by Jeff Chapman
The creature yelped and staggered, confused at our resistance. Blood dripped from its snout. Between Nellie’s screams, Wilbur grunted, trying to break his bonds. There was no time to help him.
The Pig-man came at us, flailing his claws, his pointed tusks aimed at my chest. Orville and I whipped him with fury as we retreated. The air sang with whistling leather and snaps. The straps cut his snout and head, filling one of his eyes with blood. He stopped and bellowed, swiping blindly at our whistling belts. He caught Orville’s strap in one of his hands and shredded it in half. Orville threw it away and scrabbled on the floor for some rope. Our situation was growing more desperate by the moment. One more determined charge and we’d be backs to the wall with this pig-monster upon us.
I swung left and then right, aiming at the creature’s face, connecting often enough to keep it off balance. The Pig-man swiped at my strap like a bear swatting bees. Orville whipped its lower body with the rope. Except for a loin cloth, the beast was naked. Bristles covered its torso and legs, thicker than a man’s hair but not as thick as a pig’s. Fear kept me and Orville swinging, but the strength in my aching arm was about sapped. We were holding the Pig-man at bay, not forcing it back to its pit.
As I was aiming another swing, hoping to tear some flesh between its eyes, a bright light hit my face. For a moment I was blind. I ducked to my right, using the monster’s bulk to shield my eyes. The door was open.
A tall man stood in the doorway, holding up a lantern. The yellow light illuminated his face, bestowing a sallow, eerie quality to his angular features. Marzby. Come to watch or come to finish us off himself?
Chapter Four
Marzby pointed two fingers at the Pig-man’s back. No light or fire shot from Marzby’s hand, but whatever he did was mighty powerful.
The monster ceased bellowing. Its arms stiffened, one reared back, stopped in mid-swing, and the other stretched for my head. I got a good, long look at those claws. Yellow-stained they were with black dirt or blood beneath the tips. A long string of saliva dangled from the Pig-man’s lolling tongue, past his chest and out of sight in the shadows. A net of spittle dripped from his tusks and teeth, like a spider web wet with morning dew.
A hush smothered the chamber. Even Nellie had quit screaming. Had Marzby bewitched us all? I wiggled my fingers. To my left and right everyone stared in amazement and a little fear, I reckoned, stunned by the spectacle, but not directly under Marzby’s power, not yet anyway.
Marzby turned his hand palm up, folded his wickedly long fingers into a fist and drew his arm back, as if pulling a magical rope tethered to his monster. The Pig-man shuffled backward on stiff legs, while his arms and face remained fixed. Even as my heart and breathing slowed, relaxing from the fight’s frenzy, my hackles rose. Marzby’s thin lips stretched across his pearly whites in a diabolical grin. His eyes glowed red, ready to catch fire. If he compelled this monster to do his will, what could he do to us?
When Pig-man reached the edge of the pit, he stopped moving, though his feet kept shuffling in place.
My eyes had adjusted to the light, and as Pig-man wobbled, I reconnoitered our prison. The pit extended halfway across the cell. On the edge that reached the wall, there was no ledge at all, a sheer layer of set stones. Smooth plaster covered the ceiling, except for the hole in the middle. Maybe Pig-man needed a bit of light to find his victims or maybe it was Marzby’s half-hearted nod at ventilation.
Marzby extended his arm and jerked it back. The magical tether tightened, and Pig-man leaned backward, its head and shoulders arching over the void, inch by inch, until the beast toppled head first into the hole. Pig-man’s legs banged against the edge of the pit as its wildly kicking feet disappeared. The monster squealed until a soft thump put an end to its cry. The magical tether must have broken during the fall. I figured Pig-man had landed head first. Such a fall would have killed most men, but the wet snuffling resumed, revealing its fate.
A toothy sneer spread over Marzby’s countenance. My spine shuddered. The nearest thing to the devil on earth was smiling at me.
“A pindigo,” said Marzby. “My pindigo.”
None of us spoke. I tried to decipher what I’d heard. Was Marzby talking in a strange accent with foreign words? Pindigo seemed an inadequate name for the hellish monstrosity in the pit.
“A pinda what?” said Orville.
