Written by B. J. Aspenlieder
for Jordan and Joshua the world is a better place for them being in it.

Rudy Casals crouched in the cold, wet darkness. A look of forlorn misery, had stamped itself onto the tired, weathered from too much sun skin, of his street-grimed face. He huddled in the shadows, pressed up close against the weather-faded, brownish-red brick wall of the run down old warehouse. The rusty, black iron stairs that ran up the side of the building past the second floor to the roof, provided his only shelter from the persistently dripping, searching, searching drops of rain. Resigned to his task, he waited in the soft, incessant drizzle.

He determined a few weeks ago, that this was the best vantage point to observe the bedroom window of the apartment across the alley. His misery this night, came not from the disappointment of visualizing his elusive prey but instead, it came filtering down through the old iron stairs above his uncovered head. The untiring rain, drip, drip, dripped from one rusty step to the next, until it found him in his hiding place. It splattered onto his threadbare-thin, musky smelling, black nylon jacket. It dribbled from his matted hair, past his shirt collar and onto the bare skin at the back of his neck. The persistent weeping, from the black, sullen gray sky, had long ago left him feeling damp, shivery and foul of mood.

Rudy had been wanting the rain to stop, for as long as he’d been skulking in the shadows on this night. It had started long enough ago and had been coming down consistently enough, for him to start thinking about abandoning his mission for the night. He knew the contact would thrill the parts of his brain that still recognized a thrill when it came along but he didn’t think dying of pneumonia was a trade he wanted to make. He had missed following her tonight on her way from the bank and that wrankled his face some, as he sat there pondering the situation. For all he knew she could’ve already come home and gone out again before he’d had a chance to settle into this dark shadowy spot that provided the best view.

When he tugged the sleeve back on his grime-smeared jacket to get a glimpse of the time, wayward, demon sent drops of rain, splattered onto the face of his newly acquired watch. Reading it turned into a minor challenge. If he turned his wrist just right and held the watch face up at just the right angle, the pale glow from the twenty yards away, end of the alley corner streetlight, reflected onto the cracked glass that covered the dial.

Squinting through the semi-darkness that surrounded him, Rudy was barely able to make out the faded numbers on the dial and come up with an educated guess as to what time he thought it might be. The actual telling of the time was made even more difficult because the watch he’d rolled the homeless bum for, had definitely seen better days. At this point in it’s life, it was equipped with only one hand. As luck would have it, it was the hour hand.

Since the hour hand had been dead on the six, Rudy had been laying back in the shadows, against the weather beaten, cold, brick wall, grinding his teeth in this irritating drippage. It was now nudging the nine. The part of his brain that computed and functioned most of the time, came to the conclusion that it had to be at least eight-thirty, maybe even closer to nine o’clock. A satisfied smile came over his face. The pride of accomplishment can come from the smallest things, when there hasn’t been anything to feel proud about in a very long time.

Wiping the excess dampness from the palm of his left hand on the long since washed shirt underneath his jacket, he slipped it into his left side jacket pocket and retrieved a wrinkled pack of unfiltered cigarettes. Bowing his head slightly to block the rain, he grabbed the partially shaken out cigarette with his lips, pulling it the rest of the way out of the pack. Cigarettes back in the pocket, dig out the matches, open the matches, and hide them from the rain, damn piece of crap rain. For just a second he turned his face to the sky and gave it a glowering stare. O.k. o.k. Pull the match out of the book, flash it against the striker one time, two times. Damn stupid rain, his brain screamed again. The striker on the matchbook wasn’t completely dry. On the fourth try and then only because of the heat generated from his persistent attempts, the match burst to life. It was so sudden, it surprised him and by reflex he almost dropped the flaring match onto the wet ground surrounding him.

Quickly cupping his hands around the quivering flame to give it shelter, Rudy poked the end of the cigarette into the fire and drew the smoke deeply into his lungs. Nice. Relaxing. Ease the tension in his keyed up muscles. Then came the burn. The still flickering match, seared the innocence of its burning heat, into the soft, meaty flesh at the end of Rudy’s thumb. In an effort to toss the match and remove himself from the pain, he jumped upright. There was a solid, dull metal thunk, as the back of his head came in contact with the bottom edge of one of the rusty steps he’d taken cover under.

