Hell Snake

by Bernard Schaffer

  Istaqa laughed gently. “That wasn’t stealing,” he said. “Whatever plants and roots we took belong to the earth. No man can own them. How can you steal something that will grow back?”

  “I don’t know,” Edwin said.

  He tried pulling back from the house, but Istaqa insisted they go closer. When they reached the front door, Istaqa gently pushed it open and held his finger to his lips for Edwin to be quiet.

  Dread filled the boy’s face as Istaqa moved soundlessly inside the house and started up the stairs. He stopped and waved for Edwin to come along. Edwin shook his head and did not move. Istaqa pointed at the step beneath him and glared. Edwin took a deep breath, then made his way into the house, walking like his father had taught him to walk in the woods, without making a noise.

  They went up the steps and Istaqa stopped to listen, his head cocked toward the bedroom farthest down the hall. The door was closed. Whoever was inside that room was moaning.

  Istaqa started down the hall, and when he looked back, Edwin had not moved from the stairs. He reached back and grabbed Edwin’s shoulder and forced him to come. They walked toward the last bedroom and stopped again. Istaqa put his ear to the door and listened. The moans were becoming louder and more desperate.

  “Please, God, deliver me from this pain,” the man inside groaned. “Have I not been your faithful servant? Have I not come to this wretched place to spread the gospel to these drunkards and lowlifes?”

  “Father!” gasped a woman inside.

  “Christ, it hurts!” the man hissed. “Son of a goddamn whore, it hurts!”

  “Father, you cannot blaspheme!” She began to recite, “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray—”

  “Oh, shut up, you ignorant fool! Oh God! The pain! The goddamn pain!”

  Istaqa laughed to himself, then pushed open the door and went inside, Edwin following behind him. On the bed lay a wizened old man, his body bright red and drenched in sweat.

  A woman was seated next to the bed on a wooden chair, holding a Bible on her lap. Her eyes widened at the sight of Istaqa and the boy beside him.

  “It worked?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Istaqa said. “Thank you for lending me his clothes.”

  “I folded yours and put them in on a chair in the next room,” the woman said.

  Istaqa reached into his robe and said, “Do you have a bowl?”

  “What kind?” she asked.

  “Anything. A bowl, a jar, a jug, it does not matter.”

  She picked up a shallow bowl next to the bed. “I brought this up in case the father was sick.”

  “That will do,” Istaqa said. From inside his robe he brought out the hairy root that he’d pulled from the garden and set it down inside the dish. He reached back in and found the full plant, and set that in the bowl next. Then he pulled out the leaves that Edwin had stolen and counted them out to make sure he had them all before adding them to the pile.

  The woman looked down at the bowl in confusion, but Istaqa wasn’t done. “Excuse me,” he said as he stuck his hands down the front of the long skirt and reached between his legs. He winced and said, “Ah, that’s been sticking me for a while.” He pulled out a small twig with several leaves on it and dropped it on top of the other items. “Take those into your kitchen and grind them all down as fine as you can. Make it into a tea. Do you know how to make tea?”

  “Yes, but I don’t understand—”

  The priest arched his back on the bed and cried out desperately.

  “Give him the tea. Make him drink it,” Istaqa said. “He will not want to. Force him if you have to.”

  The woman looked back at the priest. His hands bent up to his face in twisted shapes as he groaned. “Will it kill him?” she whispered.

  “No,” Istaqa said. “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Whether it heals him or kills him, either way, he will not make as much noise as he is making now,” Istaqa said. He opened the bedroom door and told Edwin to follow him, then he shut the door behind them.

  * * *

  * * *

  As they walked to the sheriff’s office, Edwin kept glancing up at Istaqa. He looked strange with his bald head. “Where did you learn to make medicine?” Edwin asked.

  “My father was wakan witshasha of the Santee and practiced the mysteries,” Istaqa said.

