t twilight the brigands took him.
They caught him along the old abbey road shortcut trying to beat the coming dark. Even as they
leapt out of the woods and started clubbing him the sun was slipping red down the horizon. Tying
his hands in front of him and pulling him along behind them through the trees the motley crew
laughed and jeered while behind them the setting sun was quickly disappearing.
Reaching the dilapidated woodcutter's shack with it's sagging roof and rotting walls the brigands
threw him bodily into one cobwebbed and dusty corner and started divvying up what little of value
Thomas had. That consisted of the clasp knife his 'da had given him, a few coppers and, of course,
the medicine. Now in front of a fireplace of crumbling mortar the little group argued.
"Lets bugger him," the hair lip said.
The big one, bulbous and ugly, had hooted his acquiesce. Rat face, who Thomas had taken to be
the leader had demanded to go first but the dark one, a scar pulling down one of his eye lids
and pox marked face, raised such a fit they settled on rolling dice.
They passed a dirty fruit jar full of cheap, grain liquor and watched one another's tosses and
throws of the bones with keen interest while outside the twilight darkened into night proper.
The whole time Thomas sat praying and watching the indifference with which the cutthroats treated
the medicine bottle.
Because of the medicine he'd undertaken the journey and trying to outrun falling nightfall, he'd
taken the short cut instead of staying to the coach road. Tess had taken ill as of late and had
only grown more pallid and listless the longer he put off going to see the chirgeon. When she'd
lost the will to nurse the baby any longer and only sat staring with vacant eyes, deathly pale,
he took what money they had from the sugar bowel and set out.
Frightened and bitter he watched the cutthroats scooping and rolling their dice in a cadence
and rhythm only they understood. Their faces were illuminated by the fire and their jests grew
rougher as their voices grew more and more slurred. By the time the fruit jar was empty they
seemed to have reached a conclusion.
"OH, sweet-cake," Rat-face said. "Here I come."
The grown man was giggling as dirty hands began working at the front of dirty trousers. Caught
up in his own excitement the footpad didn't bother taking in the expressions on the drunken faces
of his companions.
"Cheater." The scarred one said. It came out 'sshe-ater."
Rat face paused when the other reached up and grabbed his wrist.
"Shove off, then," he hissed, showing a snaggle of yellowed teeth.
Thomas saw the big one rise up behind the much smaller leader. Sensing the danger Rat Face began
to turn. Snapping his wrist he flicked open the blade on Thomas' clasp knife as he turned. The
glass jar busted over his head and shards of glass, each one reflecting a bit of flame, came
tinkling down onto the rotten planks of the floor.
Rat-face went down like a trip-hammered steer, falling to his knees. Cursing, he used both his
hands to feel for where he'd dropped the clasp knife. Blood was running black from greasy, matted
hair and lines of spittle hung in loops from his working mouth.
The big man was above him, evil on his face in the firelight. He held a rusty hatchet in one
over-sized fist. Behind the other two the hair-lip was chortling. The big one looked over to
the scar-faced robber.
"He was cheating--you saw."
"As God is my witness, Freddy. I saw him plain."
Taking a deep breath and swelling his expanse of chest the big thief, Freddy, brought up his
hatchet. Pig eyes, red veined and yellow tinged gleamed drunkenly. Thomas' own eyes were locked
on the up raised weapon. When the man brought it down on the unprotected back of the rat-faced
leader's head it made a crunch and blood like black syrup splattered across Thomas' up turned
face. Retching, Thomas found himself unable to turn his gore splashed face to the side as the
rusty-bladed hatchet rose and fell three more times.
The hair lip and the big one were almost incapacitated with glee.
"Always giv'n orders, that one." Freddy said.
"Not any more, Freddy, not any more," the scar-faced one agreed eagerly.
"What about the buggering?" the hair lip asked.
"Oh, we's got plenty 'o time for that." Freddy said.
