The Fault in the Stars - Act I, Chapter I
Yes, I'm aware that the title of this story is remarkably close to that of a popular book. Let's settle that right now. I'll point out the obvious difference: "our" versus "the." The word "our" indicates that the stars belong to us, that when we stare up into that glittering domain we are connected to them in some indescribable, mystical way. And we are connected to them.
But they do not belong to us.
In all other regards, this recounting is as far removed from two fated lovers with cancer as the Dark Web is from the safe, friendly, and familiar websites we visit every day. Suffice it to say, we tread a divergent path—for the straightforward path is lost.
***
That particular morning, we ran late for Mass. This was not out of the ordinary—Stephanie was notorious for waiting till the last second to get ready, but usually we arrived at church as the entrance hymn was ending. This time we almost missed the gospel.
"And the Lord said, ‘Don't be late for church...’” I muttered under my breath as we walked to an open pew. Stephanie tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder and gave me an annoyed glance but I pretended to be absorbed in holding our only child, Trenton.
He kicked me peevishly in the thigh.
"This is boring,” he whined. The phrase was oft repeated at Sunday Mass. I set him on the pew and gave him a book to read, The Beranstain Bears get the Gimmies.
Hopefully they get an extra 10 minutes of time and absolutely no new social engagements, I thought. My weekend time was gobbled up repeatedly by extracurricular activities that meant nil to me.
I glanced at Stephanie while Trenton turned the book pages with a listless, dull look in his eyes. Her peach eye-shadow and subtle blush accentuated her natural beauty. People often wondered how we ended up together—not that I was ugly, I was just average. Stephanie also possessed the sweet southern personality to go with her dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes, despite being a touch high-strung and dramatic. She kept a laser-like focus on Father Parker as he wrapped up the gospel.
“…And now I have told you this before it happens, so that when it happens you may believe,” Father Parker said. He lifted up the Lectionary, “the Gospel of the Lord.”
“Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ,” the congregation responded, without much enthusiasm.
We all sat for the homily.
Here’s my chance. No one is paying attention. I must be careful so no one suspects a thing.
I leaned forward slowly, allowing my folded hands to rest on the pew in front of me. After that, my next maneuver was to drop my head inch by inch until it touched my hands. I did this every Sunday under the pretense of meditating on the sermon. Yes, I slept, but I figure God would rather have me well-rested and cheerful for the remainder of Sunday.
Rest in the Lord! I thought, before I concentrated on Father Parker's voice—his endless droning putting my mind into a haze of bliss and relaxation.
The sermon continued on and I lost track of time, my mind stuck in that delightful warm place between wakefulness and deep sleep. Stephanie must have nudged me, for the next thing I knew, I was standing for the offering.
"We have a special occasion today," Father Parker proclaimed. He smiled at the congregation, his bald head catching the light just right, as if gleaming excitedly. He had broken out of his monotonous sermon timbre, indicating that Mass was going to drag on for an extra twenty minutes because someone decided they wanted the whole congregation to see their kid get baptized.
I wasn't overly fond of children. My wife convinced me to have one child, which was manageable, but I spared no love for anyone else's spawn.
If Stephanie had known how miserable bearing one child to term would be for her, we may have stopped at zero children. She spent nine months with “morning sickness” which left her nigh incapacitated, leaving me to be caregiver, housekeeper, and breadwinner. We initially received outside assistance from the community, but, as time dragged on, Stephanie got no better. She spent her days staggering from the bed to the bathroom and I requested help less and less, becoming a burnt-out and exhausted version of myself while maintaining a facade at work to keep from being fired. By the end of the ordeal we had both come to the conclusion that, despite the Catholic Church’s tenet to be fruitful and multiply, we were not going beyond Trenton. Watching someone else's expanding brood suck up more of my life did nothing to raise my spirits.
I slumped into the pew after Father Parker told us to sit and we watched the McCarthy family march up to front of the church. How many children did they have? I counted the bobbing heads: one-two-three-four. Oh, another in the father's arms. Five. And the mother carried their newborn? Bloody hell! Six children in about as many years.
