by Brom
Father saw only a struggling sapling, no taller than himself, sprouting out from the top of the massive stone trunk.
“We have our Pawpaw and now we have you, our guardian. A clear sign that the time of the wildfolk has returned!”
None of this made much sense to Father, and he started to say as much when a lone ray of sunshine broke through the trees, alighting on the sapling. The light glistened off the leaves, shimmering deep crimson, dazzling Father. A wave of dizziness overcame him and he clasped the dark stone to steady himself, and when he did, he felt a faint pulse emanating from the rocks. He shut his eyes and let out a moan.
“What is it?” Forest asked. “What do you see?”
“Nothing, I—” Heat shot into his hand and then a flash, just a flash, but he saw the massive tree reaching up into the sky, towering above all other trees, its crimson leaves blowing furiously in a wild wind. Fire, smoke, blood, so much blood as to saturate the very ground. He tried to hold the vision, to see more, but the pulse, the vision all faded. “Blood,” Father said. “Always so much blood.”
“Good,” Forest said. “Blood is your language, your soul, your purpose. Mother Earth is showing you that you are her slayer, her champion, her guardian, that you must protect her pawpaw tree.”
Sky and Creek, who Father realized seemed not to speak, not with words anyway, nodded.
“The tree, Pawpaw, produced a fruit!” Forest said this with all the awe and reverence his small voice could muster. “One fruit … but the fruit is full of big magic, and that is how we brought you back. How Pawpaw brought you back. So, listen, hear us. You must not let the tree down. As it grows, so does its magic, so does our magic. If we, if you, can keep the tree safe, it will give us more of its precious fruit. And with that magic we will, at last, reclaim all that was stolen from us! Do you understand? It is time for you to go forth and drive them back. Time to be the slayer!”
“I am the … slayer?”
“You are the slayer.”
Father still felt unsure, but he nodded. “I am the slayer.”
The faces of the wildfolk lit up.
“Follow us!” Forest called, and the three wildfolk dashed away up the slope, heading toward the foul smells.
Father followed and a short walk later stopped at a cluster of felled trees and burnt stumps.
Forest jabbed a finger at the toppled trees. “See, look! The people, they did this. Closer and closer they come to Pawpaw!” Forest’s face twisted into fear, then anger, the two other wildfolk mirroring his expression. “We are out of time,” he spat. “We have to stop them, must stop them! How long before they set their blades to Pawpaw? How long, I ask you? And the day that happens, we are done, all done. If you cannot understand anything else, understand that!”
Father could clearly see that the line of the felled trees was leading down toward the crimson sapling, felt an instinctive anger building in his heart, his gut. He grunted and started toward the smell.
The wildfolk followed him up to the edge of the field. Father took in the turned soil, the livestock in their foul pens, the structures built from timber.
“Look upon it,” Forest hissed. “See how they cut down the trees, dirty our water, burn our nests and burrows. They are a plague killing our magic, our very souls.” He shook his small fist. “And now they are here, upon our last sanctuary.”
Father watched a thin trail of white smoke drift up from the main structure. He sensed a great sadness, then spotted a woman crossing the yard toward the pens. She was different than the women in his dream, their flesh being copper in tone, while hers was pale. She was covered in clothing, even her hair captured in cloth. He didn’t like it, didn’t like anything about her, not her smell, her pasty skin, but most of all that she kept these animals in pens, in their own filth. He growled.
Forest smiled at Father. “Yes, there you are. There is our slayer. Now, let us go introduce ourselves to this woman.”
* * *
Abitha walked into the barn, scattering a handful of hens, the lot of them clucking at her reproachfully as though she had no place there. She strolled up to the mule, leaned her cheek against the animal’s neck, and gently stroked its forehead. “All right, Sid,” she said, speaking softly. “We can do it. Me and you. But we must work together. All right?”
The mule flicked its ears.
