by David Wood
“Just keep heading up. Soon enough you'll hit a fire trail. When you do, turn left.”
Grant followed the simple instructions. Sure enough, a scrubby track soon appeared across their path and he turned onto it, grateful for a reprieve from tree dodging. They rode more sedately as the trail wound slowly up the mountain at a shallower gradient. Amos lay heavy against Grant, his one-armed grip weakening. “You okay?” Grant called back to him.
“Soon enough there's a fork in the trail,” Amos said. There was a disturbing slur in his voice. “Take the right fork and head on up till you find a cabin. Ma Withers lives there.”
“Ma Withers?”
Amos nodded weakly against Grant's back. “She's a witch. And she's older'n the hills themselves. But if anyone knows more than me about this stuff, it's her. Mind you, she's plum crazy too.”
“Will she help us?”
The old man didn't answer.
Grant tried to see back, but couldn't turn and safely control the bike. Gritting his teeth, anger a red heat in his gut, he powered on up the trail. Hang on, Amos, he thought. Please hang on.
The fork appeared after less than a mile and Grant turned up the mountain. The trail got thinner and rougher and the trees denser. How could anyone live all the way out here? He slowed enough that the bouncing suspension didn't dislodge the old man from behind him and prayed the cabin wasn't far. He was rewarded a few minutes later as the trail opened into a natural clearing and a moss-covered, broken-down building stood bathed in moonlight. It looked like little more than a garden shed, but there was candlelight flickering inside and a figure stood on the small front porch. As Grant pulled the bike up, the headlight illuminated the oldest person he had ever seen. Shrunken with age, bent over, stick-thin, bald and toothless, the woman looked barely human. Her skin was a deep mahogany, striped with more wrinkles than Grant would have imagined possible, hanging off her spindly bones like parchment.
Grant pulled the bike up and killed the engine, silence settling quickly over the woods. “Ma Withers?” he asked.
“Get him in here, he's hurt.” The old woman turned back into the hut.
As Grant put the bike onto its stand, Amos slid sideways off the seat. Grant jumped off and caught him. The old man’s left arm was soaked in blood, the sleeve of his shirt dark with it. It dripped off his fingertips. Grant picked him up with a grunt and turned for the cabin.
“My own son...” Amos mumbled. His eyelids flickered like he was having a bad dream.
At least he was still alive. Grant carried him inside and was assailed by a harsh, smoky smell that made his eyes water. Ma Withers walked circles around a table in the middle of the room, wafting a bunch of burning leaves in the air. She pointed to the table and carried on circling, muttering words Grant couldn't understand. He laid Amos down on the table and took the old man's shirt off. There was a broad gash across Amos's upper arm, the skin red and angry either side of the welt. It bled heavily.
Ma Withers pushed Grant aside and dropped the remaining smoky leaves into a copper pot under the head of the table. She pulled out a box of bottles and rags and set to work on Amos's wound. Grant retreated to a rocking chair in one corner and sat, watched her work. His body thrummed with the pain of his own injuries, but he ignored them, intent only that Amos would be okay.
Before long the old woman stepped back, looked at her handiwork and nodded. She pulled a kettle from over the open fire in one corner of the shack and poured hot water into a tin mug. “Help me here, son,” she said.
Grant stood, lifted Amos's shoulders to a half-sitting position and Ma Withers tipped the mug against his lips. He moaned and liquid ran over his chin. There must have been something already in the mug as the liquid was dark and foul-smelling.
“Drink, son,” Ma Withers said, her voice soft and musical.
Amos opened his mouth and sipped. She tipped the mug up and he gulped until it was empty. He sighed as Grant laid him back down and was almost immediately sleeping, his chest rising and falling in a slow, gentle rhythm.
“Thank you for helping us,” Grant said. “I'm glad you were up. You seem strangely prepared.”
“Ain't nothing strange about it,” Ma Withers said, sitting in her rocking chair with a groan. “I got up about an hour ago when I seen you was coming. Had plenty of time to prepare.”
“Seen we were coming?”
