by Amy Cross
“You're too badly injured to do that.”
“I can still -”
“The maggots will only spread.”
“I -”
Pausing, I'm about to tell her that she's wrong when I realize I can feel a very faint wriggling sensation in my chest. Looking down, I pull my shirt aside and look at the bloodied wound, and after a moment I spot a trace of something moving beneath the bloodied flesh. Something white deep in the red.
“I'm sorry,” Anna continues, “but there's nothing I can do about those. They have set in now.”
“But you said -”
“I said I hoped they wouldn't appear,” she adds, interrupting me, “but that I feared they might. It now appears that, indeed, they are in your flesh. We could try picking them out, but no doubt they have already begun to burrow deep. Any attempt to deal with them would merely be a case of prolonging the inevitable.” She glances at me. “You are being slowly eaten from the inside.”
“Of course I'm not,” I stammer, trying not to panic. “Perhaps you can't help me, but others can. Once I get to town, I shall find a real doctor, someone with training.”
“Don't you feel them going deeper?” she asks. “They're no longer only in the wound. By now, I imagine they are close to your heart. How plump and huge it must seem to them.”
I shake my head.
“Do you find it harder to draw breath?” she continues. “They are most likely in your lungs by now.”
“I have no trouble at all drawing breath,” I lie, as I become more aware of the wriggling sensation running down my left side and into my waist. “I am not being eaten alive by these things! The very idea is absurd.”
“It's not absurd. It's unfortunate, perhaps even tragic, but it's most certainly not absurd. What's happening to you is, in fact, rather natural. The world is reclaiming the meat that was loaned to you for the duration of your brief life.”
“Nonsense!”
She smiles again.
“You speak a great deal and wag that tongue,” I continue, stepping toward her as I tighten my grip on the knife, “for one who is so defenseless and -”
“I never said I was defenseless.”
“Evidently you -”
“And you should not assume as much,” she adds. “Do you think you are the first person to wander into this forest? Of course not, although...”
She pauses.
“Although what?” I ask.
“Although I cannot understand why you made it so far,” she continues with a faint frown. “Stronger men, better men, have fallen and died before they got close. Yet you, a man already injured and on the verge of death, somehow managed to survive.” She glances toward the tree, as if she is awaiting some form of answer. “It makes no sense, unless...”
I open my mouth to ask what she means, but suddenly the wriggling sensation in my chest becomes much stronger. Feeling a little weak, I take a step back and then I sit on an old tree-stump that has been left near the doorway. I refuse to admit to any weakness, of course, but I imagine I shall become stronger soon enough. Still, the wriggling continues, and I fear that it is spreading up through my neck.
“You are free to go,” Anna tells me.
“I know that!”
“You may even take the knife. I have no further need of it.”
“Your generosity is noted.”
“So why do you not walk away?”
I flinch as I feel a sliver of pain in my chest. “Perhaps I must first decide what to do with you?” I point out. “After all, it would not feel right to simply leave you here all alone in this cottage, with no protection. A weak...”
I pause to take a slow, deep breath.
“A weak woman,” I continue, as I feel sweat on my brow, “who will most certainly become victim to some passing man in time. I cannot leave you in such a state.”
This is a lie, of course, and I imagine she knows as much. At the same time, I will not tell her that I feel unable to walk too far, so I suppose I must simply play for time a little. Glancing toward the tree, I cannot shake the sensation that perhaps it still holds some secrets. Indeed, for a moment I cannot help but marvel at the twisted and damaged bark, and at the dead branches that reach up toward the sky.
“Do you know what happened to it?” I ask.
“I'm not -”
“To the tree,” I continue, although I'm starting to feel a little light-headed. “Lightning, perhaps? Or a fire?”
“It was before my time.”
“But -”
For a moment, I feel as if I might be able to collapse, but I force myself to stay upright. Still, the wriggling sensation is now most definitely in my neck, and I fear it is only going to spread further.
“You look pale,” Anna tells me.
“Do not mistake that for weakness,” I gasp.
“Of course not.”
Reaching out, I steady myself against the wall, but I can already feel cold sweat dribbling down my face.
“You can rest before your journey,” Anna tells me. “If you wish, at least. Night is coming soon, and I fear there will be a tremendous storm. If I were you, I would not venture out quite yet.”
I try to get to my feet, but the effort is too much and I slump back. I know I must leave, that the Lord will give me the strength I require if I can just rise from this stump, but my legs are trembling. Finally I decide to try again, but this time my knees buckle and I crash down to the ground. Falling back, my head tilts as it hits the mud, and I feel several wriggling maggots rolling from the back of my throat and into my mouth. I try to spit them out, but even this requires more strength than I possess.
“It is as I feared,” Anna says calmly. “You are quite far gone already. You will be dead before morning.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The night brings a ferocious storm, with thunder rumbling above the cottage and flashes of lightning filling the air. Rain is pounding down upon the cottage's roof, creating a din of biblical proportions, and the room is cold. Yet hot sweat is now covering my flesh, and my blood seems to have thickened to the point that I can barely move at all.
