The mayor wiggled his arms as he refastened the lock.
“There’s about five feet of slack, so don’t get too close. But these are the strongest northern chains we have.”
Samuel stared at the shackles, and his father did as well. If this so-called demon girl killed a grown man, how easy would it be for her to tear them apart?
His father stopped a safe distance away. He held out his arm.
“Do you know what this is, child? It’s the mark of the clergy. I’m a sworn servant of Azhuel.” He tapped the inked roots with two fingers. “Of the roots. I mean you no harm.”
The girl paused her doodling but kept her index finger frozen in place.
His father crossed his arms. “I would like to help you. To pray for you. Do you have a name?”
The girl said nothing.
Samuel inhaled a bitter stench, nearly gagging at what smelled like a dead carcass. The gauze around the girl’s right leg had taken a blackish hue, and Samuel could now see the dried blood caked on her dress, her limbs, her hair. Some spots were crimson and others black as tar. It made him wonder how much of the blood had been hers. She glanced up at him for the briefest moment before turning away. The reflecting green of her eyes seemed unnatural to any human or animal he’d seen, like ripples of film.
“Show the girl your arm, Samuel.”
Samuel came alongside his father. He set the scriptures down and placed his bare arm in alignment with his father’s, but careful not to have them touching.
“I don’t have a mark,” he said. “Not yet. Not until I’m ordained and become a cleric.” He hated the words as they left his mouth.
The girl turned to face his father’s mark.
“I think she’s listening,” the mayor bellowed, smashing his belly between the bars. “Keep going. Ask more questions.”
His father edged closer and closer, stretching out his arms in open surrender.
“I’m sorry that you’re in this position, child. You must be in pain. But perhaps your silence is doing you more harm than good. If you can speak, please, tell us your name. Where did you come from?”
The girl’s jaw clenched as she dragged her wounded leg up to her chest. Did she remember the way the trap had clamped into her leg?
“How old are you? You can’t be more than thirteen years of age. Are you of the roots? Are you natural?” His father grabbed his inked roots. He looked down. “Or are you a servant of the flames?”
The girl returned to her dirt drawings. Samuel couldn’t tell if she was scribbling words, simple shapes, or complex images. A few minutes passed before his father motioned for the knife. Samuel unsheathed the blade before giving it over and then propped the scriptures on his lap.
“Read from the prophet Jeutero,” his father said. “Start of chapter four.”
Samuel searched for the verse as his father aligned the blade over his palm.
“I’m going to say a prayer for you.”
His father got closer to the girl.
As soon as the girl noticed the knife in his father’s grasp, she rose. The chains strapped to her ankles scraped across the ground, clanking loudly. She was even smaller than she seemed sitting down, her height well under five feet. She effortlessly balanced herself on her left leg, glaring at Samuel’s father as the toes on her right foot barely touched the ground. His father cut into his own flesh, allowing fresh blood to trickle down his hand. The girl clawed into her thigh with her only hand, her teeth almost peeping out from her closed mouth. She glared at the knife like she starved for it.
Samuel couldn’t explain the feeling that overwhelmed him, but somehow, he knew that she was going to strike. He yanked his father backward, the force surprising him, and they both fell to the ground. His father dropped the knife. The girl flung herself forward, her movements quick and precise. She would’ve grabbed them both if the chains hadn’t held. Samuel crawled to the knife, and once he had it in his grip, he pointed it at the girl.
His father struggled to breathe; the wind was knocked out of him by the fall.
The mayor rattled the bars.
“I told you not to get too close!”
Samuel’s father got on his knees, his face red as he heaved. The girl raved with madness, her body quaking with every jerk and lunge. Samuel could take his eyes off neither of them, fearing what may happen if the northern chains didn’t hold.