She tapped the side of head with one gnarled finger. “It ain't something I'm about to explain to you, boy. Just accept it.”
“Okay. I appreciate it.”
The old woman leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes. “So I been seeing those Kaletherex bastards all week, walking roughshod through my dreams. Now I see that you're the connection. You're in deep trouble, eh?”
Grant looked around for somewhere to sit. He was bone-tired and every part of him hurt. As the excitement of their flight from the Stallards dissipated, his whole body began to tremble. He sat heavily on the edge of the small bed, the only other furniture in the one-room house. “Yes, ma'am, I'm in trouble. I'm sure they have Cassie and I think they mean her harm.”
“What's that in your pocket?” Ma Withers asked.
Grant dropped one hand to his hip. “How do you...?”
Ma tutted, shook her head. “Just accept it, boy. We ain't got time for teachings and history.”
Grant pulled the small tin from his pocket and took out the blackened finger. He held it up and Ma Withers leaned forward to see, squinting so much her eyes seemed to disappear in folds of skin.
“Where'd you get that?”
Grant told her everything. The book, the finger, Cassie, the Stallards. She listened, nodding occasionally, sometimes flapping her hand at him if he went on with too much detail.
Eventually she sighed and smiled. “Well, that finger you found is probably the one piece of good luck you've had, boy. But it'll cost you.”
“Cost me?”
“That kind of power never comes without a price. Maybe we should make time for some history. Let me tell you a little bit about Josiah Brunswick. You see, he was a powerful warlock and probably the best thing to happen to Wallen's Gap. The original people here, they set up a small town but they were a deviant bunch. They worshiped an evil demon by the name of Kaletherex and the reason they set up a home here in the mountains was in order to commune with their evil god at their leisure. See, when they first came here, this place was in the middle of nowhere, but civilization has a way of catching up to people whether they like it or not.
“Anyway, they set up here and they worked hard at pleasing their demon lord and eventually they managed to raise that black-hearted son of a bitch to what they call corporeality. He actually came from hell to this world and did them favors. Course, you don't play with a demon and keep your mind intact and it drove people mad, but it gave them power too. They got all kinds of boons from their ministry as long as they kept the demon fed. And it only liked to eat the flesh of its most pure followers. Oh, don't frown and wince, boy, you know you're in something deep and evil here. Just accept it and listen.
“The story goes that old Josiah Brunswick heard tell of what was happening up here and his crusading warlock urges drove him to come and sort it out. Now I don't know exactly what he done, but he got in with the townsfolk and lived among them for a while as he learned all about the situation. He even had himself relations with one or two of the ladies and that's kinda his biggest mistake, but we'll get to that. He realized that this little mountain town was only the beginning and if Kaletherex was left to grow and gain power, it would soon devour this place and move on. The stronger it got in the human realm of existence, the more of this world it would want and the more it would get. Old Josiah Brunswick saw Armageddon being born and he fixed to stop it.
“But it was gonna cost him his life. See, he figured out that the only way to defeat this demon Kaletherex was to poison it here in our world and send it permanently back where it came from. So he offered himself up for sacrifice. He played the
part of the zealot, the crazy advocate of the demon, so desperate to serve that he wanted to be fed to it. Now the demon will consume any flesh it's offered, so it took old Josiah up gladly, but the brave damned warlock had set spells and charms into himself before the sacrifice and those enchantments exploded inside that demon and carried it straight back to hell and Josiah Brunswick with it, poor bastard.
“But the legend has it that old Josiah left a small part of himself in this place, as a kind of anchor of the flesh, just in case something went wrong and anyone needed some of his power again. So I think that what you have there is old Josiah Brunswick's finger.”
Grant sat open-mouthed, his head swimming with the things the old woman had said. It was hard to believe any of it, but given what he had experienced so far, he had little choice. As Ma Withers herself kept saying, just accept it. “But what am I supposed to do with it?” he asked.
“I dunno, kid. That's for you to figure out.”
“You said something about relations with ladies?”
