Wolfehaven

by Foy W Minson

  “I said…” one of the men with a bat said as he gave Jerry a shove with it toward Don’s receding figure, “…keep going. You’ll get a good look at the bridge soon enough.”

  Jerry caught himself from flopping onto the ground. But when he spun on the man who had pushed him, the other man with a bat slammed his weapon against the side of Jerry’s knee. Screaming, Jerry collapsed into a ball, holding onto his knee and, at the same time, tried to scurry away. But all he managed was to scoot and roll about. Jackie started to rise to Jerry’s defense, but his first instinct to ensure his own safety took precedence. He even moved half a step away from his friend when the first man with a bat glared at him.

  “Damn, Harry! You crippled him,” said the man with the knife. “Now we’ll hafta carry him.”

  “Shit,” replied Harry. “I ain’t gonna carry no nigger. Hey, you! Pick up your buddy.”

  Jackie turned to look at Olen, looking like he was actually asking for advice about something. Olen nodded and motioned him towards Jerry.

  With Jerry hanging onto Jackie and hopping on his good leg, Olen trailed as they followed Don. Their escort stayed close, hemming them in on both sides and the rear.

  They turned away from the river and followed Don through a largely destroyed town to a church with a tall steeple and with limp sheets covering what had once been stained glass windows. Don walked straight through the front door, but when Olen and the others got to the bottom of the steps, the man with the knife told them to stop.

  “Just wait right there. You ain’t gonna take no nigger into our church. Go on — sit down back there in the dirt with him. We’ll just be right over there in the shade watchin’ you.”

  Olen eased himself down onto the first step and motioned Jackie to do the same with Jerry. But, before he could settle their crippled companion, a harsh voice came from the shade beneath a large mulberry tree.

  “I said to sit in the dirt. Get him away from my church’s steps.”

  Olen’s mind swirled. The situation was bad, but it didn’t have to be hopeless. The men’s hostility appeared to focus on Jerry, and it was just splashing back onto Jackie and him. It was obvious from the men hanging from the bridge and the way their captors spoke to Jerry that blacks were not welcome in present-day Napa. Even with the dust of three days on the trail coating them, Jackie and he shouldn’t be mistaken for blacks. But, unless he could distance Jackie and himself from Jerry, they could very well suffer right along with him. They could even wind up hanging from the bridge with him. He knew Jackie and Jerry had been friends for a long time, but he hoped Jackie wouldn’t be fool enough to put his own life on the line just for a friend. It wasn’t like he was family. Then he remembered their conversation that first day on the trail, when Jackie had been close to abandoning him. Would he even risk his life for family? He wondered if he had failed to instill certain values in his son.

  The door to the church opened. Don came out and stepped to one side.

  The next figure in the doorway paused for just a moment before stepping into the hot sun. He moved slowly, but not cautiously. His movements were firm and deliberate, as though each one might be considered for effect before initiating it. He was tall, very tall, and slim but with an aura of strength. His steel-gray hair hanging to his shoulders matched a full beard, both untrimmed. Although he was probably close to sixty, he exuded power standing straight with his feet spaced apart just a bit more than would be normal for standing naturally. He rested one hand on his hip clenched into a fist. The other held a grip high on a tall, metal pipe from which hung a flexible strip of metal of a type once used to support water pipes beneath the floor of a house. Draped over the man’s shoulders was what looked like a bed sheet but cut and sewn to create an open robe of freshly laundered and bleached linen. It could have been something Charlton Helton had worn while portraying Moses standing on the shore of the Red Sea.

  The man’s eyes of pale gray glared down at Olen with an intensity that made him want to cringe, to scamper away like a dog scolded and whipped. He made himself rise to his feet, made a half-hearted attempt to brush trail dust from the front of his pants and shirt, and met the gaze. At first, the man’s aquiline nose reminded Olen of an eagle’s beak, but, combined with the overall visage, he decided a hulking vulture was more like it. When he spoke, it was in a baritone growl.

