by Brom
Abitha walked around him to the shelf, picked up one of the pots of honey; she seemed lost in thought. Wallace dared not guess what she might be contemplating.
“Abitha … listen.” Wallace spoke, trying to get the words out between gasps of pain. “Anything … you want. I … will do anything you ask. I will recant … all, everything. I will swear it were all lies. I will admit that I coerced my daughter … anything you want. Anything.”
But he could see Abitha wasn’t listening. She replaced the honey gently, almost tenderly, back on the shelf, then set her hand on a timber beam, closed her eyes, and began mumbling, no, humming softly. It was as though she were in a trance.
There came a strange clacking sound, followed by popping and snapping, like that of splintering wood. For a moment, he thought the log planks and beams of his home were splitting, that they were going to collapse in on him. Then he saw what it was—beetles, dozens and dozens of them in all shapes and sizes, coming out of the timber. He knew what they were, wood beetles, but what he didn’t know was that hundreds of them lived in the timbers of his cabin and that they had incredibly powerful mandibles designed solely to chew long tunnels through very hard wood.
The beetles began to crawl toward him, but it wasn’t until one crawled up on his arm and bit him that he fully appreciated his predicament.
He squirmed, flipping the beetle away, but just as quick another was upon him, another, and another. They dropped from the beams above him, crawled out of the floorboards around him. They bit him and he screamed and writhed, trying to dislodge them. Then they began to not just bite but to burrow, to actually burrow into him. He could see and feel them digging into his flesh.
“Oh, God!” he howled. “Get them off me!” He flailed about, his broken limbs all but useless.
The Devil left the cabin and Abitha followed after, stopping at the door, watching him, a small smile on her face.
Wallace realized his only chance was to get out of the cabin and began to squirm his way toward the door. More and more beetles fell upon him, digging into him. He felt them inside of him now. He whined and yowled and just when he thought he might make it to the door, Abitha pulled it shut with a solid slam, leaving him all alone with the beetles.
“NO!” Wallace wailed, screaming and shrieking until finally one of the beetles burrowed into his throat, and then he shrieked no more.
* * *
Ansel, the guard Jacob, and Magistrate Watson all stood on Ansel’s porch staring north toward the fiery glow, listening for more gunshots. A smoky haze drifted through the village. Small clusters of people shuffled about; no one seemed to know what was going on or what to do.
“The stables are burning,” Jacob said.
“Let’s just hope the fire doesn’t spread,” Ansel said.
“Guard … there!” Magistrate Watson cried, pointing to a figure weaving its way toward them. The magistrate ducked behind the door as the figure approached.
Jacob raised his musket, then lowered it. “Richard?”
Richard made it to the steps, then collapsed onto the porch. Jacob set down his musket, going to the man and propping him up.
“What happened?” Jacob asked.
Richard tried to reply but was having difficulty breathing. A strange rasping sound coming from his throat. That’s when Ansel noticed the deep wound to his chest.
The magistrate peeked out from behind the door. “What has happened? Is it Indians? How many?”
Richard said something, but it was little more than a whisper.
“Speak up, man,” the magistrate demanded, walking over and kneeling beside the man. “Speak up!”
“Devils,” the man said weakly. “The witch … devils … demons.” He coughed, spattering blood onto the magistrate’s cheek.
Magistrate Watson jerked back, yanking out his handkerchief and wiping the blood frantically from his face. “Did you hear that? Did you?”
Ansel nodded, his face pale.
“Witches and devils! We need leave. Now!”
The guard coughed violently, tried to say more, then went limp, staring up at nothing.
“Richard?” Jacob called, shaking the man. “Richard … Richard!”
“He’s dead,” the magistrate said. “Now let’s go. Hurry, man.”
When the guard didn’t move right away, the magistrate grabbed his jacket and gave him a sharp tug. “Now, I said. That is an order. Load up my wagon and let’s be off.”
“But, sir,” Jacob said. “The captain … we should wait for the captain. He might need—”
“Captain Moore can take care of himself. Now let’s move!”
