Not a call. Not from either of them. Too busy to call their father this Father’s Day. Well, that’s the way kids were today. Actually, they weren’t really kids anymore. They were both grown with families of their own and way too busy with themselves and their kids to have time for anyone else. But still maybe they would call. After all, there was a two-hour time zone difference.
Ward R. McGuinty, sixty-eight, looked out the window of his inherited hundred plus year old farmhouse, the house he grew up in, raised his family in, and stared into the cloudless heavens waiting for a call and trying to remember if he called his father on Father’s Day each year. But he couldn’t remember. His mind was as blank as the sky, and this frightened him.
But he did remember certain things about his father though, dumb things, funny things, meaningful things, happy things, good times things. Things that no one else in the whole world would ever know but him and he thought that maybe he should tell his kids about them now before his mind goes or he dies, and they are lost forever.
His father had been a farmer, a second-generation farmer. Ward was the third generation on this farm. His grandparents settled and died here and were buried in the cemetery down the road. Their gravestones proudly proclaimed their heritage. “Born in County Down Ireland. Died in Western Illinois.” His parents were buried there too but with just their names and dates, no mention of their place of birth or death. Ward knew that his time too soon would be coming and that he too would be buried there, the last McGuinty to be buried there. No telling where his children would be buried. They hadn’t lived here for years. The farm wasn’t their home anymore. They had no ties to the land.
So realizing his days were numbered, Ward tried to recall all he could about his father to tell to his kids when they called. If they called. He first remembered back to when he was just a little boy and had called his father Daddy, then Dad when he was a teenager, but now as an adult he simply thought of his father by his name, Bob, and it was Bob now that jogged his memory.
Bob was loquacious. Loved to talk. Chatty was the word for him. His mother called their barnyard Grand Central Station as all the local farmers would gather there to talk to Bob. Leaning against their pickup trucks, they would talk for the longest time about things like the price of beans and corn, what hogs and cattle were going for, politics, and the weather of course. Farmers always talked about the weather. Back then the weather was just that, weather. It wasn’t climate change or global warming yet. It wasn’t political. Thank God for that thought Ward since ‘political correctness’ would surely have driven Bob up the wall. Actually, anything political got him worked up.
Ward remembered Bill Bowen, one of their old neighbors, who liked to get Bob going on politics. The two of them had this little routine that they would always go through whenever discussing the same. Bill would always start it with, “Well you know. That’s what they say,” and then wait for Bob to bite. Which he always did of course.
“No Bill I don’t know what ‘they’ say. What do ‘they’ say?”
“Well, you know. They say,” answered Bill shrugging his shoulders.
“No, I don’t know Bill. Who are these ‘they’ that you’re talking about? ‘They’ got any names. ‘They’ got any phone numbers that I can call and find out what ‘they’ say?”
BIll would just chuckle in response, shrug his shoulders a second time and run his fingers through his mop of long black thick hair. That was the signal that the Bill and Bob comedy routine was over for now, but it would be repeated the next time these two talked politics.
Funny how one thinks about nonsensical things like this about one’s father on Father’s Day when one should be thinking of the good times with him instead, reflected Ward. So, he shifted his mind to the good times, the county fair times.
Months before the fair each year his father would buy him a 4-H club calf to raise and show. He would feed and take care of it and his father would help him train it to be led around the show ring come fair time. He never won anything, none of his calves were ever in contention, his father stunk at buying winning show calves. But nevertheless, the fair times were happy times for the both of them, preparing the animal, getting their hopes up and the excitement of the fair each year. But it was his father more than him that enjoyed it all. His father would spend the whole day, every day, at the fair during fair week, and did so for a number of years even after Ward had outgrown 4-H.
This was because his father had the contract to dispose of all the cattle, hog, sheep and other farm animal manure at the fair each year. The exhibitors would clean their stalls and pile it up outside each building and his father would scoop it up on the end loader, load it into the manure spreader, then drive it down the road and spread it over a field of some farmer who wanted free fertilizer. Every morning he would leave for the fair in the dark and come home in the dark each night. But it wasn’t an all-day job. He could have gotten it done in either the morning or afternoon if he had wanted to. Rather it was an excuse for him to spend all week at the fair talking to everybody and their brother, about any and everything, having a high old time.
Just then Ward thought he heard the phone ring. It didn’t. It was only his imagination, wishful thinking. But the phone prompted Ward to think of something else about his father. How much he loved to talk on the phone. How he would make or take all his calls at mealtimes. Cell phones didn’t exist back then. Sitting there eating his father would yammer away, business calls at noon, personal calls at supper time.
One time at supper when his father answered the phone it was a wrong number. Rather than tell the guy and politely hang up, his father pleaded with the caller to stay on the line and talk to him. His father even told him his name hoping to start a conversation. Yet no matter how hard he tried to coax the caller to reveal his name and talk, the caller refused to do so. “You got a name, don’t you? Well, what is it? I told you mine,” his father pleaded to no avail. Finally the caller got tired of all that nonsense and hung up on him. His father was offended.
Another stupid story thought Ward that he should tell his kids about. Oh well, he knew that it was silly and that his father hadn’t accomplished anything great in his life to brag about, but so what. Silly things still counted for something too and his kids never really knew their grandfather as they were quite young when he died.
So right then and there, Ward resolved to write down everything that he could think of about his father to pass on to his children. Like the time his father tipped over the combine on a hillside, rode it down, and jumped off at the last moment unhurt. Like the time his father gave away some of his mother’s chickens to a neighbor without her permission. He caught hell and she made him go get them and bring them back. Like the goldfish he kept in the cattle watering tank. Like the way he always said ‘ponsetty’ for poinsettia at Christmas time each year. Things like these.
