Mama's Boy And Other Dark Tales Part 3

Trailing blood behind her, she ran to the sink, cursing herself for being so careless. She turned the faucet on full blast and let the cold water run over the gaping wounds in her hands. The water spun red around the sink and down into the drain. Hot tears rolled down Samantha's cheeks as she washed the deep cuts with stinging soap. The allergic reaction intensified, the burning rash covering her skin. She mumbled self-recriminations and watched in horror as red hives crawled along her arm.

"How could I be so careless? How could I be afraid of stupid potatoes? What in the h.e.l.l is wrong with me?"

She pulled a long strip of paper towels from the holder and wrapped a wad tightly around each hand-no doubt they would need st.i.tches.

"d.a.m.n it," she said to herself. "What a fine thing to do on Cody's birthday!"

The shock and loss of blood made her feel woozy. On shaky legs, she turned and grabbed the phone. As she dialed her husband's work number, she looked down, feeling something squeezing her ankles. Horrified, she saw slender white roots spreading across the kitchen floor, winding their way around her ankles and crawling up her bare legs.

Screams pealed from deep in Samantha's throat.

Her feet were yanked out from under her and blinding pain seared the back of her head as it slammed against the edge of the kitchen table. Her world became a slow-motion movie as somewhere from a distance she watched the birthday cake tumble from the table and splatter beside her on the floor; bits of frosting and shards of the shattered plate flew at her face.

Samantha's eye welled with tears, gazing as if in a dream at the chocolate icing and the yellow innards of the ruined cake scattered across the floor. My poor, Cody My poor, Cody, she thought. Feeling a tug at her wrist, she glanced down; a sharp pain shot through her head from the movement. She blinked hard to clear her vision and saw that the long, fingery roots had followed the trail of her blood from the open drawer. In a flash of clarity, she remembered the wormy fingers in the potato sack in the root cellar, the acid-like burning in the cut on her finger-her blood was tainted, dormant with the evil curse her brothers had thought was a joke. Her therapist had a.s.sured her that curses weren't real. The doctors said the crawling rash of her allergy was psychosomatic. As she lay paralyzed on the kitchen floor, feeling the slimy root fingers wrapping around her body, she finally knew they were all wrong.

Samantha felt the fleshy roots roping around her, tugging and pulling at her body until she began to slide. Unable to resist, her back slipped across the smooth tiles of the kitchen floor, through the splattered icing, the chunks of broken birthday cake, and past the industrial strength gloves she wished she'd never taken off. Helpless to cry out, Samantha started to feel squishy, as if she were melting inside her own skin.

The long white fingers continued to flow and creep around her body, squeezing and tightening until breathing became nearly impossible. Drifting in and out of consciousness, she felt the tangle of roots rustling over her face, searching for any skin left bare, until they blinded her. The searing pain jolted her to full awareness one last time. She cried out, and the roots slithered into her mouth and up her nose. In a final moment of horror, the disappearance of Samantha's brother was no longer a question-her flesh was dissolving, like she knew he had dissolved at the farm. Hot tears of grief fell from her blind eyes and she gagged on the roots burrowing down her throat and worming up her nose and into her brain. With her final breath, she felt the crus.h.i.+ng sensation of being squeezed into a drawer like a deflated rubber doll.

The memory of her husband's embrace flitted across her ebbing thoughts, along with images of her family ... Cody's cherubic grin, her mother in the kitchen at the farm, playing hide and seek with her brothers in the cornfield. As her mind slipped away, in a final flash of madness she felt tiny eyes bud on the surface of her melting skin.

THE SEA ORPHAN.

Young Will Pennyc.o.c.k sat slumped on the hard bench in the back of the Eastville, Virginia meeting hall. The heavy coat from his father's sea trunk sheltered him from the chill of the building, but the cold stares of the villagers penetrated deep. Before his mother's trial they had been friends and neighbors, but now he sat alone amongst them, chin tucked to his chest, waiting for the Inquisitor's judgment.

Through the murmurings of the packed room, Will heard the nasal voice of the shopkeeper's wife deliberately snaking its way toward him.