“We cannot just—”
“Soldier,” the magistrate growled. “Your job is to keep me safe. Now I am ordering you to load up my bags.”
Ansel glanced back to the billowing smoke, to the dead man, and decided it might be prudent if he left with them. “Yes, we must get Magistrate Watson out of here. It’s too dangerous. Jacob, you get the wagon hitched, and I’ll assist the magistrate in gathering his belongings.”
The guard reluctantly complied, dashing off to gather the horses. Ansel followed the magistrate in and helped him pack, bringing the two bags out onto the porch.
“My chair, do not forget my chair.”
Ansel nodded, running back in and dragging the heavy chair out. Jacob was there waiting with the wagon when he returned, and Ansel was surprised to see Sarah Carter in the wagon bed. The captain had put her in the cellar, but in all he chaos, Ansel had forgotten she was even down there. She lay in a crumpled heap, her hands in shackles, her breathing raspy, avoiding everyone’s eyes.
Ansel helped the magistrate up onto the seat of the wagon.
“Why is she here?” the judge asked.
“Sir?” Jacob replied.
“The woman.”
“Why, she’s our prisoner. It was you that said we’re responsible for bringing her to Hartford.”
“There is no room.”
“But there is.”
“Where will you put my chair?”
Jacob appeared dumbfounded. “Can we not send for it later?”
“No!” Magistrate Watson cried. “That chair is an heirloom. I will not risk losing it. Now get rid of that damn woman, load it up, and let’s be off.”
Jacob appeared ready to strike the man; instead he darted to the porch, hefted the chair, and brought it over. Ansel helped him lift it up onto the wagon bed.
“Careful,” the magistrate barked. “That chair came all the way from England.”
“Sit up, woman,” Jacob said. “Now.” When Sarah didn’t move, he climbed up and gently pushed her farther back in the bed to make room. Sarah let out a cry, clutched her chest. Ansel guessed she might have several broken ribs from the pressing.
“Why are you dillydallying?” the judge cried.
Jacob returned to the chair and shoved it roughly into the wagon.
“I said careful!” the magistrate shouted. “If that chair is damaged, it’ll come out of your wages, by Heaven.”
Ansel climbed up and took the reins.
Jacob pulled his own horse around and mounted up.
Ansel snapped the reins and they took off at a fast trot, Jacob following them on his horse, his pistol cocked and draped across his arm.
They were heading south to Hartford and away from the stables. Ansel realized they’d be going right by Wallace’s homestead and wondered if they should stop and warn the man.
* * *
Sheriff Pitkin sprinted into the village, running directly to the meetinghouse. There he found a small cluster of people gathered. He grabbed Felix James. “Ring the bell!” he cried. “Quickly. Do not stop until everyone is here.” He turned to the group of anxious faces. “Go. Gather anyone you can find. Tell them to bring muskets, swords, axes, and bring them here. Now!”
“What is happening? Indians?” So many questions all asked at once.
“Enough, quiet!” Sheriff Pitkin shouted. �
�We are under attack. It is the witch. She has friends with her.” This was met with shocked looks of horror. “We’ll make our stand here … in the meetinghouse. God will protect us, but we must do our part. Now go! Go!”
The bell tolled, and in short order, the people of Sutton began to gather inside the meetinghouse. The sheriff did his best to organize them, first steering the elderly, the women, and children into the center of the room, setting a barricade about them with the benches.
Reverend Collins and Reverend Smith arrived.
“Reverends,” the sheriff called. “Get anyone who cannot wield a weapon praying. God needs to be in the house.” Both ministers gave him a horrified look but nodded, gathering people into a circle and leading them in prayer.
As more men with muskets arrived, the sheriff began to set up defenses, lighting a ring of torches around the meetinghouse so that they could see any who approached.
The meetinghouse had only four windows, two on each side, and he placed several men at each, as well as a handful at the door behind a barricade, giving them instructions to space out their shots to ensure some were firing while others reloaded.
