Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

Morningstar continued undeterred, calm:

“Hast thou come to kiss this child? I will not let thee kiss him. Hast thou come to send him to sleep? I will not let thee do him harm. Hast thou come to take him away? I will not let thee carry him away.” The preacher produced a small glass container two inches in diameter from his coat pocket, removed the lid and scooped out the majority of its contents with the middle and forefinger of his right hand. “I have secured his protection against thee with bloodroot, onions and honey, sweet to men but evil to the dead.” He spread the sticky-sweet concoction over the child’s sallow chest. Then, placing his fingers to his own mouth, Morningstar licked himself clean of it.

Doctor Jack, impressed with Morningstar’s apparent knowledge of herbal magic, smiled weakly and looked at Typhus with lightly questioning eyes. Typhus only shrugged, suddenly wondering about the bible his father had left out on the stoop.

Morningstar turned to Beauregard: “The thing that you brought. Give it to me now.”

Dazed by the scene before him, Beauregard snapped alert to remove the tin from his leather pouch and stepped towards the preacher quickly; nerves jangling, heart pounding. Dropped the bag with its remaining items intended for luck to the floor, freeing both hands so he could focus on the tenant of the tin.

Pulled the lid off. Dropped the lid to the floor along with the bag. Clangedy-clang on the floor. Reached into the tin. Looked around at the others. Looked at the two-dimensional, daguerreotype Sicilian faces that stared from the walls. Said:

“Don’t ask me to explain this.” No one did.

Zig.

Beauregard did not remove the severed hand of Antonio Carolla gingerly between thumb and forefinger, but instead grasped it firmly, as one might clasp the hand of a seldom seen friend. Spoke to the hand’s former owner. “Well, old man, I sincerely hope this is what you had in mind.” He gave the hand of Antonio Carolla to Father Morningstar.

Zag.

A wave of doubt washed over Morningstar’s mind-but he shook it off quickly. “The father will save the son…” he intoned with weary eyes. “The father will save the son. The father will save the son. This is not right. This must be made right.”

Morningstar placed the severed hand of Antonio Carolla over the child’s chest, covering the honey-mixed herbs. The demon let out a short, pained shriek, and then changed.

The face of the child focused on Beauregard with soft eyes, speaking directly to him in odd rhythm and gentle tone, nearly a whisper:

“ My brother, this, the second day of my birth, was not unlike your first-but of water-restrictive of motion till now, till this cutting of hand, this slicing of wrist, to deliver this now unto me with love in your heart as you have, this father’s hand, this way out and above water in order to cleanse of the earth, in the form of this boy, the son of a friend, of father to son and to brother of brother and now for father once more, though first intent was desecration for luck and for hope of fortune not earned, the intent is now changed, a deed sharing sameness with sin born of love, committed in hate, by she who has birthed, of anguish and rage, respectively we, and now it is he who was born Thomas that must complete the circle today and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…”

The cadence of the demon’s nonsensical rant diminished eventually to a mumble and then to nothing, the child falling once more into rigid catatonia, eyelids fallen shut again; rapid eye movement returning with fresh vigor.

Lips, a straight thin line, betraying neither emotion nor reason.

Beauregard Church stood motionless, silent.

Morningstar offered a hand to the mother. “Stand up, Mother. So that you may watch your child be saved.”

On wobbly knees, Anabella Carolla took the preacher’s hand and pulled herself to her feet. She at once recognized the small heart-shaped birthmark below the middle finger of her husband’s disembodied hand. “ My ’Tonio. ” She reached out to touch his pale index finger. Morningstar held her trembling hand back, his voice kind but firm:

“Shhhh. No. It will be all right. This is your husband’s gift to your son.” Then, after a brief pause: “He knew. Your husband knew. It will be all right now.”

The child’s breathing had become increasingly labored. Jack ran a finger across the smooth rail of the crib, looked down and in, whispered matter-of-factly and without expression,“ Babaku .” A word for nameless African demons.

“No, Jack,” responded Morningstar. “This is no pagan demon. A Christian one. And it has a name.” As little Dominick’s chest struggled to expand for air, the severed hand appeared to tremble of its own accord.

“The Christian demon has a name,” repeated Morningstar. This time for his own benefit, a reaffirmation of things witnessed in dreams.

Dominick’s chest stopped rising for air.

It was now clear that the autonomous movement of the hand was not illusion. A gentle massage of the child’s chest. A caress from a dead father. Anabella Carolla wiped her eyes, allowing them to widen in terror or hope. Marshall Trumbo stepped directly behind her, sensing she may faint, ready for her fall.

Trumbo spoke up. “The name of the demon, Father?”

Morningstar looked at him blank-faced. “Knowing the name would do you no good, son. No good at all.”

The preacher focused his attention back to the child-who had suddenly begun thrashing violently against the barred walls of the crib. Head and feet taking turns whipping up then down, a blind see-saw. Rhythmically. Beating against the loose fabric of the thin mattress:

Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap.

The rhythm’s reprise erased whatever lingering doubt Morningstar may have reserved. He spoke to those in the room:

“It is the demon himself who needs to be saved tonight. Without the demon’s redemption, the boy is lost. And so are we all.”

“Lookit the hand,” said Typhus in a whisper. “I don’t like it.”

The movement of the hand had picked up in speed, fingers kneading the taut skin of the boy’s chest frantically-pushing through skin. No, not pushing through-sinking in . The flesh of the dead man’s fingers was melting into and joining the flesh of the child. Fusing.

Anabella Carolla prayed something in Sicilian between lips barely parted, her hands flattening over her face, fingers spread just enough to allow herself fragmented witness, teetering on exhausted legs. Trumbo stood behind with his hands gently brushing her waist. Ready, once more, for her fall.

Morningstar faced the mother, laid a shaking hand on her shoulder. An imploring whisper: “Please, Mother. Leave God out of this. This business ain’t none of His. God has His own troubles to tend. His own house to clean. Let Him be.” Defying Morningstar’s instruction, Anabella Carolla only prayed louder.

In the crib, a change had begun.

“This isn’t right,” said Morningstar. “This isn’t supposed to happen. Ain’t the way I dreamt it.”

Dominick’s body had begun a visible transformation:

rebirthing

Arms pressed to sides, legs pressed together. Ears receding, mouth stretching wide, eyes separating, nose flattening. The red welts that had risen behind the ears had turned to slit-shaped holes, sucking in a tortured, thin stream of air. Whistling.

rebirthing

Diphtheria gasped. Buddy held her tight.

Dominick was transforming rapidly, his perfect, soft skin changing.

The sound that flew from his mother’s throat was a scream but not a scream; the note of an opera singer, high in pitch, full in tone, quivering with perfect vibrato, sustained. It was a beautiful sound, it was an ugly sound. During the mother’s note the child momentarily stopped thrashing, transformation interrupted.