Slewfoot

by Brom

  The reverend stood up on shaky legs, his eyes distant, disturbed. “I need to go and find my Sarah,” he said, and wandered off, walking right past the wolves as though not even seeing them. The wolves glanced up from their feast, began to growl, but Samson shook his head and they let the minister pass.

  Samson knelt and gently gathered Abitha’s small body, cradling her against his chest; she weighed nothing to him. He stood, looked up at the orange autumn moon, nodded. “What must be done, will be done.” He set golden eyes on Ansel. “You will come with me.” Samson headed away, toward the gate.

  Ansel shook his head. “No,” he wheezed. “I will not. Cannot!”

  The big wolf growled, baring her teeth, taking a few menacing steps forward.

  Ansel climbed quickly to his feet and stumbled after Samson.

  Samson left the village, entered the woods, following the familiar road that led back to Abitha’s farm. Behind him, Ansel, his hands clutched to his chest in prayer, mumbled through trembling lips, as the she-wolf and her pack trailed along.

  Sky and Creek caught up with them and zipped ahead.

  As Samson walked, not a sound came from Abitha, not any sign of life. Slowly, the air around them began to change, a chilling wind blowing down from the north, pushing out the last pockets of humid air, knocking the remaining autumn leaves from their branches. The moon was now high in the sky, all the jagged fingers of the bare tree limbs clawing for its rutty glow.

  They reached Abitha’s farm, Samson walking past the cabin and the burned husk of the barn without so much as a glance. He marched through the dried cornstalks to the edge of the forest. There he hesitated, steadying himself. “I am ready,” he whispered, and entered the dark wood.

  “No,” Ansel whimpered, falling back a step. “Please, I do not want to go in there.” The wolves moved up, surrounding him, their blood-matted fur bristling.

  Ansel followed Samson into the trees.

  Samson crunched through the layers of dry leaves as he skirted the bog. When he reached the crumbling black rocks of the ancient Pawpaw, he stopped, looked up at the sapling, and let out a gasp.

  All its crimson leaves were gone, the branches bare, the limbs withered, dry, and emaciated like some starving creature. He thought if it were possible for a tree to look mournful, this one did.

  Samson wanted to look away, but didn’t. “I have failed you. I am sorry.”

  A faint woeful sound drifted out of the cave, coming from the very bottom of the pit.

  Ansel glanced from the cave to the twelve standing stones that circled the black rocks. “This is a cursed place,” he cried. “God! Oh … Jesus! Jesus, help me! Save my soul! Why will you not save me!”

  Samson turned on him. “You will be silent.… If you are not, I will tear your tongue from your mouth.”

  Ansel clamped his own hands to his mouth; tears began rolling down his cheeks as he fought not to scream.

  Cradling Abitha tightly against his chest, Samson deftly climbed the black cluster of rocks. He laid her down at the base of the sapling, amongst the dry leaves and bones—small bones, like those of the wildfolk.

  “It is time to set things to right. To make amends.” Samson sucked in a deep breath and a mournful sound came up from his throat, a low keening that slowly turned into a howl, louder, then louder, the howls drifting through the trees, into the crevasse, the earth itself, all the dark places where the dead liked to hide. He called to them, trying to awaken them.

  Sky and Creek flittered about, swimming, flying round and round Samson, their tiny eyes aglow.

  Voices began to answer, drifting up from the pit. Those of ancient beasts and wildfolk. But they were not who Samson was seeking.

  He knelt and gently slipped the chain of braided hair from around Abitha’s neck. Held it out to the moon. “I know you are near,” he called, and howled again, this time the wolves joining in, the sound echoing for miles in all directions. He felt them then and fell quiet, letting the echoes die away. He looked to the standing stones, waited.

  A ghostly shadow appeared in front of one of the stones. The shape of a woman with long hair hanging down her face. Another appeared in front of the next stone in the circle, and one by one, after that, until twelve mothers stood in front of twelve stones.