“Holy Jesus God!” The bathed in contempt words, slathered with the pent up hatred he felt for the way things were always happening to him, exploded out through his rain wet lips. With animal instincts firing, his first reaction was to strike out. Whirling to face it, he punched the faded red bricks fast and hard with the clenched meaty fist of his right hand.

Pain, pain, pain. The sweet horrible pain. It shot up his right arm and jarred itself into the sensitive part of his brain that was still in contact with sensory input. For all its shortcomings as of late and Rudy would be the first to admit there were many, his brain still recognized physical pain. Dropping down into his leg-cramping crouch, with his back up against the wet brick wall, Rudy held the red scraped knuckles of his right hand in the palm of his left hand. He bowed his head and rocked slowly back and forth.

The still clenched in his teeth cigarette, drifted a thin trail of whitish/ blue smoke up towards his eyes. He squinted them closed in a flash to avoid the burn but it was too late. With his eyes watering from the invasion of the smoke onto the delicate membranes covering his eyeballs, a heavy sigh erupted from the pits of his body. It turned into a mournful moan from the bellows of his soul, as it slipped past the cigarette dangling from his lips.

“O.k. open your eyes.” He muttered. His eyelids dutifully blinked open and his gaze went immediately to the bedroom window. His old bedroom window. No lights, no movement, no nothing. The only sounds, were the voices coming from within his head, keeping up their constant rabbley, babble and the dripping splashes from the rain that continued falling all around him.

Then a quite out of the ordinary “sssst” sound, interrupted his train to nowhere thoughts. It was rather like the sound of something hot coming in contact with water. His eyes dropped their gaze down to the once lit end of his cigarette and saw that it was as dead as Rudy’s current life. A mindless drop of rain, from the same fate-laden place that had mired his life into the space and time of this particular here and now, had executed, with stunning accuracy, the living, glowing ember that had kept the cigarette going.

He spat it from his lips with a sense of disgust and growing anger. His head rolled back and bumped rhythmically into the faded, wet bricks one, two, three, four, a dozen times. When tiring of this comfort, his chin dropped down to his chest as soft, tragic sobs emoted from that deep, dark place that dwells in us all. How desperately alone does a cold, night rain make a person feel? How cold does it feel to be desperately alone?

Mood swing. A creepy, misshapen grin slid itself onto Rudy’s wet face. He thought about his brownish/black, shoulder length hair being matted to his scalp by too many uncontested rain drops. Brain connection. At least his hair was getting clean. There were no showers down at the abandoned factory where he’d been spending his down time. In fact there was no water at all. Maybe he should strip all his clothes off and go dancing amongst the falling drops. It would at least be an opportunity, to wash his skin clean of the smell of too many days of sweat and grunge. He’d seen the “crazies”, as he called them do it. The only problem was that they almost always got arrested for it. He didn’t want that. Not tonight.

His dark brown eyes flashed a hunter’s glare towards the bedroom window. His head was still mindful of the uncontrolled banging against the wall of a few minutes ago. He tried to understand why she wasn’t home. He couldn’t remember any of his bosses wanting to stay late, as much as the employees wanted to leave on time. Especially on Fridays. It was Friday wasn’t it?

Day, day, day. What day was it? This tiny piece of uncertainty had taken a foothold and now Rudy had to dispel it, if his brain would allow. Was it Thursday? No, no, it was definitely Friday. He remembered seeing the smelly, old, diesel smoke belching trash trucks, making their rounds this morning and that was done on Fridays. So where was she? Maybe she’d slipped out and gone on a date or something after work.

This was not a good thought and the underlying muscles, pulled the skin covering his face into a glowering scowl. His bushy Cro-Magnon eyebrows furrowed and the eyelids transformed themselves into narrow, menacing slits. He cursed out loud, once or twice at the rain and once or twice at the woman who was not where he thought she was supposed to be. With her living in his old apartment, he should have priority. That’s the way he saw it and that’s the way it should be. His eyes and head dropped from staring at the bedroom window and an all too familiar sigh of defeat escaped through his water washed lips.

He stared at the rain-puddled black pavement that surrounded his stakeout. He stared at the torn and worn, broken down sneakers that were doing the best job they could, trying to keep his un-socked feet dry but were failing miserably. He stared at the big toe of his right foot, poking itself out from the fifty-cent size hole in the top of the canvas. He stared at the falling raindrops as they splashed into the puddle, that over the time that he’d been here, surrounded his feet. They were mesmerizing drops that changed the glassy reflection of the water as they came in contact with it, sending circles of change, to the farthest reaching edges of the puddle.

