At First Light, Drew Mc Coy

They went on. Man and woman traveling at night across the darkened terrain although this was not his first choice he had no other choices in the matter. Grey clouds were building in the western sky and the temperature had been dropping since the days previous. Come sunrise he feared the barren fields of corn and tobacco would be shrouded in snowfall and the only road out of the county would be frozen over and impossible for his horse to navigate. So they went on that night, husband and wife in their horse drawn wagon down the hardpacked road leading them away from the town and deep into the backwoods, a territory of the county sparsely inhabited. A foreign land and place. They traveled under the last light of the stars, the man sawing the leather reins in his gloved hands, the iron rims of the wagon creaking and bouncing in the worn ruts of the road. His wife a shell of the woman she had once been, a few heartbeats away from death, lay dead still in the back of the wagon wrapped in awful smelling quilts, her body jostling with every bump and dip in the road. Her skin the color of parchment paper, her eyes sunken into her face and her face was wrinkled and lined with illness. She lay on her side balled in the fetal position, one bare and dirty foot protruding from the shroud. Molded straw from last summer’s harvest lay strewn about her, covering the wooden bed of the wagon.

In the light of the quarter moon he could see the bloodstains upon the sleeve of his wool jacket and he could see the horse’s breath plume then disperse into the waiting darkness. The coldness was bitter and the wind blowing in his face was stiff and sharp. Although unseen in the ink black night he could hear the leafless trees rattle in the wind as they trotted past. In the far distance he heard the faint howls and barks of a pack of nameless dogs. They had been pursuing him and his wife for the last several miles, tracking them, stalking them as if they were wounded prey. As if their blood had been spilt on the darkened earth and now glowed faintly under the moonlight for the pack of dogs to follow. It was his wife they were after. The smell of death and decay he knew was hovering in the air, riding the tails of the wind and spreading into the night like rising water. A scent which humans could not smell, and for that he was thankful. He looked back at his dying wife and shook his head and cursed. There was nothing left he could for her save what he was doing now: taking her beyond the city limits to the outer boundaries of the county to see the only person who could render her well.

It was two days previous when he approached the undertaker Ballard at his establishment on Main Street. It was cold then too, his breath smoking before his face as stood he outside Ballard’s place of business deciding whether or not it was indeed a good idea to proceed. He had always been fearful of Ballard, uneasy in the man’s presence and it was not simply because he was a mortician and took great pleasure spending his days with the dead but also because Ballard had a curious face and a slight figure and his eyes were narrow and set close together on his face giving him a peculiar look. His nose pointed like a hawk’s bill and his hair was black as a raven feathers.

He found Ballard that particular day hunched over a pine casket, his body draped in black, his fingers and hands working furiously on a dead body. He stood leaning against the threshold watching Ballard work. Then he coughed into his hand and stepped into the room. Without turning around Ballard slowly raised his head from the casket. He spun around and faced him and in his left hand he held a silver tray. Atop the tray were round tin cans of earth toned makeup and brushes to apply the makeup to the deceased. Ballard set the tray down and motioned him into the room with the flick of his hand.

I need your help, he said to Ballard without moving.

Ballard wiped his hands down the front of his black wool pants and moved across the room.

It’s my wife, he said. I think she’s dying.

You need a casket then? Ballard asked.

He shook his head. No, I don’t need a casket. Not yet.

Then what I can do?

I need to know if you can keep her alive.

Me?

Yes.

I’m not a doctor, Ballard said then. I work with the dead. You do know that, don’t do you? Ballard stepped to the side and nodded towards the pine casket. The husband looked at the pine casket and the dead man lying in the pine casket for the first time. He did not know the dead man, did not recognize the face but the face of the dead man appeared oddly familiar to him in death. As if Ballard possessed some uncanny ability to transform the faces of the dead to resemble faces of the living.

He looked from the pine casket to Ballard and nodded yes that he was well aware of Ballard’s occupation.

I just need to know if you can help me. If you can’t then I’ll let you be.

What ills her? Ballard asked.

