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Elvis Rex
Elvis Rex
Elvis Rex
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Elvis Rex

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An orphan uprooted by war, Anthony journeys to Kingdom City, the center of a would-be empire based on violence, slavery and a phony post-apocalyptic religion dictated by an ever-changing Now Testament, only to discover he's an Elvis, a clone of the long-dead pop star, the King of Rock and Roll.

LanguageEnglish
Publisherforemost
Release dateSep 17, 2012
ISBN9781936154845
Elvis Rex

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    Elvis Rex - Larry Kickham

    CHAPTER 1

    Boom!

    From one of the surrounding hills, where once the townspeople had worked their vineyards, the first and only mortar shell of that mild spring day arced lazily over the town. Just before the Angelus bells rang that evening, though it was still bright, its advent marked by a dull distant thump and the distinctive and unnatural sound of a flying shell, like the rustling of dry leaves driven by an autumn wind, herald of harsh winter, the blast destroyed a chicken coop and killed Brother Thomas on his way back to the monastery from the library with an armful of books.

    Apace beside the pink-faced portly monk, helping him carry his books, Anthony saw him cut down by the flying shrapnel that, he realized, surely would have hit him if Thomas hadn’t been there. Tossed to one side the monk exploded into a red spray, some of which hit the boy full on, spattering his dirty blond hair. A bloodstained book fell open at his feet and the warm wave of the blast kissed his face, already wet with the dead man’s blood. Anthony dropped his blood-drenched books, wiping away the gore with the back of his hand. What had been Thomas, the gentle scholarly monk, lay there collapsed into a rumpled mess, his blood pouring copiously over the stone walkway.

    An acrid stink hung in the air before dissipating in the gentle breeze. The boy watched, shaking with disgust and horror as the pool of red widened around him, standing there frozen amidst the encircling blood, paralyzed, panting and trembling, staring dumbly at the dead man. The few surviving chickens squawked wildly as a black cloud of debris, a dirty mixture of feathers, dust, and broken dreams rose overhead while the Angelus bells rang out.

    Sister Eleanor, a stout well-muscled woman, was cleaning the chalkboard in her empty classroom when she heard the nearby explosion. Pausing a moment to mutter a silent prayer, she rushed out, closing the door behind her and ran, hitching up her long black skirts, in the direction of the blast. The trembling, paralyzed boy stood there staring dumbly at the torn body that lay in the spreading pool of blood that washed at his dirty bare feet. She was Anthony’s teacher the year before but had known him all his life. He’d come to the orphanage just a baby and had grown up in St. Joseph, a town of some one thousand souls including the monastery and its adjoining convent.

    Are you hit? she asked. He was covered with blood but wasn’t hurt, only dazed. Stepping over the now sticky and viscous pavement, she grabbed his arm and pulled him away. The monk’s body, legs splayed, its remaining arm draped unnaturally across its back, lay in the pooling blood, a spilled bottle; empty now. No life. No soul.

    He . . . I . . . the boy stammered, searching for words, while the husky nun hustled him off to the convent.

    You can’t help the brother now, she told him. The only thing we can do is to pray for the poor man’s soul. And he was a good soul, Brother Thomas was.

    Leading him in through the back door she sat him down in the kitchen and filled a basin with water. He said nothing while Sister Eleanor silently washed away the blood and grime, only now noticing the spotty red trail of footprints he’d left on the old, well-worn wooden floor. Let the dead bury the dead, she told him as she wiped his feet clean with a wet rag before wringing it out in the basin. She had him pull off his pants and shirt, then wash and change into clean clothing she collected from the convent stores.

    Scrubbed and dressed he sat at the kitchen table, still stunned and panting. His heavyset teacher set down a hot mug of strong tea in front of him and commanded him to drink it. She sat in a chair across from the boy and watched him. He still hadn’t stopped shaking.

    CHAPTER 2

    You’ll go tonight.