Then as fate would have it, one raindrop, on a mission from no one knows where, made a direct hit in the middle of the toenail poking itself out into the cool night air. This brought the beginnings of a progressive chuckle to Rudy’s soggy face. It was like some kind of Cosmic Entity was playing a one-sided, practical joke on him. For the few seconds the joke amused him, Rudy wasn’t mad at the world. In fact he was in some kind of peaceful place. Transported from the sorrowful reality of his drifting downward life, to a headspace where there was no life stress and no emotional pain.

A cold, gusty spirit of wind jostled down the alley, jolting him back to the realness of his here and now. It initiated another mood swing. Rudy had a million of them.

“Damn piece of crap!” He sputtered at nothing and everything. The words came out his mouth accompanied by tiny flecks of spit. His emotional self-control had reached an explosive speed bump in the dilapidated parking lot of Rudy’s psychological unevenness. It was the accumulation of rage and pain, that comes from the constant beating life hands out, without remorse, to those who have fallen under and are continuously run over by the relentless wheels of no self worth, no self esteem and a complete lack of confidence. For those who can’t seem to find a way out of this dark closet of self-generated, self-perpetuating negative thought, surely mercy and spiritual comfort of some kind, will come to them whose destiny it is to live out their physical time in that kind of life.

In Rudy’s case, it seemed that the only physical comfort coming his way, was going to arrive just in time for his physical death, when his spirit would be free of this time and place. Peace does after all come to everyone but only with and not without, a very high cost.

In the unkempt sloppiness of his mind, Rudy determined the woman wasn’t, number one coming home and number two, not going to be a part of his life in the immediate future. He concluded that his wait had indeed been fruitless, unrewarding and tediously pointless. Disgruntled and disgusted with the state of the situation as it stood, he made a note in his mental diary. In the margin of one of the often, overused pages, he jotted down that she would pay for him having to endure this evening of physical misery and emotional disappointment.

Mumbling a stream of virulent profanities than most people have a working knowledge of, Rudy rose slowly, groaning from the cramped stiffness the damp chill had soldered into the muscles of his stocky legs. Slopping his way through the puddles that speckled the alley’s surface, like an outbreak of Measles spots a young child’s chest, his drooping shoulders and bowed head were an obvious indication of not only how far the weather had beaten him down but were also a display of how he was handling the defeat mentally. Trudging his way to the corner, he started off down the street headed for his shelter.

Home is where you spend time, accompanied by a feeling of peaceful freedom from the kind of life that sucks you in, sucks you dry and bustles you all around. Home is where you can breathe and feel secure in it comforting warmth. Rudy had not been home, nor had there been any signs of peace and security in his life in a very long time. He went to where he did the minimum. He went to where he slept.

Swaying gently back and forth, with shoulders lightly grazing shoulders, the semi-circled flock of fifty or so men and women believers, moved in silent unity as one body. They were here this night, to bear witness to the surreal moonlit ceremony unfolding in front of them. Each and every one of them knew the consequences of disobeying any directive that had been passed directly down to them by the Grand High Leader.

The unusually bright moonlight illuminated their country plain faces as they stood in the silvery darkness of this narrow, thirty foot wide buffer of furrowed clumpy earth, that bordered the seemingly endless field of soon to be mature, golden tasseled corn.

On the northern edge of the unevenly turned fringe of fertile ground grew their corn. It had been plentiful enough before the Grand High first showed his face in their peaceful community but with the addition of his Ceremonial fertilizing techniques and his mumbled incantations, it now grew with a newfound, robust radiance. It appeared almost translucently florescent, in vibrant shades of electric green, as a living and breathing entity unto itself.

The healthy dark green husks, burst their plentiful golden yellow treasure into the open air. Stalk after neatly soldiered stalk stretched out mile after mile, in continuous mirage-like rows, fading into the distance as far as the human eye could see. The abundantly, plentiful fields of green and gold surrounded on all four sides, the recently vacant house that the Channels and their guardians lived in, until the Channel’s eventual date with destiny came due.

Flush with green, the golden tasseled stalks of corn stretched up strong and tall in row after continuous row. They rose so tall in fact, that they appeared, through some mysterious, magical influence, to reach right up and softly brush against the myriad of hot white stars, that higher cosmic forces had resplendently splattered against the dark night sky.