"I don't know why they do this," I whispered to Stephanie.
"Do what? Have six children?" she said.
“No, I know how they do that,” I said. She rolled her eyes at me and punched me gently in the arm.
“I mean why do they insist on having baptism and Mass meshed together,” I hissed. “Couldn’t they do this on their own time? May as well slam the other sacraments in here too: add a marriage, a funeral, confirmation, maybe do confession before mass, otherwise it might get awkward…”
“First,” she whispered back, remaining practical minded, “you are the one making this awkward. Second, a funeral isn’t a sacrament, it’s a service. You are thinking of anointing of the sick.” She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. "I forgot they invited us to the baptismal party afterwards."
I took the invitation card out of the envelope and discreetly read it while Father Parker gushed on about how the McCarthy tribe stood out as such great role models in the parish and an example to be held up as the perfect Catholic family.
Your family is cordially invited... etc, etc, etc.
Cool. There went the rest of my afternoon wandering the trails of Fairy Stone State Park vainly chasing after Trenton. Stephanie and the McCarthy broodmare—Jennifer—did some church social event together. That tenuous connection between us was irrelevant—the McCarthys looked like the type who invited the slightest acquaintance to participate in their celebration of the "newest member of the Church."
"Do you reject Satan?" Father Parker called out, loud enough for the entire congregation to hear.
"We do!" Jennifer and her husband replied resplendently with a softer chorus from their children—the ones who could talk at any rate.
"And all his works?" Father Parker persisted.
"We do."
"And all his empty promises?"
"We do."
I yawned. Seems Satan doesn't have much work to do if all his promises are empty. Stephanie would have punched me in the arm if she knew my thoughts, but I teetered on the edge of the blasphemous with relative ease.
Twenty-five minutes later—Father Parker seemed much more enthused by this upright Catholic family than the Hispanic families that magically appeared in church for their drive-by sacrament and then never showed up again—the baptism ceremony ended and the rest of Mass got underway. After the recessional hymn I picked up Trenton and bee-lined for the exit of St. James Church. Maybe I could convince Stephanie to go to the baptism party by herself and she could drop me off at home with Trenton. Perhaps the weather might have a possibility of rain.
The fine May morning outside said differently. The drab clouds that had greeted us at the start of church had dispersed to show the pure blue sky that lay beyond. The lilacs near the shrine of the Virgin Mary seemed to have spontaneously bloomed in the ninety minutes it had taken Father Parker to get us through Mass. A mangy and malnourished chickadee skittered nervously along one of the lilac’s boughs until some random, loud-mouthed kid came careening around the corner of the church, startling it. The bird flew off into the sun-shiny day.
At least it’s free, even if it might be starving to death.
No chance Stephanie would let me slip away like that chickadee. I looked behind me, still interested in trying my luck. Through the open door of the church I saw her standing with the McCarthys, surrounded by their children and chatting and congratulating Jennifer.
Her husband—whatever his name was—spotted me and headed over. I smiled weakly and took his extended hand.
"I know we haven't met formally," he said. "I'm Martin."
"Jon," I said, shaking his hand. Apparently, Martin still found the time to hit the gym despite the six children. I avoided wincing and released his hand. "So, number six baptized?"
Martin’s face radiated with satisfaction. "Yep, little Sophia Caroline McCarthy," he said.
"Nice. Plan on stopping there?" I chuckled.
"Oh, we'll see where the Lord takes us," he said. He laughed and I joined him, hoping it sounded authentic enough. Of course they will.
"So my wife never mentioned what you do," I said. "I just know she hangs out with your wife at one of those church functions."
"Oh," he smiled. "I'm a doctor." He didn't add anything on and I didn't want the conversation to die.
"A doctor?" I fumbled for my next statement. "Well, that's cool." You idiot. Why not ask him what type of doctor?
The moment slipped by and he asked his own questions. I was nothing as glamorous as a doctor. I managed tech support for the IM Corp data center located on the outskirts of town.
