The Fiends in the Furrows

by David Neal

  The shouts and laughter from outside rattled in his skull and the smell of roasting meat churned around in his stomach. He stretched the last of the liquor stiffness from his arms, rolled out of bed and put on his shoes. The promise of a fresh set of clothes, clothes that didn’t itch and pluck at the hair on his arms, and maybe a cup of coffee, dragged him to the door and down the stairs. At the far end of the hall, a circular window gave view of a glistening lake, fenced by cattail, and the great expanse of pines beyond.

  “What can I get ya, Joe?” the bartender asked.

  He wasn’t going to bring up the events of the night before. It wouldn’t be the first time that an alcohol-fueled dream had seemed like reality, and definitely not the first that he had been made a fool because of them. If only he could remember when he had drunk the rest of the bottle. Still, this had seemed much more real than the others. He shook the thoughts away. A group of men were lined at the far end of the bar, sipping from mugs and staring, staring silently at the wall in front of them.

  “Um, just my clothes if you get a chance.” He glanced over at them from the corner of his eye.

  “Sorry about that. Got some rain last night and they’re still dryin’.” The bartender reached below and pulled out a paper-wrapped package. “I got ya a new set, though.”

  “I mean, how much—”

  “On the house. Looks like a low turnout for the festival this year, so you’re damned near the guest of honor.”

  “At least let me give you—”

  “I won’t hear of it. We need someone that isn’t here for the celebration tonight, so the way I see it, you’re doing us a favor.”

  “I guess.”

  “And I’ll bring your clothes up just as soon as they’re ready.”

  Joe took a seat at the bar. Through the thick layer of shellac, he could feel the grooves of the wood grain. He stole another glance at the end of the bar and couldn’t help but feel that their staring at that blank wall was intentional, some statement to him. What the hell could they be looking at?

  “Help you with something else, Joe?”

  “Oh, I’ll just have a whiskey rocks.”

  A laugh came from the end of the bar.

  “Sorry, can’t sell any hard stuff on Fête Faucon.”

  “Fuck.” Knowing that he couldn’t drink off some of the hangover intensified it that much more.

  “Let me get you something that might help.” A mug, filled a quarter of the way with some dark brown liquid, was sat before him. The smell of earth and medicine wafted up and bits of leaf and something spongy floated about the bottom. “Trust me, it’ll help.”

  He emptied the mug in one long sip and a bitter sting filled his nostrils, a waxy, oily layer coated the inside of his mouth. Little bloated bits slid across his mouth and stuck in his throat, but he fought it down. His hangover started to recede, to slip beneath the waters of some strange mellow that filled him not like whiskey, but some daydreaming half-sleep.

  “Tastes like death, but it’ll do the job,” the bartender said and left to the back room.

  He turned blatantly to the men that now openly looked in his direction, chuckling, the wrinkles of their old faces pulling taut and drooping back into cascades of sagging flesh. The left eye of one was blind—a foggy nebula like the glass hawk from the night before. Unless that had just been some liquored nightmare, he couldn’t tell at the moment.

  * * *

  The street was a chaotic mass of motion and sound, a joyous rush and bustle of roasting sides of meat and hanging summer wreathes—children running by with crowns of brown, striped feathers in their hair and winged crosses pinned to their chests, shouting in the unintelligible chatter of excited youth. Groups of ladies passed by with dresses a little lower, a little more passionate in color, and the slightest hint of blush on their cheeks.

  Piles of leaves, fresh and dried, were being burned in stout, wooden barrels, giving off huge plumes of blue-grey smoke. The peak of the summer demanded attention, fighting for those last few breaths before the quick decline of death. Soon it would be hot chocolate and mittened hands, the approach was already felt at night’s pinnacle. Joe was guided from the street as a group of men carried past a large birch platform, held together with thick, dried vines and a cart of freshly carved decoys were pulled over to a stand of nearby trees. It was strange business. The sun fell behind a cluster of clouds, and in that slight drop of temperature, he felt the need to walk, to find some quietude.

