It started a year ago. You know Junior. Hell, you coach his soccer team. He’d just turned fourteen and he was a good kid. He was my first born and I loved him. May God forgive me, I loved him as much as I was able to but never as much as I loved his brother and that’s the truth. I loved Bobby more. I couldn’t help myself. I never told Amy, of course. She would never have understood. And I was careful to treat both boys the same. But I can’t help wonder if Junior suspected my real feelings. Maybe I could have loved him more. Maybe things would have been different.
What started it all was that Greg Oleson gave Junior a planchet board for his birthday, you know what I mean, Hank, one of those boards that are supposed to let you communicate with spirits.
Yes, it’s a game. I had one myself when I was Junior’s age. Nothing much happened. We all got a thrill sitting around and holding hands and hoping the pointer would pick out real words instead of nonsense, although it never did. But sometimes the damned thing’s more than a party trick. Sometimes there’s a real connection and it acts as a door to another place. Where, I don’t know. What’s important is what uses this door. Once in a while something comes through with an agenda. This is what happened with Junior.
It called itself Toth. It said it was five thousand years old and I believe this. It said it was human once and I believe this, too. Sometimes Toth claimed Egyptian lineage. Other times Babylonian. It came to Junior and began what I can only describe as a seduction. Not possession. Let’s get that clear. There was no coercion, like you’ve seen in the movies. What Toth did was more subtle. And perhaps more effective.
Junior had been going through some rough months, nothing monumental, but you know teens, they figure every setback is the end of the world, and Toth took advantage of this. When Hannah Levy refused to talk to Junior, Toth taught him how to make a charm out of stuff from the refrigerator, and suddenly Hannah was calling at all hours. And you remember when Dave Marshack, Junior’s English teacher, had that accident on Route 21? No one ever figured out how it happened. He’s still on crutches. Well, Dave had given Junior a poor grade, and so he and Toth took control of Dave’s wheel and steered him off the road.
At the beginning I didn’t notice anything unusual, not even when Junior began hinting about what he was doing. I remember we were discussing the election of Mike Bacci to senior patrol leader in Junior’s Scout troop. I liked Mike and I said as much. Junior leaned against the counter, his hands wedged in his pockets, and said:
“So you approve, do you?”
“Mike’s serious. He’ll be good for the troop. Why?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“What do you think? Did you vote for him?”
“You could say that, dad. I wouldn’t, but you could.”
I took this to mean Junior had canvassed on Mike’s behalf but, of course, I was wrong. As for Junior spending more and more time in his room with the door locked, well, teenagers needed privacy.
Then I discovered what he was actually up to. Usually I knocked before trying Junior’s door but that evening my mind was on other things and I simply went inside. Junior was sitting on the carpet, the board on his knees. He was so wrapped in concentration that he didn’t notice me until the pointer spelled out:
“Your dad’s here.”
Junior craned his neck around—no, not anywhere near as far as in the movies, nothing like that. Seeing me in his room infuriated him.
“I told you never to come in without permission.”
An apology was on the tip of my tongue but his arrogance pushed my buttons.
“Don’t take that tone with me, Junior.”
The hand holding the pointer continued skimming across the letters, spelling out:
“Take care of your dad. Alef alef yod.”
Junior clenched his fingers into a knot I didn’t think it possible for a hand to make. Then he shook his fingers, as if flicking off drops of water, and a vice gripped me, clamping my every muscle in iron jaws. I couldn’t close my mouth or swallow and to my humiliation I began drooling. Junior focused on the board, muttering and peering at the responses his own hand picked out.
That was when the real sickness and sadness of the situation became clear to me. I was afraid of my own son.
“Toth says I should get rid of you,” Junior observed. ”I could do that. I could make it look like a heart attack. But then Bobby and I would have to live with grandma. Instead I’m just going to make it impossible for you to interfere.
“Alef alef vov.”
Junior flipped his fingers again and there was a sound like bacon frying. Suddenly I could move. I was so furious, I couldn’t see straight, and even though I’d never touched him in anger, my hand lifted and I struck him across the mouth. Or tried to.
