by Brom
“No, of course not. That’s the last thing I want. We will not so much as wake the woman up. Look, she does not even have a dog. We just quietly slip in, load up the corn, and slip away. You take the corn to your village and no one around here need ever know.” Wallace stuck out his hand. “All right?”
Jesus hesitated, feeling sure he would regret this, but clasped Wallace’s hand anyway.
“Good,” Wallace said, and headed up the road.
Jesus grabbed the cart’s tug bar and followed. You will need to keep a close eye on this one.
* * *
The farm ended up being only a short distance from the bridge. Wallace dialed the wick down on his lantern, dimming the flame. “We’ll cut in through the lower field,” he whispered. “The soft sod will cushion the cart wheels.”
Jesus nodded and followed Wallace’s lead. There were no lights on at the cabin and thankfully no dogs as Wallace had said, and they managed to make it down to the lower field without any disturbances. Jesus had greased all the loose parts on the carts ahead of time and they rolled almost silently across the soft earth to the back side of the barn.
They brought the large cart into the barn, pulling it up to the first corncrib. Wallace turned up the wick on his lantern, revealing an entire stall packed waist-deep in large, splendid ears of corn.
Jesus grinned. This is going to be a good night after all, he thought, then caught sight of Wallace’s face. The man was staring into the adjoining stalls, his mouth slack-jawed, his eyes horrified.
“What is it? What is the matter?”
“The corn,” Wallace said. “Look at it.”
Jesus did, saw two more stalls just as full of corn as the first, but still didn’t understand.
“Too much,” Wallace said, shaking his head. “How … where? What am I to do?”
Jesus hurried the brothers along. The three of them began loading the big cart as quickly and silently as possible. Isaac joined them, but Wallace only continued to march back and forth between the stalls, muttering and shaking his head.
Once they’d filled the big cart, they started on the smaller one. Halfway through, Jesus noticed Wallace loading more corn onto the big cart.
Jesus darted over. “No more,” he whispered. “It’ll be too heavy to move.”
“We have to get more,” Wallace said, his eyes wild, his voice rising. “Can you not see?”
“We will come back,” Jesus said. “Make another trip.” But Jesus had no intention of returning; at this point he would count himself lucky to get away from this madman with what they had.
“No, it is not enough,” Wallace said, and continued to pile the corn onto the cart.
“Stop,” Jesus said. “You have to stop.”
Wallace pushed past him with another armload of corn.
Jesus, seeing the big man wasn’t listening to him or anyone, leapt to the front of the cart and grabbed the tug bar. He waved the brothers over and the three of them began pulling the cart away from the stall. Even with the three of them, they could barely get it to move. The axle groaned and creaked. Jesus could see the wheels bowing from the weight. He tried to steer it around the smaller cart, felt the load shift, then came a loud crack as the left wheel splintered, then shattered, toppling the cart and spilling corn everywhere.
Wallace stared at the corn, his eyes bulging. “No, God in Heaven. No. No!”
Isaac grabbed Wallace by the arm. “Father, we must go!”
Wallace shook his son away. “No! We cannot leave it! Why … she could take it in tomorrow. Then all would be lost. You hear me? All lost!” He glanced wildly about, his eyes landing on the lantern. He snatched it up, then shoved over a bale of hay, kicking the straw onto the corn. He grabbed a handful of the dry straw, lit it, and tossed it onto the hay, setting it to blaze.
There was plenty of dry hay and stacked timber around, and Jesus could see the whole barn was about to go up in flames. “No,” Jesus said, trying to stomp out the fire. “You promised. No trouble!”
Wallace knocked the smaller man out of his way, his eyes blazing like the fire, and continued lighting the bales of hay.
“Damn it,” Jesus said, dashing back to the smaller cart.
Wallace kicked another of the flaming haybales over onto the corn. Flames were already brushing the ceiling. The goats began bleating and the mule brayed.
Jesus and the two brothers grabbed the tug bar on the small cart and headed from the barn.