"It was my duty to the Church, Elizabeth!" she confided to the woman beside her. "In fact, it was my devotion to King and country that inspired me to turn in that sorceress. Conjuring potions for the uneducated and charming wild animals. Wandering alone in the marsh, digging roots and horrid beasties. A blight on the community, she is." Her companion mumbled something out of Will's hearing.

"I don't care that she comes from money, she's a filthy witch!" said the shop keeper's wife.

Nearing tears, she dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief.

"And I saw her unG.o.dly ways with my own eyes, I tell you. After her wretched husband's death, she enchanted my own good husband to do her bidding. For months my dear Mister Worthing, weak of will as he is, brought her food from my own precious stores and shoes for that horrible urchin of a boy. She continued to bewitch him, that is until I caught him-a duck from our yard tucked under his arm! I tell you, something had to be done!"

The Inquisitor pounded his staff on the long oak table in the front of the hall. Each sharp sound pierced through Will's fragile nerves, as if being struck directly by the man's ebony stick.

"Silence, amongst you. Silence!" His baritone voice easily commanded the attention of the a.s.sembled villagers.

"In the name of the Church of England, I am entrusted with protecting the mortal souls of this parish. I have carefully considered the words of the witnesses, as well as the accused, the widow Maire Pennyc.o.c.k..."

The Inquisitor continued on in a long explanation of the testimony of each witness, his voice becoming a drone inside Will's head. All the tension of the long trial and his separation from his mother came to bear on him in that moment, waiting for the judgment to be read. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks; the boy tightened his shoulders and clenched his teeth to silence the sobs that fought to escape him.

Will's father, Matthew Pennyc.o.c.k, had taught his wife the tailor's trade. They met by chance when he came to America from the Highlands of Scotland. Although she was a girl of fine breeding, she was strong willed and fey in her ways. Leaving her comfortable life to be with Matthew, she became a fine seamstress. Together their business thrived, bringing work from the larger Virginia settlements and from sea traders that came to Eastville for supplies. Unfortunately for the Pennyc.o.c.k family, the traders brought sickness with them, as well, and like many of the villagers, Will's father was struck down by a fever.

Life was difficult after his father's death. Will's mother worked hard to take care of her small family and to keep their little tailor's shop in business. Although her work was of fine quality, the men who had traded with her husband would not trust a woman to have the proper business sense. Most of the shop's work fell away, and debt mounted. Renounced by her family, she could not call on them for help so she was forced to fall back on the ways held secret by her mother's lineage. Word spread quickly, as was common in village life, that Maire Pennyc.o.c.k was a fair master at remedies and potions, and particularly gifted in the taming of beasts large and small. With her help, many lives were saved and a great deal of suffering averted, especially in childbirth. But debt still plagued the family.

A few months before the nightmare of the trial began, Will accompanied his mother to the shopkeeper's store for supplies. As usual, on their walk through the village a parade of cats formed and followed behind them. Seemingly deaf to the mewling cats at his door, Mister Worthing's mood lightened at the sight of the lovely red-haired woman with the green amulet resting on her ample bosom.

"Good day, Missus Pennyc.o.c.k! Young Will." He nodded in respect, his smile beaming.

"Good day, sir," said Will's mother, her market basket hanging from a slender wrist.

Missus Worthing, tidy and of a robust figure, rapped at the window, trying to dissuade the cats from loitering in front of the shop. She was visiting her husband with his lunch and scowled at his attention to the young woman, but he seemed hardly to notice. She fussed about while laying out his lunch on a table by the front window, while Mister Worthing gazed at the Widow Pennyc.o.c.k moving about the shop.

"Charles, your soup will be cold. Come and sit, dear. I will attend to Mister Pennyc.o.c.k's order."

Mister Worthing raised his eyebrows in surprise. His wife loathed anything to do with his dusty shelves and untidy ledger, dusty shelves and untidy ledger, but she was insistent, which was her nature. Visibly disappointed by losing the chance to a.s.sist the Widow Pennyc.o.c.k, he huffed as he sat down in his chair. Missus Worthing tucked a long napkin into his collar and quickly turned her attention to Will's mother, waiting at the counter with her meager basket of supplies. but she was insistent, which was her nature. Visibly disappointed by losing the chance to a.s.sist the Widow Pennyc.o.c.k, he huffed as he sat down in his chair. Missus Worthing tucked a long napkin into his collar and quickly turned her attention to Will's mother, waiting at the counter with her meager basket of supplies.

