Terminal Island

Chapter Thirty

FATHER’S DAY



Reality returns with a vengeance.

Oh shit, Henry thinks, awakening to a sordid desert of bones and blood and piss and puke, of naked flesh and the morning sun beating down on his aching bare head. The bison mask is pushed up over his brow and the rest of the costume twisted around him like a vile bedspread. The dregs of the orgy lay all around: sprawled women’s bodies dozing in wallows of their own mess, fitfully swatting at flies. Snores punctuated by retching coughs.

Gathering what’s left of his frayed wits and fouled clothing, Henry gets dressed and attempts to soberly consider the situation. He is too spent to be truly terrified, but knows that his stint as a God is finished—he won’t long survive the island’s hangover, not by the light of day. Once they find Arbuthnot’s body the game is over. He can’t imagine what fate they reserve for someone who impersonates their deity, but he wants no part of it. Loathing fills the vacuum of his depleted energies—loathing for himself as much as for them.

“Henry.”

He whirls around at the voice, the sudden motion causing the contents of his skull to slosh nauseatingly. Shielding his eyes against the sun’s painful glare, he looks up at a pair of sheer-robed female figures standing above him in silhouette. Their skin is painted white, giving them the look of marble statues. Goddesses. One of them steps forward and kneels down.

“It’s me,” she says, framed in sunlight.

It is Lisa.

“And me, honey,” says the other. She is an elderly woman but still beautiful—much too beautiful. An impossible yet familiar face: Henry’s mother, Vicki.

“Mom…?”

He recoils in horror, not wanting to know, not wanting to hear what he already knows—that this has all been some kind of terrible charade, a monstrous hoax. Unable to meet his mother’s teary, loving eyes, or even believe in her existence, he pleads, “Don’t—don’t do this to me. Where’s my wife and daughter? Please…”

In reply, Vicki calls, “Ruby! It’s okay, honey—come on out now.”

And then the unbelievable happens: Henry sees his wife and daughter emerge from the trees. Ruby is sheepishly holding Moxie with one hand and a shoulder-mounted video rig with the other—exactly the kind of professional-quality camera she always dreamed of, but which he had told her they couldn’t afford. Smiling, she says, “Go, go!” and starts shooting as the toddler runs forward as fast as her little legs can carry her. Henry cries out in joy and relief, rising to one knee just as she leaps into his arms, almost knocking him down.

“Daddeeeeee!” Moxie squeals with delight.

“Oh my God, oh my God.” Henry clutches her to him as if to pull her inside his skin. “Baby, where have you been?” he sobs. “Are you all right?”

“We hided!” She tries to squirm out of his grasp. “Ick, you’re stinky!”

“Oh my God,” he croaks. “Don’t ever hide from Daddy again. Don’t ever do that. Daddy has been so scared.”

“Lemme go!” She twists free and goes to wrap herself around Ruby’s leg, saying, “Daddy smells.”

Looking from his wife to his mother and back again, Henry asks brokenly, “What is this?”

“Your family, Henry,” Vicki says. “Your whole family.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means everything. It means that we are all your mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters—that we will honor and worship you as you deserve…or it can mean nothing at all. We are sisters of the temple of Zagreus Plutodotes, the Wealth-Giver. You’ve witnessed our secret rite, something no ordinary man can ever do and live—all that is left is for you to accept your sacred birthright.”

“What f*cking birthright?”

Patiently, lovingly, Vicki says, “You are not an ordinary man, Henry. You were born a prince, a pope—the direct descendant of Zagreus Himself. That makes you God’s representative on this island, the father of us all.” She leans down and twiddles the tiny nibs on his ears. “It’s more than just a myth, my love. The proof is written all over you; it’s in your genes.”

There is no refuge, no escape for his eyes or his mind. Suddenly Henry realizes in dread and disgust who it was filming that scene of slaughter he witnessed before—the man being pulled apart and devoured alive.

How could she? Who is she? He stares at his wife, searching her perfect face for something that will help him comprehend any of this, looking for the monstrous other lurking within her. The black halo. But she returns his gaze, innocent of sin. Somehow she is still Ruby.

“Is this a movie?” he begs her. “Please tell me this isn’t real, that it’s some kind of crazy stunt of yours. Please.”

She smiles tenderly, tapping the camera. “Don’t you understand, honey? Video is the language of today. This is a record for future disciples—a digital gospel for a post-literate age! Isn’t that fantastic? Words are so apt to be misinterpreted, misused. Think of all the trouble that’s been caused by people twisting the word of God. With this, no one will ever be confused. Seeing is believing.”

As if turning away from a stinging hailstorm, Henry faces his mother. Her eyes hold a store of secret knowledge, the sad wisdom of a sea turtle, and she does look different than the damaged woman he’s always known—younger, more robust than he can remember ever seeing her. She looks…sane.

