Tucker’s Grove (10 page)

Kenner stops cold and begins convulsing like a man in contact with a Galvanic battery. Beads of red sweat burst from his pores and begin trickling together, running in rivulets up his chest, aga
inst the pull of gravity. The blood reaches his for
e
head and leaps into the night air like a narrow river of fiery droplets, whirling together in a cyclone of blood.

Kenner falls over the deck rail and lands in the silent river with a splash like a thunder
clap. Suddenly I can hear the night sounds again; the river laps up against the sides of the
Far West
.

I collapse to the deck, shaking, drenched with sweat, and fee
l
ing utterly ill. Kenner is gone, and I have survived. But he, and the bloodthirsty wilderne
ss, have had their victory as well. No logic, or careful planning, or rationalization has saved me this night
—
it was pure animal instinct. I butchered a former co
m
rade by swinging a stone hatchet into his chest, and reveled in the feeling of conquest.

Neve
r again will I consider myself a civilized man.

Sickness rises up explosively in my gut, and I lurch to the rail. Bending over, I retch so violently that small blood vessels burst in the whites of my eyes.

Red wetness spews from my mouth and vanishes overb
oard into the night.

Blood.

The scarecrow hung on a crossbar in the Indian Summer sun, clutching at the last threads of life. Crucified. His clothes were ta
t
tered, his hair tangled and askew, his skin sunburned and blistered.

He had endured endless days and nights while he sweated away his body
’
s water until he was little more than a dry corn shock. For a long time, he had stared at the acres and acres of waving cornfields that stretched out in front of him. Then the crows cam
e
to peck out his eyes, and he saw nothing else.

Blood crusted his wrists. On the first day, he had struggled to wrench himself free of the ropes that held him to the rough, nail-scarred crossbar. He knew with a sick sadness, and also r
e
lief, that he wouldn
’
t last another day.

A broad, flat fragment of bloodstained altar stone rested against the foot of the upright support bar, just beneath his bare feet. Nearby, in the branches of an ancient oak along the fenceline, he could hear the deep croak of a huge cr
ow with fathomless black eyes. The crow had perched motionless in the tree, watching him as he hung helpless. The crow barely moved its head, eyes shining in the sun, watching, waiting. Like a d
e
mon.

The man
’
s last thought was a gibbering curse at the pers
on who had done this to him.
Elspeth Sandsbury.

Exhaustion, hunger, and thirst drove him miles deep into u
n
consciousness, so deeply that he did not even realize it when that awful woman came to finish him off….

Elspeth whistled a bright melody as she marc
hed down the weed-tangled lane to the back field, the one far from the road leading to Tucker
’
s Grove. She swung the newly sharpened sickle in her calloused hand.

Elspeth Sandsbury was a hefty woman
—“
big bones,”
she a
l
ways said. A farmer
’
s wife needed to
be strong and healthy. Most people didn
’
t suspect just how strong she had become after years of doing the farm work by herself, after her husband had died. When Elspeth decided to use her strength, it took most of her victims completely by surprise.

Seeing
the gray, drawn skin on her new scarecrow, she hu
r
ried, hoping she hadn
’
t arrived too late. The Dark Ones would not be pleased if he died too soon; she doubted They could be fed with any but living blood. “
Don
’
t you go and perish on me b
e
fore I can proper
ly conduct my sacrifice, Mister!”

A quick touch to the man
’
s bound wrist reassured her that his heart throbbed stubbornly, but weakly. Barely alive. No time to waste!

She quickly recited the prayer she had devised. “
Dark Ones! Hear me! I swear my solemn
devotion to you. Hallowed be Thy Names. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow, Thy will be done. Blessed be the farmers…
for we worship Thee and bring Thee sacrifices like Thou used to get.”

She reached up and drew the scythe blade across the scar
e
crow
’
s throat as if she were carving a Thanksgiving roast for her dead husband Jaacob. The razor edge parted beard-stubbled skin, sinew, and blood vessels all the way to his neckbone.

Blood gushed from the scarecrow
’
s jugular and splattered on the rune-car
ved altar stone at his quivering bare feet. With a co
n
tented sigh, Elspeth propped the scythe against the altar stone and flung some blood in the air for good measure. With a finge
r
tip, she traced a cross of blood on her forehead and continued her chant. S
he no longer needed to go to the church in Tucker
’
s Grove.

“
And we know that Thou makest my crops to grow with great abundance, and ensure that my stomach is full and I am warm and well. When Thou sufferest the sacrificial Lamb to come unto me, I shall del
iver him up to Thee right quick. Amen.”

The large crow stared at her, as if it knew just what she was doing. Elspeth watched the bird, acknowledged its presence with a nod, then grunted as she knelt before the altar stone.

With the fresh blood she drew st
range symbols on the stone. The runes were different with each sacrifice, things she had seen on barns and graves, or just designs she made up. She didn
’
t think the Dark Ones minded: They had never shown her the right way to conduct the ritual, after all.
As long as she was sincere and did her best, she knew the Dark Ones would settle for what they got.

