Old Mrs. Halstead, who had apparently sprung up through the dirt, took the opportunity to slip Violet a sugar cube. She petted the horse’s velvet nose and whispered something to her. Mrs. Halstead was the best seamstress for miles around, so Mr. Bramley, the tailor, paid her to make and mend clothes. It supplemented her meager income, but when she brought her finished work to town twice a week, it was always more than she should carry. Garret climbed down.
“Good morning, Mrs. Halstead. Can I take that for you?”
The bent woman patted Violet’s neck with a withered hand and said without looking at the ridiculously large brown paper package under her arm, “Thank ya’ son, I think I can manage.”
“Now Mrs. Halstead, I don’t want to make a scene in the street with a pretty lady, but I will do what I must.”
She chuckled, hoarse but genuine, and handed over the parcel. “Thank you son.”
Garret took it and offered her an elbow. She took it as well, and he helped her up the steps onto the boardwalk. Portly Mrs. Keller strode past with her husband in pursuit, begging his wife to stop and listen. They nearly bumped into Mrs. Halstead.
“Watch it,” Garret barked.
“Garret,” Mrs. Halstead reprimanded gently.
Garret shot a look at Violet that said, Don’t move.
She pretended she hadn’t seen him. Garret glared at her. She looked the other way. If he took the time to lead her to a post and tie her up, Mrs. Halstead would carry the package herself. Garret mounted the boardwalk beside her and walked slowly with Mrs. Halstead’s shuffling gait. She laid a hand on his elbow.
“So you think I’m pretty do you,” she asked dryly. Every other old woman in town would have blushed with the flattery, but Mrs. Halstead was merely amused, so Garret grinned again and said, “Well I don’t have my glasses.”
“You don’t wear glasses, Garret.”
“Then maybe you are.” Garret squirmed awkwardly.
“You’re a good boy, Garret. Young Ms. Malvern is lucky to have you.”
Garret’s face fell. He’d been horrible the night before, and he knew it. He shouldn’t have gone to her house. After what happened to Sarn, Garret just couldn’t be alone, but he never treated Molly right. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t seem to figure out how to treat her right. He always said the wrong thing. Or said it too harshly.
Mrs. Halstead didn’t look at his face as they made their way slowly down the boardwalk, but she sighed as if she’d been listening to his thoughts. A movement beneath the boardwalk caught Garret’s eye. An animal of some sort was moving around.
Mrs. Halstead had stopped and was fiddling with the locket around her neck. She managed to get it unclasped, but after a moment of fumbling with her arthritic joints, Garret gently took it, opened it, and handed it back.
A scuffling sound came from under the boardwalk. The animal was hidden mostly from view, but Garret craned his neck to glance between the slats.
Well, it isn’t a cat or a dog. What’s wrong with it? It’s not moving right. And what the hell is that nasty crunching sound?
Mrs. Halstead didn’t seem to hear it. She was holding up the locket where Garret could see it. Inside was a dim daguerreotype of a man and a woman in stiff, 1850’s dress. Mrs. Halstead and her late husband, no doubt. And indeed, she was beautiful. Her face smooth and unblemished, her lips full, and the line of her neck proud and fine. He looked from the picture to the white-haired, wrinkled lady before him.
She smiled wearily, took his arm and started walking again. “Son, all things come to an end. The key is to make the most of every day you have. Even the darkest time is beautiful, if you know where to look for the light. Don’t let days slip away. I was young like you, once.”
As Garret stepped over the animal beneath the boardwalk, he tried to look straight down on it through a crack. It was elongated and thin, and kind of reddish, like clay mud. A wet pop punctuated the crunching sound. The animal was chewing on something. Garret’s skin crawled.
Mrs. Halstead stopped again. Garret was surprised to see they’d made it to the tailor’s shop. She took her package back from him. Only then did he hear the Dutch accent creep into her voice.
“Thank you again, son. Good day to you.” She went inside.
