He will call you out, make you sweat,
Give you a blessing that you'll never forget.
So revel in the chase and let your heartbeat run:
Blessed are the children of the Horned One!
“Hymn to Herne,” from “Blessings,” by S. J. Tucker
* * *
A big sign
on the side of highway I-65 going into Indiana says HELL IS REAL. I hit the
accelerator and speed past, cranking the radio as high as I can.
The
GPS on my phone stops picking up a signal two hours after that. I’m pretty sure
I’m lost, but I’m driving up a twisting dirt road off the highway when I spot
an old-fashioned metal mailbox with a sign that says L. WEATHERS.
I
make a sharp turn up the road, pushing my Prius up the hill until we’re
wheeling into a long round driveway in front of a house that looks like a
hunting shack from the 1920s. Yellow paint, a long porch, a broad window with
duct tape holding up the cracked glass. High stalks of corn grow in a garden
guarded by chicken wire. An outhouse lurks around the corner.
I
park next to a station wagon that looks like a relic from the 1980s, cut
my engine. and look around. Skinny white birch trees with green leaves cast
fluttering shadows over our cars.
Nine
years later, it all looks just the same as I remember.
The
front door swings open. LeAnn walks across the porch. “Rachel?”
I
stand up. The sun blazes down from a cloudless sky, and the air is thick and
humid. But it feels good to be here again.
LeAnn
grabs me for a strong hug. She’s a big woman with long black hair and wide arms
“It’s great to see you! Thank you for coming!”
“Uh,
yeah.” I’m not really a hugging person. “It was a long drive.”
She
looks me over with a smile. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
I
peer at the house. It looks just the same. I take a deep breath, filling up on
the scent the scent of long grass and wild flowers. Then I pat LeAnn’s arm.
“What’s going on? Your email just said . . . ”
LeAnn
sighs. “Emily’s back.”
Oh
no. I step away from her. “Who’s she looking for this time?” Not me. Please,
please, not—
“It’s
Crystal.” LeAnn looks up at the trees. “She told me. Out by the lake.”
Always
the lake. “Where is Crystal?”
LeAnn
shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
The house
has two rooms—a kitchen with a long table, and a big room for sleeping. I carry
my backpack inside and try not to shudder, thinking about how much time I spent
here when I was just out of college, trying to figure my life out.
A
bunch of girls in sleeping bags, taking turns cooking and cleaning up, talking
about feminism, reading books like How to Suppress Women’s Writing and
everything by Ursula K. LeGuin we could get our hands on from the nearest
second-hand bookstore.
We
had to wash up in the lake behind the house. Keeping our eyes out for the
locals who tried to catch us naked.
At
least LeAnn has electricity now—a lamp in the corner of the kitchen shines dim
light around the room, and a two-plate burner sits next to a rusty sink. A
half-size refrigerator takes up one corner.
But
there’s no computer or modem. “How did you send me an email?”
She
laughs. “I drive thirty miles to the public library in Martinsburg twice a
week. Mostly it’s spam. Every few months I get something from my cousin in
Oregon. But I sent you that message yesterday.” She brings me a glass of water.
“You’re quick.”
I
slump into a wobbly wooden chair. “When did you see her?”
LeAnn
sits down and sighs. “Two days ago. She was out by the lake. Like always.”
The
water in the glass is lukewarm, but it has a lemon taste. I look up around the
room. A calendar from last year hangs from a nail on the wall. A fly buzzes
near the window.
I
want to punch something. Instead I try to breathe slowly. “What did she say?”
LeAnn
crosses her arms. “What do you think? I always ask her why she’s here, but she
only says she wants one of us. There’s only a few of us left.” She closes her
eyes. “Me, you, Crystal, Alison . . .”
I
look over into the other room. It’s so small, and I try to remember how so many
of us could fit in there, crowding on the floor, fighting over pillows.
Snoring. And yeah, a little making love.
