Gillian's Marsh

by Faun, Michael

  An unruly wind howled outside, whipping flurries of snow against the window. Grandmother's rocking chair creaked in the corner of the dimly lit room where embers were withering in the hearth.

  “When?”

  “In due time, my boy, with plenty of logs to keep us warm the whole winter,” His mother's cool hand gently stroked his flushed cheek.

  “Who says they will return at all, Mehitabel...?” came grandmother's grating voice. “A venture out to Gillian's Marsh might be a perilous affair. Especially in bitter winter times, when the old tree's athirst...”

  “Hush, mother, are you trying to scare the boy to death?”

  “What tree, grandma?”

  Mehitabel sighed and shook her head, resuming her needlework as grandmother let out a hoarse chuckle and begun, “Why, the Blood Oak, of course...”

  Reiterman awoke with a gasp in his bed, shirt and trousers drenched in sweat.

  “That's it!” he cried as he jumped out of the crumpled sheets and hurried downstairs to the foyer. It was pitch dark outside. Flinging his coat, hat and boots on, he glanced at the Longcase clock which showed 1.44 a. m.—indicating a nap gone out of hand.

  Yet, he smirked victoriously as he left the old Burnham Manor and with swift footsteps headed toward the groggery where the drink-ridden sergeant constable tended to spend his hours off-duty.

  Entering the loud and smoky establishment, he immediately spotted the stalwart Walloon stooped over one of the tables, one hand on his tankard and the other around a plump-chested dame. His cross-eyed grin tittle-tattled about his current state of mind.

  Reiterman removed his gloves and cleared his throat, advancing the table by which his inferior was seated. “Sergeant Constable.”

  Delcroix drunkenly looked up from the table. “Sir?” he slurred and stood, supporting himself on the high-back chair.

  Reiterman waved off the female companion and eyed Delcroix from head to toe. “Get yourself some coffee, gather your constables and saddle the horses. We're riding to Gillian's Marsh within the hour.”

  “What? Why, sir, what's going on?”

  “We're going to chop down a tree...”

  * * *

  Red slammed opened the door to the log cabin and barged straight into the boys' room, “Boys! Wake up!” he cried and rattled their rickety bunk bed.

  The triplets startled awake, staring confusedly at their wild-eyed father who bolted out into the kitchen.

  “Pappy, what's wrong?” Silver asked and nervously glanced at his brothers in the bunks below.

  Jimbo was dragging himself out of his bed, picking his nose.

  Dwayne clenched his jaws, scratching the back of his head.

  “Come d'reckly to the kitchen!”

  A single candle lit up the kitchen table where Red sat frantically flipping through James Graham's black bible. He carefully eyed his sons as they cautiously entered the shadowy room.

  “What's the matter, pappy? Where's ma?” Dwayne asked and sat down in his usual chair.

  Silver and Jimbo got seated on each of his sides.

  “What's that book?” Silver chimed in.

  “This, boys...,” Red paused and looked each of them hard in the eye, “is the Swanson family bible and it'll keep them devils and demons away.”

  “What've we done wrong?”

  “Nothin', Jimbo. You boys ain't done nothin'—but yer mama did.” Red hung his head and set the bible down slowly. “See, that preachin' man who's here before, talkin' ill about her, was right. Every darn word... a truth. I saw it myself; she's the Devil's harlot. A witch. And we must kill her.”

  “Kill ma?” Silver's face twisted to a horrified frown, as did his brothers', but they kept their silence.

  “'Fraid so, son, it says so right here.” Red jabbed his finger at a passage in the bible spread open before him. “You shall not suffer a witch to live.”

  * * *

  Dull clatter of hoofs sounded in the woods as Reiterman, Delcroix, and two constables rode their horses past looming trees and mossy boulders, illuminated only by a crescent moon.

  Four heavy axes had been brought for the planned felling of the mythical Blood Oak, which none of the quartet had the foggiest idea where it was situated, other than that it was supposed to stand in a clearing south-east of Gillian's Marsh.

  “Sir, are you sure this is a good idea?” Delcroix whispered wearily. “I mean, with all due respect, ain't this bleeding oak just an old ghost tale to keep children from wandering off into the woods by themselves?”