Garret stepped down off the board walk. Whatever was under the boardwalk, it was sick, possibly rabid. Garret gave it a wide berth, walking out around the spot under the boardwalk until he could see up under to where it lay. The animal lay in shadow, moving with irregular, vibrating jerks as it chewed on whatever it had found. Its head was narrow and the shape was familiar, but wrong somehow. Garret hunched in the street, earning a glare from a cart driver who had to force his recalcitrant mules out around Garret.
Garret crept closer. The animal was either unaware of him or didn’t care that he was near. Another muffled pop. Garret recognized the sound. Chicken joints made a similar noise when his grandmother had popped them apart to make a stew.
Chewing, chewing.
Well, either Garret got close enough to see or he walked away and left it alone. Well, I can’t leave it. If it’s rabid, it’ll spread it to half the county. It was definitely ill. Its quivering motions assured him of that.
“Mr. Orem,” he called out to the hairy shop owner who had just opened his shop door to let out a customer loaded with flour sacks. “Can you bring me a hoe?”
Orem stared at him for a second, then returned inside the shop without comment. Garret inched closer. Orem appeared beside him with a rake, which Garret took.
“Thanks.”
“What did you find?”
“I don’t know, but I think it’s a sick animal.”
Most store owners would have snatched the new rake back out of Garret’s hand, but Orem would simply wipe it off and hang it back up for sale. Moving smoothly, Garret stuck the rake into the hole, dropped a couple of tines on either side of the animal’s head, and dragged it into the light.
Garret flinched backwards, nearly dropping the rake. Even Orem cursed and hopped away. There wasn’t much left of the rabbit or the snake, but both were still alive.
The rabbit was eating the snake.
Garret hadn’t recognized the rabbit before because most of the skin had been peeled from its head. It had split like a zipper down the animal’s face, and hung like bloody collars around its neck. Its dark eyes protruded, milky and crazed, from its wet muscle-and-bone face, as did its big teeth as it chewed. The rabbit was eating a five foot long blacksnake, probably the same one Cletus had brought into the shop a few days ago.
The rabbit didn’t seem to realize it had been dragged into the street, neither did it seem to notice the flies buzzing all over its skinned face, feasting on its blood. Its hind legs lay splayed out behind it, and it made no effort to pull them up beneath its body. Quivers ran up and down it as it tore at the snake, driving its big teeth through the elongated body, biting and chewing. It snagged a vertebra, but kept right on chewing, tearing the vertebra loose with the wet popping sound Garret had heard earlier.
Both Garret and Orem stood aghast. A sharp intake of breath came from Garret’s right. Mrs. Knudsen had blanched, turning whiter than her hat. She covered her daughter’s eyes. “The devil take it,” she choked.
Garret recovered his senses and brought the edge of the rake down hard on the rabbit’s neck. It crunched and the rabbit slumped, mercifully stopping its frantic chewing.
“What in the hell?” It was Mr. Johnson, who had climbed down off his milk cart. His bald pate shown in the sun.
“Does anyone know where Dr. Grey is?” Garret said to the small crowd which was gathering. “Dr. Grey, the veterinarian,” he repeated, shaking himself out of it. “Does anyone know where he’s gone today?”
Germany, 1589
Youngblood lay in the shadow of a fallen tree, listening and smelling, not making a sound. To his left, his sisters crouched around a boulder. Up the incline to his right, his older broth
er, his father, and two aunts lay, padded nervously, then lay again. Behind him, his cousin waited in the dark. None would step forward. All wanted to be near the scene, but wanted to run away at the same time. Their hunched shoulders and low heads spoke loudly of what Youngblood felt: the pain of being bitten by a badger, or stung by a nest of bees, but on the inside.
Fearful for the safety of their pack, the alphas had kept stretching their lead during the hunts, warning the pack to stay further and further behind them. This time, the uncles had been so far ahead that the pack could not come to their rescue when the deadwalker attacked. Youngblood would never forget his uncles’ screams.
Youngblood knew the rest of the pack wanted to howl and wail, to sing a mourning song to the moon as badly as he did, but none of them made a sound. They lay in the leaves, or slinked from the shelter of one tree to another, tails tucked. They wanted to approach the place in the dirt where his uncles lay, but they didn’t.
