INTERNATIONAL AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR DON STANSBERRY is a native
DON STANSBERRY
West Virginian and retired elementary school teacher. He is the author of Isle of Shadows: The Inky Trilogy and his children’s books, which he also illustrated. Lawrence Likes to Dance, Koko & Stoney Mom’s Choice Award and Crusty, named a Finalist in the USA News Best Book Awards. Don is the author of Secret Blood, a multi-award-winning book that took top honors for best spiritual fiction at the London Book Festival. It was named a Winner at the Next Generation Indie Book Awards at a reception at The Plaza in New York City during Book Expo America. His second novel, Vulture Bend, is a riveting good vs. evil award-winning story. Cryptic Blood, sequel to Secret Blood is his most recent novel. He was the head coach for the Parkersburg High Girls’ Basketball team for 16 years and retired from this position with four state championships.
Under Strange, Strange Skies
A book for those who love entertaining, thought-provoking stories with a twist, but do not have the time to commit to a whole novel. Each story is told with a different voice, running the gamut from Sci-Fi to Horror to twisted Fairy Tale. Cracks and Two Cats may have you looking under your bed at night. The Translator and One Last Time may have you asking yourself how far you will go for love. The rest, well, let’s say that each has a bizarre take on the world around us.
DON STANSBERRY
Under Strange, Strange Skies Don Stansberry
Publisher Page
an imprint of Headline Books
Terra Alta, WV
Under Strange, Strange Skies by Don Stansberry copyright ©2026 Don Stansberry All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, except where noted otherwise, are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Publisher Page. To order additional copies of this book or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Books, Inc. P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 www.HeadlineBooks.com mybook@headlinebooks.com Publisher Page is an imprint of Headline Books ISBN 13: 9781958914861 Library of Congress Control Number: 2025947125
P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S TAT E S O F A M E R I C A
For Patty—for her love and endurance of putting up with me. For Shay, Sydney, Pat and Walker— the family that makes everything worthwhile Special thanks to Cheryl Yoke for help with One Last Time.
Content Sarah Sinful and Buckethead O’Neal.............................................. 7 One Last Time................................................................................. 35 Beneath ............................................................................................ 52 Two Cats......................................................................................... 105 The Translator................................................................................ 147 A Class A Send Off........................................................................ 208 Cracks............................................................................................. 223 Big Head......................................................................................... 265 Other Books by Don Stansberry................................................. 304
Sara Sinful and Buckethead O’Neal The little man hobbled down the moonlit cart path toward the pub. He had been burdened with arthritis and gout for many a year. ’Twas a wonder that he could move on those spindly legs and knobby knees. His walking stick, a gnarled piece of driftwood, not only aided his balance but had found its way to the side of many a snickering head over the years. A cool breeze rattled the yellowing leaves of the trees. The crickets, those that were still alive, chirped long and slow. Soon, the air would turn cold. That be true. The pub lay perfectly nestled at the edge of the forest. The area in front was hard-packed earth worn bare by countless farmers and worthless drunkards. On a cloudy night, one might have missed the many pathways that snaked away from the pub. But on a moonlit night such as this, the paths were as visible as a squid’s tentacles, slithering into the forest. The building itself was constructed of stone gathered from farmers clearing their fields long ago. The thatched roof had been replaced with wood after a fire had burned the place many seasons back. Only a couple of the oldsters remembered the fire, and their versions of the blaze did not match. On this night, with the harvest in, the pub was full of people and merriment. Golden light shone from the few thick glass 7
