Camp Arcanum Page 10

  Marc kept his focus on dropping this tree into another empty space as he spoke.

  “You ever hear the phrase ‘Who gives a rat’s ass?’” he asked.

  “Occasionally.”

  “My dad used to say ‘rat’s ass’ every time something went wrong with something he cared about,” Marc said. “My brother and I thought it was the funniest thing. Really pissed off my mother.”

  He got into position to make his first cut.

  “About last night . . .” Brenwyn started. Her voice sounded much smaller than Marc ever remembered.

  “Look,” he said. “I’ve got work to do.” He donned his hearing protectors and fired up the chainsaw.

  “This tree is falling that way.” He pointed to a spot behind the tree that would be away from the hail of sawdust. “Stand right there, you’ll be safe. And don’t poke me with any more sticks.”

  Brenwyn stepped over to spot he pointed out. She stood with her hands behind her back and studied the tree as Marc made his first cut. He looked up when he was done to find Brenwyn gone. He craned his neck and saw her standing several feet from where he’d put her.

  First, she does her best to push me over the edge, thought Marc. Now, she can’t even stay where I told her to keep from being crushed. To Hell with her.

  He made the back cut on the wedge, going in at an angle to let gravity push the tree into the available slot on the ground.

  “Tree!” yelled Marc.

  The tree started to fall, but one corner remained uncut. The entire tree spun on its stump and clamped down on the blade of the chainsaw. Marc let go of the saw, which shut down instantly, and he danced backwards out of the way. The tree fall exactly where he told Brenwyn to stand.

  He had a sudden vision of her lace-up ankle boots sticking out from under a tree trunk just like the Barney doll he used as a target. His knees weakened, and he chose to sit down before he fell down.

  Brenwyn smiled wistfully at him and shrugged, apologetic for not being beneath the fallen timber.

  “I am just too tired to be doing this,” he said.

  He peeled off his safety equipment and laid back in the leaf litter and sawdust. Brenwyn knelt beside him.

  “Everybody makes mistakes from time to time,” she said.

  Marc scoffed at that. He stood up and went over to the stump. He picked up the saw to inspect the damage. The chain bar was slightly bent like his own broken nose. The chain flopped limply in two pieces from the saw.

  “I would like to think you’d be so forgiving if you were crushed beneath a black cherry tree,” he said. “I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself.”

  “But I was not there when it landed, was I?” She smiled up at him sweetly. “Marc?”

  “You want to talk about last night?”

  “I am so sorry,” she said and her words seem to spill out of her. “I do not know if I will ever be able to make that up to you. Musetta and I never realized that—time bomb, as she called it—would so thoroughly undo your defenses.”

  “So,” he said, “you and Musetta do make mistakes from time to time?”

  “Musetta also has a weakness for helping people learn from their own mistakes.”

  “It sounds like she’s done that to you once or twice.”

  “She still does,” her murmur was conspiratorial, “when she feels that I need it.”

  Marc snickered, though he didn’t know why. He was sliding from exhausted to slaphappy. It seemed like a good idea to sit back down.

  “You seem to know everything about me,” he slurred. “You know I have a brother—I had a brother.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “He died three years ago,” Marc continued. “He took his own life at the . . . facility I put him in.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Thanks. Keep saying that,” Marc said. Though it was easier to talk now, being in the state he was, it still hurt. He took a moment to work up to speed. “Allen, my brother, was a paranoid schizophrenic. He believed the Qliphotics—some sort of metaphysical evil spirits—were the secret rulers of the world and out to get him.”

  “If you check the books on metaphysics, particularly Kabbalah,” Brenwyn said, “you will find the Qliphotic Elements do exist.”

  “Please,” groaned Marc. “That was bad chemicals in his brain talking. He was being chased by assassins we couldn’t see, and all we could do was humor Allen and trick him into taking his drugs.”

  Brenwyn laid a hand on his chest. He felt her warmth, even through his denim coat.

  “You loved him,” she said. “I can tell. That was doing more than you could know.”

