Chapter Four: The Holy And The Vile

As I approached him I couldn't help but noticed his eyes, burning coals under his dark black hair. But the closer I got the more I noticed the lines on his face. Sorrow seemed to wrap around him in dark creases. He was wearing a large dark green canvas barn coat, a pair of tattered old levis, and had a mail bag at his feet. It looked as if he was looking through me, and I turned around to see what he was looking at. "Hey, you want a cigarette?" I said, "they're only butts but it's the best I got."
"That's alright, I got a pack of my own. Would you like a fresh one?" He took a nice new pack of Camels from my pocket and gave me one.
"Thanks," I said taking the cigarette, "are you hitchiking, or just admiring this fine gravel shoulder." He laughed. I didn't know it then but that was going to be the only laugh I ever got from him. He just really never was that happy of an individual, but I'll get to that further on down the road. He lit my cigarette for me with an old world war one trench lighter. I knew the lighter because my father had one like it. Sometimes at night I would sneak down the stairs and watch him sit at the dining room table drinking beer, playing solitare and clicking that goddamn lighter. We sat there in silence, watching what was left of the sun drop down below the trees, and finally resting on what now looked like the best little roadhouse in Arkansas. "Damn, I could use a drink..."
"Yeah, why don't ya get one." I noticed the faint trace of a accent, I couldn't quite place it, something in the "n't ya"
"Well, you know, the usual... I do have a can of corn." I said bradishing my proud purchase.
"That's something, why don't you just go get a beer."
I felt a little uncomfortable, "Same reason that I'm waiting for a ride, no scratch."
"You don't need money, just the right words." he smiled at me.
"I don't use words worth a dime."
"Do you want a beer?" There was something about his eyes that I didn't like. I don 't know why but I didn't really want to look at him. My mind wrestled with this for a moment, before common sense took over and I forced myself to look at him.
"I could always use a beerand I don't really want to try to scam one off of these people." His eyes caught me for a moment then, I don't really know how to explain it but something clicked in my head, something like the sound a gun makes when a hammer is pulled back, solid metal on metal. Suddenly everything melted away, and he looked just like everyone else I have met. His nose looked like it might have been straight at one time but was broken a few times down the road and now zig zagged down his face. His hair has dark and course, pulled back beheind his ears and pushed down into his collar.
"Don't worry I have money, if it doesn't work I can pay for what we drink." He slapped me on the back, "Come on, it looks like they might even have something better that a can of corn."

We walked across the highway. I was feeling apprehensive about the whole thing. I don't regard myself as a distinctly moral man. I've certainly have my faults, I've cheated, lied, scandled, schmoozed (not very well but I've done it), flim flammed, fanangled, arrived too early to parties, overstayed welcomes, and all kinds of major and minor sins. However through all of that I managed to maintained some loose conglomeration of values. This struck me as wrong, the owner of this place certainly wasn't rich, and taking from the rich is one thing, stealing from the poor is another. I was able to rationalize my uncomfortableness by knowing that he did have money to pay for it. I didn't know whether he was telling the truth or not, but, whatever. I followed him.

We passed through the gravel parking lot, full of beat up pickup trucks with confederate flags and NRA stickers proudly displayed on the rear windows. At this point my partner turned to me. "I know your nervous, but don't be." He pulled his wallet from his pocket and showed me five crisp one hundred dollar bills. "I will pay for it, just watch... I want to show you something, don't say anything when we first get in."
"What the hell?" He turned back to me and seemed to grow. "Man, I'm not trying to be a pain in the ass. I just don't understand this whole thing."
He sighed and diminished, looking like the same man I saw across the road. He crossed himself. Muttered underneath his breath and faced me again. "I didn't at the beginning either, but just watch, I want to show you something."

