Blood of the Earth

by Faith Hunter

  “Can walk in the sunlight, so he ain’t no vampire, even though he drank the demon’s blood.”

  “But he’s disgraceful. Evil. Dark of soul.” Mama Grace’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Demon possessed?”

  “Churchmen done separated into factions again and our own menfolk was getting ready to take him before the church and charge him with witchcraft. Such a charge would a ripped the church in two.”

  They went suddenly silent. Even the rockers went motionless on the wood floors. A charge of witchcraft, according to church law, meant a trial and if convicted, burning at the stake. A frisson of fear shot through me. That was the eventual, likely punishment that would have awaited me, had I stayed here. I said softly, “Thank you for saving me. Thank you for talking to Leah and John and getting me out of here.” Things had taken a decidedly personal path, but I couldn’t begrudge myself wanting my own truth and history, though I had been sent to discover a totally different kind of truth.

  “Humph,” Mama Grace said. “That’s women’s jobs.”

  “We’uns know our responsibilities, and we knew the colonel was evil.”

  Mama Grace tittered and picked up her knitting again. “That was the best thing to happen to that old coot in years, when you stood up and told him no and called him names.”

  “In front of the whole church.” Mama laughed softly with her sister-wife and they exchanged knowing glances.

  “Losing you to Ingram, him unable to give you babies,” Mama Grace said, “was painful. But he promised to keep you safe. And he kept his word.”

  Staring into the flames, I shook my head. I had cleaved to John Ingram for saving me, when it had been my family all along. I had lived a lie. Knowing the truth was letting me see things inside me, emotions all snarled around, like the pot-bound roots of a captive plant, growing around and around, seeking an outlet when none was there. I took a breath that hurt, where the tree roots had entered, and imagined that I could feel them stirring inside me.

  “We got a decade of catching up to do,” Mama said.

  “And we need to find you a man,” Mama Grace said. “A good man in the church, one who can give you some young’uns.”

  My head came up fast, a denial on my lips, but Mama beat me to it. “Nell’s a big girl. Iffen she wants a man, she can get her own, I’m thinking.”

  I chuckled, the sound forced and stiff, but at least polite. I said, “Thank you, Mama Grace, but I’m not the marrying kind anymore. I’ve been on my own too long.” Mama Grace frowned at her knitting, but she didn’t argue.

  “And now I have to talk about something else, if you have the time.” Both women nodded, and I led the topic back to the PsyLED interests. “I need to know more about the Dawsons’ recent visit, the elder one and the younger one. Did either man spend any time on the compound? With or without Jackie?”

  “They wasn’t here but a day, maybe two,” Mama Grace said. “Him and his daddy and Jackson spent some time in the winter storage cave.”

  Mama said, “You know Simon was addicted to vampire blood?” I nodded. “Living off church grounds, consorting with evil. Then he done something to make them vampires mad. They cut him off.”

  “He come to the church for help.” Needles clacking, Mama Grace nodded to herself. “But that was after the vampire was rescued by the Cherokee woman, and by then, wasn’t no vampire blood to be had, not around the church.”

  Mama’s voice dropping, she said, “As evil as drinking blood is, if he’d a come to the Nicholsons’, I like to think we would have helped him with his addiction. Found him a rehab facility somewhere.”

  Mama Grace seemed to think about that for a moment before agreeing. “Yes. That would a been the Christian thing to do. You’re right, Sister Cora. You have a dependable moral compass and a good head on your shoulders. You should marry Micaiah according to the laws of the land. You or Sister Carmel.”

  Mama’s eyebrows went up so high her forehead turned into furrows. The two women chatted back and forth about marrying under the law of the land and who should do it and why. I sat and listened. At one point, I left them to their chat and made a fresh pot of coffee in the big percolator on the kitchen’s woodstove. I served us all when it was ready, trying to figure out what I needed to do next, what questions I needed to ask, when my cell rang. I retook my rocker and fumbled, hearing the strange, modern chime in the Nicholson house, then answered it. “Yes?”

  “Nell? Rick. I have news about your father.”

