Slewfoot

by Brom

  The sheriff let out a sigh, looked to the minister.

  Wallace felt his temper rising. Why are they letting her get away with such insolence?

  “Abitha,” Reverend Carter said. “You have everyone’s sympathies here. But please, let’s not prolong this. It is plain to all that there is no payment. Why not—”

  “Enough of this nonsense,” Wallace snapped. “We are all busy men, Abitha. I will not stand here and allow you to waste everyone’s time. Look here, woman. It is simple … you cannot make your payment, so now you must serve out your debt to me. Do you understand? You are working for me now. So this insolence … it will cease as of now. Right now!”

  Reverend Carter held up his hands. “Wallace, please. There is no need—”

  Abitha laughed, loud and strong.

  The men exchanged an uneasy look.

  She has lost her mind, Wallace thought, feeling relieved. They will see the truth of her now.

  “Apologies, Reverend Carter,” Abitha said. “I did not mean to interrupt. It is just that Wallace, he tends to be easily confused. Wallace, when did I say that I do not have payment?”

  “What? Of course you do not have payment. You just said so.”

  “Not true. I merely stated I do not have your corn.”

  What is she getting at? Wallace wanted to laugh in her face, but there was such confidence there, such arrogance and what? Glee? Yes, most certainly. The face of someone about to play a winning hand.

  Abitha reached into her apron, the deputy leveling the pistol when she did. She met the man’s eyes and waited.

  “Put it down, Samuel,” the sheriff ordered.

  The deputy lowered the pistol and Abitha slowly removed a worn leather pouch. “On Edward’s behalf, I owe Wallace fifty bushels of corn today. At the current market price, that equates to two fathoms of wampum. You can double-check that figure if you are in doubt, but I were in Hartford just two days ago and had it confirmed.”

  She untied the strap and opened the pouch, revealing it was indeed full of the milled purple beads. “This will cover most of what I owe.” She held the pouch out to the minister. “Reverend Carter, would you be so kind as to take this into your custody until it is fully accounted for?”

  The minister, his face one of stunned disbelief, accepted the pouch.

  Wallace realized he was trembling, that somewhere, deep down, he was screaming. “Where…” he said, barely able to get the words out. “Where did you come by this?”

  “Gentlemen,” Abitha said, ignoring Wallace. “There is a bit more unfinished business at hand. I am in need of a few witnesses. If you do not mind, would you allow me to show you something?” She headed up the steps and into her cabin.

  The men exchanged curious looks, then followed, leaving Wallace behind.

  What now? Wallace thought. What further deviltry does she hide? A bee buzzed round his head and he swatted angrily at it as he followed after the men.

  Wallace stepped into the cabin and his breath left him. There, on the big table and along the counter, was row after row of neatly stacked honeycomb wrapped in linen; the air was saturated with the sweet smell of the honey.

  “Why, Abitha!” Reverend Carter exclaimed. “You have been very busy. How did you ever manage this?”

  “This is the fruit of Edward’s labors, not mine. As you know, he has been beekeeping for years, but this year … it were as though something got into the bees. I like to think it were Edward’s spirit. That he is looking over me. As you can well see, the bees have been most fruitful.”

  Several bees hummed around the honey, and a couple began to circle Wallace, but he barely noticed, his mind still trying to comprehend how this was happening to him.

  “I am grateful that you’ve come all the way out here today,” Abitha said. “It makes this whole business much easier for me. This”—she gestured to the honeycomb—“is my last and final payment. And I just need you to witness that I have produced it and am now giving it to Wallace … that my debts to him are paid in full.”

  “No,” Wallace said. “I refuse to accept this. How do I even know what this is worth?”

  Abitha pulled a note from her apron, unfolded it, and handed it to the minister. “This is the receipt from Seymour’s shop. You will find the amount of wampum paid listed, but also the amount paid per pound. He paid me top price, said it were the finest comb he’d seen in years. Based on that, I took the liberty to calculate how many additional pounds were needed to pay off the lien. My notes are there, at the bottom. It came to just under forty pounds. You can all see the amount here far exceeds that.”

