Buck Fever (33 page)

“Then bless my son to see heaven,” the woman cried. She knew what was coming. She stuck her head out the cave and yelled to her husband. “He will help our son, but only to see heaven.” The man looked up, held his head and fell to his knees, crying.

“My husband has agreed.” She took her daughter’s hand and offered it to the Teacher.

“Do not mock me, woman,” the Teacher said, his voice echoing through several tunnels further into the darkness. “It is only your son I want. She must leave now.”

The woman whimpered as she led her daughter to the dangling rope. The father below summoned her to climb down. It would be better to lose a daughter than a son—a son could work. However, it was the chosen way.
So be it
, she thought.

“Come, it is time,” the Teacher said, pulling the woman up from her knees. He grabbed the boy’s arm with commanding force, alarming him. He resisted. “Do not be afraid, my child.” The Teacher reached into an urn by his feet, removed a handful of brown mush, and rubbed it into the boy’s eyes, nose and mouth, forcing him to swallow.

Not knowing what to expect, the woman partially covered her eyes.

The boy became motionless and screamed as his body twisted and writhed onto the carved-stone floor. He moved in snake-like motion, eyes tightly closed; his tongue whipped frequently out his mouth.

“He is lost. He is lost,” the woman said.

The Teacher bent over, scooped the twisting body with his right arm, walked further into the cave and placed the boy on a stone altar. The woman followed, wringing her hands.

Now motionless, the boy opened his eyes and smiled in response to a small flaming torch attached to the cave wall.

“He is at heaven’s door. Yahweh is hailing him in,” the Teacher explained.

A feeling of blessed joy overcame the woman as she fell to her knees and laid her head on the boy’s stomach listening for a heartbeat.

“Mother,” the boy blurted in slurred speech. “I can see...see heaven. It is beautiful. A man holds my hand. He is calling me to come through the big doors, Mother. He has big ears to hear me. His giant eyes see what I see. His face—” Abruptly, the boy raised his right arm and pointed at the baying goat standing by the Teacher.

“It is time.” The Teacher raised both hands in a clenched fist and slammed the boy’s chest. The woman yelped in shock. Air rushed out of the boy’s mouth; he stopped breathing. His eyes and face remained contorted, smiling.

“You must go. Your son has shared his soul with me. He will live forever.”

The woman stumbled to her feet, fighting for a last grasp of her son’s legs. She cried, thanking the Teacher for his patience, as he led her to the cave opening.

1550 A.D. – Nostradamus

(nee Michel de Nostredame)

By: Casper Jordan

“D
octor...Doctor Michel, I have it. I have it,” whispered the gray-haired woman, as she tapped on the wood door displaying a small snake-and-staff shield.

Michel de Nostredame raised his head from a small ornately carved desk, dropped a feather pen on the brown calfskin vellum releasing an ink blob across several scrawled sentences, stood up and walked briskly to the door. He was blessed with his first paying patient since moving to Salon in southern France to continue his practice and writings.

“Can I be of assistance,” he said, opening the door.

The older woman, wearing a black shawl and tight cap, presented herself.

“Doctor Michel, I am Madam Joselle. I have the medicine requested by Doctor Jacque.”

“Ah, Madam Joselle, step in, step in,” he said, motioning the woman toward him. As she passed through the door, he stepped outside briefly to sense if others were watching. He could see no one. As the hulking man stepped back through the door, he reached out in anticipation of the woman’s offering. “Let me see it. Did you do as Doctor Jacque requested?”

“Yes, yes, I soaked it in goat urine for several days and let it cook in the sun. It is now ready.” The woman held out a small wine bottle half-filled with a brown soupy liquid.

“You did not get it on your hands?” Nostredame asked. “No bad dreams?”

The woman looked puzzled.
Bad dreams?
“No, I was careful as Doctor Jacque instructed. The doctor came to me in the wee hours of night. He was desperate to get the medicine you requested and paid me well. He did not return the next night to get it as he said he would, so I decided to deliver it to you personally. Is he here? Is he okay?”

