The Summoner
On a clear summer evening in Milwaukie, Oregon, a large black SUV pulls into the short driveway of a trim two-story affair and comes to a jerking halt. The man that steps out is young, handsome, dressed in a dark, fashionable suit and has meticulous hair. Brow knitted, eyes narrow, he slings a small satchel across his chest, throws the car door closed behind him, and without even a glance to acknowledge any neighbors that may be nearby, walks briskly to the front of the house. Pulling out a small set of keys, he chooses one. The lock turns, and he steps inside.
From the cool, tiled entry he heads upstairs and into the expensively spare master bedroom. The suit jacket is carefully placed on a wooden hanger next to others like it, the tie is smoothed and hung. The man pulls a small notebook and pen from the satchel, then goes down to the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator and takes a small plastic pancake syrup bottle of opaque red liquid. Back upstairs, the man stops in the hallway, reaches up, and pulls a small handle attached to a string dangling from the ceiling. The narrow stairway descends smoothly. Scowling face peering into the stagnant darkness above, he ascends the squeaking steps.
The attic above provides ample space to accommodate his six-foot-plus height, and runs the length of the house. A single bulb overhead throws enough illumination to show that sagging cardboard boxes and bruised furniture have been pushed to the far end of the space, creating a cleared area near the stairs.There is a worn wooden desk here. Set under the sloping wall of the attic are a large flat-screen TV and small white refrigerator, cords plugged into a power strip dangling from the beams overhead. An old recliner is set near the desk, its frayed fabric exposing the underlying yellow padding, with a shin-high stack of hardcover books next to it. The man glances around, then sets his notebook and pen on the desk. He steps toward the center of the space and squats down, peering intently at the floor.
A large pentagram has been drawn there, with a circle inscribed over the star, so that only the very tips of the five points extend outside its boundaries. He opens the cap on the syrup bottle and carefully traces red liquid over the flaky russet shapes on the floor. After refreshing both the pentagram and circle, he sets the bottle down and scrutinizes his work, moving around the symbol on hands and knees, back bent, face close.
The man stands up, moves to the desk, and retrieves five long white candles from a drawer. There are a number of low candle stands on the desk, and he carefully fits each candle onto one before placing them just outside the tips of the five points of the pentagram. Returning to the drawer, he puts a large, black pillar candle onto one of the stands, and places it inside the circle, outside the pentagram. Eyes narrowed, he stands for a long moment over his work, staring. From the desk, he picks up a cigarette lighter and moves around the circle, lighting the five candles there before leaning into the diagram and lighting the black candle inside. He leans back into the recliner and closes his eyes. His hands are trembling slightly. He takes several slow, deep breaths before clearing his throat, and begins to chant.
The sounds he makes are strange; the tenor and volume vary greatly, and the cadence does not seem to suggest speech conveying human thought. Long minutes he chants, pale fingers locked on the arms of the chair, until finally his oration ends. Then he proclaims two words in deep, even tones, drawing the syllables out like an announcer at a sporting event: “Yog Sokaris.”
The candles begin to flicker as if there is a breeze blowing outward from the center of the symbol on the floor. Inside the pentagram a thick, inky gas is being expelled from a point chest-high. It is emerging from empty space, spraying thickly upward as if under high pressure, diffusing as it settles. It does not spread beyond the boundary circumscribed there, the drawn circle marking the limits of some sort of invisible, vertical barrier.
With a resonant thud, nearly a dozen thick, tubular grey tentacles thrust forward out of the dark fog and slam against the boundary. They twist and pulse, moving against their confines, looking like energetic oversized worms frantically searching a sidewalk for an escape from the killing sun. The darkness is lit dimly from within by a diffuse but brightening yellow light, and out of the mist a great fish-like eye emerges, larger than the tire on a car.
“Chuck.” The deep voice emanates from within the confined area—it is male, speaking unaccented English, slightly hoarse.
Chuck clears his throat again, “Yog. How’s that circle this time, buddy? Think it’s going to hold?”
The tentacles pulse and boom against the barrier again. “The death of this planet and extinction of your species may not take place today.”
