F Wilson - The Dark at the End

The john… was there a more inane name for a bathroom facility?

He had suffered the indignities of having to allow the cow to assist him to the bathroom, his knees collapsing beneath him while she chattered to him in the tone she used to speak to her dog.

“Need… to leave.”

He flopped back onto the couch, gasping from the effort.

“Leave? You’re weak as a kitten. And even if you were strong enough to dance a jig, you still wouldn’t be going anywhere today. The boat doesn’t come till tomorrow, remember?”

“Can’t wait.”

“I know you want to get to the police as soon as you can and help them find those killers. If you can walk a few steps tomorrow, maybe we can help you out to the dock.” As she looked over at her dog her voice took on that noxious tone. “Me and Wocky-wocks will come along and see you safely into town, won’t we, doggy?”

The dog panted in the corner, beating its tail against the wall.

“Do you take him everywhere?”

“Of course I do.” She continued the tone as she grinned idiotically at her pet. “Don’t I, Wocky? Don’t I? Cause you’re a good dog, aren’t you. You’re Mommy’s best boy, aren’t you.”

Rasalom rescinded his rash decision during the storm to reward her for saving him.

“So now,” she said, resuming a normal tone, “you just sit back and eat this nice turkey sandwich I made you. That’s the sort of thing that’ll build you up and get your strength back.”

She set the plate on his lap and looked around.

“Where’s that remote?”

He pointed to it with his wrist stump. “There.”

“Where?”

He remembered she could barely see. “Right next to me.”

“Well, use it to turn up the sound, will you. I like to listen. Now go on and eat up. If you’re getting on that boat tomorrow you’re going to need all your strength.”

She bustled back to the kitchen.

Yes, strength. He needed strength-but now, not later. He couldn’t afford the time it would take for turkey sandwiches to do the job. He needed another form of nourishment, and here on this tiny island he was cut off from the emotions that could speed the process. The world out there writhed with a farrago of pain and fear and anger and grief, but he could access none of it from here. The population at this end of Long Island was thin this time of year, and the meager sustenance available was dampened by distance. Water further muted the effect.

He had only the cow close at hand, and he needed her.

He looked across the room at the dog, who stared back. But he didn’t need her pet… her beloved pet.

Before he could do anything, he needed it closer. But the dog feared him. How to bring him within reach? And then he remembered the sandwich in his lap. Would the dumb animal’s stomach overcome its distrust of the stranger in its home?

Let’s see, shall we?

He pulled a piece of turkey from the sandwich and held it out, dangling it from his hand.

The dog’s head shot up and rocked as it sniffed. But its body remained prone.

He waved the meat back and forth. Should he whisper its name? He didn’t want the cow to hear, but decided to risk it. He was quite sure, however, that he could not bring himself to utter, “Wocky-wocks.”

“Here, Rocky.”

That was enough. The old dog pushed itself to its feet and ambled over, head down, tail giving a few tentative wags.

Rasalom slowly drew the meat back, enticing the animal closer and closer until he could lay his wrist stump on its back. Deep within the furry chest, he felt the heart beating.

He focused in on the beat.

And stopped it.

The animal stiffened, coughed once, and then its legs collapsed. It landed on the floor with a thump, shuddered, and did not move again.

Rasalom popped the piece of turkey into his mouth-after all, he needed it more than the dog.

Now… what was the cow’s name?

“Sadie! I think something is wrong with your dog.”

The cow rushed in. Her eyes darted to the corner where she’d left the dog, then to the still brown lump on the carpet before the couch.

“Rocky?” she said, her voice rich with anxiety.

When the lump did not respond, she bent and touched its flank.

“Rocky?” A delicious burst of fear accompanied the word.

When her fingers sent the message that no life lingered in the inert flesh beneath them, she dropped to her knees beside her companion and screamed.

“ Rockyyyyyyyyyyy! ”

Rasalom leaned back, closed his eyes, and bathed in the cataract of grief and loss, absorbing it like a dry sponge, feeding his needy cells, abating a hunger that could never be fully assuaged.

Yessssss.

“I should move in here,” Weezy said as she and Eddie entered the Lady’s apartment.

She placed the backpack with the Compendium on the table.

The Lady smiled from her usual seat. “If you have no place to stay, you are always welcome here. You know that. I will not forget how you sat at my side that night.”

Neither would Weezy. She’d been sure then that she was seeing the last of the Lady.

She glanced over at Dawn’s baby in his playpen. He was chewing on a bone, just like yesterday.

“Where do you get the soup bones?”

“A local butcher delivers them.”

“It looks raw,” Eddie said, making a face.

“He prefers them that way. He wears them down to the marrow. He likes the blood there.”

Weezy remembered the blood she’d washed off his face that first day. She’d assumed it was from his teeth. Now she wondered…

She shook it off. It didn’t bear thinking about.

“Do you know why Jack asked us here?”

The Lady shook her head. “He did not tell me.”

“Nor me,” Glaeken said as he entered and eased into his seat at the head of the table. “But he seemed… enthused.”

Weezy could think of only one thing Jack had been enthused about lately.

“Then it must have something to do with killing Rasalom.”

As if on cue, Jack entered.

“It does.” He dropped his bomber jacket onto the remaining seat opposite Weezy but remained standing. “I think I’ve found a solution to the Other Naming Ceremony problem.”

He seemed a different person from the surly grouch of yesterday’s gathering. He appeared unable to sit still. He was psyched about something.

“Which problem?” Weezy said. “Not knowing the name, or no one to perform the ceremony?”

“The latter.”

Weezy glanced at the Lady, then back to Jack. “You’ve found someone else who can read the small folks’ writing?”

“No. But I think I can convince the Lady to perform it on me.”

“I will not,” she said with rock-solid finality.

“Give me a chance here. I’ve been up half the night thinking about this.”

That would be Jack. Give him a problem to solve and he was like Dawn’s baby with a bone: He’d gnaw it down to the marrow.

He turned to Weezy. “Could you read us that paragraph about the ceremony?”

“I don’t need to read it.”

“Okay. Would you recite it, please?”

Weezy pictured the page and began to read from it.

“‘ No two humans may have the same Other Name. The First-named shall be powerless as long as the Second-named lives. The First-named shall hear the Name within the Second and thus be able to resolve the duplication.’ ”

“Thanks,” Jack said. “Now, the second half is the part that’s causing the problem. The Lady here thinks it’s a death sentence. I disagree.”

The Lady said, “The One ‘shall hear the Name’ within you. That means, even if you never speak the Other Name you have been given, you will know it… it will be in your mind. He will hear it just as he hears ‘Rasalom’ whenever it is spoken. He will follow that name to you, wait until you are vulnerable, and slay you.”