Blood Moon Rising 2

-8-

Harper heard a loud rap at his door. He lay upon his bed, unmoving. The heavy hand sounded at the door again and it wrenched open. His monkish guardian stepped halfway into the room. A huge bearded head and broad chest under the black robe made the heavy slab seem fragile. The broad face turned toward Harper pressing the slightest hint of a frown against the thick black moustach and beard.

"Our abbot has asked for your attendance," he said.

"I'm taking a nap," Harper said.

"Our abbot informs me that the attendance may be held here if you are not feeling well enough to come to his office."

Harper nodded.

"That seems convenient," he said.

The monk stiffened but his voice remained level as he said, "The cell is small. I do not think the audience will seem convenient in your cell."

Harper had no intention of remaining in the room, but he pretended to consider the monk's observation.

"Perhaps you're right," Harper said finally. He rose as the monk slipped the door back further.

I'll get a good look around, Harper told himself.

"After you," Harper said, approaching the monk. The monk stepped into the room and gestured to the hallway.

"Alright," Harper said, preceding past the monk and into the corridor.

As he passed the door, the monk followed and gestured to the right of the chamber. Harper moved along sharply. He heard the monk close the door and follow along the corridor. The good thumped shut some distance behind, but Harper discovered the the monk was at his shoulder immediately, progressing along with him in long, quick strides.

"Do this much?" Harper said. The monk remained silent.

"Do you do a lot of body guard work?" Harper asked. The monk said nothing.

They passed a series of doors like his own facing arches that framed a courtyard surrounding a well-kept garden.

"Pleasant," Harper said glancing through the arches as he addressed the silence. He could possible jump up on the half-wall that defined the bottom of the arches and swing around the pillars that divided the Romaneque spans to swing up onto the roof. The attempt would be tricky, but Harper felt confidence he could manage ir. He imagined enormous hands snatching at him and snapping at empty air even as he considered that their grasp that would ensnare him. Better wait until he knew the grounds better and his company seemed less potent, Harper thought.

"The building is remarkable," Harper said.

"The architecture takes as its model the monastery St. John of Patmos Island, but the approximation is inexact," the monk instructed, his mouth iterating precisely through the dark hair surrounding it. "The patron who bore the financial burden of the monastery had his own ideas about architecture. Some less than authentic."

"You're interested in architecture," Harper said. "I'm a construction engineer by trade. A consultant now a days. I have some limitations when you talk about traveling to job sites. You know. Or I suppose you know. What peaked your interest?"

The monk said nothing for a moment, then responded.

"I am the historian of the monastery," he said.

"Why don't you run off to your archives, then?" Harper said. "I'm sure I can find my own way to the abbot."

Harper glanced over his shoulder for a reaction from his companion., but the dark face remained set and facing down the corridor.

"Anyway, it must be a nice job," Harper continued, "chronicling the history of this mausoleum."

Harper slipped a half glance over his shoulder. The man's face remained still. Indifferent. The monk's pace picked up, however. Harper stopped in his tracks. The monk stepped forward to Harper's side with an easy command over his massive body. The monk paused beside Harper, who turned toward the courtyard.

"Such a lovely day," Harper said. "Why don't we just spend it here? I suppose you have some wine around here..."

Something changed in the monk. His voice, accented plainly and evenly, took on a local stress.

"You wanna keep going?" the monk said.

Harper paused.

"It's a nice day," he said.

The monk bowed and smiled slightly.

"I'm sure the abbot and Mr. Cagan would be happy to join us here," he said.

The monk reached into his robe and produced a cell phone, which he presented to Harper.

"You could call them, and we could have the audience here," the monk said.

Harper regarded the monk. The man's form was solid and poised. Nothing more to be gained here, Harper considered.

"While spoil such a lovely day?" Harper asked.

The monk extended his hand toward the corridor. No use trying to escape yet, he thought.

"And I had heard Queens didn't have any real architecture," Harper said and set his steps the direction in the direction the monk's turning hand indicated.

A few strides later, the monk touched Harper's shoulder lightly, its bulk hanging over him. The monk rapped on the door and a voice issued from inside.

"Come in,' the muffled voice said.

The monk pushed open the heavy door, which groaned in its motion.

"Enough with the atmosphere," Harper muttered

Harper thought the comment must be indistinguishable from the door's grumbling, but a cheerful voice sounded from within.

"This place was made even to sound old," it said.

Through the door, Harper saw a small office. Behind a low desk stood the robbed man who had appeared earlier as he was freed from his confinement. Cagan stood before the desk. The man behind the desk smiled warmly, Cagan nodded, grinning slightly and indicating a chair he stood before.

"What the hell," Harper said, proceeding the doorway.

