| The Tale of the Jersey Devil: Misinghalikun by Summer J. Wood |
| Dear readers, Having been unable to get an agent or publisher for over four years, I decided I'd rather have people actually read my work then wait forever for a break and have it collect dust. Please note, according to United States Federal law, this material was COPYWRITTEN the moment I wrote it. Therefore I have full ownership and authority over it. Please do not steal my ideas or words or copy and paste any part of the novel on your own site or use for your own use. I have full proof that I wrote it and will take legal action if necessary. Also, please note, this is not professionally edited for grammar, spelling, or historical accuracy (although I try to make it accurate as possible within a writer's artistic license). :P Please e-mail me with any comments or critiques. Contact information follows the conclusion of the prologue and each chapter. Thanks and I hope you like it! |
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| Chapter 1 continued: William Leeds had not come to Philadelphia to watch the pretty young servant girl but he found his eyes fixed upon her handsome figure nonetheless. The young woman glided from table to table like a butterfly flutters with willowy ease from daffodil to tulip. Her frock was similar to those that the other few servant girls wore. Although it was worn, especially at the skirted bottom where it met all of the filth and dirt of the city streets, it retained a pretty rose hue that doubtlessly had once been as vibrant as her rosy cheeks. The majority of her long hair was pinned up and stuffed under a white mob cap and adorned with a small frayed ribbon tied in a bow, with little strands of golden locks fell upon her slightly perspiring forehead and cascaded around her shoulders. She had the look of those that were bred not from the dark Celtic or Gaelic peoples of Britain but the fair Scandinavian. It was possible she was not of English breed at all, the colonies were full of different peoples. New Jersey, for example, was full of Swedes, New York full of Dutch. Nonetheless, she herself could have set sail directly from the Norse lands on a longboat, carved dragon’s head at the helm if one believed in such things. She was too thin, which was to be expected if she was a poor servant. She might have been even handsomer if she could only plump up a little. Despite her slightly haggard appearance, William could see in her something he could not put a name to. She was an unpretentious servant and yet had the elegance of a tutored gentlewoman. She was in his eyes a goddess. Queen Freya riding over the foggy fjords of Scandinavia in a chariot drawn by gracious felines. In the Pines where he lived such beauty was unprecedented, especially among the burdened inhabitants whose earnings were meager and whose weathered features were anything but elegant, not like this one’s. He laughed weakly to himself. He had been brought up Quaker. Adornment was morally corrupt in the eyes of God, though he himself did not fully partake of this sentiment, or many other Quaker regulations on the proper observance of faith. How funny it was that things that are beautiful somehow affect one’s mind in such hypocritical ways. Why is a flower more beautiful than a weed for example, he questioned himself. Why would a man be more attracted to a pretty girl than a plain girl? Things that are beautiful are always a step ahead of things that are not, he supposed. Perhaps it was the way of things, the natural order. After all, animals have frilly feathers and ornamental markings for just such reasons, and aren’t humans animals, too? The question was to him pervasive in the essence of his own nature. No matter, this female animal enchanted him even though she barely glanced his way. How he would have enjoyed to catch her eye, or entice her to come over to him and talk. He could imagine such games he would play with her. It would certainly be a step up from what he was used to. He was no stranger to a brothel visit here and there. Shame suddenly filled his heart but it was no good to dwell on such things that could not be undone. He had nothing to be shameful of. He was a man after all. It was all the more shameful for the women he had known at such places. Pure adoration filled him now though, not lust or even greed. She was no different then a painting that one, if enthralled enough by its vibrant hues and subject, might stare at it motionlessly for hours, listening to each stroke of the artist’s brush tell its story, reveal its charms. She was like a painting that God himself had masterfully created. He would have liked to hang this painting in his house somewhere, perhaps in his bedchamber. Then again, why not just have her in his bedchamber? Several times he stopped himself from rudely staring, hoping she would not take notice of this bold indiscretion. Their eyes did meet several times but she always looked away for some reason. Shyness perhaps. Or perhaps he was not to her liking. It was not his wish to be caught staring at a woman like some crazed fiend. As a matter of fact he wished to not be noticed at all. He had heard the stories. Many times, from those he was acquainted with, from strangers, the tale of the phantom in the pines would escape from the crusty imaginations