“Leave it!” A woman stood blocking their way, a musket leveled at Jesus’s chest. Jesus and the brothers did as they were told, dropping the cart tug bar. The woman saw Wallace, shifted her aim, and when she did, Jesus and the brothers dove into the adjoining stall. They scrambled over the corn and leapt out the small window, landing atop one another in the goat pen.
There came the loud blast of the musket, followed by a lesser blast, which Jesus concluded must be Wallace’s pistol. He had a moment to hope the two had killed one another before a dark shape appeared before him and the two brothers.
At first Jesus thought it was one of the goats, that the goat was walking on its hind legs, but when the light from the fire illuminated the creature, Jesus felt his blood turn to water.
The thing was made of horns, shadows, and fur, fur that twisted and swirled, drifting off it like black smoke. With arms and hands like that of a man, only with jagged claws curling out from its fingers. It set eyes on them, eyes that burned silver, almost blue, burning into each of them. The creature snarled, revealing its fangs.
“Hobomok!” Nootau cried.
Hobomok! Jesus thought, the name like a knife to his heart as he wondered how it could be that the very lord of death and misery was here before him.
The beast cocked its head and spoke in a low gravelly voice. “Hobomok?” A confused look came over its face and it said it again, slowly, as though trying to decipher the word. “Hob … bo … mok?” For one moment it appeared afraid, it grasped the sides of its head as in pain, then its eyes narrowed, seemed to burn. “Hobomok,” it hissed, as though the word scorched its tongue.
It grabbed Nootau by the neck, yanking the man to his feet and slamming his head against the fence post.
Jesus and Chogan both let out a cry and scrambled across the mud, trying to get their feet under them. They reached the fence, tumbled over, and took off running.
Jesus knew the devil was right behind him, but when he glanced back, the demon stood just where they’d left it, staring at Nootau’s lifeless body.
Jesus ran for all he was worth, no longer caring about the corn, his angry wife, his uncle’s carts. His whole life he’d heard tales of the wicked Hobomok and wanted only to be as far away from this devil as he could get.
* * *
Morning found Abitha sitting in the blackened dirt, covered in soot. The fire was out, but the barn still smoldered, the heavy smoke drifting across the field. She’d managed to rescue the mule and the goats, but the corn was burned and ruined. She knew she should be crying, but only felt numb. She stared at the lower acre—there were still a few rows of corn left, but not nearly enough. Wallace would be back with the sheriff in less than a week It was over. He had won.
Who the hell did he think he were fooling with that ridiculous getup?
She spat—her saliva grimy with soot—and wondered what she would do now. Should she try and prove it was Wallace? It certainly looked bad—her crops being burned just as she was about to pay off her debts. Any sane soul would see it was him. Or would they? She knew she would need more than her word, more than circumstance. He didn’t leave so much as a boot print. How was she supposed to convince the sheriff that this was Wallace’s doing when she had one dead Pequot and two Pequot carts in her barn? She shook her head. He set those men up. That devious son of a bitch set them up. People are quick to blame the Indians to begin with. Always a hell of a lot easier than blaming one of your own.
If I’d only been a better shot, she thought. I’d at least have ha
d the pleasure of watching him die. She realized nothing was stopping her from going over to his farm and shooting him now. She chewed that thought over for a while, savored it; it was all she had at the moment.
Booka rubbed up against her and meowed. Abitha absently stroked the cat.
Samson came out of the woods, crossed the field. He walked around the burned-out barn, taking a long, hard look at the dead Pequot man before coming over and sitting on the grass next to Abitha.
He didn’t speak, just sat there staring at the barn, rubbing his forehead as though it ached, looking spent and weary.
Sky swooped down, perching on Samson’s shoulder. Creek appeared and began swimming in slow circles around all of them.
Forest crawled out from under a nearby log and joined them. He plucked a weed and began chewing the stem. “You should kill him,” Forest said. “The big man.”
Abitha nodded. “I should.”
“We can help. All of us. Father too.”
Sky and Creek nodded eagerly.
