The Awakening
The Awakening
Rain Oxford
Copyright
© 2015 Rain Oxford
All
Rights Reserved
For
my father, for everything.
“My Lord?” The young soldier’s eyes were filled with pain and concern,
not for his own wounds, but for those of his master. There was little doubt
that his lord’s wounds were mortal, for the enemy’s sword had bitten through
the leather and iron tunic and deep into his vitals. The heavy chest was
swathed in makeshift bandages and grew bloodier with each labored breath. The
lord raised his shaggy head, a grim smile twisting the corners of his mouth.
“It is a battle won at great cost.” The warlord’s
eyes wandered over the jagged, barren hills where many of his men lay dead or
dying, and felt a pain in his chest much greater than any weapon could inflict.
For his men, his friends, to die here! Here, in this hostile land so far from
home. His grey eyes were hard and grim as he turned back to the young soldier.
“Does their bastard leader still live?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Bring him here to me. I will speak to this beast
before he dies.”
The soldier hurried away, leaving him to find meager
comfort sitting on the sun baked rocks. He resisted the temptation to lay down,
knowing that he would never rise. Nevertheless, he must have slept for a
moment, because he awoke to the voice and gentle touch of the same young
soldier.
“My Lord, we have brought him as you ordered.”
The warlord cleared his vision and looked into the
face of his enemy. It was a cruel, sneering face, riddled with the embodiment
of evil, so malignant and twisted that nothing human remained. Slowly, under
the contemptuous eyes of his conquerors, the expression of defiance dissolved
into one of fear and hatred.
“I will not list your crimes,” the warlord began.
“You know them better than I, and neither of us will live long enough to do
that list justice. We have pursued you across the surface of the Earth to
destroy you and those who follow you, to rid the land of its foul and rotted
flesh, the disease you offer.” A spasm of coughing struck his body. When he
raised his head once more, a trickle of blood glistened at the corner of his
mouth.
“Humanity cannot exist with those of your kind in
their midst. You have chosen to worship the Ancient Evil in your greed and
lusts, to keep the ancient rituals, to drink the blood and eat the flesh of
men. You walk the night and have suckled in darkness. You have been known by
many names, all of them damned!
“As you have watched over your followers in evil, so
shall you in their death. You will stand in the tomb of your dead and there you
will remain to await your own death, in the darkness, your warped soul will be
prisoner of the seals and spells of Light for all time. You are a sickness and
a spreading disease, and we must be rid of you forever.” Wearily, he gestured
at the guards for the prisoner’s removal.
But the prisoner was not ready to be removed. He was
huge, almost as tall as the lord himself; every line of his misshapen body
betrayed his constrained hatred. He glared at the man that had condemned him.
“You and your weak, stupid people!” The voice was obscene, a guttural, hissing
sound. “You win now, but now only! Do what you will, it matters not; you will
suffer and I shall laugh. You do not know of my power. You will learn. I will
be back to teach it to you!”
The lord watched as the guards led the prisoner away.
He turned as he felt the pressure of the young soldier’s hand on his shoulder,
and read the anxiety on the boyish face. “You are troubled?”
“Yes, about many things, my Lord. He is powerful and
dangerous.”
“Yes, and that must not be forgotten.” He sighed and
closed his eyes.
The young man took the older man’s hand in his and
knelt at his side, hearing each breath weaken and grow shallower. He saw the grey
eyes open and felt the pain in them as they met his.
“It has been my charge to bring this evil to an end.
At the cost of much pain and death I have done so, and though my grief is heavy
I cannot regret it. Even my own death would not stop me from doing it again.”
He shook his head gently, sighing. His voice became a whisper, aimed at no one.
“I hope I shall find peace, now.” The eyes closed and the lips were silent; it
was as if the effort of his words had taken the last seconds of his life.
Rage and despair mingled in the breast of the soldier
and he squeezed his eyes tight against the hot tears. He gently laid his
master’s hand across the now still chest. The great war axe that had fit so
well in the hand of the lord lay beside him; he lifted it slowly, watching the
sun glint dully on its sides.
A shout from below drew his attention, so he made his
way carefully down the hillside, through the boulders, until he reached the
small group of men working at the dark mouth of a tunnel. The tunnel cut deep
into the base of the hill, ending in a chamber carved in the rock. The iron
door at its entrance was closed. A tall red haired soldier, one of those in
charge of the prisoners, saluted at his approach.
