Slewfoot

by Brom

  “Jarret,” someone called, and the scene began to slip away.

  “No,” Father growled, struggling to hold onto the vision, to see more.

  “Jarret, fetch me that bucket.”

  Father blinked, the vision gone, but not the feeling in his heart. What is it? he wondered. Not the thrill of the hunt, or the rapture of blood, but something deep, an odd exaltation, all so familiar. He looked again at the berries in his hand.

  “Jarret!” An old woman came out of the thicket carrying a load of berries in her folded apron. “What is wrong with you, child? Did you—”

  She spotted Father, gasped, her eyes bulging, stumbled back, falling into the thicket, spilling berries everywhere. She pointed one shaking finger at Father. “Satan!”

  The little boy glanced anxiously back and forth between them.

  Father crushed the berries he’d been holding, watched the dark pulp drip from his hand as the good feeling drained from his heart.

  The woman struggled to right herself, to free herself of the vines, not taking her wild, wide eyes off him. She began gasping, wheezing, trying to suck air into her lungs.

  She knows me, Father thought. How is it that she knows me?

  He stepped to her and she managed to suck in enough air to let loose a loud shriek.

  Father seized her throat. “Stop with that now, or I’ll choke the life from your bones.”

  She hushed.

  “Tell me, who am I?”

  “W … what?” she stammered, quivering uncontrollably.

  “Who am I?”

  “Why … the Devil, of course,” she blubbered. “You are Satan. Please do not kill me. Please, I beg of you.”

  “Satan? What is Satan? Is Satan the slayer?”

  She shook her head, confused.

  He tightened his grip on her throat. “What is Satan?”

  “You! You are!” she sobbed, then began coughing, making a horrible retching sound. She suddenly arched her back, began clutching and clawing at her chest.

  Father released her, unsure what was happening.

  Her face turned red, then purple, the veins bulging from her neck and forehead, her eyes rolling into her head. She convulsed rapidly, then fell back, just collapsed and lay there unmoving.

  Father realized the woman’s heart had quit. He let out a long, frustrated sigh, then just sat there staring at her.

  Nothing, I feel nothing. Where is my hunger now, my lust for blood? Death, only death. Death has no answers. He looked toward the timber fortifications, listened, reached for the people there, felt nothing. There are no answers here. These people’s souls do not sing. He thought of Abitha, of the connection when he’d touched her. There’s something between us. I know not what, but there is something.

  He heard someone crying, turned to see the little boy, tears rolling down his face.

  Father stood, put his hand out to the boy.

  The boy stepped back, terrified.

  “Baa-baa,” Father hissed, and the boy fled away toward the village.

  Father picked up the pail of berries and wandered into the woods. He found the road again, but the wolf was gone. Father began to walk, heading west, back to the wildfolk and Pawpaw, back to the small woman who could open the doors to his soul.

  CHAPTER 5

  Abitha stumbled back up the slope toward the well carrying a water bucket. She used to carry two at a time, but no longer; she was too weak. She paused in the shade of the barn, grateful to escape the blazing midsummer sun even for a moment. She used to scan the sky a hundred times a day searching for signs of rain; she’d stopped doing that weeks ago.

  She wiped the sweat from her brow and pushed herself on. Her foot caught in a rut and she stumbled. She heard it then, the tittering, like small children laughing at her, like the day that devil had touched her. For weeks after that incident she’d occasionally heard them, only faintly, but the weaker she felt, the hazier her mind, the clearer the sound became—mostly near the forest. She looked for them, the opossum, the raven, the fish. Knew they were there, waiting, but for what? At first, they’d terrified her, but as the drought dried up her crops, as she felt her sanity melting away, as October approached and so did the day Wallace and the sheriff would come and take her into servitude, these spooks and their taunts just became one more part of her daily torment.