We entered the tavern and the whole place fell silent. The dozen or more people stopped drinking and laughing and stared. No one was watching me, though, everyones eyes were on the guy I was with. Wow, I thought, I don't even know his name. The silence grew, no one said anything, and my partner stood there looking at each one of them. Many of them were older, sixty or more, lots of flannel and big belt buckles. A few were seated around a green felt card table, playing poker, the a couple were playing pool, and the rest were seated at a short wood bar. A small dog ran out from behind the bar and up to the dark haired man. Slowly he stooped down and touched the dog. Suddenly the room erupted into the clink of glass and laughing. A man at the bar resumed a joke about two teenagers skinny dipping. The people at the card table began playing again, and the knock of pool balls continued in the back. He took a seat and began talking to the elderly lady behind the bar. Soon I had a tall glass of beer in front of me. She gave it to me saying, "It's just Oklahoma pisswater so don't expect too much." I didn't, I didn't expect anything, and anything I did expec t was certainly different than what I experienced. Incredulously, I turned to my friend (yeas I called him a friend, and anyone that wanted to buy me a beer can be my friend too), and said, "How the hell? Are you shitting me? You must know all of these people."
"No," he said, "I'll explain it all later, and don't worry even though we wouldn't have to pay for all of this, I will."
So I did, we both enjoyed a few beers. I loved the atmosphere, it seemed like some secret hillbilly society. There were old beer bottles lining the entire bar. An old Schlitz bottle reminded me of my pops. Everyone was extremely gracious to me. My friend was talking to the owner behind the bar while holding her little dog in his lap. As the night grew on people gradually began leaving, my partner was carrying on with a few people, I was left to myself and began looking through the jukebox. This is the realdeal I thought to myself, leafing through the plates of Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash. Still I was curious, what the hell had happened here? I looked at my friend and everything I could discern from him seemed normal, however the behavior of those around him I could not understand. If I walked in here alone I would've gotten my ass beat. This man was taken for granted as confederate, and even more a friend. I still didn't know his name.
"Hey, Drennan!" This woke me up. How the hell did he know my name? Did I tell it to him without noticing and now I'm just an asshole calling him man and dude when he had already told me his name?
"Yeah?"
"These two girls said that they can get us down to Fort Smith if we will go out with them tonight." He smiled again. The girls were average, not too pretty but about the best a joint like this could afford. "Wha'd ya say?"
"Sure, cool... How did you know that I was going to Fort Smith?" Another smile.
"You told me, remember?"
"No, I don't ever remember telling you that."
He cut me off, "I'll talk to you later about it.... wha'd do ya say?"
"I told you man, I say cool."
He smiled and prodded a blonde, the prettier of the two toward me. "Hi." I said sheepishly.
"Hey, why don't you come with us, I'll show you a good time." She slinked up next to me and slid her arm between mine. "I'll make sure." Who the hell am I kidding, I thought to myself, I can't deny this woman, no matter whatever reservations I feel about this whole thing. I let her lead me to the bar. The man looked at me like he was telling me a secret.
"My name..." he looked at me and hesistated for a moment, "right now my name is Sinclair. I know you don't understand and I'm glad that you are loose enough to just move along with this whole scene." Then he tilted his head down so that I could only view his bushy black eyebrows, daunting forehead, and the most striking feature of his face, his eyes. "We need to do this right now."
"need?" I said in a whiny voice.
"Yes need... God, this a lot harder than I thought."
I felt demeaned by that comment but I let it slide. "Well if it's needed," I said, "go ahead." I certainly wasn't going to argue with a man that had put a girl on my arm, beer in my belly, and took nothing from my already empty wallet. With that he put a hundred down on the bar, thanked the owner, picked up an extra six pack of beer and left. We headed for one of the girls cars, an early nineties Ford Probe. The two girls got in the front, we both crammed into the back. They talked amongst themselves, seemingly oblivious to our presence in the back seat.
"Where are we going?" I asked Sinclair.
"To some party, not far from here, just trust me."
"That's all I have been doing" I felt like I should start pinching myself.
We went through town, the street lights, slipping by. I had no idea where we were going. At some point we left the paved streets for gravel. The forest grew closer and closer to the road. At last gravel gave away to dirt. We parked and after emerging from the car I felt two things. First, the cool fresh air of the country and the impression that the stars had a clear view of me, and I of them. Secondly, was the unnatural slightly supernatural aura of the raw ozarks. This feeling was mixed with the wild whooping and hollering I heard coming from a clearing about fifty yards from us. Me and Sinclair followed the girls into the clearing. In the middle of the clearing was a large bonfire, about four men across and at least that much high. At it's base were a couple snickering teenage boys pointing at the fire. "How much higher do ya think we can get it?" I heard one of them say. Soon they dashed off into the woods to find more fuel. My girl kissed me and dragged me to one side of the fire, my partner was led to the other.

There I met all of her friends, an occasional jealous guy, and a few really drunk girls. The guys tried to test me by handing me a bottle of Wild Turkey and telling me to drink. They were young, stupid, and enamoured with anything containing a buzz.
"Sure," I said, "But I won't do it for you," I said and took a hefty slug. The night went on and the bottle grew low. I began to hear the rumblings of a fight. Wild Turkey is infamous for causing fights, and tonight was going to be no different. I saw Sinclair a few times and he looked like he was having a pretty good time with the girl he followed. Mine had spent too much time hanging on me and I retreated to the woods to clear my head.

The Ozark aren't normal. I have been in the woods completely alone millions of times, throughout the country, but there is something about the Ozarks that puts even the most dedicated woodsman on edge. There is something about the geography, the hills and hollows, springs, and caves that seem to focus energy. The indians regarded ozarks as a haunted land and many different tribes avoided the area entirely. Most of the Native Americans that you meet today in the Ozarks are just remnants of the Great Migration, the Trail of Tears. That as well had an impact on the land. I can't explain it well enough, but as the cliche goes, "you feel like somebody is watching you."

I sat there and watched the revelers siloetted by the fire light. It looked like the puritans version of the black sabbath. People dancing, whooping and hollering, a few had taken their clothes off and were doing some sort of drunken hillbilly ritual along the edge of the bonfire. I felt like a ghost, sitting on the edge of the forest observing everyone. I knew better than to turn back to find out who was observing me.

