by A. Sparrow
Nigel glared at me and bit his lip.
“You want to check into a bloody inn? You think word won’t get out to the Dunns that there are foreigners in town come to make off with their daughter? Are you serious about helping Jillian or not?”
“Well, you’re not exactly … a foreigner.”
“Oh no? I’m English.”
Nigel backed his car into a bumpy track under the spreading boughs of oaks that looked like they hadn’t been touched by an ax since the signing of the Magna Carta.
With the sun hanging low, they set off on foot over a low, denuded hill that showed its bones here and there through the thin, sparsely grassed soil.
Atop the hill a view opened up to the south where the outskirts of Swansea were visible across an expanse of marsh with reeds rippling in the breeze. A compound of low houses and barns with roofs of thatch was enclosed by hedges that separated them from a coppiced orchard.
“My goodness,” said Nigel. “It’s like one of those tourist trap reconstructions. We’ve stepped into the freaking twelfth century.”
“So what do we do? Should I … text her? Let her know we’ve come?”
“What if someone else has her phone?” Nigel handed Ben the keys. “Let me do some scouting.”
“Wait a minute. Shouldn’t I be the one doing this?”
“Better they catch an Englishman than the kid from Brooklyn they know has been shagging their daughter. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
“Be careful!”
Nigel ran in a crouch down the backside of the hill like some SAS commando assaulting a village.
Ben hunkered behind a cairn to watch.
***
The sun fell. The moon had yet to rise. And Nigel had yet to return. Ben was on the verge of calling the police or fetching Nigel’s car and driving onto the estate to confront Mr. Dunn directly.
The bog gleamed black and oily in the faint light reflected from several kerosene lanterns posted about the family compound. Not a single electric bulb glowed anywhere on the property. Apart from their telephone, the Dunns appeared to live entirely off the grid.
A bush scraped. A pebble clattered.
“Nige? That you?” The silence that followed almost burst his heart.
“Who else would it be?”
Ben sighed. “Christ! What took you so long?”
“I got trapped behind a hedge. Almost got myself snared. There’s a bunch of old ladies down there, singing the weirdest songs, dancing and chanting and praying. I could swear I was in middle of some witches’ convention. When they finally went inside I made it around to each of the out-buildings. And … well, I found her.”
“How is she?”
“She looked … okay. I didn’t actually get close enough to speak with her. Just caught a glimpse through a window pane. There were a couple of old ladies in the room, one washing her feet in a basin, the other serving her soup on a tray. She’s in that little hut with the crude thatch all by itself on the edge of the compound. No electricity. Just a candle. She’s wearing this outfit, dressed all in white, like she’s some virgin sacrifice.”
“What the fuck?”
“Sorry! Bad choice of words, mate. It was just an expression. I don’t know exactly what is going on, but we’re here in time to bust her out. You go see to your girl. I’ll fetch the car and bring it closer.”
Ben handed back the car keys.
“Text me when you’re ready to go and I’ll come roaring down the track. Mind the gaps between the hedges. They’re rigged with some sort of booby traps.”
***
Faint fiddle music carried on the wind. Wood smoke wafted up the hillside, carrying with it the scent of onions and roasting pork. Ben stumbled down the breeze-swept slope. He could barely keep his feet on the rutted and tussocked ground. Only stars and fire glow lit his way. The moon had yet to rise.
Hounds barked and howled across the fens. Nigel hadn’t mentioned anything about dogs.
He passed through the outer hedge and made his way past the barns to the small, round hut where Jillian would be found. It looked more like something one would find in rural Africa than the UK.
He found a window and peeked through a gap in curtains. A pang of longing jolted his heart when he spied Jillian sitting on a bed, head down, head down, knees together, arms hugging herself tight. A bowl of soup sat untouched on a tray beside her.
She wore an off-white slip, not quite the wedding gown that Nigel had described. She had lost weight. Her eyes were sunken pits.
He rushed over and tried the door. It yielded.
