Chapter X: Eternal Flame

Chapter Ten: Eternal Flame

The King of The Timewraiths had not always been such a creature. When I first met him at the Youthfires at Fort Ordione he had seemed as full of joy as Huggy or Erin, content to listen to the Youthsongs of our Tribe's Past, content to sing the chorus and sometimes with the verse or at least lip-sync the words. His name was Bonigan, The Secretive. Some called him Bullwhip of Langdonville. He appeared to accept that the fire, our Youthfire, could not be fed forever and that the Long Shadow would soon mark the way of previous Tribes into the land of Nostalgia. But a darkness lay hidden in Toddy's heart, waiting patiently, like Jaws, for a chance to strike.

Many songsters entertained our Tribe during the course of our sentence at BHHS. There was the hilarious team of Buddy and Dowd. Napper, Son of Brody, and Byner Beetlejuice drew raucous cheers from the tribe with his romantic tales. Cristo the Long Tongued also coveted his place at the fire and performed the Jock-talk for the benefit of our athletes. He would replay past football games and congratulate past basketball heroes, but he was ready to let the fire fade, if only to spare him the humiliation.

The first time you suspected me was when you started the Tale Of The Toilet Paper. It was a Tribe favorite from the previous Halloween when you ran amok when the Red Sox lost. You needed me most then. You needed the fire. Laughter echoed in the forest, bouncing off the concrete walls, as you described how Huggy shoplifted twenty rolls of toilet paper from Store 24. You were so proud to have been there. So proud to be associated with risk takers but I knew how you wanted to take chances too. The tribe linked arms at the part where you picked Kodiak off the ground and ran through the woods as the police chased you up a dark trail. I was there, Oggy. I was watching. So I stopped your song before you could get to the part where Noodles ran into a clothes line, flipped in the air and fell on his back with a welt across his throat.

“We have heard this song before, Oggy of Many Smells. Let us hear a new one,” I said.

You could have refused but I knew you had been working on a new song about your adventure with Sticky down the Coast to Whaleswood Beach. The song had speed and drama and theft and despair but was not yet complete. I knew. Ray Knight knew. We played baseball together. Remember? We had fought and toiled for the same elusive honor on the same green fields, celebrated the same victories and tasted the same dirty defeat. I knew you.”

“Did you sense my weakness?”

“No, Oggy. I sensed your strength.”

Slowly approaching the fire, you brought quiet to the tribe before you began. It was as I predicted. You sang with confidence. You sang with tears. You owned the past. You owned the future. The tribe swayed like the ocean you had run naked into after streaking down the crowded boardwalk. You swelled like Sticky's belly during his epic onion ring and fried dough feast.

But in the moment of the new song you came upon a blank space in the lyrics. Naturally, a fight, a crash, a theft, a kiss would be inserted but you were momentarily lost. You knew the words and could move your lips but could not sing a note. So you did what I expected. You invented a bridge to connect truth to truth. This bridge, a meaningless encounter with two fat Whaleswood Beach girls and Sticky's subsequent abuse of them, would be our contract. I smiled and nodded as you sang. We craved the same eternal flame. I knew you.”

“But I was weak, Bullwhip. The Sox had lost. My anchor was dragging. I needed your help.”

“I gave you my help. I gave you everything.”

“But I still need one more strike.”

“You aren't ready to make the sacrifice. I'll know when you're ready.”

Soon The King was pressing me for more and more songs and my reputation spread. I was elected Chief songster. The Tribe depended on me for new songs to keep the fire high and soon the old songs sounded dull on our tongues and even Cristo was asking for a new song. No one, not Piper or Cristo or Kurt, knew that Bullwhip and I were feeding precious fuel into the fires. Bone Harbor, a Bone Harbor that never existed, grew alive with echoes of my synthetic songs and the stench of Night Train wine. I was driven to collect all the memories in my Sox hat, the one constant in my life, and keep them for my songs. But once in my hat I felt a need to embellish to song to protect the memories integrity.

“You chose well, Oggy. The fire was dying. Remember the cold creeping nostalgia when your whiffle ball games began to face?”

“But all fires die. We never should have burned those songs. They were innocent. I was the one who should have burned. Me. My hat.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Oggy. History doesn't teach itself. Ray Knight knows the price of fame.”