  “Thou keepists company most foul. Seekest thee thy way back to the dungeons of hell? Or is it possible thy dominion over him markests a renewal of the only acceptable relationship with a spawn of Cain, the slayer of the first brother under God?”

  Olen paused for a moment, taken aback by the mode of the man’s speech. He had some difficulty in understanding the man’s meaning or what the man might take as acceptable answers. “We…uh, are just traveling together. We recently escaped an intolerable situation — all of us. Mister Hughes was good enough to bring us here where we hoped to find shelter.”

  The towering man nodded once slowly, but his piercing eyes never left Olen’s. “Yes, Brother Hughes hast informed me of thy plight. He has also informed me of the den of iniquity thou hast dwelt in. Thinkest thee that thou might find like depravity here to make thee feel welcome amongst others of thine ilk?”

  Olen was beginning to feel like he was trapped in a Shakespearian play, and one badly written, at that. The man’s usage of old English sounded self-taught, or evolved from extended church use, but without knowledgeable tutelage. But he was certain the man would not look favorably on being corrected. Even if he felt stifled by glaring miss-usages, Olen told himself to just try to be certain of his understanding of the message and ignore anything else. A laugh or cringe at the wrong moment could be a very bad idea.

  “No, sir, I am glad to be away from those people back there and their intolerable ways. I had hoped to find a place to make our home where a man can think and behave as he knows is right.” That should cover all the bases without committing us to anything specific. Even if blacks aren’t accepted here, Jackie and I should be okay. Too bad for Jerry, though.

  “Yes, intolerable ways of the Evil One. Ways in violation of the Lord’s word. Witchery and sorcery, evils I have been mandated to strike from the land of the Lord. But thou hast lived among them, soaking in their vileness. How could thee not be fouled? If I allow thee to remain among the good folk of New Napa, how shall I know thee willt not contaminate them?”

  Olen fidgeted and shifted his weight from one sore foot to the other. He recognized the ploy. Now he was expected to declare himself, to explain how he was suitable to join the populace of Napa — New Napa, after he proved himself innocent of whatever Hughes had accused the Wolfehaven inhabitants of. He had never been on trial, himself, but he had always been on the defendant’s side of the courtroom. It was just a matter of establishing sufficient doubt. A believable story was all he needed. Innuendo was as good as fact if it couldn’t be refuted. Truth didn’t really have anything to do with it. Since Hughes hadn’t been around long enough to know the various relationships and duties at Wolfehaven, Olen could concoct pretty much anything. It wasn’t likely that Jackie would contradict him. And, most likely, no one would even listen to anything Jerry might say, not seriously.

  Hughes probably knows about the trial and the accusations against Jackie and Jerry, so… “Even though I lived in the village, we lived apart. I maintained my own home upstream from the others, a home my wife and I had established long before the others came with their evil ways. After my wife died, my son and I mingled with them only at need. Once my son became old enough, he spent most of his time away from the village, returning only to see to my needs.” Shouldn’t hurt to paint the bastard as a dutiful son. “A stranger and his black companion were accused of violating a young girl. I was requested to defend them at trial since, in all the village, I was deemed most capable of fair and thoughtful treatment. There was really no evidence against them, so I had little difficulty in destroying the prosecution’s case. But the village leader had already
decided someone was going to pay, even if the alleged crime had not actually been committed. So, when he saw I had made a mockery of the case against the two strangers, he turned to his witch counselor, a young black woman with a giant dog as her familiar, naming him Satan, even. She accused my son and his…servant and traveling companion of the crime, claiming she read the guilt in their souls. Of course, there was no other evidence except that they, too, matched the description of a white man with a black man, not a common sight even in Wolfehaven. The witch used her magic to hex the people of the jury, who then spoke as one in condemning my son and the other. I tried to speak against her, to defend my innocent son, but they could not hear my words. I demanded that Judge Woodall, a real judge but a corrupt one, prove their guilt in court, but he sneered that the jury had already declared them guilty.”

