Isabel looked back at him, and Peyton stepped past her, sighting down the rifle. “There’s no mercy for you here, Cutler! I’ve come to settle this.”
“I ain’t goin’ to ask you for mercy,” Ephraim said. “You deserve justice.” He spread his uninjured arm wide. “Hit me in the heart this time.” He felt empty, numb, unable to mourn his own demise.
Peyton’s eyes were black with hatred. He laughed. “You think I’m goin’ to make it that quick? I want to watch you hurt!” He lowered the barrel of his gun and shot Ephraim in the leg.
Ephraim gasped and collapsed to the ground.
“I’m going to stretch this out!” Peyton yelled into the night, racking the lever of his rifle.
“Stop!” Isabel stepped in front of Peyton again, this time grabbing the end of the barrel.
“Let go,” Peyton hissed.
“No! You both deserve better than this!” Isabel started sobbing. “Look!” She pointed to Reuben’s body, cooling in the snow. “It’s not justice you’re after,” she said, “it’s revenge! That man spent his life on revenge, every day of it since the war. Look at what it got him—nothing! Killing Ephraim isn’t going to bring Silas back. The only thing it will do is turn you into a murderer too.”
Peyton bit his lower lip, staring at Reuben’s body.
“Revenge won’t make anything better,” Isabel said quietly. “But forgiveness will.”
Peyton’s eyes flashed at Ephraim. “I can’t forgive the scum that cut my brother down!”
“Then just let him go,” whispered Isabel. “And give it time.” Her eyes sparkled with tears.
Peyton shifted uncomfortably. The barrel of the rifle dropped slightly.
Death moaned and shifted in the snow.
Isabel and Peyton jumped back.
The pale figure groaned. He rubbed his chest, shook snow from his beard, and got to his feet. He scowled as he looked around the clearing. “Where’s Isham?” His ice-cold eyes seemed to pierce the young folk. “Where’s my horse?”
Ephraim and Isabel glanced at each other.
“Boggs took him,” Ephraim said.
Death spat in the snow. “They’ve gone and done it this time, Scratch and his blasted servants!” He looked around the clearing again. “Scratch left, didn’t he? He never stays around to clean up after himself.”
Ephraim nodded.
“I thought you were dead,” Isabel said.
Death snorted. “Dead? That iron sure stung, it knocked me into the netherworld, but I’m no more dead than a rabbit thrown into a briar patch.” He studied the ground, his eyes settling on the path of hoofprints in the snow. “I swear I’ll make Scratch pay for this,” he muttered to himself, walking in the direction Boggs had taken.
“Wait,” Ephraim said.
Death turned around. “Yes?”
“Before Scratch left, he said that all murderers would eventually be his. Is that true?”
Death shrugged. “I reckon so. The judgment of souls is no concern of mine.”
Ephraim thought of Isabel’s words to Peyton. Forgiveness can make things better.
“You said you travel the path between this world and the netherworld. Could you let me ask the man I killed to forgive me?”
Death’s eyes narrowed.
“He was an innocent man,” Ephraim said. “I want to make things right with him.”
The pale man shook his head. “That’s impossible. The dead have no business with the living. I’ve never allowed such a meeting. It goes against the natural order.”
“But, you could do it?”
Death eyed Ephraim warily. “I don’t know. Doing so would require the full exercise of my power. I would need my reaping hook and horse, both of which are currently missing.”
“Oh.” Ephraim hung his head.
Death turned and continued to follow Isham’s tracks. Then he stopped, bent down, and retrieved a crumpled wad of paper from the snow. The contract Scratch had written. Death unfolded it and scanned the page.
He turned back toward Ephraim, a pensive look in his eyes. “Scratch offered you this deal?”
“Yes.”
Death looked down at the paper again, his brow furrowed. “He offered you fifty years free from death in exchange for your service?”
“Yes.”
Death looked toward the forest. “I’ve never seen him offer anything more than seven years.”