Harper sat. Cagan pulled a chair up beside him and the abbot took his seat behind the desk. They remained a moment in silence.

"So many questions," the abbot said. "They must be swarming around your head like a hive of bees."

The abbot waggled his head and smiled. Harper glanced at Cagan. The man's expression was calm but his posture was upright and firm. He looked back at the abbot, who smiled like a man who was about to tell a joke. The door to the room closed, and Harper turned to see his guardian had departed. Harper sensed an odd tension in the room. These men are not afraid, he thought, but they know something that was frightening.

"I think you should start," Harper said.

"A reasonable beginning," the abbot said, snorting a little laugh. "You should know what we know so that you can make up your mind."

Now Harper snorted.

"I'm not even sure that I know enough about what's going on to make my mind up about anything," Harper said

"And that," the abbot said with a pause, "is a fair statement."

"How would you like to proceed?" Caga asked.

Harper looked around the room, at elaborate decorations and a dark, glaring icon with intense, blue eyes and a face defined by dark hair and bear. He said, "This place is pretty Byzantine. Puts me in kind of a surreal mood. I could talk about improbable things."

The abbot chuckled.

"So many things are improbable," the abbot said. "Do you know, despite my devotion to my religion, I somethings consider it improbable. I'm sometimes amused by the fact, given the improbability of some of our doctrines, I consider my religion improbable. But life is improbable, isn't it. Sun and moon. Fingers and toes. Some reality brings us to the place we are, and, if we stand back and consider it, what is must seem somewhat improbable. I can imagine a reality where we all have the bills of ducks. But why not that? Why shouldn't it be the reality we face? But, it isn't. Our reality, at least for the moment, is confined to this room. Why not speak of the improbably? It has brought us here."

Harper felt his skin crawl. He smiled at the abbot's word, but something about them made his body tense respond to memory rather than the present. He was not beginning the change but remembering how the change had begun when the moon dictated. So very improbable.

"Maybe," Harper said, "in this room, we can treat the improbable as a kind of...speculation."

"An excellent suggestion," the abbot said.

"We don't have much time..." Cagan said. The abbot shook his head.

"We have enough time for speculation. Limited, perhaps, but let us proceed in our speculations for now."

"What if a man has two natures?" Harper asked.

"Oh," the abbot said, "I do like the idea of speculating about that statement, but I will avoid the theological response, or even the philosophical. Mr. Harper, you strike me as a pragmatic man. Intelligent, but with a focus on the task rather than its metaphysical implications. Yes. Two natures. Two specific natures?"

"He lives with both," Cagan said.

Harper shook his head.

"Mr. Cagan is very Irish. The Irish are capable of great philosophical depth, Dun Scotis being among the men of his nationality I admire greatly. But I admire Mr. Cagan as well. Devotion. Devotion, I think, though, is the hallmark of the Irish. Loyalty. Honor. And, forgive me, an extravagance of feeling that can be occasioned. Cutting to the chase, when the circumstances do not call for avoiding a topic that does not suit devotion. Metaphysics? A recourse of us Greeks. And the Germans. At least he hasn't answered a question with a question. But, with my respects, Mr. Cagan, I think we have a little time to beat around the bush, and settle into a position that is comfortable to us all."

Harper chuckled, but Cagan maintained his distant demeanor.

"So how will we proceed, Mr. Harper?" the abbot asked.

"Do you mind if I ask a rhetorical question?" Harper inquired.

"Please do," the abbot responded.

Harper paused, then demanded, "What if a man was to give way to an animal nature? Not in the social or ethical sense. How does he live if he knows he will become an animal, against his will, against his determination, his...intense desire to remain himself. To keep himself intact. To defend himself against that nature?"

"If he has no choice?" the abbot asked?

"Alright," Harper said. "Yes. If he has no choice."

"That's like asking what choice a man has if he is stabbed in the heart, to die or not to die. The choice is taken from him."

"And," Harper said, pausing. "And if he has a choice?"

"Then we are back to an ethical question," the abbot said.

"Yes."

"Do you think that such a man has an ethical choice?"

"Shouldn't he? Shouldn't a man. A man. Have an ethical choice if he is going to devolve into a killing nature. If he is going to kill against his ethical will. Shouldn't a man's will be strong enough to command that animal nature? if he is strong enough."

"So at it's heart," the abbot said, "your question is about the nature of suffering."

"I don't..." Harper said, taking a breath. "I don't thing that's the right conclusion."

"I'm not drawing a conclusion. I'm making a suggestion. If we remain on the level of abstraction, you might say if he has a current choice."

"Current?"

