The Fiends in the Furrows

by David Neal

  The road from my home was gravel and hard earth, but already it seemed to soften under my steps and grow dim beneath rising mist.

  “Like to know a secret about your town leader?” she asked.

  I acknowledged that I’d love to know Pastor Wright’s secrets.

  “Your pastor drugs the snakes,” Rosalie said, enjoying my eagerness. “The vipers he keeps are harmless, much like a growling bull dog with no claws or teeth.”

  “Those rattlers got teeth aplenty,” I countered. “I seen ‘em, I been bit by one!”

  “Yes, the snakes retain fangs, but their venom glands are removed. Only parishioners that need be taught his lessons are ‘bit,’ and sometimes unfortunate others, just to keep the rest of the congregation honest to him.”

  The perplexity on my face must’ve been obvious as a cannon blast.

  She continued. “It’s Creighton Wright himself who bites people. He’s got a needle hidden up his sleeve that’s double-pronged to match the width of snake teeth. It’s filled with rattler juice, and he sticks folks while they’re clambering around him, half-frenzied and clutching snakes, so it’s not noticed he’s the real culprit. People can rile themselves up as much as any rampaging spirit.”

  I thought of Wright and how large he was, wallowing in the center of us poor, teeming sinners who were unable to see from one side of his girth to the other. He could block our sight with one hamhock arm and we’d be none the wiser while he pricked someone.

  “But why?”

  “The usual cravings: power, ambition. Wright hails from Swannanoa, though he was cast out years ago, trying to supplant certain factions. He’s a dwarf of a man with a giant’s measure of himself.”

  “Go on.”

  She did. “Your former pastor was a faithful man, kept the river strong between our sides. And he died first at Wright’s hand. Now the waters of the Nolichucky are shallowed to puddles.”

  And so it was, for I saw the once-mighty river far beneath us, a bare and cracked thing, winding between two worlds with no less impactful a boundary than a cobweb before charging steeds. Around us, the night shone brilliant, and flecks of gold and rubies twinkled in the sky, and planets and suns moved aside as we passed.

  “You possess good qualities, Davey. Attributes I find attractive.”

  I blushed that she’d find anything attractive in me compared to Luke Holder. I asked, “And what’re those?”

  “Your imperfections.”

  I blanched. “Imperfections, like my flaws?”

  “Aren’t flaws what make men beautiful?”

  “I’m not beautiful.”

  “You are to me,” she said, and my heart filled my mouth.

  We arrived in Swannanoa, and what I saw seemed nothing like Whaleyville, nothing like any town I’d ever known. Tall stone buildings crumbled at their tops, like towers long ago marred in siege. The walls were slick with dark lichen, their doors and windows mere openings rough-cut in masonry that showed distant fires burning within. The town slumbered in gloom as if being peered at through shadow wisps.

  And it all swept by as a moving picture in fast motion.

  Rosalie continued. “I have walked among you and chosen five whose qualities I love.”

  At this, my heart sank that I was not alone in her favor. “So you’re sweet on five of us who are flawed? Wright must be the love of your life.”

  “Wright is too wound up in his own beliefs. He is wicked, yes, but not…obedient.”

  Rosalie’s face was still of beauty, still of midnight longings, but I felt confused, beguiled, even with her arms linked around me, and we swirling though shadow wisps, the way I first saw her swirl at the barn dance.

  And the sore, vindictive voice whispered in my mind, Life ain’t been fair since that revival…

  We arrived at the end of roads, the bedrock of dreams, the crossroads of light and dark. There was no signage, but I knew it was the fabled church we feuded with, the one Wright laid all blights: Swannanoa’s First Church of Ecclesiastical Holiness.

  And it seemed nothing like First Methodist Church of God Holiness. Whereas our church was a steepled box built of whitewashed wood planks, here a columned façade rose above the stars, and there was no door to close people out or in. A pair of stone basilisks stood at each side of the entry, and their eyes followed us as we moved inside where murky gloom wafted like the rest of Swannanoa.

  And inside were more basilisks, and they came slithering to our feet.

  “Wright binds you through fear,” Rosalie said, her voice a slippery thing, like the serpents. “Here it is only love…love for the First Order of Whaleyville’s Divine Basilisk Handlers.”

