Slewfoot

by Brom

Abitha felt the serpent respond to her need for vengeance; it was as though she were calling its name. Something else responded as well—there, in the shadows, the ghostly shapes of twelve women appeared. They stood, silently watching her, their faces obscured by their long hair.

  The serpent closed in, closer and closer, its lethal promise igniting something deep within Abitha’s breast: the primordial need of every creature that has ever been hurt by another—the need to bite back.

  A hard grimace set on Abitha’s face. “If it is a witch they want,” she hissed, “then a witch they shall have.”

  Abitha drank the blood, lapping it up with a burning thirst until every last drop was gone. The blood flowed into her, became a rush of heat pulsing through her entire being. The numbness left her arms, her hands, her feet. Her legs began to burn with agony as though all the old wounds were fresh. She saw why—that they were healing, the broken bones mending, the gashes and welts disappearing. She clutched them, cried out, and just when she felt sure she could bear the pain not a moment longer, that it would break her, the pain began to subside, little by little, until finally it was gone. She gasped, wiped the tears from her eyes, and saw that her legs were all but healed. She rubbed them, overcome with relief.

  Samson took her hand, placed it on the ground, pressing his atop hers. Mother Earth, the serpent, was there, calling to Abitha louder than ever, circling restlessly just beneath her. The serpent’s voice multiplied, two, four, more, becoming a chorus, and it was then that Abitha realized that it was not just one serpent but hundreds racing round and round her. One of these broke away—it came for her.

  “Mother Earth has sent you something wild and deadly,” Samson said. “Are you ready?”

  Abitha looked up into his golden eyes. “I am.”

  “Call it.”

  Abitha closed her eyes, felt the earth quake beneath her hand. “Come to me,” she whispered, and that was all it took to break the thin barrier between the spirit world and her own. She felt the heat as the errant serpent left the earth and slithered up her body, coiling around her. She couldn’t see it, yet it was there, constricting, tighter and tighter. But Abitha felt no fear; it told her what it wanted and she wanted the same.

  “Come to me,” she repeated, and it did, entering first through her mouth, her nose, her ears, then through the most private places between her legs, flowing into her. She let out a moan of sheer joy, of fulfillment, but then her senses opened and the smell of blood, that of the guards, filled her, all but overwhelmed her. She could actually hear the beating of their hearts. A hunger like none she’d known set upon her, and when it did, it was as though she split in two. Her eyes flashed open and fell upon Norton. It, the serpent, tried to lunge for the guard, while Abitha strove to stay put, causing her, them, to fall over. She, it, they, began to fight for control, writhing on the ground. A roar filled her head as she struggled to hear her own thoughts. She, they, cried out, growling and howling like squalling cats.

  “Finish it!” Samson cried. “Quickly, or it will destroy you! Only blood will bind you. Kill him, kill the guard! Complete the spell!”

  Abitha, the serpent, their eyes returned to Norton, and this time Abitha allowed their shared desires to align, and the roar, the tug-of-war in her head, began to subside. Kill him! the serpent thought. Yes, kill him! Abitha thought. Kill him, they thought together. The knife, Abitha thought. Yes, the knife, the serpent agreed. Abitha, the serpent, they sat up, grabbed the knife, crawled over, and plunged it into Norton’s neck.

  Norton’s eyes popped opened, wide with terror. Abitha, the serpent, they fed on his fear, and together they let out a fierce howl, and together they drove the knife into the man’s chest, again and again until the blade pierced his heart.

  Norton let out a final strangled cry, then his heart ceased to beat. When it did, the serpent’s voice and Abitha’s became one, they became one—one mind, one soul, one heart, and that heart strummed with venom.

  All at once the world opened to Abitha; her senses sharpened and it felt as though a shroud had been lifted from her head.

  Mother Earth, the hundreds of serpents in the ground below, swam together, becoming one again, slithering away, deep down into the earth.

  Abitha’s pupils dilated, revealing all the secrets hidden by darkness, every sound coming to her sharp and clear; the night creatures seemed to be singing just to her. She heard them then, the men; they were coming, and then another sound, growling—she realized it was coming from her, from her own throat.