No longer was I playing for the song. Now I was playing for the performance. I wasn't singing as I had in 1984; I was lip-synching like a street monkey.

My rubber raft trip down the Quatoc creek with Cristo, for example, became an instant hit though the details were hazy. Had I worn shorts so tattered that my genitals flapped in the breeze? Had Cristo tipped the boat when we were attacked by a crazed goose? I couldn't remember the truth anymore. I was only concerned with the performance of the song since I learned lies burned hotter than truth in the fire. Ever present were the ghosts of my own songs whispering their hunger in my ear, one more strike, pushing me to gather more memories to feed the flames. They became stronger as the fire grew but I grew convinced of my own power over the Past. If my sings could change the historuy of my Tribe then maybe I could strike out Ray Knight. What did I have to lose?

“You only had the great burden to lose, Oggy. That great burden you carried with you since October 25^th 1986.”

“But I should have been stronger. I should have carried the burden like my grandfather and my father. I'm not the only one to watch the Sox lose.”

“But you only need one strike. You're so close. Some time to grow strong, and you might beat Ray Knight. What means an hour before the fire? You earned it.”

“But it was wrong. I shouldn't have been greedy.”

“Calvin Schiraldi shouldn't have given up an 0-2 base hit. Bob Stanley shouldn't have thrown a wild pitch. I don't make the rules, Oggy. I'm just here to help.”

“But I'm so weak. I need help. Everyone says I've lost my mind.”

“They don't know you. They don't know Ray Knight. They don't know your struggle. They don't know the burden you carry. You need to get that strike so they will understand. You need to keep the fire burning. It isn't time yet. Not yet.”

When the day drew near for us to follow the tribes before us through the Gates of Time and into the Land of Nostalgia, I saved you by pushing you into the Wilderness beyond The Cliff of Death. Our tribe was in danger. You had to return with stories to tell, fuel for the Youthfire. I knew that your old friend Longing waited patiently in the land beyond the WHEB radio tower. Our Youthsongs had grown old. Everyone knew all the words and the melody was as familiar as Billie Jean or Like A Virgin. Our voices lacked joy and approached the dreaded pitch of Nostalgia, of pure lip-sync, of death. We needed new songs to sing and I gave you the honor of learning them. You could save us from extinction.

“But what about those who passed through the gates? Strout the Long-Legged. Brody “Stoney” Stone the rough-chined. These and others passed on and the Youthtribe of 1989 dwindled like the Fenway crowd after Cleveland blew the Sox out 13-1 on a rainy afternoon.”

“What about them? Do you talk of Wynn The Eagle-eyed, who was eaten by disease or Scoobie the Sad who shot himself in the head with a shotgun? They had no courage. Despair filled our songs. You had to save us. Remember “Buggy” Kindle, Brother of “Catch”, who came to rest at the tree on Middle Street after that motorcycle crash? Remember? Our heroes were lost. We buried these fallen heroes like our first gloriously used condoms in the sand. You were our last hope.”

“But what of the many brave and noble folk who did not tempt Fate by extending their time at the Youthfires? It was time to move on, Bullwhip. The days had been memorable and deserved their place in the pages of our high school yearbooks but they should have been forgotten beneath the dust. They should have been buried. You craved the warmth of the fire and convinced me that our time there could continue. You dangled that strike in front of me and I fell for it. I believed the Youthtribe of 1989 didn't have to fade from fame. I believed you.”

“You saved us. You only needed to travel beyond our close borders and return with new songs for the fire. This was a great honor and soon you understood. You craved the warmth of burning memories and the smell of spent dreams. I gave you what you want.”

“But when I returned from Alaska, asphalt weary, I limped to the dying Youthfire and sang my new songs. I had sacrificed myself, yet still Gedman missed Stanley's pitch. Why?”

“You know nothing about sacrifice. The fire blazed only because of your songs. Gedman is another matter.”

“I didn't believe the songs would help the Youthfire. They were my songs. Moonrise was my first love.”

“But you sang them and the diminished crowd returned the new chorus. You gave us new life. You were our savior.”

“But they didn't know if it was true that I had built a cabin in the northern forest and lived on rabbit meat. They didn't know it was a lie.”

