Damian
The apartment his mother had procured was the attic room of an old house built of pale brick. The landlady was frigid, thin as a reed, tall and stooped. She called Ingrid "sister" and she did not acknowledge Damian's existence save to swat at him with a spoon when he got into mischief. He spent most of his time in the attic or running about the tree-filled yard of the place, trying to stay out of the way of the dozen or so men and women who seemed to visit the house on a daily basis.
From the round attic window he could look out upon Salem and see the bay glistening at the edge of the township. Steamboats clustered along the shore and blimps floated languidly over the waves, like dragonflies over a puddle. He would daydream of the boat Ingrid told him she and Belthazha arrived on from Scandinavia, of the long weeks they spent with nothing in sight but dark ocean from horizon to horizon. He wondered if perhaps things would be better if they went back there, back across the waters. Maybe his mama would be alright again, maybe she would stop fighting with Amma.
But of course...his mama couldn't go home. Because of him. She had told him as much: they had come to the New World for his freedom. For his safety.
As a man, Damian still thought often of the guilts that had plagued his young mind. He still wished that at nine years old he'd had the ability to put words to that guilt, to have spoken with his mother, asked her what was happening. He wished that, when he'd had the chance, he had asked her why.
Many guests came to the house one day: men and women dressed in much finery, garbed in dark colors as if for a funeral. Ingrid had taken Damian to a tailor some weeks before, and had him fitted with a little suit that he now wore amongst the company. She'd combed his unruly hair and told him to remain close by her, stay silent and behave.
The strangers seemed to like mama. They all called her "sister," like the landlady did, and told her how beautiful and strong she looked. They did not look much at Damian, and Ingrid did not introduce him. She had always taught him to be polite to new people, to shake their hands and give his name, but that day she had been clear that he was expected to be silent. His suit was itchy and too hot. It was boring following his mother around as she met people he wasn't allowed to talk to. There weren't even any other children to play with.
Eventually, blessedly, after much whining and yanking at her skirts, Ingrid told him he could go play in the kitchen, but only if he kept out of the way. The kitchen looked out on a hall that ran from the front door of the house to the back door, and was mostly empty save for one young lady washing dishes. Damian scooted himself under the cutting table and played with wooden soldiers, oblivious to the strangers who passed by the hall outside. That is, until one of them stopped.
A man in a dark suit. In Damian's memory, his features were hazy. He remembered thinking the man's face looked kind. He remembered that the man smiled, and had a very shiny silver pocket watch peeking from his jacket pocket.
"Hello young man," the stranger said, squatting so he could see Damian under the table. "Might you be young Damian?"
Damian nodded and, dutifully, held out his hand. "Yes, sir. Pleased to meet you."
"What a polite young man," the man chuckled. "I should have known that our Ingrid could have raised nothing other than such a bright, handsome boy. What have you got there? Toy soldiers?"
"Yes," Damian set his toys down shyly. "They're fighting a war."
"Are they? Goodness gracious, and what are they fighting about?"
"Gods," Damian said quickly. "Mama says most wars are fought over gods, because not everyone believes in them the same."
"Did she now?" the man nodded, picked up one of the toy soldiers and turned it over in his hands. "Your mama is right. She is a very wise woman. People will go on fighting their wars, child, until there comes a day when there is a power they cannot deny. Gods they all must hold to. Then there shall be peace. Wouldn't you like that?"
Damian screwed up his face with uncertainty. Did that mean he couldn't play war games anymore? But eventually, he nodded. "I think so. I think my papa went to war and lost, and that's why mama and Amma and me had to get on the ship to come here."
"James!" There was a flutter of skirts, and suddenly his mother was there. The man rose to greet her, and the two embraced. Damian peered up at them from beneath the table. The smile on his mother's face was flustered, nervous. She exclaimed, "I was afraid you wouldn't be here!"
"And miss my favorite patient's big night?" he tweaked her cheek, as one would a little child. "I would not miss it for the world, my dear."
"I see you've met Damian," his mother glanced at him nervously. "He was behaving, I hope?"
"Like a saint! You've raised a fine young man, Ingrid, as I knew you would. An innocent, strong soul."
His mother's smile faltered. "Yes...he is...and I wanted to speak to you about...I know it's my night...but Damian...he's so young you see...shouldn't he, perhaps...receive the gift...perhaps he is more worthy..."
"Ah, now, now, now," the man placed his finger gently on her lips. "Fear is grasping you, Ingrid. Do not falter. Do not fear. Our dear Damian has a very special role to play, you know this..." He glanced down at Damian, who had crawled from beneath the table to watch them curiously, soldiers grasped in his fists. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, young Damian. Pardon your mother and I, we have much to discuss."