Stepping behind the counter, Missus Worthing said nothing to the young woman. Will watched from his mother's side as the tightlipped woman tallied their bill and slid it across the counter.

"Could you please add that to our account, Missus Worthing?" asked Will's mother with a gentle smile.

With not a word spoken, the unyielding woman reached for the shop ledger. Shaking her head at the disorder of her husband's bookkeeping, she found the Pennyc.o.c.k account and gasped. Mister Worthing choked on his soup.

"Missus Pennyc.o.c.k, I am sorry, but you will have no more credit at my husband's shop until you pay your account."

"Pardon me, ma'am, but I thought our account was in reasonable order."

"Well, dear, it says here that you are several months behind in settling."

Will felt his mother's embarra.s.sment, and he began to fidget as another patron entered the shop.

"Oh I'm terribly sorry, Missus Worthing," she said, clutching her empty change purse. "I had no idea."

"I'm afraid that's my fault." Mister Worthing spoke up. Tossing his napkin on the table, he rose and hurried behind the counter eyeing the ledger over his wife's shoulder.

"Yes, completely my fault. You know my bookkeeping, Missus Worthing, dear. I've simply forgotten to mark the account paid."

He reached for the ink and pen, took the ledger book from his wife's grip, and scratched a notation marking the account paid in full. Missus Worthing's face flushed red. She turned and stomped around the counter to the lunch spread she had laid for her husband. Gathering the entire contents of his unfinished meal in the tablecloth, she stuffed it, dripping, into the lunch hamper and marched out of the shop, slamming the door behind her.

From that day on, Mister Worthing personally delivered supplies to Will and his mother. He was kind and polite, gratefully accepting a cup of tea. He always brought Will a special treat of rock candy or a biscuit, nearly as happy giving it as the boy was receiving it. And when he was done with his tea, he offered his thanks with a slight bow and departed. He never allowed Will's mother to pay him for the supplies, promising to settle the account when business was better at the tailor shop.

Although uncomfortable with this arrangement, Will's mother was deeply grateful, since she had such limited means to acquire food for her child. She begged Mister Worthing for mending she might do for him and his Missus but he declined, suggesting that it might be best if they kept their arrangement just between them.

Late one evening after the first snowfall and a scant few days before Will's ninth birthday, a frantic knock came at the door. At his mother's urging, Will opened the door and in flew Missus McTavish, the shawl around her head as much to hide her appearance, it seemed, as to stave off the cold.

"Close the door, lad!" she nearly shouted.

Running to Maire Pennyc.o.c.k's side, she clutched the seamstress' sleeve.

"Listen to me, la.s.s. You must leave this village before dawn. The shopkeeper's wife has been ravin' some nonsense about ye being a witch. I heard she sent word o'er a month ago to the Inquisitor General, and he's bound to arrive on the morrow."

Confused by the news, Will's mother sat silently staring into the woman's worried face.

"Come on, la.s.s! There's no time to waste," said the woman. "Get up from your st.i.tching and pack up the wee boy and be off."

"I don't understand, Maggie. What are you on about?"

Missus McTavish shook her head in frustration.

"She's saying you're a witch, and she's puttin' the fear in others to speak out against ye. They'll hang ye, Maire. Don't ye understand? Ye have to go ... now!"

"I've nowhere to go, Maggie. The family won't have me back. And besides, I'm no witch, and the King's law will prove it. I'd rather face them than run and hide like a guilty dog. I'll not sully my good husband's name with such nonsense."

"Seems the King's law ain't for the likes of us, but I done me part to warn ye. I'm puttin' risk to me own kin for bein' here, so if ye haven't the good sense to take me heed, than may G.o.d have mercy on ye."

The woman clutched at her shawl and bustled toward the door. Looking back, her eyes fell on Will and she began to speak, then clamped her mouth shut. She opened the door and ran out into the dark night, snow billowing in through the doorway behind her.

"Mum?"

"Hush, lad. Get me your father's coat from the sea chest. It's time I st.i.tch that to fit you, boy. Now off to bed with you. You'll have you a new wool coat by morning."

