Note: Chapters 28, 29, & 30 were once Chapter 16

Chapter 28

Sands of Time

Owen

"Is he dead?" a child's voice asked. Owen felt something pushing into his cheeks – a little kid's fingers. Owen thought this might be death; maybe that was just wishful thinking.

"I don't think so, sweetie," said another, more motherly voice. "Don't push on his face like that." His blankets rustled allowing a cold draft to intrude onto his bare skin. "Help me replace these hot water bottles."

"I think he's dead," the child's voice said again with another push on his cheek.

Wracked with pain, Owen lay on a soft, comfortable bed smelling of vomit and feces; he didn't know where he was or how he got there. A locomotive screamed through his head, vexing him with waves of uncertain lucidity, but at least he had a pillow to rest on. He felt the presence of several people surrounding him. "Will he be okay?" A familiar male voice spoke. Blaise?

"I hope so. He seems to be improving. You should have taken him to the hospital."

The male voice answered, "We don't much like hospitals."

He felt a child's finger probe his eyelid. For a moment, light flooded Owen's vision. "Look, it's all red," followed by giggles. "That was so awesome! I saw his eyeball move."

"Caleb, cut that out."

Owen felt intense pressure building in his arm. He thought he might have had a blood clot or swelling. He was too numb to be bothered; then cold metal pressed into the inside of his elbow. Air escaping from the bladder signaled the recovery of sensation to his arm. "80 over 60 it's getting better. Lazarus, why don't you take his temperature?"

"How do I do that?"

"You stick it in his butt," a little boy snickered at his answer.

"Eww! That's gross."

"Just place the thermometer in armpit, and hold his arm gently at his side," the motherly voice answered.

The youngest voice said, "He smells funny."

When the child rustled his blankets to place the thermometer, Owen heard a sharp intake of breath. A different male voice than before spoke, "Look at all them bruises. Do you think somebody has beaten him?"

I don't need any help, Owen thought. I beat myself.

Owen let out a loud groan and rolled over onto his good side. He heard the tinkling of breaking glass as the thermometer shattered. Spit drooled down on his cheek, but he didn't care. Consciousness slowly slipped away.

Abby

She missed him more than she dared. Immersed in the misery of solitude, Abby cast her thoughts out, trying to sense his presence. An island, alone in the turbulent confusion of the world, she couldn't find him anywhere. Owen found some way to escape.

She missed the prattling discussions of nothing. Conversations which seemed so meaningful at the time, in reflection, appear mind-numbingly banal. It wasn't even talking that she longed for … it was his companionship, his compassion, his eyes dancing in joy while she rambled about the stars or shared a story he was excited about.

She inhaled the stale mill air, to absorb the last essence of Owen's presence … to retain a small figment of awareness.

Through the decades, Abby's followers evolved their own methods to procure blood. They did it for her, not because she asked them, but because they wanted to feel useful … to help. Abby could dissociate the nourishment from the victims. They provided blood – not bodies. Some honeyed, some bitter, but it sustained her humanity without Abby ever having to consider the source. Victims became what her uncle had always claimed – livestock. One of his ideas she chose to believe – not because it was true, but because it made her perseverance easier to justify … easier to endure.

Owen was almost mystically different. He helped her as best he could while resisting the degeneration into atrocity. She was enchanted by his beguiling innocence. For years, she hoped … she prayed that Owen would begin to develop the proper habits – all the while wondering if it was necessary.

Until now. Pushing him away incited his passion. When it was finally no longer necessary, when she no longer needed or wanted it, somehow she forced Owen's depravity. I failed to sense his thoughts … know what he was doing … stop his hasty actions until the overpowering urge swept me along with the coppery stink of blood. He wasn't supposed to bring the body here – the sweet, stupid idiot. But her heart wasn't in the derision; it was her fault. She left the putrid corpse hanging as a reminder of her folly.

On all fours, with wings extended, Abby crawled aimlessly around the darkened, lonely mill. Sounds, the random noises of water dripping or wind whistling, rang hollow without Owen around. He was finally gone; this time for certain. She devoured six years of his life. Letting him go was the most difficult thing she had ever done. But letting him go wasn't enough. She had to force him out.

I forget you now. It was brutal to even think about let alone say. Hurt and pain reflected in his eyes and thoughts.

