Samuel tightened his hold on the neck as hard as he could, slowly anchoring the head up and squishing the pig’s face into his chest. He’d never killed a pig before, but he’d killed enough animals to know to get the artery behind the jowl. He pressed the knife below the pig’s cheek and slit hard.
“Thank you,” Samuel whispered.
The pig went limp within a matter of seconds, and in a minute’s time, Samuel was able to push the creature down into a puddle of its own blood. Samuel took a deep breath as he moved back, blood dripping from his forearm and knife. He started mumbling a prayer of thanks, but stopped himself. He didn’t need to pray anymore, and he didn’t really want to. It was a bad habit.
Claudette went to the table and picked up several rags. She untied her apron and wiped her hands before giving a fresh towel to Samuel. He cleaned his knife and arms and tried to wipe off the blood that had spilled on his clothes.
“Need help cleaning? I’m guessing you’re going to put it in warm water.”
“My mother says it loosens the skin. But no, I can’t let you do any more.” She reached out a hand to Samuel. “Come with me.”
Samuel pushed up his glasses with his wrists before quickly putting his knife away. He took her hand. It was warm, soft, and uncalloused. His heart raced as though electrical currents were burrowing inside of him. She led him behind the counter to the precut meats.
“Which one do you want? It’s free, of course. You’ve earned it.”
Samuel pushed up his glasses with his free hand, because Claudette was still holding his other one. He was touching someone, a girl, feeling her skin against his. He pretended to be looking at the wide selection of meats and cuts, but he really didn’t care. A heat rose to his cheeks.
“I guess I’ll take some chuck.”
“No. That’s cheap.” She let his hand go. “Get something better. Something the mayor would get.” She let go of his hand and pointed to the fancier cuts. “Here. How about a slice of rib? Or sirloin. That’s the mayor’s favorite, I think.”
“Sirloin sounds good.”
Claudette packaged up the meat for him, and he tried to watch her in a way she wouldn’t find strange. She was as filthy as he was, but it didn’t matter. She pursed her lips as she handed the package over to him, rubbing her thumb over the counter.
“Thank you,” she said.
Samuel held up the meat.
“Thank you,” he said back.
She tilted her shoulder down a bit, and Samuel fought hard not to stare at her budding breasts. “See you at the festival?”
Samuel had never paid attention to festivals in the past. He knew it was supposed to be a big celebration marking the end of winter. The whitelands had only two seasons: summer and winter. Summers were short in the whitelands, a few months, and after all the snow had melted away, the winter would inevitably return. The mayor would pay for fancy decorations and food and games for the citizens to partake in, and everyone would welcome the warmer weather. It was the mayor’s way of thanking the citizens of Haid for their hard work. At least that’s what he’d overheard one year from a logger’s wife, but once she’d noticed he was listening to the conversation, she moved away. It was his own fault. He was hovering too closely. He learned how to eavesdrop from a safe distance and be as still as possible. When he didn’t move, he could become invisible. He liked that. But now, all he could think about was how a girl was talking to him and had held his hand.
“Maybe,” he said. “I’ll have to ask the sheriff. I worked every day, so—”
“Everyone goes,” Claudette said with a smirk. “Even the sheriff’s patrolmen. You could meet me here if you’d like.”
Samuel toddled to the jailhouse, the package of sirloin cupped between his arm and his chest. His boots sank into the melting snow and spots of ice, and he’d nearly fallen twice in his two-mile hike to the jailhouse. Fresh snow was easy to walk through, but when the snow would melt and refreeze, it became really tricky to keep balance. He decided to walk on the edge of the eastern woods, steadying himself on the trunks of the pine trees every time he felt his balance slipping. The sky was fairly cloudless, and the sun was shining brightly. If Haid was lucky, most of the snow would be gone by the end of the week.