“It is done, sir.” He was nervous, and anxious to be
finished and away.
“Good.” He felt a weight in his hand, and he realized
that he still carried the axe; now he raised it and read the inscription
engraved in the metal. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then tossed it into
the tunnel. “Seal it! And may it never be opened!”
Long after the men had sealed the iron door and
closed the tunnel, the young soldier still stood in front of it. He let the
bitterness seep out slowly. It was done, at least for now, but he could still
see the words that had been engraved in the metal blade:
Let Evil Fall
Before Me.
The young soldier felt a chill. He turned away and
hurried to join the others.
* * *
For eons the tomb lay undisturbed, embalmed in magic,
oblivious to the changes of time that reshaped the land. The outline of the
mountains changed and softened. Rivers and lakes formed and dried up, only to
form again. Slowly they carved new wonders in the breast of the earth.
And men came to the new land and found it good; the
only evil was that which they brought with them. But their sins were small,
those of men.
The tires of the old Plymouth convertible plowed furrows in the inch
deep dusts, casting thick clouds and occasional small stones into the hot July
afternoon. The road was unpaved and scarred with pits and chuck holes ranging
from minor irritations to major hazards.
Derek Hanen gripped the steering wheel in his left
hand, trying to read from the wrinkled road map in his right. The car bounced every
time he found the right area on the map, demanding his full attention and making
him lose his place. After several attempts, he tossed the map onto the seat in
disgust.
“Turn left on route 8-A,”
the attendant at the
gas station had said.
“It’ll take you straight over to 395.”
Derek fumed. The fellow had been right, sure, but he
had neglected to mention that the shortcut was hardly more than a dirt path.
The green body of the Plymouth showed signs of long,
hard use. What the dents lacked in size, they made up for in numbers, and the
rear bumper was splattered with the miscellaneous souvenir stickers Derek had
collected for a month or so before losing interest. To that, an unrecorded year
and a half of traveling and wandering could be added.
Not that Derek was too worried about it. He still had
a few hundred dollars from his last job, which had been laying pipe for a fat
little contractor that liked to point, yell, and smoke cigars. The little crook
had also liked to pay his part time help under the table at half union wages.
But even half union wages was good money and Derek had been satisfied. When the
money from that job began to run low, he would stop somewhere and find another.
Some were better than others, but it really didn’t matter; as soon as he had
enough money to last for a while, he would quit and be back on the road again.
There were times when he looked upon his life as a
pointless hit and miss existence, and thought, just maybe, that he could pull
himself together and start over. Perhaps even avoid the same old mistakes. Then
self-doubt would settle on him, making him afraid to try, and he would pass his
chances up in favor of the safety he found in travel. It was a time for
healing.
A suicidal jack rabbit bounded across the road in
front of him, and he jerked the steering wheel to avoid it. He missed it, felt
relief, and glanced into the rear view mirror. There was nothing to see but
yellowed, scratched plastic and dust. He relaxed in the seat, sighed, and
turned his attention to the landscape drifting past.
Trees, mostly spruce and pine, stood in scrubby
clumps dotting the low hills like soldiers awaiting battle; old fences laid
boundaries across their domains. The few farm houses Derek saw seemed oddly out
of place, as if they had fallen unnoticed from the pocket of a passing wind.
A dusty, weather beaten sign crept up along the side
of the road to do its duty of informing (or accusing) the traveler of his
whereabouts:
Welcome
To
Cider
Springs
Pop. 724
Derek slowed the Plymouth to minimum speed, wary
of breaking any un-posted limits, entering the town at barely more than a
crawl. An ancient, red pickup truck rattled past, pursued by its own dust cloud
and groaning with ill health.
Cider Springs wasn’t much different than a hundred other
small country towns he had passed through. The highway cut through the center
and served as the main street, with what few stores and shops there were
clustered around it in the hopes of attracting whatever business they could.
The first to draw Derek’s attention was a false front building with a hand
painted sign saying “Parker’s General Store.” The words “Cold Beer” were
painted below it, and he found the promise irresistible. He turned into the
small parking lot beside the store.
A few aisles of cans and dry goods greeted him in the
cool interior of the store. In a far corner stood a glass cabinet cherishing
its selection of beer and soft drinks, its refrigerating unit humming an
uninspired mechanical love song to the cash register. Derek fished a can of
beer from the cabinet, then crossed over to the counter and leaned on the
register. As far as he could tell he was alone in the store.