The husband stepped fully into the room and removed his hat and held it between his hands. He was a tall man, square shouldered with tussled brown hair that had not been cleaned in days, and now was grease grimed and slick. The man’s hands and fingers were no cleaner than his hair and standing this close to Ballard the man’s wool shirt stunk, the hat too, the brim of it stained dark with dirt and sweat.

She has the plague, the man said, his voice catching slightly as he spoke of his wife.

Ballard nodded at this. He raised his arm and coughed into the crook of his elbow. Are you contagious? He spoke over his arm, fearful of lowering it maybe, fearful that quite possibly this man before him may be harboring the infectious black germ of the dreadful plague.

The man shook his head. He said, I don’t think so. I don’t feel the slightest bit sick. Even though it’s hard I’ve been wearing the mask around the house.

Ballard lowered his arm and nodded. Then come, he said, walking past the husband. They walked down a hallway lit sparsely by slender candles in hanging in lanterns from the wall. Before the hallways end Ballard stopped and opened the last door on the left, he motioned the man through the door. And they sat at a round oak table in Ballard’s kitchen in the dim light, the world outside shut against the wooden blinds, only narrow bands of light snaked through the small creases of space, spreading dully across the wooden planked floor.

Ballard offered the man a drink of corn liquor and the man shook his head no. Said, I gave it up years ago. Haven’t tasted it since and haven’t wanted to either. But thank you.

Very well then, Ballard said, nodding. He spread his hands atop the table and stared at the man. Let’s talk about your wife, shall we?

The man leaned forward in the cane back chair, his arms and hands folded atop the table. Yes, let’s please talk about her. We need your help.

What is it you think I can do for her?

You can keep her alive. Make her well.

I can do no such thing.

The man gasped a thin wisp of air and leaned back.

Who told you I could keep your wife from dying?

Mercer, the man said.

Deacon Mercer?

Deacon Mercer.

A sly grin began from the corners of Ballard’s mouth then spread across his mouth as a whole. As if some unseen person from above was working the smile like a puppeteer would their wooden puppet.

I don’t know anything about what he speaks of, Ballard said.

You’re lying to me, the man said. I can see it flat as day. The lie is written all over your face.

I’m not lying, Ballard said back. And maybe you should recall your manners. You’re in my house. My place of establishment.

The man moved in the seat, shifting his weight, thinking of what to do next. He wished he could leave, just stand and walk out as if he had never come, but his wife, his sick, dying wife.

I’m not apologizing because I did wrong. I’m only apologizing because I love my wife and I need your help, the man said then.

Ballard took a small sip from the mason jar then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. Very well, he said.

They sat in a dead silence a moment. The world outside alive all around them, the wind racing through the trees, the clouds rolling across the sky, all of not irrelevant to the man as he sat before Ballard.

It’s an old folktale, a legend if you will. Ballard began, he took another sip of the corn liquor then he started again. It’s been passed down from family to family. My grandfather told me the tale when I was only knee-high. Said out there deep in the woods on the county line lived a man rarely seen by the townspeople. He lives in a plantation home on the McCarthy farm. Legend has it this man only comes out at night, never in the day. My grandfather told me he went back there once, said it took him a full day to find the house, that he had to walk through all kinds of woods and even had to cross a river. He said he when he found it, the house, that it stood out like a sore thumb. Said it was in pristine condition, simply beautiful. But he said the grounds of the house were clogged with weeds and tall grass and that dead animals were scattered about all over.

Dead animals? The man asked.

Yes, dead animals. He said the necks looked as if a panther or bear had ripped them open.

Did your grandfather see him?

No. He told me he hid behind a tree and just watched the house. He said he felt as if the house were watching him back, as if it was a living thing.

I don’t understand how this can help my wife?

Ballard took up the mason jar and drank and then offered it once more to the man and the man shook his head no.

Part of the folktale is that this man possesses the power to keep people alive.

How?

Depends on who is telling the story, Ballard said. Some say by simply laying his hands upon the sick he heals them. Others say that he bites the sick person and sucks the sickness clean out of them.