The stone jailhouse was in view, and as he got closer, he noticed a figure standing outside the front door. He didn’t see a jeep anywhere, so whoever was outside had walked there. A sudden panic struck him. Atia. Was it her? Had she somehow managed to escape? His eyesight was poor even with his mother’s frames. He picked up his pace, running as fast as he could. No, the figure was too tall and massive to be her. That eased him a bit. He knew how much trouble he’d be in if she got free. But worry came trickling back because no one but the sheriff and the mayor were permitted to enter the jailhouse. It was his job to keep anyone else out. He hustled as hard as he could without slipping, and when he finally came out of the woods, he recognized the figure.
His father, dressed in his long black coat, had his back turned on the utility shed. He scratched his burly beard with his free hand, the other one clutching tightly to the scriptures. Samuel scanned the area as best as he could to make sure no one else was there.
His father kept his cold demeanor as he gave a cordial bow.
“It’s good to see you, Samuel.”
When his father’s head came back up, Samuel saw a sadness in his eyes he’d never seen before. It petrified him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked nervously. “Father?”
His father straightened his back in a way that nearly dwarfed him.
“You look good. Well fed. The sheriff is treating you well, I see.”
“As well as he can.”
Samuel wanted to believe this was nothing more than a kindly visit from a lonely father missing his son, but he knew his father better than being someone who allowed his actions to be dictated by fickle emotions. Everything his father did had to align with the will of Azhuel.
“I don’t think you should be here.”
“I’m here to perform the exorcism.” His father’s large fingers rubbed the pages of the scriptures. “I must do what is right. For this child. For you.”
Samuel’s heart sank.
“Did the mayor give you permission to try?”
His father eyed him blankly.
“But,” Samuel began to stutter. “Father. You can’t. You’ll be punished for going in there. I was ordered not to let anyone in. Don’t you care what happens to me?”
“More than you’ll ever know, Son.”
Samuel scooted to the jailhouse door, nearly falling in the process. He spread his arms in between the frame, his limbs shaking as he dropped the meat. His father was much stronger than he was; Samuel would never be able to overpower him.
“Please,” he begged. “Don’t do this. You’re acting mad. She’s not a demon. She’s not possessed. I know she’s not. She’s different, but not like that. You’re wrong. I’m getting to know her, and she’s really not that bad.”
Samuel pressed his body harder against the door.
His father bent down to lay the scriptures on a pile of lumber.
“Forgive me.”
His father clenched his right hand into a fist and slammed it into Samuel’s chest. The force from the blow knocked him flat on his back, and the air left his lungs. Samuel heaved pathetically as his father rummaged through his coat pockets until he found the keys. Samuel’s eyes were teary, and his glasses had been splashed with snow, making it even harder to see.
His father picked up the scriptures, moved to the door, and put the wrong key into the lock. Samuel still couldn’t breathe, and his head burned something fierce, but he crawled on his knees to his father’s legs. He thought about getting out his knife, but he could never use it on his own father. He coiled himself around his father’s legs like a constricting snake. He couldn’t let him get into that cell. He needed Atia to stay the same, he n
eeded this job, and he couldn’t witness his father’s execution. His father’s blind faith in the roots would kill them both. Why couldn’t he see that?
His father seemed unbothered by the weight of his son, moving on to the next key and unlocking the front door. “Let go, Samuel.”
The sound of a roaring engine blasted through the air, followed by what sounded like screaming metal. A large boom erupted. It was so loud it hurt Samuel’s ears. He managed to catch his first breath as his father halted his pursuit.
“What is this?” the sheriff yelled as he stormed the jailhouse, his gun drawn.
Samuel loosened his grip and wiped his glasses. The revolver’s barrel was aimed at his father. He rolled onto to his knees but had to hunch over to allow his breaths to fully return. He needed to move. To do something.
His father faced the sheriff.
“I am getting in that cell. I will perform this exorcism. I have to try. No good can come of keeping that child locked up and kept in darkness!”
“That’s a matter of opinion, cleric.”
“No creature should endure the darkness. It is Azhuel’s will—”
“Damn it!”
