Demon in the Whitelands

by Nikki Z. Richard

  “I can’t move the body outside. Not by myself.” He swallowed, forcing himself not to cry. “I’m not strong enough.”

  “I’ll help in the morning. Just make sure to keep that little monster locked up good.”

  They drank together silently for about twenty minutes. Samuel started feeling lightheaded soon after. His body swayed slightly. He readjusted his frames.

  “She killed him. She was so fast. Like it was nothing.”

  The sheriff snorted.

  “Of course it did. You think I’m stupid? Did you think I was lying to you?” He propped up his elbows, his fingers forming into the shape of claws. “Landon. Ripped him to bits. It dug its fingers into his chest and ripped him open. You hear me? No person could do that. I won’t sleep a good night’s rest until that thing has a bullet between the eyes.” He shot an imaginary gun and laughed. “Well. Maybe we should call on your old man. Do that thing. What’s it called again?”

  “Exorcism.”

  The sheriff snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Exorcism.” He said each syllable slowly. “A demon. Whatever it is, it ain’t human. That’s for damn sure.”

  “Not human,” Samuel echoed.

  The sheriff snorted as he stood up, his feet so unsteady he held the table for balance. His heavy eyes looked at Samuel. He leaned forward. “I’m gonna show you something. Something the mayor hasn’t seen. And if you so much as utter a word to anyone, I swear to your father’s god—”

  “You’ll beat my ass?”

  “Good lad. It’s a deal?”

  Samuel pursed his lips, unsure if he wanted to make such an agreement, but the sheriff didn’t wait for a response. He staggered to the bedroom, his arms outstretched to help his balance. Samuel rubbed his hair, his senses dulled and his skin tingling. He felt as if his muscles were jelly. He needed sleep, but his mind probably wouldn’t allow him the opportunity. He took another sip of liquor and heard the sheriff’s rustling footsteps behind him.

  “Here,” the sheriff said with a grunt. He dropped something on the table.

  Samuel’s sight was hazy, so he readjusted his frames to bring the item into focus. It was some sort of mechanical device, the browning metal and rusted bolts giving away its old age. The top portion contained a two-pronged claw with multiple spur gears inside of it. Three rusted pipes extended from the claw down to a tattered leather holster. The holster had two straps: one that buckled tightly around the base and the other that hooped several inches over it. The entire contraption couldn’t have been more than a foot in length.

  “Around the harness,” the sheriff said while twirling his finger. “Look right there. Do you see it?”

  Samuel picked up the device, surprised by its weight. He needed both hands to secure it. He lifted it to the candlelight, examining the straps. Sewn into the leather appeared to be miniature glass-like tubes and wires, the technology resembling an expensive relic the mayor could have mounted to the wall of his estate.

  “What is it?”

  “Are you serious?” the sheriff asked as he sank back into his chair. “I guess you’re not as smart as I thought you were. It’s a prosthetic. A fake arm. Military grade, from the looks of it. Pre-blackout. Forbidden technology.”

  Samuel tightened his grip. The hooked claws reminded him of Zei’s hand when she tore into Claudette’s father. “Is it hers?”

  “Anybody else you know have need for a machine arm?” The sheriff kicked his feet onto the table, his arms crossing over his chest. “After we left the scene, one of my boys found it underneath the snow next to the trap. My guess is Landon must’ve been able to rip it off of the little bitch before it got the best of him.”

  Samuel pictured the device attached to Zei’s stub, imagining what she would look like with a mechanical arm. “Why keep this a secret? Why not show the mayor?”

  The sheriff laughed.

  “Tell me this, kid. Who would have access to the forbidden technologies? And … why would they give it to a monster like that? It’s like it was custom made for it.” The sheriff sucked air through his teeth. “No. I’m not showing this to the mayor. Last thing that power hungry asshole needs is a loaded weapon.”

  Samuel put the prosthetic arm on the table and slid it over to the sheriff. “If you hate the mayor so much, why are you his sheriff?”