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windows. The little man could hear coarse laughter from within. ’Twas the deep belly laughter of men who may have laughed differently when their wives were with them, or their glasses had not been drained. Smoke rose serenely from the chimney as he approached the door. Off to the side, a single horse had been tethered to a tree. It was an ugly thing. This horse had never pranced or galloped; it had been used to pull and plow. It was near the end of its usefulness. By next harvest, it would no doubt be salted and packed away in the root cellar. The little man smoothed his jacket. The britches were stained and threadbare at the knees, and the buttons on the jacket pulled tight across his middle. It had once been a tailored and stylish thing, but now it seemed to be held together as much by the dirt and dust as the expensive material. What was once a fine Scottish plaid in subtle greens and blues could now be used as a birthing mat for a barn cat. His walking hat was made of the same material, and his pack, which only had one strap left, was a beaten and scarred leather. He was a sight, this little man. That be true also. A few heads turned as the wooden door swung open. Some looked to see if it was Frisk or Barty joining the party late. Frisk and Barty never missed a celebration such as this, but as eyes fell on the stranger, they were quickly forgotten. As the wave of silence rolled around the room, many in the back could see nothing as the door swung shut. In a twitch, the only sound in the room was the cracking sound of the wood in the fireplace. The little man kept moving through the silence, making his entrance. Shuffle, shuffle, thump. Two steps, then the walking stick. Shuffle, shuffle, thump. He looked up into the faces of the men he passed, for he was no taller than any man’s waist. They all peered down at him, interested, amazed, for this hamlet saw not many a stranger. And never a one so foreign or brazen as this. 8
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The room was long, with a bar on the left and tables on the right. On the wall at the far end was a massive stone fireplace. The aromas were intoxicating. The smell of roasting meat, smoke, and sweat filled the air. The customers were nearly all men, except for the barmaid and a table of unsultry women who had an odor of their own. The little man shuffle-thumped his way to the end of the room and a place at the end of the bar. The bar had a space on the corner, so he was alone, facing everyone. He leaned the stick against the wall and, with great difficulty, mounted the stool. In the full candlelight, his face looked even more craggy and wizened than before. His lips were thin and dry, and his beard was scraggly. He removed his hat, and a cascade of greasy white hair fell past his shoulders. It was nearly as long as his beard. The barkeep walked halfway down the bar, close but not too close, for it was his responsibility to keep order. A dead imp would dance heavily on his conscience. And pull a dim light on the pub’s profit. “How can I do you, stranger?” “You may do me very well, sir, but I beg of you, I’m no stranger.” “Well, I know nothing of you.” “Nor I,” came shouts from the others. The jovial crowd, steins in hand, slowly migrated to the end of the bar. “Think of me not as a stranger, but as a passing traveler,” the little man said. “Although I think I know more about you than you know about each other.” The little man was known to incite others, just as a way to gather a crowd. “How’s that?” said a man called Skillet. He was a large redfaced man who kept his ale in one hand and a snot rag in the other, to wipe his sweaty forehead. The little man met his eyes square and said, “I’ve been around, to tell you true, I’ve been through many a parish as this. I know your desires, your secrets.” 9
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Let’s hear ’em then,” called a heavy-bearded man called Butter. “Oh, I can tell you my brethren, and so I will. But I dare say I cannot speak well with this dry throat. Traveling your wonderous countryside is a dusty affair.” The barkeep looked dubious. “Give ’im a bitter. Your tills are bursting from the lot of us tonight, ya skinflint,” said Kolin, who was a long, thin drink of water with a cowlick. Grudgingly, he poured the little man a mug, smaller than the others. He knew he could overcharge someone else to make it up. He’d done it several times tonight already. He slid the foamy drink down the bar. The little man stopped it with a hand of twisted fingers. He took a deep drink. By now, the entire patronage of the pub had filtered down to the little man. Even the harlots had left their tables and squeezed in, allowing a few little pushes, pulls, and pinches along the way. The little man was holding court; he relished the attention. “First, allow me to pontificate on the darker nature of your realm.” Then a long swig that drained the glass. He pushed it back toward the barkeep and cleared his throat. “Still a bit dry,” he said. The second drink was filled. “There is a man here with us, right in this very room, who fantasizes about one of your wives. He does it daily as he plows his fields in the spring, cares for his crops in the summer, and harvests in the autumn. He pictures her bringing him a drink of cool water, talking politely, then whisking her off to the deep woods in the back of his wagon. She comes back the next day while her husband, one of you, toils in his fields. And the days after that.” “Who is it? If it’s my wife he’s thinking of, I’ll tear his head off!” Someone yelled from the back.