A course she never considered with her previous allies. As much as it pained her, Javier was right. She had been selfish; selfish for wanting Owen to stay. It cost him everything. Owen wasn't just some helper; he had become her friend. Even more than a friend - someone crucial to her. How did he ever gain this power over me?

He needed to be gone and live, rather than stay and die. Life with Abby was slowly killing him.

Her joyful memories of better times were clouded by the stench of the empty vessel suspended beneath the chain hoist. Wind buckled the roof into motion causing the carcass to swing like a pendulum; the bucket from which she drank all of the blood rested beneath it. The blood tasted delicious, but now the congealed dregs rankled her.

Flexing her talons, Abby marveled at the strength within the bony structure. She didn't even bother to retract her wings or restore her facial features. Imbued with solemn emptiness, Abby ascended to the rafters, and, dangling upside down, she closed her eyes. She allowed her attachment to humanity drift away.

Before long she swayed in concert with the rotten carcass swinging beneath her. Unaware how long she hung from the roof, Abby allowed time to wither. She wanted to end it all; just once walk out into the sunlight and experience a moment of its warmth. Instead, she was compelled by a desire to remain here and wait. In a daze, she closed her mind to the passage of time and hibernated with the bats. With Owen gone, her nightmares returned.

"Gaspar, keep him away from Whiskers," Abby screamed with the mighty fury of an eleven year old girl.

Abby's father once brought home a baby muskrat he caught in a trap. The wounded rodent was too small to use for a pelt. She nursed him back to health and raised him as a pet. Of course, Abby's older brother chanced upon a stray black cat as retaliation for his sister's joy. That's how she saw it, anyway.

Midnight, the cat, enjoyed roughhousing with the rodent. He tossed and bounced him about in careless play. Gaspar enjoyed the distraction from New France's cold winter and chuckled at the sight of the predatory dance along with his friends. "He's just having a good time. Let him play," he said to his baby sister.

Abby intervened, rescuing the rodent from the paws of the cat. "Look. He's bleeding. I'm telling Papa!"

Abby ran into their rustic home, cradling the wounded muskrat in her arms, to find her father cleaning his musket. "Papa, Whiskers is hurt."

Her father sighed and rested the barrel of his disassembled rifle against the wall, "Let me take a look."

He laid out his handkerchief on the table and placed Whiskers on top. Her pet's eyes were closed and his front paws trembled. Blood flowed from his abdomen, staining the linen. "I think this might be it for our poor little Whiskers. He's had a good life – better than most. Why don't you run along? I'll lay him to rest in the back yard."

In tears, Abby fled to the woods without a care for her pretty, white dress – angry at her brother for that awful cat, angry at her father for not being able to save Whiskers, and angry at the British for forcing them to flee their secure home in Louisburg. She remained there for hours, long after her tears dried, until she heard her mother calling her for dinner.

Inside the house, she sat quietly in the candlelit kitchen with her family while her father said the grace. Then, she ate her dinner in numb withdrawal. Gaspar acted like nothing had happened, as though Whisker's death was nothing out of the ordinary. This may seem common for a trapper's family, where animals were often killed – but not pets; not Whiskers.

After a few minutes eating in silence, Abby was struck by her father's strange clothes. Something happened while she was mourning in the woods. "Why are you dressed as a priest?" she asked.

Her father set down his fork and rubbed his hands. "The British are trying to capture your uncle. I'm taking his place for awhile to mislead them. I shan't be away long," he answered.

"Who will care for us?" Abby wondered.

Her parents shared one of those glances adults exchange when they don't want to answer an uncomfortable silence. Oblivious to the conversation, Gaspar saved his parents from a response by saying, "This is a great dinner, Mama. Where'd you find meat this time of year?"

A cold chill fell over Abby. She dropped her fork in disgust, knocked over her chair and ran out of the kitchen into the darkened living room. She almost ran over a man, casually reading a book. "Excuse me, Uncle," said with a curtsy. "I didn't see you there." She was shaking from anger at her parents, but she knew better than to be impolite with her uncle. He was an important man, a powerful figure.

Her uncle placed his book on the table and rose from his chair. "Abigail, my precious little child," he said he said with a wry smile. "I look forward to spending some time with you in your father's absence. Perhaps I'll teach you how to favor the predator over the prey ... the cat over the rat."