"If I can be a little more direct, if it won't disturb you. If I was to discuss this issue with this man, I might say, he has an ethical question to ask himself immediately. If he cannot dispute this animal nature, can he, or must he, address the harm that nature might cause if not addressed."

"Yes, yes. Lock himself away. Remove himself from society. That's the ethical thing to do. But that's addressing the symptom, not the cause, the disease..."

"This man has a new relationship with society. His state is not unlike a person who carries typhoid without it harming him. He must find a different way of living. With help."

"Or," Harper suggested, "a leper. A pariah."

"Our analogy might be unsound. I apologize. Someone who carries a disease that is a constant threat is different from someone who represents an occasional threat. And yet, the carrier of typhus is a constant threat. The carrier of leprosy is only a threat to the young and the old. In another case, the person might only be an occasional threat."

"But like the leper, others might perceive him as a constant, thoroughgoing threat, one that ought to be eliminated. That ought to be eliminated."

"Could I interject and point out that our brotherhood has and continues to address certain human conditions? No reason exists for a person who suffers to suffer without aid."

"But we are getting away from my original question."

"Should you be able to control the beast within?"

"Should the person be able to master it?"

"No," Cagan said.

"I was talking to the abbot," Harper said. "Your input isn't what I'm after."

Cagan offered a single not.

"I have to agree with Mr. Cagan," the abbot acknowledged. "We arrive at certain dilemmas without the ability to extricate from them. We must suffer them after all."

Harper took a deep breath, then exhaled.

"Well, this has been nice," he said. "Can I return to my cell? Where is my keeper? I'm sure he has the key."

"Your present accommodation isn't formidable enough for what is coming," Cagan said.

"Looks like the door's firm enough to keep...whatever in."

Cagan shook his head and said, "Maybe. But it might not suffice to keep things in."

"I don't understand you," Harper said.

"Mr. Harper, I understand that addressing the situation you find yourself in may be very difficult," the abbot interjected. "You have coped with it on your own. I think you have probably done so admirably. I know that discussing your circumstances in the plain right of day may be difficult. You may even consider it ridiculous. Others who face more mundane circumstance, the leper, whose disease has been publicly researched and discussed, may find the situation surreal. But in this small circle, the circle of this abbey, itself surreal in some perceptions, it is...well, I wouldn't say mundane, but at least evident."

"This is ridiculous," Harper said."How about I go my own way?"

"Is that what you want, now?" Cagan asked. "To hide and run the same old questions through you mind?"

"Why not? Why not just let me be?" Harper asked.

"I would be inclined to do so," Cagan said, "until that time when you were ready seek out some aid and comfort. I would be ready to offer it..."

"Comfort, you," Harper said, then chuckled.

"The immediate problem is, you won't be let alone. You have drawn unwanted attention, and not from us alone. You really are free to do what your conscience dictates. But that isn't the only relevant factor we have to conside here. You will not be left to your own devices. You have someone the attention of someone outside of our circle."

"Our circle?"

"People like ourselves, and sympathizers like the ones we have here at the monastery," Cagan said.

Harper looked from Cagan to the abott.

"Don't think I don't appreciate your getting me out of that aluminum hell hole," Harper said and chuckled. "Oh, I do. But I wonder if I haven't found my way from one dilemma into another."

"You are free to chose whether to remain or go."

"I've heard that. It's a rumor going around. But you know how hit is with rumors. You have to wonder about whether or not you can trust them."

"I guarantee you can," the abbot said, smiling.

"I think I believe you, abbot," Harper said.

Cagan had his turn chuckling.

"I suppose its a relief you might trust one of us," Cagan said.

"Like they say," Harper noted, "trust has to be earned."

The abbot nodded.

"We hope to earn yours," he said.

"Well, that's a problematic proposition. I don't really intend to stick around long, and, if I do, well, that's might not be a situation that's conducive to trust."

"We're not trying to keep you here against your will. Our concern is that forces have become interested in you, enough to risk kidnapping and holding you. With the investment taken into consideration, the resources they've committed to finding, taking and holding you, we don't believe it's likely that they will let a setback deter them, at least not in the long run."

"Well, then, maybe I should take a powder, disappear."

Cagan sighed.

"I doubt if they've lost track of you, at least not completely," he said.

"So, coming here was a waste of time."

"I wouldn't say that at all," the abbot interjected. "We have resources here to keep you safe."

"Yes," Harper said. "I've met one. He seems determined to keep me safe, no matter how I might differ in my definition of the word."

Now, the abbot laughed hearily. The laugh was merry, joyous, and Harper felt an affinity with the man he swiftly repressed.

"Maurice is actually very protective. Very loyal. You would be surprised how far he would go to protect you. I don't mean that in any sinister way. If, entrusted with your safety and having determined that it was endangered even by our order, I think he would defy a command that he thought would do you harm. Even if I issued it."