  “Wakan witshasha,” Edwin said, trying to pronounce the words correctly. “Are you a wakan witshasha also?”

  “I was supposed to be,” Istaqa said. “From the time I was old enough to walk, my father trained me to know which plants would cure and which would kill. By the time I was your age, I was allowed to make medicine for the whole tribe. I was better at it than my father, even.”

  “So why did you not become one?”

  “I met a crazy person who has brought me nothing but trouble in all the years I have known him,” Istaqa said. Then he smiled and added, “Your father and I were best friends from the moment we met. He wanted us to join the Lighthorsemen and protect the people of the five great nations. He said we would be heroes. I followed him on his journey and he has been getting me in trouble ever since.”

  “Someday I will become a Lighthorseman too,” Edwin said.

  “Is that right?” Istaqa asked.

  “I will go on adventures with you and my father and I will help protect our people, the same as you both do.”

  Istaqa ruffled Edwin’s hair and said, “I think you will make a fine Lighthorseman.”

  “Look at how fast I can run,” Edwin said, and he took off racing toward the sheriff’s office.

  Istaqa tried running after him, but quickly cried out, “Wait, Edwin! I cannot run as fast without my hair! The wind feels too strange against my bald head. Ah, it hurts.”

  Edwin stopped running and turned around, “It does?”

  Istaqa smiled wickedly and broke into a sprint past Edwin. The boy laughed and called him a cheater and ran after him as fast as he could, and by the time they reached the sheriff’s office, it was nearly a tie.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hours passed and there was still no sign of the sheriff. Blackjack McGinty was lying down with his hands folded behind his head and his eyes closed. Cody Canada sat on the edge of his cot, staring at the door. “He ain’t coming back,” Canada said.

  “He’ll be back,” McGinty said.

  “No, he won’t, and it’s all thanks to you.”

  “How so?”

  “All that talk about Indians coming here to start scalping white people. Couldn’t you see the scared look on his face? I bet he jumped on his horse and ran the hell out of town.”

  “I didn’t like him anyway,” McGinty said.

  “Don’t you understand, you big idiot? We ain’t got no food or water, and in case you ain’t noticed, it’s not like there’s been any visitors since we arrived.”

  “Good thing I’m not hungry, then,” McGinty said.

  “It’s not the food you need to worry about,” Canada said. “Man can go a long time without eating, but how long you think you can last without water? Three or four days, most, and believe me, it ain’t no nice way to die neither.”

  McGinty waved his hand in dismissal. “Go back to sleep. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s gonna feel like you’re trying to swallow sand when your throat dries out,” Canada said. “You’ll start seeing things you’d think was from the netherworld. I’m talking all sorts of nightmares and spirits. Then you’ll be too weak to move, and finally, your eyes will give out on you and you’ll just be laying there on that cot begging for someone to kill you.”

  “Well, at least I won’t be alone,” McGinty said. “You’ll be right there begging along with me.”

  “No I won’t,” Canada said. “I’ll kill myself before
that happens.”

  “How? You gonna talk yourself to death?” He cocked his head toward the Winchester shotguns on the rack and said, “Or you gonna wait until you get skinny enough to reach through them bars and grab a rifle?”

  “I’m gonna take my shirt and tie one sleeve around my neck and the other around one of these cell bars and hang myself,” Canada said.

  “Shirt’s not strong enough to break your neck, idiot,” McGinty said.

  “It’s strong enough to choke me, though. All I need to do is keep from untying the knot at the last second. It might be rough, but it’s better than dying of thirst, that’s for sure.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” McGinty said. “Why don’t you try it now so I can get some peace and quiet?”

  Canada looked at the door and licked the sweat off his upper lip. “No. That ain’t necessary yet.”

  McGinty rolled over on his side and propped his head on his arm. “How long will you wait, then? Two days? Three?”

  Canada shook his head. “Three’s too long. For all I know, that’s when you start seeing things, and after that, there’s no chance. Trick is to do it while you still have the strength. How about you? How long will you wait?”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Wait before you kill yourself.”

