Quarrel with the Moon (17 page)

Had God been toppled from his throne? Had Satan's messengers been released from the burning pits to plague the living?

Creatures - their bodies covered with hair, their limbs grotesquely misshapen, their faces masks of degeneracy - had dug up the grave of Fern Gillespie, dragged her body from its resting place and were dancing around it. Shredded and bloodied and only partially covered by her communion dress, Fern had been placed on a fallen tombstone. They were devouring parts of her.

The preacher opened his mouth to cry for help, but no words came out. Who would have answered? In that moment he lost his faith. God had deserted His earth. Reverend Hooper pulled his face away from the window and retched, but his body found no relief in sickness. He knew that he should tear the cross from the wall, march into the graveyard and defy them. But he was gripped by fear unlike anything he had ever experienced. The mocking howls reverberated throughout the church and chilled the preacher to the very marrow of his bones. Try as he might; he could not quit the scene. His eyes were drawn back to the graveyard. He watched, his mind crumbling with horror, through the rest of the night.

Toward dawn the creatures dispersed and their hold over the preacher was broken. He climbed down the ladder and crouched at the foot. He stayed there, shivering, until the sun was in the center of the sky.

In the years after Fern's death, his torments had continued - strange birthings, violent deaths and hideous night sounds of digging in the graveyard. Graves were ripped asunder, bodies withered and atrophied were desecrated and sometimes devoured. And there were the orgies - unholy couplings of the things upon the gravesites.

Ashamed of his cowardice and his loss of faith, the preacher had closed the doors of the Holiness Church of Sweet Jesus Savior and became an outcast in the community, an object of ridicule. He was pressed into the bitter role of "Sin-Eater." When someone in the community died, the Sin-Eater had to be the first to enter the house after the dead was laid out. He had to eat a bit of each dish provided for the wake. Symbolically, he was eating the sins of the dead.

One night his house burned down, whether by accident or plan Reverend Hooper never knew. It mattered little. He had already adopted the church as a shelter. He existed on food which the older members of his dispersed congregation left on the church steps. He never bathed. He rarely left the sanctity of his own madness.

Now the only human inhabitant of the Holiness Church returned to the ladder. He was watching for some sign that would tell him that God had returned to the Ridge and had driven away the infidels of the night. Balancing himself on the top of the ladder, his eyes fixed on the unmoving eyes of Christ, he began to sing in a wavering voice, "Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound, come save a wretch like me!"

At the melody the serpents stirred. They began moving rhythmically, in time to the preacher's voice.

***

Cresta and Josh reached the site of the coal mine just before noon. The tunnels and shafts had been boarded up. A ruined trestle, a damaged and rusting bulldozer, and a section of track were all that testified that the mine had existed. Deep fissures in the mountainside, washed deeper by rain, resembled great, angry scars.

Josh and Cresta sat in the shadow of the trestle and ate a lunch of hard-boiled eggs, cheese and iced tea, plus butter-and-jam sandwiches.

"You'd think they'd put up some sort of a memorial or something," said Cresta. "I mean, all those men who died here...."

"They probably wanted to forget it," said Josh. He glanced up at the tipple. "Thank God Dad got that job in Morgantown, where there were better schools and a university, or I might have very well ended up working right here."

Cresta shuddered. "What a life, digging in the ground. It makes a man old before his time."

Josh laughed. "What do you know about mining, love?"

"I read, you know. And I see movies. Remember watching
How Green Was My Valley
on television?" Josh shook his head. "That's right. You were out that night." It had been one of those nights when Josh hadn't come home until dawn. She pushed the unpleasant memory out of her mind. "In a way, I'm glad the mine didn't continue. It would have ruined the beauty of the setting."

"We'd better get going," said Josh, swinging his backpack into place.

Cresta groaned. "How far is it to the river?"

"Not far. Look down there, through the trees. You can see it winking in the sun."

"I don't see anything."

"You will, love, you will."

An hour later they had reached the Cheat River. It sparkled as if in reward for their efforts. Despite their exhaustion, they were exhilarated by the beauty of the river. They broke into a run and at the river's edge knelt to splash cool water on their faces. "How long did it take us, Josh?"