“And they didn't care. The fire was strengthened once more as I had predicted. Your songs fed the Youthfire and kept it alive and you slept in the warmth of our companions. Sticky was there. Flash was there. They loved you.. You were a legend. We had defeated Time and the Youthtribe of 1989 survived.”

“But I lost something. I lost something along the way and the emptiness keeps me up. I lost something my hat can't fill.”

“Think of what you gained.”

As soon as one song was over a cry went up for another and another. Soon, my songbook was empty again but the crowd wasn't satisfied. I had to dig deeper than was safe into my hat, into my memory. I returned to songs long forgotten and in my desperation I betrayed my past. Soon, I was changing names and lowering the temperature and increasing the car speed. By twisting the details I had brought more lies to the Youthfire and the flames soared with my reputation. Nostalgia went into cold retreat.

“We'd beaten it like I'd predicted, Oggy. That was what you wanted. We can't grow old. Our history is safe.”

“What history? What lies? What emptiness?”

“Lies? You know better than me. Ray Knight knows you can't get the last strike if you walk through that door. There is no turning back, Oggy. Your name, your honor will never return to the fire.”

My lies had kept the timbers of our youth aflame but it was not without consequences. By altering the Youthsongs I had changed our history and without a history there could be no Land of Nostalgia, not for me or for you or for any who remained near the flame.”

“This was your gift.”

“It's become my curse, Bullwhip. I'm suspended between fact and fiction.”

A terrible figure had risen from the glowing embers of the Youthfire, misshapen by lies and scaled over. The high cost of banishing Nostalgia was the creation of a monster who fed on my songs, my neglect of the present, my love for a false past, my belief in fantasy, my hunger for a synthetic Youthfire and the forced admiration of my Tribe. This creature, a Timewraith, controlled my sense of time by preying on the Octobers of my past and could not be satisfied. It was formed in the image of my once devoted teammate. Bonigan the Secretive had transformed into Bullwhip the Timewraith, a minion of vanity, a slave to the past.

“You tried to escape, but I knew what you wanted. Ray Knight knew what you wanted. We are the only ones who can give it to you if you only give us what we demand from your precious hat.”

“You demanded so many stories, Bullwhip. I had to reach into my past for the materials to create new songs. You tricked me. Soon only a new song was allowed at the Youthfire. You banished the old songs, the graceful melodies of our Youth. Why would you do that?”

“The fire. The fire must grow or it will die.”

Even though I wasn't ready to leave Bone Harbor, I again volunteered to leave the tribe's territory to learn more songs. I thought I was being smart and that once gone I would be surrounded by new people and new places and I could belong to a new tribe as an Adult. But Toddy was prepared for this and I had already gone too far with my Youthsongs. My lies had spawned other Timewraiths born from the lyrics of my new songs and they were sent to guard me on my journey. Ernesto Deville was there. Moonrise was there. The Veteran was there. The truck driver. Ben. Toddy became the King of these lesser Timewraiths and urged them to never let me forget my tribe. This host of Timewraiths tormented me in forest and in desert, in mountain and by stream. They fouled my friendships with judgement. They tainted my relationships. They were a constant reminder that all my experience was for the sole pleasure of the tribe. My performance was all-important even if I only moved my lips.

A day did not pass on the road in which I was not reminded to write the new songs for our Tribe, to cache my experience in my hat for unveiling at the fireside. I lived for two years in a dizzying state of despair, neither in the present nor in the past nor in the future, but at once divided between all these times. As I walked the asphalt highway in Utah I also walked the length of Lincoln Ave. on my way to steal a kiss from Darcy's window. As I slept beneath a forest of Monterey Pine trees in California I could see the night sky over Sagamore River winking in familiar formations. As I leaned toward Nancy I could smell Rose McCorley's shampoo drift through the window. When I met a new traveler, a fellow worshipper of the rain and road, the Timewraiths questioned how the traveler would fit into my songs. They asked how the new traveler compared to the old travelers in the old songs.

“I can never forgive myself, Bullwhip. I betrayed my friends for a laugh.”

“They knew the risks. No one is as innocent as you believe. Everyone wants something and everyone gets something.”

