,|
with a wingspan that covered most of the altar. The|
golden light burst from it like the dawn.

Stony held Ms. hands up as he stepped forward up the
aisle. His eyes were dark, the blood matted in his hair.

Alan Fairclough cried out, "The miracles of the Living
God! Praise his Name!"

"His name is Glorious!" the congregation shouted.

"You're worshiping a monster!" Stony shouted.

The angel of light shifted again, and the Mother Goddess
stood at the steps of the stone altar, a crescent moon
upon her golden hair, a blue robe covering her pale skin.

Her hand was raised in a gesture of supplication.

But Stony saw the blood on her lips.

And the lamb on the altar--something was wrong--he
couldn't see it well, his eyes went in and out of focus.

It was no lamb at all.

It was his brother Van's body, laid down, eviscerated,
opened, fed upon.

The monster had already eaten the eyes from their sockets,
and his nose had been gnawed upon. His throat was
a bright red gash.

But they can't see it, he thought. They can't see what
it's done. All they see is a goddess or an angel. All they
see is the energy they give it.

They probably didn't even see Nora's body when it
burst. They don't know what it has done.

He feels a wind go through him, a wind of light, a wind
of darkness, and he's running, running towards the very
thing that will kill him, the very thing that brought him
into this world, but he doesn't care, for he thinks of
Lourdes and his unborn child and all the fools who have
been destroyed and distracted, putting their faith into such
as this--



"You bitch!" he shouted as he approached the creature,!

"You fucking breeding bitch with your magic and yourf
light."

As he reached her, he slammed his hand into her--

And his hand swarmed with the thousands of fireflies.

"They keep you in a box because they own you," he|
whispered. "They raped you to have children. You aren't 1
powerful. You're just energy. You're just--"

The howling of wolves filled his ears, then the sound I of locusts as millions teemed overhead, and the burning 1
light rose up from where the creature had stood and how- ]
ered.

A whisper in his ear:

But she was right, Stony. I needed you to let me out,[
to set me free--

Your sister couldn't do it, she was made wrong, she I
was not formed as well as you, she was not of the flesh \
in as many ways as you are--

But you, my child,
You are the embodiment of my radiance, and now%
you're making a child to be the New Adam for the world® of Earth, so that we may walk again as gods in the light^
of day, in the dark of night--

Let me show you the wonders of the gods--

And then the light split apart and swooped down uponj
the people in the pews and the cries were so loud thatj
Stony's ears began bleeding before he had even turned| around to behold the terrors.

Warm rain fell from the ceiling of the chapel, and as it!

fell, Stony looked up and saw the light holding them,;
holding the villagers. Tamara was screaming, trying to:
grasp the stone walls, and Martha smashed her fists
against her breasts in agony, and Father Jim, his hands!

clasped in prayer as he floated just beneath the ceiling--I

the invisible pincers tore at them--all who had come to
worship their demon god, flying above, their skin being
ripped open with lasers, their blood pouring down upon
the chapel floor.

It rains blood, son, and power is in the blood--

They trap their power within flesh, but will shall release
them from that cage--his mother watched from beneath
her encompassing light, whispering fondly to him as if he
would enjoy the carnage.

Another whisper, not from his mother, but as if Nora
were there, inside him, a whisper of strength--

"The power is in the blood, Stony, the strength is in
the blood, remember ..."

And then her voice died within him, and he no longer
cared if he lived or died. In a flash of lightning, the chapel
returned to candlelit silence. The villagers were gone.

Alan Fairclough, reciting some words silently to himself,
stood alone at the altar.

The creature, all burning with radiance, crouched upon
the altar like a harpy, her leathery wingspan wide. She
began cleaning her face like a cat.

All along the ceiling, their bodies were strung across
what looked like razor wire, their torsos ripped open, their
eyes torn out.

"Why do you bring me to witness this?" he asked.