Directly south, across from this bristling, expansive sea of emerald green and about fifteen yards from the edge of the earthen plot of ground presently occupied by the Grand High’s faithful, rose the lofty brown barked trees of a ten-mile long and seven mile deep forest. Solemn standing, these wooden pillars of nature’s strength bore witness to ceremonies past and to this ceremony now, that within the next few falling grains of sand, was surely going to reach its very dramatic conclusion.

With soundless mouths and bodies rocking subtly from side to side, the follower’s blood shot, glassy eyes were spellbound, transfixed in one direction and one direction only . . . forward. Their rhythmic body swaying and catatonic state, came as the result of imbibing more than what one would consider to be a reasonable amount, of the local fresh-pressed corn drink. The concoction was the Grand High’s personal recipe and was generously supplied with not only his blessing but also his less than delicate insistence.

No matter what town it was that he slithered himself into, to conjure up his illusional song and dance, all of the followers were directed to indulge and indulge liberally. In this town at this particular time, it was the local fresh-pressed corn drink that was splayed around like a haphazardly painted whitewashed fence. It had become the Grand High’s drink of choice for both purpose and pleasure. His not so secret purpose, was the help it provided in controlling any resistance the locals would put up and his pleasure, well the Grand High would never be accused of not having some rather unorthodox pleasures.

By now the lateness of the evening had pressed decidedly in on all fronts. It’s all encompassing, overpowering darkness, had stolen quietly and unnoticeably in, soft as a baby’s breath. Arriving with disquieting stealth, it enveloped all and everything, not unlike how a boa constrictor would slowly but overwhelmingly wrap around its prey.

The Grand High’s followers stood two and in some places three deep, slowly and subtly tightening their semi-circle of corn mash imbibed humanity. Almost imperceptibly, they pressed closer and closer forward and closer and closer together. Enraptured with the effort being undertaken directly in front of them, their profoundly liquored, lacquered and bloodshot eyes, stared steadily straight ahead, at the ethereally bizarre scene that was nearing its dramatic conclusion.

The center of attention for all those in the flock that had obediently answered the Grand High’s call to assemble on this night, were three, hunched over, laboriously working, strong backed, middle-aged men. They too were under the spell the Grand High Leader had cast with his oversized fisherman’s net. Their ability to work with untiring zeal, filled the Grand High with a sense of gloating power. They wielded their long handled, shiny-bladed shovels, into the mound of soft fertile earth, whose mass was slowly decreasing, as it was transferred into the almost filled cleft they had previously carved into this well worn section of Mother Earth’s face. With each retracted scoop, the earthen mound became less and less and the gouged out cleft became more and more, a filled memory.

In spite of the pressing, cool night air that covered them like an executioner’s shroud, the three men sweated heavily. Much of it came from the manual labor that they put their backs into and were possessed to finish quickly. There was however a substantial amount of alcohol in the excreted water that welled up from their dilated pores. The expelled liquid mixture, trickled down over and through, their wrinkle creased brows. The tiny wet trails ran south across their craggy, shadowy features, through the deep gashes their hard lives had raked into once young and smooth facial skin. They sucked in the cool “thick with apprehension” night air, then rhythmically blew it out in hard unflattering pants, infecting every inch of this quiet night with the sound of their heavy, raspy breathing.

Standing anxiously in front, with the three working sheep between himself and his congregation and presiding over this momentary transgression against humanity, hovered an unusually tall, gaunt, scare-crowish looking man. In the last year of his forties, the Grand High ’s soon to be turning fifty year old head, had paint-brushed traces of grayish white hair, licking up from around his temples, surrounding his almost grotesquely pointy ears. There were still some signs in the back, that he once possessed a well endowed head of brownish / black hair but even that would soon be overcome, by the permeating white malignancy that affects the aged.

In stark contrast, his penetrating, dark as a cornered shadow black eyes, barked out from hollow looking, cave deep eye sockets. They had the eerie, unsettling resemblance to black, iron, witch’s cauldrons. Though hard to spot from their recessed location, they flitted from face to face in the crowd, to the three men of labor, back to the crowd and then back to the three working men again.

The powerful, scintillating gleam that appeared to electrically shoot out of those coal black eyes and the intense energy, that rigidly gripped the spider web like muscles of his crease-lined face, ensured that the crowds unwavering attention, was focused on their imposing leader or the backs of the three sweating men. There were no “wandering eye star gazers” in this crowd, especially on this night. There was no one, whose alcohol-sopped brain, would entertain the thought of letting their minds or eyes wander from the scene directly in front of them. They all knew the penalty that a lack of focus would bring and none to a man or woman, wanted to suffer those repercussions.