The two of them slipped from the room and down the hall. Damian watched them go from the doorway, a strange feeling of dread creeping up from his stomach. Mother was to receive a gift, she'd said...was it her birthday and he had forgotten? Were all these people mama's friends? And why...why would mama be afraid?
When the sun had set, Damian rejoined his mother at the dining table where all the guests were gathered. Mama's friend, James, sat at the head of the table. Mama was to his right, and Damian beside her. The food was rich and there were lots of things Damian did not like the taste of, like asparagus and salted fish, so he covered his plate with potatoes instead. As the meal came to an end, Mama handed him a glass of amber liquid. One sniff and he balked at it. He knew the smell of whiskey: his Amma always drank it on Sundays.
"Go on, sweetling, drink," his mother urged. He shook his head.
"I don't it, mama." But she pressed the cup into his hands, and said softly, "Do not embarrass me. Be a big boy. Drink."
He tried to sip a just little, but she kept urging. Something in her expression and the nervous way she kept looking around the table made him anxious. As Damian continued to sip he began to notice that the guests were no longer eating. Although some of them talked amongst themselves in low voices, most of them...nearly all of them...had their gazes fixated on him.
The whiskey swam in his belly. His head began to float and his legs felt like jelly. He felt as if he might be sick, and leaned against his mother for comfort. She picked him up, and rose from the table, rubbing his back gently.
Everything was blurry.
Here his memory became only fragments in a sea of blackness and flashing color. Strange smells and candlelight. Darkness...cold...damp...a cellar? Old walls. Roots. Mama, holding him. Stranger's faces. Words he did not understand. They took his clothes. He was shivering with cold. More whiskey down his throat. He could no longer stand on his own.
He was aware of pain but only vaguely. His body was so numb that the stinging on his skin was distant, inconsequential. His eyes were heavy, and when he managed to drag them open he looked down to see rivulets of blood on his chest...someone standing over him with a knife. He began to scream, not from pain but from terror. As if from some great distance he heard his mother sobbing and calling his name. He couldn't find her...
Then she was there, and the strangers were dipping their fingers in the blood from his chest and making marks on her face and naked body. He tried to reach for her, but someone was holding him down and his mother's eyes were glassy and unseeing. She let them maneuver her as if she were only a doll, lifeless already. Then she began to shudder, and her eyes rolled back. Everyone stepped away from her as she crumpled to the ground and thrashed, contorting, her back arching.
Suddenly released, Damian crawled to her, dizzy, sick, and confused as he was. He wrapped his arms around her as if that would somehow make it stop. Why was no one helping her? Why were they all only watching? Even James, the man his mother had embraced so affectionately, stood there watching in silence. Damian's words were slurred but he tried to beg for help. His blood covered his mother's face as he clung to her. Why would no one listen? Why did no one help?
His mother groaned as her body stopped convulsing. Her eyes rolled in her head and slowly, finally, focused on Damian. For a moment, the briefest of moments, her eyes were so sad it shook Damian to his core. "My boy," she whispered, her weak fingers brushing his cheek. "My sweet boy." Tears began to stream down her face, forming rivulets through the blood. "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry...I...was..."
She choked, as if something had lodged in her throat. Damian scrambled back as her groan became a snarl that poured forth from her mouth with black bile. His mother's spine arched unnaturally, pressing against her skin in hard ridges. Damian backed away until he was pressed against the unmoving legs of the strangers who surrounded them, blocking his only escape. Rough hands grasped him, lifted him despite his thrashing, and tossed him forward to sprawl in the dirt. A metallic clang followed him. As his vision slowly slid back into focus, he looked up to see his mother looming, swaying above him. A dagger, tossed to her by some onlooker, was grasped loosely in her hand.
"The time has come, brothers and sisters," James' voice rang out in the dank cellar, and Ingrid twitched at the sound of it. "Tonight we bear witness to the coming of a new age. Soon enough every knee shall bow to the power of the ancient ones as they emerge, through our Divine Chosen Sister. Ingrid!" His mother twitched again, one eye staring back at James through the dark hair hanging lank in her face. "Finish it, sister. Make the sacrifice. The first-born of your loins to bring about the divine Legion."
A/N: The truth is finally coming out! It's only taken 38 chapters, I know, I know, I promise at some point I will fix this pacing, lol.
But guys?? Guess what?? Love and Exorcisms has made it through to the voting round of The Fiction Awards!! And voting is completely unlimited! You can vote as many times a day for as many days in a row as you want! And voting is open until September 3rd!
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