“You are coming to the baptismal reception at Fairy Stone right?"
I smiled, hoping it appeared authentic. "Wouldn't miss it. Oh, looks like the wives are headed this way."
Stephanie strolled along with Mrs. McCarthy, walking out of the shadow of the church and into the warm spring sunshine. I'm not usually the type to compare wives, but even if Martin worked out, was a doctor and had six children, my wife still looked better than his by a fair measure. Stephanie and Jen were close in age, but I saw the crow’s feet clearly in the corners of Jen's eyes, the worry lines etched in her forehead, and the pale, almost paper thin quality of her hands.
I imagine six children will take a toll on a body. And she had to do the hard part. Jen, the faded beauty.
Introductions were made again and I found out that Jen didn't like being called Jen, she preferred Jennifer, but she smiled when she said it and appeared sincere enough. Martin got dragged away into a side conversation with Father Parker and Jennifer started talking to an old church lady that came up and seized her arm. Stephanie and I stood awkwardly smiling and listening until I felt certain they weren't paying attention and I nodded my head towards the car.
Stephanie rolled her eyes. "One minute. I want to know exactly where to go at Fairy Stone. It's a big park."
I pointed at her purse. "It says it on the invitation. Section A, Lot 12." I prided myself on my ability to recall trivial items, although this time I wished I'd kept my mouth shut.
"Oh," Stephanie said weakly, looking again at Jennifer, who continued talking with the other woman. "Ok, let's go."
We walked to our car and I buckled Trenton into his booster seat in the back of our Subaru Forester.
"You know," I said, fumbling with the buckle before it caught, "at least we never have to get a bigger car." I patted Trenton's belt and gave him a high five. "Snug as a bug."
Stephanie got into the passenger seat and I got in the driver's seat while continuing talking. "They have six kids now. That dodge caravan they've been driving isn't going to cut it. They'll have to take two cars everywhere or get a passenger van."
"If they want to be legal," Stephanie smirked. "I'm sure they'll figure it out. It's not like they are strapped for cash."
"Do I detect a hint of jealousy?"
"No. It’s not like we don’t have money."
"I'm guessing he makes more money than me. He’s a doctor you know."
"I know,” she gazed out the window at them and the horde of kids milling about the playground, “but if I had to have five more children for more money I wouldn't be interested."
I started the car, but my phone chimed before I shifted into gear and I picked it up to check the message. It was a notification from my Cachedigo app. I can best describe the app as a combination of Geocaching and one of those gig apps like TaskRabbit or Fiverr. Cachedigo rose to popularity after Geocaching repeatedly shot itself in the foot through price increases.
Geocaching’s primary feature of hiking around to obscure locations remained a defining feature of Cachedigo. Cachedigo’s twist is that it let people (or automated bots) post contracts you could act on. By and large, the requests were superfluous and harmless in nature: go to this location and take a picture facing east, collect a plastic bottle of water from this stream and leave it on a picnic table at this location—just random requests that defied any specific meaning. Questionable content on the app generally disappeared by the power of the invisible moderators before it could be acted on, even if I had wanted to. The contract reward itself was negligible, coming in the form of a relatively obscure crypto currency.
Still, there was something addictive about the feedback loop of getting a contract, fulfilling it, and watching my crypto wallet get an anonymous transfer. The immediacy and the tangibility of it were very satisfying. It was like Making Money: The Video Game. A direct feedback loop with a variable payout was all it took to turn a moment of reward into a habit and I received a digital receipt and an increase in my reputation after each fulfillment.
The notification announced new contracts for my location, including three at Fairy Stone State Park.
“Well, that is something at least,” I mumbled.
“What is?” Stephanie asked.
"Oh, nothing, I might do some Cachedigo at the park if things get boring at the party.” I put the phone down and pulled out of the parking lot. “So, back to our original conversation, if you didn't have to have more kids, but got more money, would you be interested?"
She laughed. "Of course, wouldn't you be? I mean, isn't that the situation we are in if you get promoted?"