    Anthony, she asked the boy, hoping to shake him out of his stupor, how would you like to run an errand to Sister Gladys? She’d been planning to send him anyway, but she hadn’t told him so he’d have no time to worry, as he was wont to do. At best he was skittish and shy, withdrawn and brooding; and he still hadn’t shaken off the shock of the blast that killed Brother Thomas—if he ever would. You’ll swim, actually. I’ve made you a raft of four bags you’re to deliver to Sister Gladys. You only need to go around the bend. Then, once around, you can land on this side of the river and untie the floats and get rid of them. It’s only the floats that make the bags awkward to carry. You’ll have to haul them uphill from the riverbank and it’s fairly steep, but I think you’re strong enough.

    Both of them knew it was dangerous to try to swim past the sentries watching from the three barges that stood anchored off the town’s riverfront, deadly platforms for snipers, but she knew that tonight there’d be no moon; and it was cloudy, too, and so there might not be any starlight either. Besides, it was dangerous enough for him here. Soon they’d take him into the militia and hand him a gun to defend the trenches, ramparts and earthworks girding the town just outside its old walls. Sister Eleanor didn’t think he’d make a likely soldier and reckoned that he’d be dead within a week.

    Oh, yeah, sure, coughed out the boy, as startled as if he’d been jolted out of a dream, laughing beneath his breath out of embarrassment and shattered nerves, hoping he was up to the job. He was pleased to be chosen. And he liked the old nun, Sister Gladys; he’d often visited her in her remote hermitage.

    It was a strange place where she lived. He’d never seen anything like it. Her home was underground, beneath a round roof held up by stout beams, all of it resting on four great columns, each one an entire tree trunk. A thick lattice of strong lodge poles supported the roof. Over that she’d laid cut saplings, then on top of that, clay, and over the clay, mats of grasses and old plastics of various sorts she’d scavenged here and there. She wove it together to be proof against water, everything knitted into a fabric, layer upon layer. And then over that she’d heaped up another layer of clay and finally came a thick coating of earth in which she’d sown oregano and many other spices, seeds of whatever useful perennials she could find, all of it growing along with the grasses and bushes and vines that over the years covered it with thick foliage, making it look as though it wasn’t a hut at all but only a small knoll.

    But that was before the invading army came, a lifetime ago, and in that old life, now so remote, Anthony had read for the old nun, her eyes no longer able to discern print. At first he found it boring and difficult, but she encouraged him, both out of a desire to hear the books read and a zeal to further the boy’s education. After a few sessions he grew more confident reading her difficult and challenging books, but now it’d been three months since he’d read anything for the isolated hermit, three months since the siege began. He liked the good-humored old woman, felt comfortable around her, and she seemed to like him, even to think him special. But all of that belonged to the world before. Now everything was different. Since the initial attack few had attempted to escape. The marauding army surrounded the town. Leaving meant crossing a no-man’s land between the attackers’ lines and the town walls, or swimming past snipers stationed on the barges anchored in the river.

    Since the soldiers came Sister Gladys had lived cut off from the convent, if indeed she was still alive. Though she was old she was able to take care of herself in her little hermitage and might still be safe in her overgrown underground home, invisible to anyone who didn’t know it was there. She would have heard the blasts and gunshots; her eyes were weak, but she wasn’t deaf.

    I have four bags for you to take, said Sister Eleanor. There they are, there in the corner. Piled up were the four bags packed full of provisions, each one sealed with whatever she was able to scrounge to make them watertight. One bag, extra-carefully sealed, contained a few books she’d wrapped individually in plastic and old linen, dipping each package in wax to make it waterproof. Attached to each of the four bags were necklaces of ancient plastic bottles she’d scavenged, each one plugged to keep out water. I’ve tied floats to them so you can ride them down the river like a raft. They’re a bit bulky, all of them together, and heavy. Do you think you can carry them or should I ask one of the older boys instead? Almost all of the older ones, though, had already been conscripted into the town’s defense force.

    Please, Sister, Anthony pleaded, eager to see the old hermit again. I can do it. Let me try.

    Very well then, she told him, grabbing his hands and squeezing them tightly in her own big hands before letting him go. But are you sure can carry all that? asked the nun, taunting him. Or are they too much for you?

