Brimstone

by Daniel Foster

  Before the claw could rip out between the broken halves of the bone, the creature released its hold, dropping Garret into the grass. He couldn’t think beyond the blinding pain, but he expected it to stomp him or skewer his heart into the rocks. Instead came a howling impact, followed by roars of rage from the creature. It stumbled past, pounding on the large grey animal that attacked it out of nowhere.

  Garret curled on the ground in agony, seeing little beyond three blurred shapes, the lithe, super-strong form of the creature, and the two animals attacking it. Garret heard the howls and saw the coloration and knew the smaller animal was Babe, limping on her back leg. Babe wasn’t giving the creature any trouble, but the other animal had taken it by surprise and was worrying at its leg.

  Despite the size and apparent strength of the newcoming animal, which looked like a wolf, the creature rallied almost immediately. It sent Babe tumbling into the weeds with a backhand. She exhaled and fell limply across a rock. The creature turned its full strength on the wolf.

  Garret had to get to the gun. His left arm was useless and going cold. He pushed himself to his knees. Around him, the world came apart in fur and blood, and a noise from the creature that sounded like demonic laughter. Garret inched his way forward. He had to make it to the gun. It was right in front of him. It was…

  It was broken in two pieces.

  The creature laughed. The wolf wailed. Babe wasn’t moving.

  Chapter 12

  The Appalachian Mountains, Nov. 1912

  Rain drowned the forest. Garret was balled up against a trunk, only partially aware of the arrival of morning. The storm grabbed at his sopping clothing and hair. It ripped trees apart and flung the pieces to the ground. Garret wasn’t trying to find shelter, or even huddle from the rain that ran down his face and smeared his hair. He wasn’t doing anything. His mind had blown out like a candle.

  A hand touched his shoulder, and his whole side lit up with pain. Garret lurched away. His mind started moving, sluggishly. He blinked up at the thrashing treetops and shattering branches. Mr. Medly was yelling at him over the storm. Garret was shivering hard. So hard he was shuddering. The wind roared. An oak tree split in two and hit the ground.

  “Where’s your Pa?” Medly yelled in Garret’s face. “What happened to your shoulder?”

  At the mention of Pa, Garret’s mind cramped up again and a jumble of memory fragments log-jammed in his head. He saw himself lurching though the woods. Babe wasn’t moving. The creature had won. It had found his Pa again and dragged him away. Garret was lurching through the woods in the direction the creature had disappeared. He had the broken rifle in one hand. He was stumbling through the woods. Stumbling through the woods for hours.

  “How did this happen? Did your Pa do this? Where is he?”

  Medly sat Garret upright. “I can’t carry you. You have to walk.”

  Words finally came out of Garret’s mouth. “Pa’s dead.”

  Medly pulled on him again, and Garret found himself on his feet, wobbly. Medly had stood Garret up, wrapped his good arm around his shoulders, and was hauling him around the tree. Garret struggled to stay upright in the rain-slicked world. Medly’s two hounds sniffed around the area, lifting their paws as if the ground was hot and tucking their tails.

  “How did this happen?” Medly demanded, hand out towards a huge dead animal.

  The biggest black bear Garret had ever seen lay on the other side of the tree. The animal looked like a barn with fur. It had been torn to pieces. All of its legs were ripped off and flung away, trailing straggly pieces of muscle and white tissue Garret didn’t recognize. The bear’s chest had been ripped open, emptied. All the organs lay on the dirt, stomped and ground with leaves. Except the heart, which was gone. Garret tripped and Medly caught him. The bear. Garret remembered the bear. He could see its face, angry, roaring, slavering right before… Before what?

  The bear was still staring at him from dead eyes. Its head was on upside down. It had been grabbed and twisted, its neck broken by main force. Garret could remember the sound of it breaking.

  “Come on, son. Walk.” Medly said gruffly. “We gotta get you to a doctor.”

  * * *

  Time passed for Garret in a fever of disconnected images and strange, garbled sounds. Faces of people who were sometimes there and sometimes not. Much time passed in darkness, but Garret couldn’t grasp how much. He couldn’t grasp anything except the sheets, blankets, and quilts which did little to stop his chills. He’d never be warm again. His clothes clung to him as if he’d climbed into a bath fully clothed, then into bed.

