Demon in the Whitelands

by Nikki Z. Richard

  The sheriff dismissed the assembly. He stood near the disassembled stage and yelled at the citizens to return to their homes. “Go on! Everybody get out of here. Talk it out over your own dinner tables, not in the streets.”

  Crews of patrolmen waved citizens along, and most of them obeyed without a fuss. But when the square had nearly emptied, a disgruntled group of four loggers made their way to the sheriff. “What is all this riot talk, Eugene?” an older logger asked. “You know, some of us got family in the greenlands. What’s happening down there? These politicians tell us only what they want us to know.”

  Another logger spoke up as well. “We need answers.”

  The sheriff gritted his teeth. “Look, be glad you’re getting the chance to make up any losses with that militia, okay? Stop your whining. Take the work you’re given and move on.”

  One of the loggers, who Samuel recognized from Josiah’s crew, pushed past several of his cohorts to get in front of the sheriff. He was the man who’d pleaded for Samuel to perform the rights. His brawny arms were level by his side, but his hands were clenched.

  “We don’t want to be soldiers, sheriff. Haven’t enough people died?”

  The sheriff spat onto the ground beside the man’s boot, his hand hovering over his revolver.

  “You’re arguing with the wrong man. Now get out of my way before I beat your ass.”

  The man held his ground, his face reddening.

  “You’re a drunk. To hell with you and the mayor. I can’t speak for everyone else, but I’m done being yanked around like some puppet.”

  The sheriff didn’t have to move. Six patrolmen swarmed the disgruntled logger and brought him to the ground. Samuel’s muscles tightened, and his hand grazed the knife’s handle inside his pocket. The other loggers backed away as their friend struggled to free himself, his arms flailing wildly. One of the patrolmen anchored his knee deep into the logger’s back and struck his head with the back of a rifle. The logger’s body instantly went limp.

  “Don’t kill him,” the sheriff barked. “Pull him up!”

  Samuel inhaled as he went over to the sheriff, his fingers rapping across the sides of his coat. The remaining citizens watched as the patrolmen lifted the unconscious logger.

  “Get him out of here,” the sheriff said to the other loggers. “Tell him next time it’ll be much worse than a bump on the head.”

  Samuel pushed up his glasses. The sun was lowering over the western sky, its light refracting through the jumbled trunks and branches of pine. The sheriff straightened his back, his hand cradling his revolver.

  “Is everything going to be okay?”

  “People fear change,” the sheriff said in annoyance. “It’s natural.”

  The blacksmith took hold of one of the stage’s side compartments, draping it over his broad shoulder. “They’re scared, sheriff. Talk of war makes people remember their history. Some traumas don’t leave people, no matter how many generations removed. Leaving the states. Forgoing the Laevis Creed. I don’t think that’s something most of us are ready for.”

  “Do the politicians really think rioters are going to come north?” Samuel asked.

  The sheriff cocked his head.

  “Enough. Let the politicians plays their games. Whitelands. Greenlands. Redlands. It’s all the same. An assembly of power-hungry men ruling over their towns and a fat governor keeping them all happy. The rest of us are along for the ride. But unlike some of you morons, I keep my head down and mind my own damn business.”

  A crew of patrolmen stood outside the jailhouse. One of them, with greasy hair and a hooked nose, sat against the front door, his legs crossed and a rifle by his side. Jax, the wiry-haired patrolman, stood beside another patrolman near the toolshed. Samuel dug his hands deeper into his pockets, wishing more than anything that the sheriff had dropped him off. He hadn’t the faintest idea what the men were doing at the jailhouse. He tucked the package farther inside his coat.

  When the patrolman on the ground saw Samuel coming, he sprang up to his feet and scooped up his rifle. Samuel stopped. Jax looked to Samuel and gave his fellow patrolmen a wave of reassurance. “The mayor sent us here,” he explained. He wiped his sleeve. “Wants us standing guard outside the jailhouse at all times.”