The sheriff pulled back the revolver’s hammer.
“That first shot was a courtesy.”
Samuel adjusted his glasses, coughing. “Please don’t.” He gagged for more air. “Don’t shoot. No.”
“I am dirt,” his father said calmly. “And to dirt I will return.”
“And you will kill your son in the process,” the sheriff added.
“He has nothing to do with this.”
“He will, if I say the boy’s the one that let you in. I swear to your tree god that’s what I’ll say.” The sheriff waved the gun wildly. “Enough of this shit, cleric. This isn’t about that little monster. It’s about the boy. It’s over. You’ve lost him. Now go.”
Samuel’s hands were wet and cold. He pushed them into the snow to help lift himself up to his feet. “Go,” he said weakly. “You need to go. Please?”
His father closed his eyes as he stood there silently, perhaps whispering prayers in his mind. He pulled his hand away from the door, leaving the key inside the lock. Samuel had seen the man put his faith above everything: his wants, his fears, even his own son. But this once, his father relented in his conviction. He glared at Samuel, then turned away as if he were nothing. His thick boots crunched the snow as he headed back into the woods.
Samuel’s eyes were still wet. He gently touched the part of his chest where his father had struck him. The sheriff growled in annoyance as he holstered his revolver.
“Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Save it.”
Samuel could smell the liquor on the sheriff’s breath. With the mayor out of town, the sheriff rarely came by the jailhouse at all. But he wasn’t about to argue the sheriff’s point, especially when he was drunk.
“Did he hurt you?”
Samuel shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“What was he talking about? Doing an ex … ”
“Exorcism.”
“Shut up. Never mind. I don’t want to know.” The sheriff chewed his bottom lip. “I’ve never seen your old man so riled up before.” He tossed the jailhouse keys to Samuel and waved his hand. “Don’t you have a job to do, patrolman?”
Samuel looked down. He squeezed the keys. “Yes, sir.”
Samuel did his best to act normal, but he couldn’t. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion and pain, and his demeanor showed it. Atia did nothing unusual as he prepared her meal. But, for once, she seemed to take a mild interest in his quiet demeanor.
She leaned her body a bit forward, almost as if she was inviting him to speak. She surveyed him with her green eyes coolly, as if she was trying to decipher his thoughts. Her stare made him feel only more embarrassed. Perhaps she was a demon and could read his mind. Unlikely. He ignored her gaze and didn’t say anything as they shared a grilled sirloin. The meat tasted exceptional, but the tightness in his jaw made it hard for him to chew. He could still feel the weight of his father’s fist on his chest. His father had never once struck him, electing instead to discipline his son with disapproving expressions and long-winded lectures on morality. He knew this wasn’t typical. Even the kindest of northern parents weren’t shy about giving their children a good beating when they deserved it. He thought about Charles and couldn’t imagine how he managed to deal with it.
Samuel pressed his palm against his ribs to see if the area felt bruised. It was tender. He winced. He shook his head as if to empty his mind. There was no use complaining or thinking about it. He had a job to do. He picked up the dishes, emptied Atia’s bucket, and examined her leg. It had been a while since he’d paid the old wound much mind. The tissue had grown back, but the giant teeth gashes circling below her kneecap were filled with fresh flesh and pockets of pus. He patted the area with a damp rag. When he was finished, she inched her knees up to her chest and pulled her thick hair over her left shoulder and across her collarbone. She seemed content to wait for him.
Samuel pushed his thumb behind his ear, fiddling with the end of his glasses.
“Did you hear all of that?”
She said nothing.
“My father hit me. He was trying to get in here. Do an exorcism. Do you know what an exorcism is?” Samuel didn’t wait for an answer. “My father’s convinced you’re a demon. No. That’s wrong. He thinks you’re possessed by one. Or something like that.” He rubbed his temples because his skull was still throbbing. “He’s losing it.”
Atia petted her hair with her stubbed arm.
