GHOST EXCERPTS
Under the menace of his grip.
Her shrieks muffled against the heavy logged wall, within the creaking of wood boards, beneath her squirming body, under the terror of his forked identity; and her voice, ebbed away in a hushed whisper of agony. There, into the impenetrable darkness, prayers, and curses, and pleas, and threats were found dissolved in vain. And she, bound to be slowly abraded, corroded to dust under the menace of his grip.
Laughter concealing, he flipped her over, and her hands twisted painfully against the wall — metal chains chinked, and soft breasts dragged through the grim and roughness. His hand outstretched to the side, and it clasped a candle, hot ember and vivid glow; and somehow he stared at the tiny flame swaying before ebony eyes, feeling her breath seize in her chest, hastening the more anticipation grew. Tilting his head, a quiver in the jaw, he let the burning candle drip atop her back; scorching an avenue of pain all along her spine. And melting wax fused and glued her wounds together, and her mouth gave out a voiceless gasp.
Her teeth clamped tight from the harrowing pang, and she gave herself, limp body and numb pulsebeat, into the pit of no escape, and there, she stared in trance. Stared at the window in the far wall, eyes absently blinking in and out of focus. And she stared, desperately to seek a trace of an answer, an explanation for the damnation of a once friend who helped her heal. For suddenly, he was gone. And yet there again, in the small hours in where he would walk in, brush her hair, tend to her wounds and beseech for forgiveness. Only to tersely recast himself upon the shoulders of evil.
The beautiful bloom of a honeysuckle, scarred in all its soft petals.
“Is this…is this her?” He stared aghast, noticing all the bruises and wounds across her bareness.
“The coat!” he snarled, and yanked the coat off his hands, and began to cloak her body warm with the cloth, as he helped support her weight.
“She…she…she is alive?” He swallowed, claiming a leer from his gaze.
“She’s wounded.” he intoned curtly, but his hands trembled as he carried her towards his horse, catching him by surprise, for he appeared nervous for the first time, sincerely concerned, almost panicked, as though fearing to lose her. “Need to get her somewhere feckin’ warm and safe. Need to tend to her wounds.”
“Nephilim Cove?” he suggested, walking after him and clutching the horse’s rein, as if it would even bolt under his authority.
“Too far now.” he grunted, beckoning to him to help hold her as they raised her up, gently placing her over the saddle. “Mount yer horse. No time to waste.” he ordered, mounting up right after, and drew her tight towards his body with an arm, collecting reins with the other.
She squinted through her eyelids, roused from all the movements that span her in a vertigo, and the loud commotion of familiar voices, but was unable to grasp what was happening, unable to feel a hint of strength within her to even try.
She had collapsed. She couldn’t fight anymore.
He held her against his chest, picking up a lope of urgency through the woods and the fog, with him riding right abreast him, and upon every stride, he would set his eyes upon her; capturing the exhaustion that shadowed her face, and the bruises, the busted lip, the belittling scar across her cheek, and the sole defeat that turned her deathly pale. And he was left mortified to behold her in such condition; the beautiful bloom of a honeysuckle, scarred in all its soft petals. He knew this would morph her into a floret of thorns, petrified to ever blossom.
His heart never beat so hard against his ribcage, it bled rage, and sadness, and guilt. And staring at her, fuming, his hands twitched and bunched into fists, longing to wrap around James’s throat and strangle him, just enough to lose consciousness. And he thought, further engrossed in this vile imagination, to rouse him from the torpor, only for him to witness his own body be dismembered, one limb after another, until it perishes.
He caressed her hair with a quivering hand, and palmed her forehead with his lips, just enough for her to feel his guard; a tenderness he didn’t know how to convey to her, but knew that she yearned for it.
The last sense.
Startled, his eyes groped the silhouetted rack again, from a distance, and he set the sled aside, and crouched. Tiny little steps at a time, he approached it with the bow carried upon trembling arms, and through the cold and keening wind, he took cover behind a boulder. Heaving and panting, he peeped around and spotted the animal bearing down, with the rack scraping against a tree, and the head kept low. Its auburn coat was bristling on his neck, or perhaps it was his own hair horripilating in angst.
He swallowed, finding himself suddenly in a void where only two heartbeats throbbed a sound, for all else deafened around them. The cold didn’t welt him any further, and the snow barely numbed his face. It was only them, and the feeling of severance, of a life that would be deprived for one of them. Mustering up his bravery, and crying in a guilt, he lifted his bow, and with a quivering hand, positioned the arrow back upon it. His eyes squinted, but the end of the arrow was swaying incessantly in his fright.
