by David Wood
Chapter 18
“I can't leave Cassie. I'll take any help you can give me.” Strangely, Grant found he was unafraid. Perhaps it was the surreality of the whole situation, or maybe it was because, deep down, he knew he couldn't survive this and had already accepted his mortality. He should have died, beaten and dumped in a creek, but had won a reprieve thanks to Amos. He knew he would never be able to live with himself if he just walked away now, not after everything that had happened. So better to die trying than live in shame. For once, he was going to see something through, no matter how hard it got.
“I'll do what I can for you, then,” Ma Withers said, “but it might not be near enough. Now, the first thing you got to do is eat something and get you some rest.” She saw the argument in his eyes and hushed him with a raised, crooked finger. “You ain't in a fit state to do nothing for her right now, and neither is Amos. Besides, they can't do nothing ‘til the convergence tomorrow night. Cassie won't even be there yet. They'll be keeping her somewhere til then.”
Grant nodded reluctantly. She made sense, though he hated the idea of waiting.
“That'll be just fine then. I need some time to make ready anyhow.” She tottered off and returned minutes later with a mug of broth, two slices of buttered bread, and an apple. Grant devoured the meal as if it were his last, which it might be. Finally, he accepted a steaming cup that smelled of mint, a concoction, Ma Withers said, that would both help him sleep and dull the worst of his pain.
“But if the Stallards come...”
“They ain't comin.” She tapped her head. “I would know if they was.”
Grant slipped into a fitful slumber, his dreams populated by a macabre mix of gun-toting hillbillies, masked cultists, and demons. When the crow of a rooster woke him, he was surprised to discover that, despite his dark dreams, he felt rested. He'd risen and taken half a dozen steps toward the front porch when he realized the pain from his many injuries was nearly gone, with only a dull ache to remind him of their presence.
Amos and Ma Withers sat on the front porch sipping coffee from cracked mugs. By his relaxed expression, Amos seemed to be feeling the benefits of the old woman's potions, as she called them, as much as Grant was.
“Thought you was gonna sleep all day,” Amos wheezed.
Grant couldn't help but grin. Only the faintest hint of the coming dawn glowed amongst the dense trees, lending the world an ashy gray undertone.
“Well, I'm up now, and we need to make a plan. That is, if you're still willing to help me.”
“Them sumbitches done seduced my son. I mean to make 'em pay.”
Grant nodded. “We've got to figure out where they're taking Cassie, and maybe we can ambush them on the way in. I imagine they'll be on their guard once they get started. Maybe even before.”
“I believe I knows exactly where they's going to take her.” Ma Withers grinned. “The girls who died was found in the same place, and it ain't too far off from here. You can get there in a day, easy. But first off, we got to get you ready.”
She ushered Grant back into the house and sat him on the floor in front of the fireplace. With bit of charcoal, she drew a circle on the floor around where he sat, then scratched out four straight lines.
“Are you drawing a pentagram?” He was unable to keep a bit of nervousness from his voice.
“A pentacle,” she corrected. “And I don't want to hear no foolish notions about Satanism and evil. It be a tool like any other. I won't close it off ‘til it’s time.” She moved to the fireplace where a small, cast iron kettle hung. Then, one by one, she took down several old mason jars that lined the mantle, drew a pinch of the contents from each, and dropped it into the kettle, whispering to herself as she worked. Grant caught a few phrases here and there.
“Oxeye and bloodroot to give you strength. Rattlesnake master to make your bite deadly.” He heard her name other plants or roots as she sprinkled the leaves and powders. Most were unfamiliar: stonecrop, Adam's needle, lizard tail, Jacob's ladder.
The contents began to smoke, filling the cabin with a cloying scent that made him wrinkle his nose. Ma Withers reached into an apron pocket and dug out one of the tiny New Testaments like the Shriners handed out at parades. She flipped through it until she found what she was looking for, tore out the page, and tossed it into the kettle.