Samuel shook his head. “He could’ve been killed. The sheriff had his gun out. I don’t know. Maybe he was bluffing. I hope he was. I don’t understand him. My dad, I mean. I never have. I’ve lived with him since I was a baby, but I’ve always felt alone.”
Samuel looked into Atia’s eyes. If she wasn’t a demon, then what was she? She was fast. He’d seen how quickly she could move when she tried. The mayor and the sheriff were convinced she was strong, but he’d never witnessed her doing anything exceptional in that regard. She did bleed black. Her slit pupils were unordinary to say the least. Her torso was covered in horrendous scars. She was missing her girl parts and half of one arm. Why? What did it all mean?
Once, when he was a boy, Samuel saw a spotted salamander with two tails near the lake’s shore. And there was an old logger who had an opening in the center of his top lip that reached up to his nostrils, and from what his father told him, the man was born like that. Animals and people could be born with deformities and abnormalities. What if Atia was merely like them? Human, but different. Unique.
Samuel pushed his back again the wall.
“All of this,” Samuel said with a sigh, “because nobody can figure out what you are.”
Atia tilted her chin up, her teeth barely visible inside her slightly agape mouth. Her nose wrinkled, and her cheeks bunched up in a way that showed some sort of thoughtfulness. She lowered her neck and pointed to the hope chest.
Samuel got up and ran outside of the cell. His fingers fumbled as he unlatched the clasp on the wooden trunk. Was she trying to communicate with him? Why now? He dug through the clothes until he found the sketchbook and the small pack of pencils. As he got back into the cell, Atia sat with her knees lowered and her hand outstretched. He gave her the sketchbook and put the pencils down by her thigh. She propped the book against her flat chest and delicately turned pages until she came to a blank one. Near the top end of the page, she scribbled three letters that were so small he had to squint to see them.
Z E I
Samuel watched as Atia shaded heavy lines alongside the word, forming a rectangular border around it. She angled the pencil near the base of the page and drew furiously. His eyes absorbed everything as fast as they could. A steel door, similar to the one outside of the jail cell, guarded an empty
room. The walls, floor, and ceiling were surrounded with some sort of bubble-like padding. Each individual pad was cut into a diamond shape, almost the same as her pupils. The room was illuminated by artificial light, a single electric bulb mounted above the door. Near the upper end of the door was some sort of rectangular box with individual numbers in order from one to nine. On the floor was something like an iron grid, the thicker bars lined with some sort of thin material that looked like netting. Around the room appeared to be tiny beams of light that ran across the floor.
Atia added a mattress to the corner of the room, the ends of the bedframe looking nearly like the prison bars. She put down the pencil and lowered the sketchpad onto her stomach, rubbing the fresh skin on her leg with the heel of her other foot.
“I don’t understand,” Samuel said.
He leaned closer and shoved his glasses back up. It did little good. Whenever he bent down, the frames slid down his nose. Atia scooped the pencil back up and began to draw more. She added a young girl lying on the bed, her long hair sprawled out wildly across the sheets. The girl was small, like Atia, and seemed to be near the same age. Samuel bent down farther, his nose nearly touching the page. He held his glasses in place. She had both of her arms.
She curled the pencil between her fingers and tapped the girl in the picture.
“Wait. Is that supposed to be you?”
She gave a soft nod. He studied the picture carefully, sucking in every detail he could. The room’s design was something foreign to him. It nearly looked like a prison cell, only the technology seemed far more advanced than anything he’d seen before. Perhaps it was from one of the ancient buildings that had survived the blackout. Still, the Laevis Creed strictly forbade the preservation and use of exceptional technology. How could she have seen such a place?
“What is this?”
Atia circled the engraved Z E I several times over.
He concentrated on the picture, wanting badly to make something out of it.
“I don’t understand. That’s not a word I know. Is it an acronym? Does it stand for something? If you could write out something more, like more words or a sentence.”
Demon in the Whitelands Page 10