“I tried to keep them away but you were always there, whispering, chanting, and demanding that I write more songs. I hoped to appease you but every time I began to compose a song only for the ears of my Tribe I had betrayed those around me.”

“Rather you betray us?”

“Maybe. As you know, my betrayal was enough to turn Nancy, Ernesto, and the others into Timewraiths too. Now you own them. Everyone I encountered either became a Timewraith, trapped in the Youthsong or else they were repelled.”

“You did it to save us. Nan didn't understand your work. She didn't know who Ray Knight was. Ernesto didn't care about you or your baby. He would be amused to know you think you betrayed him. He'd think it was funny.”

I convinced myself that the Wraiths had always been there and would always be there. I decided that everyone had their own Timewraiths and the best thing I could do was give up and bear my burden. Others lived in worse prisons. If I had to go through life watching Game Six of the 1986 World Series, convinced I could mentally change the course of events, then so be it. The Wraiths told me that I could do it. Maybe I could. Only they believed in me and supported me. Only they understood my burden.

When I was alone in the forest I naturally sucked up the scenery, the trees and the lakes and blackened them with betrayal. My Present life, the life the Timewraiths feared most, shrank and shrank and all but disappeared. The present could provide no fuel for the fire. I knew only false lyrics and Game Six. I had become a servant of the Timewraiths, the Tenders of Memory, and The Commanders of my Tribe's history.

Even when I returned from the West with new tales hardly anyone was left to hear them.

“They were cowards. That wasn't your fault.”

“But all the tribe except myself and Sticky and a few others had moved on to the Land of Nostalgia. Only the Timewraiths were left to entertain and, thanks to me, their numbers had grown. That wasn't part of the deal.”

“You got what you wanted. Your precious Game Six has never ended. You still have a chance because of me so don't talk to me like I'm stupid. I'll teach you a lesson about respect.”

The King of the Timewraiths lorded over us from his thrown built from the souls of all those I had robbed. There was my Roommate from Alaska, Ben. There were the souls of the innocent people who had picked me up as I hitchhiked. There were my trapped coworkers, gasping for freedom beneath the King's weight. There were my friends and lovers, trapped beneath him, encased in the Time Throne. There was Clutch and Nan and Flash. There were Ernesto and Sara and Piper and Pam. There were Erin and Cristo. There was Moonrise with her lashes so long. They all cried out from the prison I had locked them in. And there was room for more victims on the King's throne of Greed. I had caused all this misery with my hunger to hear the Tribe sing my Youthsongs.

“I brought all of your friends to one place and still you question my power? Still you doubt me?”

“But you didn't bring my friends together. I brought only a fragment of who they were, who they were to me, who I thought they were to me. I brought them and caged them and now I don't know who they were. These songs were lies, Bullwhip.”

“That they burn is all that matters. They burn and we remain. Survival is not a game.”

I was helplessly in the grip of Ray Knight, the ball he had hit on an 0-2 count hovered like the WHEB radio tower light above my head. Could I control it?

“Of course you can. Once you are ready to sacrifice. Once you are ready.”

At the Youthfires, few came to sing and the few soon grew tired of my forced Songs. They were scared off by the King and feared I would use them in my verses and they would also be trapped in the throne.

“They were cowards. They wanted to grow old. They had never been young like you. They didn't know Ray Knight.”

“But when almost all had passed into Nostalgia I realized I'd never had an identity. I'd only had a reputation and my reputation had also gone with them.”

“But what a great reputation.”

I was no longer Ogden The Chief Songster. Rumors spread that I had betrayed my tribe and sold them to the King Timewraith for eternal youth.

“Lies. Those are lies. We all feel the heat. I can't take it all. There is plenty of room at the fire. Come closer, you who are timid.”

I fled from the tundra of Alaska to the Granite Peaks of the Sierra Nevada. From the High Meadows I had traveled, by the coast, through the dark Valley of Death, and then to the Canyon of Zion. From there I crossed in strange vehicles across the desert and the fields and the hills to the East. But always the Timewraiths traveled with me.

“We had to make sure you didn't forget where you came from. You had to be reminded who your real family is, who was there for you when you fell, who picked you up, who held you hand, who sucked your...?”