of inhabitants of the aforesaid woods to the ears of journeymen, merchants, passers-by, repeated in festive gossip at the market, dances, even Sabbath. From neighbor to neighbor, over and over again, derivations of the legend spread across the colony and even outside of its borders. What did they really know when what they told was hearsay to their own ears? They were not there to see for themselves. They did not know what happened, nor had any conception of the truth. But he did. There was nothing he could do to quell the stories, to disable the lies that floated from one ear to the other, seemingly the tales altering as they traveled from one town to the next. People, especially God fearing, believed the lies they were told when they were presented to them in such truthful manners and by their trusted friends and neighbors. They went to Church every Sunday, read the Bible daily. It was in their upbringing to believe that such things existed. How could they not? They would have been more gullible to not believe, to not fear. There was no ill will he felt towards these people. He might have joined their ranks if he had been born one of them, completely one of them at any rate. He had neither the time nor patience to set things straight for them. The truth would be to their ears as much fable as the misrepresented truths of the stories. They believed in evil unrelenting; that counts upon counts of atrocities had been performed by this one thing. In truth there was no truth to this deceitful gossip. Every fabricator of these tales would have him believe that he was the devil himself, but only he knew the absolute science of it. He had been a demon since he was born. As a child, his siblings lauded him with such details of it, fabrications or not, that he cursed his existence and that day he came into the world. Little good that did when he had apparently been cursed already and anyway. If his curiosity was not also an impulsion, he would have minded the small part of him that contained an iota of rationality. He would have been better off far from here, or at least locked in the room he rented in Carter’s Alley. The excitement of the city beckoned him as the scent of meat beckons stray dogs. Philadelphia had almost forty thousand souls in it, surely it would be easy to get lost in one of the largest cities in the colonies, and it must have been the largest English speaking city in the world, second only to London itself. And he sure as hell was not going to take passage all the way to Europe to avoid a few swarthy dissidents whose continual consumption of religious fodder led them to jeopardize their own lives with callous actions. He could have done more than that but he felt no need to prey upon their stupidity the way they preyed upon him. What was worrisome were the others that preyed upon him for entirely different reasons, which he could not fathom at all no matter how long he thought on it. Most assuredly they were reason to book passage to Europe, but he did not want to think on it now. There could not be too much ill will. The attack by the others and the townspeople’s uprisings only gave him leave to pursue other avenues of adventure. Philadelphia, what a glorious creation. Society as meritorious as any city in the Old World, and things were happening that even William could never have imagined possible. He just could not keep away, especially now. He pried his gaze and attention away from the young servant girl as she disappeared down the central flight of stairs with a tray full of discarded pewter ware. It was much to his relief as sometimes he had trouble controlling those base attributes which separated his gender from hers, regardless of what existed beneath his skin. Across the river, in Salem and Cumberland, he had run into a lion’s den of trouble because of such temperament. It was not his fault, the others were to blame. In order to flee from the jeopardy, he had to vacate New Jersey on a temporary basis. He had also to stash away his wagon and set the two horses that drove it free for he would not have been able to bring them with him across the Delaware to Pennsylvania nor care for the animals either. His flight was so sudden, he had no time to gather more of his purse. He had carried a substantial amount on his body as it was since he had traveled far from home to do business, but he was not sure if it would be enough to stay as long as he needed to. Although he did have a satchel of supplies with him while he ventured from his homestead, he would have to procure more if he was not to be home for some days. The commotion across the river would die down eventually and he would be able to return home. At least no humans knew where home was, or there would not be one to return to. The others, however, they did know. Home would have to wait though for never were times as exciting as they were now, with the heightening animosities between the motherland and her little fledgling colonies that spanned the Atlantic coast. William was beside himself with delight as he sat back and listened, enraptured by the conversations he heard, not only in the tavern, but all over the city and even back in New Jersey. He may decide to stay longer than two weeks after all. This was a landmark point that written history had never witnessed and surely the Dark