by David Neal
“It’s rare theses day I have a reason to fire up this old darling. I felt finding your ex-colleague’s colleague justified the cost in electricity.”
The dragline came alive. Vibrations from the engine sent tears further into my tendons. I screamed despite myself. Above me, steel cable rattled against metal guides then started to move. The cousin was dragged further into the crush of the pulley, hoist ropes resisting the blockage.
Papa Yaga held me.
“Don’t close your eyes or look away. I’ll cut your eyelids off myself.”
The air filled with the stench of friction, until momentum eroded through the cousin’s pelvis. The two halves of torso tumbled into a patch of corn stubble, plumes of steam rose as the last of the body heat hit the cold air.
“If you’re amiable, I would like you to track down your ex-colleague and give me the address. Then we really will never have to see each other again.”
If this was a film I would have asked “And if I don’t?” He’d have tortured me in increasingly inventive ways. It wasn’t a film, and I had every intention of doing this last bit of dirty work for Papa Yaga. It wasn’t like I had any lasting loyalty to Pasha.
Over the next few hours they gave me a few more scars, just to make sure I understood my place in the plan, but all the while they seemed almost apologetic.
Another syringe finished me off. When I woke I was in a nice, anonymous medical facility overlooking some rolling moorland. I was sure the purple heather was dancing and I couldn’t help wondering where the nearest stone circle was, or how long it would be before the laminate-coated walls would be dragged to be crushed to splinters between the orthostat molars.
I don’t know what worried me more. Papa Yaga suspending me until my shoulders tore out of their sockets, or paying for the best healthcare money could buy to patch me up before I did his hunting for him.
I lost track of how many days I spent in that private room. At some nod from the consultant, I was dressed in my own clothes, bundled into a van and dumped into the nearest town, a mobile in my pocket with a single phone number in the contacts.
* * *
Addicts are creatures of habit. Goes with the territory. Around other people Pasha was always too keen to impress to give any truths away. The truth was too mundane. He gave up trying with me a long time ago, and had slipped into his natural accent several times without realizing. Specific enough to identify his home town, if you paid attention. Other occasions he talked about a club night here, or a landmark there. Enough detail to confirm my suspicions.
The town was small and too many people knew each others’ business for Pasha’s whereabouts to stay hidden for long. He’d splashed around stolen cash to try and find a hiding place, and I splashed around my own to find him.
The squat was on the edge of town. A large house, insides gutted by fire. Recent enough for the stonework to be blackened with soot, and the air still thick enough with ash to stick in my throat. The people living there didn’t notice. They didn’t notice me. They didn’t notice what week it was. A bit of bad air wasn’t going to bother them.
I found Pasha in the basement. Seeing his silhouette I thought he was praying, knelt in the far corner, away from the worst of the leaking pipes dripping verdigris water into stinking pools on the stone flags. The damp made my wrists ache, and I rubbed the still-raw skin to ease the pain.
I thought about saying his name, but he was always faster than me. We were far beyond trust and loyalty now.
At first I thought the noise was a wasp nest in the room somewhere. The sound of constant chewing and tearing. I stilled my breath and listened. The grinding sounded too familiar. A memory of dead songbirds and decaying rubbish came back. I turned on the torch.
I don’t know how much Giant’s Dough Pasha had used. From the look of him I guessed we were talking kilos.
All his teeth had turned to stone, erupted vertically from his upturned face, and started grinding against each other. His skin was split by needle-thin rips. Inch by inch, fat and capillaries were dragged over the tiny menhirs and ground to paste. Around his neck wet muscle fibers were exposed, stretched taut as they too were dragged upward to be crushed and gnawed.
I shone the beam of light into Pasha’s face. His eyes were open, staring straight up at the ceiling. Feldspar glittered in his pupils. Clear gelatin seeped over his mineralized jaws and down his torn cheeks.
Wrapping my jacket around my hand, I rolled up Pasha’s trouser leg. Underneath all the dried blood it was impossible to tell where his ankle ended and the flagstones began. I dialed the number and waited for the call to connect.
