Sloughing Off the Rot (33 page)

So Joad, the Chellovecks, the sons of Santiago, and Three Tooth’s band of scurves cleared the grounds of Abaddon of Lovethorn’s men and all vestiges of the Man in Black. They cast the corpses of their enemies out of Abaddon and down the precipitous sides of La Montaña Sagrada. A massive cloud of turkey buzzards fell on the bodies and undressed them. And they piled the fallen friends of John high in the central square of Abaddon and set them to burning, their funeral pyre blazing high into the crepuscular night sky.

While his friends cleared the grounds of Abaddon, John remained in the temple, sitting with his eyes closed, contemplating his deeds. He hoped for his fiery doppelganger to appear and say that what he did was right and that everything would turn out well. But no wise apparitions appeared before John. No visions played out on the inside of his eyelids. Even the ten thousand things refused to reveal their shimmering presence. John thought that, in a way, his killing of Android Lovethorn was a copout. Perhaps he took the easy way. But mostly John just recognized himself as a flawed soul, and he accepted that some things about him might not change. And when he pondered his situation, it all made sense to stay where he was. The thought of his other body dying in a bed far away was sad and it was fucked. And he realized that maybe what he did was wrong. He could have gone back. He could have learned who and what he was and made things right in that other place. But, mostly, when he really thought about it, it seemed right. He killed Lovethorn, yet he did not die. The land John had traveled still existed and many of the people he met and cared about still lived. And he cleansed the land of the scourge of Reverend Android Lovethorn. And something about where he found himself felt like progress instead of a step backward.

So John decided that what he did was good and right. And he accepted it as the proper course of events. He even decided that it was good that the other part of him might die. Once he sat long enough to come to grips with his situation, John rose and left the temple. Outside of the door of Lovethorn’s church, a flight of stairs descended to the central square of Abaddon. John stood at the top of the stairs and waited for his friends to gather at the bottom.

Chellovecks, scurves, Santiagos, and Joad looked up the steps at John and saw him standing before them, beaten, bruised, and battered in his bloody linens. Two-Dogs-Fucking rode into the courtyard on an exhausted clone of Alf the Sacred Burro. The donkey fell to its side and spilled the Melungeon onto the ground. Two-Dogs-Fucking stood and adjusted his bath towel, ignoring the distressed burro gasping for air on the ground, and joined the rest of the crowd gathered before the steps.

John spoke to the crowd, telling them, “It’s a day of independence, for us and our descendants. Android Lovethorn’s shadow will no more darken the land. His curse is broken. He is dead, morally, ethically, spiritually, physically, positively, absolutely, undeniably, and reliably, dead.”

“He’s not only merely dead, he’s really most sincerely dead,” shouted Joad in his deep and muffled voice. And the crowd broke out in a raucous cheer.

John shushed the men and continued, “This land is free of the curse, and so is this fortress. These grounds shall no longer be known as Abaddon, but shall henceforth be called Beyza M’Geyza. And all will be free to stay and live here if they choose.”

And the men cheered John on. They stomped and shouted curses on Lovethorn’s name and spat on the ground.

“Tonight,” John continued, “we will celebrate. But first, bring me our injured. Bring them to the foot of these steps.”

The men carried those who were alive but could not walk and set them on the ground at John’s feet. And John fell to the ground and laid his hands on the bloodied men. Others dragged themselves and limped to the steps. John laid hands on each and every wounded man and healed their injuries. Even those who felt their lives leaking from them, those whiffing the stink of death’s breath, recovered and walked away from the stairs whole and healthy. John stood on the steps and gave his healing touch to every last injured man until every broken bone restitched itself and every cut stopped bleeding.

As John tended to his flock, the healthy and hardy men drained the blood from the slaughtered livestock and set the meat to cooking over fires. Others raided Lovethorn’s cellars and carried out barrels of wine and spirits. Three Tooth walked among the crowd handing out wineskins filled with chicha. Crazy Talk dragged a giant brass hookah to the middle of the courtyard and packed it full with steaming bezoars and called out to the men “you gotta beep a gunk a chucha, honk konk konk, yeah right!” And the men converged on the hookah, sucked at the hoses, and chased the smoke with chicha and wine. And when John was done giving his healing touch, his body buzzed with energy. He loosed a hoard of jizz-critters on the grounds for the men to slaughter for the feast.