Samuel trudged through the snow. He and his father had gotten lucky with the ground snares. The rope leading to the blackberry bush was clearly visible, stretching above the snow and wriggling at the sound of his footsteps. He crept forward and put down the backpack. He swallowed, sliding his jacket’s hood down while he moved around the pine. A white-tailed buck battled for his freedom, thrashing his body wildly as the stakes pierced and pinned one of his front legs. Deer were fairly plentiful in the eastern woods, but they were hard to catch. The deer’s antlers were short and thin, only three points.
Samuel waited.
After a while, the buck quieted its struggle. It panted wildly, its dark tongue hanging out the crack of its mouth. Samuel got to his knees, drawing closer. The deer twisted its neck in horror, its dark eyes watching him. They were wide and black. The eyes of prey.
Samuel reached inside his jacket and got the knife.
“It’s okay,” he said softly as he straddled the deer’s torso, making sure to fully secure him underneath his legs. The buck’s muscles twitched, but the creature could do nothing. How had the girl felt when she’d been caught in the bear trap, iron teeth snapping into her leg? Like the buck? Did she think she’d be free? Somehow, he couldn’t picture her as a deer. She was more like a scrappy wolf cub.
Or a demon.
Most of his life, Samuel never questioned the teachings of Azhuel. He knew the doctrine firmly, the scriptural explanations of creation through the roots. For a long time, it made sense to him. Life had to come from something, he supposed. But did it mean that Azhuel was really Azhuel, or that the roots were real, or that prayer actually worked, or that there was such a thing as demons? He was beginning to have his doubts. How come every time he prayed, he heard nothing? Was there something wrong with him? He knew he’d make a horrid cleric.
The buck gave one last effort to escape, but it failed to get its hoof on the ground. Samuel patted its shaking torso.
“It’s okay,” he reassured.
Samuel hated this part, but he was so hungry for red meat. Fresh meat. He aligned the blade over the buck’s neck, closed his eyes tight, and slit the animal’s throat. The buck dropped, convulsing as warm blood came rushing out. Samuel waited a bit before opening his eyes, making sure it was over. He cleaned the blade with snow.
“Thank you.”
Samuel was seven the first time he killed his own deer. He’d watched his father put down ensnared animals many times before, but when it was his turn to cut the creature’s throat, he forgot all the instructions. His slice was crooked and shallow, and he missed the artery. He cried after that, and his father had to come over and do it right. Samuel was humiliated. Even as his bastard, Samuel continually felt like a disappointment to his father. He wouldn’t only make a poor cleric, but a poor man. He was weak, his branch-like arms and legs too dainty to overpower much of anything, and he cried way more than a boy should. He wanted to be strong, to be resilient and do whatever was necessary to survive, but did he have it in him? It was one thing for him to watch his father put a deer down, and another when he was the one holding the knife.
I know it’s hard, his father had told him. But this is something that one day you’ll have to do on your own. A man must learn to provide for himself in this world. The scriptures tell us this.
I’m sorry.
This animal is a gift. We honor it with our eating, and we honor it by returning its body to the roots.
But it’s in pain.
I know. His father had wiped his blade across the snow, cleaning off the blo
od. Everything on earth is subject to pain, including us. Azhuel has given man dominion over the beasts, which makes us stewards of this world. We should strive to live in harmony with the living, no matter their size or disposition. But humans need meat. This is why you must learn to put a trapped animal down. Sometimes, a quick death is the most merciful thing to give. We thank the creature for the nourishment it will provide us, and we thank the roots. It is Azhuel’s gift to us. We are but dirt. To dirt we return.
We are all dirt. The idea brought Samuel no comfort.
Samuel said a prayer of thanks, mostly out of habit. The blackberry bush was in full bloom. He popped more berries into his mouth before turning back to the dead buck. It would be hard work dragging the deer back to the cabin all on his own, but he couldn’t leave it unguarded. Not after he’d spilled all that blood. With his luck, the wolves would pick up the scent and have picked it clean before he could return with his father.