  “Does the sheriff know?” Samuel asked. “Why didn’t he tell—”

  “The sheriff is busy,” Jax said curtly. “He might be our boss. But the mayor is law. We’ve been directly ordered to keep surveillance outside the jailhouse. That’s all you need to know.”

  Samuel nodded, hoping to avoid any more conversation. He went to the door, placing his hand on the fastened lock. The patrolman who was sitting beside the door pointed to the chains. “It wasn’t locked up, so I fastened it for you. You should be careful, kid.”

  Samuel bowed. “Yes. My mistake.”

  The patrolman nodded toward the jailhouse. “What do you do in there all day? How do you not go mad with boredom?”

  “Ignore him,” Jax interjected. “Move along.”

  Samuel gave another polite nod. He unfastened the lock with his keys and moved the rusted chain away from the bolt. Had his father visited Zei the night before? If not, he hoped his father was aware enough not to approach the jailhouse while patrolmen stood guard. His father wasn’t a fool. Besides, there was no guarantee he would come. Perhaps he’d found Samuel’s plea for an exorcism risky. Regret made Samuel’s mouth dry. He never should have asked his father for it in the first place. He opened the door and shuffled inside, closing it quickly. He pressed his back against the door, taking a moment to collect his nerves. He made his way down the hallway onto the cell room.

  Zei sat underneath the barred window. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, her chin resting on her bare knees. Most of her face was covered by the tangled, chaotic nest that had become her ungroomed hair. Zei’s arms wrapped around her legs.

  Samuel looked away. He searched the room for evidence that his father had come but found nothing. The gate to the cell was just as he’d left it. Slightly cracked. He took off his coat and pulled out the wrapped package. It was nearly the size of Zei’s sketchbook, only smaller. His hand squeezed the paper wrapping.

  Zei waited silently.

  Samuel breathed deep. How long could he punish her? How much of that day had been her fault? What if she was only acting in the way of her nature? How much of his pain was his own fault? He was the one who’d created the fantasy where Zei was just some misunderstood girl. In his mind, Zei had been a mysterious kid with a quiet longing to connect with the world around her. Like him. But he was wrong. Was she even a girl? Even human? She’d never answered those questions before, no matter how many times he asked.

  Samuel held the package out as he went to the gate and slid it back. Could he ever trust her as he once did? He stopped a foot away from her and bent down, lowering the package on the ground.

  Zei remained still.

  “Take it,” Samuel said as he backed away.

  A long minute passed before Zei lowered her knees, the shackles around her feet clanking as her heels slid farther down into the dirt. Her tiny hand reached out and took the package. She tucked it between her thighs. She held the package in place with her stump as her hand tore back the paper wrapping. She pulled out the hardbound book and guided it up into the light, examining the cover. It was a brown leather printing of a little girl lying across the chest of a large wolf. The title, Winds of Mercy, was craftily etched into the spine.

  “It’s a book for kids,” Samuel said. He stood up, and his joints popped. His legs were tired from the constant walking.

  Zei propped the book back down onto her legs and opened the book. She turned page after page, her eyes fixated on the large printed words and the cartoonish pictures.

  “You’re not ready to read it yet. I haven’t taught you enough words.”

  Samuel allowed his back to recline against the metal bars of the gate. “I don’t thin
k I can teach you anymore. I’m scared of you, Zei. You hurt people. And with the mayor … the way things are … I don’t know if I’ll ever not be afraid of you.”

  Zei turned another page, her focus solely on the book.

  “I saw your arm,” Samuel said. “The mechanical one.”

  Zei looked up, her pupils wide.

  “How did you get something like that?”

  Zei remained stoic.

  “I don’t know if you’re a demon. But I know you’re a murderer. And. To me. That is just as bad. Do you feel bad for him? He was … my friend’s father. How am I supposed to forget what I saw? I see his body every time I close my eyes.”

  Zei allowed the book to slip out from her lap. She reached across the ground and traced a word.

  F R I E N D.

  Zei’s index finger came up from the dirt. She pointed to Samuel.

  Samuel pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. He shook his head.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think we can be.”

