by Brom
“Samuel,” the sheriff said. “Go hitch up the wagon. I will fetch Moses and meet you at the stables. We shall go right away.”
Samuel took off at a run.
Sheriff Pitkin met the reverend’s eye. “I want to get Abitha before some of these fools decide to take matters into their own hands.”
“Agreed.”
The sheriff headed quickly away.
“I fear the worst,” Sarah said.
Reverend Carter set his hand atop hers, his thoughts straying to Magistrate Watson and his soldiers here in Sutton. “As do I.”
* * *
Using the broom as a crutch, Abitha hobbled across her porch, grimacing against the throbbing pain in her right knee. She’d not been able to walk on that leg since Wallace slammed her into the fence and feared it broken. She tugged along a bundle of blankets behind her, dragged them down the steps to the wagon and tossed them into the bed atop some cooking gear, her musket, her clothes, a few tools, and a scattering of other belongings.
Her two goats were tethered behind the wagon, but she’d set the chickens free, as she couldn’t catch them, not with her leg in the shape it was in. She glanced around the homestead trying to remember if there were any other items of value she’d overlooked. She checked her apron for the dozenth time to make sure she had the chain of braids. She clutched it, desperate to feel that her mother was here with her in any way.
“You’ve won, Wallace,” she said, with no emotion at all. “The sweat, the blood, the tears … have all been for naught.”
Her cat sat on the porch, watching her with his one sad eye. “Come along, Booka. It’s time to go. They’ll be coming for me sooner than later.”
She considered yet again going into town and facing Wallace, but knew there was no fighting this, even with the reverend and the sheriff lending her their testimony. She’d cast a spell in front of three men, and they would swear on God’s name against her. Nothing could save her from that, not amongst the Puritans.
Why did I call the bees? she wondered for the hundredth time. Such a fool. But she knew why: because he would’ve killed her otherwise—there’d been nothing but murder in his eyes. God be damned, why did I not listen to Samson and kill that foul man? Why?
She scanned the edge of the forest. Where are you, Samson? Where did you go?
“Come, Booka,” she said, limping over to the porch.
Booka meowed and came to her, rubbing up against her hand. She felt the cat’s bent spine, recalled how she’d thought his back broken when she’d rescued the poor thing from those dogs. He’d certainly appeared lifeless. But it hadn’t been magic that saved Booka, just goodly care and tending.
She lifted the cat, cuddling him, pressing her face into his soft fur. The cat began to purr, and she allowed herself a moment to savor the simple love of this broken cat, as it seemed the only comfort left to her in this world.
She heard them then—several horses and a wagon heading her way.
“God’s nails,” she snarled, dropping the cat and limping quickly back to the wagon. She tugged the musket and a few loads of shot out from the bed, checked the primer. There’d be no running now, not for her. She propped herself against the porch post and waited, hoping to Hell it would be Wallace coming for her. If the last thing she did was shoot that foul beast of a man, she’d die happy.
Sheriff Pitkin appeared at the top of the yard. He waited, watching her until a wagon and two deputies pulled up behind him. She could see the men were armed with muskets and swords.
Sheriff Pitkin tugged his pistol and cutlass from his belt, handed them to one of the men, then started down the short trek to the house. He stopped about sixty paces out. “Abitha, I am here to arrest you on the charge of witchcraft. I implore that you come along peacefully.”
“I shall not.”
“I am not armed.” He put his hands out where she could see them.
“Makes no difference. Come another step and I’ll shoot you.”
“Abitha, you’ll not stand a chance against the three of us. Now put the gun away.”
“I’d rather die here and now than be tortured and strung up by a pack of liars and pious denigrates.”
“Abitha, please. Let us do this easy. You’ll have an honest trial. I promise you this. And you know me to be a man of my word. It will be a lawful proceeding and you’ll be given a chance to state your piece. Now, what say you?”
“I say I am no fool. Now get off my land. I do not want to shoot you, Noah Pitkin.”