My deeds were tainted by vanity and my rucksack grew heavy with stolen memories. Even my pain was added to the Youthsong. I could not remain in Bone Harbor for long before I lost myself in Song or else crumbled before the image of Gedman's empty glove. So I fled to South America but the disease followed me and cursed my companions there.

“I know you, web. I know your secrets. I know where you go to hide. I know who Ray Knight is.”

Tired, heavy with the baggage of new Songs, hopeful that this would finally satisfy the Wraiths of Time, I returned to Bone Harbor.

“You were holding back. You weren't keeping your promise.”

“But Nan was innocent. She never asked to for this.”

“It was her or us. Her songs fueled the fire. Remember how high the flames climbed into the pine trees? Remember the heat?”

But my new songs of the jungle, of love, of wise speech, of magic drinks were devoured in the flames and were hardly heard by anyone except the very Wraiths I had spawned. The flames were too hot for anyone but the Wraiths. The King demanded more. He demanded more songs written for his own enjoyment.

“For our enjoyment. I think of the tribe first. The tribe must prevail.”

The King Of the Timewraiths now demanded I continue to use my own life and the lives of others as material for my songs. Already my life had become little more than a Toll Bridge for the Future to cross over the Present into the Past but this last demand was too much.

“You were a coward. You fled. You betrayed the Red Sox and you knew it. How could they win without you?”

I tried to escape to the sunshine of Florida but the Wraiths pursued me and cast their cold shadow over all my adventures on the Islands. I could not swim in the warm waters without hearing a new melody in my head, composed and performed for the King's pleasure. I could not smoke from a six foot water bong without my white breath swirling above my head in rebuke. I could not learn who John Galt was without practicing how I would tell everyone back at the Youthfire about him. My present life dwindled until I acted only in the pursuit of new songs.

“You became a hero.”

I became a slave to the King and on my return to the North I went to Piper's school to hide. I thought Lacy could give me the strength to break free.

“Only your tribe can give you strength. Only the Sox.”

As I leaned close to Pam's dark hair, her doe eyes, her ripe lips I saw the face of Darcy looking back at me. I could smell the spring grass at Strawberry Banke.

“Sing it. Sing our songs.”

The river washed against cement steps near the planting boxes and wooden yacht slips. We played touch football in the spring to loosen our arms for baseball, and in fall for an excuse not to do homework. Our grass stained jeans fit us perfectly after a winter of wear. The lights across the river in Maine blinked all night for my lonely walks along the riverfront. Huggy had thrown my hat into the water from that bench over there. In the summer a musical production of Grease was performed every night to couples in lawn chairs. Kids rolled in the grass and tossed coins in the fountain.

“What did they wish for?”

“They wished for more time. Just a little more time.”

“So you came back to where you belonged. You returned to us.”

I had to. I had no life. My lips could give no life away from the fire. I lay in front of the television as Kevin Mitchell looped a base hit to Center Field. Would Henderson catch it? Would he? Please...No, he had just moved back a few steps. Why?

“Ray Knight knows.”

Or else I would crouch beneath Darcy's bedroom where the sharp needles stuck through my ninja suit or spend my nights beneath the steel bleachers at Leary Field where so many dreams had been cashed in for a tub of popcorn and a taste of my own semen. Cristo was no help since he had long ago sold his soul to the King in return for fake immortality.

“He knows the smart move. He isn't dumb.”

Vance knew my torment, but was immune. He owned the present, had no past. He was still falling toward the water of the Sagamore river. He had never struck the rocky shore and never would. He tried to help with his nightly tours but even the violence of his driving was not enough to banish the Timewraiths. They followed me on our nightly quest, hovering near my window or perching like Bill Buckner in the elm tree limbs on Middle Street. These tours only reminded me of past glories and renewed the melodies I had foolishly written and strengthened the King's hold on my present. I could not help lip-syncing the Youthsongs that had passed into legend as we drove by the landmarks. “Karma Chameleon” “Don't You Want Me?” “Take it on the Run” The Wraiths wouldn't let me forget.

“History doesn't teach itself.”

If only in my own mind, I was compelled to sing. For now I was trapped again in Bone Harbor, home of the Eternal Flame, and the King Of the Timewraiths was demanding his homage once again.