He looked at his watch. "It's nearly two. God, we've been hiking for more than five hours." Cresta touched Josh's arm. They looked at each other and smiled; she realized that she had experienced more pleasure in being with him today than she had since the early weeks of their courtship.

"I think I see the mound," cried Cresta, pointing down the river. "See there, to the right? It sort of looks like a giant Reese's Cup."

"That has to be it," agreed Josh, shading his eyes against the sun. "But I don't see the camp."

"It's probably further on, behind those Christmas trees." Josh grinned at Cresta's catchword for every evergreen, but he was uneasy. Harry was a man of convenience. He would not have made camp far from the subject of investigation.

On their way downstream they came upon some blackberry bushes and stopped to sample a few berries.

"I wish I had something to put them in," said Cresta. "We could take some to Harry and his assistants. What are their names, anyway?"

"Ted Dwyer and Amy Parrish," replied Josh. "A very nice young couple."

"A boy and girl?" queried Cresta.

"Isn't that the usual setup?"

She began laughing. "For God's sake, and I always accuse you of being chauvinistic. I assumed that they were both men."

The sun had sunk to the treetops when the couple reached the area which had been the campsite. Josh was puzzled as he looked around the clearing. "They would have set up here, Cresta, near the burial mound. That inlet in the river would have been a perfect place to moor the canoes."

"Perhaps they moved," suggested Cresta. "Maybe they shifted to those trees beyond the mound."

Aggravated, Josh kicked at the sandy earth. His foot uncovered the remains of a campfire. He knelt down and examined the rocks and the partially burnt wood. "They were here, all right. It had to be them." At that moment, almost as a confirmation of his suspicions, a sudden breeze from the river lifted a scrap of paper and sent it spinning through the air. Like a bird it first dipped and then glided over the campsite. Josh caught it. "What's this?" he muttered and turned the paper over. "Hmmmm, Mail Pouch Tobacco." He looked at Cresta. "That's Harry's brand."

"You mean he
chews tobacco?
"

"Only when he's in the field. He worries too much about forest fires to smoke." Josh smiled. "That's the way good old Harry is."

They looked over the ground and found other evidence that the group had been there - a bright hair ribbon, a razorblade caked with soap and stubble, and a page torn from a paperback novel.

"Well, that proves it," Josh said at last. "They were here. But where the hell did they get to?" An insinuating kind of fear crept into his thoughts. What would have caused the group to move on? Had it been something related to the mutant skull and bones? He wanted to take Cresta into his confidence, but decided that there was no need to upset her unnecessarily.

They approached the mound. The ladder was lying there; Josh picked it up and secured it in position. Then he climbed to the top of the mound, made his way across the boards and looked around. "No sign of them. They must have been recalled by the institute. We must have just missed them, damn it."

Cresta sat on a pile of stones at the base of the mound, flexing her tired feet. Behind her, the wall of the mound shifted beneath Josh's weight as he started down the ladder. She didn't look around. Thus she missed seeing a crack appear at the top edge of the mound; powdery, dry earth began to trickle downwards. As the rent in the mound deepened, Harry Evers' grasping hand, stiff with rigor mortis, seemed to push through the earth.

Below, Cresta went to hold the ladder steady. "What are we going to do now, Josh?"

"Well, it's sure as hell we can't start back tonight, love. Avarilla was right. I'm tired, and I know you are. And I wouldn't want to try finding my way in the dark."

"But where will we sleep, Josh?"

"We brought blankets. We'll sleep beneath the stars. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"The prospect seemed more romantic in New York."

"Let's just hope it doesn't rain. When we get back to the Ridge I'll have to drive down to Jericho Falls, call New York and find out what's going on. But right now I'd better see to dinner." He grinned. "I said we'd get in a little fishing."

"But we don't have any fishing poles."

"I brought some line and tack. I'll cut a straight branch and put one together Huck Finn style."

"What can I do?"

"We'll need a campfire. You can gather some medium-sized stones and some dry twigs."

