The Boatman, page 3
They all knew gambling was a sin. Boone preached it, didn’t he? But none of that stuck. Sheol wasn’t punishment. The grave came for us all. What mattered wasn’t the doing, but the admitting. Speak your piece, shed your guilt.
Men could fuck and gamble and kill so long as they stepped in the booth and admitted to it.
That’s what Father Boone tells us, and the next minute he’s shuffling the deck.
Not that I was any less guilty of using that to my advantage. Fuck, my whole profession is a mortal sin, and I still go to church on Saturday with everyone else.
Maybe that’s the point. Maybe God’s eyes didn’t reach this far. Shack out here in the moss and mosquito hum, not a steeple in sight.
I stepped out into the wet hum of dusk, the door creaking behind, worn out by the heat. The ground gave beneath my boots, soft and sucking. Black earth slick from the last week of rain.
Water pooled in the dips, the kind that bred sickness and frogs fat enough to choke a dog. Sweat crawled down my spine. I half-convinced myself I’d stepped on an ant hill, thousands of tiny legs traversing my skin.
The woods pressed in tight. Moss clung to every branch, drooping heavy from limbs bent near breaking. Crooked, black boughs peeled from age overhead, the wind threatening to set them free and crash on my head.
It was pretty but it wouldn’t last. Another half hour and the whole forest would go black, bringing the monsters that lurk just out of sight.
The bugs were already out. Mean little bastards, hungry and deaf to curses. I lit a cigarette, hands unsteady. The smoke didn’t ward them off as usual. They landed on my wrists, my neck, the inside of my elbow. I slapped one hard enough to sting.
“Go on now,” I muttered. “Full of piss and vinegar, surely don’t taste good.”
They’d be burying Larry about now. Down in town, behind the chapel, where we buried friends and foes alike. Boone would’ve said a few words. Esther would stand stone-faced and dry-eyed, the way widows did when they needed folks to know they weren’t the broken ones.
I’d already said goodbye the only way I knew how—legs wrapped tight on his hips.
That was the problem.
The cigarette sizzled in the mud as I flicked it away. I started walking the trail back to town before I knew, head bowed and following. Mud clung to my ankles and branches reached out to slash at me.
The bell tolled. I stopped on the path.
Once. Twice.
A pause.
Then once more.
Tears welled in my eyes. I knew he was gone, but the calling of the Boatman made it real. I choked on my sobs. Not from grief… not totally. I was out here, walking and working alone, setting up a game for the ones who were allowed to say goodbye.
But the whore doesn’t get to go to the John’s funeral.
A rustle in the trees to my right. I froze, the air in my lungs coagulating and choking me. The noise shifted around me, suddenly on the left of the path. It didn’t sound like a person. Too heavy and fast, and I didn’t see it cross.
My blood ran cold, head spinning as I tried to find it. Swirls of black, moving shadows evaded the edges of my vision.
More noise to my right. This time two sets of soft patters. Children’s laughter sounded from the woods. Crossed in front of me. I snapped my head with the sound, but they were moving in fast circles from one side to the other.
Another crack, right behind me.
I whirled, spinning in the mud.
Two girls stood in the path, buried to their ankles in mud. Their sallow skin sucked tight to their skull, sockets sunken and black around milky eyes. Black lines webbed from their eyes and mouths, trailing down their neck and under their dresses. They stared at me, heads cocked in opposite directions.
“Save them,” they said, reaching out to me. “Show mercy.”
I spun, terror stuttering in my chest. The murk gave under my feet, sending me sprawling to the ground. I landed hard, barely catching myself on my palms. Mud splashed my face, filling the gaps between my teeth.
I rolled over, crawling backward, ready for them to pounce. My heart jumped with each sharp breath but still my lungs burned.
They were gone, dissolved into the path, leaving only four holes where their feet had been.
I peeled myself out of the mud, dress heavy from lingering clumps. I scanned the wood line and brushed off the best I could, still reeling. Nothing moved. Not even the leaves.
No creepy kids.
Only the drying layer of mud covering me.
