Slewfoot

by Brom

  “We are one,” Samson said, and reached for them. The moment his hands touched them, there came a brilliant flash of heat and light and pain, and all three howled. A multitude of memories, feelings, emotions rushed in, colliding, swelling inside the skull, inside him, swirling together and pressing, pushing, until finally, slowly, their howls came together and the three voices became one, the three souls one.

  Samson blinked, not knowing where he was, then the cave swam back into focus and he realized he was still within the skull. He saw Mamunappeht wrestling with Forest, trying to slice open his neck.

  “Hobomok,” Samson growled, and pressed against the skull, harder, then harder. He felt a small pop, felt the skull crack, followed by a stab of pain to his forehead, and suddenly he could hear Forest screaming and snarling.

  Forest bit Mamunappeht. The shaman cried out, then stabbed Forest in the chest—once, twice.

  “NO!” Samson howled, pressing harder; it felt as though his own skull were splitting. There came another crack and a pop followed by searing pain, yet still he pressed on. The mask began to tremble.

  The shaman looked up, brows knotted. “Stop!” He stabbed Forest once more, then leapt over, slapping his hands on the skull, trying to hold it together.

  Samson pushed and pressed, felt another snap, another. The skull began to crumble beneath the shaman’s hands. Samson felt himself growing, expanding; there came a great release and the pain disappeared. The darkness, that feeling of being within, of being trapped, evaporated, and he was there, in the cavern, lying on the ground amongst the shattered remains of his own skull.

  Mamunappeht fell back, his eyes full of dread and confusion. “No!”

  Samson’s heart drummed. He stood, sucked in a chestful of air, and let out a long deep growl. He set his eyes on the shaman. “I am the shepherd and I am the slayer. I am life and I am death!”

  The shaman jabbed his hand into a pouch strung about his waist, pulled out a handful of yellow powder, and flung it into Samson’s face. He began shouting a barrage of jumbled words at Samson, scoring symbols in the air with his finger.

  The powder stung and Samson stumbled back into the wall. The world blurred, then slowly came back into focus, and when it did, the shaman was crawling up the wall, his arms and legs split in twos, then fours, giving him eight limbs, his eyes to four, then six. He cackled as he scuttled across the roof of the cavern.

  Samson tried to keep him in his sight, became dizzy, almost falling into the fire. Something struck him in the back of the neck—a deep searing pain.

  Another wild cackle from the shaman.

  Samson spotted him; he held a small spear, the tip black and sticky. Samson grabbed for him but fell, landing in the fire. He rolled out of the flames and again the shaman jabbed him with the spear, the tip going deep into his side. Samson let out a groan; his legs buckled and he collapsed, falling against the wall, amongst the masks and skulls, the shaman’s cackling echoing in his head.

  “The masks!” someone cried. “Destroy the masks!” It was Forest. Samson looked at the skulls, not understanding.

  “Smash the skulls!” Forest screamed.

  Samson slammed the side of his fist into the nearest mask, the skull beneath shattering like an eggshell. A plume of black smoke escaped along with a mournful wail. It dissipated as it drifted upward, fading away, but not before Samson glimpsed a face in that smoke—that of a wildfolk.

  The shaman’s cackling ceased. “No!” he shouted.

  Samson smashed four more in quick succession; when he did, his vision and his mind became a touch clearer.

  Mamunappeht clutched his head and let out a scream.

  Samson pulled himself up onto his feet, smashed another and another, all that he could reach, and with each one felt his legs growing steadier beneath him.

  Mamunappeht lunged for Samson, trying to jab him again, but this time he wasn’t so quick, and Samson managed to knock the spear away.

  Samson shoved the shaman back and stumbled around the room, smashing every skull he came to, dozens and dozens of them, and with each skull he felt his mind clearing, his strength returning.

  The shaman let out a long wail and slid down the wall, landing in a heap next to the fire. His array of limbs slowly returning to their original form. And with each mask that Samson smashed, the shaman aged. His hair fell out along with his teeth, his limbs withered, his skin wrinkled and turned sallow, shriveling up until dry as parchment.