An inch from his face my arm locked. I couldn’t approach him. Nor could I mention a word to anyone about what was going on. When I so much as thought about it, my mind became confused and wouldn’t clear until I gave up the attempt. He’d put a geas on me, a spell, a magical compulsion, a hex, call it what you want. I could, however, talk with Junior when we were alone together.
Alone, that is, except for Toth. I don’t know how to make you understand how vile the thing was. Even though it interacted with us only though the board and pointer, I could almost hear it speaking out loud. We talked often. The only option I had was to try to break its hold on Junior through persuasion. I thought it was a good sign that he permitted me to debate the thing. I never guessed the truth was Junior found our arguments entertaining.
“My sweet boy,” Toth said, “your father’s such a foolish man. Don’t let him hold you back from wielding the power that is yours. Would you be a clerk? Would you rather own a hardware store—or a throne?”
I forced a laugh. “A throne?” I asked. “Junior, just how far out of it is this thing? We don’t have thrones in America, last I heard. What Toth is saying is it’s okay to cheat people. Well, I don’t know. One lesson I’ve learned is how you get where you’re going counts just as much as getting there. Nothing would make me prouder than you achieving all you set out to accomplish. But not if you lose your soul in the process.”
I could almost hear Toth’s amusement. “It always comes down to the soul, as if souls were important. The fact is souls are nothing, souls die, they live briefly before being swallowed by the light the ignorant call god but really is the death of personal identity. Only the strong survive. Only the powerful resist the call of the light, the few who know the secrets I will teach you.”
“Maybe Toth knows some tricks,” I admitted, “but if it’s as strong as it claims, why is it hanging around? Because it enjoys our company? I don’t think so. It wants something. There will be a catch, take my word for it, Junior. Just make sure the price isn’t higher than you’re prepared to pay.”
The tragedy, the reason why I did what I have done, why I’m sitting here with you, Hank, is that there was a price. And Junior was all too willing to pay it. It didn’t have anything to do with him, you see. Toth wanted Bobby.
I’d always believed the kids were as good friends as brothers can be. But I don’t think Junior thought twice about using Bobby as the down payment for Toth’s assistance. That’s what frightened me most.
I can’t get away from suspecting that somehow Junior knew I loved Bobby more. Perhaps he’d always known.
Toth’s goal was to have a body again. To accomplish this, he had to expel a soul from its physical shell so that he could take its place. Only he wasn’t capable of carrying out the eviction by himself. He needed help.
Toth taught Junior how to prepare an extract of herbs and spices from the pantry. Each day for a month Junior was supposed to stir a tablespoon into something Bobby ate or drank. This would loosen the grip Bobby’s soul had on his body, allowing Toth to unseat him. I came upon Junior while he was adding the daily ration of this potion—that’s what it was, Hank, like in a fairy tale, a magical potion—to a glass of soda. Bobby was in the den watching a sitcom and s
o I was able to whisper to Junior:
“Stop doing this. He’s your brother.”
“And your point is? Work with me, dad. Work with me.”
“You know what my point is. You’re killing him.”
“Haven’t you listened to Toth? The kid will just be moving on, that’s all. Joining the great spirit in the sky. Christ, anyone would think you’d back me up on this.” Junior tapped the spoon against the rim of the glass and raised his voice. “Hey, punk,” he called. “You thirsty?”
Bobby came running into the kitchen. “Hey, why are you being so nice?”
Bobby, of course, didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on. How could he? As far as he was concerned, we were the same family we’d always been. He didn’t sense the pollution that had joined us in the shape of Toth.
“Maybe I like you.”
“Yeah, right.”
Bobby reached for the soda—and I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t move, not a finger. I could only stand aside while Bobby tilted his head back and chugged down the poison that would make his body into an empty vessel.
“Dad, what’s up? You getting the flu?”
“Yeah, Dad,” Junior said, “you don’t look so good.”
At that moment I hated him. I hated my own son, and that is an unnatural thing, for a father to hate his child. My only consolation is I was able to get over it. Somehow I found the strength to do what was necessary not out of anger but because I loved the boy he’d once been. It was then, you see, that I understood what I steps I had to take in order to save Bobby and, yes, Junior, from Toth.