“You will not shoot me, Abitha. As I know you are no murderer. Now, I am doing all that I can so that you may keep your dignity. Please, put down the musket and surrender to me.” He resumed walking slowly toward her.
“There is no dignity in being tried as a witch. We both know that.” She jabbed the musket at him. “I will shoot you, Noah.”
“No. Such a thing is not in your heart.” He took another step and another.
Abitha pulled the trigger, and there came a thunderous report, the kick of the musket knocking her down. She heard a cry and sat up.
“Damn your hide!” the sheriff yowled. “Damn your hide!” He sat on the ground, holding his ear, blood dripping between his fingers.
Abitha pulled the rod from the musket, grabbed another load of shot, and began to ram it down the muzzle.
“Get her!” the sheriff shouted, and the two deputies came on at a full run.
Samuel reached her just as she finished loading the shot, wrestling the musket from her hands. The musket went off, punching a hole in the side of the wagon. He tossed away the musket and drove his fist into the side of her head, knocking her onto her back. Moses arrived and the two of them began kicking her soundly. A boot connected with her cheek. She cried out, trying to cover her face with her arms, caught a blow against her ribs, and all the air left her lungs.
“Enough!” Sheriff Pitkin cried, but the deputies continued to beat her. “Leave her!” he shouted, shoving the two men back.
Abitha curled up, choking and gasping, clutching her side as she tried to suck air back into her chest.
Sheriff Pitkin, his hand pressed against his ear, gave Abitha a pitiful look. “Damn it, Abitha. It need not be this way.” He tugged out a pair of shackles from his belt and tossed them to Moses. “Bind her and let us be on our way.”
* * *
Samson sat in the dirt in front of the low-burning fire. The man sat across from him. The flames cast their shadows high up along the cavern walls, sending them dancing across the multitude of masks, a hundred hollow eyes watching them impassively.
Samson stared at the man and the man stared at the fire.
“Who are you?” Samson asked.
“Is that the question you came here for?”
“I have many questions. But first, you will tell me who you are.”
The man chuckled. “I’ll never forget the first time I saw you all those many, many summers ago, the way you strutted around like a god.”
Samson narrowed his eyes. “How do you know me?”
“Ah, are we getting closer to the right question?”
“Stop the riddles. It is most annoying.”
“Life is nothing but riddles … we spend our whole lives puzzling them out. Sadly, as soon as we find the answer, the riddle changes. Does it not?”
“I am not here to play games. Answer me now or—”
“Or what? What will you do?”
“Perhaps,” Samson growled, “I will break your bones and eat your flesh.”
The man laughed. “Hear yourself and you might find the right question.”
“Who am I?” Samson asked.
“There is the question! The only one that matters. And I will be glad to help you find the answer, but let’s return to your first question.” The man leaned closer to the fire, and in the harsh under-light, Samson could now see that the dark lines running vertically down the man’s gaunt features were scars, noticed something else, that the man’s skin, it was m
ade up of tiny bumps and scales, realized that perhaps he wasn’t even a man at all.
“You still do not remember me?”
Samson squinted at him. He did. He knew he did, but like so many of his memories, just scattered pieces that he couldn’t fit together.
“The Pequot think me a magic man, a shaman; they call me Mamunappeht. But that is just a name. But these—” He gestured to the rows of masks. Well over a hundred of them lined the walls. “They are who I truly am. Each one contains a spirit, a soul.” He smirked. “In a way I am their guardian. Like you, they were tortured souls all. I have given them a place to harbor, a sanctuary to escape their torment. They live with me, in me. I am but the sum of all of them.”
Samson glanced around at the masks. Most were small, childlike, some tiny, no bigger than a mouse, a few larger ones, near the size of a bear’s head. He wanted to dismiss the man’s claim, but as he stared at them, he heard a distant whisper, then many whispers, the voices of ghosts, building, circling around them, turning into a wind that finally blew through him. He felt their woe, their sorrow. He shuddered.
