Sabbatical, Part Five

12 April 1991

When I initially called Henry Matteson, his wife had just filed for divorce and he was largely unavailable for about five months. By the time he was available to speak at any length, I had been reassigned as priest to a small church in the Alps, which almost felt like being filed away, and my access to a phone was limited. We spent the next few months working out basic introductions and what I already knew of the Brood of Nachash, and then he arranged a visit. I was sitting in my car in front of the small regional airport, reading a newspaper, when he arrived. I folded my newspaper and helped him load his two bags, one of clothes and one of selected books and photocopies, into the car. The beginning of the ride was largely small talk, about the flight and how his son was handling the divorce.

"Are you aware of any new activity from the Brood?" he asked in German, as we began to climb the mountain that hid my village. I shook my head.

"The leadership was killed two years ago and I don't know how organized they are about replacing it," I said. "And I have not exactly been privy to any intelligence the Church has gathered."

"Hm." He looked out the window as the rock to his side gave way to the view of a valley. "I've asked around about that town in Tennessee you mentioned. It sounds like there's some recent activity, but it's hard to nail down."

"How did you find out about the Brood, anyway? You never quite gave me an answer."

"Mostly old references. Honestly, I hadn't really pieced them together enough to realize the cult was out there until you asked. I'd be surprised Tadzio connected us if it wasn't him."

"How long have you known him?" He turned back to look out the windshield, thinking for a moment.

"I don't think anyone knows him, Benedict," he answered, softly. "But we've worked together on and off for about five years."

"He comes to you for research, I assume? I was under the impression your work is largely academic."

"Largely, yes." The sun was already behind the mountain as we rounded a bend to reveal my village. I explained that the accommodations I could provide were mostly just a secondary room in my own quarters, added by an abbot some generations ago who used the church as a base to preach throughout the region. We unloaded the car, had a light supper, and then he retired to sleep off the flight. He left me with one book, however, which he explained I was welcome to keep. It was the memories of a man who had wandered the Appalachian range in the 60s and 70s, dealing with a host of living superstitions and the odd monster. Henry told me there was a story in there that sounded very much like it may be connected to the Brood, but encouraged me to take my time and read it all. If ever I should find myself hunting the Brood in America again, he insisted, I should know what to expect. I took to my chair by the fireplace and kept company with that book until I fell asleep.

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