by Del Howison
Legends? Braggarts and bastards, all of them.
I crawl into the obscurity of my cart and throw the furs around me. I cannot cry. I must think of a way to help the beast before they take me to Normandy. And that is when I hear them:
“And what do we do with the girl?” asks one soldier drunkenly.
“We drop her … at the nearettthhh … nunnery,” another responds. “As her father ordered.”
They discuss the elaborate charade, how I could not know the purpose of the expedition or else it would surely fail. I had to be deceived. The betrayal cuts me to the quick.
“Well,” announces the frightening man. The ground crunches under his boots as he stands from the campfire. “Since she is forfeit to the nuns …”
I cannot imagine what elicits the boisterous laughs that follow, but his heavy steps approach my cart. He tears aside the curtains, his apish shape terrifying in the outline of the fire’s light under the arc of the cart cover. The cart dips from his weight as he climbs inside. A smell wafts into the air, musky and sweaty. Vinegary. At first I’m stunned with bewilderment, but soon fiery terror swells from the pit of my stomach and my throat enflames with hoarse screams. As easily as he clasped my shoulders to carry me into the clearing, he pins me to the furs and pulls up my skirts, his thick knees wedging my frail legs apart. I panic, arching my body to pull back my hips. My virginity is exposed to his threatening heat. Sensitive. Delicate. That slight part of me that is worth anything. As I squirm against his iron grip, his hand slams against the side of my head. An explosion behind my eyes. I fall limp. He prods the lips of my tiny opening with the naked end of his bloated, stinking penis.
“Nice and small,” he says gruffly. “Just the way I like it.”
He forces his manhood into my tiny opening, ripping the delicate skin. Agony floods between my legs at that tender nexus, his first thrust inside burning like a brand on sheep flesh. My narrow opening resists his passage, yet he thrusts up into me again and again, beating my womb like a fist. Nausea blooms in my belly when he removes himself. I feel the sickening dribble against my savaged virginity, the bitter stench of his seed mingling with my blood as it stripes my inner thigh.
Fire licks my sex with disabling anguish. My thighs and stomach are bruised, as is every place he has touched me….
But as soon as he descends from the cart, another enters.
And then another.
I lose consciousness during, between. There are so many.
A squire is egged on by his master, but he takes one look at me, shakes his head, and drops the curtain.
By the time they have all fallen asleep by the fire, the furs of the cart soak with the grisly fluids of my womb and the rancid pus of their violence. My hair has been pulled out and strews the floor like bits of flax. My abdomen throbs so badly I cannot sit up without feeling knives cutting me inside, slicing upward from my bleeding opening. My small tits are ripped. Bitten. Blackened with teeth marks. My left wrist dangles broken, encircled by a hot cuff of pain. I cannot move because the pain has clasped its hands around my head. It shouts in my ear that I have been mortally wounded.
Still, the physical torment is nary a thing compared to the overwhelming disgust that consumes me. I try to flee the oppressive feelings of hopelessness by imagining myself at home with my companions, at my mother’s side, or even in the sanctuary of a nunnery, but the betrayal of my family leaves a gorge in my memory where any good thought once dwelt. I start to pray and realize that the greatest betrayal was from Him who should protect little girls from treachery. We who have so little, who need so much …
I am alone. And I want to die.
A rising mistral of hatred stirs in the gorge where my fond memories once dwelt, fanning the winking embers of my will to live, blowing them to a spiraling flame of fury. The words come, bidden by hatred.
Do you want to kill your mother?
Yes, I want to kill my mother.
Do you want to kill your father?
Yes, I want to kill my father.
Do you want to kill the men who did this?
Yes, I want to kill the men who did this. All of them.
Though hatred scalds my veins, I cannot kill those responsible. I am too weak. Too small. My father, my mother. Even the men sleeping around the fire would suffer little at my hand. But there is one thing that I could kill that would hurt them all very, very much….
My limbs quiver uncontrollably as I attempt to sit up. I imagine my eyes blackening, my belly swelling, my nails cracking as I wriggle inch by excruciating inch toward the lip of the cart. My lost hair sticks to my hands as I push myself along the wooden slats. Although I shiver, I feel no chill on my naked skin. Only the feverish embrace of ill intent.
I roll over the lip and hit the soggy ground. Stunned, I lie there, and my eyes open greedily for the slightest noise from the camp. I hear nothing but the labored breathing of evil men. My thighs quiver with agony as I draw my legs under me. I raise my head to scan the fireside. By the remains of the victory feast, a knife lies slick with spit and fat. Shaking, I stand. Stones and twigs gouge my tender soles as I stumble around the braggarts, liars, and rapists. Those devils who swear to angels. With my good hand, I close my fingers around the wooden handle of the knife.
To think they feared things of the wood.
Gripping the knife, I hobble toward the object of my revenge. The creature, pitifully bound in the odd harness, winks at me drowsily. She—for I have determined it is a she—raises her sloping snout as far as she can to salute my staggering approach. As I raise the knife above my head for the strike at her exposed neck, I am overcome with pity for her, and my arm falls to my side. How can I hurt something as innocent and vulnerable as I once was? How can I take away the life that spoke so clearly to my own? I cannot, I realize, and the knife hangs feebly in my weak fingers.