He decided to field dress the kill. He cut into the buck’s body cavity and scooped out the organs, tossing the steaming entrails away. But he made sure to save the heart and liver. The liver was his father’s favorite part. He grabbed the rope from the snare and undid the knots. For once in his life, he hoped he was strong enough to do this on his own.
Samuel dumped the heart and liver into the sink. He wiped his damp glasses, his breathing heavy, arms shaking. He took off his jacket and ran his hands through his shaggy hair, feeling the sweat. His father was perched by the fireplace, lost in the scriptures and his scribbled notes.
“Father?”
His father kept his sight on the holy words, mumbling to himself as he jotted down more words. The circles underneath his father’s eyes had grown darker. The mayor had given him a week to thoroughly research the scriptures, learning all he could about the dark spirits and their powers of manifestation. He would then need to report every detail he could gather on demons directly to the mayor, and together, they would devise a plan to commune with the girl.
“What is it?” his father asked.
“We caught a deer with the ground snare. I put him down.”
“Get the rope,” his father said levelly. “I’ll be out in a moment.”
“No need.” Samuel motioned to the window. “It’s in the shed. I couldn’t mount it, my arms are dead, but I brought him here.”
His father’s response was delayed. “By yourself? How big?”
As much physical labor as he did on a daily basis, Samuel somehow managed to remain weak. Truth be told, he didn’t think he’d really be able to pull it off on his own.
“Three points.”
“That’s impressive,” his father said with a yawn. He rose, carefully placing the scriptures on the desk. “Did you say a prayer?”
“Yes,” Samuel murmured. He guzzled down a cup of water. He wished adulthood was the only thing he would grow into. In a few months, he knew he’d be standing before the high council to take his oath of servitude. In the presence of the seven high-ranking clerics, known as bishops, Samuel would have to adequately explain and defend the doctrines of their faith. Afterward, when the blood was shed and the prayers given, he would have black ink needled into his right arm.
Samuel retrieved a fresh pan as his father diced the liver.
“Did you find anything new?”
His father sliced the meat rhythmically. “There isn’t much to gather. So much is open to theological speculation. I know of Azhuel and His goodness. I know of the truth that can be found in this life and the next. I know of darkness as well, but I don’t care to know more of it.”
Samuel held out the pan as his father tossed in the cut pieces, the juices lathering. They’d not once spoken about the girl in the jailhouse, and since then it was nearly all he thought about. Her thick red hair, her chains, her missing arm, her bloodstained skin, her near-glowing eyes.
“Is she a demon?” Samuel asked. “I mean, do you think she’s a demon?”
His father wiped his forehead, palming the edge of the counter.
“I don’t know. Demons do not have material bodies. But that child? She’s not like anything I’ve seen before. I don’t know what she is.”
“What do you think happened to her arm?”
“I don’t know.”
Samuel looked to his feet. “What will the mayor do to her?”
“The mayor is a man accustomed to getting what he wants,” his father said as he packaged the buck’s heart into sheets of used paper. “He sees something in that child he desires. Something dark and powerful. He will attempt to harness it with or without my assistance. For now, I must serve and obey. We are but dirt.”
“What if she doesn’t want to listen to the mayor?”
His father washed his hands, drying them on a fresh towel.
“I suppose the sheriff would have his way, then.”
“It’s not fair,” Samuel said softly. “They catch her in a ground snare and hurt her and keep her chained up like a dog. It’s … not right.”
“You sound like her,” his father said dryly.
Samuel guessed his father was referencing his mother, but he wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a compliment. The kitchen knife sat beside the packaged organ, blood staining the paper. He rinsed the blade before stepping back outside and onto the packed snow.
Unlike the butcher’s quaint and unostentatious burial, Landon Swen’s funeral was a lavish affair. Black streamers and red poinsettias decorated the shops’ display windows. A white-clothed table had been set up near the center of the town square, serving free chocolates and licorice balls to all in attendance. Many of the parents had to restrain their children from taking too much, while others said nothing as their little ones shamelessly stuffed their mouths and pockets full of candy. How many times in their lives would they get the chance to eat packaged candy from the greenlands? Sugary treats were an expensive luxury, typically reserved for the politicians and their families. The large funeral ceremony was a rarity in and of itself. Citizens were not allowed to congregate for any reasons other than labor for the state, unless a ruling politician permitted otherwise.
