Southern Gods (28 page)

“Bull, I can see that you don’t understand. Let me explain.”

Andrez cleared his throat, took a sip of coffee, and extinguished his cigarette.

“In the beginning, when the world was new and man had just emerged from the earth, there were gods—the
Prodigium, which means vast and monstrous and unknowable. The Old Gods. These old intelligences moved between realms of thought, in and out of our world, between the stars and the deep blackness of night. They had countless names and countless aspects. They strode the earth, some giant, some tentacled, some with thousands of eyes, some with the shapes of all creatures fused into their flesh which was not flesh. They chose their own forms, which were as malleable as clay. Nyarlarhotep, Kronos, Cthulhu, Powaqqatsi and others. These gods enslaved man for worship or for food or even amusement. Torment and torture pleased them. A few cared for the creatures of the earth—Mithras, Cymbele, and others—and it was they who infused man with intelligence so that he might rise above all of the creatures of earth. But the other gods warred with them. Constantly, they fought, and did what they could to torment their creations.

“How? They spawned more entities—lesser gods yet still immensely powerful—to act as soldiers in this war. And the battleground of this war was mankind itself.

“The Old Ones learned to sever portions of themselves to create lesser gods. These gods—Zidus, Loki, Chernobog, Hastur, Akhkhazu, Pazuzu, and countless others—infested the earth. Some were wholly evil, reveling in the demise of man. Others were merely capricious. But being sloughed off of their masters, they gained independence. They cared less about the war raging in the heavens and on the earth, and just enjoyed their own corporeality. Some did not. Some longed to be rejoined with their makers, the Old Ones. In giving their offspring volition they gave up part of themselves. This act of… the Italian is
idago negate
… how do you say? Self negation. This act of self-negation has been the common thread of the second generation of gods.

“It is like the flow of water on terraces, or the levels of a fountain. At the top is the Prodigium, with Mithras and Cybele the sole benevolent forces. I use this term loosely, benevolent. They did not work toward the destruction of man. Their goals were indistinct and unknowable.

“Power flows from the Prodigium to the lesser gods. And from the second ranks, they inhabit man. They invest themselves in mankind. They possess us, entering our bodies. Like vermin infesting the house that is mankind. They influence our actions. They kill us for their sport. But they have their own goals and desires which can appear indecipherable to mortals, too.”

Andrez stopped. He returned his hands to his lap and slumped his shoulders.

Ingram didn’t know what to think. He felt confused and jagged as a shattered mirror. Thoughts and light passed through him, and he understood things vaguely. Just a little. Just a bit. It was all too fractured for comprehension.

Ingram shifted his weight in the chair. It creaked beneath him.

“You mentioned Hastur,” said Ingram. “So lemme get this straight, just so I understand everything. These old gods—the Prodigium—went and had kids, and those kids are causing all kinds of trouble here for us. Is that right?”

Andrez nodded.

“So this Ramblin’ John I’ve been looking for is really one of these—I don’t know—teenager gods?”

“Not exactly, Bull. Just like the Prodigium before them, the second generation gods can spin off parts of themselves. They can infect man. They can possess us.”

Ingram inclined his head toward the little man.

“And they can possess us how? Through music?”

“Yes. Through music, through touch. Some through words and thought. These books,
Opusculis
,
Book Eibon
,
Quanoon-e-Islam—
which is truly called the
Necronomicon—
these are all primers in communication with these gods, both the Prodigium and their offspring.”

“So, can we kill them? Can we kill Hastur?”

Andrez looked at him strangely. “I don’t know. The Prodigium? I doubt we can even begin to understand them. So killing them approaches the impossible. Can we kill these—I like your name for them, Bull—teenager gods? Maybe. We can definitely kill their agents and the people they infest. We can thwart their plans.”

Ingram shifted again and raised his swaddled fist, resting it on the table. His chest, where he’d been stabbed, itched. He scratched it with his good hand.