Jillian’s eyes popped open wide. She gasped.
“Ben? What are you doing here? You have to go! Get out of here!”
“Excuse me? I’m not even worth a hello?”
“Leave! Now! He’s on his way.”
“Who? Your father? Let him come. I’d like a chance to speak my mind, one on one. You’re a free woman, Jillian. He’s got no right to do this to you. No right whatsoever.”
“You don’t understand. This is not my daddy’s doing. This is something I have to do … for my family.”
“For your family? What about me? My fiancé goes and ditches me with no explanation and I’m just supposed to forget about it?”
“The wedding’s off, Ben. Things have changed.”
“What could possibly have changed? We’ve been planning this elopement for months. Three weeks ago you told me you couldn’t wait. You wanted to do it early.”
“I didn’t know my sister would run off to France. But she did, so it’s on me now. I have certain … obligations.”
“But you agreed to be my wife.”
“I can’t now. I’m sorry. I’m … to be the bog wife.”
“The what?”
“Ben … you can’t stay. He’ll be coming. As soon as the moon rises.”
“Who the fuck is coming? Your … boyfriend? Your new fiancé?”
“Don’t ask me to explain,” said Jillian. “Please! Just go.”
“But what about … us?”
“There is no us!” She gnawed at her lip, pained to even look at him. “Maybe someday … we can be together again … if you still want me. But I only after I bear his child.”
“Bear his child? Bear whose child? What the fuck? Who is this guy? Is this some kind of arranged marriage?”
Jillian breathed hard. Tears dribbled down her cheeks.
“This is how my family keeps our land. For more than a thousand years the Elder has used us to pass on his line. Each full moon on the summer solstice, he comes to this hut to pass on his seed.”
“The hell he will! Over my dead body.”
“Please Ben. If he finds you here … if you get in the way, he’ll kill you. There are powers at work far beyond your ken. Go back to London. Maybe in a year or so we can see each other again … if … if you still want me. My parents would probably agree to watch over the child. That’s how it usually goes. This is the price we Dunns pay … to keep the family estate.”
“Jillian. You can’t tell me you want this. Some guy to come and knock you up … just for tradition.”
“What I want does not matter. And he’s not just some guy. He’s the Elder.”
A silvery glow gilded the curtains.
“The moon. It’s rising.”
Ben reached out his hand. “Come. If you still love me, then show me. Let’s get out of here. Nigel’s waiting for us in the car.”
“Did you not hear me? I can’t go, Ben. I need to go through with this.”
“You’re shitting me? You want to stay here and get … raped … by some … stranger? Some old guy you don’t even know? That’s sick, Jill. I mean, is that something you really want to do?”
She lowered her chin.
“No. But it’s my duty … to my family. If I don’t do it … someone else will have to. The Elder won’t rest until the deed is done.”
“So? Let someone else worry about it. Why should the entire burden be
on you? Maybe it’s time your family broke with tradition, don’t you think?”
Jillian still looked uncertain, but at least a mote of hope had joined the mix of emotions clashing on her face. She hopped off the bed and scurried over to a coat rack, fetching her leather jacket.
“That a girl! Now we’re talking!”
Ben took her hand and led her towards the door. Together, they left the hut.
With one hand, he texted a one word message to Nigel:
“Now!”
***
Nigel’s car came screaming down the dirt track, headlights dark. The full moon bulged over the marshes, looking twice its normal size.
Across the compound, the music ceased abruptly. Voices hushed. A door creaked open.
“Run!”
They tore across the paddock, making for the gaps in the hedges that ringed the family compound. As he slipped through an opening, a loop of stiff rope lifted out of the dirt and cinched tight around his knee. He thudded against the ground.
“What the fuck?”
“It’s one of daddy’s snares,” said Jillian, dropping to her knees. “He sets them for poachers and trespassers.”
“Get it off me! Quick.”
“It’s too tight. I can’t even get my fingers under it. We need a knife.”
Voices angry. Footsteps.
