Slewfoot

by Brom

  He slapped her, sending her sprawling to the dirt. “I will not allow you to steal my father’s farm!” he snarled. “Do you hear me, girl?” He stepped forward, his eyes simmering with rage, his big hands clenched.

  The woman rolled to her feet, jumped over to where a pitchfork lay in the dirt. She snatched it up, met the man with wild fierce eyes, bared her teeth. “One more step,” she hissed, jabbing the weapon out before her, “and I will stick this in your gut!”

  Father smiled.

  Wallace hesitated. Father sensed his surprise, his uncertainty.

  “You stupid girl,” Wallace spat. “You stupid, stupid, girl. You better start practicing your Pequot, because after you’re done making a mess of everything, they’ll be the only ones who will have you.”

  The man walked back to his horse and mounted the steed. “This is not over,” he called. “Hear me and hear me good when I say I will not let you steal this farm.” His eyes bore into her, his voice dropped down to a hiss. “You are alone in the woods, dear Abitha. Vulnerable … ever so vulnerable. Why, any awful thing could happen to you out here. Do you understand? Anything.” He smiled then, wide and sinister, kicked the horse, and road away at a hard gallop.

  The woman stood there holding the pitchfork in her trembling hands until the hoof clomps faded. Finally, she dropped it, turned and stared into the barn, her chest heaving. But her fear was now replaced with a seething rage. Father could hear, feel, her pulse drumming.

  She headed back into the cabin, returning a moment later marching, almost stomping toward the barn, carrying an iron pail and a long stick of metal and wood, not a spear, but a weapon of some kind. She stopped at the entrance, propped the weapon against the fence. He knew she couldn’t see or hear them, yet she was looking right at the three of them.

  “This is my goddamn farm! My goddamn barn!” she cried, her voice shrill, cracking as though on the edge of sanity. “Leave at once. I command you! Go back to Hell. In the name of God, in the name of all that is holy, in the name of the earth, moon, and stars, in the name of my mother and all her mothers, in the name of every fucking thing, BE GONE!”

  She jabbed her hand into the pail, brought out a fistful of white powder, and threw it into the barn.

  The powder struck Father, stinging his nostrils, burning his eyes. He flinched, clenched his eyes shut as a host of fiery images assailed him: a wiry man, white as ash, with black lines painted down his face and long silver hair, leaping at him, dousing him in yellow powder. Pain, confusion, a mask, a hundred masks, all staring at him, and the wiry man’s laughter ringing in his head. Then the spiders returned, covering him in their sticky web, trying to pull him back down into their prickly darkness.

  No! he thought. No! He shook his head, shaking the spiders away, forcing his eyes open, setting them on the woman, glowering at this vile, nasty woman. He would have her now, would end her wickedness, her bewitchery, forever.

  But the woman wasn’t looking at him; she stared up into the sky. “Why, God … why do you do this to me?” she moaned, dropping to her knees. She buried her face into her hands and began to sob. “I’ve had all I can take. Do you hear me? All I can take!”

  The woman’s emotions blazed so strong that Father felt them burn into him, lucid and visceral. He could all but peer into her soul. He caught a flash of her very thoughts, saw her tying a rope around her own neck.

  Abitha wiped the tears angrily from her eyes, looked past him, through him, into the barn. She pushed herself to her feet, took a rope from the fence, then marched into the barn, her face set and grim.

  She entered a stall, tossed one end of the rope over the beam, tied it off, then tied a loop into the other end. She tested it against her weight; it held. Then she just stood there staring at the rope, her eyes distant and glazed, as one long minute after another passed.

  Father sensed her despair, so deep, so cutting.

  Finally, the woman let out a deep gasp as though she’d been holding her breath this entire time, looked at the mule standing there gazing at her, then back at the rope, then back at the mule, then, to Father’s surprise, she grinned savagely.

  “I am not a stupid girl, Wallace Williams.”

