Episode Three -- The Forgettery

c). The Forgettery

Nothing changed inside the windowless cell. No passing of night and day, just Will’s never-ending hunger. The only light in the cell came from the slot in the bottom of the door and it never changed either.

Will lay on the floor, near the slot, but he resisted the urge to push up the swinging door. When he did, meager light illuminated the tiny, bare cell, but somehow only made it feel more claustrophobic.

The lack of sensory input let Will’s mind fill the darkness. He called and called for his ancestors to fill the lonely space, but they spurned him. Will longed to hear their voices again, but they had abandoned him. Instead the sisters from the boarding school came; tormenting him with sin and urging him to submit and pray. Sometimes he raged against their hateful, white God; other times he prayed for death.

In his misery there was one companion Will could count on: the wolf. Sometimes he could see the wolf’s golden eyes peering through the velvet darkness; other times he could feel his urgent paws pacing back and forth in his heart.

Once when the luminescent eyes glowed and the rumble of the wolf’s growl filled the cell, Will pushed the swing-door open, flooding the tiny cell with weak light. Will’s heart leapt with terror. The wolf crouched on the wreckage of the cot, red tongue lolling over dark ivory teeth and dead black lips. Will’s trembling fingers dropped the trap door, plunging the cell back into blessed darkness, but he couldn’t erase the image from his mind. The wolf always remained, crouching on the rubble, watching him with sardonic amusement.

The other companion Will could count on was his hunger. It tore at his stomach and other organs with teeth sharper and crueler than the wolf’s. Will’s imagination tormented him with memories of meals he had eaten. A million times he made up his mind to starve to death; rejecting all thought of food. A million times the idea of food stole back into his mind and devoured him.

When it became unbearable Will turned his head up and let all of his despair escape from his stretched throat in an unearthly howl. The wolf crouched in the back of the cell and smiled.

+

Days, months, years later Will realized that the steady shuffle and squeak he could hear was the sound of Marshal Tate’s boots approaching his cell. Fear jumped on Will from the darkness and pressed him down on the hard floor as the key rattled in the lock and the heavy iron-bound door swung open. Harsh yellow light flooded the cell. Will scuttled backward, away from the light.

Marshal Tate stood in the doorway, towering over the cowering Indian. Tate wrinkled his nose at the dank, musty smell. His teeth showed in a smile as a chuckle rumbled in his chest.

“Well, well, well,” said Tate, keeping his voice light, but savoring every syllable.

Will crouched in a shadow, eyes turned upward at the towering dark figure in the door.

“I guess you must be hungry by now,” Tate said. He held up a chunk of dripping, bloody meat. Will’s eyes were riveted to the dark red meat and the thick white cowl of fat wrapped around it.

“I heard you howl a little while ago,” Tate said, “Let’s hear it again. Come on, boy, speak!”

Will’s nostrils filled with the heavy molecules of the bloody meat. Saliva flooded his mouth, draining vital fluids from other parts of his body. His teeth gnashed, already feeling the resistance of the tough muscle as they tore into it.

“Come on, boy,” Tate taunted, “Don’t you want the meat? Speak!”

Tate waved the bloody chunk of meat closer to Will, whose eyes followed it like a magnet. Will’s hunger roared up from the emptiness of his belly, escaping from his throat in a haunting wail that even scared him.

Marshal Tate stepped backward propelled by the ghastly noise. The hairs along Tate’s arms stood up and his skin crawled at the powerful sound. A large smile curled his lips.

“That’s a good boy,” Tate said, throwing the meat down with a wet splat on the rough wooden planks of the floor.

Will sprang on the meat before it could get away. Eyes turned up warily toward the Marshal, Will raised the dripping meat to his ravenous lips and tore into it with his teeth.

“Good boy,” Tate laughed. He slammed the heavy door and rammed the bolt home.

Soothing darkness poured back into the tiny cell, wrapping Will in its comforting blanket. He tore the bloody meat with his teeth and swallowed chunks of muscle and fat in a frenzy. His stomach jumped and growled begging to be filled. When the meat was gone, Will rolled onto his back, licking juice from his fingers. He let out a painful belch as his stomach rebelled. He squirmed uncomfortably and was overcome with deep remorse at the abandonment of his starvation vow.

The wolf crouched in the darkness, smiling.

+

Reverend Caleb Powers returned to Sweet William on the third, a few days later than he expected. The time had been well spent, he thought, driving his new Bing Brother’s wagon around the rocky outcrop above the town; its experimental suspension was working beautifully on the muddy roads. The town tithed a pair of young mules, Zack and Piney, to pull the heavier wagon and he had put Old Sal out to pasture. The weather turned a day or so ago and spring took firm hold on the valley that morning. Clear blue sky soared above the steadily flowing river at the bottom of the hill.

Caleb wanted to slip his coat off as the sun beat down on his descent. Better to perspire a little, he thought, than to arrive in shirt sleeves.  He unbuttoned the heavy traveling coat, brushing the fur collar away from his neck. The new wagon not only provided a tiny living space, but a stout pulpit with a small stage – even a built in organ after his stay in New Ulm. His new Salvation Show was a big hit in Damascus and his strongbox was full as he arrived in the tiny river town.

