Slewfoot

by Brom

  “Edward, you well know that several of the women make charms; they are considered nothing more than blessings.” And this was indeed true, also true that home remedies, potions, and cunning crafts were used when folks could get their hands on them, surreptitiously of course, but it was common practice to be sure.

  “That”—he pointed at the twigs—“is no simple blessing. Now you must promise to stop with your spells and charms.”

  “How is it that we had biscuits this morning, Edward? Your brother has saddled us with such a burden that it is only through my bartering these very spells and charms that we have flour and salt this day.”

  “Y-yes,” he stammered. “Well, we will have to make do. It must stop as of today. It is just too risky.”

  “I am cautious.”

  “There is no hiding what we do from God. He will see us and he will punish us accordingly!”

  “Why are you acting so, Edward? Is this about last night? You must quit this belief that God will punish you for seeking a bit of pleasure, for trying to find some joy in this harsh, cold world.”

  “For once just do as I bid. No more spells, Abitha. Swear to me!”

  “You sound like my father. Must I swear off every pleasure in life? I am sick to death of this want to suffer needlessly. Suffering does not bring one closer to God.” She plucked up the cross. “I was only trying to protect you from whatever wickedness lies within that cave. But if you prefer to have it come crawling out after you, then that is just fine with me!” She gave the cave one last fretful look, then stomped off.

  Edward watched her march away, disappearing into the trees. Why must everything I say come out wrong? he thought. Abitha, I could not bear it should anything happen to you, that is all I am trying to say. I cannot be alone … not again.

  Edward let out a long sigh and began sizing up the nearest trees to build the gate from. He noticed how rich the soil was in this area, thought what good farmland it would make once it was all cleared.

  A low moan drifted from the cave.

  Edward spun, ax raised. He waited—nothing, no bear, no devil. He lowered the ax. You’re hearing things. But he’d more than heard that peculiar sound, he’d felt it, he was sure, like something had touched him. She’s done spooked you, that’s all. All Abi’s talk of devils has put devils in your head.

  He glanced back toward the cabin, hoping to see Abitha, but he was alone. He realized that the sun was gone, hidden behind thick clouds, and suddenly the forest seemed to be closing in, as though the very trees were edging toward him.

  Another sound, this time more of a cry, a bleat maybe.

  Samson? Of course. He almost laughed. The goat. What else could it be?

  He stepped up to the cave, trying to see inside. The sound came again, faint, from somewhere deep within. He removed his hat and slid into the cavern, carefully prodding the floor with the ax, testing for drops. As his eyes slowly adjusted, he scanned the gloom, found only scattered leaves and a few sticks. There was a smell in the air, more than the damp leaves. He knew that smell—he’d slaughtered enough farm animals in his time—it was blood.

  Another bleat; it seemed to come from the far shadows.

  “Samson,” he called, and slid deeper into the gloom, crouching as not to hit his head on the low ceiling, squinting into the darkness. It’s no good, he thought. I need a lantern. He started back, then heard another sound, a whimper. A child? He shook his head. Nay, just echoes playing tricks. He continued out toward the entrance.

  It came again, a sort of eerie sobbing. The hair on his arms prickled as the unnatural sound crawled into his head. I should leave, he thought. The sobbing turned into mumbling; someone was speaking to him. He didn’t understand the words, then he did.

  “Help me … please.”

  Edward froze. The words were those of a child, but they sounded hollow and he wasn’t sure if he was actually hearing them or if they were in his mind. “Hello,” Edward called. “Who’s there?”

  “Help me.”

  “Hold on, I will get rope and a lantern. Just wait.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Just hold on, I shall be right back.”

  “I cannot, cannot hold on. I’m slipping!”

  Edward hesitated—the voice, so strange, almost not human. But what else could it be?

  “Help me!”

  That had not been in his mind. He was certain.

  “Help me!”

  He saw a small face appear far back in the shadows, that of a child, a boy perhaps, almost glowing, some illusion of the light making him appear to float in the darkness like a disembodied head.

  “Help me! Please!”