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“Take it easy, Mooney, there’s no one here who would be thinking of your wife in that way,” someone else said. “Not if he’s had a good look at her.” This comment was met with raucous laughter. “There is also someone here who has been stealing away into the night with one of your daughters. They lay together in the nighttime meadow, then sneak back before the dew grows on the low grass.” There were grumbles among the fathers of the group and a silence from the unmarried. Two of the harlots giggled with delight. Everyone had a good looksee around, trying to find a guilty face. “So, you see,” said the little man, “Secrets are good, natural if left unbroken. But, as soon as one is out, it becomes as dangerous as a fire, spreading and burning even the innocents.” “So, is this what you do? Come along and grow discourse among friends?” the barkeep said. “You say secrets, I say distrust that spreads and stings.” “You are right, my friend. This is not something I do, but you are the ones who asked. I offer nothing unless asked.” He took another long drink. The merriment had fled the pub. The crowd began to disperse, moving back to their tables and chairs. The loud voices now became mumbles. “But,” the little man said loudly, “I may be able to protect you and yours with a cautionary tale.” “And what would that be?” the barkeep asked. He had had his fill of this midget and would be as happy as not to see his backside out the door. “I’m sure you have all heard the tale of Sara Sex?” the little man said. No one said anything at first, then one of the women said, “I may ’ave heard something like it from my ma’s ma. ’Cept they called her Sara Sinful. Right scary story that is.” 11
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Then the one beside her, with the large, bouncy, exposed bosoms, said, “She’s a witch.” The little man said, “There are many kinds of witches, some that parlay with nature like the Wicca, then there are others that are aligned with evil. Sara was something worse, something that would lend itself toward the term of ‘monster’.” Everyone was back now, and the little man had every ear. “I would be akin to spinning this tale to you fine people, but your delicious ale is sloshing around in my gut. I believe that some of the roasting meat that called me into this establishment would do well to settle my stomach.” The barkeep was about to toss the little bugger when Quinn Duling shouted, “Give ’im a bowl of your stew, ya cheap bastard, let’s hear this yarn.” This was echoed by the patronage, being widely known that the barkeep was a royal miser. A bowl of hearty stew was quickly produced and delivered to the little man, whereas he immediately requested a hunk of rich bread to accompany it. *** “Some say Sara was a Pooka, some say she was the daughter of Circe herself, but I know she was more of a demon than that. She was an Abyzou. A stealer of children. But the name does not matter to those she destroyed.” The little man blew a fake sneeze. False as it was, it was true enough that he had fooled many a physician over the years. The patrons were still rapt with his presence and the beginnings of his yarn. “Tell me, sir, what type of wood would you be burning in the fireplace tonight?”
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“Don’t know, didn’t cut it myself. Probably something downed in the woods. Lazy assistant dragged it here and chopped it a year ago. Why?” “Certain wood gives me a runny nose and a weepy eye.” He patted down the chest parts of his coat until he felt the lump for which he had searched. Reaching in, he produced a papery pouch, about the size of a walnut. “Would you be so kind as to toss this in the fire?” he said to a slouching man nearest him. “It lessens the fragrance of pine and sumac. If that is what is burning.” He caught the barkeep’s eye. “Although it may produce a thirst in the rest of you.” The little man winked. The barkeep produced a thin wisp of a smile. *** The little man began. The village was called Cedar Grove. It was an old village where generation after generation lived off the same land, in the same dwellings. The soil was rich and good, and the farming was more fruitful than most. This is not to say that the people there didn’t work hard. They did, they toiled as hard as farmers who worked the hardpan land. I say it true. And they were rewarded for their hard work in the ways some farmers are not. ’Twas an isolated community far, far off the main line. One could go years without seeing a visitor or a traveler pass through. Not many a place around like that now. The same group of families, a couple of score of them, lived, loved, and laughed together their whole lives. Generations. Now, they were not a close-knit group because the farms were spread wide. But they were friendly, and a hand was offered if needed. Any type of disagreement, of which there were few, was settled in the town square by a council led by the pastor. There was no true sheriff; the same council handled that branch also. There was not a jail; never had serious cause enough to justify 13
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one. Many disputes were settled with fists and kicks out in a pasture behind the church. In the heart of the town, jiggering the word town a bit, was a small store, the church, and a pub, not as nice as the one you have here. Just a bit farther out was a blacksmith, downwind of the church. In the center of the town square was an ancient cedar tree. It had been fenced off with a white-washed picket fence to keep children from climbing and breaking off its branches. The tree was older than the town itself, and the town was older than dirt. When word got out that one of the wives of the town was pregnant, the nights got lively for everyone else. Each child would need a mate. Many a child’s spouse was chosen for them while still in the womb, not by any caste system but by the opportunity of timing. The ways of a rustic community, I say true. Even in a village as pleasant as this, there are still a few