  “The what?” I said, feeling myself tense nervous, fearful, surrounded.

  “They love those who love them,” she replied. “For basilisks are not invulnerable. Like everything, there’s ways to kill them, methods that are timeless, though not oft believed. Our congregation is growing, but still small, still weak. We need men of faith to help protect us.”

  “Truth of it, I ain’t got much faith in anything.”

  “I will teach you faith. I will show you what it means…”

  And when she kissed me, a plume of fire charged through my loins, and my eyes rolled back, and my heart slammed against my ribs like an untamable beast raging at its cell. My confusion, my fears melted away, and I gasped.

  Rosalie’s tongue prodded, slipped between my lips, entered me. It tasted hot and sweet as Missus Janey’s tarts, as supple and smooth as butter cream warmed on the hearth. It was lush forests and flowered springs and misty sunbursts. And it was not like kissing Aimee Greenwood either…

  Rosalie’s tongue was slender, delicate, and longer than I imagined. Its tip split to a fork, and each end teased a place of my palate before slipping down the back of my throat. Her tongue filled my mouth, filled my airway, and still it kept sliding lower and lower like her hands as they plummeted below my belt.

  My whole body went erect, and it seemed hard to relax and lie back on the stone floor when the whole of me wished to bellow in triumph and leap to the sun, but I let myself be led by the feel of Rosalie’s blissful instructions, for she told me what to do without any words.

  And the entire time, another little voice cried in my brain that this was wrong, this was a terrible, grievous calamity, and I must find the grace and strength to stop, stop! This was a different voice, unlike the mutters of resentment so often filling my head, but this new voice sounded mighty akin to the sermons of Pastor Wright, whom I hate, so I told it to shut the hell up.

  Hell is exactly what this is, the voice replied, none too subtly, but by then me and Rosalie were as one, and nothing else mattered.

  * * *

  It was dark when I woke in bed, having slept not at all, and dawn when I arrived at the wooded banks of the Nolichucky, dreading what must be done: I gathered with Pa and the others to hunt down the basilisks.

  Twenty or so Whaleyville men were there, though Wright wasn’t among us. I doubt he even knew how to hunt, and his bulk would’ve given him a heart attack anyway, walkin’ a quarter mile in those brambles. He was all talk in more ways than one.

  I knew most of the others by sight: Philemon Talbot, Joe Halverson, Jameson Lightspeed, Luke Holder, Harv Ridout, Carter and his father, and a dozen more. Only one man I didn’t recognize, and he moved among us with purpose and quick words, carrying a rifle and a pack made from ‘coon pelts. Though I’d never met him, I’d heard more legends concerning Lilac Zollinger than any other superstition.

  He was short and stumpy with a drawn, sallow face carved by hard lines like a mining expedition hacked across it looking for precious, pretty things, of which they found none. He was the oldest man I’d ever seen but he moved like a moonlit whisper, in fleeting darts and cloaked by shadow.

  “You’re Lizzie’s kin,” he said, eyeing me while ignoring Pa. “I can tell by the hook nose and way your shoulders slump. Always told her to keep her head high, but she did
n’t listen.”

  Took me a moment to figure he was talkin’ about Great-Granny Lizbeth, who was granny to Ma.

  “Didn’t listen either when I said Micajah would do her wrong,” the old trapper continued, though his loud voice fell quiet. “That duel ’tween us, my gun misfired. Should be my blood runnin’ in your veins, not his. But tell her my regards still remain.”

  “She died before I was born, sir.”

  “That don’t matter,” Lilac shot back. “Don’t matter t’all to tell her.”

  I didn’t know how to reply, so cleared my throat in response. Some claimed Great-Granny Lizbeth died mid-life of a lingering sadness, while others said it was no more than Micajah’s drunken fists. A fortnight later, Great-Grandpa Micajah got his throat mysteriously slit while sleeping in bed, and that was that.

  “Ready to bag some basilisks?” Lilac asked to no one in particular. The other men grunted and hollered and raised their rifles in the air like a group of pale savages, he their elder chief.

  “Whatever you do,” Lilac said, “don’t look in their eyes.”

