Husk: A Maresman Tale

by Prior, D. P.

  “Oh, you should. You must, even if it’s just to grab a pastry on your way out of town.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll do that, Mr. Cawlison,” Jeb said, “when I’m good and ready to leave.”

  Boss held his gaze for a long moment. Bones’s fingers twitched ten to the dozen, and Clovis leaned in closer to the shark’s mouth to run his thumb along a serrated tooth.

  “See,” Boss said, “we simple folk get anxious having a Maresman in town. Had our share of troubles with husks, I’ll grant you, but since that business with the wolf-men, we ain’t heard a peep; and that’s the way we aim to keep it.”

  “Blood trail led here, Boss,” Jeb said. “You know what that means.” Anyone who’d lived through the wolf pack had to know; had to see the sense of Jeb being here before it was too late.

  “I don’t see any blood,” Boss said. “Neither’s the sheriff. All I know is, the minute your kind show up, people start dying. Soon as folk know there’s a Maresman in town, they’ll get jittery, maybe even start to move out.”

  Jeb opened his mouth to object, but Boss went right on talking over him.

  “You know how the economy of a small town works, Jebediah?”

  “Jeb.”

  “Begging your pardon. Jeb it is, then. Let me tell you. Portis is built around the fisheries: folks to catch the fish; others to distribute them, fillet, cook, mend the nets, build the boats, feed the fishermen, tend to their… finer needs. You name it, every trade, every worker, every wage goes into maintaining our principal industry. Who do you think puts fish on the tables of the finest restaurants in New Jerusalem? See, Portis is a town and a business, with everyone playing a part. You put the frighteners on them and people start leaving, well, that’s gonna upset the flow of fish, and that would make me a very unhappy man.”

  “Clovis not like Boss unhappy,” Clovis said, turning his vacant stare on Jeb.

  Bones cracked his knuckles then went back to his finger-twitching.

  “Mr. Cawlison,” Jeb said, “you got yourselves a whole heap of trouble, whether you want it or not. I turn tail and head on out of here, there’s every likelihood this husk’ll leave a bigger dent in your workforce than a handful of chickenshits looking out for themselves.” Not to mention, every other husk hunter in the region would likely show up, wondering why Jeb hadn’t got the job done, and that was a situation he’d sooner avoid.

  Jeb got up to leave. A look passed between Boss and Bones, but then Boss waggled his fingers in the air.

  “Well, if you’ve made your mind up you’re staying—”

  “I have.”

  “It wouldn’t exactly be neighborly of me to stand in your way, now, would it?” Boss steepled his hands on the table. “You be discreet, mind, and I’ll see to it you get all the help you need to have this dealt with real quick.”

  Jeb eyed him coldly. That was one hell of a change of tune, and it only got his hackles up. Boss was hiding something, that’s for sure, but whether it needed to be any of Jeb’s concern was another thing entirely.

  “Thank you, Boss. I appreciate that.”

  Jeb turned and put his hand on the doorknob.

  “One last thing,” Boss said.

  Always was. Jeb didn’t grant him the courtesy of looking back over his shoulder. “What’s that?”

  “Apparently, you gave a coin to the Fana boy.”

  That got Jeb to turn.

  “Davy Fana,” Boss said. “Like to think of him as the village idiot. Oh, I got eyes and ears everywhere in Portis.” He fished another weedstick from his robe pocket and leaned over the lamp to light it. “Ain’t good for business, encouraging beggars. Between you and me, he ain’t right in the head, in any case.” Boss made a circle of his finger by his ear. “Not since the wolf-men, and what his sister done. No, take my advice and leave him be.”

  “You telling me Clovis is any better up here?” Jeb tapped his temple.

  “Eh?” Clovis said, but Boss shushed him with a wave.

  “What’s different about the boy?” Jeb said. “This thing with his sister?” Had to wonder, what with Davy Fana having the residue of a husk about him.