rotten seedlings. One of the rotten ones was a man called Markus Gum. You’ve heard it said that someone or other doesn’t have a mean bone in his body? Well, Markus Gum’s body was full of them. He was as sullen and miserable as a mudpuppy at the bottom of a river. His family married him off at the age of fourteen to be shed of him. It was said that he had backhanded his father and bloodied his own mother’s lip. He was wed to a poor, homely girl nearly five years older than he. Probably the last chance for her to snag a hubby because the entire crop of boys her age had found a spouse. Even the ones the next rung down had been picked over, leaving only the prick Markus and another boy who couldn’t hear well over the mountain. She should have chosen blind and deaf over mean and cruel, but that no part of this tale. Now married, the couple spent much of their time apart, which was just as well for Matilda, because the time spent together was abusive and traumatic. Markus did little in the way of chores, liked to drink the hard cider in the afternoons, and preferred his wife facing away rather than towards in the wedding bed. 14
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On this day, Markus had berated his wife’s breakfast, then lit out for the deep woods with a fishing pole, his folding knife, and a jug of cider. He fancied himself an outdoorsman and had set a line of traps that he checked weekly. Checking weekly left nearly every animal rotted and stinking, only useful to the maggots and beetles that dug through the bodies. He wasn’t interested in the meat or pelts. His hope was to find an animal still alive so he could bash it with a stick or rock. The fishing pole was there if he hadn’t caught an animal. The jug was there if the fish weren’t biting. His knife was for… just in case. After finding the first four traps empty, the fifth held a huge surprise. There, by the trunk of a huge maple, was the most beautiful woman he had ever eyed. Her clothing was folded and stacked neatly just out of her reach, even her underthings folded and whiter than any he had ever seen. She was barely covered from armpit to thigh with a satin cloth. A thin bead of blood ran from the place where the wire snare had caught her foot. For Markus, this was much more exhilarating than finding a wretched opossum. *** By now, everyone in the pub was bending toward the little man and his yarn. Even the barmaid, who had been sopping up the spilled drink, gazed over the crowd toward the little man. The continents of the pouch in the fireplace began to haze over the room. The gentle, sweet smell went unnoticed. *** But instead of being frightened or shying away, the woman stood and faced him, allowing the satin cloth to fall. Now, my friends, I’m here to tell you there was plenty to look at on that day, but Markus’s eyes never left the lady’s gaze. The green eyes 15
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and her dark, glossy hair done him in. Without saying a word, he knelt and cut the snare with his knife. When he stood, she was there, making no move toward her clothing. On the ground, she had seemed small and petite, but as she came to him, they were nearly the same height. When she embraced him, he could feel the full of her chest through his thin, ragged shirt. And when she spoke into his ear, her words flooded his soul. “Feel my lips,” she whispered and lightly brushed her mouth across his. “Smell my scent.” She bent her neck, so his nose was close to it. “And my eyes.” She pulled back and locked gazes. Then, using both hands, she traced his face with long nails, ending with his quivering lips. She put her fingertips to her mouth and her tongue flicked out snake-like and tasted his sweat. “Think of these things until the next time we meet.” She used the same two fingers to close his eyes. When Markus awoke, the sun was setting. The night birds had begun evening songs. His knees were locked, and he was as stiff as a hickory branch. He did not remember the long walk home. The next morning, he was clear-headed and tore off for the woods even before breakfast. To his dismay, she wasn’t there. It would be many a distraught day before he would see Sara again. The little man readjusted on his stool and looked around at the rapt eyes upon him. “Perhaps another drink and a piece of crust would be helpful in my pontification of this tale,” he said. This time, the barkeep showed no hesitation. In most places, the blacksmith is called by the name Smithy. But in Cedar Grove, he went by the moniker Blackie. He went by that because his skin was eternally covered by the black, greasy soot that is part of the job. Unmarried, he saw little value in washing; after all, he worked in the same hot conditions every 16
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day. And unless there had been a recent rainstorm, he was the smelliest man to walk the face of the earth, I say true. He was built as a smith, with arm and back muscles that rippled under the soot. Hands that might have been cleaved by a stone mason. A sturdy jaw and squint of the eye from staring into the fire kept complainers away from his shop. Since there was nary hide nor hair of a lady to come into the shop, he was always bare-chested and lacked the body modesty of most good Christians. On the day after her meeting with Markus, Sara was waiting in the scrap house behind the blacksmith shop. Blackie, just finishing the axle of a plowing buggy, stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The room was hellishly hot and dark. As usual, he stood giving time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. She came into view, a woman the likes he had never seen. Beautiful golden hair and blue eyes that sparkled unnaturally in the dim light. She wore a white tunic that plunged to the hole of her belly and exposed a milky white chest. He could not see the length of her legs; they were hidden by a pile of bent and broken metal. Even if those unseen legs were horribly disfigured, she would still have been the most alluring creature he had laid eyes upon. She beckoned him only by opening her arms. When he came to her, she tried to melt into him, but her arms only reached halfway around his brawn. He pulled her close, and she snuggled into the grime of his hairy chest. She leaned back, looking up into his eyes. The dirt had transferred from chest to chest, and the white material of her tunic was now stained with dark sweat. Sara unwrapped herself from the embrace and reached up for his massive shoulders. Then she brought a clawed hand down each side, from the shoulder, over the nipples, and down to be stopped by the belt of his breeches. The dirt and sweat rolled up under her nails, and in two places, her passion was hard enough 17
