by D. J. Butler
To add power to the charm, Hiram whispered Ephesians, chapter four, verse twenty-five: “Therefore each of you must put off falsehood and speak truthfully to your neighbor, for we are all members of one body.”
Green twisted. “What are you doing? What is this?”
“You’re going to tell me everything you know,” Hiram said.
“Ha, damn you, Hiram. I won’t. And even if I did tell you, you couldn’t possibly understand. You’re not prepared for the knowledge, so it would simply bounce off your forehead.”
“I’d understand more than you think.” Hiram himself had said uncomfortably similar things to Michael, quite recently. “Tell me about the Blót.”
“Go to hell!”
Hiram took his hat off and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. The frog’s tongue should compel the man to speak the truth—why wasn’t it working? Did Erasmus Green have a countercharm? Did the power that transformed him also protect him?
Was Hiram still weakened by his thoughts of the widow? Having his craft work sometimes-yes and sometimes-no was worse than it never working it all.
“We know that tonight, Jupiter enters the third face of Scorpio,” Michael said.
Hiram felt stricken. He wanted to keep Michael out of this.
Green laughed meanly. “Oh, is the Injun going to work his savagery on me? You gonna do a rain dance, boy?”
Hiram wanted to shut the man up, but he didn’t move.
Michael picked up the frog’s tongue from the banker’s bare chest and examined it. “Pap, this business of ours involves a lot of tongues. Dried dog’s tongue to keep other dogs from barking. Dried frog’s tongue to get people to tell the truth. I wonder what a dried ‘Injun’ tongue would do?” Michael snickered. “Or a dried deer-man’s tongue?”
“I don’t know,” Green said, “but I do know my wet tongue still rooted firmly in my head isn’t going to tell you a thing.”
“We’ll see about that.” Michael laid the tongue back down on Green’s chest, and he repeated the Bible verse Hiram had quoted. Michael had never really learned his Bible, but he had a quick memory.
The minute Michael was done, Green writhed, trying to dislodge the frog’s tongue from his skin. Despite his movements, the dried piece of leather stuck in place, as if glued.
“Tell us about the Blót,” Michael commanded.
“It is ancient. It comes from Iceland, where my mother’s people come from.” Sweat trickled down Erasmus Green’s forehead. “We haven’t always been Mormons, you know. The missionaries only found my people in the 1870s. My parents, my father, they came to Utah, settled in Spanish Fork, for a bit, but they didn’t fit in. They came south, to Moab, or really this valley before it was a town. They came here in 1877, crossed the Colorado, floating one piece of furniture across it at a time. That’s how the story goes. I was born here in 1883, to Cornelius Green and my mother, Hekla Jónsdóttir. My father wasn’t Icelandic nor was he Mormon, but his closest friends were both. My father raised me to be Mormon out of respect for his wife, and my father’s friends raised me with the Blót. I ran my first Tithe when I was sixteen.”
Michael’s eyes flicked up to Hiram. “So it gets him to talk, but the charm doesn’t really compel him to focus on the question.”
“He’s resisting,” Hiram murmured.
“Hell yes, I’m resisting!” Green was sweating, his face pinched, his teeth clenched. “That frog’s tongue is not going to overcome my own good sense. I won’t tell this Injun shit! Let me go, or you’ll have the whole herd down on you!”
Michael poked the man’s arm. “My father isn’t doing the interrogating. I am. And luckily, I’m a righteous man, a humble man, with a forgiving spirit. I’m going to turn the other cheek, but don’t call me an Injun again.”
Hiram smiled, proud for a moment, until a thought made him frown. Would Michael ever be able to work at any ordinary profession, after experiences like this one?
“Okay, Erasmus,” Michael said. “You can turn into a deer, can’t you?”
“You know the answer to that,” Green snapped. Then he grinned. “I have to talk. And I have to tell the truth. But I don’t have to keep talking.”
“Do you know who killed Jimmy Udall?” Michael asked.
“I don’t.”
“Who killed Lloyd Preece?” Michael asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have your suspicions?”
Green twisted, exhaled, and blinked against his sweat. “I do.”