Getting into the spirit of the adventure, Cresta headed off towards the woods. She passed the burial mound. The dirt had continued to trickle down, and Harry's hand was fully exposed, but Cresta didn't notice.

By twilight, freshwater bass, which had been slathered in clay, were baking on the coals. A bottle of wine was chilling in the rapids.

"You amaze me, Josh," complimented Cresta. "I didn't know you were such an outdoors boy."

"Dad used to take me on fishing trips. It's good to know you can still live off the land."

"You sound like Aunt Avvie."

"I guess I do."

They dined with gusto on the fish and the wine. Afterwards Cresta asked, "How's the water? Is it warm enough to bathe in?"

"If you take a deep breath first," replied Josh.

Josh and Cresta stripped out of their clothing, just as Ted and Amy had done, and went to the river to bathe.

Beneath the trees near the burial mound, shadows shifted and moved. They crept forward for a better view of the couple in the water.

Josh and Cresta emerged from the river. As they walked toward their fire the night air, still warm with the day, caressed their bodies and dried them. They hid their blanket down on a bed of leaves, and pulled the other one over them. "Josh," breathed Cresta, her pink tongue passing quickly across her lips, "make love to me."

"I intend to." Josh leaned on his elbow and looked at Cresta's alluring body. In the soft light of the moon her skin was alabaster white. His eyes moved from the rose-tipped mounds of her jutting breasts down to her flat stomach to the small blond triangle between her rounded thighs. His breath came in sharp, quick gasps.

A tremor passed through Cresta's body as the tip of his tongue flicked over her nipples. She turned to Josh and pressed her pelvis against his. The leaves, shifting with the weight of their bodies, made delightful crunching sounds as they thrust their hips against one another.

The act of making love outdoors (something they had never done) stimulated their senses and released their inhibitions. Cresta demanded more fervor, more passion, than Josh had ever given her before. Josh, in response, gripped Cresta's waist and roughly entered her. Cresta's legs tightened around him and she emitted a long wailing cry of ecstasy.

Gleaming ghosts in the silver moonlight, they stood at the edge of the forest. At the sensual sounds they gathered closer together, nuzzled and bit at one another. Saliva dripped from their jaws. Their legs trembled with excitement, their muscles coiled and they seemed to grow bulkier. The females knelt to allow the males to mount them. An acrid odor of musk emanated from the group.

One of the pack, not yet old enough to mount a female, slipped away from the others. Padding softly across the dry ground, he occasionally glanced over his shoulder to see if he was missed. He wasn't. He reached the section of the mound where Harry Evers had been buried and, quivering with anticipation, ran his tongue over his lips. He had smelled the exposed hand. Saliva dripped from his mouth as he sniffed the air for the origin of the scent. He looked up and saw it protruding from the earth. Whining with anxiety, he pushed against the base of the ladder and moved it several yards. Then he clambered up the ladder halfway, steadied himself, and began to chew on the rigid flesh of the rotting hand.

Alex strolled up the path to the church. As he walked, he kicked loose some stones, gathered a handful and put them in his overall pocket. The youngster had never been inside the church, or any church, for that matter. He reached the bottom of the steps and contemplated the ruined building without emotion. Then he cried out in a harsh voice, "Rev'rend! Rev'rend! Come on out here!"

There was no immediate response. Alex walked to the back of the building. A blackbird perched on a tombstone tugged at a dried piece of vine. A hard, humorless smile formed on the boy's face. He selected a stone from his pocket, took aim and threw it. The bird fell to the ground. It righted itself and tried to fly, but the stone had broken its wing. The bird hopped away to the safety of the underbrush.

Satisfied, Alex turned his face to the stained-glass window. The symbolism was completely lost upon him. He called out once again, "Rev'rend!" There was still no response. Alex threw another stone; it broke a small hole in the sky-blue glass surrounding the face of Jesus.

An eye and part of a crusty cheek appeared in the opening. "Who is it?" the preacher called in a tremulous voice.

"You got a job, Rev'rend!" grinned Alex. "Faye Brooks is dead. The wake's at seven o'clock at her house. You clean yourself up an' get in an' out by then."

There was a pause. Finally the preacher asked, "How did she die?"