  My heart plummeted and gave a painful electric splutter when it hit bottom. I tried to keep my reaction off my face, but the mamas were too good at reading body language. Mama Grace set down her needles. Mama placed her mug on a side table and gripped the arms of the rocking chair. “Okay,” I said. “How’s Daddy?”

  “I’m at the hospital now. He’s awake. He’s asking for you. Can you talk?”

  “Me? Ummm. Sure?” I mouthed to them, Daddy wants to talk to me.

  The wives dropped everything and were suddenly kneeling at my rocking chair. It felt wrong to have them at my feet. Worse, Mama Grace was crying big tears like a broken faucet. I covered the end of the cell and whispered, “He’s better.” And he had to be, didn’t he, for him to be talking on a phone?

  I heard a change in the background noise, and then Daddy said, “Nell? These PsyLED police. You trust ’em?” His voice sounded scratchy and rough and weak, but it was enough to produce a relieved smile. I nodded at the two women.

  “Daddy. Yes, I trust ’em. You can trust Rick. You okay?”

  “What about Occam? The were-de . . . the wereleopard. You trust him?”

  “Yes. And he ain’t no demon,” I said firmly, in church-speak.

  Daddy laughed, but the sound cut off sharply as if the laughter had startled pain through him. When he started again, he sounded weaker and shaky. “If the police ain’t found it yet, tell Sam to take you to the room at the back of the winter supply cave. Tell him I said to show you and the PsyLED police everything about it. Tell him to go armed in case something is back there again. And tell him I said, ‘Gog and Magog.’ He’ll do what you say.”

  “Okay, Daddy. Mama Cora and Mama Grace are here. Will you talk to them? Daddy? Daddy?” That odd background muffled noise came again and Rick said, “The nurse gave him morphine and it just hit him. He’s out of it, Nell. But your father was remarkably talkative.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, anger blazing up like fire. “You questioned my daddy when he was drugged?”

  “And without reading him his rights or offering him a lawyer. Meaning that anything he said is inadmissible in any court in the nation.” Rick sounded entirely too pleased with himself.

  My anger was snuffed out as quickly as it flared up. “You did that to protect him and the Nicholsons and me. Didn’t you?”

  Rick didn’t reply to my question, saying instead, “Occam and I are on our way back to the church again. Tell your brother to hold his fire, okay? Gog and Magog sound dangerous.”

  I laughed, the sound as shaky as Daddy’s voice had been. “Okay. See you soon.” I ended the call and said, “They gave Daddy morphine and he’s out cold again. But he told me to tell Sam to tell me everything about a room in the back of the winter supply cave. And to tell him, ‘Gog and Magog.’”

  Mama and Mama Grace looked at each other and stood together. Mama took Grace’s hands and they bowed their heads. “Lord,” Mama prayed. “Give us strength for the coming battles. Help us remain true to You and to Your Word. Amen.”

  “I’ll send Amos and Rufus for the other families,” Mama Grace said. “You get Sam and I’ll get the middle’uns started on the weapons. ‘Gog and Magog.’ Dear Jesus, I never thought it would come to this. Disgraceful.”

  “Wait here, baby girl,” Mama said. “I’ll get Sam.” Then Mama did something I had never expected in a million years. She reached into the b
asket of darning beside her rocker and pulled out a cell phone. It was an old-fashioned model, a flip phone, and she punched in a number. Stunned, all my senses alert, I heard Sam answer. Mama pressed the cell to her ear, cutting off his part of the conversation, and said, “Micaiah said, ‘Gog and Magog,’ to your sister Nell, and he gave her orders. Mama Grace is sending Amos and Rufus to get the others. You get here fast.” She paused and said, “Yes. He’s letting Nell and the PsyLED police run things.” Another pause followed, and Mama’s voice took on steel. “Gog and Magog, boy. Get moving.” And she closed the cell phone.

  Meanwhile Mama Grace had made several quick calls on her own cell phone and then she shouted for the children to “Get down here, all a you’uns! It’s Gog and Magog!” She turned to me. “We’re taking back the church leadership. And the land. And if we have to fight to make it happen, we’re ready.”