"Is that why you're sending my father out?" Abby asked, "So that he can be the prey?" Perhaps impoliteness was overdue.

"Such spirit … such insolence from a tiny thing." Her uncle leaned down so that his face was just a few inches from hers and whispered so that her parents in the kitchen couldn't over hear. "You were always my favorite. You are stronger than you believe. Much more than your brother." He took a deep breath, inhaling her aroma. "So sweet. I can't wait to taste you."

The comment made no sense. "Taste me?" she said. "Why don't you just have some stew?"

Her uncle tilted his head and kissed her squarely on the lips. The kiss was long with an uncomfortable familiarity to his desire. Abby endured the kiss, but she sensed her mother standing in the door frame, simmering in anger.

Her uncle withdrew and said, "Now run along my black kitten. We'll have more time to share after your father is gone."

Her father left that evening, ensuring the family that he would be gone for a few months at most. He took the bloody handkerchief along with his musket and his pack. It was the last moment Abby saw her father. Another goodbye.

So subdued and listless from the dream, Abby almost missed the opening door with the figure standing on the threshold. Animated by the city lights, a long shadow, cast from centuries past, flooded up the stairs and across the floor of the mill. He paused for a moment to regain his bearing, conveying the ubiquitous presence of seething malevolence.

"Bonne nuit, moi chaton noir," the gravelly voice bellowed from the entrance. "I have missed you. Aren't you going to welcome me into your home?"

Owen

"Owen, have you been here the entire time?" His mother asked the resentful boy crouched behind the stair slats.

"Mother, don't pay any attention to the man. He is trying to destroy our family," Owen pleaded of his mother.

Owen ran down the stairs and pounded on the back of the black shirt. "Go away and never come back. You're evil. You're supposed to keep families together."

His mother grabbed his arm to stop the assault. "He's not evil. He's a priest," she said.

The priest turned around and stuttered, trying to find the right words, "Sometimes there are no good choices – only wrong ones. You'll understand when you're older." Owen hated that kind of answer. When you're older …

After the evil man left their home, his mother squeezed Owen against her breast, trying to hold her family together. "I know. We'll try to hang on." He could barely remember what his mother looked like. They couldn't hold on. The current was too strong.

Owen laid the broken body into the frigid river while saying a short prayer. But the river wasn't flowing. With the dam blocked, the body floated in place. Owen took his knife and shoved it into the wall, working away the loose mortar. Finally, a trickle flowed from the small hole; then the dam burst, spraying him with red water and flooding the river with blood. "I killed her." Owen mourned for his loss. "I killed the river of life."

He shoved the body into the center of the stream and allowed the swift current to pull it away. The river began to boil and turn green from corruption oozing out of the corpse. Owen had to hang onto a tree root while the swirling maelstrom of bloody water tried to pull him under. He couldn't hang on and he couldn't swim. "Help me," he cried to the three magi standing on the river bank with their camels.

But they ignored him. Instead the magi argued over the star of Bethlehem as it shined in the sky. "Follow the stars," they said. "Which one?" another asked.

While they were arguing a serpent slithered onto the black canvas of the sky and swallowed the brilliant star of Bethlehem along with the beautiful princess. "Goodbye, Owen," the constellation cried.

To his dismay hands, thousands of hands knocked him over and dragged him along with the current. "Is this your first time?" The sacrificial victim asked with an amused smile. Owen was embarrassed by the question. "Is this your first time to die?"

Dragged underwater by the tight grip of the thousand victims, he heard a voice speaking just the same. "We're going to have a little contest. Stay underwater for three minutes. If you can't, I take out your eye. An eye for an ear. Got it?"

Owen "got it" only too well.

Before the three minutes were up the current spat him out on the sandy shores of a dry, desert wasteland. White sand fell from the sky. Owen gasped, sucking in the precious, life giving air.

I can't breathe!

A dusty green lizard with mustard colored stripes sat on the shoreline. He was fishing for cans. "What are you running from?" the lizard asked. "Everybody is running from something."

"I'm running from my own shadow. I wear it on my skin," Owen said. A mottled, purple shadow was stapled to his torso. Water dripped off his skin and boiled on the hot sand. "And I will keep running until I can't run any farther."