“Whom do you suspect?” Michael’s question was clear.
“The hunters.” Green grinned, but there was pain in his eyes. “The pack killed him.”
“Lloyd was one of you?” Michael asked. “He ran the Tithe?”
Green laughed. “Of course, you idiot! He was First of Hoof! How do you think he got so rich?”
Michael frowned, thinking. “Who is in the pack?”
Green spewed more of the harsh syllables, which must be Icelandic. Green was strong and he was clever—was he clever enough to outwit Michael?
Michael didn’t appear nervous. He stood, arms straight on the sandstone, leaning hard against it. His legs were behind him. “Well, we know that tonight there’s going to be a hunt. And we know the hunt is connected to the Tithe, or maybe it is the Tithe. And we know that you get money from the hunt, because you admitted it yourself when you threw out that little inside joke, during your story of the 1923 robbery. You got your money back through insurance, and the Tithe.”
“I’m not going to say a word on any of that in English. How is your Icelandic, boy?” Green asked.
“We’ll see.” Michael didn’t seem upset. “Yes or no, is Leon Björnsson part of the hunt?”
Green grimaced, but out of his mouth popped, “Já.”
Michael chuckled. “That’s a yes. It’s close enough to the German. Yes or no, is Howard Balsley part of the hunt?”
“Nei!” popped out of Green’s mouth.
Michael gave Hiram a sweaty smile. “Já and nei helps us out. It’s kind of like the lantern game we did with the ghost that first night. Twenty questions! I’ve already asked him about Jimmy Udall and Preece, and he doesn’t know.” His son thought again, and then asked, “Yes or no, if we let you go, will you try to kill us?”
Green didn’t even try to answer it in Icelandic. “No, not if you can keep what you know a secret. And why would you tell anyone? Who would believe you? There might be movies about werewolves, but there aren’t movies about deer men.”
“Yes or no, do you hunt during the Blót?” Michael asked.
“No.” Green scowled.
Hiram felt a shiver run up his spine. Then what was the hunt, exactly?
Michael’s face was thoughtful. “Who hunts you during the Blót?”
“The pack. Do you really want to keep playing this game? I can play all night.” Green laughed. “I won’t tell you anything useful.”
“You’re telling us immensely useful things,” Michael said.
Erasmus Green hissed.
“Yes or no, is the widow Artemis part of the Blót?” Michael asked.
“No. Women can’t be a part of the Blót. But Diana is involved.”
Hiram felt as if he wasn’t breathing.
“How’s that?” Michael asked.
“Oh, I don’t mind talking about this. Let’s just say, the widow Artemis has a definite open mind when it comes to anything that brings her money. She was at Preece’s when he was killed.”
“Yes or no, do you think she killed him?”
“Yes and no,” Green answered. “How do you like that answer? Ha!”
Michael’s face darkened. “And how do you know Diana was at Preece’s when he died?”
“Because someone told me!”
“Was it Diana?” Michael pressed.
“Of course not!”
“Who told you she was there, then?” Michael frowned.
A long stream of Icelandic ensued.
&nb
sp; Hiram felt compassion for his son. And Hiram had wanted to protect his son, but this was the result of Hiram bringing his son into the very real world where men and women did desperate things. Would Michael turn to cynicism? It seemed to be in his nature. Intelligent, complicated men often turned to cynicism as a shield against the world and its pain.
Hiram wished for a servant’s heart.
How could Hiram best serve Michael, or the man tied to the rock?
Perhaps they’d learned enough from Green. Perhaps they’d learned enough to be able to try some of Grandma Hettie’s divination techniques.
“Anything else do you want to ask him?” Hiram asked.
“We could go through the entire town, to figure out who is part of this Tithe thing,” Michael suggested. “He says he can do this all night, let’s give it a try.”
Michael spent the next several minutes going through everyone in town he and Hiram could name. Sheriff Jack Del Rose, Bishop Gudmund Gudmundson, Deputy Russ Pickens, and the ranch hand Clem were all part of the Blót, according to Erasmus Green. Mormons and Catholics, it didn’t seem to matter. Icelandic ancestry or not, didn’t seem to matter, either. Rex Whittle, Hiram was pleased to hear, was not part of it. Ernie and Bobette Smothers, Jeff Webb, Orville Peterson, and Don Pout were not. Leon Björnsson was.
