by Brom
“Indeed, it is. His wife and Charity as well. They’ve been rousing up the usual group of nosy-bodies, Goody Dibble and her friends. But things are not as usual, not since they found old Widow Pratt’s body.”
Abitha stopped. “What has happened?”
“Have you not heard?”
Abitha shook her head.
“She died while picking berries just outside the walls. And here’s what’s odd, they found not a scratch upon her.”
“She were old.”
“Aye, but she had her grandson, Jarret, with her, and he speaks that a horned beast did attack them. So, of course, now most everyone believes it were the Devil that came and snatched her soul. Does not help that old Ansel is on a rage, snooping around, spying on folks, crying Devil every time a cat farts.”
“Did Jarret say what this beast looked like?”
“Aye, indeed, over and over. Wakes up at night in fits, screaming and crying. Says it’s after him in his dreams. Says it be a big goat, with twisting horns, long sharp fingers, and silver eyes.”
Abitha put her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, and hear this. The boy tells that the Devil stole Widow Pratt’s bucket of berries. Well, sure enough, her pail was never to be found. What do you think of that?”
“I … I—” Abitha could find no words. What happened? Samson, what did you do?
“And where is your musket, Abi? You have no business walking that trail by yourself in the first place. No one is leaving the village unless armed these days on account that the wolves have grown so bold. Lewis Ward and his son went out a hunting them a while back and none have seen them since.”
Abitha’s blood ran cold as her thoughts went immediately to the wolves lingering about her farm.
“Everyone fears the worst for them,” Helen continued. “And you can hear the beasts howling nearby, sometimes even during the day now. Many believe it’s not wolves at all, but Slewfoot himself. That he is lurking in these very forests, watching us, waiting to—”
“It would not be the first time wolves have killed a stray hunter,” Abitha said harshly. “Or that men have ventured into these dangerous woods and not returned. It happens. It is nothing new.” Abitha was surprised at the defensiveness in her own voice, then wondered just who here she was trying to convince.
Helen gave her a concerned look, said something else, but Abitha didn’t hear her, instead hearing Forest’s words, “Soon, we will awaken his spirit, his true spirit. And when we do, he will gorge himself on your innards.”
“We must not dally,” Abitha said, wanting the subject to be over, and they resumed their path. Abitha soon spotted Goody and Mary Dibble along with their usual cohorts standing about the front of the meetinghouse. “Speak of the Devil,” Abitha said beneath her breath.
The women hadn’t noticed Abi yet, as they were watching Sheriff Pitkin, who stood upon a ladder hammering a wolf head above the doorframe—the grisly trophy still dripping blood.
Abitha hurried along, intent on slipping past as quietly as she could, wanting no trouble from these women today, but Mary noticed her and quickly alerted the group.
All the women turned, setting stern faces full of righteous indignation upon Abitha. Their posture that of open confrontation.
Abitha tensed and sucked in a breath.
“Oh, Lord,” Helen whispered. “They have got their feathers a flutter now.”
Goody started to speak, but as Abitha drew near, she squinted, as though not seeing right. The other women did as well. Their faces going from contempt to surprise. Abitha knew they must be as shocked by her appearance as Helen and intended to take advantage of their befuddlement to slip past.
Goody stepped in front of her, blocking the way with her bulk.
“Why, Abitha,” Goody said, leaning in on the smaller woman. “But if you do not look like a peach this morning. Seems leave from church has done you a world of good. Makes one wonder if you might just be taking advantage of the reverend’s grace.”
Abitha felt her face flush, felt a volley of profanity upon her tongue. Mind yourself, Abi, she thought. Mind yourself. “Thank you for your concern, Goody. The good Lord has indeed been most merciful these last weeks. Now, excuse me, I would go now and give my thanks.”
Abitha started around, when Dorthy Dodd moved into her path. “Is it fair that one should be treated so specially?”
The women all shook their heads.
