Scarecrow Gods (47 page)

He flew over Sierra Vista several times fighting the owl for control as it spotted a small stray cat or a rabbit. The need to feed was a powerful primal instinct and was almost too much to handle. Maxom had read that the average Great Horned Owl required two pounds of meat a day. The amount was stunning, more meat than some people ate in an entire week.

Maxom braced for what he’d encounter as he approached the cruciform nexus. The visitation by Bernie had cinched it. There was no way he was going to allow the things to bother him anymore and, as the circle of saguaro cacti came into view, Maxom felt the fear but managed to hold it in check. With the aid of the owl’s vision, he made out two figures sitting in the middle of the circle.

Remembering the Chill Blaine’s attempt to merge with the nexus it didn’t seem unreasonable that this was a place of protection. Maxom wondered what kind of person needed to be protected from the Chill Blaines. If people were actively seeking the protection of the saguaro, it meant they knew of the creature’s existence. The possibility of other people knowing about
The Land of Inside-Out
and all of the associated possibilities excited him. Thinking about the ramifications, he almost missed the owl’s silent dive towards a dog tied with a length of twine to the base of one of the cacti. Maxom struggled like a pilot at the helm of an airplane, the instruments non-responsive. He pushed at the spirit of the owl, sending thoughts of death and pain until at the last minute, the owl pulled out of its dive and back into the night sky.

His control reasserted, Maxom circled higher and higher upon the updrafts. He headed towards the spot where he knew the small bright nexus to be. Maxom wasn’t keen on investigating the other portable nexus, especially since it seemed to be the source of the area’s Chill Blaine population.

As he flew, he remembered the faces of the cacti before the dog had almost become dinner. Not only had they been clothed, but someone had taken the time to personalize each one. The open tops of bottles were their mouths, accounting for the eerie whistling. Buttons had been used for eyes, each saguaro surprised and staring. The arms were raised not so much in a cruciform, but upward as if they were there to frighten, like scarecrows.

The landscape below was desolate and empty. The owl lamented the sad truth, searching and searching, but it seemed that very few creatures were out. Scrub bushes and small cacti dotted the desert floor. If he remembered right, they were approaching Mexico, the town of Sierra Vista only ten or twenty miles North of the border.

Out of the darkness, rising like a prehistoric monolith, was a singular saguaro. Where the others had been impressive as a group, this thing was impressive unto itself. The cactus was easily twice the size of any of the others he’d seen, evidence of a far more ancient ancestry. The very fact it had survived the years was a testament to its specialness. As the owl circled, Maxom became entranced. He tried to concieve of the permanence of the saguaro, wondering how many generations had come and gone equally amazed.

He was so deep in thought that he almost failed to notice the naked man sitting Indian-style at the saguaro’s base. The man’s back was to the cacti, his face to the North. A small fire burned beside him. Several strange devices were arrayed next to this, including what Maxom believed to be a human leg bone. The man and the saguaro were surrounded by a circle of white reminding Maxom of chalk on a baseball field. The man was making a complex Mandala. He reached into one of the many small bowls beside him, placed colored sand upon the end of the leg bone, and deposited it in the art.

As Maxom tried to figure out what the man was doing, he looked up. He stared at Maxom for a long moment, before his eyes narrowed. The man’s right hand shot out and pointed at the owl. Unintelligible words sprang from the man’s throat.

He knew Maxom was there!
But how
? Instead of seeking the answer, Maxom felt a powerful urge to run. He tried to get the owl to obey him, but it wouldn’t. He noticed he was circling lower and lower. The owl was preparing to land. He tried to reestablish control again, remembering the techniques he’d used earlier when it had dove for the dog, but nothing seemed to work. It was as though the man had cast a spell.

Maxom flowed up and out of the owl, returning to
The Land of Inside-Out
. He realized he’d made a terrible error. Below him was the life pad of the bird. Next to it and almost touching was the brightness of a nexus that could only be the saguaro. Partially merged with this was the strange mobile nexus with the phantom trails radiating outwards. This meant the man himself was a nexus. The idea was so foreign to Maxom that he couldn’t even comprehend it. But he didn’t have time to think about it, because huddled against the man was a single Chill Blaine, suckling like a baby.

The creature noticed him immediately, pushed itself away and shot towards him almost before he could react. Maxom’s dread was thick and instant, his every action slow motion. Terror clouded his mind. He felt the power of the strange nexus and wanted both to merge and escape.

Paralyzed, Maxom tried to imagine Lo Lo and the Old Mung’s description of
The Land.
It is what you make of it. The characteristics are based entirely upon your perceptions
. Maxom followed those instructions imagining a universe with no distance and tried to move. The minute he felt motion, however, he knew he’d failed. If there was no distance, then there’d be no motion, and no need to move. He saw his problem, but didn’t understand how to solve it. As soon as his mind passed that particular kernel of logic, it twisted around in confusion.

Instead of instantaneous translation, he did manage to move away, though. He was at speed,
The Land
whipping by, lights from passing life pads stretching Doppler-like in his wake. Still he felt the Chill Blaine behind him. He tried to move faster but failed. He was moving as fast as he’d ever had, yet the creature was still gaining on him.

Maxom screamed as the Chill Blaine latched on, a fingertip grasp on his silver form. Although it was a tiny touch, it was enough. Even as he shot across the landscape, Maxom felt his energy draining away. He was inexorably slowing and there was nothing he could do about it.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

Paradise Valley, Arizona

Skyclad, John walked past the vigilant deputy sheriff, passing close enough to smell the man’s Brut aftershave and the staleness of his breath. John kept walking, invisible to eyes which were watching specifically for him. He’d smile, but he was too angry.

