Scarecrow Gods (10 page)

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Authors: Weston Ochse

Tags: #Horror, #Good and Evil, #Disabled Veterans, #Fiction

BOOK: Scarecrow Gods
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The Padre disengaged himself from the grasping hands of the old woman and hurried to the circle. He pushed aside the strong men and entered like a matador, both wary and confident, faith in himself and his God as his armor. He held his crucifix high and spent his prayers around it, using it as a focus for his faith, willing power through the tortured frame of the small carved Christ.

“I exorcise you unclean spirit in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Come out and leave this servant of God, dear Gregorio. Accursed and damned spirit hear the command of God himself, he who walked upon the sea and extended his right hand to Peter as he was sinking, just as I am extending my hand to you.”

A wad of spittle hit the Padre’s cheek and slid across his lips. He continued unfazed. “Never dare, accursed devil, to violate the sign of the holy cross which we place upon Gregorio’s forehead. Through Christ our Lord.”

At the word
cross
, the Padre stepped forward to Gregorio who was beginning to gasp heavily, his back bowed and his arms hanging loose. The Padre began to repeat his words, his voice finding the tone as he placed the wooden symbol upon the young man’s forehead. Then suddenly he reeled as a fist found his face, propelling him backward into the arms of two farmers. Gregorio launched himself at the Padre, and before he could be beaten away, the old man’s face bled red.

One of the farmers waded in with his fists, no longer complacent, no longer as concerned for Gregorio’s well-being. He struck the youth’s face, repelling the demon-forged temper back and back until Gregorio fell hard to the kitchen tile where he scrambled like an upended crab.

Simon, who’d been stilled by the scene, found himself and slipped within the circle. He reached down and felt the Padre’s neck, bruises already rising in a purple-black mosaic. With a rush of relief, he found a pulse. Untucking his t-shirt, he ripped away a strip. Gently, he cleared the blood away from the old man’s eyes. They were already beginning to swell, dark circles turning black. Simon breathed every prayer he knew—from the artillery prayer of the Gulf War to the Lord’s Prayer of his youth. Finally, the man’s eyes fluttered. His chest heaved. Simon tried to speak but couldn’t. The Padre returned Simon’s gaze and held up the small symbol of God with slow hand.

Simon directed the men to take care of the Padre as he took up the crucifix, holding it out in front of him, his arms straight and trembling. He stood, glaring and angry. His left hand opened and closed at his side, ready for a simple minute of strangulation if salvation failed.

“Get back asshole!” screamed Simon into the now empty kitchen.

While he’d been busy with the Padre, the youth had moved. But where? The home was so tiny. There was virtually nothing to the kitchen other than a closed door, a scarred ceramic sink, an old refrigerator, cabinets and a pantry partially hidden by a dirty linen sheet, brown gray from thousands of cigarettes.

Simon approached the pantry slowly. He glanced back as fear began to insinuate and soften his steely rage.

The circle of men were watching.

The grandma was watching.

The Padre was watching.

Simon held his breath, concentrating on the cross, hoping that his half-faith was enough to provide it the power the Padre had so easily wielded. He reached out and swept aside the curtain. The back wall was covered with hand-made pine shelves filled with cans, sacks and boxes of food. Drawing his eyes upward, Simon spied Gregorio squatting upon the top shelf between boxes of Count Chockula and Frankenberry cereals.

Simon brought up the crucifix, punching it towards the youth’s face. He felt resistance, as if the air was harder. He redoubled his effort and pressed forward until he felt the knuckles of his hand and the wood of the cross intersect with skin. Gregorio’s mouth opened and a funnel of rancid bile glanced off Simon’s outstretched arm and on to the floor.

“I exorcise you, unclean spirit in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Come out and leave this servant of God!”

Simon tried hard to remember the words the Padre had spoken only moments before. He struggled for the next lines, but they were unnecessary. Gregorio’s body spasmed then slowly tilted forward, until he fell into Simon’s arms like an overgrown ragdoll. Simon carried the boy into the main room and lay him down beside the Padre.

Simon stared nervously around at the faces of the men and the youth and the Padre and the grandma. He wondered where the spirit had gone to now.

* * *

Ooltewah, Tennessee

Bernie was in his head.

Live.

“No,” replied Maxom.

I said, live, dammit
.

“No. I wanna die.”

Listen nigger. Are you going to make my death meaningless? I said live!

“Go away, Bernie.”

Nigger. Nigger. Nigger.

If it hadn’t hurt so much, Maxom would have smiled. He remembered the interrogation training and how they’d tried to make him mad. They’d told him his mother sucked huge white dicks. They’d told him he’d been bred from apes. They’d called him nigger. They’d expected him to get angry, but Bernie had already broken him of that particular habit.

When he’d joined the Army, any one of those phrases would have sent him into a murderous frenzy. But he’d been around the block a few times since then; he’d been around Bernie. Maxom could tell when people wanted to get a rise out of him. Fayetteville, North Carolina in the 1960s was no place for a black man to be. He’d gotten ass-kickings severe enough to leave him in the hospital. The problem with the white boys was that there were so damned many of them. He’d learned to pick his fights after that, leaving the Army boys alone, but kicking civilian ass whenever the chance presented itself.

Bernie finally tired of bailing him out of jail. Friend or not, things had to change. The big Norwegian had tied him to his bunk and spent two days calling him every derogative name invented—
Spear Chucker, Porch Monkey, Shit Man, Lawn Jockey
. He’d insulted his mother, going into incredible detail of how he’d fuck her, a hundred positions, his mother loving every one. Even though they were friends, Maxom had made the bed jump and quake with rage, the words quickly becoming an agonizing, never-ending parade of hatred.