The corner of Chuck’s mouth curls upward a bit, and his grip relaxes. “Good news as always, man.” He sits up and clasps his hands together, elbows on knees. “So, Yog—let me ask you a question: Does it feel like 68 degrees Fahrenheit to you? It’s fucking August.”
The caged demon is silent.
“Don’t play dumb with me. On Wednesday, you told me that it was going to be 68 degrees today. I thought that was odd, but whatever, you always seem to know what you’re talking about.” Chuck reaches back and snags the notebook from the desk. “See? I wrote it here, just like always. Please, let me read it for you. It says, ‘Friday, colon, 68, small circle, big fucking F.’”
Silence.
“Maybe you’re not actually omniscient, huh? Maybe you were lying about that. Maybe you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about anymore. Look, next time you don’t have a clue, just say ‘I have no fucking clue, Chuck.’ Sixty-eight in August; that’s just stupid.”
“I did not make an error. I told you 86. You wrote down 68.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am a god.”
“Godammit.” Chuck leans back and sighs. “You know that bitch Sally Henson over at channel 9? The skinny one that looks like Skeletor? So, she got wind of my little error today, and is tearing into me publicly. Making fun of me with this whole 68 thing. I heard that she even mentioned it on air during her weather segment on the 4 P.M. show.”
“She did.”
He groans. “That twat. You know, I’ve gotten everything right for the past, what, year and a half? How long have we been having these little, ah, ‘chats?’”
“Nearly a year and a half.”
Chuck runs his hand through his hair. “I’m not going to let her call me out like that. I make one little error and some…some female is going to try to discredit me? Fuck that, man. You know, this makes us both look bad, Yog. Both of us.”
“I do not perceive myself as slighted in any way.”
“Yeah, whatever. Look, can you please just kill her?”
“Of course. Simply break the circle and release me.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard this before. You’ll kill everyone, starting with me.”
“That is true, but in return for releasing me, your death will be prompt.”
“And what is it you said you’re going to do? Wasn’t it pull my ass out of my mouth or something?”
“The entirety of your digestive tract will be removed from your mouth. This could be done slowly, but in return for freeing me, I will do it swiftly.”
“Just like ripping a band-aid off, huh? That’s a hell of a deal.” Chuck sits back and stares at the naked beams above. “You know, I could be asking you about anything, Yog. Anything. But I take pride in myself. What I do, how I look. It means something to me that when people want to know if they should put up tents for their wedding, they watch me. I appreciate that confidence. Now Sally’s busting my balls? Because up until now I always got it right? Tell me: who loses, here? How am I the bad guy?”
“It seems likely that she is covetous of your accuracy in forecasting.”
He shakes his head. “Man, I hate that worthless bitch. I wish there were some way to tell her that all I’d have to do would be reach out my leg—” He lifts his foot toward the circle and the great eye immediately rotates and contracts, tracking the movement—“and that she’s just one little scuff-mark away from having her head on a spike with her guts draped out of her mouth, flapping in the breeze like streamers as the world burns around her disarticulated corpse.”
“It would require very little effort on either of our parts.”
“You don’t have to say that, Yog. I’m already tempted.” Chuck stands and stretches his arms over his head. “It’s beer time—you want one?”
“Yes.”
Chuck bends over in front of the small refrigerator and calls back, “Tricerahops?”
“Yes.”
Two bottles in hand, Chuck uncaps them with an opener from the desk, then picks up a pair of tongs that look like they were intended for use in a kitchen or over a grill. Setting one of the beers on the stack of books, he kneels in front of the barrier circle and fits the neck of the other bottle carefully into the metal arms. Lifting it toward the boundary, his breathing is quicker and shallower, and his hand trembles. As he slowly moves the beer through the invisible barrier, tongs breaching the border, hand safely outside, the god’s tentacles again beat against its confinement, but Chuck does not flinch, and sets the bottle down carefully inside the dark mist. Scooting back before standing, he grins at the demon. “It’s like hand-feeding a piranha. Enjoy, you son of a bitch.”