  Samson smashed the last mask, and when he did, the shaman let out a final moan, a weak, frail sound, and crumbled into a heap of dust and bones.

  Samson stood to his full height, his heart drumming with vigor, the pain, the spiders, the torment, all gone from his head and heart. He spotted Forest on the ground, the dirt dark with his blood. Samson dropped to one knee next to him, setting his hand on the creature’s arm.

  Forest looked up at him. “You just might make a good devil yet.” He grinned, then the tiny sparks in his eyes flittered out and he stilled.

  Samson heard a muffled whine coming from the wiggling bag. He tugged it over and opened it. Creek and Sky came tumbling out. They saw Forest and went to him, both of them trying to get him to wake up. But he didn’t wake and Samson knew he never would.

  Samson scooped up Forest’s body and carried him from the cave. Creek and Sky followed him.

  Ghostly clouds drifted across the night sky and the early moon cast all in its murky glow.

  Samson climbed atop a large boulder overlooking the valley and set Forest’s body upon its crest. He spotted the village below, threw back his head, and howled, the haunting sound echoing up and down the hollow.

  Faces peered out from the huts below, terrified faces. Samson smiled. “I am the shepherd and I am the slayer. I am life and I am death.”

  * * *

  Abitha hung upside down. She was not asleep, not awake, but somewhere in between, fading in and out of darkness.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Abitha opened her eyes, hoping for rain, some relief from the stifling heat. It was night again; they’d lit torches and placed them all around the corral.

  Abitha tried to swallow but couldn’t, her throat and tongue swollen. She could barely breathe, knew she was slowly suffocating. Her head ached, her face throbbing from the pressure. But at least her arms and legs had gone numb, the rope bindings so tight as to cut off the circulation. Blood ran from her nose into her eyes, making everything appear red and fuzzy. She could hear the guards, make out their shapes over in the stable. A few appeared to be sleeping. The scene faded in and out.

  Something flew past her face, the lightest touch, like a feather. A black shape landed on the post next to her. It had the face of a child. “Sky,” she tried to say, but no sound came from her parched and swollen throat. Sky was smiling at her. A kindly smile. He nodded his head up and down.

  Samson? she thought. Samson is coming.

  Her vision blurred, went dark, then returned, but the raven, it was gone, and she wondered if it had been real.

  Someone was there, hard to see, a tall dark shape. Samson? It’s Samson. Oh, she thought, at last. Only it wasn’t Samson. It was Norton. He stood staring at her, swaying slightly as though drunk, his eyes bleary, his face blank, his mouth half-open. He held something in his hand—something familiar. He stepped closer and held the item up: something on a rope.

  Oh, God, Abitha thought, and managed to let out a weak groan. It was her cat, Booka. He dangled the dead animal in front of her.

  “Witch,” Norton spat. “I am not afraid of you. You hear me?” His words were slurred, his breath smelling of rum. He took the cat and tied it to her so that it hung against her face. “You two can go to Hell together. You hear me?”

  She didn’t answer, couldn’t. The world was fading again, just the drumming of her pulse in her ears, fading … fading … then blackness.

  Blackness.

  Pain, stabbing pain. The blackness dissipated like smok
e. Abitha found a face staring into hers; it came slowly into focus. It was Garret. He was crouched down before her. He held a long knife in his hand. He grinned. “See there. Told you she’s not dead.”

  “She is,” Norton said.

  “She’s not. Here, I’ll show you.” Garret jabbed the knife into Abitha’s cheek. Abitha flinched. “See there.”

  Norton squinted. “Oh … damn.”

  “Well, how long is this going to take?” a paunchy guard named Richard asked. “I am tired of sitting around this dung heap of a village.”

  “Hard to say. I’ve seen them last four or five days.”

  “F … four or five days?” Richard stammered. “God … and we have to stay here until she dies?”

  Garret nodded. “Captain’s orders.”

