Witchwood and Seabound

by Ethan Proud

  ***

  The near full moon crossed the daytime sky latently. From inside the jail, Mission watched its movements through a barred window. He wondered if De’lune, a daughter of the goddess, could feel its power. He pondered the demon’s cryptic words. No doubt in a few days his cousin and the sheriff would go on a wolf-hunt. Mission turned his gaze towards the deputy who sat guard.

  “Don’t you have other duties than babysitting the jail?” Mission asked icily. He had no idea what Art had meant by if he was proficient in the dark arts he could escape. However, he did know that he was never going to be free if he couldn’t figure out her meaning.

  “Not since Bailiff Clancy died. The town did not have enough money to fill the position,” Kerfield said as he sipped coffee and surveyed the newspaper.

  “So, Deputy Kerfield is inaccurate…” the young Corax mused.

  “However you wish to call me, won’t change which side of the bars you are on,” James answered with a wry smile.

  “Ah, a little bit of Ruckstead humor.” Mission grinned. “Do you fancy yourself the next sheriff?”

  “The position is elected.” The deputy turned a page in the newspaper.

  “What?”

  Kerfield shut the newspaper with an exasperated sigh and set it down on the table. “Do you not know anything of politics?”

  “No. I am astounded that anyone would vote for our current sheriff,” Mission said before he trailed off.

  “I will be sure to let him know you think so.” James Kerfield picked the newspaper back up.

  “Wait, let’s keep that between us,” Mission protested.

  “Seems to be a common theme with you Coraxes,” the deputy murmured.

  Mission’s eyes narrowed. “You know how she escaped.”

  “Of course I do.” The deputy did not look up from the newspaper.

  “But Ruckstead does not?”

  “Sheriff Ruckstead is unaware of how she made her getaway.” He let out another sigh.

  “Why haven’t you told him?” Mission pestered.

  “I was asked not to,” was the elusive reply.

  “Tell me,” Mission demanded.

  “And face the ire of the sheriff and your cousin? I think not.”

  Just as those words left the deputy’s mouth, the door slammed open and Hugh Ramek entered the jail. He was clearly drunk and had a cigarette clenched between his teeth. A sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead. Mission could already tell that the man had been experimenting with herbs, trying to reach the second plane on his own. Little did he know how dangerous it was to feast in the forest laden with ignorance.

  “Kerfield. Release Mission.” Hugh coughed on the last word, and Mission wondered what the young man had just eaten.

  “Get out of here, before you end up behind bars with him. And go see Doctor Stern,” Kerfield advised.

  “You and your little daddy don’t scare me,” Hugh sneered. Kerfield stiffened.

  “Sheriff Ruckstead is not my father, but your ‘daddy’ will have to pick you up if you don’t show yourself to the door.” Kerfield was standing now and his hand moved closer to the pistol on his hip.

  Hugh cleared the gap between them quick as a viper, grabbed the deputy’s throat with one hand and pinned his dominant arm with another. James’ face flushed red as he struggled to draw breath.

  “Let Mission out,” he growled.

  The click of a hammer cocking interrupted the confrontation. Hugh swore. He hadn’t even heard the sheriff come in.

  “Let my deputy go, or you won’t even have the chance to try out a night in the jail,” Ruckstead threatened evenly.

  “You don’t have the guts to.” Hugh laughed, though he wasn’t confident.

  “The last person who said that is in the ground. Right after I painted the walls a pretty pink with his brains.” Ruckstead laughed. “The spot is still there in the Hanging Moose.”

  Hugh’s grip on Kerfield loosened and he raised his hands above his head. “I bet you wouldn’t be so brave if you had to meet me in a fair fight.”

  “Once again, last man who said that is underground. Set your terms,” the sheriff said coolly.

  “Tomorrow at noon, on the Main Road,” Hugh said boldly.

  Ruckstead laughed. “That’s a long road, son. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “In front of Doctor Stern’s office,” Hugh ground out.

  “Ain’t no one going to be able to stitch you back up after I’m done,” Ruckstead assured him.

