The Boatman, page 5
I fiddled with it, holding the strap tight. “Yeah, ignitions not working.”
“I just fixed that damn thing.” He held out his hand, palm up.
I rolled my eyes and passed it over.
“Needs a man’s touch,” I teased.
“Shut up,” he shot. I laughed but it was short lived. Something was watching us.
The dark was so complete we couldn’t see ten yards in front of us. Even the horse felt it, its haunches tightening under my legs.
Heard him click the ignition two more times.
“How much further?” he asked, hushed.
Goosebumps ran up my back, down my arms, over my neck. A low thrumming pressed against my ears. Swelled in. Peaked and ramped off again.
“Why don’t we turn back?” I pleaded. “Get a new lantern or wait for morning?”
“What, you scared of the dark?” He slapped the lantern a couple times. Shook it. He clicked the ignition over once more, a dull light flickering at the base.
“See! A man’s touch.”
“Shut up,” I murmured.
The path stretched further still. I was sure I hadn’t run nearly this far, especially through this terrain. The words played at my lips but I couldn’t. Admitting it made it real.
An eerie glow snapped on in the distance—the dim lamp I’d left at the poker shack.
“We must’ve missed it,” I said, shaking my head.
“No way,” Yellow responded. He pulled on the reins, slowing us. “One of us would’ve seen it. You said he was laying across the path?”
I nodded. “Maybe he got buried in the mud?”
“Or maybe walked off.”
I punched him in the arm. “Fuck you. I watched him die.”
His silence said enough. The frog’s song swelled, drowning out my breath. It grew louder. And louder.
So loud it rang in my head.
I clasped a hand over one ear, gripping Yellow’s jacket with the other.
“Let’s go!” I shouted, tugging at his sleeve.
“Why are you yelling?” He replied. Could barely hear him over it all.
“The frogs!”
The song died all at once.
Silence again. Just my breath and the hum of cicadas. Yellow looked concerned.
My heart drummed to a war I wasn’t aware of. “Can we just go? We’ll pass over him again. Probably find him.”
He paused, searching my face in the dim light. “Yeah, let’s go.” A bead of sweat formed on his brow. He yanked the reins over, turning us around.
The lantern wasn’t doing much work. Couldn’t see shit, but I couldn’t shake the feeling something could see us.
“Can we turn the light off?” I asked, squeezing his arm.
“What?”
“The light. Off, please.” I paused. “Something’s out there.”
“Des,” he mumbled. I expected something—snark, maybe condescension. Instead, he clicked the light off, setting it between his legs. Hooves sloshed through the mud, nothing but the ebb and flow of bug noise making a peep.
“Des, I—” the horse whinnied, rearing off the ground. “Woah, boy!” Yellow snatched the reins and yanked, petting the neck of his mare. Hooves stomped the mud twice, spattering my pants.
“Shit,” Yellow hissed, leaning forward. “Found your man… or what’s left of him.”
Ice pooled in my veins, radiating down to my toes and through my fingers. I hopped down, the mud swallowing my boots.
I rounded the horse, joining the sheriff up front. He clicked the lantern a couple times. No luck.
“I see a head here—” pointed to the left. “Torso there—” pointed to the right. “No limbs… Christ.” He rubbed his forehead. I could barely make it out.
Where I’d left the body was now a gore-slick indent in the earth, like something had pressed down hard and slow. The head was half-submerged in the muck to the left of the path, neck stump packed with wet dirt. From the chest down, he’d been sucked partway into the ground.
Bile burned up my throat and I turned, heaving. My stomach emptied into the night. And again.
A gentle hand collected my hair and pulled it back. I straightened, waving Yellow off.
“Please, Alex, take me back.” I turned, keeping my eyes off the shredded man. He stared. “Now!”
Eyes wide, he scrambled on the horse, holding a hand out to me. I took it, pulling high. He snapped the reins and the mare kicked off, its previous restraint in the wind.
