Apocalypticon (31 page)

12.

The “friary” turned out to be a system of shoddy tree houses connected by a poorly designed series of rope bridges. As far as Patrick could tell, Brother Triedit’s tree house was the only one with a full roof overhead. “Settle yourselves in here and meet us down in the dining pit for dinner,” he said, pointing at a picnic table set into a dip in the earth below. Then he disappeared across a bridge and into the chapel, an especially rickety tree house with a poorly angled cross nailed to a branch near the door. 

“Go on,” Patrick said as they hefted their bags onto the crude wooden floor. “Give me a six-hour rant about how this is dangerous, and how we shouldn’t stay here.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s a society built around tree houses!
Tree houses
! Throw in a ball pit and a grilled cheese castle, and we’re pretty much staying in my childhood fantasy town.”

“What’s a grilled cheese castle?” Patrick asked. But Ben was already out the door and on his way down the flimsy rope ladder.

Brother Mayham and his fellow rescue monks were just returning by the time Patrick and Ben sidled up to the dining pit. “
Dommy novus somi-naaaaay
,” they chanted. Patrick was dismayed to see they had returned sans-buffalo. He approached one of the brothers and tapped him on the shoulder. The brother jumped in surprise. “How’d things go with Ponch?” he asked.

“Oh, very well,” the friar said, “very well indeed. We managed to salvage your buffalo.”

“Salvage?” Patrick said.

“Yes, salvage. Isn’t that right? I’m sorry, we have such a difficult time with your English. What might be a better word to use?”

“Saved?”

“Ah. Saved, then.”

“Can we go see her?”

“Oh, no,” said Brother Mayham. “She’s being prepared!”

“Prepared?” Patrick asked doubtfully.

“Prepared. Yes? She is being made presentable? Is that the word?”

“Presentable for what?”

“For her introduction into our camp!”

Patrick frowned. “I don’t know. I’d feel much better if I could see her.” But Brother Mayham just laughed.

“Animals may not enter here without proper preparation,” he said. He patted Patrick on the shoulder and disappeared up into the trees.

“Must be some sort of religious purification thing,” he said to no one in particular. Ben shrugged.

“I’m sure she’s fine. She killed a whole football team’s worth of zombies, I’m sure she can handle some Gregorian weirdoes.”

They feasted early on beefsteak that evening, and by the time the last rays of sunshine drained from the foggy yellow air, the plates had been cleared and Brother Triedit had retrieved a giant bladder flask from his tree house. He squeezed a stream of light purple juice into his mouth, swallowed happily, and passed the flask to his right. He smiled at his guests from across the fire. “Centerwine,” he explained. “Our own concoction. Please, help yourselves.” The flask passed from brother to brother, each man taking a gulp of the wine before passing it on. Patrick took the bladder gingerly and inspected it in the firelight.

“What is it?” he asked.

Brother Triedit frowned. “Centerfruit, and other various fermentations.”

Ben nudged him gently. “Don’t piss them off, they wield the God-force,” he whispered.

“I don’t think you know how religion works,” Patrick whispered back. But he nodded his thanks to the Holy Father and squeezed a jet of wine into his mouth. He gagged instantly and spat the whole mouthful onto the table.

“What’s it taste like?” Ben asked nervously. “Good?”

Patrick’s face soured as he forced himself to swallow a second swig. “Moldy Windex and braunschweiger,” he decided. He handed the flask to Ben, who held it like he would a rotting skunk carcass. He pinched his nostrils shut and squirted a quick spray into his mouth. He swallowed with a grimace, his face shading a deep purple.

“My God!” he gasped, shaking his head. “What
is
that shit?” He handed the bladder to the brother on his left, who grinned a broken-tooth grin and squirted a gulp happily into his gullet. Brother Triedit smiled too.

“Centerwine stimulates mammarian development,” he said.

Patrick tipped his head to the side. “Beg pardon?”

The one called Brother Mayham cupped his hands in front of his chest. “It augments the boobular region,” he explained. “Bazoombas.”

Patrick and Ben both groaned. “That’s very thoughtful,” Patrick said, wiping pale pink spittle from his mouth, “given the importance of a healthy bust and all, but we don’t have boobulars. Bazoombas. We have testiculars. Generally housed in this area.” He swirled a hand near his genitals.