  The sheriff huffed. “Same reason you’re an overpaid babysitter. We do what we have to. If you wanted to live by some moral code of right and wrong and good and evil, then you should’ve stayed with the cleric.”

  Samuel stood beside Claudette throughout the funeral’s procession. She locked her arms around his. She wore a lavender dress, her hair tied back into a tight bun. She cried in little spurts, but she never lost her composure. Laura was much more reserved, her expression blank. The mortician had covered the body with a sheet up to the neck, covering the gored torso. No one had any words to share, not even Claudette or Laura. There was no point in singing the praises of a criminal.

  “Idiot,” was the only thing Laura said aloud during the entirety of the service.

  Samuel’s father went up to the coffin, and Laura stared at her feet. Samuel brushed his bangs to the side as his father read from the scriptures, sharing a passage about the mercy of Azhuel extending to all people. When he finished his prayer, his father pulled out the throwing knife Samuel had given him. He slid the blade across his palm. Blood leaked through his fingers.

  Samuel looked away. Part of this was his fault; he knew it was. If he hadn’t been so trusting of Zei, if he had found a way to persuade the mayor out of his cruel test, perhaps Claudette’s father would still be alive. Maybe Zei wouldn’t have butchered him.

  He reached into his peacoat’s inner pocket, checking to make sure the paper was still there. He’d have to find a way to pass it along without drawing any attention. The rites concluded, and Samuel helped Laura and several loggers who’d volunteered to assist with the burial. They carried the coffin over to the graveyard near the southeast corner of the neighborhoods. The only markings for the graves were thin sticks that had been shoved into the earth on top of the coffins. However, when the snowstorms came, many of the sticks would be knocked out of place. It mattered little to northerners. It was their way of symbolizing how everyone was the same in death. Politicians and other men of higher status, however, could be buried wherever their surviving loved ones wanted. Samuel knew all the past members of the Thompson family were buried behind the mayor’s estate, but he’d never seen if their graves were marked any different.

  After they lowered the casket into the plot, Samuel turned back to check on his father. He was already walking away, his path a straight shot to the eastern woods. Samuel apologized as he told everyone he had to use the restroom but would be back quickly. He saw his father disappear into the woods and dashed after him, looking back frequently to see if anyone was paying him any mind.

  Once he got into the woods, he called out for him.

  “Father.”

  He shuffled around the pine trees and hard dirt. A group of squirrels darted up the trunk of a tree as he came up toward them. He stopped, looking around a bit. His father had to cut across back onto the path they’d made. He knew he couldn’t be too far from it, but he needed to hurry.

  “Father,” he said a little louder.

  He rounded several more trees and heard the bustling of the wildlife around him. He spotted a doe from about a hundred meters away, but the creature darted off as soon as Samuel noticed her. He moved deeper into the woods, and his feet found the path. His father was nearly out of sight, but he saw the back of his long coat. He ran as hard as he could, and his father turned to face the noise. He stopped, his mouth slightly agape.

  Samuel reached him and took a couple of deep breaths. His father towered over him, his eyes watching with concern. Samuel dug into his pocket and handed the paper over.

  “She drew this,” he said with rushed breaths.

  His
father unfolded the sketch of Azhuel’s roots, his stone face studying the drawing intensely while his other hand squeezed the scriptures.

  “Maybe you’re right about an exorcism. I can leave the door unlocked. Keep the cell open too.”

  “Do you have faith?” his father asked.

  Samuel kicked the snow. “I don’t know. I just … I want to help her. Else. I don’t know what will happen next.”

  “I made a promise to your mother,” his father said in a low voice. He looked away from the sketch, his fingers crinkling the paper as they morphed into a fist. “To keep you safe. And I’ve failed her. I’ve failed you. I’m sorry, Samuel.”

  “You never talk about her.” A pit welled in Samuel’s stomach. “All I have is her name and that photograph. I don’t know anything. Why won’t you tell me about her? Who she was. What she was like.”