In his terror Thomas felt his senses sharpen. A wind blew and he could distinguish the creaks
and groans of protest made by every board in the shack. A light rain began to drum on the sagging
roof and he heard the water drizzling through its holes and the cracks in the walls. He heard
rivulets of the rat-faced brigand's blood dripping into a sticky puddle at the feet of the big
one called Freddy. He saw the smooth wood handle of his open clasp knife where it lay by his
foot. Smells overpowered him in successive waves; the wet dog stink of the filthy men, the liquor
on their breaths. Smoke from the fire, the increasingly soggy stench of the boards making up
the shack.
Most of all the blood. The copper-tang of the blood flooded his senses, almost causing him to
swoon. It smelled so strongly in the confined space that he marveled passers-by on the coach
road out through the woods couldn't smell it. The woodcutter's shack stunk like a slaughter house.
On the roof, over the rain, came a thump.
It sounded for all the world like something landing but the rotten structure was incapable of
supporting any real weight. The noise killed the laughter of the cutthroats. Faces stupid with
confusion looked towards the ceiling. There were holes in the roof and as the first peals of
thunder rolled over the little shack those inside searched for some sign of what was above them.
There was only the falling of rain.
"What--" The hair lip started.
"Shut up," Freddy whispered.
Everyone in the group held their collective breath. There was no other sound.
"Maybe just a branch," said Scar-face.
Foot steps were clearly audible above them. One two, three. The fourth fell and thunder came
hard right behind it. After the thunder there was only the sound of rain.
"That was a man." Freddy said.
"That roof couldn't hold a man's weight." Scar-face said and Thomas had to agree.
"Never draw blood in the Abbott's Wood after dark." The hair lip quoted in a whisperer.
Both men fell silent. Reaching slowly forward with his bound hands Thomas picked up his open
clasp knife, quickly hiding it in his lap under his arms.
Of course he'd heard the story of the Abbot; man of god turned to darkness. . .but it was just
a tale.
"Can you see anything?" Freddy asked.
He was standing over by the only door to the shack, still grasping the bloody hatchet. The scar-faced
one and the hair lip had gone to look out the only window. There was no glass in it and the shutters
hung off too one side. Beyond the opening the rain turned the forest into a gray blur.
Both of the cutthroats turned away to answer Freddy their "no's" and Thomas startled,
he thought he'd seen the shadow of movement behind them. He fumbled with his clasp knife, attempting
to arrange it so he could run the frayed and knotted ropes looped around his wrist over the edge
of the blade.
"CHRIST-IN-HEAVEN," Freddy shouted. "I SAW SOMETHING."
The big robber jumped back from the door way. He turned in a half crouch, holding the bloody
hatchet. Thomas watched him, taking in the killer's fear. He was called to mind the stories his
father, a fisherman, had told of the cold water sharks, and how they could smell blood in the
water at unbelievable distances.
"Maybe its just someone who came looking for 'em," The hair-lip said, indicating Thomas.
"On the bleedin' roof?" Freddy snapped.
Freddy hissed them into silence and all went still. Straining their ears they heard light foot
falls outside the shack. Between the proliferate cracks of the building a dark shadow moved.
The room full of frightened men watched in growing apprehension. When the shadow would have fallen
past the room's only window it instead, disappeared.
"The Abbot wants 'is blood," The hair-lip whined.
"Then lets give 'em Johnny," Scar-face said suddenly.
Freddy liked the idea, bobbing his head in ready agreement. "Let's do it." He pointed
to the mutilated corpse. "You two pick 'em up and I'll open the door."
"Mayhap he'll be satisfied with 'em, ya think?" The hair-lip was eager.
"Do it," Freddy hissed.
The two robbers scooped up the still bleeding corpse of their former leader and began dragging
it towards the door of the dilapidated shack. Freddy stepped to the side and pulled the door
open quickly. The other two shuffled quickly forward and pitched the hacked body outside.
They jumped back and Freddy slammed the door shut, putting his big back against it. Thomas finished
slicing his bonds and held his hands between his knees to hide his work. The other two stood
half crouched in the middle of the room. For long moments everyone strained to penetrate the
silence for the slightest sound to give the slightest indication to what would happen next.