  With a huff, the Ramek fled the jail.

  “You okay?” the sheriff asked Kerfield, who nodded. Ruckstead turned to Mission. “You’re not getting out of here until we cleanse this town of that foul family.”

  Mission could care less about Hugh and Swain, but his stomach was in knots for De’lune.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Wilder Ruckstead!” Gertrude screamed. “You promised me that the last quick draw was your last!”

  “I know, and I’m sorry.” His hands were held up just as Hugh’s had been earlier. However, the sheriff had no doubt that he was more scared of his wife than Hugh was of him.

  “If you are sorry, then why did you agree to it?!” Gertrude’s face was flushed red and Benjamin cried in the corner crib.

  “It’ll be good for the people of this town, a reminder that they can’t act however they please. There are repercussions.” Ruckstead reached out a hand to touch his wife’s shoulder but she slapped him instead.

  “And if you lose?” Her anger had yet to die down. But after years of marriage, Ruckstead knew that expressing anger was easier for her than fear.

  “I won’t. Besides, the Rameks are responsible for the murders.”

  “Then arrest them!” Gertrude screamed a bloodcurdling sound.

  “It’s not that simple!” Ruckstead protested, raising his voice for the first time.

  “I won’t come to watch you die,” Gertrude said, her voice level, but her lip trembled and a tear threatened to roll across her cheek.

  “Ye of little faith.” Ruckstead placed his palms on her face and gently kissed her. “You should go to bed. It’s late.”

  “But tomorrow I might not have you anymore…”

  The two collapsed inward on each other, their bodies meshing into one.

  ***

  The sun barely peeked behind a cloud, pregnant with precipitation, but it was enough to make Sheriff Ruckstead sweat at the collar. His face remained stony and unbothered, but his insides were always jittery before a gun fight. His success in his past encounters had proven pivotal in his rise to sheriff. He hadn’t even been a deputy prior to his election, but he had a strong sense of right or wrong and had killed many criminals after a spat at the Hanging Moose. Of course, they had always declared the fight, and ended up six feet under. A crowd had gathered, though a crowd in Northgate would hardly count for a quorum on a city council vote in civilized places. Doctor Stern watched from the doorway of his office. He was an old man and had been old when Ruckstead was a young gunslinger in his twenties. Now he was nearly twice that age. At the end of the road, he could see the Ramek entourage approaching. Several other businessmen families accompanied them.

  When they finally arrived at the specified location Swain stepped forward. His eyes betrayed his nervousness, though his body language was purely diplomatic.

  “Sheriff Ruckstead, this is completely unnecessary. I am sure we can settle this without violence,” Swain said smoothly.

  “Your son threatened my deputy and myself. It will be a kindness if he dies here today. If he doesn’t, he’ll face the ropes,” Ruckstead said direly.

  “And I am certain that the insult could be matched with a price of gold or silver rather than lives,” Swain argued.

  “Accepting a bribe would not be fitting of the Town Sheriff. Step aside and let your son settle this like a man,” Ruckstead commanded and a frustrated Swain whirled in the middle of the road and said something to his son.

&
nbsp; Hugh looked like a cornered wolf and his fingers fluttered like the wings of a butterfly, but the sheriff knew better than to underestimate someone for their nerves. He had felt the same way before his first match. Twitchy fingers sometimes meant fast reflexes.

  “I sincerely hope you instructed your family on how you want to be buried. Say when,” Ruckstead said and a murmur went through the crowd. He had forgotten he was sheriff for a moment and that those comments were less than appropriate.

  Hugh didn’t say when, however, but instead reached for his gun. His reflexes were fast and he had the gun free from its holster before Ruckstead had even moved. He raised the gun level with the man’s head when he heard the percussion of lead released from a barrel and felt something slam into his chest. His vision swooned, but he saw the sheriff wink at him, Ruckstead’s gun still held level at his hip, its muzzle barely an inch clear of the holster. Hugh felt warmth spread across his chest and stomach as blood ran from the bullet hole down to his groin. The red shape blossomed across the front of his shirt and spilled down his pants. The shot was a clean one, and Hugh only felt the pain for a moment before he collapsed dead in the street.