Will woke to a pounding on the door. The sun barely risen, he could see his mother at the entrance to the shop, men reading to her from a paper. Will put his feet on the cold floor and ran toward his mother. A large man he knew from the village stepped inside the door, blocking his way.

"Stand firm, young Will. Your mother has been charged and will be held until her trial. You'll not be seeing her until then."

Will tried to push past the big man, tears of rage and fear slipping from the corners of his eyes.

"Mum, don't let them take you! Mum?"

With tears in her own eyes, she called to her son as the men dragged her from her home.

"Will, the coat. It's yours now, lad. Keep it close, and remember, I'll always be with you. Always."

Those were the last words he heard his mother speak until the Inquisitor's trial.

He cried for days it seemed, and no one in the village would help him. No one would answer his questions about what was happening to his mother. Missus McTavish's door was closed to him, and even Mister Worthing averted his eyes when he saw Will. But true to her word, his mother had completed st.i.tching his father's coat to nearly fit him. He had found it laying across the sea chest by the chair where she did her st.i.tching. The coat was big, room to grow room to grow as she would have said. He had barely taken it off since the men took his mother away. He even slept in it, feeling closer to her somehow. as she would have said. He had barely taken it off since the men took his mother away. He even slept in it, feeling closer to her somehow.

Now, with the trial coming to an end, he trembled with fear as the Inquisitor completed his long speech and prepared to proclaim his judgment.

The deep voice of the Inquisitor boomed through the rafters of the town hall.

"After many hours of deliberate consideration, study and prayer, I have reached my verdict. On this twelfth day of December in the year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and twenty-one, and with my strictest devotion to the Church of England, I pa.s.s judgment on Maire Pennyc.o.c.k. I find her guilty of sorcery and the practice of witchcraft, thus endangering the mortal souls of all the people of the Eastville parish. The sentence for her sin is to be carried out at first light tomorrow morning, when she will be hanged by the neck until she is dead and left until dawn of the third day to stand as a reminder of the Church's good works in our trials against the devil. May G.o.d have mercy on your soul, Maire Pennyc.o.c.k."

With three final raps of his ebony staff, the Inquisitor General stood and walked to the back of the hall, where he exited the building to meet his waiting carriage.

Will looked up through his tears only long enough to see the guards lead his mother from the hall. He heard her calling his name as he collapsed on the bench. The world went black, and a merciful quiet fell around him.

It was dark when Will awoke from a dream of warm bread dripping with summer honey. He was in his own bed in the back room of the tailor shop. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he imagined for a moment that the past weeks had been a mere nightmare, that he would find his mother warm and asleep in her own bed. But as he struck the flint to the candle, he knew he was alone, completely alone for the first time in his life. He began to recall the swimming feeling in his head when the Inquisitor read the judgment. He tore his thoughts away from the image of his mother-and of the gallows she'd be hanged from.

Instead, he forced himself to ponder how he had gotten to his bed. The faint aroma of fresh bread in the room made him wonder if he were still dreaming, but the growling in his stomach brought him to the immediacy of his plight. He'd hardly eaten in days; the meager stores of their pantry had dwindled away during the trial.

Sitting up, he noticed that whoever had laid him on his pallet had draped his father's coat over the bed covers. He climbed out of the covers and grabbed the coat, wrapping it around his body. Not only seeking its warmth, he needed the closeness to his mother that it afforded him.

The scent of the bread drew him from his bed. Wandering in the dim light of the candle, he stumbled on a basket left in the shadow of his mother's chair. Will rifled through the basket and found a loaf of hard crust bread, bringing it to his nose for a deep inhale of its sweet aroma. He took a ravenous bite, knowing his mother wouldn't approve of such behavior, his heart sinking at the thought. His hunger pushed the sorrow aside as he reached into the basket to find preserves, dried meat, root vegetables, eggs-and a tin of rock candy. Mister Worthing. He must have carried Will home from the meeting hall in spite of the trouble he would see for it. Will's eyes brimmed with tears at the kindness.

He sat on the floor with his legs curled around the basket and took each item out, lining it up on the floor. This would be his sustenance until he was able to find some way to feed himself. He had learned from his mother to ration food or go hungry, but all he really wanted was to devour it all at once. He resisted, enduring the hunger pangs that twisted inside his stomach.