  She picked up the wooden bucket, crawled to her feet, and continued on to the well, because that is what she did, all day, every day, the only thing she could do: one pail of water at a time, up and down the rows, all day long, trying to keep the crop alive.

  She reached the well, wishing for the hundred thousandth time that it had been dug closer to the field, and hooked the bucket to the rope. She lowered the bucket with the crank until a small splash echoed back up to her. She waited a moment for the bucket to sink, then began to slowly crank the water-laden pail back up. The pulley creaked as she turned the handle, over and over and over.

  She used to be able to roll it up in one go, but now she had to stop and rest after every eight or nine cranks. She paused, catching her breath, fearful for the first time that she might not have the strength to retrieve the bucket at all. She was down to two chickens, so had had only an egg this morning at dawn, nothing since, and it was now well past noon. Her hands felt numb, her head light, but the bucket was almost to the top.

  “Keep going, Abi,” she whispered, sucking in a breath and pressing on, putting her weight into it.

  She heard it again, the tittering, then a giggle; it sounded as though it were in the well. There came a tug on the rope, followed by a loud pop, and the crank suddenly lost resistance, spun, sending her to the ground. She heard the sound of the pail banging against the sides of the well as it plunged back down, then a splash, followed by another of those eerie giggles.

  “Oh no!” she cried, pulling herself back to her feet. She grabbed the crank, gave it a turn, and to her horror, there was no weight, no resistance at all. She stared at the lever and gasped—the rope had come off the pulley and both the bucket and the entire length of rope had fallen into the well.

  She leaned over the edge of the well, staring down into its depths, and saw no sign of the rope or bucket, only darkness. She had only one other rope, and it was worn and frayed and not nearly long enough—and no means to buy another. She glanced at the fields, at the withered crops, and the magnitude of what had just happened began to sink in. There’ll be no more water … none.

  Her cracked lips began to tremble. “Oh, God. Why do You vex me so?” She stared at the few rows of corn still clinging to life, her head swimming in the heat. Why am I still doing this? I’ve already lost. Just too stubborn and stupid to admit it.

  She tugged herself up onto the lip of the well, leaning over, staring into the damp darkness. How sweet, she thought, to be down there in that cold, clear water. She leaned farther, sucking in the smell of the wetness, the blood rushing into her head and making her dizzy. Her vision began to blur.

  Let go, she thought. Just a little farther and all is done. And if the fall does not kill me, what then? She smiled savagely. Then I will die in the wet and cold, my body slowly going numb. It sounded good, so much better than dying of thirst, or starving, or working herself to death for nothing. And my rotting body will spoil the well for Wallace. She managed a weak laugh, little more than a croak. He will have to dig another far from here.

  She leaned a little farther, teetering, held back only by her thighs and fingertips.

  “Let go,” she whispered. “Let go. Let go. Let go.” She realized another voice had joined her chant. She saw a fish floating far down in the wet darkness. It began slowly swimming up toward her. She recognized it, the one from the barn, the one with the face of a child. Its small, dark eyes reached into hers. “Let go,” it sang to her. “Let go.”

  Her hand slipped and she slid forward.

  “No!” she cried, clawing for the well post. She caught hold, almost slipped, then grasped it firmly, tugging
herself back from the edge.

  She rolled to the ground, her cheek against the earth, panting, each harsh breath blowing up the dry dirt. She felt on the verge of fainting, saw something moving down by the barn, a shadowy shape. It walked toward her. She fought to stay awake. It came closer and closer, until it stood looking down at her. Its form was blurry, but she had no trouble making out its long twisting horns.

  “Vex me no more, Slewfoot,” she mumbled as the world spun away into blackness.

  * * *

  A meow.

  Abitha felt soft fur rubbing against her face. She opened her eyes, blinked. Booka sat staring at her.

  A cool breeze blew.

  Abitha sat up, tried to steady herself; her head felt groggy. The day was edging toward dusk, the sky overcast. It wasn’t raining, but there was a slight mist on the wind. It felt like heaven to her. She wondered what she was doing on the ground, started to get up, then saw it—the bucket.

