Chapter Text
John opened his eyes, woken from a dreamless sleep. He was lying supine on a soft surface, a straw bed, and staring up at an even pattern of wood planks above him. It occurred to him that he wasn’t in the same place where he lost consciousness, but he couldn’t figure out for the world what had happened. He shut his eyes in exhaustion.
A faint swishing echoed from his side. John mumbled, “Who’s there?”
More swishing ensued. John rolled over and extended his arm, but he realized too late that he had overreached. He braced himself for impact with the floor when suddenly, someone shoved him back on the bed. His eyes shot open with a gasp.
His sister met his glance square on from above. “You’re awake,” she noted drily.
John groaned and tried to lay his forearm over his eyes, but was stopped by the iron grip on his wrist. Esther’s eyes seemed to pierce straight through him. “Can you get up?” she asked.
“I-I think so,” said John. His limbs still didn’t seem to be functioning quite correctly.
Esther Steinbeck stood at the foot of the mattress and crossed her arms expectantly beneath her apron. John sat up achingly and stumbled out of bed. He managed a few steps before Esther caught him.
“Alright,” she sighed. When she picked John up, he thought she was going to deposit him back on the bed. Instead, she hoisted him on her back and began making her way outside.
“Put me down,” demanded John weakly. “Put me down! Where are we going?”
Esther didn’t bother to answer, and all John could do was hold on helplessly. He could feel the villagers’ stares, but he doubted that Esther even noticed. Eventually, they made their way to the mayor’s building. A footman opened the door to reveal a large audience of people, conversing loudly. Esther trudged to the center and dropped John on the floor. The voices stopped. Esther straightened up, breathing a little more heavily than before. She gave John a quick kiss on the cheek and whispered, “Good luck.” With a swish of her skirt, she turned around and melted into the crowd.
John sat up and looked around him. People surrounded him on almost all sides, he was in the bowl of a circular arena. Scanning the faces, John spotted his mother, his father, several familiar village leaders, the full council. It appeared almost that everyone in the town was watching him, staring as if he was some small, curious animal they had just caught. John managed to stand up.
A hush fell over the spectators as a man stepped into the center of the circle from behind. John extended his hand, but the man ignored it and brushed past him to stand in the center.
“Greetings, villagers,” he said in a loud, booming voice. “I see many of us are gathered here today to discuss the events of three nights ago.”
Three nights ago? thought John.
“Good afternoon, Ernest Hemingway,” the reply echoed dissonantly throughout the chamber. John shivered.
Hemingway continued. “And thank you, Miss Esther, for bringing your brother here today. Your gentle care is much appreciated by all of us.”
Gentle care? thought John. Esther was everything but gentle; her manners tended toward brusque and direct, harsh but honest. His sister stood up as was customary to accept the gratitude given to her. Hemingway waited expectantly for her to blow him a kiss or wave in return, but she simply stared him down blankly. There was an awkward pause before Esther finally dipped her head and sat down. John tried not to betray his disdain. Hemingway didn’t deserve the admiration he received from village girls, especially from his sister. Esther made eye contact with John from above and gave him a slight, solemn nod. He bobbed his head back.
Suddenly, two large men grabbed him by the arms and began dragging him to the center of the circle. A cry of surprise escaped his mouth, and simultaneously, the crowd gasped. John had little strength to fight back. It all happened too quickly to process: one minute his body was scraping across the floor, and the next, he was sitting in a chair with his ankles bound. Furious, he wondered why they even bothered to spare him the humiliation of tying his hands, too.
John's father stood up, his mother with him, regal figures easily distinguishable them from the fussing crowd. “What is the meaning of this?” thundered John's father.
“Steinbeck.” Hemingway acknowledged him with the faintest hint of a grin. “We assure you, your son has been tended to most carefully.”
His father seemed to stiffen. John had never seen him look like that before, not even on the most dangerous missions, navigating through storms and fighting pirates. “My son’s name is John.”
John shivered. Each word sounded like a stab with a dagger.
Hemingway parried swiftly. “With all due respects, sir, we are simply protecting this village. And your son, of course. Due to his ah, potentially compromising encounter, we must take important precautions to ensure the safety of everyone involved.”
What are they talking about? John wondered. The past few days had been more than just a little foggy. What really happened that night? Thinking about his jaunt with Esther, he vaguely remembered that they had passed a fence. Esther had a key that unlocked a gate beyond it. Am I a prisoner? He couldn’t remember anything, except for those strange dreams where he was sinking into water and he couldn’t swim…
The water. John blinked, hard. There was something about water, the water. What was it? Where did I see water? He remembered the ocean and the reflection of a gibbous moon. John turned toward Hemingway. He had a flask in his hand.
“... food and water have been supplied,” the mayor continued. John tuned him out and buried his face in his hands. Water, water, water.
An image flashed before him of a tin cup overturned in a pool of liquid. There was a wood floor beneath it, he realized. And a straw bed beside it… a rug nearby. He gasped silently. The scene was back where he had woken up, but he had been too drowsy to take much note of the details. There was something about the water, though. What was it?
A roar from the crowd interrupted his thoughts. Hemingway stood up on a chair and shouted, “Quiet, all!”
The room silenced immediately. John lifted his head to look at the mayor. A bead of sweat was trickling down the side of his face. John understood what it was like to have a hundred piercing eyes trained on you, but he didn’t feel any sympathy, not when his ankles were still bound together like an animal for slaughter.
Hemingway curled his lip. “Is it alright with everyone if we proceed with the decision we all came here to make?”