“Surprise,” Michael said. “The guy who stuffs dogs inside of other dogs is part of the crazy.”
When asked whether the individuals were deer-men or hunters, Green laughed and spewed long Icelandic speeches.
“Is the Blót a plot to commit murder?” Michael asked.
Hiram expected an answer not in English.
Green though, surprised him. His laughter evaporated abruptly. “Absolutely not. We don’t want to hurt anyone, and if others do, well, there’s an old maxim of the law that says volenti non fit iniuria.”
“Great,” Michael said. “Latin?”
Green smiled. “It means, if the victim is willing, there is no crime.”
“There’s something else I want to try,” Hiram said.
“I hope it involves letting me go.” Green looked at Hiram.
“Not tonight,” Hiram answered. “I do have a salve for your scalp. I’m assuming your psoriasis doesn’t have anything to do with your two-formed nature or the hunt.”
Green smiled. “That would be nice of you, Hiram. See? We’ll get past this. The hunter and his victim can be friends.”
Hiram imagined he and Michael would let Green go, and then flee back to Lehi. Once Hiram got his head in order, he’d have his craft to protect him.
Until then, he had another charm to show Michael. Hopefully, it would tell them the killer and maybe get Green to talk a little more.
“Let’s take him back to the truck,” Hiram said. “We’ll finish this up by the river.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The sun had set but the sky glowed red by the time they had returned to their camp, close to the river. Hiram lit their kerosene lantern to keep the coming gloom at bay.
“You guys are idiots,” Erasmus Green called from the back of the Double-A. The banker flailed around, pulling at the ropes with which Hiram had tied him down. “Seriously. What do you think is going to happen next? You’re going to solve the murder of Lloyd Preece and be heroes? What, you think there’s some kind of reward for doing the sheriff’s job? Ha!”
Hiram and Michael leaned closed together.
“The problem is this,” Hiram said. “The stone I carry in my pocket?”
“The bloodstone.”
Hiram nodded. “I don’t think it’s working. Yes and no, hit and miss, but not consistently. And it’s a bigger problem; my craft has become unreliable for me.”
A look washed across Michael’s face and disappeared. It flashed for only a brief moment, but that was enough for Hiram to recognize it and be wounded; it was an expression that was part disappointment, part glee at being proven right, and part pity. The pity wounded Hiram the most.
But the expression passed, and Michael regained control of his face. “That’s why I had to take over with the dried frog’s tongue. Okay, so your magic isn’t working?”
“I don’t love the word magic, son.”
Michael looked at him as if he were avoiding the question. “It doesn’t work.”
“It does work,” Hiram said. “It’s just not working for me right now.”
Michael frowned. Hiram knew what he was thinking.
“The bloodstone works,” Hiram said. The stone worked. It had worked for Hiram innumerable times, except which it was interfered with by the working of other influences, or when Hiram himself was not a worthy instrument. “Listen, you know what I tell you about the state of mind you need to have to be able to work any of Grandma Hettie’s lore.”
“No cussing.”
“No, not that. I mean yes that, but, more basically…”
Michael nodded. “A chaste and sober mind.”
Hiram breathed a sigh of relief. “That.”
Michael stared blankly for a moment. “Wait, are you saying…Pap?”
“Yes.” Hiram hung his head.
“Who…? It’s Diana Artemis, isn’t it? Ho ho ho, Pap, what did you do?”
“No, nothing. I—look, you don’t have to do anything. Jesus says in Matthew 5 that if you look upon a woman with lust in your heart, you’ve already committed adultery.”
“That’s a pretty high bar, Pap.”
“It’s the highest bar, son.” Hiram felt his cheeks coloring. “It’s the judgment bar.”
“So you’re telling me,” Michael said slowly, “that you didn’t do anything with Diana Artemis. Didn’t kiss, snuggle, hold hands, touch, say naughty words.”
“Nothing.”
