Brimstone

by Daniel Foster

  The deadwalker picked up speed, moving through the forest as smoothly as if every obstacle existed merely to help it move forward. It crossed a ravine and turned into a steeply boxed draw. If the creature continued up the draw, it would soon be hemmed in on three sides. With another look over its shoulder, it slowed again to a shamble.

  In a chorus of frenzied barking, seven wolf-cousins erupted over the top of the hill, several hundred yards behind the deadwalker. They barreled towards the river, following the deadwalker’s trail. Several of Youngblood’s pack snuffed nervously, but no one moved. Youngblood sank his chin into his uncle’s fur. He too had been chased by man’s wolf-cousins, three of them, when he was very young. They’d chased him for hours, and only the river had saved him. By the sounds of their barks, he thought two of the three who had chased him were now pursuing the deadwalker. Three of the other barks he recognized as well. They belonged to the wolf-cousins which lived with the man-pup “Gerda.”

  Down the bank the wolf-cousins sprinted, slobbering, baying to their masters behind them. Youngblood felt his body warm as he listened, for he knew well the feeling of faltering prey, when the end of the hunt was near and flesh-tearing satisfaction would soon come. But the wolf-cousins’ prey was not faltering. The deadwalker never faltered. How did they not know? Could they not smell its true nature? The deadwalker was not weak. It would never lie down. It should not be chased.

  Youngblood shivered as he watched the wolf-cousins straining to reach the draw. The deadwalker arrived at the far end and turned to face them like a bristly ball of death. The wolf-cousins, all seven of them, entered the draw and flung themselves on it. Fur flew. Howls, growls, and other strange noises cut the night. The deadwalker threw two of them away, slapped a third into a jutting rock, but the other four swarmed. The deadwalker spun, shuffled here and there, swinging at the dogs that snapped at it or clung to it like ticks, bitten-in and holding on.

  The wolf-cousins had forgotten much since their times of living free. They could not work together as well as Youngblood worked with his pack to attack a large animal. For a moment, though, all seven of the wolf-cousins managed to pounce on the deadwalker at the same time, and together, they bore it to the ground.

  Leaves, branches, and rocks flew as they grappled with it, biting and being flung away. The monster was down, but Youngblood could not feel relief for the wolf-cousins because he knew something they did not. When he was less than two White Ground’s old, Youngblood had caught the scent of ground-fowl eggs in a nearby nest. He began sniffing for them when he happened upon the bird herself, fat and juicy looking, dragging a wing across the ground. She whistled and hobbled, obviously injured, and Youngblood followed the easy meal. She managed to stay ahead of him, however, until he at last became frustrated and broke into a run. The bird had leapt from the ground and flown away, unhurt.

  The wolf-cousins continued to bark, wail when they were hit, and wallow the shaggy creature in the dirt, but as Youngblood watched the deadwalker, he kept thinking of the bird, hopping as if injured, leading him along. The shouts of men crested the hill, and the ungainly, awkward men themselves followed. They ran, shouting to one another, some of them carrying the little balls of Crackling Terror in their hands, others with sharp sticks or even chopping things. Only two carried roaring branches.

  After what seemed like an eternity of stumbling and shouting, the men made it down the hill. They slowed as they approached the opening to the narrow draw, as if they thought stepping more quietly would make everything in the forest suddenly forget where they were. The deadwalker knew they were coming. Youngblood felt it in the creature’s motions.

  In a tight bunch, the men neared the edge of the draw.

  Molly’s birthday

  The air in the barber shop was redolent with cigar smoke, the pungency of various shaving creams and soaps, a thin odor of sweat, and over top of it all, Mr. Fix’s booming voice. Garret felt buried, not so much under the heavy barber’s sheet, or the heaps of his own hair which were growing as if they had minds of their own, but under Mr. Fix himself. From his oxen-yolk-sized moustache, to the toothy grin beneath it, to his bulging belly painted with a pinstriped shirt and red suspenders, to his meaty hands, combing and pawing through Garret’s hair—everything about him was impossible to ignore.

  But Garret was distracted anyway. Giddy. Nervous as a five year old headed to school for the first time. Maybe Molly would like his hair cut. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe he’d never fit in no matter how his hair was cut, and it made him sad and desperate. But he had to try. For Molly, he’d try anything. Mr. Fix’s booming voice rattled Garret’s mind away from Molly.

