Demon in the Whitelands

by Nikki Z. Richard

  “Mayor,” his father projected, holding firm to the scriptures. “I’m a cleric, but there is still so much I have to learn from the holy words.” He shook the book. “In the teaching of Hetsulu, the prophet mentions how the dark ones can take a mortal soul and twist it. Corrupt it. Influence it from the inside. Bring it away from Azhuel and the peace that comes with surrendering to the roots.” He paused. “It is my belief that the child is not a demon.”

  Samuel leaned in, hanging on his father’s words. They’d never discussed his father’s findings.

  “But she may be under the influence of a demon. Possessed. A child inflicted and tormented by darkness.”

  The mayor set down his tea.

  “What are you trying to say, cleric?”

  His father folded his hands, rubbing his thumbs together.

  “In the book of Zephereli, the dark ones are described as black winged creatures that have no form. The child has human flesh.”

  “Possession,” the mayor repeated.

  “Yes,” his father answered. “With prayer, with Azhuel’s guidance, we may be able to bring her out from the darkness. An exorcism, if you will.”

  The mayor nodded to himself, and Charles tapped his shoes on the floor.

  “Help me, cleric. I am not a man of faith, as I’ve told you before, so I want to be clear. You believe the child is not a demon, but that it is under the influence of one?”

  His father nodded.

  The mayor took another a sip of tea before rolling his tongue around the end of his pipe. “And you propose deliverance for the creature?”

  “If the exorcism works, the child would be free from torment. She could find peace. Is that not what she deserves?”

  The mayor puffed hard into his pipe, his tongue rolling against the inside corner of his cheek. “As a noble servant of Haid and the whitelands, I could never in good faith endorse the performance of a religious ceremony other than the rites of the dead. This is clearly outlined by the Laevis Creed. You should know this, cleric.”

  Samuel’s father held the scriptures tightly. His jaw clenched behind his thick beard. The mayor rose to his feet, and Charles shifted erratically.

  “You talk of that creature as if it were a human. It has the eyes of a wolf and the ability to rip a man to pieces with one little arm.” The mayor glanced at Charles. “You call it a girl, a ‘she,’ yet it has no genitalia. Did you know that?”

  Samuel’s father straightened his back. “No.”

  “Neither did I! Until recently. Perhaps you should ask your son.” The mayor removed the pipe and waved it at Samuel. “I heard about what you did, boy. How you communicated with the demon child, risking your own life. I could use more men like you.”

  “Pardon me, good mayor.”

  The mayor chuckled. “Oh, you didn’t hear about our boys and the little adventure they had the other day?”

  Samuel looked ahead, doing everything he could to avoid his father’s gaze.

  Charles cleared his throat. “It was my fault.”

  The mayor scowled. “Thankfully, our lady doctor knows better than to try and keep secrets from me. If things had ended differently, well, be sure this would be another conversation entirely. He may not look like much, but your bastard is quite exceptional.”

  Samuel’s throat went dry, and he swallowed spit.

  “Samuel,” the mayor said warmly. “That’s your name, isn’t it? My son tells me the demon has taken a liking to you.”

  Charles gave a quick nod.

  “Yes, sir,” Samuel said. “I suppose.”

  The mayor put his hand on Samuel’s shoulder, the pipe between his thick fingers. Samuel could feel the heat. His shoulders shuddered; the mayor’s hand emanated authority and power. “I think I might have an offer for you, boy. The sheriff is down a patrolman. How would you like to work for our great town in a more practical way? Patrolman would be your title, of course. You’ll be placed on my payroll. Basic-level salary, but for you, there will be plenty of opportunities for increase based on performance. But unofficially, you would work as the demon’s caretaker. Every day you’d visit it, feed it, tend to its needs. I can’t put my faith in these other simpletons. These other patrolmen are only good for following basic orders. But you, my boy. There’s something special about you. You’re obedient to your mayor, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well. Will you take the job?”

