His father folded his hands together, his demeanor calm. “I’ve been informed of as much. How might I be of service?”
Samuel stirred the boiling water with a spoon until it was ready. He poured Charles a cup, the liquid steaming. The mayor’s son wiped his bangs from his forehead before sipping the tea. For a moment, the hair no longer covered the yellowing bruise swollen over his left brow. “I can’t tell you more than that. But you need to come with me.”
His father rose and bowed. “I’m honored to serve.”
Charles gave a quick smile. He shook the teacup. “It tastes good.”
“I’m glad,” Samuel said.
“Do you go with him? The cleric, I mean. You’re his son, right?”
Samuel rubbed his fingers across his jeans. “Yes. And sometimes.”
His father cleared his throat. “He will stay behind.”
“No.” Charles stood up, drinking more tea before turning to Samuel. “He can come with us. It’ll be fun. I can give you a tour of the estate. Unless you want to stay here and freeze to death.”
Samuel tried reading his father’s stoic face but couldn’t. “I suppose I can.”
Charles grinned as he rose. “Great! Oh. And cleric? Bring the scriptures. I’ll get the engine going.”
When Charles exited the cabin, Samuel sprang into action. He climbed up the ladder to their bed and pulled the knife from underneath the mattress. His father went over to the desk, collecting the leather-bound verses. He stood near the door, waiting for Samuel to get down from the loft. Then, unexpectedly, his father grabbed his arm. The skin of his palm was warm yet calloused. Samuel tensed. He recalled the butcher’s bony fingers as they’d clutched onto his father’s inked mark. His father got closer. He whispered in his ear. “If something happens to me. If they take me away. No matter what they threaten or do to me, you never saw the butcher touch me. Understand?”
Samuel nodded, and his father went outside.
Samuel’s heart beat rapidly as he draped his jacket’s hood over his head and followed, his boots crushing the snow below. His father’s touch still burned on his skin. Why did he touch him? Something must have made him terribly afraid. He looked up. The afternoon sun shone brightly all around, so much so that he could nearly feel the warmth on his garments. He’d put on his gloves, but he didn’t need them. The wind was still, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky; it was by far the warmest day they’d had in months.
They rode the jeep through the neighborhoods and down into the town square. The shops in the square were open and busy. Passing between the shops on opposite ends, Samuel could see clearly through the shops’ glass windows. The baker gathered sacks of wheat from his shed, yelling curses to some invisible presence. The tailor took measurements for a customer. The postman sorted through the pile of fresh mail scattered across his desk, a pair of chained spectacles draped around his neck. The blacksmith, a dark-skinned foreigner with burly arms, was hammering away at a slate of smoldering steel. The inside of his open shed glowed red from the roaring furnace. He wore a long apron and heavily tinted goggles, looking almost like a creature from another world. He was more than likely building more tools for the loggers: axes, saws, chains, and hooks. Whatever they needed. He occasionally made knives and other such items for the townspeople, which he sold at a fair price. His shop was where his father had gotten the hunting knife. He’d bartered a pile of chopped firewood and an old pocket watch for it. But despite the blacksmith’s incredible talents, Haid was a logging town. The blacksmith’s priority was to supply the workers with chopping, cutting, and hauling equipment. That was the business that kept him fed.
Samuel noticed the butcher’s shop was closed. “Where are we headed?”
“The jailhouse,” Charles said. “You’ve seen it before, right?”
He scratched his leg, glancing at his father. “No.”
The jailhouse was a relic from before the blackout; there was no telling how many hundreds of years old it was. The old building was constructed of cracked stone and a tiled roof. There was one barred window visible on the left side. The whitelands had very few stone buildings because quality stone was expensive and a poor conductor of heat. Unless specifically employed by the wealthy elite, masonry was no longer a practical trade, especially in the whitelands.
A crew of patrolmen stood guard outside of the jailhouse, their arms cradling rifles and their expressions blank. When Samuel’s father hopped out of the seat, he whispered a prayer of protection. It did nothing to ease Samuel’s nerves. What if it was some sort of trap, some elaborate scheme to capture his father without making a public scene? His father had trusted the Litten woman, believing she would take their secret to the grave. But any citizen touching a cleric was an unforgivable sin. Perhaps she simply reported the offense without hesitation, fearing what might happen if the secret would be discovered.