“Good boy. Now, let us get you harnessed up.” Abitha stepped over to where the yoke hung on the rail. The yoke was made of wood, iron, and leather and looked heavy. She gave it a tug; it barely budged. She’d seen Edward do this numerous times and it hadn’t looked difficult, but then Edward had been much stronger than her. The trick was getting the yoke over the mule’s head and onto its shoulders, a trick made doubly difficult by her small frame, her being but eye to eye with the beast. She got a firm grip on the yoke, sucked in a deep breath, and slid it off the rail.
“Shit,” she hissed between her teeth. The yoke felt to weigh nearly as much as she did. She struggled not to lose her grip as she waddled toward the mule. With an immense effort she hefted it to her chest and shoved it up and forward, hoping to get it over Sid’s head. The mule backed away, causing Abitha to miss her mark, and both Abitha and the yoke tumbled into the dirt.
“God’s nails!” she cried, and slapped the earth, sending up a fresh ruckus amongst the hens.
She got to her feet and grabbed the yoke again, lifting it up onto her knee with a loud grunt, then to her chest, almost falling over backward in the process. Again she wobbled toward the mule; again the mule dodged and Abitha fell.
“I cannot. I just cannot!” She felt the sting of tears, got to her feet, and headed out of the barn. She stopped at the entrance and stared at the unplowed field. Do not leave. You leave this barn now and you might as well just keep going right up to Wallace’s door and tell him the farm is his. She turned, glaring at the yoke. You have to do this. Have to.
She marched back, this time backing the mule against the stall, leaving it no room to escape.
“Please, Sid. Now, stand still.” She stooped, wrapped her fingers around the yoke. “All right, one, two, three!” She lifted it atop her knee again, then maneuvered forward, keeping a close eye on the mule. “Easy, boy. Easy.” She swung the yoke up to her chest and shoved it toward the beast. Sid ducked his head at the last moment, causing the yoke to hit his shoulder. The mule brayed and leapt forward, knocking the yoke onto Abitha. She fell back and the yoke landed on top of her.
Abitha cried out, struggling to get the yoke off her, but she was pinned. She started to call for Edward, his name actually on her tongue, before she caught herself. That was when the tears came.
“Why, Edward?” she cried, all but snarling through her teeth. “Why did you leave me?” She was stunned by the anger in her own voice. “Damn it, Edward, it is so hard alone!” A fresh round of tears burned down her cheeks. “I miss you … miss you so damn much,” she sobbed. “You hear me? Wherever you are, you better hear me.” A sudden wave of regret swept over her as she recalled the last words between them—her accusing him of sounding like her father. The look of pain on his face and him only trying to look after her, keep her safe amongst this clan of vipers. And what she would do now to have him beside her, to hear him fretting so after her well-being. “I am sorry, Edward. God, please tell him, at least give me that, tell him I did not mean it … that I love him. Please, God, you owe me that!”
She shoved the yoke, putting all her anger, her sorrow, into it, rolling it off her. She sat up, cradling her arm, sure it was broken. She flexed it, winced from the pain. It appeared sound, but she knew come morning it would be stiff and covered in bruises.
Abitha heard a meow and felt warm fur pressing against her side. It was Booka, her orange, one-eyed tabby. She’d rescued the cat from a few dogs in the village many months ago and the poor thing’s back had healed poorly, was bent and his tail twisted. He pushed his way into her lap, nudging her hand. She stroked his lumpy fur and he began to pu
rr.
Abitha wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I am all right, Booka. I just need—” She heard a sound, a faint thump, and what, a hiss? It had come from farther back in the barn, near the sacks of corn seed.
Do we have rats now? Yet one more trouble, atop all my troubles?
She stared at the seed, knowing it was already April, that she had to get them in the ground and soon, wondering how she would ever do that if she couldn’t so much as hitch a mule to a plow. “Just need a little help, that’s all,” she whispered. But from where and from whom? She had no money to hire anyone and besides, everyone was too busy getting their own seed in the ground.
Another thump, followed by what sounded like a child’s giggle, mocking and cruel.