Just then his thoughts were interrupted. The phone rang and this time he heard it for sure. His wife came in and handed it to him. “It’s our daughter,” she mouthed. Father and daughter talked for over half an hour. The daughter hogged the conversation the whole time talking about how wonderful they all were doing now that they had relocated to California. Occasionally Ward would get in an “Oh I see,” or “Oh that’s nice” or “Uh-huh,” but hardly ever more than a sentence or two. Finally, she announced that she had to run and ended with “Happy Father’s Day. Love Ya Dad.” To which he replied, “Love you too Sweetie.”
“Well, what’s the news?” asked his wife, desperate to know what they talked about for over half an hour.
“Oh nothing,” he replied.
She gave him a dirty look but thankfully before she could verbalize her discontent, the phone rang a second time. This time it was their son. And again, Ward sat there and mostly listened. Listened to everything about his son’s family, the boys and all their ball games, and school and church, and their neighbors, as if he cared about people he didn’t even know, and etc. etc. etc. Much the same palavering as his daughter’s call had been and again, he never contributed a full paragraph to the conversation.
“Just called to wish you a happy Father’s Day Dad,” said his son. “Love ya man.”
“Love you too Son,” he said as he hung up.
Ward chuckled to himself realizing that the loquacious gene had skipped a generation. He didn’t have it but his kids sure did. That’s for sure.
“Well, what’s the news from our son?” his wife asked impatiently.
“Oh nothing,” came back the same answer again.
His wife shook her head in disgust and growled at him.
He paid her no attention as he sat there wondering what his kids would remember about him when they were old, and he was gone. What stupid or clever or loving things that he had done would they recall. Probably dumb things like he had done just now. He closed his eyes to hide the tears forming therein. Then he shook his head side to side as if to shake away his thoughts. His whole body shuddered and trembled all over.
“What’s that all about?” asked his wife observing this strange behavior.
“Oh, nothing dear. Nothing at all.”
Retired attorney. His books have been published by Two Guns Publishing.
When they reopened the island, most people didn’t come back. Hard to blame them. Everything along the shore was gone, the mansions, the high-rise condos, the retirement homes. The storefronts weren’t spared either, and it’s not like we were getting tourists back anytime soon. Enough time had passed that most people, the ones that got out, had settled elsewhere. But me? I was on the first boat back.
We took a boat because the causeway wasn’t rebuilt yet. By “we,” I mean the true locals, the ones born on the island, the ones who can recite the history of the Beacon Pointe Light like we’re reading it off the goddamn plaque.
It was built in 1891, by the way, made out of iron with a winding, hundred-foot staircase in the middle. When the sun sets, its light can be seen across the island, turning like clockwork, the soft whoosh lulling everyone to sleep. That was before the storm. Now, it’s caked with sticky mud and algae, a sea-born scarecrow, warding off visitors.
I remember stepping off the boat, the straps of my backpack digging into my shoulders. The dock was brand new, higher than the one before, spared from the elements. Not so much for the mainland.
The smell hit us first, a rotten haze between stacks of twisted metal and crooked palms. The sky was gray, humid, sucking up the heat and wringing it over us like a wet towel. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen the sun since I’ve been back, like it got swept away with everything else.
I decided to walk, stretch my legs, free up a seat on the bus for one of the older folks. It was dark by the time I made it home, dodging puddles and branches along the way. My place was in decent shape, still had some roof left. The inside was a graveyard of debris, with traces of water up to the ceiling. Not too bad, all things considered.
Later that night, I saw my first ghost.
I was on the recliner, still damp in spots, sipping a flat beer, staring at the blown-out TV, imagining a baseball game. It was the top of the ninth, no, the bottom of the ninth. Two outs, two runners on, home team down by three. Up comes the cleanup hitter, the big guy, ready to send the game to extras. Free baseball. Doesn’t get any better than that.
Something caught my ear. The sound of footsteps, wet and slow, trudging through the backyard. I downed my beer, tossed the can into one of the junk piles, and made my way towards the kitchen.
The lights flickered, got dimmer, getting used to electricity again. On the patio door, a black shape emerged. A shadow, rocking back and forth with the wind.
“Hello?” I broached a timid step towards the door. “Who’s out there?”
No answer.
“I can see you,” I said, like it mattered. “Mardi, is that you?” I hadn’t seen Mardi on the boat, or anyone else from my block, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Still no answer. I swallowed a lump in my throat and cracked the door.
An old lady stood on trembling knees, hands locked on her elbows, her head down.
“Ma’am?” I opened it the rest of the way. “Is everything alright?”
Water was everywhere, pooling at her feet, dripping from her forehead, her shoulders, her wrists, draining the color from her hair and skin. She looked up, jaw clenched, eyes shut. Her nostrils flared in and out, in and out, every breath a struggle.
“Hang tight,” I said. “Let me get you something.” I tore through every room, a stranger in my own house, until I found a stack of towels.
When I got back to the door, the old lady was gone. I searched the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom, but I couldn’t find her. I circled the house again, stumbling over debris, crushing beer cans under my boots, banging into sharp corners. No sign of her anywhere.
“Ma’am?” I retraced my steps. “Where’d you go?”
Footsteps again, in the backyard. I went outside, the towel slung around my neck. No moon, no stars, no light. I stuck my arms out, let my eyes adjust, crept forward.
I found her by the fence, standing on the fallen pickets, her back to me.
“Here you are.” I draped the towel across her shoulders. It fell to the ground.