Nigel’s Ford fishtailed in the dirt and swung around broadside.
“Jillian! Get in the car and go. I’ll deal with this meet up with you two in Swansea. Or if worse comes to worse … London. Don’t wait for me. Get the fuck away from this place.”
“But … my daddy.”
“I’ll deal with your parents! What they did to you is against the law. And besides … they can’t mess with me … I’m an American citizen.”
“That doesn’t matter, you fool. You don’t know these people. They’re not bound by normal rules. Things are different here.”
“Go with Nigel! Go!”
Nigel pushed the passenger door open and shouted.
“Get in, Jilly! What are you waiting for?”
Jillian stumbled over to the car and climbed in. Nigel sat there, staring at him.
“Get her the fuck out of here, Nigel! Go!”
Nigel gunned the accelerator even before she had the door closed. His headlights flicked on just in time for him to swerve and avoid a pedestrian standing in the dark in the middle of the road on the causeway that crossed the marsh.
Footsteps approached down the cobbled walk, accompanied by voices, stern and argumentative.
***
A square-jawed man bearing a candle lantern loomed over Ben. He had Jillian’s eyes. This had to be her dad. Behind him, a covey of elderly and wrinkled women came hobbling down the walk from the house.
Jillian’s father had a shotgun tucked under one arm, his expression grim but calm. He seemed more disappointed than angry.
“You must be Benjamin.”
“Yeah. I … uh … seem to be caught in one of your snares. Can you … uh … help get me out of this?”
“No,” he said, flatly.
“Excuse me?”
“We have a full moon on the solstice. This does not happen more than once every thirty years. The Elder must be served his virgin.”
“I hate to break this to you, but … Jillian’s gone, and besides … she’s no virgin … and neither am I … and … you might not have noticed, but … I’m not a girl.”
Jillian’s father sucked on his teeth. “From the Elder’s perspective, you’ll do just fine, son. You are a virgin enough as far as this bog is concerned.”
“What the fuck?”
“We have to keep you leashed here, son. The Elder is not going to be interested in any of these old crones … or me. It’s going to have to be you now, since both my daughters have slipped the coop.”
“But … I’m not even related. I’m … American. I’m Jewish. And I’m a man.”
He shrugged. “It’s not your blood that matters. It’s his that needs to be passed on. My family has taken on the burden over the years. But we’re more than happy to share. And as for your maleness—a mere technicality. These ladies will take care of that.”
He scratched a circle in the clay around Ben with the toe of his boot. The women began chanting. One of them reached into a purse and pulled out a jar. She smeared a two fingered gob of something viscous and smelly on Ben’s forehead and lips. It tasted like putrefied fish mixed with mud. Ben spat and spat but could not get the taste out of his mouth.
Still chanting, they women turned back towards the house. Jillian’s father lingered, watching.
“This is criminal, Mr. Dunn. If I were you, I would seriously reconsider letting me go right now.”
“No, you wouldn’t. With two girls gone, someone has to be the bog wife tonight. And it won’t be me or those crones, even though some of us have got his blood. Sometimes, a man has to make do. Thankfully, we have the old rites to give us the means. You will be free to go after tonight. We won’t keep you here. But bear in mind, you won’t be a man again until you bear the Elder’s child. So don’t get any ideas about morning after pills and abortions and such. You’re the bog wife now. The Elder will roam the earth looking for you until he finds you. Until you bear his child. It was to be Jillian, and her sister before that, but now it’s you who is the chosen one.”
“Bear his child? Are you insane? Look at me! I’m a man.”
Mr. Dunn scrunched up his mouth. “Not for long.”
“Say what? “You can’t do this to me! This is kidnapping! Rape! My uncle … he’s got a law practice in Philly. You’re going to prison if you don’t let me go right now.”