After two days, he’d been cured. They
were
merely words. Words cast by ignorant people. Words that meant nothing. The biggest lesson of all—
Words ain’t bullets.

Towards the end of their training, they’d been captured and held—practice for what could happen when they went to Vietnam. His captors were delighted he was black. They thought it would be too easy. They believed his race had provided them the edge. He was the only member of the team who didn’t break.

And now Bernie was in his mind calling him Nigger. Not to remind him of the hatred. Not because the dead man was spiteful. No, the only reason Bernie showed up was to remind Maxom of the amount of shit he could take. This was nothing. He was a Special Force’s warrior. A fucking piece of cake.

And he’d eat it.

Maxom allowed the old Mung tribesman to feed him, his broken lips chapping at the chopsticks, the tasteless rice filling his mouth until he salivated and could swallow.

The old Mung was a lot like Bernie.

Not in size. Where Bernie was immense, the Mung was tiny, his stature that of a child. No, they were alike because of the friendly indifference both of them showed Maxom. Each of them in their own way cared. It was just that they couldn’t always show it.

Even with Maxom’s pathetic language skills, he’d heard the VC Major tell the village that the Black American could not be removed and was to be left alone.

But the Mung had ignored the command. Maxom remembered the first brush of the old man’s mind, shortly after Maxom had decided that he’d had enough. He’d given up and was willing himself to die. He’d seen Bernie’s death and knew that he was next.

As he began descending into the comfortable pain-free darkness of death, he felt his mind touched by something. An image of a meal came into internal focus so perfect that Maxom begged to smell it. No sooner did he wish that, within seconds, a phantom aroma assaulted him. He’d begged to taste and his tongue basked in the tartness of cranberry sauce and the sweet succulence of the turkey, fried okra and buttered hominy. He tasted the green beans and the pieces of bacon his mother tossed the salad with.

When his eyes had snapped open and he’d realized it was just another break with reality, he’d screamed with frustration, his cries sending flocks of crows from the tribe’s fields as he’d performed his task as scarecrow to the world. He only stopped screaming when he saw the Mung smiling—the secret smile of one who knew a great secret and was willing to share. Somehow, Maxom understood that he wasn’t going crazy. He suddenly knew it had been the little man who had given him this gift.

Then day after day he’d begun witnessing miracles.

It had started when the VC had reentered the mountain village. In the evenings, they’d gather around him and drink fermented goat’s milk. Punching him, kicking him. Seeing how high they could pee upon his body. He was their morale builder. The great Special Force’s soldier captured and put in his place.

During the day, however, the VC would patrol or sleep, and like always, the Mung would sit in front of him. It was at noon of the second day of the VC’s occupation of the village before Maxom finally caught on. He’d been stunned as he watched the Mung stare at the tiny piece of rice and, like a maggot, it undulated its way along the ground, up the pole, along his leg, up his body, only to stop, sticking to the sweat of his chin. It was on the third piece of rice, that Maxom realized the impossible. The old Mung, somehow, someway, was moving the rice with his mind. It was only after the sixth piece of rice rested tantalizing upon his chin, that Maxom screamed his frustration and shook his head, dislodging the food from their teasing perch.

The Mung grinned toothlessly.

And like the proverbial ant, the Mung began again.

This time Maxom watched with a more critical eye. He’d heard stories about the people of the mountain. He’d heard they were older than the Vietnamese.
That they could do thing
s.

Maxom concentrated on the tiny piece of white, imagining it crawling into his mouth. Sweat, beaded along his forehead and his eyes moved to slits. Nothing. He tried again, imagining a hand plucking it from his grimy chin and placing it into his mouth. Nothing.

He tried again.

And again.

And again.

And screamed with frustration.

Maxom glared at the smiling Mung and prayed to whatever Gods would listen for a minute-long reprieve. He knew the VC would never let him go, but all he wanted was to climb down, kick the shit out of the little man and climb back up to await his death.

He heard laughter within his mind, high-pitched and raspy. He stared and knew it was the little man. It had all been a game. Just another form of torture. First his body and then his mind. He felt like a mouse, chased down and pinned under the great paw of some cat. Release, pounce. Release, pounce. Release, pounce and toss into the air.

Something brushed against his mind. Something soft and gentle, like the lotioned hand of his mother. He felt it touch memories, then he remembered sitting in his momma’s kitchen as a child. It was at the old scarred Formica table, the one that his father had used every Saturday for his poker games. He saw a bowl of hot buttered grits and a plate of toast, resting against a jar of blueberry preserves. His mother was busy at the sink, a towel thrown over her shoulder as she cleaned dishes, humming an old spiritual, the sounds filling the kitchen space. He reached over with child hands and lifted a spoonful of the white mush and brought it to his mouth. He tasted it, and swooned with the well-remembered flavor. His mother stopped her humming and turned.

“Now, wasn’t that easy?”

Maxom stared as his mother melted and morphed into the small creased Mung, wearing the same silly smile.

Maxom realized he’d closed his eyes. As he opened them, he was pulled from the heavenly confines of his mother’s kitchen to the super-heated jungle of his hell. He glared at the little man for intruding upon his memories. For destroying a perfect moment from his childhood. For…

…entering into his mind.

The Mung had nodded slightly, stood and walked away, leaving Maxom to digest the meaning.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 3

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday—June 10th

Chattanooga, Tennessee

“I don’t want to go,” said Danny’s mother.

“Come on. I want us to go to church as a family, dammit. It’s something we need to do.”

“I just find it so—”

“So what?” asked his father. “What else should we do, honey? Should we just hide here in the house and pretend it didn’t happen?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Reverend Chambers is counting on us being there. He has an announcement about Elaina and she—” The look of horror upon his wife’s face made him pause, “What? What’s wrong?”

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