The Twins of Noremway Parish (2 page)

She was beautiful.

He stood from his knee. “Sister Teret––yes, something is wrong. There is a change occurring. Something’s different. Do you feel it?”

She looked at him thoughtfully. Shadow fires licked her high cheekbones, sculpting them into even finer definition. “Every change is a miracle, Decon.”

“
I just have a bad feeling.” He allowed his eyes to follow the contours of her body. She pretended not to notice, but he suspected she did. For all he knew she was having the same dilemma as he. Like the friar of Noremway Parish, the parochial vicar required an oath of celibacy. Only the pure—those who have not experienced the pleasures of the flesh—could teach the doctrines of the parish. His eyes met hers. He had to stay focused. If he was right, something was happening in Noremway Parish that would affect them all. He repeated,“I just have a bad feeling. That’s all.”

***

Tomias Waterman and his wife, Lynn, lead a relatively peaceful life on the only piece of land still able to grow the golden grass of the Inner-Crescent.
This damn yank weed is gon’ kill me,
Tomias thought as he hauled armful after armful into the flat bed of the cart. This was the thing he hated about the harvest season; they all wanted the grass from his farm, and no one was willing to pay the due labor to help him get it. He was both the mayor and biggest farmer in Noremway Parish, and he fed the citizens as if they were his own children. He could complain all he wanted, but he knew that he’d have it no other way. He loved having a flock depend on him for leadership and sustenance. In recent years the grass had begun to take up a larger and larger portion of the parish’s food supply as the shortened supply of water had forced cutbacks on the orchards.
Keep on
, Tomias thought.
Your people need you more than ever. The world isn’t as it was. They need you if they are to survive.

He looked into the sky. The scorching sun bore down on him through the yellow sand, the rays pelting his face. He squinted; there hadn’t been more than a wisp of clouds in years. He was lucky—they were lucky—that the golden grass held deep roots and required very little water. These roots bore down great depths into the dry soil, finding the subterranean water far below anything they could practically excavate. If nothing else, they could rely on the wholesome grain if the orchards became another climate casualty.

Overall, his life was easy. All their lives were, relatively speaking. They had just enough resources to live out a peaceful existence in the little patch of earth still able to provide for modest settlements. And knowing hardship brought about its own ease. A poor man can endure far more than a rich man—or so it’s been said. The poor man knows pain. He knows hardship. He knows sacrifice. The rich man knows none of these. He doesn’t know hard work or sacrifice; and he doesn’t know the value of resourcefulness. When it comes to surviving in this world, as a great prophet from the days of old once said, “The meek shall inherit the earth.”

Noremway Parish was a cozy little place at the edge of the world. To the east was where the world was ending; to the west it had already ended…the region known as the Outer-Crescent. And in between was a beacon of hope that the world could survive another generation. That “beacon of hope” was, of course, Noremway Parish.

Despite the doomsday prophecies, Tomias Waterman was able to lead his people with a calm resolve. One felt at peace in his presence even as he told of the coming of the black days from the west.

At his last address to the public, he had said, “We are but a light upon a hill which the world will look upon. We are the only remaining light upon this planet. There will be dark days ahead. We see it has happened in the west just as its beginning to happen in the east. We can overcome the inevitable darkness––vanquish it from this world.”

No one asked
what
the Darkness was. Had they asked, Waterman would have been able to tell them all about it.

The Darkness was here. Right here in Noremway Parish, in the basement.

Nine months before, at the end of the winter season, he was home alone, playing the piano in the parlor when there came a murmur from beneath his feet, a deep humming in the basement, and the voices; voices talking about ending the world and plunging it into chaos, undoing creation.

Then there was nothing. He awoke sprawled out on the piano bench with no memory of how he had spent the previous five hours.

“
Tomias!” Lynn screamed from upstairs. He ran out of the parlor and up the stairs until he reached the bedroom, where he found his wife sitting on bloodstained sheets on the bed. “Tomias, I—I don’t know what happened.”

The blood spread up her thighs, onto her nightgown, and up to her face. He washed the blood from her, and took her immediately to Dr. Plague, who concluded that the blood was indeed her own, and that it appeared to be menstrual.

“
Bart, I was lying in bed, reading
The Book of Ragas
, and I heard strange voices coming up the stairs––deep, growling, scratchy voices. Then the lantern went out and I felt dirtiness all over me–and it hurt. I woke up covered in blood.”

Plague wasn’t able to do anything but clean her up that day. Several weeks later he confirmed that she was pregnant. “Cheer up,” he told her. “After all these years of trying, you and Tomias are going to have a child.”

Now, nearly nine months later, Lynn was ready to burst. She was happy, having forgotten the events of that day…and Tomias had forgotten too. They were having a child! It was something to celebrate!

Despite their happiness, every night, as he lay in bed, he would find his mind filled with images of otherworldly demons. The dreams always started out peacefully enough, with Lynn giving birth to a beautiful baby boy. Then the child grew fangs, horns, cloven hooves, and a whip-like tail.

What did the dream mean? Maybe it mattered, maybe it didn’t, but an image of his wife bathed in her own menstrual blood kept surfacing.

She was due any day now, and as he began harvesting the grain, he looked at the grass in his arms. This job was becoming too much for them. If Lynn had the baby before he could finish the harvest, what was he going to do? Both Decon Mangler and Bartholomew Plague would likely be willing to help. James Morgan could be a hardy hand as well, assuming his wife Rita let him out of her sight.

A low growl tore him from his thoughts with the suddenness of a dust storm. He knew the wolves were around–they always seemed to be a danger–but before he could even turn toward the sound, an enormous weight slammed into his back. He fell to the ground, grass spraying in the air, the pain all but paralyzing him. The hot breath of the beast filled his nose and mouth as he felt the sharp teeth digging into the back of his neck.