  He cried out for Sarn and he appeared. His mother was often there with Sarn. Other times he only heard her voice and felt her hand on his head while his eyes showed him spinning images that made no sense. Spoons carrying hot liquid would touch his lips. Sometimes he could swallow, other times the smell made him pull away. Garret also called for his Pa, and for Molly. They didn’t come.

  Days later, Garret lifted his eyelids to a sunrise coming through the window. He was weak as a kitten, grimy, damp, and empty.

  “Ma,” he said. It rattled and rasped out of his dry throat. Her footsteps came down the hallway as Garret struggled to sit up. His collar bone vengefully reminded him how broken it was, as did the bruised and stitched skin covering it. His head swam. His body may as well have weighed a thousand pounds. His eyelids weren’t much lighter. His mother rounded the door facing in one of her work dresses, a plain grey thing. Sarn was right behind her, with his comforting bulk and determined face. The sight of his brother brought waves of relief to Garret.

  Ma laid a hand on Garret’s forehead, though she obviously knew Garret’s fever had broken some time ago. Her face was still beautiful, but haggard and more lined than Garret remembered. Her raven locks had their usual sheen, but her eyes looked sunken, retreating from the world, and her motions were simple and deliberate. Pa did not come into the room with her.

  Pa was gone. Gone because Garret hadn’t been man enough to save him.

  Ma set a bowl of soup on her knees. “Can you eat, Garret?”

  His Ma’s gaze rested somewhere in the corner by the closet where Garret’s old hobby horse still stood, half its mop-hair mane worn away. Garret lay back down. His tears slid away quietly. Sarn sat on the bed, gently picked Garret’s torso up, held him tightly, and rested his head on Garret’s uninjured shoulder. They stayed that way for a long time.

  The following morning, the sun rose with a harsh light. It washed the lifeless shades of brown out of the fallen leaves, out of the trees from which they fell, and out of the dirt on which they landed, leaving the hills bleached, a grey-white bleakness. Garret sat on the back steps of his house, wrapped in a quilt that offered no warmth. He watched the growing sunlight cut the trees out of the shadows in which they’d spent the night.

  Pa’s funeral was to be held tomorrow at noon. There had been no problem waiting for Garret to recover from the fever because there was no body. Mr. Medly and the other townsfolk hadn’t managed to find anything except a thousand pound bear ripped to pieces as a fox would tear a young rabbit. Garret didn’t know what had killed his Pa, but he knew it wasn’t a bear.

  Sarn sat on the steps beside Garret. Sarn had always moved deliberately, but now he moved slowly. He’d come home from the mill for lunch. He smelt of perspiration, and sawdust clung to his clothes. It was too far from the mill to come home for lunch. He’d be late returning.

  Garret opened the quilt, extending his good arm like a wing around Sarn’s shoulders.

  They sat for a long time without saying anything.

  Eventually, Sarn said, “I don’t know what to do now.”

  I do, Garret thought to himself. I’ll take up where Pa left off. Like usual. This time the thought didn’t bring anger, only sorrow. He was still weak, and his left arm was useless, but he had to get to the shop. He had to feed his mother and brother. He had to.

  Garret caught a faint sound from the tree line. He sat up
.

  “What?” Sarn asked.

  “I thought I heard something.” He heard it again. A faint whine. He knew the sound. Garret stumbled off the porch and made for the edge of the woods. Sarn was right beside him, supporting him without being asked. Garret made his way, or rather Sarn made both of their way, around the shed. There, dragging herself out of the woods with two good legs and one half-good leg, came a muddy, matted hound dog.

  Sarn let Garret sink to his knees as Babe crawled the last few feet and lay down, putting her head in Garret’s lap.

  “Babe,” he said, rubbing her head. “Babe, you have to take me to him.”

  Garret felt Sarn shrink beside him when he said it. Babe cringed but didn’t move. Garret’s hands were unsteady.

  “Where’s Pa?” he said, putting more force in the words. He pointed at the woods. “Show me where he is.”

  “Brother,” Sarn whispered.

  “Take me to him, Babe. I know you know what I want.” He struggled to his feet and tugged Babe towards the woods.