"Well, at least I know why you keep me around," I teased.
"I didn't mean it like that," her lip quivered and her voice dropped a notch. She always turned emotional whenever we discussed money. Hammering out a budget proved to be nigh impossible when every recommendation I made somehow became an affront to her and her spending habits. Luckily, I made enough so it didn't affect us much—but our nest egg never seemed to grow.
I changed the subject. "So do we need anything from home or are we going straight to this baptismal thingy?"
"Just go to the reception. I doubt we’ll stay long," she said.
Yes! I yelled internally. If only her statement had been the truth.
We passed our home, a quaint, brick, ranch style house set back from the road behind a couple of birch trees. I eyed it longingly as it flashed by, wishing I could park next to Stephanie's Toyota Corolla in the driveway and spend the rest of the day doing nothing. I sighed and turned my attention back to driving. I took the ramp onto interstate route 57 and drove the five minutes to the sign that heralded Fairy Stone State Park.
At the entrance to the park, I slowed the car to a crawl and then stopped near a toll booth gate. A man sat inside and he waved us to pull closer. A faded scar ran down the temple on his left side and sparse gray hair stuck out from underneath a red baseball cap that touted Fairy Stone State Park as a perfect family destination.
"What can I do for ya?" he hollered once I rolled down the window halfway.
"Just need a day pass," I said.
He grinned, exposing gray teeth streaked with brown near his gums. "You here for that baptismal celebration?"
"Yeah," I said, surprised.
"You are already covered. Here you go!" he thrust a pass into my hand. "Just hang that there on your rear view mirror or keep it on your dash."
"Wow, thanks," I said, mildly surprised at the McCarthy’s thoroughness.
We drove into the park.
"They thought of everything," I said, glancing at Stephanie.
"They are the model of a perfect Catholic family," Stephanie said. I tried to detect the sarcasm in her voice but failed.
We arrived at the reception area. Somehow, as if defying the laws of time and physics, the McCarthys were already present, shaking hands, cracking jokes and accepting well wishes.
How in the world did they arrive before us?
Stephanie said my thoughts out loud.
"I have no idea,” I responded. “I could have sworn they were still schmoozing around when we left the church.”
We exited the car and Stephanie helped Trenton out of the back seat. Martin caught sight of us. After dispatching another guest with a friendly clap on the back, he made his way towards us. We shook hands again and I sighed internally. He is that type of person that every single time I see him I'm going to have to shake his damn hand.
"You guys got here fast," Stephanie said, smiling at Jennifer. Jennifer laughed good-naturedly and looked at her husband, her eyes sparkling.
"Martin knows a few short cuts."
I went over the route in my head. Unless he was somehow cutting a path through a dense forest there was no possible way to take a shorter path than the one Google maps had presented to me the first time I visited the park three or so years ago.
I didn't say this. I smiled and said, "That is some short cut!"
Jennifer and Stephanie wandered off to talk about babies and Mister—correction—Doctor McCarthy ushered me over to the refreshments. Our conversation continued, but I found myself getting distracted by having to keep a constant eye on Trenton. He kept running off toward a trail at the far end of the enclosure.
"Trenton!" I called out. "Hey, why don't you head over to where all the kids are playing?" I pointed at a series of swings and slides near the pavilion where the adults mingled. "There are some kids your age there."
He either ignored me or didn't hear me and continued down the path, disappearing from view.
"I gotta go chase him down," I said.
Martin waved me off. "No problem. I'll be here when you get back. I know how the little tykes can be."
Well, after six of them, one would hope so.
I jogged towards the trail and rounded the corner. Still no sign of Trenton, so I picked up my pace. How could the little squirt move that fast?
"Trenton!" I called out. The sounds from the party faded as I moved forward and I paused in the stillness of the forest, listening. "Trenton!" I called again, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. I rushed forward, around another bend in the trail and saw him up ahead of me, at the crest of a steep rise in the path. I sprinted, as the increasingly muggy Virginia air created a cascade of sweat across my body.
