Nothing living had ever taken root on the hill. A barren rise in the land, one would think that it had suffered during the Great Flaming. Nothing had ever crawled, walked, flown or slithered across its surface that lacked some form of inherent corruption. It was as if nature had deemed it a place best avoided. It was a cursed place of rage, power and madness and to touch it was to be infected with its corruption.
Before the whites had conquered the land, the native Indians had avoided it as a place so cursed, they would not whisper stories of it to their children, least the malignancy spread. When the Indians had left, slaughtered by the whites in blue coat, the hill had been left alone for 50 years until a man had bought the property under the name of Garrison and built a tall white house overlooking the nearby desert. Rumor in the nearby town of Poke, Arizona, had been that the man was from Chicago or New York, had made a fortune and had come to retire, perhaps for health reasons. In truth, the man had been an enforcer with the Chicago underworld, and had left with a contract on his head, but the locals knew nothing of that. They only heard about the frequent fights among the work crew, and then, a year later, of the violence and murder that had transpired among the Garrisons.
The house had since blown away in the desert wind until all that remained was the foundation and the iron fence that surrounded the property, and the gate that seemed to forever swing in the wind.
Nothing living had since taken residence, but it had received many prisoners. The hill beckoned to those cursed with madness or rage, who sought power for the same of power, whose dreams were dark. There had been many guests who had come seeking their own selfish ambitions and had left with the house’s particular madness, for nothing that slipped through those gates could escape the hill’s particular poisons.
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He had been traveling for over a week when Cadian realized he had been poisoned and was probably going to die out in the wastes. It had been those Crooked Christ preachers in Pecos. The last western outpost of the Central Texas region, populated only by Border Patrol guards and Crooked Christ followers. Perhaps it was some form of payback for what he had done to the girl. Or maybe it had something to do with that priest.
They had slipped some kind of slow acting poison in his water, and now, when he was too far out to return, it was having it’s affect. He was dehydrating fast, his skin dry and cracking, red and burned under the sun’s intensity. He had seen the sores growing and thought it was rad poisoning, that he had walked to near a hotspot. Another consequence of the poison.
He might have been tempted to go North, but he knew that those in Mormonland would not welcome him and if they learned of his presence, they would not stop hunting him until he was caught. He lacked the water to go back, and certainly if he managed to get back to the outpost, he would be too weak to defend himself. To the South was Ole Mexico, but to far for him. Besides, he had heard stories that the reds were on the warpath. That left the journey West.
His bowels had already given out, and he could no longer trust his water. Drinking urine was not replenishing his water needs fast enough. End result, vulture food.
On the morning of the second day his legs gave out under him. He forced himself to turn over and gazed vacantly at the sun, burning him through a cloudless sky.
That’s it. Might as well just die here.
He closed his eyes to await the inevitable.
“If you’re that weak than you’re no damn good to me.” The voice of an old woman.
He blinked up. But there was no one. Struggling he turned about to look over the parched dry earth. No one.
“Who said that?” He demanded.
“Around the town I use a rattlesnake whip, take it easy baby don't you give me no lip…Who are you?”
Who do you love? Who do you love?
The voice was in his head. Just in his head. Insane. I am going insane. Crazy, nut-house, looney, mad.
“Damn you.” Whispered Cadian
And the crone laughed. Who do you love.
Cadian struggled to get to his knees, failed, tried again.
In the distance, behind waves of heat thermals rising in the air, the land rose up on a barren hill. And on top of that, barely visible, a figure. It’s arms stretched out, it’s body covered with a dark shroud. It might have been a cross hidden behind a black cloth.
Again the voice, Come on take a little walk with me baby, and tell me who do you love?
Cadian struggled to his feet, stepped forward, stumbled down, skinning his knees.
“You’re going to have to do better than that.” Says the voice. Then again.
Who do you love?
Who do you love?
Who do you love?
Who do you love?
“Who are you?” Cadian Demands. Standing, stepping.
Yeah, I've got a tombstone hand in a graveyard mind.
What do you want? (Cadian is unsure if he’s speaking or merely thinking)
Yeah, I've got a tombstone hand in a graveyard mind…….who do you love. Snake skin shoes baby put them on your feet, got the goodtime music and the Bo Diddley beat.
Cadian finds his balances and staggers towards the figure on the hill.
Who do you love?
Who do you love?
Who do you love?
Who do you love?
Time seems irrelevant and he does find himself beneath the gate until night is falling.
The night were dark and the sky were blue, down the alleyway a house wagon flew
Hit a bump and somebody screamed, you should've heard what I'd seen
Who do you love who do you love who do you love who do you love…..
On top of the gate is a sign broken in half that reads Lasciate ogni speranza.
The figure is still atop of the hill, it’s features hidden by the setting sun.
I walked forty-seven miles of barbed wire, I got a cobra snake for a necktie
A brand new house on the road side, and it's made out of rattlesnake hide
Got a band new chimney put on top, and it's made out of human skull
Come on take a little walk with me child, tell me who do you love?
Who do you love?
Who do you love?
Cadian is not aware that he is surrounded by hundreds if not thousands of rad scorpions, moving through shadow around him, their sounds of their insect movements beginning to hum.
He is nearly within hands reach of the figure when suddenly, in a blink, it disappears into a burning flame.
“What do you want!”
“Who do you love?”
Cadian collapses, his arms outstretched. Reaching for the flame until it is all around him, bathing him.
Laughter now. It knows who Cadian loves, and the flicker of it’s flames embrace him, pull him in.
Cadian falls within himself. The things he sees, the promises he makes, the oath he swears to and the love he makes will haunt his dreams forever more.
He awakes in the morning to the sound of the gate creaking in the wind.
The figure is gone, as is the flame, the rad scorpions. His skin is no longer burned, the sores are gone. He feels refreshed and clean. When later he checks his water sacks he finds them full.
Yet he also feels as if something is missing, something inside has been taken out. He feels hollow.
Perhaps this is love.
Who do you love
Who do you love.
He knows who he loves and what he will do for his love.
His hands find themselves around a compass. One needle points North, the other points West and north. His destination.
Thoughts of the Crooked Christ pass him as irrelevant. He has more important obligations to the West.