    No problem, he told her, hoisting them two in each hand. It was awkward but he could manage; and he only had to haul them as far as the riverbank. And once in the water they’d float by themselves. It’d be easy enough to swim them downstream—if he got past the snipers. So it’d either be a quick death, or he’d be free. The boy felt as though the world might explode at any moment anyway. A sniper’s bullet through his brain seemed just as likely and reasonable an expectation, and almost as desirable as escape. And if he did make it past the snipers he’d only have to drift down river around the bend. Sure, Sister, I can do it.

    Once you’re past the last barge it’ll be easy, she assured him, crossing herself superstitiously. Then he, too, dropping the bags, crossed himself, imitating her out of habit. You’ll go soon, Anthony, she told him, her eyes shining with anticipation, as well as with fear and hope. It’s almost dark. And she prayed it would be for the best, that the snipers wouldn’t spot him. She’d painted the bags and the floats a dull black. Tonight’s the best time; there’ll be no moon, and soon, Anthony, it will be very, very dark.

    CHAPTER 3

    Escape

    During the day the snipers on the barges drank wine and brandy while they waited for fresh targets to appear. Some of them, Sister Eleanor dearly hoped, were drunk or already asleep. Still, any noise might provoke a spasm of rifle and machine gun fire; but they could only hear, not see. On a dark night the boy had a chance, but only if he was quiet and made not the slightest sound.

    Once it was pitch black Anthony carried the four bags with their attached floats, two in each hand, to the wall along the riverfront, Sister Eleanor leading the way. Stepping out through the small gate into the darkness, they slowly and silently climbed down the bank, feeling their way to the water’s edge. Then, after first praying, muttering through a Hail Mary, she set the four little rafts, securely tied together, afloat near the shore, bobbing there, tethered by a line she placed in his hands. His teacher hugged him before she withdrew into the darkness. Anthony pulled off his shirt and trousers, secured them atop one of the bags with the rope he used as a belt, and slowly waded into the black water. Soundlessly gathering together the four rafts, he pushed out to where the current caught him and bore him downstream. Without a single shot he passed downriver of the enemy barges, breathing freely only after he’d drifted silently in the swift current for a very long time.

    After passing well south of the marauding army’s campfires and drifting for a few hours, or so it seemed to him, he swam the four buoyed bags in the direction of the invisible shoreline. Silently, or as quietly as he could, he landed the baggage on the muddy bank. He had no idea where he was, whether it was an island or the shore, but he supposed that he was around the bend. Feeling his way along cautiously, dragging the four bags, he stumbled onto a clump of trees. There, sheltering in the foliage, he waited, sleeping fitfully until dawn finally reddened the eastern sky.

    Once the sun rose above the trees he could tell where he was, around the bend just south of the bluff where Sister Gladys lived in her underground hut. And it was a long way up. He untied the buoys and hid them under a pile of driftwood and began the arduous climb, lugging the four heavy bags laboriously up the steep hill that rose high above the wide expanse of the great river. The bags seemed to become heavier as he climbed and when he’d gotten about halfway up the steep incline he stopped to rest. Sheltering under a tall pine he sat for a while, grateful for his good luck at having climbed as far as he already had. Down below he watched the steady progress of a small chain of barges, packed with covered bins, pushed up the river by a struggling steamboat belching twin trails of thick black smoke.

    The first time the townspeople saw one of those strange self-propelled boats, about a week after the siege began, the guards on the town’s river wall had cheered, thinking it was burning, but the boat continued to belch and fume its way stubbornly up the river against the strong current, and like the bush Moses saw when he came to the mountain of God, it was not consumed.

    He didn’t budge from his hiding place behind the tree until the steamboat disappeared around the bend. Then, shifting the weight of the bags, he began again to climb the steep bluff. Whenever he’d visited Sister Gladys before he’d walked up from the other side, a gentler, easier slope. On that path, that ran through a forest, he could walk there in a couple of hours from town, less if he hurried, but this time the journey lasted from early morning until sundown. Though it wasn’t hot, only a warm spring day, many times he had to stop, not to loaf, but out of sheer exhaustion, sweat soaking his clothing.