Suddenly the buck lifted its head, and looked towards him, and Jonathan’s breath cut in his lungs. They stared at each other, in perhaps a mutual confusion and compassion, and somehow the tensioned string began to loosen. The buck took a step towards him, and another, and then halted again upon a loud snort. But this time, his breath painted a warning in the air. Jonathan swallowed, and pulled back the arrow again with barely a feeling left in his arms, but the buck dropped before he could release his arrow.
“What!” he gasped, and glanced at his bow, and the arrow, and back at the buck, and at the sudden mist that veiled around its convulsing body. “How…” He welled up, bemused, and watched it studiously until its last tremor. It laid still now. There, in the cradle of death, and he scurried towards it. Step after step advancing to it, until his boots stood before its antlers. “Wow…” A breath escaped him, for the animal was large. Larger than any deer his mother had ever hunted, or perhaps it appeared this way to him. An emotion of sadness, guilt, and pride all together surged through his chest, but bewilderment still prevailed. Skimming over it with his eyes, he noticed an arrow at his neck. And as he leaned closer to it, he noticed further, it was the one he had misfired before. “Jeg forstår ikke…” he murmured to himself, shaking his head, until a twig creaked behind him, jerking his head towards the sound.
In the dark, eyes rested on him. Blinking, glowing, and staring, but they were further away. And in a blotch of shadow, stood out a tall figure. It approached him, and he pressed his crouched self against the deer, feeling the life still beat within its body, in warmth and a blood that thrummed through it. The figure appeared as though it snuffed out any light around it with its mere entity, for the whole world fell in blind silence around him. And Jonathan remained there, huddled against the coat and the pungent scent, now oozing out of a wound, until a pair of feet halted before him, and he felt something large and malicious tower over him.
There was a hand that outstretched through the shadows, and he could barely detect the tawny skin across it, but it moved past him, and past his shoulder and head, and it clutched the deer, at the wound, dipping a finger into it. Blood was gathered, and withdrawing the hand, it settled before Jonathan’s face.
“Kamatu.” a grave voice finally spoke, but Jonathan failed to understand.
It wasn’t Norwegian, nor anything else that he could imagine.
“I…don’t understand, sir.” he whimpered, petrified, and shaking.
So the hand unfurled, and fingers stretched out to his face, wiping the blood from the deer across Jonathan’s lips. Jonathan shuddered, but in some instinct folded his lips, and tasted it. And as the hand drew back again, the man spoke once more.
“The last sense…Kamatu.”
Dirty blonde, brown eyes.
“Marshal, he called ya.” the dealer alerted him, slashing his thoughts with a swift waving signal.
“He did?” he asked, snorting, for no words made sense anymore, and they died upon his ears as fast as they blurted out. He glanced down at the cards; the spades and hearts, nebulous, and coalescing with each other in a creative pattern he had never perceived before, but the foreboding sight from the past was still familiar. His hand of cards shook between his fingers, until he slammed them atop the rickety table. “Then call me, ya fool!” he fussed, and eyed the man with a leer. “What ya got, Wobb-wobbleyy…Willy?”
“Four of a kind!” Wobbly Wally chuckled, and screeched out in triumph as he beat Tilghman’s hand, swiftly collecting all his chips. And Tilghman blinked at him, twice, pouting, for he wasn’t one to be defeated so easily in cards, especially by a hillbilly yokel, he thought, crinkling his upper lip in irritation.
“I’m ass out then…fuck it.” he grumbled, and tapped the table upon that announcement.
“Don’t be a sore loser, Marshal!” Wobbly Wally sneered, counting the money right after, as Tilghman tried to orient himself, before mustering his bravery to depart.
“Ain’t…that!” Tilghman pointed at him with a finger, that was rather aiming past him. “But I’ll…tell ya! Tell ya, somethin’ now…whatever ya called again.” He swallowed, and hugged the bottle for one last sip of consolation. “Good…luck in cards, bad luck in bed! Or somethin’ like that…”
“Ha! Marshal! I’ve got pretty good luck in that department! That missin’ limb has been rather a blessin’ for me!” he said, patting his wooden prosthetic. “Whoo! It’s like honey for flies for the ladies!”
