by Brom
“But … I thought all debt would be tied to the property.”
“Wallace’s debt to Mansfield doesn’t affect your debt to him. It will still be owed.”
“He can do that? Even if I lose the land?”
“I am afraid he can.”
Abitha’s heart raced. Oh, Lord, what have I gotten myself into?
“You should marry as soon as you may. It’s your only escape of this.”
“It is not so easy as that.”
“Nay, I understand. One does not just pick a husband like an apple from a tree. But there are several here in great need of a wife. There is Simon Dibble. He were asking after you. Or mayhap Winifred Howell?”
Abitha tried to hide her distaste.
“I know, they’re both much too old and Simon widowed twice now.” Goodwife Carter sighed. “There are others, I am sure, but Wallace has made it clear to any would-be suitors that you are his business and to leave you be. None wish to cross him. And for good reason, as you well know.”
His business, Abitha thought, realizing what all this truly meant, that should her farm fail, none could marry her, unless they paid her debt in full to Wallace first—then, only if Wallace agreed. He had her. He could make her work for him or even loan out her labors. She would all but be his slave.
Goodwife Carter shook her head and Abitha caught the woman struggling with her anger. “Lord forgive me for speaking so, but he is such a foul man. He has let greed and pride corrupt his soul. And, I hate to say this, even think it, but I fear that man is not above bloodshed. I fear he might bring grave harm upon you given the chance. You must stay vigilant, Abi, and do not travel without Edward’s musket. I do hate that you are all alone out there. I would—” Goodwife Carter’s eyes shifted to something behind Abitha. “Ansel Fitch, come out from there this instant.”
The craggy old man slid out from behind a bush, his face flushed red, his bulbous eyes cast downward.
“You have been warned about this skulking around, about eavesdropping on folk. Now be gone before I call the reverend.”
Ansel appeared offended. “I was doing no such thing! I was but looking for tracks. Devil tracks. One must always be diligent.”
Goodwife Carter didn’t bother with a response, just bore into him with her cold stern eyes.
Ansel withered and wandered away, grumbling beneath his breath.
“And that one,” Goodwife Carter said. “He will be the ruin of us all. Spreading fear with his wicked tongue. If he truly wishes to find a devil, he need but look to himself.” She returned her gaze to Abitha and her eyes softened. She sighed. “Abitha, there is not much I can do for you, but what I can, I will.”
The kindness in Sarah Carter’s voice was almost more than Abitha could bear. This stern woman treating her like a person, a friend even—it was all she could do not to burst into tears. “Pray for rain,” Abitha said, unable to hide the quiver in her voice. “That is the only way out for me.”
“Here,” Goodwife Carter said. “Something for you.” She pulled a bundle from her apron and handed it to Abitha. “This is not charity. Charity is for those who cannot help themselves. You are worth twice many of the men here.”
Abitha took a peek. It was a goodly amount of salted fish. The tears began to flow then and she quickly wiped them away.
Sarah Carter laughed behind her hand. “A few tears are good, dear. Now all the nosy-bodies watching us will think I have given you a good tongue-lashing.” She caught Abitha’s hand and squeezed it. “I will pray for that rain.”
* * *
Father sat up, tearing away the moss and vines growing on and over him. He searched about for the endless piles of bones but found none. He sucked in the rich fragrance of the pines and ferns, knew he must be back amongst the living. He wondered just how long he’d been away staring at that gray river? He tugged a clump of moss from his fur and concluded it had been a while indeed. And yet still I have no answers.
Buzzing filled his ears, and he watched several bumblebees bounce from flower to flower. He found their hum soothing, and there, at the moment, felt he could watch them forever. He drank in the scent of flowers, the sweet warm air, the sunlight flittering through the dense leaves. He plucked a flower, studied it, then crushed it in his fist. I will know who I am.
Father felt a presence drawing near. He climbed slowly to his feet, brushing the dirt and bugs from his fur as the tread of feet drew steadily closer.
