Was it a warning from one of the other settlers? If so, was it meant for him specifically? Or for others in Conal O’Herlihy’s growing contingent?
In any case, galloping into the middle of the settlement and screaming bloody murder, imploring all who would to follow him back to the horrific scene, would not do. At worst, he could find himself accused.
Schroeder steered his horse toward O’Herlihy’s home on the big hill at the end of the settlement, wishing, for a mile, he had brought something to offer the Irishman to smooth things after Schroeder’s failure to attend the previous night’s meeting.
The only vice of any kind the Celt indulged in these days was the spotted mushroom he secretly grew beneath his house. Perhaps, with this show of loyalty, Conal would offer him another chance to ingest the life-changing fungus today.
After these months of refusing it, was he ready? If it would chase away the horror of seeing Hezekiah bled and crucified, the answer was yes.
* * * *
Schroeder took his place between two large men—Gregor Tiernan and Jonas Cooke, son of the town’s constable, Adonijah—and issued a candlelit smile that the other settlers did not see. Eyes closed, they stood in a sort of trance.
The subterranean room was crowded now, where there had been only Schroeder and two others for the first gathering some years back.
Conal O’Herlihy presided at the far wall of the dank room, near the arched doorway that led to a kind of purgatory. The Irishman stood with his head bowed and his hands clasped, waiting.
Though he was late in arriving for the clandestine meeting, Schroeder knew what was happening even before hearing the panicked pounding on the arched door behind Conal.
Conal ignored this, raising his hands and head toward the low wood ceiling in supplication. “O Lord Jehovah, God of earth and altar, we praise Thee and thank Thee, on behalf of these, Your beloved sons, who now find wisdom in terror, salvation in suffering.”
Muffled voices cried for help—or the relief of death—on the other side of the door.
The other men in the room called “Amen!” in robust harmony.
Schroeder knew the door was sturdy. But even in mere candlelight, the dust bursting from its cracks and the sound of desperate assault against it raised alarm.
“Let us out!” was the staggered chorus. “It…it’s rearranging us!” one martyr clumsily explained.
Unlike the others present, Schroeder had pledged loyalty to Conal and his cause, even without experiencing the fungus-catalyzed visions. His curiosity was strong, his desire for spiritual enlightenment stronger, but his fear of going mad was strongest of all.
As a result, he often felt alone amid the other disciples, who seemed to view the trial-by-terror as simply a giant leap toward God.
When the cries and bellows began to wane, Conal nodded for help from Jonas and three other large devotees and opened the arched door to accept the saucer-eyed trippers in firm, reassuring embraces. They were eased to the masoned floor, where they all sat and wept or stuttered.
Conal knelt to put fatherly hands around the face of the nearest: Kemlin Farrady. “What did you see, brother?”
“The cock crowed! Its hens all fell dead!” Farrady gripped Conal’s wrists. “Their eggs broke open and bled smoke!”
Farrady tried to stand. O’Herlihy wouldn’t let him. “And then?”
“The smoke rained burning semen!” Farrady cried. “It spread like moss…it melted wood and burned stone!”
“Yes…” said Conal. “The cock is all of us! The men of Ember Hollow!”
He stared out into the barely visible faces of his attendees with doom. “The smoke and semen are our children, doomed to hell by our inaction—and destined to lead others to condemnation!”
The men nodded at the wisdom of the interpretation, given so quickly and forcefully it had to be true.
Conal moved on to the next of the three. “What came to you, brother?”
“A giant descended on our land, dressed the color of the new-world squash, its eyes aglow.” Henry Gourlay could not have known he had seen into Ember Hollow’s future and the night of the Pumpkin Parade. It was the whimsical character of the Night Mayor, a man on stilts who would lead the Pumpkin Parade down Main Street.
“It’s Wilcott Bennington, asserting his will, controlling us all utterly,” explained Conal. “If…we are not vigilant to stop him.”
Grumbles of alarm and discontent echoed off the stone walls.
Chapter 12
A Wolf’s Age
Modern day
“Unlike most of the other settlements and colonies, folks here in the Hollow didn’t live practically on top of each other,” Stuart took a draw from his pumpkin-spice milkshake. “The big selling point was, you could have your own field and homestead, and barter down here on Main Street for whatever you needed.”
“Conal O’Herlihy, God rest his evil soul, took dibs on the big rocky hill nobody else wanted. He let folks bury their dead there—for a fee.” DeShaun rubbed his fingers together.
“Started holding secret meetings with people who weren’t totally on board with the idea of broad religious freedom. Told them about his mushroom trips and even shared the crap, once he started growing it.”
Maisie and Violina were as amused by the boys’ shorthand as by the details of their story.
“He got these dudes—plus some handy kidnapped Cherokees—to dig the church basement, which was really just a big cellar for growing his ’shrooms. But it was also his secret meeting hall. No one who didn’t know about it could see them gathered down there.”
“Anyone who wasn’t totally on board usually fell in line once they sampled the fungus,” Stuart continued. “It scared the crap out of ’em. Then Conal would conveniently interpret their visions for them—in a way that favored his little scheme.”
* * * *
Most of the flight had been under an overcast sky that allowed few precious pockets of sunshine. As one