  De’lune rushed over to him and fell to her knees as a scream tore from her throat. She grabbed her brother by the front of the shirt and rocked her forehead to his chest, his lifeblood spreading to her hands and face. Her father stood still as stone, a look of rage on his face.

  “I’ll kill you, Ruckstead!” His hands shook with a furious energy and the sheriff was surprised he didn’t burst into wolf form right then.

  “Is that a challenge? We can make this a family affair,” Ruckstead taunted.

  Swain didn’t answer but instead turned to one of his affluent friends. “Fetch a cart. We will bury him tomorrow in private.”

  Catching those words, Ruckstead felt his stomach drop as he recalled Artemisia’s warning. In any case, the corpse must be destroyed to prevent its return.

  He couldn’t just run over there and saw Hugh’s head from his shoulders and set fire to the corpse. The Harvest Moon would rise full tomorrow night. With little time to spare, he spun on his heel and leapt into Wineae’s saddle. He needed to speak with Artemisia, and she would not be happy.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ruckstead was right, she was not happy. In fact, she was nearly angry enough to let spittle and froth fly from her lips as she reprimanded him. He was concerned that she may be rabid.

  “I gave you instructions to visit me today, not kill one of the wolves!” She raised a quivering hand as if to strike him. But she showed more restraint than his wife. Which was good as Ruckstead would not stand to be struck by a woman he was not married to.

  “I had no other choice!” he argued.

  But Artemisia lifted a silver cased bullet level with his eyes. “This would have killed him!” she hissed. “I have spent the best part of the last month creating a special concoction to dispatch both of the creatures. Thanks to your stunt, we will have to find the corpse of the young Ramek, and you can’t simply shoot the patriarch.”

  “Why can’t I shoot him?” Ruckstead asked. “We will get to the grave robbing in a moment.”

  “You would be the primary suspect at this point. When poor James performed an investigation, he would have no choice but to hang you. And yes, we must find the body. If we don’t, he will return as a vulkodlak.” Artemisia was as resolute as her eyes were fiery.

  “What does that mean?” Ruckstead asked in a frustrated tone.

  “Hugh will return in his wolf form permanently. He will be weaker when the moon isn’t full, but still plenty powerful and bloodthirsty. No doubt he will seek vengeance on you first.”

  “Will that bullet work on the vulk…?” Ruckstead raised an eyebrow as an indicator that Artemisia should repeat the term.

  “Vulkodlak. I do not know. It will certainly do Swain in. When will the body be buried?” Artemisia continued her inquisition.

  “They will bury it tomorrow.”

  “Son of a bitch. They know he will return.” Artemisia tapped a finger against her full lips. “As soon as darkness falls, we find the grave.”

  “And sever his head right there, or must we burn the body?” Ruckstead asked sardonically. If he were to catch a grave robber, the man would be hung the next day.

  “We will bring kindling with us and burn it aloft a great pyre. Grab your shovel, Sheriff, we’ll make a criminal of you yet.” The witch smiled broadly, showing off her straight teeth.

  “Woman, you will be the death of me,” Ruckstead replied with an ill expression.

  “If the wolves don’t kill us first, I surely will be.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The autumn air was crisp and frost licked the tops of the tombstones, promising that the coldness of the night would only deepen as the hours progressed. The lone living occupants stood by the gate awkwardly for a moment before pushing it open, its rusty hinges creaking in dismay. The tall iron gates and fence served to keep out deer and other large grazers, but it did little to stop the burrowing animals or the scavengers. More than one fox or coyote had found a shallow grave to offer more than a morsel.

  Their breath fogged in the air, and their heavy fur-lined jackets, stocking hats, and gloves did not ward off the near freezing temperatures. On the horizon, the moon slowly began its ascent. The insects and migratory birds had long since departed, and not a sound could be heard between the forgotten dead. Entire plots dedicated to families interrupted the line by line progression of grave-markers. The heavy wingbeats of a barred owl floated through the air and momentarily broke the silence. In the rear of the cemetery was a crypt, reserved for the wealthiest families and elected officials who died during office.