  She met Samson’s eyes, found a fire there. A small smile creased his face and he nodded.

  Abitha slid Norton’s cutlass from its scabbard and stood up, her legs solid beneath her.

  There came the strong scent of lavender and sage, and one by one, the spectral shapes of the women walked over to her, until all twelve women stood around Abitha in a circle. And as she looked to each one, they pulled back their hair, revealing their faces, faces so like her own, until finally—

  “Mother.”

  The women began to chant, their voices echoing as though from far away. Her mother pulled a strand of her own hair taut and bit it off, the others following her lead. They wove the locks into loops, the loops into a chain, until there, in her mother’s palm, lay a chain of twelve braids.

  Abitha reached for it, sure it would disappear, that they all would disappear, but the braid, it was real, and she took it. Then with the cutlass she trimmed off a lock of her own hair, twisting it and using it to bind the twelve, making thirteen and forming a loop. She slid this over her head, down onto her shoulders, wearing it like a necklace as she had seen her mother do.

  Her mother smiled, as did each of her mothers.

  Abitha smiled back, and then one by one they faded, yet she still felt their power, their love, and knew they were with her, part of her, and she a part of them.

  Sky and Creek began to laugh and Abitha joined them, laughing wildly and wickedly.

  A scent struck Abitha: it was fear. She stopped laughing, spotted Garret frantically crawling away, trying to find a place to hide in the stables. Her eyes narrowed and her lips peeled back, exposing small fangs. She lifted her head to the sky and howled long and loud, wanting them to hear—the men, the women, the children—wanting them to know that the beast was coming for them.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Say that again,” Captain Moore demanded.

  Jacob shook his head. “It were a demon, I tell you. A horned beast.”

  The captain, Jacob, and Richard stood on the porch of Ansel’s home. They’d gathered arms—swords, pistols, and muskets.

  “And you, Richard. You saw it too?”

  “Aye,” Richard replied. “It’s true. Horns, hooves, it had a tail. The damned beast had a fucking tail.”

  “But it carries a tomahawk?” Captain Moore asked.

  “Aye.”

  “What devil carries a tomahawk but an Indian? Are you sure it were not one of the savages?”

  “Does an Indian have a swishing tail and horns?”

  The captain smelled rum on the guard’s breath. If it were Indians dressed as demons, he didn’t think these men would know the difference, not in the dark like this.

  A howl pierced the night—long and terrible, causing the hair on the captain’s arms to stand on end.

  Magistrate Watson and Ansel both came out onto the porch.

  “What was that?” the magistrate demanded, his voice little more than a squeak.

  “It sounded ungodly,” Ansel added, his bulbous eyes searching the shadows.

  “It is but savages,” Captain Moore grunted. “A few young renegades causing trouble is my guess. I have dealt with such before. There is no real danger. They just want to prove their bravery to one another. A few well-placed shots will scatter them, send them back into the forest.” The captain started off the porch.

  “Captain, where are you going?” the magistrate asked.

  “To the stables.”

  “
No, that will not do,” Magistrate Watson said. “I need you here.”

  “The threat is out there, sir.”

  The judge glanced fretfully out at the night. “Well … what about the prisoner? I must insist on a guard for the prisoner.”

  “You mean Goodwife Carter? Why, she can barely stand. What do you think she is going to do? Sir, we’re already shorthanded and—”

  “You will leave a guard,” the magistrate insisted.

  Captain Moore struggled not to set the judge straight, knowing it was fools like him that got good men killed. “Go inside,” he said tersely. “Lock the doors. I will leave a guard.”

  The captain handed Jacob a musket. “Jacob, you’re to stay with Magistrate Watson for now.”

  Jacob’s face showed great relief. “Oh, aye, sir. I can do that.”

  “Richard, you’re with me.”

  “Do not go far,” the judge said. “I am a magistrate of the territory. You’re under orders to keep me safe.”