Ma cackled a phlegmy laugh. “Yeah, old Josiah liked the ladies. So much so that he left a few Brunswicks behind in their bellies and that's what gave old Kaletherex a window back here. See, he's kinda trapped in hell, but whenever them fools make the proper sacrifice during the grand alignment, he gets himself a moon's cycle to play havoc here again. Those cultists discovered it by killing one of the babies he left behind, but they had to wait a few years for a particular conjunction of planets for the power to be strong enough. Since then they've been protecting the Brunswick line and breeding just for to feed their demon god. But they cut it fine this time, got lazy and complacent. It's been fifty years since the last alignment and the knowledge of their rituals nearly died. But fortunately for them there was one virgin Brunswick girl left.”
“Cassie!”
“Yep. They ain't many Brunswicks now, excepting for Cassie's daddy and a few uncles, and they ain't got no children, though I reckon a couple of them might still be able to get a woman with child. Ain't been many Brunswick girls in a long time. Cassie had a little sister what died as an infant. For now, she's all they got. I've seen 'em in my dreams, preparing her at their rituals in the night, getting her ready. She's a pawn in their game, knows nothing about it.”
“She thinks she's been sleepwalking,” Grant said.
“Mm hmm. And my dreams told me someone was coming from far away to put a bur under their saddle, but that stuff was never clear to me. I guess that’s you.”
“You happen to dream about whether I succeed or not?”
Ma Withers chuckled. “Don’t work like that, son. Mind, I wouldn’t tell you if it did.”
Grant looked out the window at the dark sky. “So what can I do? It's happening tomorrow tonight.”
Ma Withers shrugged. “Like I said, that's for you to figure out. Or you can just stay here and wait for the month of madness in town to pass. It's a force of nature. A force of unnature, perhaps. If you want to try to stop it, I can maybe help you, but I'm an old witch, and you ain't no warlock, son.”
Chapter 18
“I can't leave Cassie. I'll take any help you can give me.” Strangely, Grant found he was unafraid. Perhaps it was the surreality of the whole situation, or maybe it was because, deep down, he knew he couldn't survive this and had already accepted his mortality. He should have died, beaten and dumped in a creek, but had won a reprieve thanks to Amos. He knew he would never be able to live with himself if he just walked away now, not after everything that had happened. So better to die trying than live in shame. For once, he was going to see something through, no matter how hard it got.
“I'll do what I can for you, then,” Ma Withers said, “but it might not be near enough. Now, the first thing you got to do is eat something and get you some rest.” She saw the argument in his eyes and hushed him with a raised, crooked finger. “You ain't in a fit state to do nothing for her right now, and neither is Amos. Besides, they can't do nothing ‘til the convergence tomorrow night. Cassie won't even be there yet. They'll be keeping her somewhere til then.”
Grant nodded reluctantly. She made sense, though he hated the idea of waiting.
“That'll be just fine then. I need some time to make ready anyhow.” She tottered off and returned minutes later with a mug of broth, two slices of buttered bread, and an apple. Grant devoured the meal as if it were his last, which it might be. Finally, he accepted a steaming cup that smelled of mint, a concoction, Ma Withers said, that would both help him sleep and dull the worst of his pain.
“But if the Stallards come...”
“They ain't comin.” She tapped her head. “I would know if they was.”
Grant slipped into a fitful slumber, his dreams populated by a macabre mix of gun-toting hillbillies, masked cultists, and demons. When the crow of a rooster woke him, he was surprised to discover that, despite his dark dreams, he felt rested. He'd risen and taken half a dozen steps toward the front porch when he realized the pain from his many injuries was nearly gone, with only a dull ache to remind him of their presence.
Amos and Ma Withers sat on the front porch sipping coffee from cracked mugs. By his relaxed expression, Amos seemed to be feeling the benefits of the old woman's potions, as she called them, as much as Grant was.
“Thought you was gonna sleep all day,” Amos wheezed.
Grant couldn't help but grin. Only the faintest hint of the coming dawn glowed amongst the dense trees, lending the world an ashy gray undertone.
“Well, I'm up now, and we need to make a plan. That is, if you're still willing to help me.”
