by Brom
“I am running with the beasts,” he said.
She saw this too, felt the joy of running un-winded for as long as the day with all manner of beasts, some she recognized, others she didn’t, the song of their wild cries in her ears. Abitha realized she was smiling. Then blood, screams of beasts, then screams of men and women and children. Abitha let out a cry, opened her eyes.
His face was in torment, a growl came from deep in his throat. He shook his head back and forth as though trying to dislodge a stinging bee. “No. No!”
He opened his eyes, let out a long, sad groan. He was shaking. “It’s the same … each time I try and look into my past … the blood, the death … it gets in the way. I cannot see around it to who I am … to who I was.”
“Unless blood and death is who you are.”
“No!” he snarled. “No, there is more to me. I know it. I have seen it.”
He stood, began to pace. She could see him struggling to control his temper, clenching and unclenching his fist. He sucked in a deep breath, let it out slow. “I need help understanding my place in this world I have awakened into. Is that too much to ask?” He paused. “Perhaps if you help me, I can help you?” He set his piercing eyes on her, peered into her. “What is it that you want, Abitha? That man, that Wallace. Would you like me to kill him?”
Her blood chilled. She tensed. Wasn’t that just the way of demons, offering gifts and favors in return for … what? And this—offering to murder a man? How many sermons had she sat through on the temptations of Lucifer?
“What have I said now?” he asked.
“Is this some trick?”
“Trick? What kind of trick?” he asked, his nostrils flaring.
“Some game for my soul?”
“Your soul? I do not want your soul. What would I do with your soul?” He seemed genuinely perplexed. “What must I do to convince you to help me?”
“How can you expect this of me … to just forget that you killed my husband and trust you? It is too much.”
“That again!” His voice deepened and she sensed his rage simmering. “I tell you it was not how you say.” He stepped away from her. “If I could undo this thing I would. I cannot.” His anger melted into despair. She felt it in the air and was struck by how human his face was at that moment. “You do not understand. How could you? I am a fool for trying to talk to you.” He clenched his hands and stormed away once more, disappearing into the forest.
* * *
She didn’t see him the next day, but she did sense him; his brooding bitterness hung in the air, becoming palpable anytime she neared the forest.
She paused in her work and stared into the trees, wondered how she was supposed to carry on with the very Devil at her doorstep, then she wondered why she kept insisting he was the Devil. Was it because he had horns and hooves? Had her mother not taught her that there were many spirits living in the forest—some kindly, others wicked? Her mother spoke that the church claimed them all to be devils, but that these spirits were here long before Christianity arrived. Abitha thought how hurt, lost, and confused he seemed, and that didn’t strike her as the Devil she’d heard so much about.
Why, he could be a forest god, or some long-lost cousin to the fae, mayhap an elf or goblin, or some unruly soul lost between worlds. She considered this and decided regardless, she needed to find a way to drive him off, some ward or spell of protection, something other than ash and salt. She wiped the sweat from her brow. But do I dare risk provoking him further? Is he not surly enough? Then what? Do I just lie down and give myself over to him? She shook her head and tried to recall more of her mother’s ways.
Her mother had many rituals, spells, and offerings for these haunts and mystical beings, some meant to ward away the wicked, some to draw in the kindly, and others just to keep impish spirits content. Abitha remembered her mother putting out milk to pacify the wee folk. She’d said if she didn’t, they’d become peevish and get up to terrible mischief. Abitha recalled offerings of sweets and sometimes a tiny bracelet or necklace made from flowers, beads, and hair. Her mother adding that it didn’t matter so much what it was, but that you were paying them tribute, that spirits and fairy folk were often a haughty pompous lot who just needed to feel important.
Mayhap if I cannot drive him away, I can at least appease him, pacify his tortured soul. She figured it wouldn’t hurt to try, then recalled his offer to kill Wallace and wondered at that, as she didn’t remember spirits killing anyone back in England. Well, if I cannot drive him away, if I cannot give him the answers he seeks, then what other choice is left?
She spent that evening weaving a crown of fresh flowers, dried corn, and a lock of her hair. She also cooked up a small batch of honeycomb brittle, made from Edward’s honey.
Come morning, Abitha brought her gifts down to the edge of the cornfield and waited.
She sensed him, sensed his dark mood. Am I mad? Making an offering to a demon? What good can come of this?
She spotted a shape farther down field and gasped. It was Edward, there in the trees. His face was obscured by shadows so she couldn’t make out his features, but she could see that he was staring into the woods, toward the cave.
“Edward,” she whispered, taking a timid step toward him. “What is it? What do you know?” She held up the gifts in her hands. “Is this right? Will this help set you free? Or am I condemning the both of us?” She took another step. “Tell me, Edward. I know not what else to do.”
He started to fade.
“No, Edward, do not go!” She started toward him, but with each step he faded until he was gone, nothing, not so much as a footprint.
“Do not leave me,” she cried, fighting back the tears. She dropped to her knees and touched the ground where he’d stood. “Edward … I cannot do this alone.”