The old lady turned. She opened her eyes, opened her mouth, everything glowing white. I shielded my face. A scream rang out, echoed across the yard. Then another. And another.
She wasn’t alone. There were more shadows, more people, drenched from head to toe, a maze of blinding white faces. I stumbled around them, through them, bracing myself for impact but feeling nothing.
I managed to get back inside, tried to lock the door behind me, but the bolt wouldn’t stick. Rusted over. I crawled to the corner, wound up in the fetal position. I might’ve cried, who’s to say.
Next thing I knew, I woke up on the kitchen floor. Daybreak spilled through the windows. The screams were gone. When I built up the courage to check the backyard, the people were gone, too. That’s what I called them at first. People. It made me feel better. But deep down, I knew what they were. And it wouldn’t be long before I saw them again.
Not the same ones. Well, sometimes the same ones. I’ve seen that old lady a few times. Never in my backyard again, but once across the street, staring at a fallen power line, and another time at Deb’s hardware store, wandering through the aisles.
There must be hundreds of them, the ghosts of the island. Some of them I recognize, like Chipper, who used to build benches on his front lawn and yell at people who didn’t stop at the intersection. He still stands in front of his house every morning, what’s left of it anyway, but there aren’t any benches and he doesn’t yell. He just points, opens his mouth, stretching the limits of his face, glowing white.
The worst sighting I had was by the shore, sitting on one of the benches near the dock, waiting for the next boat to come in. I’d just gotten a coffee from the diner, the morning it opened back up.
I wasn’t through my first sip when a little girl ran by, dragging a kite across the fractured concrete. I got up to help, I used to love flying kites, until I saw the trail of water behind her.
She followed me home that day. I wouldn’t turn around, I didn’t want to see her face, pale and innocent, with those horrible glowing eyes. I didn’t go outside for a while after that.
We can all see them, the people who came back. Some of the locals wear silver now, necklaces, rings, belt buckles, whatever they can find. Crazy Larry spread a rumor that silver keeps the ghosts away, but I don’t mind them. They’re not doing anyone any harm. They’re lost, confused, scared, not much different from the rest of us.
Every sunset, the ghosts gather along the shore. At first it was just a few of them, wandering into the gulf until their knees touched the water, shivering, always shivering. Now, it’s all of them, their own little ritual. They wade into the water until the sun goes down, then they disappear into the night. Half the island still doesn’t have electricity, so who knows where they go.
But me? I go back to my house, crack open a beer, and settle in for another baseball game. My team is undefeated this season. I’m feeling really good about the playoffs.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m a ghost, too. I see the same people, do the same things, day in and day out. No one else has come back. No one comes to visit. The charities are gone, the food banks are gone, the government tents are gone. The relief checks will stop soon. We’re on our own now. It’s kind of like that old saying about a tree falling in the forest. If you rebuild a town, but nobody’s there to see it, did it really happen?
I think about these things as I sit on my recliner, waiting for another ghost to pay me a visit. Sometimes, I end up at my bedroom window, staring out at the Beacon Pointe Light, its shadow lingering under a dim night sky.
I wait for the light to turn on, for the whoosh to come back, for the heart of the island to beat again. It hasn’t happened yet. It may never happen. We’ll be here if it does.
Kevin DG Johnson is a product manager by day and writer of creepy tales by night. His previous work has appeared in several online publications, most recently The Chamber and Elegant Literature. He can be found on Twitter @KevinDGJohnson.
My sister thinks mama tried to leave us once. I don’t think she was serious. I mean, we knew she was tired and that her joints ached and expanded with the changing atmospheric pressures. Anyway, I don’t know how many NSAID capsules it takes to kill yourself, but evidently it’s more than eleven. Mama wouldn’t talk about it, and we eventually wrote off the overdose as a simple reaction to pain, not a true suicide attempt. Nevertheless, she swole up like a waterbed for a few days, her eyes almost disappearing in folds of expanded flesh. But on the third day, we found her puttering around the garden deadheading her geraniums, still swollen, but very much alive and mobile.
For the next two months, she seemed to have re-set. She was back to her old self, and by old self, I mean she was back to being a relentless bitch like she has been since the Bush Administration. Sometimes they say that being a bitch is all a woman has left. Since daddy died, she has had only geraniums and bitchiness, not necessarily in that order. Despite her attitude, she has had a pretty good summer. She has attended church every Sunday and Wednesday night, often publicly disparaging and dismantling the preacher’s sermons in the parking lot as soon as the service ended. She even made her legendary mustard-and-pickle-rich potato salad for our Independence day dinner. But, as expected, she complained that it had too many pickles and not enough mustard. All the grandkids loved it anyway.
The last week in August we always have a family gathering to celebrate the inordinate gaggle of birthdays that happen to fall during that month. I once subtracted nine months, and realized that, evidently, our family prefers to screw immediately after the Thanksgiving meal. Mama contributed not only her aforementioned tater-salad but also an exemplary macaroni and cheese casserole. She seemed happy, well, happy by her standards. In fact, I don’t recall her complaining about a single thing. She even kicked a wayward soccer ball back into play. She is normally the first to depart from any gathering. I suppose her geraniums do get lonely. This time she stayed till the last rug-rat-filled SUV left the pavilion parking lot. She even helped me clean the tables and empty the trash before she proffered an unsolicited hug, climbed into her ancient Electra 225, and headed home to her beloved botanical family.