A Cherokee friend of mine once told me of two kinds of spirits inhabiting these woods. The first one was a mischievious spirit which he termed, "little people." These were small stout spirits that liked to play tricks on people. These tricks could be as innocent as small lights off in the distance, enticing a person to leave the path. If you did leave the path, that's when they could become malicious, stories told of people, leaving the path and, drawn by the lights and sounds of the little people, walking unintentionally off of a cliff.

The second spirit was the one that I have had more contact with. When I first asked my friend about these spirits he was reluctant to speak. The Cherokee believe that if you even speak their name they will know, and they will begin to haunt you. These spirits are more prolific and malevolent than the little people. They resemble a puff of smoke that floats through the woods, and you would mistake them for this if it wasn't for the two glowing eye. They called these spirits, "skillies." I have had contact with a number of these creatures, and they will always scare the shit out of you. In fact their basic power is one of fear. When you come into contact with a skilly you fill with a dark primal fear, one that you cannot ignore. Many times I spent out in the woods with my friends and we would be so hounded by these spirits that no matter how much you had to drink or whatever mood you were in when you first encountered them instantly would disappear. We would sit there quiet, watching each other, and letting the fire smolder. Eventually one of us would say, "we need to get out of here." The oppersion fo the atmosphere is so thick that no one wants to speak to the other. Once we leave the woods everyone would breath a sigh of relief and remark about how the spirits didn't want us that day. This feeling isn't dependant on the amount of spiritual sensitivity that you have. I have seen true atheists react just as much as a practiced pagan. It's just real, there is no reason to argue with it, it just is. It is these spirits that they say kept the Native Americans out of the ozarks. The story goes that everytime the indians attempted to settle the ozarks they would be driven out by these creatures. These and another dark vampiric creature called a "raven mocker." The skillies can kill you, although this does not usually happen. The stories I have heard about the skillies are that they would haunt a person non stop, until they would either kill themselves or die from exhaustion.

This is why I didn't look around. That is until the girl I was with scared the shit out of me by yelling, "boo!" She laughed and I cursed her.She kssed me on the mouth and soon I was tumbling with her on top of a bed of pine needles. When we were done she told me her name. I told her mine kind of sheepishly. She was a wild one, I could tell. "I didn't want to tell you my name earlier, sex between strangers is always good."
I smiled and pulled her into my arms.
"We probably shouldn't go out there right now," she warned. "Things are getting crazy out there. John Mark wanted to fight Spuds and it got completely out of control."
I told her that I saw that coming a long way off and asked her if she had seen Sinclair.
"No, I saw him with Sasha earlier, I think they might be doing the same thing we are."
"Well, I hope they didn't leave without me. I really like that guy, I just met him tonight too."
"Really?" She looked at me with wide eyes, "I could've sworn you two had known each other forever."
"Maybe we have... In another life." We got up and started putting our clothes on again, the customary trading of socks and shirts. We smoothed our clothes down and looked at each other. "Do you think it's safe to come out yet?" I asked.
"I don't know, it seems pretty quiet."
As we emerged from the woods we noticed that there seemed to only be about half of the crowd that was there earlier, those that were there looked like hell. Bloody noses, and black eyes had marked them all up so bad that they all seemed like characters from a four year olds drawing. "What the hell happened." For moment there was silence, a majority of the group staring into the smoldering ashes of the fire. Then to the side one of them spoke up. "What the hell do you think happened?" His tone wasn't harsh but resigned, a man just telling it how it is. "Where did everyone go." I said, concerned about the whereabouts of my friend. They had to rush John Mark and Spuds to the hospital, they were cut up really bad."

Chapter Three: God In The Pickup Truck

The bell tower of Venice was rebuilt in 1912.

Other things take more time to heal.
My father was a drunk. A door to door salesman, who never sold anything, and spent most of his time in the bar. It was better for all of us that he was away. All of my memories of him are the same. Him, tie hanging loosely around his neck, a three day old beard, a suitcase in one hand and a six pack in the other. When I was younger I would run up into my room and hide under the bed when he got home. I can clearly remember the sound of his old Dodge, coughing and sputtering down the street. My mother would stand there in front of the door, wringing a dishcloth in her hands. After my baby brother was born it was my job to keep him quiet while dad was home. While dad was getting in the door and asking mom for his dinner I would be spinning wildly in front of my brother in our bedroom upstairs. I tried everything to keep him happy; dance, make faces, whatever it took. When he wouldn't keep quiet me and my mom would do our best to keep between dad and my brother.

Dad died one night in a car crash. It was his fault, he was drunk and drifted into the oncoming lane. He ran into a van full of Mexican immigrants. Dad was killed on contact, but the van flipped over the shoulder of the road, and caught on fire. In the newspaper the next day they said that a number of people tried to help them but all of the doors were jammed shut. They talked about the children screaming for help, but when they broke the windows the car exploded into flame. That was a long time ago.

