CHAPTER ONE

They all stood there with tears of perspiration pouring down their faces, while the preacher dotted the corners of his mouth and then his forehead like preacher men do and he said that the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away and to everything there is a season, and Ausby was gone but she lived on in memories and legacy and she’d be seen again someday when we meet on that Heavenly shore. Amen.

We shall sing on that beautiful shore
The melodious songs of the blessed

And our spirit shall sorrow no more
Not a sigh for the blessing of rest

Atticus Remington Scutt bowed his head, mouthed an amen and made his way back across the lawn of Stone Church, est. 1823. Originally a hand-built wooden chapel of a step, a door and a sanctuary, and now a stone building with windows and a modest steeple, it had served as a garrison for God’s will and presence long before Lincoln’s War and had continued since. The church stood at the bottom of a thickly wooded ridge with a luscious green line of hickory, maple and pine, behind which was a mix of dirt and gravel roads snaking through the hollar and on into the blue silhouettes of the mountains beyond.

A.R. lit a cigarette and cut his way through the headstones, trying not to think about the entire lives buried underneath each of them. How now they were all turned into history. How we always bury them looking up. How hiding the person you love from view eventually becomes necessity. Out of sight, out of mind, out of our hands.

The heat was saturating and, through eyes-full of green, he could see waves coming off every leaf and blade of grass, like the sun had given too much life and was taking it back. The funeral had had a decent turnout as a closed casket affair is wont to do. The family that mattered made it back to the house. Uncle Brooks and Uncle Danny were there, dressed in Johnny Cash black. Shotguns and shine in the trunk. Whiskey in their jacket pockets.

A wood-burned plaque hung over sizzling cast-iron and told anybody that came into that kitchen that ‘food tastes best when it’s cooked with love’. Mamas and Aunts and Nanas cooked the kind of foods they figured would bring sweet memories, while kids went running and hollering, inside and out; Ausby was supposed to be somewhere around there with them. Her daddy, Shane, sat just about catatonic. Features fading to crepuscular. Ashtray with a hundred cigarettes burned down to the filter. Future packs stacked and unwrapped. Tops torn off.

Like all men of the mountain, A.R. was wiry and shredded. A childhood spent eating garden vegetables, polk salad and hot water cornbread during the summer with cured proteins and pickled vegetables in the winter. At twenty-three, he reigned over every one in height, but his brown, shoulder-length hair had remained a source of light mockery and scoffing.

After the meal, one of the aunts dished out the banana pudding and smiled sadly as she remembered out loud how her sister, Ausby’s mama, had taught them how to make it and how Ausby had always argued how soaking the bottom wafers in milk and mashing them down is better than whole ones on top, and how Ausby’s did actually taste the best, and that she did it Ausby’s way and she loved Ausby so very much and that she would always love her, always.

Ausby’s daddy lit a cigarette with a cigarette and ashed on his pudding plate, while her mother, Teresa, began cleaning the kitchen, and A.R. stepped out for a smoke.

It was still hotter than Hell, but the cicada’s reverberations were giving way to the staccato chirps of katydids and crickets underscored by the bellow of frogs, and the lightning bugs flickered like remnants of the day.

The rusty groan and pop of the screen door added to the sounds of the night as Brooks and Danny joined A.R. on the porch.

“Evening,” they said, lighting hand-rolled cigarettes of their own.

The uncles had always been a source of awe for Atticus: two old-school-no-pink-in-the-middle-whoop-your-ass-all-the-way-to-church-and-back-at-it-again-hell-raisers. They looked older than his memories today.

He nodded.

“Evening y’all.”

“How’s your daddy?”

“Broken up. Wishes he could be here.”

“Yeah, we know.”

“Looking kinda jacked these days, Attie.”

“Yeah, I’ve been hitting the weights. Eating a lot of eggs and some liver. Steak and potatoes.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Listen bubba, we need to talk.”

“You know he’s predicted shit like this before, your daddy?”

“Right.”

“You know he’s always been wrong before.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he wudn’t wrong this time.”

A.R. smoked and sighed.