  She rubbed her eyes; the bucket was still there. But … it fell in the well. She swooned. Mayhap I dreamed that. Mayhap I am still dreaming. Then she saw another bucket. Two buckets? She got a hand on the new bucket; it was real and it was heavy. She tugged it over, peered in, and then knew she was dreaming, because the bucket was full of wild berries.

  She licked her parched lips and plucked out one of the blackberries. It was plump and ripe and smelled luscious, not like the dried-up ones growing along the edge of the cornfield. She thrust it into her mouth. The berry burst between her teeth—sweet and succulent. Abitha let out a weak moan, grabbed another, another, then a handful, until she could push no more into her mouth. She closed her eyes, chewing, swallowing, savoring the sensation of the sweet juice flowing down her throat, satiating her burning thirst.

  Her mind began to clear and the world swam back into focus. She felt her strength returning. She started to grab another handful of fruit, stopped. She wiped the juice from her lips and chin, considered the wet stains on her hands. I am not dreaming. This is real.

  She spotted the rope. It was soaked and lay in a puddle next to the well. It all came back to her, the rope and bucket falling into the well. Someone had just pulled it out. Who? she wondered. But she knew.

  Abitha looked to the barn.

  It was there—a shadow standing within the shadows.

  A chill seized her; the very air felt alive.

  She climbed to her feet, walked to the porch, and retrieved her musket. She checked the primer. “This is my farm,” she said beneath her breath and slowly advanced on the barn.

  Abitha stopped at the entrance, keeping the musket leveled at the shadow. It was in the last stall.

  “What do you want?” Abitha asked.

  The shape shifted, but didn’t answer.

  She didn’t sense the anger, the malice, not like before, but she felt its need, its hunger, burning off it like a fever.

  “What do you want?” she asked again.

  It answered in a voice that was soft and low. “Your help, Abitha.”

  Hearing it speak her name sent a shiver through her. “Who are you?”

  The shadow slid out from the other shadows, just a silhouette against the open back of the barn, but she could see that it had the body of a shaggy goat, only it was walking on its hinds legs. Its arms and hands were more like those of a person. She couldn’t make out its face, only the glint of its eyes and the horns twisting upward.

  “I am not sure.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Answers.”

  “There is naught for you here. Now, please leave me be.”

  “I believe you can help me.” He stepped forward and Abitha fell back a step.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I might grow angry and kill you if you do not.”

  Abitha took another step backward.

  “I am hoping you can help me see,” he said, his voice growing surly. “That is all. Is that so much?”

  “See? See what?”

  “I know not,” he growled. “That is what I am trying to find out.”

  She shook her head, fell back another step. “I have naught for you.”

  His nostrils flared. “Why … why—” His voice cracked. “Why will no one help me?” He spun away from her and stormed from the barn.

  Abitha lowered her musket and watched him go.

  He stopped at the edge of the cornfield, looked back at her, and there in the fading light, she saw his face. It was neither goat nor human, but something in between. He didn’t appear wicked, like she expected, but maybe sad and a bit lost. He shot her a grave look, then continued away, disappearing into the forest.

  Abitha’s hands began to tremble. She clutched the fence to steady herself.

  Booka leapt up onto the rail and began to rub against her hand.

  She stroked the cat. “What just happened, Booka?”

  * * *

  Abitha awoke in her bed, glad to see it was almost dawn. She’d tossed through most of the night, her dreams haunted not by serpents this time, but by horned shadows. Her cat lay curled up next to her. “Am I going mad, Booka?”

  She slid from bed and dressed—just her skirt, apron, and blouse. She’d given up on any effort beyond that. She walked to the door, but before opening it, she touched the chain of braids. Mother, what is happening to me?