  “I don’t know,” Marc sighed. “Mom and I did the best we could. Dad, he worked a lot of overtime, to pay the bills. Also, he couldn’t stand looking at something that was that broken that he could never fix.” Marc sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “I grew up to feel the same way. I couldn’t fix him, so I put him away, out of my way. Allen hanged himself about six months after I did that.”

  “He is free of the pain, now,” Brenwyn said. “You should let him go.”

  “Let him go?” Marc said. “He’s gone. Even if Allen just blinked out like a candle flame, he’d be in a far better place. He was in Hell and that was the only way out.”

  “It was not your fault,” Brenwyn reassured. “There are some things that simply must happen and shake out the way they will.”

  “That is one thing I am afraid of, that there were certain things that cannot be avoided,” Marc said. “Not from some cosmic fiat or godly predestination, just the uncaring result of physics, chemistry, and genetics.”

  Brenwyn just smiled and nodded. She probably knew all this, but Marc kept talking.

  “There’s a thing with schizophrenia; it’s in the blood,” Marc went on with some difficulty. His speech was beginning to slur; his vision was growing blurry. “The last fifteen years, I’ve been waiting for the first symptoms.”

  Brenwyn leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. It felt warm and comforting.

  “Marc, I am so sorry. I was not expecting anything like this to happen. The movie marathon has never been so crazy before.”

  Marc chuckled helplessly.

  “Crazy’s the word,” he said. “Arcanum seems to be half-populated with lunatics and the other half terminally strange.”

  “And which am I?” Brenwyn asked.

  “Strange. Strange and wondrous . . . and terrifying.” Marc took a deep breath. “When I saw your group going mad, with silver eyes and all, and the screen moving by itself, I knew I was on my descent into Hell. The only way that was going to stop would be when I hit the end of the rope.”

  Brenwyn gently stroked Marc’s hair and face.

  “Are you still seeing the little monsters,” Brenwyn asked, “even though you took your brother’s drugs?”

  Marc was about to ask how she knew that, but he thought better of it. Instead, he answered:

  “Yes, though they’re a little blurry today.”

  “So are you, dear,” she replied.

  Marc laughed at that. He was getting to the point where everything sounded funny.

  “There is one of the wee beasties right over my left shoulder,” she said. “Can you see it?”

  Marc craned his neck and looked up into branches. One of the bark-skinned creatures blinked back at him.

  “Yes.”

  Something startled the creature and it took off through the leafless trees.

  “Now, it is moving to my right,” Brenwyn said. “And now it is gone.” She didn’t look behind her, but somehow correctly tracked its movements.

  “How . . .” Marc asked.

  “I cannot see them as you do,” Brenwyn said. “But I can feel them.” Her tone was as matter-of-fact, as if she were discussing the weather. “And since we both believe they exist, they absolutely must be real.”

  Brenwyn nodded her head curtly. She was the picture of confidence, though she looked ragged around the e
dges. Her eyes and nose were pink, probably from crying.

  “I would like you to do me a favor,” Brenwyn said after a few moments.

  “The last favor wasn’t so bad.” He could still remember their first kiss at Camp Arcanum as if it had just happened.

  “I would like you to pack up your equipment and give me a ride back to camp,” said Brenwyn, “where I will put you to bed.”

  “You walked all the way out here?” He would have been surprised if even Eleazar could cover that distance.

  “No, I flew here in a mortar and pestle, just like Baba Yaga!” She sat up and turned away from him.

  “I thought you came here to make nice.”

  “Do not start with me,” she said over her shoulder. “I have not had that great a night myself.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Marc slowly rose to his feet and extended his hand to Brenwyn.

  “Then come with me, my lady,” Marc said, “and I shall ride thee away on my white destrier.”

  Brenwyn took his hand and looked at him coyly through fluttering eyelashes.

  “Did you learn that from Eleazar?”

  Marc took a step and then stumbled on the uneven ground. He and Brenwyn collided, nearly collapsing to the ground.

  “Damn,” he muttered, “I’m worse than I thought.”

