Mother's Got a Whip

By Rob Same

A child is being beaten. Robin's elders call them exorcisms. Demons possess him, affronting the piety and good order of his family. The droning prayers assault his ears, the savage rage of his ancient father open wounds across his flesh; and when his mother with her marmoreal skin and relentless eyes wields the whip: She scores his twisting body and soul like no other.

The old house is full of secrets, but every question as to what came before could provoke a new attack of holy torment. In the isolated domain over which the family presides the past is guarded, the future is not to be countenanced. The age of Freud and Einstein is breaking through, but the family clings to the old verities of faith and rage.

They see the Devil in him his febrile mother, his punishing sire. But Robin suspects that they are mad. And that soon he will be like them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Same
• Release date: Mar 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458147431

Rob Same

Rob Same AKA Robert Smart, novelist, occasional film critic, struggling "amateur" videomaker, cinephile, bibliophile and aspiring provocateur. He resides in the Seattle area.

Book preview

MOTHER’S GOT A WHIP

Robert Smart

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Published by:

Robert Smart at Smashwords

Copyright (c) 2011 by Robert Smart

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

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Cover Design: Robert Smart

Cover Model: Lorie Morrison

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The eternal in woman leads us on.

– Wolfgang Von Goethe

Chorus Mysticus, Faust Part 2

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Keep turned towards me thy munificence

So that my soul which Thou has remedied

May please Thee when it quits the bonds of sense.

– Dante Alighieri

Paradisio, The Divine Comedy

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PART I

ORDER

1

It was evening. It was according to the grandfather clock in the corner, Six-thirty. Its ticking echoed throughout the entire room. The house, but for the muted sounds of the evening meal, was silent.

The house was a network of hallways and rooms. The hallways were perpetually dark and thick with dust. Most of the rooms were now unused, boarded shut. On all of the houses three floors only the front sections were in use. From the front-most main hall only the darkened silhouettes of hallways were visible, leading back into the unplumbed regions of the house.

Robin Smythe looked up from his plate of asparagus at his father, who sat at the far end of the table: black suit, thin white hair. His eyes were blue and cold; his features looked as if they had been carved out of stone. He ranted and raved about the Devil and demons and incubi always trying to tempt human beings into unnatural and mortal sin for hours on end. Stern and aloof in mien and tremendous in his rage, he was the patriarch of the family and Robin knew that he was not the only one who feared him. Robin tried to remember a time when Father had shown affection or compassion to anyone—a vain attempt.

He turned his gaze upon Mother, who sat at the opposite end of the table, by far the youngest of Robin’s elders, though he was not certain of her exact age. Her soft black hair pulled up tightly in a bun, framing her smooth, pale face. Her lips were full and red, her eyes dark and luminous, yet to Robin she resembled a finely carved marble statue.

On the other side of the table across from Robin, sat Uncle Hiram and Aunt Rowana, gray-haired and silent, their eyes downcast as they ate. The table’s centerpiece was a large upright silver crucifix, surrounded by a platter of boiled potatoes, a platter of roast beef, and a dish of asparagus.

Robin watched Mother as she ate. She raised her head and returned his gaze. He looked down. Suddenly Father was at his side, staring down at him.

What is the trouble, son? Father asked, his voice hard and grating.

Nothing, Father, Robin replied as respectfully as he could.

Why are you not eating your vegetables, son?

I don’t like them, Father, Robin answered, immediately wishing he had not.

Father’s face flushed. You ungrateful little bastard, he bellowed.

He yanked the fork roughly from Robin’s hand and after scooping up a forkful of asparagus, rammed it viciously into Robin’s mouth. He repeated this procedure again and again, holding the boy’s head steady with his other hand. Father thrust the food in faster than Robin could swallow.

Robin tried desperately to jerk his head away, but could not escape Father’s vice-like grip. Father flung the fork to the side and knocked Robin over backwards with a hard push. Robin jumped to his feet, burning with a rage he could not control.

You bastard! Robin screamed.

He flung a wild right at Father who simply deflected it. Father bent down and grasped the handle of a large wooden bat that stood always at the ready; the others did the same.

