by A. C. Wise
I saved you. The words echoed in Caleb’s head. He couldn’t rat Cere out, not after seeing the look in her eyes. It hurt her, helping him, and he owed her.
His father looked away first, surprising Caleb. He wanted to believe Caleb, which made it worse. The rest of his story, the part Caleb didn’t understand—where Cere could hold her breath, disappear and reappear somewhere else, where her shadow didn’t fit her body—sat heavily in his throat.
“See this?” His father pushed back his hair, revealing a faint scar. “Buck Harmon gave me that in third grade.”
His father let his hair fall back into place.
“As for Bobby Lord, he called your mama the N-word once too. You know what happened?” That brief flicker of a smile again. “She hauled off and hit him. Knocked out a tooth. Your grand-daddy, my father, thought it was so goddamn hilarious he offered to pay her bail straight out.”
Caleb tried to reconcile the woman in the photo in his bedroom with a woman who would punch Robert Lord’s father in the face. His father shook his head, the weariness returning.
“There are days when I’d love to throw both their asses in jail for a busted taillight or something stupid and let the paperwork get lost. But if I did, I’d be no better than them. You see?”
“Yessir.” Caleb nodded.
He didn’t see though. He knew what his father was trying to say, but some things were worth fighting for. Besides, there was no law to come in and stop Denny Harmon or Robert Lord. There was no justice unless someone like Caleb made it himself. He thought of what Cere had said on the bus: sometimes you have to be scarier than the monsters.
The memory of the words prickled against Caleb’s skin before settling somewhere deep inside him. Maybe his father had a point. Where did it stop? He couldn’t fight Robert and Denny every time they were assholes. Besides, who would the teachers, the parents, believe? Some black kid, even if he was the sheriff’s son, or two nice white boys whose daddies were drinking buddies with just about everyone in town? The bag of ice on his lap spread its chill through his jeans, and Caleb set it aside.
“Between you and me?” his father said. “I hope that damned Lord boy got so scared he pissed himself.”
Caleb snorted laughter, bringing a fresh spike of pain to his lip, making him cough. His father thumped him on the back.
“You know what I bet would help? Ice cream.”
When Caleb got his breath back under control, his father’s grin was unmistakable. At some point, Cere had slipped into the kitchen and stood in the doorway with one foot tucked behind her knee like a stork. He glanced at her, trying to tell her without words that he’d kept her secret. He couldn’t guess from her expression whether she understood or if she understood the risk he’d taken. Then again, maybe that made them even, or at least closer to it.
Caleb dangled his legs over the truck’s tailgate as he dug into his ice cream. He’d gotten a cup with a little plastic spoon, so he could maneuver around his split lip. Cere sat beside him, swinging her legs as she ate. Caleb watched her chase a drip of ice cream around her cone. His father was on the other side of the parking lot, talking with June and Hank Kay. Now that he and Cere were alone and there wasn’t anywhere she could slip off to, questions boiled inside him again. Where had she gone when she’d snuck out of the house? What was her family really like? And most of all, what had she done to Robert?
“Your granddaddy tried to kill my granddaddy once.” Cere spoke without looking at him.
“What?” Caught off guard, Caleb forgot his questions and stared at her.
“He claimed he was shooting at a deer, but my granddaddy said your granddaddy looked right at him before he pulled the trigger. When he came to see if the bullet had done the trick, my granddaddy pulled a hunting knife on him, and that’s how he got away.”
“I . . .” Caleb thought of the pale scar on his grandfather’s hand.
He’d always assumed his grandfather had got it mending busted wire on a fence; now he tried to picture him wrestling a man with a knife. The image didn’t fit, especially not the way he’d been at the end, small and hooked up to machines at Deer Creek Hospital. He had the strength of someone who’d worked a lifetime in construction, but Caleb couldn’t imagine him turning that strength on anyone else unless it was in self-defense.