“Mom,” he croaks, “what do you think you’re doing here? Do you realize I thought you were dead? But even that would have been better than…” He breaks down. “Why—why are you here?”

“I’m sorry, Henry. For a long time I refused to accept it, too. I don’t know how much you remember, but when you were a child I tried to run away from all this, to ignore it and pretend it wasn’t real. I took you and ran. And they let me—nobody bothered to chase us because nobody ever escapes. How can you escape yourself? We all come home in the end. It was hard…it was so hard. We starved and struggled for years, and I tried any way I could to be like other people, to be normal. But wherever we went, people somehow knew there was something different about us, that we didn’t belong. It might take a while, but eventually they always ended up hating us. Don’t you remember how it was?”

Henry doesn’t know what to say, can only shake his head. It is a nightmare, a hideous joke.

His mother goes on, “Here you won’t have to struggle. Here we are not only tolerated, but honored for what we are. For what you are. Your Father wants to reward you for all your sufferings, Henry. He wants to show you what He has to offer all His children: comfort, acceptance, love, power, wealth—whatever you want. He withholds nothing. Don’t you understand by now? Take Him into your heart and you’ll have everything you ever wanted but didn’t think you deserved. This is not a God of poverty, of charity; He does not expect us to apologize for our ambitions, or ask for a share of our wealth. It is only the unbelievers who pay. At our church, the Almighty tithes to us.”

Henry still shakes his head, not because he doesn’t remember but because he remembers too much. His head feels like a bomb approaching critical mass—as if he doesn’t stop madly thinking and do something right now it will burst.

He does something.

Very painfully, he gets to his feet and picks up the heavy bison costume, pulling the wretched hide mask down over his head like a knight’s helmet. His legs are shaky, but he gets his body under control and calmly shambles towards Ruby as if in weary surrender. Still shooting, she adoringly holds out her free hand to him and he takes it. His mother has tears in her eyes, she’s so grateful. Henry is weeping, too—in some way he still loves them…even if they’re murderous cannibals.

Without warning he yanks Ruby aside, throwing her to the ground, and grabs Moxie. The toddler screams as Henry bundles her against him and starts to run. Suddenly there are women all around him, fencing him in like a chain of bloody paper dolls. They have weapons: medieval-looking surgeon’s tools, things belonging in a slaughterhouse. Butcher’s tools.

“Put her down, honey,” says Ruby, getting back up and fussing over the camera. “You’re just upset right now. Don’t do this.”

“Yes, do it,” Lisa sneers. “Run, like you did before. Prove to them you don’t belong here, so Iacchus can elect a true believer, a true islander, to be His prophet.”

Vicki says, “Henry, sweetie, you need to understand that it isn’t a choice—you are the personification of our Lord and Savior—the Son of God. If you don’t accept that, there is another in the line of succession. But no woman has ever worn the vestments of Zagreus, and we don’t know if He will find it acceptable.”

“He will!” Lisa cries. “You’ll see!”

“Who’s He?” Henry asks contemptuously.

“Our Lord Iacchus,” Ruby says gently, with awe. “He is the one who resurrected Zagreus, who rescued Him from death. Iacchus is King of the Underground, the brother of Persephone, a chthonian deity who intercedes for us in dark places. Like Zagreus, Iacchus was also once a lonely, beautiful boy—kalos ho pais. That’s why He took pity on Him.”

Vicki says, “Iacchus now passes that mantle onto you, Henry. That means you have to take on the responsibility, one way or another. It’s something your cousin Peter learned that the hard way.”

“My cousin?”

“Arbuthnot is your cousin Peter. Didn’t you know that? Remember your cousins Peter and Paul? Peter Carolla Dioscuri, from back in San Pedro? He changed his name to Carol Arbuthnot.”

Henry’s brain is spinning, seeking avenues of escape. “What are you talking about?”

“After you and I moved away from the Del Monte Hotel, your aunt Helen and her husband decided that their sons were the rightful inheritors of the Zagreus dynasty. With our parents’ blessing, they arranged a coup against your uncle Thaddeus on Catalina, intending to kill him and take back the Omphalos—the sacred figure of the horned child—before Thaddeus could confer it upon his daughter.”

“That would be me,” says Lisa.

Thaddeus—there is that name again. Uncle Thaddeus. Principal Thaddeus. Sheriff Thaddeus. No wonder, they are all the same guy: Thaddeus the Butcher. Barely able to summon reason, much less outrage, Henry says to Lisa, “Wait. So you’re my f*cking cousin?”

“Oh, it gets better,” she says.

