CHAPTER ONE


It hides within the shadows of the woodpile, whispering in a voice not unlike the wind rustling dried husks. I kneel in the grass, occasionally catching glimpses in the setting sun of something glistening and pink and wet sliding between the intertwined twigs and branches. I kneel and I listen to the words, allowing the images they conjure to blossom in my mind like the remnants of nightmares called forth by long-forgotten incantations and chants.

My bicycle lies behind me, the streamers on the handlebars flapping in the breeze like banners heralding the arrival of royalty. My sack of cookies, spilled across the ground, drawing ants that seem torn between the promise of food and the threat of some unknown predator, sensed but not seen.

Clouds gather overhead and in the distance I hear the rumble of thunder, low and foreboding, as the horizon flashes with far-away lightning.

The whisper is like a whirlpool in the air, spiraling me into its depths, drawing me further and further into its vortex with each word, each hiss, each click of hidden teeth.

My t-shirt is plastered to my body like a second skin, the sweat cooling in the wind that blows over my small body.

I kneel and I listen.

I kneel and I see.

I kneel and know the Truth of All Things.

I see cities crumbled into dust, their streets littered with broken bodies like so much trash tossed from the windows of passing cars; blood gurgles through the gutters and flies buzz incessantly above the sun-bloated corpses that have begun to blacken and blister in the heat. The wicked have fallen, their world of filth collapsed beneath the weight of their sins and left to be picked clean by the crows and insects. Smoke snakes through the piles of rubble and twisted steel, staying low to the ground as if afraid that to rise too high would be an insult to the pile of wood that towers over everything.

At the base of the pile people who seem more like skeletons drag small trees through the debris and toss them onto the pyre. What little flesh that still clings to their naked bodies seeps a cloudy mixture of blood and puss from random pores, but still they toil intently.

The pile must grow until its shadow covers the width and breadth of the land. There can never be enough wood, never enough blood....

I kneel and I listen.

I kneel and I see.

Even though I have always been what my teachers have referred to as "extremely gifted", thoughts and ideas far beyond the scope of my twelve year old mind spew like geysers of sewage from a severed main. They fill my head with pressure, press outward against my skull, and threaten to shatter the bone into millions of tiny shards. So much to see and hear and interpret, but still the concepts keep flowing.

I kneel and know the Truth of All Things.

Thunder booms, sounding as if it is directly overhead, and I feel the low bass reverberate within my chest; but somehow, even though it still speaks in a whisper, its words are not drowned out by the roar of the angry sky god.

Beside me, forgotten until now and lying against a large limb, my backpack seems to squirm and bulge. From within, I hear a slow, soft meow and I stare at it, not understanding but struggling to make sense of this recent turn of events.

Flashback to Billy Johansen's house: the screen door on his porch slamming shut as I run toward the bike propped against the big tree in his yard, clutching the bag of cookies his mom gave me as if I were afraid it would attempt to leap from my hands. I'm late, I know I'm late, but I'll just take a shortcut through the woods and be home within half the time. It smells like rain and the leaves on the trees are all turning upside down, sure sign my dad says of a storm on the way so I better hurry.

From the corner of my eye I see a tabby cat, her teats so heavy and full they practically scrape the ground. She's making a bee-line from the forest to the old shed that Billy calls the Switchin' Shack and dangling a fuzzy ball of fur from her mouth. I notice small, white feet pulled up close to its chest, a tiny tail curled around the rear haunches, a quick glimpse of round, blue eyes.

The mother cat slinks into the Switchin' Shack and I stop to watch for a moment, curiosity silencing that little White Rabbit voice in my head that had previously repeated over and over: I'm late, I'm late, I'm late . . . .

She reemerges, scans both directions like a child preparing to cross the street, and then scurries back into the shadows and safety of the forest.

"Must be more." I think. "Likely to have a whole litter out there."

And then certainty dawns upon me: despite the fact that I was due home nearly half an hour ago, my mom won't mind if I bring one home. Not if I pay for its food out of my own pocket, with money earned from my allowance or maybe from mowing grass for old Mr. Morris down the road.

I sneak to the shed, slipping the straps of my backpack off my shoulders while stealing glances to make sure mama isn't returning with her next kitten. As I enter, I see it nestled in a box of rags, its nose pink and perfect, ears flattening against its head as my hand reaches for it and gently pulls it close to my chest. With one hand I rearrange the action figures at the bottom of my pack, scooting them to the side to make room. I pad the inside with a few rags from the box and then slip the kitten in, leaving just enough unzipped so that air can continue to circulate.

And then I'm on my bike, my heart hammering in my chest, and I think, "I'll name him Peanut cause he kinda looks like one and I bet he'll do a good job keeping the mice outta the basement when he's a little bigger."

Trees whiz by as I swerve, bobbing and weaving and bouncing over the uneven forest floor. Cookies and a kitten, could the day be any better? And I'm sure I won't be in too much trouble for being late, not when Mom sees Peanut and I tell her how I had to rescue him from a pack of dogs by throwing rocks and yelling until they were all chased away. Yeah, that oughtta work . . . .

The voice whispers, cutting through these hazy memories as efficiently as a well-honed cleaver, calling me back to the here and now: the fading fragments of recollection now seem more like scenes from a movie I once may have watched; not something that actually happened to me but to another person, an actor who slipped into a Bobby suit and played the part to perfection.

I kneel and I listen.

I kneel and unzip the backpack, picking up Peanut by the scruff of his neck and absently petting him with the other hand. So soft and warm, this little life, so trusting and tame.

I place Peanut atop the pile of brush and branches. He stands with his head cocked to the side and seems oblivious to the slithering of wet skin hidden within the wood below.

Lightning bathes the landscape in electric blue and I realize for the first time how dark it has gotten, how the clouds overhead roil and churn. And still it whispers.

A clap of thunder causes the cat to arch its back as its fur explodes into a fluff of spiky hair; standing on tiptoes, it hisses at the storm, tail ruler straight as something that could be tentacles slips between the gaps of the woodpile.

The whisper seems to come from all directions now, as if every molecule of air has found a voice and speaks from a single consciousness.

Still kneeling, I reach out and grab the limb my backpack was lying next to; the bark is smooth and cool in my hands, the weight as heavy as a baseball bat as I raise it above my head.

Peanut looks at me with unblinking eyes and the wind is so strong now that I can see the ivory tips of tiny claws digging deep into the wood on which he's perched.

I kneel and hold the limb in the air.

I kneel and I listen.

I kneel and I bring down the limb with so much force my biceps quiver. In less time than it takes for the afterglow of lightning to fade, the creature that once was Peanut lays crumpled atop the mound, a stream of blood trickling from the crushed remains of its little skull and into the hungry mouth I imagine below.

I stand and know the Truth of All Things, holding the limb limply now, feeling as if every fiber of my body has just sighed and that I have somehow been washed clean from the inside out.

Smiling, I toss my makeshift club atop the pile, its weight causing blood to squirt from the orifices of the cat's carcass with a squish.

There can never be enough wood, never enough blood . . . .