Yesterday, I decided to drop by, unannounced of course, since mama will often leave if she knows you’re coming. Her Buick wasn’t in the yard or in the garage, so I assumed she had headed to the Food Depot. She hates the big box stores and believes Publix and Kroger charge too much. She says she likes shopping with the Mexicans because they are more polite. I told her that sounded kinda racist but I wasn’t sure why. I needed to pick up a few things, and the Food Depot does have better meats, and the folk there are truly very polite. I thought I might run into her there.
I always take the back way to town, that way I can cross the Tallapoosa river we often visited when we were kids. I learned to swim there and to fish there. Daddy even even joked that he and mama had created us down in the opening near the big bend. We didn’t know what he meant at the time. By the time I understood what he meant, I didn’t want to think about it.
As I approached the bridge, I could see Mama’s Buick parked on the overlook. I pulled next to it and saw that Mama was sitting inside. The motor was off, and the sound of Country Gold 93.7 wafted from the open windows. She seemed transfixed. I called to her and she turned to see that it was me. She seemed at first distant, and then embarrassed. She told me she was headed to the Food Depot and stopped to listen to the radio for a minute. I nodded and decided to move on and continue to patronize Publix since I inferred that she wouldn’t want me tagging along.
This morning I decided to drop by again. I waited till after eleven, since Mama is sometimes annoyed by early visitors. The garage was closed, so I assumed she was inside the house. I walked around back to the screened porch where one could usually find her on late summer mornings. The door was latched, so I knocked, and then called out, and then went to the front door, and knocked, and yelled, and rang the doorbell. I finally decided that maybe she and one of the church ladies had embarked on a thrift store adventure. I walked around the Garden for a while. Mama’s geraniums had never looked better, not one darkened petal remained and each head was perfectly round and crimson.
I walked among them for ten or fifteen minutes before deciding to leave. As I passed the garage door, I could hear the Buick idling inside and I knew that Mama was gone.
Alan Caldwell is a veteran teacher and a new author. He has recently been published in Southern Gothic Creations, Deepsouth Magazine, The Backwoodsman Magazine, and oc87 Recovery Diaries.
“Be careful you don’t get lost in those woods”, her friend Beth always warned her. But ever since she was little, Emma had walked among the trees, first with her mum and then on her own, and she felt she knew every stump, grove and bramble patch. So, she all but dropped her basket of herbs when, pushing through the ferns, she came across the beck, right where it shouldn’t have been. Catching herself from falling just in time, she looked upstream and down, as the water tumbled past her feet. “Have I got myself turned around?” she thought, looking back the way she had come. It was supposed to be a hundred yards or more away on the other side of the meadow, which was now across from where she stood. But that would mean she had crossed the stream somehow and that … well, that was just not possible, unless she was going the way of poor old Margaret Dobson.
She cast about for another landmark and hit upon an ancient oak, gnarled and coming late to leaf, that should’ve been many yards distant from the beck but now felt the waters carving out the bank between its roots. As she watched, the old tree began to list, then with a terrible groan and crash it fell, branches snapping off and bouncing away into the undergrowth. For a moment or two, Emma just stood, stock still, thinking about how her mum had pointed out the tree as a fixed point to help her orient herself in the woods, how she had climbed it as a young girl while her mother picked mushrooms below, how it had endured harsh winters and fierce summers. Then, shaking her head, she clambered up the roots and strode across the trunk’s rough back, to jump down on the other side. “Best to pick up the pace and head home sharpish”, she thought to herself, striding across the meadow where it shouldn’t have been.
Long before she entered the village, she heard the raised voices, carried on the breeze. A small crowd had gathered on the Green, surrounding several important looking figures, watched over by a small group of armed men. Emma could see the head of William Leigh above the rest, shaking from side to side, an arm raised with index finger pointed to the sky. “I see William’s invoking the Almighty again,” she murmured to her friend Beth, standing at the back.
Beth turned, her face grim. “Lord Rothwell is laying claim to all the land west of Wyke Beck, which they’re saying includes Asket Meadow and most of the land we’ve been using to graze the cattle. William there is telling Rothwell’s men the meadow is to the east of the beck and always has been but … well, for some reason, they’re not having any of it.” She turned back toward the speakers. “They say they have a plan or something, with the land all mapped out on parchment that proves Rothwell’s contention.” Beth shook her head and added “As if some lines on a sheet could prove what we know to be false from our own memory …”
Emma stood on tiptoe to see over the heads of her friends and neighbours. Facing Leigh, whose neck was becoming increasingly red – so she could only imagine how fierce his features must have looked – was Thomas Grice, Rothwell’s Steward, who looked as composed as if the two were merely arguing about the price of a cow. However, Emma’s focus was drawn to the man standing to the left and a little distance behind Grice. Dressed in a long black coat, this stranger carried a scholarly air about him and seemed detached from the hubbub. It was he who held the disputed map, occasionally presenting it for Grice to gesture at.
Muttering apologies, Emma eased her way through the crowd to better hear what was being said. “… Master Wright and his men have extensively surveyed the land and he has drawn up this plan, this map, to set down once and for all Lord Rothwell’s rights … and yours too! It’ll all be clearly laid out for everyone to see,” Grice stated, calmly but forcefully.
From the position she’d reached, Emma could see that William’s face was beginning to turn a darker shade as he thundered, “But your man is wrong!” He turned towards Wright who held the map behind his back as if Leigh would snatch it away. “I don’t care about your surveys or mapmaking”, Leigh continued, “We all know what’s Rothwell’s and what’s ours and what we have a right to. Our mothers and fathers knew it and theirs before them … And we’ll not see those rights taken from us through some strokes of pen on parchment!”
