Saint-Salers was little more than a rest stop on the long, aimless road. Charles hadn’t been guided by visions since the Haight-Ashbury days, yet here he was, wandering the vistas of Lumiere. After all, what could he do? Ask a farmer, “Hey, have you seen any crones around these parts? Probably turned your milk sour and stole your firstborn?” Great way to get chased out of town faster than Peter Cushing in a Hammer Horror flick.
Alone with his walkman, Charles ventured down the black, paved road. Lumiere was a country unlike Gotland or Chimay, where the grass was lush and a semblance of goodness still held sway, albeit shadowed by the Hundred Years’ War. The hamlets were closely knit, only three to five miles apart, little more than a dozen or so cottages clustered around a pub or parish church. Clear-cut pastures were home to sheep and goats, who gnawed on tall grass and kept the meadows clean. The scent of hay and manure underpinned the otherwise fresh breeze. On occasion, Charles would spy a creamery or the namesake of some legendary cheese. Fellow wayfarers were rare, but the few he encountered were amicable.
“Yo,” Charles asked, “where’s the next town?”
The pilgrim laughed with a tip of his hat. “You’re better off heading west. It’s a longer road, but the village south isn’t welcoming for…folk like us.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Best left alone. The city’s far more accepting of drifters.”
Charles offered the pilgrim a smoke. “Any weird shit happening down in the bayou?”
The pilgrim struck a match and lit the spliff. “Nothing you want to stick your nose in. Why ask?” He eyed the stoner’s sword and staff. “Are you some kind of adventurer?”
Charles’s thoughts wandered to the early days of D&D and murderhobos, of rolling dice, kicking in the door, and killing orcs. “Something like that.”
“Just be careful out there.”
“Will do,” the stoner nodded, “thanks, man.”
Come midday, Charles took a lunch break from the aching trek on a hilltop—trail rations and a cheese and chutney sandwich, leftovers from his time in the Gridiron. From that lofty perch, the stoner took a drag from a spliff, lost in the hills, as gentle mist crept through the vale.
Creepy bog? Promising start….
A cawing crow disrupted his thoughts as a murder took flight into the downs. With a shrug, Charles kept to the moorside trail, which turned muddy underfoot. Using the electro-staff as a glorified walking stick, he crept down the sodden boardwalks which sprawled across the fens, boots clomping against hollow wood. Beyond the odd rustle in the bushes, the journey was uneventful until the sun began to sink beneath the western horizon. Tinted with orange twilight, the fog thickened as if swallowing the Midgewater Mires under a moist embrace. Fireflies illuminated the dimness, and a choir of croaking frogs punctuated the long quiet.
Until a sudden silence gripped the swamp.
Charles paused and twisted the knob on his staff; its tip glowed and pierced the darkening fog as if casting a flare into the unknown. Something splashed in the deep water. A loach? No, it was too big. Way too big. Maybe an alligator or an anaconda. Still, that didn’t explain the silence. Something snared his leg, and Charles fell with a crack on the hard, wood walkway—just a root. Nothing more. He stood slowly, massaging his knee. A murmuring voice came from the undergrowth, thick with a yokel drawl.
“Anything?”
“Naw, maybe a gator got ‘em.”
“Oh, Mama’s gonna be pissed.”
Charles twisted a knob and lowered his light. Though the hillbillies seemed harmless enough, he’d seen enough horror flicks to know better. Images of cannibal banquets and banjos filled his mind. Fortunately, the lack of a dental plan ensured he didn’t have a “purdy mouth.”
Fuck this….
Gaiting silhouettes rustled through the bushes as flickering flashlights shone through cattails and moorside weeds. Charles crouched underneath a mossy boulder, careful not to breathe too loudly. Armed with bug-catching nets and pronged poles, the mirefolk emerged onto the walkway. One halted in his tracks, sniffing the sulfuric air.
“You smell that?”
“Yeah, skunk, maybe?”
“We don’t get skunks ‘round these parts.”
Charles caught a whiff of his own odor; he smelled like a smoke shop on four-twenty—
“Hold up,” he was met with a machete to the throat, “who the hell are you?” The assailant was a young man in a straw hat, gaunt and sickly, no older than sixteen. Another figure skulked into the light; brothers, by the look of it, born from siblings who loved each other a little too much, protruding jaws, lazy eyes, buck teeth, the works. They wore tattered clothing, stitched together from denim and rags, punctuated by a missing button or two.
Charles raised his hands and stood slowly. “Easy, partner. Just passing through.”
“Why do you smell like that?”
“Long story,” he said. “Take it you guys don’t smoke, huh?”