  Abitha took the end of the rope and fastened it to the yoke. She tugged the rope until the yoke hung at eye level with the mule, tied it off, then guided the yoke over the mule’s head, sliding the harness into place. She tied everything down and led the mule out.

  “C’mon, Sid, we’ve some ground to plow.”

  * * *

  Father stumbled from the barn, through the cornfield, steering well clear of the woman as she turned the earth with her mule and plow. He didn’t care about her, not now. He just wanted the pain, the howling in his head, to end, the spiders to leave him be.

  Forest and the wildfolk caught up with him as he entered the woods.

  “What is it, Father? What plagues you so?”

  Father ignored him, continued on until he arrived back at the remnants of the giant tree, and as he entered the circle of stones, at last, some relief from the throbbing in his head. But the spiders, they were still there, out of sight, but there, waiting; he could feel them, hear them scuttling about.

  He collapsed, just lay down in the leaves and stared up at the thin crimson sapling. A spot of sunlight set it to glow and a calmness slowly stole over him.

  Forest, Sky, and Creek sat down around him.

  “Why is it when I close my eyes,” Father asked, “I see masks staring back at me, see spooks cursing me? Why are there spiders waiting to take me into the darkness? Why are there two shadows like mine trying to kill one another? How is it that I feel their pain, that it racks my soul so? Do you know? You must know?”

  “It is the people,” Forest said. “They have put these demons in your head. Have poisoned you just like they poisoned the land. If you want peace, you must drive them away before they are too many. Make them so afraid that they tell all their kin that this is a place of suffering and death, to stay clear lest they wish to be food for the worms. That is your only chance. Our only chance.”

  “You said you brought me back … back from where? From what? What happened to me? Tell me.”

  The wildfolk exchanged an anxious glance; Father caught their fear and uncertainty.

  Forest started to say something, stopped, seemed to reconsider, then started again. “They killed you. They stole your soul.”

  “The people?”

  Forest nodded. “The first tribes. A long time ago. They slaughtered us for our magic, for the fruit of Pawpaw. You tried to stop them, but it was not to be. There was blood, so much blood, our blood, your blood, and—” He gestured to the blackened bones of the tree. “Pawpaw.”

  “And you brought me back … from the dead?”

  “Yes,” Forest said, his brows cinched as though considering. “Perhaps part of you still lingers in the land of the dead? Death does not give up its citizens easily. I do not know. What I do know is that if we can keep Pawpaw safe, can pay it proper tribute, soon, very soon, the tree will reward us with more fruit, more magic, and then … then we will be able to heal you. Make you whole.”

  Father stared into the cave opening, wondered if the howling in his head was the cries of the dead. He closed his eyes, let his mind drift, to follow the sounds, seeking a path, some connection with the ghosts of his past. He saw nothing, but there, for a moment, the howling grew louder.

  “Father!”

  He opened his eyes; the wildfolk appeared spooked, glancing about uneasily.

  “It is best not to call the dead,” Forest cautioned. “Not here.… The worlds around Pawpaw are thin. We must be careful what doors we open.” Forest studied him a moment longer. “Father, we lost you, we lost Pawpaw. All because of their greed. The people. We must not allow that to happen again. You are our guardian; you have always been our guardian, the lord of the wilderness, the slayer. Save us and you will save yourself. That is the only path.”

  Father
sensed the opossum was holding something back. There is more, he thought, struggling to pierce the hazy shadows of his mind. He stared up into the trees, watched them sway in the soft breeze, watched the sun drift slowly across the sky, hour after hour, until it began to sink from view, trying to let go, to let his mind drift. The memories are there, so close, so very close.

  A star appeared in the cloudless night, sparkled, another, then another, then a hundred thousand. Father drank in their ancient light. He watched an owl fly soundlessly past. The insects and night creatures began their songs. The moon peeked out from behind the hills, bathing the forest in its silver glow.