  Reverend Carter examined the note, then looked around the cabin. “Yes, Abitha, indeed, it is plain you have paid your debt and then some. It is fair to say that this matter is settled.”

  No! Wallace thought. No, no, no! This cannot be happening. “No!” Wallace cried. “I refuse to accept this … this … honeycomb! The deal was for corn. You must pay in corn. If you do not have the corn, then you must forfeit!”

  “Wallace,” Reverend Carter said. “You’re not making sense. Now calm yourself, please. Payment can be in any reasonable means or currency. That is well-established practice.”

  “Can you not see her wickedness? See how this knave is playing all of us?”

  “Take your payment, Wallace,” Abitha said calmly. “And get off my land. Now. Right now.”

  “Insolent cur. How dare you speak so to me!” He stepped toward her, raising a hand to strike her, but the sheriff caught his arm mid-swing and shoved him back against the wall.

  “Enough,” Sheriff Pitkin shouted. “You will be civil or I will see you in the stocks. Do you understand?”

  “Wallace,” the minister said. “Let this go. You have been paid well. More than fair. God is watching you, judging you. Do not let greed steer your character.”

  Wallace glanced from face to face, could see that they all thought him—him, not her—mad.

  How did this happen? How did she twist everything around?

  He glared at Abitha and she met his gaze and held it. And it was then, there, while staring into her vile green eyes, that he saw her for what she truly was.

  Oh, Papa, look! There is true deviltry at play here. The corn, all that corn. The strange visions of Edward. The honey … so much honey. An impossible amount of honey. And these men … she has them under her spell, just like with Edward. Papa, there can be but one explanation. “Abitha … have you made pact with the Devil? Have you practiced witchcraft here?”

  And Wallace saw it, a flash there upon her face—guilt. It was so obvious now.

  “You have! Oh, Lord. You have!” He leapt and grabbed her, pinning her against the cupboard. “Tell them!” he cried. “Tell them now how you bewitched Edward! Turned him against me!”

  Sheriff Pitkin and the deputies grabbed Wallace, dragged him back, and threw him up against the wall.

  “Wallace!” the minister cried. “You will cease this at once!”

  “She is a witch! A witch! Pray tell you see it!”

  “I see only a man who has lost himself to madness.”

  They dragged Wallace from the cabin and tossed him off the porch and into the yard.

  Wallace clambered to his feet. “She has you under her spell!” he screeched, jabbing his finger wildly at them. “I tell you, she is in league with the Devil!”

  Abitha walked out on the porch, and when she did, Wallace felt a sharp sting to the back of his neck. “Ah!” he cried, and swatted. It was a bee. He looked from the crushed insect to Abitha. “You have been found out, witch!” he shouted. “And I shall make it my mission to expose your wickedness for all to see!”

  He grabbed the reins of his steed and pulled himself up into the saddle. “Hear me now. All of you. As I will give you but this one warning. I go to Hartford this very day to report this wicked woman. So you better consider your position well. Are you on God’s side or that of the Devil? Because when the Magistrate Watson hands down hi
s verdict, all those who side with this witch will also be found guilty.”

  He saw it on their faces then, the fear, and it did him good. “God is coming to Sutton. Time to choose your side!”

  Wallace kicked the horse hard and galloped away.

  * * *

  “We made it back, Sid,” Abitha said to the mule. She pulled the wagon up to the lean-to she’d constructed and hopped down. She unhitched the beast, gathered up her musket and bag, and headed toward the cabin.

  She spotted Samson sitting in the shade of the porch, staring off at the far hills, his brows tight.

  “It’s done!” she called, putting down the gun and dashing over. She took a seat next to him and clutched his arm. “I dropped off the remaining honey and met with the ministers.” She removed a rolled piece of parchment from her bag and held it up. “Here it is! All signed and witnessed. The property is mine, clear and clean!”

