Lucas opened his eyes once again to an impenetrable darkness. Was this finally death? Had Mr. Moore finally killed him? He sucked in a deep breath. The familiar taste of basement mildew wafted heavily into his mouth—he was very much alive. He scurried onto his knees, checking his arms and abdomen for gaping wounds or missing organs finding only superficial lacerations inflicted by the broken window glass. A terrible ache passed through both calves like a ring of burnings coals passing through his flesh where Mr. Moore's had grabbed hold. All minor concerns. He was alive, though unclear why.
The mice broke out into a fit of squeaks welcoming him back.
Yeah, hi to you, too, he thought. He imagined at this point the mice were either laughing, or surprised to see him in one functional piece. He felt around in the darkness, grabbing a piece of stale bread and tossed it out into the darkness where it hit the cell wall, sending a deluge of blue fizzles in all directions. Why was he alive? He's given Mr. Moore every possible reason to commit the deed. And yet air still passed through his chest. Maybe Mr. Moore hadn't quite figured out how to dispose of him, yet. Maybe Mr. Moore had worse things planned. The dread these musings imbued served to only wish Mr. Moore would get it over with sooner rather than later. No more waiting, lying in a tank of darkness with a rampant mind. It seemed this prison cell, keen on preventing the physical body from escape, somehow performed quite the opposite on the mind, setting it free to pursue the most unnerving thoughts. He curled up on the floor hoping instead of negative thoughts, a new plan would emerge.
~~~~~~
Midnight passed slowly into the early morning hours. The two-head feline having completed its ritual returned to its place on the wall. Flesh hardened into another hideous blemish under the cool rag Qulin held against his cheek. He paced the kitchen as if his legs were ignited by an interminable flame propelling him from one end of the kitchen to the next. For the first time, the cat painting was the least of his worries. He forced his legs to bend at the knees and sat in the nearest kitchen chair. It rocked violently under his turbulent and agitated motions. The boy had tricked him—that insolent child, screaming and hollering. Moreover he felt such a seething contempt for his own foolishness. He had undermined his own principles. He glanced up towards the empty kitchen window. Som was to blame. It'd be the last time 'kindness' or 'friendliness' would be attempted. A grave fallacy each turned out to be. Just as he'd suspected—the concepts of friendliness and kindness—were untenable, nothing but utopian fog for the gullible, each ideal defrauding you long enough to let your guard down, at which point, tragedy strikes and everything you hold dear is jeopardized.
But for the moment, as frustrating as these findings were, a more pressing matter couldn't be ignored. Somebody must've heard the boy yell. If the nosey neighbors held true to their modus operandi, somebody was bound to come knocking, undoubtedly alongside the authorities. Immediate action was needed, the orchid elixir had to reach completion.
Som swooped onto the window and pecked the glass, enthusiastically.
Qulin shook his head, and barreled towards the crow.
"You have done nothing but give me unsavory advice," Qulin quipped, opening the window with such force the bottom frame splintered. "That boy nearly got away on account of your appeal to 'friendliness.' He tricked me into taking him to the bathroom which was quite the unpleasant experience I might add, and attempted escape through a window. What do you have to say for yourself?" The last remark rhetorical in nature.
Som shuddered, unprepared for the lashing.
"Nothing, finally you have nothing to say? How convenient." Qulin peered wistfully passed Som as if he was just another smear on an already dirtied horizon. The backyard with its many ditches and holes, the plant shed's door swinging on its hinges. A sad and distorted part of a mundane collage desperately wanting to find integration and meaning in the shifting and varying motions. Suddenly the garden door slammed shut, breaking Qulin from his contemplation. He returned his gaze to Som.
"Lucas," Qulin muttered, wiping his cheek before tossing the bloody rag on the floor. "The boy's name is Lucas."
Som perked up. "So you asked him."
"No, Som, I had no interest in his name. He hollered it from the window. Anyone with half an ear will know it by now. So there it is—are you satisfied?"
Som canted his head, remaining pensive. Clearly this was not the method of name acquisition he'd had in mind.
"Now, it's only a matter of time before the whole neighborhood is over here looking for him, or worse," Qulin continued, "I cannot allow further interference. I must make haste. I'm sorry, Som, but I return to my original decision—the boy must be sacrificed before it's too late. Before...I lose this opportunity for salvation."