The hens let loose a flurry of clucking and fled the barn, the two nanny goats bleated from their pen, and Sid snorted in his stall. Booka leapt from Abitha’s lap, stood staring toward the back of the barn, his fur raised.
Abitha stood up, searching the shadows. She spotted a pitchfork and stepped quietly over and picked it up. She waited, and just when she was beginning to doubt she’d heard anything, the giggle came again, crawling under her skin. She shuddered, leveled the pitchfork in the direction of the sound, wondering if it might be one of the native folk, suddenly aware of just how alone she was.
A large raven strolled from the shadows. It was just a black shape there in the dark, but she could tell it was staring at her. It snickered, sounding uncannily human, causing the hair on Abitha’s arms to prickle.
The mule stomped nervously.
Need to get the musket, Abitha thought, and began backing up while keeping her eyes on the strange bird.
A chuckle came from behind Abitha; she spun, pitchfork ready.
An opossum blocked the entrance of the barn, too long, too thin, and grinning.
Abitha caught movement from the corner of her eye—a dark looming figure. Before she could turn, a rough hand clutched her neck and all feeling left her. She dropped the pitchfork and collapsed, her head striking the ground hard. Her vision blurred, and when it unblurred she saw the opossum stroll up, walking on its hind legs like a small person. The raven landed next to it, then something that made even less sense: a fish swam over, just floating in the air beside the others. Slowly their faces changed into those of children, all three smiling and staring at her with small black eyes.
They began to chant, bopping up and down as their words crawled into her head and the world began to spin. “Blood, blood, blood!”
Abitha tried to scream, managed only a strangled cry, before it, the dark figure, was beside her. It leaned over her, all shadows and colliding shapes, but she saw its eyes, and she saw its horns, and she saw its hooves.
The Devil has come for me! She clawed the dirt, tried to get away, but her body was numb and she could barely move.
It ran long spidery fingers through her hair, down her forehead, then clasped her face between hot, clammy hands. She felt its hunger, its craving.
God save me!
Its hand slid around her throat, tightened, squeezing until she couldn’t breathe and her pulse hammered against its fingers.
And still the little creatures danced about, chanting, their black eyes alive with glee.
The world began to dim.
Abitha felt a throbbing, realized it was a pulse, a heartbeat, that it was coming from the thing’s hands. The pulse fell in rhythm with her own, as though sharing one heart.
The Devil let out a harsh gasp. Its silver eyes blazed. She felt their heat as it glared at her, into her, and suddenly she shared its heart, its mind, felt its shock, its confusion, felt them blend with her own.
It let out a moan and so did she as the world swam in and out of focus, faded to black, then erupted in a blast of heat and bright flame.
Abitha found herself standing in a circle of huts. They were on fire and people were running and screaming; mutilated bodies lay everywhere. The air smelled of blood and acrid smoke. She saw a shadow—cast long by the flames—of a beast with great horns, standing on its hind legs. The shadow split, tearing into two separate but identical shadows. The two shadows began to tussle, then to tear into each other, clawing and ripping each other apart. She felt every wound as though it were her own flesh tearing.
There came a long cry of anguish and pain; it came from the beast, it came from her, turning into a howl, louder and louder until she felt sure it would rip open her throat.
Thunder rumbled and sooty rain began to fall, only it wasn’t rain, but to her great horror, spiders, tiny black spiders—hundreds, thousands, millions, blotting out the very sky. They covered her arms, her legs, her face until she couldn’t move. They crawled into her mouth, her nose, her ears, her eyes until she couldn’t see, hear, smell, or breathe, and her pulse, their pulse, slowed, faded, then died, and all became darkness, nothing but endless darkness.
* * *
Abitha opened her eyes, unsure where she was.
“Spiders,” she whispered, sat up fast, glancing anxiously around. There were no spiders, but the barn held plenty of shadows. She blinked, trying to clear her vision. Where were they? The thing, the beast, the little creatures?
She spotted the pitchfork, grabbed it, and staggered drunkenly toward the sunlight—sunlight and salvation.