"You seem determined to make he feel all warm and fuzzy about you and your monks. Frankly, you have a lot of work to do before that happens."

"Yes, I can see that. You rather feel your self reliance is superior to the communal resource. I understand that. You've done remarkably well. We reviewed what records were left intact when we liberated you. I find it remarkable how long you managed to stand up to the treatment you endured. They expected to break you before the next cycle of the moon and were, frankly, trying to decided what they would do in respect to the change if they couldn't bring you around."

"You seem to be suggesting that they might do something unsavory with me."

"No. I don't think that would be their decision in the end. They believe they could hold you in any form. If they could manage you in the changed state, and they believe that they could, the program would start again, in an intensified form. They were determined to break you."

They, who?"

"We aren't sure yet," the abbot answers.

"For someone guarenteeing my safely, you don't seem to know a lot of what's going on."

The abbot said nothing, nor did Cagan. The three men in the room shifted their focus on one face than another.

"You are free to go," Cagan said. "But if you do, if you slip away, well, you might actually succeeded in eluding the people who are after you. But you might also run and find them closing in. In that case, you wouldn't have friends you could turn to for help."

"Friends. My definition of the term might differ from yours. I think the term friends requires some length of association."

Cagan laughed. The sound boomed out of him and filled the room with a warmth and sadness that struck Harper. The laugh had a honest quality that struck some note of accord. Harper smiled. Yet, Harper reminded himself, he was at too much of a disadvantage to yield any of the distance he was trying to maintain from these men. He would insist on his autonomy, even if it might be an illusion. Harper was determined to drive the best bargain he could manage.

"I could use a beer," Harper said.

"Oh, a wonderful idea," the abbot said. "I usually would drink wine, but I actually would like to drink a beer. I don't think Mr. Cagan needs much in the way of persuasion."

Cagan nodded, smiling.

"A beer sounds like a good idea," he said.

"Beer isn't the a specialty of us Greeks, but Mythos is a refreshing drink. Maurcice."

The massive head tucked in behind the swinging door.

"Maurice, could you ask the porter to bring us three Mythos?"

The head remained motionless, expressionless for a moment then nodded and disappeared.

"Not as rich as the beer produced by Mr. Cagan's people," the abbot said, "but refreshing."

"The Welsh produce some nice brews, too," Harper said.

"Yes," the abbot said. "You both are Celts. Fine brewing traditions. So, you have something in common with Mr. Cagan."

"The Welsh have always looked at the Irish with some suspicion," said Harper.

Cagan laughed again with some enthusiasm.

"Anyone left of Anglesy looks at the Irish with some suspicion," Cagan said.

The three men laughed. A moment later, a young small, beardless men in a black habit appeared with three bottles of beer on an old plastic tray. He handed out the bottles. The abbot took a deep draft from his bottle as the porter turned to Cagan and Harper.

"So refreshing," the abbot said.

Cagan and Harper took a tug at their beer. The room was silent and became all the more imposing. The wall held sever icons. Jesus looked down on them through heavy eyes over black beards and under black eyebrows. He seemed waiting for them to say something. In one icon, the Virgin Mary locked a painful stare across the room. She too waited for some word. Not a question. Something needed to be said. The answer to a mystery. The icons gripped Harper. He was struck by his inability to articulate what must be said.

"I guess I should relax..." he muttered as if to no on in particular, taking another steady drink, then supporting the bottle of beer between his knees and staring at it.

"At moment's like these, I consider the quality of mercy," the abbot said.

"Mercy," Harper said, snorting a laugh. "I don't know what that is anymore. it's alien to me. It's part of a different reality."

The room fell silent again, and several moments ticked away.

"Can we speak of impossible things?" the abbot said.

"Without sounding ridiculous?" Harper asked.

"This is an odd room," the abbot said. "I admit that. It is full of references to ancient things. Yet the past intrudes on the present, with all its promises and, I admit, horrors. With its odd mysteries. I often wonder about how the past, now ancient forces, can intrude on the present. Can I tell you, and it may sound...I suppose it may sound silly...but can I tell you I once was obsessed with basketball."

"Basketball," Harper echoed.

"I grew up in the Bronx." the abbot said. "I grew up in Soundview. These was a Greek church there years ago. It's gone now, but we had a little Greek community there, mixed with Irish, Italians. Puerto Ricans. We played basketball in the schoolyard of the public school. More black families moved into the neighborhood. We didn't know them well at first, but they came to the schoolyard and played basketball among themselves at first. Then we played with them. They took the game a little more seriously. You didn't find many Puerto Rican or Greek basketball players in the newspapers then. Some Irish. When we played with the black kids, they played harder. I suppose because they felt they had something to prove. That they still were up to the game. You had name calling, some conflict. Less than you might have thought, at least among us. The basketball heads. We admired skill, reluctantly at first. But you wanted the best guys on your side. Whatever prejudice we felt, we wanted to win. If you were choosing sides, you might pick your friend first, but the next pick was of the best player left. What he looked like wasn't so important. You wanted to win the game. Of course, you always considered a pick if they guy was good but a ball hog...."