  “Sure, easy enough for him, he’s not the one having to sleep out here on the ground. Nay, him and that lump-of-lard magistrate, they’re all comfy over at Ansel’s house, drinking their goddamn cider.” Richard jabbed Abitha, sending her spinning. “Do us a favor, woman, and hurry up with the dying. I’ve better things to do than sitting around watching you expire.”

  “Do you really want her to hurry it up?” Garret asked, a sly grin on his face.

  Richard squinted at Garret. “What do you mean?”

  Garret glanced back to the barn. “I mean, Jacob is asleep. So, if she were to expire right now, say … mayhap … if she were to suffocate on her tongue or such, there’d not be any questions, that’s all.”

  Richard glanced around, nodded. “True.”

  Garret put away his knife and pulled out his handkerchief, wadded it into a ball, and held it in front of Abitha’s face. “She does not appear to be breathing well. Does she?”

  “Not at all,” Richard added. “Why, looks to me that she’s suffocating.”

  “How about you, Norton?” Richard asked. “Does she look like she’s suffocating to you?”

  Norton glanced back and forth between the two men; his brows knotted up. “Huh?”

  Richard nudged him, winked.

  “Oh,” Norton said. “Oh … yeah. All right. Yeah, she’s suffocating.”

  Garret clutched the back of Abitha’s head and shoved his entire handkerchief into her mouth.

  Abitha tried to pull away, but Richard grabbed her, held her tight as Garret clasped his hand over her mouth and pinched her nostrils shut.

  “Time to go to sleep,” Richard said.

  Abitha saw a dark shape come up behind Norton. There came a thud and Norton collapsed to his knees. The dark shape had long horns and held a tomahawk. It struck Norton again and Norton fell over face-first into the dirt.

  Samson! Abitha thought.

  Samson stood there, somehow bigger, his horns no longer those of a goat, but now magnificent black antlers, his eyes no longer silver, but gold, and they gleamed in the torchlight. He grinned at the men.

  Garret leapt to his feet. “What in the Hell?” He grabbed for his sword, but before he could get it half out of his scabbard, Samson knocked him in the face with the tomahawk, sending the man reeling to the ground.

  “Devil!” Richard screamed, fumbling for his pistol as he stumbled backward toward the stables. The weapon went off, a blinding blast kicking up the dirt right in front of Abitha. Richard turned and ran into the stables, not stopping, but running all the way through and out the other side.

  Jacob awoke, jumping to his feet, staring at Samson, his eyes wide with terror and disbelief.

  “The Devil has come for you!” Samson roared. “For your blood and for your bones!”

  Jacob turned and fled, following Richard from the stable.

  Garret struggled to get to his feet. Samson strolled over, swung his tomahawk high over his head, and brought it down in the middle of Garret’s back. Abitha heard the man’s spine crack. Garret cried out, fell forward, and lay still.

  Samson lifted his head to the sky and howled.

  Abitha would’ve grinned if not for the handkerchief in her mouth, if she could but stay awake, but the darkness took her once more.

  * * *

  Abitha sucked in a deep breath of sweet air. Another. Coughed. I can breathe, she thought, and opened her eyes. Samson’s face swam into focus. She found herself lying on the ground, cradled in his arms. She lifted a hand to touch his face and realized her bindings were gone, that the pressure, the terrible pressure was gone, that she was free from the ropes, from the tree. She touched him. “You’re real.”

  “It is good to see you again, my friend,” Samson said. There was a faint smile on his face, but his golden eyes were solemn. Again, she noted how different he was, his face, closer to that of a noble stag, but it wasn’t just his appearance that had changed, but also his manner, a sureness that wasn’t there before.

  She tried to sit up, but a blinding pain stabbed at her legs. She winced and looked down at her twisted limbs.

  “I am a bit broken, it seems.”

  “Yes.”

  Sky flew past and landed on the fence post; a moment later Creek appeared, swam up, and floated next to the raven. They both looked at her sadly.

  Abitha heard a muffled cry, saw Garret trying to crawl away, but it seemed something was wrong with his back. He was whimpering like a child. She felt no sympathy, none at all, only an overwhelming desire to go over and finish him.

  Samson followed her glare. “Abitha, what do you want?”