“You should know,” Dorthy added, “your absence has caused much divisiveness within the fold.”
“I am very sorry for this. I am truly am. I do hope to make amends.”
The women all began to speak.
“Aye, as Reverend Smith said, your pride, your selfish behavior weakens us all.”
“There are those who argue that you are opening the door to Slewfoot himself.”
“Aye, much talk indeed.”
“It is more than talk, this. Ansel has found evidence.”
“Aye,” Goody said. “Evidence that the Devil be afoot. And such started about the same time as you saw fit to take over Wallace’s farm. What make you of this? Coincidence?”
Abitha forced herself to smile. “I know not. I only know I am humble before the Lord and wish to thank him for all his graces. Now, please. I would be on my way.” She could see by their faces that this wasn’t the response they were hoping for, and didn’t care, just needed to be away before she did something she’d regret.
Abitha pushed her way between the larger women and headed for the steps.
Someone grabbed her arm, tugged her around. It was Goody. “We are not done.”
Abitha had spent many years on the streets of London dealing with every sort of handsy folk, so reacted instinctively, sticking a boot behind Goody’s heel and giving the larger woman a sharp shove.
Goody tumbled back, fell, landing hard on her rump.
Abitha glared at her. “You heed me well, Goody Dibble. You set hand on me again and you’ll find out what it is to bear my sting.” Though almost every woman there was a stone larger than Abitha, she looked from face to face, daring any one of them to step forward.
“Sheriff,” Dorthy called. “Did you not see that? She did attack poor Goody. You must arrest her at once!”
“Indeed, I did see,” the sheriff said as he climbed down from the ladder. “I saw Goody set hands on Abitha. And I for one would think twice before doing such again.” He smirked at Abitha. “Perhaps we should all go inside and spend some time with our Lord. I think that would be good for everyone. What say you all?”
The women puckered as though having bitten into something sour. Goody’s face blazed with raw hate as she glowered at Abitha.
Abitha spun about and headed up the steps. She entered the meetinghouse and was greeted by hard looks, but these looks quickly turned to dismay, as they seemed to be as stunned by her appearance as were Helen and the women. She caught Wallace staring at her, his mouth agape, looking at her as though she’d returned from the grave. He appeared confused and perplexed, then pained, as though suffering bad indigestion. Abitha imagined she must look a sight different than last he’d seen her. She gave him a sly smile and thought, Wallace, dear, there are plenty more surprises ahead for you. She knew it a sin to gloat, but couldn’t wait to see his face when she paid him off in full.
Reverend Carter took the pulpit and led the congregation in prayer, followed by his opening sermon. It didn’t take the reverend long to speak of the Devil and his temptations, but Abi could only think of the widow, the hunters, the wolves, twisting the hem of her sleeve nervously between her fingers. Samson, what are you?
* * *
Forest stood on Abitha’s porch looking out over the farm, making sure Father was nowhere in sight. Sky and Creek were supposed to whistle if he returned, but he couldn’t count on them for much these days, feeling they had no more sense between them than a common chicken.
Forest slipped into the cabin and wrinkled his nose. It all smells of her.
He glanced about, searching for her work clothes, found them on the bed. He knew she’d be changing into them when she returned; she always did. But this time he intended to have a surprise waiting for her.
He climbed onto the bed and stood on the clothes, closed his eyes, searching using his sight, seeking in all the little hidey-holes and cracks and crevices of the log cabin, the thatched roof, the hollows beneath the floorboards, all the places the venomous ones, the snakes, centipedes, and black widows liked to hide.
Forest knew they had to be there, but found nothing.
“It should not be this hard,” he growled. When he was in his prime and Pawpaw was the largest tree in the land and the world was full of magic, he could’ve probed the entire farm, found every creature on it.
“Mother Earth, hear me. Please, I can only do so much on my own.” He tried again, this time drawing on the pulse of the land, but it was so faint, a delicate tenuous thread deep down in the earth. He touched it.