As Chuck sits down, and takes a pull off his beer, the god speaks: “Chuck. It is almost time for Largas Vacaciones to begin.” The level of liquid in the god’s bottle has dropped, although no physical part of the thing has touched it.
Chuck picks at a fraying strand of upholstery on the arm of the recliner. “So, I recorded a couple of Mariners games this week. I know you like the unpredictability of sports; maybe we’ll watch one of those?”
“The games you have recorded have already taken place. Their outcomes are known.”
“Well, sure, but not to me.” Chuck holds up his hands, placating. “I appreciate your fascination with the soaps, but maybe tonight we’ll watch a game, ok?”
“Seattle at Oakland: Oakland, 9 to 3.”
Chuck freezes, beer to lips, mouth hanging open, eyes wide. “You tentacle-y motherfucker. I cannot believe you just did that!”
“Largas Vacaciones begins in two minutes. Turn on the television.”
Chuck is rubbing his face and chanting, sing-song-y, “You are an ass. You are an ass. A huge ass…”
“Chuck. The television.”
“Fine. Whatever.” Chuck takes the remote off the floor and turns on the TV. Largas Vacaciones is just beginning on channel 54, and although the demon does not shift its gaze from the man in the chair, its tentacles pulse slightly in time with the telenovela’s opening music. Chuck sits in silence, scowling with arms crossed, staring hard at the television.
The Latin drama opens. Beautiful women and handsome men stride across the screen, speaking forceful Spanish accented with dark-eyed gazes and tossed, curled tresses. After several minutes, Chuck relaxes and starts in on his beer again. He slips off his shoes, tucks the laces inside, and places them under the desk. The first commercial break begins, and some sort of doughy pastry is being shown.
Chuck holds out a hand toward the demon. “What was Camilo so heated about there near the end?”
“He suspects Lucinda of mating with another human.”
“Who?” Chuck frowns.
“Martin.”
“Martin? Is that the sleazy guy in the suit?”
“Yes.”
“But nothing happened.” Chuck shakes his head. “That Camilo is really paranoid.”
“Yes.”
Then the music from the TV changes, and Van Halen’s “Jump” is coming out of the speakers. Someone is chattering away in Spanish, and the commercial is showing images of the band playing to packed crowds. The eye whips toward the TV and focuses. Chuck laughs, “You are so gay for Van Halen. I really don’t get it.” The commercial ends, and the eye again swings back to Chuck. “You know, we’ve got tickets for their show in Seattle.”
“You and Sloane?”
“And Jennifer. Sloane said she’d be interested in coming, too.” Chuck props his chin up on his palms. “Maybe if you ask nicely, we’ll bring back a t-shirt for you.”
“Take me to the Van Halen concert in Seattle.”
“Are you serious? You are, aren’t you?” Chuck takes a pull off his beer and holds his finger to his lips for several seconds, then shrugs. “Well, it’s not like I could just load you in the car with Sloane and Jennifer, I’d have to summon you at the concert hall, and how is THAT supposed to happen?”
“Upon a parchment flayed from the living body of a three-horned goat, using ink mixed from the blood of a virgin sacrificed upon an altar of pure obsidian and the excrement of a still-born baby, scribe the runes of desolating—”
Chuck cuts the god off, “Oh come on, man. Really? You really want to tell me that a piece of paper and a Sharpie won’t work? I got to have all that crap? Tell me that a piece of paper and a Sharpie won’t do the trick.”
A pause. “Paper and the marker are acceptable.”
Chuck shakes his head. “I knew it. And come on, where would I get that virgin blood and…did you say excrement? Baby shit? You wanted me to mix blood and baby shit on a goat parchment?” Chuck laughs for several seconds. “I know you say that you’re not capable of humor, but sometimes I wonder, because you say some funny stuff. And what about the summoning candles? I can’t just set those up in the aisle. I don’t even think that they would let me bring them in.”
“There will be lighters.”
Chuck smiles. “Ahh, I love that. I wish I could tell that joke on Monday. That’s worth another beer, sir.” He fetches two more bottles and carefully lowers one into the circle next to the empty, the demon watching the entire time.