  Edward swallowed loudly and began crawling toward the child as quickly as he dared, sliding on his knees, prodding the cave floor with the ax. He entered a smaller chamber, this one pitch. He grasped for the child, but the child flittered just out of reach. And it was then that Edward saw that the thing before him wasn’t a child at all, but … But what—a fish? A fish with the face of a child?

  Edward let out a cry, yanking his hand back.

  The child giggled, smiled, exposing rows of tiny sharp teeth. Edward saw that the thing’s flesh was smoky and all but translucent. He could see its bones!

  “Oh, God! Oh, Jesus!”

  Something touched the nape of Edward’s neck. He jumped and spun around. Another face, there, right before his own. Another child, but not, its eyes but two sunken orbs of blackness. It opened its mouth and screamed. Edward screamed; they were all screaming.

  Edward leapt up, ramming his head into the low ceiling with a blinding thud. And then he was falling—sliding and falling, clawing at the darkness. He slammed into rocks, then searing pain, again and again as he crashed off the walls of a shaft, and then finally, after forever, the falling stopped.

  Edward opened his eyes. His face hurt, his head thundered, but he could feel nothing below his neck, knew this to be a blessing, knew his body must be a twisted and mangled mess. He let out a groan.

  All should’ve been pitch, but the thick air held a slight luminescence and he made out rocks and boulders and bones. The ground was nothing but bones.

  Where am I? But he knew. I am in Hell.

  Then he saw it—the Devil, Lucifer himself. The beast sat upon its haunches, staring at him, its eyes two smoldering slits of silver light. Those simmering eyes pierced his soul, seeing all his shame, all the times he’d sinned, all the times he’d lied to his father, the times he’d profaned God’s name, the books, those evil books he’d bought in Hartford, and most of all his lustful drawings, the ones he’d done of Abitha. “God, please forgive me,” he whispered, but he knew God wouldn’t, that God had forsaken him.

  The ghostly beasts with the faces of children fluttered down, giggling as they circled him, but Edward barely noticed, his terrified, bulging eyes locked on the Devil.

  The Devil clumped over to Edward.

  Edward tried to rise, tried to crawl away, but couldn’t do anything more than quiver and blink away the tears.

  The beast shoved its muzzle against Edward’s face. Edward could feel the heat of its breath as it sniffed his flesh, the wetness as it licked his cheek, his throat. Then a sharp jab of pain as the beast bit into his neck.

  Edward stared upward, at the sliver of light far, far above, listening as the Devil lapped up his blood. The world began to dim. I am damned, he thought, and slowly, so slowly, faded away.

  “Edward!” a woman called from above. “Edward!” she cried.

  Edward didn’t hear it. Edward was beyond such things. But the beast heard.

  The other one, Father. Quick, now is our chance.

  The beast shook his shaggy head. His belly full, he wanted only to close his eyes and enjoy the warmth spreading through his veins. “Tonight,” he mumbled, barely able to form the words. The beast raised its front hoof and watched as the hoof sprouted a hand, one that sprouted long spindly fingers, which in turn sprouted long sharp claws. �
�I will kill her tonight.” The blood took him and it was as though he were floating as he drifted slowly off into a deep slumber.

  Tonight then, the children said.

  * * *

  Wallace trotted slowly along on his stallion toward Edward’s farm. Going over and over what he must say, wondering how he’d been reduced to this, to pleading with Edward to accept Lord Mansfield’s offer.

  I did everything right, Papa. You know it true. Edward and I should be working together, as you always wanted. Building our own tobacco empire … just like the plantations down in Virginia. Instead I am the fool of Sutton who knew naught about tobacco. Cannot go anywhere without seeing it on their faces. He spat. No one but you, Papa, saw me working my hands to the very bone trying to save that crop, picking off worms day after day, even by torchlight. Is it right, I ask you, that I should now have to grovel before Edward and his harpy of a wife? Is it?