“Hey, anybody here?” Derek shifted his weight and
popped open the can. The beer cut through the dust in his throat, leaving a
trail of aching cold. “You’ve got a customer out here,” he called in a louder
voice. A door behind the counter swung open a few inches, revealing a pair of
watery eyes set in a thin grizzled face. One of the eyes winked at Derek and
the door closed for a few moments, then opened again as the body matching the
face came out. Derek got the impression that the old man consisted of an odd
mixture of bones, leather, and whiskers.
“Had to find my teeth,” the old man apologized. “Can’t
talk without ‘em.” He gave Derek a wide grin as if to show them off. “Whatcha
need, son?”
“Got what I need.” Derek held up the half-finished
beer, dug a dollar bill out of his jeans, and gave it to the old man. “Are you
Mr. Parker?”
“Yup, that’s me, Jeff Parker. No ‘mister’, though.
Everybody around here just calls me Parker.” He handed Derek his change, then
slipped out from behind the counter and got a beer for himself.
Derek watched him open the can and drink. A small
amount of the beer missed its intended destination, finding its way instead to
Parker’s T-shirt to join ranks with a number of other older stains. Parker’s
hand rubbed the new resident into anonymity.
“Nice little town you folks have here.”
“Bull,” Parker belched. “It’s a crumby little place
you’ve got to choke to death to get in or out of. Most of the folks around here
don’t leave because they can’t afford to, and the rest are crazy and like the
place, like me.” He took another swig from his can and cocked an eyebrow.
“You visiting or passing through?”
“Just passing through,” Derek sighed.
That’s the
trouble;
I’m always just passing through.
He drained his can and
crumpled it, then tossed it into a trash basket beside the counter. “Is there a
gas station around?”
“Yeah, there’s Ernie’s Texaco down at the other end
of town. It’s the only station we’ve got, and the next one’s about seventy
miles down the road.”
“Ernie’s Texaco it is then. Thanks.”
Derek left the store and stepped into the dust,
pausing to take a deep breath of the afternoon air. It was a beautiful day and
the sky was deep blue, clear except for a few puffy white clouds playing tag in
the east. He lit a cigarette and glanced at his watch, surprised to find that
it was almost four o’clock. He sighed again, got into the Plymouth, and twisted
the key in the ignition. The motor coughed to life, then backfired and died. He
tried again, and it turned over sluggishly for a moment before stopping with a
metallic squeal. It wouldn’t turn over again.
Well, shit.
He got out and lifted the hood,
then slammed it back down. There wasn’t much reason to locate the problem; he
didn’t have many tools and his car obviously was in need of major surgery. He
gave the Plymouth a wry look and headed back toward the store.
The front door burst open just as he reached it and a
small blond boy in faded jeans flew out. Derek grinned after the running
figure. The boy dashed across the street and around a building that apparently
served as the town church, yelling back an apology. A moment later, there was
nothing but a trail of swirling dust to show where he had been.
Something cold seemed to touch Derek between the
shoulders, an uncomfortable feeling; it was like an unspoken warning. He didn’t
like it. It wasn’t the first time he had felt the sensation, and it usually
spelled trouble of some sort.
Like the time Janet left.
Why couldn’t she
understand…?
Derek pushed the unwanted memories from his mind,
doing his best to shake off depression. He usually could, and he did again. He
found Parker leaning on the counter thumbing through a magazine and sipping on
his beer. The old man looked up and regarded him with a grin.
“You get run over?”
“Are you talking about that boy?” Derek shook his
head. “No, he missed me by a good inch, give or take a little.”
“That’s Tony. I don’t know what’s got into him. He’s
sure fired up about something.”
“Kids his age usually are. By the way, does Ernie
make house calls? I’ve got a sick car sitting in your parking lot.”
“You need a jump or something? I got cables.”
“No, I’m afraid it’s the engine. Sounded like hell.”
“I’ll give him a call and see what he says. What’s
your name?”
“Derek Hanen. Sure you don’t mind?”
“Nah, glad to. Don’t worry about it.”