“I am afraid the good doctor has passed on from a bad heart.”

“Oh, I feel so bad; this medicine could have saved him, then?”

“No, no, this medicine is for me...my research...the journal,” he said pointing at his desk. “Ah, it is of no concern to you. Thank you for bringing this to me.”

He offered her several coins, which she graciously accepted.

~ ~ ~

The winter had been colder than usual followed by a wet spring. The wheat crop had rotted before harvest. Several fields, covered with reddish-brown stalks of wilted wheat, were burned to prevent sickness from the diseased grain. Doctor Jacque La Tour spent half the month searching the lowland farms for signs of the rust-colored grain as Nostredame had described.

Madam Joselle’s farm contained a small corner of wet ground containing the reddish-brown stalks. Doctor Jacque’s search was over. He now had to convince the woman the grain should not be destroyed, but rather harvested and kept in a special container for Doctor Michel de Nostredame. However, she must not tell anyone, and he would pay her well. It was desperately needed medicine. She agreed.

~ ~ ~

Nostredame opened the corked bottle of brown liquid, poured in several spurts of liquid from another bottle he removed from a nearby cabinet, swirled the concoction, and placed the open bottle in the dazzling sunlight shining through the window. He smiled and whistled his favorite
chansons de geste
as he sat down at his desk to continue writing. A mist escaped the bottle; the container bubbled slightly.

After several hours of mulling over notes and glancing at the bottle in anticipation, he stood up and declared the concoction ready. He put the vial on his desk, and quickly shuttered the windows indicating he was no longer receiving patients for the day and shoved a metal bar in place locking the entrance door.

He removed his vest and draped it over the desk chair. Slowly and deliberately, he rolled up the left sleeve of his loose-fitting linen shirt revealing several scars on his forearm. Grappling within a box of physician tools with his right hand, he chose a small round-tipped knife. With a flick of the wrist, he struck his left forearm creating a cut oozing dark-red blood. His right hand released the knife onto the desk, grabbed the bottle and shook a small dab of the soupy liquid onto his arm a finger-width from the cut. He staggered to a patient bed in the corner, sat down, whistled a familiar tune again, then stretched out as his right hand covered the brown grain mash and moved it over the cut as he had done before with poppy mash.

His body twisted and snaked on the bed as the potion worked into his bloodstream. The whistling faded as his eyes enlarged and focused toward rays of sunlight coming through a crack in the wooden shutters.

Unfamiliar structures...an explosion beyond understanding...people screaming and crying. Burned bodies everywhere...blood...dismembered hands and feet.

His research continued.

1692 A.D. – Salem Witch Trials

By: Casper Jordan

B
rother John Rice sat quietly by the bed of his ailing daughter. She cried out the night before, speaking an indecipherable language.

In the past seven mornings, he forced bread and potato soup into her mouth and held it shut as the young women choked and swallowed. As the day progressed, her body would begin to twist and wriggle like a snake. She sometimes babbled profusely, making little sense, often calling out names of other adults and children in the community.

Today, he had no food to give her, just water. She willingly drank from the carved-wood ladle as he held it close to her lips. She became still and lay onto the goose-down pillow, eyes closed. Brother Rice stood up and paced the room.

His daughter suddenly awoke, her body springing forward into a sitting position.

She is cured
, he thought.
The devil has given her back to me.
He bowed over her, hands clasped tightly on his Bible.

She grasped his stiff shirt collar with both hands and pulled his face to hers.

“Father, why hast thou forsaken me?” she asked, staring intently, her sickly red eyes showing alarm.

“Why are you using the Lord’s words against me, child?” Brother Rice asked, raising his voice and struggling to back away.

“Father, Uncle Jacob killed Mary last night. I saw it in a dream. Father, you are going to kill me, too. Why hast thou forsaken me?”

Brother Rice’s placid face became sullen and pale.
How did she know?
Brother Jacob confided his daughter’s fate only to him. No one else knew. His brother told the Vicar the sickness took her. Others had called her a witch. He could not bear the thought of going to trial. His brother would save the family name.