“It is customary for Brothers of the Post-Alignment Order to consume the centerwine in the hopes of achieving gender transmutation,” Brother Triedit explained.

“Gender transmutation?” Ben asked, concerned. The friary suddenly didn’t seem quite so much like his fantasy kingdom anymore.

Brother Triedit crossed his legs under himself and leaned forward, almost excitedly. “We are a strictly male sect, as you can see,” he said, gesturing to the brothers around the fire. “But we wish to actively encourage the survival of the Order, a pursuit that seems more and more unlikely as we continue to fail to discover worthy acolytes. The Great Alignment, it seems, has claimed the majority of our planet’s males in an effort to right the natural injustice of humanity.”

“The Great Alignment?” Patrick asked. “You mean M-Day.”

“Ah, ‘Monkey Day,’ yes. Give it what sinful secular title you will, it was a day of great salvation and alignment for the human faithful, but our Order was left without women to assist in procreation. Therefore, with the guidance of the Prayers of the Aligned, we strive to transmute our own selves into the femalular sex so that we might procreate and spread the Word of the Aligned into future generations.”

“Lemme get this straight,” Ben said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “You’re all trying to turn yourselves...into women?” The brothers nodded. “So that you can have sex with each other?” More emphatic nodding.

Patrick jumped in with both hands. “And you’re hoping that this questionably alcoholic beverage will do that.”

“We do not hope. We
believe
,” said Brother Triedit.

“Why on earth would you believe that?”

Now it was Brother Waywerd’s turn to speak. He was a bookish man with horn-rimmed glasses and a boyish face. “Are you familiar with the scientific fact that some West African frogs are known to spontaneously switch genders, without any warning at all?”

“Why, yes, I
did
see
Jurassic Park
,” Patrick answered.

“Oh Jesus,” Ben said, his face flushing light green. “If you tell me I just drank frog sperm, I’m throwing up on every single one of you.”

“Goodness, no!” Brother Waywerd exclaimed. “No, no. Not sperm. Just blood extraction.”

“Centerwine is frog blood?” Ben asked, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Among other things, yes. That’s the main ingredient.”

“We also use wild boysenberry, for flavor,” explained Brother Triedit.

“You know, I
thought
I tasted boysenberry,” Patrick said, wagging a finger at the Holy Father. Ben looked as if he might actually be sick, at least on himself if not on everyone else. Patrick, however, was more scientifically intrigued than physically ill. “Has this screwball plan shown any signs of success?” he asked the hooded scientist.

“Well, not yet,” Brother Waywerd admitted sadly, “but as we all know, life finds a way.”

“Of course it does. You know, human physiology is a
bit
more complex than amphibian physiology. Does that concern you at all? Make you think, ‘Hey, maybe this, I don’t know, won’t work’?”

“If the Order is fated to succeed, this is the manner in which it will achieve future greatness,” Brother Waywerd said simply. “If it
does
not work, then it
should
not work.”

“Interesting,” Patrick said, tapping a finger to his lips. “Religious zealousy with a strong fatalistic bent. My Aunt Margie would’ve loved you guys. How long have you been drinking this centerwine?”

“About two years now,” Brother Mayham said.

“And tell me, how do you feel?”

“Me? Well, I must admit, personally, I don’t feel much different,” Brother Mayham said.

“Oh, that’s nonsense!” cried Brother Haffstaff from across the fire. “If you ask me, you’re much more sensitive now than you used to be.”

“Was I not sensitive before?” Brother Mayham frowned.

“You were always a bit of a human tinder box,” Brother Haffstaff admitted. “But you’re much more empathetic these days.”

“I’d say the same for most of us,” piped up Brother Wildgardyn. “We’re
all
much more sensitive!”

Brother Bickdraft snorted. “
Too
sensitive, if you ask me. It gets worse every week.”

“There’s no such thing as too sensitive; there is only complete and utter
in
sensitivity!” Brother Haffstaff cried.

“You see? This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Brother Bickdraft grumbled.

“How dare you insinuate!” Brother Wildgardyn exclaimed.