Som squawked, irately. "No, Qulin, Not this way."
"Shut your beak," Qulin screamed. He wrestled in his cloak and pulled out a tiny scroll. "For three hundred years I've wallowed and suffered in my failures. And this boy, this Lucas, is the one hope to get her back. If you are my ally, my friend, as you claim, how can you deny me?"
"It is precisely because I am your friend that I am obligated to talk you out of this madness. A flagrant gamble...what is that in your hand?"
Qulin held the scroll up, his jaw clenched. "The Obliteration spell—the boy won't feel any pain. I'm leaving to collect the Rosary Pea Seeds needed for this toxin...sedative. Watch the boy, and be prepared to submit your leg, for once I return, we proceed with the elixir."
He drew the hood down over his face. "There is no other way." He gave no opportunity for Som to object and bounded for the door.
For the second time in only a few moments, Som was speechless. But lack of vocalization wouldn't arrest action. His black plotting eyes shifted down towards his two legs—he would need them more than ever.
~~~~~~~~~
Qulin fell to his knees before Cora's cracked headstone. Soggy soil cringed and sunk under his weight, as if it would give way to a cavernous pit at any moment—some part of him wanted to be swallowed, to stop him from doing this. He stared blankly at the long crack that ran down her headstone, the concave aperture splitting her name, and traveling straight down through the dates that marked her short, stolen life. Just twenty-four short years was all she had. Too young, brimming with so much potential before it was stripped from her, out of a baseless greed for the preservation of life. Procure the essence of the proper innocence—that's precisely what he was doing, he thought, as he reached into his cloak and pulled out a handful of red rosary pea seeds. This was the way. Their firm fire red body, the tiny black cap resting at its apex shared an eery resemblance with the two-headed feline's eyes. A shiver coursed through his shoulders unlike anything he'd ever felt. And with it, a returned sense of uncertainty over the sacrifice. But why? Was he deceiving himself into believing this was the true way? He shook his head violently. Learning the boy's name had injected a certain humanity into their arrangement, he was no longer simply a shifty nameless robber. No, now he had an identity, substance. Was Som correct when he declared quite plainly that this was all borne of desperation?
He placed the berries back in his pocket then brushed aside the lot of dead roses from Cora's headstone placing a fresh bouquet that hid the dreadful crack. The firm and robust red petals blushed with renewed life. He glanced at the rotted, withered roses comparing their lifeless condition to the newly placed bouquet. Roses knew about death—in one way, this exchange of flowers seemed like a fair tradeoff—one rose bundle lives out its purpose becoming shriveled and invalid to be discarded. The second bundle replaces its predecessor with exactly the same vibrant aura the original once possessed. One could say, this is not death but a rebirth of sorts, a transference of vitality never truly gone, only passed along via an imperceptible bridge unrevealed to the living eye. When its time is up the duty of the former, is to give way to the latter. That was justification enough, he lamented, for taking Lucas's life. He was simply enabling the transfer of life along that very same bridge.
He rose to his feet, convinced. The prospect of salvation itself, was too powerful a force to disregard. No man whose ever seen his own way home turns from that path. He was at the doorstep. He had reached and turned the knob. Satisfied, he walked to the cemetery exit. Groundskeeper Paul appeared at the entrance and moved briskly towards Qulin, waving him down. Qulin ignored the summons however Paul moved into his path.
"G' morn' Mr. Moore," Paul said, his voice cracked, dried by the cold air. "Did you notice I got that fence fixed back there by your wife's plot. Finally got them stonemason boys from Concord to come. Sorry it took so long, you wouldn't believe how hard it is to find vanilla onyx granite these days. It's in high demand."
Qulin nodded, impatiently. Unaware the wall had been corrected. He tried to move around Paul. His shoulders tensed filling with the urge to shove the petulant keeper out of the way. What part of his wretched expression welcomed a stop and chat.
"The irony is it's called the Granite State for Pete's sake," Paul continued, oblivious to Qulin's ire. He pulled a half-smoke cigar from his shirt pocket. "You'd think they'd have tons of granite stone ready to ship. World's a crazy place, Mr. Moore. I mean, taxes are through the roof, gas prices on the rise, and people still goin' missing. Crazy world, all right." He reached once more into his pocket. "Take a look at this," he said, pulling out a single piece of paper—a flyer, handing it to Qulin. "Sad state of affairs, this poor kid has been missing for over a week now. Lord knows who or what the hell happened. Shame, I tell ya. If that was my kid, I'd be...hell, I don't know what I'd be."