I
shoo the fly away. “You used to have cats.”
“Serena
died last spring. I buried her near the garden.”
I
stand up, my legs still wobbly. “I need—I guess I need to wash up. And think.”
“Sure.”
LeAnn heads toward the mini-refrigerator. “I’ll start some dinner. You’re still
vegetarian, right?”
Sometimes
I eat fish. “Yeah. Whatever you’ve got.”
“Rachel
. . .” LeAnn leans toward me. Her breath ins warm on my face. “Are you all
right? It’s been a long time.”
I
back away. “I’m fine. I have a job. An apartment. Friends. Plants. I might get
a fish.”
LeAnn
smiles. “I’m happy for you.”
I take the
short dirt path down to the lake. The lake is small, maybe a hundred yards in
each direction, but the water is cool and clean. Years ago we used to swim
here, mostly at night, and when the moon was full it was like a festival of . .
.
What?
Female empowerment? Or just a bunch of hippie college girls having fun in the
water?
I
take off my T-shirt and splash water over my face and under my arms. Then I
pull my shirt back on and trudge back up the path.
Looking
up at the house with the sun setting overhead, I suddenly flash back. It’s a
cliché, I know, but I can’t help it, being here now. Again.
It was
graduation year—the second or third time LeAnn invited a bunch of girls to the
cabin for a weekend. The first night we build a fire outside and sing songs.
The second night we build another fire and sit around it, and LeAnn brings out
a book. It’s old, with a red leather cover, and she opens it up on her knees.
“Listen to this. It’ll open your minds.” Then she starts to read.
The
words are ancient, but even though none of us understand them, they seem to
burn with mystical power. When she finishes, giggling, the fire flares, and for
a moment all of us watch something rise from the flames—a tall creature with
big red horns, majestic and handsome, with a broad chest and thick arms and . .
.
And,
okay, he’s totally nude. A wide grin splits his face. And some of our faces
too.
Suzanne
giggles. Okay, we’re a bunch of college girls, and some of us have had a lot of
sex, but nobody’s seen anything like this before. I shiver.
Then
Robyn lurches up, laughing, and starts dancing around the fire. “La-la-la!” She
flutters her arms up and down like a bird. “Come on! La-la-lahhh . . .”
The
others rise up to join her. Crystal and Suzanne kick their legs high and
giggle, like cheerleaders prancing in front of the football team. They join
hands with Robyn and Mary, shouting at the sky as they spin around the flames.
LeAnn drops the book and pushes her way into the circle like she wants to walk
straight into the fire.
I
want to join in. But I’m frightened. I feel hot—my body tingling inside and
out. It’s not just the fire. The creature is watching all of us. But I look
away. Wishing I could dance with them. Why are they all so free? Why can’t I .
. .
LeAnn
sits down next to me, out of breath. “Did I do that? Oh god . . . “
The
creature laughs from the middle of the flames. Then it disappears in an
explosion of sparks that sends us scattering, laughing.
“Wow.”
Emily whirls around, kicking her sandals off, her long hair flying. “That was
awesome! Let’s do it again!”
LeAnn makes
a dinner of asparagus and corn from her garden, along with lentils that come
from the closest store with organic foods. That’s what she tells me, anyway. I
don’t know where she gets her money from—maybe growing weed somewhere far from
the house. I’m not sure I want to ask.
The
food is good. Bland, but at least she has pepper. I wish for a beer, but I make
do with water from a big jug with lemons inside.
We
chat about our lives. LeAnn has been living here for the last nine years, ever
since that first summer. For a few years we came back for a week or a weekend,
some of us, until our lives got in the way.
LeAnn
talks about her garden, managing the house, and doing business with the locals.
She doesn’t have any problems with them. This is the middle of Indiana—maybe
redneck country—but everyone in the nearby town is friendly these days.