As he removed the last item from the basket, he spied a folded bit of paper in the bottom. It was a note written in a carefully slanted hand: Dear Will; It is with deepest sorrow that I offer this small token for the death of your mother. I cannot imagine your suffering at this time, and I will no doubt be judged for my part in her demise. I would bring you into my own home and adopt you as my son, but circ.u.mstances are such that this is impossible. I will be sure to leave you food from time to time when I am able. I wish I could do more for you, son. You have always been a fine boy.

Whatever you do from this time on to support yourself and find your way in the world, please keep your dear mother in your thoughts. Be the man that would make her proud.

With My Sincere Condolences, Your Servant, David M. Worthing Just how long had he been sleeping? Small token for the death of your mother? Small token for the death of your mother? Will ran through the doorway to the front of the shop. He stomped his feet into his shoes, pulled his coat tight around his chest, and threw open the door to the cold winter night. He ran down the moonlit street, the chill wind slicing at his skin, and there before the town hall stood the gallows, his mother's stiff body swaying in the wind. Will ran through the doorway to the front of the shop. He stomped his feet into his shoes, pulled his coat tight around his chest, and threw open the door to the cold winter night. He ran down the moonlit street, the chill wind slicing at his skin, and there before the town hall stood the gallows, his mother's stiff body swaying in the wind.

He stumbled up the wooden stairs of the hangman's platform and tried with all his strength to pull his mother's body up from below. In his futile effort, the rough fibers of the rope dug into his small hands. The wind numbed his fingers, but he continued his work until the rope was slick with his blood. Falling to his knees on the moonlit planks of the gallows, young Will wept for his mother, Maire Pennyc.o.c.k.

The boy holed up in the tailor shop for weeks. He lay curled in his bed, leaving only for a bite of food from his dwindling supplies or to relieve himself.

He finally decided to light a fire when ice formed on the chamber pot. His movements were slow and labored, the cold and hunger sapping his strength. He was huddled by the fire when a pounding came at the front door. A man had come each day, shouting to be let in, but Will ignored him. This time his shouting was relentless.

"I know you're in there, boy. I see the smoke coming from the chimney. You let me in or I'll come in after ye!"

He heard a crash and the tinkling of gla.s.s on the floor in the front room. Fearing for his life, he forced his cold body to move. He grabbed a thick piece of firewood, as heavy as his small hand could grip, and crept forward, peering through the doorway into the shop. A man's hand snaked through the broken pane of gla.s.s in the door and turned the key. Will rushed forward with his stick of wood and struck the man's hand as he was pulling it back through the broken window.

The man screamed and burst through the door, his hand dripping blood, cut by the loose shards in the window pane.

"Ye little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I'll break yer neck."

Like a wild animal cornered in its den, Will ran for the safety of his bed with the man following in hard pursuit. As the stranger entered the back room he stopped cold, covering his mouth and nose with his good hand to stave off the stench from the un-emptied chamber pot and rotting food. He looked around at the filth and complete chaos of the room Will had been hiding in for weeks. The man walked to the side of the bed and struck Will so hard that his head snapped back against the wall.

"What have ye done to my shop, boy? Not only was your b.i.t.c.h of a mother in arrears for the rent, now I'll have to pay to have this s.h.i.+t hole cleaned because of the swine she left behind."

He looked around in disgust and eyed the boy trembling under the bedcovers.

"Get up, pig, and get yer clothes on. I'll have the missus clean the stink off ye', and you'll work off yer mother's debts at the inn."

Will didn't move.

"Go on before I drag ye through the snow and mud in that wretched coat and yer underclothes."

Slowly, Will reached for a pair of britches, already too short for him. He shrugged out of his father's coat, folding it carefully and laying it on the bed with reverence.

"What did I tell ye, boy? Get movin' or I'll call the constable. It's only my good Christian charity that'll keep ye out of jail for the witch's debts. I'll be lucky if I can ever rent this hovel of a shop again, knowin' what yer b.i.t.c.h of a mother had been doin' here."

Will pulled a sweater over his head, shrugged back into the heavy coat, and shoved his hands in the pockets. He felt a fold of paper-Mister Worthing's letter. He remembered the words, Be the man that would make her proud. Be the man that would make her proud. He turned to face the angry man. He turned to face the angry man.