The night his father had found Evaneen Milton’s body in the swamp—hadn’t his grandfather said something about no one else having the courage to stop someone? At the time, Caleb had thought he was talking about Catfish John, but what if he meant Archie and the whole Royce family? Maybe that’s why his father had been so quick to take in Cere. Maybe he felt guilty and wanted to set things right.
“I didn’t know my granddaddy. My daddy told me the story, but he lied about a lot of things.” Cere shrugged. Her eyes were plain hazel now, no hint of gold as she squinted in the late afternoon light.
“Your family—”
“I’m not like them.” Cere cut in before he could get further.
“I didn’t say you were.”
Cere ignored him. “There was another story my daddy liked to tell. It was about a devil so bad even hell didn’t want him. In the story, there was a preacher who made it his life’s work to fight that devil. That preacher was my great, great, great, great grandpappy. And that devil was Catfish John.”
Caleb sucked in a breath as Cere spoke the name he’d just been thinking.
“I don’t know which parts are true, but my daddy sure believed in it, the whole thing. And it’s not all lies.”
Cere held out her hand, and for a moment, light gathered around it, a faint shimmer even in the bright sunlight, and then it faded.
“How do you do that?” Caleb asked.
Cere shrugged. “In my daddy’s story, the preacher’s son learned magic to fight the devil. He found some books no one was supposed to read, but he read them, and he passed the magic on. Most of it is learning, but what I got, it’s just inside me.”
Caleb thought of the gold in her eyes, the way she’d held her breath in the water and then disappeared and reappeared in the woods behind him. He thought of her shadow, unfolding and becoming larger than it should be.
“You know what I think?” A hard edge crept into Cere’s voice. “I think whatever my great-great granddaddy thought he was fighting got twisted up along the line. My daddy had no idea what he was fighting, but he got so worked up about the idea of it, he didn’t care if he had to burn the whole world down.”
“Cere . . .”
“You want to know what I did to Robert.” It wasn’t a question. “I made him see.”
“See what?” Caleb licked his lip, forgetting about the split and wincing when he tasted blood. The cut had opened again.
The light in Cere’s eyes shifted again, the hazel swallowed in gold like someone had lifted the shade off a lantern. “What my father made me. All the things he put inside me, so I could burn the world and kill the devil.”
Snake-quick, Cere clamped down on Caleb’s wrist. Like a splinter forced beneath his skin, images crashed into his mind. A bloody, squalling child raised into the air. Archie Royce’s face. A shout like thunder and the child dashed to the ground.
Caleb yanked his hand back. Cere let go, her expression stricken.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” There was a genuine note of panic in her voice. Was that what she’d shown Robert? Cere curled her hands into her chest, hunching her shoulders. The outline of her body flickered and blurred. Just like at the creek, she was struggling with something too big to hold. “I just wanted to stop Robert and Denny from hurting you. Please don’t go.”
Caleb realized he’d been leaning back away from her, body tensed to flee if she reached for him again.
“It’s okay.” Caleb let out a shaky breath. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Cere looked down, picking at a
n invisible scab on her knee. His head hurt as he tried to process what she’d shown him—a crying baby and Archie Royce, murdering it. The way Cere held her body made Caleb think there was more she wanted to tell him. More monsters, more terrible things just under the surface of her skin. All those years locked up in her daddy’s house, had she ever had anyone to talk to? Certainly not Del. What about her other brother, Ellis?
Caleb understood loneliness, not in the same way Cere must but still. There were times the loss of his mother hurt with a sharpness that had nothing even to do with her death. No matter how much they loved him, his father and his grandparents couldn’t understand what it was like living in his skin. If his mother had been alive, at least he wouldn’t feel quite so alone.
At the same time, there were other things Caleb was sure he couldn’t have talked to even her about. Things he didn’t even want say to himself inside his own head. Like the feeling he got sometimes, watching some of the older boys at school playing basketball and baseball, or the names Robert and Denny called him. Those thoughts were too big, too dangerous.