    CHAPTER 4

    Sister Gladys

    It was near dusk when the boy finally arrived outside the little hut where the hermit lived alone, dug into the earth, hidden like a hibernating animal. There was no fire, no smoke trailing up from below, no sign she was inside. He climbed upon the overgrown roof and peered down into the dark smoke hole. Nothing. He set down the four bags and whispered:

    Hello, Sister Gladys? Are you there?

    No response. He climbed down the slope of the roof and lay in the thick grass and waited, gazing up at the darkening sky, and then, just after the world went black, he heard strange scratching noises coming from inside the underground dwelling. A trail of smoke slowly trickled out. He got up and climbed back to the hole in the center of her roof. The boy bent down over the hole and saw the small fire below.

    Sister Gladys? he said in a hushed voice. Hello? Are you down there?

    It’s Anthony, isn’t it? called out the old woman, looking up at him and setting aside her broom. Am I here? Yes. Of course I’m here. And it’s just past dusk. That’s morning for me. You see, I sleep during the day now that the Army of the Lord has come. Why are you whispering? You’re welcome to come in. I was just sweeping. I do it everyday about this time. Just a minute now, and I’ll set up the stairway for you.

    The old woman struggled with the notched log that served as her ladder, propping it up against the smoke hole for the boy to climb down. Before he did Anthony lowered the bags, one after the other, using a basket she kept atop her roof attached to a coil of rope. After the last load he climbed down the notched log, her bridge to the outside world. Inside the underground hut the light was soft and flickering. A small, freshly kindled fire in the center of the hut dimly illuminated the one big round room. On the walls shadowy images of saints and scriptures she’d painted over the years caught the ever-changing light and seemed to come alive.

    After first greeting him with a hug Sister Gladys eagerly pulled open each of the bags he’d brought her, peeping inside by the soft glow of the fire. What have we here? she cackled as she riffled through the bundles of carefully wrapped packages. All this for me? she squealed, happily emptying the contents onto the well-swept dirt floor.

    Sister Eleanor sent them. The boy warmed himself while the old nun silently read a letter she’d found in one of the bags, squinting at it through the large round lens of her magnifying glass.

    How is Sister Grace? Oddly the letter hadn’t mentioned her.

    Anthony fell silent, finally saying, She was shot, Sister, just a few days ago.

    God, no! she cried, sinking into herself. Is she dead?

    No, he answered. I heard her cry out. Brother Bob called it a machine gun. She was shot, but not killed; as far as I know, she’s still alive.

    Grace, poor Grace, she keened, rocking back and forth in her place where she squatted on the dirt floor near the hearth. The old nun prayed silently for a moment, her eyes closed. Then opening them again to focus on the boy she said: She was your teacher this year, wasn’t she?

    Yes, he answered. Until she got shot.

    And now you don’t have a teacher, do you, my son?

    No, said Anthony. I guess I don’t.

    Then I will be your teacher, offered the old woman. And you will live here with me.

    But, Sister, I can’t, he told her, blushing with embarrassment. He couldn’t imagine living in the hut with the old woman. It was large enough but still it was only one round room.

    You can have a little house of your own, she said, smiling her gap-toothed smile. I built another one just like this not far away, dug it out myself, but I never told you, you see, because it’s for the sisters who come to visit. You wouldn’t know it was there, it’s so overgrown with grass and brush and herbs and things. And, if you like, you can stay there in my little guesthouse.

    Well, said Anthony, but—

    But why not? she asked, interrupting him, fixing him with her rheumy, brown eyes. She was old and bent, slow and deliberate in her movement, jerking forward as though her muscles had to force her old joints into motion.

    But my friends in town . . . he said, his voice trailing off.

    It’s safer here, Anthony, she told him. No soldiers yet.

    That’s not the reason, he said, unsure of himself. I don’t know . . . Maybe I should be back there with them to help . . .

    What good would it do anyone?

    I don’t know, he admitted, scratching his head, wondering what to do, what to say. Should he fight like the older boys and the men of St. Joseph? They were only fighting in defense of the town. We don’t even know them, and they attacked us. Shouldn’t I fight, too, when my time comes, he asked himself. And they were taking them younger and younger now as the siege dragged on.