Outside they heard the tell-tale sounds of something heavy being dragged in the front of the
house. Freddy had his eyes closed as he leaned against the door. The hair-lip was trying in vain
to recall the Lord's Prayer. Scar-face shifted uneasily, one foot to the other.
Then, before Thomas' eyes, the cutthroat came to some internal decision. He leapt to the room's
window. "I got's ta see." Fear made his eyes wild.
Greasy haired and dressed in filthy clothes the robber blocked the window from the view of his
cohorts and their victim. The man craned his neck, looking first to the left and then to the
right, peering out into the darkness.
Seemingly satisfied he turned back away from the window. Their came a sound not unlike wet burlap
tearing.
Scar-face turned to face the room. His mouth was working silently. Diagonally across his face
slashes cut unbelievably deep. Deep enough that white skull showed through in places. His cheek
had been laid open so that the worn, yellow-gray nubs of his teeth poked through. One eye had
been plucked by the force of the swipe, leaving a bloody cavern. Skin lay open in flaps along
the path of the tares and blood was an apron down the front of his shirt.
The man's jaw worked but his tongue had been shorn and the muscles of his jaw severed. For one
long moment the man's single eye rolled, searching. Then the robber pitched forward and hit the
rotten floor boards of the shack hard enough to bounce.
Blood rushed out from underneath his down turned face to spread in a growing pool.
Freddy broke right then. His scream was guttural, primal terror. The big robber cast his hatchet
away and clawed at the front door. He managed to pull it open and staggered outside. He reached
a dead sprint, making for the woodline, in two steps, passing out of Thomas' sight.
In the room it took the hair-lip all of two seconds to follow his companion. His mouth quivered
grotesquely in fear and he sobbed so hard snot bubbled from his crooked nose. He looked once
at the floor in front of the fire where the gang had played dice for Thomas' meager possessions.
The loot seemed to hold little appeal for him. He met Thomas' eyes, then turned and ran.
Thomas stood quickly, knife still in hand. He stepped quickly to in front of the fireplace and
picked up the bottle of medicine he had already risked so much for. Stuffing it into his trouser
pocket he made his way to the door.
He looked outside into the small clearing in front of the shack. Leaves stirred in the slight
wind. He could hear branches snapping as the two cutthroats broke through the woods in terrified
flight. Thomas looked quickly around, still seeing nothing. He made his break for the forest.
Halfway to the trees he looked to the side. The corpse of the rat-faced robber lay draped across
the handle of the water pump. His back had been broken so that the corpse splayed out as if crucified.
A great black dog with eyes of cold, evil yellow was working its tongue at the bloody mess of
the dead man's head.
A cry was torn unbidden from Thomas. His terror lent him speed and in three quick steps he plunged
into the dark shadows of the forest.
Branches tore at him and vines tripped his feet. Too many times to count he stumbled, almost
going down. Once while looking over his shoulder he ran straight into the trunk of a tree and
fell. Crying with fear he scrambled back up and staggered on.
His head long flight carried him away from the shack and little clearing. After an eternity of
anguished flight he broke free from the woods and stumbled out onto the abbey road. He turned
away from the direction of his own house. It was shorter to the junction of the coach road and
the safety of the inn servicing travelers along that busier by-way.
Thomas ran on exhausted, his breath coming in ragged staccato bursts. Tears flowed freely down
his cheeks and a stitch stabbed into his side. On all sides of him the woods were dark, impenetrable
to his eyes and pregnant with malice. He was spurred on to an even greater speed.
He came around a bend in the road some half-a-mile from where he'd first made the road. Thomas
skidded to a sudden stop and threw his arms up. He screamed despite himself. In the middle of
the road a fog huddled in a low pool. Arms and legs protruding doll-like from patch the hair-lip
hovered there three feet above the road.
The cutthroat was bent over backwards, head dangling and exposing the stretch of filthy neck.
There was the smell of sewer where the terrified man had lost control of his bowels. With each
pump of his beating heart blood squirted fountain-like from a rend low on the neck. Horrified
Thomas realized none of the squirting fluid was dripping to the ground. Every last drop was flowing
into the fog, accompanied by a horrid, slurping sound.