  * * * * *

  Theodora emerged from the woods with Brenwyn behind the controls. With a look of absolute concentration on her face, she guided the machine towards the barn. In the seat beside her was Marc. His head lolled on her shoulder, his eyes half-closed.

  Michael and Eleazar, who were taking morning coffee on the picnic table in the center of camp, simply looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Aye, indeed,” Eleazar intoned. “’Twas beauty that killed the beast.”

  Chapter 9

  Sacred Groves and Silver Chains

  AFTER A LONG, HOT SHOWER, Marc was clean, but still feeling near dead. He came out of the bathroom, black towel around his neck, to find Brenwyn in the sleeping section up front. She hummed to herself as she waved a brass censer over his bed. Puffs of thick, white smoke escaped the brass sphere as Brenwyn swung it from side to side.

  “Fumigating the trailer?” Marc asked.

  Brenwyn looked over her shoulder at him with a smile.

  “Boxers with power tools,” she observed. “That is not your usual sleepwear.”

  “Considering the last time you saw me here . . .” He interrupted himself with a prodigious yawn.

  “There is no need for you to worry,” she said as she peeled back the black sheets and comforter. “Just slide in under the covers.”

  Marc teetered at the edge of the bed and sniffed. There was something strangely familiar about the scent.

  “It smells like Christmas mass in here.”

  “The Holy Mother Church and I agree on one point,” she replied. “Frankincense scares away the evil spirits.”

  Marc nodded amiably as he crawled into bed and rolled onto his back. Brenwyn put the incense burner on the kitchenette table and picked up an ornate glass bottle.

  “So,” Marc asked, “No more bad dreams?”

  “No more bad dreams,” she cooed as she tucked the covers under his chin. “Close your eyes and dream about power tools.”

  Marc chuckled foggily. Brenwyn anointed Marc’s forehead and temples with oil from the bottle.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Cypress for grief. Chamomile for peace. Secret herbs and spices.”

  “Are you casting a spell on me?” Marc at the moment was not concerned with questions of sanity or control.

  “Is there any need?” She cupped his cheek in the palm of her hand.

  Marc was past talking by then; his response was an unfocused smile. Brenwyn stroked his face and sang a wordless lullaby. His eyes closed of their own accord and he felt himself wrapped up in warm, dark cotton.

  * * * * *

  Eleazar had three different excuses prepared as to why he lurked outside Marc’s trailer. He calculated he had time to get to twenty-seven before Marc and milady Brenwyn resurfaced. So, it was perfectly reasonable that he felt poleaxed when she emerged from the trailer wreathed in clouds of sweetly-scented smoke before he had even gotten to Rational Excuse Number Four.

  “Is there a problem, Eleazar?” she asked innocently.

  “I would posit that myself, milady,” he replied. “Our fearless leader finally gets you into his trailer and you emerge in less than fifteen minutes. I fervently hope nothing happened.”

  Brenwyn smiled and Eleazar reminded himself to inspire that kind of response from her more often.

  “No, he was far too tired for that.”

  “No man could be that tired,” Eleazar said in true outrage and offence. “I’d have to be three hours dead to not respond to a beauty like yourself in me bed.”

  “How very flattering.” Again, that smile. Eleazar felt he was doing very well this morning, all warm and buttery on the inside. “But not all human affairs render down to the insertion of ‘tenon’ into ‘mortise?’”

  Eleazar sighed. Once again, he was being confronted by that bothersome moral high ground.

  She stepped close and settled her hand on his shoulder. It felt like sunrise after a stormy night.

  “Be a good friend, Eleazar,” she whispered, “and call me the next time Marc starts to act erratically.”

  “Of course,” Eleazar said, “I would do anything for you, but I am doubly flummoxed that the all-knowing Queen of the Witches would be asking me for intelligence. I thought your . . .” Eleazar waggled his fingers as if casting a magic spell. “Magic powers, big Juju, whatever . . . kept you informed.”

  “We are all only human.” Brenwyn kissed his cheek and turned to stroll back to her car.

