Slewfoot

by Brom

  CHAPTER 13

  A shadow deep in darkness—the darkness only the dead know.

  A whisper …

  Another.

  “I do not hear you … I will not hear you.”

  The whispers became words—distant but urgent. You must wake.

  “No, I will not awake, not again … never again. Leave me be.”

  Father, you must wake.

  “No. I am dead. And dead I shall remain.”

  They have your precious Abitha.

  “No … no more. I am done.”

  Abitha will die. All your children will die unless you wake … now!

  He tried not to hear the name, but it pricked him like a knife. “Abitha?”

  She suffers. Oh, how your pet suffers. She cries out your name. Do you not hear her? Listen.

  The shadow opened his eyes, saw two specks of light floating in the dark, moved toward them, and found himself peeking out through eyeholes. Before him was a cavern lit by a small fire, the walls covered in masks. It was all very familiar. He flinched as pain, suffering, guilt struck him, as a wave of remorse engulfed him. He pulled back, searching for the darkness, for the sweet arms of the spiders.

  A face moved into his line of sight, peering into the mask. An opossum, but with the face of a child. He knew this creature.

  “Do you remember me?”

  “You are one of the demons.”

  “I am Forest, your child,” the creature said. “Now, what is your name?”

  “I … I am Hobomok … the Devil. I am murder and blood. I am misery and torment.”

  “Look around these walls. Whose heads do you see here?”

  “Leave me be!”

  “Stop hiding and look!”

  “No,” Samson whispered, yet he did look, glancing from mask to mask, noting the various shapes and sizes.

  “These are our kin,” Forest said. “The wildfolk … your children. Mamunappeht has made trophies of your children’s heads, prisoners of their souls. Now tell me who is the real devil?”

  “You! You are! It was you that poisoned me with your sorcery, twisted me so, infested me with your demons! The mask has shown me the truth! You tricked me to slaughter them, the tribes, the people. It is you and the wildfolk that are the true devils! I saw it!”

  Forest cinched shut his eyes as though in great pain, then slowly reopened them. “Please … please listen to me.” There was such sorrow, such deep remorse in his tone, that Samson did listen.

  “I have done you a great wrong. One that I will never be able to atone for. I can claim it was for the sake of the wildfolk, for Pawpaw, for Mother Earth, but my truth is I have allowed my need for vengeance, my hate, spite, jealousy, and more than anything … my fear to lead me. And lead me it did, led to ruin for all of us.” He was silent a moment. “Once you are free you can judge me as you will, exact your rightful vengeance. I am at your mercy. But first, for the sake of Pawpaw, we must get you out of this devil den.”

  Forest grabbed the skull, began to tug.

  Samson felt them, the demons, the ones within the skull with him, felt them stirring. “No,” Samson said. “This is my sanctuary. You will plague me no more. Go! Leave me be!”

  Forest tugged and pried and shoved, but the skull didn’t budge. He tried again, his face twisting into a knot of frustration with the effort; yet still the skull held.

  “What deviltry is this?” Forest growled, glancing fearfully back toward the cavern entrance. He tried again, slamming himself against the skull, over and over, yet still the skull stayed on the wall.

  “No … no!” Forest panted, shaking his head. “He will not win … must not.” He shot another fearful glance down the tunnel, then a cold determination set upon his face. “We will do this here, then,” he whispered, and scrambled up the wall, out of view. The skull trembled and Samson felt the creature tearing away the webbing, trappings, and the mask from the skull as though from his own head. Forest tossed the mask away and suddenly Samson felt untethered, his mind sharper, the world before him clear.

  “The skull showed you a truth,” Forest said. “That which the mask wanted you to see. But sometimes there are many truths.”

  The demons! Samson thought, suddenly feeling their hateful eyes on his back. They’re awake!

  “It is time for you to face yourself.”

  The demons behind Samson growled. Samson tried to close his eyes, tried to shut out the pain, the guilt. No. I want to sleep … sleep. He pushed back from the eyeholes, began to drift away. The spiders, they were there waiting for him. Darkness, sweet darkness.