  “Hmm, Judge Woodall, you say. Thou namest thy village Wolfehaven. I don’t recall a town or village of such a name.”

  “It wasn’t a village before Wolfe and his friends settled there after leaving Petaluma. Since Wolfe was the leader, he named it Wolfehaven. We lived nearby in Sebastopol, but my son and I were already at our summer cabin on the river with my wife. We were spending the week there when the…the demons came. My wife was killed.”

  “Wolfe. Would that be Jason Wolfe? From Petaluma with Judge Woodall?” The man towering over Olen loomed over him, glaring down, demanding an answer he apparently already knew.

  “Uh…yes, that’s right. I think he was a cop there. They left because of some trouble with another group, they said. Sounded like they had quite a battle, the way they tell it.”

  “And the witch — she’s black, you say? And with a dog?”

  “Uh, yeah, she claimed it could talk to her. And they —”

  “Brother Johnson,” Hughes must have given the man his name when he first entered the church, “perhaps, before we get on with the other business, we should discuss how thee and thy son might join our congregation here in New Napa.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Olen was relieved that Jackie didn’t protest when they brought him into the church without Jerry. He knew the two had been close for the past six years, traveling about the country, preferring each other’s company to anyone else in the village. But Jackie apparently knew when to draw the line at any obligations their friendship might demand. After he had joined Olen and their domineering host in the cool shadows of the church office, he shrugged at Olen’s glance behind him when he entered. He answered a raised eyebrow question of Jerry’s whereabouts with a shrug and a whispered, “Sitting in the sun.”

  “I am Morgan, the Prophet of the Lord and his Chosen One,” the tall man behind the desk announced. “Among my brethren, I am addressed as Reverend Morgan. Thou arte Olen and Jackie Johnson. Thy nigger is Jerry McDaniel. And thou arte from Wolfehaven, haven of witches, warlocks, and sorcerers.”

  Olen started to speak, to say something to take the smear of accusation off the simple words of identification. But before he could put together anything that wouldn’t simply sound like whining, Morgan stood and turned his back to them to gaze out the window behind his desk. It had the effect of squelching any response.

  After a few moments, Morgan went on, “I know the founders of Wolfehaven. I know Jason Wolfe, the child killer. I know Judge Woodall, a harsh and demanding man who knows not mercy. I know the black witch, although not by name.”

  “Raven,” Olen volunteered. “She just goes by the one name of Raven.”

  Morgan nodded slowly as though savoring the name before replying, “Not a right and proper name for a person, but rather a soul cursed to spend eternity in the service of the Black Lord. Yes, they fled from Petaluma, even as the devil’s horde fled earlier, driven by the righteous might of my wrath. Though they slew many of my holy warriors, and, no doubt thinking even I had fallen to their foul weapons, they could not remain in the place made holy where the Lord bestowed my power, naming me His prophet, the Sword of His justice and Bludgeon of His wrath. Tell me Olen Johnson,” he said as he spun to face the room. “Arte thou a believer? Doest thou name the Lord God as thy master? Jackie Johnson, willt thou accept my words as the Lord’s?” Then with his arm and forefinger extended toward them and seeming to thunder without raising the volume of his words, “Doest thou both live to serve righteousness?”

  Jackie stood with his mouth open, unsure of how to respond or even if he should, but Olen didn’t hesitate. “We lived as righteously as we could among the unrighteous of Wolfehaven. We remained there so that I might, on occasion, urge strayed souls to follow the good book, to renounce the behavior they fully knew was not as the Lord wished. But their temptations proved too much. Only we, among them all, saw the inevitability of their eventual downfall. When we were finally convinced we could save them not, we left as the opportunity presented itself. It was almost as though Don Hughes was sent to lead us out, to lead us here, to you.”

  "Perhaps,” Morgan muttered as he slowly nodded his head. “Perhaps he was. The Lord moves in mysterious ways, it hath been written.” After a pause, he added, “But not always too mysterious. Not to those of us that He wants to understand them. Tell me about the village of witches called Wolfehaven. Tell me of their defenses, their strengths, but, mostly, I want to hear of their weaknesses.”