  He unshouldered the ‘coon pelt pack and pulled out small plates of reflective glass, explaining only, “Mirrors.”

  Holly Barber replied, “Pastor Wright said quotin’ Old Testament scripture outta do the trick as well as anything else.”

  “Wright’s got less sense than a filled crapper,” Lilac snapped, passing out the small mirrors.

  “What in Hades we need these for?” Curtis Merriweather asked. “Ain’t gonna shave out here.”

  That got a laugh from the others who were in higher spirits than myself. Most treated the morning as a festive occasion like the annual buck tourney, wagers laid on who’d return home with the highest count.

  “Use the mirrors,” Lilac repeated. “Don’t look in their eyes or you’ll turn to stone.”

  * * *

  Curtis Merriweather was the first to look in their eyes and turn to stone. He let out an awful holler like a caught hen, knowing its head was about to elope at the nearest chopping block, and his flailing motions slowed, and his skin hardened to a cracked grey shell, and then Curtis froze solid. It didn’t make sense at all, and yet there he was, become like the marble statue of Andrew Jackson that anchors our town proper.

  Jameson Lightspeed was next to look into a basilisk’s eye, and his cry sounded like a lark that’s got its wing shot off, all high-pitched scrills and a fusillade of ruckus. George Templeton was a mauled bear, roaring and bellowing until he became silent.

  “Don’t look at their eyes!” Lilac reminded us by shouts.

  Harv Ridout, like a jackass, followed Lilac’s order by closing his own eyes. He stood there, rifle in hand, with eyelids clenched shut as if playing hide-and-seek, and a monstrous gold basilisk slid over, sinking its fangs into his foot. Harv screamed.

  Lilac fired at the creature while it was vulnerable, pumping venom into Harv, and the serpent burst in half. Its body convulsed once and collapsed, while its winged rooster-head detached from Harv’s foot, flew two flaps, then dropped to the scree with a gurgling squawk. Harv’s skeleton fell next to it in a puddle, the venom having already melted flesh from his bones.

  Several of the hunters surrendered their guns right there and fled for home, and maybe they were the smart ones.

  “Use the mirrors!” Lilac ordered, and he shot another serpent.

  After that, the remaining men sorta fell in line, ‘cause the basilisks didn’t get any more. Nonetheless, I can’t say Whaleyville’s men did much damage either, taking pot shots here ‘n there, but at least by following Lilac’s lead and using the mirrors, they avoided the serpents’ gaze and even turned some of the basilisks’ eyes back on themselves, which fossilized the beasts.

  Lilac Zollinger proved a beast himself, a marauding archangel delivering bull’s eye retribution through gunfire and mirror flash. He didn’t miss a shot, and basilisk after basilisk froze to stone or blew to bits. It’s a queer thing, gettin’ in the way of a hurricane, and most of us ducked for cover, out of the line of his rampage.

  And as I watched him move, victorious, indefatigable against that strange enemy, I thought of Lilac as being righteously triumphant, the sort of man we needed to lead Whaleyville, the sort of man—though gruff—who stood his ground for honor and justice and truly inspired faith. Here was a man who should never lose…yet in dueling for the hand of Great-Granny, he’d been jilted by a misfiring gun, and such are events that prove our fallibilities. No one can insure against all odds, no one can imagine all outcomes…

  And surely Lilac did not imagine Luke Holder suddenly lifting a rifle to him and firing.

  Lilac’s forehead blossomed red, right ‘tween his eyes, which bulged funny-big in surprise. It was a perfect shot and Lilac dropped like a load of grain. There wasn’t anything Luke wasn’t perfect at.

  Carter mouthed, “Oh, no,” just like he did when his brother got killed. I lifted my rifle and shot Carter also in the head, but of course my bullet somehow went askew, even though I stood only two feet away. His cheek blew in, and his temple blew out, though I aimed at his forehead like Luke had, but it was good enough regardless, and Carter fell beside the old trapper.

  Joe Halverson shot Holly Barber, and Jonas Teakle shot Judge McClellan, and Pa shot Mr. Loom, declaring, “I never liked John Loom, anyway.”

  After the shootin’, one other man was left over, Herb Cranston, who didn’t know which hand to crap in. Luke levered in another cartridge and shot him, too.

