Sloughing Off the Rot (28 page)

A great sadness stirred in John’s chest. For perhaps the first time, John recognized and understood the emotions that bubbled up in him. His heart hurt because he did not have time to stay and tend to his children. But, the river of clouds above resumed its flow and the current of the path pulled at John. Though conflicted, an urgency compelled him toward Android Lovethorn. And he decided that he could not wait.

“I need you to stay with the children,” said John to Two-Dogs-Fucking and Joad. “They will need you. And I have a feeling that I’m going to need them. So stay and tend to them. Be here for them when they wake and do not let them eat any more flowers.”

“You cannot go up the mountain alone,” said Joad, and his deep voice cracked with heartfelt concern. “I will go with you. I will fight for you. I will fight with you if you try to stop me.”

John said, “No, I have to go by myself. I’m not worried about Lovethorn’s soldiers. You don’t need to protect me from them. They won’t harm me. I’ll cut through them like the birds through the sky. Android Lovethorn cannot keep me away. I just know this. And I know that I have to go alone.”

Joad wrinkled up his bony brow and cleared his throat while he gathered his thoughts. His voice, deep and muffled and forceful, flowed slowly from his chapped lips like lava down a slight incline, “Nothing ever exists entirely alone; everything is in relation to everything else. I will stay here with our children. But, I will be with you, too. My spirit carries on the flow of the path with you. My will is born over to your plan. I am here and I am with you. You will not go entirely alone; an empty sack cannot stand upright; a wheel is useless without its spokes. I am your spokes and I am the content of your sack. I will be with you, no matter where I am.”

“I, too, will be with you in spirit,” said Two-Dogs-Fucking. “I will do anything that I have to. I don’t even care if more lunkheads come along. I will divert and distract them, even if it means them ravishing me again.”

“That will not be necessary,” said Joad, smashing a fist into his open hand. “I can take care of any problems that come along.”

Disappointment washed over Two-Dogs-Fucking. In a flat tone, he said, “That is quite a relief. I don’t know that I would survive another attack from those beasts.” He crammed the rest of his flower into his mouth and ground it between his molars. His already slumping shoulders sloped even more.

“You won’t be left behind,” said John to his friends. Alf the Sacred Burro nudged up against him and rubbed his ratty head against John’s hand. “I take you all with me here,” and he placed his hand over his heart. “But I have to go alone. And I need you to stay with the children and be ready. If I need help, I’ll scorch the sky with fire and rain down lightning. You will know that your time has come when I send my signal. And when that time comes, bring our children and bring your fury on all that block your path. And we will be together again when it is all done.”

And John was on the road again, followed only by Alf the Sacred Burro. John reluctantly turned his back to his children and friends and set to walking the path again. Poppies grew thick on El Camino de la Muerte and obscured the road. John kept his eyes on the winding river of clouds above to make sure he followed the trail. The road emerged from the poppy pasture and snaked up the mountain. The bricks, now free of the poppy vines, glowed a bright red in the glaring sunlight. Far above him, John could see a dark fortress near the top of the mountain. Behind him, John knew nothing of the arrival of Three Tooth’s tribe at the poppy field.

The red brick road led John up the mountain in a slight but steady incline. And the road cut into the mountain, zigzagging up the slope in a series of sharp switchbacks. Stately ponderosa pines lined one side of the road and a precipitous drop down the mountain comprised the other side. And had he turned and looked down the mountain at the poppy field, John would have seen that an army of Chellovecks were gathering below. He would have seen that his children and the children of Joad and Santiago were stirring and being helped back to consciousness by Joad and Three Tooth’s men. But John’s eyes were locked on the fortress above and he was drawn forward on the road to the castle.

John’s steady and determined march up La Montaña Sagrada never faltered. But, occasionally Alf stumbled over roots that grew up through the red brick road. Sometimes the donkey sat and wheezed away a brief attack of asthma or worked to bring up a hairy bezoar. When that happened, John plopped down on the bricks beside Alf and waited for the ailment to resolve itself (as it always did with Alf). Although John was compelled to move toward the top of the mountain, he did not rush the donkey, nor did he leave Alf behind. When the burro recovered, John walked again and Alf followed.

And the road cut into the mountain and across ridges, switching back again and again. Dark caves appeared along the side of El Camino de la Muerte as the road rose higher and higher on the great hill. A complete absence of sound thrummed from the caves, sapping those parts of the road of noise and echoes. John did not talk to Alf the Sacred Burro as they passed the caves. He felt that if he did, the words would drop, stillborn, from his mouth. And a weight pushed on his chest at those parts of the road, making it a chore to draw in breath. But the caves not only affected the sound and John’s respiration, they also muted his emotions, leaving only a deep depression and anger. Once they passed the caves, John breathed easier and the pressure on his chest abated. His ability to feel returned and the anger and depression evaporated, leaving him with a healthy balance of emotions. He talked to Alf, once clear of the caves, saying, “Those caves don’t seem right to me,” and felt relief at the sound of his voice. In response, Alf just rubbed his head up against John’s hand for a scritching. And John always obliged.

