2 Neil Healdsburg — October 1961 Discovery

Neil

Healdsburg — October 1961

Discovery

Seven-year-old Neil races home from school. Summer vacation is only a week away. His feet dance with the anticipation of so much freedom so near. The field is already dry, yellow with wild barley. Hairy spikes of seeds top the grass, bushy as the tails of tiny golden foxes. They cling to Neil’s white cotton socks.

Ryan, Neil’s favorite uncle knows all about such things. “Those seeds are hitching a ride on you Neil.” Ryan had told him. “Just like the guys you see with their thumbs out on the Highway.”

“Varoom, varoom” Neil says, pretending he’s a truck picking up freeloading grains.

“They hitch rides from animals too.” Ryan had said. “It’s a great plan for wild animals, they have short fur and the foxtails fall off after a brief trip. It doesn’t work as well for pets though; their fur can be too long. Sometimes, instead of falling out, the foxtails dig into the animal’s body.”

Neil shudders, imagining the points burrowing inside his flesh. He bends to pull one of the irritating needle-sharp barbs out of his socks. At his feet lies a naked baby, unscratched, pale and bright as a cold sun. The infant is cradled in the charred arms of a black shape that resembles a human log.

Neil freezes. His heart beats fast and loud. The quiet of the meadow echoing through him like a cold, distant sea is pierced by a long, high wail. It hurts Neil’s ears. He wishes it would stop.

Large hands grip his shoulder. He twists round, breath held, heart frozen. Ron Jackson, the town Sheriff, stands behind him, solid and strong. Neil’s throat explodes with pain. Only then does he realize that the howling, so painful, so filled with fear, is coming from his own throat.

Jackson calls Neil’s mother, Alma. She comes, running through the field. She rocks him in her arms, pulling him back from nightmare.

“There, there,” she coos. “I am here now; there is nothing to be afraid of.”

Normally Neil would have objected. He is too old to be cuddled like a baby, too mature to be embraced in front of grown men. But now he wants only to hide his face in his mother’s arms and forget.

Jackson lifts the silent baby, his fingers brushing the arm of the charred figure. It crumbles at his touch. Ashes rise into the air. Cinders blacken the gold field. Nothing remains except two pointed crystals that capture the sunlight, dividing it into rainbows. Although the baby is obviously a newborn, there is no blood or afterbirth.

Sherriff Jackson takes the baby to the nearest orphanage, cradling it in his lap as he drives.

“Hey, baby,” he says softly. “Everything is alright now, you are safe.”

The baby stares up at him out of unblinking bottomless eyes of endless winter. Even though the day is sticky with heat, Jackson shivers.

The orphanage is in Healdsburg, an hour and a half north of San Francisco, embraced by golden rolling hills, surrounded by ancient, gnarled oaks. It is run by the Sisters of Perpetual Memory. It is not a cheerful place. All stark wood and white paint, bare of ornament, carpets or pillows. The Order believes the purpose of existence is to contemplate Christ’s martyrdom… continually. The only decorations, if they can be called that, are large wooden crosses which hang on every wall, in every room.

The crosses do not bother Aidan. In fact, the effect even on full blooded (or bloodless) vampires is vastly over rated. They don’t like them, but most can tolerate a cross so long as it is not staked through their heart. Nothing likes being staked through the heart.

The baby is christened Aidan. During the eighteen years that Aidan lives with the sisters, he protests only once. It is on that first day, when he is baptized and holy water touches him. The droplet sizzles as it falls, burning a small white scar, like a fallen star onto his forehead. It is his only flaw.

Doubtless the priest who baptizes him should have noticed. Doubtless the nuns gathered round the newly consecrated should have seen, but at the moment of impact, an unexpected storm darkens the sky. Lightning flashes, power surges through taut wires, the altar is cast into night. Water hisses, the baby screams. The only light is Aidan’s scar, shining like a tiny votive candle out of the shadow. Perhaps this is why the priest, blinded by sudden darkness, sees the baby as a sign of hope. Possibly this is why the nuns, deafened by thunder, imagine the infant’s wail to be the sound of faith, rising from an abyss.