“He said he really wanted me, so he tried to negotiate.”
Death shook his head. “The Devil just doesn’t do that. Everything always has to be on his terms.” He studied Ephraim as if really seeing the boy for the first time. “If I were to aid you, in the way that you ask, there’d have to be a price.”
Ephraim swallowed. His heart was thumping. “What kind of… price?”
“A deal.” Death was speaking slowly, his voice filling with confidence. “Yes, a deal. Like Scratch and his countless servants. I will let you speak with the man you murdered, to seek his forgiveness, if you agree to serve me for a time. Help me even the score with Scratch.”
Ephraim couldn’t believe this was happening. “For how long?”
Death considered. “One hundred and fifty years.”
Ephraim was dumbfounded. “What? Why so long?”
Death regarded him somberly. “It is the price I require. You ask for something I have never granted a mortal.”
This is it, Ephraim thought. This is my one chance to set things right. He looked at Isabel, then back at Death, and an ache spread through his chest. “I’ll do it.”
“Choose in all solemnity, boy. I will bind you into my service, and that cannot be undone. If you ride with me, I guarantee there will be days when you long for the peace of the grave. Understand that by agreeing to this deal, you are surrendering that peace.”
“I’ll do it,” Ephraim repeated.
“Then come.” Death held out a pale hand.
Ephraim limped forward.
Death placed his hand on Ephraim’s shoulder. A chill swept over him. The pulsing of his heart slowed. He felt as if his blood had turned to clay, dense and cool. His ears filled with the sound of rushing water. He felt the current and realized that it wasn’t water that flowed around him, but time. His bones defied it, standing strong like rocks in a river.
Death released him, and Ephraim gasped as if he had surfaced from a plunge into an icy lake. He flexed his wounded shoulder. It was healed. His leg was, too.
“Let’s go then,” Death said.
“Wait.”
Ephraim turned to Isabel. Tears were streaming down her face.
His heart grew leaden. One hundred and fifty years. He’d never see her again. She’d grow old and… He couldn’t bear the thought. He swallowed, but the knot in his throat wouldn’t go down.
He took her hands in his. “Goodbye,” he said.
She wiped her eyes. “Goodbye, Ephraim.”
“Are you ready to leave, boy?”
Ephraim turned to Death. He thought he detected a flicker of sympathy in the ice blue eyes.
“I am.”
Death gathered his cloak around him. “Very well. Let’s go find my horse.”
<<<<>>>>
Follow Ephraim’s continuing story in November Witch, coming in spring 2018.
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Acknowledgments
For Nyla. Sambatra izay fitoerany na ny handalovany aza mamendrofendro.
Thank you to everyone who has encouraged me during the writing of this book, especially to all the enthusiastic readers on my blog, TheWeeklyHoller.com.
A special thank you to the Third Sunday Club: Austin Rehl, Jordan Allen, and Sadie Bauserman. Your feedback was instrumental in shaping this story.
The readers at Beta
Books also provided crucial feedback as this story was refined.
Thank you to David Farland who showed me how to “rewrite to greatness.”
This story owes a debt to other Appalachian authors whose stories inspire me, namely Manly Wade Wellman and James Still.
In the process of creating this novel I’ve had the privilege to work with a number of talented professionals. David Gatewood edited the manuscript. Cody Tilson designed the cover. Proofreading was done by Stephanie Parent and Polgarus Studio.
About the Author
Luke Bauserman is an author, adventurer, and explorer from the Appalachian foothills of southeastern Ohio. He writes about rural history, American folklore, and backwoods strangeness on his blog, The Weekly Holler (www.theweeklyholler.com).
You can sign up for Luke’s newsletter, with giveaways and the latest releases, here: www.lukebauserman.com/news
Connect with Luke:
www.lukebauserman.com
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Copyright © Luke Bauserman (2017). All rights reserved.
Published by Lock10 Press, LLC.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Some Dark Holler Page 24