As fast as he could, Owen ran from the tiny, terrifying lizard. Day turned into night and night turned into day. For forty days he ran, until he couldn't bear to run any further. Exhausted he collapsed to the ground. His skin was cold and clammy. So hot, he trembled uncontrollably; his bones rattled. With a powerful hunger he tried to eat a handful of the white sand. But it was bitter; he coughed and spit it out.

A black dove circled the skies above him, waiting for him to die. "Why don't you eat that stone?" the dove asked.

Owen pulled the stone to him and placed it to his lips. Biting down he tried to suck nourishment, but there was nothing there.

The dove laughed at his frustration. "You stupid little girl, you can't get bread from a stone."

"Can I get blood from the stone?" Owen asked.

The dove cackled even louder. "What do you want? Concentrated blood of a saint? You will have a better chance learning to fly."

Owen shoved himself up from the ground and raced away from the gibbering bird. He ran so fast that he left the colors of his clothes behind him. The skin of his cheeks fluttered and flapped in the wind. He raced even faster. So fast that he left his memories behind. He barely even noticed when he leaped off of the edge of the precipice – until he remembered that he didn't know how to fly.

Owen plummeted toward the ground. He heard the wind cry, "No, no, no." His destiny lay before him and he welcomed it. Finally, he struck the water below him with a turbulent splash. He continued down; he sank deeper and deeper – until he remembered that he didn't know how to breathe.

Owen scrambled trying to swim. It was no use, with each powerful stroke he sunk even further – until he remembered that he didn't know how to die.

Several leagues under the water, he was greeted with a stench of chlorine. He found himself at the edge of the pool. He dragged himself out and gasped inhaling the blessed, fresh air. Hands pulled him from the pool. She was beautiful... an angel.

"Owen … Owen Wheeler, what was your role in the deaths of these children in Los Alamos?" the police detective asked him as he slid a photo of a swimming pool in front of him.

"I couldn't breathe," Owen said.

"The report indicated that you were there that night, before you disappeared," the detective continued, "Did you kill those boys? If you had anything to do with their deaths, you'll go to prison for the rest of your life."

"Freedom builds its own kind of prison," Owen said. "Ask Abbé Jean-Louis Le Loutre … he's a priest. They're all evil."

Owen chewed on his Now and Later candies. He buried empty wrappers in the snow beneath his seat in the interrogation room.

The detective had an ugly birthmark on his cheek. He breathed out rings of smoke and drew another puff on his Marlboro. "I used to be just like you," he said.

Another police officer paced along the wall. She was adorned with beautiful bodyart - that of a navy peacoat and tortoise shell eyeglasses. "Pray dear Paraclete, I think she's beautiful," Selkie said. She held a caged dove above her head and stared at it in wonder. This one was white. Candlelit shadows danced on the walls. Looking straight into Owen's eyes she asked, "Are you the vessel of grace?" Owen wasn't sure if she was asking him or the bird.

She placed the cage on the table and demanded from Owen, "Choose … me or the bird. Choose … are you Owen or Kenny?"

"I can't," Owen said. "I always make the wrong choice. I hate fate."

"Doing nothing is a choice. She withdrew the dove from the cage, took a gentle hold around its wings, and brandished a dull pocketknife. "Embrace the angel of death." Selkie wiped her finger in the puddle of blood and placed it in her mouth. "Mmmm," she said licking her lips. "It tastes like poison. I guess sometimes there are no good choices."

The light in the interrogation room flickered. Owen saw his own image in the wall length mirror, crouching beneath the concrete wall of the Fourth Street Bridge, huddling in terror. Greg sat down next to him, breathing heavy, "Owen, have you been here the entire time? What was that thing?"

Escape lay just out of reach – a river's breadth away. "We just need to get across the water," Owen said. "It can't cross the river."

"Then, what the fuck are we doing underneath the bridge?" Greg asked. "Shouldn't we be on top?"

On Owen's other side, Blaise sat in isolation, desperately trying to depress an imaginary trigger. With a sudden awareness, he looked at Owen, "I can't help you. I have my own demons to fight." He stood up and bolted from the underpass.

Owen followed, but Blaise was nowhere to be seen. He hastened around the bridge abutment and up to the roadway. A young girl strained to cross the bridge between despair and joy. Owen hurried to her side and lifted her in his arms. "You're going the wrong way," he said. She had a strange mark on her face. "Abby, what happened? How did an upside-down T become burned into your cheek?"