  “I told him not to come round again,” Mr. Fix said to the next man in line, Mr. Shepler as he plied the scissors to Garret’s hair.

  “He came down outta that holler and I leveled my shotgun on ‘im and said, ‘Look here ‘ol boy, these shells is expensive, but hav’n a mad wife for a week cause you stole her potatoes will cost me a lot more. So what do you think I’m gonna do?’”

  The scissors chopped here and there around Garret’s head, liberating hair with impunity. Garret couldn’t see the mirror, but he was beginning to worry.

  “You shoulda seen the ol’ boy. He stopped like a fox with one foot in the hen house.” Fix laughed, slammed the blades shut a couple more times, and a lump of hair big enough to be a squirrel landed in Garret’s lap. Fix wasn’t even looking. Garret turned his eyes as far as he could. He tried to see the mirror over all the glass bottles of various liniments around the sink, green and blue tonics and stacks of tins and matchboxes full of pills, powders and—

  Fix spun Garret’s chair away from the mirror, and the blades flew here and there, flinging hair.

  “Mr. Fix,” Garret tried to interject.

  “You know what he did then?” Fix stopped cutting for a second so he could mime throwing something. “He grabbed ‘imself a handful of dirt and flung it at me. Like I was gonna go, ‘Oh god, dirt!’ And take off, or something. I peppered his ass with rock salt. That’s what I did.”

  “Mr. Fix,” Garret tried again, more loudly. He had to run while he still had hair so that maybe old Mrs. Calvert could salvage something. Garret didn’t understand what was going on. All of Mr. Malvern’s men got their hair cut at Mr. Fix’s shop, and none of them looked like a half-plucked Christmas turkey with—

  Fix spun the chair again. Snip Snip Snip. CLOMP. That was a lot of hair.

  Fix laughed at his story, and Shepler joined in, adding volume to the sweaty atmosphere.

  “Mr. Fix, I—”

  “Relax son, we’re almost done.” Fix still wasn’t looking. Well, maybe a glance every now and again.

  Snip snip snip snip. The big hands could move fast. Fast enough that Garret was afraid to try to dive out of the chair for fear he’d get scissor-stabbed. The chair whipped around again, putting Garret nose to nose with the bent over Mr. Fix, who liked to inspect his work at close range. His eyes twinkled when he boomed, “You know what I think Clyde?”

  Good lord, the man was deafening at point-blank. His breath smelled of peppermint.

  “What’s that?” Mr. Shepler answered.

  “I think young Mr. Vilner’s going a courtin’ tonight.” Everybody for a mile around the barber shop must have heard him. Heat crept into Garret’s cheeks. He loved Molly to death, but it embarrassed him to think of other people knowing they were together. It might lower everyone’s opinion of Molly.

  “Oh, courtin’. No sir, not me,” Garret fumbled.

  Mr. Fix threw back his head and laughed, and it made Garret smile despite his embarrassment.

  Mr. Fix swiveled Garret left and right. “Well son, you’ve about hurt yourself tryin’ to see the mirror since you sat down.” He dropped his voice to a whisper, bringing its audible range down to the shops next door. “She’s pretty, ain’t she?”

  “Oh, I’m not going cour—”

  Fix drown him out. “Well she’s gonna think ol’ Cor
nelius Vanderbilt himself rode the train in to see her. Bought the whole railroad just to please his little lady.”

  Mr. Shepler was trying so hard not to laugh that he had to hide behind his newspaper. The flush burned higher up Garret’s face, but he laughed. “Mr. Fix, I’m just goin’ to her birthd—”

  Fix spun the chair and rocked it back, landing Garret’s head in the sink in one dizzying motion. “Son, you shoulda told me up front. Shave’s on the house.”

  Garret didn’t really have any facial hair, but Mr. Fix’s hand was already on its way with a handful of lathered shaving soap. Garret closed his mouth in the nick of time. The lather was thick and creamy, and the exotic scent of it made Garret feel ten years older. He wondered how much the bottle must have cost.