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’ma get right down to it, Attie. We want you to fix this shit. We ain’t about to have a curse laid on this family.”

“We need you to. Everybody knows he predicted Ausby. Now everybody’s wondering how and why.”

The brothers lit another cigarette as the bug zapper charged the night.

“How do you mean? I know my daddy is on some shit y’all but…”

“Nah. We want you to find the sum-bitch that did this. Give it all some closure.”

“Closure, country justice, martial law, the righteous hand of a wrathful fucking God, I don’t give much of a fuck what you wanna call it. We want whoever the fuck did this strung up and gutted, you heard me?”

“Hell, I’m with yall, but what’s that got to do with me?”

“You talk to your daddy and see what he knows.”

“Are y’all trying to say that my daddy…?”

“Hell no. But if he’s got to speaking with Angels and Devils again, he might know something. Something hidden in the Secrets. We figure you might have it too. Maybe you’re the one it’s going to take to carve this Evil out.”

“Listen. Ausby, she passed down in — County. Now by the grace of God your cousin Boss is a deputy round there as of recent.”

“I thought he’s over there in —.”

“Naw, he came back last year to help somebody in office talking about sheriff this and that someday. Point is, he got his dick swinging a little bit and he’s saying he can bring you on out there as a consultant all incognegro.”

“Alright, consultant for what?”

“Boy, like I give a fuck.”

“Listen. You call him tomorrow and y’all can go from there. Family will pay you extra you bring the Devil back alive.”

“Y’all don’t even think about paying me for this shit.”

A.R. put his cigarette out on his boot.

“You’re a good man, Attie. Always was. We’ll figure out recompense later on.”

“Just call it done. I’ll talk to daddy and then I’ll hit up Boss tomorrow.”

They shook hands and Brooks clapped him on the shoulder.

“Before you leave, come in here and get a whole bunch of this food. Don’t imagine anybody wanting leftovers from a funeral.”

A.R. said his condolences and goodbyes and headed Home. The closer he got to the Mountain, the more things seemed in stasis. There was no reason to change because change was never needed, nor came. He raised a finger to Ol’ Gabe, who was locking up the convenience store as he had every night since even A.R.’s daddy was young. Idyllic as life on High might be, A.R. had been no different than any other child. A bike ride was an adventure and a lesson in freedom. Sticky buns and a coke were the reward. Swimming in the creek. Climbing trees. Rock fights and BB gun wars. Such experiences colored his childhood and riding back up had always felt as much like leaving something behind as much as it had coming Home.

Of course, his daddy being his daddy had separated them from the community, not as black sheep but as those who have something hanging over them, following them wherever they go; elephants and ghosts in the room. He had an almost subconscious, maybe selfish, hope that if he could pull this off, not only would he vindicate himself, coming out from under that colossal shadow, but maybe he’d be able to vindicate his daddy, whether in his mind or those of others, he wasn’t quite sure. Same difference, probably.

He cruised around the mountain like old memories: arm out the window, cigarette in his lips, glow on the dashboard, beer in his lap, baseball on the radio. Who needs heaven half the time? He roared up the mountain, feeling good but never smiling, knowing things would creep out later that night. Any thought that turned to Ausby got put on the back burner. He’d need this. One more glimpse of happiness, pure and simple, before coming down off that mountain and into whatever kind of darkness it was that had murdered Ausby. That little baby was only twelve years old, goddamn them. Goddamn them. God fucking damn them!

A.R. pulled the truck over, trying to breathe. Tears were falling in great drops. He’d had a lump in his throat the whole service; it should’ve gotten swallowed down with the whiskey but there it stayed. Don’t much expect or think about other people’s deaths to be violent, least not the ones you love, very least of all the ones you’ve known since they were knee-high to a grasshopper. Grief had buried itself deep in his chest. He’d held that little girl since the day she was born. She called him ‘R’ when she was a baby. He didn’t know all the details, but he was gonna be finding out, and he already knew it wasn’t anything close to Christian. He wept, hanging his head down on his chest in heaving sobs, wanting to lie down on the bench seat, but vengeance wouldn’t let him.

He lit another cigarette and headed Home.