  “Father!” Forest said, smacking the skull. “Stay with me!”

  “No! I will hear no more of your lies!”

  “The skull does not lie. Cannot lie, because the skull is you. Look, see for yourself! The stag!”

  “The stag?”

  “Yes. The stag. Now look, remember the land. See it as it was before the people arrived. See your story.”

  The mere suggestion sent the visions; it was as though removing the mask from the skull had freed his mind, his soul, and his memories, all his memories, were his once more. He saw the land; it was the place he and Abitha had visited together upon her broom, the world of wildfolk, giant beasts, and magnificent forest. “Yes, I know of this place.”

  “Good. Now seek. See who you were then.”

  A great golden stag strolled out from the trees, an imposing beast with sprawling antlers. It stood proud and majestic. There was no confusion; the moment Samson saw the beast he knew who it was. “It is me,” he whispered, and upon that declaration his view shifted to that of the stag. “I am the stag.”

  “Yes.”

  Samson, the great stag, tromped through the forest as though he lorded over all, the giant beasts giving him a wide berth. The wildfolk followed in his wake, some flying on tiny wings, others darting and dashing, skipping and leaping. All laughing and singing, snarling and growling, tussling and playing, dancing and rutting, as they frolicked through the ferns, flowers, and towering trees of the great virgin forest. Samson smiled.

  “Earth was our mother,” Forest said. “And you were our father … the great forest lord. You were the heart of the wilderness, of the wildfolk. You were loved and you were feared. You were life and you were death, doing what was needed to preserve the balance. All part of the cycle of nature, of death and rebirth, of winter and spring.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Samson began to cry as the memories overwhelmed him.

  “The best of times,” Forest said. “Sadly, one cannot know the best of times until they are gone, until they are lost. How I would give the rest of my days to have just one of those days back.” Forest sucked in a deep breath. “Nothing lasts forever, not even the moon and stars. Now see the first people. See them invade our land.”

  Forest needed only speak of it and the memories flooded in. The people arriving, coming down from the north during the time of great ice, from a land far away, a type of creature none had witnessed before—animals that covered their skin in the hides of other animals.

  Samson saw how pitiful they were, these small clusters of nomadic people searching for a home. Saw the wildfolk harrying them, the people seeing him, the golden stag, for the first time. How terrified they were.

  Then as timed passed, he saw them kneeling before him, just as the shaman had revealed, saw again the wicker statue of the great stag adorned with flowers and bowls of fruit. The people paying him tribute and him blessing them in return, bringing fertility to their crops and wombs. He felt a flush of joy.

  “As their numbers grew,” Forest continued, “as the people flourished, they wanted more … they always want more. They’re wicked, greedy creatures.”

  Samson witnessed their small villages spring up about the land, watched the people living off the forest, struggling to survive in a harsh, unforgiving world as any creature might. “I see no wickedness, only creatures trying to claw out a space for themselves.”

&nbs
p; “There is more.”

  A memory flashed—the wicker stag burning, men with their faces painted like the shaman, like Mamunappeht. And above them, Mamunappeht, standing upon a cliff, laughing.

  Samson heard the demons growl behind him in the skull. “No more, I have seen enough. I—”

  “See the truth, Father!” Forest snapped. “Mamunappeht had discovered the power of Pawpaw. He lusted for its fruit. You were in his way, so he gave the people a taste of our magic, showing them the wonderful things they could do with it, the miracles they could perform.” Forest grimaced. “They craved more, as Mamunappeht knew they would. He showed them how the magic was in our blood and they came after us!”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “You are the master of your own memories now. See for yourself. It is all there for you to find. They had fire, they had weapons and traps. The wildfolk were no match.”

  Samson saw crazed men with painted faces hunting the wildfolk with nets—brutal and ruthless. Saw the wildfolk in cages, their dead bodies drained of their precious blood. Samson tried to look away but found it impossible to turn from his own memories. He felt the demons within the mask growing restless.

  “Devils! Devils everywhere!” Samson cried.

