“I think you’ve wished for something so strongly that you believe it’s true,” Matthew replied. “What do your mother and father think about this?”
“They don’t. I never knew my pa. My ma liked her drink strong and her men wild. A few years ago she got full of one and ran off with the other. Goin’ to Charles Town, she said. Be back directly, she said. And him in his wagon full of ’gator skins, ’cause he was mighty good with a spear and a knife. Said she’d be back directly, but she never came back.”
“You were married to Daniel by then?”
“No, not then. I was left on my own. But soon after that, Daniel came to Rotbottom like any outsider does…to hunt the ’gators. Get their skins, get paid for ’em in the big town. We met at a dance, on a night in May. But Daniel was an educated man, and soon after we met he decided his callin’ was to start a school for the young ones—teach ’em readin’ and such—and give up the huntin’. You’ll remember, in time. I know he’ll bring the memories back.”
Matthew sighed. Her conviction that he had been ‘possessed,’ if that was the correct term, by the spirit of her dead Daniel was—for the moment, at least—unshakeable. She was desperate and out of her mind. He couldn’t go any further along that route, but as they pushed onward through the woods he decided he needed to ask about one more thing that had piqued his interest.
“The beast,” Matthew said. “You said Daniel was taken by a beast that came out of the smoke. What did you mean by that?”
“I meant what I said,” was the firm reply. Lightning speared through the clouds to earth and distant thunder rumbled like a bass drumbeat. “It’s called the Soul Cryer. Sobs like a little child.”
Matthew said nothing for a moment, as he had run into thornbrush and was picking his way carefully forward even as the thorns pricked at his shirt and trousers. He was recalling Granny Pegg’s warning and the sound he’d heard at the village of the Dead in Life. “All right,” he said. “But what is it?”
“Nobody’s ever really seen it up close and lived. Just glimpses from a distance. Seems to be about the size of a man. Mottled colors, brown and black. Can run on four legs and walk upright on two.” She glanced at him to make sure he was listening seriously, which he was. “First heard about it killin’ a man when I was ten. Took him from a huntin’ party. They found his bones couple of months later. Brought ’em back to town in a sack. They were all broken and had teeth marks all over ’em, I remember that. But sometimes they never find the bodies or bones. They never found my Daniel. And they have found bodies with just the throat ripped out, or the face chewed away or the heart gone. The Soul Cryer’s a meat-eater, but it kills for pleasure too.”
Magnus had been close enough to hear most of this conversation, and now he came a little closer. “You talkin’ about the demon thing supposed to live up in here? Somethin’ the witch made and let loose? That would be a good story, except what I hear is that the thing wasn’t around until six or seven years ago. It’s just an animal, is all. Likely a panther.”
“Could be,” said Quinn. “But the colors aren’t right. Not brown and black. They say its skin looks scaly…like a snake’s. And walkin’ on two legs, which somebody from Rotbottom swore he saw at a distance? There are plenty of deer and wild boar in these woods. Why does it want to hunt men?”
“Because men can be more careless than deer and wild boar. They get out here huntin’ and they forget to look at what’s comin’ up behind ’em.”
“The Soul Cryer’s as much part of this swamp as the river itself,” Quinn said. “It’s a cursed thing too, born of pain and bound to give pain. Whether a witch made it or not, or where it came from, I don’t know, but I know what sufferin’ it can cause. When you hear that thing cryin’, you’d best guard your life.”
As much as a short-bladed sword could do against a man-killing predator of supposedly supernatural nature, Matthew thought, but then again…he didn’t believe in such things. Did he?
The searchers moved on. Overhead in the turbulent sky the lightning flared from clouds to earth and the sound of thunder seemed to shake the ground. No rain fell, and there was no relief from the stifling heat. Within the next hour a man on the left side of the row from Matthew and three beyond Magnus stepped into a bog that looked simply like a large puddle of grainy mud. He let out a series of shouts for help when it quickly took him down to his knees and like a viscous paste held him trapped there. Then it began to draw him downward still, and though the man panicked and fought against the thick embrace he could not pull free nor stop his slow submergence. The others ringed around to watch, keeping their distance from what Matthew realized was a quicksand pit. Stamper somewhat redeemed himself for the killing of Jackson by taking command of the situation, ordering Bovie, Magnus and a couple of others to find the largest fallen treelimb they could handle, drag it over and throw it into the pit for the unfortunate citizen of Jubilee—whose name was Tom Coleman, Matthew learned—to grab hold of and therefore pull himself up to solid ground. This endeavor, which took the weakening Coleman another half hour to complete before Magnus reached out and pulled him fully free, was a hard-earned lesson to all not to walk so confidently—or foolishly—into any body of standing water in these woods, no matter how shallow it seemed to be. Many small branches suddenly were in use to probe the treacherous earth. Matthew found his own and both Quinn and Magnus also acquired them, and then as the storm above continued to throw fireworks from the clouds and sharp rebukes from what seemed the angry voice of God someone asked a question:
“Where’s Doyle?”
“What’d you say, Ellis?” Stamper asked the man who’d spoken.
“Doyle,” the man repeated. He was thin and brown-bearded, his eyes sunken in nests of wrinkles, and he held an axe at his side. He scanned the assembly, which included Royce and Gunn, Lott and Morgan and all the rest…except the one he sought. “John Doyle. He was walkin’ to the right of me. Know he must’ve heard Tom’s shoutin’. Where is he?”
“Maybe takin’ a shit in the woods,” said Bovie. “Who gives a care where he is, anyway?”
“I care,” said the other. “John’s my friend. He was maybe thirty feet away from me.” He turned to the right and faced the wilderness. He cupped his free hand to his mouth. “John!” he shouted. “Where are you, man?”
There was no reply.
“John! Holler back!”
Still nothing.
“We’ve got to move on.” Royce swiped his hand through the air to ward off the biting and humming insects, of which there were legion around every man and the one female. “Doyle’s got himself lost, maybe.”
“He was right beside me,” Ellis said, as if explaining this fact to either an infant or an idiot. “Saw him through the trees. Then I heard Tom and I came over here. Figured John would follow.” He shouted once more into the thicket: “John Doyle! Answer me!”
John Doyle did not answer.