Qulin staggered, a heavy feeling striking the pit of his stomach. A grey and black photo of Lucas, smiling and holding a paintbrush stared up at him. The paper suddenly felt like a cinderblock. It slipped from his hand and fell lifelessly on the dead grass.
"Where did you get that?" Qulin stammered, straining to look away from the photo.
"The boy's mom is over there handing them out," Paul said, pointing towards a group across the street posting the same flyers on the utility pole.
Qulin managed a glance. A middle aged woman with a blonde pony-tail, embraced by an older woman. They seemed lost, staring at the flyer on the utility pole. As if she'd sense Qulin's nervous stare graze across her back, the younger woman turned around, and looked directly at him. He recoiled, and turned away. However, her inquisitive eyes latched onto him and soon the ominous sound of hurried footsteps plodding across the wet street came bounding his way. Acting out of instinct, he pulled his hood tighter around his face. To a more aware person, this sudden and peculiar behavior might have been suspicious, but Paul had been too caught up in imagining the loss of his own child to even notice the long ash growing on his cigarette.
"Hi, Mr. Moore," Adrienne said, coyly. She offered a tentative smile.
For his efforts, Qulin barely lifted his eyes from the ground responding with one of his dismissive nods while the rest of his body begged to flee.
"I...uh...just wanted to talk for a moment, if that's okay," she said with a coarseness in her voice as if she'd been sobbing for days straight.
Against all resistance, Qulin lifted his eyes to hers. His hood fell back, exposing a portion of his mangled face. She steadfastly kept her focus, her sunken eyes unperturbed by his torn face. Thin clouds of breath intermittently flowed from her lips. This unusual lack of revulsion struck him profoundly urging him to tend to her request even though he knew perfectly well what she'd inquire. He had abducted her son, and she had unknowingly shown him a rare flash of humanity. He trembled more than ever.
Adrienne knelt down and collected the flyer. Strands of her blonde hair spurted from the loosely tied ponytail. "I'm Adrienne Cast," she said, clutching the flyer tightly. "We live on the same street. I'm in the first house, actually."
Qulin stood quiet.
"You may recall, we've met, or rather, collided into each other at the Farmer's Market some time ago. I knocked over your crate of flowers."
A vague recollection of the incident crossed Qulin's mind, but still he remained silent. He placed his hand into his cloak pocket. A single red pea seed rolled between his fingers.
"That's not important. The reason I came over here, is to ask...well," she paused and took a deep breath, the flyer in her hand began to tremble, "if maybe you'd seen my son, Lucas? He's been missing."
She offered up the flyer which flapped helplessly in her hand.
Qulin pushed the flyer back towards her. He turned his shoulder to depart. "I haven't seen that boy. I can't help you."
Adrienne's gaze seemed to lose focus. Her shoulders slumped as if they would soon dislodge from the rest of her body.
"I'm sorry," Qulin muttered, and took off.
Adrienne watched him disappear down the road, dismayed over such a callous lack of compassion.
"Don't pay any attention to Mr. Moore," Paul said, waving his hand dismissively in the direction of Qulin, "he hasn't a care in the world for anyone but himself."
~~~~~~~~~
The basement stairs creaked but in a much lighter manner than what Lucas had come to know as Mr. Moore's thundering gait. Muffled grunting followed and echoed through the darkness. He listened carefully, as the movements got closer. A loud clang burst forth like a fallen tambourine followed by a deafening screech. "Damn these stairs!" An irritated, high-pitched unfamiliar voice yelled.
Lucas squinted into the darkness, the hairs erected on his arms trying to visualize any moving shape or form.
"Why hasn't he fixed these lights yet...No, everything has to work with the snap of his fingers...can't just fix the light switch like a normal person—"—the same pained voice exclaimed, getting closer.