  Samuel could hardly believe the words he was hearing. A patrolman? He would have a state-sanctioned job with a living wage? He wouldn’t have to be a cleric?

  He nodded a bit too eagerly.

  “Wonderful,” the mayor said. He squeezed Samuel’s shoulder tighter. “You will start on Monday. Listen, lad. I want you to become more acquainted with the demon. Learn its preferences and tendencies. Essentially, I want you to gain its trust. By getting it to trust you, you’re getting it to trust me. Do you understand?”

  Samuel didn’t, but he nodded.

  “If I may,” his father interjected. He stood up. “The boy is more than a month shy of sixteen, and a full year away from becoming of legal age. By the law of our state, he is unable to begin a profession. He’s my son. As atonement for my sins and the sins of his mother, his destiny must be with the clergy.”

  The mayor clicked his tongue. “I will do what I want.”

  “Even if what you do is in direct violation with the Laevis Creed?”

  The mayor removed his hand from Samuel, frowning.

  “Are you implying that I’m breaking the law, cleric?”

  His father paused briefly as if calculating the consequence of his next words. He loosened his grip on the scriptures, and they nearly slipped onto the floor.

  “Of course not, sir.”

  The mayor coughed, and his belly shook. “Excuse me.” He took another drag from the pipe. “I am not leaving the decision to you, cleric. It’s the lad’s choice to make. If he wants to be a cleric, I can find ways to arrange—”

  “No,” Samuel interjected.

  The mayor grinned. “So. Will you take the job?”

  Samuel blinked heavily, ignoring the desperate glare from his father.

  There was nothing to say but yes.

  Samuel rolled his shoulder as he hurled the knife forward. The blade hit its target. He walked over to the pine and grabbed the wooden handle, yanking the knife out from the bark. The day was nearly over, the sunlight peeping through gaps in the pine needles hanging above his head. Trudging farther back, he adjusted his frames in an effort to see more clearly. He never had trouble applying the correct amount of force behind the knife or getting the blade to stick. Once he’d gotten down the mechanics, it wasn’t that hard. When thrown correctly, the knife would go about three lengths of itself per rotation. He only had difficulty with precision in long-distance aiming. Farther than six meters, the target became hazy, and it was near impossible for Samuel to hit the bull’s-eye.

  He drew his arm behind him and threw the knife again. This time the blade landed a few inches below the X he’d carved into the tree bark. This would be his last day living with his father. Samuel would be moving in with the sheriff, who’d returned from his trip to the greenlands the same day the mayor offered Samuel the job of caretaker. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel, but he was happy. He could be normal. Be touched. Even have a family of his own if he wanted to. He imagined what it would be like to be held by a lover or to hold his own child. He wouldn’t have to be a cleric. The clergy was a collection of low-standing men, some of them orphaned boys and some petty criminals receiving pardons in return for serving the cloth, that kept ancient traditions alive in an attempt to appeal to the common person’s fears of death and the afterlife. Samuel wasn’t a criminal or an orphan, but being a cleric’s bastard meant he was guaranteed to a life of clerical service. The high council vowed that they would see to it. What better way to represent Azhuel’s grace than to h
ave the living transgression of a cleric taking up the scriptures and being marked with the roots on his forearm? His dreams of being rescued from his destiny were childish. Until now.

  A politician’s voice would always overrule the wishes of the clergy when it came to matters of the state. Being a patrolman didn’t sound that bad compared to a life of self-mutilation for the sake of the rites, a ritual most citizens viewed as antiquated and barbaric. Still, Samuel knew that nothing was guaranteed. He knew better than to assume his patrolman position would become permanent. To keep his job, he would have to work hard to fulfill the mayor’s wishes. No matter what it took.

