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M'Boy Cain
Martin Livings
So, ya want a story, Mister Reporter? A story that'll grab yer readers' ears
an' shake their heads 'til their brains rattle like pebbles in a tin can? Well,
I'll tell ya a story that'll int'rest ya, about m'boy Cain... sit still, I'm
talkin' to ya! God's teeth, how yer gonna hear unless ya listen? That's
better... where wuz I?
Oh yeah, Cain. I wuz offered the parish of Little
Arkham in '56, here in the middle o' nowhere.
"Well," I thought, "it's nice 'n' peaceful. Good
a place as any to raise kids."
When we arrived, church wuz in a heck of a state
— windows broken, hinges rusted to hell. But we repaired it, Marion and me,
ain't that right dear? Marion, don't hold the pitchfork like that! Keep yer
hands apart, and don't let the handle start slippin'.
Anyhows, back to the story — the story's
everythin', ain't it Mr Reporter? — even the gargoyles wuz busted; the only one
left in one piece wuz right 'round back, an ugly little cherub with bat-wings.
But inside the church wuz spotless, like whoever'd smashed the place up didn't
wanna come indoors.
We heard later on from townsfolk that the
church'd been built back around the mid-eighteen hunnerds by some wanderin'
priest who'd vanished before it'd settled, leavin' behind some books and stuff.
One old-timer told us it were haunted, that there's somethin' wrong with the
corners — he reckoned you couldn't lookit 'em proper, like yer eyes went
blurred. Never noticed it m'self. But we put new glass in the windows,
repainted the outside, oiled the doors and rolled out the welcome mat. And
everythin' wuz fine.
Well, almost. Y'see, we'd agreed to have kids
when we'd settled, but no matter how we tried, Marion just couldn't seem to
find the family way. In '68 we saw Doc Benway in the city; he told us that
Marion wuz barren... sorry darlin', but it's true. I mean, the way he talked,
it sounded like my wife wuz just a patch o' dirt, t'be plowed 'n' planted! So
we thought "Well, if med'cine can't help us, mebbe God can."
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Five years we prayed, in the mornin' and in the
evenin', prayed for a kid. Didn't seem like much to ask for, considerin' how
everyone else seemed to have 'em. The town were burstin' with new babies all
the time, young mothers bringin' 'em into church on Sundays, cryin' and wailin'
all through the sermon like a lousy choir.
Five years, and nothin'.
One night I decided to take a closer look at the
books the wanderin' priest had left here. Me and Marion had flicked through 'em
when we'd first arrived, but hadn't paid 'em much attention; full of weird
words I couldn't hardly read, let alone pronounce! Marion'd said to ditch 'em,
but I figured they were old and leather-bound, and mebbe worth a few bucks in a
pinch.
But now I wuz readin', readin' and understandin'.
And I decided if God wouldn't listen, mebbe
someone else would.
I lit the candles, just like the book showed, and
said the words. But nothin' seemed to happen, so I snuffed the candles and went
to bed. Got some sleep, even. But not a lot.
Happened 'round midnight. Woke to a crackin'
noise out back, bits of rock hittin' the porch like hailstones. I told Marion
to stay abed, got the pitchfork... yeah, self-same one... and snuck out front,
workin' my way around to the back. When I got there, I spied some stones on the
ground, just past the porch. Then I looked up... did I mention the moon were
full? Didn't need no lantern, could see like it were day. Anyways, I looked up,
saw the little gargoyle were gone; I figured the vandals had returned and taken
the only thing they'd left before. Then I heard a creak behind me.
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I spun about, the fork pointin' ahead of me, and
saw the gargoyle on the ground. It were crawling on all fours, not like a baby
but like a dog, like it were perfectly natural to be on hands 'n' knees. There
wuz somethin' shiny 'round its mouth, somethin' wet. I started to back away,
heart thunderin' like a goddamn woodpecker, 'til my back hit the church wall.