I can't sleep. My dreams are always nightmares. Many times they begin with the sky turning red and a large thundercloud rolling in. It reminds me of those summer days when you can just watch a storm move across the fields, huge black anvil head cumulous clouds rolling like a diesel train across the sky. I spend most of the time in my dreams looking for a place fto hide, or on my knees begging to be forgiven. I'm twenty five now and still have those dreams. I drink, not like my father, but I drink. I do it mainly to stop the terrible dreams.
"Yeah, I hear ya boy." Johnny slapped me on the back while handing me another beer.
"I didn't mean to ramble on man." I said as I cracked open the beer, "But you asked."
Johnny pulled the rust red pickup to the side of the road. "Thanks for the lift."
Johnny nodded pulling his mesh cap low on his forehead, "Keep that beer low, the five-o comes through here all the time."
"Thanks man." I pulled my old tattered backpack out of the back of the truck. Johnny waved as he drove away.

It was about five and hot as hell. I was guessing that it was around ninety five or six and the beer tasted damn good. I sat on my pack for a while, enjoying the beer, and smoking a few cigarette butts I had picked up in front of a grocery store thirty miles ago. I looked up and down the road and enjoyed the view. Thick with pine trees and heavy with hills the ozarks were spread out in front of me. This thick four lane highway seemed like the throat to this lumpy slack jawed teenager that the ozarks always seemed to be to me. I sat there and watched the traffic speed by, there was no need to press anything right now, I don't have anywhere I need to get to. That's the beauty of this lifestyle, no time limits, no can'ts, but no money or food either. Right now it seems like a pretty fair trade to me but I don't think I would do it forever.

I left my mother when I was sixteen. She had worked so hard for so long that I felt that I would make it easier on her. I write about once a week, more often when I'm in jail. Since then I have been floating around. Living on couches throughout the U.S. It's been pretty nice. I take care of myself the best I can, I don't think that I smell. I take a shower as often as I can, change and wash my clothes in sinks, rivers, creeks, wherever I can find water. I have seen other people like me and I just can't stand to be around them. They look like they are crawling with things. I hate bugs. Anyway it's easier to get a ride when you look like your not just full of dirt.

The last letter I got from my mother when I was I was in jail in Osh Kosh, Wisconsin. I just want to let it be known that the only reason I have ever gone to jail is strictly due to my status as a vagrant. That's a bad word, vagrant, it makes you want to frown when you say it. I'd rather be called a number of other things. Gypsy, has a romantic tone to it, or rambler, which really gets across the idea of constantly being on the move. Well, the reason that I have been in jail (and that has only been twice, each for ten days) is because I have been termed a vagrant.

I never won at anything in my life. I'm not feeling sorry for myself or anything, it just seems that whenever I put my lot on one side of something it always went bust. Even things that I believed would be a sure thing ended in catastrophy. Once I was stranded along highway 44, what most hitchhikers seem to think is an easy ride. It's southern, full of pickup trucks and people nice enough to give you a chance. Even with all of those factors in my corner I failed to get a ride for three days. After six hours of not having a ride you are venomous toward every car passing you. I would issue about a thousand curses an hour, from, "I wish that your teeth would fall out" to, "Let your firstborn be born with horns." I don't know, you just get so frustrated out there. The life I lived though somewhat protected me from all of the normal types of disappointments. I didn't have to worry about a girlfriend, If one was there when I went to bed that was fine, no matter what I would be gone in the morning. I didn't have to worry about bills, or a job, or if the right people liked me or not. All there is on the road is pure survival. You never think, "Ah, it would be nice to have this or that" instead it's, "Boy, I would like to eat tonight, or have somewhere warm to sleep." It just seems to simplify things a bit.

A truck with a bed full of scrap metal pulled over unexpectantly. I hadn't even put out my thumb. Quickly I hurried to the passenger car window.
"Where are you going to?" The lady on the driver seat shouted at me over the roar of her newborn child loosely fastened into the seat next to her.
"As far as I can go down this road."
"Well, I'm only goin' about ten or so miles, you're welcome to hop in the back if you want."
"Thanks," I climbed in the back of the pickup truck warily. The good thing about pickup trucks is that people no longer fear picking you up. They feel safe behind the thin window of plexiglass, it affords them security with the knowledge that they are truly helping someone out. It is like generosity without any of the risks. I climbed into the bed cautiously, thinking to myself that I don't know how smart of a plan that this was. Surrounding the place where I sat were the various cutting ends of harvesters, each one rusting and perched in such a precarious position that any sudden application of the brake by the lone toothed driver of this truck would most certainly decapitated me. I rode ther in horror, as the women drove down the road. At one moment she would be fixing her makeup, at the next she would be trying to feed her baby, all the while the metal creaked miserily in the bed.