Then the creature bows its head, turning it to further expose its graceful neck. Those deadly and brutish pulses that throb beneath that waxy pelt … It offers those pulses to me with such unspeakable dignity that I begin to weep. They say that weeping keeps away the Devil, but I place my hand on the warm pelt and watch the wan lips tremble once again. She knows she will die, one way or the other. The blood in my knife hand—in my entire body—again boldly throbs in desperate response to those brutish pulses. No one is served by love. No one—
I mercilessly thrust the blade into the creature’s neck with all my hatred. All my despair. All the worthless joy of a little girl who lives in this nightmare of a world. Everything of any strength that I can imagine, I sink into that fateful strike as the creature lies perfectly still for the sacrifice.
From the wound gushes a wellspring of cloying, blackened gore. The creature twitches in gentle death throes against its harness and ropes. I withdraw the knife, which releases ripe droplets one after another in an inky torrent. Mesmerized by the rhythm of the drops, I hold my fingers under the flow and smear the gore between my thumb and forefingers. Like the starlight from a bare winter sky, the blood scintillates with mystery and unholy power. I ghoulishly press my hands to the wound as I revel in it. The sticky fluid quickly coats my hands in a lather that penetrates my fingertips with raw power. I eagerly touch a viscous fingertip to my tongue to taste the surge of triumph in my mouth. The everlasting tingles against my teeth even as I withdraw my finger.
I breathe faster, more excited.
I cup my hand under the droplets until they pool darkly in my palm. I then gingerly part my frail legs, reach up between, and anoint the raging wounds of my sex with this handful of unholy blood.
Starlight and nightfall. Flaxen strands and chalky steeples. Bells peal through the canopy of the cursed wood as I collapse, crippled by the stretching of my bones until they splinter deafeningly and fold back upon themselves. My limbs in front lengthen, hands hardening into sharp stumps. My fair skin erupts in feral snowy hairs. When I try to scream, my high-pitched voice hollows to a hoarse bellow. Azure tears roll down m
y pale cheeks, the color leaching from my stinging pupils. An eruption behind my eyes forces them tightly closed as something gashes my forehead from within with blinding force….
The men stir from sleep at the fire. They gasp in outrage and confusion.
I lean back on my haunches, squint my sallow eyes, and howl as I wag my frightful jaw. And before any a one can lift a sword, I plunge at a full gallop between the trees into the arms of this blackest fairy night.
Because there, you—and I do mean you—will never catch me again.
THE SLOW HAUNTING
JOHN R. LITTLE
YOU DIDN’T KILL me, Timmy.”
“Don’t call me Timmy. You know that. It’s Tim … but I did kill you.”
“It was an accident.”
“Why are you here?”
“You know.”
“I can’t see you. Turn on the light.”
“Can’t do that. I can’t touch anything. My fingers go right through. It’s pretty weird.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Why aren’t you in heaven?”
“You know.”
“I’m turning the light on.”
Tim climbed out from under the covers and walked to his bedroom door. He blinked as he snapped the light on. He hadn’t been sure where Dennis was. His voice seemed to come from everywhere.
“Here,” said Dennis. “Right where I belong.”
Tim looked up at the top bunk bed, and sure enough, there he was. He looked the same as he always did, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the mattress, arms back as if supporting himself.
Would that work if he can’t touch anything?
Looking at Dennis was like looking in the mirror. Same dirty-blond hair, same round face and blue eyes, same small mole on the right cheek.
Dennis smiled. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
“I never felt you leave.”
Dennis floated down to the rug and stood face-to-face with his identical twin. “We’ve been together since we were born. Can’t change that now.”
Tim moved to hug Dennis, but his arms fell through thin air and he jumped back in surprise.
“You look real.”
“I am real. To you. But things work differently now.”
“How long can you stay?”
“As long as you want me, Timmy.”
“It’s Tim.”
* * *
Three months earlier, Timmy’s mom had sat on his bed, beside him.
“Timmy? It’s time to get up.”
She swept the hair out of his eyes and touched his cheek.
“We all miss him, but we have to carry on. Today’s the big birthday for you. Moving your age into double digits. It’d be a good time to—”
“He would have been ten too.”
“Yes, and we’ll always remember him on your birthday. And on Christmas and on summer holidays, when you two would be out throwing your baseball around, and on the first day of school, and on every other day of the year.”
“It’s my fault.”
“Don’t ever say that, Timmy. We know it was an accident. You were both curious about the gun. We should never have had it in the house.”
Her eyes watered, but she kept her voice firm, not wanting to cry again in front of him. “If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine. I should have told your father to take the gun with him when he left.”
Silence covered the room like a blanket of snow. She heard the tick-tock of the Spider-Man wall clock and the swoosh of a car as it drove through the wet streets outside.
“Timmy?”
“I think I should be called Tim now.”
“Okay.”
“We stopped calling him Denny last year. I should have done the same. Timmy is for little kids.”
She saw a forced smile on his face and stood back so he could climb out of bed. The frame creaked. The noise had never bothered her before, but without the constant chatter between the two boys, every sound seemed out of place.