He moved forward again before I made the crest of the hill. I surged forward again and finally caught him right before he made a mad attempt to dash through the underbrush.
"No!" I shouted, catching him by the arm. "That was very naughty. You heard me calling you."
"I'm bored," he replied, as if this somehow justified his escape.
"I don't care," I said. "There are plenty of kids to play with back there and swings and stuff."
He looked up at me, blonde hair wispy in the warm summer air, blue eyes shining. "Can we go on a walk? I'll be the leader!"
This was not the first time we'd gone on a walk together and he got to "lead us." I remained slightly irate with him, but I wasn't particularly interested in returning to the party. I stood silent, listening to the sounds of the forest without the drone of human activity.
"Fine," I said, "lead us on an adventure." I wiped the sweat from my forehead. "But no more running off."
He scampered ahead, kicking up the brown dead leaves and waving his arms. A smile crept onto my face and I chased after him, leaving the dull world of adult humans behind us. At this juncture I wish the story ended. Or that I told him no. Or that we'd never gone to that cursed baptism reception at all.
We walked until we arrived at a split in the path. One trail wound up the slope of a hill. The other diverged towards a creek—for I could hear the trickle of watery sounds, even if I could not see it. The creek whispered its unintelligible secret of mysteries past—or perhaps it was a prophetic lamentation of events yet to happen. Either way, Trenton remained undecided on whether to break off all acquaintance with this mumbling brook or venture up the hill.
"Hang on a minute," I said, only half-paying attention as I took my cell phone out and checked the locations and tasks for the three contracts. One of them in particular was nearby and I tapped it to read the details.
“TAKE A PICTURE OF AN UNNATURAL ITEM AT THE OUTHOUSE VICINITY (Here it posted a link to a location that I could pull up on the Cachedigo map). POST PICTURE TO COLLECT .327 TRIV-USD.”
Unnatural item? Strange way to say plastic, I thought before putting my phone away.
“I want to see the water!” Trenton decided. “I’m the leader!”
I ignored his comments and continued to orient our position with what was on the map. The outhouse lay up on the hill, along the steeper slope of the first trail. I sighed. Of course the contract would be up the steeper slope. You need the workout anyway. Too many days at the desk are making you fat.
"Come on, buddy,” I said. “If we go this way we can collect a contract and make a little money.” Trenton could be cajoled into almost any contract I ventured on with the promise of “money.”
He looked wistfully in the direction of the brook, but turned in good spirits towards the steeper path and we began walking. Naturally, half-way up the trail, Trenton complained about being tired and I picked him up in my arms. I pondered turning around at that point, but I caught a glimpse of what must be the outhouse from the contract, barely visible through the forest trees.
The trail stopped short of the structure and I trudged up to the top of the slope and examined the dilapidated building. Moss and leaves clung to its rotting wooden shingles and acorns were scattered randomly across the entire span of the roof, pelted by the oaks that towered over it. I spotted an overturned five-gallon bucket near the corner of the shack and walked towards it, considering it to be suitable enough to be an “unnatural item.”
Trenton pointed at a door marked with the outline of a man and made a bee-line for it.
“Can I go pee?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, absentmindedly, while scrolling through my phone icons and pulling up the Cachedigo app. “I think this is the location, so I’m going to take a picture and submit it.”
Trenton wandered into the outhouse while I angled the picture so the plastic bucket was silhouetted with the outhouse behind it. I wanted to ensure that all requirements were met for the contract. The few moments of tranquility permitted the cares of the world to drift away—the looming threat of work on Monday, the baptismal party, even Trenton. They were, for a fraction of time, quite distant. I sent the picture and stared in anticipation as the app indicated it was analyzing my submission and it dinged in acceptance, breaking the trance.
“CONTRACT COMPLETE, .327 TRIV-USD → WALLET JLUKE1985.”
I tapped the app interface to look at my accumulated balance—expressed in both crypto currency and reputation. The minute satisfaction it offered distracted me further as I looked over my user statistics and metrics. I was about to call out Trenton’s name when another message arrived from the app.