“My
best friend runs a gun shop.” LeAnn shudders. “He keeps trying to sell me a
shotgun. But he’s a really nice guy. He loaned me money last winter. And he
never tries to, you know—” She holds up her middle finger. “It’s not like that.
They’re good people.” She swallows some water. “They think I’m crazy, but
that’s all right.”
I
tell her about my job—designing websites and marketing brochures, mostly. I
don’t want to talk about the other stuff right now.
After
a while we sit quietly and finish our meal. It’s a comfortable silence, even
though it’s been years since seeing each other.
We
clean up and then go out to the porch. The sun’s down and the half-moon is
peeking through the trees. We sit on a pair of folding beach chairs, and LeAnn
flicks a cigarette lighter. “Smoke?”
I
haven’t smoked weed in years. But right now it feels right. “Sure.”
She
lights up. The moon rises. I start to relax. And stop fighting the memories.
My parents
got divorced when I was 14. Unfortunately, that was when I first started
hearing voices in my head.
Well,
not really voices. Just feelings. But I couldn’t always tell the difference.
Was
I just bitchy, or did Roxanne Litch really hate me? Did my math teacher
actually fantasize about cutting all of us up and dumping us in a landfill? Did
my mother want to leave me with my crazy, drug-addicted aunt? Did Ray really
love me, or did he just want to get into my panties? And what about that bird
that sat in a tree outside my window all night, telling me stories about
sailing on the ancient seas?
I
was afraid I was schizophrenic. It turned out to be worse—and better.
Here’s
the thing: I’m psychic. A little bit. I can handle it now. But at the time?
Yeah, I was a little screwed up.
My
mom didn’t send me to live with Aunt Cara, but she did get a boyfriend who
drank beer all day and tried to molest me whenever she wasn’t around. I had a
string of boyfriends all through high school, and most of them were jerks, but
I didn’t care just then. There was one counselor who just wanted to put me on
drugs, but then I found an English teacher who read my stories and seemed to
understand that the voices in my head weren’t all hallucinations. She helped me
sort out my thoughts, figure out which ones were just adolescent paranoia and
which ones really came from somewhere else—so I could confront them, or ignore
them.
Mostly
she helped me get into college. With a scholarship. So for the first time in my
life I didn’t have to fight my way through what other people thought about me.
My mind started to clear. I actually understood what I was reading. I saw a way
out.
“How
did we meet?” LeAnn passes me the joint.
“Robyn.”
I take a hit. “She was in my computer design class. And you invited her here
one weekend, and she told me I could come.”
“Oh,
yeah.” LeAnn nodded. “That was a good time.”
Six
or seven girls in one cramped cabin. We drank beer, smoked weed, went swimming
in the lake, read magazines, argued, made up, and then went back to campus on
Sunday night. It became a regular thing, every few months. One November we
almost froze. The next May we were attacked by mosquitoes and bats.
I
think LeAnn’s parents owned the property. Then they died during her senior
year, and she just decided to live here. I wanted to go somewhere—a big city,
like Indianapolis or Chicago—and do something with my degree in graphic design
and my minor in philosophy. But she invited all of us to spend a long weekend after
graduation, and a bunch of us showed up. Ready to get out of college, but not
quite ready to leave it all behind.
That’s
when she brought out the book.
I lean
forward, coming back to the present. “Where was Crystal the last time you
talked to her?”
LeAnn
blows smoke through her lips. “Up in Indy, I think. I might have an address
somewhere. I sent her a postcard one time.”
Great.
I stand up, my feet unsteady. Suddenly I’m pissed off, despite the weed. At
Emily, mostly. But also LeAnn. She talks to Emily, but she doesn’t really know
anything, and then she asks me to come down here and straighten everything out?
“I’m
going down to the lake.” I stagger off the porch. LeAnn calls after me. I don’t
answer.
Down
by the lake again I take off my shoes and sit by the water, letting my feet get
wet. I don’t really expect Emily to show up. I just want to get away from LeAnn
for a few minutes.