“Get your musket,” Forest urged. “And your long knife. Does he have a family? Friends? Neighbors? We can kill them as well.” The opossum was smiling. “Father is very good at killing once you get him started. Someone just needs to get him started.”
And there, at that moment, while staring at the blackened husks of the corn she’d all but died for, while watching the remains of her barn smolder, the one she and Edward had built together, Abitha thought it sounded like a good idea, a very good idea.
“Who is he?” Samson asked.
“Who, Wallace?”
“No, the dead man.”
Abitha’s gaze shifted to the body lying facedown in the goat pen. She sighed. “I need to bury him.”
Forest shook his head. “Dump him in the woods for the worms and the beetles and the boogers and the bears.”
“Who is he?” Samson asked again.
“A Pequot Indian,” Abitha said. “This used to be their land, but war and disease decimated them a good many years ago. They’re scattered about this area, but I believe most live in a village many miles north of here.”
“He called me Hobomok. Have you heard the name before?”
Abitha shrugged. “Nay, not that I can recall.”
Forest, Sky, and Creek froze.
Samson set stern eyes on Forest. “What is Hobomok?”
It took Forest a moment to reply. “It means spirit of death. They thought you a devil, that is all. They think we are all devils. It means nothing.”
Samson stared at Forest as though trying to pierce the creature’s soul. He shook his head, then pressed his palm against his temple. “Last night … after killing the man … the spiders returned. They lurk in the shadows … haunt my dreams. I see masks … and the man with the painted face. They will not leave my head. It is growing unbearable.”
Forest shared an anxious look with the wildfolk.
“I will never be whole,” Samson continued. “Not until I can see past the shadows. Perhaps these Pequot have some answers?”
Forest stiffened. “The only thing the Pequot have for you are tricks and traps, the kind you can never escape.”
“I am already in a trap from which I cannot escape.”
“You can escape; you choose not to. You need but pay tribute to Pawpaw, honor Mother Earth with blood. We have been around this.”
Samson didn’t reply, just stared out toward the barn, to where the dead man lay.
Forest began pacing back and forth, a thunderous frown on his face, and after a minute he stopped, sighed. “Father,” he said sternly. “I beg you do not go to the Pequot. It will not end well for you or for us if you do. I cannot force you to play your role. I can only hope you will find the truth in my words. But if … if you will not help us, then please, I beg you by the moon above, do not betray us so.”
Still, Samson did not reply.
Forest studied Samson for another long moment. “I do not know what more to say to you. We are all struggling here. All our lives, our very world, are at stake.” And with that, Forest left, looking deeply troubled as he wandered across the field, disappearing into the woods.
Abitha thought how nice it would be to just trot off into the woods like that. To never have to come back, never have to deal with the farm, the corn, with Wallace, ever again.
“I am going to try and get away,” she said absently, more to herself than to Samson. “To leave before they come for me. Before I am sentenced to serve Wallace and his family.” She nodded as though trying to convince herself. “Might be able to scrape together a few things to sell. Make enough to buy passage down south … somewhere the winter is not so harsh.” She scanned the farm, trying to calculate what she had left of value. “There’s Sid … the two goats … chickens … the plow blade—”
A bee landed on her arm; always seemed to be a few buzzing around Samson as though he was some succulent wildflower. She gently blew it away. “And the bees. I have several healthy hives. They’ll certainly fetch a goodly price. With wax and honey in demand the way it is, probably will get more wampum for them than all the rest of it together.” She considered the wagon. It was beside the barn and the bed had sustained some fire damage, but the rest of it appeared in decent shape.
“Abitha, what is wampum?”
“Huh?”
“Is it something you eat?”
“It is a shell. It’s milled into beads, a very difficult and time-consuming process from what I hear. People use it to buy things with, you know, like currency, like money … like—” She trailed off, not knowing how to explain the concept of currency to a forest creature and not being in the mood to give a lesson.
Samson grunted. “So, you trade things for the wampum. Such as the corn and beeswax. Yes?”
“Aye.”
“Then you trade the wampum for other things?”