The tall one spat a wad of tarrish mucus into the mud, possibly a chunk of chew. “We don’t do no Devil’s lettuce.”
“R-right,” Charles took a deep breath, “I’m Charles.”
“Reedus,” the oldest lowered his machete, “this here’s Cletus.”
“Groovy.” A long, awkward silence stung the air. Charles knelt slowly to pick up his sword and staff. “Well, nice to meet you, boys.”
Reedus shifted in place. “You all alone out here, stranger?”
Charles was unsure how to answer that question. The brothers seemed innocent enough, however crooked. Maybe it was his own prejudice that shadowed these people. “Yeah.”
“Awfully strange place to wind up at night,” Reedus’s eyes narrowed, “you a fugitive?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
Cletus let loose a whinnying laugh.
“Do what I can,” Charles straightened and smiled, “you guys from around here?”
“Born and raised.”
I can see that….
“Cletus here don’t talk much,” Reedus gestured to his brother, “cord wrapped ‘round his neck all wrong like coming out.”
“Ah….”
“Well, ‘long as them hunters ain’t looking for you, why don’t you come over for the night? Bayou ain’t safe.” Reedus raised a jug from his belt side. “Got moonshine at the house.”
Charles weighed his options. On one hand, the hillbillies seemed genuine enough. Hospitality was sacred in the South, and yet, there was something off about this. Reedus and Cletus were almost too kind, and Charles was miles from dry land. At the same time, where else would he sleep? This wasn’t exactly a road trip, and he couldn’t imagine what lurked in the mire. A sleeping bag wouldn’t protect him from terrors in the fog.
It’s either this or sleep in the bog….
“Sure,” Charles said, “thank you kindly.”
#
The muddy trail to Reedus’s place wasn’t long. Charles was relieved to take his boots off, though the smell was overpowering. Little more than a shotgun house, it was a dimly lit shack filled to the brim with tanned hides, trophies, and strange curios. The shelves were caked in dust and housed countless cans and jars, most of them peaches, pickles, or preserved fish, filling the hovel with a briny smell. Above the fireplace was the taxidermied head of a bear with a placard reading, “Mama’s.” A chandelier of little bones swayed in the drafty breeze as the house moaned under its own weight. Reedus and Cletus passed a jug of moonshine back and forth, entertaining their guest with ghost stories and dirty jokes.
As the booze kicked in, Charles forgot why he was afraid. “You know,” he slurred, “you guys aren’t that bad.”
“Brewed it myself,” Reedus said, tuning his banjo. “Any requests.”
“Dealer’s choice,” Charles shrugged, “speaking of which, you guys play poker?”
Reedus nudged his snoozing brother. “Don’t get the chance often.”
With a pack of tattered tarot cards and a handful of coins and baubles, Charles and the brothers gathered around the table, enjoying the night, but something nagged in the back of his skull. “Do you guys live alone? Thought you mentioned Mom.”
“Oh, Mama lives deep down in the bayou with our aunties. Past the ol’ village.” Reedus raked in the pot and drew for the next round. “She gave us these cards. My birthday present.”
Charles checked his hand, seven and two. “Mama’s into tarot?”
“Yeah,” Reedus said, “some folk call her a witch.”
“A witch?” Charles folded. He didn’t want to pry too hard or piss anyone off. “You don’t say. Does she meet with anyone? Like for fortune telling or something?”
Sounds like a lead—
A sudden breeze shook the chandelier as wax dripped onto the poker table. Charles turned to the open window, feeling the wind in his hair, spying a raven perched on the sill.
Reedus launched out of his seat. “Mama! What’re you doing home!” The raven gave a sharp caw, eying Charles with suspicion. Cletus’s eyes bulged out of his skull in fright. “I swear, Mama,” the eldest began to tremble, “we’re not doing anything bad.”
At first, Charles thought there was something in the ‘shine, but remembered tales of shapeshifting hags and witches with power over beasts and nature. He stood, slowly. From across the moor, a murder of crows filled the night sky, shrieking and aquiver. This wasn’t a normal migration pattern. Some primeval force drove these birds as if possessing them. As to what the power was, Charles could only guess.
Shit….
“Mama don’t like you,” Reedus managed. He rummaged through a set of drawers, only to draw a strange wicker amulet with shaky hands. “Sorry, but you can’t stay here.”
“What is this?”
“Protection. Critters won’t hurt you, well, ‘cept for the big ones.”
Charles put it on, scoffing at himself. “Not the first time parents’ have asked me to leave.” With grave reluctance, he gave the boys a wave and shambled out the door. “Thanks.”