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to bring blood. Before a droplet could form, she flicked at it with the tip of her tongue. Like a snake tasting the air. “I will be back, for you to protect me,” she said in a French accent. “I will,” was all he muttered. Then he too fell into a stupor that erased the rest of the day. “Curious thing,” the little man said. “Nigh Markus nor Blackie found it strange that a magical woman had shown up out of nowhere, showing them an interest that no one ever had. Perhaps they were so pathetic they overlooked the obvious, or that was also part of Sara’s enchantment. We may never know. But if one or the other of the horny dogs had an inkling, I would not be telling this tale on a harvest night such as this.” Now, Pastor Ian was a righteous man. He believed in the virtues and moral codes of the Good Book as much as anyone in his position. Perhaps more than anyone in his position in this country. Perhaps more than anyone in the world. He believed his sole reason for existence was to root out evil, tear out its roots, and raze the fields if need be. Truth be, where most men of the cloth could find beauty and compassion, he could find sin and evil. In the awe of a morning forest, he would find the one dead tree and figure it was killed by Satan. Sara knew all this to be true. She had watched the citizens of Cedar Grove for weeks without them being keen on it. Because you see, she was more than an enchantress, oh so much more as you’ll hear later in this tale. Have you asked yourselves yet how Markus saw a ravenhaired beauty and Blackie saw a blonde? ’Tis because Sara was a shifter, a changer. She could change from fish to fowl to human when she desired. And when she was human, she could change into the type of human she wanted be it male or female or fair of swarthy. So, she had spied on Cedar Grove as a crow. Who notices a crow sitting in a tree on top of a roof? And if it would be noticed, 18
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who would see it as a danger? Not a sane man. Not a man or woman who spends their lives in outdoor settings. Sara knew that Markus had a mean streak in him and that Blackie was lonely and ignorant of the powers that love could create. She also knew that Pastor Ian would wrestle Lucifer himself to stop sin from setting seed in his parish. It was Pastor Ian’s practice to clean the church on the day after the Sabbath each week. Sara knew this by watching with a crow’s eye from the roof of the pub. He was her first target because of the number of people he spoke to each week. She came to him as he was sweeping between the pews. Hovering above the pulpit, she glimmered and cast out golden light, illuminating the entire sanctuary. Her angel wings undulated softly. “There is an evil growing like a fungus in your congregation,” she said in a dream-like voice. “You are the one, Father, the last soldier to hold Heaven’s Gate. If this evil spews out, the End of Days will be near.” Pastor Ian’s whole life had led to this, the moment he would be called on. He had never had a vision like this before, but he had always dreamed that he would. “But what am I to do?” “You will be given a sign. Most importantly, you must have strength and conviction. Only by being strong can you save them, Father. By burning the evil from their flesh now, you may save their souls from burning for eternity. When the time comes, you will know what to do.” Then she disappeared. Pastor Ian looked wildly around the rafters. He dropped the broom and ran from corner to corner. At one point, he felt something flick across the top of one ear, something light, like the tongue of a snake. But there in the dusty morning light, he was alone. “I have questions,” he shouted. The fuse was lit. 19
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The little man was keeping an eager eye on his audience. He knew a wrong word here could come across as blasphemous. Could change the direction of the wind, so to speak. But as of right now, he had them right in his pocket. The drink and the powder in the fire had them in a listening mood. At this point in my story, I should be tellin’ about the fly in Sara’s ointment. Now I’ve said that no one in Cedar Grove noticed the crow, even though it sat and eyed them all. That was incorrect; there was one person who noticed everything. His name was Buckethead O’Neil. Now, Buckethead got his name from when he was a youngster. As soon as he started pedaling around on two legs, he put things on his head. It might be an old work shirt or robin’s nest. It didn’t matter if he could see or not. Truth be known, he liked bumping into things. Nearing the end of his fourth summer, he found an old bucket somewhere in the village. Once it was on his head, he was never seen without it. Now you would have thought his Ma and Pa would have been perturbed by their son’s antics. But not so much. They saw the boy as a gentle simpleton, one of many in that family tree. The parents were long in the tooth, could have been the grands the way young folk popped them out in these parts, but they had been around the bend a few times, and after the first few months of wearing the bucket, they let him be to be true to his nature. The townspeople did the same, live and let live, I say true. Then there was the giggling. Buckethead could be found anywhere: in town, in someone’s field, or in the forest, just laughing to beat all. He ran the area like a stray dog. People got used to seeing him anywhere, standing motionless with laughter echoing out from under the bucket. Standing motionless and giggling at nothing, most folk just ignored him. When someone would speak to him, he would twostep right up to them, tilt the bucket enough to get a glimpse of who he was talking to, and sing an answer to their question. His off hand would rise and fall in rhythm to what he was singing, 20