  “Three for each season, one for each cycle of the moon. The circle is complete.” Samson smiled and set the braid atop Abitha’s lifeless hand. “All is ready.” His golden eyes drifted down to Ansel, and the wolves pressed in, giving Ansel nowhere to go.

  Ansel fell to his knees, blubbering incoherently.

  Samson hopped down, grabbed the man by the arm, and dragged him back up to the sapling. He forced the trembling man to kneel before the small tree. Ansel’s bulging eyes darted everywhere, drool spilling from his mouth.

  Samson set one long sharp claw against the man’s throat. “I am the shepherd and I am the slayer. I am life and I am … death!” With that he dug his claw into the soft flesh beneath Ansel’s jaw, ripping it across, opening the man’s throat.

  Samson held Ansel as blood pumped from his neck, dousing the trunk of the sapling, spattering onto Abitha’s upturned cheek, and soaking into the ground, into the little bones all around the base of the small tree.

  “Serpent!” Samson cried. “First Mother … Mother of all Mothers. I bring you blood. I bring you tribute!”

  Samson set his golden eyes on the mothers. “Call her,” he cried, demanded. “Call her now!”

  One mother stepped forward, began to chant, and the others joined her, their voices rising, filling the night.

  Samson thrust back his head and howled, the wolves joining him.

  The wind stirred, sending the leaves swirling up all around them. Samson’s fur bristled. Something was coming; he felt it slithering deep down below, circling them, moving closer and closer.

  A hiss full of fury erupted, making the very ground rumble.

  “Mother Earth,” Samson shouted. “It is me. I have returned!”

  The mothers’ chanting built.

  A great spectral shape rose from the ground, a serpent made of smoke and shadow, its coils wrapping around the ancient stones as it rose above Samson, poised, ready to strike, its narrow red eyes cutting into his core.

  Samson gave the serpent a fierce grin, dabbed his hands into Ansel’s blood, soaking his palms. “I am the shepherd and I am the slayer,” he cried, and his golden eyes flashed, burned with an inner fire. “I am death and I am … LIFE!” He placed his hands on the sapling, clutching tightly around its trunk.

  The great serpent struck, driving into Samson, pouring into him, a roaring blast of heated air, and for a moment he felt he would be crushed beneath her power as it burned through him.

  Then she was gone, leaving Samson’s heart drumming, his entire being throbbing.

  Samson felt the stones tremble beneath him, felt the pulse of the earth, noticed something pushing its way up through the autumn debris. In all the places Ansel’s blood touched, mushrooms and then wildflowers, dozens of them, sprouting leaves, buds, then flowers of all colors. Vines crawled all over Abitha, weaving along her arms and legs, intertwining with her long auburn hair, caressing her face.

  A host of wails came from the pit below, and a menagerie of ghosts poured out from the cave—beasts and wildfolk of every description. And then the bones, the tiny bones around the sapling, began to glow, to come together, forming little skeletons, those of the wildfolk, and the skeletons, they began to dance, to jig about the tree.

  Samson laughed, a loud bellow that could be heard above the entire cacophony.

  Then one other ghost appeared, that of Abitha’s husband, Edward. He stood just outside the circle of stones. Samson saw that his spirit was again whole, his eyes no longer hollow but bright and staring sadly at Abitha. Edward started toward Abitha, drifting heavenward with each step until he swirled away and was gone like mist in the wind.

  The pulse moved up through the ground, through Samson, t
hrough his heart, into his hands, then into the sapling, pumping like blood, connecting them all. His eyes flashed and the sapling’s branches regained their rigidity, reaching for the moon, then crimson leaves began to sprout along every branch. And there, a bud sprouted upon one of the limbs. Samson gasped as two more buds appeared. All three blooming, almost blazing into radiant red flowers. The three flowers opened, petals breaking loose, floating away as though weightless, and in their place, a tiny, egg-shaped fruit appeared, quickly swelling, ripening to brilliant crimson.