  “No, not everywhere. You, you, Father. You are no devil. Look, see what I did to you!”

  Samson saw the great Pawpaw towering above him, its bloodred leaves shimmering against the glow of the full moon. Hundreds of wildfolk circling the tree, circling him, dancing and prancing and chanting. The smell of blood hit him. The wildfolk were cutting themselves, gathering their blood in a large bowl. Forest stepped forward, his fur stained bright crimson. He brought forth nine of Pawpaw’s fruits, sliced them into halves, squeezing the bloody pulp into the large bowl, mixing it with theirs. The wind picked up as Forest held the bowl out to Samson, beckoning him to drink. Chanting, all of them chanting for him to drink. The wind began to howl and Samson drank, the blood going down his throat like fire.

  “The potion was meant to give you strength to fight the demon, Mamunappeht, to drive him away, to save the tree. That is what I told you then. But it was more.”

  Again, Samson saw the burning statue, just as the shaman had shown him, the air full of smoke and dreadful screams. He smelled the blood, saw the mutilated bodies—hundreds of them, men, women, and children. Saw the raw looks of terror as they ran, ran away from him—him! “No,” Samson moaned. “No!” And the demons within the skull moaned with him.

  Forest shook his head. “I want to tell you that what happened that night—the spell sending you into that frenzy the way it did. That it was not deliberate, that I did not will it so. And for so long I told myself this, believed it, but I see now that I … that all of us, the wildfolk, that we were so full of hate and vengeance that we put that hate into that potion … put that poison into you. You were the lord of the forest, the balance, and what we did was so against your nature, against Mother Earth herself, that it tore your soul apart.” Forest paused, his eyes distant. “We paid for our offense. We all did, but none more than you.”

  And suddenly, Samson felt as though he were actually there, on the ground amongst the burning huts and mutilated bodies, as the cries and acrid smoke drifted around him. He tried to get up, could not. His head felt as though it were splitting, his heart drumming. Again and again he tried to stand, but it was as though two of him were wrestling for control, fighting, tugging, pushing until finally utter exhaustion set in and Samson just lay there panting. A cloaked figure approached, leaned over him, and chuckled. The figure pushed back its hood, revealing a painted face with dark scars running down its features. “Mamunappeht,” Samson whispered as the scene faded.

  “Yes, the true demon,” Forest spat. “He’d been skulking in the shadows, biding his time, his play.”

  “Sleep … he brought me sleep,” Samson whispered. “Peace, sanctuary. The spiders.” And with that, Samson saw them again, the spiders. “Sleep … give it to me.”

  “No!” Forest shouted, and slapped the skull. “Are you not curious as to why your own head is here on this wall? Why the great Pawpaw is now but a charred ruin?”

  “No,” Samson whispered. “No more!”

  “Well, you will know! You will know all of it! After Mamunappeht put his spell on you, he chopped off your head, your very head, and burned your body. Your skull here is testament to that! With you out of his way he came for the tree, for Pawpaw, for us. The wildfolk gathered before the tree. We made our stand, and there we paid the price for our wrongs, our sin against you and Mother Earth, for we were no match for Mamunappeht and his frenzied disciples. They slaughtered us!” The fire went out of Forest’s voice. “But the tree was not to be his. No, Mother Earth would never allow such. The sky began to howl and thunder and a blast of lightning struck the tree, igniting its trunk … burning it to the ground.” Forest was weeping now. “Mother Earth took Pawpaw from us, from all of us.”

  Samson groaned, and the demons within groaned with him.

  “Father, it is time to—”

  A clack echoed down the cavern.

  Forest glanced behind, then back at Samson, his face frantic. “Father, the pit, the eye, you remember?” He spoke rapidly. “When we brought you back, I now know what happened. Why you are so tortured! Your soul, it was shattered by the potion, by our blood magic all those years ago. So, when we brought you back in the pit, you were not whole; part of you was left behind, here, in this skull.” Forest rapped the skull twice. “There was never a chance for your heart and soul to come together and heal!” Forest glanced fretfully toward the tunnel. “Hear me, understand. You must understand. You are here, in this skull, all of you, all the pieces!”