When the sacrifice was done, Elspeth cut the ropes holding the scarecrow to the crossbar and caught the body as he fell fo
r
ward. It seemed appropriate to w
ait for the first sunset of the night of the full moon, but she had timed this one close…
too close. At least the man was unconscious when she
’
d cut his throat. She hated when they screamed and gurgled.

The black crow flew off silently.

As she lifted the r
agdoll body over her shoulders, she made a mental note to do the washing as soon as she got back to the farmhouse, or else the blood would never come off her dress. She plodded down the lane toward the garden, where she would bury him with all the others
i
n the tangles of the melon patch. Elspeth grunted with the burden.

Walking back to the house, she paused by the only two marked graves on the Sandsbury property. One rude cross said, “
Isaac Abraham Sandsbury: Beloved Son.”

—
He had limped home with a gunsho
t wound in the leg after a stupid hunting accident. Elspeth had taken Isaac to a hydrop
a
thist, who advised her to rinse her son
’
s injured leg and soak it in warm water. He instructed that Isaac should drink only water, that he must be surrounded by steamin
g pots of water. And after the hydropathist took his fee and departed for Bartonville, E
l
speth had been helpless as her son
’
s gangrene spread and spread…
.

The other cross, cruder than the first because Elspeth had done it all by herself, read, “
Jaacob Jon
ah Sandsbury: Beloved Father and Husband.”

—
An insanely religious man, Jaacob had accepted his smal
l
pox as no more than a Job-like test from his All-Powerful God. Jaacob had died, writhing and screaming, his flesh roiling with stinking pustules. He praised
his Lord with his dying breath, n
e
glecting even to say goodbye to his wife of twenty-five years.

Then the barn had burned down. And Elspeth, in anger and determination, stalked out to do the spring planting by herself, hitching their one horse to the plow
and taking out her despair by tearing into the Earth.

But the plow struck something hard and immovable, long-buried in the dirt. The unexpected obstacle made the horse lurch forward and break its foreleg.

Rain had poured down as Elspeth unearthed the bro
ken altar stone with her bare hands. The flat fragment was etched with strange runes and brown markings that looked like long-dried blood. Elspeth couldn
’
t decipher the symbols, but in a flash
—
a vision
—
she understood the truth.

No God, not even Jaacob
’
s God, could possibly be so cruel as to let her suffer all that had happened to her, not without good reason. And now Elspeth had found that reason. While everyone else went to the town
’
s Methodist church to sing hymns to some gentle, peaceful deity, the
O
ld Ones were lying here in the ground, forgotten. And they were not too happy about it.

As the altar stone showed, others had known the truth long ago, and they must have appeased the Dark Ones with sacrifice and worship. Now, even though they were all but
forgotten, the ancient gods remained hungry for the sacrifice.

Elspeth had been given a second chance. She could appease them.
She
would be the one to gain their favor, no one else. The Dark Ones
did
exist; she knew it. Finding the altar stone in the mids
t of her tribulations had to be a sign!

And so, she made sacrifices. First was the horse with its br
o
ken leg, right there in the field. Then the dog, Jaacob
’
s surly old mutt…
then rabbits and squirrels. But nothing seemed to have any beneficial effect on th
e crops.

She needed a better, bigger sacrifice.

Then that traveler had stopped, asking for directions….

Elspeth had never really kept a record of how good the crops were when Jaacob did the field work, but she was certain the yield had increased dramatic
ally since she began making the human sacrifices. The Dark Ones wouldn
’
t neglect their faithful servant. Why should she doubt them?

Besides, she had enough trouble just watching over the Grossnetz boys who came to do her harvesting. She took down the scar
ecrow pole when it was time for them to come, of course, and hid the altar stone, but Elspeth didn
’
t want them to become too nosy. She was confident that even if the Grossnetz boys di
s
covered anything dangerous, the Dark Ones would strike them down, but sh
e was afraid the D.O.s (as she called them when she didn
’
t think
They
were listening) would also punish her for being careless.

Back at the old farmhouse she washed her hands at the well. Since it was such a nice day, with enough of a breeze to chase away
the worst of the heat, she decided to forego the washing chores. She discarded her bloodstained dress and changed into a fresh, clean flower print.

The weathered rocking chair creaked on the front porch as she settled her bulk into it. She rocked back and
forth, humming a tune that vaguely resembled “
Amazing Grace,”
but with words she had altered to suit herself. Elspeth wondered how long it would be before the Dark Ones sent another victim to her.

Maybe she would do some embroidery in the meantime.

He c
ame striding down the dusty road that passed in front of the Sandsbury house. Long-legged to the point of being gangly, he wore rumpled city clothes in the noon heat. The grin on his bespectacled face made him look foolish, even from a distance. He waved
t
o her in polite greeting, and Elspeth waved back.

He took it as an invitation and veered from the road to walk up to the house. “
Can you tell me if I
’
m anywhere close to the town of Tucker
’
s Grove, Ma
’
am?”