  “Has anyone else died recently?” Artemisia asked, her words turning to ice in the air the moment they left her lips.

  “Just Hugh.”

  “Then that grave is likely his,” Artemisia said as she pointed with her shovel.

  Sure enough, a single grave boasted the tell-tale disturbed soil. Even though it had only been a day, the green blades of winter annual grasses littered the mound like five o’clock shadow. The two stole over to the grave, whose headstone hadn’t been set yet. It took longer than a day to shape, smooth, and etch a rock into a fitting memorial. They passed by the resting place of a long dead soul, the mound planted with snapdragons. Their brittle stems held aloft capsules reminiscent of skulls.

  Shovels leading the way, they broke the ground for the second time that day. The surface soil crunched, but underneath it was soft and the duo made good progress. Despite her teasing that they would burn the body in a display that would alert the entire town, they had brought an axe. With any luck, they would exhume the body before he had returned. A branch breaking in the surrounding trees set them on edge. They both straightened and peered into the impenetrable shifting dark. The graveyard wasn’t a half mile from town, and it was shielded by a copse of evergreens. In the dark, even a short distance could become dangerous quickly. If it were a person in the trees, they had been followed from town.

  “It is nothing,” Artemisia declared. She resumed her work, but Ruckstead wasn’t convinced.

  “How can you be so sure?” Before she could retort, the sound of bounding hooves confirmed that she was right.

  “It was a stag, his eyes were reflecting the light of the rising moon,” she explained, rather than wallow in her pride. In truth, she was apprehensive. The moon was above the trees now and her skin prickled with each inch it rose. Swain would surely be coming to make sure that the grave of his son had not been defiled. The blood red moon was unperturbed by clouds and washed the earth in its odd glow.

  Ruckstead lent his shovel to the cause and the bulwark of dirt around the grave rose several feet until the two had to stand above the buried Hugh, and clear dirt methodically as they were lowered deeper beneath the ground. The sheriff’s shovel struck paydirt with the familiar thud of hollow wood.

  ***

/>   Far from the cemetery, De’lune wept in her front yard. She stood in only a nightgown despite the night’s chill. Though her brother would survive, he would never share a conversation with her again. She had begged her father to release him from his fate, but Swain had been adamant. It wouldn’t be much of a life in the human sense, but Hugh would be alive, and no living creature would choose death.

  At her feet was a fairy ring of little brown fungi with a larger concentric circle of shattered glass and another circle of smooth white stones. At the center was a Hugh shaped impression in the yellowing grass.

  ***

  Quickly, bordering on frantic, Ruckstead and Artemisia wiped the coffin clean of dirt and fumbled for the hatch. As soon as they threw back the lid, the moon would touch the corpse and Hugh would mutate one final time. They found the clasp and broke the lock off with the axe. Ruckstead stood back and hefted the weapon and Artemisia made eye contact with him before she opened the casket.

  “Do it quick.” She threw the lid open, and Ruckstead stumbled back in shock. The witch read his startled expression and twisted over the lid to peer inside. The body within was desiccated and slowly degrading as its own enzymes digested it, but other than that it wasn’t worse for wear. However, it was definitely not the body of a young man who had been killed yesterday.

  “They switched the bodies with one in the crypt,” Artemisia said and crawled from the grave with the sheriff right on her heels. Clearing the dirt berms, they took off towards the mausoleum, determined not to be trapped in the graveyard with a bloodthirsty wolf. Much to their chagrin, a figure was standing in the archway of the building. But it wasn’t Hugh.

  “What a delight to see the two of you here. Came to pay your respects?” Swain asked. He stood beneath the shadow of the doorway, so he was still human. For the time being.

  “Shoot him,” Artemisia hissed.

  “You said I would be the suspect,” Ruckstead balked.