“CONTRACT EXTENDED—FIND A PLACE TO EAT A MEAL, VICINITY (LINK), POST PICTURE TO COLLECT .328 TRIV-USD.”
The message confused me, because almost all contacts came with a meta-tag indicating that they required multiple steps, and I certainly had not noticed any on this one. I tapped to open the entire contract.
Only one image was attached to the extended contract, in PNG format. The image showed what must have been the backside of the outhouse, which in and of itself would not have been alarming. Contracts would often update with more precise directions or pictures to better guide people on their quests.
The alarming aspect of the photo is that Trenton’s blue jeans and red jacket were clearly visible as he strode away from the outhouse door, his back to the camera, focusing on the hill that rose up behind the outhouse. Instead of taking action, I spent a few seconds trying to make sense of the image, the contract extension, and what it meant. A few seconds too long.
I looked up from my phone while walking quickly towards the outhouse, ignoring the anxious thoughts that crept up the back of my skull. Trenton most certainly did not come back out the front door of the outhouse. I would have noticed. Or maybe you wouldn’t have, since your face was buried in your phone, my conscience offered unhelpfully.
I threw open the outhouse door, scanning it quickly for a six year old boy. There was a stainless steel metal toilet bolted into the cement floor that had certainly seen better days. Specs of feces decorated the rim and the bowl, which had overflowed at some point, covering the cement in a slimy brown and green liquid. Luckily, the water in the toilet bowl itself had shrunk back to its normal dimensions. A line of urinals in slightly better working condition lay to my left.
“Trenton!” I yelled. No response.
That’s when I noticed it—directly across from me was a second door that allowed access from the other side of the outhouse.
I muttered a bad word under my breath. No sense in trying to shout again. If Trenton didn't want to answer he wouldn't answer and just pretend he didn't hear me. After giving the room one more fruitless look of scrutiny, I strode to the door on the far side and exited the outhouse.
No sign of Trenton. I stopped a few feet away from the outhouse and listened to the sounds of the forest. Anything that might indicate Trenton's current direction of travel.
I heard a rustle of bushes directly ahead of me, leading up the slope. Did the kid become part mountain goat? I headed forward at a sprint and wove through the trees until I reached a level stretch of ground. Looking down from the top, I could see a wide swath of the valley to my right and left. Trenton was nowhere to be seen. He must still be ahead of me, where the hill continued on in odious fashion.
Panic crept into my heart, but I heard the rustle of leaves again in the foliage on the hillside. He has got to be close! False hope was better than no hope. After the short reprieve of flat ground, I started up the hill again. The trees closed in around me, but I spotted the back of Trenton's head against the blue of the sky.
The dense foliage must end up ahead. He is at the crest of the hill.
I drew in a ragged breath. “Trenton!” I shouted. “Trenton sto—”
I slipped on the steep incline, banging my knee against a stone. I swore, my mind in a haze of pain, but it still managed to be amazed at how the small child had managed to beat his old man up this steep grade.
Trenton turned and looked down the hill. I saw his cherub cheeks distinctly against the glow of the sun and he raised a finger to his lips.
Quiet. Someone is near.
I wanted to scream at him, but he turned his head and walked away, disappearing from view. I choked on the rage surging in my throat and converted it into a wild growling.
I plied all my strength into my limbs and pumping heart and limped up the hill. I reached the spot where Trenton had stood. About ten yards in front of me the forest ended abruptly in an open, freshly mowed picnic area. Five picnic tables were scattered around the clearing and I saw a large, red-brick charcoal pit near the center. At least, from my vantage point, that was what it looked like. I hobbled to the next oak tree in my path and leaned against its trunk to catch my breath. I scanned the area. Still no sign of Trenton.
Where did that imp get to in the ten seconds it took me to get up the hill? It was then that I heard the chant.
"We are those cast aside, spent shells.
Upon us is laid the cosmic responsibility,
The enticing of the Three
The monuments of stone to become flesh.
Let the chosen be sealed away,
Ripening until they burst forth from their putrid wombs.”