The sons of Santiago seized all manner of instruments from the cathedral and commenced a flurry of nonstop musical entertainment. They plinked bouzoukis and baglamas. Some scraped sticks on rhythm fish. Others slapped out solid beats on hand drums. Chellovecks picked up their jazz pipes and piped screeching funk into the air. And the sons of Santiago cycled their animated features through all ranges of expression and crooned off-tune songs about the desert and death and the bloody red bricks. They sang of joy and sorrow. They pantomimed the death of Android Lovethorn to the cheers of all around them.

And the men ate scruff goat from the mountain and moo cow and grilled jizz-critters. The spirits flowed from the barrels and filled the men with great joy. And the celebration lasted for three days and three nights. And on that third night, John stood atop one of the walls that surrounded the courtyard where his friends drank and danced and laughed with each other. John raised a glass to his friends and laughed at their gaiety. And he shouted out from the wall, “I threw light on the darkness, and the darkness understood it not. And I threw myself at the grounds of this mountain nest, and Lovethorn and his people wilted like dainty flowers in the desert sun.”

The men cheered and clinked their mugs together. The put their arms around each other’s shoulders and stared up at John.

John continued: “And the grounds of Abaddon drank the blood of all who followed Lovethorn. And he built high walls and towers to keep out goodness and love and warmth. But Abaddon does not belong in my land. It was as useless as a gold ring in a stink-pig’s snout. Android Lovethorn did not realize that he who builds high gates and walls invites destruction. And you and I, my friends, we were that destruction. We were the heavy storm that washed the grounds of this place clean. This is our place now. This is Beyza M’Geyza. And the gates to these grounds shall never be barred shut again. Evil cannot touch us here. So drink up, men. Drink to yourselves and drink to what we have done. For it is a good thing. We have taken down the one in the corruptible crown. We have recompensed him, evil for evil. Now that he is gone, there shall be no more weeping and gnashing of teeth. We shall have nothing to be troubled at, and thus, shall be troubled at nothing. We have followed the path. And the path is the way. So celebrate yourselves tonight, because you deserve it.”

And the men raised their glasses. They wept tears of happiness, and camaraderie warmed their hearts. Alf the Sacred Burro and his sons ambled about the courtyard and grazed on the grickle grass around its edges. And though John still had no inkling as to the details of his other life, he knew it in his gut that he had never felt like this before. A flood of emotions washed over him and he knew and recognized each feeling and it was good. It was right. He finally felt complete.

At the end of the third night, John retired to a bedroom in the fortress and weariness overtook him. Taking a straight razor to his head, John shaved off his long hair and shaggy beard, even cutting off his eyebrows. He liked the way his shining head and face looked in the mirror. He rubbed his hands across his scalp and enjoyed the smooth, cool touch of the bare flesh on his head. And he stripped and lay himself out naked on a large mattress stuffed with the feathers of fluff-hens. The soft bedding conformed to his body and comforted him. And a fluffy pillow of fluff-hen down supported his head. John took one last look out the window of his room and wondered at the two full moons sitting low on the horizon. And the light of the star Wormwood bathed John’s room in a warm green haze. John’s eyelids grew heavy and a much-needed rest overtook him. Peaceful nothingness swirled around him, tossing off strands of cool blue and flecks of gold. The ten thousand things played out a fantastic lightshow on the backs of his eyelids and then fled and left in their place a cozy void.

And when John awoke, he realized that his room was no longer a room, but instead a craggy cave. His bed was now the dusty ground; his down pillow now a rock. And beside the spot where he awoke was a hole five cubits in diameter. John peered into the pit but saw no bottom. He dropped a rock, but the sound of it hitting bottom never came to him. At the edge of the pit, John saw claw marks in the sand and a trail that dragged itself to the spot where he awoke. And then John remembered everything.

He stepped out of the cave entrance and stretched the sleep from his arms and back as he stared out from the mountainside. Warm light shone down from the morning sun and tinted the mountain and everything in sight gold. And John’s heart throbbed and swelled with joy as he heard the out of tune clang and bang of a guitar coming from somewhere down the hill.