  Are you not the same moon from my other life? he wondered, fixing on it, trying to push through the thin veil of time, listening again for the voices of the ghosts. And there, faintly, from down in the pit, the calls and bellows of beasts from a distant night. He closed his eyes and the moon was still there, but bigger now. There were shapes in the distance, large and small, just shadows, but he knew them, called to them, but they didn’t seem to hear. He called again, a long howl from somewhere deep in his soul, and this time, this time, they called back. Their sounds growing, coming closer and closer until they sounded as though they were in the forest with him.

  Father opened his eyes and sat up.

  The wildfolk were all staring at the cave, their faces full of alarm.

  “Father!” Forest hissed. “No!”

  A fog began to drift from the cave; it smelled of things long dead, snaking along, the moonlight setting its twisting tendrils aglow. He heard a howl, another, hollow echoes, as though from a dream. Movement in the fog caught his attention, its tendrils swirling together, forming ghostly shapes, creatures of all sorts and sizes.

  “I know you,” Father whispered. He saw bears and long-tooth cats, elk and bison, and wolves, dozens of wolves, all trotting along, their feet not touching the ground. The lightning bugs began to chase after them, swarming around them, illuminating their ghostly forms with their golden glow.

  “You have awakened the dead!” Forest whispered.

  Their howls and bellows echoed around Father, tugging at his heart. The pain, the throbbing in his head, began to melt away. He felt light, so very light, as though he could just float away. He stood, started to follow them.

  “No!” Forest cried, dashing in front of Father. “You must not!”

  “They’re calling me.”

  “Yes, to join them in the land of the dead.”

  “They can show me my past. I need to see. Need to find the missing pieces!”

  “If you follow ghosts you will become a ghost. Now come back!”

  Father gasped as a mighty mammoth came striding from the fog, strolling boldly through the parade of beasts as though lord of all. It thrust its trunk skyward and trumpeted, the eerie blast filling Father’s heart and soul. “Yes, yes! I remember this!”

  Father pushed Forest aside, broke into a light canter, then a gallop, his hooves kicking up the leaves as he chased after the spectral creatures, disappearing into the fog and trees.

  “Stop!” Forest cried, running after him. “It is a trick! Heed me. Father! Heed me!”

  CHAPTER 4

  Creek nudged Forest.

  The opossum sat up quick, scanned the clouds. “Yes, there. I see him!”

  A raven flew down through the trees and alighted on a stone by the crimson sapling. It was Sky.

  “Well?” Forest asked, but he already knew the answer, could read it on the raven’s face.

  Sky shook his head sorrowfully.

  “Nothing? Tracks? Mutilated corpses … anything?”

  Again, Sky shook his head.

  Creek prodded Forest.

  “I know not what it means, Creek. I am as blind as you. Is Father lost in the land of the dead? His soul floating around in purgatory? Or has he wandered a thousand leagues from here? How will we know?”

  Sky bobbed.

  “No, do not say that,” Forest snapped. “He is not with Mamunappeht. How do I know? Because if he were … Mamunappeht would have already come for us, for the tree.”

  Neither Sky nor Creek argued this point, but it didn’t seem to lessen their worry. They’d all been searching, scouring every nook and cranny for miles around, all the haunted places where the ghosts might have led Father, searching for going on nearly a month, day after day, night after night. Summer is almost upon us, and still not a single clue to his whereabouts.

  “I know not what went wrong. Why do you keep asking me as though it were my fault? What is your guess?”

  “No, it is not like before. Stop saying that. This is different. It will pass.” But he knew that Father was showing all the same troubling signs. No, Mother Earth, I beg you, do not let it happen again.

  Creek bobbed.

  Forest sighed. “Yes, it does keep coming back to that. I can think of nothing else. As much as it pains me to admit, we are not what we used to be. It seems even together, even with our blood mixed with that of the fruit, we did not have enough magic to complete the spell … not over such a distance. I agree, he is not whole. I fear part of him is still with Mamunappeht.”

  Sky and Creek winced.

  “He spoke of spiders in his head. What else could that mean?”