Abitha stayed there on her knees, looking back and forth between the cabin and the woods, winding the lock of her hair tighter and tighter around her finger, biting her lip so hard that she tasted blood. Finally, she stood, clutching the gifts to her chest. “Jesus, forgive me,” she said, and headed into the woods.
“Hello,” she called. No response, but she felt the horned beast near. She moved farther into the dense trees and spotted the creature sitting on a boulder with his back to her like a sulking child.
She sucked in a breath, tried to steady herself, and walked over to him.
He did not turn.
“I have brought you something,” she said.
He did turn at that, slowly, his eyes falling on the folded napkin in her hand.
“I have a gift. May I give it to you?”
His strange, somewhat human, somewhat beastly face appeared uncertain, his silver eyes narrowing suspiciously. “A gift?”
She unwrapped the napkin, revealing the brittle, laid it before him.
He stared at it, and at first she thought him afraid, then maybe angry, his brow cinching so. Slowly he reached down and picked up one of the candies. He sniffed it, then bit it, just a nibble, closing his eyes as he chewed. He took another bite, then ate it, then both of the others.
“They are good?” she asked.
He nodded.
Encouraged, Abitha held up the crown. “And this.”
He cocked his head. “What is this?”
“A crown … for you.” She held it out. “May I?”
He pondered this for a moment and she felt sure he would refuse, but finally he made a slight nod.
Abitha noticed her hands were trembling. I have truly gone mad, she thought, and stepped forward until she stood directly before him. “It sits atop your head.”
He tilted his head forward and Abitha pushed the crown over his horns, sliding it down until it rested atop his large goat ears. Her fingers lingered for a moment on his fur, wanting to know he had substance, that he was real. His fur was soft and smelled of earth and leaves.
She stood back, trying to come up with something to say. “You … you look gallant and noble … like a lord of
the forest.”
“Do I?” He touched the crown, staring at her with his silver eyes. “A gift, an offering … like the berries from the boy in the village.” He sucked in a deep chestful of air and she sensed his pleasure. “Yes. I know this.”
The air began to stir and Abitha felt tingling in her fingers where she’d touched him.
He let out a gasp. “Do you see them?”
The leaves started to swirl and she heard voices, whispers on the wind, then chanting.
“Do you see them?” he growled.
Abitha stepped back and he grabbed her, snatching hold of her wrist. When he did her eyes rolled upward in their sockets and she did see them. People giving him circlets of flowers and necklaces made of beads. She could barely make out the people, mostly blurry shapes, thought maybe they were natives.
“I know this!” he cried, his voice now alive, wild with excitement. “Yes. I know what we must do!” He shook her and the vision faded, the forest returned, but the spectral shapes of the people remained, dancing about them.
He leapt up, tugging, all but dragging her along. His grip hurting her wrist as he led her out of the woods and into the field, into the morning light.
“What is it you most need?” he asked.
“What … I do not—”
“The corn. You need the corn, yes?”
“Aye.”
“You have made your offering to me. Now ask me for the corn.”
What is going on? she thought. What bargain have I struck?
He entered a row of dried-up cornstalks, knelt, then shoved her hand into the sandy dirt at the base of a shriveled stalk. He pressed his palm atop hers, pinning it there.
“Now, do it, before the moment is past!” he shouted. “Now!”
“Give me corn.”
“It is not enough. You must mean it!” He pressed harder, hurting her hand.
“Give me corn!” she cried.
“It must come from your heart!”
“Corn!” she cried. “Give me corn, damn you! Give me corn!”
“There!” he cried. “Do you feel that?”
And she did, a pulse coming up from the ground, flowing into her hand, their hands, up her arm, into her chest. She felt his heartbeat—it fell in rhythm with hers, then with the pulse, all joined together, all beating as one.
“Oh, God,” she cried as the sweet sensation filled her up.
He began to hum, then chant, talking to the earth, to the corn, more sounds than words. The chant found a rhythm, matching their heartbeat, turning into a song. The ghosts began circling them, chanting and dancing to the rhythm.
Abitha realized she was chanting along, the strange sounds spilling from her lips, somehow familiar and comforting. The pulse continued to pump through her, gaining intensity until she felt part of it, felt one with him, with the ghosts, with the earth … the corn!
She could feel the corn’s need, its desperation to live, as though it were crying out to her, begging her to feed it.
She did.
She simply channeled the pulse as one would a stream, as though it were a perfectly normal, natural thing to do, no different than breathing. The magic flowed onto the plant, coursing over it and through it. The stalk sucking it up as though starving for it.
The cornstalk began to quiver, then to hum, and Abitha gasped as the stalk turned green before her very eyes, then it grew tall, and an ear of corn sprouted, followed by another and another. The air was suddenly saturated with the smell of pollen and nectar.
Abitha burst into tears. Oh, God, she thought, I want this. How I want this. God save me, I want this!
He crawled on his hands and knees to the next stalk, dragging Abitha along, his song taking on volume. And again, Abitha channeled the pulse into the plant, again the stalk flourished, and so did the next and the next. They continued until over two dozen magnificent stalks of corn stood swaying in the breeze.
He released her and she moaned as the pulse slipped away. More, she thought. Give me more! She fell over, clutching her breast, trying to make herself breathe.