Age monks hunched over their ancient texts would never have imagined in their static piety, copying history but never writing it. William had heard of these men that had new ideas and discussed them and were acting on them as they took the lessons from the past and wrote their own history. He had heard of them and now could put name to face as he infiltrated their hangout and listened intently, hardly able to contain his impatience for what was about to happen. Most of the patrons were men of means, discussing the ensuing conflict that had toppled the colonies one by one. His own colony, New Jersey, had not officially recognized any terms for independence, not with their current assembly anyway. Governor Franklin had been adamant in his loyalties to the Crown defying his well-known father’s more revolutionary views. William, however, knew that there were quite a number of dissenters among the colony, himself included. He yearned to join General Washington’s army or to overthrow Governor Franklin and join the Continental Congress. And the pamphlets he read only fueled his desires, Thomas Paine’s Common Sense was pure genius, and the rogue had only been in the colonies for a few months before he had it published. Was not even born here although the language in his pamphlets would have revealed otherwise to someone ignorant of such matters. Not like William, whose family had been here virtually from the beginning, and who having land and business had taken these matters to heart. After he had found and purchased it on Third Street, he flipped through the pages quick as lightning and what it contained was equally powerful as well. It shocked his senses and fueled the rebellious flame in him. Paine wrote, “In no instance hath nature made the satellite larger than its primary planet, and as England and America with respect to each other reverses the common order of nature, it is evident they belong to different systems. England to Europe: America to itself.” America to itself. It had never occurred to him before that their plight could be put into such universal terms. That America should be likened to a mighty planet orbiting the sun on its own, not with the help of some has-been European country littered with imperial conceit. America was to Britain what Ireland and Wales and Scotland were, just an acquisition. An acquisition to exploit for wealth in resources; to pump life into the true heart of the Empire which was merry old England itself. Metal, timber, crops, products of all kinds and the wealth trickled not to the common people but to those wealthy few who held their wallets as tightly as an infant holding its mother’s breast, and that wealth was milk to them. There was no other life save making money at the expense of less fortunate souls. English kings had long subjugated their fellow islanders to their superiority. But here was a chance for America to do what those lands had never been truly successful at doing, to discard the chains that bound them to the motherland. America was not across some highlands or across a narrow channel, but across an entire sea. America’s Hadrian’s Wall was the Atlantic Ocean and he dared the British to break through it. There was no way they were meant to be part of one empire, one commonwealth. Perhaps even Canada would follow suit. Such a statement summed up many of the same sentiments William had. He toyed with the idea of saying such things, printing them, acting on them. But that was something he simply could not do. Instead he quenched his thirst for the ensuing conflict by frequenting the hangouts of the congressmen and other bright philosophers who thought as he did. If he could not take part in it personally, he would at least watch the spark ignite from a distance. His intuition told him that Philadelphia was to be a nesting ground for great events to come. Beyond all recognition the world over. How he wished he could forsake all that he was, to seek out the secret societies, join forces with Washington’s militia, and stand shoulder to shoulder with his fellow colonists. The fighting at Lexington and Concord last year and the massacre in Boston six years earlier and Act after Act of Parliament for everything from a tax on paper to forcing colonists to house British soldiers and then more acts to dissolve local assemblies. The skirmish at Breed’s Hill enraged not only him but so many others, he was sure that the pressure was going to give at any time and revenge coursed through his veins. In all seriousness, if the British could do what they did to Boston, what was to stop them from doing the same in the rest of the colonies? Nothing. Save resistance. Of course many colonists saw no need for such actions that may be deemed detrimental to their way of life. Especially since many of the skirmishes that took place were aimed at particular colonies, colonies that were competition, not companions. The die was cast though. Washington had left the city months earlier. Plans and preparations were being made whether those against them liked it or not. Inaction, William agreed, would be far worse in the long run. Only time would tell. This was not England, a pauper’s kingdom. This was a new place, which needed a new name and a new life of its own. He wondered how things would turn out and not being able to physically