Chapter 7
MERCY
Silas huffs as he bends and lifts the lifeless body of Benjamin Hawthorne, tossing the corpse over his shoulder with as little regard as he would give a sack of potatoes.
Less, actually. The movement sends a sweeping arc of bloody droplets and insides flying through the air.
I jump back to avoid the muck of a chunk of torn innards that lands with a splat against the Ash wood, ichor seeping into the grain.
"You are getting bits everywhere," I scold, lips twisted in distaste as I gingerly grip the squishy wet tissue between two fingers and fling it into the cornfield beyond.
A crow sweeps down, snatching the prize.
Silas turns, still balancing the body over broad shoulders.
The momentum further jostles the carcass, sending blood and viscera sluicing from the gaping cavity of my dearly departed's chest. The grime coats any remaining unblemished expanses of Silas' shirt in deep crimson as he gives me an exasperated sigh.
"Apologies, my love. Would you like to dispose of the dead body? Or shall I get back to clearing out your sacred space before your next victim arrives?"
Turning back to the altar, I reach for the strands of long, blonde hair fading to gray and begin setting my intentions. "I only meant that a tidy Casting space doth a happy Cast make," I sing-songed, parroting my mother's words as I wound the coarse strands around a rough, calcified bezoar.
"Mayhap next time, consider not clothing me in white if I am expected to harvest souls."
"Fair point," I consider, before submerging it in the storm water of the awaiting chalice.
The stone sinks as the wind rises, rippling the surface of the water, calling into the darkness, one Goody Prentiss.
It will take longer for her to reach the field than the Selectman or Constable.
Their tether burns low, eating at the threads and herbs luring each of them through the night to my altar.
"Lest we forget that this is all in service of restoring your immortal soul. "
"And my head," he calls over his shoulder, disappearing deeper into the field. Above him, the crows follow.
"Yes, darling, that too." My stomach twists and coils, serpents writhing with unease of the unknown.
Every faucet of this Cast is cobbled together on hopes and magics older than even I.
The threads I weave could falter or fray and one poor placement, one unaccepted offering.
..It bothers Silas, the way in which he was captured, reduced to ashes and salt.
He would not have even been in this space if not for me.
I do not think I could bear failing to fully restore him, body and soul. Of denying a father to Molly, a daughter to Silas.
My skin pricks in warning at the approach of heavy, uneven footfalls.
Selectman Prichardson stumbles through the throng of crops, disoriented, but also quite drunk, from the reek of him.
The weave that brought him here is a compulsion he could not deny, but rather than rousing from sleep, he looks as though he fled a beating.
There is a gash on his cheek, a split over his lower lip, shallow scratches running the length of his stubbled cheek.
That curiosity at his state is burned away by protective instinct, by the fear of the hands who left those wounds lying still and lifeless at his retaliation.
I taste him, taste the sin of him as it wafts from his wretched body and on it, there is gluttony.
Jealousy and violence, to be sure, but no lingering, sickly sweet essence of murder.
Relief deflates my lungs. Jenny might have suffered, but she survived and for that, death will not linger to claim its prize.
The poetry is mayhaps anticlimactic, but this offering is nothing more than a supplement, a darkness to be devoured.
The moon dips rapidly lower, and yet there are still three more to go before our work is done.
"Goody? Goody Hawthorne?" Prichardson asks, speech slurring, dull, brown eyes wide with confusion.
The soured stench of rye permeates the air around him, wrestling the tang of musk and rotting gums. I rear back, wary of the ruin, of insides fermented to rot, bitter and bold as he.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demands, slack jawed, and for a moment, he is but a lost child.
Then he turns, eye raking greedily over my body, roaming unchecked, his lusting thoughts loud without a word further spoken. My lips curl. Disgust roils through me.
He does not yet see Silas lurking in the cornfields behind him, does not feel the danger he is in with every pass of his eye.
Numb from the whiskey or the inherent hubris of man, Prichardson does not react at all to the responses of his body, the gooseflesh spreading over his arms, the tiny hairs rising from his skin.
He was born and bred and raised into thinking that his kind could never be prey.