“Can't hurt,” she said with a grin. “Now, give me Josiah's finger.”
“What?” Grant blinked. He didn't know why, but he was reluctant to part with it.
“Fool boy, I only need a touch of it. Come on now.” She snapped her fingers and Grant hesitated only a moment longer before taking out the finger and handing it over to her.
It contorted wildly in her hand, like a worm trying to flee from the fish hook. Using a paring knife, she scraped a few flakes of the withered flesh into the pot, then spat into it before handing the finger back to Grant. Next, she pricked Grant's finger with the tip of the knife. He watched in fascination as his blood welled on the flat of the blade. This went into the pot as well, followed by a splash of water. She gave it three stirs in each direction with a wooden spoon before turning to Grant.
“It be time.” She leaned down and drew the final line of the pentacle. As she did so, Grant felt a shiver run down his spine, and the air around him seem to thicken.
Ma Withers dipped her finger into the pot, drawing out a heap of black goo. Muttering words in a language Grant had never heard, she anointed his forehead with the foul smelling paste, then pulled up his shirt and drew a symbol over his heart.
She added water to the kettle and stirred until it roiled and steamed.
“Now, you need a weapon.” She pulled an old Bowie knife down from the mantle. The blade was a good ten inches long and rounded at the end, and its razor sharp edge gleamed in the firelight. Its spine was thick and straight, the last two inches curved inward and sharp, making the knife double-edged at its tip.
Slowly, like Achilles' mother dipping him into the river Styx, she coated the blade in the liquid. Holding it up, it seemed to Grant that it glowed faintly, though it was probably just the firelight glistening on the blade. When it was dry, she slid it into a battered leather sheath and set it aside.
“Last thing, just in case the blade don't work.” She added cold water to the kettle, tested it with her finger, then upended it over Grant, chanting strange words, their meanings seeming to hang just beyond comprehension.
Grant shivered as the lukewarm water soaked him to the bone. He soon realized he wasn't trembling due to the temperature, but from something else. Whatever spell Ma Withers had cast, he could feel it working. He felt powerful. Was that what made him quake?
And then he remembered why he had undergone this macabre baptism. If he couldn’t save Cassie, couldn’t stop Kalatherex from rising, Grant himself would be the sacrificial lamb, the poison pill, like Josiah Brunswick. An icy wave of fear rolled through him, and he knew exactly why he trembled.
Chapter 19
Amos looked him up and down when he emerged into the cool light of dawn. “The hell happened to you?”
Grant smiled. “I've been prepared. I'm glad you knew Ma Withers. I feel like we've got a fighting chance.”
The old woman followed him onto the front porch. “Things happen for a reason at their intended time, son. You happened for a reason, Cassie did too. And the complacency of the fools in town as well. Question is, whether you can make the best of it or the worst. Ain't no justice to who prevails in things like this, evil wins out as often as good.”
Grant frowned, scratched nervously at his hair where the witch's concoction dried. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“All I done is get you ready as best I can. I don't even know if any of it is gonna help. I ain't the warlock my grandaddy was.”
Grant and Amos both turned sharply to stare at the old woman. “Grandaddy?” they said in unison.
Ma Withers smiled and sat down.
“But that would make you...” G
rant started.
“Old as sin and twice as deadly,” Ma said with a wicked grin. “That's right. But enough of that. Like I said, I can't guarantee nothing I did is gonna help you, but we can hope it does. If we're all lucky.”
“So what now?” Grant asked. “Where now?”
“They’s place called Natural Bridge Caverns,” Ma said. “It's part of a big old tourist attraction.”
“Used to take Elijah there when he was a young 'un.” A wistful smile crept across Amos's face, then crumpled in a wave of sadness.
