Mendus and the Master
Mendus walked like a mini greyhound wearing little boots in the winter. He was guided by the moonlight, and without the light of day to remind him of his awkward walking style, he pranced through the woods uninhibited. He was six feet tall, wearing a Speedo watch and a headlamp with an infrared attachment. He carried a backpack with his video camera and a toy plastic shovel. He had been trekking all day across a chain of skinny islands that skirt the Southwest coast of Cape Cod. Intently checking his watch without breaking pace, he neglected to register a noise that made his heart take a deep dive in his chest. His heart settled into a groove roughly the speed of a mechanical bull on the slow setting. He had a seasoned skillfulness in detecting danger. He went to school downtown, where most of the boys his age were hormonal jerks with stubborn chips on their shoulders. While most of them were getting high on this particular Friday night in August, Mendus was on his way to the far side of the furthest island, Cuttyhunk, to witness a nest of hatching Diamondback turtles.
He had been planning this mission ever since he took freshman biology. He was finally doing it, but now there was a strange noise making his heart dive which was interfering with his plan. He was bound to trip on a bawdy root. He hit the ground like a rubber dummy. He lied in a post-fall stupor until his ears stung when he heard the noise again. He hugged the ground, pressing his ear into the slimy leaves to hold it still. His fingers made an involuntary stroking motion as the blood was scrambling in his veins. He remembered his mission at Cuttyhunk beach. The beach was one hundred yards Southwest.
He dissected the noise. It must have been occurring before he hit the ground, because the silence after the noise was bleak. It came from the direction of Northeast, directly behind him. The maker of the noise must be stopped in its tracks. Since it stopped when Mendus stopped and has been stopped for the same amount of time, it must be aware of him.
Mendus had enough. He knew he could either lay there torturing himself, or he could stand up and walk one hundred yards Southwest.
*
Before he made a move, the noise of a body deliberately pacing towards him convinced him to say put. The body crunched things and stomped rudely, with contempt for all the species resting in the Cuttyhunk woods, including Mendus. The body spoke.
It said, “I think he hit his head on that root. That kid better be unconscious.”
Another body replied, “Yeah, better be. You know what happens otherwise, Credo.”
Mendus’s fingers stopped nervously stroking. His entire body became even more motionless than before.
Credo hovered over Mendus. He jabbed each of Mendus’ shoes two times with a stick. The shoes gave into the jabs, then relaxed. Credo jousted his backpack, and tilted it away from his back to see how heavy it was.
“It’s not drugs, not loot,” he said. He extended the veiny stick toward Mendus’ head and gently caressed his cheek with it.
“Yup, he’s out. You out kid?” Credo’s voice sounded like it was capable of passionate bereavement at a funeral without meaning a word of it.
Silence. “Yup, kid’s out.”
Mendus didn’t flinch, blink, or gulp. He was surprised by how still he was, how well his body was behaving. Normally, he could never count on his body to do anything on command.
Credo tossed the stick aside and began to roll Mendus over by the backpack. “Jewel, help me get this thing off. We’re gettin’ this kid outa here before he comes to.”
Credo and Jewel each undid a strap around Mendus’ wobbly arms. They rolled him over in a single movement punctuated by a simultaneous grunt. Mendus could tell that Jewel was the bigger, huskier one. His upper arm was engulfed by Jewel’s hand. Who named this meathead Jewel? he wondered. He could not picture these barbaric forms ever being born and named like real babies. He just pictured them springing from one of the ribbed alleys downtown, coming up with the names only when they ended up in a prison cell together and were forced to introduce themselves.
The two had backpacks of their own and a long, gray, plastic case with big silver latches. Without a word or a signal to each other, they began unzipping the bags. They rustled around undoing a neat organization in each of their bags. Mendus felt a cold rope tossed on to his back.
“When is this thing gonna happen, man?” Jewel sounded worried.
“You think I have all the answers?” Credo said with a sour singe of sarcasm. As if he had been dealing with this pointless line of questioning all day. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m the master—leader—out here, and I suppose I gotta be more forthcoming with the ah—instructions and—what not.” He sounded comforting, but both Mendus and Jewel detected the upward movement in his tone. Jewel couldn’t see Credo’s eyes, but he was sure they were edging up, like a liar’s.
“No, I mean, whens it gonna happen, for us?” Jewel insisted.
Infuriated at Jewel’s cantankerous question, Credo seized the front of Mendus’ shirt and lifted his head and shoulders six inches off the ground. In the same deft movement he grabbed the fabric at Jewel’s neckline and yanked it close to him so all three heads were nearly touching. Credo couldn’t sift through his rage to find the words to explain that by asking that very question, Jewel was displaying exactly the kind of behavior that would prevent them from becoming members of the brotherhood. Instead he just said in a slow, low, deliberate voice, “Right now.” He wanted to make it very clear that they would do what it took to get the kid out of their way so they could get their job done. Wondering when they would officially be initiated was all a part of initiation.
Suddenly, the ludicrous squawking of a nearby seagull deflated Credo’s display of scathing intimidation. Other seagulls responded to the early morning announcements and they began assembling merrily for another day of squawking and snail eating around Credo, Jewel and Mendus. Those fuckers, how dare they, thought Credo. He felt emasculated and mocked. He felt like a Piping Plover that got sucked in a fuselage.
Jewel feared Credo’s impending rage against the staccato of seagulls more than he feared Credo’s big gang-worthy-madman demonstration. “Mother-fuckin’ birds,” he offered.
“Yeah, fuckin’ birds,” Credo replied.
How dare they, thought Mendus.
“Look, we get the kid in the hole. Then we get back here to do this fucking thing. I’m not about to lose it all for some goofy fucker wandering through my woods in the middle of the night,” said Credo.