  She managed a smile. “This again?”

  “I see vengeance in your eye.”

  It is so much more than vengeance, she thought, knowing it was deeper, something on some primal level, a need not just to kill this man, but to hear him scream as she butchered him.

  “You can have it,” Samson said. “Their blood. If that is what you want.”

  Her eyes returned to Samson.

  “Abitha, I know who I am.”

  Yes, she thought, I can see that. It was part of why he looked different. The confusion, the torment, it was gone from his eyes.

  “I am the Father of the wildfolk, the guardian of Mother Earth. I am the shepherd and I am the slayer. I am life and I am death.”

  She nodded. “Aye, my mother spoke of you. You are the great horned god.”

  “We do not always get to choose our own paths. But you, Abitha, you do get to choose.”

  Samson reached over to where Norton lay upon the ground beside them and pulled the man’s knife from his belt. Samson ran the sharp blade across his own palm, and Abitha watched, mesmerized, as his black blood pooled in his cupped hand.

  “My blood offers you a choice.” He dabbed the tip of his finger into the blood and wiped it down her forehead and along the bridge of her nose. When he did, her pain receded, not much, but enough to clear her head. The blood did more, it opened her senses to the night, and she became aware of a presence—something not of this world, something savage and dreadful—circling her, slithering in the earth beneath her. The serpent, she thought. It seemed to be waiting to claim her. This terrified her, yet at the same time, some part of her wanted it to take her. She felt its promise of power and prowess. Why be the rabbit, it seemed to ask, when you can be the wolf?

  “I can carry you away from here,” Samson said. “And you can continue your life the best that you are able … a cripple for the rest of your days.”

  Abitha shuddered.

  “There is another choice. You could take my blood and walk by my side.”

  She stared at the blood in his hand.

  “But you must know that if you take this blood … there’ll be more blood. Mother Earth resurrected me to protect her, and I intend to slaughter any who threaten her or her children. If you walk with the beast you become the beast. That is the choice before you.”

  Abitha heard men shouting in the distance, knew they’d be coming for her soon. She thought of those men and what they’d done and felt her rage returning. Norton grunted, appeared to be coming around. She looked at him, then her eyes found Booka’s corpse, and the hatred
blazed in her chest, so much so she began to tremble. And how, she wondered, would I be able to live with such hatred? Day after day, eating away at my very sanity until the moment I died.

  Samson studied her quivering hands. “I am not the tempter, nor would I deceive you. This has to be your decision. It has to come from your heart or the spell will not bind. And once you cross that line there is no return. My blood will run in your veins. You will be one with the serpent and the beast.” He nodded toward Norton. “You will be at odds with your own people, your teachings, with your Christ God. It is not an easy thing to turn your back on—”

  Abitha laughed. “You think me worried about my soul?” She laughed again, loud and fierce, locking blazing eyes on Samson. “I’ve no soul left,” she growled. “They’ve crucified my fucking soul!” Her voice cracked and hot angry tears began to flow. “This is about blood. This is about hunting Wallace down and killing him even if it takes my last breath. Two eyes for an eye. If I can kill him twice, three times, four times, I’ll do it, and each time I will dance a jig of joy upon his bloody corpse.” She wiped the snot from her upper lip. “I want to burn them to the ground. All of them. All of it. Their church, their commandments, their covenants, their rules, edicts, and laws, their fields, their homes, and most of all their fucking bonnets and aprons. I want to hollow them out, make them know what it is to lose everything, everything, to lose their very soul!”

  Samson showed no surprise at the venom in her reply. He simply nodded as though expecting nothing else. He extended his cupped hand of blood to her. “My blood is the first step. Drink.”

  Abitha seized his wrist and despite all her bold words, there, at the last, she hesitated. “I have no choice,” she whispered, almost pleading. “You understand? My soul will never be at peace, not so long as such evil as these men walk the earth.” At this point she was talking more to herself than to Samson. “Abitha is dead, they killed her, all that is left is wrath and malice … my restless soul. Do you understand?”

  Again, Samson nodded.