Slewfoot

by Brom

  Wallace blinked, rubbed his eyes. “No, that were not Edward. You are but seeing things. That—”

  The stallion snorted and stomped, shuffling back.

  Someone—no, something—else was there.

  Wallace tugged the reins hard, struggling to keep his horse in check.

  Far back near the trees, the stalks parted, swishing this way and that as something moved steadily toward him through the corn. Wallace couldn’t see it, but he felt it, felt its malice sure as he felt the sun on his skin.

  Wallace kicked the stallion, driving his heels into its side. The beast bellowed and leapt away from the field, but not fast enough for Wallace. He continued kicking the beast, pushing it into a full gallop, not daring to look behind, not until he crested the hill, and then he did look, sure Edward would be upon him, only Edward would have long fangs and claws.

  No one was there.

  Wallace reined up, staring at the corn, his pulse racing, his breath coming hard and fast. He waited for Edward to come crawling out of the stalks, or perhaps a bear, a wolf … or maybe the Devil himself, but nothing, nor no one, came out.

  What was that, Papa? Pray tell. Were it Edward? Mayhap his ghost? Wallace watched the wind and shadows play their games with the tall stalks, shook his head. No, no, of course not. I am out of sorts. That is all. That is all! Yet he didn’t go back down to trample the corn, telling himself it would do no good anyway, that the corn was ripe, ready to harvest. Abitha would need only pluck the corncobs up off the ground. Instead, he sat there glaring at the farm, his farm, at all the beautiful corn.

  “Thief,” he spat. “You are naught but a thief, you wretched woman.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “I will fix this … sure as God is in Heaven I will.” He bit his lip as a plan began to take shape, then shook his head. Nay … I cannot. How could I ever do such a thing? It would be a sin. It would—

  He looked at his hands, saw that they were trembling. “Get hold of yourself,” he growled. “Do not let shadows and echoes put fear into your soul. You are in the right on this. God knows you are.” It was then that Magistrate Watson’s words came to him. “Angels must often do dark deeds in the name of the Lord.”

  “Aye.” Wallace nodded, his voice swelling with righteousness. “What must be done, shall be done!”

  He gave the farm one more long look, searching the tall cornstalks. “If you are there, brother, know this … I will right this wrong. I will bring you the peace you crave. This I promise you.”

  He kicked the stallion and rode away, trotting back down the long road to Sutton, his face a grim mask as he pondered the doing of his plan. The farther away he got from the farm, from the vision of Edward, from the eerie laughter, from the menacing thing in the corn, the better the plan sounded, until finally, without even realizing it, he was smiling.

  About a mile outside of town, Wallace spied Abitha heading home and kicked his stallion into a gallop, riding directly for her.

  Abitha, her eyes wide with fear, leapt to the side of the road, just avoiding being pummeled.

  Wallace laughed and shouted, “Judgment is coming for you!” And rode on.

  * * *

  Abitha, still shaken from her encounter with Wallace, entered her cabin. She paused at the entrance, taking deep long breaths, trying to calm herself. She scanned the room—something wasn’t right, but she found nothing out of place. She reached over to where the chain of braids hung by the door, seeking their reassurance, gently running her fingers down the links, and when she did, she saw him, Forest, just a ghostly outline.

  “Leave,” she said, setting hard eyes on him. And even though she could but barely see him, she could still read his surprise.

  He materialized, staring at her in an all-new way. “You are one of them. One of the magic folk!”

  “Get out.”

  He headed for the door, taking a moment to study the chain of braids, giving her one more shrewd look before leaving.

  Abitha quickly donned her work clothes, stopping at the door to tie her short apron back around her waist. Her eyes returned to the chain of braids, the copper serpent pin. “Is it true then, Mother? Am I like you?” She reached for the braids, hesitated, wanting to take them with her, wanting their comfort, but wondering if she should, if she were ready for such a step. She bit her lip and lifted the braids from the hook, clutching them to her bosom.

