An Axis Oblique - Chapter Seven

Things are getting a bit stale around here, so I'm injecting another dose of AO, or An Axis Oblique for you non-nerds, (what the heck are you doing here, by the way?). Seriously though, I've been bogged down the last week or so with things far less interesting. Apologies.


–– Seven ––

The McAllister home was built from the unforgiving ground up in the late 1990s. When they made the down-payment, it wasn’t much more than a flat lot of sand and rock, but the blushing young couple saw limitless potential. Mary was with child at the time, and Henry…well, Henry just needed an all-consuming project, to occupy his wandering mind.
Sure enough, during the blithe early years, he put in a great deal of challenging, painstaking work to bring out of it, the absolute best he could. After building a nice-sized deck in their modestly-sized backyard, he finished the basement, widened the driveway and, (perhaps his proudest achievement), planted a first-class garden on the ample front lawn.
Cynthia was staring out at it now. It was cold inside the living room––and dark. Outside, she could see Mrs. McAllister having a quiet conversation with a man she could only assume was a relative. He was putting his arm around her; a gesture she seemed wholly uncomfortable with, and Cynthia took note of how vulnerable she looked.
She’d done her best to be helpful the last few days, moving into the guestroom, disguising her brutal discomfort with hospitality, menial errands and backbreaking housework. The funeral was small; quaint. She didn’t know a soul, of course, and while the rest of them cried, and grieved in their own particular ways, Cynthia mourned mostly in silence, attempting to grapple with her own complex emotions––alone.
The front door came open and Nicky puttered all the way down the hall before heading upstairs. He’d been that way since it happened––quiet, distant. Cynthia noted a number of separate occasions where his mother tried to engage him; (or at least get him to smile), but thus far, all of her best intentions had gone doggedly rebuffed. There was no way to imagine the bleeding thoughts of a child whose hero had been taken away from them forever. Cynthia knew all too well. It was a pain she still carried, and likely would––always…
“Nicky…?”
Yet she followed.
“Sweetheart, can I come in?” Standing outside his uninviting bedroom door, she got no answer. “Nick?” she said again, gently pushing the door open... “Honey, I just wanted to––”
The television was on and the blanket had been rumpled as though recently slept in, but to her surprise, the kid was nowhere in sight. A diversion, she thought smugly. Pretty smart.
When she found him, he was in his mother’s room, in the dark, on the edge of the bed. She could barely make out his tragic young profile. It was heartbreaking. And suddenly, she realized it was the most she’d actually felt in days.
“Everything okay?” Even as she said it, she knew how incredibly stupid a question it was. “I mean…” She could easily make out the vacancy in his suddenly more mature stare. In his hands was a framed photograph. “I’m here.” She continued. “I mean, I know I’m not him, but…if you need someone to talk to…about whatever, I just want you to know…” The boy gave no indication he was even listening. “I know what it’s like...” she blurted. “To lose someone,” gaining momentum… “and Lord knows the last person I ever wanted to confide in was my mother, so…” The boy remained painfully silent, so she opted to leave it at that, and retreated…
“Why do people die?” he asked with her halfway out the door.
She stared at him, hapless. Oh, is that all? “Well,” she began, coming toward him once again. “I don’t really…I mean, I wish I could…” How to answer… You’re losing him, her inner-child of trauma whispered urgently. “Your Dad once told me you had a goldfish…”
He nodded. “He died too. Did they go to the same place?”
“Well, I don’t…really…” She cleared her throat, regrouping, and said: “Everything that lives, Nicky, dies…eventually… It’s just the way things are; the way they have to be…do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I’m not sure. I think so.”
“Well…try to think of it like this. You love summer vacation, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Because it’s fun, right? And you don’t have to go to school...”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, but there’s a lot of time when it’s hot, or raining, and there’s not much to do.” He looked at her, tears struggling not to run rampant. What am I trying to say here? “But that doesn’t matter; because instead of feeling happy, you might feel…bored; restless even. Until you close in on September…and get homework and tests and have to get up early…then how do you feel?”