  Laura had loved the late summer, the heat, the sun. He twisted the skin on his wrist until it screamed. He focused on details to batter the ghosts away. Towering wooden torches were being erected at the edge of the woods. The door to the hall stood open, its interior a dismal twilight. In the far corner, the birch platform was being secured to others, like the tight framework of some tall stage or an odd, miniature room. Sitting beside it were two dented copper bowls. After a nudge, one of the workers approached and, without a word, shut the door in his face.

  At the center of a small crowd on the side of the road, a man dug the tip of a long blade into the cracked, brown stomach flesh of a whole, roasted pig on a table. Juices poured out of the cut like boiling tears, its mouth pinned open into a perpetual scream, and with a plunge and quick twist of the knife, the gouge split and a pile of apples and potatoes tumbled out. A child squealed and was handed one of the wrinkled pieces of fruit.

  As he made his circuit, Joe found himself at the place where he had entered town, the place where that beautiful girl had left. He kept finding himself there. It seemed too quiet, so peaceful just on the other side of those trees. The shine of her eyes, that crimson crescent that was her little smile. He’d just go over for a second to see what was down farther along the path.

  Children chanted, grease and sweets smeared across their faces, kites of inverted V’s flying high. “Serpent gamin won’t know your face, if you dodge the fallen place. So, we let the outside in, and never let it out again. Take it in and lock it up—”

  “Don’t be going out there.”

  Joe turned to see one of the old men from the bar was attached to the hand on his chest.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not good to go over there.”

  “And why in the hell can’t I go wherever I want?”

  “It makes some of the townsfolk uncomfortable…”

  “To go for a walk?” He was feeling ever more like some exhibition.

  “Let me buy you a drink instead.”

  “I think I can do without any more of that shit from this morning.”

  “None of that crap. Good grain whiskey.”

  There was a gasp and a child started to wail from behind him.

  “Alright.”

  * * *

  “So I gotta ask, what’s with all of the birds and shit?” Joe asked as he put down the mug on a table in the inn’s dining room. The bartender pretended not to see what they had poured into their coffee.

  No one said anything for a few moments, and didn’t appear as though they would, until the man with the eye like a blue marble in a glass of milk suddenly slurred, “you’ll see the glory of the Grand Faucon at dawn, young outsider!” He cackled while the rest of the faces at the bar shot sternly toward him.

  “Shut up, Tom,” the bartender said.

  “The great benevolence of Faucon shall be imparted on us, his true followers, through the casting out of the impure!”

  “Shut your damned mouth!” The bartender smashed down the glass.

  Tom’s chair fell back as he stood, gave a long scowl around, which locked onto Joe, and stumbled out of the inn. The rest of the men gave one excuse or another to leave shortly after, and, with the whiskey gone, Joe had no reason to remain, either.

  “Sorry about Tom. Once they hit a certain age, a man with a drink turns back into a child. Them old myths are given another time as a reality,” the bartender said as Joe passed through the door.

  His heart beat waves of fire throu
gh his temples, the knuckles of his right hand throbbed with the tension of his fist. He was tired of the surreal, tired of some strange set of rules about where he could go, who he could talk to. He’d go where he wanted, when he wanted. Someone said something ignored as he passed through the little patch of trees and onto the path. The false birds judged from above and he wanted to tear them down, smash their heads into little bits of wood.

  While he stood there, fuming more than he knew he should be, the girl with the brilliant eyes turned the corner and came into sight. The ends of her long, orange cowl danced in the wind and a basket was slung over her arm. The lilting song that she hummed was carried on the wind to him, and she stopped at each of the holes on the side of the path, reached into her basket, and dropped something in.

  “Oh, um, how are you?” he smiled and asked when she was near.

  As her eyes dropped to his shirt, her smile vanished, her eyes squeezing to a confused squint, and she turned and ran back down the path.