The forest of ponderosa pines gradually thinned as they ascended the mountain, until the tall, proud trees grew no more and were replaced by stunted, densely matted bushes. And the air became dry and thinner, making the ascent difficult. But John and Alf the Sacred Burro did not stop walking until they found themselves standing at the tall iron front door of Android Lovethorn’s mountain fortress, Abaddon. Alf plopped his posterior on the ground and looked at John, as if to say, “What now?”

And John realized that he was meant to enter the fortress alone. “Go back down the mountain,” he said to Alf. “Go back to our friends in the flowers.”

But Alf the Sacred Burro did not move. He plopped his rear end down on the red bricks and whinnied at John, asking to stay with him. Alf did not want to leave his friend. And he did not want to walk past the silent caves again. Milky, cataract-afflicted eyes begged John to take Alf with him.

“Go now,” said John, regretfully ordering his donkey friend back down the mountain. He pulled the saddlebags from Alf and flung them over his own shoulder. “We’ll see each other again. And when we do, I’ll feed you all of the bloodfruits a donkey could want and scratch your head for you.”

Alf did not want to go. But he did reluctantly turn and slowly walk away from John. Once several cubits away, the sacred burro turned one last time and gave a pleading look.

John did not acknowledge the sad gaze and merely said, “Be gone now, donkey. Be gone and be glad. For the next time we see each other, it will be as old friends celebrating a victory.” And then Alf the Sacred Burro disappeared from John’s thoughts and sight. John turned toward the imposing iron door of the fortress and studied it, considering his next move.

Mounds of mountain dirt clung to girthy Asherah poles like prolapsed rectums on unlubricated phalli. The carved poles stood sentinel to the front door of Android Lovethorn’s mountain fortress and stretched upward, outreaching the top of the stony walls by cubits. Twin turkey vultures, plump and sluggish, lurked at the top of the poles, hunched over and looking down for the food that always fell to the ground right in front of the fort. Instead of the dead meat that the birds preferred, they saw a long-haired, bearded man dressed in clean, white, freshly twisted linens, standing before the fortress with his hand poised to knock on the door.

John stood in that spot, contemplating his situation. Iron rods barred an opening at eye level and gave him a limited view into the murky interior behind the door. And then he did the only thing that he could think to do. He rapped his knuckles on the iron door and the sound clanged off of the mountain and echoed down the road. Immediately, in response to the knocking, a face appeared behind the bars. An old man with a tiny head and a long, crooked nose gazed out at John. Beneath the man’s nose, a full white mustache, like that of an elderly walrus, sprouted and obscured his upper lip. And the mustache wiggled and wriggled like the whiskers of a prawn prodding the seafloor for food. Below the mustache, the puckered mouth spat out words.

“The master says to go away,” said the man behind the door, his mustache twitching and flicking erratically. And his right eye set to fluttering. “Go away says the master.”

“I cannot,” said John. “I am John the Revelator and I am here to see Android Lovethorn. He is expecting me. I need to see him.”

“Well, you can’t see him,” snipped the man, his whiskers twitching wildly. “Not nobody gets in to see Reverend Lovethorn. Not nobody. Not no how.”

“I demand to see Lovethorn,” commanded John. He balled up his hand and beat his fist against the door several times until the little man recoiled at the banging.

The doorkeeper turned and limped on a gimp leg into the darkness of the fortress, saying, “Not nobody gets in to see Reverend Lovethorn. Not nobody. Not no how.” And the clop-drag sound of his twisted gait carried the little man into the fortress and away from John.

“I will wait right here,” shouted John. “I will wait until you grant me admittance and I see Lovethorn.” So he dropped to the ground, crossed his legs, and leaned his back against the door. And because he had not a clue about what to do next, he sat there until the day turned to dusk, and dusk to night.

The river of fire flowed above in the sky and crashed into the top of La Montaña Sagrada, erupting in an explosion above the peak. The two full moons in the sky reflected the fierce red intensity of the sun. And the haze in the sky wreathed the moons with twisting, smoky halos that diffused the glow. Every so often John stood and beat his hands on the iron door, calling out for somebody inside to grant him entry. When nobody opened the door for him, John closed his eyes and spoke to the sky. And though he knew it was useless, he tried to summon lightning or wind or a pillar of fire to rip the door from its frame. But nothing that he did would cause the door to open. And he would not walk around the walls of the fortress to locate an entrance; the red brick road met the iron door and, John assumed, led right into the fortress. Should he leave the path, he would lose the path and be lost to the path.

So John sat again with his back to the iron door and pulled a wineskin from the saddlebag that Alf the Sacred Burro left him. The chicha choked him at first but then went down smoother than before. John found it far too easy to drink the drink, and before he knew it, it was hard to think. He drank the brew down to the dregs and tossed the empty wineskin down the side of the mountain. And he pulled two more wineskins from the saddlebags, pushing one through the iron bars on the front door as an offering to anyone willing to grant him entry, and tying it to the bars with the skin’s rawhide strap. The other skin he opened and drained down his throat, ignoring the burn and the stench and welcoming the numbness that would soon follow.