  The demons in the skull began to hiss and stomp, coming closer and closer.

  “It is up to you, only you, to find them and bind them. Find the stag, Father. Free yourself! There’ll be no more chances. Come out now, or the last of the wildfolk, your children, Abitha, your very soul will be lost forever! Face yourself! Now!”

  Mamunappeht appeared in the cavern entranceway. In one hand he held a staff with a web-shaped net strung between the forked tip. The web glistened as though sticky. In the other hand he held a sack. Something was squirming within.

  “I’m so glad to find you here,” the shaman said to Forest. “You and your friends.” He shook the sack, and Samson could hear Sky and Creek whimpering. “I’d feared all your kind gone.” Mamunappeht smiled and entered the cavern. “Feared my days all but over. But not anymore. No, your blood and the blood of your brethren will see me through, will bring these tired old bones back to life.” He grinned savagely. “And it seems this day is full of gifts. Your friends shared a secret with me. Though I will admit it took a bit of pain and sorcery to pull it out of them.”

  It was then that Samson noticed the bloodstains seeping through the sack.

  “But what a secret it was!” Mamunappeht continued. “Well worth my effort.” His eyes narrowed to mere slits. “I have won, little beast. After all these years, it’s mine. The pawpaw is mine. There will be no stopping me now. I will rule the land, the forest, the people, all the people. They will learn to kneel before me.”

  Forest jumped to the floor, darted left, then right, tried to leap past the man, but the man moved uncannily quick, intercepting Forest and catching him in his net. Forest screamed and flailed as though the net burned him, but couldn’t escape. The shaman slammed Forest to the ground, planting his foot atop his neck, pinning him to the dirt.

  “Face the demons, Father,” Forest cried. “Face them now!”

  Mamunappeht chuckled. “The stag cannot hear you. He is gone and this time for good. Where I am sending him there will be no coming back.”

  The shaman withdrew a knife.

  “Stop!” Samson shouted. “Stop this!” He pressed forward, pushing his face against the skull from within the skull. His demons began to howl, the sound cutting to Samson’s core, and he wailed with them.


  The shaman stared at the skull, shocked. “No!” he cried. “You cannot be awake!” His eyes alighted on the crumbled mask in the dirt and his tone changed—low, deep, soothing. “Sleep! You must sleep. It is your only salvation.”

  “Father!” Forest screamed. “You must—”

  Mamunappeht pressed his foot harder, choking Forest’s words away. The shaman reached down with his free hand and picked up the mask, placing it back on the skull. And when he did, all became muffled and the spiders came rushing in, like a wave of shadows, smothering Samson in their soothing embrace.

  Samson’s vision dimmed and the demons within quieted, drifting away from him.

  “Sleep.” Samson heard the words from somewhere far-off—so sweet, so seductive. “Only sleep will stop the murder, the misery. Only sleep will stop your pain. Now sleep.”

  Samson struggled to stay awake, but the shaman’s words were like hands tugging him down, deeper and deeper into the darkness, the sweet, warm darkness.

  “Sleep,” the man purred. “Only sleep will stop Hobomok.”

  Hobomok. Hobomok. The word echoed about in the skull, Hobomok, pricking at Samson, then stabbing at him, slowly mounting in volume. Hobomok. Hobomok. HOBOMOK!

  I am not Hobomok.

  Samson felt them return, the demons; they were right behind him in the skull. He could feel their hunger, their growing fury, feel their hot breath on his neck. They began to growl, snarl, then rage, and as they raged, the spiders began to fall away and Samson could see once more, see the skulls of the wildfolk, see the shaman, the gleeful sneer upon his face as he squeezed the life from the opossum.

  It is you … you that are the Hobomok. Not I!

  And with that Samson turned and faced his demons.

  He saw a great stag, glowing brilliant gold, and another great stag, with smoke rising from its charred fur, its head but a skull. Their hands about each other’s necks as they struggled to strangle the other from existence.