  Wallace reined up his horse at the top of the hill above Edward’s farm, his stomach in a knot. And you know the worst part of it, Papa? It will be seeing her gloat as I beg. I know not if I can bear it. Why does that woman despise me so? Why must she vex me at every turn? I have been generous, have done my best to welcome her into the fold.

  Wallace heard a shout. Turned to see Abitha, Charles Parker, his brother John and two of their boys, all heading toward him at a rapid clip. John was carrying a long loop of rope and a couple of lanterns.

  “Wallace,” John cried. “Come, quick. It is Edward. He has fallen into a pit!”

  “A pit?” Wallace asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Just come,” John called as they raced by.

  Wallace followed them down into the woods below the field.

  “There,” Abitha said, pointing to a cave opening tucked between some boulders.

  Wallace took a lantern and peered into the cave. “Edward,” he called. “Edward, are you there?”

  “Anything?” Charles asked.

  Wallace shook his head. “Naught but sticks and leaves.”

  “In the back,” Abitha said, her voice rising. “The pit is in the back. I tell you he’s fallen in. I know it. Please, you must hurry!”

  Wallace glanced at the brothers, Charles and John. When Abitha couldn’t find Edward, she’d gone over to the Parker farm seeking help, but neither of these men appeared in any hurry to enter the cave.

  Abitha snatched a lantern from John and headed for the entrance, but John grabbed her, held her. “Hold there, Abitha. If there’s one pit, there may be more. We must be cautious.”

  “We have no time to be cautious.”

  Wallace spied Edward’s hat in the leaves. He picked it up and handed it to Abitha. It took the wind out of her and she stopped struggling.

  “Here,” Wallace said, passing his lantern to Charles. Charles had brought along their longest rope, and Wallace took it from him. He unfurled the rope, tying one end around a boulder. He tested the rope, nodded to John. “Keep her out here.” He then slid into the cave, followed a moment later by Charles and his eldest boy, Luke.

  Luke and Charles both held a lantern, allowing Wallace to lead while keeping his hands securely on the rope. He tested the ground with his forward foot as he went, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling. With the light he could now clearly see that the dirt and leaves had been kicked up. The tracks led them to a smaller chamber at the rear of the cave. Wallace hesitated; he felt a chill, not that of cold, but a wave of foreboding that he couldn’t explain.

  The men brought the lanterns forward, revealing a pit of about six feet wide. Wallace spotted an ax by the pit. He tested the rope yet again, then moved into the chamber. After a moment, all three of them were peering down into the chasm. And again, that deeply unsettling chill ran through him; it were as though the very darkness was staring up at him.

  There came a commotion behind them and Wallace turned to find Abitha looking over Charles’s shoulder, her eyes full of dread.

  “Do you see him?” Abitha asked in a hushed, desperate tone. “Anything?”

  “You are to leave at once,” Wallace said, but knew he was wasting his breath.

  “There,” Charles said, pointing. “Is that Edward’s?”

  A shoe sat against the wall of the cave. Abitha pushed closer. Charles grabbed her, trying to keep her from getting too close to the pit. “Edward!” she cried, her voice echoing down the dark chasm.

  Luke crouched, held the lantern out, and squinted. “And that, there. What is that?”

  Something white gleamed back at them from a rock jutting just below the lip of the pit. Wallace knelt for a closer look. Oh, good Lord, he thought. A tooth, a human tooth.

  Abitha let out a groan. “Oh no, Edward. No.” She slid to her knees.

  They were all looking at the pit now the way one looks at a grave.

  “Someone will have to go down,” Abitha said.

  Wallace tossed a small stone into the pit. They listened to the ticktack of the stone bouncing down the shaft. On and on and on it went, never really stopping, just fading away. They looked at one another, all knowing what that meant.

  “We cannot leave him down there,” she said. “What if he still lives?”

  “It is too deep … too treacherous,” Wallace put in, but what he didn’t add was that no force on earth could compel him to go down into that pit. That every bit of him felt sure there was something foul and malevolent waiting below. “We cannot risk more lives.”

  “Well, if you will not then I will.”

  “Abitha,” Charles said gently. “There will be no going down. No rope is so long.”

