Dog Star

“So when are we supposed to start?” Roger Gibbs asked.

The two men sat on the hill overlooking St. Luke’s Methodist church. From up here, Bill Whitt could see just how bad the steeple was getting. Reverend Marino did his best to repair what he could, and the flock helped, but the church had been here since 1802. Aside from the primordial tree near the eastern limits, St. Luke's was the oldest thing still standing in the town; one of the oldest Methodist churches in the country. That made repairs impossible even with coffers overflowing, and Big Root, Tennessee's coffers hadn't overflowed since before World War 2. He looked at the sky, then at Roger.

“We have to wait for the Solstice, so a little before 5:00 pm.”

“Solstice” was a word Bill had never uttered in his sixty-six years of life before this morning. He couldn't have told you a thing about it a day ago. But he had decided to start his day under the tree, a break from his usual routine of fretting over Big Root’s decline at his coffee table. He still fretted, but sitting in the shade of the tree, watching the shadows of those high branches move over him like massaging hands, felt less lonesome.

He had lived here under a decade which practically made him a stranger compared to the others, but Big Root had a way of making one feel like they belonged, that they were home. He swore that he heard the town’s death rattles at night. It was enough to make Bill weep, if Bill ever wept.

He handed Roger the battered diary he had found wedged under one of the tree’s great roots. Roger looked at the final entry, running his eyes over the ritual instructions.

“Solstice. Why?” he asked.

Bill shrugged. “Why are the houses out by Gethsemane Cemetery painted blue? Why does Mr. Coppey carry bodies out of the house feet first when he has to do a pick-up? Some things have to be a certain way, I guess.”

He thought about the night out on Price Road, where the big field was. How he heard drums and tribal singing, smelled campfire smoke, but the field itself was empty. He thought about Mrs. Theresa and the stump water she made him drink when he got the flu last January. Tasted terrible, but he was back on his feet in days. Old magic. Deep magic.

“Bill,” Roger's voice cut through. “If we're gonna do this, let's get a move-on.”

Bill came back. “Sorry,” he said. “Just wool gathering. Yeah, let's get to the tree.”

The Solstice ritual from start to finish took less than 10 minutes. Bill closed the book, then stood looking at the sigil’s outlines on the wide trunk, the charcoal rubbing off in places, and waited. Nothing. Not even a change in the breeze.

He turned to Roger with a crushed expression. “Now what?” he asked. “Keep waiting? Did I miss something?” He opened the book again and started flipping pages.

Roger reached out and forced the book closed. “Stop. Listen.”

Bill listened. No wind. No leaves rustling. No birds chirping. It was like they were in a soundproof room. Then, all at once, the volume rushed back in. Bill felt a click in his mind, like a key unlocking a door. He saw Roger shiver.

“Well…guess it’s done,” Roger said.

“Yeah. Guess,” Bill said. “What now?”

“I don’t know about you,” Roger said, “But I’m sapped all of a sudden.”

That was putting it mildly. “I think it’s time to go home,” Bill said.

3:40 am. Witching hour. Bill started awake, escaping a dream of jackals with high beam eyes. Their baying had followed him into the waking world. He looked wildly around his room, then out his window. The moon hung low and pale in the predawn sky. Venus above, glowing yellow. And a star, twinkling so brightly and colorfully it was as if a hole had been punched in the night sky revealing a kaleidoscope of light behind its facade.

The baying grew louder. Bill swore it was coming from that star, riding the starlight like radio waves down toward the earth. Then both light and sound shifted, pointing toward the town square. Bill got up and pulled on a pair of old joggers, then did the only thing he could. He followed the light.

As he did, others joined him. Soon Bill was leading a band of about a dozen fellow townsfolk. Roger was there, and old Mister Bertrand and Miss Theresa. Winifred Coppey was there, and his son Tommy. The Powell brothers and their families. The Town. The oldest generations, the native children of Big Root. All following Bill, the adopted son.

They reached the square, and the star settled above the crumbling tower of St. Luke’s. Reverend Pete Marino was sitting on the steps, drinking a coffee.

“Mornin’ Bill,” said Pete. “How’d you sleep?”

Bill looked at the Reverend, not quite sure how to take him. “Not bad considering. You?”

Pete gave a tight grin. “Eh, some weird dreams.”

“Look,” said Roger.

The light was now spinning, sending color out in every direction. Faster and faster it spun, the baying morphing into a snarl. Then the star exploded soundlessly, bathing the world in harsh blue and white. As the phosphorescent glow faded the crowd saw low shapes coalescing from the early morning shadows.

Dogs. Dozens of them. All in the colors of dusk and twilight. All burning with blue-white flame.

The pack moved into the square, their dusty orange and purple fur rippling, the flames skipping over their haunches and heads like lightning over mountains. They stood as powerful as summer thunderheads. One hundred eyes gazed at Bill, all reflecting a moon of ancient years; of shamans and temple oracles. A swirling column of shadow and light rose from the center of the pack, and sculpted itself into a form.

It was man-shaped; that is, its body and limbs were those of a man, although it was at least 8 feet tall. But atop its shoulders sat an animal's head. It seemed to change shape like faces in a fire, shifting into a jackal, a fox, a raven.

“You have called us.”

“Yes”, Bill answered.

The figure was silent. The dogs sat around it in a rough semicircle, moonglow eyes resting on Bill.

“I-”, he began, then stopped. This felt too casual, if one could even use that term. There should be a temple, and fires in copper braziers. The creature with the changing head should be descending from an altar, or appearing with its pack of phantom dogs in the center of a magic circle, not across from Bridger’s Hardware.

The otherworldly retinue continued gazing at Bill. He glanced behind him, and damned if Roger and the rest weren't all looking at him as well. No awestruck staring at the supernatural lightning dogs and their psychedelic leader, no. All eyes on Bill. Even the Reverend. Fine.

“Our town is dying”, he said. Saying the words out loud brought on a grief that crushed his lungs and forced a sob out of his mouth, one of only a handful in his life. “Make it live again.”

It was a raw, inelegant request. But power lay in the coarseness. The roots went deep. Even to Bill, who had spent his life in the wind. He was now held here. The roads and hills and the green woods were just as much a part of them as their own blood vessels and nerves and organs. If the town died, so would its population. Maybe not physically (although Bill wasn't so sure about Miss Theresa and Mr. Bertrand), they would all move on, but they wouldn't be wholly alive. Something vital would be gone.

The figure nodded. “We can do this. But there's a price.”

Bill closed his eyes, gathering his strength. Then, visions of bloody hearts and firstborns dashed on stone altars dancing in his head, spoke.

“Tell me.”

“This town shall live, and be forever preserved.”

“Yes, that’s–”

“As an insect in amber,” said the creature. “As water in crystal. This land, these people. Forever under our protection. But forever here. Removed from Geb’s decay.”

So there it was. Forever perfect. Shielded from all the disease and conflict and vileness of the world. But no escape.

“These are the terms. Do you accept them freely?”

All were silent, those ancients of each world. Waiting for Bill Whitt to decide eternity.

High Summer in Tennessee. A storm formed above the Great Valley, drenching the ground and pulling up the trees. A landslide sent tons of debris into the river, and it flooded. The brown water swept away a young girl named Anna before she even realized she was in danger, depositing her body days later against a riverbank next to a Cottonmouth den.

In Big Root, a gentle rain fell.