He made to move towards Wright but was blocked by Grice, who placed his hand carefully on Leigh’s chest and said, in a low voice, “Easy now, William. We don’t want any trouble, do we?” And he looked over towards the guards, who had reached for the hilts of their swords and were looking hard-faced at the crowd.
Leigh glanced their way, then back at Grice. “You’ve not heard the last of this, Master Grice”, he spat.
Grice just shrugged and raising his voice, replied, “The map has been drawn and Lord Rothwell’s lands clearly represented. A copy will be kept at the manor for all to consult and tomorrow the original will be conveyed to York to be safely held within the county registry.” He looked straight into Leigh’s eyes and told him, “It’s done,” before turning and walking off with Wright, surrounded by the armed escort.
Leigh glared after them, joined by Mary Brotherton. “We’re not standing for this, William,” she muttered. “No, we’re bloody well not” he replied, before turning back to the crowd. “Meeting, tonight, after supper, back here. Because we are definitely not standing for this!” The villagers roared in approval and Emma saw Thomas Grice look back, his face momentarily fearful.
“Beth”, she said, pulling at her friend’s sleeve before she walked off, “Your Jenny works up at Lord Rothwell’s, right? Could she find out when Wright is taking that map to York?” Beth frowned. “I don’t know, Emma. She has a good job up there and I don’t want her mixed up in anything.” “If she helps us now, there might not be anything to get mixed up in”, Emma replied, before adding “Or at least, not anything too serious.” Beth nodded at that and left Emma looking after Grice and his men, as they disappeared round a curve in the road.
A few hours later they were both back at the edge of the crowd of friends and neighbours, listening to Mary Brotherton recall the history of the injustices inflicted by Rothwell and his family: “… and not content with depriving us of our ancient rights and keeping us in what he considers to be ‘our place’, he wants to hem us in even further and block us not just from our rightful grazing land but also all the meadows and fields and woodlands that belong to everybody, not just him and his lot!” She paused and drew breath before adding, “Are we going to stand for it?!”
Fists, cudgels and whatever implements had been at hand were raised and a fierce collective “No!!!” shouted in response. “Here’s what we think of his bloody map”, she continued and holding up what looked to Emma to be an old scrap of paper with some hastily drawn lines and figures, she set it alight using the torch held by William Leigh, standing to her side. The crowd roared again as Leigh now stepped forward.
“Friends,” he shouted, “We’ve had word that while Rothwell’s minions were talking to us today, he and some of his men were already out, putting up fences and marking his new boundaries.” The villagers fell silent. “If we don’t do something now, it’ll be his cows eating that grass, our grass, his feet walking them woods, our woods … If we don’t do something and do it now, we won’t be able to do anything. Rothwell will have done what he wanted all along and we’ll be left shaking our fists at the clouds …” He paused, until someone helpfully piped up with, “Tell us what we can do William!”
Emma sidled up to Beth again. “Anything from your Jen?” she asked. Beth looked around before answering, “She said it looks like Wright is going to York first thing and will be leaving Rothwell’s house at dawn.” Emma nodded. “Good. That means we have a chance of stopping all this before it gets out of hand.” Beth looked back at her, frowning and then nodded towards Leigh, “You think you can stop all this?! It’s not right what’s been done and I reckon William’s made a fair point: if we don’t stand together and do something, Rothwell and his lot will just roll over us …”
Emma sighed. “I agree. But it’s a question of doing what?” She paused as the crowd shouted again in response to something Leigh had said. Setting her shoulders, she pushed her way to the front. “I’d like to speak” she announced. “What are you going to do woman,” someone yelled from the crowd, “stop Rothwell with a few herbs and one of your incantations?!” People laughed. Leigh held up his hands. “We all have the right to speak here,” he said, before turning to her. “Go on Emma, say your piece.” She swallowed and looked to the ground before facing her neighbours.
“I know what you’re all thinking”, she began, “that we should go and tear down Lord Rothwell’s fences and let our cattle back loose over the fields.” She paused, as people nodded and an older man shouted “Just like we’ve done before. And more!” “Aye,” Emma continued, “We’ve stood side by side, me and you both, Martin Ainsworth, all of us in fact and we’ve faced down Rothwell and his lot. But this time, it’s different. This time, he’s got that plan, that map, that Master Wright has produced.” ‘What of it?” someone else asked, “We can tear that up just as easily as we can tear down the fences!” “And what will that achieve in the end?” Emma replied. “With the map held at the registry in York, Rothwell will send for the Sherriff there to enforce his claim. And the Sheriff will come with his men to ‘restore order’ and crack some skulls along the way …”
“Let ‘em,” Ainsworth interrupted, “and we’ll crack a few o’ theirs!” “And then what?” Emma asked. “Will you try and crack the skulls of the troops they send here after that? Will you face off to their swords and pikes with hoes and flails?” She paused to let that image sink in. “And then, after we’ve buried our dead and tended to our injured, do you think Rothwell’ll say “Well, they put up a good fight them villagers, let’s give ‘em back their lands”?” Emma stared round at the faces in front of her, as people glanced to the side and shuffled their feet.
Mary Brotherton stepped forward. “What choice do we have?” she demanded, “What choice but to fight for what is rightfully ours, lest it all be taken?!” The crowd shouted their agreement. It was Emma’s turn to raise her hands. “I have an idea,” she told them. “If it works, there’ll be no need to take back the land by force. But you’ll need to trust me.” “Why should we?” someone shouted from near the back. “Because you trusted her to get you over that fever last winter, Robert Croft!” That was Beth and Emma smiled in thanks. “Give me ‘til noon tomorrow”, she said, “If what I’ve got in mind doesn’t work by then, you can take down all of Rothwell’s fences and do what you will.” Mary squared her shoulders, about to respond but a fair number of the villagers were nodding now and Leigh, sensing the mood, interjected, “You’ve got ‘til noon tomorrow then,” he told Emma, “But no longer. After that, if nothing’s been done, well …” He grimaced and walked off, with Mary Brotherton and several others following.