The jarring movement tossed me around, my arms wrapped tight around Yellow’s waist. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to shake the sight of him.
Even in the near blackness, the violence was certain. Whatever had tore him up when I found him must’ve circled around to finish the job. Or to make a scene.
The horse slowed to barely a trot.
“Go!” Yellow shouted, ramming his heels into its side. The edge in his voice stuttered my heart. I squeezed tighter, burying my face in his coat.
The cicada drone dropped out. A ringing swelled in my head and in my ears.
The ringing cut off just as fast.
Silence pressed down on us. I could hear the way my eyeballs squeaked behind my lids. The way my joints creaked at the slightest movement.
Laughter followed. Children’s. High and circling, not from ahead or behind but inside, bouncing around my skull. I tried to place it. The twins came back to me, slick and smiling. I swept the woods, looking for them, skin buzzing with a thousand mosquitos.
The laughter moved closer.
And closer. Inside my ear.
“Off he goes, pays his toll,
The water’s black and deep and wide.
Two for the eyes, one for the soul,
No place to run, no use to hide.”
My head started to throb. A schoolyard skip rope song, devoid of any nostalgia.
But I knew better.
Yellow dug his heels in, the horse finally getting the message. We lurched, holding onto him with everything I had. The jolt of each gallop tested my grip; I’d let the horse drag me before being left behind.
“What is happening?” I yelled.
Or… tried? I couldn’t hear myself. I spoke again. I could feel my mouth move. Feel my tongue peel off the roof of my mouth.
But I was mute.
“Off he goes, shoes of clay,
The worms are waiting deep below.”
My insides quivered and I started to shake. The sting in my nose set fire as tears gathered in my eyes.
The rhyme danced on my tongue, snaking through my skull.
I snapped my mouth shut as my tongue started to writhe despite me, testing the words from behind my teeth.
Yellow’s hand clasped over mine atop his belt. I squeezed harder and he leaned in, urging the horse faster.
The skin on my neck crackled with static. It reached out, clammy fingers testing my flesh. Any second it’d be on top of me, smothering me like a heavy blanket.
We rounded a bend, getting closer to town. Sound was still gone. Was starting to think it wouldn’t return.
Not even my breathing. Just heartbeats and hot blood in my ears. I writhed on the saddle, my senses slipping away from me.
Ahead, a low lantern blinked in, coming toward us. I sat up, peering through the dark, trying my best to make out any detail. We got closer and Yellow pulled on the horse, slowing us.
Ezra, wearing deep swamp boots and a tight windbreaker. Must be heading to the shack, didn’t know cards was off.
We trotted up. Yellow raised a hand and stopped us, dropping off the horse. He turned to me, mouth moving but I couldn’t hear a word.
I pointed to my ears.
“I can’t hear you?” I tried to ask.
He looked at me, puzzled. His mouth moved some more, but only the steady din in my ears broke through, stinging my eyes. Tears streamed down my face. I was so cold, like my bones had been dropped in a lake and pulled back out. Even my tears were chilled, sparking goose flesh as they cut down my cheeks.
Yellow grabbed me, hauling me off the back of the horse. I landed in the muck once again, looking over at Ezra. He said something to me.
Tap tap.
Cold fingers on my shoulder.
I froze. My muscles weakened, heat rinsing my body of the cold in an instant. I watched Ezra’s face. Glanced at Yellow.
They didn’t react.
I turned. Slow.
Two girls smiled at me, holding hands, each dressed in tattered nightgowns, hunched over as if marionettes. Milky-eyed. Skin sloughing off the bone. Thin, vein-like lines spread from their lips and eyes, tracing down their necks and across their arms.
I froze, a weight building in my chest. They weren’t here to scare me. They wanted something. I could feel it, a hook around my ribs.
They opened their mouths, dark water spilling from their lips and splashing to the ground. It kept coming, slopping off their chins and pooling under their feet.
The girl on the right extended a black-laced hand, the skin hanging on like wet clothes on a line. Before I could react, my own hand darted out, grasping her clammy fingers.