"It's not a T," she said. "I couldn't kill him. Please kill him for me. I can't bear the voices." Abby smiled through sleepy eyes and placed her hand on Owen's cheek. Sticky, sweet blood dribbled across her chin. "Owen, is it really you?" she asked. She caressed his cheek. "I miss you."

Owen jolted awake from the disturbing dream. A sudden chill washed over him like the water of the river. Abby was right here … she was right here in the room. Not in the room; outside the window. He was lying on a mattress, underneath a blanket, surrounded by six tepid water bottles. Several other men were scattered around the sleeping quarters, snoring on their own mattresses. Damn, I'm hungry. I wonder how long I've been asleep.

Owen was sure he heard Abby's thoughts from the window. He jumped out of bed, chilled by his nakedness, to take a peek. Every muscle in his body screeched with pain from the sudden thrill of activity. The windows were thick leaded glass having a pattern to obscure your vision. It was nighttime, but he could see little else. Abby wasn't there even though she felt so close in the dream. He was so sure that he felt her thoughts nearby. But she was on the wrong side of the river. She couldn't cross the bridge without someone's help. And who would help her?

Shaking from withdrawal, Owen found his clothes lying next to his bed with all his belongings. The girl's photo from the old man in the alley and his baggie of rice had dried from his dunking in the river. Alongside them sat the vial of holy water and wooden handled bell. The money was gone. He dressed and shoved all his belongings into his pockets and set out to explore the shelter at night. He needed to take a piss and get something to eat.

Downstairs, he found a low lights burning in the cafeteria common room. The woman attended to her three sick children with the baby requiring most of her needs. The youngest boy said, "Hey, look, he's alive!"

The second boy said, "I guess he's risen from the dead."

"I think I'm still dead," Owen said with a groan. His head throbbed. "I'll know after I eat. Do you know where I can find some food?"

The youngest boy jumped off his chair, grabbed Owen by the hand, and dragged him over to cabinets and a refrigerator. "I'll show you," he said. "I'm Caleb. What's your name?"

Owen tried to remember the name he provided. The deceit was confusing. "I think its Owen."

"Hi, Owen. My brother's name is Lazarus." Owen waved half-heartedly to the new arrival at the pantry. He found a box of generic Oateo's, milk and a spoon. "Come sit with us," Caleb said.

Forcing himself to hold the bowl steady, Owen followed Caleb over to the table and sat down across from the woman feeding her baby a bottle of apple juice. He gave a friendly nod of his head, but she ignored him.

Distracted by the joys of youth, Caleb and Lazarus soon forgot their offer of hospitality while playing cowboys and Indians around the dark room. "Settle down," their mother implored. The baby pulled away from the juice bottle and convulsed with contagious laughter at the sight of her brothers' play.

Owen's hand quivered. The spoon made a tentative, unpredictable approach to his mouth. He found it easier to look away and think of something else. The woman was devoted to her child in every way – wiping spittle off her cheeks, rubbing her belly and enjoying her laughter. The baby consumed her thoughts and attention the way that Abby used to consume his. He relished the casual intimacy.

This close, Owen realized that the mother was much younger than he thought. Her wrinkled skin and sunken eyes suggested someone almost fifty, but she was younger, perhaps thirty. Her eyes and face looked familiar, "Do I know you?" Owen asked, startling the mother.

"I don't think so," she said and returned to her child.

Owen continued to study her features until she became uncomfortable under the scrutiny. I've seen her before. I know it. Maybe she has relatives in Los Alamos. Then he remembered the photograph. Owen removed it from his pocket and looked at the faded color wallet-sized photograph. Prepped for photo day, the pretty blond haired girl was Owen's age or a little younger. "It's you," he said.

"Where'd you get that?" she asked. The mother placed the bottle on the table and raised her baby to her shoulder.

Owen handed her the photograph and said, "I got it from an old homeless man. I thought she ... I thought you looked pretty."

She snickered, "At one time, maybe I did. I'm not surprised to hear he was destitute. I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree," she said solemnly. "How's he doing?"

Owen remembered the bloody gash on the old man's temple, the body he dumped unceremoniously into the mill furnace. "He's dead," was his only answer.

