Page 22 of A Better World

Keith started to hold the torch over his head. His arms were too thick to meet there, so he held it out instead.

“Hail Satan,” Josie said.

“Shh!” Hip whispered.

Parson looked like he had more to say, but he was too tired. Jack Lust helped him back into his chair. The tall, handsome man resumed on Parson’s behalf. He had a winking, thousand-watt smile, as if to say:This town, these festivals, and Hollow itself—it’s all a little funny, isn’t it? Aren’t we having some silly fun?

“The King Beltane will now run the tunnels!” he announced.

In perfect syncopation, everyone clapped. The Farmer-Bowens joined two beats late.

The Beltane King descended the podium, then down the steps into the tunnel entrance. His light disappeared.

The crowd erupted in hushed, excited conversation.

“Eighteen minutes!” someone said. “He’s been letting himself go.”

“Fifteen,” said someone else.

“What’s happening, again?” Linda asked.

“I think he’s supposed to run the Labyrinth,” Russell explained, pointing. “In that way, out on the other side of the park. Five kilometers. My guess is they’re taking bets on the time.”

“When they say everything’s in the pamphlets, are they fucking with us? Because all the crowning thing said was that we’d get refreshments,” Linda said.

Not much later, Keith emerged from the second tunnel entrance at the north end of the park. Slick with sweat, torch-first, he burst across the field, serious as a bullet.

“Did he teleport?” Linda asked.

The crowd erupted in gleeful, rhythmic clapping. Panting in a way that made Linda want to get the man a saline intravenous drip and maybe an electrocardiogram, Keith returned to the head of the crowd.

“Time is fourteen minutes and forty-one seconds,” the handsome board member announced. “That’s a personal best!”

More claps. Getting better at this, the Farmer-Bowens joined, matching the beat. “How is fourteen minutes possible?” Linda asked.

“It’s possible. Some of the soccer team can run that fast,” Hip said. Linda cupped her hand to her ear, so Josie repeated, hollering loud enough that some of the crowd turned.

Keith was up on the podium now, sweat drenched. He was a seriously big dude with a neck like a sea lion, but his skin had a greenish, unhealthy hue.

“That crown’s not synthetic,” Hip said, softer than Josie’s holler.

The bones were slender and twined, like supple sticks.

“It’s the birds,” Linda realized. Bird bones are hollow. Easy to twist.

All four Farmer-Bowens looked at one another, none clear on whether they ought to be impressed, amused, or disgusted.

The bell rang, announcing the food and libations stalls had opened.Servers with huge platters waded through teeming crowds of cliques. Linda meant to try the mead but lined up too late. The event soon ended. In large groups, people dispersed. The Farmer-Bowens walked slowly toward their car. By the time they got there, no one was left on the street. Everything was closed, though a scattering of houses were brightly lit. From behind ink-filled windowpanes, they heard muted music and laughter. Inside a colonial on Park Street, a bottle smashed, then raucous shouts of “Opa!”

The Farmer-Bowens passed these exclusive parties without comment.

That night in bed, she said, “I don’t think I can take much more of this.”

“I don’t know that we’ll have to,” Russell said.

They made love without passion, two scared people offering shy, inadequate comfort.

The Invitation

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