The task of the three, mechanical-like working men, was nearing completion and that meant that it would soon be time for the Grand High to address his flock. You could feel every set of eyes in the congregation, ramping up their concentration. One hundred and ninety percent of their attention would be focused on the face of one and only one man. Their Grand High Leader. When the Grand High Leader’s lips began to move and his polished eight ball black eyes locked in on their faces, it wouldn’t do to have their attention drifting elsewhere.

He had perched himself, on an overturned, two-foot tall, wooden slatted corn crate and it was from here, that he surveyed the forgone conclusion to his “Crawling of the Worms” Ceremony. Given the gangly six foot ten inch frame he already possessed, there was no need for him to stand atop the corn crate. He rose significantly above every crowd he traveled through. Depending on your perspective, he’d either been blessed or cursed with the anomalous appearance he possessed. His deliberate intention since descending on this isolated country town several months ago, was to institute and perpetuate the larger than life image he felt was necessary to intimidate these simple-minded folk into following his every word.

The fact that this town was out in the middle of nowhere, with a complete lack of sophisticated input, only added to the perfection of the setting and the larger than life aura he overwhelmed the people with. It was after all, a small town filled with small-minded people who were easily impressed with the Grand High’s ability to deliver his sharp, silver-tongued message.

There had been a day that had come, back in his early twenties, when he made the conscious decision to work with his appearance, rather than have it become a grindstone around his neck. He took his concepts and unusual abilities and began to use them to his advantage. With a minimal amount of work and a lot of study, he turned himself into a master of manipulation. It was his gift, as much as Louis Armstrong was gifted to play the trumpet. The evolution and refinement of this gift, to better his own personal and financial benefit, soon became all consuming.

He had been working with and developing his surreal talents for so long now, that there was barely a trace of the basic human compassion or empathy, we all presumably start our lives with. There were certainly no visible or perceptible signs on the immediate horizon of who he had been, before he launched himself on his power driven pursuit. The refining and fine-tuning of his ability to influence, manipulate, plot and scheme, filled him with a sense of irascible glee. It was the power though, that came as the result of his second nature abilities, that made his eyes light up and sparkle, like trying on a pair of fine Italian shoes and a hand-made silk suit. For Robert, it was the sweet, sweet nectar of power that fed into and sustained his huge mental appetite.

The need for it manifested itself in his unique deft ability of using body language, winks, nods and speech, to control all with whom he came in contact. Having savored and experienced the addictive elements of both power and control, it had become impossible for him to consider living his life without the electrical rush that surged through his body when all systems were firing. He was an addict without the need of a needle or a spoon. Recently, he had begun the practice of and the quest for perfection in, the science of “mind over matter” manipulation. He saw it as the next logical step in his personal development of absolute control in every situation.

Very few if any understood his thought processes. No one else really cared. Not even Guardian Donald, who was caught up in whatever drug induced daydream he functioned from, got it. No matter. As long as Robert Kendle knew what he wanted and knew the best way to go about getting it, he would get it done.

There was a personal cost though, that had to be acknowledged but he chose not to dwell on it. There were those times, when he sat in his over-stuffed armchair resting his eyes, that he felt very much aloof and alone. He felt isolated, misunderstood and unappreciated, surrounded by those with whom he shared no common thoughts or feelings. It was much like he felt now, while being surrounded by this congregation of simple headed, country dolts. Thoughts of the congregation, snapped him back from his trip through sentimental sappiness, to the reality of that which was taking place in front of him.

The three hole filling men, were a screaming heartbeat away from arriving at the first part of the Ceremony’s inevitable end. It was time to get on with it, a voice inside his head stated. He bathed the assembled crowd of his followers, with his penetrating stare. Quick glances throughout, confirmed that all eyes were in fact trained on him. He could barely contain one of his self-effacing, arrogant grins. Clearing his throat, he spoke the words.

“What is the Law?” Robert’s booming baritone, rolled over those who stood before him, like a tidal wave engulfing a small seaside town. The power and abruptness of the sound generated from within him, seared through the startled darkness that surrounded them all, shaking even it to attention. The answer, though somewhat slurred, came back almost immediately, as a gospel choir would sing one note in unison, on command.