“And yet you feel like an adulterer.”
“No!” What Hiram felt was mortification. “Look, all I’m saying is, I don’t have the kind of concentration to be able to make the charms work for me right now. I’m pretty sure that’s why the heliotropius has been…somewhat not working.”
“Look, Pap, this is totally normal, I promise you. As a fellow who has felt lust in his heart while looking upon a girl or two in his own time, I can assure you that the feelings are thoroughly natural. And if you didn’t do anything to act on those feelings, Pap, really, that’s the best you can do. I promise. Mom couldn’t ask anything more from you. You can’t ask anything more from yourself.”
“I’m going to ask something from you.”
Michael stopped his rapid-fire reassurances. “Sure, Pap. What do you need?”
“I want you to try another charm. I know this is three in a row—the sleeping table, the frog’s tongue, and now this—and I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m not very…cunning…right know.”
Michael’s face froze, then shifted into a slightly uncomfortable grin. “I’m not so sure I have a chaste and sober mind. I mean, a couple of hours ago I said I did, but now that I’ve heard your standards…”
“I think you have what it takes, son. In any case, I know that I do not.”
Michael took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay. Give me the bloodstone.”
Hiram handed the stone over to his son. They turned back to face Green.
“What’s the charm?” Michael asked.
“I have a divination in mind,” Hiram said. “I think we’ve got all we could get out of Erasmus Green, but at least he’s given us a list of suspects. And with that, we can begin to test.” He grinned a crooked grin. “Science, you know.”
“Which one?” Michael’s face lit up. “I mean yes, of course, but which one? Sheep’s entrails?”
“That’s old Greek stuff,” Hiram told him. “You know I don’t do that.”
“Divining rod? Sieve and shears?”
“I was thinking clay balls,” Hiram said. “And we do it in front his Mr. Green here.”
“Because sometimes a guilty man will reveal himself, independently of the magic?”
“The charm. Yes. There’s cl
ay down on the riverbank we can use.”
“I’ll fetch some clay,” Michael said. “You can show me what to do.”
Michael took the tin bowl from his mess kit and headed down to the water. Hiram grabbed his toolbox from the back of the truck. Erasmus Green craned his neck to see what Hiram was doing, but finally grumbled, “Torture won’t get you anything.”
“Agreed,” Hiram said.
On the end of the truck bed, Hiram spread out what Michael would need: virgin paper, the finest ink Hiram could buy, Hiram’s ritual knife, the big tin bucket in which he washed dishes, now full of clean water.
Michael returned with a heaping pile of thick brown clay in his bowl, and, at Hiram’s directions, washed his hands.
“First,” Hiram said, “take this pen and ink and write out on this virgin sheet of paper the names of our murder suspects. Each name on a separate line. As you write, keep a prayer in your heart.”
“How do I keep a prayer in my heart?”
Hiram considered. “Try remembering the pity you have for Lloyd Preece, and think the words please, Lord, as you work.”
Michael nodded. “Who are our suspects?”
Hiram sighed. “Diana Artemis.”
Erasmus Green cackled.
Michael wrote the name.
“Davison Rock. Earl Bill Clay.” Hiram looked up at Mr. Green. “Erasmus Green.”
Michael wrote out the names. Green laughed, snorted, and spit.
“You know you’re going to go to prison for this,” Green said meanly. “That’s what you call irony. You all think you’re hunting down a criminal, but the criminals are you. Kidnapping! That’s a trip to Sugar House for both of you!”
Hiram fixed Erasmus Green with a steady eye, looking for any signs of flinching in the man. He saw none. There was manic energy there, and conviction, and anger, but no uncertainty or hesitation.
He was certain Green had attacked him on the road to Provo, in the form of the deer-beast with the skin affliction. Was it possible that wasn’t connected to the murder of Lloyd Price, who had been a member—the head—of Green’s were-deer herd?
Was this just about the money after all?
“Anyone else, Pap?” Michael asked.
“Adelaide Tunstall,” Hiram suggested. “She knew there was money. We have no reason to think it was her, but let’s see what the clay says. Jack Del Rose.”
