A New Beginning

It was during the hottest month of 1971 that it came to live with
us. It was only I that recognised it for what it really was, but the
notion of cruelty and torment from my peers prevented any acquisition
of respite from their confiding discourse. I remained silent, all the
while watching and waiting, longing for someone to relieve my torment,
exposing any of their own personal agonies. But it never came; and so I
continued my wait.
It was this inflection point that marked the beginning of the long
twisted path ahead, the one that would eventually favour my congenital
weakness; at last bringing me here to this smoke-filled, long-abandoned
basement, patiently waiting for the final curtain to drop on the last
act of life.

The sallow wash seasoning my lonely childhood was almost as if someone
had shaken a fine, peppery gloom over all that I'd ever known and
loved.
The instant that Reginald D. Prendergast strode through the massive,
oaken door fronting Roakley Hall, pressing his weather-beaten, sanguine
lips onto my mother's, it seems the ethereal matter, responsible for
destiny, attained its final mould. This moment, no longer than a rapid
blink, a split-second in time, was when I understood the frailty of
human-kind, the significance of absolute chaos on our being. Even now I
still question what alternative futures could have emerged from this
seed, if I'd only proceeded differently, twisting away from the ghastly
outcome that suddenly took shape.

Without word or cursory glance, Reginald D. Prendergast dismissively
tossed the ragged parcel across the hallway to my feet. Then, fervently
kissing my mother, he slapped his brown, leathern hand against her
buttocks and squeezed.
"Marion," he breathed heavily into her ear, seeming eager for me to
hear his passionate words, "let's go upstairs. I need you so badly." He
pressed his body against her, groin unyielding, grinding back and forth
across her, trying to tease her into submission with the attention of
his passion. She stared longingly at his weather-beaten face, lost in
the intensity of his lustful gaze, mesmerised by his dark and griping
stare. As I watched, a deep-red flush worked across her peachy cheeks
and up over her temple. I knew, for now, my time with her was lost.
Again I was to serve as second best. But at least I had my comfort for
the impending weeks of solitude, a paper-bound donation; charity to
placate my happiness.

Reginald D. Prendergast was my father, but to me he was no more than a
spectre; a ghost who'd show up to haunt me twice a year; brief respite
from his naval cavorting in the Mediterranean. On these indulgent
littoral excursions he would immerse himself in my mother's affections,
stealing her from my side and leaving me emotionally abandoned, alone
in this massive shell of stately abandonment.
Sometimes he would acknowledge my presence, preaching to me of
righteous ways, or terrible treatises; possibly some ranting describing
experiences from his hidden past, but always attempting the fatherly
manner: an anecdotal tale that could help shape me into a man like
him.
In my mind I would find myself wandering around his stories, appearing
to him intent, yet not really listening; instead using them as the
foundations for my own adventures: cavorting across the high seas of
India, smuggling spices and gunpowder into the darkest ports of
Bengal.

The paper-bound bundle landed clumsily at my feet; loosely coupled
around the middle with a piece of brownish duct-tape. He had obviously
used fish-and-chip wrapping from the local village chip-shop as it
reeked of grease and cheap vinegar, but I didn't care; this bi-annual
gift was the only connection I'd ever felt to him, and I needed it to
remind me of who he was.
As usual I accepted his atonement, thanking him and graciously
nodding, just as my mother had encouraged. "Thank you, sir," I called,
before dashing to the escape of my bedroom, eager to explore his latest
paternal offering.
Frantically, I pulled away the greasy coverings; desperate to reveal
whatever was inside; this thing that was to appease my loneliness for
the following weeks.

As I sit here, almost alone now, I realise this moment from my past was
truly the last time I felt proper; the following two weeks from then
were to transmogrify me forever: shape me into the bipolar animal that
I now serve.

As I stared down at the small wooden effigy, watching it spill from its
grease- covered confinement to my bedroom floor, I felt suddenly
cold.
I picked it up, surveying it in the outstretched palm of my hand,
turning it over and over, attempting to snatch the significance of such
a peculiar creation. Maybe it had no significance; my father acquired
it on another of his shore-bound excursions in Morocco, bartering for
the present at some bustling bazaar in Marrakesh.
I stared down at the small, black, dog-like figurine, and it reminded
me of something I'd seen before; something from my schooling: then I
had it, it wasn't a dog, it was a jackal. As I gazed into its hideous,
sunken eye sockets, vainly attempting to discover why something so
horrible should exist, I felt an icy tendril brush my face. I
shuddered. It was the hottest day of the year, yet this glacial finger
felt like it was probing, drilling down into the depths of my soul,
scavenging for some simple prey to catch and consume. A shudder rasped
at the nape of my neck as my heart thumped; tribal drums pounding
inside my tightening chest.
Then, as if satiated by its consuming intrusion, it relented,
releasing me from its vice-like grasp. My vague memories of the
aftermath recall the figure dropping, slipping quietly from my frozen
fingers and twisting downward towards the floor. It bounced once on my
mahogany floorboards before resting, motionless, retiring to sleep
after its hearty engorgement. With a sudden release, I felt terribly
tired; I needed sleep. As I drifted into tormented slumber, the sounds
of lovemaking perforated from my mother's room: the horrible grunts of
animal passion that lacquered the walls upon my father's return.