take part in the activity only made time tick by menacingly slower. He was certain however that in his own heart and mind, that the King held no sway over his allegiance. No man held sway over him, the confrontation between he and the simian multitudes surrounding him was a rough viscidity of his abilities and capabilities. No man may rise to his challenge be him strong or kingly, or even godly. A rogue of a man raised his voice above the monotonous murmuring and slurred a distasteful remark about the conventions being held at the State Hall. William turned around to spy the disruption but his view was obstructed by a short ferocious man with a Bostonian accent waving a fork in the air and releasing a string of witty replies to the rogue’s outbursts. He had recognized him immediately. “John, John, please. It is just as well to let it alone. Even ruffians have a right to voice their opinions.” “Wha-” the little man turned and clucked his tongue. “Why I will have you know that-” “John, remember what I told you about hanging? Please,” the older man motioned to the chair. “Sit down before you fall down,” he snickered. The man named John sat down and then stood up again and pointed to the rogue with his fork and then held his palm up illustrating his five fingers. “Five weeks young man. Five weeks. And then we will witness for ourselves exactly what God has wrought for us all.” Although there was surely more amusement to be had, it was getting late. He could see little golden auras illuminating the street below as one of the city’s lantern lighters lit each lamp on the streets, one by one raising a long pole to which a lighted wick was attached to the end. It was time to return to his apartment. He could feel a drowsiness overcome him. He shut his eyes briefly and inhaled the cindery scent of burning candles. He could almost see the flames dance in flickering whirls from behind his eyelids. With a sigh, he peeled open his eyes and gathered his leather bound papers and walked towards the steps that headed down to the first floor. He stepped aside to let a servant by with a tray of victuals. As he stood there waiting he heard a female voice echo upwards to his ears. Another female voice followed but bellowed rather than drifted and he could not stop himself from grimacing at its blustering pitch. As the male servant passed there was room for him to go down stairs and he matched face to voice. There were two women at the base of the stairs, he recognized the pretty girl he admired earlier, but as soon as she saw him she turned away in a very timid manner that peaked his curiosity. He was pleased that the louder voice came from a different woman, who stood facing him but continued to talk to the pretty one, as if she were reporting to her what he was doing. Perhaps this pretty girl was too shy to show her admiration; she had taken notice, albeit reserved, of him upstairs. He would not mind in the least if she did admire him. He tried to stay away from intimacy of love not because he did not feel the human need for it but because it might cause danger for the one he had love for. It had happened before. He was not at all adverse to the love of a woman, especially this one who despite his political reflections, remained in the corner of his mind. She was unmarried, he could tell that right off. She was not a whore, which was even better. The only thing wrong with her was poverty and status as a servant, but he could fix that if the opportunity attracted him enough, and when he looked at her, it unequivocally did. He would have to think on this more. He may have been too hasty in swearing off matrimony and love entirely. This louder one stared at him in a peculiar way, he could have sworn he saw her bat her eyelashes at him and wink with a queer smile. She was also attractive but did not tempt him in the least. Not as this other one did. She said, almost shouted, “Good evening, sir,” and bowed so low he had to quickly shift his gaze elsewhere out of pure shock. As he did so, the one he watched so adamantly earlier turned around as if from a daze of her own and quite rightly pulled this louder one with her into an adjoining room and out of sight, almost before he had a chance to reply, “Good evening ladies.” He tipped his three-cornered hat but they were both gone before they could see this formality. He thought about staying longer to get one last look at her, but ultimately decided it was safest to leave. He left the tavern and began walking to his room. William walked a quick but steady rhythm so that he may listen to the drum of his shoes against the cobble-stoned road, which for him, used to the Piney way of life, was a novelty. He stopped to look at an apothecary’s sign and caught in the window’s reflection the face of a man he had seen outside the tavern. This man seemed to stop when William stopped, and walk when William walked. He could sense this man had been following him for some time; it had been the same feeling he had since he left the Pines. Always lurking in his shadow a presence although he did not know until now who this inconvenience had been. The dolt had taken pains to keep himself hidden from William, but to no avail, as that was what undoubtedly made him stand out even more, to William anyway. He supposed that ordinary folk paid no mind to such