I crept back, my skin tingling from whatever was watching me from behind the trunks. I chuckled to myself, but it was hollow.
Probably just swamp gas. Makes people see things, I told myself. Didn’t help much.
The creeps began to fade, each step distancing me from the memory of those ghoulish children.
Another crash rang out from my left, the surge of fear spinning my head so fast I nearly fell. My legs scrambled in the mud, slipping more than gaining any ground.
Twigs snapped, branches whipped as it got closer, materializing from the dark. Quick.
I turned, too late to run. My heart climbed into my throat. Watched as the shape grew closer, the strength draining from my legs.
A man tore through the underbrush, slicked in mud, eyes rolling like a panicked horse.
He barreled forward, half-limping, half-sprinting, casting over his shoulder at whatever chased him. Roots snagged around his ankles. A gurgled yell and he pitched forward, slamming into the path. A mouthful of mud cut his grunt short before he rolled around, painting himself in brown.
“Jesus,” I breathed, boots sucking deep into the mud.
He writhed. Tried to push up. His hands slipped in the silt, muscles twitching under shock. Grime streaked his cheeks, caked thick in his hair.
I rolled him over. His eyes spin in his head, unfocused. Mouth was moving but barely made a sound. I dropped to my knees beside him, wiping his face as clean as I could.
“Hey, hey! Look at me! What’s happened to you?”
I grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. Felt the warmth before I saw it. His life slipped between my fingers, thick and sticky.
His gut hung open, the skin jagged and puckered like something had raked its way out. Flesh clung to the wound in strips. Blood bubbled thick, pulling dirt and leaves in. His chest rose in quick, jerking heaves, air wheezing out of the hole in his chest and frothing the pouring blood.
His eyes locked on mine, lids twitching.
“Tell me what did this,” I begged, hands pressed hard to the wound. My voice cracked. “Please.”
“Don’t—“ He choked, coughed, red froth spraying my wrist. It trickled down his chin in a thick glob. “The tunnel.”
His mouth opened again, wider this time, but no words escaped. Just choking and a whistle coming from his chest. Blood painted his teeth as his grip loosened on my dress.
“What’s your name?” I asked, shaking him again.
His head lolled. Breath left him, rattling deep before cutting off. My hands were slicked from the ruin of his belly. I stared at them, the frogs growing louder. They filled my head, throbbed my vision.
I stared at the body, jaw slack, breath kicking in fits. I couldn’t lift him, not with that wound, not with my legs already shaking. Town was a quarter mile…maybe more. Trail would only get worse once the dark settled in. I swallowed hard, wiped my bloodied hands on my skirt, and turned back to the town.
I ran.
Mud sucked at my boots, tried to pull them clean off. Branches clawed my arms, tore at my blouse. The trees closed in. The trail turned mean.
Didn’t stop when my ankle twisted.
Didn’t stop when my breath went metallic.
I pushed forward, teeth gritted so tight I thought they’d break, skin prickling like those children were right on my heels.
The lights of Potter’s Field shown through the trees. I didn’t slow. Pushed through the square, past slack-jawed gawkers and half-lit drunks, straight through the sheriff’s door.
The door slammed against the wall behind me.
“Help,” I gasped, lungs burning. Mud streaked my face. Blood on my hands, on my blouse, packed beneath my nails. I was all of the sudden very aware of my state, freezing in place.
“Out—out near the old poker shack—man’s down, gutted—”
Sheriff Yellow was on his feet before I finished. Boots hit the floor and hand to his pistol.
“What happened, Des?” Low. Controlled. Already guessing the worst.
I shook my head, chest heaving. “I don’t know. He came out the woods, runnin’ from somethin’. I tried to help him, but—” my voice cracked. “He was already gone. Something tore him wide open.”
Yellow grabbed his hat off the peg. “Take me.”
We walked back out into the night and straight back out to the nightmare.
4
Final Confession | Boone
Esther stood at the edge of the grave, veil drawn low. Black gauze muted her face. She hadn’t looked up once since we gathered.
