All Hallows Read online

  “Did I get it?” She covered her face with her opposite forearm and pointed the finger at Maren.

  “Not even close. Get the bone first. Not a hairline; a full-on fracture. Break it with the rock and bite it free. Pull like a dog with a rope, then snip any hangers-on. Get one down and the rest will follow. Four means four.”

  “I can’t. I want to, but my brain won’t let me, and…”

  “We’re ready aside from this detail,” Maren said, her face severe. “We have a circle, we tore paper, and if you ever do your part, I will start the forge. I’ve done what I can. You must do this willingly, Abigail. If you do not, Mary wins. You lose. Everything, as you said. You’ll lose your child.”

  Forget Maren. Kenna wants held. She’s so afraid—where’s her mother? You can’t save her, but you can comfort her. What if she dies while you are busy bruising your hands? If you don’t hold her before the end, you’ll hate yourself forever. Love your infant while she’s still alive.

  “Shut your awful mouth! I want you out of my head! You have no right to—God, what else can I do?”

  Lines in Maren’s forehead deepened. “Nothing. Not if you can’t do anything. Nothing will carry the higher price. It will at the end.”

  “Maren, please help me. We already lost… I lost Samuel. We lost our little boy. My child is dying, and I can’t—you said you could help. Please. I’m going insane anyway. Are there drugs or can you… I don’t know what’s right or wrong, and this… this voice in my head is saying to… please.”

  Abby offered the elderly woman the cudgel of lumpy rock, rings of teeth marks and welling cuts marring her fingers.

  Maren sighed. Kenna’s breath rattled.

  “I can’t help you, Abigail. Not in this. I would if I could, but—” Maren’s face puckered.

  “What, what is it? You thought of something. I saw you.”

  Maren looked at her waistcoat, at the three tiny chains; at the zippers. “I’ve had an idea. I hate it already.” Kenna whistled and rattled in the carrier, her fists tinged blue.

  12

  “Tell me!”

  “It will hurt more than the fingers, and that’s if it works at all.”

  “I can’t get them off,” Abby insisted. “I tried, I swear, but Mary or whoever—”

  “—Let’s not use her name again. Banish her from your thoughts. I’ve done what I could to dispel her, but she’s strong, and wily, and she came prepared. I will try a final time, but it won’t hold. You must promise to act without question, immediately, and you will not let her know what I propose.”

  “I promise. I don’t care what it is. If you have to… kill me or, I don’t care. Just Kenna. Do it. She’s dying. My little girl’s dying. Do anything, Maren. I couldn’t. I tried.”

  Hecksbesen’s femur dangling with the insouciance of a cigarette, Maren found an unmarked packet of cellophane, dumped the contents into the palm of her hand, and tamped the femur full.

  She blew through the bone, which honked like a clarinet with a pinched reed. Dust flew into Abby’s hair and face, powdering her shoulders.

  “Honey?”

  “Yes, dear? I’m teasing again. It’s salt.”

  “Just salt?”

  “There is no such thing as just salt. Be silent. Recall your vow. Mary must not witness or know.” Maren unzipped the first compartment of her waistcoat and gathered the chain in her hands, coaxing the occupant outdoors.

  “What’s—”

  “—Shush. There have been no clinical trials on this batch, understand. Nothing may happen, or it may go as I hope—or this may lay eggs behind your eyes and make a bomb of your head. You may die a thousand different ways. I don’t have the time to list the… if you’ve ever watched a television commercial, you get the idea. It may chew through your liver.”

  “Do I have to sign anything?”

  “What? No. It will enter through your nose. It will burn.”

  “Like horseradish?”

  Maren tapped her foot. “Why does it matter? Root or rhizome? You will know it is going well if it feels like you’ve done a line of both. Honestly, I’d rather bite my fingers off, but to each their own. Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you pray, Abigail, now’s the time. I don’t judge.”

  “Okay. I will. Even if He doesn’t listen to my… no, that’s the voice. He will this time. I know it.”

  “Prayers are for the desperate, and we are that,” Maren said, pulling the tiny collar free and presenting her creation.

  “Dear Lord Jesus,” Abby said.