The abbot chuckled and continued, "Soundview was a pretty neighborhood. People didn't rush out just because someone different arrived. My parents didn't rush out when Puerto Ricans moved in. That was when I was little. The place made them want to stay, and that opened them up to new people. And new people moved there to enjoy it. I'm not sure why things went as well as they did. Human beings have a way of creating conflict, of reducing themselves to clanishness. Maybe if I didn't play basketball, I wouldn't have adapted so easily. I'm not sure. I am aware my virtues have their limitations. Even now, even wearing this robe and considering the ancient person who taught me that we are all children of the same father. We had conflict, problems. We resolved them. And we made friends. But, I will say, the process was easy. Not even inevitable. My mother became friendly with Imelda Jackson, who was born in New Orleans and was as devote in her Baptist religion as my mother was in her Greek Orthodox faith. She moved down the street, and I played basketball with her son. Through us, our mother's became very friendly. They had grumpy husbands in common, too. My father was a good man, but he could become annoyed very easily, and my mother had to calm him when things weren't going quite the way he expected. Mrs. Jackson had a similar circumstance. I don't know if you realize, but the Greek Orthodox calculate Easter in a different way than religions that evolved from the Latin church. My mother and Mrs. Jackson had an argument about it. Her son, and I didn't understand it, but their relationship went from friendly to cordial afterwards. Their relationship remained cordial, but not what I would describe as friendly, not as it was before. What an odd point of contention, when to celebrate the birth of someone called the prince of peace. An odd and ancient intrusion. A very old point of contention. Old things. Mysteries. Intruding on the present. While me and Imelda's son Christian Jackson played basketball. And I never stopped picking him for my team when I could because he had a sharp passing eye. He wasn't a ball hog. He wanted to win the game. It was easy for us then, for awhile, anyway. He played basketball for Fordham, when he got older, I went into the seminary. Now, we keep in touch through mutual friends. He lives in Texas. We don't see each other anymore, and we might if it hadn't been for that old mystery. Easter. A day of reconciliation between God and man. We didn't go over to each other's houses as much, eventually drifted apart. Ridiculous. Some things that are ridiculous are as common place as today's paper, which itself is a record of all the ridiculous things that fill the world. So, now we are speaking of ridiculous things. Why not keep on?"

"Father," Harper said and surprised himself by laughing. "I think you are comparing apples to the Loch Ness monster."

The abbot laughed, but Cagan was silent. Cagan began to say something but stopped.

"No monsters in this room," the abbot said. "But tomorrow night, you will transform into a wolf, and we are prepared to see you safe,for your own sake and the sake of others. Ridiculous. Nothing so fanciful can ever happen, but here we are, as commonplace as three men drinking beer in a room, but as exceptional as my mother's argument with Mrs. Jackson, with ancient mysteries imposing themselves on present realities."

"So, I suppose we're not reminiscing about basketball anymore," Harper said. "I guess we're talking about realities."

"Yes," Cagan interposed.

"So," Harper said, "why doesn't someone fill me in on what the hell is going on? Really."

The abbot nodded but sighed after and said, "I'm afraid we are subject to some mystery on that point, as well."

"So, I am not to be enlightened?" Harper said sharply.

The abbot sighted and said., "We will tell you everything we can."

"You are accursed," Cagan said in a gentle tone that contrasted the statement. "I suppose you may have come to that conclusion yourself. What you are discovering, and I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but you've entered a different world, and you cannot escape this world. No matter how hard you try. You can run from it, you can hide, but this world will always return to claim you. As you have experienced."

"What, like a frat?" Harper growled. "I pledged a frat once, but it wasn't for me. I didn't pay my dues and they bounced me. Simple."

Caagan chuckled in a grinding tone.

"I'm afraid this is more like the draft," he said. "You're in. You can ignore it. You have a particular destiny now, and it always will come looking for you.

"There's always Canada."

"No jurisitictional boundaries."

"This is ridiculous."

The abbot shot Cagan a look and sighed and said, "Right. Ridiculous.