Locks from behind the steel door jingled before it opened. The sheriff leaned against the doorway for support, his breath reeking of liquor. His thumb caressed the revolver suspended from his belt. His lips scrunched. “Why’s the kid here?”
“Me?” Charles asked.
“No, idiot. Him.” The sheriff pointed to Samuel. “Get him out of here.”
Samuel’s chest burned. His father remained unreadable, his eyes forward.
“Eugene,” Charles said with forced authority. “I don’t know who you think you’re talking to. The mayor, your boss, is my father. If he’s got a problem, he’ll deal with me. You’re just a stupid sheriff. You can’t give me orders. If you’re lucky, one day I’ll be giving you orders.”
The sheriff grumbled inaudibly as he eased his hand away from the revolver. “To hell with it.” He stumbled back inside the jailhouse and left the door open.
Charles shrugged. “Lazy drunk. Come on.”
The room was small and fairly empty, lighted only by a lone candle burning on top of a desk. A rack of firearms and various weapons had been mounted to the side of the wall: handguns, rifles, knives, swords, hooks, and a variety of miscellaneous tools with sharp blades. Samuel knew what was done to lawbreakers. Months before, a logger attempted to organize his coworkers and demand higher wages from the state. It didn’t take long for the man to be arrested, tried, and found guilty by the mayor for rebellion and conspiracy to incite violence. The logger’s funeral was open casket, the pieces of him reassembled in a nonsensical way. Samuel saw the body with his own eyes. His father performed the rites.
Mayor Thompson sat in a cushioned chair behind the desk, his body hunched over and his teeth gnawing on the end of a wooden smoking pipe. He was the only man in town who smoked, as far as Samuel knew, because he was the only one who could afford southern tobacco. A velvet handkerchief poked out from his breast pocket, and a gold chain hung around his fuzzy neck. His round belly bulged out over his trousers. He read through a stack of shuffled papers, his forehead tight. His blond hair was slicked back and combed.
“He’s here,” the sheriff said.
The mayor straightened his neck. He grinned as he sucked on the pipe’s stem. He guided the pipe away from his mouth and blew out a giant ring of smoke. The smell of burning earth filled the room. “Cleric,” he said. “So glad you could join me.”
Samuel’s father bowed. “It’s my duty to serve.”
“Knew he’d say that,” the sheriff said before spitting.
The mayor pointed his pipe to Samuel.
“You must be the son. I didn’t know you were coming, but you are most welcome. I’m certain your father will need all the assistance he can get.” He waved at Charles. “You can go now.”
Charles frowned, his voice unsteady.
“But I thought Samuel would come with me and—”
“Pick up some parchment before you head to the estate. Should have arrived at the post office today. If not, someone will get an earful.”
Charles pouted his lips. He shrugged and, without looking at Samu
el, left the jailhouse.
The mayor rose from behind the desk. The sheriff sluggishly stepped ahead, moving down the dark hallway and on toward the cell. The mayor cleared his throat before proceeding forward. Samuel and his father followed the mayor, staying several paces back. The rhythm of their footsteps echoed down the stone walls.
“This conversation will never leave this building,” the mayor said as they came into the cell room. “Anything you witness here is not to be shared with another soul. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the consequences if you fail to do so.”
“I am a servant,” his father said. “Azhuel has taught me humility and submission. I will remain silent as instructed.”
The mayor chuckled to himself. “We shall see about your god.”
Rusty steel bars divided the poorly lit room into two halves, with one side for the prisoner. Directly underneath the only window sat a little girl with thick red hair, the strands flowing down her back in large ringlets. Her milky skin was nearly as pale as the snow, and her arms and limbs almost too thin. Brown freckles decorated the tip of her nose and spread out across her cheeks. Steel chains shackled her tiny ankles to the stone wall behind her. She wore a ruffled black dress that flared at the hem, the ends stopping well above her knees. The fabric of the dress seemed thick and multilayered, which was great for insulation, but the length of it was far too short to be practical for wear during the winter months. The girl’s right leg was wrapped in a thick layer of frayed gauze. She was missing half of her left arm, the stub several inches below her elbow.