* * *
Tim didn’t play any baseball that summer or any of the summers following. Eleven years old … twelve … thirteen … Somehow it wouldn’t be the same. The twins had played ball together since they got their first T-ball set when they were five. They graduated to Coach Pitch at seven and spent most of their waking time in summers playing.
But now Dennis wasn’t there to catch Tim’s pitches, and Tim couldn’t be Dennis’s fielder when he hit fungoes in the park.
Their fifteenth birthday was on March 15.
“Beware the Ides of March, Timmy,” whispered Dennis just before daylight.
“You say that every year.”
Dennis didn’t answer for a few moments. Tim yawned and rubbed his eyes, waiting for a bit of sunlight to start the day.
“Let’s play some baseball this year.”
“You can’t play.”
“Sure I can. I’ll have just as much fun as you will.”
Dennis had aged along with Tim. They were still mirror images.
That Saturday in late May, Tim picked up his glove, went to the ball field, and joined a pickup game. He played second base, and standing right beside him was Dennis, as he always was. Dennis wore his own glove and smacked his fist into it as they both set their stance for the batter.
Tim never talked out loud to Dennis when anybody was around, but he could still talk to him in his mind. Maybe that’s where Dennis talked too. Tim never really understood how it all worked that he could hear Dennis, but nobody else could see or hear him.
In the third inning, the batter smacked a grounder up the middle. It was bouncing between Tim and Dennis, and both of them moved to the middle to try to get the ball. It went right through Dennis’s mitt and into Tim’s. Things like that still surprised him, and he dropped the ball.
“Dam.”
“Don’t worry,” Dennis said. “You still stopped it from going to the outfield.”
At the end of the game Tim asked Dennis, without moving his mouth, “How’d you get the glove?”
His twin shrugged. “I get whatever I need. That’s just the way it works.”
They walked side by side down the street toward home. They ducked into a 7-Eleven, and Tim bought a Coke. He knew Dennis would find a way to have one in his hand when he next looked.
The sun was hot, but Tim didn’t feel like rushing home. Burbank might have hot weather, but it was nothing like the heat in their apartment. Mom always promised to find a bigger place with air conditioning, but it never worked out. She worked in a nearby bookstore, but money was always tight since Dad left.
The boys walked through Valley Park and found a cool spot sitting at the base of a shade tree. They drank their Cokes and watched people walk by.
“You ever wish things were different?” asked Tim.
Dennis had never hesitated in answering Tim, so he was surprised that he didn’t hear the answer rumble around his head.
“Dennis?”
“Oh, well, sure. I wish I was still alive. Who wouldn’t?”
“It was an accident.”
Again Dennis didn’t reply. He just finished his Coke and then tossed the empty can into the air. It disappeared.
“You know that, right?”
“Yeah, Timmy. I know what happened.”
“It’s Tim.”
“You need to ask Lisa out.”
“What?”
“She’s just waiting for you to ask. I listened to her talk to that new girl the other day. You know, the fat thing. Lisa told her you’re cute.”
“What?”
“Just trust me. Lisa’s hot. Ask her to a movie or something. We’ll all like that.”
Tim didn’t know what to say. Lisa? Did Dennis really hear her say something?
But then, why not? A bunch of other kids were dating. He picked up his glove and smacked it.
“We should get home. Mom’s making macaroni casserole.”
“Again.”
* * *
The next day, Tim saw Lisa at the water fountain outside homeroom. She was wearing a light blue skirt that showed her long legs. To avoid staring at them, he wondered what it would be like to touch her dark, curly hair.
“Go on.”
Tim moved a step closer but froze when Lisa finished her drink and looked up at him. When she smiled, it felt like his guts were going to fall out.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
“Did you want some water?”
“Jesus, Timmy, just ask her.”
“Keep quiet.”
He nodded to Lisa. “Hot day.” He started to turn the water on, and when he was looking down, he asked, “Would you like to go to a movie sometime? Or something?”
A million years passed in silence. The water ran down the drain while he watched with a parched throat.
“Sure,” she said. “That sounds like fun.”
* * *
Six weeks later, she kissed him. They were holding hands and walking home after the last day of school. She stopped walking, turned to him, and out of the blue leaned to him and kissed him.
“Wow, that was nice,” he said when she pulled back.
For once, Dennis kept quiet.
That night, Tim woke in the middle of the night. He’d dreamed of Lisa again, and he had a huge erection. He wasn’t surprised. He often woke this way after dreaming of her, and he started to stroke himself, thinking of the day when they would be together. He knew it would happen one day, thought she wanted it as much as he did, but he also knew he was too afraid of screwing things up to try anything.
He thought of feeling her boobs and touching her between her legs, wanting her to touch him as he was doing to himself.
“You should move faster with her.”
Tim jumped and pulled his hand back. He pulled the blanket back on top of him that he’d moved aside earlier. “Jesus, you shouldn’t be spying on me.”
“You know she wants you to.”
“Shut up.”
“I see it in her eyes.”
“What do you know? You died five years ago. You never had a girlfriend. You don’t have a clue what it feels like.”