  She squeezed her eyes closed and lay still.

  “Take me to him!” Garret yelled down at her.

  “Brother,” Sarn choked, “Pa’s gone.”

  “And it’s my fault!” Garret yelled. “He’s dead because I hurt Mr. Malvern and because I went to Molly’s house, and because I went out in the fucking woods!” And a thousand other things that could never be fixed. A thousand angry words that could never be taken back. A thousand mistakes that could not be undone.

  “It’s not your fault, brother,” Sarn quaked, trying to hold his older brother without getting close to his left shoulder.

  “Please girl, take me to him,” Garret cried. “I can’t leave him out there.”

  Garret fell to his knees, jarring his collarbone with a sickening pang. He petted Babe, hugged her and cried, “I’m sorry girl. I’m sorry.”

  Garret only allowed himself to cry for a few seconds before he choked it off. It was like swallowing a cinderblock, but he put his grief and guilt down for the moment. Panting, Garret turned shakily to Sarn. “Can you carry her inside for me, brother? I’ve got to take care of her now.”

  * * *

  Garret couldn’t think about his father, lying dead somewhere in the mountains, his body scavenged by greasy opossums and bald, stinking vultures. But Garret couldn’t not think about it either, so the funeral was like having his hands laid on a rock and slowly beaten to a pulp with a broom handle.

  Father Bendetti was dressed in his robes, his stole fluttering in the wind, as he stood behind the long pine box, which in turn lay behind the big hole in the ground. The box was as empty as the gaping maw into which it would soon be placed. Ma had insisted on the box, though there was no body to put in it. “No husband of mine will disappear from the earth without his wife making sure everyone pays proper respect to him,” she’d said, with her chin high.

  Garret had felt a great many things towards his mother, but that comment marked the first time he’d wanted to spit at his Ma’s feet. It’ll always be about you, won’t it Ma? Pa’s dead, and it’s still about you. Instead of spitting, he just walked away and felt terrible for wanting to do it.

  Bendetti was still talking. The lifeless grey sky was aloof and thin, as was the wind that kept carrying away Bendetti’s words and pulling at his robe.

  A single rose lay on Pa’s empty casket, and Garret eyed it dully. The petals were a garish crimson, the stem and leaves a rude green. Garret hated the rose. It was alive and beautiful, a spiteful contrast to the grey sky, black clothes, and brown leaves all around. Everything was dead, and perhaps it was best to be so.

  Ma cried loudly through most of the service, wailing whenever Bendetti said something compli-mentary about Pa. Sarn stared ahead, gone so far behind his own eyes that Garret wondered if he’d ever come out again.

  At long last, it ended. Eight men came forward to lower the box into the hole. The box was made of pine and contained nothing, so two men could have lowered it easily. It was an absurd display, disgraceful to Pa, in Garret’s mind, just like the rest of this charade.

  While everyone else was still sitting in rows, quiet and respectful as the coffin was being lowered, Garret got up and walked away. It was his father’s funeral, and he’d had enough. Garret’s Ma burst into fresh sobs as the coffin thumped hollowly to the bottom of the grave. Garret hung his head tiredly and walked out into the tomb stones.

  After a minute’s slow walk, he was far enough away that even Ma’s explosive wailing faded mercifully away. He hated himself for being so angry at his mother. Her husband had just died, and she was hurting too, surely. So why couldn’t she stop putting on a show, let it be about Pa for once in her goddam life?

  Garret’s steps dragged as he admitted the truth to himself. I don’t know if I like my own mother. Jesus, I’m a horrible person.

  Garret found himself standing at the foot of the most ornate grave in the yard. Most were a simple pairing of head and foot stones, but this one was a monument. The inscribed base was as high as Garret’s chest and three feet thick. Atop the base, rising another six feet into the air, was a sculpture of an angel, or a young lady with wings. Her right arm reached towards the heavens and her wings were unfurling, but her left foot and ankle were still trapped in uncut stone, as if she was frozen in the act of escaping the mortal coil.

  “Charity M. Malvern,” read the base, carved in inch-deep letters. “1892-1911, Beloved daughter and sister. Sorely missed by all.”