    Sister Eleanor wrote me a letter, you see, she said, waving the note she’d read through her magnifying glass, and she asked me to take you on as my helper.

    What do you need help with, Sister?

    I need a reader for one thing, said Sister Gladys, squinting at the boy. It’s my eyes, Anthony. Sister Eleanor found an old reading glass for me and I use it, but it would be better by far if you read to me. Your eyes are good. You’re young.

    But I’m not that good a reader, Sister. Sometimes he stumbled over big words, unsure how to sound them out.

    You’re good enough, she assured him. And if you read more, you’ll get even better.

    Anthony nodded in silent agreement, secretly relieved not to have to go back to the besieged town. He’d stay only until the attackers went away and then, perhaps, everything would return to the way it was before. Anyway, there really wasn’t much to keep him except for the nuns. He’d never had a family; he’d been raised by the sisters and still lived in the orphanage attached to their convent. Sister Gladys and the others were like mothers to him.

    Good, said the nun. Good.

    CHAPTER 5

    Read this.

    Anthony made himself at home in the visitor’s hut, a large round room, identical to Sister Gladys’s, but his walls were painted with different saints, among them his namesake, Anthony of the desert, and were adorned with different scriptures as well. Like hers it was roofed by stout lodge poles supported by four posts sunk into the earth, a single room buried in the hillside. And, like her own, the roof was watertight, covered over with branches, twigs, and mats woven of bits of old plastic and bundled grass upon which she’d heaped clay and dirt, and over that grew a wild thatch of grasses, herbs and brush, so overgrown that it vanished into the landscape, invisible to anyone who didn’t already know it was there. Just as in hers, the hole in the center of the roof let in light, allowed smoke from the fire to leak out and served as the only entrance down a notched-log ladder. She must have repaired it over the years, he assumed, noting some new, greener wood amidst the older, well-cured lodge poles that held up the roof. It was a snug, dry little nest, better by far than the orphanage where he’d lived in one room with six others—better because he had it to himself.

    The old woman insisted that he, like her, sleep during the day and stay up all night so long as the fighting continued, warning him not to light a fire during the day. She only cooked at night lest the soldiers spot the smoke and come hunting. And she was afraid, too, she said, of going outside in daylight when a soldier might spot her, or him, she added ominously. The boy complied, but it took him a few days to adjust to sleeping during the day and staying up all night. She was used to it, and made a point of keeping him awake all night reading.

    At dawn he lay down on his bed of straw in his underground womblike hut, finally managing to fall asleep after a long night reading for the old woman and then, just before dawn broke, weeding with her in one of her gardens by the light of the moon. That day he slept soundly for the first time since he’d come to the isolated hermitage, and he dreamed he was sitting across the table from Brother Thomas. They were in the library, alone together as usual, and it didn’t feel like a dream; it felt dazzlingly real, more real than real, too real, frighteningly so.

    Do you know what civilization is, Anthony? asked the monk with a serious mien, smoothing down the coarse brown cloth of his robe.

    No, he answered.

    You do know, Anthony, insisted Brother Thomas. You do. The boy said nothing and the plump, brown-robed man stared directly into his eyes. Suddenly he vanished into the cloud of debris that rose over the exploded chicken coop. Jolted into consciousness, the boy woke with a start, wiping away the cold sweat with the blanket the nun had given him. Sitting up, he stared anxiously at his drenched hands, expecting to see blood, but they were clean; it was only a dream. After awhile he forced himself back to sleep, finally drifting off, waking again only after dusk had fallen and he heard Sister Gladys calling down to him through the smoke hole of his hut: Anthony, Anthony, are you awake?

    I’m awake, Sister, he called back to her, quickly pulling on his pants and shirt.

    Did you sleep well, my son? she asked from the smoke hole. He could see her face outlined softly by the twilight, but she couldn’t see him inside the dark well of the hut.

    Yes, Sister, he answered, tying together the bit of rope he used as a belt.

    Good, good, good, she cackled. We’ll go to my hut, and I’ll cook while you read.