Emma asked Beth to gather some of the other women she was close to and told them what she planned. One or two looked at each another and even Beth raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure about this, Emma?” she asked. Emma sighed. “Not really if I’m honest. But if it works, we’ll restore things to how they were without the need for violence.” “And if it doesn’t?” someone asked. “Then we’ll be standing alongside the men with cudgels in our hands.” Emma looked around and added “As Martin Ainsworth reminded us all, it’s not as if we haven’t done that before now, is it?!” The others nodded and Beth spoke up again, “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Right, let’s get you what you need.”
At dawn the next day, with mist rising over the fields, the group of women waited behind the trees above the York road. “I need to pee” someone whispered. “Shhh,” Beth admonished her, “They’re almost here.” In the distance they could hear the sounds of horses trotting, men’s voices talking low. Round the corner they came, Wright and Grice riding side by side, chatting to each other, with one of Rothwell’s men in front and another behind. Emma strode down the slope and stood, hands on hips, in the centre of the road. The leading man pulled up his horse and drew his sword. “Out of the way there!” he cried, “We’re on Lord Rothwell’s business!” “I know you Matthew Parker, as I know your mother and sister,” Emma replied, “what are you about, drawing your sword on me?” Parker looked embarrassed and told Emma directly, “Look, we don’t want any trouble. We’re just to escort Master Wright here to York and that’s all.” Before Emma could reply, Grice had urged his horse forward. “Remove yourself woman!” he commanded, “Or else I’ll be forced to order these men to run you down.”
At that, the other women emerged from the trees, some armed with cudgels, others with staffs. The horses shifted nervously and the men twisted and turned in their saddles as the women surrounded them. The guard at the back drew his sword and crying, “Stand back there!”, slashed down at the woman nearest him, cutting her arm. She fell back as the man spurred his horse forward, only to be knocked flying by Beth’s staff. Rolling onto his back he reached to retrieve his sword and the woman he had cut smashed his hand with her cudgel. Screaming with pain, the man clutched his broken fingers. “Move again and it’ll be your head” the woman hissed. Parker simply threw his sword down and offered no resistance as he was pulled from his horse. Grice angrily brushed away the hands that reached for him and dismounted without their help.
Wright, on the other hand, although slow to react at first, had by now turned his horse and looked set to gallop back the way they had come. At that, Emma strode up and grabbed the reins, looking the horse directly in the eye. “Oh no you don’t Master Wright”, she said, raising her face to him, “You and I have some business to transact.” “I’ll be doing no business with you …” he replied but before he could finish Beth came up from the other side and yanked him down. With an expression of surprise, Wright sat in the dust, looking round at his companions, now tied and gagged.
“You’re coming with me”, Emma asserted, grabbing him by the collar. Wright made to struggle and Emma slapped him twice, hard. “You might be a man, Master Wright but you’ve been sat on your arse most of your life I’ll warrant. Whereas I’ve been working the fields and walking the woods all of mine. So come nicely or I’ll slap the living shit out of you!” Head bowed, Wright asked, “What do you want of me?” as Emma led him off the track and up the slope into the trees. Behind her the other women did the same with the horses and the rest of the men, the guard with the broken hand still weeping softly while the woman he had slashed had her cut cleaned and bound.
Once they’d come to a clearing in the woods, Emma stopped. “Now, Master Wright,” she said, “What I want with you is to undo the damage you’ve done and set things back as they were.” She bent down to a pack placed on an old stump and started to take out the contents. Wright looked at the collection of objects arrayed on the ground between the two of them and snorted “What? You think that you, some kind of hedge-witch, can reverse what I’ve done?!” Emma looked him calmly in the eye but said nothing. Instead, she stepped quickly forward and before he had time to react, she removed the folded map from the inner pocket of his coat. “Wait! No!” he cried, “Don’t touch that. It’s important!!” “Oh, I know full well how important it is to Lord Rothwell,” Emma replied, “but this land is more than just important to us.” She stopped and looked at him again, appraisingly. “I wonder if you can understand that” she mused. “Well, whether you can or not makes no difference. You may dismiss me as a hedge-witch but who do you think calved such elevated magicians as yourself, eh?”
While she’d been speaking, she had started to arrange the various items carefully on the grass. First, she laid out four white candles in a square. Within the square she set a loop of tightly wound hair, taken from all the women in the group. Unfolding the map, she then placed that within the circle and lit the candles. “Careful!” Wright cried. “Oh, I’ve no intention of burning your precious map,” Emma said, looking at him, before taking a bundle of herbs from her pack. The magician smirked and Emma paused. “And I’ve no doubt you’re thinking that candles and hair and some smelly herbs aren’t going to do the trick”, she said and laughed a little. “No, I appreciate the power you had to use, so I’ll need to counter that with some of my own.” And she took out a knife from the pocket of her skirt and quickly cut across the base of her thumb. Holding her hand above the circle she let drops of blood fall at regular intervals onto the loop of hair. Wright made to stand up but Beth grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back down onto his knees. Lighting the bundle of herbs from one of the candles Emma waved the smoke round the circle and chanted,
“A circle round, this cord was bound
And now with blood
This spell I do unbind
As I cut this thread, may the spell be dead
And so let the power cease and the land be at peace.”