* * *
Papa Yaga came into the basement by himself while his private army cleared the rest of the building.
I stood up from where I’d sat waiting on the damp steps.
“Weren’t you worried it was a trap?”
He just smiled, and even in the dark I saw his teeth glitter.
“Where is he?”
I took him over into the corner and turned the torch on Pasha, the chewing loud enough to drown out the sound of leaking pipes and footsteps on the floor above. He ran a finger over Pasha’s face, collected a nail full of the pale gel and rubbed it into his gums. Reaching out, he steadied himself against the wall.
A woman came down the stairs, a Stihl saw in her gloved hands.
“You OK, Papa?” she said, looking at me and placing the saw on the basement floor.
“I’m fine. You won’t need that. Call our land agent and have him buy this building. When you’ve done that, bring our guests from the holding cells. As many as you think this place can hold,” he paused, and nodded toward the stairs. “Bring down those individuals you found in the rest of the house. Let’s give them a purpose in life. Also, bring our entire stock of Giant’s Dough down here.”
“Everything is already on contract and packaged to go out,” she said, still looking at me as if uncomfortable having this conversation in front of a witness. I knew I was uncomfortable being a witness to them having this conversation.
“Take samples of the white ambergris dribbling from that traitorous fuck in the corner, and get them out to our clients in the hour. First though make sure we have the deeds to this building.”
The woman nodded and picked up the saw, leaving me alone in the cellar with Papa Yaga, and the constant sound of stone teeth grinding skin to paste.
“I’m sure you knew you weren’t getting out of this room alive,” Papa Yaga said, reaching out to take my hands in his. They felt warm and soft. Expensive. He massaged the back of my knuckles and leant in until his lips were against my ears. Peppermint on his breath stung my recently healed scars. “I hadn’t decided whether to let my people take turns on you, or cut you up and feed you to our little crushing circle of stones in the corner. But considering the amount of money your ex-friend is going to make for me I’m giving you one chance to fucking run.”
I looked at Pasha, now more self-consuming geology than man, and I did exactly what Papa Yaga suggested. I fucking ran.
*
I never heard of basilisks ‘til the night of Murrell’s barn dance, but that was the night I met Rosalie, so the basilisks sorta took a back seat in my thoughts. I think it was Ronny Loom who told me, though his brother, Carter, was there too, and they’re one ’n the same, being just a year apart and closer than spittin’ twins.
“Poppa told me basilisks are crossing the Nolichucky River,” Ronny said. “Heard Lilac and some men from Kingsport bagged half a dozen already, but more keep showing up. Lilac says they’re worth more’n cougar pelts.”
“That old trapper’s still around?” I asked, more interested in hearing ’bout him than gabbing on new mountain game. Legend was, Lilac Zollinger had once been engaged to my great-granny Lizbeth, but Great-Grandpa Micajah dueled him for her hand and won, leaving Lilac with a bullet in the shoulder. He healed, except for his pride, which supposing got wounded the most. “Heard Lilac caught the scythe two s
ummers ago by way of momma grizzly.”
“He survived that,” Carter said. “Thought everyone knew.”
Me and the Looms passed under the banner for Murrell’s dance and into his barn. Its double red doors were shuttered open and breathing yellow light like a hell cat, silhouetting straw-hatted farmers and their bonnet-hatted wives.
“Harv Ridout says Lilac won’t sleep under a roof, but rather beds down amongst the trees each night so he won’t soften up like us townies,” Ronny said.
Carter added, “Harv Ridout says Lilac punched a wolf that was fightin’ him over a cottontail.”
I rolled my eyes. “Harv Ridout’s got less sense—”
The sudden scream of fiddle severed my words, then the clang of guitar followed, and soon a gaggle of folks lined the varnished floor kickin’ up their legs like a train of asses. I never cared much for dancing and don’t know what others see in it. It’s not like kissin’ or anything, not even a little, and I should know ‘cause I done both. Dancing, you’re not even allowed to touch girls ‘cept on their hands, or Pastor Wright’ll whip your bottom scorched as Hell’s eternal fury for such a sin.