Across the river the dark, stained buildings of Sodom clung to the bank like fungus, but Caleb’s eyes strayed toward the unincorporated town with longing. With no official name, the meager settlement earned its biblical nickname the hard way. Caleb looked at the empty dock among the moldy buildings of Sweet William. The ferry wouldn’t be in again until morning, so the pleasure resort on the other side wouldn’t be accessible till then.

Sunlight glared from the surface of the river. Caleb shaded his eyes and surveyed the gloomy little settlement. His lively mules hauled the heavy wagon through the muddy street between blackened wooden buildings, stained by endless rain. The drearier the town, Caleb thought, the more the need for salvation.

The stable hand was duly impressed with Caleb’s wagon and grew excited at the prospect of the Salvation Show. Caleb had no doubt that Zack and Piney would be well cared for and the wagon itself protected. His boots made a hollow sound on the raised wooden sidewalk as he stepped back onto the street. He glanced upriver where the street ended in a large green clear cut. His mind quickly calculated the likely draw in this area and the expected collection. First a drink, he thought.

The mud was deep as Caleb crossed the street. He leaned on his walking stick. Its silver handle supported his weight as he scraped mud from his boots on the step-up on the other side.

“Hello, Reverend!” Doc Hansen’s voice rose from behind Caleb. The doctor himself stepped off the sidewalk into the river of mud and horseshit that flowed between blocks.

 “What’s this I hear about a revival meeting here in Sweet William?” Doc asked as he climbed the steps to where Caleb stood.

“News travels fast,” Caleb said “I call it a Salvation Show.”

“Sounds good,” Doc said, “We need a lot of salvation, especially across the river.” Doc raised his eyebrows.

“Believe me, Doc,” Caleb said, “I intend to bring salvation to Sodom, as soon as the ferry gets in.”

Both men laughed.

“Say, Doctor,” Caleb asked, “How’s that Indian boy Tate arrested last time I was in town?” Caleb felt a pang of guilt that he hadn’t given the boy any thought since that night.

“Oh, he’s locked up,” Doc said, “Just waiting for the Judge to get in and hang him.”

“He was pretty sick,” Caleb said, remembering the pathetic shape of the incarcerated Indian.

“That boy is loony as a tic,” Hansen said, “To use medical terminology.”

“He wasn’t sick?” Caleb asked.

“Beat up pretty bad and in desperate need of a drink,” Doc said, “But only sick in his head.”

“How can you hang him if he’s crazy?” Caleb asked.

Doc Hansen laughed. “Won’t make any difference to Judge Dekum,” Hansen said, “Only way to deal with killers is to kill ‘em. That’s what he says.”

“You say the boy was in desperate need of a drink?” Caleb asked.

“That’s right,” Doc said, “A little condition known as delirium tremens otherwise ‘the D.T.s”

“At least I can understand the desperate need of a drink,” Caleb said with a wry grin.

Doc Hansen laughed. “Right this way,” he said with a flourish.

“Poor old Charlie Jackson,” Caleb said.

“Jackson is no loss to the town,” Hansen said, “His business on the other hand… I’ll introduce you to the new man.”

Hansen put a hand on Caleb’s shoulder guiding him toward the saloon.

“You know the wolf got Bob Deaver that same night?” Hansen asked.

“Really?” Caleb was surprised, “I saw him just as he was going out to hunt. He borrowed Charlie’s shotgun.”

“Yep,” Hansen said, “They found it with his body. He emptied both barrels into that wolf, but it got his throat before it died.”

Doc Hansen shivered at the memory. “A horrible sight,” he said.

Caleb held the door open as they entered the saloon.

“Funny thing,” Doc said, “I’ve heard howling since that night. There might be another wolf out there.”

Caleb looked across the street to where trees took over from the buildings. The dark forest was quiet as it stared back.

+

After a drink of whiskey Caleb’s guilt over the incarcerated Indian came back. Usually Caleb gave his guilt the cold shoulder until it slunk off in defeat. There was something about that Indian, though, he thought. He claimed to be a Christian. Another whiskey acted like gasoline on the smoldering guilt.

“You examined that Indian, didn’t you, Doc?” Caleb asked, setting his glass down on the bar.

“What Indian?” Doc asked, drinking his whiskey down.

“The one in jail,” Caleb said.

“Yes,” Doc said, annoyance singed the edges of the word, “A case of the D.T.s, like I said. I prescribed whiskey and rest.”

“Tate said he’d treat him well,” Caleb said, “The boy’s a Christian, you know?”

Doc raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“As far as those savages can understand such a white concept,” Doc sneered.

“We are all God’s children,” Caleb said.

Doc examined the Reverend’s face.

“Indians are not capable of understanding the finer points of white man’s culture,” Doc said.

Doc ordered another round and the new man filled both their glasses for the third time.

