The Demon Boy

Day Two - Afternoon

     It took the boy several hours to stumble into town. He'd have arrived sooner if he hadn't gotten the hairbrained notion to trailblaze a shortcut through the underbrush. He got lost instead. Twice. And got stuck in a bush too.

     He can't for the life of him understand why everyone says greens are good for you. The greens you get fed taste like mud slop and feel the same going down. The greens you run into scratch and cling stubbornly in your hair. He can't stand any of it.

     Then there's a warbling in the air. The boy snaps to attention and sees a bird perched on a branch not too far into the trees. The mottled brown of its plumes blends in well with the forest pallet. It can barely be seen, but there it is. It repeats its brief chorus and vanishes.

     The boy stares dumbly in the direction he thinks it went. He remembers this morning. Maybe greens aren't all bad...

     He strolls out of the forest shade and into the bright lanes of Glenholm town. It's quiet today. He can't hear the easy ebb and flow of the rumor mill drifting down the street. Come to think of it, what rumor mill? There's nobody here! He drifts towards the town square until he catches the hum of someone talking very loudly coming from inside one of the buildings he passes. There's neither hide nor hair of anyone else.

     Stranger and stranger.

     He sidles up to the building and tries to eavesdrop through the door. Apparently, he's discovered another one of Glenholm's trademark damn thick doors. At least the kook inside is hollering loud enough for him to make out the odd word.

     Let's see... "Father." ... "Blood." ... "Sacrifice." ...

     He backs away immediately. He doesn't know what he heard and he doesn't want to know. He runs the block's length before curiosity gets the better of him and drags him back. This time he decides the door is too risky. Anyone could open it and find him snooping, plus the door will give him a good whack as it swings out. This time he moseys to the shaded side of the building and crouches beneath one of the stained-glass windows. With utmost caution, he peers inside.

     It takes some maneuvering to find a piece of glass that's clear enough for a decent look through. In the meantime, the warped panels stretch the building's occupants into leering fiends, the coloured ones dye them into tableaus of ghastly red. Such visions make the boy uneasy. He hopes it's the glass casting illusions on an otherwise ordinary and benign scene.

     Finally, he finds a section that doesn't act as a grisly funhouse mirror crammed in by the right edge. Through it he sees people (not fiends) sitting in rows upon rows of long benches (there's no red, thank god). Moreover, these are people he recognises in passing from yesterday.

     What in blazes is going on?

     He notices the people's stares fixated on a singular point toward the back of the building. His gaze follows theirs. There's a broad, raised platform spanning the entire back wall. On it is placed a speaker's podium. Behind that podium is a balding, middle aged fellow in long black robes swinging his arms in sweeping gestures. That's the guy who's making all the racket.

     The boy studies the madman at the podium. What's he doing? More importantly, why is anyone listening to him? And with a great deal of respect too. What gives? Then he spots the large, wooden emblem hanging on the wall above the stage. It's a simple construction, two pieces of wood centered at eachother and joined at right angles. It's a cross.

     Ah. Now things make sense.

     The boy eases immediately. There's no stealth as he walks from the window. Why bother? Nobody was ever arrested for loitering around a church.