“I don’t know. Sad?”
“Right. Because sometimes, you don’t always appreciate the moment until…” Perhaps this wasn’t the best analogy. “Does that make any sense?”
“I guess so…a little...”
“Good. Well––and here’s what I’m trying to say––some people think that, if we didn’t ever die…we’d never be able to…appreciate how important; how special it is…to be alive. Now, does that make sense to you?” She was beginning to wonder herself.
“I don’t know. Sort of.” He answered in a manner hardly convincing. “You’re saying that people need to die so that they can have fun while they’re alive?”
“Yeah. Something like that.” The boy simply shrugged, seemingly unable, (or unwilling), to grasp such a concept. Cynthia had to admit it did sound far-fetched. Why do we die? she thought bitterly. How in the hell should I know?
“Is that their wedding photo?” She suddenly felt desperate to change the subject.
“I just wanted to see them both smiling,” he replied. Cynthia considered this a moment before joining him inside the perfectly preserved moment in time. To her surprise, it actually made her feel a bit better. She decided not to push the issue further for one day. Instead, the two of them just sat awhile; first five, then ten, fifteen and even as much as twenty minutes without one single word between.
*
“Cynthia?” Mary called for the third time, and still got no answer. “My goodness, where the hell is that girl…?” By the kitchen, it occurred to her, she could well have skipped out. Henry was gone after all. No more fringe benefits. Still, there was something about her reasoning that no longer sat well.
“Nicky…?” Hmm, no answer there either, which might have been intentional. The boy hadn’t exactly been behaving like a model child in recent days. If only she could find the right words; the right gesture to reach him, she might just be able to see light at the end of this dark, miserable tunnel.
“Well, well, what’s this?”
Both were suddenly present and accounted for, fast asleep in her very own bed. He looked so peaceful lying there; that monotonous, slightly angry expression replaced by one of enduring calm. She wondered whether she’d ever again have the pleasure of seeing him that way awake. Of course you will. It just takes time. Time. Her eyes bounced over to the clock radio on the nightstand. It had been nearly two hours since she last checked in on––
“Patrick?”
So quiet. The boy seemed to operate on only one frequency. She gently pushed on his bedroom door and a sudden must and darkness overwhelmed her. “Patrick, are you––?” She stopped, glimpsing his still figure under the heavy covers.
His body was so…small; so fragile. Sometimes, when she went in to hug him, she feared he might break; (not that he would ever think to complain). Approaching, she tried to imagine what it must be like to be so easy-going; (clearly not one of her own distinguishing character traits). Maybe he gets that from Henry…
It was only as she drew closer that she started to become suspicious. The boy was practically soaked in sweat. Feeling his forehead, his hair felt as though he’d just come out of the shower. His temperature, however, despite all indications, felt relatively normal. “Oh, Patrick,” she whispered. “My poor little baby...”
“Mommy…?” He surprised her as his eyes inched open…
“Shh, yes sweetie, I’m here.” With what strength he had left, he strained to sit up.
“He’s here, Mommy…he’s coming...” There was an urgency in his voice, unbefitting of the last few days.
“Who’s coming, Patrick?”
“The bad man.” he answered, tears welling up around his already-puffy, brown eyes. “He’s coming to hurt us...”
“Shh, no honey. Nobody’s coming to hurt you. It was just a bad dream.” There was something to be said for his timing. While of course concerned, and frightened of all she may not yet know, in the back of her mind, she was also almost happy to have him this way, if only for a little while. Now, more than ever, she needed someone to take care of. And, after all, who on this earth could have possibly needed her more?
–––––––––––––––
Krieger…
The rock formations were brilliant––so detailed in their intricacies. Something inside him suggested the settlement was surprisingly nearer than first thought; though he was quickly beginning to doubt the words of strange voices unwilling to match with a face.
