Slewfoot

by Brom

  “Are we ready?” he asked.

  She heard distant thunder. “Nay, but we are going to do it anyway. Are we not?”

  He laughed. “We are.”

  “Do you know what you’re doing, Samson? Are you going to get us killed?”

  “Me, no. I have no idea. It is your spell. It is up to you not to kill us.”

  “Oh, then we are doomed for certain.”

  He laughed again, the sound music in her ears.

  Her foot left the grass and they began to drift aimlessly, like a boat without a rudder, floating only a few feet above the ground. She would have thought sitting on a broom unwieldy, but she hardly needed even hold on, the two of them connected and both lighter than the air.

  “Tell it where to go.”

  She did, simply by willing it. She set her eyes and thoughts on the cornfield, and the broom responded, slowly at first, but as their connection grew, they gained a bit of height and speed. They glided toward the field, then out over it, circling the farm until soon she no longer felt she was willing the broom, but that she herself was flying, and like a bird, she went where she pleased.

  She flew higher, well above the tallest tree. The moon was full and bright and she could see for miles in all directions, could see the distant outline of mountains toward the north, lightning far off to the south, and the flickering lights of the village to the east. She circled in ever-widening circles, picking up speed. She swooped down, flying just over the cabin and the remains of the barn. Several bats joined them, playfully flittering in and about.

  She flew upward again, the warm night air blowing through her hair. She saw the stars glittering off a nearby lake, swirled down until she was flying level with the lake, dipping a toe into the water as they skimmed across the surface. She laughed and Samson laughed with her.

  “Such a wonderful dream,” she said.

  He leaned forward, his chin on her shoulder. She glanced at his face, so wild, strange, and savage, yet somehow beautiful. She felt the thrum of his heart join that of hers and the broom, all pulsing together as one.

  “It is time,” he whispered into her ear. “To see what we can find. Ask her, ask Mother Earth, ask the moon and stars to show us our true selves.”

  She felt his need, his want, but now also her own want, and as it grew, as it filled her up, she ached to satisfy it. “Show me, Mother Earth … show me who we are.”

  He sat his hands atop hers. “Allow me.”

  She didn’t want to relinquish control, she wanted only to fly all night, fly the world around and never come back. But she yielded to him.

  His grip tightened on her hand and they plummeted down toward the trees. She let out a cry, certain they would crash into the pines and oaks, but instead they flew through them, the leaves buffeting against her cheeks and toes. Deeper and deeper into the forest they went, faster and faster until the trees were but dark blurry shapes shooting past them, and at some point she realized they were going through them as though they were ghosts.

  It became dark; it was only them and the warm wind howling in her ears. Slowly the moon returned, only larger, orange, and muted. They began to slow, the trees coming into focus, different now, with foliage she’d never seen before, giant ferns and palms. The air itself felt different, heavier, denser, like in the wake of a thunderstorm. A thousand sounds, cries, calls, howls rang out from the thick woods all around them.

  “Where are we?”

  “Long ago.”

  It was night, yet the forest was alive with lights, radiant flowers of all varieties, and insects, and—she blinked—winged creatures, little winged people. Fairies, she thought, sprites and pixies, and so much more. Some small, the size of insects, others the size of hawks and eagles, with bird wings, insect wings, bat wings, all sharing a sparkling luminescence. She saw hundreds of creatures like Creek, Sky, and Forest, with their childlike faces and animal bodies. They began to fly along with Abitha and Samson, following them through the trees, singing and giggling. Other creatures followed on the ground below them, the deer running along with great cats, and giant bears, huge lizards, tiny horses, and so many other beasts she had never seen before.

  They flew upward, above the treetops, speeding up, leaving all the creatures behind. A universe of stars exploded above her as they shot through the night, everything blurring together then going dark.