But the creature at the altar dissolved again into shimmering
light

Chapter Thirty
The Stone Cage


After several minutes, Stony turned and left the chapel, j
He walked back through the long corridor, to the open^j
front door. He looked out across the driveway to the I
woods, and above, the night sky. The rain poured, and|
seemed the only thing that would wash away the blood
and the terror. He stepped out into the storm.

Closed his eyes.

Wished it all away.

Opened his eyes, and it was still there.

He dropped to his knees. Clasped his hands together in.1
prayer.

Please God, help me stop this. Help it end. It's not the \
way it's supposed to be here.

The Moonfire is his one weakness.

But when he is burned with it he uses its energy and
destroys the Outcast--

The words came to him, remembering the Storm King
of his favorite comic book. Moonfire.

The divine fire. Within me.

It was in his mind--a new myth for the Storm King--a
way of fighting that had not been imagined before by him.

A way of drawing strength from the very thing that burned
away who Stony Crawford was--

I AM THE HALLOWEEN MAN!

And in that second, he knew why Nora had told him
the story of the slaughter on Halloween night so many
years ago--

She was telling him that he could fight this.

She had warned him that he was enough, that the Halloween
Man was not the evil one, but the force of the god
in the flesh, the real power.

He had already let it out. But he was the power. He
was the one with the power. That thing at the altar was
weak. It was trapped, it was held. Only he could let its
power go free ...
Inside me. Moonfire.

Stony closed his eyes, and brought the hunting knife
up to his chest.

It won't hurt if you're fast.

If you believe, you can do this. You can do anything.

He remembered the strange smile on Diana's lips when
the knife went into her. She wanted to be released. She
wanted out.

Do not fear death, the creature that was his mother had
warned.

The blade went in deep, and the pain was ice-cold, and

spread like broken glass through his veins, through his
flesh.

He opens his eyes and watches the fire--

The Moonfire bursts and crackles along the edge of his
skin--his skin blackens--burning--the Pain, oh please
God don't make it hurt so much--He doesn't resist--he
lets the power come out completely, destroying the flesh
that was Stony Crawford--like molten lava--

Destroy my weakness!

Destroy this cage of flesh!

His consciousness lay within the stream of fire as it pissed
down his pant legs, down to the ground. The burning sap
formed a pool beneath the blackened body of a boy of
fifteen.

Then it re-formed again, bursting up from the ground
in a tower of flame.

For a moment, he looked back at the body of who he
had been.

Seared flesh, a mouth that lolled open, empty sockets
where the eyes had melted ...
Now, bring me back, bring me a new skin.

A new skin to cover the Moonfire.

Stronger flesh than human flesh, armor against my
mother.

He felt the change within his form, as if his consciousness
alone could determine what shape his physical body
would be. It hurt, it felt like small slivers of glass being
shoved into nerve endings, and if he'd had a mouth, he
would have been screaming--

But as terrible as the pain was, it brought a numbing
with it that was like ice.

And then he'd formed the flesh around himself again.

He was Stony.

He felt his own true power, the power of one who had
died and been reborn, as much a god as any man had ever
been.

I'm sorry, Lourdes. I'm sorry, my baby boy. I'm sorry,
Nora. I wish I had never been born.

As much as something within him told him to escape,
he turned around and walked back to the chapel.

Inside, all was silent. The candles were extinguished.

Alan Fairclough stood alone by the savaged corpse that
lay upon the altar. Hanging from the low rafters, the torn
open bodies of people from the village that Stony had
known since as far back as he could remember.

"You must accept that these people were meant to
die," he said.

"Just shut up, you freak," Stony said, walking up to
the altar. "It's like exhaust, isn't it? I gave Nora her eyes,
but something worse comes out afterwards. I make something
good happen, but something terrible comes from it."

Alan Fairclough said nothing.

The fire creature glimmered from within the metal coffin
behind the altar.

"You have to ask yourself," Stony said, "why would
it let itself be kept in a coffin made of what--lead?-- from the very cave it had been trapped within for hundreds
of years? Why would it wreak this small amount of
havoc, harvest these sacrifices, play into your fucked-up
sense of religion if it had all this power?"

