The Scars of Qulin Moore

Chapter 10

Certainly you never forget anything so dear and precious as the spot you fell in love.

In summer days before the flu struck, Cora and Qulin would climb to the top, watch the setting sun ignite the waiting sky into a mosaic of oranges, purples and pinks and wonder about life outside of Derryton. Aspirations of starting a little medicine shop in Boston, where their magic, insofar as they kept it secret, would be of greater use to a greater number of people.

The cool and damp stump sent thrills up his back as he sat. He tore a handful of the dark mushrooms, squeezing them till only a mush remained. They took his wife then, they took away his birch now. They, invariably meant the Derryton townsfolk. Every single one of them, whether living now or from the past, young and old, man or women, were to blame for the catastrophe his had become.

He glanced over his shoulder, certain he heard hurried footsteps approaching. His mind started with tricks, the tendrils of horrible memories, trying to slither their way in and demand his undivided attention. He shook his head, trying to force the good memories of Potter's Bluff—remember her poetry not her screams. He pulled out Cora's diary, resting it on his lap, the red leather binder his station of strength while he contemplated the mystifying ambivalence this place held as if the forces of good versus evil chose this very ground to battle. The day he met Cora. A slight smile touched his lips. That resplendent, hot August day—he felt the soothing warmth from that day on his skin right now. The town had commissioned the construction of a new church, for which granite was needed for its foundation. He needed more money for raw materials if he was going to eventually build his house at the end of that little dirt road which later became Cowell Drive. He volunteered and was sent to collect granite from the top of Potter's Bluff. Equipped with a wheel barrel and a pick ax, and with the Rusty Mule waiting down below, he made his way up the bluff in search of the rock. He worked for hours, swinging and pulverizing a particular section of the stubborn granite, although unbeknownst to him, he had selected a rather precarious segment, and had weakened its integrity, setting it up for a tragic collapse. In his negligence, he turned and laid the wheel barrel down for what he hoped would be the last time by the white birch tree. And as he did, a massive screech belted out from the granite wall. He tried to dive from the falling stones but a large slab trapped his foot. His calls for help fell on empty air, his foot reduced to a fractured meat. Cora, sitting at the opposite end of the bluff hidden by thick lilac bushes busy writing her poetry, heard his cries. She hurried to Qulin, who was writhing in agony. He recalled the first sound of her voice, so gentle yet assertive, "I'm going to help you in a special way," she said, her face aglow with a resolute focus and kindness that assuaged his anguish. Qulin hadn't the slightest clue what 'a special way' could've meant at the time. Without hesitation Cora closed her eyes and began murmuring a quiet hymn, like a lullaby. The stone lifted from his leg.

Quite relieved, furthermore stunned realizing he was in the presence of another spell caster. A most lovely sorceress, more powerful than him—he only dreamt of conjuring spells which levitated heavy stones. But she hadn't finished. Cora then pulled a sparkling salve from a leather knapsack, and began rubbing the balm onto his broken foot while continuing her incantation; his foot regained its normal shape, the pain vanished. He loved her from that moment on. Her courage, leaping to a stranger's aid. The openness to which she offered her magic; for all she knew, he could've fled terrified and turned her into the authorities, crying witchcraft. This risk never appeared to have crossed her mind, her dauntless eyes told as much. He came to later learn she acted as the town's medicine woman and offered her services regularly to the ill. But this courage, he'd benefitted from, would be her guiding light all the way to her last days. Courage—he thought, walking towards the bluff precipice, staring out over Derryton, was the one quality he lacked. He opened Cora's diary. Procure the essence of proper innocence. He read the line over and over, hoping the bluff would reveal its meaning, some new understanding.

"Please, Cora, I've come all this way—give me something," he pleaded to the air before him. His voice echoed and fell over the ledge. What did it mean? Proper Innocence? He waited as if the answer would crawl back up the ledge. Beyond downtown Derryton where Route 93 passed through. Alive with migrating little black cars like bugs zooming north to south and south to north. What manner of people were behind all those steering wheels. What, if like him, were they trying to escape? Were they speeding away from an awful truth? Were they seeking out their 'Proper Innocence', or running away from it? What was innocence, anyway. A fallacy at best—everyone was born with this illusion pasted on their foreheads, but brooding inside every man and woman was a inborn fear determining some future behaviors never thought possible. Whether it was some sort of emotional shortcoming or misunderstanding, lust or insatiable desire, or maybe just pure evil, this so-called innocence was soon dispensed with like the faulty light it was, and the horrors fell out into the world. The default position of innocence was nothing more than a laughable cover up. How could there be anything remotely proper from a false innocence? Innocence was long gone. Where was the innocence when the mindless creatures whose only predilections were to serve themselves, protect themselves, unleashed their violence upon his dear Cora? If innocence should exist, she was the paragon and still she perished.

His teeth grated harshly as Mayor Morton Kelsey's indifferent face entered his mind—that ominous nod and calloused smirk which condemned Cora to death.

He suddenly felt weak, his breath draining from his chest. Wasn't he one of those who only cared for themselves? His chest heaved through a growing tightness. Wasn't he as much to blame for Cora's...death? No, it wasn't true. He whimpered and grabbed his head, vomit spewed from his mouth. The awful truth. He had been so foolish to believe this place could be a respite from the agony of his house, and that unforgiving basement. Why did he fool himself into believing he'd find answers here. The ledge of the bluff suddenly yearned for him, opening wide, pulling him towards its edge. The curse would bring him back from death but he deserved the pain of crashing to the ground below. Proper Innocence—Cora screamed in his mind. He dug his feet firmly into the muddy soil, his arms swinging wildly as if trying to clasp on to the birch tree. A darker, utterly guttural voice supplanted Cora's—the beastly feline voice—Guilt, shame, chaos, forever.

He fled, stumbling over tree stumps running from the truth that unraveled him in this place. Everything blurred, forms blended into an imperceptible mash as he labored to the makeshift path that would lead him down. Suddenly, he heard voices. Not in his head. Off to his left branches broke and echoed under moving feet heading his direction. The floating orange pulp of a lit cigarette bobbed around. He ducked behind the nearest trunk. There was no time to dash over the bluff ledge, the group of kids were moving up fast. His only means of escape was to plummet through downhill. He ducked his head behind his forearm and bound into the thicket opposite of them. Shrubs and branches stabbed him across his body like pitchforks. He caromed indiscriminately downward, yet before the voices were totally faded he risked a glance over his shoulder, and lost his balance falling some ten or fifteen feet, his momentum only stopped by an oak tree. Pain rocketed through his pelvis. He bit his tongue hard to stifle the rising moan and laid still, peering between the trees. Did they hear? A woodpecker hammered into the tree above him. For a moment he was convinced the woodpecker was alerting them to his presence. But the groups of kids proceeded up to the peak unaware of sorcerer's wreck.

He descended the remainder of the bluff, and fled back to his house.

Later that night, in the dank living room he sat on the couch. He stared defeatedly at the feline painting above the fire place, its merciless and cruel red eyes glared back waiting to pounce at the stroke of midnight. He was absent heart, absent desire to work on the orchid elixir. Despair triumphed and he could sense its diabolical fingers seizing the reigns of his mind, preparing him for the hopelessness of eternity. Tonight, he thought, he'd lie on the couch and await the next wound the feline would render. He removed his cloak. It felt off, as if something was missing. His pupils dilated as they settled on the large void in the cloak pocket--Cora's diary was gone.