Since the moment Youngblood had entered this world in water, slid from the warm security of his mother’s belly into the raw wind and prickly pine needles, his uncles had been with him as closely as his father and mother. They had taught him more than his father. They had put him in his place as a pup, gently grabbing his head in their mouths when he needed correction. Biting him harder and throwing him to the ground when he had asserted himself. They had taught him to hunt, taught him how to live.
Now they would never hunt again. His uncles were gone, and what was left in their place was a scent and a sight Youngblood would never be rid of. Both of them lay on the leaves together, as if they had lain down as they often did, side by side, nose to tail to sleep. This time, though, they lay on their backs, all four of their limbs ripped from them and flung to the corners of the earth. Their lower jaws had been ripped away and driven into the ground beside them, robbing them of the wolf’s bite, the defense and strength of the pack.
Their disembowelment had gone with terrible slowness, judging by the way they had scattered the leaves and dirt around them. So had gone their skinning. Youngblood’s heart bled as badly as their corpses did. He needed to howl and run to them, lay by their sides in the sticky blood-mud and not leave them. The timid steps and noiseless whines of his pack spoke the same. But none approached.
His uncles were covered in the scent of the thing that had done it, and their bodies were saturated in the sickness of what had been done to them. The deadwalker had done no eating. In fact there had been no hunger at all, other than its hunger for pain and suffering. Youngblood’s uncles had not died for the circle of birth and rebirth, but for a ragged tear in the rightness of the world.
His uncles had been more than the leaders of the pack, they had been the rulers of the forest. Not even bears challenged the dominion of the pack, but the deadwalker knew no master. Its bloodlust was growing by the day. Now it was killing anything and everything it could find, tearing animals to shreds and spreading their remains all over the forest, even stealing men and women from the village and dragging them into the woods to dismember them.
Youngblood knew that all life must end. He had seen it. He had made it happen, but as he looked upon what had become of his uncles, he became frightened of death. He felt its presence and looked upon the aftermath of its teeth. He did not understand Evil, but he saw it, and he feared it.
The Appalachian Mountains, 1912
“How ya been?” Garret asked. The wagon slammed through a chuck hole, jouncing the recently mended implements in the back.
“Good,” the other boy ground out, holding his skinny behind where the wooden wagon seat had just bounced him. Joseph Bendetti looked like his father, reedy as a wheat sprig, soft spoken, and even smaller than Garret. Joseph was insecure around anyone, especially girls, and physically awkward enough to make even basic locomotion seem like a task, but he was thoughtful, and the smartest person Garret knew.
“What’s on your mind, Garret?” he asked.
When he’d first met the priest’s son, Garret had found the other boy’s tenderness to be uncomfortable. But he’d helped Garret through some ugly situations, and embarrassing though Joseph could be, he would lay down his life for Garret. Whether Garret deserved it or not. Which still made Garret uncomfortable. Garret didn’t even consider passing off his agitation on the rabbit and the snake. Joseph wouldn’t buy it.
“Have another spat with your Ma?” Joseph asked gently.
Garret gritted his teeth at the question, and the anger came back. Roaring back. Of course I had a spat with Ma. When do I not have a spat with Ma?
People had told Garret that his temper was going to be the death of him, and maybe so, but he didn’t really care. It gave him strength. Lots of strength. More importantly, when the rage was in control, when it was seething in him like a fiery serpent, he knew no fear. Only in these moments did he escape fear. Fear was piled inside him, and he hated it. He loathed it more than anything. Fear was weakness. Fear was everything he despised about himself and others, and some days he felt as though it filled him to the brim. So he nurtured the Rage, clung to it like a piece of driftwood on a stormy sea. He didn’t need to feed it. His parents did that, and he let them because when it was in control, his fears were blasted from existence. He didn’t like his rage any more than anyone else did, but it had kept him alive, hadn’t it? Afforded a reasonable measure of protection for Sarn, hadn’t it?