"Perhaps I can put it another way..." the abbot said. "You were taken into this strange world, against your will, but taken in. You were attacked. You bare a scar from the attack. The being that attacked you...you must have been certain you would die. But the attack ended as abruptly as it began. I suppose that must be a mystery to you. Having experienced the madness of the transition. You, destroyed. You, consumed. You are driven. You never capable of stop[ing until your victim was annihilated, consumed. I don't know your initial experience. You may have awakened with your prey. Human prey, perhaps. If you killed a person, you have committed no sin. Consumed by the madness, or, perhaps more accurately, a beastly mind. You had no will to resist. The guilt may lay heavily upon you. You can tell us."

Harper paused, then said, "I won't speak of it. What occurred, only once. I didn't know. I confined myself afterwards."

"Successfully?" the abbot asked.

"Yes," Harper responded.

"So many fail at the first attempt. The awful spirit is so powerful. They underestimate."

"I made sure," Harper said. "I understand engineering better than most people."

"You ought to speak of it," Cagan said. "You might experience some relief."

"Enough. Just leave it."

"I killed my best friend in the world," Cagan said.

"Jack," the abbot interjected.

"We are asking Mr. Harper to be honest with us. We ought to be honest with him."

Cagan squared to face Harper.

"I was a soldier when I was attacked," he said." My weapons were in my grasp. It did not avail me. I was thrown down. Certain I would be consumed. The horrible fear. The most basic fear a human being can feel. To become prey."

Cagan stood and turned. He drew his shirt up. His back was torn with scars. Fine scars tore across his back, leading to a deeper, denser pale mat of ruined flesh at his side."

Cagan tucked his shirt back in.

"You survived that?" Harper asked.

"Yes and no," Cagan replied. "Survived, but not as the man I was."

"So this is what you want?" Harper said, jumping to his feet. "I didn't fucking fight I ran. I fucking ran for my life. And this is what id did to me."

Harper tore open his pants legs at the cuff pants, one then the other. His legs were torn with scars.

"Is this what you wanted to see? It fucking tore me up. Left me in the woods to bleed out. I lay there all night, waiting to fucking die. My legs healed by morning. I knew it was wrong. I should have bled to death. I knew it was all wrong. I went home and lay in bed for a day and a night. Fucking shivering. Crying like a child. Let me go. Let me out of here."

"My friend found me," Cagan said, taking a stride to stand between Harper and the chamber door. "He took me to the surgeon. The surgeon bandaged my body, then fled the camp. The surgeon said nothing to anyone else, but left muttering, they say. My friend took me to a house, watched over me for a day, a night, another day. Slept on a litter beside me watching me quake and tremble, thinking I must die. I didn't die. A rumor spread through the camp that something abominable had happened. He quelled the rumors. He lied on my behalf, and he was an honest man. The house where he brought me was old. Made to withstand danger. My friend locked the door, fearing that the rumor would cause some fool to endanger me. He was the fool, as things happened. I turned. In the initiation of my torment, he called for a priest to exorcise me through the locked door. His loyalty remained strong. He tried to flee but too late. I attacked him. I killed him. I consumed him. I took the key that was left on the blood soaked floor, fitted it in the door soaked in my friend's blood, and I fled. The priest who he had summoned lie curled upon the floor in the hallway there, whimpering. I stepped over him and he screamed..."

Cagan finished and silence gripped the room as each occupant considered the images that played through his mind.

"I suppose you think your story must be so terrible as to make mine easier to tell," Harper said. "For an uninterested observer, my little rampage might seem less awful. But I am not...disinterested."

"If you..." the abbot began.

Harper cut him off.

