The Everborn Read online

  No one else ever saw him and Simon had grown weary of asking around. No one ever believed him, of how the little black boy would oftentimes come to him in a daydream or at night while in restless slumber and tantalize him with suggestive proposals and dares, mischievous dares, atrocious dares, subliminal manipulations when he was most susceptible and easiest to persuade. If that wasn’t enough, Simon would at times awaken to find manifested at his bedside the tools with which to oblige those dares.

  Along with the motivation.

  While the Devil made other people do it, to Simon it was the little black boy.

  And, over a few years’ time, he realized the necessity to keep it all a secret. It was best that way. Because no one ever believed him.

  When Simon glanced back, he found the boy there, down the hall, at the bend where he’d turned the corner with the Chinese woman and was led past the boy’s restroom door. The little black boy was standing still as clear as the outside day, wearing a t-shirt of red and white stripes over a mild brown pair of corduroy-type trousers, both three times over his size, and dirty-white tennis shoes garnished with soiled shoelace loops long enough to evoke a fall if the pant legs didn’t do it first.

  The boy stood dead center upon the white-colored shag carpeting of that semi-far section of hallway behind, facing Simon, staring upon him with fixed eyes and eyebrows lifted devilishly about the edges, smiling at him with two rows of impossibly revealed teeth encompassed by windshield-wiper rubber lips. His presence there appeared to be disproportionate and vague, almost plastic, nearly dreamlike, as if the way he appeared was merely an interpretation of another side of him that had once perhaps been physical.

  The sight of him vanished when the boy himself turned to the door with the generic stick-man and escaped towards it and into it, rendering the hallway empty and bare where not even the voices of the inner classrooms could be heard.

  Another opportunity arose for Simon to confront the little bastard. He made a mad dash for the restroom door where the boy disappeared through, careful firstly to excuse himself from the company of the Chinese woman with a desperate plea to drain his bladder. She in turn directed him to the location of his Children’s Study classroom which lay two more doors further to the left, then she continued onwards without him.

  Simon raced back, right straight up to the door of the blue and white man-sign, pushed it open, and moved inside.

  At the far end of the boy’s restroom, the metal door of the handicapped stall swung shut and bounced against its frame. Simon went for that door, past a wash basin and two urinals and the only other stall, slamming the stall door’s backside against the tiled wall as he entered.

  ***

  When Simon entered the stall, not a soul was there. He was alone and the quiet within the restroom was tomb-like.

  And then came a voice from behind....

  Simon did a three-sixty, and still the voice came from behind, though he could not connect with its origin...

  ....and the voice said, in a childlike frailty with an accentuated sinister hush behind its vain innocence:

  “Do you really want to find me, Simon, as I find you? Do you reeeeeally?”

  “Yes,” Simon said to the voice, his gaze darting in rapid surveillance. “Show yourself!”

  “I show myself the way I need to. I show myself in dreams, in my whispers, too close for you to see me and to far away to catch when you do. But don’t worry, Simon. Our Beloved One needs your help and she will clear things up personally with you reeeeal soon.”

  Simon found himself speaking to the stall’s metal door now; the voice seemed to be coming from behind it. “Who is ‘Our Beloved One’? What are you talking about?”

  “Are you prepared to do what I asked you to do for me last night in your sleep?”

  “I have what I found in my slippers this morning when I woke up.”

  “And you know what to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you do it for me, Our Beloved will come to you and she will reveal to you face-to-face the answers you seek, herself.”

  “I’ll be told everything?” Simon asked, his heart pounding, his impulses throwing him forward to re-open the stall door and when he did, no one was there on the other side. “Will I really?”

  “Reeeeeeally,” said the voice, growing ghostly distant, leaving behind an audible trail of fading retreat towards the restroom door and then silencing.

  ***

  Today’s edition of Children’s Study for all the kids in the (loosely) eight-to-ten age bracket was to take up more than two hours’ time and Simon was informed of this beforehand. On any other day it would have mattered to him, but without realizing it he’d become entangled in the distracting newness of the experience, in sharing the company of so many vibrant children he’d never met before in the strangest of churches. Time didn’t seem to matter. He found himself thrilled to be a part of it all, part of them and he was thrilled by what he intended to do to them. All of them.

  None of them would know what hit them until it was too late, and any adults smart enough to catch on to the possible cause of it all would never figure out how they owed everything to Simon, one of four newcomers to the church and a poor little feel-sorry-for-him adopted boy besides, regardless of what anyone had heard concerning his questionable past.

  While the adults grew fat in worship and wisdom upstairs, and after the older children had been dismissed from their classrooms to join the adults in the second half of their Sunday service, an hour had passed.

  And the children remaining below were beginning to behave differently.

  ***

  Simon’s Children’s Study began twice as large as it turned out to be. When the children were first assembled, the girls outnumbered the boys, a fact which became more apparent as soon as the girls shuffled out the door to regroup elsewhere for their morning lesson. When the girls met with the boys together for the first half of the Study, the children PRAISED AND WORSHIPPED WITH SONG, as it was called. They sang songs of inspiration with the inspiration portion on the slow burner and with kid-fun on high flame...songs about how Father Abraham had many sons and how the children in the room were included in his progeny....