  The mothers stepped forward, pulling their hair back to better see, their faces in awe. Sky and Creek squealed and raced around with the ghosts. The wolves howled, falling back, their eyes full of wonder.

  Samson reached out, touched one of the fruits, felt its heat, grasped it in both hands, and gently twisted it from the branch. “Thank you.”

  He knelt next to Abitha, and there, while the ghosts circled and the little skeletons danced, he held the fruit over Abitha’s mouth and squeezed, crushing the fruit. Bloodred pulp and juice dripped through Samson’s fingers, dripping onto Abitha’s forehead and face, slithering into her eyes, her nose, her mouth.

  “I am death and I am life, and the circle … it will go on.”

  Abitha gasped.

  EPILOGUE

  1972, somewhere in the hills of Monongahela National Forest, West Virginia

  Mike Branson knelt down and examined the tracks. “It’s a big one, for sure,” he surmised. “Has to be—look at the size of those hoofprints.”

  “I thought we were squirrel hunting,” his longtime buddy, Tim Johnson, put in. “Bucks aren’t in season.”

  “I don’t see any game wardens about. Do you?”

  “’Course not. Not out here. We’re about as far away from shit as you can get.”

  “Then I guess it’s deer season,” Mike said.

  Tim chuckled, tapped the shotgun his wife gave him last Christmas. “I guess it’s pretty much whatever-the-fuck-we-find season then.”

  “Amen to that,” Mike said, and pulled out his flask. The two men shared a swig of whiskey and then continued on.

  The tracks led them to a small stream and then up into a narrow ravine, the surrounding cliffs growing steeper as they went.

  “Oh, hell!” Tim said in a hushed voice. “Mike, look over there.” He pointed up into a nearby tree.

  “What?”

  “There!”

  Mike saw a pair of eyes staring down at them. “Is that a coon?”

  “One way to find out,” Tim said. He raised his shotgun and fired. The blast completely missed the animal, hitting the branch instead, splintering it and sending the raccoon tumbling to the ground.

  Tim chambered another round, but the animal dashed away before he could get a bead on it. He fired anyway, kicking up the dirt and leaves as the raccoon disappeared over the rise.

  Mike let out a hoot. “Now, that was some impressive shooting!” He snorted. “Being able to miss like that, at such close range, immm-pressive. Don’t let anyone be telling you otherwise.”

  “Shut up,” Tim said, snatching the flask away and taking a long draw.

  The men continued on, following the large hoofprints. The tracks led them farther up the ravine.

  “Mike, y’know, this is kinda weird, but … I’ve been all up in this valley at least a dozen times, and I don’t ever recall coming across this canyon before.”

  “Aww, you’re just drunk.”

  “I don’t know. I am pretty damn sure I’d remember this one. I mean, look along the ridge there, at all those little caves. And some of these trees and bushes and birds and shit, they’re … well … kinda strange.”

  “Shh, you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “Listen.”

  “Sounds like someone singing … a woman, I think.”

  “Yeah, I hear it. What’s a woman doing way out here?”

  “What is anyone doing way out here?”

  “Probably some goddamn hippies.”

  “Well, if it is, we’ll have to encourage them”—he tapped his shotgun—“to camp elsewheres.”

  They pressed onward, following the light song, sure whoever it was singing was just around the next bend. But each bend revealed another, and another, and they soon lost track of how far they’d come.

  “Mike, we’re going to have to turn back soon, ’less you want to spend the night out here.”

  “She’s close. I can tell.”

  “You been saying that for miles. Something ain’t right. It’s gonna be dark soon, and I’m getting a little creeped out.”

  “There.” Mike pointed. “Look … smoke.”

  A thin trail of smoke drifted up from just the other side of a large crop of boulders. The two men hiked around and found a large tree with brilliant crimson leaves—dozens of egg-shaped fruits dangling from its branches.

  “You ever seen a tree like that one before, Tim?”

  Tim didn’t answer; he was staring at the stick hut built into the wall of the canyon. The door and windows were draped in colorful curtains and beads, and dozens of small totems of bone and feathers were strung along the eaves. The song was coming from inside the hut.