While Parker busied himself on the telephone, Derek
looked over the store’s small supply of sporting equipment. Of special interest
to him was the fishing gear. Most of the fishing he had done had been in
streams and lakes, but once he had gone deep sea fishing with friends. He
remembered the incident with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment, because
he hadn’t known the first thing about what he’d been doing. He had ended up
almost drowning.
Parker came over and interrupted his thoughts. “Ernie
said he’ll tow it over to the station and check it out first thing in the
morning, if that’s okay. He always quits early on Friday so he can make a night
of it at Sam’s.”
“Doesn’t look like I’ve got much choice. What’s Sam’s?”
“That’s our local beer joint. They get a country
music band in there on the weekends, and sometimes a fight or two. It’s the
only entertainment in town, and the boys raise hell ‘till the sheriff busts it
up. You should get down there if you get the chance.”
“I might. Is there a motel or something here in town?
I’m going to need a place to stay.”
“Sure, about a block down on your right, place called
the Hillrock. Kate Jameson runs it. She’ll take good care of you. You want me
to have Ernie get ahold of you there?”
“That would be great. Thanks a lot.”
“Glad to help. See you in the morning, maybe?”
“Sure.”
* * *
Kate Jameson was a small woman in her late fifties,
given to overweight and a cheery disposition. She had run the Hillrock Hotel
since her husband’s death almost ten years before. Around harvest season,
business usually picked up, but during the off seasons as it was now, things
slowed to a standstill. An insurance settlement on her husband helped her to
maintain the place in careful comfort. It was a large place for one person to
run as she did, but she derived a great deal of satisfaction from her work.
Busy hands doing good work was something she believed in. When the young man
walked into the lobby with the worn suitcase in his hands she was working in
the lobby,
“Hello, can I help you?” She smiled, stuffing a much
used polish cloth into its corner under the counter. The brass lamp base she
had been working on gleamed proudly,
“I hope so. I could use a room, and Mr. Parker down
at the store suggested your place.”
“Jeff? You’re lucky he didn’t wear your ear off. He’s
a dear man, but he does go on.”
“Maybe a little, but he was a lot of help.”
“Well, I’ll be glad to have you. I’ve got a nice room
on the second floor with a bath.”
After telling him the price, she led him upstairs and
showed him the room, summing him up in her mind. He was tall and lean, with a
rugged, friendly face. She decided that she liked what she saw.
* * *
The hotel didn’t supply meals or kitchen facilities,
so Derek ate at the only restaurant in town. It was a little on the shabby
sides but homey, and the food was good. Derek wolfed down two hamburgers as if
he hadn’t eaten in a week, instead of merely one day.
Later, even after a short walk and a couple of hours
in his room, the food still weighed heavily on his stomach. He tossed
restlessly on the bed, occasionally punching the pillow into a more comfortable
position. A gently stirring breeze drifted through the open window and carried
out the smoke from his cigarette.
He watched the smoke curling aimlessly on the air
currents.
Just like that. Pointless motion. I do a lot of that.
He had spent six years in the Air Force as a pilot,
much of that active duty in Viet Nam. When he left the service he had seen his
future as a model of the American dream, everything seemed thumbs up, there was
always a shortage of trained pilots for the major airlines, and with his
background in the Air Force it didn’t take long before he landed a choice
position with Trans World Airlines.
Then came Janet. Red haired and beautiful, with a
fiery disposition and her own ideas of the way things should be run. He found
himself out of balance constantly, in love and overpowered. Within weeks, they
were married.
Everything went well for a while. They bought a new
home and made plan after plan. He was happy and he thought Janet was, until she
started complaining about the long absences his job required. The warning signs
were there; he mentally kicked himself for not seeing them.
He didn’t contest the divorce. He gave her most of
what they had and sold the rest. He became moody, depressed much of the time,
and he began drinking a little too much. When it got to the point of affecting
his work, he quit, even going as far as to blame it for most of his troubles.
He didn’t now, but that didn’t matter; it was too far in the past. So here he
was by his own hands, thirty-three-years-old and going nowhere.
The cigarette left a bad taste in his mouth. He
snubbed it out and lay staring at the ceiling.
* * *
In small country towns, most activity begins early
and ends not long after the sun goes down. If you want to take in some nightlife
or a movie, you drove into one of the nearby cities with some of the gang.
Sometimes some of the younger set would pitch in and buy one or two kegs of
beer, then haul them up to the hills or down to the river and have a party.