Tonight, he has things to learn.
"Goody!" he barks, agitation riling him up as I simply stare at him, taking the measure of the man before me.
Find him wanting, in every way.
He scrubs a hand hastily over his graying stubble, and it is then those eyes, the color of shit, catch on the Ash wood. The blood and runes and candles. His head snaps to mine.
"What devilry is this?" His demand is meant to land with authority, but his labored speech dulls any bite. I suppress a laugh as he sways. "I am speaking to you, woman!"
I arch an eyebrow, remain as silent as the grave he is about to find himself in, and it unsettles the Selectman. He is unaccustomed to being disobeyed or dismissed by a woman. Flustered, he wrings his hands in front of him, head shaking out a fog that will never leave.
"You are here, Selectman, to answer for your sins," I reply simply. The bush of his eyebrows knit together, and to my shock, a laugh bursts past his lips, big bellied and rancid. He roars with it, eyes welling, then leaking.
"What authority have you to lay judgement at my feet?
I could have you burned for this, you know," he gestures to the altar, tears of laughter still twinkling in his eyes.
"The audacity you display is appalling. Nothing a good lashing would not fix.
Your husband has spared the rod, in his ailing state, but it is clear you require a firm hand.
" He steps closer, a bit more sure of himself as he sobers.
"And you believe you are capable of that? Of putting me back into my place?" I ask, lowering my lashes, voice softening to honey. I see in those eyes the moment his mind turns, smell the greed and lust wafting from him.
"I have experience in breaking willful spirits, yes." He sounds proud. Gleeful of the damage he has caused, of the terror. Considers it a mandate of his household, the correction he has administered.
"And yet you are here because I called you here."
He tilts his head, swatting at the air near his face. Beneath the flesh of his cheek, there is a ripple.
"How—"
"In here." I tap my jaw once, twice, as his simpleton mind struggles to make sense of my words.
He scratches at his face, light, passing.
I grin, and continue. "I needled my way into your gut through tinctures and tonics for that blessedly rotted tooth.
It did not have to turn out this way, you know.
There were others I considered for this position.
When I first came to know of you, I wondered if your ailments caused your abuse. Pain begets pain, and all that."
"Choose me for what?"
I ignore him, raising my voice to drown out his own.
"Yes, it took a fortnight to discern that you did not partake in the drink for solely pain, your insides are besotted with the brine of it.
You are simply a rotten drunk who beats his wife, and for me, that was enough to condemn you.
I waited, and watched and plotted on how best to worm my way inside.
.." I pace now, cutting a slow circle around the edge of the bent stalks.
On instinct I was not aware he possessed, an unnerved Prichardson begins to move slowly away, mirroring my steps.
"There was not much to work with, but teeth—" I point to my jaw, and he scratches at his with enough force to leave a shallow scratch that welts pink, "they can rot from the back of your mouth." More movement, tiny pulses under the skin of his neck, roiling the hair of his brow.
"But I broke my tooth on a cherry pit," he frowns, scratching absentmindedly.
"Cherry Scones," I nod, sagely, "Your favorite.
I befriended Jenny, I did. Baked goods for your home with something special buried inside, sent them as trade for eggs with your young bride.
And she is young. Is she not, Selectman?
Only a child of twelve, when first you approached her mother. Who denied you, at first. Did she not?"
He twists, shooting daggers at me through black-blown pupils. "Stupid woman. But I got what was owed, in the end, and she got the grave," he spits, smug and malicious.
"You preyed on that child, and when her mother passed and could not protect her, you promised safety and security. Instead, you brought pain and ruin.” I accuse. “You caged her, clipped her wings, and now, you beat her bloody," I fire, advancing steadily to him, power washing from my Cast.
"I provide!" he defends indignantly, and it raises my hackles.
"And you drink, and you take, and you rape, and you beat," I snarl, halting my approach in the middle of the clearing.
Above me, the crows circle, omens of death, hungrier with every passing moment.
Prichardson's scratches deepen, gouging at his skin as it crawls and lifts and distorts, but he does not notice, too transfixed on his anger.
"She is my wife, I am owe—"