  Samuel turned away. He stepped outside of the cell and sealed the gate shut. He opened his mouth, his insides longing to force more words. But nothing came up. Zei waited for a moment before lowering her head, lifting the book, and turning to another page.

  Samuel stirred, his fingers digging into his cot. Light escaped from the window, the morning rays leaking out from the small gap left by the curtain. He cracked open his eyelids for a second but quickly closed them shut again. His retinas burned, and his head felt as though a large rock had struck it. He’d made the mistake of having more than a couple glasses of whiskey with the sheriff. He wanted to stop when his muscles felt loose, but the sheriff taunted him for being a little girl with a weak constitution.

  It took Samuel several minutes to sit up from the bed. When he did, a sudden nausea swept over him. He clenched down on his teeth, tasting acidic vomit as it ran up his burning throat. He staggered for the kitchen counter and puked. He convulsed as the contents of his stomach splattered into the sink. The queasiness subsided slightly when he’d finished. He wiped his mouth as he looked around the room, squinting. His insides were always so sensitive. He half expected to see the sheriff standing by the table, ready to mock him, but the house was empty. It wasn’t like the sheriff to be gone so early in the morning. Not unless he had to be.

  Samuel put on his glasses before heading to his drawer. He got dressed slowly, careful not to make too many sudden movements. He scratched his arms before tucking his shirt into his pants, still feeling awkward in his uniform. Perhaps it would always feel that way. He laced his boots and stood. His eyes were watering heavily, so he blinked hard. He wanted to stop by the butcher’s shop before heading to the jailhouse.

  He buttoned up his coat before stepping outside. He placed a hand on his forehead, taking a brief moment to get his bearings in the daylight. He turned west, scanning down the square. The streets were empty, save for several patrolmen who’d been positioned outside the blacksmith’s shop, the large wooden doors sealed shut. It was the same three patrolmen who’d stood guard outside the jailhouse the day before. Samuel slogged down the square, thinking it odd that the blacksmith’s doors were closed. He usually worked with his doors open because the furnace got so warm. Jax eyed Samuel, his rifle stiff by his side.

  It made Samuel uncomfortable, so he moved to the other side of the square and did his best not to look over there again.

  Before reaching the butcher’s shop, he stopped to briefly survey the happenings over by the western woods. A large number of loggers, several hundred at least, were lined up in rows with their limbs by their sides. He could hear the faint yelling of the foreigner, ordering the men to take steps forward, then quickly commanding them to stop. It was odd seeing burly loggers marching in awkward steps and taking commands from a man shorter than most of them. Gibbs and a few other loggers might have had reservations about joining a militia army, but the prospect of earning additional income swayed the majority. The mayor was getting what he wanted, and the loggers were earning coins in the process. Samuel hoped the militia would turn out to be an unnecessary undertaking. Governor Bloom would reestablish trade with the Others across the seas while phasing out trade with the south, and in the meantime, the citizens of Haid wouldn’t go hungry as they spent some of their time training for a temporary army.

  Samuel put his hand on the butcher shop’s front door. The notion of loggers serving as a militia seemed silly to him. What weapons were the loggers supposed to use? Axes and hatchets and chains and knives? The sheriff barely had enough resources to arm the patrolmen he employed. Less than half of them carried firearms. Samuel wondered if the militia was merely a distraction, a way of keeping everyone busy while they waited for trade to reopen.

  The bell dinged as Samuel pulled the door back. He went over to the glass counter. Claudette was rearranging the meat display, adding fresh cuts of steak to the lower portion of the shelf. She popped her head up and wiped her hands across her apron. Her face seemed to whiten as she looked at Samuel.

  “Hi,” she said feebly.

  “Hi.”

  Claudette jostled behind the counter, grabbing a pair of metal tongs. Her movements were jerky and rushed.

  “I’m sorry. I’m really busy today. I can’t talk much. Did you need something?”

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “I’m fine. Just busy.”

  Samuel tucked his thumbs into his palms. There was always plenty of work at the butcher’s shop to keep Claudette busy. He knew that. But something was different with her. He could feel it.