“No…shit!” Tilghman grunted, failing to find a snide remark, for he could scarcely find the man’s face before him. “Why the fuck’s everythin’ so…fuckin’…” He paused, until his eye set in focus upon Wobbly Wally, who was stacking up his chips. “Wobbly.” he murmured pensively.
“Yes, Marshal?” Wobbly Wally regarded him, biting each coin in suspicion.
“I didn’t call ya! Ya hillbilly yokel!” Tilghman countered in a hiss, then stood up, and a spiraling wave of vertigo reeled his sight from one corner of the room to another. “Oooh fuck.”
“Marshal?” some other voices from around the table spoke, but he struck them silent with a menacing hand that swatted at them. They ducked their heads and tilted to the side to escape the assault, and he lost his balance, and tripped over himself, and cussed something incoherently, before crash-landing to the ground.
“Gaaaaah…ffffuck.”
“Marshal! Y’alright??” The dealer rushed to him, and tried to help up the body of muscle, that rather longed to stay loafing on the ground, until it would doze off to sweet oblivion.
“Sure I am!” Tilghman yelled, accidentally biting his lip as he did. “What ya think? Ya think I ain’t! Ya…yyyyokel!” He sneered, and pushed everyone away from him, as he hobbled towards the exit by the mere guidance of his mental compass, tuned by experience.
Supporting himself against tables, chairs and walls, he finally found the swinging doors before him in rotten wood and cheap mahogany stain, and kicked them open. Miraculously, he didn’t tip over from that, and settled himself back upon steady feet. “Ha!” He chuckled at that with pride, and heaved a sigh to collect his senses to walk further, until suddenly, he caught a glimpse of leather boots that stood upon intriguing heels. “Ha…” He cocked his head, staring at them for a long moment as they brought themselves in and out of focus, and then he grazed his eye upwards that pair of boots, upwards a long auburn gown and corset, until it set upon her.
They locked eyes. Jaw slacked, dropping to the ground. Dirty blonde, brown eyes, snarky smirk on red lips.
“Fuck no.”
Tears are but shadows of a past, yearning to breathe in the present.
“H…hanging himself?” He swallowed, snapping his eyes shut upon an assailing flashback, but the man spoke further, and somehow it assuaged the violent pang in his heart.
“For nine days and nine nights…in order to gain knowledge of the runes and the mysteries of the universe. An act that conveyed the symbol of enlightenment and wisdom.” he explained, and blue speckles glittered in Jonathan’s eyes, fascinated. “The Hangman, known as Óðinn, not only determines whether the accused is guilty or innocent, but also possesses the power to extract the truth from the accused. All…throughout a ritual.” He smirked, and raked his eyes against his, tense and raw.
“A ritual?” Jonathan frowned. “Like…pagan ritual, mister? Fríða always talked about those…but I never was supposed to know.” He inclined his head, but the man tipped it up again with a thumb beneath his jaw.
“Oh…do not afear, dear boy. The world’s delightful vileness will not cower from you for long.” he encouraged, but Jonathan felt a confusion take root in him. “In said ritual, the Hangman spears the accused, hangs him upside down from a tree…for nine days and nights, and during this turmoil, the accused will receive visions about the crime he committed, leading to…delightful confessions and the seeking of forgiveness. But if no visions were to occur…the Hangman steps in with his wealth of knowledge of divination to resolve the crime.” He winked at him, and Jonathan gathered his mouth from the ground.
“Magic?!” he whispered, composing himself anew. “It exists??!”
“In sooth…my boy. For what is left in this humdrum world of reason and insanity, if magic does not precede it all? There’s left…doubt.” He swallowed, and began to shiver. “Doubt…of the otherworldly beauty being unearthed from soil. To ever…for it to be possible.” he cried softly, and smiled at him with wounded eyes.
“Why do you cry, mister?” Jonathan pouted, and with his other hand, as his left was still within the man’s grip, fumbled out an oatmeal cookie from his pocket, handing it to him. “Don’t be sad. But if you are, this will fix it all.” he offered with a shrug of a shoulder. The man froze at the notion, stood there with an ache, and glared at the crumbled cookie, pulled out from the woolen coat and shielded by mucky childlike fingers, but then shook his head and pushed his hand back to his coat.
“Oftentimes tears…are but shadows of a past, yearning to breathe in the present.” he soughed gently, then looked at him stern. Jonathan frowned at that, but said nothing, shoving the cookie back inside.