  Captain Moore didn’t bother with a reply but headed off with Richard. The captain was glad to be out in the dark, away from the house. He’d been through enough Indian skirmishes to know it was better to be amongst the trees, where one could maneuver, than locked up in a box. He headed for Sheriff Pitkin’s home, hoping to round up a few more men.

  They found the sheriff on the porch, musket in hand, looking down toward the stables.

  “You heard it?” Captain Moore asked.

  “Hard not to,” the sheriff replied. “Bet they heard it all the way to Hartford. Any idea of what is going on?”

  “Most likely savages causing trouble.”

  “Savages?” Sheriff Pitkin said. “That’s hard to believe. We’ve not had Indian problems around here for at least a decade.”

  “All I know for certain is that whoever it is, they injured, or mayhap killed, two of my guards.”

  “Makes me wonder if Abitha had a Pequot lover. Would explain a lot.”

  “It were a demon,” Richard put in. “A foul beast with horns and hooves, I tell you.”

  “Is that so?” the sheriff said.

  “It sure as hell is.”

  “Sheriff,” Captain Moore said. “I need you to round up your deputies and a few sure men and meet me at the stable. Can I count on you for that?”

  “You can,” Sheriff Pitkin said. “As fast as I am able.”

  “Good,” the captain said, and headed off with Richard toward the old stable.

  * * *

  “Oh, Jesus! God! Fuck!” Garret growled through his teeth as he clawed at the dirt, struggling to drag himself into the stable. The goddamn Devil himself is here! He tried to kick, to propel himself along, but his legs wouldn’t respond. “I am broken,” he whimpered. “Broken but good. Fuck!”

  A howl tore open the night, piercing Garret’s very core. He glanced back, froze. The witch, she was up, standing beside the Devil. And what? A raven and a fish? No, no. Not either, but some kind of floating demons with the faces of wicked children. And all of them were staring at him, glaring at him. “Oh, sweet Jesus, God!” he cried, and redoubled his efforts. He crawled into the stable, trying to hide amongst the haybales and sacks of seed.

  “Garret,” someone, or something, called.

  Garret curled up into a ball behind a bale of hay, clutching himself, clenching his eyes shut, trying to block it all out, trying to disappear.

  “Garret, where are you?” It was her, the witch. “You owe me something.”

  He heard footsteps.

  “There you are.”

  Garret opened his eyes and there she stood, only it wasn’t the helpless miserable wretch he’d been kicking around. No, the thing before him appeared anything but. Her feet were feet no longer, but split, her toes clumping together as though forming hooves. Her body lean, her tattered skirt and blouse spattered in blood. But it was her eyes that he found most disturbing, the pupils but slits, like some wild beast, only filled with hatred, all but gleaming with venom and fixed upon him. Then she smiled and he saw her teeth, her small, sharp fangs.

  Garret began to shake, pissing himself and bawling. “Oh, Jesus!”

  “You killed my Booka,” she hissed. “I loved my Booka.”

  “Nay, it were not me. It were … Norton. Norton that done it!”

  “You owe me a life.”

  “Mercy, I beg of you.”

  “I know not the meaning of that word.” She pushed a sack of seed over on top of him.

  Blinding pain shot up Garret’s back. He cried out, struggling to free himself, but the weight of the seed was too much; he couldn’t move.

  Abitha picked up one of the lanterns. Held it up so that he could see.

  “N … no! No, Abitha. No! I beg you. Do not, please … do not!”

  “I am not Abitha. Abitha was murdered. I am the witch, and the witch cares not for your tears.” And with that, she smashed the lantern against the post next to him, the oil splashing all over the hay. The oil ignited and a robust fire bloomed.

  “No!” Garret screamed. “NO!”

  The hay and seed quickly went up in flames and the fire began to spread. Garret fought to get out from beneath the sack, pleading and begging someone to help. But no one heard him; he was alone.

  * * *

  Captain Moore and Richard moved cautiously toward the edge of town. As they approached the stables, they heard screaming and noticed a bright red glow.

  “The stables are afire!” Richard said, and started forward.