  “I was going to get some more chuck. And talk. But I can come back later.”

  Claudette shook her head. “No. It’s fine.” She grabbed a sheet of packing paper and shakily laid it on top of the counter. “How much do you want?”

  “Half a pound is good. Have you seen the sheriff around? He left early this morning.”

  Claudette froze for a second before shaking her head stiffly. She reached underneath the counter and grabbed a handful of the meat.

  Samuel swallowed. “Claudette. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  Claudette dropped the meat on the paper and quickly bundled it up, keeping her eyes down. “Damn it.”

  The swinging doors from the back room swung open. Laura Litten held a filthy rag, wiping it in between the crevices of her hand. She gave a quick glance to Claudette before staring at Samuel. Something about the way her cheeks were bunched up made him feel more suspicious.

  “I’m sorry, Sam,” Claudette said. She looked to her mother. “You have to tell him. I can’t lie to him. Tell him, or I will.”

  Samuel interlocked his fingers, his brain somehow forcing out the remnants of his hangover. “Tell me what?”

  Laura glared at Claudette but relented immediately. She turned to Samuel.

  “I’ve been up a few hours before sunrise, working. I was by the front, seeing what cuts we needed to replenish. I heard some voices outside, so I went to the window.” She paused. “The sheriff and some patrolmen were making a commotion over by the blacksmith’s shop.” She clutched the rag. “Your father. They had him tied up. They brought him inside.”

  “What?”

  Samuel’s heart dropped into his stomach, the nausea from before making a strong return.

  “I’m sorry,” Laura said.

  Samuel stepped back, his head turning to face the window.

  “Do you know what they’d want with him?” Claudette asked.

  Samuel shook his head, his breathing feeling constricted. He pushed up his glasses as he looked at the patrolmen standing outside of the blacksmith’s shop. They must have caught his father trying to get inside the jailhouse. This was his fault. He’d done this. What would they do to him? Would he be tortured until he confessed his crime? Would they give him a harsh beating and let him go? Would they even believe him? Would the mayor simply order Zei to butcher his father like he’d
done with Harold?

  “I have to go,” Samuel said as he went for the exit.

  “Sam, don’t,” Claudette pleaded. “Please stay.”

  He ignored her. The bell above the door dinged as he burst outside. The patrolmen who’d gathered outside of the blacksmith’s shed were together. Jax held out a firm hand to Samuel, his rifle dangling from the strap over his shoulder. “We can’t let you in.”

  “Where’s the mayor?” Samuel asked. “I need to talk to him. If he’s inside—”

  “He’s not.”

  “Then let me in.”

  “No. Sheriff’s orders.”

  Samuel stopped. He clenched his hands. He knew the sheriff wasn’t as cold and hard as he pretended to be. Maybe he could help if Samuel pleaded his case. But he’d have to get inside, to see him face-to-face, to try and reason with him. There was no way he could force his way in. And alone, he was no match for three armed patrolmen.

  “Can you get the sheriff, then? I’ll wait.”

  Jax moved his thumb down, flicking off the rifle’s safety. “No. You need to leave, boy. Now. Go home.”

  Samuel forced his arms by his side. There was no point in fighting. He needed to try something else.

  “Sheriff!” Samuel screamed, his voice cracking. “I need to talk to you!”

  The patrolmen watched Samuel apprehensively, unsure if they should do something to silence his yelling. Samuel eyed the door eagerly.

  “Sheriff!” he somehow screamed louder. “Eugene! Eugene Black!”

  Jax gave a nod to the other two patrolmen, and they both moved toward Samuel. The one with the hooked nose reached for Samuel first, but he was easily able to dart to the left and avoid his grip. He wasn’t as strong as they were, but he was faster. He dashed to the back of the blacksmith’s shop. He furiously pounded his fists on the back wall. “I know you’re in there! Sheriff! Where is he?”

  Samuel backed up. He scanned the walls, noticing the small glass window in the center. It was too high up for Samuel to see through it, but if he stood on his toes, he’d probably be able to peek through.