Part One
BEAST
BEAST
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
W.B. Yeats, The Second Coming
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
W.B. Yeats, The Second Coming
Early September, the time of year when day sheds its light magnanimously yet free of heat's oppression. At the ranch house on Wayward Oak, green pine and leaves were outlined in golden edges under the sun's smile. The whole of nature itself seemed to sigh, knowing that the hustle and bustle of summer's furnace is gone at last.
The gravel drive gave way to a paved roundabout, with a garage to the right and a two-story house surrounded by stone bordered flower beds to the left. "Modern frontier" would be a good description for the house, as it bore a contemporary aesthetic, yet was built to look like some kind of cabin, or fort. There were two cars in the garage: a white Nissan Maxima, and a red '68 Charger.
The new residents were told to arrive whenever they wished, and the property's owner - a younger man named Aviton Morren - offered assistance in helping them move their things inside if they needed it. 'Feel free to come on in,' he'd said on the phone, 'I'll be home all day being as lazy as possible.' No knock requested, but those polite enough to knock anyways would be greeted by an energetic, "Yeah, come on in!" and immediately hear some quiet Bob Seger ("Even Now" from The Distance, a truly seminal album). Smells were coming from the kitchen that would make even the pickiest eater salivate.
Was that the smell of biscuits? Yes. Yes it was. The faux-marble top of the kitchen's island was covered with a couple clean dish towels upon which were set tall, layered biscuits. Something else, too - sausage, fresh sage, onions cooking in butter - no, not butter, but bacon fat! - and the lingering sweetness of other baked treats.
The guy cooking these delights looked more a reformed mountain man than a baker. Tall, lean, athletic, dressed in some faded jeans and a simple long-sleeved tee that had seen better days. "Scruffy" was a good word for him - shaggy hair, close-trimmed beard, prominent jaw, his "All-American Boy" vibe hidden under friendly ease and a lack of grooming.
"Hey, give me just a second." The man washed and dried his hands. "Doing breakfast tomorrow at the VFW. Biscuits and gravy. Figured it'd be easier to cook it here so I don't make a mess of their kitchen." He walked forward, smiling, steps swift and purposeful.
"Happy to have you. I'm Avi, if you haven't figured that out yet. You hungry? C'mon, take a seat. I got some food heating up for lunch and help yourself to the scones. That jam's really good - made it a few days ago. Joy of having raspberry bushes." Ruddy hand offered to the newbies. Seemed a decent enough guy at first glance, and didn't act like he even realized he had a halo of pale, silver light hovering an inch above his head. Maybe he didn't notice it. Maybe he didn't notice that the others noticed it. But he definitely had a halo.
It wasn't that abnormal, honestly. In Fairbrooks, stranger things existed than guys with halos.