Garret realized he was fuming aloud. He bit his tongue. The thinner boy gripped his book as if it was an anchor of some sort and shook his head. “What’s happening around here? Seems like every family in town’s having problems.”
He winced and looked at Garret.
Garret was still boiling, but he held up a hand to stop Joseph before he asked. “I know your pa’s the town priest. Nobody will hear it from me.”
Joseph nodded gratefully. After a long moment of hooves falling and wagon rattling, Joseph said, “They’re wrong, you know.”
Garret shot a withering look at him. Not because he was angry with Joseph, but because he couldn’t make his face look any other way at the moment. Joseph seemed to understand. “You’ll make it Garret. You’ll make it out alive.”
“Of course I’ll make it!” Garret barked. “I dare anybody to say otherwise! But what about Sarn? You can’t beat on a kid’s feelings like that! You can’t just manipulate and take advantage of people who love you!”
“Who are we talking about, Garret?”
“Sarn!”
“Ah.”
Joseph’s tone threw Garret off track, but he tried to recover. “Sarn acts like nothing can get through. It’s because everything gets through.”
“I’m sorry, Garret.”
“Yeah, me too,” Garret spat. They rode in silence for a moment. The sun filtered through the trees alongside the road, and Violet took her job as seriously as always.
“Garret,” Joseph hesitated, then heaved a sigh. “Have you thought about telling my father about your Ma? He’d believe you.”
Garret hissed through clenched teeth, but took a moment to rein in his boiling temper. “I don’t know how to explain it. You only know because you’ve talked to me for years.”
“Then let me talk to Father,” Joseph offered quietly. “Maybe if he confronts her, things will be better. I know he’ll do it if I ask him.”
Garret considered it. Violet made the appropriate turn down Sutter’s Gulch Road without Garret having to direct her. Garret wanted help so badly, not so much for himself, but for his annoying, far too sensitive little brother. Maybe this would be a way to start. But if it backfired it would be far worse than doing nothing at all.
“Let me think about it for a day or so,” Garret rejoined. Then added, “Thanks.”
Joseph was willing to stick his nose into the Vilners’ troubles with no possible gain for himself. Real friends were rare.
Split rail fencing appeared, framing a hilly cattle pasture to their right. Brown and white Herford bodies dotted the sunny fields. Jos
eph punched him on the shoulder, which, given Joseph’s lack of physical con-dition, felt like a bird landing on Garret’s arm. Garret grinned and shook his head.
“I’m gonna start paying Sarn to sneak up on you and beat you up once a week. We gotta toughen you up for the ladies.”
Joseph snorted, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “Tell him to sneak up at his own risk; I was raised by a she-bear you know.”
“I thought it was a weasel.”
Joseph gave him a narrow look. “Congratulations, you just made it into Sunday night’s sermon. I’m speaking on hell. You should come.”
“To hell?” Garret asked.
“To church.”
“That’s what I said.”
Joseph sighed again and looked away across a dry corn field. Garret reached for a grin, but it wouldn’t come this time. The air didn’t feel as warm as it had a few moments ago.
“Garret, I found something Tuesday night, not far from your house.”
So that was why Joseph hadn’t been at the Lodge Social. Garret had fumed about that for a while. After all, it had taken some fast talking and two bits to get Chester Calvert to tell a really flattering (sort of true) story to Mary Anne Fix about how Joseph had saved a nest of baby rabbits from a rabid fox with his bare hands. Mary Anne was interested, but of course Joseph hadn’t shown up because he’d been walking in the woods again.
“Look man,” Garret said. “You’ve always liked being in the woods, and I know it brings you closer to God and all that great shit… I mean—”
“That rabbit you found.” Joseph was still looking away from Garret. “It wasn’t natural. Wasn’t right.”
“I’ll say.” Garret’s scalp prickled at the recent memory. “What would make a rabbit do that?”
“Nothing,” Joseph said simply.
“I’m being serious,” Garret said. “There are diseases that make animals go crazy, right? Dr. Grey will figure it out.”
Joseph pressed his lips in a tight line. “I’m sure he’ll come up with something.”
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