"Confess?," Harper asked, grunting a laugh. "My father was a good Methodist when I was a child. I don't know if he would like me confessing to a Greek Orthodox priest. No offense meant. Really. But after our noble friend Cagan here went through the ordeal of detailing his experience, I suppose keeping my story to itself might seem rude. So I'll tell you a tale. If my telling seems inadequate or incomplete, I'm sorry. I won't be taking questions after. I'll say this: My father has a bungalow in the Adironadacks. I used it when I had complex projects I was working. Get away from every other influences but nature. Seemed noble somehow. Anyway, it made for a good line: I take my inspiration from nature. I could sell that. To clients. Good piece of conversation in bar, too, in Manhattan. Women ate it up. My life. My stupid, simple, successful life. As it was. As I rang it upstate. I couldn't find my dog. I let him out, but he never went far. He was a good dog, and he liked to lay down next to me when I worked. I called him: Steel. No sign of him. I wondered if he got in a tussle, maybe with a coyote. Maybe with a bear. Tough dog. Would never let anything hurt me, not if he could help it. I never saw him again. Feel like I failed him now. My dog. I want into the woods as it was getting dark. I knew all the paths through the woods within a mile of that house. There was a full moon beside. I couldn't get lost. I called him. Nothing. Night was falling. Something moved in the dark. I brought a couple of pots with me in case of a bear. Started banging them together. Might as well called the fucking thing to me. Burning eyes and an awful, hot, iron stench. Lunged at me. I swung one of the pots. Cracked it. You know, for just a millisecond, I was actually proud of myself.Thats when the burning eyes fixed on me. Just terror. I ran. Then it tore at me. I was like a rag doll, caught in the grip of some deranged creature. I felt the teeth puncture me, take hold. Tear. The mouth felt as big a a crocodile's. It tore my flush, mangled my body, broke my bones. I begged something, God, the universe, whatever was out there to just let it end. Then the creature was standing over me. I felt it's hot breath, panting. Stench rolling over me I waited for the coup de gras. But it pattered off, light as a breeze, like nothing of consequence had occurred. Such a calm sound. Satisfied with what it had done. Chunks of me hung from other chunks. The creature made a sound, like a series of little howls. Sounded like laughter to me. Terror. Nothing else could have driven me. Part of me wanted to wait for death just where is lay, but terror of that sound made me drag myself away. I dragged myself to the bungalow. In the moonlight, I saw the trail of blood I left behind. I have much hope I would make it to the door. But all I could think about was getting inside. Shutting out that infernal sound. I woke up just inside the door. I don't remember crawling through. Don't remember shutting it. But I woke up there. Full of energy. I tore off what was left of my close, and I saw the scars. I thought I must have laid their for a month, to have healed like that, but how would I have survived? The blood loss. Dehydration. Starvation. How? I sat on the floor and shivered. Not from cold. Horror. From horror.

Haprer paused and croaked a laugh.

"Some things will make you move. Worst hangover of your life, you'll drag yourself out of bed to take a piss. For water. For asprin. Any relief. I staggered into the bathroom, then to the bed, and I slept another night and into the next afternoon. Cell phoned don't work out there. No television in the place. My father insisted. Solitude. Just a calendar and a clock, and those are useless if you don't know how long you've been unconscious. After a long time, I felt stronger. Weak, but strong enough to run water over my body, to pull off the rags and pull some old clothes onto my body, to drag my aching body into the car and drive to town. I could see how pale I was in the rearview mirror. I went to the grocery store, the only store in the village, and I bought asprin and a newspaper. I tried not to talk to anyone. I thought, they'll think, maybe, that I got into a bad fight with some whiskey. The girl at the counter, though, a girl I had bought the paper from before, rosy cheeks, light brown hair, over a bright, wide blank face out of some family who had never moved from the spot for a hundred years, she went pale as death. Her hand trembled as she handed me my changed. She dropped the coins as my hand approached hers. A couple of them smacked onto the counter. She couldn't help being polite. But she didn't say, sorry. She gasped. I grabbed the change and hustled out of there. I went back to the bungalow, although I dreaded it. I wanted to see if my dog returned, knowing it never would. I told myself I was sick, that had had a hallucination. But what about the scars? I had the paper. Only two days at past. I swerved away from the cars I passed as I drove back. Other cars always seemed too close. I swerved away from trees that seemed to jump away from the roadside. I wondered is if had gone crazy. I got back to the bugalow. No Steel. And a quite in the woods, an unnatural quiet. I went into a panic. Was whatever the fuck attacked me still out there, waiting to finish the job. I knew it wasn't, not even knowing how I knew. But everything common felt strange, but becoming alien. I was frightened. I had whiskey. I drank. Eventually I slept.

"Something banged on the door and I jumped out of bed. Morning. Late morning. I felt terror, in some part of me, but it was like an echo. The part of me that took me to the door wasn't afraid. It was eager to see what might be on the other side, as if it was something to be brushed aside. No in annoyance, but in, it's still odd to me, like inconsequence. I opened the door and the deputy sheriff was there. He looked at me, in my old the old clothes I had slept in, smelling of whiskey, and his hand settled on his gun. I knew the man. Not well. My father knew him better. He knew everyone in town. But, something...it was like he never say me before, and he said, Sir, we got a report here someone might not be well. I told him my name, told him we had met. Some familiarity entered his expression, but his hand still had hold of the pistol grip. Yes, he said, you are Brendon's boy. Yes, I said, Oh, I think I'm okay. Thanks for checking up on me. Was there a party up here or something, he said.. No, I said, I've been sick. I think the flu or something. I couldn't sleep. Made myself a nice hot tody and got a good night's res. I got some sleep. I think I'm a little better. That's a relief, he said, but he didn't move his hand from the gun. I'm glad you're feeling better, he said, but would you mind if I come inside. No, I said, not at all. The place is messy. Then things got even stranger. I stepped away from the door, but he didn't move. He turned his head, looking at the forest. So, I guess everything is okay, he said. I said yeah or something. You got a land line up here, right, he said. I had forgotten it. In the cupboard. My father's only concession to modernity, I said. I was being clever. The part of me that was scared had been overcome by the other part, the part that started to feel less...out of place. What if I give you a call later, the deputy ask, just to check up and see if you're still feeling better? he said, and then he said, If you don't pick up, I'm afraid I'll have to make another stop out of my way, with my partners. It wasn't a threat. It didn't sound like any kind of threat. He sounded like he was talking to someone else, someone he imagined was listening. Of course, I said, that's an old telephone. Wake anybody out of a dead sleep. Not to worry He looked at me funny then, like I was making a threat instead of a pleasant reply. He said, Alright, and he headed back to his car, sidling, half turned toward me and half turned toward the woods. He backed his car out slowly, like he was playing it cool, but when he was pointed down the road he spun the tires like he was driving out of hell."