  McGinty chuckled. “I’ll wait forever. You kill yourself on day three, I guarantee you somebody shows up on day four. Don’t make no sense to give up before that.”

  “You’re gonna be sorry if you don’t,” Canada said.

  “You’re gonna be sorry if you do,” McGinty said back. “Even if the sheriff don’t come back, the marshals are going to show up any day. I’m sure they’ll have water.”

  “You’ve got more faith in the marshals showing up than I do,” Canada said.

  McGinty rolled onto his back again and closed his eyes. “You think talking makes you thirstier faster? I’m just curious. Seems to me all that talking would dry out a man’s throat and make him mighty thirsty for a tall glass of water, right out of a mountain spring. Nice and cold and fresh.”

  Canada massaged his dry throat with his fingers. “You’re a right son of a bitch, you know that?”

  “Keep talking,” McGinty said. “I’m not thirsty at all.”

  Canada lay down on his cot and turned the opposite way.

  “Look, he probably just got tired of sleeping at his desk and went home to sleep in his bed. He’ll be back at first light and we’ll have ourselves a laugh about this, all right?” McGinty said.

  Canada pulled his legs up to his chest and didn’t say anything else the rest of the night.

  * * *

  * * *

  When sunlight emerged through the windows, it seemed that Blackjack McGinty’s words had been prophetic. They heard someone walking up the steps to the office door and keys jingling against the lock.

  Both McGinty and Canada sat up on their cots. Canada rubbed his eyes and said, “Well, shoot. Now that he’s back, I wish he wasn’t.”

  The door opened and the man who stood on the threshold was not Sheriff Elliot Reuben Jr. It was the priest, draped in his robe the same as before, except now it was covered in dirt and dried blood.

  “Good morning to thee, my good fellows,” John Deacon said.

  Canada and McGinty stared at him and said nothing.

  Deacon held up the cell key and jingled it. He sat down on the sheriff’s desk and let the key dangle from his finger. “I come with ill tidings, I fear. Our friend Sheriff Reuben hath departed.”

  “He run off?” asked Canada.

  “No,” Deacon said. “Unclog thine ears when I am speaking. He hath departed.”

  “All right,” McGinty said. “Our apologies. He hath departed. But I see he managed to give you the key to the cells before he did so, yeah?”

  “Indeed he did,” Deacon replied. “And I am prepared to give thee thy freedom, in exchange for but a small token of gratitude.”

  “What kind of token?” Canada asked suspiciously.

  “In exchange for thy freedom, and not just thy freedom, but food and drink and opium and entertainment—”

  “Entertainment?” McGinty interrupted.

  Deacon tapped the cell key against the desk several times and his two attendants came through the door. The blond one came through first, sweeping one long, bare leg in front of the other as she made her way toward McGinty’s cell. She reached her hands through the bars and beckoned him to come toward her. The red-haired beauty followed behind her and went to Canada’s cell, cooing for him to stand and approach.

  Both prisoners got up from their cots and pressed themselves against the cell bars. “And what is it you want from us, Mister?” McGinty asked.

  “I have enemies,” Deacon said. “Enemies I want handled in very, very specific ways. I think thou will be able to help me achieve this goal. In exchange for doing anything I ask, in any way that I ask, I will deliver thee to the heights of the empyrean.”

  “What’s that?” Canada asked.

  “Paradise, my son,” replied Deacon. “The true paradise.”

  “I think paradise would suit me real well,” said McGinty.

  Canada reached through the bars to caress the red-haired woman. “I could use a little paradise too,” he said.

  “That’s what I’d hoped to hear,” Deacon said. He got up from the desk and went to unlock the cell doors.