  He looked at the parchment, but his deep silver eyes seemed distant.

  “Samson, my thanks to you is not enough. You have done more than save me here … you’ve given me the strength to stand on my own. Giving me back my dignity … the means to…” She felt the sting of tears and had to stop lest she start crying.

  He gave her a warm smile, but she could see something was troubling him.

  “What is it?”

  “Would you like me to kill him?” Samson asked. “The Wallace man?”

  Abitha let go of his arm.

  “You need but ask,” he added.

  She saw something in Samson’s eyes then, something hungry, something that wanted out. It startled her.

  “He’s not finished,” Samson said. “He intends you harm.”

  “Aye, I know,” she said.

  “You might not have another chance.”

  She sensed it, his need, almost a craving to kill Wallace. She shuddered, not liking this side of him. She’d come to love him, to trust him. And how was it she ever came to trust such a beast? Because up until now, all their work had been of a Godly nature. Murder was the Devil’s work, and once she crossed that line, what else would she be willing to do?

  “No,” she said. “I just cannot do such a dark deed.”

  He appeared troubled by this, stood, and began pacing. “Do you still think me a devil?”

  She studied him for a moment, watching as a couple of bees buzzed around his horns. “Samson, you have proved your heart is good and that your nature is Godly. But there is more to your nature … we both know that. I have put my faith in you, Samson … and I believe that you are no devil.”

  He snorted, his eyes searching the tree line like some hunting cat.

  What has gotten into him? she wondered. Why is he in such a dark mood this day? She watched as he began clenching and unclenching his long fingers with their clawlike nails. “What do you think, Samson? Do you feel you are a devil?”

  He started to answer, then stiffened, sniffing the air. His eyes shot to the trees and Abitha saw them—three figures.

  She tensed. “Indians.”

  “The Pequot?” he asked.

  “Aye, I am almost certain.”

  Samson took several steps toward them, and they faded back into the woods.

  Abitha grabbed her musket and stood beside Samson. “I am willing to bet Wallace sent them here.”

  “No,” Samson said. “They’re here for me.”

  “You?”

  “Yes … for Hobomok.” He started down the hill, heading for the woods.

  “Wait, where are you going?” Abitha called.

  “To find Hobomok,” he called back, and disappeared into the woods.

  * * *

  Wallace walked almost the complete perimeter around Sutton before finding Ansel Fitch, finally spotting the old man over by the south wall rooting about in a bush with a long stick.

  Wallace watched the man probe and prod, poking his nose into bushes and stumps, surprised at just how spry he was for a man of his years.

  Ansel squatted and plucked up a leaf, bringing it to his nose.

  Wallace sighed. Do I truly feel this stewed prune can help me? Wallace considered leaving; the only thing keeping him from doing so was the fact that it was this stewed prune who’d called out the Muford widow for witchcraft several years ago—it was his evidence, his testimony that had seen her hanged.

  Ansel’s head jerked up as Wallace approached, and his eyes narrowed, regarding him suspiciously.

  “What are you doing out here?” Ansel asked.

  “I could ask you the same thing. But I know well what it is you’re about.”

  “You do, do you? Well, just let me show you something.” Ansel pointed his stick at some tracks in the mud. “What kind of tracks do you see?”

  “Those are goat tracks. Probably one of Goody Dibble’s; she often lets them graze out here.”

  “Aye, and if you were the Devil, how would you cover your comings and goings?”

  Wallace shrugged.

  Ansel grinned, tugged a piece of parchment from his coat, and unfolded it to reveal several drawings of hoofprints; they were of various shapes and sizes.

  “See this one.” He pointed to one larger than the rest. “This one I drew from prints I found next to Widow Pratt’s body. Some say her heart gave out, but I think you and I know better. Now look here.” He pointed to the mud again. “See that set there? Are they not the same?”

  Wallace felt the hair on his neck rise. “Aye, they are indeed.”

