Sloughing Off the Rot (26 page)

Alf blew a rancid donkey burp in agreement. And they decided it was time to move on. So they set their feet to a steady rhythm and walked the red brick road as it wound its way to the distant mountains. They allowed the flow of the path to wash them along. Alf stuck close to John’s side and Joad walked behind them, scanning the land for Lovethorn’s men and other perils. They did not talk because they didn’t feel like it. Mostly John either thought of Santiago or just shut his brain down and let his legs carry him forth. And though he missed Santiago, John did not feel a void where his friend should be. Instead, he felt that Santiago was with him. He felt an urge to eat and to fight and to fuck and he knew that that was a part of Santiago that he took on himself. The urges were something that he accepted and welcomed like an old friend.

And they walked for days, not encountering people or peril or problems. The sun warmed them and the cool water from the river refreshed them. Their supplies did not dwindle and their sleep did not suffer. As the flow of the path pushed them along, the snow-capped mountains seemed to creep their way.

“La Montaña Sagrada,” said Joad, sweeping his thick hand before him. “That is the name of the mountain directly before us. It is part of the LaSals range. It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is,” said John. He looked to the sky and saw that the river of clouds crashed into the side of the mountain and broke up into a spray of disorganized fog that rose and swirled in a giant vortex just above the snowy peak. “And I’m guessing that is where I’m supposed to end up.”

“It would seem that you are right,” said Joad. “It appears that is where your path leads.”

And they continued walking. La Montaña Sagrada loomed over them as they neared. As the red brick road sloped upward and the ascent became steeper, the land grew greener and fuller. Along the side of El Camino de la Muerte, enormous red poppies with plump black stigmas at the centers bloomed on woody stalks, their blossoms growing as large as John’s head. Among the poppies thrived other flowers of red and white and black. As they neared the base of La Montaña Sagrada, the poppies grew fuller and crowded out the other flowers. And the crimson carpet of flowers grew so thick that it completely covered the ground on both sides of the path. The sweet fragrance of the poppies filled the air and lightened the men’s steps. And as they pushed on, the meadow of red flowers crept over the path, obscuring the red bricks and slowing the men. John and Joad swept their feet across the ground, uprooting flowers to make sure they were still on the red brick road.

And then Alf the Sacred Burro stopped. He sniffed at an enormous poppy blossom and shivered with delight. He brayed a happy donkey sound that caught both John and Joad’s attention. And they turned to see Alf chewing a mouthful of red, velvety petals. In front of Alf stood a headless poppy stalk – the victim of his hunger. They watched as Alf chomped down on another blossom and swallowed all of it, except for the scraps the fell from the sides of his mouth.

“He really does like those flowers, doesn’t he?” said John.

“He does,” said Joad. “Perhaps the donkey is onto something.” Joad tore the bloom from a poppy and sniffed at it. His eyes glazed over and he pushed out a satisfied, low rumble of a grunt. He nibbled at the petals. The sweet and silky flavor of the flower filled his mouth and fed a hunger he did not even realize had existed.

John saw the delight that the flowers brought to both Joad and Alf the Sacred Burro. And a flood of childlike sayings flashed through his head. “Monkey see, monkey do,” said John, pulling a poppy bloom from its stem. He plucked off the top of the flower and laughed, saying, “Momma had a baby and its head popped off.” He crammed the poppy into his maw, and the taste of the flower was delicious and satisfying beyond all that he expected.

And a gluttonous frenzy of a poppy feast ensued. A cacoethes for the petals possessed them. Leaves and stalks and the occasional non-poppy flowers flew about in the air as they tore at the blossoms and crammed them in their mouths. And before they realized it, their stomachs were bloated and taut. The red from the petals stained their lips and faces, making John and Joad look as if they had baked in the sun too long. And the rouge from the flowers reddened Alf’s full donkey lips. John and Joad laughed loudly and too much at the foggy vision of the jackass with the sensuous lips. Sensing that he was becoming a spectacle, Alf lay himself on the poppy-covered red brick road and closed his eyes.

“I think the donkey has the right idea,” said Joad, plopping down to a sitting position on the road. “I am suddenly exhausted.” Before he could say more, the giant’s body slumped and he thumped over on his side, fast asleep and beyond reach.

John laughed a thick, drunken laugh at Joad and Alf. “What has become of you fellows?” he said. And he sat on the red brick road in front of his friends and laughed that they should be so tired. John held the stalk of a flower before him and gazed into its round, black center. And the flower’s center looked like a dead, blank eye staring at him. He bit at the flower petals and ruminated on them like a cow chewing its cud. Without realizing what had happened, John’s muscles turned to jelly and he found himself with one cheek pressed to El Camino de la Muerte. Alf’s tired old face confronted John. The donkey’s lips, covered with dirt and bits of chewed flowers, funneled off stinking donkey drool from his rotten old mouth. One glazed eye remained open and Alf breathed heavily. All muscle-control left John and he lay on his side, staring into the donkey’s blank eye and allowing himself to drift off. And the plump black button at the center of John’s poppy blinked at him just before he slept.