***

Earth was a dangerous place, and one should never harvest their crop alone.
Why didn’t I ask Decon and Plague to meet me out here, or even that putz Morgan?
He thought; the wolves stalked solitary prey. They hunted in packs, seeking out where their prey may be vulnerable, and then, when a deadly hit was all but assured, the leader pounced. If the wolf wasn’t able to rip apart its victim’s throat, it might dig its fangs and claws into other vulnerable parts of the body, such as the abdomen. Upward-pointed tusks on either side of the mouth were like sharp knives that cut into the prey, eviscerating the potential meal until death was certain.

As the teeth dug into the back of his neck, Tomias could feel the razor tusks stabbing into his shoulders and head. He knew there was no way he was going to survive…how could he? The blood loss was profuse. The only thing he had going for his survival was the fact that the beast had yet to tear open his throat.

Keeping his chin as close to his chest as possible to make his throat a smaller target, he attempted to stand, with the intent of hunch walking to the scythe next to the flatbed wagon. Predictably, as he managed to get to his feet, the wolf pushed him back down. For a moment, he thought he was going to be pulled over onto his back and find the wolf on top of him, tearing out his throat and guts with the rest of the pack quickly following. But as luck would have it, he ended up back on his face, chin lowered, arms tucked in. He wriggled like a worm to escape.

He just had a few more feet to go. The teeth and tusks continued to tear into his flesh. The other wolves stood back–Tomias had no idea how many there were, but could guess around three by the sound of the growls. He risked untucking his arm to reach for the scythe. His fingers stretched for the wooden handle…just a few more inches.

As his fingers wrapped around the weapon, he rolled fiercely and the adrenaline surged, giving him the strength to overpower the beast temporarily. It fell off him at once and prepared for another leap, but Tomias was ready for it. Standing on his knees, facing the wolf, he raised the scythe. The blade sank deep into the creature’s abdomen, ripping it open, spilling guts and gore all over the ground. But it somehow continued its attack, landing on him, biting ferociously before dissolving.

Even in the frenzied atmosphere, Tomias paused for a brief moment when he witnessed the wolf’s demise. The wolf didn’t just drop dead; it
dissolved into thin air!

There were three other wolves bearing their teeth, growling a ferocious cadence that immediately turned from cries of hunger to howls of anger—anger for their fallen brother. Tomias stood his ground, ignoring the blood running down his neck. He posed in a wrestler’s stance, stooped, keeping his center of gravity low.

The first of the three lunged, and he knocked it away so forcefully the blade tore through the length of its body from the lower part of its chest all the way up to its head. The blade’s curved end caught on the wolf’s lower mandible, tearing it away. “
Agghh! You want a piece of me? Huh?
” he cried, but before he could turn back toward the other two, they were already on top of him. It seemed as if the one he had just killed was a sacrifice to present an opening for attack. The strategy worked and before he knew it, he was being eaten alive.

“
Lynn run!” he managed to call for his wife, but his voice was weak, and the dry harvest wind carried the sound away from the house. He couldn’t see it through the golden grass, but he knew she had been on the porch knitting that blanket. The burning sun’s intensity was blinding. “Lynn, run! Save…your…self…” All he could do was pray that Lynn would hear his plea before it was too late.

***

On the porch, Lynn put down the knitting and picked up the holy writ,
The Book of Ragas
, and began thumbing through it, looking for an afternoon prayer. As she read, she fell deep within the ancient world. Before oceans evaporated away, the world was beautiful, green, and filled with sounds of nature. Bird songs rang through her mind:
cherly-cherly-chollup
, with a response:
cherly-chicka-dee-dee-dee-chollup
. Ragas had been in awe of nature, writing about it with a lover’s passion. Because of that passion, she loved it too.

She loved the idea of listening to birdcalls. It would have almost been like eavesdropping on a conversation of the deepest meanings of nature. Then she heard something. Could that be a birdcall: a real-life birdcall?
Charly-cherly
. No, no, that was her imagination.
Cherly-cherly-Lynn!
What was that? It sounded almost like a strangled shout; a shout of her name.

“
Lynn! Run!
” the cry was louder and definitely not a bird–it was Tomias. Despite being nearly nine months pregnant, she took off running toward the field of golden grass.

“
Tomias?” she called. She was scared. “Tomias? Are you hurt?” As she ran, her hand went to the roundness of her belly. The load on the front of her felt like it was going to rip off her body. For the past few weeks, the pain had been steadily increasing, but it had been nothing like this. She hadn’t thought the baby would wait another day, but definitely not after this; she’d be lucky if she didn’t give birth in the field.

Then she saw him in the tall grass…two wolves were mounted on top of him, chewing at his insides. One buried its head into his stomach cavity, ripping out strings of flesh that could only be his intestines. “Oh no,” she cried. “Tomias, are you alright?” She knew the answer was obvious…and she hoped that her father’s saying that there was no such thing as a stupid question was true.
Please let him be okay…please
. “Tomias? Oh please. Oh no. The wolves…Tomias? I think I’m having the baby.” Pain ripped through her. The wolves began to circle her from opposite directions, readying an attack that could come at any second. How could she possibly defend herself against them? Even if she had been at her peak physical condition there would be no way; but she had to save her baby.

Why did I come out here?

She fell to the ground. The pain was so intense. She could feel the baby coming as the wolves growled and gnashed their teeth. Bloody spittle flew from their mouths, spattering Lynn’s face, stinging her eyes.

She prayed Tomias would get up…that he would save her; that despite how bad he looked it was all just some sort of cruel joke. But she knew such thoughts were a waste. In the deepest recesses of her mind she knew that the only way to get out of having this baby in the field would be if the wolves killed her before she was able to. Maybe the child could survive protected in her womb long enough for rescue.