  SEVENTEEN

  I spent the next half an hour on as part of a texting group, making plans with Unit Eighteen. We had just finished up when Sam came in the front door, tall and lean and tough looking, and he walked directly to me through the melee of family, his long legs lifting across the little’uns, his work-booted feet landing solid and steady. Dependable. All grown-up. Eyes steely, he said, “Tell me exactly what Daddy said.”

  I closed my eyes. It had been years since I’d memorized or recalled anything more important than seeds to order or supplies to buy, but memory games and Bible verses had been part of my youth. I still had the skill, though it was rusty and slow. I quoted, “If the police haven’t found it yet, tell Sam to take you to the room at the back of the winter supply cave. Tell him I said to show you and the PsyLED police everything about it. Tell him to go armed. And tell him I said, ‘Gog and Magog.’ He’ll do what you say.”

  “Exactly that?” Sam asked. “Nothing more? And he said to let the PsyLED police into it all?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. I gave him the look, the one I had given him when we were children and he got bossy and questioned something I was doing or something I planned.

  Sam waved my irritation away and laughed, his face lighting up. “Fine.” He walked to the wall where the hunting rifles and shotguns were stored and unlocked the cabinet, returning with two weapons. He handed me a .30-30, one similar to John’s old lever-action gun, and set ammo on the side table. He started loading his weapon and looked at me with raised eyebrows. “You forget how to load a gun, Nellie?”

  I gave him the look again and loaded mine. And then the others he brought out, until the kitchen table was filled side to side with weapons. Like the rest of the church families, Daddy had an arsenal prepared for the last days, when the remnant of the church had to fight demons and the government all at once. I remembered the gunfight in the church. It was more than scary how many guns were on church grounds.

  When we were done, my brother grinned grimly, his blue eyes bright and intense. He handed me John’s six-shooter. “I got it from Mama. It’s still got three rounds in it. Let’s go, baby sister.”

  He pivoted and made for the door, weaving through the organized chaos. He opened it and cursed, a word I’d never heard spoken on church land, jerking his shotgun up to fire. I rammed my body against his, and shoved him against the doorjamb. “They’re with me.”

  “Demons?” he said, horrified.

  “Wereleopards in cat form,” I said, my tone derisive. “Not demons, you dopehead. Get them some water; they look like they’ve been running hard.”

  Sam rested his shotgun on his shoulder, the barrel pointing up, and snapped his fingers at the mass of young’uns that had gathered in the doorway when I shoulder-shoved my brother. “Get back to work,” he said. “Mud, stop hiding and sneaking around. Get a . . . a dog bowl and water for the dem . . . for the cats.” To me he added, “But they ain’t coming inside, where they might hurt a young’un.”

  “They’re not animals, you dumb boy.” I grinned at Sam and he scowled at me. Just like old times.

  I set the guns aside and settled on the shadowed steps of the front porch near the big-cats, Paka black and sleek, smaller than Occam’s rangy, spotted, golden length, both panting, tongues hanging out. “Anybody see you?” I asked.

  Occam shook his head side to side, a gesture that looked bizarre on a cat.

  “You keep to the shadows? In the trees?”

  Occam dropped his head and raised it back up, his pelt scratching on his gobag.

  “That’s just . . . wrong,” Sam said watching from the door.

  “Get over it, big brother. The world is a lot stranger and more interesting than you’ve been led to understand.”

  “And you’re too big for your britches, little sister. Always was.” Which was more old-times talk, and made me smile, dropping my head forward, a trail of hair hiding the pleasure on my face.

  Mud brought a slopping bowl of water to the front door and I placed it on the porch. Paka shouldered her way to it first and slurped up half of the water. Occam looked up at me with golden eyes, and I reached out a tentative hand and stroked his head. The hair there was glossy and spotted black and gold. He butted my thigh with his head and dragged his jaw along my shirt, scent-marking me. I let go a breath that sounded like a chuff, and Occam chuffed back at me before bending over the water bowl for his share. When it was empty I picked the bowl up and handed it to Sam. “Get it filled while we’re gone.”