  Olen and Jackie exchanged glances, then nods as they made their unspoken agreement to give this belligerent man who was the current, brutal and apparently unopposed leader of New Napa whatever he wanted.

  Olen said, “The village is on the north side of the Russian River between what used to be Healdsburg and the coast. There were a few small communities all along the river as well as individual homes like mine before they came. Most were destroyed by the inva — uh, the demons, but not all. There are about a hundred people there, now, but maybe a dozen that openly practice witchcraft. They don’t really have any defenses. Most of the men, and some of the women, hunt regularly, so they can shoot an arrow pretty well. A lot of them carry knives and swords, and they practice often with them. They also carry walking staffs, and they practice using them to fight with, too. An old guy they call Dagar teaches how to use them. I don’t know where he learned, but he looks old enough to have learned from King Arthur.” Olen inwardly cringed when he caught a hint of a scowl at his meager attempt at levity. “There hasn’t been any occasion to defend the place, though. Maybe their witches have some kind of hex around it to keep enemies away.” He almost chuckled out loud at the idea; in a normal conversation, this remark would also have been taken as levity. In this interchange with Morgan, it appeared to just fall into place as a reasonable likelihood.

  Jackie saw his opportunity to contribute, make some points. “It could be the dog, the one called Satan. It can’t be a regular dog; thing’s big as a small cow. There are a few other dogs, but they’re just dogs…pets. But Satan’s different. He’s always prowling around. I’ll bet Raven has him patrol around the village to keep people away.”

  “People still come from Riverhill, though. That’s the place that used to be called Healdsburg.” Olen caught a flinch on Jackie’s face and wondered if he had just squandered his son’s two cents. Then he saw a way to recover. “Although, Riverhill is as bad as Wolfehaven when it comes to witches. They’ve probably got as many, and the two villages are always exchanging kids with each other. It’s more like one big village split in two. They have big get-togethers at least once a year. Probably similar to what I’ve heard they used to call witch’s covens. Just about everyone from one village visits the other for a week or so every summer. Then, the next year, the other one does the traveling. This year they go to Riverhill for two weeks.”

  At this, Morgan leaned forward and asked, “When? Do they leave the place unprotected while they’re gone? When do they go?”

  Olen glanced over at Jackie and asked, “Isn’t it in just a couple of weeks? I never go, so I don’t pay much attention to their preparations.”

  “It’s this week,” Jackie answered
. “I heard someone talking about it. Could be even in the next day or so.” It was now clear to both Jackie and his father what Morgan was looking for, what he was contemplating. “And they don’t leave any guards behind or anything. Even the dog goes with them. The only ones that stay behind are usually too old or sick to go. Or, like my father and me, just not crazy to mingle with their kind.” He avoided mentioning Jerry, already having dismissed his long-time friend, discarded him like a pebble in his shoe that was threatening to cause a painful blister.

  “And you can show me the way to Wolfehaven with my army without raising an alarm?”

  Olen turned to Jackie who said, “If you cross the river at the east ford, you wouldn’t be in view from the village until you came around the bend at Big Tree, and that’s just a few hundred feet from the first house.”

  “You will lead us.” It was neither question nor request.

  “Uh, okay, sure.” Olen said. He felt like he had swallowed something that had suddenly gotten stuck in his throat. But it was not a time to refuse cooperation. “Sure, we can do that.” He didn’t want to admit that he would be hopelessly lost until they got within sight of the village. He’d just have to rely on Jackie to get them all there, to the fordable shallows a mile or so east of the village, and then along River Road to Big Tree. Olen wouldn’t even have been sure which way to turn after crossing the river.

  “Then it’s settled.” Morgan’s stern expression almost melted into a smile, but the facial muscles were so unfamiliar with the positions required, a humorless grin was all that resulted. “And now we can proceed with the Lord’s plan. Come.”