  Again, they slowed, again the world came back into focus, this time to a landscape of giant volcanoes, tendrils of lava squirming down from towering peaks, forming rivers of fire. A meteor streaked across the sky, another, then another. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed. The air smelled of sulfur, of ash, of stagnant swamps. The sky above, utterly black, not a moon or star to be seen. Then one star appeared, sparkled, followed by another, more and more, popping open like eyes, then Abitha saw to her great horror that they were eyes, a hundred, a thousand, a million eyes, and all of them, every one, staring at her.

  “Who am I?” Samson screamed into the firmament.

  The heavens did not answer.

  “Who am I?” he cried.

  And then, for one second, Abitha saw herself through the eyes, through all those millions of eyes, and when she did, she understood something of great magnitude, yet so simple. All the eyes, they are one. They are all one.

  “Who am I!” Samson screamed. “Answer me! I demand an answer!”

  And the heavens began to laugh, like all was a big joke. The laughter growing and growing until it thundered all around them.

  “Stop!” Abitha cried, clasping her hands to her ears, squinting her eyes shut, trying to block it all out. “STOP!”

  And then suddenly, she was falling away into endless darkness.

  CHAPTER 9

  Abitha awoke in the middle of the cornfield. It was morning. She sat up and quickly realized she was nude and her hair was full of leaves. She tugged out a leaf; it was bright pink and unlike any leaf she’d ever seen before. She glanced around, looking for Samson, found only Booka staring at her reproachfully.

  “Do you know where my clothes wandered off to?”

  The cat meowed.

  Abitha stood and stretched, savoring the feel of the morning sun on her bare skin. She was surprised at just how wonderful she felt, how sharp and clear her mind, her senses alive as though she’d been reborn, every sound and smell crisp and distinct.

  She dug her fingers into the soft plowed earth, felt the connection. I am part of you, you are part of me. And this thought tickled something in her mind, the dream; only she knew it wasn’t a dream. She had flown through the sky on a broom, through worlds both wonderful and terrible, had looked into the very face of God, and she wanted to do it all again. But there was more, something she wanted to remember, something very important, like a word on the tip of her tongue, some great truth, but here and now, she couldn’t remember.

  She marched back toward the cabin, her one-eyed tabby trotting along behind. Halfway there she spotted her broom. She picked it up, examined it—it was just a broom.

  She passed the blackened remains of the barn with hardly a glance. It can be rebuilt. She spotted the dead man. I will bury that one by the road for all to see, as a reminder that I will not be tread upon.

  She plucked up her clothes from the yard and dressed. Found her apron, checked to see that the chain of braids was still within the pocket before tying it back around her waist. It was Tuesday, or at least she hoped so. It felt like she’d been gone a week and but a moment at the same time. She needed to hitch Sid up to the wagon, load up the honey, and get it to Hartford—a trip that would take all day and then some. As she was sure Wallace wouldn’t give her a day’s grace, but would be here the first of October—just three days hence. She was also sure he’d be bringing the sheriff and some deputies in tow to escort her to town.

  Good, she thought, the more witnesses the better. She realized that she was looking forward to the encounter, looked forward to staring Wallace down. And why not? she thought. I am the
girl who looked into the eyes of a thousand gods, am I not? A most fierce grin crept across her face.

  * * *

  Wallace reined his stallion up at the top of the hill above Abitha’s farm and waited for the sheriff’s wagon to catch up. Reverend Thomas Carter rode on the bench next to the sheriff, with two deputies, Samuel and Moses, seated behind them in the bed.

  Wallace caught the sour look on the reverend’s face. The two hadn’t exchanged a single word the whole ride out here. What’s the matter, Reverend? Wallace thought. Being set to right by Magistrate Watson not sitting so well on your stomach? Wallace smirked.

  They’d brought along the wagon to haul Abitha back into town, as she’d be staying in the jail for a few nights while Magistrate Watson, back in Hartford, finished sorting out the legal arrangements and set the term for her debt to him. Once that was done, she’d be released to Wallace to serve out her sentence as his indentured servant. The judge said she was looking at a minimum of three years, that he was going to see if he could work a few angles to make it closer to five or six. Magistrate Watson also made it clear that if the reverend were to give Wallace any trouble, he’d personally come down and set the arrogant fool straight. Would even bring down the militia if need be.