Android Lovethorn’s eyelids blinked over his dead black pupils. From his tower he looked down to the valley at the red swath of the poppy field. And though he was too far above to see it, he knew that John had fallen under the spell of the poppies. He knew that John would sleep long and deep and that when he awoke, he would be driven to eat more of the sleep-inducing flowers. And the cycle would continue and keep John close below in the valley, unconscious and harmless, where Lovethorn could draw on John’s power. Despite his attempts to keep John far away, Lovethorn now found that he liked having such power over him. He could feel the energy buzzing up from the valley, tickling at his feet and coursing all up through his body. And he laughed and stared down at the poppy field for hours before turning away. Once satisfied that John was locked in sleep down below, Lovethorn threw a handful of blood red poppy petals into the wind, and they blew down the mountain toward John and Joad and Alf the Sacred Burro.

And it was all a blur. John slept and he dreamed and he awoke. The hunger and the crushing headache gripped him with each waking and he crammed the flowers into his mouth to stop the pain. Joad and Alf the Sacred Burro did the same. With faces full of poppies, and blurried vision, they stood and stumbled and dropped again to the ground like dopey baby birds failing miserably at flight. And each time they nodded, the vines grew all around them and the flowers flourished, completely obscuring the red brick road. They lay that way for twenty days and nights. As they lay comatose, the vines crawled around their arms and legs and bound them to the road to the extent that they no longer rose when they awoke. The vines did not allow it. They only allowed John and Joad and Alf the Sacred Burro to raise their heads and feed on sweet, full flowers. Above El Camino de la Muerte, the trail of clouds stalled during the day and the river of fire refused to move at night.

On the twentieth night of the stupor, John dreamt of Android Lovethorn. In his dream, John was chained to a post on the red brick road. And on the cross-bar of the post, coarse ropes bound his wrists so that he could only move at the expense of his own pain. His tongue was thick and his head heavy. He thought to himself that nothing seemed to change and the bad times all stayed the same. Android Lovethorn – dressed in his priestly collar and black leather pants, his eyes hidden behind the mirrored sunglasses – walked in circles around the post and laughed at John. Lovethorn ripped a poppy from the ground and with great violence crammed the flower into John’s mouth, bloodying his lips and loosening teeth. John’s numb tongue refused to cry out in rebellion and the sweet petals in his mouth blocked any protest. He chewed at the petals and swallowed the black juice that the flowers produced. And Lovethorn pulled off the sunglasses and revealed the rotting sockets where his eyes should have been. John’s revulsion at the sight humored Lovethorn. He put the glasses back on and puked out a sick laugh.

“What do you want from me?” asked John, red petals fluttering from his lips on a wave of sour breath. “Why do you torment me?”

“I have not even begun to torment you,” said Lovethorn. “But I will. And I will thrive and drool on. I have cut off the toes and thumbs of kings and had them grovel under my table for scraps, and I shall do the same to you.”

Lovethorn approached with a dagger and slashed a slit in John’s favorite wrist. John cringed and closed his eyes against the pain. Lovethorn held a crystal goblet beneath the cut to catch the flow of blood. And when John opened his eyes again, he found himself still bound to the post, but now the ornate walls of a dimly lit cathedral surrounded him. Gargoyles, not unlike the jizz-critters in appearance, twisted their mouths up in snarls on the walls.

And at his pulpit, Lovethorn cried, “Most precious blood.” He held the goblet high above himself and tilted his head upward at the ceiling. Behind him, a choir of castrati sang in eerily high-pitched voices that were more appropriate to young boys. Their voices climbed the scale, rose in volume, and wavered on an unnaturally high note. Lovethorn swooned and sang over and over to the cup he held high, crooning, “
In saecula saeculorum, in saecula saeculorum, in saecula saeculorum
…”

The congregation before Lovethorn cringed and cried and chanted along with their leader, “
In saecula saeculorum, in saecula saeculorum, in saecula saeculorum
.” They shook their balled-up fists at the roof and averted their eyes when Lovethorn looked out into the crowd.

The Man in Black stomped about before his followers and kicked at the post that held John. And the post groaned and canted toward the floor of the sanctuary. But the cross remained embedded in the floor and did not completely tip. Greasy black hair tumbled over Android Lovethorn’s forehead and clung to his mirrored sunglasses. He flipped his hair back and ripped the shades from his face, revealing the gaping sockets that glared out at the congregation. He smiled at the congregation, and the black rot festering at his gum line stood in stark contrast to the blindingly white teeth. And though he had not so much as a limp, Lovethorn grabbed an ornately carved cane and used it to help him pace before his followers. The tip of the cane tapped out sharp clacks on the wood floor.

“You,” boomed Lovethorn, and he pointed the cane at a man in the front row of the nave. “Come forward and taste the blood most precious.”

And the gaunt man struggled to push himself up from the pew. He shook from hunger and fear and exhaustion. When he reached his position in front of Lovethorn on the stage, the man fell to his knees and averted his eyes to the ground. But Lovethorn did not offer the goblet to the sickly man. Instead he asked, “Who are you and why did I call you forward?”

The man said, “I am but a memory of the man on the post. I am a story in his head, a picture in his mind. I am nothing more than a wisp of smoke.”

Lovethorn did not give the man a drink of John’s blood. He asked the man no further questions. Instead, he lashed out with his cane, knocking it solidly into the side of the man’s head. And Lovethorn said, “A whip for the horse. A bridle for the donkey. And a rod for the backs of fools.” He struck out with the cane and thrashed the man until he moved no more. Lovethorn panted and stood over the limp body, winding up to smack it again. As he brought the cane down one last time, the man disappeared in a puff of black smoke that fumed up into the Man in Black’s face.