GENESIS, POPULATION 1826
Wash it all away.
Give one, they said.
Pick one, they said.
Which one? They asked.
And the wicked fingers pointed. And the bargaining began.
Give them all, another reasoned. We must feed it.
All are better than one; indeed, they all agreed.
And they walked into the forest, the children holding hands, the sacrifice complete but not finished.
There is always a need for more children. If we make them, we can be free.
I was passing through, imagining pancakes, and slammed the brakes.
I saw a glowing herd of children wading through a sloping meadow, feet hovering above the knee-high grass, led by faceless grownups, gently prodding, directing, occasionally dropping to one knee, and whispering into a virgin ear. A roiling, undulating rainbow, leaking caustic bile, rust, and dread, busted through the spiking tree tops, their underbite locked to malevolent, ashen clouds. It was clear the leprechauns had long ago taken their pot of gold and gone home.
The children toddled until they were dissolved, swallowed by the rising pink and purple mist. I saw this, I swear. And then a crazy yellow sky broke, in toothy shards, and I entered Genesis, population 1826.
“There’s a demon in there,” a local told me, unprovoked. I didn’t ask his name, nor his occupation, nor how long he has lived in this place, a dark dot on a map near other dark dots, all connected it seems by veins of flowing misery. I’ve been here before, but this was my first visit. That’ll make sense if you’ve driven as many miles as I have looking for answers. He smelled vinegary, his skin the color of rendered fat. “We gave him what he wanted. Didn’t help none. He’s insatiable.”
“And yet you are still here,” I offered. My pancakes arrive and I dig in, waiting for a response.
We are nursing coffee in heavy white ceramic mugs, the weight generally satisfying in my hand, but everything is off here, in Genesis. I hear no birds; I spy no squirrels, and the wind is abrasive, and I catch some of the fallout in my teeth. I’d spit but it would do no good. It’s turned down here, downcast, and all I catch is whispering, forks scratching plates, and hollow clanking from the kitchen. All other sound has been erased, the gaps are apparent, and this place is one stereo speaker without a sub-woofer. It's tinny and thin.
The man next to me keeps talking, his eyes as dark as my scalding coffee. We are happenstance strangers perched on devil-red stools at Mona's Diner, where they serve the world’s best pancakes, according to the prideful billboard on the way into town. Served without authentic maple syrup, which Mona’s does not, this is a lie, an abomination, really, of the natural order of things. I see the blasphemy on my plate, and I hear sacrilege all the time, from men who are lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, disobedient, unthankful—unholy and unbalanced.
“Go ahead, finish your story,” I say, and he continues. Bleary-eyed from an overnight drive, I listen to his telling of a tale, eons old, he claims, the lore passed from father to son, from son to daughter, and now to me.
“It's been this way forever, or so it seems,” he says. “The torment, the normalcy, the appetite. There are carvings of the beast everywhere. His fangs are like razors, and wild hair, crouching, always crouching, he is. There’s etchings carved into rock, too, way up, top of the butte, and entrails hang in the trees, or so I’ve been told. The founders sacrificed sheep and cattle, dogs, hogs, and everything they had that walked on four legs. Nothing pleased him. Finally, there was only one choice.
Be careful here, stranger. It’s all I can offer.”
I had heard enough because I have heard it before.
“There is no beast in the wood. That sick sky is your creation, and so too is that hemorrhaging rainbow behind those spiteful trees. You did that. You sacrificed everything for nothing. Your conceit, your vanity, your cowardice. The perversion that is in that beast is in you—its heart is your heart, its avarice is your avarice, its desires are your desires. Are there any righteous men living here? Two hundred? One hundred? Even fifty?”
The nightshade, the veil obscuring his immoral eyes, lifted momentarily and fell. He was empty again, absent light, a nest of vipers wrestling in his mind, and I had my answer.
“I hear your lament, but I hear no remorse, because the pride of evil men does not permit it. When you see yourself in the beast, you will be free from it.” I settle my tab and stand. “But you will still have a heavy debt to pay.”
As I leave Genesis, the underbite of impaling treetops is still locked to malevolent, ashen clouds, and the roiling, undulating rainbow, leaking caustic bile, rust, and dread, has returned. The ruin consumes my rearview mirror and my windshield. There is no escaping it, and I, a weary traveler, continue to drive, seeking righteous men, while a scorching, cleansing downpour brews on the horizon beyond the horizon.
A revelation in the offing.