  Abitha opened the door, walked out onto the porch in her bare feet, and scanned the barn, the yard, and the field. She found no signs of him. She wanted to believe him, the beast, was all in her head, because a touch of madness was better than the Devil living in your barn. Then she spied the bucket of fruit on the porch. That’s not where I left it.

  She plucked out a large blackberry, put it to her nose, sucking in the sweet scent. She opened her mouth, then hesitated.

  Is this a trap? she wondered. Will accepting a gift from a demon give it dominion over my soul? She heard her father’s shrill cry. “Dare not take food from the hand of the Devil! It is a sin!” Then her mother’s strong voice. “It would be a sin to let it go to waste. You need the food … eat it.”

  Abitha nodded. “Lord, if this be a sin, please forgive me.” She ate the berry; she ate them all.

  The chickens gave her two eggs that morning, so between the berries and the eggs she had much more energy than usual. She laid the musket on the porch within easy reach and set to work reattaching the rope to the pulley, quickly getting it back in operation.

  The sky was cloudy, the air warm but with a breeze, yet still no rain. With food in her stomach and the cooler weather, her mind felt clear for the first time in weeks. She tried to tally the stalks that might survive. Even with rain, there wouldn’t be near enough. Still, she couldn’t quit, because even if she lost the farm, she needed every ear of corn to pay down her debt to Wallace. Even a quarter crop might mean a year off her servitude. And if it really comes to that, will any of it matter? Probably not, she thought, because I will never serve that man.

  She spent the morning the same way she’d spent every morning for the past several weeks, lugging water from the well to the corn. But now, each trip past the barn, she thought of him. The odd way he spoke. What is he? Is he the Devil? Why would the Devil need help from me? She heard her father’s voice. “Because your name is in his book.” Abitha shuddered.

  She kept an eye out for him in the shadows of the barn and at the edge of the forest, keeping the musket close at all times.

  The horned beast reappeared late that afternoon, just as the shadows began to grow long. She felt him near as she watered the lower rows and spotted him just a few yards away at the forest’s edge, sitting on a stump. She blinked, took a moment to make sure she was really seeing him.

  “Hello, Abitha.”

  “Hello,” she replied, glancing back to the musket.

  He stood and stepped from the shadows, looked at her with his strange long face, that odd mix of human and beastly features. Yet he wasn’t hideous or ugly; she actually found there to be a so
rt of nobility about him. Especially his eyes, they were somewhat feminine and feline, silver, and shone with a light from within.

  “Will you try and help me?”

  “Who are you?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady. “I will answer your question once you tell me who you are.”

  “I am called Father.”

  “Are you Satan?”

  “Satan? Again, that name!”

  She heard his agitation returning.

  “What is this Satan?”

  “Why do you torment me so?” Abi asked. “What is it I have done?”

  He appeared surprised and genuinely confused. “Torment you? Why, it is you that torments me!”

  “What?” she scoffed. “You tried to kill me in the barn.”

  “If I had wanted to kill you, you would be dead.”

  “Why did you kill my goat? Why did you murder my husband?”

  His brows cinched and she sensed his distress.

  “I did not do those things.”

  “You did.”

  “No. No, I did not,” he growled.

  “You attacked me. This I know.”

  He held her eyes for a moment, then looked to the ground. “Yes,” he admitted, the fire draining from his voice. “But it was not me. I mean it was, but it was not.” He shook his head. “I did it because I did not know who I was then.”

  “Who are you now, then?”

  He let out a long breath. “That … is what I am trying to understand.” His emotions flowed into her along with his words, and she felt his loneliness, his despair. “I have been trying to remember … but I need help.”

  “Well, start with what you do remember. Tell me one thing of your past.”

  He closed his eyes, his brows tightened. “Chaos, so many disconnected pieces. I see sunlight, it is warm, it is good.”

  Abitha felt it too, the warmth; it was as though his thoughts were pushing into hers. She shut her eyes and saw a blurry image of the sun, only dark orange and impossibly large.