  Fix hummed tunelessly as he whisked the razor up and down, back and forth, his huge hands guiding the edge right across Garret’s face and neck as if the blade was contoured for him. Rinse, flurry with a towel, quick pat of aftershave which also smelled like a million bucks, and Garret got another stomach turning upheaval in the chair. No wonder the man made the haybale toss at the county fair look so easy. The bell above the door jangled, and two other suited men walked through.

  “There’s the almanac on the shelf, and I’ve got the newest Life magazine in just this morning,” Fix offered as he smeared grease through Garret’s hair hard enough that Garret had to work to keep his head up straight. Another spin of the chair, and Garret blinked at his own reflection and the beaming Mr. Fix beside him.

  Garret barely recognized himself. It was just a haircut and a shave, but it had transformed him. Fix had not only done a perfectly neat job with both, but he had cut and arranged and greased Garret’s dark locks in a way that looked distinguished. Almost Vanderbilt-like. Garret grinned like a little kid.

  “Thanks Mr. Fix. She’s gonna love it!”

  Shepler howled, Fix roared with laughter, patting him on the shoulder like a friendly bear, and Garret thought his face had caught fire. Fix peeled the blanket away with nary a stray hair landing on Garret. Garret fished a quarter out of his pocket, the standard haircut and shave price.

  Fix took the quarter with one hand, deposited a dime in its place with the other hand, and patted Garret on the back hard enough to push him halfway to the door. Garret wanted to say thank you, but he just went instead.

  “Give her a big kiss for me!” Fix called, with thorough satisfaction.

  Chapter 8

  At his washstand, Garret straightened his bowtie and tugged at his detachable sleeve collars. His unsteady fingers succeeded only in pulling them askew. He straightened them again. Carefully, he patted his hair in the back where he couldn’t see. It still felt smooth as a well-worn saddle, as Mr. Fix had left it. He fiddled with his bowtie and inspected himself until his neck hurt. His suit was old, and the red vest was hopelessly out of style, but his mother wouldn’t let him out of the house without it. She said everyone would think she was a bad mother if he showed up at a party without a vest. At least his shirt was new. It had taken him a while to save for it because his mother kept asking him for money. But it looked nice, white with black stripes.

  Okay, I’m ready. He didn’t feel ready, so he patted the item in his vest pocket for the third time. It was still there, long and slender against his ribs, but it made an oblong lump in his otherwise trim appearance. Oh well, it couldn’t be helped. It had to stay hidden. With a goodbye to his Ma and Sarn (Pa was feeding Babe and the hogs), Garret was out the door and climbing aboard Joseph Bendetti’s wagon. Joseph couldn’t attend the party, but he had offered to take Garret to the edge of town.

  As they rattled into the dusk, with Joseph sitting in uncharacteristic silence, Garret reminded himself to call Molly by her real name. When they were alone—and only when they were alone—could Garret call her Molly. Her mother had named her Mildred Antonia Malvern, and with threatening tone and thunder-brow, dared anyone to call her anything but Mildred. Her father, after cootchety-cooing his baby for the first time, began calling her Antonia, and it spread until everyone else called her Antonia too. Eventually, even Mrs. Malvern gave in. She was a fearsome woman, but Mr. Malvern was a nicer person. He also owned most of the town.

  One afternoon, a few weeks after Garret’s fourteenth birthday, he and “Antonia” had wound up alone behind the old school house. He was showing her how to tie a foxtail ring, and she asked him if he’d had an imaginary friend when he was little. After a moment’s consideration of whether or not she’d laugh, he told her he’d spent most of his time in his father’s blacksmith shop since he could crawl. When he wasn’t learning the trade, his father had kept him away from the forge and anvil. In the corners of the smithy he’d discovered a small anvil with its horn broken off. He’d named the little anvil Bigsby, and Bigsby had been his sort-of-imaginary friend.

  Molly nodded appreciatively at the story, but being dragged behind wild horses couldn’t have made Garret admit he still talked to Bigsby every now and again, when he was in the shop late and no one else was around.

  He asked her if she’d had an imaginary friend, and she dug a toe in the dirt and shrugged. He pried until she finally admitted she had an imaginary friend named Lysander, who was a golden lion. She said Lysander used to curl up beside her in bed. He was so big that his body wrapped all the way around her. He’d smooth her pillow down with a huge paw and sing her to sleep on cold, windy nights. She’d said Lysander always called her Molly.