Caleb glanced at Cere and quickly looked away. Her shoulders were still hunched, even if her outline no longer shivered. Maybe that was the way she felt all the time, like there was something huge inside her that she wanted to blurt out, but she had no idea how.
“Those names Denny and Robert called me . . .” The words started to tumble out; horrified, Caleb stopped them.
Cere stared at him, and he stared back at her until the air between them seemed to vibrate. The truth welled up in him, huge and terrifying, as big as Cere’s secret. The need to tell her was almost a physical thing. She didn’t know him, not really, so it would be safe. At the same time, he wanted to offer her something, like a pact made in blood or spit, because she was hurting too. But he couldn’t get any farther than those first few words.
Caleb’s skin felt hot. Before he could turn away, Cere reached out and touched her fingers to his split lip. It should have hurt, but it didn’t.
“Shh.” It wasn’t a hushing gesture but a calming one.
Caleb held still, bowstring taut, but no images crashed into his mind. Cere concentrated—he could see it—letting some part of herself through but not the darkness. When Cere let her hand fall back to her lap, a faint glow lingered around her fingers. He ran his tongue over his lip. It was whole. The split was gone, and it didn’t hurt anymore.
chapter four
My nana used to tell stories about songs coming out of the swamp, always on nights with heat lightning or when there was a storm waiting to break. I heard it once, only once though. I can tell you this much—whatever it was singing out there wasn’t human.
I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but Nana knew a fellow whose bum leg got cured after hearing that song. Course, there are just as many folks who’ll say the song made their daughter sick or made all their greens die. That’s how it always is, the good with the bad, the miraculous with the wicked.
—Myths, History, and Legends from the Delta to the Bayou (Whippoorwill Press, 2016)
***
O
bviously Ron Butler was there, the pictures are all over the goddamn front page. What I want to know is why.” Caleb’s father held the phone receiver with one hand; the other held the Lewis Tribune, which he waved for emphasis as he spoke.
“What the hell happened to protecting the crime scene? Now every goddamn horse’s ass who wants to see their name in print is going to come forward with ‘vital information.’ We might as well invite the whole goddamned town to tramp all over what little evidence we have.”
Caleb’s father smacked the folded newspaper against his leg before tossing it onto the kitchen counter and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“All right. I’ll be there as soon as I can, and we’ll work on damage control.”
He hung up, and Caleb froze midway through edging toward the counter to get a look at the paper.
“Sorry. Work stuff.” His father forced a smile, speaking too quickly. He tried to make it look casual as he picked up the orange juice, poured a scant inch into an already almost full glass, and put the carton deliberately on top of the newspaper.
He poured two bowls of cereal, setting them on the table, a clear indication he expected Caleb to join him. Caleb sat, but he couldn’t help glancing toward the counter. His father cleared his throat, but he didn’t seem to have anything to say. Caleb noted the stubble darkening his jaw.
“Are you still coming to the game tonight?” He might get a look at the newspaper if his father forgot about it. “It’s just an exhibition before Summer League starts, but coach wants us all there.”
“I’ll do my best.” His father lifted a spoonful of cereal but returned it to the bowl untouched.
Caleb forced himself not to look at the counter a second time. Had his father been talking about a new crime, or was this still about the morgue?
“Hey.” The softness of his father’s voice startled Caleb. Milk dripped from his spoon back into the bowl. “Look, I know I haven’t been around much, but I appreciate you making Cere feel welcome.”
The seriousness of his father’s tone unnerved him. The way he looked at Caleb made him wonder what would happen with Cere in the future. If no other members of her family could be found, would she be shipped off to a foster home? Would she stay with them forever?
At the sound of the juice carton hitting the floor, Caleb jumped. Cere had slipped in, cat-silent as always, and she had the newspaper in her hand. Her expression was unmistakable—a shadow of the rage Caleb had seen the night her house burned.