  Boss sighed and flicked ash from his weedstick onto the floor. “She off and left him years back, not long after the wolves were dealt with. Tragic story, but it ain’t the first. His daddy was killed about the same time. Word is, Ilesa did it. Whether that’s true or not ain’t for me to say. Trent Fana was a sleaze bag with a thirst for the booze, but that’s not uncommon round here. Mother was another thing, though.” He looked off into the shadows, as if remembering. “Abandoned the family when the kids were only this high. Shog knows where she got to. And as for Ilesa, last I heard she was seen down New Jerusalem way, probably whoring for a living. Course, that was a long time ago. Could be dead now, for all I know. Died of starvation, most likely, or the pox.”

  Bones rolled his head from side to side. “Heard she was out near Malfen a few years back. Worked the guilds in New Jerusalem before that, till things went bad. Ended up in the brigand settlements for a time.”

  “And you know that how?” Boss said, gritting his teeth and shaking his head.

  “Got customers there, Boss. Trappers using the Malfen Pass snag some mighty exotic stuff from—”

  “Yes, yes, all quite illegal, I’m sure. Am I right, Jeb?”

  Jeb merely snorted. People around Malfen had been doing it for as long as he could remember: crossing into Qlippoth for a spot of hunting. More’n a few never came back, but those that did could fetch a lot of coin for their catches—dead catches, of course. Anything living would draw the ire of the Maresmen. And then it clicked: Bones was stuffing the dead husks so they could be displayed as trophies. Jeb wasn’t sure it was illegal, but it damned well would be once the senate got wind of it.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Boss said, “the Fana lad’s not to blame for what he is, but there’s nothing to be done for him. All we can do is knuckle on down and look at what’s best for the town.”

  Jeb nodded slowly. He had a soft spot for the lad, himself, what with growing up in Malfen. It wasn’t like food was easy to come by, and he’d had his fill of people like Boss back then; people who’d sooner kick you into the gutter than give you a hand out of it. It was all about money for that type, which to Jeb’s mind set them on an equal footing with the husks coming over from Qlippoth. He sniffed and allowed himself a slight shrug as he pulled the door open. Way of the world, is what it was. You had to be realistic.

  5

  AT THE TOP of the rickety stairs, Jeb could see Maisie the serving wench bending over a bed through the open door of a guest room. Didn’t take no genius to work out he was in the right place. She huffed and groaned as she plumped the pillows and tugged the sheets straight. Jeb had half a mind to stand there a while and enjoy the view, but she turned and gave a startled yelp.

  “This mine?” Jeb said, tipping his hat.

  Could’ve been a brothel, what with the pastel pink wall hangings and the satin bedspread. Bed itself was a copper framer, sort that squeaked like an infestation of rats when you tossed and turned, and even worse than that with company. A tin basin stood opposite the foot of the bed, a pitcher of water and a folded towel beside it. There was a woodworm-damaged nightstand to one side of the headboard, more holes in it than Case Carson’s arrow-pocked corpse after the Maresmen brought him down. Husk like that’d taken cooperation between the hunters, the likes of which Jeb had never seen before. No happy alliance, that, though. Maresmen were better off left to work alone. Someone had a grudge, or someone didn’t pull their weight, it weren’t uncommon for accusations to start flying about not sticking to the contract—because that’s what it was: hunt down the husks, or it’d be assumed your worse side had got the better of you, and you’d be next.

  Maisie’s cheeks went a shade pinker than the room, and she ran an appraising eye over her handiwork.

  “Will it do? I mean, the colors ain’t right, but the mattress is soft, and the bed
stead’s got a good spring to it.” She pushed down on it a couple of times to illustrate.

  “It’s a room,” Jeb said, shrugging off his coat and letting it fall to the floor. He slung his hat on the bed and sat on the edge to ease his boots off.

  Maisie hovered longer than was comfortable.

  Jeb flicked her a look; patted the covers.

  Her lips parted, showing him a glimpse of pearly teeth. She made a pretense of looking flummoxed, but Jeb reckoned she knew what she was about. Reckoned she was more’n a little acquainted with this particular bed, too.

  She drew away, leaned back against the wall, hands clasped behind her. When she spoke, her eyes were on the plush carpet.

  “You really a Maresman? I mean, I heard of them, and all, but I never seen one before.”

  There was a faux innocence about the way she casually bent one knee and rubbed her heel against the wall.

  Fire thrilled through Jeb’s loins. He saw this sort of thing all the time; quite had the taste for it.