That’s when a girl I never seen before swung from the dance line, twirling delicate as a marigold bloom. Right away, my insides turned light and fizzy, like if ever I thought to float on moonlit mist, now would be the moment. She was tall and skinny, like me, but her hair went dark, and her eyes shone like copper pennies set in fire ‘til they glowed and sizzled. She wore a dress pretty as first snow, and it clung to her in the middle and billowed out everywhere else as she moved.
Truth was, I never felt that way looking at a girl before, not even when kissing Aimee Greenwood last Harvest Day. I only kissed Aimee ‘cause she started it, but I liked it too, though how it felt didn’t compare a blue belle to how seeing this new girl weave and bow to each man in line did. Suddenly I felt dancing would be the greatest thing in the world, especially if with her.
“New girl in town,” Ronny and Carter said together. “Heard her name is Rosalie Jacobs.”
“Rosalie,” I repeated, and I wondered where she came from. In Whaleyville, everyone knew everyone—even new folks—but she was a puzzler.
Murrell’s barn was stuffy hot that night, and the back of my neck stuck to the shirt collar with sweat. I ran a checkered sleeve across my forehead and it came away damp and grimy, though I still felt my best in over two years, since that terrible day at the revival.
“I’m gonna ask her to dance,” I vowed. But no sooner had the words been spoke did that vow fall to bitter ash when I saw Rosalie link arms with Luke Holder.
Ronny and Carter shook their heads somber as grave diggers. Luke Holder was older’n us, sized the three of us together, and meaner than a pecker full of sin. It was the cruel joke of the county that he was good looking too, with a big, perfect smile that made gals do funny things, and with eyes blue as winter quartz: cold and hard and sharp enough to cut, should you fall on ‘em the wrong way.
“Hellfire,” I muttered.
Rosalie and Luke swirled and dipped in the center of everyone, and Luke’s hand dipped below her waist too, lower than was decent. I couldn’t believe no one blinked at that, not even Pastor Wright, who would’ve had my hide skinned and burned for offering to His Heavenly Mercy. Rosalie giggled, and I could’ve puked.
“Heard Missus Janey’s got sweet tarts she made from honeycomb,” Carter offered as consolation.
“Sounds fine,” I admitted, and we went off, the sounds of music and scuffin’ all around, Joe Halverson’s mouth harp pickin’ up speed and Holly Barber calling steps.
Must’ve been forty, fifty people dancing in the barn that night, and the big oak beams shook with the ruckus of stomping feet and caterwauls and everyone-but-mine’s laughter. We settled on a bench of hickory and tasted the sweet wonder of Missus Janey’s tarts, and I started feeling better.
“Wonder if Lilac would take us with him after some of those basilisks,” Ronny mused. “Wouldn’t mind to mount one for Poppa’s trophy room.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “What’s a basilisk anyway?”
“Ain’t you heard?” Carter asked. “They’ve been crossing the Nolichucky.”
“Yeah, I heard. What of it?”
“Well, they ain’t natural. Jonas Teakle called ’em the kings of snakes, but said they’re not entirely serpents either, only half-so. They were called forth by the pastor at Swannanoa’s church, and he’s to blame they’re escaping, on account he’s false and their church is awful wicked and full o’ sin.”
“Can’t be worse than ours,” I said, mocking.
Ronny and Carter both threw me strange glances, and I pretended to wipe away crumbs, hiding my face. They might’ve said something unkind next, but then trouble occurred. Seemed Luke Holder hankered for sweet tarts, too, and he wanted Rosalie to delight in their savor alongside him.
Each was panting and flushed from dancing when they came beside us.
“…and then I split three logs at the same time,” Luke told her. “And Judge McClellan said he never seen anything like it.”
“Three logs?” Rosalie repeated back, that coppery fire of her eyes seeming to burn brighter. “You’d have to be strong as an ox.”
“Bet I am!” Luke answered. “And hungry as one. Wait ‘til you try these tarts.”
Missus Janey had stacked several dozen tarts upon a porcelain plate, and set that on a tub for folks to help themselves. You could now see the painted rose blooms and vine swirl whimsies covering the plate’s face, ‘cause most of the tarts had been taken off and eaten within the first hour, they tasted that good. In fact, only two sweet tarts remained, and Luke and Rosalie reached for them.