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then he would lower the bucket and dance back to where he had been, giggling all the while. So, Buckethead, the least scary, most over-looked person in the village, knew something unusual was happening. But does he have enough sense to tell anyone? Sara’s plan was in place. She only needed to provide the spark to start the fire. Markus was the spark. Every morning after their first meeting, Markus trekked back to the tree where he had found her. He waited impatiently, then went home, hostile and dangerous. The peril for Matilda compounded daily. On the first day after their furious lovemaking, she had expected him to stay near the farm. A kind word here or there, perhaps. But no, he was gone by first light and did not return until dusk, ill-tempered and cursing the world and everyone in it. The next day was the same, and after that, Matilda made herself scarce when she caught a glimpse of her husband. The little man looked to his audience. They were still spellbound. The barkeep who would normally be counting his money was listening fast with everyone else. He continued. On this day, the air was clear and clean with not a trace of the things to come. In the battle of the seasons, summer was still the victor, but the grip of autumn was near. Markus arrived at the oak tree out of breath and as irritable as a stick-poked snake. Enraged he was, when he found himself alone again. He recovered a downed branch and struck it with such force against the trunk a lesser tree would have fallen. ’Twas an oak though and the hammering branch busted into pieces and the crack echoed across the water. Birds flew and frogs dove into the pond’s safety. Then Markus noticed her, walking up out of the water, covered in only a thin cotton nightshirt that clung to her like a second skin. Her eyes met his and locked; he could not look away. A horrible mixture of hate and love washed over him so strongly that he was clenching his fist as she approached. Then, 21
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as she paused before him, a new emotion erupted even more overwhelming than the others: fear. Something evil danced in the depths of her eyes, something that was not human. Something irresistible. “If you are to be the king to my queen, there are things you must do,” she was saying, though he wasn’t seeing her lips move. He agreed with her in a dream-like way. Somewhere in the back part of his mind, he knew he was parlaying with the devil, but it didn’t seem to matter. In for a bit, in for a bunch, he was locked, I say it true. “Go home to your barn and find the axe with the birch handle, the one that is two-headed. Go from farm to farm and strike down the women with swift blows akin to the blow you struck the oak. All the women in a day, let their blood run while they are tending their chores. I shall be the only female, and you will be my king.” She pulled his forehead down to touch hers. He felt something slither through her mind into his. He knew what he was agreeing to, even started planning it out. He would start with Matilda. Her last instruction brought a thin smile. “Leave the children for me.” The trip home was dream-like. The colors of the forest were muted and swirled into vapors around him, leaving only the path of his quest. Time was nonexistent, and the only sound that he could hear was the blood pumping through his ears. The axe was in the barn, exactly where his mind’s eye saw it. Its weight felt good in his hand, powerful and pure. He knew that Matilda was in the kitchen, his mind’s eye saw that also, she was drying crops for winter. As quiet and nimble as a wolf spider, he was behind her. Then a strange thing happened. As she turned, his vision switched to her and hers to his. He could see what she was seeing, which was the end of an axe (forged by Blackie the Blacksmith) arching toward her head in a long, graceful swing. He could see her (himself) putting her arms up defensively to no avail. As soon as the blade touched her 22
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neck, her vision went back to his, and he watched a rooster tail of blood wash off the axe and spray across the walls. Markus turned and walked away, having completed his chore. He started toward the next farm, already seeing the next woman in his mind’s eye. Blackie was bent over an open fire, hammering and bending hot metal into a sharp S hook. Something they call, in some parts, a crowbar. The crow that was Sara flew into the shop unnoticed and landed gently. Instantly, the blond beauty was back, but this time her hair was untidy, and her clothing torn in vulgar places. Her mouth pouty and her eyes red, she wobbled unsteadily in the direction of the pounding. Blackie caught her in the corner of his sight. Rivers of sooty sweat flowed down the chiseled chin and taut breasts. He dropped the S hook into the cooling pan of water and rushed to her, catching her as she collapsed. He caught her under her arms and picked her up and held her like a baby. “What has happened to you?” “Men. They hurt me.” “But how?” She started to cry. “I cannot tell you. ’Twas too awful.” “Who was it?” “I know not the names, but I can let you see. Let me stand,” she said. He put her down. She placed her hand up behind his neck and gently pulled his head towards hers. Their foreheads touched, and the faces of men in the village flashed into his brain. He felt something bore out of her mind into his. It did not occur to him that all the faces in his mind could not have attacked the girl, but he felt a burning hate for them all the same. “You know what you need to do,” she said. “I cannot be with another man as long as there is breath in the men that had me.” In his mind’s eye, he saw five of them, huddled around a table in the pub across the street. His anger grew like a volcano along 23