  Father Abraham had lots of sons, and I am one of them...as we all go marching on with right arm, right leg, turn around, jump up, stomp your feet, say ‘amen’....

  And the kids actually marched in place to the song.

  Simon had no idea who in the hell Father Abraham was.

  In between songs, everyone in the room was treated to chocolate chip cookies and fruit punch, donated by a few teachers and/or parents, whoever’s turn it was that week.

  After the kids PRAISED AND WORSHIPPED WITH SONG, the girls in the room rose from their seats and departed and Simon found himself alone with the group of remaining boys.

  By that time, an hour had passed.

  And, by the look of it, the drug was beginning to take affect.

  ***

  Everyone was guzzling up the punch. Gulping it, sipping it, dipping the chocolate chip cookies into it, kicking it onto the carpet by accident and then migrating back to the punch bowl for more.

  The late-teens male leader had accompanied the girls out the door to teach them separately, for the boys to remain with Malmey, whose family Simon had been introduced to two nights before on a dinner date. Malmey had been quite spunky and amusing, but Simon noticed how her eyes never met with his.

  Malmey was the first to experience the effects of the punch.

  The suger cubes Simon had managed to move from his pants pocket and into the punch bowl had a chance to dissolve before anyone could notice, not that he didn’t swish them around and aid the matter with a metal scooper-spoon when nobody paid attention. He was among those who indulged in the punch before the majority of others, actually, but this was by no means a big deal to him: he’d been assured by the little black boy in his dreams that what would take place with the lot of them wouldn’t take place with
someone as particularly gifted as he, who was promised immunity from such a drug. Partaking in the punch was also a damn good alibi for accusatory fingers. So when he’d located the sandwich bag of LSD-laced sugar cubes within his slippers that morning, he’d already known that what he was conditioned to do with them wouldn’t affect him.

  Malmey was in the process of erasing the multicolored chalk figures from the black board on the wall at the head of the class. Suddenly, the bulky eraser spilled from her hand and plummeted to the floor and she arched forward in hunchback style, her back towards all eyes, assuming a position to puke.

  Simon was seated in the back row of four rows of metal chairs, still sipping his fruit punch in the corner opposite the door, when this happened. Three chairs beside him, an older boy baring a military haircut and clothes like Howdy Doody began to crawl upon the carpet proclaiming to how he must recover the missing chocolate chips for his cookie.

  In no time, one of the other boys raised his hand and demanded that he wasn’t feeling well, that he wished to go home. Another boy proceeded to rock back and forth in his seat, unnoticeably at first, then dramatically faster.

  The scene evolved into unorthodox chaos when one of the boys bolted upwards from his seat to revamp hypnotically the Father Abraham song. That was when the shit hit the fan and splattered across the norm of Sunday morning Children’s Study completely.

  That was also when Malmey suspected something was not quite right altogether and not just with herself, not quite right as if she’d been slipped something, as if everyone had been slipped something, and she turned to the class glossy-eyed and said something....

  When she said it, her eyes were affixed upon Simon, cruelly, vindictively, as though somehow she knew he was to blame....

  “I feel sick. Does anyone else feel sick? Oh my God....”

  ***

  The acid-spiked punch was good shit, apparently, and when the effects kicked in, they came on with all the spectacle of a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade as seen through a kaleidoscope of stills from a Stanley Kubrick production. Simon contained himself upon the corner metal chair, quietly amused at the mayhem he created, and how it far surpassed the mayhem he’d witnessed of the teachers’ attempts to mellow out all the feisty children before.

  Their efforts didn’t amount to much.

  The tallest of the boys leaned over his hardbound King James and vomited. The girls’ teacher, a bushy-eyebrowed and thick-haired young man with an oversized yellow tie, stormed into the room and ordered Malmey to call for an ambulance, as if he couldn’t do it himself. Malmey was way too busy occupying herself with reaching for a firm grip of the podium to lift herself from her crouch against the wall. More than one of the boys was sobbing.

  Simon could have eventually begun to feel a sort of remorse over all this, feeling himself inclined to brood over the heartfelt distress and panic surrounding him, inclined to give in to regret, if it weren’t for the distraction of the apparition which began to materialize in the middle of it all.

  No one seemed to notice to it; either the others within the room weren’t able to see it, or they were all witnessing so many diverse oddities at once which didn’t really exist that the apparition sort of blended into their individual trips.

  But Simon certainly saw it, and it acquired his full attention. Rather than the vision upsetting him, he felt himself strangely at ease. This isn’t to say he wasn’t frightened, but the numbness of distance he experienced in relation to his surroundings had somehow prepared him for this.

  For this...for the promised encounter with the little black boy’s ‘Beloved One.’

  Her presence was as familiar to him as a mother’s to her child. He knew this apparition, somehow, and he knew that seeing her there had nothing to do with the effects of the punch, for he was sure the punch had nothing to do with this. Sure, for the greater part. Almost absolutely. This had to be real.