Bending over the map, she then took a knife again and cut the circlet of hair before throwing the smouldering herbs high into the air. She hadn’t been at all sure what to expect – a clap of thunder and a blinding flash perhaps – but instead there was a sudden gust of wind that caused the branches to shake and some nearby crows to launch into the air, accompanied by a kind of twisting that she felt deep inside her. Wright bent his head to the ground and vomited. Beth staggered back as if she’d been struck. Rothwell’s men looked panic-stricken as Grice clutched his head, crying “What have you done, woman?!”
Emma looked down at the map and picking it up, replied, “Put things back the way they were, I reckon.” Holding the parchment in the air, she showed them all how it had been redrawn, with the meadow now restored to the correct side of the beck, the fields back where they always were, bounded by the woods as before. “The copy at the manor-house will look the same.” she announced, “Both now set down for all to see the boundaries of what is rightfully ours to use.” Wright looked up, a thin trail of vomit hanging from his lip. “And what will this avail you, hedge-witch?” he asked, “As soon as we’re done here, I’ll gather what I need and magic it back the way Lord Rothwell wants it.” “Will y’now?” Emma replied, and drew one last thing from the pack – two hammered sheets of iron. Seeing this Wright finally seemed to deflate completely and fell over on to his side, curling into a ball. Grice looked puzzled. “What do you hope to achieve with that?” he asked, “Two bits of cheap metal? How will that stop anything?”
Emma laughed again. “Not so cheap Master Grice. This is cold iron. Fallen from the sky. Kept for a significant occasion. Hammered into shape by our own smith. Master Wright here knows what this means …” And she took the map and placed it between the sheets, wrapping the cord of hair tightly around so that maps and iron were held tight. “You can tell Lord Rothwell he can send the copy to York to be held in the registry if he wants but this’ll be kept secure in the village,” she announced. “Hidden and protected and warded, so no one will be able to re-draw the land again. Our land.” She emphasised those last words and tucking the plated map under her arm, she set off through the trees. “Come on,” she said to the other women, “They’ll be able to free themselves from their own bindings soon enough.”
Not long after, Emma was strolling through the woods again, looking for mushrooms after the recent rain. With her skirt hitched up to stop it dragging through the wet grass, she came out into the meadow and stopped, shielding her eyes from the sun. There was the beck, over on the other side where it always had been, with the old oak tree standing tall. She thought back to when the women had arrived home, only to find that instead of waiting ‘til noon, William Leigh and Mary Brotherton had gone on ahead with a small group at first light, “To scout out the lay of things”, they’d said. But shortly after they’d spotted some of Rothwell’s men across the fields, making ready to fence off the land, a wind had blown up and they’d felt some kind of shift in their guts and when they’d recovered, the men were suddenly nearby, as if the distance had instantly been closed between them. For a moment the two groups had stared at each other, one with staves and hammers, the other with staffs and cudgels and then someone had shouted “It’s the devil’s play” and some had fallen to the ground, praying to God, while others scattered, villagers included. But William Leigh had stood firm and one of Rothwell’s men had stayed also, clutching a copy of the map. As Leigh had walked up to him, he had cried out, shaking the piece of paper, “This isn’t how it was!” Leigh had put his arm around the man’s shoulder then and had said, “Oh yes, it is. It’s how it always was. And always will be. As long as we have anything to do with it. You go and tell your Lord and Master that.”
Emma thought that no doubt William had embellished the telling of it some but also that there was no harm in that. He’d nodded respectfully at her when she’d returned with the other women and together they’d found a place to secure the iron-clasped map. “Will it always stay bound?” he’d asked her. She’d thought a little. “Iron rusts,” she’d replied, “Spells decay. But I reckon that as long as we’re bound to this land, it’ll hold.” Striding across the meadow, with the warmth of the sun on her face and the sound of the beck up ahead, she smiled to herself and thought, “And we are bound to the land, just as it is to us.”
Steven French is a retired academic who lives in Leeds, West Yorkshire, U.K. He has had a number of short stories and pieces of flash fiction published in venues such as 365Tomorrows, Bewildering Stories, Idle Ink, Liquid Imagination, Literally Stories and elsewhere.
“You sure you want to be dropped off here?” the man asked, his forehead creased with concern.
I nodded and opened the car door, dry grass crunching underfoot on the side of the road.
“I’ll return at sunset,” he said.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said, but he drove off as soon as I closed the door.
The blazing sun beat down on my black hair and sweat prickled on the back of my neck. I needed to get into the shade. The wind spun howling dust devils across the dead field, spitting up grit that clogged my throat. It ground against my teeth, putting me on edge.
The locals at the diner had looked at me funny when I asked about Tara, my only daughter. We look nothing alike since she takes after her father. I’m dark and short; she’s tall and pale.
“What you want to go out there fer?” a toothless old woman asked. She exchanged a glance with the waitress who remained silent when I showed her the photo of Tara and I.
“She’s been missing for six months.” I was desperate. The police were no help so my mother and I had been searching on our own.
The woman seemed to take pity on me, drawing a crude map on the back of a napkin, volunteering her husband to drive me out. I called my mother from the pay phone; she was staying at a motel on the other side of the state, following a lead.
Sweat beaded between my shoulder blades, evaporating almost immediately in the broiling heat of the afternoon sun. Shading my eyes, I walked towards a rusty shack—the only building on the property. There was nothing else out here for miles. The horizon was dead flat, marked by the occasional mesquite tree or stray cloud.