“A pindi-go,” repeated Marzby. “A sight to behold. No? Jesus cast demons from a herd of swine. I’ve redressed the balance. You’ve heard of wendigoes no doubt. I’ve bent the spirit of one into a pig, and created a servant.”
He spoke with pride as if he’d bred a new breed of cattle instead of some abomination. I’d heard tell of wendigoes, cannibal monsters from Indian lore.
“That creature didn’t want to go where I willed him, but I have a powerful will. Understand?”
I gulped, my throat gone dry. All this talk about servants and his powerful will was not a good sign. He hadn’t killed us, which meant he had a plan for something far worse.
“Let us outa here, you damned bastard,” said Wilbur.
Marzby rubbed his chin between thumb and forefinger. “Fortunately I did not select you for your courtesy and breeding. Your mindless brawn will suit me as will your dear, pretty wife.”
The hot fury in Wilbur’s scream could’ve scalded milk, and I feared he’d break bones if his bonds didn’t yield first. “You lay a hand on her,” Wilbur hissed between gritted teeth, "and I swear to God Almighty I’ll rip you from limb to limb and sow a field with your guts.”
Marzby laughed. “Love for your wife.” He spat into the pit. “A sentiment I’ll put to good use.”
Wilbur grunted and struggled with his bonds. Nellie sobbed quietly.
“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you!” Wilbur screamed.
“Stop it,” said Nellie. “Just stop.”
Wilbur ceased his screaming and spoke with a tenderness I would not have thought him capable. “I won’t let him hurt you. I won’t, Nellie. I won’t stand for it.”
“Your master has spoken.” Marzby chuckled, bating Wilbur to further struggles.
“Whatcha want with us?” said Orville. “To feed us to that there thing?” He tilted his head toward the pit.
“Oh, no, no, my good sir. He is a mere guard. Unless you venture into the pit.”
“He wasn’t in the pit,” countered Orville. “If the boy and I hadn’t fought him off we’d all be stretchin’ his belly by now.”
“I beg pardon, on that score. I neglected to feed him. He must have smelled your meat.” Marzby sneered, flicked his tongue across his upper lip, like I’ve seen snakes do, and then stepped out of sight.
“Whatcha reckon?” I said to Orville.
Orville shook his head. “He’s speakin’ as straight as a sidewinder. He wants somethin’ in particular, but he ain’t gonna tell us until he wants us to know.”
“It’s all your fault,” cried Wilbur. “If we hadn’t stopped at your thievin’ stall.”
Orville flushed crimson. His chest swelled with rage like a water skin fit to burst. Nothing addled Orville’s temper like calling him a thief.
“Wilbur,” said Nellie. “Hold your tongue.” The kindest doe eyes in the county met mine. “Will you be so kind as to untie us? These ropes are cuttin’ my wrists somethin’ awful.”
She didn’t have to ask twice. Under Wilbur’s furious glare, I fiddled with her knots, proffering apologies for not acting sooner. Orville was too busy holding back his angry tongue to help. What she loved in her hothead husband, I couldn’t see. Wilbur seemed as full of hate and venom as a rabid skunk.
As I freed Nellie’s ankles, there came a squealing from across the pit. Marzby darkened the doorway, carrying a yearling pig by its bound hind legs. They kicked as one, as ineffectual against Marzby’s grip as its squeals. Holding a thrashing pig with one hand was quite a feat. He grinned as he dropped the pig into the pit.
Squealing, high-pitched and low-pitched, sang togeth
er in a dreadful harmony. Mercifully it ended, but not quick enough, not before my imagination pictured the Pig-man attacking with tusks, teeth and claws. A wet snuffling drifted from the pit, punctuated with the crackle and crunch of bone.
Marzby’s gaze swept across the four of us. “He craves the flesh of his own kind, both of them.”
I backed to the wall and then side-stepped toward Orville, never letting Marzby out of my sight. Nellie scurried to untie Wilbur. I didn’t figure he had brought us here as slop for his so-called pindigo, but dread twisted my guts into a knot. What little moisture remained in my throat dried up. With nary a doubt, Marzby wanted us for something worse.