My legs folded under me and I crashed into the muck. The edges of my vision darkened as I laid in the mud. Water cascaded from their mouths and covered my face.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Des!” Yellow yelled. He sounded far but I could hear him.
One of them knelt beside me, the other standing behind her. The closer they got the harder it was to focus.
In tandem, they raised their hands to their temples, forming horns with their fingers.
My heart stuttered as my vision faded.
Yellow’s hands gripped my arms and I blacked out.
7
Drawn & Quartered | Boone
I’d spent the rest of the evening in the pews. Everyone else had left to get patched up or drink. Or both.
Rummaged through the medical supplies in the basement and managed to find some spare tape to clean up my wounds. Nothing bad, the worst of it was a strip of flesh off my thumb. Must’ve sliced it when I pulled the gun.
Once the silver moon peeked through the stained glass window, I headed out to the graveyard to finish burying Larry.
The shovel caught the moonlight as I stabbed it into the dirt pile. I picked up a heap and dropped it in the hole.
The whole ordeal was my mistake. The birds, him rolling out of his casket.
What does man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the sun?
Wonder how Solomon would feel about nighttime toiling.
It had taken a lot to twist Larry’s box back upright. Not a lot of room to work in an eight by three hole as tall as you are. Awkward as hell and painful to boot.
I deserved it after disrespecting his corpse.
When I finally turned the casket right side up, I had to re-place the coins. One had fallen under his shoulder and the other rolled under his shirt. I placed them back on his eyes and recrossed his arms.
At least Larry didn’t seem to mind.
Potter’s Field doesn’t come with a manual. There’s no seminary school for what we practice. I’ve heard it called ‘oral history’, which made sense. Father Orin had only began teaching me when he burned up.
I was young and dumb and didn’t pay enough attention. I grasped the basics: absolution of sin through Confession, paying the toll to the Boatman, ringing the bell, and Final Confession. Everything else was standard Christian faith stuff.
The liquor burned as I took a long pull. Gritted my teeth, steeling myself to continue. I screwed the lid back on and tossed it to the ground, picking up the shovel.
Another spoonful of dirt landed on the blonde box. Not much of it remained visible, yet there was so much dirt left.
Lump after lump piled on top. My shoulders burned, my eyes ached. A nasty blister formed in the web of my hand.
Ms. Mabel’s speech had been scathing, but honest. I felt for her. Hell, I understood her. I had been nothing but a fuck-up, and so caught up in my self-loathing since Geoff that I’d let a few things slip.
Esther had been quiet. The only way I ever knew something was wrong with her was if Larry told me or when she boiled over. She never came to confession, though I didn’t know why. Had nothing to hide from me.
Ezra probably went about his day and has taken off to play poker by now.
And the birds. I hadn’t stopped to even think about it. What was there to think about? Unnatural and apocalyptic. If I had been the only one to experience it, I would fully convince myself I’d hallucinated it—like the water in the church.
A flood. A murder of crows.
The symbolism was so on the nose, it had to be from a condescending God.
Here’s the easiest, most obvious sign that you’re a failure, Boone. Do you get it yet?
Yeah. I get it.
I paused again, tossing the shovel into the pile. Sweat drooled out of every pore, running in small rivers down neck and back. My shirt was soaked, pants equally filthy.
Didn’t feel much better.
It was always the same feeling after confession. Nothing. And I didn’t have anyone take my place on that side of the booth. There’s no salvation, no tangible shoulder for the lonely priest.
A pulpit raised so high and burdens dragged so low that somewhere in between I was drawn and quartered by mistake.
I lit a half-smashed cigarette. Smoke snaked into the air, dancing skyward. Filled my lungs with harsh smoke, the bite more striking than cathartic.
“Father Boone?”
I turned, startled. It was Boy Reed, hunched over and illuminated by the silver light. His pack drooped over his twisted frame. Heading out for the night.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked.