“This might help,” Anna whispers, placing a wet rag against my forehead. “Try to focus on breathing slowly, and taking in as much air as possible. It might help with the pain. I am sorry, Stephen Fleming, but you do not have many breaths left.”
I feel cold water dribbling from the rag and running down the sides of my face.
“Please,” I stammer, although I can barely move my lips. “I must go...”
“You're in no state to go anywhere,” she replies, leaning over me and running her fingertips against the side of my neck. She mutters something under her breath, something I can't make out; whatever's wrong, it's perfectly clear that she's concerned.
“Help me,” I gasp. “Save me...”
I wait, and after a moment she places a hand on the side of my face and gently turns my head until I'm looking up at her.
“I don't believe in false promises,” she says finally. “I'm dreadfully sorry, but you're going to die. With luck, your suffering will be short and you won't survive the night. Try not to cling to life with such vigor, you'll only prolong the agony and you'll still die in the morning. You're absolutely infested by maggots, they're crawling through your flesh and spreading by the hour. It's a miracle you're still capable of conscious thought at all, but that'll change soon.”
As another rumble of thunder fills the sky, she wipes some matted hair from my sweat-covered brow.
“With any luck,” she continues, “you'll simply drift into -”
“Tell them!” I gasp, suddenly finding the strength to reach up with my right hand and grab her wrist. “My family! You must tell them!”
“Tell them what? That you're dead?”
“That I fought bravely,” I continue, as tears run from my eyes. “That I was no coward, and that I was desperate to get back to my unit.”
“And how would I tell them this?”
“Get word to them!”
“How?”
“They live in...” I let out another gasp as I feel a ripple of pain running through my chest. At the same time, lightning briefly illuminates the window. “In my uniform, in a pocket, you'll find letters with their address.”
She turns and looks toward the chair, where my uniform has been neatly folded.
“Go to them,” I continue, “or at least write. Tell them I was brave...”
She pauses, before turning back to me.
“No,” she says calmly.
I squeeze her wrist tighter than ever. “You must!”
She slips free and gets to her feet. “I must do no such thing. Why would I waste my time on such a miserable errand? You will die here -”
“No!”
“You will die here,” she continues, “and tomorrow I shall cut your body, and then...”
Her voice trails off, but another flash of lightning fills the room and allows me to see – just for a moment – the scores of glass jars on the shelf behind her. In each jar, the parts of men are stuffed tight. Ears, eyes, noses, faces, hands... I dare say she has even the basest of anatomy stored away somewhere.
“I must be buried,” I whisper, feeling a wriggling sensation in the back of my throat as more maggots break through. “I must be in hallowed ground...”
“That will not be possible,” she replies, silhouetted against the window. “The soil here is not like soil elsewhere. You would be taken, and believe me, anyone who is buried in this forest will meet a fate that will them wish...”
She pauses for a moment, as if she cannot bear to explain.
“You're a witch,” I stammer. “I knew it when first I saw you!”
“I'm not a witch,” she says calmly, “but I recognize certain practices when I see them. Any body that is buried in this forest, or even one that is left on the ground, will be claimed by dark forces. That is why I began to cut them up and store them in the jars. At least that way, they can stay dead. Believe it or not, Private Stephen Fleming, but the jars offer those bodies more dignity than anything else in the forest. And if that seems obscene to you, then perhaps you are right. This is an obscene place.”
Thunder rumbles above the cottage once more, and suddenly she turns to leave the room.
“Is it Chanciechaunie?” I ask.
She stops in the doorway.
“You have mentioned him many times,” I continue, “yet I have not laid eyes upon the heathen. Is he waiting, until I am dead? Will he then come and try to claim my body?”
“Be glad,” she replies, “that you will die without understanding.” She pauses. “The last poor soul who died in this forest, and who died alone, was not so lucky.”
“Another soldier?” I ask.
“A simple washer-woman from the town,” she continues, with a hint of sorrow in her voice. “Barely more than a girl, and she ignored the warnings to stay clear of the forest itself. Death fell upon her and she collapsed, not far from here, and there was no-one to drag her clear or to cut her body into pieces and place her in jars. So she became...”
Another flash of lightning fills the air, and I briefly see Emma's silhouette in the doorway.
“I will do everything I can for you,” she says after a moment. “The jars might seem wrong, but trust me, they are your only protection after death.”
With that, she turns and leaves the room. I try to sit up, but the pain in my chest is intense and I suddenly start hiccuping. Each convulsion is a little stronger than the last, and each brings more maggots jolting up into the back of my throat. I lean onto my side, but fresh lightning strikes illuminate the jars on the nearby shelves, and I see entire faces stuffed together into yellowed water.
“Help me!” I scream, hoping that the Lord will find some way to deliver me from this horror. “Dear God, somebody help me!”
Yet even as I cry out, more hiccups jolt my body and I feel fresh maggots rising into my throat.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rain-water is dripping from the roof as I rise from the bed, but at least the storm has passed. Looking toward the window, I see cool morning light outside, and a moment later I realize I can hear a faint but persistent banging sound, as if metal is striking metal.
