There are several unpleasant ways to wake up. The sound of a hunting knife slamming against iron bars has to be in the top five.
A voice somewhere in the floating ether of the world above me snarled in inarticulate anger. I blinked, trying to sort reality from distorted sleep-vision.
A face swam into focus; twisted and malformed, scarlet in flushed anger. Someone standing outside the door. He hammered the butt of the hunting knife against the door again, a sharp, ear-splitting noise. I sat up, wincing.
The hinges of my cell screamed as the door opened. His iron grip on my arm encouraged me out of the cell and into the cold day. It was raining. Again. Fat raindrops plopped in random spurts from the dirty gray sky, touches of ice against my bare skin.
Father and his entourage waited for us in the clearing, hunters leaning against tree trunks, standing silent like they sprouted from the ground. Each had a waterskin like mine slung around their bare shoulder. One of them had a beat-to-hell day bag strapped to his back. Another moment of dissonance, of wrong-ness, like when I noticed the speakers hanging from the trees.
The woman was no longer tied up beneath the pine tree; she stood in the middle of the pack, the rope still around her neck. The end of it was wrapped several times around the old man’s fist. She stared at the ground, didn’t so much as lift her gaze to meet mine. Whatever moment we’d shared had shriveled up in the cold light of day.
The Woodkin’s conversation dwindled and died when they caught sight of me.
I shivered and took a drink of water. The thudding headache from last night faded, and I was grateful. I struggled not to look at the rust-red patch of dirt a dozen feet away. To not hear the screams echoing in my memory. A lot of those going around, it would seem.
Without a word, Father started walking, hunters in tow. I followed—I didn’t have a choice.
I thought we were headed back there—back to the box canyon. Nervous sweat broke out above my hairline. My heart sledgehammered against my ribs.
The skin at the base of my neck crawled at the memory of what I’d seen: a wriggling, reaching bundle of pockmarked black tentacles buried deep beneath the huge black slab. The sensation of sinking beneath the dirt to see it for the first time lingered in the recesses of my brain, constant and insoluble. A mass of black malevolence, a many-armed bundle of fury.
I’d walked into the canyon and come out alive twice now. Something primal in my gut whispered I wouldn’t a third time.
Much to my relief, though, we didn’t head for the winding game trail to the narrows. Instead, the old man picked up a thin path cutting west toward the valley wall. Our trail meandered through the forest, through meadows of late-season raspberry plants pressing against the trail. Remnants of rainwater dripping from the canopy managed to find its way beneath my shirt, ice cold. I kept looking at the valley wall with growing uncertainty. Was this the last walk I would ever take? Would we stop in a small, out-of-the-way clearing, where they would bash my head in with a rock and be done with it? The faces surrounding me, still masks and cold eyes, gave no hints. My extremities grew cold and began to tremble.
We passed a handful of clearings but didn’t stop. We entered a field of black granite boulders littered along a steep slope.
Father picked his way over and up the slope with ease, walking a trail visible only to him. He and the other men leaped from boulder to boulder. I was not so quick. My wrist screamed with every bump, making a scramble up boulders an almost laughable endeavor. I was holding up the rest of the group. The man behind me snapped at me in frustration, almost hurling me by the scruff of my neck up the scree. By the time we made it back to the trail high above the valley floor, sweat was dripping from my face. Shakes racked my frame from the pain and effort. The two Woodkin behind me shoved me forward.
Above the boulder field, the trail followed a ridge, curving upward. Steep limestone walls riddled with stubborn plants rose on our right. The only thing keeping us from the drop into empty air beside us was two feet of beaten dirt. Far, far below, a river frothed with white rapids.
I looked ahead, but low-hanging clouds obscured the tops of the mountains. Rain spat in thick curtains onto pine trees carpeting the valley beneath us. The hunters picked their way with goat-like surety, like it was a Sunday stroll. The man with the backpack hiked it higher on his shoulders.
A drop to your death. The expanse of empty air and rain pulled my eyes until I couldn’t look away. Hey, hey, it said. Take two steps, and it’s all over.