The little stone statue kept on movin' slowly toward me, creakin' like a house
at night, until it were close enough to reach out an' touch. Or for it to reach
out an' touch me. Then it opened its tiny mouth, showin' two rows of sharp
little teeth, and made a sound.
And damn me if it weren't "Dada".
I picked the tyke up — heavy as a rock, which
weren't too surprisin' — and took him inside. Marion weren't happy 'bout it at
first, but it didn't take long afore he were sittin' happily on her knee,
sleepin' like... well, like a baby. We had our child at last.
Next mornin' we hear about Gladys Moreham. They
found 'er in bed, the sheets on the floor. Her arms were oustretched, and her
face had a terrified look on it. Her throat had been torn clean out, but there
weren't a drop of blood to be seen.
Oh yeah. She were also made of stone, like she'd
eyed a gorgon. Shook her family up plenty.
We knew Cain done it... we named him Cain, in
case you ain't figured that out fer yerself... but somehow we didn't care.
Abraham may've killed his only son as a burnt offerin' to his God, but we
weren't gonna give Cain up that easy. I gave the funeral rites to Gladys,
comforted grievin' relatives, and slept easy that night. We put Cain in the
belfry, outta sight of the congregation.
We figured they wouldn't understand him at all.
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Three nights later, Cain slipped out again while
we were sleepin'. Didn't come on back 'til nearly dawn, thumpin' around as he
crawled back inta the church. We put him ta bed, tryin' to ignore the blood on
his hands and face, then went back ta bed ourselves. But we didn't sleep none,
no sir. We knew we'd be getting' another callin' that day, that there'd be
another buryin' a statue.
This time it were ol' Pete, the town drunkard.
He were a good man, 'cept for the drinkin', and I felt badly for his kids. But
I buried him all the same, and not a word about Cain.
By the time the fifth person turned up a fossil,
the talk wuz all over town. Little Arkham were cursed.
By the seventh, folks had started to leave in
drips and drabs, quietly in the night. It were hardly noticeable. At first.
Findin' Mary Norman's baby girl turned to a lump
of stone the night 'fore her first birthd'y wuz the final straw for the town.
Little Arkham dried up like roadkill in the noon sun, just leavin' skin and
bones. And stones, so many stones.
And me and m'family, of course. Never really knew
why it never became news; p'raps no-one really b'lieved it were happenin'. No
cops ever arrived, no-one yelled 'murder'; it were just an exodus, like the
Jews leavin' Egypt.
Things bin pretty quiet since. Marion and me and
Cain like it like that, just us three. Like I said b'fore, it's a good place to
raise a kid. But we still get a coupla tourists a year through here, checkin'
out the ghost town. Sightseers, hobos, nomads... even a few journalists like
yerself, tryin' to find out what happens to folks who just plumb disappear in
the Mid-West, hey?
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Well, now you know. Happy?
For Pete's sake, Mister Reporter, will ya keep
still? It'd hurt less if ya'd stop squirmin' like yer at the dentist's or
somethin'.
Y'see, Cain needs the blood to make hisself real,
like you 'n' me. Every time he drinks, he gets a bit more alive, and he
replaces the life with the only thing he's got to give — the rock. There it is,
just under yer skin. Won't be long now. Y'see, Marion? You can hardly see
Cain's grey anymore. Just a couple more feedin's, and I reckon we'll be just
about ready to move to the city, where the pickin's are better.
Y'see? Just lookit how he's
grown.
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Since 1991, Perth writer Martin Livings has inexplicably had twenty-odd
(and some very odd) stories accepted for publication, appearing in two
Eidolons, an Aurealis, three Mitch? collections, two (now three) Ticonderoga Onlines,
three Antipodean SFs, an AustrAlien Absurdities, two Borderlands
convention books, two Fables and Reflections and a couple of Agogs. He's
now editing his first novel. More information can be found at his web site:
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