II.
Grim dusk yawns upon us, the darkness of the sky pushing away the sun as another day meets its end. Or at least, as another day in Skokie Pines ends. I’ve been told the sun moves along, shining upon other lands west of us and far beyond and around until it crops up again in the east the morning next. There really are no days, by that logic. More like one endless day and an endless night, skulking about in an unending push and chase around our fair little firmament.
The whole township is gathered in a great omega, facing myself, Angus, and a whimpering Ned between at the nadir of this celestial congregation on the steps of First Church. Cousin Horace stands ahead, enrobed in the full regalia of his high office. He prays upon this ritual in the old tongue, our denuded townsfolk bowed down over Mother Earth and saying their piece in response. I say nothing. I am the instrument of the body, nothing more.
Ned is sniveling quietly, mouth agape and eyes a-popping at these proceedings. “Easy on,” I whisper to him. “Mussn’t heap further sacrilege upon your crimes. Be worse if’n you do.”
“Sheriff, this is madness,” he starts saying, and I’ve got to jerk him quiet by the collar. Ned whispers on, “I mean, this is madness. How can such heathenry exist in our day and age?” And he looks at me imploringly for an answer, manacled and sweaty-browed.
“Supposed to help the crops,” I shrug, thinking of the reasons laid down by the forefathers and yon. “Harvest your spiritual energy for the township, in a manner of speaking. Anyway, you shouldn’t’ve done what you did.”
“Hell’s bells, Sheriff… you can’t let them do this. You’re a justice of the peace!”
“Quit raising your voice during the ritual, dammit.” I tap the tin pentangle pinned to my vest. “And that’s your world, not ours. Mine is a local office. Anyway, it’s more or less like a hanging in other parts. Only more meaningful. You aren’t just dying… consider yourself becoming part of something bigger.” Just tipping the earthen cup into the greater well, fluid and free and all-enveloping. So we say. It’s all one big communion by the endless day’s close. But my counsel doesn’t comfort our prisoner any. He mutters and shakes a right mess, I dare say beginning to go faint and fluttery as Horace ends the dedication.
Arms upraised in a theatrical gesture, Our Horace addresses the very cosmos. “We are now gathered before the First Church of the Aeon, to dedicate the life of an erstwhile unworthy individual – an outsider – guilty of trespassing upon the collected wills of our humble people of Skokie Pines. Seni peikoks. Have you anything to say before the bonding ritual is carried out, Brother Nedward Norris?”
Angus gives Ned a shake, but it’s no good; Nedward is unresponsive.
“Very well,” Horace continues. “Place him in the well.” Our cue, Angus and I drag Ned forward as the drums begin tattooing their primal thunder and the people become animated, exuberant. Betsie locks each arm around the necks of her neighbors as they go to ground, while Anna Weebleman begins her siren song that sends shivers down my spine. Many’s the night I awake from the sound of those drums, and that song. Many a weary pipe I smoke ‘til our resumption of the dawn.
Suddenly Ned leaps to life, the torso trying to tear itself from its very arms. “Nooo!! Nooooooo!!!” Angus bats him in the eye with an elbow, but he rolls right with it as we drag him onward towards the center. “You people are monsters!! Pigs! To Hell with the lot of you!!”
“My my, but he’s a feisty one!” Angus squeals, baring his ugly chompers in a donkey bray. The thundering drums pound on, a downpour upon my ears as we reach the hole. With some pushing and kicking we get Ned’s legs in and push him down, him screaming and biting and vacillating as Angus begins pushing in the dusty red soil. I’ve got to keep his shoulders pressed down, a hard feat considering. Horace looms above us with outstretched hands and an upturned chin, chanting loudly away-
Mares away a fodder’s chum
Da prey ta bon num spak
In ta da erith bon num hest
Ayardi nigh da leaf.
Sarta dee, sarta dum comes the refrain from all sides and I feel as though my very bones will jump free of my body, the pressure on my head explode in a shot of red. Sarta dee sarta dum, sarta dee sarta dum and on and on. Finally Angus presses the earth over Ned’s shoulders and I release them, rising to help pack it in with my spurless boot.
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| "GOD!!" Ned wails. |
“Sorry Neddy, sorry you have to experience this roughest of farewells.” With a muffled shout the bag is placed over his head and I step away. The drums, the thundering drums and Our Horace rising upon their rhythm with the wildest of ululations. The mob goes mad. Sarta dee! Sarta dum! They rise from their throng with stones held high overhead as the last ray of sun disappears behind the westward horizon. All that’s left to us is darkness, darkness and a couple sundry stars as a kind of justice rains down.
* * * to be continued yet * * *
