Coyote Rising (18 page)

That’s what happened to me. No sooner had I begun cutting my way into the nearest ball plant when a pseudowasp, awakened by my knife, burrowed out of the incision I’d made. Before I could react, it alighted on the back of my left hand and stung me.

My hand swelled up, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Pseudowasp venom contains a toxin somewhat similar to lysergic acid; it causes paralysis in other insects, but in humans it produces hallucinations. In Shuttlefield, there was even an underground trade in what was known as “sting”—venom extracted from pseudowasps that had been captured, then sold as a cheap high.

I’ve never been a doper, so I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Within a half hour, colors began to get brighter as everything seemed to slow down; it seemed as if there was a subtle electric hum in the air, and nothing anyone said to me made sense. By the time my companions helped me stagger out of the swamp, I was raving like a lunatic. I vaguely recall trying to take my clothes off, insisting that the perfect way to enjoy this lovely winter day was for everyone to get naked and have an orgy, swigging the bearshine Clark had given me and telling Zoltan that he should use those wings of his to fly back to Thompson’s Ferry and grab us a couple more jugs. Everything was happy and wonderful and exquisitely beautiful; these people were all my friends, and it mattered little that we were lost and close to starvation.

At some point, though, my vision began to tunnel. Suddenly feeling very tired, I sat down on a log, saying that I needed to take a rest. Go ahead with the party, gang, I’ll be along in just a moment. And then I passed out.

When I came to, I found myself in a tent. Night had fallen; I could smell the smoke of a campfire. From somewhere outside I could hear low voices. And I wasn’t alone; in the soft glow of a lantern, Zoltan was seated cross-legged on the other side of the tent.

“Welcome back,” he said. He’d removed his robe, and his wings furled about his bare shoulders. “We were worried about you. Feeling better?”

“A little.” Not much. My head pounded, and my throat was parched. Without asking, he handed me a water bottle. I unscrewed the cap and drank. “Where are we? How far have we . . . ?”

“Where we were before you fainted.” His face was hideous in the half-light; it had been a long time since I’d noticed just how ugly he was. “We couldn’t go any farther, not with you in this condition, so we stopped for the night.”

“Oh, God . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.” Zoltan took the bottle from me, replaced the cap. “In fact, I rather envy you. Seems to me that you’ve had a moment of revelation.”

My mind was too fogged for me to realize what he was saying. “Yeah, well . . . getting stung will do that to you.” My left hand was sore; it had been bandaged, and the swelling had gone down. There were antibiotics in the first-aid kit we were carrying; if this had happened to someone else, I might have been able to administer them in time to prevent the venom from taking effect. Unfortunately, these people didn’t know much about pseudowasps. “My fault. I should have warned you.”

“Why? How can you warn someone about God?” Zoltan shook his head. “He does what He chooses to do, speaks to you when you least expect it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You know about the Holy Transformation. I must assume you do, because you’ve never asked me about it, not since the first night you spent with us. One of my followers must have told you . . . probably Greer,
since you two have become close.” I said nothing, and he went on. “When God came to me, while I was in the Room of Pain and Understanding, He told me that I had a mission in life. Gather as many as I could find who would believe His word and take them to another place, where we would spread the word that the universal transformation was forthcoming.”

He shifted a little, stretching his legs. “I thought we’d receive that sign in Shuttlefield, but when it didn’t happen and it became apparent that we were surrounded by those who’d eventually try to kill us, I realized that our mission would be fulfilled elsewhere. And so, like Moses and the Israelites, we’ve set forth into the wilderness . . . and now it’s become clear to me what our purpose truly is, for through you, God has spoken.”

“Zoltan . . . Reverend Shirow . . . I was stung by a pseudowasp. It makes people freak out, do weird things. That’s all. I didn’t hear God. I was just hallucinating.”

“Perhaps you think you were suffering hallucinations. Yet during that time, you told us that you loved us all, that we should freely share our love with one another.” I started to protest, but he held up a hand. “You say you were under the influence of the pseudowasp, and perhaps you were . . . but I think God was speaking through you.”

“But I’m not a believer. I’ve told you. You’ve said it yourself.”

“You’ve led us to this place, and God has spoken through you.” He gazed at me with great tenderness, as if I were a lost child whom he had found. “I know now what He has planned for us,” he said very quietly. “We are going to die here.”

“No, we’re not.” I shook my head. “We’re going to make it through this. We’re going to get over that mountain, then . . .”

“You can’t refuse. It’s God’s will that we perish together. Perhaps not now, but soon, very soon.” Zoltan took a deep breath, let it out as a sigh. “Benjamin, you’re one of us now. The time has come for you to join us, body and soul.”

Reaching around behind him, he pulled out a soft leather bag. He unzipped it and reached inside; when his hand came out, it held the black
sash I’d seen the others wear so many times before. With great reverence, he laid it on the ground between us.

“Remove your coat,” he said quietly, “and roll up the left sleeve of your shirt.”

I fumbled at the zipper of my parka. My head still felt as if it were stuffed full of cotton, my mind not ready to cooperate with me. So this was going to be my initiation. Well, why not? I’d come this far with these people; regardless of what I’d just told Zoltan, we’d probably perish together. Might as well go the distance.

“Wrap it around your elbow,” Zoltan said, handing the sash to me, “and pull it as tight as you can.” He slid his hand into the bag once more. “This will take only a minute, then we’ll be done.”