  “Balderdash, Delcroix. That tree's as real as you and I.” Reiterman craned his neck and shot the semi-drunk sergeant a defiant look. “'Tis the root to the pestilence in Gillianswick, hiding somewhere in these forsaken backwoods.”

  The deeper they trotted into the gloomy forest, the more nervous the thoroughbred horses became. Soon they reached a glassy pond in which a giant lichen stone stood erect. The animals ground to a complete halt and wouldn't move an inch further no matter how hard their masters spurred them on.

  “We'll tie up the horses here and continue on foot.” Reiterman dismounted his horse and glanced like a hawk across the murky perimeter, curious what was scaring the horses to such a degree. “You believe me now, Delcroix?” he retorted when a large jackdaw crowed and took off from a branch above.

  Tying his horse to a tree, Delcroix was quiet and pale from his creeping hangover as well as a case of the heebie-jeebies. He nodded and wiped pearls of sweat from his forehead.

  “Sir!” one of the constables gasped and pointed toward a wall of silver leaves drooping from a creek maple near the pond.

  All four men tensed, eyes locked on the maple.

  Reiterman slowly drew his 1861 Colt Navy from his holster and aimed it at the shimmery curtain, watching as a feeble breath of a night's breeze gently rustled the foliage.

  “Just the wind, men,” he sighed and lowered his revolver. “Grab the axes and let's get moving. I want that damn tree decapitated before noon.”

  “Yessir,” Delcroix and the two constables said in unison and unloaded the hatchets from the horses, and all in a body the quartet hiked farther into the haunting woods.

  * * *

  Not far from the marsh, armed with a shotgun, a hammer, a ten-pound stone and a rope, Red and his sons lay in wait for Louella Lee.

  “If ma's a witch... does that mean I's a witch too, pa—?”

  “Sch,” Red cut Jimbo off, “here she comes...”

  Dwayne gripped the long shaft of the hammer tightly.

  Silver, carrying the heavy stone in his clammy hands, started to shake when he saw the vague white silhouette of his mother move about among the crooked trees ahead. The sound of snapping twigs drew closer.

  Faint sobs were heard from Jimbo, the least able of the triplets thus only trusted with the rope.

  Red clenched his jaws. He lowered his head and signed for the boys to do the same. Ducking in the mossy trench, they heard Louella Lee hum a tune that made their skins crawl.

  In a moment she was passing them at less than a yard's distance.

  * * *

  “God almighty!” Delcroix cried out, cupping a hand over his fleshy red nose “Smells worse than a butcher's shop during dog-days!”

  Reiterman and his men stood gawking at the portly Blood Oak, whose gnarled branches loomed above them like curled claws ready to reach down and dig its nails into any trespasser. Its veined bark appeared unnervingly human.

  “Undeniably,” Reiterman concurred and grinned badly as he fished out a handkerchief from the outside pocket of his coat and planted it over his face, granting him the look of a bandit. “Now, Delcroix, you still want to tell me this witches' tree's just a figment of my imagination?” He approached the wide oak cautiously, shifting the weight of the large ax in his hands. “'Tis the seedling of Satan...”

  One of the constables was circling the Blood Oak in awe when he doubled over and discharged a jet of vomit. Pale as a ghost, he turned and spran
g back to the others. “S-Sir,” he stuttered and pointed shakily at the spot where he stood the moment before. “Ther—” Another fit of sickness cut his sentence short.

  The second constable helped him to sit down and gave him some water, while Reiterman and Delcroix dashed over to see what had caused such a spook.

  “Christ!” Reiterman gasped, staggering at the sight of the worm-and-fly-festering corpse that lay spread in a cradle of roots before him; it's state of decay so grave it literally oozed through the dead man's shredded clothes.

  Delcroix slumped to his knees and hurled up his preceding consumption of beer and grog.

  “Breathe through your mouth and you shall be fine, sergeant.” Reiterman put pressure on the handkerchief that covered half his face and steeled himself as he approached the dead body. On a closer look, he noticed the lack of hands and feet on the cadaver. He waved off a cluster of maggots from the last remnants of flesh with the blade of his ax and saw that the radial bone and the ulna had been cut clean off, severed, by something sharp.