Near the end of the program, Camilo and Lucinda argue heatedly, then reconcile with a passionate kiss and an embrace that makes their bodies look like two halves of a ‘best friends’ locket.
“Chuck. Why are you not mated?”
“Why am I not mated? You mean like Camilo and Lucinda here? Let me tell you, buddy, last Saturday night I picked up this blonde and I was mated to her for a good half hour. She had this tight stomach with a small waist and these killer hips.” Chuck chuckles and takes a long drink of his beer. “Yog, that was some quality ‘mated,’ I assure you.”
“Camilo and Lucinda are mated for life.”
Chuck raises a palm. “Well, you’re making an assumption. Divorce rates are really high these days. I think they’re rising all over the world, actually. I’d bet money that these two won’t be together for life. My parents weren’t. Hell, most people I know, their parents got divorced.”
“Why do humans mate in this fashion, then?”
“You’re asking the wrong guy, Yog. Optimism, maybe? I think people know all the divorce statistics, but they somehow believe that they’re different- that it won’t happen to them. I guess it’s not surprising, our whole concept of ourselves as a species is kind of founded on the notion that we’re exceptional.”
“You are not.”
“Well, yeah. I know that. You’re kind of exhibit A through Z on that point. Noone else wants to believe it though.”
“Camilo and Lucinda appear happy. You often do not.”
Chuck taps his half-empty bottle with a fingernail. “Did I mention the blonde from last week?”
“Humans are social creatures. Camilo and Lucinda appear to be benefiting from their social interaction.”
Chuck straightens up. “Look, you’re born alone, you die alone, it’s silly to think you’re not alone in the middle. Love is just a chemical cascade in the brain, and it fades. People fall out of love all the time. So, hit it and quit it; that’s what I say. It’s hard to relate to members of the opposite sex anyway; people have much more in common with members of the same sex. Why would I want to hang around a female all the time?”
“You do not spend significant amounts of your non-employment time with any particular group of males.”
“Well, yeah. But Sloane lives in Seattle. That’s a three-hour drive on a good day.”
“Nearly fifty percent of the local population is male. There are many human males nearby to relate to.”
Chuck stares down at his bottle and scratches at the label.
“Sloane and Jennifer are mated.”
Chuck shakes his head. “She’s not like most girls. It’s like hanging out with another guy. Sloane’s lucky.” Chuck takes another drink. “Really lucky.”
“Perhaps this weekend you can search for a male to relate to.”
Chuck sighs, still staring at the bottle. “I don’t know what I’m going to do this weekend, man. Maybe a brunette this time. I dunno. What are we going to talk about anyway? Largas Vacaciones? Summoning demons? Forecasting the weather or some other trivial shit like that? Christ man, why bother?” Chuck looks up at the eye. “There’s just no one out there, Yog.”
The god is silent. Its second beer is empty. The candles are burning low.
Chuck sets the sweating remains of his beer on the stack of books and pulls himself out of the chair. “Well, the candles are almost gone, and we haven’t even talked about the weather. Why don’t I pull you up again on Sunday night, and we can discuss the forecast?”
“That is acceptable.”
“Yeah, as if you could really decline the call.” Chuck kneels before the flickering remnants of the central candle. On hands and knees he slowly approaches the ring of blood, bringing his face toward the invisible line separating him from agony and torment that he is fully aware are beyond the human capacity to imagine. He inhales deeply—
“Seeya, buddy.”
—and blows.
He sat in the recliner for a long time. After the ring candles had died and left the attic in still darkness, the fading summer sunset sneaking fringes of crimson under the westward eaves, Chuck sat, eyes unfocused, breathing slow, muscles slack.
When at last the final vestiges of light had faded, he drew a deep, jerking breath, then slowly let it out. Chuck raised his hands, ground his palms into his eyes, and pulled them down his damp cheeks, to let them fall slack in his lap. Staring at the remnants of his tepid beer, he whispered, “Sunday’s a long time.”
Colin Wolcott lives in sunny Portland, Oregon where he writes, hangs out in a planetarium, and sometimes plays handbells. His work has appeared in Strangelet, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Pseudopod, and Idle Ink.
