Jason Frost - The Warlord

"Your parents read Reader's Digest, too," Rydell said.

"I don't know what they read, except Variety. Anyway, I ended up doing a lot of sports, and you know what? I loved it. And you know what else? My folks thought it was great too. They came to every event I competed in whenever they were in Los Angeles."

"Happy ending," Molly said.

"I guess so. I was pretty happy, everything just as I wanted it. Except for one little problem. Guys."

"You're kidding?" Molly said, surprised.

"I wish. It seemed that every guy I went out with thought he had to compete with the image of my father in movies. They were always trying to be so cool, you know, staring with sophisticated indifference. Acting cynical. In bed they were so concerned about their performance you'd think they were auditioning for Francis Ford Coppola. Jesus, what a mess. I think if-"

"Hey, Molly!" Tag Hallahan's voice shouted above his running feet. He burst into the room, looked surprised to see all of them, but recovered quickly. He was panting as he spoke. "It's Jennifer Ravensmith," he said urgently. "She's missing. Her body's gone."

The moon might have been full, it was hard to tell. The shimmering haze of the Long Beach Halo hung like a thick cloudy veil between heaven and earth making the moon look like a spilled blotch of phosphorescent milk. Still, it provided enough diffuse lighting for Eric to see what he was doing.

He stood atop the roof of the library and scanned the ravaged world around him. Far off into the distance were dozens of scattered campfires like fallen stars. He imagined the many people huddled around them, desperate for warmth, jumping at every sound in the night. Good people like the ones here, anxious not only for survival, but to preserve the dignity of civilization. But there were also evil people to whom survival was the only end, and that justified any crime. People like Fallows and his henchman, Cruz. And among them, Annie and Timmy. Frightened, alone. Waiting for deliverance.

Eric knew what he'd done wrong. He understood his mistake.

He thought about this as he stood balanced on the edge of the roof, constantly adjusting his balance to the ever-shifting wind that nudged him. He looked down, felt the grinding in the pit of his stomach that heights gave him. He smiled and began removing his clothing. All of it. He knew his fatal error now and was going to do something about it. Now.

At last he was naked, balanced with his back facing the edge of the roof. The breeze swirled gently around him, ruffling the hair on his body, tensing his genitals. Eric felt the movement, but was otherwise numb to the sensations. The wind was neither warm nor cold, heavy nor light. It only existed.

"Ritual," Big Bill Tenderwolf had lectured him. "Ritual provides answers when we are not yet certain of the questions."

"Sounds like you've been reading too many fortune cookies," Eric had replied with a youthful smirk.

Big Bill had laughed. "Perhaps. But even the ritual of fortune cookies has its function. Ceremonies have no intrinsic meaning, I'm sure a clever boy like you has figured that out already, right? Every time you see a funeral you shake your head at the hypocrisy. After all, the person's dead, right again?"

Eric said nothing, amazed and a little ashamed that his thoughts had been so transparent.

Big Bill had clapped a meaty hand on Eric's shoulder. "Those are perfectly natural conclusions. For the young. But the adult needs more. During especially emotional times, whether happy or sad, the prescribed ritual is a comfort. It gives strength. It forces order where there is emotional chaos. Sometimes it forces a person to face himself." He tapped a finger against his temple. "Maybe it is all a state of mind, but it is formidable. Like self-hypnosis. And sometimes it can release powers in a person they didn't know they had. Ritual is nothing to be mocked, boy."

Eric hadn't understood that until much later, maybe not even until this very moment. Still, Big Bill Tenderwolf had taken him into his home in the Hopi village of Shongopovi and taught him the many rituals, customs and folklore of the Hopis. How the Hopis had emerged from a horrible underworld when the earth was not yet fully formed; how they migrated south looking for a sacred spot, some for the exact center of the Earth; how they were led by the Twins, also called the Little War Gods, who helped stabilize the surface of the Earth and taught them how to survive, as well as ceremonies. How these gods, sensing their people's weariness, would come and dance for them, until they poked fun at their peculiar faces. But before returning broken-hearted to the underworld, they permitted ceremonial masks to be made resembling their faces. And ever since then, Hopis have donned these katcina masks to perform the dances necessary to stimulate harvest, bring rain, and promote warfare.

Big Bill Tenderwolf had taught him the katcina dances, the peculiar warbles, the pulsating rhythm, the seemingly arbitrary pauses called t'a. Eric had been reluctant at first, embarrassed at his ignorance more than anything else.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," Big Bill had grinned, his eyes twinkling. "If you can do this simple rain dance, which is stationary for Christ's sake, by the end of the week, I'll set you up with Lilith Twopenny."

Lilith Twopenny was easily the most desirable girl Eric had ever seen and a cousin of Big Bill. Many times Eric had wanted to ask her out, but hadn't had the courage. This seemed like an easier way. "Deal," he'd agreed. Hours and days of practice later, Eric performed the ritual rain dance to perfection. Big Bill applauded, appropriately impressed.

"So what about my date with Lilith?"

He put his arm around Eric and said. "Never forget this lesson. There is no date with Lilith. It would be wrong of you to expect a reward to exceed the deed. However, you can almost always count on the punishment to be greater than the crime." He shrugged and roared with laughter. "We Hopis have a saying in such cases: That's life."

However, that evening Lilith Twopenny came over for dinner, the beginning of a romance that lasted until she left for UC Berkeley two years later. The last he'd heard she was married, had three daughters, and designed computer games for Atari.

Eric stepped away from the edge of the roof. He had no katcina mask now, had long ago forgotten the rain dance, the basket dance, the corn dance. But he knew what he must do now.

Slowly he walked to the center of the roof. His lantern flickered there like an insolent reminder. Next to the lantern were three objects, each lined up meticulously next to the other. His gold wedding band, the only piece of jewelry he'd ever worn. The cassette player given to him earlier that evening by his children. And the body of Jennifer.

He kneeled beside them, staring at each.

Down below, people were shouting his name, calling for him, but he didn't hear them. He was leaving this world, entering one where none of them could ever follow. He closed his eyes now and chanted softly a single word.

With each chant he entered another darkened cavern. He was naked and hungry, without torch or weapon, but still he pushed ahead. In the back of the deepest cave he could see the unblinking eyes glowing. Still he chanted.

It was clear to him now. His mistake. What scholars of tragedy would call his fatal flaw.

Only it had been fatal to others, not him.

Until now.

He entered yet another dark cave, saw the eyes glowing brighter. Like truth.

Eric chanted the word over and over, its two syllables tripping mechanically from his tongue.

His mistake: to try and live in two worlds at once. He had tried to be the father, husband, teacher of the civilized world, and at the same time he'd tried to be the warrior, soldier, protector against the savage world. He had failed in both worlds. His instincts had been dimmed, his senses dulled, he had been operating on the memory of what he used to be. This had resulted in disaster. He should have recognized the council's ploy right away, but he was drunk with trust. He should have been wary of a van with closed doors, avoided it. But he had his eyes on the roofs, the windows. Now Jennifer and Philip were dead, Annie and Timmy kidnapped. And it was Eric Ravensmith's fault.