  “A fine beginning,” Maren said. The night worm wrapped weakly around Maren’s forefinger.

  “What on earth is—?”

  “We’re out of alternatives. Your beak is already broken, so there’s a plus. You’ll thank me later. This will straighten you out. Let’s trust that any further excavation is… limited.”

  “That goes in my nose?”

  “Other orifices could result in… The nose is best.”

  “Kenna isn’t breathing.”

  “Slow is different than not. This first. Then fingers. Then we can move along to the child.”

  “Kenna. Her name is—”

  “—Stop talking. Abigail, if this is the last thing you hear on earth… well, I don’t know what to say. Nothing sublime. Brace yourself.”

  The usual problem was presented: one end of the worm was twin to the other. With time against her, Maren stuffed a tip in either nostril and squeezed the more unique segment for good measure. Abby squeezed her eyes shut so tightly she wept yellow slime.

  “Pick your highway, but get a move on,” Maren urged the worm. “You are needed. You can save a life or two, but we are rushed. Redecorate later.”

  The night worm quivered, its skin blackening, its smooth segment warming. The head formed and pushed, sucking its tail free and around.

  Abby screamed, biting her knuckles—though not hard enough to further the cause. Maren pinned the mother’s hand until the worm was past the point of return.

  “There’s the wasabi,” Maren said. Abby nodded imperceptibly, her face distorted. “Next comes pain.”

  Abby grunted.

  Her face bulged as though it would split, tightening until Maren could see the worm’s musculature and a tinge of blue under Abby’s skin. The bridge of Abby’s nose cracked into position as the invader pushed again; Abby yelped like a kicked pug.

  “Told you there was a benefit. I’ll leave you to it,” Maren said.

  Abby screamed; Kenna wheezed.

  “Will it help if I describe the rest? This is less an ashtray and more a furnace. I am famous for not doing as I am instructed. It serves for sacrifice on the go—shedding yourself of a curse, say, or dodging an evil eye—”

  “—Evil eye!” Abby yelled, a clot of blood on her tongue. “I knew those were real! They bounce!”

  Maren bit at her lip, contemplating whether the night worm might have penetrated Abby’s brain.

  “Anyway, there are two primary forms of apotropaic sacrifice. Mind you, I am keeping this simple, Abigail. Your fingers will be incinerated, the ashes blown over your daughter, and there you are. What else might answer such a sacrifice I hate to think; demons adore anyone in a toot. Gives them fine print advantage.”

  “Demons?”

  “One worry at a time. No touching! I know it’s pushing, but pray it is merely lost. Relax, but don’t—there, good, it’s moved on. I can see your—”

  “—Why don’t I just break the rock? Sharper.”

  “Yes, that’s a good… Abigail?”

  “It says it… it needs more room.” Cords stood-out in Abby’s neck, and her scream was strangled into more sight than sound.

  There was a steam component to the noise, which reminded Maren of something. She reached for her bowling bag as a sausage-thick bulge rippled across Abby’s face.

  “It says it’s done,” Abby said. “For now.”

  “That was fast. She knew our need. B
e thankful you didn’t get Dottie, or you’d… no embolisms?”

  “No. I feel… I’m fine.”

  “Good. Do what you must, Abby. We are on the count. I can’t bring Kenna back if she… not if you want her as she was.”

  “Right,” Abby said, banging the round rock on a six-sided bolt securing the bench to its concrete pad. The rock broke into halves on the third try, as sharp as quartz-rich granite could be, which put it in company with an average butter knife.

  Maren pursued her other line of thought. Steam. Teakettle. Tea. Steeped hibiscus? Tisane of ranawara? Hot water? Chipped cups? Extended pinkies? Maren swore bitterly, knowing she was missing an easy solution, though to which problem she was not yet sure.

  Abby lifted the rock above her head and crushed her left hand. “Oops. Bent my wedding ring,” she said conversationally.

  “Try for precision, Abigail. Another idea is on my tongue, but I don’t know what or why. Could be a pie crust for all I know. This day has been harder on my nerves than I would have thought.”

  Abby hammered the edge of the rock with swings that were steady and strong. She lifted her left hand for a machine-like assessment. Two of her fingers were limp and hanging.