Experts say the disposition of being bipolar could be considered
congenital, and if you use my case, it invariably proves the hypothesis
to be true. My father's sister, Connie, died when she but a young
woman, still physically sound. After a serious bout of mania, a general
calmness settled upon her, and lasted for almost six months. Family
thought she was finally cured, heading towards indefinite wellbeing,
but then, unexpectedly, she plummeted back into the pits of depression.
At the bottom of her descent, in a cell of dementia-absolute, she
stabbed her mother twice in the eye, slit her dog Clarissa's throat,
and threw herself, from the top window of their flat, into the bustling
Kensington street below.
Connie had not been diagnosed as bipolar: that's a more recent
diagnosis, yet it still describes her set of ancient symptoms; the
markings of her condition equated directly to my own psychotic
style.

The day after my father returned, I decided to take the figurine to our
local museum. My intention was to elucidate this new torment to Mr
Rutello: Curator of Antiquities. It was said by my mother that his
knowledge of the esoteric should be considered almost catholic.
Mr Rutello was an old, thin, pasty man, whose bespectacled eyes peered
out from amid a wild hydrangea of greying hair. My mother often said he
looked like an owl staring from the confines of a hedgerow.
Tentatively I offered him the figure, explaining its sketchy
background: my father's bestowment; a gift from his travels in the
south.
Hands shaking, I passed it into the old man's open palm.
He stared down at the small dog-like effigy, rotating it just as I had
done, attempting to visualise its history, vainly hoping to decipher
some purpose.
With a startling realisation, marked by a barely audible high-pitched
squeak, he pronounced the name that would become me for the rest of my
life. "Anubis!"
"Anubis?" I repeated, raising my eyebrows in a question of
wonder.
"Egyptian deity. God of the dead." His proclamation came flippantly,
as if he'd seen hundreds of hideous dog idols over his years of studies
in esoterica.
"Should I consider it as a danger?" I asked hesitantly, still
concerned with the previous day's invasion into my soul.
"No, no, dear boy, don't be silly, it can't be dangerous. It's just a
badly-made trinket from some cheap African market." Assuming a
well-rehearsed and sagely manner, peering over the rim of his glasses,
he continued, "Even Anubis himself was never dangerous. In fact, he
should have been considered a bit of a freak really. He led a cult - as
I recall, something to do with funerals and embalming."
His flippancy came as a shock, a blow to my already fragile ego, and
it ran deeper than I could ever have imagined. Overwhelmed by this
wizened old crank's lack of respect for my father's gift, I sensed some
new feeling, one of unbridled rage, surging from inside my personal
Tartarus, emerging into the world for the very first time.
I grabbed the idol from his loose, flabby grip and without drawing
breath I slammed its blunted edge into the soft part of his temple. Mr
Rutello stumbled then fell down onto his knees, partly concussed but
mainly in shock. The vision of reality that I'd seen moments before
suddenly tinted, shifting to a strangely sallow projection. Then,
without warning, that same icy grip reached inside me, releasing me and
pushed me into my nightmarish, macabre dance. I felt a god-like
splendour in my heart; I had the power to decide if this old man should
live or die. But Anubis had now spoken; shown his mind to me and it was
my job to do his bidding. I raised the idol high above my head and
brought it down with terminal force onto Rutello's exposed skull: again
and again I struck him, smashing the statuette into his battered,
bleeding head until he lay motionless at my feet; thick, red blood
pouring from the gouges in his perforated skull.

After Father's return to sea, Mother decided to rekindle her dormant
interest in her only child. But I had changed; and soon she started to
notice. A new- found sense of elation was about me, an air of
superiority, and it perplexed her. I'd always been her timid,
subservient, little boy, doing Mummy's bidding, always needing her
support.
The confusion and shock in the village, caused by the brutal murder of
Mr Rutello, seemed to overshadow the lives of our community for weeks;
my mother's mood was now placed firmly in the voids of sullen and
reflective.
For me, life had become intolerable; not as a result of what I'd
accomplished, but more to the negative emotion that seemed to be
haemorrhaging from our apparent family. It was Mother's fault, and this
was undoubtedly the case; she was weak; and there was only one way to
mend the wounds.
The second time was easier. I wasn't as startled this time by the
lightning speed at which I could extinguish life. Mother lay peacefully
in her bed, asleep, when Anubis came to her. It was a short matter,
lasting no longer than a few minutes; then we were free.

Many years later, as I lay on the black-leather recliner in the centre
of Dr Falco's office, I remembered that day my mother left. I didn't
tell him - I didn't like to sound too off centre - yet I did tell him
of my childhood dread, and my loneliness as a boy. He diagnosed my
condition, and that was that. But in my heart I knew the way I was
could not be through some physical condition. I had higher purpose, and
was only acting to further the cause that then I had no understanding
of.
So, here I sit, waiting for the end, with the knowledge that this final
dance will finish my work forever. The years have educated me, allowing
me to become more competent in my work. I have now developed
self-control and a wisdom that has allowed me to shape my methods to
deathly perfection. Within me, my guest has grown ever stronger,
granting me the epiphany that my own Earthly life has not been
meaningless; all paths have led me here; to witness the rebirth of a
deity.
My father is very close now. His recently diagnosed condition will not
grant him the luxury of witnessing the end, as he slipped into coma
over fifteen minutes ago. Dr Falco's eyes glow still brightly,
attempting to plead with me as tears stream down his face. Yet, he is
bound and motionless.
So finally, all that remains is to complete the act; to open the
gateway, and allow his return.
Three simultaneous deaths: not an easy finale to arrange; especially
as the third player is also the director.
Father is now slipping from me, so I must make haste.
Three shotguns.
Pointed at three heads.
In my hand, three pull-cords.
It is time.
Ewer R. Prendergast finally presents: The Age of Anubis.