The Scars of Qulin Moore

Chapter 33

Old South's iron fence rattled in a different tenor. Its once intimidating overtones, as Qulin walked by now, a shovel slung over his shoulder and the elixir safely tucked in his cloak, had taken on a welcoming melody cheering on his every step. His heart quivered as he pushed open the main gate, feeling quite odd that the endless rows of crooked and bent headstones failed to elicit that poignant vindictive feeling that once plagued him. No more did he scan the cemetery for patrons to detest their presence. No, he entered Old South, soil soft under his feet, free to forgive those buried underneath who had caused such grief so long ago. The headstones, inscriptions once loathed, names of neighbors reviled, gleamed under a friendlier light, as if to revel along in his pending salvation. Revel in a new cemetery, a new beginning.

He walked down the same slight incline and into the same first row of headstones, considering the next stage of his life with great ardor. It was probably a blessing that his house was burned and gone, at least those nasty inspectors wouldn't bother him anymore. The thought brought an accomplished smile to his face. It had been a foregone conclusion that he had no intent on returning to Cowell Drive. Or even remaining in Derryton for that matter. The road ahead was filled with possibility. The endless places to go paraded in the wide open streets of his eager mind. A secluded life in the White Mountains, and although his building skills had probably rusted over the years, it was nice to ponder constructing a nice log cabin and living off the fruit of the land. Maybe him and Cora could escape to the vast Amazon and live a nomadic existence studying the boundless resources or perhaps if he should ever become bold enough, take a chance on New York City—Lucas had such flattering opinions about the hustle and bustle. He laughed heartily for more than a few paces. No way he could deal with the millions of people in that jam packed urban jungle. Beyond all these aspirations there were other reasons to leave. He reconciled with the fact he'd never be accepted in Derryton. He was a monster and always would remain as such. The neighborhood kids were aware of his affairs and the word was bound to spread through the town that he'd taken Lucas captive, then what? Mr. Huston, convinced Mitch and Dianna were endangered, would surely implore the police to hunt him down. He imagined sitting behind iron bars and grinned, remembering Lucas and how he vigilantly tried to escape from the basement. He was going to miss Lucas's feisty spirit but he knew the title as the town monster was irrevocably secured. And the town monster quickly wears out his welcome. At any rate it didn't feel suitable any longer to carry such anger for them; for those he made out to be monsters were just a reflection of himself. This thought didn't bother him in the least. He was a monster, but one soon to be forgiven.

He looked down. A pale worm paused in a patch of dried dirt near his boot looking up to the sky as if seeking an invisible yet knowable joy above the mud it had always known, as if a more meaningful calling lie just ahead. He stepped over the worm and moved along, picking up his pace.

He rounded the final turn. Cora's headstone was straight ahead. He paused as a flock of boisterous waterfowls squawked loudly overhead. What would he say to Cora when she was resurrected? What would be the first sentence uttered from his tremulous mouth? Could he just apologize, and all would be well? Would she recall his betrayal? Of course, she'd accept his apology, of course. The flock of birds dipped over the horizon. Could he expect himself to take care of Cora? When he failed to protect Som when it mattered most? If the police, or the townsfolk, were to gather once more, possessed by terror and frenzy into that brutish and murderous mob and chase them down, calling for the pyre—would he defend her? Or would he falter once more. It was a terribly paralyzing rupture of confidence.

His face burned with the shame of uncertainty. Why now, why think of all this now, he castigated the birds but they'd long since passed leaving him unsettled. Would he act, when needed? Could he give his life to defend those he cared for most?