seemingly arbitrary pauses called t'a. Eric had been reluctant at first, embarrassed at his ignorance more than anything else.
'I'll tell you what I'll do,' Big Bill had grinned, his eyes twinkling. 'If you can do this simple rain dance, which is stationary for Christ's sake, by the end of the week, I'll set you up with Lilith Twopenny.'
Lilith Twopenny was easily the most desirable girl Eric had ever seen and a cousin of Big Bill. Many times Eric had wanted to ask her out, but hadn't had the courage. This seemed like an easier way. 'Deal,' he'd agreed. Hours and days of practice later, Eric performed the ritual rain dance to perfection. Big Bill applauded, appropriately impressed.
'So what about my date with Lilith?'
He put his arm around Eric and said. 'Never forget this lesson. There is no date with Lilith. It would be wrong of you to expect a reward to exceed the deed. However, you can almost always count on the punishment to be greater than the crime.' He shrugged and roared with laughter. 'We Hopis have a saying in such cases: That's life.'
However, that evening Lilith Twopenny came over for dinner, the beginning of a romance that lasted until she left for UC Berkeley two years later. The last he'd heard she was married, had three daughters, and designed computer games for Atari.
Eric stepped away from the edge of the roof. He had no katcina mask now, had long ago forgotten the rain dance, the basket dance, the corn dance. But he knew what he must do now.
Slowly he walked to the center of the roof. His lantern flickered there like an insolent reminder. Next to the lantern were three objects, each lined up meticulously next to the other. His gold wedding band, the only piece of jewelry he'd ever worn. The cassette player given to him earlier that evening by his children. And the body of Jennifer.
He kneeled beside them, staring at each.
Down below, people were shouting his name, calling for him, but he didn't hear them. He was leaving this world, entering one where none of them could ever follow. He closed his eyes now and chanted softly a single word.
With each chant he entered another darkened cavern. He was naked and hungry, without torch or weapon, but still he pushed ahead. In the back of the deepest cave he could see the unblinking eyes glowing. Still he chanted.
It was clear to him now. His mistake. What scholars of tragedy would call his fatal flaw.
Only it had been fatal to others, not him.
Until now.
He entered yet another dark cave, saw the eyes glowing brighter. Like truth.
Eric chanted the word over and over, its two syllables tripping mechanically from his tongue.
His mistake: to try and live in two worlds at once. He had tried to be the father, husband, teacher of the civilized world, and at the same time he'd tried to be the warrior, soldier, protector against the savage world. He had failed in both worlds. His instincts had been dimmed, his senses dulled, he had been operating on the memory of what he used to be. This had resulted in disaster. He should have recognized the council's ploy right away, but he was drunk with trust. He should have been wary of a van with closed doors, avoided it. But he had his eyes on the roofs, the windows. Now Jennifer and Philip were dead, Annie and Timmy kidnapped. And it was Eric Ravensmith's fault.
So if there was any chance of getting Annie and Timmy back, Eric Ravensmith must die.
Eric was in the last cave now, the deepest one. The creature's eyes were fierce and red. He could hear its fetid breathing, smell its corrupt breath, the scent of rotting flesh.
He opened his eyes, still chanting silently the single word, the two syllables. Lifting the bell glass from the lantern, he puffed out the tiny flame. Then he opened the fuel latch and began pouring the oil over Jennifer's body. Some splashed on her face, running down her cheek and neck, sizzling when it touched the dried blood of her wound.
Eric Ravensmith, family man and teacher, had to be destroyed. Only then could Eric Ravensmith, warlord, be fully born.
He laid the cassette recorder on Jennifer's chest, closed her soft but stiffening hands around his wedding ring.
The old Eric who made so many mistakes would never be able to save Annie and Timmy. The old Eric was too emotional, too human. The Eric who would save them had to be tougher, crueler, much less human. The Eric who would kill Dirk Fallows had to be just like Dirk Fallows.
Still he chanted that word over and over, the two syllables growing louder in his mind though no sound escaped his lips.
Fal-lows.
Fell-lows.
Fal-lows!
He picked up the knife from beside the empty lantern. Slowly, methodically, he unscrewed the pommel to reveal a hollow handle. The pommel doubled as a compass. Inside the handle were matches, a fishing line and hook, and a wire saw. He removed a single match, flicked the head with his thumbnail. With a flash the match hissed into flames.
He looked down into his daughter's face. Everything that meant something to that other Eric was here. Everything that connected him to other people. The wedding ring, a sentimental hunk of metal. The cassette recorder with the scratchy Beatles tape, cheap plastic and wires playing adolescent fantasies. And Jennifer, merely the decaying carcass of someone he once knew. Once they were all destroyed, there'd be nothing to keep him here, nothing to hold him back. No memories, no graves to visit. Nothing.
He dropped the match on her white nightshirt. The flames leaped with a whoosh, crawled up and down her body like a ravenous beast.
The bitter smell of burning flesh mixed with the acrid sting of burning plastic. But Eric didn't move away. Less than a foot separated him from the pyre. His own skin was red from the heat, the hairs on his legs and arms began to singe slightly. Still he sat immobile, his scar reflecting the macabre flames, running along his jaw like molten lava.
When the flames were sated and waning, he rose, dressed, waxed his crossbow string, and started for the door.
The old Eric Ravensmith was dead.
The Eric Ravensmith descending the stairs now was more ruthless, cunning, deadly. More like Dirk Fallows than Dirk Fallows.
The sight of him startled everyone.
They didn't know what to expect, but what they saw was not it.
Eric was smiling.
It was a grim smile, to be sure, with no trace of humor. Still, considering the circumstances, any kind of smile seemed grotesquely out of place.
'Are you all right, Eric?' Trevor Graumann asked, his hand on Eric's shoulder in a fatherly manner. He noticed Eric stiffen at the touch.
'Fine, thanks, Trevor,' Eric nodded, then shrugged subtly but firmly away from Trevor's hand.
Trevor was hurt by this, but said nothing. Finally when he spoke, he noticed a formal tone to his voice that had never been there before. 'Eric, I must talk to you about Jennifer.'
'I buried her, Trevor. Don't worry.'
'You what?'
'I buried her. She was my daughter.'
'Granted, Eric. But where did you bury her? We have rules about that here, sanitation rules you established to protect the rest of us.'
'Don't worry.'
'But no one saw you bury her. We've been looking all over the camp for you.'
Eric shrugged. 'I guess you didn't look hard enough.'
Trevor stared at Eric, shocked by the almost insolent tone. 'Are you sure you're all right, Eric. I mean, the