There! A few faint spidery glows flittered to life about the room. And in a hollow next to the cabin, a snake, a copperhead! Not very large, but large enough.
Come to me, he beckoned, but received no response.
He called again, straining as he tried to push his thoughts into their tiny brains.
Come to me, now! And a few them did hear him, but they stayed put, none wishing to leave their cozy nests.
“Come!” he hissed. “Damn you, come here to me now!” He was shaking, the strain taking its toll, his connection to the magic slipping. The world began to spin and he collapsed.
“No,” he groaned. “This cannot be. I cannot be so helpless. How will I ever set them on her if I cannot so much as call them from their nests?”
Forest lay there a long time, staring up at the beams. Slowly he began to nod his head. There is another way. It will be terrible and painful, but that cannot be helped. Just need a little help.
* * *
After nearly an hour of sermons, Abitha’s back was starting to ache; she shifted on the hard bench, but there was just no way to get comfortable. Reverend Carter began reading something from Colossians about giving thanks to God, being fruitful in your every good work, endurance and patience and so on. Abitha heard very little, her thoughts on Samson and his dark deeds, but when the reverend read, “For by Him were all things created that are in heaven and are on earth, visible and invisible,” she straightened.
There was more to it, but Abitha was lost in her own thoughts. If God did indeed create all things, then did He not create Samson? Why then is Samson not but one more of God’s creatures playing His role in the Lord’s grand design? She considered how a wolf killing to feed the pack didn’t make that wolf evil, merely dangerous. And were not angels dangerous? Angels did many terrible things in the name of the Lord. When she made Samson an offering, she wasn’t choosing Samson over God, but was simply feeding the wolf. And should she get bitten, then it would be to her own demise, but no offense to God. And who was to say Samson wasn’t dispensing God’s blessing much like an angel? Had he not brought life to her farm? What evil could there be in such?
Abitha liked the idea of Samson being some kind of hand of God. Had her mother not taught her that many benevolent pagan gods were horned beasts? She’d also combined God and paganism in her practices, saying the more blessings the better.
Abitha twisted the hem of her sleeve ever tighter and wondered if she were but telling herself what she wanted, needed, to hear. She shook her head. Mayhap, but the hard truth is that God has seen fit to turn my world upside down. She stared into the large judging eye painting upon the pulpit. Lord, I am doing the best that I can. If this is all but some trial, some great test of my faith, then shame on you for tormenting me so.
Reverend Carter paused, and the sudden silence pulled Abitha from her thoughts. The reverend seemed to have lost his way and not for the first time today.
“My apologies,” the reverend said. “I am not myself this morning. Reverend Collins, would you do us the kindness of finishing today’s sermons?”
Reverend Collins took the pulpit as Reverend Carter found his seat. It was then that Abitha noticed his wife was not in attendance. Goodwife Carter never misses church, she thought, fretful of what that might mean. Abitha clutched the folded napkin in her apron. She’d brought the woman a handful of honeycomb brittle, a small thank-you for the kindness she’d shown her.
Abitha got her first clue to why Goodwife Carter wasn’t in church when at the end of the service Reverend Collins asked everyone to bow their head in a special prayer for Martha—Reverend Carter’s daughter—asking the Lord to aid in her recovery.
Once the service was over, Abitha waited outside for the minister, approaching him as he headed home.
“Abitha, you know not how it pleases me to see you here. We need to talk of your absence.”
“Worry not, Reverend. I promise you I will be here as required from this day forth.”
He appeared relieved. “This is good to hear.”
“And I cannot thank you enough for this grace. It has made all the difference and I promise to make it up to you.”
He gave her a curious look. “You appear well.” It was almost a question.
Abitha noticed Goody and several other parishioners watching them, didn’t miss the hard looks given to both her and the reverend.