“I’ll take our laws over yours, son. Our laws have been operating on this earth a whole lot longer. Long before the Romans came to meddle. Our local constables know all about this arrangement. You’ll get no traction from them. The magistrate. The townsfolk. They’re all part of this. Everybody knows about the Elder. Everyone’s more than happy to let us Dunn’s bear the burden of his seed. They know if they interfere, he’ll come after them. Even if you go to London, they won’t know what to do with you.”
“What are you talking about? No one is above the law.”
“I’m just saying … some laws trump others. Laws of nature and spirit. That’s all. In any case, the moon, it rises, and we need to get on with business. We’ll bring you breakfast in the morning. Some clean clothes. And then you’ll be free to go.”
The music started up again. Mr. Dunn waddled back to the main house, taking with him his feeble pool of light.
Ben lay with his back against the hedge, digging into the snare with his fingernails. The rope around his leg was reinforced with a steel cable.
Waves of nausea shimmered through him. His man parts shriveled. Muscles spasmed in his chest and groin. The flesh around his nipples began to swell.
He gazed into the blackness of the road down which Nigel and Jillian had escaped, hoping to see police cars with lights ablaze and sirens wailing, but all was silent but for the slow, dragging footsteps of the Elder approaching along the margin of the bog, his slender frame silhouetted against the low hanging moon.
*****
The Bridge
Sleep deprivation. That’s the only explanation for the incident at the bridge yesterday that makes any sense to me. The other possibilities are too wild or terrible to contemplate. I mean, what else could account for it? Schizophrenia? Brain cancer? Demonic possession? Really?
For lack of sleep, at least I have resources. Poly-fill pillows. Tempur-Pedic mattress. Ambien and scotch, if necessary. Not much to be done about those nastier options but suffer and pray.
I don’t dare read the papers or watch the news. I worry that something bad might have happened to Rhea.
The night before, I had stayed up late to watch Monday Night Football. The game was tight, neck and neck all the way through, the Giants barely keeping the Eagles at bay with a three point lead at the tw
o minute warning. A last gasp drive by the Eagles tied it with a field goal. Two quarters of overtime and then, like a gift from the angels, an eighty yard touchdown pass to Victor Cruz. We win. But the jitters keep me up till four.
I fall asleep to nightmares. Weird ones. I’m talking H.P. Lovecraft material. Parasites. Clumps of writhing wormy things prodding and probing my organs. I am thankful to waken, even though it’s six and I have get to Ithaca for work by seven. But I can’t shake those dreams. There’s an itch inside my head. Like something has infested my brain.
At the lab, I make a deal with my supervisor Glen to let me leave an hour early if I skip lunch. Three o’clock comes and all I want to do is drive home and crash on the couch. But I’m starving. The only thing I had to eat all day was an over-ripe banana.
A couple slices of pizza would sure hit the spot, so I drive up the hill to College Ave. The metered spaces are full up as usual. I cross the bridge to campus and park near the hotel school. I cut through the engineering quad on foot past the granite sundial and the geological garden.
I’m crossing back over the bridge when something snaps in my head. It feels like ears popping, but deeper. Something makes me stop in the middle and gaze down through the fence into the void of Cascadilla Gorge. The water’s deep and turbid from all the thunderstorms we’ve been having lately. Thick and brown with sediment, it shoots over slabs of slate, over the brink of the falls.
Only a week ago here, fire-fighters recovered the body of a Cornell freshman who had leaped to his death. I shudder at the thought of falling, but something squirms in my head, my fear does a three-sixty and mutates into an urge. Now plunging headfirst into that gorge is something I need as much as food. A pressure builds inside my skull. My heart pounds. My breathing deepens.
What the fuck? Maybe I’m not quite so psyched about life lately but I am far from suicidal, or at least I was. Why the heck would I want to die? The Giants won last night, for Christ’s Sake. Pay day is tomorrow.
But somehow the idea of going over the top simultaneously appalls and excites me. This isn’t me. It isn’t rational. Is this what insanity feels like?
It has to be that thing inside my head. It’s doing a pretty good job of convincing me that there’s something heroic about letting gravity dash my brains against the bedrock at a hundred miles an hour.