  “Wait,” Captain Moore said, grabbing the man. “Could be a trap.” He led them to a cluster of brush; there he scanned the houses and trees on all sides, looking for any sign of an ambush.

  The screaming continued.

  “We have to do something,” Richard said.

  The fire was growing, the whole stable now aflame, lighting up the sky and surrounding woods.

  The captain spotted movement—two shadowy figures heading toward town along the far edge of the woods. It was hard to tell who or what he was seeing in the dark, then part of the stable roof collapsed, sending up an explosive fireball, giving him a good look. It was her, the witch, and to his shock, she was walking fine, moving along at a good clip. How? he wondered. Her leg, it was broken. Then he caught a glimpse of the other figure and forgot all about her. It was indeed a horned beast.

  “See!” Richard exclaimed. “See there. I told you!”

  The captain squinted, trying to understand what he was seeing. No, he thought, it is but a man. He’d seen plenty of the Indians wearing outlandish outfits into battle—masks, horns, and hides, and covering themselves in paint. “It is a disguise, a getup meant to frighten us. That is all.”

  “We shall see,” Richard said, raising his rifle.

  “Wait,” Captain Moore said. “Need to find out how many there are.” He noted that they weren’t making signals or looking for others, and this wasn’t the way warriors acted when coordinating an attack. He now felt certain that the man must indeed be her lover. It was the only thing that made sense; with her husband dead and needing help on the farm, why wouldn’t she take a savage to her bed? “They’re alone,” he said, and raised his musket. “On my order … fire!”

  They both fired, the blast thundering in the night.

  It took a moment for the smoke to clear. And when it did, they saw the witch helping the man to his feet.

  “There,” Captain Moore said to Richard. “Your demon appears to be but a mortal man after all.”

  Richard didn’t appear convinced.

  The witch and the man slipped into the trees.

  The captain tugged out his pistol and rushed forward, but when he arrived at the spot found no sign of either the witch or her companion. A moment later Richard caught up with him—and right on his heels, Sheriff Pitkin and two deputies, all armed with muskets.

  “Did you see them?” the sheriff asked.

  “Yes,” Captain Moore said. “Indeed. It is just the witch and some renegade sava
ge. He’s hit. They’ll not get far.”

  “Captain!” Richard called. “There!”

  The captain saw them hurrying through a small clearing, just a glimpse before they disappeared back into the woods, just enough that he could see the man was limping.

  “We have them,” the sheriff said. “These woods are backed by the river. They’ll be trapped.”

  The men entered the woods.

  * * *

  “You’re shot!” Abitha said. “Oh, Samson. No!”

  Samson stopped, looked at the hole in his side. “Yes, it appears so.”

  “We have to get you somewhere safe.”

  “I think I’ll be all right,” he said, sounding unconcerned.

  “What do you mean? You’ve been shot in the chest.”

  “Yes, and here as well.” He pointed to his thigh. “I have suffered worse. Does make it hard to walk, though.”

  Abitha stared at him, horrified.

  “It will heal; the question is how long will it take. I’ll probably not die. It seems I’m very hard to kill.”

  This did nothing to calm Abitha’s concern. She started to say as much when they heard the men moving in on them through the woods.

  “Abitha, my blood brings many gifts. It’s time you began to understand what you are. The wilderness is your home.… You have many friends here.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant. Sky? Creek? But they could do so little.

  The stables were fully ablaze now, and though they were well within the trees, flickering beams of light penetrated the darkness. Samson led her around a large clump of brush, pulling her down within the shadows. He placed her hand on the ground. “Feel Mother Earth … hear her.”

  Abitha did and felt the pulse; it flowed through her and all the living things around them. The voices of the forest began to open up to her: the frogs, the birds nesting in the trees, the spiders, the insects. Oh, she thought, so many insects. So many hungry insects.

  “Call them,” Samson said.

  “What?”

  “Call them.”

  Abitha closed her eyes and spoke, not with words, but with her heart, her soul. Found it to be an easy thing now that Samson’s blood ran in her veins. Found she was wed to the wild, their language one.