  “This is the work of man,” he concluded as he stepped up to study the head. “This, however, was caused by something far more sinister.” Brutally gored, the upper part of the skull had been crushed and pierced straight through with something like a bear's claw. Half the brain was missing and the other feasted upon by crawling maggots. Though heavily clobbered, Reiterman recognized the man's shattered glasses and thick flourishing sideburns as belonging to the missing missionary. “'Tis Mr. Graham, bless his soul.”

  The men stared at Reiterman with fright in their eyes.

  Sensing another spell of retching, Delcroix tried to focus his gaze on a lump of dirt, when he noticed the small edge of something silvery gleaming through the thin layer of earth. He brushed off the grimy top soil and grasped the object which sat tightly lodged within the ground. Giving it a yank, he pulled out a silver cross necklace along with a split skull.

  Shocked, Delcroix let go of the chain, “Another corpse, sir!”

  “Why, I'm not surprised,” Reiterman coolly remarked as he strode over to the burial spot a stone's throw from the tree. “I bet my horse this whole glade is teeming with hidden bodies. I believe the Blood Oak lures the witches here, to this godless hole, where they slaughter their...” his speech trailed off as he knelt by the cranium and brought the cross to his eyes. He flipped it and cringed when he saw the initials engraved on the back. “I'll be damned...”

  “What is it, sir?” Delcroix promptly inquired.

  “The man buried here is Josiah Wishum.”

  * * *

  A trail of serpent semen trickled down Louella Lee's inner thigh as she roved through the dusky woods back to the cabin. She grinned at the fact that Red was oblivious she had left home in the first place—or that a snake had fucked her brains out an hour ago.

  Still under the influence of the scarlet-headed mushroom, every organism in the forest was alive and vibrant, the pulsating ground shifting in a million shades of saturated greens.

  She was singing along with the ancient hymn of the midnight breeze, when four shadows appeared from a sunken trench. She had no time to react before she was pulled to the ground and was put in a chokehold by a strong arm while her thrashing feet were tied together with a rope.

  “Quick, hammer her head!”

  An icy bolt ran through Louella Lee from the sound of Red's grating voice. She heard her sons whispering and in the next moment Dwayne stood before her, his blank eyes staring into hers as he raised a large hammer and swung it over her nose which caved in with a crack.

  A shrill noise wailed in her ears and white pinpricks permeated her vision as the brutal blow knocked her unconscious.

  “Shouldn't we set her on fire, pappy?”

  “No, just tie the stone to the rope, son. Time for a little mud bath...”

  “How far must we drag her? She's heavy...”

  “Keep haulin' 'er boys, Gillian's Marsh's not far now.”

  Falling in and out of consciousness, Louella Lee picked up fragmented conversation between Red and their sons as she was being dragged along the harsh forest floor.

  “Wh-what are you doing...? Where are you taking me?” she wheezed, her voice echoing in her head.

  “Shut yer betrayin' trap, ya witch-whore,” Red snarled and back-hand hit her across her bleeding face.

  “Pleeease! I'm your mother!” she pleaded, tears welling up thick in her black eyes.

  Dwayne grabbed her hair and hocked up a loogie right in her mouth. The snot made her choke.

  “That's right, son,” Red said and patted Dwayne's shoulder. “Don't listen to her lies. This'll keep her from poisoning yer heads with all that witch-talk.” He wrapped a dirty cloth over her mouth so that she had to breathe through her broken nose.

  The lack of oxygen struck panic in her and she tried desperately to find a way to break free from her bonds.

  To no avail.

  Her flickering eyes registered the plant life growing scarcer. Soon it died out completely to make way for the barren vegetation of the sweltering marsh. She caught a last glance at the moon, a painted ghost on a cobalt canvas, before she closed her eyes and vaulted into her inner sanctum.

  Serenity.

  The Serpent awaits...

  Her body lifted from the ground by the small hands of her own flesh and blood, abandoning their lives' seamstress. A brainless sermon spouted over her before a loud splash echoed over Gillian's Marsh.

