The Butterfly Forest

FIFTEEN

Luke Palmer was looking for a place to camp when he heard a goat. Maybe it was a sheep baying. Maybe it was an overactive imagination, he thought. The sun had slipped behind the tall trees quicker than he realized, bringing a curtain of dark down so fast that Palmer had to light a match to read the map of the forest. He believed he was less than a mile from a well-marked trail, the Yearling Trail.

Then he heard it again.

An animal. An animal in distress.

He walked in the direction. A farm way the hell out here in the forest? He hoped it wasn’t the men running the meth lab. Palmer knew the next time they met, he wouldn’t walk away. He made his way to a rough trail, decaying limbs cracking under his worn boots.

He began to hear music. Chanting and sounds from a flute. Then he heard voices. Palmer crept quietly down the trail and walked through some brush until he saw light. It was coming from a large campfire. He pushed back a limb and watched. More than two dozen people were in a clearing next to a lake. They walked in a circle around the fire. Their voices chanting something in a language Palmer didn’t recognize. He saw a goat tied to a stake, a circle of rocks around the goat. Then he saw something else.

A young woman, dressed in white, hair braided up, was led from the circle and told to stand between two posts. A tall man wearing black summoned two other men. He ordered them to tie the woman’s hands. Palmer wondered why she didn’t fight back as they lifted her arms and used rope to tie her hands and feet to the posts. She was made to stand in an X position. The chanting continued as another man tossed a log into the fire causing sparks to rise into the inky night.

The tall man read from a black book. He said, “On this sacred night of the Sabbath, we honor you by sacrifice.” The chanting grew louder. In the firelight, Palmer was close enough to see the tall man had a large Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down as he spoke. He had a scarecrow face with hollow, wide eyes and ears that protruded from his close-cropped hair.

Palmer wished he had a gun. He couldn’t allow them to do it. Even if it meant yelling at them and running like hell and hoping they’d never find him.

The tall man continued with his pagan speech. “You, our leader in all that we do, have shown us strength and resilience against the forces that seek to silence us.” The man stepped to a small table where food and utensils were laid out. He picked up a large knife, its steel blade flashing in the light from the fire. The chants grew feverish. The man walked to the goat, pulled up its head and slit its throat. The crowd walked faster around the fire as the man dipped his finger in the dying goat’s blood and stepped to the girl. He used his bloody finger to make a mark on her forehead.

Palmer felt like his heart was going to explode in his chest. Sweat poured from his face. The man in black used the knife like a queen might knight a man, touched it to the girl’s head and shoulders. He mumbled something in words that Palmer didn’t recognize. When the man touched the knife to the side of the girl’s face, Palmer yelled. “Back off asshole!”

The chanting stopped. People looked in Palmer’s direction. One man lifted a flashlight from the table and pointed it toward Palmer. The man in black yelled, “Don’t let him escape!”

Palmer ran. He ran hard. Zigzagging. Cutting through underbrush. He had a good head start on the men. Most were half naked and would have a hard time running through the thorns and saber leaves as Palmer bolted.

After running for at least a half mile, Palmer heard no one. He felt sure they’d given up and turned around. He was exhausted. His chest hurt, his heart still beating fast. He leaned against a tree to catch his breath, looked up at the moon beyond the branches and mumbled, “God, looks like it’s time for another flood.”

He wanted to make camp, and make it far away from the crazies in the woods. But at this point, Palmer wasn’t sure where he could go that would be safe. One place, he thought.

A bombing range.