  * * *

  Nearly everything was packed, not that there was much to begin with, the only things remaining being a book and that vile bird. He wanted nothing to do with it. He didn’t like the way that the dead eyes stared at him, and wanted nothing to remind him of this time. The afternoon was turning to evening and everything was washed in gold. He had just finished changing into his own clothes, when there was a knock and he opened it to the bartender standing there.

  “The clothes didn’t fit well enough?” he asked, glancing over Joe’s shoulder at the bag.

  “They fit fine, but I’m going to get going.”

  “You’re not staying for the feast?”

  “I’m afraid not. This place is…” he thought better of finishing that sentence. “I’m just a bit homesick.”

  “But, how are you going to leave?”

  Shit. He had totally forgotten about the car.

  “How far is it into town?” Joe asked.

  “Just stay for—”

  “How far is it?”

  “Not far if you know that way. If you don’t? You’ll never find it.”

  “Then I’ll pay someone to walk me there.”

  “I don’t think you understand how seriously the people of this town take today, Mr. Evans. Nothing is going to disrupt the plan.”

  The tone and new formality struck Joe. “Well…”

  “Your car should be ready by the morning. I’ll take you myself tomorrow. That is the only option. As for tonight, just enjoy yourself. There’s a lot of ceremony, but the food’s good.”

  * * *

  A pig, painted in orange and black stripes, was tied to a ring, squealing at the front door of the lodge. The ceilings were low, like some subterranean den, and you could tell from the lack of any type of give that the floorboards were incredibly thick. One long table stretched from nearly one end of the massive hall to the other, piled with fruit, vegetables, and cheeses. At the center, an oval sat cleared in preparation. A band played in the corner, some bizarre take on colonial music.

  Joe sat at the table, the only person seated, save for a few decrepit men and women, whose heads bobbed on skeletal necks. Eyes were on him whichever way he looked, whispered statements sent from party to party. There was a low rumble, nearly inaudible in its depth but felt through the soles of his feet. A hush briefly fell over the crowd, the musicians stammering a few notes before falling back into line. There he sat silently, for what felt like hours. The bartender had vanished into the crowd, and he recognized anyone else simply in passing, not by name. A silent cue was given, and the partygoers came and filled the bench at either side and across from him.

  He watched them eat. Knives slicing into plump flesh, grease-slathered mouths chattering around mounds of chewed potatoes and vegetables. Pots of that fungal tea were passed around and a bitter blend of cranberry and some unknown ingredient. The bodies at either side pressed in tight against him. The band still played at a furious pace, violins screaming, drumsticks a blur. Laughter echoed against the walls, walls that loomed like the edges of some mass coffin. Dust flared in the candle flames. His shaking hand clattered his fork against the plate and a bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck.

  “Welcome guests,” a middle-aged man said, as Joe was about to run for the door, and everyone fell silent. “This has not been an easy year for us. We have lost members of our flock both on foot and under the soil. The hands of fate have not always been kind, but we must keep our faith in the infallible overseer, He who protects us at all times, for He is the true glory. He keeps that from below from reaching us. He, and only He, brings the joys that vanquish the hardships!

  He waited for the murmuring agreements to die down, and continued, “We nearly failed this year at doing our part for the Grand Faucon, my good family. There is but one condition that he has given to us, good people. One obligation that we have. Our one obligation is to have the outsider to give to Him. Though the world is changing. We cannot always expect the masses to choose from, the groups to choose the fittest from, that I now know. To fail is to show a lack of love for Him, that we are not the chosen followers.”

  Joe felt the pressure at his sides squeeze tighter as a sad mumble fell over the crowd.

  “But succeed we did! Now, no, no, no, do not give me any thanks. It was from the righteousness of you good people, the love that you exude, that the outsider has come. It may have just been one, but what a shining example he is. Even though he may have briefly been tempted, and gone to the place that you do not go, he returned stronger and, yes I’ll even say, purer, more perfected by his lapse from the Promised Land! Now before you finish your meals, I want you to thank our gift to Him, Mr. Joe Evans! The drink of life now!”