  That left just five of us, and together we lowered our guns, sharing in the moment.

  Though I was with Rosalie all night, it seemed I wasn’t the only one she’d bedded, for if I looked close enough at the other men I could see the slight matching bulges in their stomachs—like my own—marking the beginning signs of a basilisk egg growing inside.

  Five remained, the First Order of Whaleyville’s Divine Basilisk Handlers: Luke Holder, vain and mean; Joe Halverson, wrathful and vicious; Jonas Teakle, lustful and incestuous; Pa, petty and envious; and me, resentful and vindictive. Our weaknesses were known by Rosalie, and our weaknesses were loved.

  Later, I’d wonder exactly how those eggs were supposed to come out, but there, on the way home, all I imagined was a fine and mighty revenge coming against fat Pastor Wright and his damned rattlesnakes.

  *

  PROLOGUE

  This is the twisted tale of Campbell Lot. Said to be haunted by a pair of tormented souls—two lovers who never found a way to be together in life. The ghosts of a woman named Lumina Pietrowsky and a man named Jack.

  PART THE FIRST

  Peter Piotrowsky could not explain his headless wife’s return. He had buried Lumina’s remains in the wee hours of that morning. She’d been in her silky white nightgown when the accident had occurred and that was what she’d been wearing when he laid her in the earth.

  Last night, Peter had breathed a sigh of relief as he’d plunged the shovel into the rain soaked sodden Campbell Lot a final time. He’d stood then in the field where he grew his prizewinning pumpkins. A field he’d tilled for seven years. Six of those had been happy years. In the seventh one, things had come apart.

  The following morning, Peter was awoken from restless tossing and turning by a knock, to discover Lumina’s pale body upright standing on the wooden porch—covered in mud, nightgown ruined, fingernails raw, carrying one of Peter’s prizewinning pumpkins under one arm, waiting for him at the door. Waiting for Peter to let her in.

  “Lumina?” Peter gasped in disbelief.

  Lumina’s body did not nod. There was no head for it to nod with. Instead, it pushed past Peter, went inside, and upstairs for a change of clothes.

  Peter had grown up a simple farmer. His mother and father had been dirt poor—raising fowl for eggs and pigs for slaughter and otherwise subsisting off turnips as they had in the Old Country. Little Peter—or Piotr—had seen many a strange sight while tending to his family’s livestock. It was not unheard of th
at strange forces could propel the flesh long after other processes have died in the body. Only, Peter had never heard of it occurring in a human before.

  He’d seen something like it happen with a chicken once. With his own two eyes. He’d been just a boy then—he’d seen it walk away from the chopping block—seen it walking around going about the rest of its day. Peter followed it around. It had taken three days for the body to die.

  Love, too, is a bewitching force. To be in love is to feel mad desire to be one flesh. Not even the boundary of death can separate two souls meant to be.

  Since coming home, Lumina’s body had been nothing but sweet to Peter—the first thing it had done, in fact, was make him winter squash soup. Peter’s favorite. As Lumina’s body prepared the thick broth, it had used its own fingernails to cut a hole in the top of the pumpkin it had brought inside, taken off the cap with the stem—like a teapot lid and scooped out the stringy yellow pulp and seed with bare hands. Soon, the thick soup was ready and cooling on the table. Lumina’s body hadn’t made a bowl for herself, of course. She’d simply stood by, as if watching him. Peter sat down to eat, but after a minute was sorry to say he wasn’t feeling very hungry.

  After the shock of Lumina’s return wore off, Peter realized he could not have her walking around this this—not as the chicken had done. Not that it was not fair to her memory—in her last year of life she’d really showed him the woman she had really been—no, he couldn’t because it simply wasn’t Christian. Eventually, she would be seen. If not by neighbors then by visiting family. She would become a local curiosity. Questions would be asked. Searching for answers would lead straight back to Peter.

  And yet…and yet, Lumina’s body seemed to understand Peter’s position in this. It had since remained in the house, always within his sight. Even now it was sitting silently, in clean modest clothes before the fireside, mending a suspender strap on the pair of Peter’s overalls that had been torn by her nails in their fight the night previous—when the accident had occurred.