  “Blessed be, Eleazar,” she tossed over her shoulder.

  Eleazar watched her walk away with rapt attention to the swaying curves and forms.

  “We are all only human,” he repeated to himself, “but some of us are assembled so much more divinely.”

  * * * * *

  Marc dreamt himself standing in a grassy clearing under the light of a full moon. The grove looked to be a perfect circle with twelve oak trees planted evenly around the edges. A bluestone monolith straight from Stonehenge stood at the far end of the clearing. There was something there, a form shining pale in the moonlight that interested Marc.

  His black leather trench coat billowed behind him as he crossed the grove. His black boots cut through the tall grass with a soft swish. After only a few yards, Marc saw that it was Brenwyn chained to the rock.

  She held her hands up in a silent plea for rescue. The silver chains on her wrists and ankles, which anchored her to the stone, tinkled like bells with her every move. The soft breeze that flapped his trench coat around his legs tousled her hair and pressed her diaphanous gown tight against her body. Nothing was hidden there. Her red lips opened silently to him. Her pale violet eyes reflected the moon.

  There was an evil laugh behind Marc. He turned at once to see who it was. On the far side of grove was Jeremiah Stone, wrapped in black velvet and lace over black lacquered armor. He stood between a portable generator and an ancient stone wishing well.

  “She’s mine,” Jeremiah sneered. “You can’t have her.”

  Marc squared off without thinking, falling into the “Horse” defensive position. Marc’s response elicited a feral grin from Jeremiah.

  “Your Kung Fu is strong, but it is no match for my power here.”

  Jeremiah snapped his fingers, a neat trick in black leather gloves. On his signal, dozens of men in black hooded robes emerged from the shadows behind him. Each of them carried either an electric hedge trimmer or chainsaw and a bright orange extension cord. Marc recognized the tools as Craftsman.

  The men in black robes converged on the portable generator behind Jeremiah. They made quick work of plugging the cords into the multiple power strips snaking out of it. The
result was like an orange cord octopus with buzzing electric teeth.

  Jeremiah’s followers turned as one, grunting and snarling as they approached Marc. Their faces were still invisible in the hoods of their robes, but the power tools in their hands were deadly obvious.

  Marc nonchalantly threw back his leather coat to reveal double shoulder holsters. He drew twin Glock automatic pistols and fired, dropping the men in black like wheat before a scythe.

  Marc ran out of ammo, but continued clicking on empty chambers until the cordite smoke cleared.

  Only Jeremiah was left standing. The others were a tangled mass of black robes, tools, and power cords at his feet.

  “Awww,” said Jeremiah in an exaggerated pout. “No bullets left.”

  Jeremiah executed a graceful Kung Fu flourish with an electric hedge trimmer.

  “Let’s dance,” he said.

  Marc reached behind his back and whipped out his unitool. In a casual gesture, he flung it at Jeremiah. The unitool unfolded itself in flight and began snapping its pliers-jaws like an angry beaver.

  Jeremiah easily leaned out of its path. Though bent over with the back of his head nearly touching the ground, his feet stuck in place as if nailed there. He pulled back to upright like a puppet on strings, brought the hedge trimmer up again and smiled.

  “You missed.”

  Marc raised an eyebrow.

  “Did I?” he asked.

  Jeremiah squeezed the trimmer’s trigger and nothing happened. A frown of concern on his face, he turned to see the problem.

  The generator was disassembled with its parts laid out neatly on the grass. The unitool was still snapping its jaws and flopping on the ground like a beached shark.

  Jeremiah stared slack-jawed at the unitool and the exploded generator. This gave Marc time to close with his opponent. When Jeremiah turned back, Marc was right on top of him. Marc put all of his weight into a single punch to the chin.

  The blow hurled Jeremiah across the grove and headfirst down the wishing well. He plummeted downwards while still entangled in his bright orange extension cord.

  The cord snaked down the well and dragged the power strips and the other cords with it. With Jeremiah’s fallen followers wrapped in the cords, they too were pulled down the well one by one. There was silence for a moment, then a distant series of splashes.