  Again, they winced.

  “Tell Father what? The truth? Do you really feel it is as simple as that?”

  Forest could see that they did.

  “No. He is broken, his heart and soul confused. What do you think will happen if we tell him about Mamunappeht?”

  Forest waited, but he could see they knew the answer.

  “That’s right, he will go to the shaman. Will confront him. Do you feel he is ready for that?”

  Neither answered.

  Forest sighed. “And if the shaman finds out Father is free, where do you think is the first place he will come?”

  Creek and Sky both looked up anxiously at the crimson sapling.

  “That’s right. It will all be over. That is why, if we ever do find Father, we must keep things simple. Let us not muddle his mind with what he was before, with past mistakes and failures. For now, it is blood that he needs. If we want him to be the slayer, he must slay. He must swim in their blood, then he will be strong again, will drive them away.” Forest’s voice rose, full of vengeance and ardor. “Pawpaw will grow tall, give us such a bounty that even Mamunappeht will cower before us. And … and—”

  Forest looked up at the thin crimson sapling, no taller than the average man, swaying there in the light breeze, with not a fruit, a flower, not so much as a bud upon its branches. He let out a great sigh. “But first we must find Father … find him before Mamunappeht does.”

  * * *

  Abitha stared at a small apple tree near Edward’s beehives, marveled at the luscious low-hanging fruit. The leaves of the tree were a stunning crimson and she wondered how it was she’d never noticed this extraordinary tree before. The apples were bloodred and without a doubt the most delicious-looking she’d ever seen. Her mouth watered and she walked over, started to grab one, heard a hiss, and yanked her hand back. A silky black serpent with red eyes lay coiled about the limb.

  “Hello, Abitha,” someone said, a woman’s voice, low and soothing.

  Abitha searched for the speaker, then realized it was the snake.

  “Go on,” the serpent said. “Take one. They are for you, my child. They will help you see.”

  Abitha reached again, stopped. The serpent was gone, but Abitha still heard her voice. “Just be wary of the spiders.”

  “Spiders?” Abitha didn’t see any spiders.

  She plucked the fruit. It glistened with dew, felt firm and ripe, smelled so sweet. Her mouth watered and she took a bite. When she did, the apple twitched. She looked at it, at the gash where she’d bitten. It was bleeding, like an open wound. The blood bubbled, then dark prickly legs began to emerge. They were spiders, tiny black spiders, dozens of them! They spilled out of the apple, onto her hand. She threw do
wn the apple, tried to spit the rest from her mouth, and that was when she felt them on her tongue, her teeth, the roof of her mouth, squirming and twisting, pricking and prodding. She opened her mouth to scream, but couldn’t as they were in her throat.

  Abitha sat up in bed, choking, coughing as she fought to breathe. She swatted at her arms, her hair, her face—but there were no spiders, only her cat, Booka, staring at her from the blanket.

  Abitha jumped from bed, dashed to the door, threw it open wide, letting in dawn’s light, washing away all the shadows, all the dark places where tiny spiders might hide. She stood staring out into the yard, watching the hens scratch about as the early light set the fog to glow.

  She noticed how dusty the ground was becoming. It was June now, spring rain had given over to the warm days of summer, the land slowly drying up. This brought on the realization that Edward had been gone from her life for nearly two months now. Yet this didn’t stop her from looking for him around every corner, expecting to see him out in the field, or to come walking out of the forest at any moment with a bright smile just for her.

  “Edward,” she whispered, and sat down right there on the doorstep, clutching herself, trying to remember the warm sound of his voice. Then, all at once, she noticed just how bright the morning was. “God’s nails!” She leapt to her feet. “Booka, it is Sunday. I must not be late!”

  She washed her face in the water bowl, scrubbing away as much of the grime as she could. She grabbed her best skirt, noticed the tattered hem, but slipped it on anyway. I’ll get to that, she promised herself, then laughed bitterly at the mere thought that she’d ever have time for such things again.