“Jesus, God! Do not forsake me!”
She made it out of the barn, dropped the pitchfork, fell down, almost impaling herself on its sharp prongs, pulled herself back up, and stumbled to the cabin. She ducked inside, slamming the door and sliding the heavy bar into place. She grabbed the musket, put her back against the far wall, trembling and panting as she waited for it to come and bash down her door.
What am I doing in the wilds by myself? Why did I not listen?
Blood trickled into her eye and she dabbed at a small gash on her forehead, found a good-sized knot there. She glanced at the musket, wondering what good it would do against a devil, and snatched up Edward’s bible off the mantel, clutching it to her chest like some protective talisman.
A minute crawled by, another, and when several more went by without the foul beast busting through the door, without a thousand spiders swarming up through the floorboards, her breathing began to slow, her thoughts to clear. What was that? What cursed thing is out there? She touched the bump on her head. Am I losing my mind? Seeing things? God, Jesus, help me! She heard a voice, not that of God or Jesus, but of her mother. You know what you must do.
Abitha shook her head. No … I cannot. Her eyes shifted from the door to the bed, where the corner of a tattered traveling bag jutted out—it was the one she’d brought over from England. She’d emptied it except for one thing: a small tied pouch that had once belonged to her mother.
Leave it, Abitha thought, but she continued to stare at the bag and there was no stopping the memories. She clenched her eyes shut, trying to block them out, trying to stay sane, but her head felt light from the blow and she was growing dizzy and the memories flooded in, so vivid, so real—Abitha there, in her mother’s garden shed, but twelve years old, her mother not yet cold in the grave, one more uncounted victim of the plague sweeping through London.
She watched herself digging frantically through her mother’s cabinet. It was night and she had but a small candle to see by as she shuffled about bowls of herbs and roots, bottles of dried beetles and spiders, looking for the book. It was here, she knew it. She had to find it now, right now, before he showed up.
She slid open a drawer, discovered a few books, but not the book. She quickly tugged them out, and there, finally, hidden beneath them all, she found it—several dozen sheets of tattered parchment sewn together between two thick pieces of worn goat hide.
She flipped it open, glancing over the hundreds of scribbles, sketches, and marks, some in her mother’s sharp penmanship but most by others. Her mother called it her recipe book—an irreplaceable collection of remedies passed down from one generation of cunning women to the next. Abitha’s fondest memori
es were of her mother going over them with her, teaching her how to decipher the symbols and codes, teaching her the most basic potions and ointments.
Abitha reached the back of the book and stopped. The edges of the last few pages were black as though pulled from a fire. These were the ones her mother had forbidden her to look at. Abitha hesitated; she knew that the book contained more than remedies, that her mother’s cunning craft was not limited to root medicine, that she had the sight and told fortunes, that it was even rumored on rare occasions she’d acted as a conduit to call dead loved ones to speak with their families. But Abitha felt sure what was written on the black pages went deeper.
She flipped the page and for a moment forgot all about her purpose as she stared at the dark scrawling. She could only decipher bits of it here and there, but enough to know them for what they were—curses, poisons, doors to the dead. She shuddered. She’d never known her mother to stray into such dark places, but everyone had their secrets.
A creak came from the door. Abitha started, slapped the book shut, glancing furtively behind her. He would be here any moment, and anything she didn’t hide he would destroy. She would never have another chance. She stuffed the book into her bodice, but she wasn’t done. There was one other item that she had to save, had to. She continued searching, digging through drawer after drawer.
“Where is it?” she hissed, trying to quell her panic. “Think. Where would she have put it?”
Abitha froze.
Someone was there, in the shed with her.
She glanced round.
No one.
She caught a scent, lavender and sage, like the sachet her mother always wore about her neck.
“Mother?”
Abitha stood up, looked about, and saw it, the braid, the item she was searching for. It was just lying atop the desk in plain sight. She knew it hadn’t been there before. “Mother … are you with me?”