  “Here come the ants,” Abby said. “Such efficiency. I always admired that.” The rock descended with the click of rubble and the unmistakable hit of meat.

  Abby began to recite a prayer, or Maren thought it a prayer. The lyrics were quite unique, however, and if the character of Lady Lard featured in any of the psalms, Maren had missed that passage.

  The rock slipped; bone broke. Abby continued her lullaby with hitching breath, her throat closing as tightly as her daughter’s.

  “May Gaea smile on Renata Belleki,” Maren said. “Tough old bird.” Rennie had died with several vertebrae impinging on nerve clusters in her lower back—it seemed that her tolerance had carried-through to the worm.

  Maren glanced at the formation of ants Abby had mentioned, dismissed them as the natural sort, and looked at the purple face of the child. Kenna’s body seized in feeble, stretching movements, and she emitted what would be a death rattle in another dozen breaths.

  “Not comphrey. Not ginseng. Porcelain?” Maren swore and reached for Hecksbesen’s skull. “What am I thinking, Bessie?”

  “There’s three,” Abby said, blood puddling about her elbows. She leaned to balance on her elbows, exchanging bludgeoning power for more precise taps.

  Looking at Bessie’s skull narrowed the thought. “Feathers. A game animal. A gobbler? Anatolia! Oh, for crying out loud—I detest this slowing of my gray matter,” Maren exclaimed, tearing into the bowling bag with abandon.

  “Almost there,” Abby mumbled.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  The final digit was broken but not yet free. A mild overbite delayed the amputation of Abby’s ring finger. It slid about, slick and chewy. Abby thrust with her lower jaw, renewed her efforts, and tugged at her finger until it joined the pile.

  Maren emerged from her bag. “Gypsophila glandulosa!” she shouted.

  Abby stared with dull eyes. “Was that a spell?”

  “More of a plant. Ottomans grow them like weeds, but I fight to cultivate in this clima… paniculata is readily available. You’ll see it in wedding bouquets. This is the type to use in a tea, though I couldn’t… blast my memory.”

  “I’m finished,” Abby said, the full complement of fingers on her right hand pointing to the jumble of her left, which was drawing inquisitive ants. Maren thought the pile looked rather like a forgotten basket of half-eaten hot wings. “Fingers for Kenna. Anything.”

  “Anything? Oh, right. Hold that thought—we have this now. Not much to look at, is it? Baby’s breath is the common name. We could use that about now. Do you smoke?”

  “No.”

  “Moonshine and singing cowboys! I had a match… somewhere. Curse this bag!” Maren dug like a collie at the beach, the bowling case rattling as though a giant were shaking a dishwasher packed with saucers and forks.

  “Kenna’s dead. I failed. Just like—”

  “—Don’t say the name. Nor should you despair. Not yet. Kenna is past regular medicine, yes, but if I can get this infernal sprig of—hold this. Other hand,” Maren said, looking at Abby’s gray face and clouding eyes.

  “Should I help with the—?”

  “I could certainly use a hand, but you’ve ruined yours.”

  “You made a joke,” Abby observed.

  “I’m nervous, Abigail. Makes me say silly things. I’d take some help, but you’re all thumbs. See? Did it again. You can’t blame me: I’ve got a dying child, a dying mother… ethics put you at Mary’s feet, but I’d have to take a skosh of responsibility.”

  “Do we burn them now?”

  “What, the fingers? We’ve moved on from that. Gather them up, if you want. I need this forge going. Here’s a kitchen match at last. Not fifty years ago, half of everyone had a lighter. Times fly.”

  Maren bent over the tiny forge, Bessie’s femur in the corner of her mouth. She struck the match down her waistcoat, made a cup with her hands, and touched the flame to the fuel, blowing until smoke became fire.

  “I have to puke.”

  “Vomit wherever you like, so long as it’s not here,” Maren said, her concentration unbroken. Kenna’s final burst of kicking heels and a liquid wheeze demanded priority.

  Abby crawled to the anthill, thought of the damage done by the black wasp, and rolled away, retching on a bare patch.