He glanced around, trying to think of anything else they could do to strengthen their position. But just how does one defend themselves against a witch? he wondered. We pray, he thought. And as he walked from window to window, searching the shadows for any sign of the witch or her tricks, he prayed, whispering right along with the ministers. Hoping that God would be their shield against the Devil and his wickedness.
* * *
Ansel kept glancing behind, sure she’d be there—the witch, her imp, chasing the wagon with burning red eyes and howling for vengeance. He shuddered, then heard the meetinghouse bell begin to toll far back—confirming that the trouble was behind him—and let himself relax somewhat.
Good luck, Sutton, he thought. Perhaps if you had been a little more accommodating to an old man and his talk of devils, you’d not be in such a predicament.
They crossed the Williams’s bridge, which meant they were coming up on Wallace’s homestead. Ansel weighed if he should stop and warn the man or not.
“Why are you slowing down,” the magistrate barked. “Do not slow down until I tell you.”
“Sir, Wallace—”
“Not until I tell you!”
Ansel started to snap the reins when something—what looked to be a fish—flashed in front of the horses. It, the fish, screamed and both horses veered sharply left, and the next thing Ansel knew, they were crashing through the underbrush. The wagon struck something solid—a log or boulder—and both Ansel and the magistrate flew from the seat.
Ansel flipped at least once and landed on his back in a bush. He lay there a moment waiting for the pain to hit, as there was no way he could’ve escaped such a wreck without at least a few broken bones. But no pain came. He sat up, and other than some scratches, seemed fine.
The magistrate, however, wasn’t so lucky, and lay in a heap, wailing.
Ansel crawled to his feet and even in the dim moonlight could see the magistrate’s legs were twisted and mangled. Ansel stepped over him, looking to the wagon, hoping to set the horses free so he could be on his way. But the whole of it, the horses, the wagon, they were impossibly tangled in the brush. The wagon a complete loss. He spotted Sarah, somehow still in the bed, sitting up, looking dazed.
Jacob reared up and hopped down from his horse, dashed over to the howling magistrate. “Hold tight, sir,” Jacob called. “We will get you bound up and away in short order. Ansel,” Jacob called. “Here, a little help, please.”
Ansel didn’t hear him; he was looking at the two shadowy figures walking toward them down the road. His blood turned cold. One of them had horns. “Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord.”
“Ansel,” Jacob called. “I need your help.”
“The Devil!” Ansel cried, his bulbous eyes ready to pop from their sockets.
“What?” Jacob looked up, saw them as well. “Lord Jesus!” He let go of the magistrate, yanked his pistol from his belt, aimed, and fired.
And there, in that flash of gunfire, Ansel saw all he needed to see. He leapt over to the guard’s horse, grabbed the reins, and swung up into the saddle.
“My musket,” Jacob shouted.
The musket was on a sling on the horse, but Ansel didn’t hand it to the guard. He didn’t even consider handing it to the guard—his only thought was escape. He kicked the horse, shouted, and galloped away. He heard the guard calling after him, then came a long, terrible scream. Ansel tried not to hear that, but it dug into his head. “Oh, no! Oh, no!” He kicked the horse again, and again, racing away as fast as he could, not daring a glance back, not wanting to see, not wanting to know, only wanting to get away.
* * *
Abitha watched Ansel ride off. “You cannot hide,” she said, then looked down at Jacob’s young face, at all the blood pooling beneath his body, and felt only sorrow; he’d been kind in his way. Her eyes shifted to the man moaning in the brush. “Hello, magistrate. How are you doing this fine evening?”
Magistrate Watson clutched his twisted leg, trying to press the protruding bone back beneath the flesh. He glared at her in horror and pain.
“You do not appear to be enjoying yourself.”
“Stay away from me,” he whimpered.
Sky flew in and landed on a branch next to him, and Creek circled about playfully, both of them giggling.
“Demons!” the magistrate cried. “Away, all of you! I am a man of God. Touch me and suffer God’s wrath!”