And your grandfather, the man said. What did he say?

That he lays his teeth into your neck and draws away your blood and disease.

Like Dracula?

Ballard was quiet a moment then nodded. Said, I’ve never thought of it like that before but yes like Dracula.

Do you believe your grandfather that man like this exists?

Ballard sighed and pushed himself away from the table and stood. He went to the window and parted the blinds with his finger and peered through the narrow opening then turned around and faced the husband.

Ballard nodded finally and eased himself back in the seat. He took up the mason jar again, only not drinking from it this time and bubbles the size of marbles floated up from the bottom to the top. The man watched the rise of the bubbles, how they floated like jellyfish through the whiskey. He guessed the corn liquor to be around 150 proof, judging by the size of the bubbles.

Where’s this man live, the man said and it was not a question so much as it was a demand. I need to know.

Ballard shrugged again. I don’t know.

The man nodded and smiled faintly like it hurt. Deacon Mercer informed me that years ago you rode out there to this man’s place. That you were seeking his help.

That was a long time ago, Ballard said.

Did he help you?

No.

Why?

Because I never went inside.

He turned you away?

No, Ballard said. I was afraid and I left before I ever met him.

Did you see him at least? The man asked, his voice desperate with angst.

Ballard nodded. I saw him, yes. It was from afar but I saw him. He does exist.

How can I find him?

Ballard rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger much like a businessman would do mulling over a proposition. As if money were about to exchange hands, legal or illegally. Ballard smiled a snakeish grin, his black eyes lit with eagerness.

Due to hard times that information will cost you. You do understand don’t you?

The man sat silently. His hands folded atop the table still. His face void of expression and near featureless in the pitiful light. He had no money to speak of. Had spent the last of their meager savings on the doctor from Louisville and the land they once owned was no longer theirs because of the doctor bills. Then like a snake striking a rat the man flinched suddenly, something deep within him snapped like a rubber band.

And unless Ballard had seen the steel blade of the knife glint in the weak light there was no way he could have known what the man–with the ease and slight of hand of a magician–had pulled from his coat pocket. The man put the blade of the bone handled knife under Ballard’s chin and pressed it against his skin, a narrow line of blood trickled down Ballard’s neck. He loomed over Ballard with his arm wrapped around Ballard’s neck, his knee pressed into the back of the chair.

She’s my wife, he said, spittle dangling from his mouth. I cannot. I will not sit by and watch her die. Tell me how to find his house.

Ballard coughed and squirmed; pleading for his life the man released his grip from around Ballard’s neck and took a step backward, the knife still pointed at Ballard.

Ballard brought his hand to his neck. He touched the red welt where the blade of the knife had been, smearing blood across his neck and shirt collar. He removed his hand and stared at it the blood streaked across his fingertips.

Good God, man. You cut me.

That was not my intention, the man said.

Then what was?

To find out where this man lives. I need to find him.

Ballard wiped the blood from his hand on his black wool trousers and shook his head. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, his cheeks were flushed, eyes still wild.

Go out the road past the general store and stay straight. The road will soon end. Cross over the pasture there to the other side. Once you get to the other side start looking for a small opening in the woods, it’s hard to find but it’s there. Once you find it go through it. It will open up just big enough for a wagon, stay on that rutted road through the woods. You’ll be running parallel to the river, depending on the water level you may have to cross through it. Just stay on that road, if you can even call it that, until you come to T. At the T go straight. Don’t go left or right, just straight. You’ll see the house after a bit; it’ll be sitting at the bottom of a hill. And remember, if you dare go out there travel only under the light of day.

The man nodded and sheathed the knife. He set his hat atop his head and squared it. Then he thanked Ballard and turned to leave.

If I didn’t tell you what were you going to do to me, Ballard said before the man exited the room.

Cut your throat, the man said back without turning around, without even the slightest bit of hesitation.