And the pain is gone.
I take a couple of faltering steps away from the bed, toward the door, but my body suddenly feels remarkably calm and peaceful. The wriggling sensation has passed, and when I turn and look back toward the bed, I see that a pile of maggots is on the floor, as if somehow during the night they were all expelled from my body. Did the Lord look down upon me and see fit to save my life?
Perhaps I am destined for some divine fate.
Grabbing a small metal bath, I turn it over and slam the base down against the maggots, squashing them. When I set the bath aside, I see a pale-yellow paste smeared across the floor, and I use the heel of my right foot to kill a couple of stray maggots that almost wriggled away.
Limping to the doorway, I make my way through to the front of the house, where I see Emma sitting outside on the tree-stump. She is sharpening knives, probably ready to cut my body into pieces, although after a moment she turns to me and I see the shock in her eyes.
“What...”
She gets to her feet.
“What are you doing?” she stammers. “No, this cannot be...”
“You said I was dying,” I reply, allowing myself a faint smile. “You said I would barely even make the morning. You seemed to be planning my dissection already. I imagine my survival is a rather unwelcome surprise.”
“No, please,” she whispers, taking a step toward me but then stopping as if she still cannot believe that I am here. “Not like this. It's not right...”
“I should have known better than to believe a stupid woman in a forest,” I continue, starting to laugh at my own foolishness. “You convinced me, though. I'm sure the fever helped, but last night you actually made me believe that I was on the verge of death, so I hope you are at least proud.” I pause for a moment, eyeing her with the contempt she deserves. “You are lucky I am a man of honor,” I add. “Many men would strike you down and have their way with you, and then they would put a dagger in your heart for the foolishness you have displayed.”
She shakes her head, and I believe I see tears in her eyes.
“Stephen,” she stammers, as if she's in a state of panic, “please...”
“And I have a pulse!” I tell her, reaching up and placing two fingers on the side of my neck. Sure enough, I feel my heart pounding fast and strong. “Do not even think to try persuading me that I am a ghost or some other creature of the night, for my heart beats as hard and as fast as that of any man!”
“You don't understand,” she replies, turning and looking at the tree for a moment before coming closer to me. “Stephen, you have to listen to what I tell you very, very carefully. You might believe that you have been delivered from death, but believe me, you are in a very dangerous and -”
Suddenly she lets out a gasp of pain, as her left ankle seems to buckle. She drops down onto one knee and winces, and a moment later she starts coughing a thick, chesty cough.
“Not yet!” she gasps. “Please...”
“And now the witch is the one who is sick,” I mutter, unable to hide a sliver of satisfaction. “Well, never fear, I shall leave you alone now to get on with whatever misery you call a life. Let me first get my uniform, and then I shall be on my way and you can only hope that when this war is over I do not return and burn your home to the ground.”
She tries to say something, but she seems to be almost choking. Feeling as if this is perhaps the work of the Lord, and that he is punishing her for her insolence, I turn and limp back into the cottage. Finding my uniform, I take a few minutes to get dressed again, and then I check that the letters to my family are still in the pocket. Sure enough, they remain folded and untouched, so I put them back in place and add the drawings that the witch saw fit to remov
e. Then I take a moment to straighten the front of my uniform, to ensure that I am appropriately attired. The fabric is damaged and stained, but this will do until I am able to rejoin my unit.
Outside, Emma is still trying to call out to me, but all I hear from her throat is a series of clicks and groans.
I am ready to leave, but there is still one thing that causes me hesitation. The jars are hideous, and I feel I could not call my self a Christian man were I to simply walk away and leave such abominations in place. Perhaps the Lord guided me here precisely because he needed a good, honorable soldier to come and rid the world of such depravities. Filled with a sense of purpose, I take the first of the jars and carry it out of the cottage.
“Stop!” Emma gasps as I walk past her. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I'm doing?” I reply, unscrewing the jar's lid. I am immediately struck by the foul smell from inside, and I quickly turn the jar over and let the collection of ears slip out until they fall to the forest floor.
“No!” Emma hisses. “You don't understand!”
I toss the empty jar aside and head back into the cottage.
“I understand evil when I see it,” I say firmly. “I understand heresy and godlessness, and contempt for the dignity of human life. I understand witchcraft.”
Taking another jar, I carry it outside and empty its contents onto the dirt. Heavy and filled to the brim, this jar contains scores of noses, and I cannot help but feel a pitch of nausea in my belly as I throw the jar to one side. The noses and ears are piled on the ground, but at least I have begun to undo this grotesque scene, and I quickly turn and head to the cottage.
“Stop!” Emma gasps, lunging at me on her knees and grabbing my arm. “Stephen, you are a fool! You have the best of intentions, but you are making a terrible mistake!”
“Leave me be!” I mutter, trying to push her away.
She pulls harder on my arm. “Stephen, do not let him -”
“Leave me be!” I shout, and this time I push her back with such force that she cries out as she slumps to the ground.