He collapsed next to her, his chest heaving.
The song faded and the ghosts began to drift away.
He smiled at her, positively beamed. “Abitha … look what we did!” He seemed as amazed as she did. “Look!”
Abitha couldn’t stop staring. There must have been forty ears of corn where there’d been none.
“It felt good … right,” he said. “I believe this is what I am meant to be!” He grabbed her hand, but gently this time, holding it as though precious. “Praise you, sweet creature. You have released me.”
Abitha watched the ghosts drift from the field, until there was only one left, standing alone by the edge of the forest. It was Edward, staring at her with empty eyes. What have I done, Edward?
* * *
Forest tore off an ear of corn, stalked into the woods. He found Sky and Creek.
“Where is he?”
The two spirits nodded toward the cave, then fell in behind Forest as he stomped onward.
Forest spotted Father sitting upon one of the standing stones, his eyes distant and far away.
“What is this?” Forest demanded, jabbing the ear of corn at Father.
“It is corn.”
“You were to drive them away. Instead you are feeding them! Feeding the very ones who would destroy Pawpaw!” Forest threw the corn on the ground at Father’s feet.
Father picked it up, admired it. “I did this,” he said proudly. “I made the corn grow.”
“First you run away,” Forest spat. “Abandoned us. Now you betray us … betray Pawpaw! Why?”
Sky and Creek nodded along.
“Perhaps you have it wrong, perhaps this woman Abitha can help us all. Have you considered that?”
“We have tried to befriend them before. It never works. They always want more. More and more until there is nothing left for us.”
“Why did you not tell me I could make the corn grow?” Father asked, his voice growing stern. “If I am what you say, a slayer, then why is it I have this great gift of life?”
“You are the guardian of the wilderness. There is much you are capable of. And yes, at times you are a healer, but this is not one of those times. Now is the time for blood.”
Father touched his crown of flowers. “This has made me feel more alive than slaughter. It touched something deep within.” He thumped his chest. “Something primal, something pure.” He held up the corn. “I want more of this. To feel the magic of life flowing through me. Filling me up.”
“Listen, please hear me. The magic you are using, it flows through the earth … a precious, fragile thing. Like a small underground spring. Pawpaw needs every drop to grow, and you, you are stealing it! And for what? For who? For that woman? To feed the very ones that are killing this magic!”
Forest scrambled up the rocks and scratched away a layer of old leaves from around the base of the sapling. He plucked up a bone, another, then a small skull. “Look,” he demanded, holding up the skull. “Look!”
Father looked.
“So many of us have given our magic, our very blood, the same blood that runs in your veins, to bring Pawpaw back. Your children have stood right where I now stand and sacrificed themselves so that Mother Earth would give us back Pawpaw. Do you know why?”
Father had no answer.
“Because Pawpaw is the heart of the wildfolk, the heart of our magic, the heart of our soul, and only its seed will bring us back!”
Father’s face clouded. He gave the corn a hard look, then let it slip from his hand. Forest could see his confusion, his turmoil. Forest let out a sigh. “There will be a time for this … for the healer to return. But it is as I keep saying: first we must save Pawpaw.”
Father rubbed his forehead as though in pain.
“Bring her here,” Forest said.
Father set cold, dangerous eyes on Forest.
“If you want the torment to end, then bring
the Abitha woman here. Pay tribute to Pawpaw with her blood. Honor Mother Earth. It is the only way.”
“I am done with blood,” Father said curtly, coming to his feet. “There is no peace in slaughter.” He lowered his voice as though speaking to himself. “There is more to all this than blood.” And with that he headed away, back toward the farm.
“Where are you going?” Forest called, but he knew. “Stay away from her. I am begging you. She will bring doom to all of us. Do you hear me?”
Father continued on.
“Stay away from her!” Forest cried.
Father disappeared into the trees, and Sky and Creek set desperate eyes on Forest.
“I do not know what to do,” Forest said tersely.
Forest glared up the hill toward the farm. “The woman is poison. If she keeps this up, he is sure to find out about Mamunappeht, or worse, Mamunappeht will find out about him!”
Creek and Sky began to jitter and twitch, clacking their teeth. Forest felt their dread, their growing panic, how it mirrored his own. He began to pace back and forth in front of the sapling. He stopped. “We will kill her.”
Sky and Creek both gave him a surprised look.
“We will kill the Abitha woman. We have to.”
“Yes, I know Father will be angry, but what choice have we? It is the only way to keep him sane, from falling back into the hands of the shaman.” He kicked the dirt. “This all started when he touched her. There is something odd about her. Do you not sense it?”
He could see they did.
“She’s opening doors to his past. We cannot allow that.”
“No, Creek, we’re not helpless. We are the wildfolk.” And he remembered when that meant something, when their numbers seemed as infinite as the stars and how strong their magic was before the people began stealing it.
“We might not be as potent as we once were, but we still have a few tricks. Something besides flinging shadows and haunts at her. We may not be able to slaughter an entire village, but we can certainly find a way to kill one little woman.”
* * *
Father stopped at the edge of the field. A morning fog clung to the land. He studied the row of corn he’d brought to life. Who am I?