gestures, but William had become quite keen to observing those around him. It was a necessity. He considered hiring a carriage to complete the return to the apartment in which he roomed but then decided against his better judgment that he would have a little fun with this arrogant buffoon. Puffing on a white clay pipe, Lemuel Sutton retreated behind a tree, taking care not to be seen by the man he had followed from the little fledgling villages of New Jersey; Salem, Gloucester, then Cumberland, and now all the way to the bustling city of Philadelphia. A contact had alerted him to a sighting of the young man, and Lemuel had been quick to take the lead on it. He had to rely on such sightings as no one had been able to discover the exact or even general location of the young man’s home in the Pines. He had gone on several or more treks in hopes of locating it, but always to no avail. Not even neighbors seemed able to find it, neighbors who were at Leeds’ birth. Usually, when he was driven to leave New Jersey, Mr. William Leeds had kept to the outlying, sparsely populated areas across the river such as there were in Bucks County. Traveling to the city was very out of character for him indeed, although it was not unprecedented. He had been here before. Lemuel was not surprised to see that Leeds was alone. The man had not socialized with a single soul other than to order accommodations or victuals. Neither with male nor female companion, William Leeds traveled the streets alone and with an urgent pace as if he was not to be bothered. He held his head down, the triangular point of his tri-corner hat lowered in a V-shape over his face so that he without a mistake was just like everyone else and made sure not to attract attention. Much like Lemuel did now. If Leeds had come to Philadelphia to escape and hide out, Lemuel had come with the sole purpose of seeking him out. Lemuel witnessed the effects of what the handsome fellow had done in Salem, and heard stories of the malevolent trickery he performed in other Jersey towns and counties. Only an anonymous flight across the river was able to save him from a lynching by the posses that had organized against him, but Lemuel was sure William Leeds would be hanging from the gallows by and by. Without keeping his eyes off of Leeds’ diminishing figure, Lemuel took caution and turned to step from behind the oak and followed Leeds down the cobble-stoned street, being sure to maintain a safe distance between them. Lemuel knew that the man had obtained residence on Carter’s Alley but he was not heading there now. Rather he walked from the tavern, which he had stayed at for an unusually long time, and down Walnut Street. He crossed and traversed down several other streets until he once again was back on Walnut Street. Lemuel did not understand the other’s motives when Leeds headed back in the direction he had originally come from after the tavern, but he continued to follow unhindered by the long trek that seemed to lead on for hours. He noticed something else, suddenly each lamp dimmed from yellow to blue as Leeds walked past them. Leeds had walked past many lights and this did not happen. Lemuel became more guarded as he sensed something was amiss. Lemuel continued to follow Leeds through a network of streets and alleys that unquestionably lead past the Stock Exchange and a tavern and then eastward to the waterfront. Lemuel thought briefly that Leeds was purposely misleading him, perhaps he had found him out but he scoffed at the idea as impossible. The man wanted to walk the city perhaps for he did not have the chance to do so in the wilderness of a habitat he lived in. But why would he be heading to the river? He could not possibly be crossing the river back to Jersey so soon after he fled. The Delaware River was not the only thing that stood at the edge of the waterfront though. Perhaps he was looking for a little companionship of the female kind after all. Lemuel had even seen this with his own eyes. He had been following Leeds, tracking him for years but at the bequest of his elders, was not permitted to injure the man. He was instructed to watch only, and report his findings, if possible, to capture. Now, however, Lemuel did mean to exact justice against the man, permission granted or not. If Leeds was aware of his presence then it was not at all problematic. Lemuel knew that tonight was the night. He would have Leeds in shackles by evening’s end. He had come close before but the elders had forbidden him the honor. Lemuel was as stubborn as ever now to finish this business once and for all. It would have ended a lot sooner if he had been permitted to enter the tavern, but the owner made it clear that he was not attired properly which was just a gentlemanly way of saying his skin was not white enough. Leeds suddenly stopped and Lemuel had to withdraw behind a horse tied to a post for cover. He lowered his chin and tugged the angular rim of his hat down to shade his face. Lemuel stood by the horse puffing on his pipe but always keeping an eye on the young man from underneath his hat’s rim. He saw Leeds turn around as if there were no horse or any other visual objects within a mile’s distance; he looked right at Lemuel, lifted his hat an inch or two from his head while making a small bow, and smiled. And then, he did