Then the chorus sounded out, more horrible than anything my mind could comprehend. It rattled the trees, turned the air to ash in my mouth and wilted the green leaves above my head.
"For we are the ones bound to the old gods!
The gods that never tasted the stars
That dined on the wreckage of the old universe
Before time came to be, bound in darkness.
The Voice, the Vision, and the Vestibule!
Let them eat the light! Let them eat the light!
Mgep h' ah mgeplllln'gha!”[1]
I risked a glance out from behind the tree, though all my instincts screamed at me to flee before the bristling madness. From the shrouded branches of the forest to the left of the clearing, I saw a procession of figures emerge. They wore black robes, some with the hoods drawn over their faces, some with the hoods flung back. They lifted their pallid, shrunken flesh to the sky as if defying the sun that shone its rays down upon them.
Further back, at the end of the procession, I spotted three people, pallbearers, carrying a black coffer between them. The two in front seemed oddly mismatched. One of them was tall and lithe while the other had a nearly beach-ball size beer belly that stuck out from his robe. The remaining one in the back had the hood of their robe drawn up, but the slope of the robe indicated a feminine physique.
The chest was maybe two feet wide and one foot tall—small enough that a three-person lift seemed completely unnecessary. The handcrafted, rich grain ash-wood and black lacquer finish produced no reflection—if anything, it swallowed up the light around it. The final compliment to the hellish procession was the figure of a woman with a black lace veil draped over her face. She matched her pace with the pallbearers. Every few steps she would gently lift the lid to the black coffer, reach inside, and then quickly pull her hand out and fling something into the air.
My right leg gave out completely at this juncture and I hugged the tree to keep from toppling over. My right leg went numb, indifferent to my plight, while my left took up the slack and propped itself out at an angle to keep me stable. Each body part no longer seemed part of a cohesive whole, unless I concentrated all my willpower in an attempt to get them to cooperate.
I eased my body down the side of the tree and tipped my head out past the perimeter of the trunk. The gray sand that the veiled woman flung into the air remained suspended, like particles of ash. Her veil drifted in wild disarray about her features, as if charged with static electricity. I caught a brief glance of her face and black strands of hair, before the veil drifted back down. It appeared comely, with soft curved cheeks, crimson lips, and a pure white arching neck. She seemed out of place among the other, seemingly lifeless members of her group.
I don't care if she's the next Miss Universe. These people are performing some sort of Black Mass.
Even that thought failed to articulate the yawning chasm I felt opening up beneath my soul. Not fifteen minutes ago, I had been safely secured in another world, wandering with Trenton through the spring finery, blissfully unaware that such cosmic horrifying evil existed. It was one thing to talk about the devil in church. This encounter defied all expectations.
The woman with the veil held up her hand and the procession halted.
"See what the old gods have left us!" someone cried. I could not pinpoint who spoke. The voice seemed to come out of the trees or from under the earth.
The veiled woman pointed with one slender finger and my heart splashed into my guts. Trenton
He stood directly in their path—mouth open and drooling, one thumb held to his lips, gazing at the black robed figures with wide eyes.
How had he gotten there?
All of it felt wrong. Ever since the McCarthys had managed to somehow beat us to Fairy Stone State Park. Time had become disjointed, no longer flowing forward like a smooth stream. Some eddy had carried Trenton off only to return him directly in the path of evil incarnate.
The woman walked to the front of the procession and bent down on one knee in front of Trenton. She whispered something into his ear that was impossible for me to hear. Trenton reached out his hands and she took him in her arms, then she continued walking with slow, deliberate steps towards the circular brick fire pit.
My left leg turned to dead-weight, unresponsive to my orders. I sank slowly to the ground and pulled myself forward on my elbows, inch by inch. That twenty yards might as well be two miles, my mind said. You can't reach them in time. You can't fight all of them. What are you going to do? Use harsh language?