I’d already wrapped the sash around my arm, but the last thing he said made me hesitate. I watched as he produced a small gold chalice. He carefully placed it on the ground; in the glow of the lantern, its rim held faint crimson stain, like something that he hadn’t been able to wash out. It looked like . . .

“What . . . what are you doing?” By then I’d seen the other things in his hand: the silver hypodermic needle; the small coil of surgical tubing; the deflated rubber valve. Yet even then, it hadn’t quite sunk in. I needed to have him tell me.

Perhaps he knew that he didn’t need to. His eyes slowly rose from the chalice, met my own. “Will you share yourself with me?” he whispered.

It was then that everything became clear. Why his followers wore the sash, why they were excused from their chores for the day. The black cloth concealed the puncture marks in their arms; a day’s rest helped them recover from their blood loss.

In church, communion is celebrated in a symbolic manner. A chalice of wine for the blood of the savior, a wafer of bread for his flesh. Whether or not one believes in the miracle of transubstantiation is almost beside the point; it’s the act of worship that counts. Yet Zoltan had twisted this ritual, turning it around so that it fit his own self-image. He wasn’t interested in symbolic deeds, nor was he willing to share himself with his followers. What he demanded was fealty, utter obedience; he
wanted to be a god. So he brought them into his tent, told them whatever they wanted to hear, then . . .

“Benjamin.” He crawled closer, the needle raised in his right hand. “Will you share yourself with me? Will you give your blood to . . . ?”

“Get away!”

I kicked him as hard as I could, swinging my right foot into his stomach. Zoltan grunted and toppled over backward, and I scrambled across the tent and unzipped the flap. I was almost halfway out of the tent when I felt his hand close around my left ankle. I blindly kicked back, felt the sole of my foot connect with something fleshy. Zoltan cried out in pain, and the people seated around the campfire looked around as I pitched forward on hands and knees from his tent.

I rose to my feet, wavered unsteadily. Someone said my name, and I saw Greer coming toward me. I didn’t want her to touch me—I didn’t want anyone to touch me—so I lurched away, escaping the fire and the tents, until I fell to my knees beneath a tree.

I tried to vomit, but there was nothing in my stomach for me to throw up; all I could do was dry-heave. When my guts stopped convulsing, I fell into a pile of dry leaves at the base. Darkness closed in, and I was gone.

I awoke to find that someone had unrolled my sleeping bag and
covered me with it. Probably Greer; she was the only person who acknowledged my presence that morning, and even she kept her distance. No one would speak to me; they quietly took down the tents and packed up their gear, treating me as if I was a guest who’d overstayed his welcome.

And perhaps I was. The map and compass were missing from my parka. Thinking they might have been taken from me while I was asleep, I asked the others who had them, only to receive stares and headshakes as nonverbal responses. Although it was clear that Zoltan was leading us through the forest, he didn’t appear to have them either. It’s possible that I might have lost them in the swamp, but when I attempted to go back to search for them, Zoltan beckoned for the others to come with him. So not only had I been ostracized, but the Universalists were willing to leave me behind. I had no choice but to follow them; shouldering my pack, I brought up the rear.

Even without the benefit of map and compass, Zoltan knew where he was going. At that point, it would have been difficult to miss finding the eastern slope of Mt. Shaw. By the end of the day, when we finally emerged from the forest, the mountain loomed before us, three thousand feet high, its summit still covered with snow. We made camp at its base, but no one invited me to share a tent with them. The only food left was some rice, but I wasn’t offered any, and when I attempted to join the Universalists by the fire they’d built, Boris stepped in front of me, blocking my way with his staff. I retreated to where I had unrolled my sleeping bag and sat there alone, shivering in the cold, my stomach growling.

Shortly after everyone turned in for the night, though, Greer came to me. Glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching, she knelt beside my sleeping bag, then reached beneath her robe and produced a bowl. “Eat fast,” she whispered. “I can’t let anyone see me doing this.”

There was only a handful of rice in the bowl, but it was better than nothing. “Thanks,” I mumbled, my teeth chattering as I took it from her. “You’re . . .”

“Zoltan says you’re no longer one of us. You refused to share communion with him. That makes you a heretic. We’re not allowed to associate with you.”

“That’s what he says, huh?” I stuffed cold rice into my mouth. “And how many times have you let him drink your blood? Or have you lost count?”

She let out her breath. “It’s not like that, Ben. You might think it’s just
about drinking blood, but it’s a form of sacred worship. The prophet partakes of our essence, and in that way we become closer not only to him but also God. . . .”

“Oh, come off it. There’s nothing sacred about what he’s doing. Zoltan wants to play vampire, that’s fine, but leave God out of it. He’s just using you for . . .”

“No! God has sent him to us to fulfill His mission. . . .”

“And you know what Zoltan told me last night? He says he wants us all to die!” I was no longer bothering to keep my voice low. “This isn’t communion. This isn’t worship. You’ve been brainwashed, kid. He’s going to . . .”

“Greer. Come away from him.”

I looked up, saw Zoltan emerge from the shadows. How long he’d been standing there, I had no idea. His wings were hidden under his robe, and I couldn’t see his face beneath his upraised hood, yet in that moment, backlit against the dying campfire, he looked as demonic as anything Dr. Owen Dunn might have imagined in the depths of his insanity.

Greer started to rise, but I grabbed her wrist. “Don’t listen to him,” I said. “He’s crazy, out of his mind. There’s nothing he can do to you if you don’t . . .”

“Greer, leave him.” Zoltan remained calm. “We’ve known all along that’s he’s an unbeliever. Now he’s revealed himself to be more.”