The large meadow stretched up the hillside like a patchwork quilt covering some great downy bed. Down below, the high desert was broken with rocky clefts and dropped away for miles into a dim purpled haze. ‘Twas only scrubby sage and brambles that eeked out a meager existence there. The meadow itself was alive with a myriad of flora. The larger beasts of the desert found respite here as well, from the desolate landscape below—so, too, their predators. Here was a haven, but a haven where there was no little risk; for its richness drew many to its bounty.
A small wood sat at the head of the meadow overlooking the bright scene, as well as the contrast; the barrenness of the high desert. Mixed conifers and a few aspens huddled over perhaps five acres. Beyond the small wood jagged peaks thrust upwards over ten-thousand feet, barring any path that way.
A narrow stream gurgled down from the higher mountains, pooled into a small pond by where the cabin was built and then trickled down through the meadow and beyond where it met its death in the dryness of the high desert. A commanding view of all that laid before one meant no stealthy figure might this way come without being spied—at least by a watchful eye.
Some years before a man of dubious repute built for himself a small cabin under the boughs of the wood’s edge. Word was he had come from Missoura, perhaps Kansas. But without doubt a place rampant with thieves and murderers and no respect for the law—God’s or man’s. He had come to hole up; hide from the restitution due from his wickedness.
Some years afterward, Luther Babcock had come here, that being the autumn of ‘67, having left the family farm in Illinois after a long recuperation from wounds suffered in the War of the Rebellion. He had tarried on the plains of Nebraska for some months, but turning an eye west, he ventured to where a man might find room enough to amble about without bumping into a neighbor every other day. So, by-and-by, he found himself on a high and dry desert between the vast mountain ranges of the west. Luther came to this tranquil place quite by accident and had made it home.
There was but one small problem—trifling really, but Luther Babcock did acknowledge now the problem it was. There was a ghost—a ghost in the wood. The first time Luther spied it was toward the gloaming on a clear December evening. A small gleam captured his eye just beside an aspen that still held a few golden leaves.
A trick of light, no doubt, he was certain. But in due course, he saw the phantom scores of times. It seemed not of fell or evil intent, but much aware of Luther’s presence. It wailed mournful cries in the wee hours, sometimes many nights in a row, like some wretchedly injured coyote or wolf. Luther became frightened at first; then angered at the disruption of a night’s sleep. Luther had even a thought to leave this idyllic place. But finally, he accepted the racket as part of what one must abide in this wild, untamed land.
It wasn’t until later, late spring, perhaps early summer, that Luther Babcock learned the truth of what was happening in the small wood by his cabin home. The outlaw that had come all those years before to this place and built this cabin had been followed. A small wretch of a woman had followed all the way from where he had lain a path of murder and mayhem. Upon finding her quarry the woman became dismayed over the fact that she had followed after him with such abandon that she knew not how to confront his evilness.
And so she hid for some days in the small wood behind where he had built his cabin to plot how to bring some justice to the man. Then, in a moment of true madness—madness wrought at the loss of her husband and two young children by this monstrous fellow’s hand, she sat and sang in chanting choruses a call to the Devil himself—and offered a deal, signed in blood, to avenge herself on this callous bastard who even now lived a harmonious life–just the sort of life he had stolen from her.
That she should have read the small print was now her bane. For in those blurred words, smeared somewhat by her own blood was a clause she would forever rue. The slow and violent death of her tormentor; murderer of her husband and children, occurred on the Summer Solstice just as darkness fell. Alas, in the clause was a stipulation that if any man abide in the cabin by the small wood at the head of that lovely meadow as darkness fell on the longest day of the year, then he, too, would die in the same manner which task had been given to the Old Ned himself. That a righteous and law-abiding man would die in that horrible manner brought such grief to her imprisoned soul that no banshee from Hell ever wailed a more mournful cry than she.
And now yet another man abided in the cabin. The sixth poor soul since her blood-signed oath had been sealed.
A small rap at the door surprised Luther. He grabbed his pistol and reached for the door. In the gloaming he saw a misty red glow, a radiant beauty was suddenly before him, impossibly lovely. But was that tears in her eyes? And just behind her? What manner of beast was that?
She fled back into the wood, whimpering once more at the horror of what she heard, becoming, again, just a small gleam beside an aspen, lush with leaves.
—
©2009 DJ Barber
DJ Barber lives in Oregon with his wife and two dogs. He writes by a window and watches the wildlife, sometimes sipping a beer as he waits on the muse.
Tags: DJ Barber
April 5th, 2009 at 2:30 pm
Well done, dj–written in a style reminiscent of writers of that era (echoes of Hawthorne, Ambrose Bierce, et al).
April 9th, 2009 at 7:57 am
Thanks, Nicholas. I always liked those stories when I was young.
–dj
July 2nd, 2009 at 7:43 am
check this out…
this is mine…