something utterly annoying; Leeds waved to him. Lemuel could not believe the audacity of this man to wave at him as if they were old friends. Furthermore he could not believe with all of the people in the city, that Leeds would have been able to single him out, discover his intentions, and under the cover of the night. Lemuel grimaced, aggravated but retaining his composure, pretending he did not see the other at all. Mr. Leeds turned his back and continued towards the waterfront and just at the instant where it looked like he could continue his tracking, Lemuel heard from the doorway of the shop, “Lay your dirty hands away from my horse you red savage!” The mangy horse neighed a reprove as Lemuel backed away from the animal, rankled that he had drawn unwanted attention to himself. He quickly made up for the nuisance by pretending he was a drunken loafer. With the best Irish accent he could muster he said to the owner, “A thousand pardons, sir. I swear there’s no harm done by me.” “An Irish savage have we then? Well away with you, and do not show your face around here again or I shall take my whip to you.” The man cracked his whip against the horse’s backside and it reared with a furious bellow. With a fake stumble, Lemuel almost hurriedly meandered through the street and into an inn he had spotted from across the way. As soon as he reached the safety of the building, he peered through the cross lattice of its front window. William Leeds was not to be found anywhere. With little time for consternation, Lemuel wondered if Leeds had witnessed the quarrel. That infernal horse’s ass had called him red. A savage, and quite loudly as well. Lemuel was sure that if Leeds had not seen it, he would have at least heard it from a distance. With a huff, he cursed his darker skin that came mostly from his father as his mother’s skin was light. He was only glad he was not a negro, because then he would really have garnered unwanted attention. No, there was nothing to worry about. There were many Indians, as they are called, in the city. That at least could be counted on. Just as it was to be counted on that there were bigots to match that number. Tonight had to be the night. He could feel the spirits. They were on his side. His mother had taught him about the spirits. She was half-English, but it was her other half and her husband’s full Lenape blood that flowed through his veins, not just blood but their life-force and the spirits of his ancestors. Perhaps it was the one-quarter of him that was English that prevented him from seeking justice for his true ancestors. His mother, whom he took his surname from out of convenience more than anything else, wanted no part of it. She had said the Misinghalikun was part of the natural order of things and not an object for human justice regardless of what elders instructed him otherwise. Her tale of a confrontation with it intrigued him and he had begged her to reveal more to him but she refused time after time. Instead she begged him to put an end to his witch hunt as it were, saying that the elders were putting destructive thoughts into his mind and that he should follow her example and be more English. His father although he did not support his son trying to conquer that which could not be conquered, gave him only the advice that his mother and many fellow tribesfolk had. There were those that she referred to, however, that instructed him in the ways of a group of men who were to protect the ways and to serve justice. These were men who knew the truth and had taught him that justice could be served and that it was the natural order to do so. Lemuel waited a few moments more before going back on to the street. Tracking was one of his stronger talents that he had mastered with many years of experience and instruction from a tribe elder and he had an idea where Leeds was heading, even if he did know he was being watched and followed. Re-lighting his pipe, he walked down the street to turn the corner that he was sure Leeds had turned down and continued his track. He felt a sudden chill, something was not right. The street and wharves appeared vacant and still until a wind picked up strewing discarded papers and other light refuse around in spires and this movement seemed to whistle or whisper. He continued with caution, wielding a pistol from his waistcoat that he held at the ready. As he came around the bend of the corner, Lemuel tipped back on his heels as he was met by a large leathery wing that swept with utter defiance inches from his face. It was so close that it knocked with veritable ease the pipe he had just re-lit several yards away where it fell into the Delaware with an unceremonious splash. His pistol likewise was knocked from his grip and into the river. Lemuel, with all of his years of tracking William Leeds, had never seen so close with his own eyes the ferocity of the beast. He had seen a shape in flight in the sky once but never such minute and grotesque detail. He could not hold back the utter white fear that slithered through every nerve of his being. He had barely the health of mind to feel the spot of warm urine that now trickled down the front of his breeches. This thing stepped forward, its hoof clopping on the cobble like Leeds’ shoe heels did moments ago, but Lemuel had not even the reflexes to flinch away. His