  “Your mother loved you.” His father looked up, his eyes gazing at him with a softness Samuel wasn’t accustomed to. “I’ll tell you everything. The next time we meet. You have my word. But you need to go now, or someone might become suspicious.”

  “Will you do it? Will you try to save her?”

  Samuel stood in place as his father turned away and headed deeper into the woods. He thought about the photograph and the way his mother’s lips parted in the smallest smile. He wanted so badly to remember her voice, and the way her skin felt as she rocked him in her arms. But he was only a baby, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t will the memories to life.

  Samuel slid the glasses farther up his nose before heading back to the gravesite. The volunteers were working to cover the body with fresh earth, and he helped put the final layers of dirt over the coffin. Claudette positioned the stick near the center of the grave, burying it as deeply as she could with her bare hands.

  The sun was starting to rise as Samuel took a detour stroll through the woods. He kept his gloved hands by his side, his breath turning to vapor as soon as it left his mouth. The temperature was dropping, each new day a bit chillier than the last. Even for the whitelands, the sudden shift to cold was a bit odd. The almanacs had predicted five more weeks of summer, but the shortening sunlight and graying sky forebode something else. The animals knew it too. Already the birds were joining together in flocks and migrating down south, and the squirrels and foxes were busily foraging for extra food. It wouldn’t be much longer before the first snowfall.

  The sheriff offered to give Samuel a ride to the jailhouse, but he declined. He needed time alone. He was grieving the loss of Zei, of who he thought she was. The Litten women were grieving the loss of Harold, but they both dealt with his passing differently. Laura threw herself into her work, unwilling to let herself show any grief. The mayor ultimately forgave the Littens of the debt, but the loss of an additional income made it all the more important for the shop to succeed. Claudette wasn’t as hard as her mother. The brightness in her smile had diminished, and she didn’t speak with the same joyous lilt. Her pain made it all the worse for Samuel. He blamed himself. He couldn’t rid himself of the guilt.

  As he neared the jailhouse, he came out from the pines and trekked to the front entrance. He grabbed onto the door’s handle and turned it. He’d made sure to leave it unlocked the evening before. He went inside, plodding down the hallway and into the cell room. The gate was slightly cracked, just as he’d left it. Zei sat cross-legged in the back-left corner of the cell, her index finger tracing in the dirt. Within a matter of days, her once tamed hair had morphed back into an erratic mess of entangled knots and wild curls. The embers inside of the firepit were barely glowing, the room nearly as frigid as the outside. Samuel said nothing as he rekindled the fire. He wasn’t so much afraid to be near her. He didn’t want to be.

  Once the fire was set, Samuel stripped off his coat and gloves and prepared a meal. He didn’t feel like cooking anything, so he made her a plate of raw cabbage and a bit of almonds. He wasn’t hungry, and he wasn’t going to force down food.

  Samuel slid the plate over to her and got out of the cell, choosing instead to sit far away in the chair by the coat rack. He arched his back as he toyed with one of his throwing knives, twirling it in between his fingers. She took no interest in the food, instead entertaining herself with her dirt sketching. She wasn’t only drawing. While he was working on the firepit, Samuel noticed her tracing out some of the words he’d taught her: bird, deer, knife, snow, and Sam.

  Zei wanted the sketchbook. He knew she did. But he wasn’t going to give it to her. He was acting childish, but he didn’t care. He’d been ignorant enough to believe in her. He was absolutely certain she wasn’t a demon or a killer or any of the horrible things everyone else thought her to be. He didn’t know what to think about her now. Had her good behavior with him all been a ruse? Had she been playing him for a fool, gaining his trust so that she could manipulate him into gaining her freedom? If she had her mechanical arm, would she be able to break through the chains and tear into him the same way she had Landon Swen and Claudette’s father? He didn’t trust her anymore. If the mayor wanted her to be his demon, to be some sort of mindless and violent creature, then he could have her.