 

CHAPTER TWO

What was called Home, and had been so for A.R. ‘s conscious life was a three hundred acre compound on the top of a mountain, built deep into trees so thick you couldn’t run a straight line through them. The dwellings and amenities consisted of a main abode, three bunk houses, a fishing pond, ten acres of muscadine and several plots that had at one time been used for gardens, most of which were now mowed down to dirt, except for the larger ones dedicated solely to strawberries and the like, the roads between which were lined with the witchy branches of peach trees; all the better to make and sell jams and other preserves to farmer markets, along with some very fine ice cream, which was a legitimate and perfectly legal reason to have at least half a ton of sugar on premise and, well, mix that with the right something, preferably some corn or rye and, hell, why you’re at it throw a peach and a little cinnamon in the jar, and we’re all gonna be alright.

A.R. drove down the dirt path like he had since he’d first driven, lined with little posts of light illuminating the way, streets of gold leading into the darkness and fading behind, eventually arriving at a house full of memories, myth and history. It was a two story lodge over top of which was a large attic that had been converted to his bedroom, a consideration given to him as he was the only heir and progeny of Cillian Remington Scutt. The same bedroom where his daddy used to come tweaking late into the midst of midnight, screaming recitations of the good old KJV, Milton and Blake for hours on end; where the sunrise and song birds would find A.R., eyes half-closed, faithfully repeating back the lines his daddy felt were those that should be carried for the rest of his life.

His mother had been revered as she should’ve been, but she’d eventually become one of many. His daddy had divined a sort of hedonist path to transcendence based on some symbolism he abstracted from the Old Testament. Of course, he was from the area and they weren’t having the heresy, so he descended into the city and the slums and brought himself back a following. A couple widowers bought the land in his name, and he preached his version of kumbaya until the end of the whole ordeal. Even after the federales kicked the door in, that man still kept the place and a couple girlfriends, just switched to making jelly.

His daddy, of whom A.R. was the spitting image, though with his mother’s reserve, was standing on the front porch with his two lady-friends when A.R. pulled up. Long, dark silver hair, and a drawn, angular face that held an electric, toothy smile that went to his eyes, a whole lot of lanky charm with a little bit of bullshit. With a country boy regard for nature and a hippie regard for the spiritual, Cillian was everything you’d need to believe in him and he was wearing what he called his ‘bathrobe-of-many-colors’ over a bare chest, loose pajama bottoms and some flip flops. He tilted his head hello and stumbled forward, leaning way over the rails, nowhere near sober.

“Welcome back, son.”

“Evening.”

A.R. loosened his tie as he walked up the steps, nodding to each woman.

“Girls, yall take this food inside real quick, would ya?”

Cillian turned, lighting two cigarettes simultaneously and handed one to his Son.

“How was it?”

His daddy had a way of exhaling questions.

“Preacher’s still preaching. Saw Brooks and Danny and them.”

“They do right by Ausby?”

“I guess. First closed casket I’ve seen. It’s got a whole different vibe to it. You just kinda wonder if they’re in there and if you’d even recognize them if they were. I didn’t figure it would be like that.”

Cillian looked Up.

“I don’t figure anyone does. I was not told how she would meet her demise.”

A whole two hundred and sixty-eight days ago, Cillian had come hollering late-night-early-morning through the house, shaking A.R. awake, screaming how the Lord had sent an angel, and how that angel had informed him that a whole two hundred and sixty days later, Ausby, yes that Ausby, was going to die, and how he’d tried to tell the angel that that wasn’t a very angelic thing to say, and the angel replied that maybe he’d never talked to an angel before, which, of course, he had and he asked why’d the angel tell him such a thing, and the angel had just shrugged and said figured he should know.

A.R. spit.

“Well fuck, why’d you have to tell everybody else, man? They’re fucking spooked.”

“Son, if God’s messengers bring one the Word then one must accept it as the holy duty, blessing and burden placed upon them that it is. You do not share it to relieve yourself of it. You share it so that others might do with that Truth what God and they will. It is the unfortunate reality of Prophecy that it does not consider our feelings on the matter, nor does it offer consolation of any sort. In its own way, that is how and why it remains pure.”