“Jesus,” he said. “I need a drink.”

Andrez patted his wrapped hand. “Take heart. We are not powerless.” He smiled, showing white even teeth. “And you have resisted them three times now, Bull.”

“What?”

“When you encountered one on the gravel road that was most assuredly Hastur himself. And you resisted. At the radio station when you heard the music and fought the dead man. You resisted him again.” Andrez tapped his wrapping with a finger. “And once again at Ruby’s. You openly defied him. You killed his agent, Early Freeman, rest his soul. And you pursued the Pale Man. Then, something—
some power—
brought you here. You didn’t float here by chance, that much is sure.”

“I’ve got a question for you,” Ingram said. “Why are you here? I mean, in Arkansas?”

“This is another good question, Bull. One I’ve been thinking about as we’ve been talking. At the time, it seemed like chance but now I’m beginning to doubt that. A nephew of a cardinal had fallen ill, and I was called to consult because the attending priest felt that his illness was infernal in nature. I thought it was godshatter.”

At Sarah and Ingram’s quizzical looks, the little man held up his hands. “Godshatter is the illness that falls on people who have been inhabited—enthralled—by the teenager gods. Often godshatter goes unnoticed because how can one diagnose the remains of a possession? Of course, the church doesn’t refer to the illness as that. It was a piece of Guisseppi’s personal jargon that I discovered in his papers, and it has stuck with me since.

“The young man had been institutionalized due to some violent behavior, but had been released because he had made a dramatic recovery. This alerted me to the possibility of possession. But then he fell ill. He was wracked by fever and violent palsy. Whatever god had infected him, it left the boy tainted with horrible dreams and waking visions of torment and torture. And desires. For flesh. So I brought him back to my chambers adjoining the
Bibliotheca Occulta
, so that I might study his illness further and, I hoped, restore the young man to health.”

Ingram shivered.
Flesh? He’s not talking about sex.

“I intended to get the young man to join me in a very old rite. A rite of enthusiasm. Enthusiasm means, literally, ‘full of a god.’
En theos
. I wanted to invite Mithras or Cybele or even one of the capricious lesser gods to inhabit him in hopes they would restore their vessel. This would take blood, and sacrifice. A finger, maybe. A tooth. Once it was done, and I had the boy deified, I planned to use an ancient rite of banishment and expel it from the boy’s body.

“However, I made a mistake in judgment. I didn’t suspect that the boy could still be possessed.

“I left him alone to retrieve the knife and chalice. Another mistake. When I returned, he was gone. I called for the Vatican City guards. We began searching. It was then I realized that my keys—the keys to the
Bibliotheca Occulta
—were missing. We went to the vault that held the volumes, and its door stood open like the gates of hell. The boy had set a fire. Once the inferno was extinguished, we entered the chamber that once had held every evil book known to man. All burnt. All destroyed. There was no way to tell whether he had removed any books, though I strongly suspect he did. I fear it was the
Daemonlateria
, our version of the
Quanoon
. In the original Arabic. I was assaulted by conflicting emotion: happiness at seeing so many evil books destroyed, and fear that we had been left defenseless against the Prodigium and their offspring. However silly it may sound, knowledge truly is power, and the boy—or the entity that possessed him—left us powerless.

“We found the boy’s body in a neighborhood close to the Vatican. Dead and horribly burnt. It seems the entity that possessed him didn’t care much for the longevity of his vessel. Which indicated to me that he had help. Either from other gods or people.

“And for all of this, I was to blame. I made the mistakes of judgment regarding the boy and consequently a priceless collection of books was destroyed. Not to mention the death of the Cardinal’s nephew. The Cardinal spent the next year of his life punishing me. His final act of retribution was to send me to the most remote and god-forsaken places on the face of the earth. Tierra del Fuego. The Mexican slums. North Dakota. Ten years ago, he sent me here, to Arkansas. And here I’ve been. But it occurs to me now that I might have been sent here for a reason, just like you, Bull. That some other force drew me here. And that gives me hope.”