"We cannot question the gods," Fairclough said.

"I can. I'm the son of this thing. I can question any

fucking thing I want," Stony laughed. "How could a
creature with unlimited power be tamed by human beings,
and kept in dark stone and in--this chapel, what is it made
of? I'd guess the same rock as the rock from those caves,
am I right?"

Fairclough nodded.

"You think this is really an angel from heaven, don't
you?" Stony asked.

Alan Fairclough nodded. "As much of an angel as there
can be. As much of a god as has ever existed."

"You'd think an angel would want to return to God."

Stony shook his head, smiling. "But not this one. This
one likes to be kept in the dark, kept away from heaven,
away from most anything but the few sad people who
worship it."

"There were others, I have the fossilized remains of
its--" Fairclough began, but when Stony shot him a mean
look, he kept quiet.

"I don't want to hear any more of your crap. You don't
mind that all these people died, and died horribly, do
you?"

Fairclough shrugged. "Human beings-die."

"I could kill you."

"I know."

"You don't care?"

"I don't love life over all things, no."

Stony went around and looked at the metal coffin.

"Sort of like a vampire, huh? Comes out to drink blood
and goes back in to snooze." The fire flickered from
within the small windows. "I think I know something
about this thing now. I think I know a little bit about my
mother. I think I know what she's afraid of. I was afraid
of it, too, but I don't have to be. I'm solid. I'm flesh. I
even killed myself out there, but I re-formed. I can't be
killed. But unlike her, I can't float away, either, I'm going
to forever be flesh and this creature all in one. But not

her. She's just that fire. She's form without flesh. She's
got to be afraid--"

"She's afraid of nothing," Fairclough said with malicious
pride.

Stony shook his head. "Oh, no. I think Mama's afraid
of the one thing that won't keep her inside a stone cave
or chapel. One thing."

"She's all-powerful. She's the divine fire," Fairclough
muttered, but Stony sensed his nervousness.

Stony grinned in his direction. "Is she?"

"What--what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that she needs to be set free," Stony
said, and he lifted the lid up. She was there, like a young
girl--like Lourdes, a beautiful fifteen-year-old girl, lying
naked in a bath of fire.

My love, she whispered.

"Look at you," Stony said. "You eat, you run wild in
here, and now you're exhausted. You need to rest after
all this, don't you?" His voice was almost sweet. He lifted
her up in his arms, carrying her. The fire tingled across
his shoulders and arms, but the pain was nothing now, all
pain was gone.

"What are you doing?" Fairclough asked.

"I'm setting her free."

"No, you can't, you've seen what she can do--" Alan
began.

Stony turned. His eyes bore through Fairclough. "You
want to see what I can do? You want to see what I'm
capable of? You know, I don't even know what I'm capable
of yet, but I'm willing to find out. Are you?"

Alan Fairclough held his hands up in a peacemaking
gesture. "Please, you can't let it out now, Stony. You
can't. It can do terrible things. It has been trapped for
centuries ..."

"Get the fuck out of my way!" Stony shouted. "I'm
letting it out. I'm letting my mother go back to where she
came from!"

Fairclough reached over and grabbed Stony's shoulder-- smoke rose from where he touched the boy.

A vision flashed out like lightning

Fairclough saw it--

He was crucified against a tree, his hair on fire--

"I'm a god now, remember?" Stony said. "I'm your
worst nightmare. I shed my skin, I let it go, and now I'm
back from the dead. To be king, you have to die and be
reborn, right? Well, say hey to King Stony."

He carried the creature out into the night.

Don't, it whispered inside him. Please, I don't want to--

"You don't want to return to your own source, Mother?

After thousands of years imprisoned by these sheep?"

"Please," she gasped, and he felt her weakness, the
body that had been fed and then its energy spent as it had
bled its own followers.

"I wonder why, Mother? Why would you want to be
here among men, trapped in rock?"