  He rolled forward off the bed and leaned over her, fist taking his weight on the wall beside her head. He drew in the scent of her auburn hair, gave her his knowing smile.

  “Well, now you have.” He brought his other hand up to stroke through her curls. “There something else you want to see?”

  Her breasts heaved, drawing his eyes to their milky softness. He dipped his head toward them, but she slipped away and crossed her arms over her chest.

  Jeb raised his hands. “Misread the signs. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right, sir,” she said. “I’m not one for minding, normally, but…” She fluttered her eyelashes and inclined her head toward the open door.

  “Work calls?” Jeb said. “Or should I say, Madam Sadie?”

  She giggled and smiled up at him with glistening lips full of promise. On her way to the door, she looked back. The strap of her dress fell slack, showing him a smooth, rounded shoulder.

  “You being here mean there’s a husk in town?” she asked, eyes wide, maybe with fear, maybe with something else.

  Jeb was starting to realize he couldn’t read her like he could most women.

  “That’s about the truth of it,” he said.

  She nodded slowly. “How’d you know? How’d you find them?”

  Jeb tapped the side of his nose. “Got a sense for it.”

  “Sense anything now? You know where it is?”

  He shut his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. All he got was a head-rush from her perfume. When he opened his eyes, he backed onto the bed; it was the only thing he could think of to stop from ripping her dress off. But there was no trace of the husk. None at all.

  “Yeah, I know,” Jeb said. It was always better to sound confident; kept the panic to a minimum.

  She looked at him expectantly, but he just lay back against the pillow and crossed his ankles.

  “Don’t worry yourself none, Maisie. You’ll be first to know when it’s dealt with.”

  He felt rather than saw her leave, heard the door click shut behind her.

  6

  NEXT JEB KNEW, it was a whole shade darker. His breaths came ragged and fast, and he was hunkered down beside the bed—another bed, not the one he must have fallen asleep on. First, he thought he’d switched rooms and forgotten, what with being bone weary. Next, he swallowed down his heart as he wondered if he’d been taken while he slept, moved someplace else. Couldn’t be right, that. Why would anyone—?

  “I know what you are, boy.”

  Jeb gasped, felt his throat constricting. A chill sweat ran down his back. He knew the rasp of that voice; its casual malice echoed through every night, invaded his dreams.

  The shadows coalesced into a leather mask roughly stitched down the center, one side red, the other black. Eyes so bloodshot they looked like they’d been whittled by a knife cut Jeb to the bone. He was seeing them for the first time, but they were also familiar. Too familiar. It told him in an instant he was half-dreaming, half-awake, that twilight state that had passed for sleep since the husk hunter first came for him.

  “Ever wondered about your father?” the masked man said. Glowing green smoke puffed from the mouth slit with each word, illuminating a pair of sword hilts that jutted over his shoulders.

  The dream clamped down tighter on Jeb, drew him in. He was a child again—thirteen to the day—shamed at his chattering teeth and the warmth trickling down his thighs beneath his nightshirt.

  “D-dead,” he stammered. “D-dad’s dead.” That’s what they told him, Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary.

  “Know it was you mother that did it?” the masked man said.

  “Liar!” Jeb screamed. He’d heard it before, every night. “You’re nothing but a—”

  “Looks to me,” Mortis said—coz Jeb was back to being aware of the dream again, and knew the masked man for who he was—“you got yourself a choice to make.”

  The child Jeb whimpered and snatched the vain comfort of the bed-sheet to him.

  Mortis’s gloved hand shot out, grabbed him by the collar. The other hand came up clutching something metal, pressed a stubby barrel right between Jeb’s eyes. The young Jeb in the dream had no idea what it was, but the Jeb helplessly watching knew it for a gun. Mortis had told him as much during training, showed him what it could do.

  “You can side with your ma or your pa; I don’t care which. But let me just say something before you make your mind up: Your mother was a husk, a demon-bitch and a whore to boot. She’s the one that killed your pa with all the mercy of one of those spiders that eats its mate.”

  “You won’t say that when she comes back to get me,” Jeb said.

  Green smoke coiled from the mouth slit of Mortis’s mask, making Jeb choke. “What if she doesn’t come back, boy? What if she’s gone for good?”

