T Klein: Ceremonies

He remembers what it said.

I have been waiting for you.

'How long?' the boy had stammered, breathless.

Long.

'What do you want of me?'

Muck.

'What must I do?'

You shall perform Ceremonies in my honor.

'Ceremonies for what?'

To bring me back as my Son.

'Where is he now?' the boy had asked, and he remembers today the Master's answer.

He isn't born yet.

The planet rolled through the afternoon with only a scattering of clouds. A soft breeze sprang up, tropical in its warmth; the pine trees stirred among themselves on the other side of the brook. Where small birds had hopped and chirped among the branches, there was now only the whisper of the wind, the most solemn of stillnesses. The branches stretched yearningly toward the two sleeping figures on the farther bank; the shadows of the trees grew longer, reaching across the water where they lay. Slanting rays of sunlight hung like curtains before the bases of the trees, shifting with each movement of the branches. The sun seemed to die a little.

Still prisoner of some all-enveloping dream, Carol shifted in her sleep as if in response to a call. Slowly she stretched and sat up. She gazed across the water into the darkness of the woods; and if she saw the figure there standing veiled in yellow curtains of sunlight, as unmoving as the trees, and if she was surprised, and if she saw it was a man, tall, bearded, nearly naked, his clothing in ribbons, his hands black with dirt, and if she saw the thing that had happened to his skull, she made no sign. She stared at him a moment and said nothing.

Gazing at her from across the water, the figure raised its hand and beckoned.

She stood, paying no attention to Freirs sleeping obliviously beside her among the weeds. Hesitating but a moment, she stepped slowly into the stream, the water swirling round her bare ankles. Heedless of the chill, looking neither left nor right, she walked across, stepped onto the other side, and joined him where he waited for her. His hand reached out for hers, took it imperatively in his grasp. For a moment, as his hand touched hers, she turned to cast a single, half-regretful backward glance at the man still sleeping on the other bank. Then the figure pulled her toward him, and the darkness of the woods closed over them both.

The day is waning at last, and he is glad of it. It is the night that concerns him. He watches impatiently as the professor and student climb into their car and drive off. They wave one more time in thanks. He nods, waves back, smiles till the car has disappeared. They will not return today, and tomorrow – tomorrow will be too late.

For a moment back there on the trail he had contemplated ordering the Dhol to kill the two of them – it would have been far simpler and wasted less precious time – but there is always a chance that the men might have been missed and that others might have come looking for them: others who might interfere with the events planned for tonight. No, he decides, there's no use taking chances. Not with so much at stake.

Which is why he must dispose of the extra man. There is no more need for him; the woman, by now, must be in their hands, and the role Freirs was to play has already fallen to another. It will be well, for safety's sake, to make sure he cannot threaten the proceedings. It will be simpler this way. Cleaner. He has the necessary straps in his pocket, and though they'll eventually be needed for the woman, they may also prove useful for the man.

Hands tingling with anticipation, the Old One turns his back on the road and sets off once more up the trail.

There were less than a dozen of them now: Bert Steegler had had to go back and open the store, Jacob van Meer was feeling poorly, and others had dropped out for reasons of their own. They had crowded into three trucks, Rupert Lindt's in the lead, and had raced along the main road from town, over the bridge and past the silent stone cottage beside it, then up the winding roads into the backcountry. Now they had reduced their speed and were moving up the Poroths' road like a convoy, maneuvering slowly over the ruts and gaps and potholes, yet still stirring up enough dust so that the rear truck, Abram Sturtevant's, was covered with a reddish film, making visibility difficult for the three men inside.

It was old Matthew Geisel, sitting up beside Lindt, who saw it first, at the bend before the Poroth farm. He pointed toward the side of the road. There, tilted forward in a ditch, its right rear tire lifted in the air, was the battered form of Poroth's pickup truck.

'Appears he's had himself an accident,' said Ham Stoudemire, 'and left the truck where it stopped.'

Lindt pulled over to the side; the other two trucks behind him slowed to a halt. The men dismounted and hurried to the truck.

It was empty. Along the upper rim of the steering wheel was a suspicious-looking smear of dried blood.

'Suppose he may be hurt,' said Geisel, 'and crawled off into the woods?' He surveyed the dense vegetation before him.

'It may be so,' said Abram Sturtevant. 'We'd best look for him.'

The men fanned out from the ditched truck, searching for signs: a broken branch, a tatter of cloth, more blood. Lindt, Stoudemire, and Geisel continued on foot now toward the house several hundred yards ahead.

Geisel glanced back at the Poroths' truck; he was troubled. 'Twasn't like Sarr to go off the road like that; the man knew every twist and turn of its length. No, 'twasn't like him at all.

Frowning, he followed the two younger men toward the farmhouse.

Shadows. Evening coming on.

He emerges from the woods, slightly winded, to stand a moment on the narrow strip of level ground that, just ahead, dips downward toward the brook. In the distance the farmhouse, barn, and outbuildings have caught the dying sunlight and glow as if aflame; the sky behind the cornfield is a wall of red, turning the field into a battleground where stunted cornstalks stand silhouetted against the sky like doomed men. Just across the brook Freirs' plump form lies defenseless in sleep, his stomach rising and falling among the weeds. As if sensing the other's presence, he stirs.

For most of his journey through the woods the Old One has been considering Freirs' death. It will be what it should have been three days ago: death by water. His vivid dream of Deborah in the bathtub has been thwarted, chance has saved Freirs from the clutches of the Dhol, but now he will be able to do the job himself. In Freirs' insensible condition, it will be easy; he feels as if he has already done the deed, so detailed and real is the picture. He sees himself turn Freirs onto his belly for the precautionary tying of the wrists, then haul him by the ankles to the stream and shove his face beneath the rushing water. He sees a tremor shake the sleeper's frame, sees his arms twist and strain against the leather in an instinctive, futile effort to escape. The body jerks and thrashes as the Old One bends his full weight upon it. Once, twice, three times Freirs' dazed face, streaming water, lifts above the surface as he wrenches his neck back, legs kicking. But the Old One's grip is like iron, and the joy of what he's feeling now, savoring the final moments of a human life communicated through the spasmodic twitching of the flesh, gives him a tenfold strength. Just another minute to be sure all breathing's stopped…

The reality will be even better. Stepping nimbly from stone to stone, the Old One crosses the stream.

It takes him but a moment to bind the wrists. He is dragging Freirs' inert form roughly toward the brook, scanning the property one more time to make sure there are no witnesses to what's about to happen, when his gaze comes to rest on the smokehouse and the pale thing hanging upside down inside it, clearly visible through the wide-open door and outlined in the final rays of sunlight.