“Them sumbitches done seduced my son. I mean to make 'em pay.”
Grant nodded. “We've got to figure out where they're taking Cassie, and maybe we can ambush them on the way in. I imagine they'll be on their guard once they get started. Maybe even before.”
“I believe I knows exactly where they's going to take her.” Ma Withers grinned. “The girls who died was found in the same place, and it ain't too far off from here. You can get there in a day, easy. But first off, we got to get you ready.”
She ushered Grant back into the house and sat him on the floor in front of the fireplace. With bit of charcoal, she drew a circle on the floor around where he sat, then scratched out four straight lines.
“Are you drawing a pentagram?” He was unable to keep a bit of nervousness from his voice.
“A pentacle,” she corrected. “And I don't want to hear no foolish notions about Satanism and evil. It be a tool like any other. I won't close it off ‘til it’s time.” She moved to the fireplace where a small, cast iron kettle hung. Then, one by one, she took down several old mason jars that lined the mantle, drew a pinch of the contents from each, and dropped it into the kettle, whispering to herself as she worked. Grant caught a few phrases here and there.
“Oxeye and bloodroot to give you strength. Rattlesnake master to make your bite deadly.” He heard her name other plants or roots as she sprinkled the leaves and powders. Most were unfamiliar: stonecrop, Adam's needle, lizard tail, Jacob's ladder.
The contents began to smoke, filling the cabin with a cloying scent that made him wrinkle his nose. Ma Withers reached into an apron pocket and dug out one of the tiny New Testaments like the Shriners handed out at parades. She flipped through it until she found what she was looking for, tore out the page, and tossed it into the kettle.
“Can't hurt,” she said with a grin. “Now, give me Josiah's finger.”
“What?” Grant blinked. He didn't know why, but he was reluctant to part with it.
“Fool boy, I only need a touch of it. Come on now.” She snapped her fingers and Grant hesitated only a moment longer before taking out the finger and handing it over to her.
It contorted wildly in her hand, like a worm trying to flee from the fish hook. Using a paring knife, she scraped a few flakes of the withered flesh into the pot, then spat into it before handing the finger back to Grant. Next, she pricked Grant's finger with the tip of t
he knife. He watched in fascination as his blood welled on the flat of the blade. This went into the pot as well, followed by a splash of water. She gave it three stirs in each direction with a wooden spoon before turning to Grant.
“It be time.” She leaned down and drew the final line of the pentacle. As she did so, Grant felt a shiver run down his spine, and the air around him seem to thicken.
Ma Withers dipped her finger into the pot, drawing out a heap of black goo. Muttering words in a language Grant had never heard, she anointed his forehead with the foul smelling paste, then pulled up his shirt and drew a symbol over his heart.
She added water to the kettle and stirred until it roiled and steamed.
“Now, you need a weapon.” She pulled an old Bowie knife down from the mantle. The blade was a good ten inches long and rounded at the end, and its razor sharp edge gleamed in the firelight. Its spine was thick and straight, the last two inches curved inward and sharp, making the knife double-edged at its tip.
Slowly, like Achilles' mother dipping him into the river Styx, she coated the blade in the liquid. Holding it up, it seemed to Grant that it glowed faintly, though it was probably just the firelight glistening on the blade. When it was dry, she slid it into a battered leather sheath and set it aside.
“Last thing, just in case the blade don't work.” She added cold water to the kettle, tested it with her finger, then upended it over Grant, chanting strange words, their meanings seeming to hang just beyond comprehension.
Grant shivered as the lukewarm water soaked him to the bone. He soon realized he wasn't trembling due to the temperature, but from something else. Whatever spell Ma Withers had cast, he could feel it working. He felt powerful. Was that what made him quake?
And then he remembered why he had undergone this macabre baptism. If he couldn’t save Cassie, couldn’t stop Kalatherex from rising, Grant himself would be the sacrificial lamb, the poison pill, like Josiah Brunswick. An icy wave of fear rolled through him, and he knew exactly why he trembled.