  Slowly descending the murky depths of the marsh, long seaweed fingers wound around her body and tangled up in her flowing red hair; capturing her like a fish in a net.

  * * *

  Somber righteousness hung in the air as Red and the boys slogged back through the woods in silence. Dwayne, Silver and Jimbo shared proud glances between themselves in the wake of Red's heavy footsteps.

  “Takes a gracious plenty of guts to do what you boys just did,” Red praised without turning.

  “What we gonna' do now?” asked Jimbo, trying to keep up with his father's quick pace.

  “I dunno, Jimbo,” Red sighed, his tone edged with sadness. “I reckon we'll clear out the cabin and burn her things, offer us up a prayer, and carry on with our lives.”

  They climbed a small hillside cluttered with dried rose bushes, and were entering the black woods' trickier vegetation, when Red turned and faced the boys, his eyes glassy and bloodshot. “I's so damn proud of you three. You's grown to men now and y'all deserve a steady hit of 'shine when we get—”

  Red's speech abruptly ended. Eyes flashing alarm, he put a finger over his mouth and crouched. Loud blows of steel against wood bounced between the trees and were accompanied by the indistinct voices of two or three men. It came from the clearing surrounding the Blood Oak, not ten yards away from themselves.

  Dwayne moved closer to Red and was about to open his mouth when Red shushed him. “Git back to the trench and hide...”

  “What about you?” Dwayne whispered worriedly.

  “I'll take care of this, now git! Hurry!”

  Dwayne silently urged his puzzled brothers away from the hot spot and onto the old trail toward the camouflaged foxhole.

  Soon as the triplets were out of sight, Red un-shouldered his shotgun and crept closer to the gatecrashed hollow.

  * * *

  Splinters of red bark whirled in the air as Reiterman and his men worked with frenzied devotion, sweating profusely as they sank their axes into the Blood Oak. After the morbid discoveries of James Graham and Josiah Wishum, the quartet had executed a cursory excavation and now the clearing looked like a bush-league archaeological dig site with deep pockets full of human remains.

  Delcroix put down his hatchet for a moment and wiped his greenish face. He massaged his aching arm and shot an irritated glance at his side of the oak. After an hour worth of hacking, he hadn't hewed deeper than a foot.

  “Don't give up yet, sergeant,” Reiterman hollered over the rhythmic blows. “Grab that ax and keep cutting!”


  “Yessir,” Delcroix grumbled, a rush of indignation surging through him. What had been a long and deep admiration for the chief magistrate had lately rotted away to contempt owing to Reiterman's constant sarcasms at his expense. Picking up his ax, he gritted his teeth and was aiming a mighty strike at the gash, when a shot whined through the air and took off half his face.

  He wilted like a flower and dropped dead by the foot of the tree.

  Reiterman and the constables instinctively threw themselves on the ground, fumbling for their guns.

  Another bullet blasted from the thicket, this time sinking into the closest constable's forehead, which exploded and showered his workmate in blood and lumps of brain.

  Reiterman's eyes searched desperately for the hidden marksman while he crawled closer to the Blood Oak for cover. He mistakenly slid his body over a sharp piece of bone that tore the fabric of his coat and cut into his ribs.

  The constable coated in gore finally got his Colt Dragoon up from the holster and blindly fired several rounds into the clump of trees, buying himself a few moments to get up and leap behind a bush for shelter.

  Reiterman spotted the vague silhouette of the aggressor lurking behind a tree a few yards ahead. Heart hammering in his chest, he rounded the tree, aimed at the killer and with a rock-steady hand squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flashed as three rapid shots were discharged, backed up by another salvo from the assisting constable in the bush to his right.

  A branch was heard cracking from behind the enemy line.

  Breathing fast, Reiterman whistled to get the constable's attention.

  A dire mistake.

  The constable turned his head and lifted it slightly to get eye contact with Reiterman when a third shot roared through the hollow and reduced his head to gunpowder-coated pulp in the matter of a heartbeat. A heavy rustle sounded as the unfortunate man's body side-tilted into the shrub.

  A grating snicker was heard from the shooter, who turned on his heels and ran into the woods.