  * * *

  * * *

  The men mounted the horses the women had brought, carrying the shotguns they’d taken from the sheriff’s office. They followed Deacon into the woods, past tall maple trees whose abscission covered the ground in piles of brown and red leaves. Huge rotting branches were scattered everywhere, draped in cobwebs and transformed into dens for any number of wild creatures.

  When they arrived at Deacon’s camp, the few acolytes there were covered in soot and grime and seemed too exhausted to greet them. There was no food being prepared, and the only fire burning was at the other end of the camp, near the most elaborate-looking tent, with various sections and overhangs that made it look like a small house made from white sheets.

  Deacon stopped his horse and Blackjack McGinty and Cody Canada stopped alongside him. “You must forgive us,” Deacon said. “A great evil befell us last night and most of my followers are still hunting down the ones responsible for it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” McGinty said.

  “You can be sure we will be more than happy to help you find whoever you want and do whatever you want to them,” Canada said. “We’ll be more than happy to make those bastards suffer a thousand times worse than y’all have. But first, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to lie down for a spell. I wasn’t able to get much sleep on that prison cot, you know.” He glanced back at the red-haired woman in the saddle behind him. “You think this girl of yours might be able to show me somewhere soft to get cozy for a minute or more?”

  She grinned and stroked the side of his face.

  Deacon nodded. “Take our new friends to thy tents and accommodate them, however they desire,” he said. He waited for McGinty and Canada to dismount and go with the women, then he dropped down from his horse and headed across the camp toward his own tent.

  The fire in front of it had been kept lit, as he had instructed. Next to the fire was a bundle of dark fabric.

  Someone was moaning in the tent behind him, but Deacon ignored it and drew a long, curved, dagger from inside his robe. The handle was made of gold and inlaid with jewels. He sat down, cross-legged, in front of the fire and used the knife to cut the rope knotted at the top of the bundle.

  He reached in and grabbed hold of Ash Sinclair’s white hair. He withdrew the head and set it on the ground in front of him on top of the cloth, then turned it from side to side to inspect it. The rotting flesh would take no great effo
rt to remove.

  Deacon scraped most of the skin away, until he had revealed the white bone beneath the entire left side of the face. He let the strips of flayed skin fall onto the fabric below. He cut the ears off and scraped the cheeks clean, then used the knife to slice off the lips and the flesh around the chin, then laid the head sideways and cleared away the remainder of the skin around the throat.

  There was still the matter of whatever was inside the head.

  Deacon laid down the knife and grabbed hold of the neck bone sticking out of the head. He was about to twist it when a piercing screech came from inside his tent and he turned to look over his shoulder. A pair of feet kicked against the fabric and the screeching grew louder.

  He left Sinclair’s head sitting on the ground and went into his tent. “Crave thee my attention this strongly, young one?”

  Screams erupted, accompanied by the sound of fists pounding flesh.

  A minute later, Deacon emerged from the tent and wiped his hands along the front of his robe. He took a deep breath and sat back down. The wind rustled the tops of the trees and leaves fluttered down to the ground. Deacon picked up Ash Sinclair’s head, braced it against his thighs, and grunted as he twisted the neck bone back and forth until it came free with a loud pop!

  He set the neck bone down, then reached up into the neck cavity to grab handfuls of whatever remained.

  The fleshy pulp inside of Sinclair’s head was cold and wet and stringy, but there were bits of hard tissue and cartilage and brain matter to remove. He dug his way through the neck and mouth and wrapped his fingers around the strings that attached Sinclair’s remaining eyeball and yanked that downward until it came free. He kept scooping until he reached the wrinkled meat of Sinclair’s brain. By the time he was finished, the cloth in front of him was piled with rotted gray clumps crawling with worms and beetles.

  When the skull was denuded and empty, all that remained was the long white hair. Deacon cut the scalp from the surface of the skull and found himself musing that it would be quite wonderful to see the blood and living tissue split beneath the edge of the knife, like when the Natives scalped their enemies alive. He knew the cries of each victim would be loud enough to ring out to the heavens.