"And how did you feel then?" the abbot asked.

"Not bad, actually Like I was just about to wake up from an awful, unfathomable dream," Harper said.

"But, you didn't," Cagan interjected.

"Of course," Harper rasped," as you're so keenly aware."

Harper turned away and said, "It's nothing close to over, is it?

"No," Cagan said. "it isn't over."

Silence descended over the room again. Cagan angled the bottle he held in his hand to drain it, then put it town on the table.

"This isn't the sort of thing more beer will help," he said.

"No," the abbot said, "but a walk in the sun might."

"Yeah, why not," Harper said.

The abbot rose and drew open the door. A breath of air whisked through the room, and Harper realized how stagnant the atmosphere had become. The shadows lightened as the sunshine without reflected into the room, and he left swiftly. Cagan and the abbot followed. The dark shape of the big monk loomed in the gallery, but the abbot nodded and he fell back. Harper stepped into the sunshine, which felt hot but refreshing.

As he proceeded into the light, the abbot said, "A better day."

"Yeah," Harper said, taking in the garden as he entered the garden. "Here's to a better day."

Harper drained the last of the beer from the bottle he held, then let it dangle along his side as he walked.

The garden herbs reached Harper as pungent as any scent he had ever experienced, yet he could distinguish the aroma that issued from the roses and irises, gladiolas and violets, as well. Every scent was dense and distinct. They hadn't been so once. Harper turned his mind to the sights and ignored the overpowering sensations that insisted through each inhaled breath. He opened his mouth to breath, but it only reminded him of the panting breath that hung over him not long enough ago, and he could taste iron. Harper tried to control himself but only just hung on. Then the abbot began to hum. The melody had an ancient quality, and Harper felt some surprise as his mind calmed.

"What is that?" he asked, turning to the abbot.

"An old monk's chant," the abbot said. "It implores God for peace and reconciliation."

"Nice idea," Harper sniped, regretting his tone and feeling satisfied with it at the same time.

The tune the abbot hummed turned, growing lively. Harper felt himself smile.

"Wait, what is that?" Harper asked.

"The Jackson Five," the abbot said, smiling back at Harper. "I know they've fallen into disrepute. But I loved their cartoons as a child."

Harper looked with some wonder at the abbot. His eyes, firm and clear, buoyed by round cheeks, invested him with a youthful appearance that the light, casting shadows on the deep lines at his temples and across his brow, ventured to belie. Harper turned to Cagan. The austere lines of Cagan's face and his stalwart, grey eyes grew cheery as a crooked grin turned his expression to a hearty, even noble cast. Harper felt some peace slip over him. He could read suffering in both faces, but resilience, too. Harper felt that he had stumbled from an awful loneliness into the company of men who had faced horror and survived it. The impression raised Harper's spirits, until he saw the frightened young man, the skirts of his habit yanked up, rushing across the garden to mutter in the abbot's ear.

The abbot attended the young man, dark haired but beardless, then turned to Cagan.

"Perhaps Mr. Harper should rest in his chamber."

The big monk appeared as if raised whole from the shadows that bordered the garden. The abbot nodded at the young monk, then Cagan. The monk muttered into Cagan's ear.

"Mr. Harper," the abbot began, "perhaps you should..."

"No," Cagan said with a firm authority. "If we are all facing a threat, Mr. Harper has a right to know what it is."

The abbot hesitated, then said to the young monk, "Inform our brothers and ask them to prepare."

The young monk hurried past them, skirts in tow.

The abbot, looking across the garden, captured a breath, slowly released it, and said, "We can get a look from the upper gallery."

At the far end of the garden, a set of stairs led up to an enclosed upper gallery. Two monks stood half way along the gallery standing back a little way from a window that looked over the street. The abbot hurried along the hallway. Cagan and Harper rushed to keep up.