I’d been doing a lot of research on-line and I’d discovered several cantrips that appeared authentic enough to free me from the geas I was under. The problem was I couldn’t speak the words myself—that would be a direct contravention of the magic. Nor could I ask anyone to read them in my place—that, too, was forbidden. My only hope was that I could somehow engineer a situation where the words were spoken out loud in my presence. So ordered the book I needed from Amazon, paying the premium for overnight delivery. The package arrived in the afternoon. After dinner, when Junior was in his room, I joined Bobby in the den, where he was finishing his homework. Sitting in my armchair, I pretended to be immersed in the book. After a while Bobby asked:
“What are you reading, dad?”
“Nothing you’d be interested in,” I replied. “Adult stuff.” This, of course, piqued his curiosity. He got to his feet and peered over my shoulder. Compelled by the hex, unable to resist it, I placed my palm across the page.
“Come on, dad. Let me see. I bet it’s something dirty.”
“Not that I’d let you know.”
“All right, be like that. Look, I’m getting a snack. You hungry?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
Bobby went into the kitchen and returned with a bag of chips, which he tossed to me. My hands went up automatically to catch it. As I’d prayed he would, Bobby snatched the book from my lap and danced back.
“Give it here,” I ordered. The words came from my mouth despite my best efforts to stifle them.
“I want to see what you’re reading. No big deal.”
“Now, Bobby. I’m not fooling around.”
“All right, okay, in a moment.”
The geas was creating an unbearable pressure inside my head. It took all my self-control to restrain myself from tearing the book away from him.
“A Concise History of the Magical Arts,” Bobby said, reading the title. “I never knew you were into this stuff, dad.”
The pain inside my skull was greater than any I’d felt before, worse than when I passed a kidney stone, and I’d thought that the most agony anyone could endure. I dug my fingers into the arm of the chair. “I’m not,” I told him slowly. “Now let me have the book.”
Once again Bobby disobeyed. “Protective Incantations and Amulets,” he read aloud, repeating the chapter title. “Say, this is cool. And what are these words? Not English.”
I couldn’t help myself, I thought my forehead would split apart from the blinding ache inside, and I lurched to my feet and grabbed for the book but Bobby again dodged away and evaded me. I still don’t know how I managed to grate out: “What words?”
“Yod alef alef vov alef,” he recited, and with each syllable the pain lessened until my mind was clear and my will was released from the geas that had shackled it. I sank into the chair and closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensation of being able to act on my own account. But this freedom also brought with it the terrible understanding of what had to come next. Eventually I heard Bobby asking:
“You okay, dad?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“Really.” I reached into my pocket and brought out some bills. “Want to make a couple dollars?” I asked.
“What do I have to do?”
“Pick up the paper. And a gallon of juice. We’re out.”
“Three bucks?”
“Two. And it’s a pretty good rate.” I handed him a five and two ones. As he turned to leave, I said:
“How about giving your old man a hug?” I knew it would be the last time he would ever want to touch me.
Bobby didn’t stop. “Cut me a break, dad.”
As soon as I heard him getting on his bike, I started upstairs, afraid that if I put it off for a minute, I’d never be able to go through with what needed to be done. The door to Junior’s room was, of course, locked. I knocked three times before he grudgingly admitted me. He didn’t do this physically, for he was still sitting on the floor with the board across his knees when the knob turned. Still believing me under the command of the geas, Junior kept his eyes focused on the pointer spelling out another message from Toth. This sight filled me with such rage and loss that I felt out of control. Junior asked:
“What do you want?”
“I just wanted to tell you I loved you.”
“Okay. You’ve done it. Anything else?”
“No.”
“Then take off, dad. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
That was when I struck him. I struck my own son across the temple with such force that he sprawled on the floor with his eyes rolled up inside his head. The first thing I did was take the board and break it across my knee and then I broke the pieces in half. I stomped the pointer into shards of plastic. Then I grasped Junior’s neck and placed my thumbs over the artery.
