Tom Henighan - Demon in My View

DEMON IN MY VIEW

Tom Henighan

Copyright Tom Henighan, 2007

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

Editor: Barry Jowett

Design: Alison Carr

Printer: Webcom

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Henighan, Tom

Demon in my view / Tom Henighan.

ISBN-13: 978-1-55002-656-6

ISBN-10: 1-55002-656-9

I. Title.

PS8565.E582D44 2007 jC813.54 C2006-904613-1

1 2 3 4 5 11 10 09 08 07

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

J. Kirk Howard, President

Printed and bound in Canada
Printed on recycled paper

www.dundurn.com

To Michael Carroll and Robert Powell, two superb
students who have become my teachers and friends.

From childhoods hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen

As others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Then in my childhood, in the dawn

Of a most stormy life was drawn

From every depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still:

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that round me rolled

In its autumn tint of gold,

From the lightning in the sky

As it passed me flying by,

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

Edgar Allan Poe, Alone

It was not a village, hardly even a hamlet; merely a cluster of shacks and shabby outbuildings that skirted a deeply rutted road beside a stretch of bare, open field.

A cold day in spring, for the afternoon sun had vanished behind a barrier of thick, grey clouds. An old woman, sweeping the steps of the largest building, stopped to rub her skinny hands together and blow on them.

Very slowly, she tilted her head sideways, as if she had heard something in the distance. She stood listening, staring off in the direction of the gently sloping, wooded hillside. Suddenly, she ran from the large building a rickety old schoolhouse surrounded by a few benches and crude play-structures. She scampered across the road and disappeared inside a tarpaper shack no bigger than an outhouse.

Inside the schools single large classroom, a crowd of boys and girls of various ages, from about ten to eighteen, were singing verses they knew by heart: an old hymn, although delivered in the style of a rap song. Mr. Koenich, the teacher, a grizzled, desperate-eyed, worn-out looking man dressed in a brown, shabby garment like a monks, insisted they finish each school day in this manner. He explained that the terrifying visions and beseeching words of this song had been handed down from the days of the great terror, and that it was necessary to remember them, and to pray every day, if they were to prevent evil forces from destroying everything they valued.

Gods wrath has thundered down

On every village and town.

The fields dry up and burn

The demons take their turn.

The bikers ride from hell

The priest will toll a bell.

The mountains run with blood.

In our old neighbourhood

Theres nothing left to steal

Theres nothing worse to feel.

Save us from the fire

And terror in the night

Save us from the plague

Help us fight the fight.

Yeah, Lord! Yeah!

Show us the righteous way

Help us in our pain.

Bring the good times back again!

The students had sung rapped out these words often, and even though they enjoyed the pulsing rhythm of their own delivery, they knew the words were powerless to change anything. And because they were eager to be released from school, they always chanted them very fast, and with a certain careless ease.

Young Toby Johnson, at the back of the classroom, who had the best voice and the keenest ears of them all, was not speaking, but listening. He shifted uneasily in his place, fists clenched against his well-worn overalls, eyes pressed tightly shut. He was trying hard to identify a distant sound, the same sound that had caused the old woman to throw down her broom and flee to shelter.

Toby didnt move, although he wanted badly to run to the window and look out. The distant sound, much closer now, and clearly audible, was a roaring of powerful engines. Within seconds it became bursts of thunder that shook the walls of the schoolhouse and reverberated among the buildings outside. The students singing faltered a little, and the room seethed with excitement.

Mr. Koenich raised his hickory stick and nodded to his burly teaching assistant. The class stopped singing, and the students whispered and nudged each other, stirring uneasily in the places. The assistant rubbed one thick hand against his black leather jacket, pushed himself off the high stool where he sat dozing, and quickly fetched his shotgun from the corner of the room.

Only fire at them if they attack the school, Mr. Koenich ordered. Students! Lie flat on the floor. Keep still, and stop your fussing about. Toby! Get away from that window!

But, sir, my dogs out there. Ive got to fetch him inside.

Youll do no such thing. Lie down with the rest of the students and keep your mouth shut. Your dog can take care of himself.

Toby stretched his body on the floor, closing and unclosing his fists in sheer frustration. A pretty girl lay down next to him and began to stroke his left arm and shoulder.

Dont take no mind, Toby. Ranger will hide out from them all right.

Theyll kill him if they see him, thats the problem.

Two motorcycles! the teaching assistant reported from the window. Its a couple of the Reardon boys. Theyre buzzin in and out the schoolyard. Just having some fun, I guess. Just passing through.