He took her to the doorway, and laid her down on the
grass just beyond the front steps and the columns. The
rain poured across them, the lightning flashed over the
trees.

She looked up at him, and he could tell she was trying
to burn more brightly, to shift into some creature, some power--

"All Hallows' Eve," he whispered to her as he stroked
his fingers through the sparks of her hair. "The old rituals,
the harvest, when the gods would be killed, sent back to
the other worlds. Sent back to where they belong. Demons,
too, souls traveling between the worlds, it's the
right time for that, isn't it? That's why Halloween is important
to you. That's why you need the sacrifices. Why
you've been trying to mate with humans all these centuries.

Because you want to be here, you know what will

happen to you in the other place. Call it heaven or hell or
the idiot frequency of the divine superhighway, I don't
give a damn. You have power here, but there, you're
probably nothing. You gave me my humanity, so I
wouldn't have to go there, so that I could have power
here. It's Halloween you fear. But Mother, it's time for
you to take off your mask, too. It's time for you to move
on."

"Please," she whispered, and he almost responded to
her pain--

Its pain, for the humanoid form no longer remained as
the rain poured down, the cleansing rain, and then her
light burst across the grass like a brush fire, up the trees,
across the woods.

Stony held his hands up to the sky.

I am the Storm King. Bring on the storm of storms
tonight. Take the fire back to heaven!

He shut his eyes, grinding his teeth together, willing
himself, willing what was of his mother within him to
transform.

He burst into thousands of bits of red and yellow and
spread out across the land, following her trail as she tried
to find a rock, a cave, a basement, something to hide
within--

And each time she did, her fire spreading after her, he
brought her out again, into the storm that grew as he felt
the power grow in him.

Until finally, at the Common, with the rain pouring
hard, her light turned silver, he felt her inside him.

Why do you do this to your mother? she asked. I carried
you and felt the pain of human birth just so that you would
live.

Because, he told her, you do not belong here. Not with
us.

But you are of me.

I'm more of them, he said. Return to where you belong.

Her body turned to an enormous lightning bolt that

grew from the burning grass and shot slowly towards the
blackened sky, drawing streams of white electricity from
all corners of the village and surrounding woods. For a
moment, it was as if the most brilliant daylight erupted
from the corners of the earth, and the village of Stone
haven seemed at the center of the light.

Stony covered his eyes.

8

People in the village, the nonbelievers, those who had
never been inside the Crowns' summer house, nor had
they mingled much with those who had, waking in their
beds, looking at the blazing light--they saw the most
beautiful thing they'd ever experienced.

And then the pressure of air was too much--oxygen
was sucked inward through some unseen vortex ...
Stony saw them, the men and women and yes, even
children, turning in their beds, looking at the bright daylight
outside their windows--

Bodies prolapsed, or sucked forward into emptiness,
houses were crushed in the path of the divine Moonfire.

Moonfire.

He felt a suction from above, as if he were at the center
of a cyclone, and he knew that it would take him, that he
too would ride the elements to heaven, or to the sky, to
the space between worlds where he belonged.

Then the pressure slammed him back against the
ground, into the mud, and he watched in horror as trees
uprooted from the earth around him, and the earth shook,
rooftops of houses smashed down, windows shattered.

And then there was an unearthly silence.

He looked back towards the Crown place, and the mansion
remained, seemingly untouched.

It's protecting her.

It's protecting Lourdes and the child.

When he stood, finally, he saw that Stonehaven was on
fire. A green-yellow lightning bolt, so large it looked like a highway among the roiling clouds, shot across the sky
off into an infinite darkness.

The storm raged on, and Stony Crawford lay back down
in the mud until dawn.

9

"Stony?" the man said.

He opened his eyes. The sun's light had just come up.

It was Alan Fairclough standing above him.

"It's all right. It's over."

Stony tried to open his mouth to lash out at the man,
but was too weak to even utter a single word.