My voice came hollow. Dutiful, but unraveling with each chunk of the shovel in Reed’s hands.
“We gather here to put Larry Hamboldt to rest.” I swallowed hard, the walls of my throat scratchy and starched. “As we approach his final confession, we dig this hole. The ground is ripe and the River is high. We pray that means easy passage for our damned.”
Another wet slice into the earth, digging out the walls crumbling from a week of rain. I straightened. Esther kept her head bowed, avoiding eye contact with us all.
I hoped for my own sake that she already knew of Larry’s sins.
Ms. Mabel, Larry’s mom, stood to the right of the widow. Dressed in all black with the posture of an executioner, she stood poised and ready to take the high road. The skin on her face sagged from years of hard living, and even more so since Larry got sick. I expected some words from her before we called it.
Ezra, Larry’s friend and the town’s whiskey distributor, leaned against the dilapidated fence, hung back from the others.
They stood in a crescent around the grave, hollow eyes and hard faces.
On Esther’s left, lying on the ground and ears flat, were Larry’s three mutts. Dog, Rufus, and Titus.
I didn’t remember which was which. A decent guess put the large one as Titus. Rufus and Dog, well, jury’s out.
Reed stepped away from the hole. He dropped the shovel and clutched his lower back, hobbling away. Poor soul didn’t know when to stop. And you couldn’t make him unless you wanted to risk catching a shovel to the head.
“Thank you, Reed,” I continued. “Before we start with Larry’s confession, I will ask for last words from his loved ones.”
I scanned the small gathering. Ezra shook his head when I caught his eye. Esther was still latched onto the dirt, avoiding eyes.
When I reached Ms. Mabel, she was already staring daggers at me. My heart lurched, startled by her intense gaze.
“I’d like to speak, Boone,” Ms. Mabel said. Her voice was flat, not to mention her drop in formality.
I swallowed, throat cracking.
“Very well,” I nodded and stepped toward Larry. His skin was colorless, nearly translucent, mouth stitched shut with thick black thread. The skin on his eyes and ears were starting to purple and his suit jacket was getting tighter by the hour.
Ms. Mabel stepped forward, breath shaking.
“This town wasn’t nice to my son. He wasn’t a saint, but he did his best. Esther already covered this, so I won’t waste my breath.” She turned to look at Esther, who had finally looked up.
“He owed most people somethin’, but y’all never really looked at the big picture.”
I kicked some dirt, trying to distance myself from the swell of her voice.
“He held this town together. Worked off never ending debts on every worksite in this godforsaken place. And yet, come Saturday, the people still whispered. I watched the life drain out of my poor boy while this town took and took and took from him. And you all did nothing.”
Her voice dripped venom, eyes drifting from one mourner to the next. One of the dogs growled low, its ears perking up and swiveling.
“Ezra. You fed him the liquor you knew was killing him. Drank with him, softened him up to—” she looked at Esther. “Well, we’ll save that for confession.” She turned toward me, her eyes hard as steel. “Father Boone.”
The formality was back. Not a good thing this time.
“You were his confessor. His spiritual guide. And how often did you sit with him, give him guidance?”
I swallowed, counting the laces on my shoes.
“That wasn’t rhetorical, Father.”
I looked up, stomach eating itself. “I—Not enough, Ms. Mabel.”
“And yet you played poker with him. Encouraged his bad habits. I expected more from you.” She shook her head slow, scorning me for my betrayal.
She knew. I knew. Worst of all, she was right.
“That goes for all of you,” Mabel continued. The other two dogs started growling. Esther snapped her fingers at them to no effect. “And you, Esther.”
My stomach flipped, bile burning up my neck. I stared at the dogs, their noses twitching in the air.
“You treated him like garbage. Always wanting. Always needing something more when that man worked down to the bone for you,” Mabel said. “He told me the things you’d say to him. Sure, he had his problems, but as his wife, are you not supposed to be his rock? You’ve failed him the most, and worse, you never forgave him.”
I would have stepped in and stopped her from her spiral if the dogs weren’t drawing my attention.