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with the image of the crowbar he had just created. He gathered it as he passed through the shop and into the street. Sara followed him to the street and saw that he had entered the pub. At that time of the morning, the town center was empty. Morning chores were still being performed by the women and chillers. Most of the farmers were tending. The few who were in the mind of drinking had already started. Blackie burst into the darkened pub and started swinging before his eyes could adjust. The first blow was straight down onto Old Glenn’s shoulder, dislocating it and breaking a shoulder blade. The second came sideways into Jacob’s temple, turning his head into a large misshapen potato. Blackie spun and back-struck a man at the bar, hitting the neck and severing his spine between his head and shoulders. After that, the chaos grew. Shaken from their shock, the rest of the patrons tried to flee, only to be caught and bludgeoned to death among the shattered glass and broken chairs. Standing around the corner was Buckethead, chuckling softly to himself. He had seen Blackie storm out of the shop and watched the blond lady follow him to the edge of the street, all from under his tilted bucket. Then he saw something that made him laugh even harder. The blonde lady’s head split wide like a flower opening and out flew a black crow. It rose into the sky and winged off, feathers glinting in the morning sunlight. When he turned back to the lady, her body seemed to have lost its color, turning a pale, faded gray. Like all the life had drained and turned it into a husk. It quickly dried like an old snakeskin and began to flake away. In no time, it was gone. Well, Buckethead whooped, hollered, and kicked his heels at that vision. That is, until Blackie charged back out of the Pub with a bloody crowbar in his hand. Without breaking stride, Blackie swung the bar and struck Buckethead right in the center of his bucket. Buckethead was airborne for a breath and was in 24
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the land of Nod before his hind side hit the ground. But God provides, I say it true. Though Buckethead’s brain was squidgy, his skull wasn’t. Sara spied from the clouds, watching as the carnage unfolded. The blood was running, that be true, but much too slow for her liking. She watched Markus sneak up on a woman hanging her laundry on a line. He came from behind and brought the axe down on her skull full force. He had to put a foot on her back to tug the axe from her skull. Sara began to guide him to a paddock of horses that lay under a stand of elms farther from the house. He knew not why or how, but moments later, he was galloping toward the next homestead, axe still flinging the poor woman’s gray matter into the wind. Sara wheeled around in the sky and turned her attention to Blackie, whose numbers killed were now surpassing Markus’s. Though he started a bit later, he was killing groups of men while Markus was finding one woman at a time. Soon, Blackie would be venturing out to the fields where the men worked alone, and his rate of kill would drop. Even though floating in the sky ’tis easy enough for a true bird, Sara found it draining of her energy. She had used a good deal of it, changing back and forth, and would have to do so a few more times before this business was finished. She fluttered down to the porch rail of the pub, then changed back into the scantily clad woman that Markus had met by the river. She sat. A man lay nearby with the side of his head crushed. A vulture sitting on his back looked around nervously. Sara produced a knife and began carving her long fingernails into sharp, thin claws. Now, even with two killing machines roaming the countryside, there will be many souls left untouched. Many had sensed danger and hidden; for others, it was dumb luck. Sara had known this, being of great experience in these matters. It was time to revisit the pastor. 25
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She followed the sound of a hammer, which echoed through the lifeless town. Pastor Ian was halfway up a ladder, covering the church windows with warped boards. His movements were steady and slow, his eyes milky and fixed on the task at hand. “Your quest to save souls is nearly complete,” Sara said in the angelic voice that only he could hear. His hands slowed, and his face showed an anguish like a great water wheel whose gears no longer meshed. He breathed deeply but said nothing. It was the first window of six that he would shutter. His hands slowly went back to work. It was inevitable that the two murderous apprentices crisscrossing the countryside would eventually find each other. This happened between the York and McLoughlin farms on a shady patch of road beside a pond. Markus was galloping up the road, leaving a rooster tail of dust behind, while Blackie was stumble-running towards him. To Markus (who only had his sights set on women) Blackie was invisible. In Blackie’s mind, here was another one of the raping thugs who had attacked his soon-to-be betrothed. Blackie stopped, and Markus kept coming. Blackie, whose head was the same height as the horse’s, took a perfectly timed swing at Markus as he passed. The curved end of the crowbar hooked Markus in the shoulder, yanking him into the air while the horse ran out from under him. He landed in a heap with the crowbar stuck in his dislocated and bloody shoulder. Blackie, who was pulled off his feet, was also on the ground, still holding onto the bar. Before Markus started moaning, the only sound was that of the horse’s hooves on the hardpack as it galloped away. Blackie had never been knocked down in his life and sluggishly tried to stand. Markus, who had never been hooked like a fish, was even more sluggish. The blow had also done something to his neck. One side of his body had no feeling, and the other side began to twitch. 26