“Brothers, brothers, please!” Brother Triedit lifted his hands and waved them gently at the assembly. “Be centered!
Kyrie-eh-so domin-oos
,” he intoned.

On cue, the other brothers immediately relaxed and chanted their answer in unison: “
Dom-ah doos-uh eff-ree-ay
.”

“That’s beautiful,” Patrick said with a short round of applause. “What’s it mean?”

“In each one, we find the center, and in the center, we find all,” said Brother Triedit.

“Wonderful. Better even than Pig Latin. Just wonderful.”

Brother Wildgardyn raised his hand. Brother Triedit called on him. “I thought it meant, ‘Whensoever the sun doth rise, therefore too are the children of the wicket crickets.”

“That is a wildly blasphemous translation, Brother Wildgardyn!” Brother Bickdraft screamed. “I command you to the Centrification Chamber!” The other brothers nodded their emphatic agreement. It was unanimous; Brother Wildgardyn’s blasphemy must be punished. The friar snuffled, collected the folds of his robe in his hands, and walked primly to the edge of camp, where he reached down and pulled up a hidden trapdoor, covered with sticks and brush. He held his breath and jumped into the hole with a loud
SPLASH
! Then the trapdoor fell shut, and the brothers turned back to the fire, each of them brooding on Brother Wildgardyn’s failure. Ben broke the silence by clearing his throat.

“So. What else do you guys do? Besides hope for spontaneous sex changes?” he asked. Brother Haffstaff opened his mouth to respond, but Patrick cut in, his voice high-pitched with incredulity.

“Wait, where on Earth did you find West African frogs?” he demanded.

Brother Triedit and Brother Haffstaff exchanged looks. “Well, ahm...we haven’t actually managed to locate West African frogs as such,” Brother Haffstaff said slowly, tenting his fingers in front of his robe. “Yet!” he added.

“But our frogs are just as good,” Brother Bickdraft insisted.

Patrick leaned forward, clasping his hands under his chin. “Let me get this straight. You’re hoping for a widespread, irrational sex change from taking a few shots of blood from a species of frog that is
not
the one known for getting surprise gender reassignment surgery?”

“If the Great Centralizer hears our prayer, anything is possible.”

“Swell!” Patrick cried gleefully. “That is excellent! Cracker Jack of a plan you got here.” He gave thumbs up all around. The flask had made its way back around the circle. He took it happily and squirted another shot into his mouth. “Mm. You know, you’re right, you can really taste the ovaries. What do you think, Ben? Ovaries?” he asked, handing him the centerwine. Ben pushed it away in disgust.

Brother Triedit stood and stretched his hands out over the table. “Brothers!” he boomed. “It is time for the Feats of Adulation.”

“
Oh-may for-tay lon-ee-yay
,” the brothers chanted.

“Oh my forty lawn yards,” Patrick echoed, making a religious sign with his hand.

Ben leaned over and hissed, “What’s the matter with you? Are you drunk? Are you becoming a woman?”

“This is easily the single silliest situation I have ever encountered,” Patrick whispered back. “I’m drunk on incredulity.”

“Let us adjourn to the fire,” said Brother Triedit. He led the group to the friary’s fire pit, around which the men sat down cross-legged in a large ring. “The first Feat belongs to Brother Toldus and Brother Bickdraft.” The two monks stood and bowed to the Holy Father. “
Doo-say port-oh mon-groo sat-ay,
” they mumbled in unison. Then they turned to each other and bowed again. Brother Bickdraft motioned for Brother Toldus to go first. The latter folded his hands into his sleeves and cleared his throat loudly.

“Tonight I adulate the Great Centralizer with this cedar twig, which I discovered underfoot upon my morning constitution.” He retrieved a small branch from within the folds of his robe that still had a few of what Patrick was fairly certain were oak leaves and not cedar needles. Brother Toldus held the twig over his head in both hands, closed his eyes, rolled his head back on his shoulders, and undulated in a proud and powerful
Xena: Warrior Princess
battle cry. His hands flew into a flurry, maniacally shredding the leaves from the twig. Then he broke the tiny branch into a dozen pieces, spun around, and hurled them into the woods. He turned back to the fire, bowed low to the flames, and said, “In Its Name, I adulate.” He sat down to the approving murmurs of his brethren.