  Jeb stiffened. Gone for good? She’d had no choice, he’d always told himself. But she was always coming back for him, for her little Jeb.

  He wanted to tear that mask off, gouge out those diseased eyes with his fingers, but the barrel pressed harder into his forehead for a second, before Mortis dragged him from the room and bundled him down the stairs.

  Uncle Joe was sprawled at the bottom, a bloody pool spreading out from the back of his head. Jeb was too numb to do more than register it. Mortis just shoved him past and kept him moving with the barrel prodding him between the shoulder blades.

  Aunt Mary was folded over the kitchen table, splayed fingers reaching for the bread knife. The back of her nightdress was crimson in two places, her throat slit and weeping blood.

  Out in the yard, Mortis threw Jeb to the ground and loomed over him.

  “Way I see it, you got half your mother’s blood, half your father’s. Makes you half a husk by my reckoning, same as me, same as all the husk hunters.”

  Jeb knew of the husks, knew they were supposed to come from Qlippoth on the other side of the Malfen Pass, but his mother wasn’t one! He couldn’t remember pa none; he’d died soon after Jeb was born, they said; but ma had raised him till he was four, and then she’d gone.

  She’s the one that killed your pa…

  He scooted back in the dirt, racking his brains. Ma wasn’t a husk. Couldn’t have been. She’d been kind to him, hadn’t she? Loved him more than anyone else? He’d got that idea in his head, had it all along, but could he swear it was the truth?

  Mortis ground his boot into Jeb’s shoulder to stop him squirming. He raised the gun skyward and let it boom like thunder. Smoke plumed from the barrel as he aimed it once more at Jeb’s head.

  Down the street a ways, a woman called out, “Keep the shogging noise down! Trying to sleep!” The last was punctuated by the thud of a window being slammed shut.

  Any other town, folk might’ve come running, alerted the watch; but this was Malfen, and no one gave a shit. Either they were scared for themselves, or more likely waiting till things died down so they could get first pickings.

  “Snap decision, boy,” Mortis said. “Hu
man or husk? You want to hunt demons or be hunted?”

  “No,” Jeb sputtered. “I mean, wait.”

  “Time’s up.” Mortis stooped to thrust the barrel in Jeb’s mouth.

  “Mmmph!” Jeb wriggled and thrashed.

  “Can’t hear you,” Mortis said.

  “Mmmph!”

  Mortis withdrew the gun a ways.

  Sweat stung Jeb’s eyes, and when he tried to speak this time, his mouth was dry. He licked his lips and coughed.

  Mortis sighed, spun the gun on his finger, took a fresh aim.

  “Hunter,” Jeb said. “I want to be a husk hunter.”

  “Good choice,” Mortis said, holstering his gun.

  Not really. It was the only choice; least the only one that’d give him time to consider.

  “Understand this,” Mortis said. “For now, you’re mine. When you’re ready, you’ll get to know who we hunters serve. Till then, consider yourself bound. One foot wrong, and I’ll put a bullet through your skull.”

  7

  JEB GASPED FOR air as he started fully awake. He fumbled around with the oil lamp till he got it lit. The dull glow it shed on the walls told him he was still in Portis, in the room Maisie had made up for him at the Crawfish.

  He rolled off the bed and padded across the carpet to the basin. Pouring water from the jug, he washed his face and slicked back his hair.

  Mortis’s mask ghosted about his mind, slowly dissipating like smoke. It never left him fully, though. It clung to the underside of his awareness, where that night had left its indelible mark. Hunt or be hunted, was what it came down to. Kill or be killed. There had never been much of a choice, far as Jeb was concerned, and sooner or later fear became obedience, obedience became habit, and habit became duty. It no longer felt like he was taking down husks to save his own skin; it felt like he was doing the world a favor.

  Crossing to the window, Jeb tried to get a look outside, but the smeared glass mostly reflected the room back at him. With a bit of trial and error, though, he tilted his head to get the right angle and caught a glimpse of the orange glow of a brazier on the opposite side of the street, a clutch of figures hunched over it for warmth. He wondered if one of them was Davy Fana. Couldn’t see clear enough to tell.