  Samuel slipped the knife back into his pocket. That wasn’t true. There was a small part of him that had misplaced faith in Zei’s redemption. What if his father had been right, and she was under the control of an evil spirit? What if an exorcism was the only thing that could save her soul? If she were normal, maybe the mayor would cut her loose. What good would she be to the mayor if she lost her strength and bloodlust? There was also the chance that the mayor would simply kill her. Knowing the mayor, that was the probable outcome. But even so, maybe Zei’s death would be better than the alternative. At least she could die with her dignity, and a small part of him liked the idea of the mayor not getting what he wanted.

  He knew the set of events he’d conjured up in his head were all unlikely possibilities. First, he needed his father to sneak over to the jailhouse and perform the exorcism, and there was no guarantee he would come. Second, and the most unlikely scenario, the exorcism would actually work. If that happened, he would somehow need to test and prove that Zei was indeed free from demonic oppression. It was all a fantasy. But for the first time in a long while, he wanted to believe in the power of Azhuel and His roots.

  The sound of a wailing horn from outside the jailhouse awoke Samuel with a jerk. He’d nearly fallen out of the chair, his hands reaching out like wings as he regained his balance. He must’ve dozed off. He hadn’t been able to sleep much at night. He adjusted his glasses and looked around. Zei was up on her feet, her attention veering to the barred window.

  The sheriff must’ve come to pick Samuel up, even though he’d told him not to. Samuel yawned. He gathered his belongings before moving to the gate. He stared at Zei for a brief second before sliding the gate, but he made sure not to close it all the way. Her food was untouched.

  “Goodnight,” he found himself saying.

  It was the first thing he’d said to her in days. He exited the jailhouse. Charles sat in the driver’s seat of his father’s jeep, his arms cradled over the steering wheel. Samuel was a bit relieved. It would’ve been harder to fake securing the front door if it was the sheriff. Charles gave him a wave. Samuel waved back as he took out the jailhouse keys and pretended to fasten the front door’s lock.

  “What were you doing in there?” Charles asked as Samuel got into the passenger’s seat. “Took you long enough.”

  “Sorry,” Samuel said as he rubbed his gloved hands together. The jeep was warmer than the inside of the jailhouse, so much so that his lenses began to fog. “Why are you here?”

  Charles put the vehicle in reverse, turning the jeep back and around.

  “What’s wrong? You getting sick or something?”

  “I’m fine.” Samuel pulled off his glasses and wiped the lenses with the tail end of his coat. “I’m tired.”

  The jeep edged its way to the square. Charle
s barely tapped on the accelerator.

  “I got some big news,” he said. “Swear you won’t tell anyone?”

  Samuel gave a half-hearted nod.

  “I mean it,” Charles said with more force. “Not even the butcher girl.”

  “I won’t say anything.”

  Charles squeezed the steering wheel. “My dad is heading to Tallow tomorrow. All the whitelands mayors are voting on whether or not we’re going to secede from the states. The riots in the greenlands are only getting worse, and it’s affecting the trade routes. Governor Bloom is calling for total northern independence. Cutting off trade and everything. He’s already trying to reestablish trade with the Others.”

  “Others?”

  “I forget. You’ve lived in these woods too long. The Others. You know, those living across the seas?”

  Samuel put back on his glasses. He knew about people living on other bodies of land across the water, but the Laevis Creed forbade any contact with foreigners. That was one way to prevent the wars. Were the whitelands going to forsake the Creed? The states had been firmly united since the blackout. Why was it changing now?

  “That sounds dangerous. What if the citizens don’t want that?”

  “They’re working out the details,” Charles said with a shrug. “People have to trust our politicians. They have every citizen’s interest at heart. Right?”

  “I guess.”

  Haid was a logging town. Lumber trade was essential to its survival. It wasn’t like there were a plethora of crops that could grow in their hard soil, and there definitely wasn’t enough wildlife around to adequately feed every family in town. He supposed the citizens would go along with the politicians, so long as the lumber trade didn’t take a hit.

  Charles reached over Samuel and popped open the compartment underneath the dashboard. He retrieved a briarwood smoking pipe, a can full of tobacco, and a pack of matches.