And on they rode in the pitch black darkness, the horse and wagon navigating the rocky and rutted out makeshift road. The man half asleep atop the wagon, his hands still working the reins as if from memory, his wife still in the back, only now she had rolled over onto her stomach, her brown hair pooled around her shoulders and face. If he slowed the horse and listened intently he could make the sounds of the flowing river, the water rushing over the granite and limestone rocks. It was a soothing sound; one he wished his wife was capable of enjoying.

After a while the road they traveled bended and curved around a rock outcrop then righted itself at the banks of the river, the water flowed dark like ink under the quarter moon and the quarter moon showed its reflection upon the waters rippled surface. Its image distorted much like the man’s own mind as he stayed the horse and stepped down from the wagon. He studied the water a moment then turned to the wagon and went around to the back where he hopped up into it and knelt near his dying wife. He removed his gloves and took her face in his hands, angled it so they were staring at one another. Her eyes were pale and near lifeless. He brushed her hair from her face with the backside of his hand, allowing his hand to linger a moment on her forehead just so he could feel her skin, the heat from the fever like a flame from a fire. Then he stood and put back on the gloves and stepped down from the wagon.

They crossed the river without problem or interference and were back on course for the house nestled against the nameless hillside. Soon they came to the T in the road and the man slowed the horse. Looked left and right and saw nothing save darkness in either direction. Before him was more of the same but he had no time to weigh his decision as the quarter moon still hung high in the night sky and he wanted to reach the house by the first light of day. They rode on into the darkness. The quarter moon and stars overhead were soon abated by unseen clouds and the man and wife were encased in a sort of darkness the man only thought possible in a coffin. They rode on into the darkness, the horse seeming to find his place amidst the darkness trotted along the makeshift road without the slightest tug of the reins. And from time to time he would close his eyes and allow his mind the briefest of moments to think of his wife.

He was half asleep half awake when the horse slowed then stopped, the wagon jolting, the man slid off the wooden bench seat. He righted himself and rubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands, clearing his vision. He looked behind him at the eastern sky; the sun slowly tracking upwards above the tree lined horizon was bright and intense like a fiery ball. He sat a moment without moving and watched its ascent, was moved by its peaceful elegance, the natural beauty that lied within in all the colors the sun presented: yellow, orange, red and the pink layer that resided under it all.

Before him sat the white clapboard house just as Ballard had spoken of, tucked against the hillside and between a wooded lot of live oaks and poplars that stood leafless like skeletons reaching into the breezeless morning air. Through nameless trees he spied the house. From the chimney a thin wisp of smoke rose above the tree lined horizon up into the pale sky of dusk where he lost sight of it. He squatted and studied the house. Nothing moved. Not even a bark from a dog nor the scurrying of a barn cat. Nothing save the rasping breath of his wife, the whole idea of breathing and just living was becoming a much cumbersome task for her. He wiped at his face with the sleeve of his jacket and still he studied the house and still nothing moved. He stood and walked crablike through the cold, brittle grass and overgrowth so he could peer closer yet at the distant house. And yet nothing moved. He stood and clambered down the hillside.

The house was two stories tall and a white porch wrapped around the house from the front to back. The yard was overgrown and clogged with brown winter weeds and grasses. The house if he did not know any better appeared to be vacant and rundown. He stood slowly and returned up the hill.

He tugged the reins and the horse nudged forward slowly, as if it were wary of the house. The horse pulled the wagon down the cache drive and the man stopped it short of the yard. He let loose of the reins and sat studying the house. The paint was faded and chipping, falling off in chunks like pieces of flaked skin. A set of rickety stairs lead from the uneven stone sidewalk to the wood planked porch, and from where he sat in the wagon the porch appeared to be falling apart, just short of collapsing. He studied the windows on the front of the house for a long moment. Dark curtains were pulled taut across all the windows abating any view of the inside from the man. He looked back at his wife, she lay shivering under the fowl smelling quilts and blankets. He was unsure of what to do next. He questioned if he should approach the house and knock on the door or simply wait until darkness swept over the hollow and for the mysterious man to show himself along side the dark and night.

His wife groaned and her eyes parted, revealing some resemblance of life. She opened her mouth to speak but a thin wisp of air crawled from between her lips instead of words and the man stood and went to the back of the wagon.