  The being appeared at the head of the class and before the chalkboard. What existed below her waist was a mild torrent of air. Above this was a woman of silvery metallic skin whose long black hair covered both her breasts and her backside. Her hands were outstretched as though to exclaim, “Here I am,” her fingers crowned in twisting tar-black fingernails. Her facial features were a roadmap of ancient woes superimposed by an unblemished youthfulness and demanding sobriety. Apart from this, she carried in her actions and speech the definition of black humor, as if she couldn’t possibly take the entire situation she placed herself in seriously.

  As if.

  Then, upon fully achieving visibility and Simon’s attention, she folded her arms to get down to business and smiled down on him.

  “Ah, Simon....it’s so good to finally and formally make your acquaintance,” The being said to him. “I am your mother. I am Salvatia.”

  “My mother?” Simon said back to her, bewildered by the very sight of her presence and overwhelmed by the backdrop of frying Divine Jesus Christ kids on both sides of her.

  Salvatia shrugged her shoulders in an imitation Jewish oy-vay. “Okay....in a manner-of-speaking, your mother. Abolish the details. I am your mother, when you abolish the details and think about who has been the most notable influence on your life! Surely you remember me...our time together, when I took you in, when I let you go, when I entered your dreams and realities with little Nigel. Why, if it wasn’t for me, these nice innocent young ones around you wouldn’t be having the time of their very young lives! Simon, don’t you remember me?”

  Her voice, to Simon, was like the voice of a narrator for a public broadcasting segment featuring a Safari on wild animals. She was certainly educating, but she resounded with a monotone much like a voice-over reciting a scripted page...as though she was paid to talk, as though she had a motive behind her words....

  “Yes,” Simon said bluntly, deliberately, almost bitterly, “I remember you.”

  “Good,” Salvatia told him, slowly approaching him, the torrent mist upon which she hovered devouring the metal chairs in her way, “I knew you would. I apologize for my use of the timing with which I chose to show myself, but with all this chaos going on I thought it was perfect timing. You see, I require many distractions to come to you this way, live via satellite, and believe me...you are my satellite...because the closer I get to you, my son, the greater the potential of my being seen by anyone. I figure if I should risk being seen, I may as well make it so that people are distracted by something worse if they should see me. Otherwise, they’d lose they’re fucking minds. I think they’re distracted enough. What do you think?”

  Simon transferred his gaze to the room about him, to the screaming children toppling over each other in effort to flee out the door, a frantic Malmey following afterwards, fearfully glancing to see if the creature within the room was coming after her. It was to a profound degree apparent that Salvatia was indeed being seen.

  “Oh, well, so they can see me now,” Salvatia responded to all the hullabaloo. “What the hell; they’re tripping!! I suppose, though, I better make this short. Dammit! We never spend much time together, do we? At any rate, I have a proposition for you. You’re a promising young lad and have done every single thing I’ve told you to do so far. Told you to do, however indirectly. I’ve been shaping you, Simon, seasoning you to my ultimate recipe. I need you, my boy, to help me break the barrier and get me back into your world once again.

  “You see, Simon, I was a part of your world once, and I was doing very goddamn good in it. You are my only hope to emerge back into your world triumphant, and knowing what I learned over hundreds of years, I can make it so that anyone else like me, trapped within the same inhospitable dimension as I am, can return to your world as I will do, but only through me and me alone. You can make this happen for me, Simon. I, in turn, can give something back to you. If you help me, I can earn you back your right to eternal life. You must help kill someone for me, Simon. You must help me kill your brother.”

  “My brother?” Simon said, quite dismayed.
His alertness was at its pinnacle with this creature before him, as was his confusion. Perhaps brother was a manner-of-speaking as well as her referring to herself as mother.

  “No technicalities, we haven’t the time,” Salvatia waved her hands in dismissal. “Besides, you still have a lot of training to do. You’ll be hearing from me often until then, until the day arrives when you are ready for me, I assure you. It’ll make you get used to me. There’s so much to plan and prepare for. By the way, we don’t have to fret over the consequences of today’s Children’s Study lesson. You’ve got the same stuff in your system as everybody else, so they sure as hell won’t blame you. And as for my proposition: I know you’ve already said yes....”

  35.

  Simon and Salvatia

  —1980—

  It took Simon almost five years to say “yes”, actually.

  Throughout her life as a human, Salvatia proved herself to be a bonafide leader, a take-charge woman of near-legendary repute who dealt with matters personally when all others’ efforts failed her. When others didn’t or couldn’t follow through for her, she always found a way to get what she wanted on her own. Humans possess that power to achieve, once they set their priorities straight and strive to abide by the goals they set for themselves without compromise. In life, Salvatia was never exempt from this truth; in fact, though evil in heart as she was, she was head and shoulders over a majority of humankind when it came down to the simple saying if ya wanna get something done ya gotta do it yourself...if you can’t get anywhere by any other means.