+

It took a few more rounds of whiskey and a hand or two of poker, which fattened Caleb’s wallet at the doctor’s expense, before the Reverend finally convinced Doc to pay a visit on poor imprisoned Will Walksaway. Marshal Tate answered their knock with a scowl.

“Reverend, Doctor,” Tate’s voice was wary, “What can I do for you fellas?”

“Good afternoon, Jacob,” Doc said, “Reverend Powers has just returned on his circuit and he would like to visit your prisoner. He asked me to examine the poor boy.”

Marshal Tate stared into Caleb’s eyes. Caleb held his tongue, but battled the Marshal’s will with his own, until Tate lowered his eyes.

“It’s feedin’ time anyway,” Tate grumbled, stepping out of the doorway so they could enter, “You might as well have a look.”

The large sheriff’s office was crowded with furniture.  Tate walked to a tin box in the corner and reached out a chunk of meat.

“You fellas gotta understand that injun is plumb crazy,” Tate said, “He won’t eat nothin’ but the dogmeat.”

“Raw meat?” Hansens eyebrows rose.

“I tried what you said, Doc,” Tate said, “I gave him food right off my table, but he turned his nose up at it and threw it on the floor. He thinks he’s some kinda dog or something.” He laughed. “You should hear him howl if his meat’s late,” Tate said, “We better hurry.” He hesitated before continuing. “He beat himself up some on the door,” Tate said defensively, “I didn’t do none a that.”

“He really is crazy?” Caleb asked, “You can’t hang a crazy man.”

Tate laughed and Hansen joined in.

“Judge Dekum don’t care about that,” Tate dismissed the idea. He walked to a plain door and unlocked  it. The meat in his hand dripped blood on the floor.

“Come on if you wanna look,” Tate said stepping into a hallway on the other side of the door. Doc and Caleb followed him inside and Tate locked the door once they were in a long hallway leading to two cells at one end. The other direction the hall ended in a heavy iron-bound door. He slipped a key into the lock and slid the bolt free. The door swung back revealing a small isolation cell. An animal smell poured from the room. Caleb suddenly felt like a rabbit when a hawk’s eye falls on it.

“Jesus,” Doc Hansen hissed. Caleb saw a small man, dark hair a tangled mass, cowering away from the light. The man’s eyes glowed red and a deep growl rumbled from his chest; escaping through jagged teeth. Caleb clutched his heavy walking stick defensively; its silver head shone dully. More animal than man the cowering prisoner howled an awful cry.

+

Will Walksaway was very far away; stumbling through thick fog over bare, rocky ground. He was searching for the forest where his ancestors chanted. Will’s body crouched on the floor of the cell all attention focused on the shuffle and squeak approaching the door. The wolf battered against the walls until it burst from Will’s skull; forcing Will further and further from his tense, waiting body.
            The bolt slid free and the door swung open, flooding the cell with piercing light. Three dark shapes appeared in the doorway. The wolf pounced at the center figure; powerful jaws clamped down on the man’s fragile throat and bright red blood pulsed from the open wound, filling the wolf’s mouth with hot, intoxicating liquid.

“Avenge us!” The ancestors’ voices roared in Will’s ears. Blind and eager he turned toward the sound feeling the rough bark of Douglas Fir against his bare skin.

Blood around its mouth the wolf turned from Tate’s falling corpse toward the figure on the left. Extending one arm its razor sharp claws reached toward the vulnerable torso.

+

Marshal Tate’s hot blood splattered against Caleb’s cheek. His skin crawled from the disgusting contact. The Indian had seemed so small, but now he towered over the dead Marshal and disemboweled Doc Hansen with a swipe of his hand. Even Doc himself, the town’s only doctor, couldn’t have saved his life from that fearsome wound.

Caleb raised his walking stick over his head and brought the heavy silver handle down on Will’s skull as hard as he could. The blunt silver nose bit into the Indian’s scalp and blood oozed down over his eyes. Caleb hit him again and Will staggered backward a step. Recovering Will leaped at Caleb and sunk razor sharp teeth into his shoulder. The tearing skin and ligaments created a frenzy in Caleb and he flailed at his attacker’s head with the heavy cane until Will fell at his feet.

Caleb panted with exhaustion. Will and Marshal Tate lay dead on the floor; Doc Hansen dying alongside them. The heavy silver handle of his cane was slick with blood. Contact with the silver handle irritated his skin and he threw the walking stick away from him.

+

“Avenge us!” Will Walksaway’s ancestors chanted, “Avenge us!”

Will stumbled from the fog, scratching his skin against the rough bark of the trees. He opened his eyes and stood naked in the woods. Thousands of ancestors, naked and hungry as he, surrounded him; chanting in powerful harmony.

“Avenge us!” Will joined in the chant.

The wolf crouched in the cell. Its dark red tongue licked the edges of a canine smile. Reverend Powers ran down the hall and fumbled with the locked door.  After a frantic scramble the door opened and Caleb released himself from the horrible prison. The wolf sat up with interest and trotted in pursuit of the Reverend.

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