  Sweat-coated hands clapped and fevered eyes stared at him, maddened, rabid eyes that burned with blind zealotry. The plump woman to his left pulled him in tight, and muttered something in his ear, lost in the roar of cheers. At his right, a rough hand pressed down on his shoulder. An ornate cup was pressed into his hand, and he was told to drink, ordered to. From the moment the cup touched his lips, it was pressed back by powerful hands. Moonshine and vegetation and something that told him of a vibrant flower flowed into him, mouthful after mouthful. He choked, but the cup was only tilted back farther. A guttural sloshing crashed into his mind, the last few months a nonlinear swirling of colors, smells, sights. As the empty cup was finally lowered, he felt, but couldn’t hear, another deep rumble through the floor.

  * * *

  A haze of moonlit streets and drunken fog occupied his walk back to the inn, stumbling steps swirling and bounding from curb to curb.

  “…told you not to let him drink before…” “…get him into the cage?” A colony of bats passed across the moon, dancing into each other for food, and dissolving into a galaxy of black stars that dotted the sky. “You always worry about them breaking out. They never…” Joe looked at his hand, and even with one eye firmly shut, a fan of other hands sprawled across in layers from his own. “…how exactly is he going to be able to stand through the ceremony?”

  He opened his eyes, standing in his room, the candle flickering at the table. The contents of his back were strewn around the room, a cigarette burning in one hand, his feet bare. How long had he been standing there? What time was it? The word dawn brushed the back of his thoughts, and the miasmal vacancy poured out of him. He had to go. He stumbled a few steps forward and one back, catching himself on the edge of the desk. Outside, the streets were still pulsing with people, cheering and drinking. He steadied his hand, slid the window slowly up, and dared a glimpse below. A few men stood quietly at the front door, rifles over their shoulders. The edge of the wood was alive with massive, raging torches. Joe recognized the bartender at the center of a larger group that had formed in the street. The group’s energy grew more frantic, arms swung about and silent shouts were thrown toward the bartender. A lantern was thrown down, the burning oil sliding across the dirt and a finger was thrust toward his window.<
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  Joe jumped back from the sight, his heartbeat a rattling shiver. He swayed as he threw a few pieces of clothing into a bag when, his head flush with fear and booze, he stumbled into the table. He dropped the bag. The candle rocked, fell, and went out as it hit the ground. There was a fresh shout from outside. Where were his shoes? Where were his damned shoes? The inn door opened, and the floorboards burst with light and muffled argument. He rushed into the hall as quiet steps were heard on the stairs. The fog came over him again and he slapped himself to clear it away. The turn of the stairs grew brighter. He twisted at the locked door across the hall and turned to the end. The circular window of deep-sea blue reflected the light that grew ever brighter at the top of the stairs.

  He tugged at the little latch that dragged the window open, quarter-inch by quarter-inch, in the untreated frame. There seemed to be some disagreement going on just before the turn of the stairs, he could hear the consciously-subdued but harsh voices against each other. With one pull, hard enough for the ornate metal to slice through the tips of his fingers, the window slid open. Joe pulled himself through, onto a roof that extended below, and shut the window as tightly as he could without a handle on this side. The lantern light began to illuminate the window pane and he dropped down, his back to the siding.

  He could hear them inside, hear their shouts, hear things being tossed about. At one side the street was a rush. The shouts grew louder. He looked to the other side, the steep grade of the roof, the drop into darkness. He slid down. His body picked up speed. He grabbed uselessly at the cedar shingles, splinters slid into his feet and back. Still faster. The moon was a blob just above the trees. And he fell.

  His body crashed into the branches of some huge, thorny bush, and there he lay, in his cocoon of pain. His skin felt like one big coating of slices and splinters. Time swayed, he had done something terrible to his ankle, a slice to his eye flared with each blink. Footsteps approached and he held his breath. A gag rose in his throat and he fought to hold it back.