  “See there, told you it was hippies.”

  The smoke rose from a firepit in front of the hut. A large iron pot hung from a spit. Something was stewing inside, and whatever it was smelled divine.

  The song stopped and the curtain covering the door ruffled; both men raised their rifles.

  A woman peered out; she had long flowing red hair and mesmerizing green eyes and wore a necklace of braids. “Hello, gentlemen,” she said in a low, soothing tone. “I am very glad to see you. I do not get much company out here.”

  Mike and Tim exchanged a glance.

  “You out here by yourself?” Mike asked.

  She laughed. “Nay, of course not. I have the birds and flowers, the trees and snakes, the fairies and the frogs, and all of Mother Earth’s impish wonders. So many friends.”

  The smoke shifted then, even though there was no wind; its ghostly tendrils drifted and coiled around them. Mike inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet scent, and when he did, he felt a calmness, a passivity steal over him.

  “I was about to start dinner. Would you two like to join me?”

  Both men nodded. Mike smiled, thinking how with this woman being all alone and so far away from everything, well … who knew where things might go.

  And as though reading his thoughts, the woman gave him an alluring smile. “You gentlemen appear tired from your long hike. Why don’t you set down your rifles and take a little nap before dinner?”

  Upon hearing that, Mike suddenly felt his eyelids drooping. “That sounds good,” he said. “Real good.” His rifle slipped from his hand and he lay down in the sand, and so did Tim—right in front of the fire.

  The woman stepped out from behind the curtain, and it was then that Mike saw her legs were those of a goat. Thought What a shame, because he didn’t much want to screw a woman with goat legs. He also noticed that she had small horns growing out from her forehead. But none of it mattered much to him now, as what he most wanted in the world was just to sleep.

  Then Mike noticed something else: a fish. It came swimming out of the hut.

  That ain’t right, he thought.

  Then he saw that it had a face, like a small child, that it was grinning at him with needlelike teeth.

  “That certainly ain’t right.”

  A raven alighted on the woman’s shoulder, and sure enough, it had one of them little-kid heads too. But there were more of them, so many more, and they were suddenly everywhere—crawling, swimming, floating, scampering out of the bushes, the rocks, every little crack and crevice, all colors, shapes, and sizes. Some looked like several animals twisted together, others like tiny little naked people with insect wings and sparkling skin.

  “What … in … the … hell?”

  The woman walked up to the men, peered down at
them. “Oh, and I forgot to mention. Samson will be joining us soon.”

  “Samson?” Mike muttered, his words slurred. “Who’s Samson?”

  “The Devil.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, a huge thank-you to my editors, Diana Gill and Kelly Lonesome. Some books come easy; others are much more work. This book started off as a struggle, but thanks to the expertise and guidance of these two phenomenal editors, I found the story I truly wanted to tell.

  To Bethany Reis for her editorial expertise, her diligence, and for catching so many of my blunders.

  To Savannah Tenderfoot at Salt & Sage Books for lending her expertise and perspective on the Pequot people.

  To Evan Pritchard for his historical expertise.

  An additional round of appreciation goes to my beta readers, K. M. Alexander and Redd Walitzki.

  And always, a big thank-you to Julie Kane-Ritsch, for her friendship and guidance.

  NIGHTFIRE BOOKS BY BROM

  Slewfoot

  ALSO BY BROM

  Lost Gods

  Krampus

  The Child Thief

  The Devil’s Rose

  The Plucker

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  For decades, BROM has lent his distinctive vision to all facets of the creative industries, from novels and games to comics and film. His books include Lost Gods, Krampus: the Yule Lord, The Child Thief, and the award-winning illustrated horror novels The Plucker and The Devil’s Rose. Brom is currently kept in a dank cellar somewhere just outside Seattle, Washington.

  Visit him online at bromart.com, or sign up for email updates here.

  facebook.com/Brom.Artist.