Ma Withers nodded. “Most folk around here do. But there's more to the caves than most folk know about and the dead girls before was always found on the other side of that mountain. They's caves back there that's not on the tourist maps. They's tight, twisting passages a man can barely squeeze through, and dropoffs down into nothing. Too dangerous to let people wander in there. It's fenced off, but I got me a hunch them fools use those caverns for their rituals.” She grimaced as she said the last word. “Josiah Brunswick wrote a little bit about it. I can't say I know it for sure, but I'll bet my pinky toe and one of my own fingers that's where they'll be taking Cassie.”
“We have nothing else to go on,” Grant said. “I suppose we have to try.”
Ma Withers went inside to find some paper and a pen and sketched a hasty map of the surrounding country, though Amos insisted he knew the way. It wouldn't be easy to get to the caves she had talked about, as it was several miles hike across some rough country. The only other way in was a drive into town, then back up the valley along a dirt road, but Grant was not prepared to risk a run-in with the Stallards or Brunswicks beforehand. They had already shown the night before that they were happy to shoot him on sight, and he didn't fancy his chances on a narrow road in broad daylight, and he was certain they'd have the road guarded.
After some more sketching and talking, they had a route planned and Ma Withers gave them some more bread and fruit for the journey.
“You know, you 'uns could just sit up here with me and wait til it's all over,” she said as they prepared to leave. “This town has an uncanny way of forgetting all about the mayhem once it's done and gone.”
Grant shook his head. “Not this time. Fifty years ago, maybe, but this town is more connected to the world now and things will get messy. And besides, I simply cannot let Cassie be killed by a demon!”
“And I mean to save my son before he's in so deep there ain't no saving him,” Amos said, his eyes hard.
“I had to try.” Ma Withers smiled and put a bony hand on each of their shoulders. “Well, I done my best and I'll sit here and hope it's enough. You're two strong young men, in mind and body.” The corner of Amos's mouth twitched upward at being called young. “You just might can finish what old Josiah started. You realize, now, that as long as there's a Brunswick left alive with a drop of Josiah's blood, it ain't over.”
They stood in silence for a moment, taking in the implications of Ma's words.
“You mean, without that bloodline, there's no chance of Kaletherex ever coming back?”
“That'd be exactly what I mean. Right now, Cassie is the only virgin girl child left. If she were to, say, lose that virginity...” Ma gave Grant a broad wink.
“Well, I don't know.” Grant cursed the hot red flush he felt run up his cheeks.
“Oh, who do you think you foolin', boy? You sweet on her something fierce. And I reckon she done cottoned to you too.” She flapped a hand at any further protestations. “Any how, that's but one line of attack. You gotta make sure her daddy can't never make another daughter. You know what I mean.” It wasn't a question. “And when you get out of this, you take that girl as far away from Wallen's Gap as you can, and keep your babies away as well.” Ma Withers' face was suddenly serious. “Else Cassie can't be allowed to survive neither.”
“They's other Brunswick kin around here,” Amos said. “All them white folks got their family trees twisted up together.”
“They's some.” Ma Withers nodded slowly. “But not near as many as you think. I know who all is left, and I reckon they all gonna be there tonight.”
Grant looked at the floor, overwhelmed by the possibilities. “I'm going to save Cassie, and help Amos save Elijah. I just don't know if we would even be able to start killing people left and right. I'm not a murderer.”
“It ain't murder to kill the foxes when they in your hen house.” Ma shrugged and patted his shoulder. “I just wants to make sure you going in with open eyes. Now good luck to you both. My thoughts is with you, for all the good they're likely to do.”
Grant leaned down and kissed the old woman on the cheek. “You've done more than enough already, thank you. You've given me a chance.”
“That finger you got gonna cost you, don't forget that. But it could save you too.”
Grant nodded, unsure just how the finger might cost him, but he chose not to think too hard on it. How could he possibly plan for what lay ahead of him? He had a weapon, and a place to take it. Beyond that, he would have to react to things as they happened and hope he came out on top. “Thank you,” he said again.
Ma Withers nodded, but her face was sad. Her eyes, hooded in their myriad folds of dark skin, were wet and she looked more tired than anyone Grant had ever seen.