  Wallace wouldn’t have to wait on the judge to take possession of the farm, that was done and signed by the ministers of Sutton. It was his again—at least until he turned it over to Lord Mansfield—they were here only to evict her. He’d made sure all the steps had been done right, leaving her no loopholes, not this time. The sheriff even had a signed warrant for her arrest.

  And the best thing to Wallace was that Abitha going into servitude would strip her of all her widow privileges. How could she be Edward’s representative if there was nothing left to represent? That charade was over and done now. It was time to put this insolent woman back in her place.

  Wallace wondered if she’d put up a fight, would rant and rave and throw a fit. He rather hoped so. After all the grief she’d caused him, he wouldn’t mind seeing her get a sound beating. The minister might be soft on her, but the sheriff wasn’t and wouldn’t stand for it. He’d have her in the stocks in no time.

  Wallace smiled, thinking how a few nights in the stocks would be good for her, settle her down before he brought her home. Yes, Papa, she is a wretch. Had she not tried to drive a wedge between me and Edward, had not tried so hard to steal your land from the family, then I could’ve found sympathy for her. But my hard heart will not prevent me from doing what is right by God and Edward. And the good Lord willing, under my hand, she’ll become a proper Puritan woman one day and a good wife to some Godly man, that I promise you.

  Sheriff Noah Pitkin pulled up alongside of Wallace. The Pitkin clan was one of Sutton’s founding families, and Noah had all but inherited the position of sheriff from his father. He was lean, well-built man in his late twenties, with a sound reputation with both sword and pistol.

  “What’s that?” Sheriff Pitkin asked, pointing. “There, on the bank. Is that a grave?”

  A simple marker stood at the head of a mound with the words cut into it: BEWARE ANY WHO WOULD TRESPASS HERE.

  “What does that mean?” the minister asked.

  “It means the woman has fallen under the spell of madness,” Wallace said, then added, “I must give you all fair warning, she does still possess Edward’s musket.”

  The reverend looked nervously down at Abitha’s farm.

  “Are you having second thoughts, Reverend?” Wallace asked. “You can sit this one out if you like. No one here will think less of you.”

  The reverend bristled. “This is my duty. I will see it is done proper.”

  The sheriff kicked his mount forward and the wagon followed his lead down the short trek to the cabin.

  Wallace dismounted, bringing his leg down easy, trying to hide the pain. He still couldn’t believe the woman had shot him, catching him midthigh. The wound was healing well, the ball having gone clean through, but he knew it would be a long time before he could walk without pain again. His own shot had gone wide, and now he found himself glad of it. This is going to be a glorious day.

  Reverend Carter stepped down off the wagon and stood staring at the remains of the barn. “Lord, what has happened here?”

  “As I mentioned, Abitha’s sanity is in question,” Wallace said. “She most likely burned it down herself, just for spite. I wonder what other acts of her wrath we might yet uncover?”

  The sheriff dismounted and the deputies unloaded, looking about warily.

  Sheriff Pitkin pulled his pistol from his belt, handed it to Deputy Harlow. “This is just in case. You understand?” The deputy nodded, holding the pistol at the ready.

  The sheriff started up the steps to the porch, when Reverend Carter caught his arm. “Noah, please, allow me. It might go easier if I were to talk to her first.”

  The sheriff chewed that over for a moment, then stepped back, allowing the minister to proceed.

  The minister knocked on the door. “Abitha, it is me … Reverend Carter. I am asking to come in so that we might speak.”

  They waited, but no one answered.

  The minister shrugged, then knocked again.

  “Is it me you’re looking for?” came a bold voice from behind them.

  The men started, turning quick, the deputy leveling the pistol.

  Abitha stood several paces away by the well. Her hands set on her hips. She set her brilliant green eyes on the deputy. “I am unarmed and you have five grown men here. Do you really need to be pointing that at me?”