"Yes, I'm alive. I told you, I am the keeper of the
rituals. I will teach you some of it, Stony. I will teach you
many things. It took a lot out of you, what you did. It did
your mother, too. It's a terrible gift, Stony. You can't
throw it away. And you're not like she is, you won't get
caught up in the ether. Your element is the element of
earth and water as well as fire. You are, for better or
worse, one of us in as many ways as you are one of
them."

Stony tried to muster every ounce of strength, but he
felt like he was dying. A tremendous battering in his head,
a ringing and the sound of hammering, all came up when
he tried to move.

"Don't try to speak, just rest. What you did must have
taken a lot of your power. It may be years before you gain
it back. But do not worry, you have something to live for,
after all," Fairclough said. "Lourdes is still alive, and
your child within her is strong. You are the future, Stony.

You and your son. We who are merely human are now
part of a charming history." Alan Fairclough lifted Stony
up from the mud, and carried him as he would carry a

newborn across the muddy Common, past the smash
houses and fallen trees, out to the dock behind
Crowns' summer place, to a small motorboat in which lay|
the sac-encased Lourdes, her belly grown large with the
son.

Epilogue
Journey's End


At a distance of twelve years, Stony Crawford reached to
the ticking bomb and pressed the button near the timer.

One minute to blast off, to kaboom, and he could not do
it. He knew he should, but he could not.

For Lourdes.

For our child.

Stony turned to his son, Stephen, and said, "He lied.

How could I have put my trust in that human monster?

You were born two months later, in winter, but I awoke
one morning and found ... what was left of ... your
mother." He closed his eyes, remembering the body, less
a girl's body than a cracked-open encasing for an incubator.

Clear liquid had sluiced from within the burst stomach,
and her face was all but obliterated by the glaze-like
network of fatty tissue and veins. "Fairclough had taken
you, newborn, in the night, and had left me on the island
with just a small boat and provisions to last a week or so.

I was still too weak, and I could not let what was inside|
me out again ... I didn't know what kind of bloodshed!

... I was like a walking bomb ... By the time I returned^
to the mainland, I had no idea where to go, how to find 1
you. And I had to survive. Ben Dennehy and his sister!

helped, they took care of me until I knew I had to run|
from them too. Knew that the Moonfire in me could not^
be near full-blooded humans. I did things to survive that'
no man should ever have to do."

"And then you found me."

Stony nodded. "After all these years. Hunting, search-j
ing, trying to sniff out Fairclough's trail wherever it might!

lead."

"To kill me?"

"I thought so. Then. Not now."

"I am a monster," the boy said.

"Both of us," Stony added.

"You stopped the bomb."

"I don't want you to die. Not for something you were!

no part of. You're only a quarter of what my mother was.!

You're half Lourdes, and a quarter Johnny Miracle, too."

"But this house, it's ... it feels like it's breathing," hi*|
son said.

Stony glanced around. "It is. It's what's left of that|
Halloween night. The residue of her being."

"We should end it all," his son said. "After all that|
happened here, this place shouldn't be standing, should!

it?" '

"Right," Stony grinned, feeling the melancholy of his ;
memory seep through him. He touched the edge of the
bomb, and the timer started up again. Ten minutes.

Enough time to get a good ways away. "Let's go."

"Where?" Steve asked.

"Where no one will come after us. Where no one will
worship us," his father said.

The small boat that Stony had left the island on was still
docked behind the Crowns' house. They ran together
down the landing, out onto the small dock. Stony quickly
unraveled the holding rope, and started the motor.

"What are we going to do there?"

Stony shrugged, unable to predict the next few days,
let alone the next few years. "I guess we'll wait for what
will come. I can come to shore for food and what we need
to live on."

"But it's bound to come out in me someday. The Devil."

"Maybe. And it's not the Devil. It's not Evil by itself.

It's Evil because it's untamed. It's evil the way the wind
is evil or the lightning. It's a force. But you have will."

"If it does come out, what if--I mean, what if other
people come and it gets loose?"