He noticed a wide trail, crept up to it, hid behind a massive oak, and waited.
She came around the far bend, moving at a steady clip, her eyes darting in all directions.
It’s her … Abitha.
As she approached, he sensed her dread, her heart drumming in her chest, then smelled her blood, and his hunger returned, swept over him, all but overwhelming him.
She drew even, and he let loose a low snarl.
Abitha snapped her head his way, staring wide-eyed into the woods, then dashed off, running away up the trail.
Father stepped out onto the path, watched her disappear around the far bend. He bared his fangs and started after her, then stopped. What was that? He cocked his head, listening.
He waited.
It came again. A yowl, that of a beast, from deep back in the woods. The pitiful sound hit him hard, set his heart to racing, and he found himself torn as to which way to go. He glanced back and forth from the trail to the woods.
There came a sound like distant thunder, followed by another yowl full of pain and anguish.
Father snarled and dashed into the forest, heading toward the yowl at a full gallop, leaping over logs and streams as he flew through the trees. He crested a rise and there, just at the bottom of the slope, one of the new people, a man. He carried a long metal weapon, smoke drifting from the end of its barrel.
Several wolves stood growling, guarding a den on the far side of the bank, another lying on the ground, bleeding from a large hole in its side, its breath coming fast and shallow.
The man jammed a rod down the barrel of his weapon, shouldered it, and, to Father’s dismay, sent a blast of thunder and sparks toward the wolves. There came a yelp and another of the wolves fell.
“No!” Father snarled.
The man spun, saw him, his eyes going wide. He jammed a load into the barrel as fast as his shaking hands could move.
Father came for the man, tearing straight through the dense brush and briars, coming at a full gallop.
The man brought the weapon level and fired.
Father felt something slap into his chest, spinning him, knocking him off his feet. He touched the spot where he’d been hit, looked at the black blood, then at the man.
“Devil!” the man cried, and began reloading.
Father pushed to his feet, clomping toward the man.
The man fumbled the load, screamed, and swung the weapon. Father knocked it aside, leaping upon him, clawing and tearing, driving the man to the ground. Father shoved his snout beneath the man’s chin, locking his teeth on the man’s throat and tearing it open. Hot blood spurted into his mouth and still he didn’t stop, wouldn’t, allowing the blood to take him, biting and tearing, shredding the man wide open, unleashing all his rage, his misery and anguish. Drinking the blood, the sweet, sweet blood, feeling it course through his body, his heart. He let out a moan, drinking and slurping, only stopping when there was no more blood to drink.
Father sat up, panting and dripping in gore. He felt a slight sting on his chest where the man had shot him, touched the wound. It was all but healed.
He heard a snarl, wiped the blood from his muzzle along his forearm, and looked about. The wolves were creeping over, their ears back, growling.
Father tore a strip of flesh from the dead man and held it out.
A she-wolf, the largest of the pack, crept closer, closer, her hackles up, her lips peeled, snarling. She snatched the meat away, devoured it.
When she returned, Father extended his hand. The she-wolf sniffed
it and her fur settled, her ears sat up. She began licking Father’s fingers.
The rest of the pack shuffled up, tails down submissively, as one by one, Father fed them strips of the man’s flesh. A sense of rightness flooded over him and he realized how good it felt to save them from the man, that some part of him craved this, needed it. Was Forest speaking the truth? Is this indeed who I truly am then? The guardian … the slayer? Is it blood that will heal me?
“Lewis,” someone called from far away.
Father and the wolves all looked in the direction of the sound.
Again, this time closer. “Lewis!”
The wolves began to growl.
“Lewis! Where are you?” Another man crested the rise, a much younger man. He spotted the wolves, then the bloody corpse, then Father. “Oh, God!” he cried, then turned and ran.
Father stood up, started after the youth, and the wolves followed. He began to run, to gallop, and the wolves ran with him. Father topped the rise, spotted the young man fleeing, let loose a howl, and the pack howled with him.