  Garret hadn’t known Charity Malvern very well. She had passed on mere months before Garret had begun seeing Molly. With that thought, Garret felt a deep loneliness that had nothing to do with standing by himself in a graveyard. Molly hadn’t come to Pa’s funeral. It felt like shafts of cold steel, being slowly shoved through his heart. Her parents couldn’t make her stay away. They couldn’t make her do anything. Molly had decided not to come, and that hurt worse than anything.

  * * *

  Days passed slowly at first, as though the sun was without grease, grinding its way into the sky each morning. It was three days after the funeral before Garret could make himself return to the shop. Even then, his return had less to do with feeling able, and more to do with his family’s need for him to work.

  His Ma took him in the wagon so he didn’t have to walk. He was still weak. In the dozen or so words he and Ma had exchanged in the last three days, Garret had learned that, since Doc Bentley was dead, Dr. Grey—the animal doctor—had tended to him while he was ill. It seemed fitting.

  The wagon rattled and bounced down Main Street, Ma driving, and Garret holding his shoulder against the jarring wagon ride and wishing he’d walked instead.

  Main Street passed too quickly. Ma reined-in Violet and the wagon rocked to a stop. The shop looked the same as it always had: a simple but sturdy building at the North East end of Main Street, just weathered plank sides, a weathered wooden door, and two square windows per side, closed from the inside with wooden single-shutters.

  The two of them sat. It had crossed Garret’s mind to wonder what he would feel when he stepped through the door again. He’d dreaded the moment, but his emotions were so tangled that he couldn’t be sure what he was feeling. Slowly, he climbed down from the wagon.

  “I love you, Garret,” his Ma said.

  “Love you too,” Garret replied. His eyes were on the mud, perhaps to keep from tripping over anything and further hurting his injured shoulder, or perhaps to keep himself from having to stare at the shop door with each step towards it. Because he was focused on the trodden earth at his feet, he noticed a small edge of silver sticking out of the mud. Behind him, his Ma flicked the reins and the wagon rattled away.

  Bending over, Garret grasped the object, pulled it from the dirt, and found himself holding a muddy silver dollar. He rubbed it clean. The date was 1900. Above it, Lady Liberty’s portrait was surrounded by stars and the motto, E Pluribus Unum. She had the face not of a beauty queen, but a strong, pr
oud woman who could roll up her sleeves and work as hard as any man. Her hair was wavy, coiling at the base of her neck and adorned not with roses, but sprigs of ripe grain, leaves, and something else, maybe cotton bolls. Liberty, it seemed, was a lady of honest labor, and the basic rewards of it.

  He closed a fist around the heavy coin. It was only a dollar, about three or four hours work for him, but he was shredded, inside and out, and he had one good arm with which to feed his brother and mother. A dollar was hope, and hope was everything. He reached the door, unlocked it, and slipped the dollar into his pocket. As he pushed the door open into the darkness beyond, he thought he caught the faintest whiff of roses, the sweet smell of peace. It calmed his heart, rested his spirit, and for a moment, steadied his hands.

  Now he was ready. He shoved the door open all the way, letting light into the smithy. The same hammers, punches, and tongs hung from the front of both his and his father’s anvil stumps. The forge, heaped with coal and covered by the brick forge hood, was cold and dark. First order of business was always starting the fire, and this morning, he moved too quickly, fumbling a match out of the box on the bench and tripping clumsily around his own anvil. Matches were expensive and only for emergencies, but he urgently needed to see orange coals, glowing, wavering, giving away warmth. The heat and light of coals were his life. Fire and glowing iron made his life good, and he needed some goodness now.

  Fire always came readily to him, and the coke, the purified coal at the center of what had been the last fire, caught almost as quickly as did the bit of tinder he added. He nursed it with his paddles and pokers, pushing the coals into the hottest shape and pulling on the bellows a few times, pulsing the coals and flames to more fervent glow.

  The shop behind him felt empty as an unused barn. Garret never realized how big his father was until all that remained of him was the hole he left behind. Garret’s hands were unsteady by the time the forge was lit, but heat built up quickly in the coal bed, and the orange light and quiet hiss of the fire soon reassembled his calmness.