We denounce you, Satan, they intoned in unison: The same insane litany that he had heard so many times before. They came at him.

Robin screamed.

It had begun again.

2

He awoke laying face up on his bed. The morning sun splashed in across his bed, illuminating the open wounds on his chest. The wounds were superficial but painful. His arms stretched out to meet the bedpost, to which they were strapped with coarse rope ties.

He turned his head to look out the window. The strong iron bars dominated his field of vision and marred the English summer morning with bands of black. All the windows in the house were barred. He had gone about the house one day and tested all the bars for any signs of weakness; all were strong.

Robin looked about his room. The ceiling was low and oppressive, dull yellow in color. It seemed to hover over Robin and press down upon him. There was ample room to stand and walk about yet the presence of the ceiling was crushing. The walls, like the ceiling, were painted yellow. Robin believed that the selection of this uninspiring color was somehow intended to anesthetize him; it seemed to stifle his every thought.

Botticelli, Raphael and Titian festooned the far wall beyond the foot of his bed with small reproductions of religious paintings. A copy of Heronymous Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights had once hung there but had been removed by Father, who thought it extreme.

Below the uniform row of paintings stood a small wooden bookshelf holding dusty editions of religious novels, tracts and poetry, as well as a variety of tedious and terribly outdated technical books and manuals. The bare wooden floor, covered in places by Aunt Rowana’s hand-made throw rugs, often gave an unwary Robin a painful splinter.

Sometimes, in the early hours of morning, as the sun crept silently over the floor, Robin could discern strange patterns and faces and demons in the patina of the floor’s pale wood. On really bright days the shadows of the bars would stretch threateningly across the floor and up the side of Robin’s bed.

Robin’s bed was small, narrow and uncomfortable. Its head propped against the wall. To the left of his bed sat an end table with a small clock and reading lamp resting on its surface and on its left side a magazine rack forever empty. To the right side of his bed a large blue toy chest sat beneath the window filled with toys that he no longer had any interest in, but which Mother refused to discard. The old brown dresser that housed Robin’s meager wardrobe was tucked into the far corner of the room, next to the bookcase.

On its worn top, the Bibles, the candles, the holy water and the whip, coiled tightly like a snake, sat ready for the day’s work. Robin’s blood undoubtedly adorned much of the whip’s long length. His eyes surveyed the room, which appeared to move in tighter and tighter every minute; slowly trying to smother him.

There was a dull, persistent throb in Robin’s shoulder, injured in last night’s altercation. He had managed to avoid such a confrontation for three months, to control his anger, to stay clear of Mother and Father, whom he believed to be always looking for a sufficient reason to accuse him.

The door to his bedroom swung open. Mother entered the room bearing damp towels to cleanse his wounds. She walked quickly to Robin’s bedside and laid the towels on the bedside table.

How are you feeling, Son?

Robin glared up at her.

Don’t be angry, Son, Mother said. We are trying to save your soul from the Devil, trying to teach you to fight your sinful impulses.

Do you believe that? Robin asked.

Of course I do, Mother replied quietly.

Have you learned what you are trying to teach me? Robin asked pointedly.

Mother’s expression became angry; she pursed her lips and scraped a dry towel, old and rough, viciously across Robin’s wounds. He clenched his teeth.

I see we have not as yet succeeded in driving out the evil one, her voice suddenly hard. We’ll soon save you from the powers of darkness. One day you’ll thank us for all of this.

Tears flooded from his eyes. Mother smiled.

3

The clock on his bedside table read twelve-noon, but there would be no lunch today, for today he was to be given another exorcism. He watched them prepare for the ceremony, a look of purpose on their faces.

Why are you doing this to me? Robin pleaded.

Because we love you, Son, Mother replied solicitously, placing a silver crucifix around her neck.

If you love me as much as you say you do, why do you torture me?

To drive out the Devil, Mother regarded him with her cold brown eyes; her face powerful with conviction. Yet there was something else beyond simple conviction. There always seemed to be a secret enjoyment, secret smiles shimmering beneath the stern and restrained features.

There are no evil spirits—I’m not possessed! Robin shouted, knowing it was futile. He had tried many times before, but they were resolute. Mother said nothing. Robin looked from one colorless face to another for some compassion, some glimmer of mercy. None.