An orange ember abruptly appeared before Lucas. The lighted match floated in an upwards trajectory in the dark till igniting a candle wick. The generous bright orb of light illuminated the face of a crow. He staggered back. Not just any crow, but the massive dinosaur-bird that he'd fought off in the shed. The shock of this unexpected reunion quashing the even more outrageous reality that the bird could talk. Reflexively, he raised his fists and prepared to fight.
Som cocked his head, the spent match dangling from his beak. He studied Lucas' sudden defensive posture, curiously "Candle has got a nice scent to it, don't you agree?" Som said, playfully awaiting a response. "Oh, that's right, you cannot talk."
Som grabbed the candlestick in his beak and hopped to the invisible prison cell wall, and placed it down where he could get a better look.
"Put your hands down, Lucas, I'm not here to hurt you."
Lucas shook his head defiantly, keeping his fists poised to strike.
"We don't have much time to waste on formalities. I'm Som and you're in great danger."
Lucas had no intentions of trusting this crow. For all he knew, Mr. Moore had sent him to peck his eyes clean out of his skull. Now the very crow that attacked him in that shed suddenly wanted to help?
"Listen here, and listen well," Som urged, the orange aura of the candlelight elucidating his most affable smile, "put your fists down. I know what you're thinking—I'm that big ol' bird that bombarded you out in the shed—first, I wasn't trying to eat your eyes."
Lucas raised an eyebrow. This crow could read minds, too.
Som continued to plead his case. "We crows don't eat eyes, that is offensive. It's a mean stereotype we've been trying to erase. All those damn horror movies portraying us as fiendish maniacal beasts—blasphemy! I was only after that juicy caterpillar that day...so juicy it was...sweet sweet goodness...Som focus—we're not here to talk about gourmet meals. I promise, I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm here to get you out of this prison cell."
Lucas refused to lower his fists.
"Your stubbornness is well received," Som countered, realizing his exhortation was failing. He turned around, and snatched up a paper pad. He leaped up and dropped the paper through the cell wall slot. "Use that to communicate while I look around for the scroll that'll release you from this cell."
The token seemed to soften Lucas' opposition. He collected the pad, thinking maybe Som truly had wanted to help.
Som glanced back. "That's right, you'll need a pencil. You know sometimes I wish I had more than one beak and two wings—a crow could get so much more accomplished. Imagine all the grub I could eat—one day I'll talk Qulin into creating that spell for me. What a treat that would be."
Qulin—Lucas thought—so that was Mr. Moore's true name. He never gave much thought about Mr. Moore even having a first name, it was a sorta an unwritten childhood presumption that adults didn't have first names—respect was demanded and expected so the consequence was invariably mister that or missus this. Qulin—disappointing in a way. He'd imagined the first name of such a hideous person would have a nastier ring. Nevertheless this was no time to let the mind wander off towards insignificant things.
Som returned to the cell a few moments later with a sharpened pencil tossing it in.
Lucas took the pencil and began scribbling down the first burning question:
What is Mr. Moore? Some kind of magician?
Som cackled loudly. "Oh, 'Mr. Moore.' huh—that really makes him sound old as dirt. Yes, Qulin is something like that."
Lucas scribbled away: So he's not a magician?
Som disappeared into the darkness again, leaving Lucas to reconsider every presumption about Qulin. If all these weird occurrences—invisible prison cells, disappearing voices—weren't indeed tricks, then what were they?
A few scrolls rolled into view. Som returned with as many scrolls as he could jam in his beak and wings. He unraveled each one, struggling to decipher the cryptic and alien instructions while looking for the scroll with the pair of black 'X' marks inscribed at the top.
"I'm sure you've got plenty of questions as to what's been going on here. All the strange paraphernalia, the mice, the invisible prison cell you're conveniently locked up in...let just say he's just a very, very old man with an obsession with flowers," Som said, flipping through scroll after scroll trying to hide his growing frustration. "Those flowers over there on that table are his life's work."
The silhouette of the dead orchids wallowed in the candle light. Lucas recalled how strange Qulin acted around them. Coddling the dead pants as if they were his children, desperate to protect them from harm, displaying a delicate fondness which seemed completely at odds with his otherwise distinct bellicose demeanor.
Lucas scribbled another question on the paper pad: Whats so important about those flowers?
"He's looking for these special blue halos," Som replied, "Qulin believes the flowers are gonna help him break away from that dim-witted two-headed cat painting you tried to steal."