He’d reached the tail end of his journey. For more than a decade, he’d done nothing but eat, sleep and dream his all-consuming quest. It had been only three weeks since he left that small, painfully-uninteresting excuse for a town. What finally led him there formed the basis of a story, not even he could bring himself to completely believe. It was his very denial, however, that somehow solidified its validity in his own ringing consciousness.
He’d been walking for days. Out here, at the edge of the astral plane, the mountains literally touched the clouds and the heavens were near enough to be seen with naked eyes. If not so thoroughly exhausted, (or completely uninterested), he might well have stopped for a closer look. But there simply wasn’t time. Duty, after all, could not afford rest.
In the distance, he could vaguely make out the crackles and unpredictable patterns of firelight. The path draws to a close, he thought; one of the first he’d allowed himself, and had almost forgotten how rewarding it could be to have one’s own faculties all to oneself. The fire was brighter still, growing moreso the nearer he drew. To his amazement, he felt anxious. The elders could be heard now, chanting faintly in their ancient language.
The caves were suddenly much darker, and Krieger was beginning to sense a presence far more powerful than any he’d ever known. At last he could make out the divine shape of a gentleman, draped in robes just a few metres away. It was time.
“You have traveled a great distance...” a raspy voice stated. Krieger knew better than to respond right away. “Have you news worthy of our holy salutation?”
Carefully, he stepped forward. “I have.”
“Continue.”
“I bring news of the creature…” Krieger went on, shaky. “…known across time and countless human culture––as…la Parra Finico––Perry Finch…”
“Continue…” the elder repeated.
“…news, which pertains to its ultimate destruction...” he finished, a bit dizzy. The elder went silent, and forced him to wait there alone for several more minutes in near pitch darkness…
“Step forward, thy faithful servant, Krieger…’”
Krieger gasped unexpectedly, startled at the sudden sight of a hunched-over, elderly form standing a mere few feet in front of him. The man looked as though he were hundreds of years old. His dress was exquisite, a flowing white robe decorated with an assortment of ancient and divine symbols, some of which he recognized; (though most he did not). The man’s skin literally hung off of his old bones, and a long white beard concealed the majority of his frail upper body. “You are aware now, of with whom you speak?” Krieger nodded, unprepared. “You bring news, Minion. News of the creature that calls itself…Finch…?”
“Yes,” he promptly confirmed. “The creature draws human breath no longer...”
“You have proof of this?” Krieger remained silent. Proof?
“Only my own two eyes,” he said. “Slain by my own weapon, its tainted blood spilt in accordance to ritual, flowing down the femoral artery, from above to below, as decreed in––”
“Your account is in error, Brother Krieger.” The Priest interrupted. “The maniacal creature of which you speak has not been transitioned to its eternal darkness, as you so unremittingly profess...”
Krieger was stunned. He’d never known a representative of The Order––a High Priest, nonetheless––to mislead or be misinformed in such a blatant manner.
“You’re mistaken,” he stated bluntly. “With all due respect…what you say is…impossible…I myself was physically present for the entire duration of––”
“Your victory was one of self-profession. The elders recorded decrease in its particle frequency, but for a brief interval. Your assigned extermination has been unsuccessful, young one. Your duty remains clear, and your task, incomplete.”
The shadowy figure retreated back into the nothingness from which it apparently came, and once again, Krieger was left by himself––
Impossible, he maintained. I was there. I looked into its coal, devil eyes until drained of all but the white of an empty shell vessel…and could not be more certain…
PERRY FINCH IS DEAD!!!
Isn’t he?
Krieger was suddenly faced with the frightening possibility of his own impatient carelessness; his own selfish lack of reliable execution. For the first time, he allowed himself the mind space to wonder: What if Perry Finch had managed to cling to some undetectable scrap of life in that all-too-brief interval between death and eternal oblivion? What if somehow, he’d found solace in yet another unsuspecting host carrier?
What if––? Dear God…
Damn you, Perry Finch.





Stay tuned for Chapter Eight - plus a few other special surprises I'm working on.
Happy Holidays!

D.A.