Heat lightning simmered in the background, illuminating the heavy silence of thunder clouds.

“A little girl, our kin, was just murdered.”

“Boy, I know that. I’d trade my life for that girl a hundred times over. I have wept every night at the prospect of her Death since it was foretold. Not a goddamn thing I have just relayed gives me any peace on the matter, but it does not change the Nature of it all. Much as I would like it to.”

They stood smoking in the silence of nature’s white noise, the Milky Way spilling over top of them.

“So, you know anything?”

“How do you mean?”

“In that vision you had. That Spirit didn’t give you any clues or anything specific?”

“Nah, bubba. Just a name and a date. Why?”

“Well, Brooks and Danny were acting spokesmen, but the family wants me to find the sum-bitch for punishment.”

Cillian’s eyes flared skyward.

“And now we know why it was I who was called to share God’s message! Son, you are now become an instrument of God’s Divine Judgment. You are his sword. PROVIDENCE BATHES YOU IN ITS GLORY AND IT IS BLINDING! I can foresee!”

Cillian’s eyes rolled back, looking further into his mind.

“Yes, there is indeed a most vile serpent, lying in predatory wait amongst the filth of the Below. You! My Son, you who have been blessed from Birth, now receive your Calling! Prepare and sanctify yourself this very night. Go! Time is of the essence. I am not wrong!”

Cillian hurled himself over the railing, puked, then took a drag of his cigarette before throwing it and running inside without another word, smoke and many-colors blurring behind him.

A.R. watched him go.

For a short time, he’d been interested in psychology and analysis and all that mess. All he’d found that way was buzzwords and classifications. Joy. Mania. Depression. Bipolar. Schizophrenia. All of which were the Spiritual products of Consciousness; the more than reasonable price of being Human. Only Fear and Lust, products of preservation, were native to biology. Seemed like everybody wanted to talk relativity but wouldn’t give any credence to individual Faith. His daddy believed and so it was. So it shall be.

He spit.

It wasn’t any wonder no one could find or talk to God(s) anymore. Start putting Order on things that can’t be ordered and all it did was make people feel small. How could anyone attempt to bring the Universe down to them instead of vice versa? He couldn’t stand the arrogance, but even the Truth didn’t make life much easier, nor watching his daddy discover it.

He considered another cigarette, but a drizzle had started, and it had been a helluva day.

His daddy was pacing in his office, reciting aloud from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. The women sat at the table, sharing a piece of pecan pie. A.R. declined when offered and stood staring at the railless staircase leading up into the shadows.

Sighing out a breath, he ascended.

But for a bathroom and shower that had been installed, the attic was a large open space presided over by an a-frame roof of golden timber, leafed further by the sunlight of each day that shone through a large hinged window, which led out onto a veranda shaded by a something-hundred year old Oak. His daddy’s women had taken to the design, using rugs to mark off the areas for his bed, desk, couch and bookshelves. He turned on the overhead light and took his boots off. With the nicotine churning, he sat down at his desk, trying, for just one second, to think about nothing.

The tree limbs out the window began to boast at one another in the moonlight, rollicking in the energy of the coming summer storm. Their silhouettes clashed across the wall, and A.R. watched transfixed, drawn into their movement as the warmth of the room departed, and reality began to swirl.

From the back of his mind, an overwhelming and incorrigible fire roared into being. Chained to his chair by the consuming vision, he could only watch the shadowy figures dance across the walls of his eyes, beckoning him toward acceptance, to give himself to the holes in the light. They constructed realities and semblance of truths, but the negative space spoke loudest and in that void, he swore he could sense but not see something more.

Hands trembling, dripping sweat, he stumbled then dragged himself toward the light switch, collapsing with relief as the light and shadows disappeared. Some truths are only discovered in the Dark.

He crawled, panting, back to his desk and mindlessly rolled a cigarette. With the storm raging on, he gazed at the shapeless, hulking forms of his bookshelves, then licked the paper closed, and a brief flame haunted his features as he leaned back, sending smoke signals toward Heaven.