  “Mother, I am blind, walking a path I cannot see. But walk it I must. Steer my hand true, help me stay clear of the Devil’s taint.” She touched the braids to her lips, and the faintest whiff of lavender and sage came to her. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply as fond memories of her mother flowed through her mind, touched her heart. She opened her eyes, slipped the braids deep into her apron pocket, and headed directly into the woods, walking fast.

  She heard someone coming along behind her. It was Samson. He caught up with her in a small meadow. Abitha looked deep into his silver eyes, started to ask about the hunters, about the widow. But his face, it was so full of concern, concern for her. Later, she told herself. When there is more time.

  “The Wallace man. He was here.”

  “I know,” Abitha said as she searched through the tall grass. “Would that I could have seen his face.”

  “It was a most miserable face.”

  She laughed.

  “He intends you harm.”

  “Aye, he does,” she said without looking up. “Ah, here we go.” She took her knife and dug out a small plant, shaking the dirt loose. The plant had a knot of long, crooked black roots. She held it up. “Knitbone.”

  “You eat this?”

  “It’s for Martha, a child in town. She’s suffering from measles. My mother once showed me how to make an ointment from this root. It should help with the rash.”

  “The ointment will heal her? Like a spell or potion?”

  “That’s what I am hoping. It should at least lessen the pain.”

  “The child is from the church … the church of the Christ God?”

  Abitha nodded absently as she cleaned the root.

  “Why does her mother not ask the Christ God to heal her child?”

  “She has. We all have. Many, many, prayers.”

  “And this Christ God does nothing?”

  Abitha shrugged. “We shall see. Sometimes God helps, sometimes He does not.”

  Samson shook his head. “They need a better god.”

  Abitha chuckled. “Oh, you should suggest that to them sometime. The Puritans believe that God helps according to how worthy one is. That He only rewards the truly devout.”

  “Heals them? Makes their crops grow?”

  “Aye, blesses and watches over them.”

  “Rewards devotion … that makes sense. It is the same with me. In many ways I am like the Christ God, am I not?”

  Abitha chuckled. “You two could be brothers, you are so similar.”

  He tugged at his chin. “The root, let me see it.”

  She handed it to him.

  He sniffed it, closing his eyes. “The smell … it takes me back.” His brows knotted and he sniffed again. “I see them, the magic folk with their potions and spells … hexes and curses. There … I am with them. I can see my hands on the sick!” He looked again at the root. “If I can heal the girl, would that not mean I am a god? Like this Christ?”

  “Can you?”

  “I believe there is a way.” He sniffed the root once more, as though seeking. “Their hands joined with mine … it is not clear. But I believe that it is you who summons the spell. Or perhaps we summon the spell together. No, that’s not quite right. You summon the spell through me. Yes, yes, like with the corn. You must ask this of me.”

  He handed her back the root and she looked at him, unsure. “How do I do that?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps the same way you ask the Christ God for blessings?”

  She considered, then set the knife and root down. “I can try.”

  Abitha knelt to one knee, clasping
her hands together as in prayer. “Great Lord Samson, in the name of God and all that is holy, I ask thee to please help heal Martha of her ailment. Amen.”

  They waited.… Nothing happened.

  Abitha reached into her apron, brought forth the chain of braids. Samson watched curiously as she coiled it around her hand. She repeated the prayer, and as she did, she felt an odd tingling coming from the braids.

  Samson’s eyes grew wide. “Can you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “They are chanting. The magic folk are chanting to me. Abitha, you must chant to me!”

  Abitha did. “Help us, Lord Samson. Help us, Lord Samson. Help us, Lord Samson.” But she now knew from her experience with the corn that it wasn’t about the words, that it was something deeper in her that she needed to touch, connect with, release. The words melted away, turning into sounds, seeking, searching, touching her heart, her soul, and suddenly she too could hear them, far away, the voices of women. And as the voices found their rhythm, Abitha let go, opening up to Samson, and more of his vision was revealed. She too saw the shadowy folk, saw their hands on the sickly.