Orville’s mouth hung slack, his eyes wide. His pale face, drained of color, glowed like the full moon on a cold night. I suspect he was thinking what I was thinking. For how long would a yearling pig fill the Pig-man’s stomach? Nellie and Wilbur bickered in whispers.
“There are some tasks,” stated Marzby, "for which a man is ill-suited, but a mouse can wield the key. I have just such a task for you all.”
“I ain’t doin’ nothin’ for you. You can go to hell and rot until kingdom come.” Wilbur took several steps forward, shaking off Nellie’s grasp.
“The pit,” Nellie hissed.
Wilbur’s gaze dropped. Two more strides and he would have been the Pig-man’s dessert. The wind died out of his bluster; Wilbur backed away.
“I believe you’ll do for me feats unimaginable,” said Marzby. “And such a simple task, with easy terms.”
“Out with it,” said Orville. “Any more beatin’ and you’ll dig up the bush.”
Marzby chewed on his cheek, glaring at Orville. “This is not your sideshow, Mister Oracular. And if you deserved the title, you would not have to badger me. There’s a time and a place for everything, and I will do the choosing here. But I am a reasonable man.”
If we weren’t so scared, I think we would have all laughed, but Marzby seemed to believe what he was saying. Imagining an unreasonable Marzby frightened me all the more.
“There’s a mound known as Skull Hill. A cemetery tops it. You are familiar with it?”
Orville and I had been there recently to perform a late-night disinterment, which I’d rather not revisit. Wilbur and Nellie nodded.
“What you may not know of is an entrance at the mound’s base. On the east or west sides, perhaps both.”
Did he want us to rob graves? Grave robbers faced a serious punishment in these parts. Hung upside down from a tree and left for the crows to pick over. I’d heard some spirits and witches used bodies of the dead for dark purposes, like Marzby’s pindigo. Not the sort of thoughts I meditated on. You don’t wash a pure heart in a pond fouled with manure, my grandma said.
“There is a blade of chipped black stone, extremely sharp and extraordinarily beautiful. Bring it to me.”
“Get it yourself,” sneered Wilbur.
“I would, but sometimes a mouse is more fitted to a task, and here are my mice.” He raised and spread his arms, encompassing the lot of us.
“We’ll do it,” said Nellie.
Was Marzby going to let us go that easy? I had a suspicion he wasn’t.
“So eager. Such a delicate flower.” Marzby sneered, about as close as he could come to a real smile I reckoned. With one outstretched hand, he seemed to trace the form of her waist and hips.
Nellie flinched under his caressing gaze. “Stop it.” She swatted her hip as if to brush away offending dust or a stinging wasp before it could alight.
“Leave her alone.” Wilbur stepped in front of his wife, sweeping her behind.
“You and you,” Marzby pointed at Wilbur and me in turn, and I felt as comfortable at the end of his finger as at the wrong end of a gun, "will fetch the blade. The lady and the fat man will remain. Oh don’t worry. They will be safe. They will be my guests, for now, and I solemnly promise to feed the pindigo. You have until midnight of the new moon to return with the knife.”
“Three days,” whispered Orville.
For once I appreciated Orville’s moon watching. A day to get there, a day to find it, and a day to get back. A pair of good quarter horses would help.
“Fail to return and I stop feeding the pindigo. Understood? He likes the soft flesh and the fat ones.”
“So we bring back this knife, and you’ll let us go?” I said.
“Ah, I forgot the best part of our little game. One knife will purchase the release of one soul. The one who gives me the blade, will choose.”
“And what of the other one?” I said.
“If you want to choose, make certain you return with the knife.”
I glanced at Wilbur, who was sizing me up as one bull elk considers another.
Orville stumbled backward into the wall and slid down it. “I’ll get you outa here, Orville,” I said. “That’s one chicken you can count.”
“Oh Lord.” Orville buried his face in his hands. We were in the pit of despair alright.
Nellie whimpered. Wilbur embraced her, no doubt whispering oaths of certain return as I’d done for Orville. There was a way out of this mess. I couldn’t see it clear yet, but Wilbur and I were going to have to work together. I’d almost bested Marzby on the hill. With a good plan and Wilbur’s help, we could turn the tables on him. As my grandma was fond of quoting, You can fall into hell on your own, but you need the hand of Jesus to help you climb out.