Her piercing emerald eyes gazed at Samuel.
“We’ve captured a demon, cleric,” the mayor’s voice bellowed. “And I require your assistance.”
Samuel shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose, swallowing hard. The girl remained still and silent, her eyes shifting to nothing in particular.
“This is deershit,” the sheriff grumbled to himself.
“Demon,” the mayor repeated as he added fresh tobacco to his pipe. He struck a match and lit the ingredients inside. “Fiend. Devil. A creature of darkness.”
His father clung to the leather-bound scriptures, moving slowly as he went to the bars. “I apologize, mayor. But I’m not sure I understand.”
“You’re supposed to be a man of faith, cleric.”
“Demons work against Azhuel,” his father said hesitantly. “Their darkness can consume men’s hearts with all manner of impurities. If permitted, they can burn away the roots connecting our souls to our creator. But this child—”
“Will be dead by the day’s end if there’s any damn justice in this world,” the sheriff said, stroking his revolver. “Demon.” He chortled, licking his mustache. “That’s really funny.”
“Don’t insult me,” the mayor said curtly, gnawing his pipe. “I’m an educated man. Education, Eugene. Something you would know very little about.”
Samuel stepped closer to his father, wondering if the mayor had gone mad. Only the most puritanical clerics believed in the physical manifestation of demons, and such talk from a politician was more than abnormal. Politicians were well learned, well read, and ruled with the common people’s welfare at heart. It was the politicians’ responsibility to govern with logic and justice, and the clergy’s responsibility to appeal to the more primitive natures of man. These were the primary principles of the Laevis Creed. He had heard the mayor say something like that at his wife’s funeral.
Samuel squinted. The cell was dark, illuminated only by the sunlight able to seep through the barred window. But he still only saw a one-armed girl.
The mayor blew more smoke. The cloud dissipated as it came above Samuel’s head. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors about the thief. From my own estate, no less. How can I be a ruling mayor if I cannot protect my own property?” He paced in circles, the pipe in his mouth wriggling. “So, in an effort to apprehend the culprit, I had the sheriff set traps in the western woods. This,” the mayor pointed to the girl, “is what I caught. When they found it, it was tearing at its own leg like a rabid wolf.” He bent his fingers. “Bare fingers ripping through the leg. Would’ve gotten loose if we hadn’t found it when we did.”
The sheriff snorted. “Not all we found, is it? Little sadistic—”
“Eugene, please.” The mayor removed the pipe. “Cleric, this demon child had the strength to murder a patrolman. We found … the parts of him. Innards in its lap, blood all over the snow. Took three men to restrain the creature. The sheriff here managed to knock it unconscious barely long enough to pull the snare back and put the shackles on.”
His father nodded, scratching his beard. Samuel stood silently. His father was devoutly religious, but surely he didn’t blindly believe the mayor’s talk about the girl being a demon.
Samuel looked to his feet, somehow mustering the courage to speak.
“If I may, how do you know? Sir. How do you know it was her?”
The mayor grinned, seemingly unbothered. “Good question, boy. Let me further explain. A steel trap was nearly halfway through its leg, and it was scraping at the wound like it was an itch. And it never once made a sound. Not a word, a groan, a whimper as it did that or when we fought to subdue it. Nothing. Its speed is uncanny to say the least. Just look at the child’s hand. Those are more like claws than fingernails. Fox-like, if you ask me. Go near it and feel the instinctual terror that grips your heart. Its blood is not red. No, not at all.” He pointed at the whites in his own eyes. “But really, it’s most obvious in these. Irises like diamonds, pupils slit like a reptile. Not human.” He twirled his hand freely. “Now. I know what the two of you must be thinking. And no, I am no closet believer in religion. What kind of mayor would I be if I prayed to the tree god? But I do realize that, although our primitive ancestors were quite fantastical in their approach to morality and the afterlife, it is very possible that their archaic vocabulary limited their ability to explain unusual things. Perhaps the writings do hold some merit. Are the apocalyptical ramblings and nonsensical prophecies glimpses into ancient wars and spectacular technologies?” He paused. “I believe with the right methodology, we can uncover the real truth.”