A long fall and a sudden stop, and everything would end. The worrying stiffness working its way through my wrist, the fear and uncertainty, the tiny, glimmering pieces of hope I clutched to my chest. It could all be over. I could be done. I could sleep.
But I knew I wouldn’t do it. I wasn’t brave enough. Wasn’t brave enough to take that step, take the gamble. Because what if I didn’t die immediately? What if I bounced off the cliff face and found myself broken and bleeding among the limbs of a pine tree. Besides, I still had a chance to escape. Still alive, wasn’t I? I wanted to keep it that way.
The trail turned rocky and steep, sometimes cut into the limestone cliff face with handholds for a still-dubious level of safety. I panted with effort, hot enough I imagined steam rolling off my skin. I pulled the waterskin from my shoulders and took a drink, trying with only moderate success to ignore the dull pounding in my head.
I looked back; the valley stretched away to the south. Unremarkable, as valleys go: dirt and rocks beneath the misty pine trees. An airplane pilot wouldn’t even look twice.
No, no one would be coming to rescue me.
Ain’t nobody gonna miss him.
The path pivoted right around a huge spur of rock. Ahead of us the ridge rose in a flat, angled plateau, stubbled with stunted shrubs and heavy with clouds. Here, the wind pulled and clawed, a thing alive, constantly brushing cold mist against my skin. We climbed into the clouds and left the world behind.
Visibility sucked—which would work in my favor, but they outnumbered me by fifteen to one. If I could get far enough away, I might be able to hide in the fog until they stopped searching for me. I could stand a chance. How far was that, though, a hundred yards? I couldn’t hold on to a lead when the little demon chased me into this situation. What made me think I could do it now?
The thought no sooner popped into my head when the mist rang with a strangled cry of anger. The woman with the noose around her neck went scrambling down the rocks and sand, making for the ravine gaping below us. The men didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch with surprise. They flung themselves after her, hurtling down the slope with reckless abandon. They rolled, skidded, leaped like devil dogs.
“Ah, son of a bitch!”
Someone behind me grasped a fistful of my hair, tight enough to jerk my head backward. One of them had stayed behind, just for me.
The heavy touch of a hatchet pressed against my leg to soothe any doubts I may have had; he’d break my leg in three places and never flinch. He didn’t say it, but I got the message all the same. The old man stood in place, arms crossed over his bare chest. He didn’t look concerned. He waited.
She was getting small in the distance, lost here and there to the dips and curves of the mountain slope. Her limbs grew pale and indistinct in the mist. The men’s cries moved through the fog around us, bodiless and hollow, echoing.
She might make it. She’d chosen her moment well and had a head start. She might hold them off long enough to disappear in the mist or throw herself into the river flowing north. I cheered for her, heart slamming against my chest. My breath came in short, shallow pants.
Come on, run, you can do it you can make it—
I clenched my teeth together. I imagined the rocks beneath her bare feet, scratching and treacherous. The rough pull of the rope fibers against her throat. The icy touch of the wind mixed with the feverish burn of effort. Terror gleamed in her face. I could see it from here, the way she threw glances back at her pursuers, but she had a lead, she could do it—
It was the rope that got her. The rope snapping in the air behind her, she dove behind two boulders, making for a dip in the terrain. The rope got stuck in the rocks. I watched in horror as the slack ran out.
“Watch out!” The cry burst from my mouth, unbidden.
The noose tightened and she was slammed flat on her back to the ground with a muffled herk. Her feet flew ahead of her and she grasped at her neck.
Her pursuers’ cries turned to laughter. They fell on her like jackals, picked her up, dragged her back up.
Back to the old man.
She didn’t fight—she knew she’d lost her one chance. She hung between them, limp, defeated. The wind pulled at her hair. Her cheeks were wet, and the air whistled in her throat as she fought for every breath. She didn’t look up.