I can’t help it, but sometimes there’s a sore, vindictive part of me that resents others gettin’ things I can’t have. That little voice took to whispering: It ain’t fair Luke Holder gets to have the girl and the last of the tarts.
My arm didn’t seek counsel with my brain and seemed to shoot out on its own—I snatched the last two tarts from the plate and stuffed ‘em both in my mouth.
“Oh, no,” the Loom brothers said.
“What in thunderation?” Luke yelled. “Those were our tarts!”
I tried to smartly reply how his name wasn’t written on them, but my mouth was so full of the honey-baked pastries when I spoke all that came out were chunks of sweet pie and sugar-berries spittin’ into Luke’s face and the front of his fringe-lined dress shirt.
“Oh, no,” the Loom brothers repeated.
My face flushed at the realization of what I’d done, and what I knew would be given in return: I expected the color filling my cheeks was probably as crimson as Luke’s own face, though I wasn’t mistaking his reddening for any type of shame. I wanted to tell him it wasn’t my fault, I just act without thinking sometimes, but my mouth was sticky, and I feared what else might come out. I raised my hands to him, fingers outstretched in surrender, and they were smeared by the guilt of delicious berries. He lifted fists that could split three logs at the same time…
I expected Luke to be angry, and I expected I’d be hit, and I expected the Loom brothers to stand idly aside. What I didn’t expect was Rosalie’s reaction.
She nodded at me, like we were akin in something, and when her copper eyes glinted, I wondered what terrible secret she knew.
Then Luke’s fists arrived.
* * *
Next morning was Sunday, and no one in Whaleyville missed attending church, regardless how poorly or humiliated they felt, or how many bruisings their face took the evening before at hands of the town lout.
Breakfast weighed heavy in my guts when we packed the rough pews of Whaleyville’s First Methodist Church of God Holiness, and that was not a good thing. Never a sermon passed that I wasn’t compelled to rise and sit and rise again, jostled and shoved by gibbering neighbors, forced to my knees, yanked by my collar, and threatened with eternal brimstone by frothing Pastor Wright. My innards cringed at
the thought, as did my quivering knees. I hated it, just hated it, and each week I thought I might water my trousers wonderin’ if the Lord would again save me.
“Receive the genuine Holy Ghost fire!” Wright shouted. “Receive, because God loathes any man who keepeth sin in his heart. Receive!”
“Receive!” Pa and Ma and my little brothers and everyone else in the congregation shouted in kind.
“Don’t question His will like a puppet of Cain, fill yourself with faith! Receive the Word of God!”
Pastor Wright was fat, and I don’t mean overweight like the seams of his suit coat needed loosening, but he was so over-sized he couldn’t even wear a coat, and the Ladies Auxiliary had to sew special garments for him, cobblin’ fabric gathered by collection plate. When Wright bellowed The Good Word, his chins shook back and forth like each was battling to be saved first, and his belly plummeted down and bounced back up like a supplicating heathen. Suppose gluttony wasn’t so much a sin to him as it was a half-handed suggestion he could shrug off while suckin’ down a couple wine-basted pheasants.
“Receive!” Wright shouted again, and we echoed it, and he rattled off a thousand Bible verses, and everyone swayed and repeated those verses by heart, and they cried tears and fell to their knees while doin’ so, and a couple old ladies even fainted.
Before the revival, that would’ve been the culmination of our sermon, the wailing-and-gnashing-of-teeth response to satisfy any holy roller that he’d put the fear of Satan in our hearts and brought us begging for salvation.
But Wright wasn’t like other pastors and, for him, our worship thus far was just stretching before a ball game.
Prior to the revival, we’d been Whaleyville’s First Methodist Church, without the “of God Holiness” tacked on its end. Walt Brackenbury was pastor then, and he was a fine enough man, tough on Sundays, but friendly thereafter. Then Creighton Wright came challenging, and he brought his tests of “true” faithfulness: The snakes.