“I am not of the Pequot,” Mamunappeht continued. “I am much older than the Pequot, I came over with the great ice. But the Pequot are foolish enough to allow me to stay here in return for paltry charms and piddling tricks. I help them where I can. But it is too late for them.” He snickered. “I grow weary of this guise and have hopes to move on, as is my way. Mayhap there is a place for me amongst these new people, the ones from across the great sea.”
Samson barely heard him; he was staring at the masks, drawn to one in particular.
“Ah,” the shaman said. “You have found it. Mayhap you’re not as lost as you think.”
The mask was built upon a burnt and blackened skull, that of a great stag, framed in fur. Charred antlers twisted out from its forehead and long knots of hair hung between the horns, woven together, forming a web. Symbols covered the mask. Samson recognized one of them—an eye painted between the empty sockets. It was the same as the one on the wall back in the pit where he had awoken.
“Go on,” Mamunappeht goaded. “Take a closer look.”
Samson stood. The skull hung at eye level. He approached it warily, felt the sensation of someone, or something, watching him from within and stopped.
“Do you feel fractured, a bit broken? As though parts of you are lost?”
Samson nodded absently.
“Well, the pieces are there … before you.”
“What do you mean?” Samson asked, not taking his eyes from the mask.
“Do you not recognize who you are looking at?”
Samson cocked his head. “I know it … it is—”
“Yes, that is your head there on my wall.”
“No!”
“All the missing pieces are waiting for you within. Look closer. The skull will show you because the skull is you.”
Samson did look closer, taking another step, then another, even though every bit of him cried out not to, that this was a trick or a trap, that this man was not to be trusted. I have to know, he thought. Just a peek. A light flickered, only a spark, deep within the sockets. Samson flinched and fell back a step.
“Are you afraid … of yourself?”
Yes, Samson thought. I am.
The spark turned into a warm light, like late-afternoon sun, beckoning him in. He stepped forward, just a few inches away now, could make out blurry shapes moving within the sockets.
People, he thought. Are they dancing? He wanted to see them, needed to. Samson leaned forward, eye to eye with the skull, pressing his forehead against the mask, trying to focus on the shapes. A flash, a touch of vertigo, and the eyes of the mask were his own, as though he were looking out from within the skull, but it wasn’t the cave he was seeing, it was as though he were transported. The people were now dancing before him like in his dreams and visions, only this seemed so very real. He felt the warm sun on his skin, inhaled, sucking in the smell of flowers. He could see so much more than in his dreams. The people had built a tall horned statue out of wicker and saplings, had adorned it with flowers. They paraded past, carrying baskets of fruits, nuts, vegetables, and wild game. They gave him looks of naked adoration, great smiles full of love and devotion. He basked in it, flooded with the joy of their reverence. Relief pulsed through Samson. See, Abitha, see! I am not a devil. I am a nature god after all. At last I know.
And then, as though the mask had been playing a cruel joke on him, the scene changed. The air warped, twisted, then untwisted, and all at once his statue was burning, the air full of smoke. The piercing sounds of screams came to Samson. Huts on fire, the flames licking a night sky. People running in all directions, their faces fraught with terror. Bodies, so many bodies, limbs torn away, guts ripped open, brains splattered. The air thick with the smell of blood and burning flesh and the screams going on and on as though never to stop. Samson saw a shadow cast long by the flames—his shadow, as he slaughtered the men, women, and children.
“No!” Samson flinched. “No, this is not me. I do not wish to be this. I will not.” Samson let out a great moan, tried to close his eyes, to shut out all the pain and suffering, but could not.
The shaman sighed loudly, and the vision faded. Samson found himself back in the cavern, only now he was looking down at the shaman from out of the skull. Samson tried to come forward, could not, realized he was trapped within the mask. “Let me out. You will let me out, now!”