  Wallace frowned; this wasn’t the woman he’d expected to find. No sobbing bride of failure here. This woman was aglow, radiant, her hair wild and unbound, her eyes and voice clear and even.

  “Put the pistol away,” the sheriff said.

  The deputy lowered the pistol but didn’t put it away.

  Abitha smiled, strolled boldly up to the sheriff. “Sheriff Pitkin.” She extended her hand. “It is a pleasure to have you as my guest here this morning.”

  The sheriff appeared thrown off by her candor and, to Wallace’s chagrin, took her hand and shook it.

  She then, in turn, looked each of the deputies square in the eye, nodded to them. “And you, Samuel and Moses, you are welcome as well.”

  The minister stepped down from the porch. Abitha greeted him, setting her hand atop his forearm. “How is Martha? Still doing well, I hope?”

  Reverend Carter nodded and smiled. “Yes, Abitha. She is doing well. Better than well. She is back on her feet and helping her mother again.”

  Abitha returned his smile. “It does my heart such good to hear this.”

  What is going on? Wallace wondered. This is not some social call. He cleared his throat, preparing to speak.

  Abitha’s eyes locked on his. “How’s the leg, Wallace?”

  Wallace’s words caught in his throat. “Huh?”

  “I hear tell you injured yourself. Dropped your fork while eating your mince pie, was it?”

  Wallace glared at Abitha.

  “Need be careful with utensils,” she added. “They can be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

  “Abitha, your barn?” the minister asked. “What has happened?”

  “You should ask Wallace,” she said.

  Wallace fumbled for words. “I … I … know not what you mean. Why would I know anything?” What is going on? a voice inside of him cried. She is turning everything around. Get hold of yourself, take control of this now! “Abitha,” he said as sharply and sternly as he could. “We are not here to play your games. We are here for my corn. Do you have it?”

  “Some men raided the barn several nights ago,” Abitha said, speaking to the minister and the sheriff. “You will find one of them buried at the top of the road there. A Pequot man. You might have noticed his grave on your way in.”

  “Yes,” Reverend Carter said. “We did. I wanted to ask—”

  “Yes, yes,” Wallace said impatiently. �
��No one cares about some dead Indian. The corn. Where is my corn?”

  “Sadly, your corn is gone, burned along with my barn. And now I have no corn to pay you with.”

  There you go, Wallace thought, things are finally back on track. Still he didn’t like her tone, as though she had not a care in the world. “I am sorry for the loss,” he said. “It would’ve been nice to have concluded this business in a way Edward would’ve liked. But sentiment is not a luxury I can afford. And now I am put in a position to do what is best for our family and the community … and even you, Abitha.” He nodded to the sheriff. “Noah, would you do me the favor of reading her the warrant.”

  “Oh,” Sheriff Pitkin said, as though he’d forgotten the business at hand. He tugged out two folded notes from his vest, shuffled between them, opened one, and cleared his throat. “Abitha, I am sorry it has come to this.” He held the paper up. “This is a warrant for your arrest.”

  “For my delinquent debts, correct?”

  “Yes.” The sheriff held up the second note. “And this is the eviction notice. You’ll find it is signed and in order. There are details here pertaining to the agreement struck between Wallace and your late husband, Edward, as witnessed by the ministers. Here, allow me to explain it to you as simply as I can. The—”

  “Edward owes Wallace fifty bushels each year,” Abitha said. “For five years. Due by October first each season. If payment is not met, then the farm will, upon Wallace’s request, revert to Wallace in full. Is that simple enough?”

  Sheriff Pitkin raised his eyebrows. “Why, yes. Yes, that is it exactly.”

  “Is this not the first?”

  “What?”

  “Today? What is the date?”

  “Yes, Abitha. It is indeed the first.”

  “Then it is due today. Am I correct, Sheriff?”

  “Well … yes.”

  “Then I am not delinquent as of yet. Correct? There is still the rest of this day to make good on my payment.”