That was the first time that in over fifteen years that I actually prayed. When I was younger I was taught that God listens to prayer. I always felt like I was just talking to a wall. But here among these menancing pieces of metal I feel like Daniel in the lions den. The truck hustled up the road. We passed about a million different churches. One had an old rusted sign parked in front of it stating "What does God think- Sun. 9 AM." I wish I was going to be around for that. The truck stopped in front of a Sav-alot grocery store. I thanked her and headed for the store, rescued a few butts out of the ashtray parked outside the automatic doors. I got some bad looks from a few of the people walking in. What really pissed me off is that a lady the size of Texas muttered, "disgusting" under her breath when she passed me.

I was getting hungry and the sun was going down quick, bruising the sky into a nice deep purple. I had enough money to get a can of corn. I slapped the money down on the barrelhead and headed out. I was sitting on my bag outside wondering to myself whether I should save the corn for later, when I finally got to the place where I was going to sleep tonight, or eat it right now, when an older man approached me.
"Where are you heading to?" he said, his long wispy gray hair floating around his head like a cloud.
"South or West, are you heading in any of those directions."
"Sure am, I am going south, but you'll be stuck out in the middle of nowhere. There is a good place around there that you can hop a freighter down to Texarkana."
"Well, as long as we're getting out of town it's fine with me." I picked up my bag and slung it over my shoulder and followed him like a dog out to his old pickup truck. By the look of it I would say that it had to be a late fifties model Dodge, a real lackluster one too. It had a good worn in look about it, good bondo work on the fenders and a nice primer coat. He offered me a seat up front with him. I climbed in on top of the duct taped front bench seat.

We started out, his old truck coughing, sputtering and making all kinds of ungodly noises. He had a kind face and was one of those old people that you feel like its an honor to meet. He wasn't bitter about anything, just content. I hope I can be like that when I get to that age. He told me about a railroad crossing about a mile or so up the road from where he would be leaving me. I don't know about all of that hopping train stuff. I had met a few people who really dug it. They would say that it was the only way to really make it across long distances in short amounts of time. On the other hand I have heard numerous talkes of horrible things happening on the rails. People getting their legs chopped off, or being locked in a boxcar and baking, or meeting mysterious figures who would kill you for your boots. Granted I have heard numerous horror tales about hitchiking and I always carried a knife in my back pocket, just in case. But I had been hitchiking for almost five years now and I've never even had to think about using it. Truth be told most of the people who pick up hitchikers are generally a generous lot. I still stored the location of the rail crossing in my memory, just in case. "I'd have you at my house for supper but Dory would give me hell." he laughed.
"No big deal, I 'preciate the ride."
He slowed and pulled over to the shoulder of the road right across from a roadside tavern that looked more like a couple of trailers welded together than any kind of reputable drinking establishment. We said our goodbyes and he took off down the road.

When I arranged all of my stuff and sat down on the ground to examine my newest prize butts from the grocery store, that's when I first saw him. He was standing about fifty yards down the road, his head was halo'ed by a twisted road sign directly behind his head. The sign was twisted in such a way that it perfectly reflected the last gasp of sunlight. At the time I didn't really know if he was real or not. I had heard a number of stories about ghost hitchhikers on the road. You know the ones, someone picks up a hitch hiker. drives with them a while and suddenly they disappear. The driver obviously shaken from the whole experience pulls in to a gas station, or a roadside tavern like the one across from me at this moment, and there he finds out that the hitchiker they had picked up was actually a ghost of this or that person that had died on the same stretch of road many years before. I was thinking about that, but I was also thinking about how the culture surrounding hitchiking. This was a very precarious position in hitchiking, because I, though completely unintentionally, was horning in on his chances to get a ride. I figured that the best thing I could do is go over and talk to him. If it felt like he didn't want any company I'd walk a few miles up the road and give him his space, or move on down to the rail crossing.