~ ~ ~

Farmland in Massachusetts became saturated with constant spring rain. Most of the wheat rotted several days before it could be harvested. Reddish-brown patches dotted neighboring fields. Goats had wandered into the fields, trampling the grain. They eventually became ill, and lay in the fields, trembling. The local doctor was convinced it was from the dampness in their lungs. The farmers destroyed the tainted meat and harvested the remaining grain. Brother Jacob used the reddish-brown wheat to make flour for bread. He shared it with Brother Rice and others in the small town of Salem. He advised them to offer it only to the women and children to keep them healthy. The elders would have to do without and eat potatoes left over the winter.

The young women of Salem began showing signs of starvation and lack of proper nutrition; some were hallucinating. The men demanded they eat more bread to stave off the sickness. The hallucinations led to accusations of witchery. General confusion led to one conclusion: the devil had bewitched the women. They must be identified through a trial of dunking in water and destroyed.

~ ~ ~

The young woman repeated the message three times then lay back on the bed awaiting her fate. Brother Rice leaned forward, quietly approaching her. He held his leather-bound Bible in front of him. Red marks, like horns, appeared on the forehead of the young woman, her eyes inflamed with red veins.

“She shows the marks of Satan. God, forgive me,” he said, placing the Bible on his daughter’s chest. Taking the pillow from underneath her, he quickly covered her face and held it tight. She pushed back immediately, but offered little resistance.

1888 A.D. – Jack the Ripper

By: Joe Chekless

T
he young man known as Jack pushed the splintery shutters back from the small second-story window allowing humid August air into the dark stuffy room. A woman, dressed in high fashion, appeared from a narrow doorway across the cobblestone street as a proper gentleman walked up to her. They disappeared into a nearby alley and reappeared again a short time later.

The Whitechapel district of London was a mix of dodgy merchants, con artists and whores. A gentleman of proper standing could find pleasure there. The clopping of horses and wheels rippling across uneven roadway was constant from twilight to early morning.

The odor of baking bread weaved through crevices in the warped floorboards from the bakery below and churned with the dank breeze from the window. Jack drew a strong breath and returned to the small wooden table next to the iron-framed bed.

The woman, known as Kelly, appearing at the door outside had betrayed him. She was his girlfriend. He professed his love to her the previous evening when she lured him into the alley the fourth straight night pleading for food in return for pleasure—no money just rye bread. Having several loaves to spare, he offered her half a loaf each day. The kind baker downstairs gave him ten loaves the week before.

~ ~ ~

Due to a wet spring, some rye grown in low-lying fields near London rotted and had to be destroyed. The baker had unwittingly purchased a bucket of partially decayed grain from a local farmer who salvaged what he could. The complete batch of bread that morning turned reddish brown. Customers, thinking the bread was made from rusty water, refused to buy it, so the baker gave all ten loaves to Jack.

~ ~ ~

A sick feeling, numbness overcame Jack’s brain. His ears buzzed as if insect wings fluttered within. A quick finger poke inside his right ear stopped the feeling momentarily.

Sitting at the table, he opened the large leather-bound book by the tall burning candle. Becoming a doctor demanded inflexible, painful study and full concentration. Classes started at sunrise each day. His mother provided money for schooling, which she saved working as a maid. He did not share her dream for his future, but it was money to get by, to live on for now. If he stopped going to school, she would stop sending money. Jack admired human reproductive anatomy, an area of medicine that excited feelings deep within him. A detailed drawing of female physiology held his interest. He must memorize it and be able to describe it in delicate detail to his lab instructor, as they explored human cadavers provided by the local police. The hospital was several blocks away and fresh corpses were always available from this area: deceased whores and drunkards without linkable family heritage.

Jack unrolled a small leather pouch revealing two metal knives and a pick-like instrument. The knives had flattened blades about three inches long attached to metal handles. He grasped one of the blades and determinedly carved three wavy lines into the wood tabletop in the shape of the drawing in the book. He carefully lifted the piece of wood and examined it.
Ahh
, he could do it; he could remove the female viscera.