For a full day he’d lain, incapacitated—not from the ATF Agent’s punch, but from the actions of the Old Soul, Nancy. She’d played with him and used him, just as she’d done when he’d been a child hiding in the darkness of his room. He’d been powerless to stop her then and almost as equally powerless to stop her now. It was only at the intervention of his constructs, those fragments he’d created himself to wile away the dark hours that had allowed him to escape.

The second he’d opened his eyes, John had grabbed one of the girls and descended to his room. A beautiful young thing with a soft, lilting Southern accent, she’d died loving him. With her help, he’d been able to pin Nancy down, the virginal blood a critical aspect of the spell. Even now he could feel the Old Soul struggling within the grip of his consciousness. He could almost hear her.

Come inside and play with me Johnny.

Everything was prepared. In his right hand, he held a bag with the things he needed to exorcise himself. He had everything he required, except for the nexus. He needed the power of the ancients.

Half an hour later, he arrived at the titanic saguaro and went to work. Pouring white sand in a circle around him and the tree, he concentrated on his
Chakras
. He drank from his bota,
Karmic Tea
the fuel for what might be an Olympic odyssey through the
MacroMind
. With a length of bone he’d removed from a Tibetan Mystic a dozen years ago, he began shaping the Mandala. The designs would allow him the concentration needed to focus his energies and send the soul back to its depository. He was almost through when he spotted the owl circling overhead. John understood the great carnivore’s significance right away. The image of a maggot superimposed itself upon the owl, the image supplied by his constructs.

Was this the thing he’d been afraid of? Was this what Mason had warned him about? This was too easy.

He shouted the spell of transference, the Hindu slipping easily from his lips. He felt Nancy’s attention shift and with a joy he hadn’t felt in years, watched her lunge at the easier prey. Old Souls like her scared him. Now she was someone else’s problem. The maggot would find his hands full.

Good riddance to the both of them.

He spent another hour at the saguaro, then packed up his things and returned to the compound. He’d earlier possessed the mountain lion, enjoying the sport of chasing down illegal border crossers. He was too wired from the
Karmic Tea
to sleep and considered finding it again.

CHAPTER 21

Tuesday—July 3rd

Ooltewah, Tennessee

Maxom hung unmoving in his hazardous waste suit, suspended from his harness like a fly caught by a great dark spider. Someone had shut off the electricity. Twin rays from a pair of emergency lights pinned him in the air like the gaze from an alien machine. The aluminum stirring rod was still. The soft sucking sounds of the million maggots were amplified by the cold metal of the vat. Muffled shouts came from the other side of the thick steel door that had been locked from the inside. A storage locker had been tipped over, blocking the entrance further.

Banging sounded both from hands and something metal striking the door. Someone screamed from far away. The scrape of metal like claws snipped the shadows.

Maxom hung unmoving.

* * *

Somewhere in the Sonoran Desert

Danny stopped running when he collapsed against the side of a
wadi
, the incline holding him up. His legs were too tired to propel him any farther. His sides ached as they’d never ached before. He gasped, fighting furiously for each breath. His heart thumped rapid-fire against the inside of his chest.

He’d been scared in his life, but this was the worst ever. From the mysterious evil of the Chill Blaines to the chicken hawk to the crash to the devil in the darkness, he’d felt nothing but alternating levels of fear since he’d arrived in Arizona. He was trying hard to be brave, but every time there was a new event, his mind rebelled by reminding him he was only thirteen and should be back home in bed. In more helpless moments, his traitorous imagination showed him all of his possible deaths in ghastly detail.

Turning onto his back he stared at the half-moon.
Where was Maxom?
He’d counted on the man being there to help him. From his earlier scouting trip, Maxom had made the map Danny now carried. They’d gone over it several times, all the major landmarks including the strange nexi.

I don’t know anything about the one near the border. I never had a chance to go there, but the one by the mountains seems to be a good place. There were some Chill Blaines trying to get in, but couldn’t. You ask me, anyplace they can’t go is a place you should be.

He wiped at his nose and fought back a sob.

Maxom had said he would be there as a Great Horned Owl. So where was he?

There was no way he could do this without Maxom. For all of Danny’s professed bravery he needed a grown-up. He decided to make his way to the nexus they’d spoken of in the hopes that Maxom would find him.

And if that didn’t work, he didn’t know what he’d do.

* * *

The Scarecrow Gods

“
Leave us alone
,” came the voice, a static blend of male and female.

“Name yourself.”

“
Leave us alone, Brother Asshole. I’m not hurting anyone. I just want to rest.”

This had been going on for almost a full day and a night. He’d tried the
Fire and Brimstone
approach, but that had done nothing more than anger the spirit. The fight had been long and hard, with Simon’s victory still in question. Using betadine and gauze from the first aid kit he’d found stuffed among the odds and ends of the shelter, he bound his own wounds. Mostly claw marks, they ran up both of his arms and across one cheek, twenty-three of them in all, the result of the feisty spirit who’d turned Billy’s mind into a home. The bite was the worst. With his broken teeth, Billy had managed to bite through Simon’s pants and the skin of his left leg. Each drop of betadine stung like acid. He had to force himself to cleanse the wound, only screaming a little.

Now Billy was bound at his wrists and ankles, lying in the middle of the circle of Scarecrow Gods. At first Simon had been terrified by the exorcism, the voice and the strange knowledge of the spirit truly disturbing. Images of Linda Blair with spinning head, levitating furniture and split-pea bile was foremost in his mind. But just as the prospects produced a certain earthy terror, the event also served to forge his new-found faith.