“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t leave the priesthood? How can you know the truth and still take this exile?” Sarah stared at him.

He sighed. “For many years I asked myself the same question. The Christian god is a myth, a bright wrapping on unexplainable events tied to other gods. But whatever the case, when I became a priest and learned Guiseppi’s secret, my vocation became not to serve god, but to protect man. In some ways, I became a policeman, I think, burdened with too much knowledge of dark and terrifying things.

“I’ve always hoped to resume my duties at the
Bibliotheca Occulta
. I still serve the new curator in many small ways. Translations. Experience. It is sad, yes. But the cloth is all I’ve known. And I cannot bring myself to believe that the church is all bad. The people need hope and something to distract them from the wolves walking among them in sheep’s clothing.”

Sarah stared at him, this small, pitiable man. She put her hand on his.

“Is it shameful for me to say I still hope that there is a Christian god? That Jesus was not some godshattered young man? That despite everything, I still hope there might be some purely benevolent force in the world?”

She shook her head. “Of course it isn’t, Andrez. Of course not. And your hope brought you here. To us.”

Something occurred to her then. “In the yard, you looked up at my room. Why?”

“The piles of dead birds. They were arranged in a pattern. A pattern, it seemed, only apparent from a height. From a window, say, on the second floor of this house.”

Sarah’s eyes went wide. She bolted out of the door and raced through the dining room. Ingram followed fast on her heels, bare feet slapping on the floor, with Andrez trailing behind.

Up the stairs and across the gallery, Sarah ran for her mother’s room. Her hands scrabbled at the doorknob, and she erupted through the door, hair flying.

“Momma! Are you okay? Momma?” Sarah was nearly hysterical.

The bed was empty. Dizzy from the burst of adrenaline, Ingram placed his hand on the doorjamb to steady himself.

“Goddamn it, Sarah.” A voice came from the dark corner of the room. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, coming in here like that?”

The stooped figure of a woman sat near the window on a padded bench. Her face seemed strange, dark, her white hair was wild around her face. She peered at Ingram, drawing her robes around her body.

“Who the hell is that? Who is that in my house?”

“My name’s Ingram, ma’am. Your daughter—”

“I don’t give a damn what your name is, sir. Get out. Now. Vacate these premises.”

“Momma, this is the man who—”

“I know who that idiot is, girl. He’s the stray dog you brought home.”

Sarah moved further into the room. She stood by her mother, near the window. Sarah glanced out and then looked again.

“No.”

“What? What did you say, Sarah?”

“I said no. He’s not leaving. I don’t care what you say or do. He’s going stay here until we figure out what’s going on. Your peafowl are all dead. Didn’t you know?”

“Jesus Christ, Sarah,” the old woman said, voice hoarse and sharp. “A priest, too? You planning my funeral? Well, I’m not dying today. No, madam, not today. So you can send the runt away, too.”

Ingram realized Andrez stood by him. He turned back to the room. From the light of the lamp, he could see the older woman’s face more clearly. A red and brown mask covered her cheeks and jaw-line. Her back was crooked, and her joints oversized. She held her body in an uncomfortable pose, hunched over like a crone.

“Momma, he’s staying. And that’s that,” Sarah said. She turned to the door. “Bull, will you go downstairs and get the bottle of port from the library? It’s on a silver tray on my desk. Just go down the stairs when you’re about to enter the kitchen, take a right, and follow the long hallway. It’ll end at the library. Can you do this for me, please?”

He nodded, looking from her to her mother.

“His name is Bull? I can see that,” said Sarah’s mother. “What’s the other’s name? Weasel?”

“Momma,” Sarah said slowly, “you used to have manners. What happened to them? Did they get sick as well? You’ve always been a—”

“What? A bitch?” The old woman cackled. “It’s what you’re thinking.”

Ingram turned. “I’ll come too,” said Andrez.