  “Ah,” he exclaimed. “I know this!”

  He acted quickly, grabbing a stick and drawing a circle the span of his arms into the leaves and dirt. Within the circle he drew four symbols, mere squiggles. It seemed not to matter what the marks were, that it was more the act of making them.

  “Here,” Samson said, moving aside. “Step into the circle.”

  Abitha did.

  Samson picked up the root and knife and handed them to her. “Now we need your blood.”

  Her eyes widened, but she didn’t break the rhythm of the chant.

  “It is your spell … it must be your blood. Just a drop or two. Here … on the root.”

  She felt a flash of the old fear.

  “We must do this together, Abitha.”

  She clutched the braids tighter and sensed him reaching out to her, baring his heart and soul. And what she felt was only goodness, only a desire to heal. Mother, steer my hand true.

  “Let me in,” he whispered.

  She nodded and Samson stepped into the circle with her. A gust of warmth blew through her and she let go, completely giving herself over to him, becoming part of him, together now they were calling to the magic deep down in the ground. It was then that she heard the earth whisper her name.

  She held the root in her open palm, took the knife, and nicked her finger. She let the blood pool, then closed her fingers over the root, clutching it, pressing the blood into it.

  She felt Samson connect with the earthly force, saw the strain as he drew it up and out from its lair.

  The force swirled around them, stirring up the leaves, then flowed into Samson, setting his silver eyes ablaze. He grasped her hand and it entered her.

  Abitha let out a fevered moan as the magic filled her, her eyes rolling upward, her whole body quivering, and for a moment she felt it might be too much, it might break her, drive her mad. But she did not break. She raised the root above her head, thought of healing, of life and health, trying to twist and weave her intentions together with the magic. And as she felt them bind, she pushed, steered, guided the magic, letting out a fierce cry as the magic left her and entered the root.

  There came a flash, and for one instant she saw them, twelve women standing around them in a circle, their hands linked, their faces hidden beneath their long loose hair.

  The root squirmed in Abitha’s hand and she dropped it to the ground, stumbling back and falling to her knees, breathing hard and fast.

  The air stilled and they both stared at the root.

  The root began to writhe, its shoots wiggling like arms and legs, looking like some shriveled-up little man. For a second what seemed to be a tiny face—eyes, a nose, and mouth—appeared. The mouth opened and a faint wobbly wail came out. The root trembled, then slowly coiled up into a rigid knot.

  “Is it done?” she gasped.

  Samson nodded. “It is done.”

  * * *

  Abitha headed to town for the second time that day, setting a brisk pace down the winding rut road, knowing Martha’s condition to be dire and hoping to make it back to the farm by nightfall. She entered the wood, going deeper and deeper into the forest, the tall trees looming overhead, forming an arching canopy like some primeval cathedral, drowning her in their murky shadows.

  She’d crushed the root into an ointment, wrapped it in a corn husk, and now carried it in her apron alongside the braid. She also carried the musket, not because she feared the wolves—Samson had shown her they wouldn’t harm her—but for Wallace. And here, at this moment, flush with the heat of the spell, she almost hoped to meet him, hoped he would give her cause to shoot him dead.

  As she moved down the path, her thoughts kept returning to the root ritual. He bewitched me, she told herself. That is all there is to that. Only she knew it wasn’t. Did I resist him? Nay, if anything I was eager. Mayhap not at first, but once I got a taste of … of what … magic? She couldn’t think of a better word for that sensation of potency, of power, of being connected to the pulse of the trees, the sun, the earth itself … to Samson. It had been seductive, almost sensual, awaking something deep within her. She felt its faint pulse even now, as though some part of the spell still lingered, connecting her to the life all around her. Do you want more? it seemed to ask her.

  Aye, I do, God, I do.

  As though in response, the wind picked up, blowing through the branches and leaves, the sound like whispers, like voices calling to one another, alerting the forest of her coming. She shuddered, tried to ignore them, pretending they weren’t there, that they were not following her.