He looked around, nervous. Avoided looking at me completely.
“You looked like you were having a hard time and—” He shuffled closer, pausing before finally craning his neck up at me. “—I just got done prepping Saturday’s service. Came to see if you needed help.”
I chuckled, flicking my cigarette into the pile of dirt. It sizzled before dying out. “No, I’m okay. You’ve done plenty today, you should rest.”
“You treat me like a child.” He frowned, the spines in his neck bulging. “You know, I haven’t had a bad pain day in a while. I think Ms. Mabel’s necklace is working.”
The Sheolite necklace was nearly imperceptible in the dark. A walnut-sized hole settled right between his collar bones.
“I’m glad to hear that.” I clapped his shoulder. “But still. I’ve had a bad day and I’m blowing off some steam. Thank you though, son.”
Reed nodded, shooting a long look at the grave.
“What do you think about the birds earlier?” he asked, meeting my eyes. “Felt like something was wrong.”
I scratched my beard, groaning. “I don’t know. Probably migrating, got close to a nest or something. Crows are very smart, probably recognized Ezra’s mug and taking revenge for something.”
I chuckled. He didn’t seem convinced.
“Whatever it was,” Reed said. “We finished Larry’s rites. I’m sure he’ll pass through the River no problem.” Reed smiled at me and turned.
“Have a good night, Father Boone.”
“You too.”
I watched him hobble off, one hand holding his lower back. Poor kid had it rough. He’d been doing well, but Mabel telling him to wear that rock around his neck was a snake oil promise that wouldn’t last.
Suppose it was harmless if he felt it was working. Not a lot of the kids with that affliction make it out of childhood. Reed was nearly fifteen now, and I feared the worse. Kept him close.
I got back to it, shoveling soil into the hole. The night was oppressive and warm, the humidity rising off the ground and condensing into a thick fog. The bugs and the frogs kept me company, scoop after scoop.
“I’m sorry, Larry,” I grumbled. “The Church is supposed to help. Maybe you could’ve been a better man if I’d have done something.”
I crouched next to his grave, picking stray blades of grass. “I’m sorry.”
Ring. Ring.
The bell. I whipped my head, eyes locked on the spire. The ground tilted under my feet.
Ring.
The call.
I dropped the grass and lurched to my feet, scrambling before finding purchase. I sprinted, breathless, the night whirring past me in a blur.
The bell can’t to be rung. We didn’t have a body. He’d come to collect nothing.
I grabbed the railing to the front stairs, momentum swinging me around as I bounded two steps at a time. Shoulder to the door, I slammed it open, rattling the paintings and knocking a sconce off the wall.
Pews passed by as I pounded up the chapel. Row after row, hanging lanterns cast long, frantic shadows as I jumped to the stage.
A hanging depiction of the crucifixion stared me down as I took a long stride up the pulpit.
The last step caught my toe and I stumbled forward, sending the altar careening into the floor, the flimsy wood splitting from base to top. I didn’t stop.
Couldn’t.
I reached for the door to the stairs, twisting the knob and throwing the door open. The dark stairwell faced me, dusty railings and bare banisters urging me on. My heart rattled in my chest, breath shallow. Pulled myself up the stairs by the railing, skipping steps when I could. I rounded the bend and burst through the trap door, ready to confront whoever was up there.
I yanked myself up, the bell still swinging. I turned left, right, spun in place.
No one.
The bell swayed, the dark medallion reflecting the dim light in a lazy circle. A breeze trickled in, warm and sticky.
I huffed breath after breath, still reeling.
Who rang the bell?
“Boone?” A voice yelled from the ground below. I walked toward the window facing town, peering over the side.
Ezra stood in the road leading to the saloon.
“Was that you?” he shouted.
“No!” My heart slammed my against my chest. “Don’t know who either.”
I looked closer. He didn’t seem sweaty like I was. Definitely didn’t beat me out of the church without me seeing.
He was, however, covered up to the navel in filth.