The woman stopped in front of the brick fire pit and the procession flowed around her until they formed a circle with the fire pit in the center. She held Trenton aloft in both hands—I distinctly saw his blonde curls above the heads of those in the procession. The chanting resumed, the words reaching my ear after a short delay, like watching a desynchronized movie.
"HARK! Let the old gods arise from the tombs of time: From the unending darkness of the forgotten worlds; arise and bear away this offering!”
The veiled woman brought Trenton close to her bosom, reached into the black chest with her free arm and pulled out another handful of dust. She extended that arm over the fire pit and let the dust drain from her hand like an hourglass. I pulled myself up with the help of a sapling at the edge of the clearing and shouted.
"Leave my son alone!" I managed.
Except the words sounded like a wheezing, dying man and no one could have heard those words unless they'd been standing right next to me.
The sunlight vanished, as if the gray swirling dust tossed in the air by the woman had grown and congealed into a dark dome above our heads. The wind stopped and no insect or bird sang out to break the awful silence that crashed down on us. As the last of the dust slipped from her fingers, she shouted, her voice echoing throughout the clearing:
“Let this be the key that revitalizes their power;
Let them come and feast on the light of this world.
C' uln, c' mgr'luh, c' mggoka'ai!"[2]
Nothing happened for five seconds, during which I managed to hobble three steps forward.
Then, the charred grill over the fire pit moved—jostled back and forth slightly as if some animal poked at it from underneath. Yeah, that’s it! Some wild animal was stuck underneath the grate and is trying to escape. But I knew I lied to myself, even as the thought crossed my mind.
The thing under the grate moved again, shoving it to one side. A long, thick tentacle wavered menacingly in the sky that outlined the fire pit—the herald of something much more terrible to come. Then another tentacle sprang up next to it, and another and another. Inky black in color, the suction cups grasped the sides of the fire pit and began the laborious work of hauling up a massive body from the abyss.
Someone screamed, as if the full weight and realization of what they had done finally hit home. A member of the group fled, shrieking into the woods and the others stared furtively after the fleeing figure. Others remained fixated on the eldritch horror creeping out of the aphotic depths.
The veiled woman wavered, frozen between the decision to flee and the decision to proceed with her wicked work. Trenton sagged in her arms, his usual vim eclipsed by this creature that oozed a corrosive contamination that ate away at existence itself. A revolting spherical head covered in glistening eyes came into view and one portion of it gave way to form a mouth. Slimy membranes flicked over the surfaces of the eyes, making them appear momentarily blind—seeing, unseeing, seeing, unseeing.
The women choked on a string of words, a guttural, unearthly language beyond human comprehension. She threw the child at the widening mouth and tentacles, no longer interested in offering it the sacrifice. It was a violent and instinctual movement to save herself. Take this thing, but do not take me! Dear Lord, do not take me! Anyone but me!
Trenton vanished into the maw and my screams joined with the fleeing mob. Time gained some sense of normalcy and I careened from out of the protection of the trees and rushed towards the hideous, bloated head. Glowing spots of black light appeared in my vision. They bounced off each other, joined together and grew in size. No! The last remnant of my sanity begged. No! You cannot blackout! It has your son! It has your son!
The hundred glistening eyes of the bulging head fixed on me. I felt the connection. Each eyeball, each fragment of awareness, caused physical pain as it turned on me, tearing at my mind and soul, easily slapping aside the fabric that allowed me the privacy of my thoughts when dealing with my own kind.
This is not your own kind.
“No shit, Sherlock,” I said the words aloud, hoping that they might provide some relief from the telekinetic tentacles wrapping themselves around my brain stem.
The monstrosity’s bloated form writhed, as if Trenton pummeled it from the inside. I took another step. Only ten more to go! Black spots clouded the center of my vision, until only the branches and leaves of the trees remained on the perimeter.
One more step.
I sank to a knee. No! Keep going. The thing blinked its multitude of eyes, perhaps surprised this infantile mind had not collapsed under the weight of its own ignorance and stupidity. I felt a tug on my spinal column and the darkness overwhelmed me.
[1] Until it is consumed!
[2] Et al: Call us, see us, hear us!