Abitha grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head back, pressing her cutlass against his throat. “You enjoy giving people choices. Not very good ones, I would add, but when you are making up your own rules, I guess you can do as you please. Fair is fair, so here, now, I shall return the favor.” She released him, stepped over, and pulled a knife from Jacob’s belt, held it out to the magistrate. “Take it.”
He looked at it as though it were poison.
“Take it. I’ll not ask you again.”
He took it.
She smiled. “I need assurance that you’ll not condemn another soul. So, I can either gut you and slowly tear out your entrails … as I believe that would provide ample assurance, or … you can cut out your own foul tongue from your own foul mouth. Which choose you?”
The magistrate looked at the knife, swallowed, and shook his head. “No, please. I beg of you, mercy.”
“This is a mercy. Trust me.”
“I swear, swear to God … I swear to my soul, I will quit this business. I’ll step down from my post as of this minute. I will grant a full pardon to all.” He began to bawl.
Abitha pressed the blade against his gut. “Your Magistrate, I am about to start cutting you open. I will only stop once you begin slicing your tongue.” She jabbed the blade into his stomach, just far enough to draw blood.
“All right … all right!” he cried, and grabbed his own tongue, held it out between his fingers, then hesitated, unable to do it.
Abitha jabbed the blade deeper into his gut. He howled and began to saw, hacking and sawing, trying to force the blade through the stringy meat, gurgling as hot blood spurted, filling his mouth, as it ran down his throat, gagging, all while trying to scream. With a final hack, he severed his tongue. Holding it up for her to see while he sobbed and retched.
Abitha removed the blade from his gut, reached down, and snatched the tidbit from his hand. “Thank you.” She tossed it over her shoulder and turned away. She stepped back up onto the road, then heard laughter, realized there was a woman in the wagon bed.
“Sarah?”
“So, you’re a witch after all,” Sarah said with a sneer. “Look at you there, dancing with the very Devil.” She laughed again; it was not a cheerful laugh, but that of a person losing her mind.
Abitha stepped toward her.
“Stay away from me!” Sarah cried, and broke into a coughing fit, clutching her ribs.
Abitha stopped.
Sarah held up her shackles. “I deserve this, all of this, because the Devil came knocking at my door and I let him in.”
“Sarah, that is not fair. You did not—”
“How could you do this to me?” Sarah cried, clutching her chest. “To my family? You bewitched me!” She ran her fingernails across her chest, leaving bloody gouges. “Damn you, Abitha Williams! Damn you! I hope you burn for all eternity!” She began to cough again, a brutal retching sound that slowly turned into a cackle, then to laughter that was akin to screeching.
Abitha said nothing, just turned and headed away, at that moment wanting only to escape this tragic, broken woman. And whose poisonous tongue was it that condemned this poor woman so? She looked toward town, could see the slight glow from the distant fire. Abitha began to walk.
Samson joined her. “You’re going back, are you not? After that man.”
She nodded. “His name is Ansel. It is the final name on my list.”
“It will be dangerous.”
“I have no choice,” Abitha replied, and took off at a trot, quickly picking up speed. It seemed that each kill further bound her to the magic, transformed her a bit more, and she found herself galloping down the road at a pace near that of a horse. As the hunt took her, it was the serpent’s pulse she felt drumming in her chest—the venom and the bloodlust. The night called to her and she answered, howling to the moon as she bounded down that dark and lonely road.
CHAPTER 16
Abitha spotted Ansel just as he galloped through the village gate into Sutton. She raced after him, letting loose a screech, wanting him to know she was there, that she was coming for him.
He glanced back, his eyes bulging with terror as he kicked his horse harder.
They raced down the rutted path, past the rows of thatched-roof houses and gray wattle fences.
Abitha saw the ring of torches posted about the meetinghouse ahead, knew where he was going. “No,” she growled, and pushed herself even harder, her fleet hooves kicking clumps of dirt into the air.