Dust kicked up as I walked through dead planting rows; the locals had told me it hadn’t rained here in weeks. As I got nearer to the shack, an eerie wind whistled through gaps in the walls, carrying the scent of a distant wildfire. The rough door, held closed only by a simple latch, opened with a screech. I hesitated, afraid of what I might find inside.
There was a distinct smell—not of rot, thank God, but something fragrant—incense? Rags were piled in one corner and against the back wall, an altar with candles and crude figurines. Under the wind I heard a deep sigh, as if a spirit had blown through. The pile of rags moved.
Tara’s blond head raised up from the shadowy pile, banded with sunlight coming through the rafters. I cried out with relief and ran to her, pulling her into my arms. My tears had dried up long ago and none came, even as I hugged my baby girl.
“Oh God, Tara. I finally found you.”
She was groggy and seemed confused by my appearance. In my arms, her bones felt like sticks—collarbones and shoulder blades sticking out beneath a thin cotton dress. She smiled up at me, recognition registering behind her glazed eyes. Her cheeks were ruddy with dried, flaking skin and her hair felt like matted straw. She hadn’t bathed and her body stunk, layered in weeks of grime.
“Mom?” She clutched at me, shivering despite the stifling heat.
I examined her body for track marks but she was clean. “Who did this to you?” She pushed me away with feeble arms, so I took her by the shoulders.
She resisted my attempts to get her to her feet, falling back to the pile of rags. My mind rattled with panic. I needed to get Tara to a hospital. I hadn’t thought to ask the woman’s husband to stick around, figuring he would return before dark.
I forced Tara to drink some of the water from my canteen but she refused the protein bar. She slept, her eyes flitting back and forth under dark lids. There were no lights in the shack and it quickly grew dark as the sun set.
In the fading dusk, I saw bowls with food still in them around the altar; evidence that Tara had been eating something at least. There was also an empty milk jug that must have held water at some point.
When I went outside to escape the strange atmosphere in the shack, the sky was banded in ribbons of red and orange. Under the hiss of the wind, cicadas shrilled.
Mosquitoes pricked at my skin, drawn to exposed flesh. Slapping them, they burst, filled with my own blood, leaving red streaks on my arms and legs. Welts raised where they’d landed and I resisted the urge to scratch them with anxious hands. There was no sign of my ride in either direction.
What was that sound, under the wind?
Then I saw the lights. They came towards the shack in waves, kicking up a dusty haze lit by hundreds of candles. They were humming, the tune carried by the wind. I hurried inside to find my daughter already awake, sitting in front of the altar on her knees. She hummed the same song, low and deep.
“Tara, what’s going on?”
She didn’t answer me; glassy eyes rolled back in her head as she entered a trance. The first of the procession opened the door and they filed in, forcing me against the altar. When I tried to push my way out, they collectively surged forward, preventing escape. I put my arms around Tara, in some feeble effort to protect her. Each person held a candle raised reverently towards Tara. I recognized the man who dropped me off and his wife, along with the waitress from the diner. I could hear more people outside the shack, pressing against the walls. The humming rose to a crescendo before dying out.
A young girl lit fragrant incense and set the sticks on either side of us. The smoke made my eyes and nose itch as it filled the shack. A little boy placed a flower crown on Tara’s golden hair and she shook my arm free to thank him with a kiss on each cheek.
Between the press of the people and the narrow space, it felt like the walls were closing in on me. I fought down the panic that roiled in my stomach. We had to get out of here.
The people stood, silent as the dead, swaying back and forth as if they were in church. Someone touched my hand and I jumped, but it was Tara. She held her hand in mine.
Every nerve in my body was telling me to flee. But I couldn’t leave her behind with these people who had obviously harmed her, making her live in this desolate place.
The waitress bowed down before Tara, her forehead on the ground. She offered Tara a bowl of what smelled like pungent tequila that made my nose burn—moonshine.
“To bring the rain, my goddess,” the waitress announced, loud enough for those outside to hear. Before I could stop her, Tara drank the liquor then offered it to me. The locals turned, waiting. I had no choice. I swallowed a small amount, coughing as it burned my throat. Anything to get us out of here. A murmuring approval went through the crowd.
The liquor was potent, making my head swim; the candle light smearing into gashes of light across my vision.
I tried to get to my feet and was held down by several pairs of hands—including Tara’s, whose iron grip kept me by her side.
“Mother, be welcome.” Tara’s voice rang clear in my head even though she hadn’t opened her mouth. They held me down and poured the moonshine down my throat. My daughter floated above me, her corn-silk hair waving in the wind blowing through the shack. Thunder rumbled in the distance and I could smell dry earth dampened by falling rain. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, streaming down my cheeks.
The crowd pulled back as Tara positioned us in front of the altar. Locals brought us homemade fruit pies, sumptuous kolaches, and other rich foods that we gorged on. The incense smoke filled the shack, wreathing the crowd in haze as the humidity rose. Sweet smelling rain pelted the roof, dripping through the loose slats onto our overheated skin.
My daughter’s face was no longer pale and wan, but radiant with life—glowing by an inner power that had awakened. It echoed within myself and we held hands until dawn, when the celebration of the rain finally stopped. We slept entwined on the bed of rags, until the next night when it would begin again. I hoped my mother would join us soon, following the directions I had given her over the phone.
Rachel is a filmmaker and writer living in the Florida panhandle with her husband, two children, and two black cats. Her work can be found in PulpCult’s Unspeakable Vol II and Suburban Witch Magazine. To view Rachel’s films and news on published works, visit agirlandhergoldfish.com