The young man glanced back, his face one of utter terror. He screamed, threw aside his sack, his weapon, lowered his head, and dashed headlong through the forest, barreling through the brambles.
The scream ignited Father’s pulse. He grinned, letting the blood take him.
Father chased the youth over one hill and down another, catching up with him in a wide meadow. He did not pounce, not yet, but ran alongside of the youth, savoring the thrill of the hunt as the wolves ran with him. And there, in that moment, he felt whole, complete.
“Yes,” he whispered. “This is what I am. The father of the wild things, the warder, the hunter, the slayer!”
The young man saw Father’s dreadful grin and screamed, his eyes bulging as he tried to run even faster.
The youth stumbled, went sprawling, and Father and the wolves encircled him.
The youth got to his knees, clasped his hands tightly together before him. “Oh, God, Jesus, please save me!”
Father barely heard the youth over his drumming pulse, drinking in the smell of hot sweat, blood, and fear. He grabbed the young man by the hair, lifted him to his feet.
“I beg of you. Spare me, Satan! Spare me!”
Father thrust his snout into the youth’s neck and tore open his throat. Drinking long and deep as the blood gushed into his mouth, coursed down his neck and chest. He let him go and the youth collapsed to the ground, twitching and jerking, clutching the terrible wound.
Father met the hungry eyes of the wolves, nodded, and they set upon the youth, tearing into him, finishing him.
Father watched them feed and again felt that overwhelming sense of rightness. “I am the slayer.”
He thrust back his head and howled. The wolves joined him, the forest ringing for miles with their mournful call.
Father started away, and the wolves followed. He began to run, to gallop, and the wolves raced with him through the woods.
He saw the first stars above through the trees, spotted the waning moon, and it was not long before the ghosts began to appear, joining them as they ran, their howls melding together, creating a symphony of the living and the dead.
Father crested a ridge and spotted flickering lights in the valley below, made out the shapes of buildings. He stopped, stared. The new people, he thought, and felt the hunger return. “I am the slayer.”
* * *
It was late July, the summer heat at its peak, and Wallace sat in Lord Mansfield’s office, glad to be out of the hot sun. Magistrate Watson sat across from him, fanning his round moist face with a hand fan.
“And there is no chance Abitha can bring in that corn?” Lord Mansfield asked from behind his desk.
“None,” Wallace said with no hesitation. “I rode by just last week. As you well know we’ve had next to no rain this summer.… The heat has dried up most of her crop. Even if it were to start raining and the small bit left were to yield, I can assure you, it would not bear nearly enough.”
Lord Mansfield leaned back, looking relieved. “It appears the good Lord no more approves of this woman’s doings than do we.”
“She is wretched,” Wallace said. “Appears half-starved, gaunt, with dark circles under her eyes. Has taken on too much … used herself up.” Wallace thought of how she’d looked toiling in that hot sun, drenched in sweat, her hair hanging down into her face, matted and tangled, wearing only a soiled blouse and skirt, no bonnet or shoes, her feet filthy. “Any sane person could see it is a lost cause. But I am afraid her mind is going. I watched her trying to water the field one pail at a time.”
The men exchanged stunned looks.
“Poor creature, she has indeed lost her way,” Lord Mansfield said.
“She has not even made it to church now for many a Sunday.”
“What?” Magistrate Watson gasped. “How is that?”
“Reverend Carter, he has taken pity on her. Has given her leave due to hardship.”
“That man has no pity,” the magistrate said. “I grant you he is doing this to spite us.”
“I can tell you, neither her nor his actions sit well with the village. They fear such heresy will lead to God turning His back on us. There are those who have been unhappy with him for a long time. There is even some talk of ousting him from the village.”
“I for one would be glad to see that happen,” the magistrate added.
“Well,” Lord Mansfield said. “It sounds as though we need no longer worry about the reverend or this Abitha Williams. No, this is a simple matter now; since it is obvious Abitha will fail to make her payment, we need only wait. So here, let us do this, let us extend the deadline. So long as you have the deed to Edward’s acres to me by the end of October, then all is as we originally agreed. What say you to that?”