I wished I knew her name. The night before, when we were whispering, I was too wrapped up in my questions, too desperate for answers to care about the person giving them. Now, the woman trembled and cried, her face white as the fog wreathed us. And I didn’t even know her name.
Father held out his hand. One of the hunters handed him the end of the rope.
He turned and resumed his pace, a cold smirk stretched on his ruined lips. We hiked.
I struggled for breath, trying to keep up. Each time I began to fall behind, the man behind me jabbed me in the butt with a stick. My wrist was in constant pain. My waterskin started to run out and I shivered in the sudden, bone-deep cold. Hadn’t I been running hot moments ago?
A cave gaped in front of us. It wasn’t huge; there was barely enough space for a man to fit. I eyed the too-small crevice with no small amount of despair and wasn’t thrilled when the first man disappeared into the black depths. One by one they filed past Father and the woman, sidling into the darkness. She wouldn’t even look into the cave. Her face turned to the mountains, eyes running over the trees and hills. She trembled, either from cold or the stifled sobs shaking her thin frame. A tear welled in one eye and dripped down her face.
“Please—please, don’t, please, I’m sorry, it won’t happen again—” Her begging was low. Meant for the old man’s ears alone. She might have had more luck pleading with the rocks beneath her feet. His face showed as much emotion as wood, long-since petrified.
The man with the pack pulled a handful of sticks free from the side of it before slipping into the cave. A moment later the dim recesses were lit by an orange glow. Even though it was illuminated, I didn’t want to venture inside. It was my turn. Sweat dripped down my face and I could smell the harsh rank of my armpits—
The Woodkin behind me jabbed an elbow in my butt, propelling me forward a step. I walked on baby-giraffe legs, trembling from head to toe.
For a brief second I smelled something. Beneath the rain, pine sap, wet limestone, beneath the smells of a wet morning in the mountains.
“What is that?” I sniffed.
Father’s face tightened and he looked over my shoulder, jerked his chin toward the cave. The man pushed me forward.
The gravel beneath me gave way to empty air and I fell. I threw my hands out in an instinctive flail to catch myself, knocking my wrist against an unseen rock. My scream echoed in my own ears, too close. My feet were already on solid ground. I looked up; I fell less than three feet. Impressive, to fuck up my already fucked-up wrist in that small distance.
“God damn it!” I clutched my wrist to my chest, teeth clenched. Searing pain radiated from my elbow to my knuckles. They laughed, the sound pressing close beneath the crushing rocks overhead. Someone behind me snapped, impatient. I rolled to the side, allowing the rest of the entourage to enter the cave. The old man came last, hauling his prisoner behind him; she sprawled on the rocks, falling flat on her ass. No one laughed at her. She kept a tight hand on the rope around her neck, staring, unblinking, at the old man.
“Please, Father, please don’t—I’ll never break the code again, I’m sorry—” Her pleading was a blunted, constant razor blade against my frayed nerves.
One of the Woodkin handed Father a torch, and he led the way into absolute shadow. He didn’t so much as turn around. The woman’s words followed us in the ghosts of our footsteps.
I pressed a finger against my injured wrist.
Ah shit.
It was hot. Not warm, hot. Even to my own touch the skin felt flushed and fevered. My head crushed behind my eyes. I couldn’t control my body temperature. I knew those symptoms—everyone knew those symptoms. I had a fever. A fever meant an infection, courtesy of my shattered wrist. Without real medicine, the Woodkin or my own traitorous white blood cells raced to see which would kill me first.
In several spots the ceiling dropped, forcing us to crouch, and the walls narrowed to press against us. The cold touch of rock was a blessing on my hot skin.
I inhaled and immediately gagged. The air reeked of the sweet, ammonic taste of rot, cloying and thick enough to coat my tongue. I clamped down on my nose with two fingers and breathed through my mouth. No way I was gonna throw up the precious water in my system. I wasn’t the only one struggling; most of the others’ twisted and broken faces pulled into masks of silent disgust. Even the woman’s desperate begging stopped for a moment as she dry-heaved in step. The old man walked with placid calm.