  “Slewfoot is a clever one. He thinks no one will notice if he walks along the beast trails. But old Ansel, he is clever too, does not miss a trick.”

  Wallace smiled. “I know. That is why I’ve sought you out.”

  Ansel gave him a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

  “I know exactly where the Devil be. I just need a little help proving it. Do you know anyone who can help me with that?”

  Ansel stood up straight, his bulbous eyes all but dancing. “I most certainly do.”

  “Good, then let me tell you a story.”

  * * *

  The Pequot men ran through the forest and Samson followed. It was a game and Samson played along, staying visible to them but never quite catching up. They knew he was there, he could sense it, could tell they wanted him to follow, that they were leading him somewhere. They traveled throughout the day, moving briskly, the men darting and dashing through the woods along streams and animal trails.

  It was almost dark when Samson first sensed the village, smelling it long before he saw it. It was the smell of people, of their fires, their food, their sweat and blood. He spied torches ahead, twinkling between the trees, came to the edge of the woods and watched the men disappear into the village. He listened for a while to the sounds of children playing, infants squalling, people bickering, others laughing, and somewhere someone chanting softly.

  Samson left the cover of the trees and strolled into the village. He didn’t bother to hide himself, wanting to be seen, needing to know how these people would respond to him. He was struck by a sudden familiarity, as though he’d done this before.

  One by one, the inhabitants saw him, and he had no problem reading their fear, their horror, as they grabbed children and ducked into their huts. Soon there was no one to be seen, the entire village falling quiet, until the only sound remaining was the soft chanting.

  The chanting grew louder. Samson followed the sound to the far side of the village, to the base of a rocky cliff. There, on a ledge high above, stood a man silhouetted against the night sky.

  He knew this man.

  Samson climbed the steep cliff with the ease of a mountain goat. When he arrived at the ledge, the man was gone. He noticed smoke and a faint light emanating from a cave in the cliff face.

  Samson entered the cave, found that it was more of a tunnel. He followed it several dozen paces, tracing his hand along the hundreds of cave paintings, before it opened into a small cavern about the size of one of the huts.

  The
walls of the cave were covered floor to ceiling in skulls and masks of all sizes and shapes. All intricately decorated with sigils, feathers, and bones. They were strung together by long strands of woven reeds, grass, and hair, giving Samson the impression of a spider’s lair. Again, Samson felt an overwhelming sense that he’d been here before.

  A fire burned within a circle of stones at the chamber’s heart, and there, on the other side of the flames, waited the man.

  The man sat cross-legged upon a blanket, softly chanting, his face covered by an eyeless white mask carved from wood into the shape of a circle, like the moon. The man appeared ancient, yet neither feeble nor frail, but wiry and alive. His leathery skin was dusted in ash, his silver hair snaking down his back in two long braids.

  The man lifted the mask, revealing a ghostly white face with dark lines running vertically down his features. It was the face of the magic man from Samson’s visions.

  The man’s eyes were black smudges of paint, and when he stopped chanting and opened them, they gleamed out from their shadowy sockets.

  The man stared at Samson. “You are lost. Are you not?” The man’s voice surprised Samson; it was that of a young man.

  “I am.”

  “Come … sit with me. I have much to show you.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Wallace approached Abitha’s farm through the forest, followed by his son, Isaac, and Ansel Fitch. It was nearing noon and the woods were alive with the shrill calls of insects and birds. The warm humid spell had continued into October and the air was heavy and still.

  They came to the tree line above the farm and stopped. It had been a long hike; Wallace’s clothes dripped with sweat and the bullet wound in his thigh throbbed.

  “What exactly is it we’re looking for?” Isaac asked.

  “It will be the kind of thing you know when you see it,” Ansel said. “Some unnatural act that the three of us can swear to. Some odd display, something to present to Magistrate Watson.”

  Yes, Wallace thought, and it shouldn’t take much. He’d already spoken with both the magistrate and Lord Mansfield and knew it wouldn’t take much at all.