“You ready, Amos?” Grant asked.
“Ready as I'll ever be. God and Jesus almighty, I wish I was doing about anything right now but what we're planning.”
“Me too, but I guess we don't have any choice.”
“All things happen for a reason,” Ma Withers said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Grant and Amos turned towards the trees and headed off across the clearing. A knot of doubt and fear in Grant's gut weighed him down, but he did his best to ignore it as they strode into the forest.
Ma returned the two men's waves as they disappeared into the trees, and sat heavily into a small chair on her front porch. She had never been so tired, but it had been a long time since she had felt this much at peace.
“I done all I could for you, Grandaddy,” she said in a weak voice. “I think I finally earned me a proper rest.”
She looked out at the trees, at the sunlight dappling through the leaves. Birds sang and a soft breeze rustled through, carrying with it the scent of bark and loam. She had never seen beyond this day, even in her clearest dreams. Grant looked to be every bit the hero she had thought he would be, though he was a far sight younger than she had expected. Dreams and portents were never really clear enough, never gave any true detail. But she had played her part and now Grant and Amos would have to play theirs. She had never been able to see what lay beyond this moment and she was happy with that. She didn't want to see any more. She had hope.
Ma Withers closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the mountain air. Slowly the rise and fall of her chest slowed, became shallower and shallower, until it didn't rise again.
Chapter 20
Grant and Amos hiked through rough country in the shade of the dense forest. Ma's map and Amos's innate local sense of the landscape meant they never worried about reaching their destination, but the trek was longer and more arduous than they had expected. Amos kept reminding Grant that he was an old man and Grant reminded him that for an old man who had been shot the day before, he was doing pretty well.
The day began to wane as they pushed on toward the other side of the mountain. Dusk came early among the high mountain peaks and dense trees. Grant endured the increasing sense of dread that sat in his gut like a rock and threw himself into the physical exertion to help ignore it. He felt like a condemned man, each step bringing him closer to his demise, yet there was something satisfying in that. For the first time in his life he had a true purpose, an unquestionable destiny. And while that destiny almost certainly ended with his death, it gave him a sense of relevance that he had never felt before. If this would be the end of his life, it would be a short life indeed, but one with more experience than many people ever saw in their three score ye
ars and ten.
It was near sundown when they finally crested a ridge and saw a deep, narrow valley slicing through the mountain below. Grant pulled Amos to a stop and crouched low in the scrub. He pointed.
“People down there. And look, you can see a dark hole between the trees. A cave entrance?”
Amos squinted through the lowering sun. “Sure looks like it. That fellow there is distant kin to the Stallards, and the pretty thing next to him is his wife.” He sucked his teeth in disapproval. “I thought they was all right. That woman is a Sunday School teacher, and not at the Stallard's church, neither.”
Grant raised an eyebrow. “Really? Seems Ma was right when she said this whole town was in on the thing. How come you've never been drawn into this?”
Amos gestured at his old, wrinkled face. “A black man might have a better life in a town like this than he used to, but he ain't no equal member of society. Too many people got fond memories of segregation, if you catch my drift.” He chuckled ruefully. “I reckon this old skin served me well.”
“Not so much your son, I guess.”
“When Doctor King pictured children of all colors joining hands, this ain't what he had in mind.” Amos looked at the forest floor, and shook his head. “I used to pray that my boy wouldn't have a life like mine, could just be seen as a man like anybody else. Didn't ever think I'd curse society for including him. But Elijah is a good boy. He got proper home training. I don't understand why he did this.”
“Maybe he was desperate to fit in, to be accepted in his home town. And maybe was proud to have succeeded. Only, this town isn't really the kind of society you want to be accepted into.”
Amos nodded, still looking down. “He tried to save me even though he was prepared to give you up. He's brainwashed by these fools, but there's goodness in him yet. I have to believe there is.”