Chapter Two: Collapse

The sound of the bell was monsterous, shaking the tower. Edgar clasped his hands over his ears and screamed. Through the chaos he saw Gregory, sitting indifferently in the corner. Sipping the remnants of an old sack of wine, Gregory smiled at him, "So where were we."
Edgar shook his head, "I can see how the peasants at the monastary thought you were a monster." Edgar laughed, inciting a sneer from Rasputin. "I, of course, know you better. So, my old friend, what do you think is going to happen now."
Gregory threw his head back and laughed. "I should know you better, I'm sorry but it's hard." Raputin tilted his head back to finish off the rest of the sack. "What we do now is wait. This is not the first time that this has happened."
"I know," Cacye said falling to the floor, "I just figured that we could end things, this whole cycle. It will happen sooner or later, it's not like he is going to give up and remember what happened to the others."
"Yes, I know we have not escaped" Gregory whispered, the alcohol was clearly having some effect and now his slur was overtaking his usual competency for language. "But you can help us in that, my friend, you can see."
"I have tried before, but it all ends here, in Venice."
Rasputin grimaced, "Ah, but not here in the bell tower, you only saw the Carnival crowds, because that was our destiny. Now things are different. We may have been cast away by the creator but there is more before us than death." The monk moved from the stool and laid down next to Cayce. "See what you can see now. Where are we suppose to go."
"I can only speak for you, my destiny is tied to yours, now that we have failed..."
"Not failed, refused" Gregory corrected.
"You refused, I merely am protecting my life after you failed, many the Lord forgive me."
"Yes Lord, forgive him for not being a fool, forgive him for following a sinful, monsterous monk. Forgive him for refusing to begin the end times, forgive him..."
"Enough! I don't need to be patronized by you!" Cayce folded his hands across his chest, shut his eyes, and listened as the rythmic tick of the grand clock ground slower and slower until it finally stopped all together. The room tumbled in front of him, and he waited until everything came into focus. His body rested six feet below him, hands resting across it's chest. Next to him laid the body of the monk, glowing with an orange light. He willed his spirit out of the clock face and into the plaza below. The living had left it empty, save for a few merchants beginning to set out their wares. Spirits of the dead, however, were abundant, and noticing his form rushed up to him. This was frightening when he was a child. He often felt like he was being smothered by the souls of the dead. He learned to wait, letting them come up to him and cover him like maggots on a week old corpse. Then with one move he exploded with white light, blowing all of the spirits back down to the ground and across the countryside. As they fell they cursed him, or cried for him to have pity on them. He turned his back on them, they needed to find their own way, and so did he now.
Cayce's spirit raced over the ocean and spun down at fantastic speed to his anscestral home. Four years had past since he had last seen the place with his physical eyes, yet psychically he visited at least once or twice a week. Entering the decrepit shack, he saw what remained of his family. The dead children swaddled in a miasmic fabric of energy floated in invisible cradles, as his wife rushed from one to the other weeping. "What is wrong with them." She would look at him, her movements mechanically dictated to continue the task of looking after their children. She could never hear him. He had tried to talk to her millions of times since the death of her and their fourth son four years ago, she never heard. Her question always remained the same, "What is wrong with them?" He went around to each of the children, made the sign of the cross and kissed their pale foreheads. Finally he told his wife that he loved her as she screamed, "What is wrong with them?"

Sadly he looked at the state of the cabin. Termites had eaten through most of the timber and he knew that soon the entire east wall would give out. The fireplace was little more than a cairn of rocks propped up next to the house. Fortunately people avoided the house, believing it to be haunted. This scenerio had been encouraged by his disappearance into a tornado four years earlier. The local boys continued trading stories about the time that Cayce, distraught about the death of his wife and death of his fourth newborn boy walked out of the town and was sucked up into a tornado. In these kinds of stories ended either in humor or tragedy. Humolrously Cayce found himself blown all the way to Eden, walked with God and given as many wives and children that he ever wanted. Tragically, Edgar aligned himself with the devil and became the spirit of the tornado, looking to cast his wrath on all of those that flourish in life. Neither one was really true. Perhaps now he would have the chance to set the record straight.

He sat in the remnants of an old rocking chair that sat on the front porch and thought. "Will I be damned?" This same scenario had happened over twenty times since the death of Christ almost two thousand years ago. Men chosen to carry out the work outlined by St. John the Revelator, struggled against the world, the weight of the assignment, and the determination of God to make it happen. In every instance they had failed, and now they had failed to, leaving the misery of their purpose to some other poor soul in the future. The wind blew softly through the pine trees blanketing the quiet hollow where the house stood. Pounding through the quiet of the valley came the words of the monk, "What is the future of Gregory Rasputin the monk?"

Instantaneously Cacye was back floating above the prone form of Rasputin. Breathing deeply he dove into the monk's mouth. Gregory's life flashed before him. He saw his youth in Siberia, a life full of fear of his constantly drunk father. Cacye looked with pity as Gregory stood crying in front of his mother, drunk and naked took money from various men who visited her. He watched the boys conflict as his mother kissed his cheek before sending him down the path to collect anopther ball of opium from the mongolian traders in the square. He watched as Gregory knelt down before the golden madonna housed beneath the bright red cupola of the villages orthodox church, staring so intently on the mouth of the madonna that he eventually would fall into convulsions on the church floor, Foaming from the mouth the local priests thought that he was possessed and ordered him to be driven from the town. He ran as far as he could until collapsing in front of the Verkhoturye Monastary. Here the monks practiced a new form of Russian mysticism based on the doctrine of sinning to purge sin. The monk embraced the doctrine zealously, drinking and shamelessly womanizing throughout the country side. Throughout his life tragedy followed him, striking down anyone he got close to. His life was so different from Cayce's that he had a hard time interpreting the scenes that unfolded in front of him.