  He handed it to Mud, who was staring unabashedly at the big-cats. She took the bowl and asked, “Why’re they here?”

  “I don’t know. Something must a—must have—happened.”

  Occam sniffed, his nostrils fluttering. He did it again. And this time I got the message. “They’re here to sniff around. Right?”

  Occam dropped his head and raised it back up in a nod.

  “Faster than waiting for K-nine dogs,” I guessed. Occam nodded once again.

  Studying the cats, Sam asked, “What the heck are they wearing?”

  “Gobags, camouflaged for each coat type, stuffed with clothes and supplies. If they have to change back to human they’ll need to dress.” The bags also contained cell phones to call for help or backup, and there were weapons there too, but I didn’t tell Sam that.

  My brother shook his head at the strangeness of it all.

  To the cats, I said, “Stick to the shadows. We’re heading to some caves the other police might not have found, so you can sniff around. And you need to know: the church sounds like it’s going to war, faction against faction, so we need to get out of here fast when we’re done.”

  Both big-cats dropped their heads down, then back up in the cat nod. “Jump in the back of my truck and keep low,” I said. I tossed the keys to Sam. “You’re driving.”

  “So bossy . . . ,” he murmured.

  * * *

  Most of the police cars and vans were gone. Except for the crime scene tape at the church, the drive to the caves indicated no problems anywhere, just another peaceful day in the compound, with women and men working in the gardens, harvesting cabbages, fall greens, pumpkins, and gourds, turning over the soil in winter ground prep, and bringing in tarps and mulch. The greenhouses were full of women starting herbs for winter use, and I had a sudden, visceral memory of being in the warm, damp greenhouse on a cold autumn day, the scent of fresh soil and mulch like a blessing to my senses. It was the first time I had been allowed into the greenhouse to help the elder women, and I had been given the job of spreading basil seeds and covering them with a scant layer of sandy soil. I had told the nascent plants they could “Grow now; it’s time,” and given them a small nudge. I remembered seeing the women smile at one another at how cute I was. But I wasn’t being cute. I was being me, and sharing my gift with the plants. I had known it even then, and I couldn’t have been much more than five.

  Basils grew fast, but my basils had sent the women marveling over the speed at which the different vari
eties grew. By midwinter, they had nicknamed me Green Thumb. There had been good mixed in with the bad in my life in the compound. Maybe all life is like that: good with bad, chaos with order, war with peace, in parallel tracks, like railway lines. Or maybe it was always chaos, war, and bad, and we only imagined the good stuff. I didn’t know. But the greenhouse was a good memory.

  Maybe I could borrow some space in the church’s greenhouses for my herbs and spring plants. If the church survived the coming split. I shook my head. Sam said, “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Park under the trees and away from the other vehicles if you can, so the cats can get into the lower limbs.”

  “You trust the devils?”

  “I do.”

  Sam shook his head this time, his face looking away in church etiquette, as I did, and made a three-point turn, backing in under the big hemlocks that guarded the entrance to the cave where the church’s winter supplies were kept. I felt the truck shift and wobble as the cats leaped into the tree branches overhead. Leaving the truck facing out toward the compound, so we could make a fast getaway, maybe, Sam turned off the engine. “Tell me about the room?” I asked.

  “The cave access was reshaped with reinforced poured concrete, rebar, a layer of shock-absorbent wood, and stone, all hidden behind D-cut logs. The door is steel, covered by distressed oak, scarred by the attention of a few axes to look weak, like something that a small battering ram could bring down. But in reality, it would take something more like a batch of C4 explosives for anyone to gain entry, which is now known by the state, federal, city, and county law enforcement officers.”

  “That had to make the church elders mad, all their carefully constructed, end-of-the-world fortifications laid bare.”

  “It did. After the raid, though, me and the boys went exploring. We found a set of steel shelves on rollers, something the police had missed. When we rolled back the shelving, we found a . . . a room.” Sam tilted his head and shot me a look. “A bad room. Like something out of a porno film, all that bondage stuff.”