I was happy to see her, but now I’m just
tired. I’m not a crimefighter. I’m not even a private detective. I’m just a
designer with some very vague psychic abilities. And LeAnn expects me to
somehow save Crystal from the problem she started years ago?
I
throw a stone into the water. I want to go home.
Of course
LeAnn doesn’t have anything like coffee in the morning. I wash in the lake
again, change my shirt and underwear in the cabin, and jump in my car. Good
thing I’ve got a box of granola bars in my backpack, along with my laptop. And
a good A/C.
“I
need to find a good wi-fi connection,” I tell LeAnn through the window with my
motor running. “If I get anything, I’m going up to Indy.” If I don’t—well, I’m
not sure I’m coming back.
I’ll
try to help Crystal if I can. But this cabin has too many memories. Good and
bad, whatever. But I’ve got a decent life now. I’m not sure I want to come
back.
“I’ve
missed you.” LeAnn smiles. “Thanks for coming.”
I’ve
missed her. And maybe the person I used to be, nine years ago. “Me too.”
God help me,
I stop in the first McDonalds I see. They have coffee. And wi-fi. I order two
basic Egg McMuffins, no meat—I’m vegetarian, but I do eat eggs and cheese—and a
bunch of extra hash brown cakes. Then I grab a booth in the corner and open up
my laptop.
Crystal
is actually Christine Brown. I remember that much. She was a blond-haired, blue-eyed
princess in college, although she was never stuck up about it. We were never
best friends or anything, but she was smart and decent. Math major, I think.
I
search the internet. Crystal Brown, Christine Brown, Indianapolis, math—what
else? I find a dozen Facebook pages for someone else. I expand the search
outside of Indianapolis. If she’s not in the state, I’ll never find her, but
then maybe Emily won’t either.
I
get a refill on my coffee and order more hash brown cakes. I manage to get a
couple of likely phone numbers. A certain guy I know has resources only a
private detective can have, but he won’t share his password with me. Jerk. So I
start punching numbers.
The
first one actually sounds like Crystal, but it goes right to voice mail. “Hi, this
is Christine, we’re not here right now, but you know, leave a message when I
stop talking.” Beep.
I
haven’t actually figured out what I should say. “Hi, if this is Crystal, this
is Rachel Spring. I, uh, think Emily wants to find you. Give me a call.” I leave
my number and hang up. And wait.
When
she doesn’t call me back, I punch the next number. I don’t like calling
strangers, but I know from TV that you don’t usually hit the jackpot right
away. The next number is an elderly woman who thinks I’m her granddaughter. The
one after that is a husband or a boyfriend. He takes my number, but he’s pretty
sure his Christine doesn’t know me.
The
next two calls go to voicemail, and neither one really sounds like Crystal, but
I leave my name and number anyway. Then I drink the last of my coffee, pack up,
and use the bathroom. A real bathroom. Civilization.
I
buy another coffee and then sit in my car, trying to decide whether driving up
to Indianapolis is really worthwhile considering I don’t know my way around.
Crystal could be anywhere, and I don’t really know what to do if I find her. So
I sit and wait and worry about all the work piling up for me back home.
The
phone buzzes. What? I’m not asleep, I’m just . . . oh, all right. I pick up. “Hi, this is me. Rachel.”
“Rachel
who?” The voice sounds pissed. And familiar, even after seven years.
I
sit up. “Me. The same bitch who coached you through your final paper for
Womens’ Studies, remember? That C+ you got is partly mine.”
Crystal
laughs. “Okay. I wasn’t sure. Look—” She talks fast so I can’t interrupt her.
“I can’t talk long right now. Where are you?”
I
tell her, and she gives me an address. “Be careful.” Her voice is a whisper.
“Look for my car, it’s a green minivan. Don’t knock on any doors.” She hangs
up.
A
minivan? What the hell? I start the car and look at my phone. Come on, GPS,
don’t fail me now.
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