Stony glanced at his son, and saw Lourdes there in his
eyes and his hair. Lourdes Maria Castillo, with the
crooked grin. / love you because of your hair.

Your eyes.

Your muscles, she whispered.

Your voice.

Your heart.

You spirit.

Your love.

"I don't mean to hurt people, but it seems to always
happen around me," the boy said.

"I'll teach you how to let it out and still control it.

We'll find out what our purpose is for the future," he
said. His son grinned, a boy, only a boy, with his father,
headed for the farthest of the three Isles of Avalori.

"Here," Stony said. He reached into his pocket and
withdrew a piece of paper. It was loose-leaf paper, with
blue lines on it, and between the blue lines, a scrawl.

Tattered and yellowed, it was still legible after all these
years. "Your mother wrote this to me. I didn't see it until;'
after ... until it was too late to save her ..."

Then he read it aloud.

' 'I have heard that everyone has one GREAT LOVE in
their lives. ONE GREAT SECRET LOVE. I didn't
know till I met you that I would have one. I thought I'd
always feel alone and maybe get married and have kids
someday but never really know REAL LOVE. I look at
my mother and I think, THAT'S GOING TO BE ME
IN TWENTY YEARS. Married with kids, cleaning,
keeping my mouth shut, wishing something better for
my kids. But when I saw you the first time, last spring, I knew just by looking in your eyes. I mean, I'd seen
you before, you know that. But I had never really SEEN
you. Did you know it too? It was like there was a chalk
outline, or maybe a halo around you. When I looked in
your eyes it was like looking into an ocean that was
there just for the two of us. I knew that you were the
one. I knew that there would be no others. You are my
ONE GREAT SECRET LOVE. I don't know if we will
always be like this, but I know that I will never ever
forget you. NEVER. I want it always to be like it is
between us right now. ALWAYS. No matter what happens.

And things do happen. I know that. I know that
sometimes love is not enough of a miracle to cure
everything. I just wanted you to know. What we did
together is what I wanted. It was PERFECT AND
RIGHT."

When he finished, tears were in his eyes. The breeze |
picked up. The islands ahead were emerald and plum in

the October dawn that edged the horizon.

Not so very far from humankind, he thought.

Close, but not too close.

Far enough to learn together who we are. To set ourselves
free and still control it.

Then, behind them, the sound of the explosion.

His son shouted, "Fire! It blew up! Holy--"

Stony didn't look back. He didn't care if the Crown
place was destroyed or burning.

Life could continue in an unimaginable way.

He closed his eyes and saw nothing but darkness. Then
an aura emerged, a glow of light in his mind, the orange
and yellow Moonnre--and she was there.

She was there.

A being within him now, a being of Moonfire and cool
green shadow.

Lourdes Maria. Her hands open as if accepting what he
would offer up, accepting the gift he was about to return
to the cosmos. He saw her within himself, within his son.

Her eyes no longer dark, full of pain, but golden and
warm ... her voice smooth, sure, but still she was there,
as she had been at fifteen, eternally young, eternally faithful.

And the gift, the gift both of them offered to the universe,
to the momentum of mankind and all that would
be in the future, was there in their son. At war perhaps
with his Other nature. The Outcast that was within the
Storm King. The weakness that was within the power.

But beyond that, she was there as well.

Your voice.

Your face.

Your spirit.

Your heart.

Your purity.

The Isle of Avalon grew distinct through the dissipating

haze and light misty rain of morning as a fiery sun grew;!

along its low hills.

If I remember one thing, Stony Crawfbrd thought as he j
watched the sunlight break like glass against the slate sea, 1 it will be this. One thing from all that I was to all that I will be, this one thing burned into my memory, for f Lourdes and me:

In the boat, his son watching the morning as it came.

His son, his and Lourdes's son, the light of creation/
within, but the human flesh and blood of his mother and
father too. Perhaps that was the strongest prison for divine
fire that had ever been created.

Lourdes, see through my eyes. See him. See you within
him.

Your purity.

Your heart.

Your soul.