It took a moment for Wallace to speak. “I … I say bless you, sir. God bless you.”
Lord Mansfield smiled and extended his hand.
Wallace took it and the two men shook heartily.
* * *
The doe dashed down into the canyon, racing to make it out of the gully ahead of her pursuers, not knowing her way was already cut off. She spotted three wolves coming for her, kicked, spun, tried to dart up the embankment, only to lose her footing. Before she could find her feet, Father was there—a hard strike to the side of her head, snapping her neck.
The wolves piled on, snarling and snapping as they tore the animal apart, fighting for the choicest morsels.
Father stepped forward and the wolves withdrew, growling, baring their bloody teeth. Father jabbed his hand into the doe’s mangled underbelly, forcing his hand up into her chest, probing until he found what he wanted, what he needed. He tore out her heart, held it above his face, and squeezed the blood into his mouth.
Father stepped away, letting the wolves return to their feast. He sat down, his back against a tree, sucking in the smell of blood and gore as the wolves devoured the doe. He closed his eyes and waited for the blood to push away the shadows, the pain. And for a moment it did, and for a moment Father felt whole. He saw visions of a wild forest with beasts and wildfolk frolicking about. He sucked in a breath, caught the faintest whiff of honeysuckle. He nodded, a ghost of a smile on his face, then, there—a black spot on the edge of his vision, another, another, wiggling. The spiders came crawling back and with them the pain. “No!” Father cried, and opened his eyes.
The wolves stared at him, shifting nervously from paw to paw.
“How long has it been?” he asked them. “How long have we been running together, hunting, slaying, drinking the blood of our kills?”
They of course didn’t answer, couldn’t, just stared at him.
Father felt sure the moon was full when he’d met them, and it was almost full again. A month then, and still the spiders will not leave me be. Another wave of pain hit him, that feeling of being fractured, of being torn in two. He winced, climbed to his feet holding his head, began to stumble away, walking aimless
ly through the woods.
The she-wolf broke from the pack and followed him.
Father came across a wide path. He studied the deep ruts. “It is one of theirs, isn’t it? One of the new people’s roads.”
The she-wolf looked down the road, sniffed—growled.
“Do you think Forest might have been right after all? That it is their blood I need … the people.”
Father followed the road, the big wolf trotting along beside him, and it wasn’t long before he smelled them—their sweat, their rubbish, their waste. The smell growing, gradually becoming overbearing.
The she-wolf sat down, would go no farther. Father sensed her fear, her hatred of the people, much like that of the wildfolk.
“Do not fear, wolf, today is their day to bleed.” Father continued on his own until he spied rooftops. He stopped at the forest’s edge, studying the jagged wall built from felled trees. He heard voices coming toward him and slid back into the brush as a grayed-haired woman led a small child past. The woman carried a pail, and when she reached the thicket, set it down, started picking blackberries and dropping them in.
The old woman drifted deeper into the bushes, loading the berries into her apron as she went, leaving the boy, a child of maybe three years of age, alone by the pail.
Father left the brush, heading for the boy, and with each step felt his pulse quicken, his hunger grow, the bloodlust becoming its own animal.
The boy spotted Father, staring at him, his face covered in berry juice. Father expected the child to begin shrieking, but to his surprise the child smiled.
Father hesitated.
“Baa-baa,” the boy called, and pointed at Father. “Baa-baa.”
“Baa-baa?” Father said.
The boy’s eyes lit up and he giggled. “Baa-baa.” He scooped up a handful of the berries and held them out to Father.
Seeing this simple act pricked something in Father’s memory. He tried to focus, to find it, but needed more, just a bit more. He extended his hand and the boy set the berries in his palm. The moment the berries touched Father’s flesh, the memory bloomed—men and women dressed in buckskin kneeling before him. They offered him berries, circlets of flowers, and necklaces made of beads.