When Cacye awoke he found Rasputin pacing about the room. "What did I say. " Rasputin turned glowered toward the young man, "You said my death would kill a nation, at least that is what I can interpret... I guess that country would be Russia. I can do what I want now. The miseries will always follow me. You, my young friend may still have a chance at a normal life. We both know more about this world than anyone living at this point in history. These talents we have can be used for other purposes now. I will use them as I see fit, and I suggest that you do as well." Rasputin moved into the bell room, and ran his hand along the smooth brass bell. "First, of course, we need to get out of this city. Then I suggest we split up. Everythings broken, and it will take several generations to set up the correct prophecies. Go home I'll take hell with me." Edgar tried to get up but the floor collapsed underneath him. a roar of dust, brick and wood exploded above him and the mechanical heart of man broke on the Piazza San Marco, tossing out its gods.

A merchant helped Cayce to his feet, he picked splinters of wood and pieces of masonry out of his clothes and hair. The merchants were amazed that he was unhurt, shouting out praises to Saint Mark and slapping him on the back. A man ran to get a man from the newspaper as a dark woman with green eyes poured wine down his throat. Edgar watched as people gathered, slowly he noticed men in the throng whispering amongst themselves. He began to spot red fez's set with a golden crescent, dark men with thick mustaches, between them was the sharp glint of polished steel. Edgar's eyes widened and he tore himself from the women caring for him and sprinted across the Plaza, he kept running until he found a small inn. He dashed in closing the curtains of the windows that faced the Rio Orseolo. A lady chattered at him wildly behind his back. He dug into his pocket and thrusted a few crumpled lira notes at her. Slowly he relaxed, fell into a chair next to the door and asked the now beaming innkeeper for a glass of cold white wine. As she brought the glass she asked him if he knew what happened to the bell tower. He smiled at her and took a large drink of the wine. "Have you heard of the tower of Babel?" She nodded. "The same thing."

Chapter One: Venice 1902

Their cloaks floating like an angel's wings behind them the two men, their faces hidden by white grotesque bauta masks, and capped by tricorn hats, rushed into the Piazza San Marco startling a few thousand pigeons up into the air. The facade of San Marcos Cathedral stood sharp against the black night. The two men stopped, hunching over to catch their breaths. The Piazza was silent. They stood up and strained their ears for any sound. Nothing.
"Do you think they'll follow us" said the taller bauta with a thick Russian accent.
"Of course, they'll always be following us. Why did you run anyhow? We're not suppose to leave. You know what we're suppose to do." smaller bauta replied with a Kentuckian twang.
"I never wanted to." The Russian said standing up straight.
"Well, neither did I, but it isn't up to us."
"Why did you run then?" The Russian sharply retorted.
"Because you did. It has to be the two of us remember, two, two witnesses. You're a monk you know these things." The small bauta clinched his fists, and turned squarely to face the other man. "Why did you mess these things up? After all we've been through."
Calmly the Russian turned, and whispered, "All the things that he has done to us."
"Yes," the Kentuckian replied, "Yes, he did those things to us, or he let those things happen to us, but what do you think will happen if we don't go through with it? I've lost four children, and numerous friends and lovers along the way. You! You've gone through twice of what I have! But at least you have never been in love, except with the debauchery of your orthodox sects theories, and even they wanted to brick you up in a wall."
"Allowing these things to happen when you are able to keep it from happening, that is just as bad as doing it. Yes, Yes, it is all true. The best way to save yourself from heartache is to kill the heart, but that is impossible."
"Well then, ain't the best way of ending it all is to die, Especially for the great plan we are so important to."
"What great plan? The great plan to end the world? The great plan to destroy human will?"
The small bauta slumped under the weight of these words. "We will live forever in bliss," he said forlornly.
"Forevever in his bliss, I do not believe that he cares for us too much. For if he did he wouldn't do this to us. You would be living in the tall trees of your home, and I would be living in mine instead of this decaying city."
The Russian kicked the ground and swore violently under his smooth emotionless mask.
"We have no choice. We must..." Suddenly the Kentuckian stood up straight, reacting to a small rumble off in the distance. He looked desparately to his partner.
"I will not!." The Russian screamed to the heavens, "I may die tonight but it will not be in his service, I had rather go to hell." The roar of thousands of voices was getting nearer by the moment. "Edgar," the Russian said, "I will not, you go die at their hands, I would rather die three times under my own will than once under his." He turned and looked up at the enormous white spires of the San Marco Cathedral, spit on the ground and began to walk away. The small bauta stood in place, hearing the voices growing louder. Abruptly, the Russian turned, "Follow me friend, although I will not die tonight, we can live tomorrow."
"Where will we go? We can't escape from him?"
"No, but we can get away from those who are sent to do his bidding."
"Gregory, if you ain't going to do this let's go to the church, they will provide us a safe haven."
"No, I support myself now, I no longer want or need any help from him." Quickly gregory whirled around, his long cloak dervishly spinning around him, scanning the buildings around the plaza.
"I was born with my powers, they should still work. I think we should wait. You should be able to seduce a crowd this size."
"This group wants blood not words, I cannot control a group that is not rational. He will ensure that they're beyond my control. No, we must hide."
Just then the bell tower struck midnight, drowning out the whistles and shouts of the oncoming mob. Gregory looked up. "The bell tower is the fortress we need, hurry now!"
They retreated to the darkened covered walk of the plaza as the mob erupted onto the far end, their torches flowing like lava out into the square. The great roar of the throng brought people from around Venice. The two streamed through the curious, the strained necks of ordinary Venetians trying to find out what was happening. Two guards stood watch at the towers entrance. Gregory flew upon them like a large bat, tearing the mask from his face, and loosening his hair, wild and long. His thick eyebrows burst into flame, and his face erupted into a blue aura. Edgar was always amazed when he saw his friend display his will, but now was not a time to gape or question the importance of his own powers. He reached the door to the great tower at the same time that Rasputin was returning with the keys from the unconscious guards. "My powers have not been affected, have yours?"
"I haven't tried yet, open the door then we'll talk."
Gregory thrusted the large iron key into the lock and turned violently. It did not open. "Calm down Gregory," Edgar took the key from his hand and deftly opened the door. Gregory rushed past him and up the stairs. Edgar looked out to see that the curious were slowing and breaking up the riot. No one had seen them. Edgar shut the door, locked it, and slid down agianst the thick oak door. He took the mask from his face and placed it next to him. Tears gathered in his eyes as he laced his fingers and brought them up to his forehead. Silently he began reciting the Lord's Prayer. "Lord, I cannot fulfill your promise, please forgive your servant." He finished his prayer and looked up hopefully to heaven. A sigh floated down from above him, "Edgar, why do you waste your time him, when all he wants to do is destroy you?" Edgar sobbed into his cloak. He heard the guard return to their post and eventually the crowd was dispersed by the police.