Vicki continues, “Needless to say, the coup failed. Your uncle Thaddeus had complete authority over the islanders, down to the last schoolchild. In fact it was the children that did your aunt and uncle in: our little Furies, led by Lisa here. A very rough bunch, as I’m sure you remember. For her sins, my sister met the Mouth of Iacchus; her foolish husband was burned with his boat; our parents were strangled in their beds; and the Del Monte Hotel was razed to the ground.”

“Holy shit.”

“Your cousin Paul was brought to the island and embraced the faith. Peter ran away, changing his identity and disappearing for many years, until last week he returned to the island as Carol Arbuthnot and murdered old Thaddeus. What he might not have realized was that by killing his uncle and taking possession of the Omphalos, he effectively crowned himself High Pontiff of the Sacred Mysteries of Eleusis. Last night, Paul was killed while searching for you—he stupidly witnessed the sacred rite and was sacrificed. And now you have killed Peter, which places you first in the line of succession.”

“Unless something happens to you,” Lisa says.

“It’s really a miracle, Henry,” Ruby cuts in. “How you’ve come here and without any urging put on the sacred vestments. The same ones your father wore, and his father before him. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“What do you mean, ‘my father’?” Henry furiously whirls on his mother. “You always said my father died before I was born!”

“I’m sorry, Henry. I was trying to protect you. Your father was very much alive all these years, and living here on the island with his wife…right up until last week, when your cousin Peter murdered them and took the idol.”

Ruby says, “I only had the honor of meeting your father once, when I was chosen to marry you, and he told me that he remembered you from when you were a child—that it was you who elected him High Pontiff.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You gave him the Idol. Right after your aunt tried to steal it. You found her purse and handed it to him.”

The purse, the little horned statue. Thaddeus the Butcher. Henry reels: My father? No…no way!

Nodding sympathetically, Henry’s mother says, “Now Thaddeus is dead; Peter is dead; Paul is dead. You are last in line, the end of the direct male lineage. You were the one we always wanted, Henry. You are the true heir of Zagreus.”

“So wrong,” Lisa mutters.

Connecting the dots, Henry says, “Wait a minute, does that make her my sister?”

Lisa says, “Hello! Of course I’m your sister, dumb ass.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God.”

“Yes,” Vicki says, somberly. “Praise your Father, and be His son.”

Henry isn’t listening, and doesn’t hesitate this time. Clutching his struggling daughter, he lowers his head and charges. The ranks of women in his way brace themselves like football halfbacks, weapons raised, but they are no match for his momentum…or his horns.

Expecting them to get out of the way, Henry crashes through their line, feeling the sickly crunch of horns punching flesh and bone. Blows fall on his head and back, mostly muffled by the thick hides. Then he is clear, running toward the brush.

He feels a crimping agony in his right breast—Moxie is biting him!

“Aaugh! God!”

Baby teeth or not, Henry has no choice but to let her go—she’s savage as a wildcat, frenziedly kicking and biting, gouging him with silver cat-claws. Tears blur his vision as he releases her, saying, “Daddy loves you, honey. Don’t forget Daddy loves you! I’m coming back!” Snarling like a cat, she slashes after his retreating legs.

The road is out of the question; there is an army of women between him and there. Henry’s only choice is to go into the rough. He has learned already that this is no impediment—the hide is thorn-proof—but he doesn’t know where he’ll end up.

F*ck it. Impervious as a mountain goat, Henry rips his way through dense stands of twigs and briars, the thickets parting around him like so much Christmas tinsel, then closing up behind. It is better than he had hoped: the half-dressed women don’t even bother trying to pursue.

For a few minutes he goes like this, barreling along on sheer adrenaline. But then he starts to overheat, to become exhausted—that suit is a bitch to lug around. Despair sets in, a biting swarm of thoughts that he can’t outrun: What is he running for? Why run? Run to what? To whom? There’s no one to run to any more, no one to save but himself. And for what?

He slows to a broken trot as the underbrush thins on the slopes of a surrounding high ridge. Beyond that should be an open view of the whole coast, and of every ship and boat in the channel. It’s a clear day; there should be a lot of them. On a clear day you can see forever. Well, it’s a clear day…if he can just get up there. He takes off the heavy costume in preparation for the climb, exposing his sweat-soaked clothing to the open air. He feels a hundred pounds lighter.

It gives him hope: I can still save Moxie. I have to save Moxie.

Turning for a glance back over the brush-filled hollow, Henry sees something that wakes his blunted nerves:

Horses. A line of white horses, breasting the undergrowth as if fording a stream. But it is not the horses that terrify him, it is their riders: white death-maidens in ceremonial gold masks. They seem to float above the brush with a look of unhurried grace, their long limbs controlling the animals with easy flicks. They are carrying limber, sharp-tipped rods that can only be one thing:

Javelins. Pig stickers.

Gibbering to himself, Henry begins to climb.