Unthinking Thomas turned to flee. Spinning he started back up the dark, narrow road he'd just
come down. Each foot fall was a jolt traveling up his frame from the bottom of his foot to his
tightly clenched teeth. Panic was a white hot force blinding him and hopelessness whispered in
his mind telling him to give in, to just lie down and let the Abbot come.
Thomas smoothed his stride out. His eyes flickered back and forth too the long, dark line of
the trees standing on either side of the road as he ran. His terror was palatable. Up ahead he
saw Freddy. Hands on either knee he bent over, hard coughs racking his frame.
Still afraid of the vicious man Thomas swerved around him to avoid coming in reach of the cutthroat.
Up ahead he could see where the small footbridge crossed east-fork stream, before tying back
into the main coach road. It was a picture of salvation.
Hope sprang in Thomas. He remembered his grandmother's stories of wicked things . Many a night
as a young boy had he spent huddled beneath his quilts and covers because of some gruesome tale
told by the pipe smoking woman. What he remembered now was her talking about the limits of power
in such a thing as the abbot had become; that they could not cross running water except at the
exact moment of ebb and peak flow. The footbridge before him was as good a sanctuary as a cathedral.
Despair comes that much harder where hope exists. The swirling darkness unfolded from the woodline
to sweep over the two men just as Thomas drew even with Freddy. The abbots face was a triangle
of white amid the swirling black. Bloodless lips stretched wide to reveal fangs already stained
crimson.
The bitter cold swept Thomas off his feet and drove him hard to the ground. His cry was cut short
as he was struck by Freddy's falling body. The amorphous shape congealed atop the two struggling
men took the form of a great black wolf once more. Freddy's screams were strangled as the wolf's
muzzle found his naked throat.
Thomas rolled clear, panic lending him strength and speed. He scrambled up to race toward the
footbridge. With each step he took his freedom loomed larger until he swore he was going to make
it Then the night-thing commanded him to stop.
And Thomas did.
Three strides from flowing water Thomas drew up, stiff as a board, freezing in his tracks. He
stood paralyzed thinking he might suffocate because his chest refused to expand any farther than
the shallowest of breaths. Behind him he heard foot steps, knew instinctively that the Abbot
was allowing Thomas to hear his approach.
Just behind him the thing stopped. Unable to give full voice to his cries Thomas felt them turn
to whimpers. He squeezed his eyes shut. He waited for the blow to fall. His heart beat drum-like
in his chest so that his blood was a cacophony in his own ears. He anticipated the violence of
those horrible fangs snapping into him, rending, tearing.
It did not come.
Startled Thomas instinctively tried to turn to see the threat. He found, miraculously, that he
could. Turning he saw nothing but the stretch of road winding into the woods behind him. The
body of the final cutthroat was gone. Death's shadow had fallen upon him, yet he lived.
He sprang forward and ran over the bridge, stopping on the other side to look back. Still seeing
nothing he smiled. Relief flooded him and his smile turned to a lunatic's laughter. By the Devil's
Grace he lived.
Suddenly worried his hands found his pocket and verified that the bottle of medicine, hard won
now, was still there and in tact. Not wanting to tempt fate or the grace that had spared him
he turned and fled once again towards his home.
Tess had a light in the window. Its glow was a warm beacon promising the safety of hearth and
home. Thomas turned off the road and down the lane leading to his home. It passed his mind briefly
to wonder why Patches, the family mutt didn't run out to meet him.
Calling out he opened his door and stepped inside. The familiar sights of his home greeted him.
How much sweeter they seemed now that he had almost lost them forever. A fire burned in the hearth
and Tess sat in her rocker before it.
Thomas felt his heart leap with a sharp, sudden joy. His wife, so recently rendered impotent
by what ever fever had gripped her, was holding their son to her breast, letting the child nurse
again. The shock was a welcome one.
Tess rose at the sound of him entering the house. She turned. Thomas felt a stunning blow of
comprehension as his young wife lifted the blood-stained muzzle of her face. It was not the child
who had been nursing.
(c) Nathan Meyer, All Rights Reserved
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