We didn’t go far. After five minutes of shuffling, we arrived at a shelf swallowed by inked darkness. I got the sense of depth beneath us; the air echoed with our hitched breaths. Water dropped from a height, somewhere close. The walls were slick with it. Water, and a curious shade of neon-blue mold, crawling up the sides of the well in thin strands. Where darkness reigned it thickened and bulged in thick ropes, plunging out of sight.
The old man nodded toward the darkness. “Go ahead.”
The man with the pack nodded and set off down a path, followed by a majority of the group. They took a single torch with them. I didn’t like the way the shadows followed, snarling beyond the nimbus of orange light. Like they were alive, real things with real fangs and claws, given life and limbs by the flame. Father, the woman, and I stood on the shelf, watching the glow of torches wind their way down the circular well, punching deep into the mountain. A single man stood sentinel behind us, his arms folded over his bare chest. His face was cold.
“Please.” The woman sobbed in earnest now. She clutched the rope with a white-knuckled fist. Her shining, red-rimmed eyes were the size of half-dollars. “Father, please, I’ve done everything you asked of me. If—if they asked me to give my face to Him I would!”
The old man held out the torch. The man took it. He wasn’t looking at the woman—his eyes were focused on the black rock weeping moss water in the torchlight. The corner of one eye twitched.
“Kneel,” the old man said, soft as a prayer.
“Please don’t do this,” she whimpered. Her knees gave out, and she knelt on the rock. She shook like a leaf.
I didn’t want to be here; I didn’t want to see this.
“You came here to live by the laws. Embraced by His light, His love.” His voice was almost too quiet. He looked down on her with an utter lack of empathy. “We embraced you. Embraced you as one of us, one who gave up her previous life of sin.”
“He was going to rape me!” The word echoed around us. “Would you have me submit to that—that—bastard?”
“Many more before you have, and many more after you will. Through the Reaper, the pure-born of the Woodkin are brought into this world. It’s our way.”
“That’s bullshit!” She seized the rope, hauling on it. He let it go with a careless flick. “Let me out of here! I didn’t do anything wrong! Please—I didn’t—I didn’t do anything wrong.” Her struggles faded into incomprehensible tears. She fell back on her knees, crying into the backs of her fists, still clutching the rawhide. “I want to go home. I don’t want to do this anymore. Please. I just want to go home.”
I thought I might be sick. I turned away, back toward the entrance of the cave.
“No.” His voice was hard. “No. You watch.”
He stared at me. His face was wreathed in garish shadow from the torch, his scar puckered, clawing deep into the skin. His eye glared at me, milky and surrounded with boils, swollen and ready to pop.
“Please. Please let me go home.” The woman’s voice was barely a whisper, circling around her. Tripped in the dark.
I turned back around. He held out his hand, and the other man reached behind his back, placed something in the old man’s palm.
A hunting knife.
My fingers went cold.
“What are you doing?” My words sounded far away.
“No! No, you—you can’t!” Her screams rose in pitch, straight into hysteria. Her face was a ruin of tears and raw panic. She turned to me.
“Don’t let him, please don’t let him, he’s fucking crazy, he’ll kill you next—”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I muttered the words over and over, like they’d shield me from what I was about to be a part of. She shook, crying.
“We live by a code. You knew this, and still you violated it. The balance is due,” Father said.
The hunting knife blade brushed the fine hairs on her neck with a sound that drew goose bumps along my arms. Father’s eye gleamed bright in the darkness. His excited whisper:
“Are you afraid?”
The woman didn’t answer—didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. A muscle in her jaw clenched.
“Answer me!” A bead of spittle flew from his lips.
She flinched, then nodded.
“That’ss good. He wants you to be afraid.”
The hunting knife severed her windpipe with a thick crack. The air tasted of salted iron. A red cloud consumed the still air, and the woman went limp. Her face shifted, meat fresh and hot off the bone.