His father moved quickly, plucking the paper from Cere’s hands and crumpling it into the trash. He tried to steer Cere toward the door, but she darted past him and snatched the paper again. She tore the paper in half and in half again. Caleb could see her shaking as the pieces drifted to the ground. His father reached for her again, but she spun past him, fleeing to her room and slamming the door.
Caleb finally saw the picture on the front page. The image was grainy, showing a body beneath a tarp, one arm trailing free. He knelt, lining up the pieces to read the headline: Murder at Cult House?
His father bent to clean up the spilled juice, resigned, and Caleb turned his attention back to the paper. The wasted trees, the sparse ground—even though the burnt house wasn’t visible, it had to be the woods near Archie Royce’s.
Caleb looked closer. The arm was a woman’s. There were marks cut into her skin, and something dark, like mud, had been packed into the wounds. His father’s hand landed on his shoulder, and Caleb jumped again.
“Go see if Cere’s okay.”
Caleb rose and hurried from the kitchen. He knocked. No answer. Bracing himself, he tried the knob. It didn’t budge. He rattled it and put his shoulder to the door. He touched the doorknob again and pulled back. It was warm, almost hot.
Caleb retreated to his own room. If Cere didn’t want to talk to him, what could he do? It wasn’t until he was on his way to the field for practice that it struck him: Cere’s room was just like his. It didn’t lock from the inside.
In the dream, Caleb followed footprints burned into the mud, the edges crisped hard like whatever had made them had baked the land dry. But even as he followed them, they shifted. Small—a heel and five toes and then wide and splayed, too-long toes joined by webs, the tips marked by the sharp point of claws.
He caught a glimpse of a woman through the trees. She looked like Cere but older. When she turned slightly, as though to make sure he was following, he could see she was heavily pregnant. When he tried to catch up, the woman walked up to the edge of the swamp as though she would walk right into the water and drown.
A massive creature rose above her, water dripping from plated scales. Caleb shouted a warning, reaching for her, and stumbled, splashing in water up to his knees. The woman vanished. There was only t
he monster. Too many teeth, too many mouths. It went on and on, too impossibly large to be just one thing. Other creatures or maybe parts of the same one surged around his legs—long, sinuous shapes wanting to pull him down.
Caleb shouted, thrashing and trying to kick free.
“It’s okay.” The voice at his ear took a moment to register.
Cere. Her arms circled him, not the muscled length of a swamp creature.
“You were having a bad dream.” Her voice was calm as though there was nothing weird at all about waking to find her in his room, in his bed even. “I heard you through the wall.”
She let go, and Caleb twisted around to face her. He hadn’t shouted until she’d woken him; she couldn’t possibly have heard him. Cere’s eyes were luminous, and in the dark, he couldn’t blame it on a trick of the light.
“What are you?” In the moment, Caleb didn’t care how rude he sounded. She was in his room, in his bed, and he couldn’t shake the fact she’d been in his dream too, crawling around inside his head. Leaving footprints in the mud. Rising out of the water.
“I am what my father made me.” Cere’s face, all shadow-carved, barely looked human.
“You said that before. You keep saying things that don’t make any sense. Why can’t you just answer me?” Caleb struggled to keep his voice low.
He held his body stiff and as far to the edge of the bed possible. The crying baby, Archie Royce’s face—those weren’t his memories. Those images had come from Cere.
“Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“I can’t.”
Her shadow flared; she filled every corner of the room before shrinking down to just herself again. Gold light writhed in her eyes, her lashes rimmed with tears that didn’t fall.
“It’s okay.” Caleb took her hands. Her fingers felt like twigs. She squeezed back, hard enough to hurt.
“I don’t want to . . .” Her words stuttered.
Pain arced between them as bits of darkness escaped Cere’s hold. Archie Royce’s hands were on him, holding him down with bruising strength. Caleb gasped, trying to pull free, but Cere held him. No, Archie Royce held him, speaking slick, guttural words that crawled beneath his skin.