#
Drunk and alone, Charles shambled along the boardwalk. It had to be past midnight, and the air was swarming with gnats and mosquitoes, earning the Midgewater Mires their name. He quickened his pace, uninhibited by reason and muscle tone, staggering like a wounded jogger. Suddenly, the walkway came to an end, dropping before a vast expanse of foul, placid water, reeking of rotten fish teeming with all manner of vermin. For a moment, Charles thought he’d taken a wrong turn until he saw a sign reading, “SWAMP SKIFF, 20G.”
As for what “G” stood for, Charles hadn’t a clue but assumed it was currency. Maybe gold or giblets. He scoured his pockets, only to find lint and a doggie bag.
Fuck….
He paced about the water’s edge, debating whether or not to stick a finger in the muck. It could be anywhere from a few feet deep to a vast lagoon. What could he do? Turn back? There wasn’t a fork in the road for over thirty miles. Charles was about to settle for a night on a rock when he spotted a rotting pier jutting from the shore; tied to it was a lone motorboat.
Better than nothing….
He raised his light and examined the vessel. It had been abandoned for some time, little more than a plank of wood with a propeller. No oars or anything except for a bloodstained bag. Maybe its owner went frog-hunting only to never return. Or maybe he was a serial killer disposing of his victims. Who could say? Two things could be true. Regardless, the boat was festering with neglect, and so, against his better judgment, Charles hopped in. With the jerk of a cord, he was on his way across the wetlands.
The stoner clutched his necklace, hoping whatever folk magic Reedus gave him would work. After all, he’d seen stranger things firsthand. Acrid fumes bubbled from the bayou, carrying the stench of sulfur and rotting things. Beyond the boat, not a ripple or sound breached the dark water. He tried not to think about what lay beneath its stagnant surface. Only the moon kept him company, and its gaze was hardly comforting.
What am I doing in this godforsaken place? Searching for what exactly? A way to bring Victor back, sure, but…. He chose to end it, didn’t he? Would he even want to be brought back? What if he’s happier, and I take him out of that? Is this really about him—?
Midway across the lagoon, the motor sputtered to a halt. Charles felt the color drain from his face. He yanked the cord. Again and again. Only splutters of smoke. Something skirted the bottom of the boat as if trying to knock him overboard. Charles clutched the edges of his skiff, barely managing to keep it stable. A bestial growl boiled from the depths.
“O-okay,” he said to himself, “that’s not good.”
A loathsome form breached the water, pale and smooth, as a nine-eyed eel slithering through filth and muck. From the side, gleaming red eyes stared back at him as it swished in the lake, circling its prey as a freshwater shark. From what little Charles could see, it was somewhere between a catfish and a lamprey, and yet, those eyes weren’t a beast’s. They were cunning eyes, shimmering against his staff’s light with malice and hunger.
“Easy there, fishy,” Charles took a deep breath, “just passing through. Probably too gamy for you, anyway. I taste like hash and ass—”
The creature rammed into the boat again. On the brink of being capsized, Charles stumbled, and his grip slipped. The next thing he knew, he was enveloped by freezing cold water. A thick tail brushed against his leg, ensnaring him with sheer muscle. Reaching for his knives, Charles tried to pull free, only for it to constrict him like a python. His cheeks turned blue as the creature dragged him into the murky depths. When he felt the knife’s hilt at last, he plunged the blade deep into its slick, scaleless hide, blind to the flow of blood yet hearing its muffled cries. The creature loosened its grip. Charles swam up towards the ship, peeling against reeds and weeds, until he felt the hull. Hoisting himself aboard, he gasped and took in lungfuls of air. Whatever the thing was growled again, mocking and gaining on him.
Charles checked his pockets, searching for some form of bait, though he knew he didn’t have anything else on him. Then, his eyes turned to the bag. Plugging his nose, Charles opened the satchel; gnats swarmed in his face, greeting him with a stench of death and decay. He could barely see what the bag held and couldn’t bear looking closer. Coughing and wheezing, Charles hurled it into the water, if only to get the carrion away.
The creature breached the water, revealing its girth in all of its monstrous glory. Untold feet long, it launched itself over the boat, diving straight for the bait bag. With a savage howl, it burrowed into sack and flesh like a mad thing, dragging its prey below to whatever lightless grotto the serpent called home. Meanwhile, Charles tore at the cord until that deep mechanical thrum filled him with hope. He kicked it into high gear. As the boat sped across the lagoon, he clutched the side, heart pounding in his chest. Charles knew it wasn’t over.
The ravens were watching.