  Garret had opened his mouth to ask more, but before he could, Mr. Lynch, the appropriately named death-to-fun schoolmaster, had appeared out of nowhere and scolded them for their tardiness. Conveyed by his unbending hands, they found themselves sitting in their rock-hard desks, scratching out sums in chalk and reciting numbing passages about “The Gay Apple Harvest.”

  At the end of the day, Garret had reflexively said, “Bye Molly,” as they left school. It just slipped out. He’d blushed as soon as the words left his mouth, but she’d smiled in such a sunny way that he’d called her Molly ever since, when they were alone, of course.

  Garret and Joseph reached the edge of town and Garret climbed down. He didn’t remember the ride. Garret turned onto Main Street and walked briskly, but tried not to trot. He passed the baker’s shop, locked up tighter than the bank, and the Red Stallion, its porch wide in an inviting grin, and its breath a hot wash of light, immoderate laughter, and alcohol.

  Garret made himself slow down. The party had already started, but he couldn’t run. The air had cooled to a sinister warning breath of winter, but his old suit was thicker than burlap, and Garret didn’t want to arrive sweaty. He turned the corner by the church. The vestibule doors stood open, and the light reached far enough into the street for Garret to make a hasty self-inspection. Father Bendetti stood framed in the light, watching Garret pass. Garret waved with one hand while picking a nit off his shoulder with the other. Bendetti did not respond.

  Garret’s trousers hung straight and neat, and his thrice-polished shoes shone like melted butter in candlelight. He fretted that the dirt from the road might cling to them, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  As he passed out of the church light and turned up Malvern’s Lane, he rechecked the most important item with a hand, even though he could feel it against his ribs. Yes, it was still there, tucked inside his suit jacket.

  Up the gravel lane he went, through the ten-foot wrought iron gates and onto the cobblestone walk. Carriages could ride two abreast on this much stone, Garret thought. The house loomed over him, two stories of stone, cedar shake gables, and gingerbread. Colorful light poured from the lead glass windows on the first floor. In the dark, the second story gables appeared to overhang, as if the house was looking down on all comers. Garret suspected Mrs. Malvern had it designed that way on purpose. Across the lawn and down a small embankment stood the Malvern’s carriage house. It was overwhelmed, as were the Malvern’s two grooms. Friends and relatives had come from quite a ways for Molly’s sweet si
xteen. Garret went up the sweeping stairs, and after a nervous hesitation, banged the brass knocker on the double doors.

  The left-hand door clanked like a castle draw bridge and swung open. Light and scratchy music poured around the boulder-like figure of Mrs. Malvern. She inspected Garret much the same way his Ma looked at the rabbits she caught in her carrot patch. Mrs. Malvern was wearing a hat in the house, so she must have been headed out the door right as Garret knocked. Garret stared at the hat in awe. It was new, or at least new to Garret, and so enormous that he marveled that it didn’t throw her off balance when she walked. Christ, would she have to open both of these huge doors just to leave the house? The hat was low topped, but the brim looked big enough to mount in her husband’s saw mill to split the logs they hauled down out of the mountains. It was adorned with a field’s worth of dried flowers, a bolt or two of lace, and even a couple stuffed birds.

  How much does that weigh?

  Garret realized he’d been ogling her hat for a good ten seconds without saying a word. Her eyes were squinty with disapproval, so he smiled nervously and tried the line he’d been practicing most of the way there. But he forgot not to use the name “Molly” until the last instant, so it came out as, “Ma’am, I’ve come to wish a happy birthday to M… Antonia.”

  Mrs. Malvern’s mouth fell open as if Garret had just shot one of her snooty English Pointers in the front yard.

  “Man-tonia?!” Mrs. Malvern bristled. “Did you, young heathen, just call my precious doll MANtonia?!”

  Garret didn’t know what was about to happen, but he knew it was going to be really bad, when Mr. Malvern jostled into the door facing beside his wife. His round face beamed with happiness and alcohol. A sheen of perspiration covered his forehead, and his black tuxedo, gold watch chain, gold tie chain, and gold rings covered the rest. His cigar trailed a sweet smelling smoke and the amber liquid in his glass sloshed when he said, “Welcome, boy! We’re sho glad you made it!”