She handed the photograph back to Owen. "I'm sorry to hear that. It would have been nice to speak to him before he left us," she said. "I guess he won the race."

"What do you want me to do with the photograph?"

"Keep it. Throw it out. I don't care. I can't even remember that innocent girl anymore." Lazarus stopped running in a fit of angry coughing. "Come on guys. Back to bed," she said. She turned to Owen, "We have showers." Do I smell that bad?

The echo from the closing door washed over the room before it drifted back out sea. Owen remained alone in the silence, and he could barely stand the company. Every emotion had left him. Hope had drained into that bucket. Where was he to go now? The loss of Abby affected him more than he expected. He felt a powerful emptiness and longing. He closed his eyes and his thoughts lingered on Abby. He missed her more than he dared.

Abby

"Bonsoir, L'oncle," Abby said from her roost among the bats. "Je vous ai manqués, trop." (Good evening, Uncle. I have missed you, too.) He wore his priestly clothes and black traveling robe. Abby tried to resist the force of her uncle's will, but something inside of her welcomed his arrival. He understood her desires in a way that nobody else could … not even Owen. How could Owen truly understand me? Many times she felt the disgust radiating through the bond. He can't hide it.

Perching on the edge of a desire to reject her uncle, she relented. "Vous pouvez vener en." (You can come in.)

"Thank you, Abigail. How gracious of you."

Having no trouble adjusting to the darkness, Jean-Louis wandered around the mill making comments on the surroundings. "This building is magnificent, like the castles of my native France. The filth is disgraceful." Disappointed, he indicated to the walls, "Nice artwork. You know you can never hide from me for long."

Long enough, Abby thought.

He glanced up at the body dangling from the ceiling. "I'm surprised you don't have an army of servants by now to cleanse your home." All the while, Abby hung quietly from her roost among the bats.

After walking around for a few minutes, Jean-Louis stopped and stared into the shadows of the ceiling. "Where is my greeting, chaton noir? I have been gone for a hundred years."

Abby floated down to her uncle. Upon landing, she folded her wings into her side and approached him. She curtsied once and looked into the covetous eyes underneath the hood of his traveling cloak. "Je t'aime, L'oncle."

He grabbed her chin and held it tight in his hand. "Your human form, child." Her wings retracted into her neck, her teeth straightened, and her skin became smooth and perfect. She looked into his eyes – they were solid white. "Beautiful … you were always so beautiful. Why would anyone want this to change … to grow old … to wither and die?"

Jean-Louis reached behind Abby's neck and dragged her to him. It was a cold, forceful kiss of power and lust, not a passionate one. His tongue slithered back and forth like a snake. Tempted to bite down, she resisted. Not now. Abby allowed her thoughts to drift to Owen. Did I ever enjoy my uncle's touch? Yes, she did - at one time. But that was a long time ago.

Her uncle pulled away from the kiss. "Abigail, you've been naughty lately, haven't you? You tasted infant." He licked his lips, enjoying the sensation. "African, if I'm not mistaken. Food fit for the gods." He shuddered in pleasure.

After he spoke, Abby spit a slimy mix of pus and blood into his decaying face. "You have no power over me," she said.

With a chuckle her uncle wiped off of the residue and shook it on the ground. "Enough of that for now. We can play later. First we must address the ..." He waved his hands around in the general direction of the body hanging from the chain hoist. "... mephitis. It's detestable." He walked around the room to the area behind the furthest of the row of crucibles. "Because of that putrescence, I almost missed the vermin." He reached behind the last crucible and pulled out a wiggling child.

"Javier," Abby said with disappointment. "Laissez-le tranquille. S'il vous plaît, mon oncle. C'est juste un enfant." (Leave him alone. Please uncle. He's just a child.)

"I'm not afraid," Javier yelled while kicking from a foot off of the floor. "I want to be just like you. Can you help me?"

"Abigail, you always did keep the cutest pets. I think I like this one."

"Non. Mon oncle," Abby begged, but she knew it was a waste of breath.

Jean-Louis turned Javier. "You want to stay? You wish to become immortal?" Javier nodded eagerly. "Then expurgate the chaos."

Javier looked quizzically toward Abby. "Clean up," she said.

"Is that person dead?" Javier pointed to the carcass hanging from the hoist.

"Moi chaton noir, he is so cute," Jean-Louis said. "I think I could just eat him up."