“I am sorry for you, beast. Sometimes it is best not to have all the answers. But you are no great riddle. You have known all along what you are. Have you not?”
Samson realized he was weeping.
“Do these names sound familiar? Hobomok, Atlantow, Chepi, Matanto, Okee, Widjigo?”
They did, each one hitting Samson like a punch to the chest.
“Or as the Christians call you … the beast, tempter, Father of Lies, Satan, Lucifer, on and on. So many names, but they all mean the same thing. And you know what that is … do you not?”
“I am no devil.”
The shaman shook his head. “Even the Devil does not wish to be the Devil. So sad. It would be so much easier if you could wallow in your role. But who wants to be the harbinger of death and devastation?”
“No!” Samson cried. “I know compassion. I have empathy. I am one with Mother Earth. I am her hand. I give birth to her seed. I am good and I am just!”
Mamunappeht laughed. “Oh, you are such a tragedy. Who do you think turned you into the Devil?”
“What?”
“Yes, Mother Earth and your little imp friends, the Pukwudgie. The ones who call themselves wildfolk. They did this to you. They are the ones who infested you with demons. Do you not feel them, the demons, fighting for your soul? Of course you do.”
No, never. It is a lie, Samson told himself, then thought of the two shadows fighting in his vision, the pain in his head, the struggle in his heart as though being torn apart. And now, here within the skull, he felt them, felt their hunger, a brooding presence, drawing closer.
“You were not always the Devil; you were once a great forest spirit and the wilderness was your kingdom. It is the wildfolk who twisted you, they who set the demons to you, they who begged Mother Earth to make you so.”
Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and another vision assailed Samson. He saw a hundred, maybe even a thousand wildfolk, their tiny black eyes aglow, their hands covered in blood. Saw the massive Pawpaw towering above them, its leaves on fire, its trunk slashed, blood oozing from the wound. And before them, on the ground, a body drenched in blood—his body.
“No,” he groaned.
“Who brought you blood? Who set you to murder, goaded you to slaughter all the people? The very people who worshipped at your feet. Who drove you to madness? See the wildfolk for what they are!”
Samson did, could not help it as the mask threw more memories at him. Forest pushing him to be the slayer, to murder—blood, always more blood. First th
e people, then Abitha. How they tried to keep his hand away from the healing crafts, his magic away from nature, from breathing life into Abitha’s crops.
“They feed … thrive on human suffering. Can you not see that?”
And it was Abitha Samson saw now, how the wildfolk harried and tortured her at every chance. Killing her goat, her husband, giggling as they terrorized and tormented her, breaking her well and then trying to murder her with the spiders and snakes. The vision faded and Samson groaned.
“Now, who are the true devils, I ask?”
“Why would they do this to me?”
“It does not matter now, all that matters is that the creature you once were is gone forever, lost.”
“It does matter. Why?”
“Is it not obvious?” Mamunappeht smiled. “They did not, do not, wish to share this great land. They were jealous, angry that you dared to help the people. And when you would not drive the people away, would not go against your own nature … they changed your nature.” The shaman sadly shook his head. “Punishing you by twisting you into a devil … a vessel for their demons. You are their slave, you are Hobomok, lord of misery. You are pestilence and plague, war and strife. You bring ruin to all you touch. See it! See it!”
And Samson did, over and over, as the mask showed him preying upon one village of people after another. He remembered, until all the memories blurred into one long river of blood and death and screams.
“No! No!” Samson cried over the screams, trying to flee it all, but could not. The mask held him, bound him within, and there was no escape. And he felt them again, the demons, the ones set upon him by the wildfolk, they were with him now, in the skull. He felt their anger, their hunger. He dared not look at them, would not look at them. Felt sure if he did, they would reclaim him as their own. “Set me free! I beg you!”
“I can free you from the mask, if that is what you want. But I cannot free you from your demons; their magic is too strong, even for me. They will be with you wherever you go. You know this. There is no returning to what you once were.”