  “Mayhap he is not at the bottom, but upon some ledge.”

  “Abitha, please,” Charles said, holding the lantern out over the pit. “Look down. Truly see.” He held her arm tightly so she could peer over the lip, her eyes searching desperately.

  “Edward!” she called, and they all stood there as the echo of her husband’s name died out, straining their ears for a reply, a groan, a gasp, a cry, anything, but heard only their own breathing.

  And Wallace saw it on her face then, as she stared at the tooth, that she knew the truth of it, that there’d be no surviving such a fall.

  * * *

  The villagers made their solemn way along the muddy path to the communal gravesite. The three ministers led the procession, followed by the casket and pallbearers, followed by the men of Sutton, the ministers’ wives, the women of high standing, and then, only before the children, came Abitha. Even being the widow afforded her no privilege above her rank.

  The site lay just out of town, and as they crested the rise, the north wind picked up, the sky appearing fit to burst. The villagers all clung to their hats and bonnets, picking up the pace, in a hurry to be done before the rain set in.

  They came to the marker, a small common stone with no ornamentation other than the name Edward Williams chiseled onto its front, as the Puritans considered all equal before God and forbade any special adornment.

  Reverend Carter took his place next to the stone, and the congregation circled around the freshly dug grave. The smell of the dank dirt hung in the air.

  The pallbearers, Wallace, Charles, John, and Isaac, brought the casket forward, setting the plain pine box down beside the grave. The small casket landed with a hollow thud, as there was only a set of Edward’s clothing within, along with his hat and the tooth wrapped in white linen—the tooth being included at Abitha’s insistence.

  Wordlessly they slid the box into the ground. There followed no eulogy, no songs or hymns, no personal words by family, no sermon, not even a prayer, no ceremony at all, as the Puritans wished to avoid any appearance of papistry. Abitha wondered what offense God could possibly find in a final prayer?

  She found her thoughts turning then to her own mother’s funeral. How her father had spared no expense, putting money they didn’t have toward a grand gravestone. Even paying the choir to sing and the minister to read the eulogy he’d stayed up all night composing.
How, when they’d lowered her coffin, her father had broken down, weeping openly. But none of these things relieved your grief, did they, Father? Nor did drinking yourself out of employment, or dragging us to church three times a week. Her last memory of the man came to her; it was just after he’d sold her off to the New World, him waving to her as the ship left port. A sad rag of a man with a bottle poking out from his coat pocket. She wondered if by now he too was in some pauper’s grave with not even a small stone to mark a life lost.

  Abitha searched the faces around her, searching for some sign that Edward’s death mattered to them, but they were all like stone, not a tear to be found. Abitha wanted to scream, to cry out Edward’s name, to heckle them and their cruel tenets and edicts, to laugh herself to tears, anything to break the oppressive silence.

  The wind picked up and a few light drops of rain pecked at the mourners. The pallbearers took up the shovels and began rapidly filling in the shallow grave. The dirt thumped atop the hollow casket, reminding them all that Edward wasn’t with them. Edward, are you even dead? Abitha wondered, and couldn’t help but think of him lying at the bottom of that hellish pit, broken and paralyzed, waiting for thirst and hunger to take him, or worse, for the worms and rats to eat him as he watched.

  With the hole filled in, the men began to beat down the dirt with the backs of their shovels. Each blow resounding in the silence. Abitha flinched with every strike, each thud feeling like they were beating Edward into his grave, beating away his very existence. They stopped and Reverend Carter stepped forward, his hat pressed to his chest. “It is done.”

  People immediately began to break off, to head away, back to their farms, their lives.

  That’s it? Abitha thought. It’s done? A man’s whole life not worth so much as a word? And again, the need to cry out Edward’s name, to shout his praises, overwhelmed her. She heard Edward then: No, Abi, keep your words to yourself. You are on your own now, you must learn to fit in. She shook her head. “Wait,” she said. No one heard her, and she said it again, louder. No one stopped. “Wait,” she called. “Can you all please but wait a moment!”