  Maren centered the femur between her lips, pushed against the inlet, and blew the forge for all she was worth, holding the dry spray of baby’s breath over the copper element. The glandulosa was reduced to white ash in the space of seconds.

  Tamping the ash into the bone, Maren looked at Kenna. The infant’s face was contorted like her legs, her arms rigid in a running pose; deep purple welts had burst with pale yellow pus.

  “Født af ild; genfødt af aske,” she whispered. “Swallow your soul, child. If it escapes, you will miss it someday.”

  One hand at her aching back, Maren pursed her lips, brought the bone to her mouth, and released her breath explosively. Ashes rained down, tiny embers winking on their way, dusting Kenna’s face and exposed skin.

  Maren rapped the misshapen ashtray against the carrier’s shade, spreading the remaining ash over the worst of the bites.

  “Lort,” Maren allowed herself. “Be revived, child of fire.”

  Abby choked on a sob and stomach acid, clawing with her left thumb to reach her baby.

  “She’s gone. She’s—”

  “Listen to the worm!” Maren commanded.

  Kenna’s tiny hands shook as if she held maracas. A heel dug into the carrier, and Kenna gave the shivering, fluid-filled cry of her second birth. Abby had never heard a more wonderful sound.

  Maren clapped her hands and spun the carrier so that Abby could see. Rising to her knees, caked in ants and bile, her left hand spurting in places, her nose the size of a peach, Abby yipped with the sound of coyotes celebrating a kill.

  “She’s alive! Maren, the stings! They’re getting smaller.”

  “Indeed. Those will settle into a nice set of scars. Put socks on her hands so she doesn’t pick them open.”

  “I will.”

  “Whistle britches here went right to the edge—perhaps beyond—but I don’t believe her mind will be impacted,” Maren said. “Might forget about her teeth for a few days.”

  “How did you heal the bites?”

  “Unmaking magic is tricky. We got lucky. You have ants in your hair.”

  “Good. Okay,” Abby said. Several ants consulted on her broken nose, antennae waving.

  “You should know that you’ll have a second son. Spoiler alert, as the kids say.”

  “How do you—?”

  “—Mary has to continue the Bell line. She takes the first son, as you have seen. Always does. The boy-child you lost is as good as dead. He belonged to
her from the time of egg and seed.”

  “That’s… because she’s a witch?”

  Maren shrugged. “Words are buckets. They try to carry ideas. Hallett began another way, but events… I prefer to call her a force. A presence. She is not your average weird woman stirring a crucible. Doesn’t get around much.”

  “Not like you.”

  “Correct. If she is to be called alive, then Mary lives in a circle of trees too thick to attack. There’s another side to the coin: she can’t easily leave. Once in a generation, she takes her boon. This goes back to the colonies. Her story is one of rum and love and barns and hurricanes. It is best told another time.”

  “How did you know about Samuel?”

  “The Bell name put him into place. You should have let me throw Bessie’s bones, now that I think on it. We’d have avoided these doings.”

  “Why didn’t… you didn’t use my fingers?” Abby stared at the soggy heap.

  “I had every intention to turn them into so much smoking ash, but, as it turns-out, the… is Mary still in your head? Talking?”

  “The… the voice? I don’t… don’t think so. If she is, she’s quiet. I’m really cold. Is that her?”

  “That’s just blood loss. Oh, look—it has decided it’s been hurt. You save its life, and all it does is cry.”

  “Can you help me get her out?”

  “No. Then you will want to hold her, and then you’ll fall asleep, die, and then what have I done but waste my afternoon?”

  “But she needs me to—”

  “—She needs you to drive that oversized Dodge. I am not expending the rest of my medicinals and balms to fix your lesser issues. I take it back—this scarf doesn’t go with my clothes. Wrap it tightly around—yes. There’s a healing facility just there,” Maren said, indicating the medical center.

  “That’s for old people.”

  “Walk inside with a blue baby and a handkerchief full of fingers, and you might be tended. Let’s get these fingers into anything that isn’t an anthill.”

  “This is bad,” Abby said, looking at her hand. Exposed knuckles and sharp bone fragments were visible beneath the jelly of gore. “I’ll lose them.”