A chorus of hushed ‘yeas’ emerged. John suddenly felt cold. He wrapped his arms around himself as best he could.
Hemingway’s voice rang out loud and clear. “Due to recent circumstances, the Council has decided that decisions must be made on all the following suggestions. Are we in agreement?”
Numerous heads, fair and dark, bobbed, as well as several bonnets.
“I assume that you have all heard the news of three nights past.”
More heads bobbed. Hemingway continued. “If you have not heard, our village was attacked by a malicious… night-creature. Thankfully, we had no casualties, and the beast was subdued with our own, mighty force.” Hemingway gave a nod to the guards that had appeared, surrounding the chamber. John wrapped his arms tighter.
“However, victory has left us with separate issues, all concerning the safety of this community and occupants. John Steinbeck, here,” said Hemingway, pointing to him, “was the closest we had to a loss. Despite our fight, this young man here absorbed some of this creature’s… influence, and we must protect the village at all costs.”
John was stunned. Slowly, he uncurled his hands from the fists he had made and stared at them. His fingers looked the same as they always did, if not a bit paler.
Whispers arose from the spectators. Hemingway boomed over them, “Do we have any suggestions for action?”
There was silence. He nodded his head. “Very well, then. May I, perhaps, contribute a few words?”
A sea of blank faces stared back. Hemingway gave the slightest hint of a smile, and continued. “Am I correct in the belief that we all fear the darkness?”
Heads nodded. Hemingway smiled. “Am I correct in that our consistent goal is to eliminate this looming threat?”
More heads nodded, vehemently this time. Murmurs of approval floated through the chamber. “What have we done?” declared Hemingway. “We have built a trading economy. Our ships are the finest in the land.” A cry of praise rang out at each suggestion.
“Our mountains have yielded precious iron. Our forest has kept out the invaders.”
Numbly, John wondered why he did not say that invaders came from the forest, too.
Hemingway shouted, “We have become a unified people, with a great legacy to preserve!” His gaze met everyone’s except for John'. “And now may I ask you, citizens of Salinas, what will you do?”
Now, calls were heard. “Destroy it!”
Hemingway smiled. “We hear you.” He waved to a scribe, who was furiously scribbling notes on parchment. Pen ink had dirtied his fingers nearly to the palm.
“Burn it!”
John huddled further into himself, curling over so that his arms cradled his head and his elbows rested on his knees.
“Kill it!”
The boy looked up at Hemingway. He was standing tall with a steely expression in his eyes, like a majestic hero. The glare of the sun seemed to sharpen the lines of his jaw, his cheekbones, and his figure cut a long shadow on the lush, red carpet of the arena.
“We have heard enough suggestions for today,” he purred. “The council will adjourn shortly, after a brief recess.”
John saw his parents stand up, his sister with him. They were staring at him as if to try and communicate something, but John couldn’t figure out what they were saying with their eyes. He looked back dejectedly. Then, as people moved in and out of the rows, John noticed them make their way closer. His spirit lifted as they approached.
Suddenly, two guards appeared from behind him. “Ay!” one shouted. “This area is restricted!”
The other guard roughly grabbed the back of John's chair and began dragging it toward the other side of the arena. It was all he could do to hold on to the sides of his seat for dear life. The guard left him beside Hemingway, who protectively placed a hand on the chair’s ear. John shifted forward, away from him.
“Yes, yes, ma’am,” Hemingway said. “I agree completely.”
An unidentified woman behind John said something that he couldn’t quite make out, but he didn’t dare to turn around in fear of touching Hemingway’s hand.
“Action will certainly be taken, ma’am. Yes, you can have complete confidence.”
The woman said something else unintelligible. Hemingway dropped his hand to John's shoulder. He tensed involuntarily beneath the mayor’s hot palm. “We are taking care of the situation,” said Hemingway clearly. “Thank you for your concerns.”
The woman scurried away, casting a quick glance at John before she disappeared into the crowd. Something heavy and stinging sat in his stomach. With mounting anxiety, he heard the people lining up one by one to converse with Hemingway. He couldn’t hear anything they were saying, but their tones were clear. They hated him. He was a monster, an abomination. Something had happened to him just outside the city wall within view from this very building, something that he didn’t understand. John couldn’t believe that the village people understood, either. They feared him, and perhaps that was the worst feeling of all.
The deep sound of a ringing iron bell announced the end of the recess. Like schoolchildren reluctantly returning to class, the congregation filed back into their seats with hushed whispers. John's chair was dragged to the center of the chamber, again, by one of Hemingway’s guards. He sat silently as each of the council members pitched their proposal to the waiting crowd—all of them involved his being restrained, exorcised, or a combination of both. John had to admit: Hemingway’s charisma was powerful; he had managed to sway most of the audience. But nothing would ever be more powerful than his innocence, he hoped.
The rest of the proceedings dragged on painfully. Arrangements were finalized, pens and quills were produced, and documents were signed. Nearly all of the audience shared Hemingway’s victorious expression. In celebration, the guards distributed snack cakes to the whole congregation. John's fell on the floor when he received it; his hands were shaking so much. When all of the audience finally exited the chamber, Hemingway turned and faced John, still trembling, with the mostly-eaten cake in his lap.
Wordlessly, he signaled to the guards, pointing to John. They untied his feet and helped him up from the chair, supporting his arms when he stumbled. John was too tired to question the sudden luxury of his treatment. He gratefully accepted the glass of water they gave him as he was laid on a bare cot. Almost immediately after, a wave of drowsiness overtook him, and John fell asleep.