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Blackie loomed over him and reached down to retrieve his bar, but to no avail. The hooked end was tangled in the mess of shoulder bones, tendons, and muscles. Blackie jerked it around, but that only caused the twitching to worsen. Unwilling to spend any more time or energy, Blackie pulled up on the bar and raised Markus off the ground with only his two heels and good shoulder touching the dirt. Then, he walked slowly to the edge of the pond and chucked Markus in, crowbar and all. He partially floated at first, his eyes still open, blinking away the water. Then he sank. Blackie watched as the bubbles trickled to the surface. That lasted much longer than he thought it would. He stood staring until he heard the bells. The founding farmers of the community had consigned a bell to be made for the church. It was to be used on Sundays, on Harvest Day, and for any emergency that presented itself to the community. As time went on and Cedar Grove grew, more bells were added so that the whole of the people alerted. They were to congregate in the town square if they rang more than twice. And now the bells were ringing like mad. Soon, the living remnants of Cedar Grove began to arrive in the square. Sara the crow watched from a rooftop as the bedraggled, grieving villagers made their way through the bodies scattered throughout the street. Pastor Ian was there to shepherd them to the church. The large double doors were usually welcoming, but on this unholy afternoon, they served as a great monster consuming all that passed through. By the time that Blackie stumbled into the square, Pastor Ian had figured the linchpin of his strategy. Blackie was spent and bloodied, but as he had no weapon and was generally known as a good, quiet soul, he was allowed passage into the church with everyone else. Pastor Ian raised his hands to bring the crying and bellowing down to weeps and moans. “We have dire things to discuss, brethren,” he said in a calming voice. “Dire things that the 27
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children should never hear,” He waited for a reaction, but none came. “So let us excuse anyone under the age of ten summers old, send them to the yard behind the church where they can find strength in each other.” “To be slaughtered like my husband? I found him in the corn, his head was…” screamed the now Widow McKeen. That stirred the crowd. The pastor raised his hands again. “Exactly the things the children should not hear!” “Then how would they be protected?” said another woman who clutched two small ones to either side. “Is there anyone among you who would volunteer to guard the children while we tend to these matters?” The pastor looked across the huddled masses. “I,” Blackie stood slowly, towering above the others. “I,” he said again. He was a titan of a babe sitter. With reluctance, the parents allowed the wee ones to go; they had been through more than enough. Pastor Ian led Blackie and the children out through the double doors and ’round to the rear of the church, where some crude play areas had been fashioned by parishioners. Once they seemed reasonably calm, he retraced his steps and entered the front church. None inside noticed when he closed the doors and laid the wide plank across the handles. Neither did they notice loose hay that had been strewn under the pews nor the smell of kerosene that had been doused along the baseboards. Pastor Ian lit the fire from the inside, something Sara never expected. She saw nothing noble about dying with your congregation. It took little time for the old wood to catch flame, and it was over quite quickly. By the time the black smoke started rolling, the screams from the inside had stopped, leaving only the screams from the tikes on the outside. Blackie had halfheartedly tried to break down the front doors, but he had spent a lifetime 28
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around fire and its power, and he knew the outcome had been decided. As afternoon turned to early evening and the remnants of the fire crackled and popped, Blackie stayed with the children. One by one, the walls of the church fell with a crash, leaving the bell tower as a grand climax. Slowly, Sara’s hold loosened, and regret began to set in. To the wood smoke he was acquainted, but this had an extra ingredient, one that encouraged a self-hate so great that for the first time in his life he wept. The children had been pushed across the street by the heat and smoke. Some cried softly, others stared at nothing, while others clung to each other. A body lay just up the street, being picked at by three vultures. The wee ones didn’t notice. Sara reappeared looking as she did when they first met: radiant and fresh, not beaten and molested. Blackie’s anger rose as she approached. His first thought was to rip her head from her shoulders. He knew now that she was at the center of all this. But, just as he knew this, he also knew she was something that could not be killed, at least not by him. Another truth was growing inside his gut: He would not be able to live knowing he had a part in this. Sara smiled a smile that had not a wisp of glee. The thought swam into Blackie’s head like blood in a washbasin. Even with his great strength and bulk, he had been the easiest of the three to control. He walked to the blacksmith’s shop and returned moments later carrying a thick rope in one hand and a huge barrel on the opposite shoulder. He carried them to the cedar tree and stepped over the whitewashed fence. The stoutest of all the branches was two score feet from the ground, for Blackie ’twas no effort to toss the rope and fashion a noose at one end. The barrel barely stayed together under his weight, the stays creaking and bulging but holding true. Without a word, he fitted the rope around his neck and stepped off. The branch, nearly fifty paces long, bounced several times, each with a loud snap from somewhere in Blackie’s 29