The Descent

Evan wanted  them  to  quit,  but  secretly  he  didn't,  too.  Certainly  the  cluster  of  night women  wanted  more.  After  the  first  time,  thinking  it  was  over,  he'd  asked,  'Can  I please  go  home  now?'  His  words  had  agitated  them.  If  grasshoppers  or  beetles  could talk,  this  was  how  they'd  sound,  clicking  and  muttering  and  smacking  their  lips.  It didn't  make  any  sense  to  him,  but  he  got  the  gist.  He  was  staying.  They  went  at  him again. And again.

This third time was proving troublesome. Maybe  an hour passed. Their  rubbing  and yanking and spitting on him didn't seem to be working. He sensed their frustration. The  one  holding  him  from  behind  went  on  with  her  singsong  chanting  and  rocking.

'I'll be a good boy,' he assured her in an exhausted  whisper.  She  patted  his  cheek  with a callused palm. It  was like being petted  with a stick.

Evan  genuinely  wanted  to  help  out.  What  they  didn't  know  was  that  he  had  an arithmetic test  in the morning. He was supposed to be studying.

Gradually  his  eyes  adjusted  to  the  night.  Their  pale  skin  took  on  a  faint  glow.  He could  begin  to  see  them.  He  and  his  buddies  had  all  seen  TV  shows  with  bikini  girls, and  several  had  big  brothers  with  Playboys.  It  wasn't  as  if  he  had  no  clue  what  a woman's  body  looked  like.  But  these  women  had  no  sunshine  in  them,  no  joy.  They were  all business. Evan felt like he was the  center  of  a  farm  task,  like  the  cow.  Or  like the  hogs  his  dad  butchered  each  winter.  Like  a  beast  at  harvesting.  They'd  been  at him for hours.

There  might have  been  five  of  them,  or  as  many  as  a  dozen.  They  kept  leaving  and returning.  The  witches  moved  with  watery  grace,  close  to  the  ground,  as  if  the  sky were  a  weight.  The  cornstalks  rustled.  They  orbited  him  like  bleached  white  moons. Their stench ebbed, then surged.

They  took  turns,  arguing  over  him  in  insect  syllables.  Each  seemed   to  have   a different  idea  about  manipulating  him.  Evan  had  grown  used  to  the  one  by  his  head. She  seemed  to  be  the  oldest.  Her  chest  wall  had  the  feel  of  a  washboard  against  his ear. Evan grew  passive  against her, and the arm relaxed.  She wasn't unkind,  just  firm. Her skinny arm was a marvel,  a few sinews  covered  with  skin,  but  as  strong  as  baling wire. When some of the others slapped or prodded him, she clucked at them, annoyed. One,  smaller  than  the  rest,  was  taking  lessons  from  the  others.  Evan  decided  she was the youngest, maybe  his own age. They  urged her to mount him a couple of times, but she was awkward  and Evan didn't know what was expected  of him. She seemed  as frightened as he was. He gravitated  to her in his thoughts.

He  couldn't  see  their  faces  exactly,  and  didn't  want  to.  This  way  he  could  imagine himself surrounded by  neighbor ladies and his teachers  and some of the girls at school. He  added  the  pretty  waitress  at  the  Surf  and  Turf  downtown.  He  attached  familiar masks to these  benighted faces looming overhead,  and it consoled him. It  let  him  have names for each.

What ruined  his  conjuring  was  their  smell.  Even  Mrs.  Peterson,  the  halfwit  who  sat in the park all day, would never  have  let herself get foul like this.  These  women  stank. They  were  rancid  and  unwashed,  and  smelled  worse  than  a  stockyard.  The  dung crusting their flanks had the grassy  sweetness  of cow manure. When they  muttered  at him, he could smell deep inside their throats.

He  was  greasy  with  their  juices  and  saliva.  That  was  another  shock,  how  wet  they were  between  their legs. Nothing in his friends' centerfolds had prepared  him  for  that. Or for their greed  and hunger. Periodically  one  dipped  her  head,  and  it  felt  warm  and soft down there,  like the hot compresses his grandma used to make.

Their hands and fingers were  as  dry  as  lizard  skin.  They'd  rubbed  him  raw,  but  the hurt was largely numbed by  his fatigue. He lay in their center, and it seemed  the  stars wheeled in a great  circle over  him.

Crickets sang. An owl swooped by.  Evan suddenly  wondered  if  the  witches  might  be the  reason  so  many  dogs  and  cats  had  disappeared  over  the  last  month.  Maybe  the animals had run off. Another thought  came  to  him.  What  if  they'd  been  eaten?  A  gust of wind rattled  the corn rows. He shivered.