“Sir. I brought this for you and your wife.” She handed him the folded napkin. “It’s a small gift, but a heartfelt thank-you.”
He peeked under the fold and smiled. “Sarah will be pleased.”
“Please tell her how much her kindness means to me.”
“I will tell her.”
She could see he needed to be on his way. “Reverend, one more thing.”
“Yes.”
“Your daughter, Martha. Sir, what is it that ails her so?”
“Seems the measles are upon her. We had hoped she would be better by now, as both Sarah and myself were stricken as children and neither of us had such a strong reaction.”
“She is getting worse then?”
“I hate to say so, but yes, that is the case. That is why Sarah is not with us today.”
“Mayhap there is something I can do to help?”
“You can keep Martha in your prayers. Now, I am sorry for rushing away, but I must go.”
“Aye, of course. You will all be in my prayers.”
Abitha watched him head away, then started her long trek home. She walked rapidly, lost in thought, not thinking of wolves or devils, but trying to remember how her mother had treated the measles.
* * *
Forest peeked beneath Abitha’s bed, prowled through her cupboard, the firebox, then over to the old hutch where she kept her clothes. He was searching for just the right spot—a hiding place where his helpers could give her the surprise of her life. He halted suddenly, sniffing. “What is that?”
Forest darted over to the door and wrinkled his nose. “Someone on their way.” He closed his eyes, searching. “A man … on a horse?”
A wicked little smile spread across the opossum’s face and he darted off the porch, into the cornfield, sprinting toward the woods. “Father!” he called. “Father, we have a visitor!”
* * *
By the time Abitha started home, Wallace was well on his way to her farm, riding hard and fast. He’d left church before her, mounting up and riding off before she’d even left the building.
What is going on, Papa? he wondered. She looked … what? Healthy … vibrant? And that nasty little smile? That were not the face of a defeated woman.
He crested the hill above the farm, got his first good look at her cornfields, and came to a full halt. “This is not possible,” he sputtered. “No … no!” The field was flush with corn—tall, healthy corn. He kept shaking his head like a man who’d lost his mind.
He rode down to her cabin, dismounted, all but falling from his horse. His heart drummed. He clasped his cheeks, tugging at his face. “They will
take my farm, my home. I am ruined. I shall lose everything!”
Wallace clutched the horse to keep from sliding to his knees. “I will fix this, Papa … I promise you. I will fix this.” He looked at the barn—was considering burning it down, the barn, the cabin, her mule, goats, and chickens, all of it—when a better idea struck him. Trample the cornstalks, he thought. Aye, just ride the big stallion through the fields!
He grinned savagely and mounted the stallion. He turned the horse toward the field and stopped.
He was not alone. Someone was there, in the tall corn.
Wallace saw no one, but someone was there, he felt it in his very bones. It was then he realized that in his haste to leave before Abitha he’d left his musket behind, that he didn’t have so much as a knife on him.
“Hello,” he called.
The breeze picked up and the stalks swayed. He thought he caught movement, but it was so hard to tell amongst all the dancing shadows.
“You are to come out this minute,” he demanded. “Come out or I will—”
A figure, a man, his face obscured, stood far back amongst the stalks; he looked familiar.
Wallace squinted, then gasped. “Edward?” he called, his voice shaky. “Pray tell, is that you, brother?”
Edward raised a hand and beckoned him forward. Then Wallace caught a glimpse of his face, saw his eyes were but two black hollows. Every hair on Wallace’s body prickled. “What deviltry is this?”
The wind picked up and the corn leaves clattered, sounding like laughter, that of children. Wallace shook his head, trying to clear away the eerie sound.
Then Edward opened his mouth, as though trying to speak, but not a sound came from his lips.
“No,” Wallace whispered. “You’re not Edward.” His voice rising, cracking. “Edward is dead!”
Edward’s face turned unbearably sad and he began to fade, shifting away with the shadows, disappearing back into the corn as though he’d never been there at all.