  Samuel retrieved the knife. He twirled the handle around and between his fingers in a rhythmic motion. He tried imagining himself as a patrolman working alongside the sheriff and his underlings, standing aside while his father performed the rites alone. But mostly, he thought about the girl in the jailhouse. His chest grew tight as he imagined her red hair and her green eyes and her scarred body. When nighttime came, he went inside the cabin. His father sat beside the fireplace, stabbing the coals with an iron poker. Samuel took off his coat and laid the hunting knife on the counter.

  “You don’t have to do this,” his father said.

  Samuel washed his arms in the sink, drying them with a filthy towel. It had been three days since their visit to the mayor’s estate. They still hadn’t spoken with each other since their fight, the silence an invisible but strong presence. It was strange for Samuel to imagine life outside the cabin: the handmade furniture and utensils, the deer and hare skins mounted to the walls, the large bucket in the bottom-left corner that they used for baths, the desk with the picture of his mother. Everything was changing so fast.

  “You know I do.”

  His father stepped forward, the floors creaking.

  “You’re wrong, Son. You have a choice. We all have a choice.”

  “I know. And … I want to do it.”

  “The mayor is a wicked man,” his father said with an anger Samuel was unaccustomed to seeing. “He is solely driven by his greed. He and that tormented child have nothing but darkness to offer you. Nothing.”

  Samuel wasn’t sure what to make of his father’s protest. The man couldn’t simply say that he would miss him or that he loved him. It always had to be about light and darkness. “You don’t even know her.”

  “She is bound by something sinister, a force not to be manipulated or played with. The child needs deliverance, not vain attempts at control! I can’t bear the weight of another soul being kept in torment. And I can’t bear for you—” His father grabbed him, his hold pinning Samuel in place. “I am a flawed man, and I have sinned greatly. But I cannot stand back as you are led astray by false promises. You can leave. Tonight.”

  “What?”

  His father released his hold and dashed across the room, grabbing the backpack from underneath the ladder.

  “We’ve made these trails, you and I.” He threw the bag at Samuel. “Go. Go past the lake and keep going west. Move through the forest until you hit the mountains. You’ll have to go through them. I know a cleric on the other side. Ulysses. He’s in Kurset. He isn’t the holiest of men, but he has no love for politicians. He would take you in. Grant you sanctuary.”

  Samuel didn’t want to argue with his father, but he was being irrational. Desperate. It was unlike him. “What would you do?”

  “I will find a way to perform the exorcism, and I will buy you as much time as I can afford.”

  “How do you know she’s possessed?” Samuel probed. “Can that explain her body? What if she’s something else? You said you want to do an exorcism. Do you even know how? What if it does nothing?”

  “I have faith,” his father said with confidence. “I don’t know what the mayor’s intentions are, but I’m almost certain he wants to harness the child’s darkness for his own strength. The roots would never permit this.”

  Samuel put the bag down, propping it on the side of his leg.

  “If a storm hits, especially in the mountains, I’ll be as good as dead.”

  “No. You could ride it out. You’re stronger than you think. There are caverns all along the mountains. Azhuel would protect you.”

  “Azhuel’s roots won’t keep me warm, Father. Or alive. I don’t want to leave Haid as a fugitive. I want to do this. What do you think the mayor will do if you show up at the jailhouse and I’m—”

  “We all deserve death,” he father retorted. “I deserve death.”

  Samuel clenched his fists. His father always interrupted him. He never listened.

  “You’ll make a martyr of me like you did to my mother?” His eyes burned. “You’re wrong. No one deserves to die. Not for faith or sin or anything!”

  Samuel walked to the cabinets and poured himself a cup of tea while his father continued on about humankind’s dark nature and Azhuel’s merciful roots, his voice so loud it nearly shook the walls. Samuel found the strength to ignore him. Their last night together went on like that until his father tired out. When Samuel was sure his father had fallen asleep, he crawled into the bed they shared. His heart raced as he thought about his new life. For some reason, however, the skin on his right arm kept tingling uncomfortably, and he couldn’t get it to stop itching.