“Fuck!” I screamed, pawing at my face. My skin was slick, wet, and warm. “Fuck, what the—”
I jerked backward, but there was no more rock behind me. My heel slipped into black nothingness and I tottered, lost my balance—
A fist caught the fabric of my shirt. Father’s grip was as brittle as cast iron, every bit as strong. With no effort at all he pulled me back from the brink, dropped me to the ground. My outstretched hands touched the fresh corpse and I recoiled.
“Glory be to the Feast.” The man’s voice was husky, his gaze still locked on to the rocks across the gaping darkness, at the dripping water, the bright blue mold. Anywhere but the woman at his feet.
Father wiped his face with the back of a hand. Blood coated his lower lip and cheeks, beading and dripping. He flicked it from his fingertips, handed the blade back. He placed a hand on the hunter’s shoulder, squeezed it. He seemed almost relaxed. At ease.
“Her sacrifice is the final step in His plan. Do not mourn her; she is with the Feast, and with the Feast, all will be born again.”
The scarred man nodded. The old man approached the edge of the shelf.
He looked down, past me. “We’ll all be born again.”
His voice reverberated down the cave from a hundred different mouths.
The group was a full fifty feet below us, picking their way across rocks encircling the edges of the well. Something lingered in those black depths, touched by the torchlight. At first I thought it might be an underground body of water, the way it chopped and roiled. As the party approached, I saw the truth.
Hundreds of them, stacked in piles like firewood, empty faces staring at the black rocks sealing their tomb. Men, women . . . and children too, young faces unscarred by the markings of the Woodkin. Slow rot took hold where the dead touched the water-slick rock walls. Bright blue mold grew in skeletal fingers along slack arms and legs. Their cheeks and eyes and lips and hair were rough, textured in round-shaped . . .
Mushrooms.
Growing from their faces, sprouting from their lips and gums and eyes.
The man with the pack knelt, another reached inside. Removed a cloth-wrapped bundle of familiar shape and size. The wasted and weak bastard child of Ronnie Coors, laid to rest with its people. Beyond torchlight, gaps of black shadow flickered and danced into unseen corpse-choked depths. How many scarred corpses lurked there, in the darkness? How many “paid the balance”? The others bent too, reaching out and caressing the faces of their dead. Collecting their crop. Even from all the way up where I was, I could see the color: an electric, neon blue.
My stomach flipped and I turned away from the stacked corpses, trying not to breathe through my nose. I tasted it now, that reek and rot, tasted them coating my tongue like a disease. Father’s face flushed red around the white scar. His eyes bored into the piles of bodies, alive with an inner light. He laid a foot on the dead woman’s chest. I thought for a second he was going to genuflect, contemplate what he’d done. Expose himself as someone with emotion, with an actual beating heart.
Without so much as a change of expression he pushed the dead woman’s body over the edge, into thin air. She fell like a rock, graceless and thick-limbed, leaving a wet smear of dark maroon on the rocks in her place. The cave swallowed her. She crashed with a nauseating wet thump, the last sound she’d ever make. A person, who at one point had lived in the real world, went to school, fell in love, smiled, cried. Who went on a midnight hike and lost her entire life and everything in it. Who now would molder and stink like the rest of the nameless corpses around her.
The torch popped on a piece of sap, sending a firefly of cinder floating through the wet air after the dead woman. It tumbled end over end, borne on a ghost of wind, floating down to join her. The fingers of mold followed the ash down, hungry.
“The Woodkin feast.” Father grinned. I squinted, sure that my eyes were lying, sure the darkness of the cave was playing tricks on me. His mouth was suddenly packed with too many teeth, thin and long like needles. Like the mouth of a horrid fish from the crushing darkness at the bottom of the sea. His lips stretched clear to his ears, bending the flesh of his skin like putty.
I blinked, and the teeth vanished. His face was normal save for the digging cleft of scars in his cheek. He grabbed my shirt and hauled me to my feet like I weighed nothing.
I emerged from the cave to the pouring rain hammering on my frigid skin. If death was coming for me, it wasn’t going to be today. I inhaled deeply, let the clean air of the mountains cleanse the stink of the dead.