“Yes, that’s pretty much how it works.”
“And you need wampum to trade to Wallace for the land.”
She looked at him sharply. “Can you make wampum, Samson? Is there a spell for that? If you could, then…” She began to get excited. “Why, if you could, then I—” She leapt to her feet, dashed into the cabin, returned a moment later with Edward’s leather pouch. She dug around and pulled out a cracked wampum bead. It was broken, worthless.
“Here.” She sat it in his palm. “Make more … as many as you can!”
Samson closed his hand around the fragment, shut his eyes, appeared to be concentrating. He frowned. “Place your hand atop mine.”
She did.
“Do you feel anything, Abitha?”
After a minute, she shook her head.
“Nor do I.”
She let go and Samson held up the shell. “It does not have a voice. Not like the corn, or the knitbone, the goats, or the bees. I believe it is on account that it is not alive, nor does it want to be. It does not even have a ghost. I am sorry, Abitha, I have no connection to it.”
“Oh,” she said, not hiding her disappointment.
He continued to study the bead, his brows furrowed, then his eyes brightened. Samson stood, walked over to the porch and picked up her broom. He held the handle out. “Hum for me.”
“Hum? What do you mean?”
“Like the song you sang the other day, but just hum.”
“Samson, I am sorry, but I just cannot. Not this day.”
“Trust me, Abitha. Close your eyes and hum. Think of sunlight and flowers.”
Abitha started to protest, but caught the fervent look on Samson’s face.
“Abitha, trust me.”
She let out a sigh, cleared her throat, and began to hum softly. She closed her eyes and tried to picture flowers in her mind, found it all but impossible as her mind kept turning to the blackened husks of corn. Then Samson joined her, adding his warm voice, and the flowers began to bloom and blossom, a kaleidoscope of colors spinning about in her mind’s eye. She felt the pulse beneath her in the ground, it moved toward her,
seeking her out, found her, touched the magic within her, and all at once she could actually smell the flowers. The humming grew, louder and louder. She opened her eyes and gasped.
Bees, hundreds and hundreds of them, swarmed around her and Samson.
“They are here for you, Abitha. You are their queen. Now, what would you have them do?”
Do? she thought. Naught. Ah, Samson, you are trying so hard, but this is not what I need. What I need is … what I need is … Oh, mercy, yes. I see!
She began to hum again, to sing along with the bees, thought of honey, of large copious amounts of honeycomb dripping from the broom, pushed these thoughts into their song. And her humming and theirs intertwined, became one melody. The bees began landing on the broom handle, began to weave the song, the magic, into honeycomb.
It was more than the bees, more than her; she felt Samson harnessing the magic, drawing it from the earth itself, channeling it through her. She could actually see it—tiny golden sparkles—swirling in the air with the bees.
And again, that rush, an almost carnal lust drumming from her core, threatening to consume her as his magic mixed with hers, her chest fit to burst with the rapturous force of it, as together, they wove comb after comb.
Sky and Creek joined the bees, flying in circles, laughing along with Abitha.
Samson propped the broom against the fence and the bees continued their magic, the honeycomb growing along the posts and rails. The golden honey sparkling in the sunlight.
“Samson, how much can they make?”
He shrugged. “It is your spell. How long can you sing for?”
All day, she thought. I can sing all day.
CHAPTER 8
“I cannot do it alone,” Forest said, glowering at Sky and Creek. “You must help if we are to be rid of her.”
Neither of them would make eye contact.
“This is not something you can hide from.” Forest scrambled up the black rocks and stood beside the sapling. “Look,” he demanded, tapping one of the shriveled leaves. “Look!”
They looked and winced.
“Pawpaw is withering before our eyes. Why is that? You both know. Abitha is stealing the magic. Did you not see her with the bees? Feel the magic growing within her? Abitha is not what she seems. I fear she is like the magic folk of old, like the shaman. And like them, now that she has had a taste, she will want more and more until all is lost. Her sight has already grown so strong that she can see us whether we wish her to or not.”