I know, he told her. Just hang on. I’m going for help.

He stared into her grey, dying eyes. Can you hold on?

She half nodded then grimaced in pain. She closed her eyes but he knew she was listening still, waiting on his voice to break the cold silence.

Just hang on a while longer. You’re going to be saved. Just hang on for me. You have to hang on.

And with a closed fist he knocked on the door then stepped back and waited, his hands held together before him. Nothing. He knocked again, harder, and still nothing. He rocked back on the heels of his boots and cursed. He turned and faced the wagon. The horse had her down gnawing at the dead winter grass and from where he stood on the porch he could make the outline of his wife’s motionless body under the blankets and quilts. He walked down the length of the porch, his boots a hollow empty sound on the wooden floorboards. He stopped at darkened windows, leaned and cupped his hands and peered inside. But could he see nothing save his own bare reflection upon itself. He returned to the door. He weighed his choices. He could break a window maybe or try to kick in the door, either way he was uncertain of the consequence that awaited either choice. So, instead he tried to the door handle and when he tried to turn it he found that it indeed turned and the door opened to a dark, unlit house. He went in.

The house was dark and cold and the man could see nothing. Heavy plush velvet curtains were drawn across all the windows and there was no light to be seen save the faint daylight spreading across the threshold of the front door. The man left the door standing open. Before him stood a narrow staircase but he could not see where it led. He cleared his throat and called out. His voice echoed through the vastness of the house. He called out again and again he received the same outcome. Nothing. Was the house Ballard spoke so highly of vacant after all? He turned and punched the door and cursed.

His wife was worse than before, her skin was red hot and she lay shivering under the quilts and blankets, clothes soaked through with sweat from the fever. He sat cross-legged on the wagon bed with her head cradled in his lap and wept. Sometime later he awoke dazed and disoriented. He was unsure of when he had fallen asleep, he could not recall doing so but he had. It was dusk now, the sun dropping below the distant rim of the earth. And snow fell from the grey sky above, gathering in white globs on their wool clothing and clumping in their grimed hair. He looked at his sick wife then at the foreign house and in the far east window a single candle flame burned.

He carried his wife from the wagon bed across the snow dusted yard to the front porch. This time he did not knock, he shouldered the door open and once inside he kicked it shut and laid his wife down on the wood floor. He knelt and swept her hair out of her eyes and face. He kissed her gently on the lips forgetting briefly of the sickness she harbored within then he stood. And the man of the house was standing atop the stairs watching him and his wife with a peculiar smile on his face.

Welcome, he said, his voice layered with a foreign accent the man had not heard before.

The man looked down to his wife and when he raised his head the strange man with the power to heal was standing before him, face to face.

The man stumbled backwards into the wall, startled and confused of how he had made it down the stairway so quickly, so quietly. The man said nothing. He stood expressionless staring up at Elijah, who was well over six feet tall.

I’ve been waiting on you, he said to the man. My name is Elijah. Welcome to my home. Come, he said then. Follow me.

But my wife, the man said. She’s sick and dying.

Elijah stared down momentarily at the man’s wife then he raised his head, said. I know. I can help her. But come, follow me to my kitchen.

They sat at a squared table of oak in Elijah’s kitchen. Elijah leaned over the edge of the table. The candle in the center of the table and the candle flame wavered and flickered and in the illumination the man saw Elijah’s ashen colored eyes, his face blanched and colorless.

I was told you could save my wife. Is what they say true?

Yes, what they say is true. I can save her. But to save your wife means I cannot save you.

I don’t need saving, the man said.

Are you certain?

Yes, I’m very certain.

First, tell me why you want your wife healed?

Because I cannot live without her. I cannot fathom waking up a single day without her by my side. I wouldn’t be able to live if she were to die, the man said.

If I heal your wife she will out live you.

That’s okay. I’ll manage through my life as long as she’s in it with me.

You will die before her, you understand? She will live a very, very long time and you won’t. You will die and put her through what you’re avoiding going through with her death.