  A fresh gust of wind, and the whispers grew louder.

  Abitha shook her head, sure it was but a trick of her mind, that she was still delirious from the incantation.

  You are falling under the Devil’s spell, a voice warned, one that could’ve been her own or that of the leaves.

  “Nay,” Abitha replied in a hushed, almost pleading tone. “Samson is not the Devil. He has never asked me to denounce God. Not once. He is full of benevolence and healing. How can that not be God’s work?”

  And what of my death? asked another voice, one not unlike Edward’s.

  “It were not Samson! That had been that little imp, Forest. It is not fair to put that on Samson.”

  The widow … the hunters?

  Abitha shook her head adamantly. “He was confused. He has changed. I know it, I feel it.”

  And if it were but that simple, asked another voice, more like her father, then why does it still nag you so?

  Abitha clapped her hands over her ears and quickened her pace. She could sense them all around her now, their pain, their hunger, their need, so much need.

  “Samson,” she whispered. “Please be what you seem.”

  She caught sight of smoky shapes slithering along within the shadows, keeping pace with her. Wondered what they might be—ghosts, feral spirits, demons? Perhaps all of those things?

  “Leave me be,” she whispered, but they slid closer, snorting and sniffing. And it was only then that she understood what they were truly after. That they smelled the magic in the ointment. She clutched her apron, the corn husk, felt its heat, its promises, felt her own lust for the magic bloom.

  She caught glimpses of spectral horns and scales, claws and teeth, heard a low keening, the sound of yearning.

  She broke into a jog and still they followed, coming closer and closer.

  “This magic is not for you!” she shouted, then tugged out the chain of braids, holding it out as some warding talisman. “Begone!”

  But the braids seemed to only further their unrest, their hunger. They swirled about her—their eyes full of sorrow, their mouths full of silent screams—wispy, smoky shapes of no real substance. Yet she could feel them, their fingers like a cold breath as they pawed at her clothes and hair.

  What doors have I opened?
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  Then something else, another presence, something of great magnitude, something savage and dreadful. It seemed to be deep in the ground below her.

  The ghost, the demons and spirits, whatever they were, fell away, fell behind. She glanced round, saw their pitiful forms slinking back into the shadows, becoming the shadows.

  The presence was with her now. Abitha couldn’t see it but knew it was there, just beneath the ground, circling her.

  “Who are you?” Abitha asked.

  She received no reply.

  “I know you,” Abitha whispered, and then it came to her. “The serpent … from my dreams. It is you. I know it is you!”

  The presence began to fade, becoming faint, but just before it was gone, Abitha thought she heard her name. She halted to listen, but heard nothing, no ghosts, no wild spirits, no demons, nothing but the wind.

  * * *

  Abitha made it to Sutton by late afternoon. She tried to keep her eyes forward, fighting the need to glance back every couple of seconds to make sure the things in the wood were not with her. She kept her head down, hoping to avoid being noticed, but she knew there were always eyes watching in Sutton.

  Abitha came to the Carters’ porch and hesitated. She’d felt confident she was doing the right thing, but now, at their doorstep, she wasn’t so sure. So many, like her father, considered root remedies and the cunning crafts akin to witchcraft, and Goodwife Carter had made no secret of her disapproval of Abitha peddling her charms and remedies.

  Her daughter could be dying, Abitha reminded herself, knowing the risks Goodwife Carter and the reverend had taken on her behalf, that if not for Sarah’s kind words when she needed them most, she, Abitha, would most likely be lying dead at the bottom of her own well.

  Abitha stepped up onto the Carters’ porch, propped her musket against the wall, and knocked.

  A moment later Goodwife Carter opened the door. “Abitha? Why … what are you doing here? Are you all right?” Sarah Carter, always so together, appeared disheveled and exhausted.

  “Goodwife Carter, ma’am. I heard about Martha. And I thought I might be of help.”