It rained. Casey stood in the open doorway of the garage, looking out at the rain beating on the asphalt. The cool sea breeze blew into the doorway, and Casey closed his eyes to it, not caring if it was that air elemental or a real, true breeze. It still felt good on his face and brought the scent of the ocean to him.
“Makagawosh,” said the breeze.
He snapped open his eyes and looked around. There was no one around at first, and then he looked down.
A little boy, about the age of ten or so with dark brown hair, looked up at him with eyes the color of the swirling clouds around him. Casey stepped back. “No, oh, no…”
“You enjoyed what you did with the human,” he continued in the whispering voice.
His voice was soft, like the breeze that caressed his face. The child still looked up at him, and Casey could see the shadow of the god over him, riding him like a Voudoun Loa. It was the only time he could see a god – when it would possess a human so thoroughly, that the human was gone.
“I am Achuhucanac, god of the rains, feeder of life. I am the rain, the water, and the blood.”
Casey kept backing up, and the child repeated that three times, then stopped in the middle of the room. The child stared at him. “You must fulfil your duty. I have fulfilled mine.”
Casey went to his jacket, and thread the belt through its hoops. In the back, was a pocket, which held a dirk, no longer than half of his forearm. It was made entirely of wood, seemingly with no markings and no handle – just a wooden blade. It wasn’t even pointy, or honed to an edge. He bled it out of the back of the jacket, and then turned to the little boy.
He swallowed, and looked at the boy not as a boy, but as an object. Something. An enemy. Not a boy. “You were Achuhucanac, god of the rains, feeder of life. You were the rain, the water, and the blood.”
A small voice screamed at him not to do it. This was his duty. This is what the Angel of Fire told him was his job. He knew, that every time he enjoyed the killing of another human being, the gods would send him something, someone, to remind him of his place. Sometimes it was a dog. Sometimes it was even a cat. Most times, it was this: a child.
Once he stopped saying the words of Achuhucanac, the boy’s eyes cleared and he looked at Casey with wide and curious eyes. This would always yank Casey’s heartstrings. It would stay his hand for a moment. The human part would know who did this. Whether its shade would blame him or the god, he didn’t know, and honestly didn’t want to know. It wouldn’t make him feel better.
He saw the god come over him again as he whispered, “I’m sorry,” and the blade came down into the boy’s neck, piercing the jugular, the muscles, and the windpipe. Casey sliced downward with the blade so the blood would splash forward, onto him, his skin, his clothes. The boy crumpled, and Casey stretched to catch him before he hit the floor. However the boy’s lifeblood flowed onto his shirt and pants. The boy’s eyes slowly lost their light, the god faded from the boy, leaving Casey to hold the child as he died.
He didn’t want to look in the boy’s pockets. He knew what he would find there. It was part of the ritual; he had to do it. Kneeling, he adjusted the boy to be cradled in one arm, and then felt along his pockets. In the front pocket was something that crinkled under his touch, and he pulled it out.
It was a scroll, about four inches side and six inches long, tied with a blood-red ribbon. His bloody hand slipped the ribbon off, and he unrolled the scroll.
He began to read: “Joseph Miller, begat by Alice Dillon, begat by Susan Fleischer, begat by Julia Fleischer and…Luther Waldemar.” He let go of the scroll, letting it float down to be soaked in the pool of blood. He rocked Joseph Miller, his own great-grandson, singing the keening Algonquin songs of mourning with all his heart, not caring what would happen if if Dono smelled the blood.
Words: 746 (damn!)
Comments: For a writing contest in Iron Horsemen.