That’s a long ways away, the man said.

You sound selfish and confident right now. Are you?

No, the man said. I’m certain of what I want. I traveled a full day to come to your house to see you. I’m just a husband who wants his wife better is all.

That’s all?

That’s all.

Elijah stood and went to the sink. He placed a cup under the faucet and filled it and drank from it. The man sat watching him as he did this and the man suddenly realized that Elijah’s reflection was absent in the lone kitchen window, as if he was not standing there. The man stood, knocked the chair over, and crossed the kitchen and stood behind Elijah. He could not believe what he saw; it was as if his mind were up to trickery, some long ago magic trick like Houdini. Elijah and the man stood shoulder to shoulder but only the man was silhouetted against the dark window pane. The man wheeled backwards, stumbling, falling over the kitchen table and overturned chair.

It is okay, Elijah said. You eyes do not deceive you. What you see is really the truth.

The man lay flat on his back. His breathing was rapid and frantic, his eyes wild with terror. Elijah stood over him, his body cloaked in a black velvet suit, his black hair long and tied back with a piece of cowhide.

Let’s heal your wife, Elijah said, turning, his jacket billowing behind him like cape.

Upstairs in Elijah’s bedroom the man’s wife was laid out on a delicate lace comforter as if ready for burial. Her hands were clasped and rested peacefully atop her stomach. Next to the bed on the nightstand sat a basin of warm water, draped over the lip of it a linen cloth. Elijah dipped the linen cloth into the water and then placed on the wife’s neck. She did not move and Elijah gently scrubbed at her neck in a small circular motion then he rinsed the linen cloth back into the basin. The man watched all this from across the room, he was seated in a large leather chair.

Elijah leaned over and sunk his teeth into her neck and bit down hard, his jaws tense and corded with muscles unknown. Blood streamed down her neck and chest and soiled the delicate lace comforter. He bit down harder, sucking her blood. Her neck turned from red to purple to black and her body arched and thrashed, her arms and legs twisting in pain as if a jolt of energy surged through her veins in place of blood.

The man shot up from the leather chair and crossed the length of the room in three strides but was met with Elijah’s swinging backhand that sent the man falling flat on his backside, knocking him out cold.

#

He awoke to darkness then coldness, his body numb from pain or the cold he could not tell. He staggered to his feet and gauged his surroundings. Above, the sky was dark and cloud covered and snow fell in droves. The ground was snow laden and stark white. The front door of the house stood open and as he moved towards it Elijah and his wife filled the opening. Elijah held an iron lantern in his right hand and the light from the candle lantern played on his wife’s face. And it was as beautiful as ever. Full of life and all things he knew of goodness from her.

He called her name but she did not respond. He called for her again, his voice strained against the cold, his breath pure white smoke in the nighttime darkness.

She looked up at Elijah as if for approval and he nodded towards the man. She came down the steps angelic like, clothed in a red flowing dress like a dot of blood she moved across the white snow.

He opened his arms to her but was greeted with more than a hug. She nestled her face in the crook of his neck and he did not feel the sensation of pain at first. Only the warm kiss from her cold lips then a feverish warmth of pain shot through his body and he could literally feel the blood from within being sucked out of him.

He lay on the cold ground on his back watching the snow spiral downward feeling no pain at all save the sick emptiness in his heart. And staring upwards through the snowfall and vast darkness he saw an image of his wife from when they first met some years ago. An image of her from before the sickness, from before this man named Elijah took her from him and this world. And he smiled at her and wept then he took her hand in his and closed his eyes. They went on.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Drew McCoy ( http://www.drewmccoy.com/ )is 29 years old and presently studying creative writing at Murray State University. He’s been published in numerous publications most recently his short story, “The Long Way Home” placed 2nd in a southern gothic short story competiton and is featured in the anthology “Southern Gothic Shorts”. And his short story, “How to Be Loved” is being adapted into a short film by T5G Productions. He currently lives in Kentucky with his wife and son where he is at work on a historical novel set in and around 1937.