Som kicked another useless scroll to the side, exasperated. "But that truly isn't important," he added. His voice now revealing a palpable nervousness. "Gotta get you out of there. That's all. Just get you out of there fast. Where is that scroll?"
Watching the crow flounder with the scrolls to no avail, Lucas began to sense that there was something more at stake. Something the crow wasn't telling him. He banged at the cell wall fiercely: So what does that have to do with me?
Som looked away, his black feathers hiding his paling flesh. "Funny story—true story—since we're on the topic of what he is and why he needs blue halos on those orchids, he believes that sacrificing you is the key to ending his curse."
Curse? Sacrifice? Qulin was planning on hurting him all this time. A prisoner soon to be a sacrifice. Lucas let the pencil fall from his hand. Sacrifice—people don't sacrifice people, right? That was something ancient people did, not more modern and civil types? He could no longer fight the tremble in his body. Could a person really be that cruel? Lack compassion, dismiss dignity so easily. Suddenly, as if this particular line of questioning was the precise launch code for a repressed memory, his father appeared so clearly in his mind, his sinister grin parting to say look at me son, I am the cruelty you know, and you're just like me.
In this instant, all the regret he'd ever felt for misbehaving roared from the back of his eyes, the unstoppable pressure forcing out tears. He wanted nothing more than to return to his mother, to fall into her warm and caring embrace, and apologize for being the worst son. Just one chance to make it right. He stared hopelessly, solemnly, at Som. He scurried up to the cell wall, imploring the talking crow to hurry up and find the scroll that would set him free.
Som regretted having said so much given the boy's panic. He clawed through the remaining scrolls, slumping down defeatedly upon reaching the final one. "I'm sorry," Som whimpered, "I tried."
Lucas listed backwards, the mental noise quieting somewhat as he contemplated his fate. Sacrifice, curse and blue halos. Blue halos! Wallowing in fear had clouded his memory until now. He leapt to his feet. The blue halos, he's seen them that day in the plant shed. Bright blue halos encircling each orchid bulb. Glowing blue rings, beaming crystal clear in his mind's eye. He grabbed the pad of paper, and started sketching furiously. In a matter of minutes he was done, and banged savagely on the cell wall.
"What is it?" Som asked, pressing his face to the cell wall. He figured this sudden burst of lunacy was Lucas trying to pass on his last will and testament. However Lucas had a smile branded on his face and a gleaming presence in his eyes incommensurate with the given circumstances.
"Why are you smiling?" Som asked, as Lucas held up the sketch pad.
Som's defeated and beady eyes stretched into black buckets filled with the marvelous image on the pad. He flapped his wings, voraciously. "The halos," Som stammered. He rubbed his eyes, questioning his own vision.
"You've seen them?"
Lucas nodded, boldly.
"This drawing, it's so detailed. So real. But how..."
Lucas flipped to a blank page and wrote another message: I know how they form.
Of course, he didn't have the slightest clue how the halos formed but delaying this 'sacrifice' was all that mattered.
"This is a miracle," Som said, overcome with joy. "Qulin must know about this immediately. Oh, how pleased he'll be. This is wonderful news. This is cause for a snack—and boy, have you earned it dear Lucas—could I interest you in a grasshopper?"
Just then, the basement door flung open. Som turned briskly to the river of light running down the stairwell. The basement lights flickered on at once.
Qulin stepped from the last step, pale, gasping. His eyes widened. The muscles in his jaw spasmed under the scars as he took in the incriminating scene. Scrolls tossed about, with Som standing in the middle of it all.
"What's going on here?"
Som leapt onto the exam table, and stared directly at Qulin. He thrusted his wings in the cell's direction. "He's seen the halos, Qulin. He's seen them!"
Qulin stared incredulously at Som. "I have no time for your foolish games. All I see is this attempted betrayal," he said, motioning to the sprawled scrolls.
"Take a look for yourself," Som cawed loudly. "Lucas, show him your sketch."
Qulin snapped his head towards Lucas. "If this is one your games, Som, it'll be your last."
Lucas stood and quickly plastered the sketch against the cell wall.
Qulin studied the drawing. His face softened as if a gust of wind had swept away every bit of anger—before him, sketched in brilliant detail, were his halos.