They were ready. Uncle Hiram took his place beside the bed, towel in hand. At the foot of the bed stood Aunt Rowana, who would repeat the Lord’s Prayer; and Mother, who would read the special Rites of Exorcism, that consisted of various Bible passages and medieval rites which Robin suspected Father had composed himself. He had to admit they sounded authentic enough. At his right side stood Father, whip in hand. Between each verse of the ritual Father would whip two or three times as a token of divine punishment.

The curtains were drawn and candles lit. Aunt Rowana began reading the Lord’s Prayer in a monotonous voice. Mother let her read through it once before beginning a litany of her own. Robin began to plead for forgiveness. As usual, Uncle Hiram began to weaken. Robin looked at him in desperation.

Mother snapped angrily, Beware, Hiram, Satan is deceiving you again.

Robin gritted his teeth, the whip bit into his stomach. The pain seemed to be burrowing deeper and deeper into his flesh. He held his breath for what seemed an eternity. It subsided; he exhaled slowly. Uncle Hiram wiped the blood from his wounds.

Leave his body, unclean spirit, Mother screamed over Aunt Rowana’s voice, droning on and on.

After a length of time, the pain from the whip brought a state of merciful delirium. Robin’s head lolled from side to side. The sounds of the room began to fade in and out and intermingle.

Our Father…out, unclean spirit…who art in…Hell fire…leave his…Hallowed be thy…We command you in the name of the…Name.

Amid the cacophony of noise, the room began to sway; as did Mother. Her head rocked back and forth, her voice rose and fell in a state of near hysteria. She held onto the bedpost, swaying, reading, commanding; her eyes never leaving the taut bloodied body of her poor lovely son as he shook with pain; panting and pleading. The room seemed to be spinning. Robin could no longer tell where he was, his hands straining at the bonds.

Help me! he screamed.

"We are helping you." She was breathing hard. She could hardly utter the words. She returned to the rites of exorcism.

Robin’s head fell to one side; the room went black. Mother screamed one last command, moaned, shuddered, and collapsed in a heap on the floor. The others ran to her aid.

The exorcism was over for today.

4

The ticking of the clock echoed in Robin’s ears. For reasons he could not fathom, its ticking frightened him. It combined with the muffled thumping of his heart, like the drumbeats from some tribal ritual.

Robin peered out into the darkness, his long brown hair hung in disarray about his face. His lips, full and sensual, were pressed tightly together. In the dim light Robin methodically inspected the contents of his room. Robin was precocious for the age of 15, both mentally and physically; his physique, as a result of the heavy chores and work he was made to do, was unusually well muscled. He stretched to his full height of 5’10" upon the bed.

It was difficult to sleep in this position; the way he was tied made it hard for him to move. He could only pull his legs up or stretch them out. Before each exorcism his feet were bound to the foot of the bed to prevent him from kicking his tormentors.

He tried to turn over on his side, forgetting for an instant that he was bound, like Prometheus, in that position; destined, it seemed, to suffer the same torture, over and over again. He strained his neck in an effort to see the clock. It was midnight. The next exorcism would begin in the morning.

He stared at the cold iron bars on the windows reflecting on all the times he had tried to escape. Twice, on the trip into town which his family made monthly in order to procure supplies, he had jumped from the wagon. On one occasion, running headlong, unmindful of where he was going, he had fallen down a dry well; on the second attempt he stepped on a steel trap and broke his ankle. On both occasions he was severely beaten. Still another time he ran away from town, only to be caught by the town blacksmith who dragged him screaming back to his family. No one would believe his wild accusations against his family, who were known to be respectable pious people. And, of course, they did own the entire valley, including the land on which the town was situated, and nearly all owed them money.

Robin had made one last ditch effort to persuade them of the truth of his claims by removing his shirt, but to his considerable dismay, found that his wounds had healed remarkably well. What few visible scars remained Father skillfully explained away as the result of running through brambles and briars. The townspeople were more than happy to accept his explanation. Robin, in despair, braced himself for the severe beating that followed upon their return home.

The few occasions he had tried to escape from the