“Let all those who witness this Ceremony, abide by the Laws of the Order of the Grand High or suffer the Crawling of the Worms.”

Their reply was as united as one could expect, considering their uh, shall we say, alcohol altered mental state. Every one made sure their lips moved with the words, so as not to be noticed by the Grand High’s piercing stare. No one wanted to be singled out for a verbal thrashing or perhaps something even worse. They all remembered Eunice Driver.

It had been two, maybe three weeks ago, at their weekly basement meeting, that the Grand High had caught her dozing. Her head had been subtly bobbing slowly up and down, her chin repeatedly dropping to her chest. The Grand High locked in on her and with only the power generated from his stare, raised both her and the chair she was sitting in, three feet off the ground and tumbled them both into a cement block wall some ten feet or so away.

The sight of Eunice jumping up and jerking her head around, trying to get her bearings and regain her clear head, caused the entire room to burst out with hoots, hollers and robust laughter. She was damn sure awake then, damn sure! It was because of that demonstration and one or two others, that caused these sheep to hang on to every audible syllable that passed across their Leader’s lips.

This evening’s response from the gathering, caused the beginnings of a smug with satisfaction smile, to alter the tight muscled sternness, that had up to this point, held Robert’s facial skin tight and rigid. These or any other sheep for that matter, were easily led, when the wolf had the ability but more importantly, the knowledge, of how to do it.

In anticipation of the impending end to the Crawling of the Worms Ceremony, the heavily imbibed crowd had pressed themselves as close together as they could. Much like a well-packed can of sardines. All bodies touching, all bodies breathing as one. If there was ever an example of a large, one-celled, single breathing animal, this crowd on this night, was it.

Tossing on the final scoops of dirt, the three laboring men began to level off the grave sized hole at the bottom of which, lay a drunkenly comatose William Stiles. The one o-clock in the sky full moon, glinted it’s innocent silvery rays of incandescent light off the shiny metal shovel blades, as they arced their way downward, making tamp, tamp, tamping sounds when they came in contact with the firmly packed earth.

The gathered crowd continued their involuntary, rhythmic swaying to the beat of some subconscious drum, induced by too many jars of the amber colored Ceremonial liquid that had been passed from hand to hand and from mouth to mouth. It was one of the ways the Grand High used to control his flock. Not that he really needed any additional outside help.

They would have followed and obeyed his every word from fear alone, generated by his rising mastery over the physical manipulation of people and objects. Not to mention the severity of his self-imposed “Laws”. Fear by itself though was an easily misinterpreted thing. It could create panic and spontaneity, that might undermine his work. He had realized early on, that it was better to have his followers loose and in a good mood. It made them easier to manipulate and gave them an excuse to not feel so responsible for their actions of the previous evening, when they woke from their stupor the next morning. Providing of course they remembered anything at all from the night before.

Robert was very sure that holding these “Crawling of the Worms Ceremonies” would have the desired affect it always had. Whether it was this town of simpletons or any of the other small, out of the way hamlets he’d set himself up in as the Grand High Leader. Shocking displays of power without any visible signs of remorse, usually worked to keep the thick of head in line.

He had grown weary at this point of this space and time and had had his fill of these drunken, foolish lesser-thans for one night. Now that the Lawbreaker among them had been punished and made an example of, it was time to break this meeting up and send these bumpkins on their way. Wherever it was that their way took them.

“Guardian Donald.” The Grand High barked. This caused every head in the assembly to turn their attention to a well-built, sharply dressed man standing in the front row. He was positioned a few feet from the hole fillers and about ten feet to the left of the Grand High. He turned his gaze from the still sweating but now standing three men, who were leaning on their wooden, long-handled shovels with one hand, while with the other, they wiped the sweat from their brows with unfolded kerchiefs.

“Yes Grand High.” Donald answered without hesitation. His response was followed by an unconscious sniffle and a clearing of his nasal passages.

“Do you have any results as to the acquisition of a Channel for the upcoming Ceremony?” The Grand High asked with hopeful anticipation, accompanied by his usual “pinned to wall” stare. It was somewhat softened however, as Guardian Donald was high up in the food chain of the Order. He was in fact next in line should the Grand High meet with any unusual circumstance that would keep him from performing his role.

“Not as yet.” Guardian Donald replied, averting his eyes away from the fixed stare of the Grand High. “I’m working on it.” He added, turning his eyes back to the two sunken holes that had over the years, become overly bony, leather skinned eye sockets on either side of the Robert’s rather beakish looking nose.