“What about horses?” I asked.
Where it came from I didn’t see, but Marzby gripped a white stick with knobby ends in his right hand. At least I thought it was a stick, and then I recognized it for a leg bone. Human or not I couldn’t tell.
“I’m confident you can acquire a horse or two. And don’t bother with the sheriff or a posse. They won’t help you.” Marzby raised the bone over his head and flung it. The bleached bone rotated end-over-end as it crossed the pit. Vertebrae and ribs materialized in its wake and snapped together. A bridge of bone spanned the pit. Marzby stepped forward. The bones clacked as the bridge bent under his weight and swayed. He walked on the vertebrae, treating the upturned ribs as a rail.
Marzby stopped halfway across. He studied us in turn. When he raised his arm, I knew what was coming, but there was no place to run and no place to hide. He splayed his fingers, one for each of us. A force like a brass-knuckled fist punched me in the chest, squeezing the wind out of my lungs and driving me backward into the wall.
Chapter Five
Stiff and cold, I awoke in the dark on a bed of hard dirt. A sliver of moon eyed me through wispy clouds. Crickets chirped and trilled. Might have been a peaceable night on the trail until I drew breath and my ribs ached like the creaking of a new saddle. A few shallow breaths lessened my agony, and I got the sense the pain would pack up and leave once I’d limbered my chest. I was out of Marzby’s dungeon, but his touch clung to me, doling out the devil’s caress to remind me where I’d been.
Wilbur lay on his back a couple feet away, his pointed boots sticking skyward. Grunt-like snores gurgled from his unhinged mouth. How long had we been here? I wished I had Orville’s moon-reading skills. He’d said three days, but maybe now we’d lost one. And most frightening of all, Marzby had the strength to hit all four of us, at least once.
As I crawled to my feet, I sensed a weight pulling at my shirt pocket. I slapped my chest and felt a hard, square object, relieved it wasn’t soft and wriggling. From the pocket I withdrew a square tile of hardened clay with scratches on both sides in an intricate design. There wasn’t enough light to see it proper, and I couldn’t tell from touch what the design might have been. Must have come from Marzby, I reasoned and considered chucking it aside, but my curiosity wanted to get a better look at it and led me to return the square to my pocket. I peered into the surrounding darkness. The moon silhouetted the bare branches of an old tree, crooked and spindly like spider legs crawling across a web of stars. Like fat bugs, we were trapped in Marzby’s clutches.
I scuffed across ruts and found t
hat the ground sloped away in every direction. A hill. Marzby had left us where he’d attacked me and Orville. Maybe Marzby wanted us to know where to begin but not the secrets of his house. How were we supposed to meet up with him when we had the blade? Wait for him on this hill? I didn’t fancy waiting for someone I didn’t trust more than a skittish skunk, especially in the darkness of a dead moon as he called it.
“Wilbur. Wilbur!” I couldn’t see the fine detail and stitching on Wilbur’s boots, but I guessed in the light of day they would put mine to shame. Shod himself with vanity, my grandma would have said, with blisters close behind. I nudged his thigh with the toe of my well-worn brogan.
Wilbur groaned.
“Wake up. We gotta get goin’. And quick.”
“Where are we?”
“The hill where he jumped me and Orville.”
Wilbur twisted his head around in both directions. “I remember that tree, a big ole deadwood. Same place he got Nellie and me.”
His mention of the tree drew my gaze skyward, where a mighty curious-looking knobby branch growing up out of another caught my attention. When the top swiveled, I knew what I was seeing. The horn-shaped feathers atop its head and a glint of yellow, ferocious eyes left no doubt—a great horned owl.
“You know any place round here we can hire a pair of horses?” I asked. “I don’t fancy walkin’ back to town.”
“You’re fixin’ to take off right quick.”
A strange mix of hope and accusation colored his speech, or perchance my ears were befuddled.
“We don’t have time. Mayhap not as much as we hope, unless you can read the moon.”
Wilbur clambered to his feet. He was taller and wider than me and he stood closer than I liked. I think he wanted to look down on me. Such a strategy might work with timid folk, but after facing ghosts and witches and creatures I don’t care to think on, a bully would be hard-pressed to intimidate me.