fear like to the demented will of Medusa had almost literally turned him to stone. The creature’s wings reached out twice a grown man’s height on either side, veins pumped nether blood through the delicate folds of skin and then back to whatever organ pumped the crimson stream in its bony chest for surely this thing could not possibly boast a heart, man nor beast. And as he stood there, the thing snorted warm breath that billowed in hot crystallized puffs around its head until each one drifted away into the air. But what could on God’s green earth be more terrifying then the beast itself with its pruny wings and bony arms outstretched with grappling crooked claws that could tear through not only flesh but perhaps even the strongest iron, were its eyes. Black as pitch, they shimmered in the twilight with a crimson twinkle. They glowed with a nightmarish haze, piercing through the beast’s hot breath as well as through the fog that drifted from the river. The beady orbs pierced through Lemuel’s soul itself and he could not to save his life remove his body or his own eyes from the beast’s sight. All of the prayers his memory could conjure would not be prayers enough to stop what he knew now was inevitable. He had lost, had been arrogant in his abilities to not only find the beast but to destroy it. It had retreated across the river because of the posses that had been organized against it, but Lemuel was just one man, and seeing this beast, he saw how one man could not possibly affront the creature no matter what weapon he had on his body. The elders had been wise in preventing him from a confrontation like this, alone, and now he would pay the price for this conceit. This beast like any demon had powers beyond man, and over man. What could he forsooth do to this creature if he could not even bring himself to move any muscle in his body? The beast came closer and curled its wings around his body like a curtain of fire, and Lemuel realized that somehow the beast’s body was transparent and through this gossamer shroud that was the creature’s form, Lemuel saw lying on the ground, in the shadow of a fisherman’s shack, the body of William Leeds as lifeless as a corpse. Yet his chest heaved slightly with shallow breaths. He had never seen this before and he gasped in astonishment. How could this be? The elders did not know of this. This creature could not be an apparition for it knocked the pipe out of his mouth and it was not the young Mr. Leeds transformed, for the body of the young man lay motionless not ten yards away. Was Leeds truly a man, was he attacked by the beast? No. Surely Leeds and the beast were one in the same but this was a new development altogether as all that Lemuel had known, had learned, had investigated of the beast was thoroughly without merit save for the fact that there was a connection no matter how implausible between the two. Then the beast reached outward to Lemuel with its jewel-like gaze. He grimaced in anticipation of the death blow he was sure to receive from a pair of smooth taloned arms but instead, the beast leapt with such speed and precision that Lemuel in less than a second’s passing was left alone on the corner, in the dark, and in silence. Not a moment passed when he heard screams, not human but otherworldly, hellish in their inflection as if thousands of damned souls echoed in unison their despair at being trapped in the lair of Beelzebub. Human screams followed. As if the beast itself had desired so, Lemuel found he was now able to move and had the motivation to run toward these screams. A dark shadow hovered in the air, replacing the full circle of moonlight. He could even hear the wings flap, they sounded like a ferocious wind hitting the rough canvas sails of a large ship. The whirlwind died down and the beast disappeared into the black of the night sky. When it was all over, Lemuel was awoken from his deep thought by laughter as several young colonials snickered uncontrollably and pointed at his trousers. He looked down; his face turned to stone not out of fear this time but from embarrassment as he soberly realized what they were laughing at. With a wicked sneer towards them he closed his coat over around his body, securing the buttons. He threw a concerned glance at the space where the flying form of the beast hovered moments ago, Lemuel remembered that he had left Leeds’ human body in the street in his ambition to see the cause of the screams, to follow the beast. He bolted to the corner where he had come face to face with the ungodly creature and to his dismay the body was gone. Cursing his stupidity he kicked the building. He allowed himself to become paralyzed with fear and was unable to finish this business. He had also been too confident. Here was the thing he sought and he now realized he had not the means of capturing nor killing it. He would not be this stupid next time or let himself be embarrassed. He had confronted the actual beast, as close as ever, and knew now what to expect. William Leeds was easy pickings now that Lemuel saw beast and man separate components of the same entity. He had but to gather up the unconscious youth and wait for him to awaken, so that he could see with a clear eye, the shackles Lemuel would place him in. Chapter 2 Any comments or critiques? wermosguidetohuttese@yahoo.com |