Donald hated it when Robert singled him out at these tediously superfluous affairs. He considered it drudgery in its highest form and was damn sure he was earning every frigging nickel the Order was bestowing on him just by being here. Going along with the sideshow was part of his job however, as Robert had explained to him in Chinese Water Torture sentences, that ran on and on, seemingly lasting forever. He made his dutiful appearance and went along with the song and dance for a lack of anything more important going on in his life at the present.

“I’m sure you are aware,” The Grand High went on, gesturing out over the inebriated crowd with an out-stretched move of his right arm like a swath the finest painter might use to wash his blue-dipped paintbrush across a skyless canvas. “That we in The Order are all counting on you to be as successful for us at this time, as you’ve been for us in the past. We all,” he stated, raising his left arm so that both were now gesturing out from either shoulder over the assembly in front of his pulpited stance, “need you to do your best for us.”

He simultaneously dropped both hands down and rested them on his hips, elbows jutted out to the sides. With both hands jabbed onto the tops of his bony hips and his elbows cocked out to either side, Donald thought Robert looked remarkably like one of those long-necked, long-legged storks that wades through murky, watery shallows along the lake edge, looking to pierce its long, pointy beak into the body of its unsuspecting prey.

“I have always provided for the Order in the past and will continue to do so in the future.” Donald replied, clearing the stork image from his racing at the speed of light brain. He didn’t want the smirk he was fighting off to make an untimely appearance. He tinged his reply with the slightest irritation. He had been out on this darkened night, standing in this clumpy dirt far too long for his own personal comfort. He knew where his little blue bottle was and it wasn’t filled with their stupid corn mash. Not by a long shot. The lack of opportunity to repack his nose, was beginning to make him feel a tad edgy and impatient.

“Yes you have.” The Grand High affirmed, nodding his stork-like head approvingly. He knew for a fact how right Guardian Donald was. In the two years he had been associated with The Order, Donald had done a better job at acquiring Channels for the Fall and Spring Ceremonies than any other procurer Robert had ever worked with. Donald always delivered. He had much the same confident arrogance as the Grand High himself, which Robert knew, easily disarmed unsuspecting prey.

After all it wasn’t Donald’s fault the Spring Ceremony hadn’t gone as planned. It had been that damn meddling wife of Bill Stiles, Rebecca, that had caused all the problems. Maybe watching her drunken, bordering on comatose, corn mash imbibed husband, with his wide open eyes and rapidly blinking eyelids laying at the bottom of the Ceremonial Hole, would send just the kind of message she needed. Help her to change her ways a little, kind of rearrange her priorities so to speak. After all, the Laws of the Order did have to be obeyed.

Besides, it wasn’t like Robert didn’t give them a choice. He was certainly more than fair. It was either obey the Laws or suffer the Crawling of the Worms. In a twisted kind of Democratic way, they were afforded a choice. The thought brought the beginnings of a smile to his paper-thin lips. The smile then turned into a roguish, bellowing laugh that shook his entire frame. The bottom of his jaw dropped forward, his head tilted back against the dark night sky and his black as coal eyes sparkled with electricity.

Then it was over. Clamping his jaw closed and tilting his head forward, he swept his piercing gaze over the “stunned at his outburst” crowd. The jovial mood had left as quickly as it had come, leaving his soul feeling dark and empty.

By now the three men had put the final camouflaged touches to the surface of the ground covering Mr. Stiles’ no longer breathing body. They had scuffed up the ground with the bottom edges of their heavy work-boots to look like the ground of the surrounding area and it would have taken a very discerning eye indeed, to see any difference from the rest of the clumpy dirt.

“Cover!” The Grand High ordered, flashing as stern a look as he could muster at the barely standing and soon to be falling down drunk flock of followers, assembled in front of him.

All hands in the crowd magically shot up and covered their eyes. The Grand High turned his head slowly, sweeping his gaze over those who stood with and for him. As he knew they would, all had obeyed. He began the words that would close this Crawling of the Worms Ceremony for this evening.

“To all those who seek the Power of the Natural Laws of the Universe, let no vision of impurity pass through the Windows of Light. Let all those who bear witness to this Ceremony abide by the Laws of the Order of the Grand High or they too will suffer the Crawling of the Worms. Together as one, we are one together.”