All three had their hackles raised, their fur standing on edge. One of them was growling and completely ignoring Esther’s corrections.
I scanned the grounds. Clouds curtained the sky, darkening the grave plots littered with cracked rocks and weeds.
Nothing out of order, yet my ears were about to pop from the growing pressure.
Ms. Mabel stepped back, falling in line. “Thank you, Ms. Mabel.” I let out a sizable breath before continuing. “Are we ready for the final confession?”
They all nodded. Titus stood, bent on his haunches.
“Down, Titus,” Esther commanded, snapping and pointing at the ground. Titus sank down again, but all three of them were starting to make a scene.
A rhythmic thrumming started far away, swelling from the ground like a swarm of locusts. We all stopped, turning our heads to the tree line.
A wall of black towered over the peaks of the trees. Hundreds if not thousands of crows crashed down on us, their squalling like the roar of a wave.
I ducked, slamming the lid on Larry and holding my hat down as the torrent of birds fell on us. Wind from their wings battered my coat around and sent Ezra’s hat sailing.
Ms. Mabel shouted, a slashing talon opening her cheek. She fell to the ground, one of the dogs moving to straddle her and snarling at the air. The other two dogs were jumping off the ground, snatching as many as they could out of the air and ripping them apart.
Ezra shouted and swung his arms around, jumping onto Esther to shield her. A smear of black shredded the shirt off his back, dipped low, and flew straight at me.
I held my hand out to block, razors slicing up my fingers. Two crows landed on my hat, trying to lift it off. I swatted, making contact. It didn’t do much. Punching birds was laughably ineffective.
My gun.
Reaching down, I snapped the button on my holster. I’d fire a few off into the air, scare them off.
A crow crashed into my forearm and pecked at my wrist, pulling the skin up. Pain lit up my arm and I snatched it with my other hand, spiking it into the grave.
It slapped the ground with a sick crunch before more swarmed down on me. Wings slapped me, talons opening skin and tearing fabric.
Esther was screaming under Ezra. Titus was still straddled over Ms. Mabel and the other two had managed to kill a handful of them.
I drew my gun, fighting off the razor-sharp beaks that were snapping at my fingers. Raising it to the sky, I pulled the trigger. The gun roared, bucking in my hand. Kept pulling until the hammer slapped the empty chambers.
My ears rang as a nasty shriek called out in the sky. The birds funneled up, swirling into the air in a shimmering black and blue funnel.
Wind swirled around us, the thrumming of wings assaulting my ears and glinting flecks of blue into my eyes. The black tornado reached into the sky, careened right, and as fast as they came, they were gone.
The dogs barked at the sky, leaping from their hunched position and chasing them to the fence line.
Ezra gripped his forearm. He grimaced, blood dripping from his tightened fist. Esther’s veil hung in ribbons, hair mussed but untouched. Ms. Mabel sat up from the ground, groaning and touching her cheek.
“Is everyone okay?” I asked, brushing off my jacket. Several cotton-puffed lacerations along my sleeve folded out. I’m sure the back fared no better.
“Ms. Mabel?” I rushed over to her, wrapping my arms under hers and lifting. The cut on her cheek leaked steadily but wouldn’t need stitches.
She looked around at us, wiping her hands on her coat. Her whole body shook, lids peeled so far back I was ready to catch them if her eyes fell out.
“You’ve forgotten the old ways,” she said. Her tone dropped several octaves, barely containing the waver. “That was only the beginning. I’d get right, if I were you.”
No one knew what to say. That ‘you’ wasn’t directed at anyone specifically—it was for the town.
Still, the warning was personal.
No one spoke. No one knew what to say. My ears rang and skin flared. I knew I was sliced up. Between the small cuts that covered my body and my bleeding hands, I could’ve been convinced my whole existence had been lacerated.
Ezra had torn the sleeve off his shirt and tied it around the wound on his arm. He was playing it cool, but I knew he was heading to the bar for a drink and some stitches. Thankfully Mabel and Esther didn’t seem to have taken much of a blow. Small scratches and that long dash of red down Mabel’s face.