The patrolman’s closed coffin sat on top of the makeshift wooden stage, and a violinist, no doubt hired from the greenlands, played a somber medley as the citizens of Haid came to pay their respects for the dead. The square was crowded, with hundreds in attendance. People were barely able to move without brushing against one another. The loggers were given the day off. That in and of itself was nothing short of a miracle. Pinewood is what kept the town alive. It was the reason Haid was one of the largest towns in the whitelands.
Landon’s death was labeled an unfortunate accident, but beyond that there wasn’t much explanation as to what had happened to him. The consensus was a bear attack, but most wouldn’t say what they really thought. The sheriff stood beside the mayor, his cheeks flushed as he petted his peppered mustache. He kept turning to Landon’s mother, an elderly woman who couldn’t keep the tears from streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. He must have decided to delay his leave until after the funeral. The mayor smoked his pipe, giving strained smiles and condolences to those in mourning. Perhaps paying for such an extravagant ceremony was his way of making peace with the sheriff. Samuel didn’t understand how the sheriff could get away with disrespecting the mayor as much as he had. A citizen could be punished or even executed for disobeying a direct order from a politician. Citizen compliance to ruling politicians was a necessity for maintaining peace. Or so Samuel had heard. But maybe the mayor needed the sheriff more than most thought.
“The knife,” his father said.
Samuel grabbed the knife from his pocket and extended the handle to his father. They had been waiting along the outskirts of the square until the appropriate time. When the mayor gave the signal, his father marched through the snow toward the stage with the scriptures in one hand and the hunting knife in the other. The crowd parted wide enough for ten men to pass through. Ev
en at such a packed event, no one would dare be caught touching a cleric. Samuel stayed behind, reclining against the walls of an abandoned shack. He’d told his father he didn’t want to risk botching the rites, and the large crowd would only make him more nervous. In reality, however, he hated the glares and the whispered conversations.
“Wait. Is that the cleric’s bastard? He’s gotten big.”
“You heard what they did to the poor bitch who bore him? Religious zealots can’t even keep their own vows. I wish they’d all disappear.”
“You think he’ll be a cleric too?”
“It makes sense; like anyone in their right mind would hire a cleric’s bastard. No telling how messed up that kid is. Can you imagine having that oath-breaking holy man as your father?”
“True. Save our logging jobs for those who need them.”
Samuel looked ahead. His father hovered over Landon’s coffin, cut his own palm, and sprinkled blood across the closed casket. Some gazed with open mouths and furrowed brows, while others refused to watch entirely. Undeterred by the crowd size, he read several passages from the book of Hetsulu, his tone loud but level.
“Blessed are those under the dirt,” his father said. “For they shall be reunited with Azhuel. Their blood shall feed the holy roots, their skin finding life once more.”
Seeing the closed coffin made Samuel think about the girl in the jailhouse.
He tilted his head, looking past the main gathering.
Laura Litten, the old butcher’s daughter, stood in front of the butcher’s shop. A bloodstained apron was tied around her waist, and stray strands of her brown hair were caked onto her cheeks. Sweating was a hard feat to accomplish in the whitelands since summers were mild and short-lived, but somehow, most people found a way. Laura’s daughter came out from behind the shop’s door, and he nearly tasted the bitterness of the coffee she’d served him. Her name was Claudette. He remembered that, and how her narrow face was a younger reflection of her mother’s. Mother and daughter whispered to each other before they both strolled back into the shop. He pulled up the jacket’s hood over his head. The sheriff had been right about Laura picking up the butchering trade, and his father had been right about her keeping the secret of the old butcher touching a cleric. At least for now.
Demon in the Whitelands Page 4