Samuel nodded, but he didn’t understand.
The mayor straightened his shoulders, his belly jiggling.
“Cleric. As your mayor, I order to you speak with this creature. Apply your doctrine, faulty as it is, and I will analyze its interactions with you. Do whatever prayer or cutting you must.” He leaned in. “If you get it to listen, to respond, then I will reward you greatly.”
“Are you serious?” the sheriff interjected as he pulled out his gun from its holster, spinning its cylinder. It was as if he could no longer remain silent. “You plan on keeping this … thing around? In my jailhouse!”
The mayor dug his heel into the ground, obviously perturbed.
“My jailhouse, Eugene. I own this town.”
Samuel didn’t know what the mayor was getting out of this. His father closed his eyes, muttering a quick prayer to himself before speaking. “I could never accept a reward for my duties, good mayor,” he said, rubbing his nose. “I serve for the honor of Azhuel. For the roots. If you will open the bars, I will pray for this child.”
“Converse, pray, do whatever you need. I’ve said before, the demon child hasn’t spoken.” He chuckled. “Maybe it’ll talk for a holy man. Wouldn’t that be something?”
Samuel’s ribs burned as he pried the scriptures from his father. His father gave a stern look, but he ignored it. He knew his father would never correct him in front of the mayor.
The sheriff rose, his lip curling.
“You can’t let them in there.”
He aimed the revolver at the girl, cocking back the hammer.
The girl, oblivious of the danger in front of her, traced her index fingernail across the dirt ground. Her motion was slow yet fluid. It was as if she were in no danger at all.
“How many dead bodies are we
gonna have in this town?” the sheriff asked, nearly shrieking. “Tell me that, Thompson! I knew Landon back when he was sucking on his mother’s tits, and now I’ve got to go and tell that old woman her only living son is dead. Me, Thompson. Not you, the mayor. And for what? Some stubby-armed psychotic child … thing you want to keep around? Like a pet? And now you’re trying to venture off into some religious quest?” His arms shook. “Are you mad?”
The mayor’s cheeks went flush. “Know your place, sheriff. Put the gun away and open the gate. Do your job, or I’ll find someone who will.”
Samuel stepped back. His father’s breaths were short and rushed as he rolled his sleeves back, exposing the mark of the clergy.
“It’s an honor to serve Azhuel as well as those whom He has appointed over us to rule as politicians.”
The mayor nodded. “Good man.”
The sheriff remained frozen for a long minute before throwing the revolver across the room. Samuel jumped back as the gun struck the metal bars, the sound echoing as if a shot had been fired.
The girl never stirred.
“Get yourself a new damn sheriff.” The sheriff reached in his pockets, jingling the keys before dropping them on the ground. “See if I care. Go ahead. Lock me inside that cell and see what I do to that monster.”
“Eugene—”
“I’m thirsty,” the sheriff interjected. “Guess I’ll finally take that paid vacation you’ve been promising me. Trip to a greenlands lake house sounds real nice right about now. Don’t you think, mayor?”
The mayor’s body clenched, and it took a moment for the skin around his neck to stop blotching. “Two weeks.”
“Starting now.” The sheriff left the room, slamming the door behind him.
“Forgive the sheriff. He will be reprimanded for his insolence, that I can assure you. However, his concern for your safety is understandable. This demon child is dangerous. But that’s why we brought it here.”
The girl’s finger moved fluidly as she continued her dirt drawings. Samuel did his best to show no fear as his father bent down, hesitating as he picked up the keys. Eugene Black was the hardest man Samuel had ever met. He’d never seen him so angry, or so scared. His father inserted key after key into the lock until it clicked. He slid the gate back. Samuel entered the cell with his father and immediately heard the squeal of steel. He looked back and saw that the mayor had sealed the gate shut.
Demon in the Whitelands Page 3