    Yes, Sister, he said obediently and began to climb the notched log. He emerged from the smoke hole, and she led him across the little meadow atop the bluff to the entrance of her own hut.

    After you, she said. Gingerly he climbed down the crudely notched ladder, taking his place near the hearth where a small fire was already burning. Laboriously the old woman lowered herself down, carefully negotiating each step. Once safe on the earthen floor she lit a candle, placing it on the stone hearth next to the book he’d soon read for her.

    Mind the flame now, she admonished him, adding a log to the growing fire. Her small collection of books came from the library. Brother Thomas had encouraged her to take what she wanted. Some of them seemed almost new, untouched by time, miraculously pristine, while others were crumbling yellow bundles that fell apart as he read them. Once read, those sat stacked on a shelf, their disintegrating pages bound together with twine she braided herself from plants she gathered in the forest.

    Here, she told him, picking up a dank but sturdy old volume and handing it to him. Read this. It was Gulliver’s Travels. While she listened she started her cooking, first washing and cutting potatoes, then putting them in a pot to boil, potatoes she’d grown in her own gardens, storing them over the winter in little underground caches she’d dug into the floor of her hut. She put beans on to boil in a second pot and a kind of tea in a third.

    CHAPTER 6

    You were a little Elvis.

    The boy had always found the nuns, especially his teachers, somewhat intimidating, but Gladys was different. He didn’t know why, but he felt comfortable with her even though she was old and wise, and he didn’t always understand the strange things she said. Occasionally she’d slip into a trance. Other times she’d not speak for hours. Still, he felt close to her, closer to her than to any of the others, especially now that he was living in her guesthouse and sharing her food. So one night before they began reading he hazarded a personal question.

    Sister, how old are you? he asked her when they were both sitting by the fire, dying now that she’d finished with the cooking. It was a simple question and seemed harmless enough, but asking a personal question of one of the sisters was, in his young mind, almost a sacrilege.

    I don’t know exactly, she replied. Maybe forty. Maybe more.

    Does that make you the oldest one in the convent?

    That may be, she answered. Why do you ask? What difference does it make?

    Oh, I don’t know, he said, blushing, alarmed that he may have inadvertently violated some delicate matter of etiquette.

    Age makes no difference.

    For a while they sat in silence. Sister, did you know my parents? he asked suddenly, letting the words slip out of his mouth. She smiled, fixing him in her rheumy eyes. He’d always wondered about his origins, but for some reason he’d never dared to ask. He did ask once, a long time ago, and was simply told that he had none—except for Holy Mother Church.

    I brought you into the convent when you were little, just a tot, a baby.

    You? he said, his mouth agape. Was she his mother?

    Sister Gladys could see the question forming in his mind and immediately denied it. But I am not your mother, young man, she told him flatly. I gave birth a week or so before I met you, so that was impossible. You were already a few months old.

    Did you know my parents? He searched her face carefully. This woman, this ancient one, was his only link to his origins, to who he was.

    She just laughed.

    Why are you laughing, Sister? he asked, unsure whether to feel offended or ashamed.

    I don’t know, she told him, wiping away the tears that formed in her eyes. She snatched up a washcloth by the bowl of water she kept by the fire, dabbing her face. It’s funny, she continued, laughing and weeping at once. I might have met your mother, might have even nursed you myself, but I wouldn’t know.

    What do you mean, Sister?

    I mean, she said, smiling at him benevolently, we never cared for the same child twice. It was always a different one.

    Sister Gladys, he said with a heavy sigh, sometimes I don’t understand you.

    I do know your mother’s name, she told him, her old eyes gleaming by the glow of the embers in the hearth. Her whole face, her hands, her simple woolen habit turned the dark red of sunset in the fire’s faint light.

    What?

    Gladys, she said softly, staring off into the dying embers of the hearth, looking backward now into her own past. We were all called Gladys. And you were called Elvis.

    Is that my real name? he asked her, astonished. He’d never heard of a saint named Elvis.

    Well, she said, turning her glance toward him, once it was your name, but they all had the same name, you and all the others.

    I don’t understand. He stared into the burning red coals of the fire, hoping to picture

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