Raising his gangly arms up, he stretched them out and pointed them over the heads of the crowd like a cliff diver attempting a perfectly formed swan dive. Dropping his head forward, he rested his chin on his chest, intent on his focus to contact the power that he knew lived and boiled inside his being. It was after all, the only power he believed in. The only thing for him that had been true and consistent in his life. The power that he had worked so hard to hone and develop, over years and years of tedious practice and patience. The power that awaits, lying dormant in us all. He began to softly moan. It was his way of centering himself. His way of calling to and giving life to his sleeping beast.

Those in the front row, who heard the barely audible sound coming from their Leader, took up the slow, soft moan with him. It quickly traveled throughout the crowd and soon all shared in the sound. Slowly it grew in volume, changing from a low moan to a louder, more noticeable “aaaah” sound. Then as if on cue from somewhere within them all, it changed pitch, rising higher and noticeably louder.

The silent, surrounding darkness began reverberating, as the sound of their voices writhed its way into and filled every space. The force of it echoed off the nearby stand of trees and became louder still. The volume of it gave birth to a noticeable ringing in one’s ears. Everyone in the crowd had become the sound and the sound had become them. It had surreptitiously evolved into a living, breathing life force of its own.

Robert began to feel at one with the power that rose up through his gaunt and now noticeably trembling body. The buzzing in his ears caused his head to tilt back, his face appearing to melt into the background of the star filled, dark as indigo night sky. This time it would work, he heard a voice inside his head assuring him.

Slowly and with fervent hope, he lowered his head forward slightly and cracked his eyelids. The eyeballs behind the thinly veiled skin, snapped throughout the crowd, furtively looking for any signs of movement within the by now howling crowd. He spotted one or two different sections that were one or two feet off the ground but there wasn’t the mass movement that he had striven for. The majority of the group remained grounded.

His disappointment was devastating. The temper that roiled inside of him began snapping circuits inside his blood filled, frustrated brain. He could physically feel the pulsing blood, slamming through the engorged carotid arteries that ran up his neck into his head.

In the past, in isolated instances, he’d been able to lift one or two and actually move them around. Like the Driver woman. This group of fifty or so was just more than he was ready for. Too large for him to get a grip on and the wholehearted effort that he’d put into the task, left him feeling physically and mentally drained. He would try again, another day. His arrogant, obssessiveness and the ego that went with it, would not let him rest until he moved on and up to the next level of his development. At this point, in the Pandora’s Box of his psychological self, it wasn’t something he had any control over.

“Witness!” He barked and abruptly dropping his arms in front of his chest, he clapped his hands together twice, louder than the reverberating sound coming from his drunken sheep. Hearing the clapping, the crowd ceased their vocal outpouring as suddenly as the ground would halt a falling sparrow. Time felt like it stopped. Everything and everyone became predatorily still.

The following silence roared through the darkened night, like a New York Subway train. Like the rushing wind would suck out the insides a jetliner, from a suddenly sprung exit door, it raced through every stalk of corn, through every thick trunked, brown barked tree and every thing, whether standing in front of or lying behind them. Absolute quiet and stillness pressed in on all.

It was done. It was over. The Grand High stepped down from his perch and decisively whirled on his heel. As always the crowd stood in suspended, drop-jawed awe of he who had taken them on this mind-altering experience.

Stalking towards his car, Robert’s gait jerked without rhythm, from the gangly length of his bones and his inability to generate any kind of fluid movement with them. Thrusting himself into the front seat, the engine was angrily cranked to life. The transmission forcibly clunked into gear and the Grand High Leader of the Order of Light, roared off into the defiled, restless and blood pounding in your ears night.

A thick cloud of brownish/white, churned up dust and minute particles of grit, hung motionless in the still night air. Tiny remnants of his gruff departure. His mouth-hanging-open audience, stood immovably entranced with the whole experience, reveling in the afterglow of the performance and wavering from the corn mash, as they stood in the solitude of the pitch dark.

Guardian Donald had seen it all before. He too was on his way. On his way to his own car and his little Cobalt Blue bottle of mind candy. It would help to make the boring drive back to the city that lay ahead of him, a little more entertaining. There was business to take care of. Number one on the list was depositing the recently received check for services rendered that Robert had given him. That would help tomorrow be a better day for sure. At least for him. Running a close second, was lining up the next Channel. It might take a little bit of time but you can never tell how things will work themselves out until they do.