  “Don’t stand there like a moron,” the sheriff grunted, his breath burning with alcohol. “Get in. And wipe your feet.”

  Samuel dusted the white powder from his boots. The sheriff’s house was near the east side of the town square, about a kilometer from most of the neighborhoods and right beside the railroad tracks. Samuel fiddled with the straps of the backpack. The home was a little bigger than his father’s cabin, but not by much. The kitchen counter was littered with half-eaten bread and moldy cheese, and empty glass bottles of liquor decorated a tiny white table next to the front window. The sheriff pulled out a cushioned cot from behind the closet, unrolling it in front of the fireplace. He tossed a feather pillow and some cotton sheets near the foot of the portable bed. Samuel laid the backpack on top of the cot.

  “I got food in the kitchen pantry,” the sheriff said as he reached down and grabbed a mostly empty bottle of booze, taking a swig. “My food. If you want something, buy it yourself. Salary’s not much, but it’s enough to feed yourself.” The bottle bounced across the sheriff’s thigh, and he flagged him through the narrow hallway to the two doors facing opposite each other. “It’s simple. If you didn’t pay for it, don’t eat it. Pissing pot’s on the right, my room’s on the left. Stay out of my room. Don’t touch my things. Or I will break you.”

  “Okay.”

  The sheriff slipped his thumbs into his belt loops as they went back into the living room. He held his arms together as the sheriff nodded toward the dresser. “Use the last shelf, but don’t put too much in it or it gets jammed. You can borrow one of my shirts for now, but go to the tailor’s today and have him make you a few. Got it?”

  Samuel nodded. “Okay.”

  The sheriff took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t want you here. But I may have pushed my luck a little hard with that … individual, and now I’m pretty sure he’s got you here to keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t go near that monster. I won’t. We clear on that? So long as that thing is in my jailhouse, I’m not going inside. Neither will any of my men. Not even if you’re in there screaming or begging or crying for help. If you get your guts ripped up, it’s your own damn fault. I won’t waste another good man on that monster.”

  “Okay.”

  The sheriff flung open the window and spat before taking another sip of liquor. “I didn’t ask for this, you know. Any of it.”

  “Don’t touch the guns. Or the knives. Just … don’t touch things. At all.”

  Samuel nodded. He’d learned the pattern. The sheriff sank down into the chair outside of the jailhouse and tossed Samuel the keys.

  “Hope you brought something to protect yourself. I’m not giving you a gun.”
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  Samuel reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the hunting knife. His father had told him to keep it, that he’d use one of the older knives for the rites. Perhaps it was meant to be an early birthday present.

  “Good enough.” The sheriff took a swig from his flask. “Got more than a hundred active patrolmen currently serving in Haid. Half of them the mayor keeps stationed at his estate, most of the others I keep posted near the logging sites, and I’ve also got a few others I try and keep around the neighborhoods. You’ll be the groundskeeper for the jailhouse. That’s your job. Take care of the place and keep the incarcerated restrained and alive. You’re the only one besides the mayor and myself permitted on the premises until further notice. Understood?”

  Samuel nodded as he fiddled with the collar on his neck, his body feeling too small for the sheriff’s collared plaid uniform. He tried rolling up the sleeves, but they kept falling back down.

  The sheriff must’ve noticed. “Stop.” He licked his lips as he took out a handful of copper coins from his pocket. He counted out five of them and put them in Samuel’s hand. “Here. An advance. Buy yourself a shirt later. Tell the tailor it’s a rush order. Looks like a nightdress on you.”

  The sheriff laughed at his own joke.

  The coins felt heavier than Samuel thought they would. He’d never touched money before. If his father needed goods, he bartered for them. And there wasn’t a long list of people willing to trade with a cleric.

  “Don’t you have some babysitting to do?” the sheriff asked as he reclined deeper into the chair, his eyes watching the sun peep out from behind the forest of pine.

  Samuel nodded as he put the knife and the coins into his pocket.