I had to kill him, Hank, to save his soul and to save his brother from Toth. I had to kill him before he awoke and ensorcelled me or gave me a heart attack, leaving no one to defend Bobby. But as I stared at Junior, I saw so much of Amy in his face, I couldn’t, I couldn’t do it with my own hands. I couldn’t do the right thing, Hank. So I made the choice of a coward. I went to the garage and siphoned some gas from the car. I splashed the gas on him and around the room. Then I lit a match and dropped it on the carpet and went out of the house and walked down here to the station. May God forgive me, I burned him to death and I didn’t have the courage to witness what I’d done. May God forgive me, I didn’t have the strength to take my own life, either, as I should have. That’s up to you, Hank. Or to the DA—I’m not sure how such things are handled. I’m no lawyer. But we have the death penalty in this state, don’t we? I have murdered my own son, and while I am justified in what I have done, I do not care much for living further.
Hank opened his eyes and pressed stop. Cold had seeped throughout my entire body and my hands were numb. “I’ll arrange for a psychological examination,” I said.
“Yes, Andy, do that.”
“Anyone can see Jim isn’t in his right mind. Christ, the story’s insane.”
“Yes, it would seem so.”
“Evil spirits, possession, magic . . . come on.”
Hank rubbed his chin. “Andy,” he said, “The truth is I don’t know what to believe.”
“What are you saying, Hank? You think Jim understood what he was doing? After listening to him? There’s no chance in
hell the DA will press for a murder charge. He wouldn’t be so stupid. There isn’t a jury that would convict, not even for manslaughter. No, this won’t go to trial. We’ll save the taxpayers money and get Jim committed right away.”
Hank looked at me strangely. “Murder?” he asked. “Manslaughter? Andy, I don’t think you understand exactly what the situation is.”
A gust of damp air brought with it the briny chill of Nag’s Cove. I shifted in my seat and saw a uniformed patrolman holding open the front door. Two boys walked into the station and stood blinking in the bright interior light. The elder had his arm across the shoulders of the younger boy in a brotherly gesture that I found disturbing. Hank’s gaze flicked to the boys and then returned to me. He hunched across the desk and whispered:
“No, Andy, the charges would be arson and attempted murder. I saw it myself, how the kid walked out of the flames without a mark on him. Now do you want to be the one to tell Jim? Or will I have to handle it myself?”
###
About the Author
David Wesley Hill is an award-winning fiction writer with more than thirty stories published in the U.S. and internationally. In 1997 he was presented with the Golden Bridge award at the International Conference on Science Fiction in Beijing, and in 1999 he placed second in the Writers of the Future contest. In 2007, 2009, and 2011 Mr. Hill was awarded residencies at the Blue Mountain Center, a writers and artists retreat in the Adirondacks. He studied under Joseph Heller and Jack Cady and received a Masters in creative writing from the City University of New York.
Castaway on Temurlone
It is indeed a Universe of Miracles!
But not for young Pimsol Anderts, idle and jobless on a depressed, waterlogged world, until he signs aboard the interstellar freighter Miraculous Abernathy. Indentured to the aristocratic Wirthy family—and bewitched by beautiful Mirable Wirthy, the latest clone of the long-dead matriarch Imogene Wirthy—Pim's adventure has barely begun when pirates attack, forcing him to flee the ship with Mirable in tow.
Suddenly they are castaways on the primitive planet Temurlone. Separated from his beloved by the Marvelous Flying Bicycle Men and doomed to hard labor in the Temurlone meat mines, Pim knows that nothing can keep him from the woman who is his destiny. He will brave any trial an uncaring God puts before him—escaping the sensuous seductions of the Man Mother, surviving the culinary horrors of the cannibal innkeeper Harmony Repute, courageously facing the threat of eternal toil in the sweatshops of Charming Corners—in the name of love.
With the original and satiric Castaway on Temurlone, author David Wesley Hill has boldly reconfigured the venerable space opera into an action-packed parable for our times.
"Castaway on Temurlone is a delicious blend of the galactic everyday and the truly exotic."—James Gunn, author of Station in Space and The Immortals
Contact Information
Temurlone Press: https://www.temurlonepress.com/
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