Edgar woke up to Gregory picking him up, he whispered, "It's almost morning, let us plan for our escape." Cayce shook off the monk's grip and looked directly into his eyes.
"Remember you have no power over me."
"Nor, you me." Rasputin sneered. "But, come, we are friends now, and we are both in the shadow of damnation."
They began walking up the steep stairs to the top. The morning was still cold, and the light was pale and ghostly outside the small rectangular windows that they passed regularilty.
"We could be dining in paradise right now, next to Elijah..."
"Yes, perhaps we would, but there are plenty of young girls here, that I can feel, touch, and taste. They are here! On earth, not something in a moldy book written by Jews and thieves, reflecting the thoughts of the great Jew and thief." Rasputin laughed underneath his long black beard.
Cayce turned around to look at his friend. "Perhaps we have cheated death, Gregory, but it's only for the moment. He will win, and the choice is whether you want to stand before him as a friend or an enemy. We had our chance," Cayce stopped on the stairs before him, "and while we are living here, on our world, we are going to have to go to his world. I do not despise him, nor do I love him, I just know who is going to win."
The monk smiled at him, his charisma was unbelievable, and for a moment Cayce felt like he would follow him to Hell itself, but it melted away the moment he opened his mouth. "But we can stand here! I will wrestle him until I die. Come, my friend, in the tower I found some wine left by the clockworkers. We must gather our strength before we try to escape from this rotting town."
Cayce stared at the enormous bells at the top of the tower while Gregory ran to retrieve the wine. The bells stood about a man and a half tall, with automatic clappers mounted to the side. "We must hurry into the clock room before they ring." Gregory said, slipping up beside Edgar unnoticed. Edgar jumped, the monk smiled at his surprise, took his arm and brought him into an adjoining room. The room was high, and filled with a cacophany of gears, chains, and movement. Gregory raised his arms, "See what we can do, do you see the wonder of humanity, we have created are own mechanical heart and here we are, the gods in the heart of humanity."
Edgar scowled. "This is nothing. Nothing but humanity abiding to his rules, although we show arrogance we cannot break his rules." Cayce walked up and admired the exacting work on the clock gears, the wheels within wheels, the spinning and the movement. "Still, Gregory, you are on to something, there is a relation to humanity here. Maybe it's the fact that the creator can change and alter things as he wants, that he can halt the movement and stop the universe entirely for this machine."
Gregory smiled and took a large draught of madiera wine. "But, my friend, we do not abide by this universes rules, we do not have to abide by the natural laws of this world." He brought the wine over to his friend and then led him over to two small stools in the corner. Edgar drank deeply of the fortified wine, while Rasputin examined the different kinds of tools left in a small toolbox in the corner. "You cannot teach a saw to hammer, you cannot teach a nail to file, each has it's purpose and so do we. That's what you think, eh, Cayce."
Edgar put down the bottle of wine for a moment and looked at him. "We are all in the hands of the creator, he does with us what he wills."
He handed the bottle to Rasputin, who, with a wink of his eye, finished off the bottle. "Eh, but what would he do with a hammer that refused to hammer, a nail that refused to drive?"
"He would cast them away" Edgar replied.

In the Beginning

In the Beginning did God expect it to end up this way?