Gideon

Gideon dipped his knife into the slow moving creek. He watched as the blood was pulled from the edge of the blade, red tendrils stretching out like growing roots. Micro currents caught the color and spun it like pinwheels before diluting the crimson into nothing as it floated away. He gave the weapon several quick swishes until the dull grey of iron was visible.

He stood, muscle memory guiding his hand up to his hip. The knife made no sound as it slid back into the sheath strapped to his belt. He hadn’t bothered to wipe the blade dry. It would never rust, it couldn’t. He turned and walked the few paces back to camp, stepping around the body and gathered his belongings. It only took a few minutes to have his horse saddled and ready to ride. Another five and the rest of his gear was secured, the Hawken rifle always the last item to be stowed. He went back and picked up a nondescript brown bottle sitting next to the campfire. He poured the contents into the flames which flared, the fire turning bright blue and then a sickly green before being overwhelmed by the liquid and dying out.

“That’s just fucked up”, he mumbled, dropping the bottle into the smoldering remains and turning his attention to his companion.

He crouched over the body and looked it over. The man was lucky if he was five feet tall. His open mouth revealed crooked, broken and missing teeth. He had a wide flat nose set high between dull brown eyes that stared out at nothing. His skin was slowly sagging away from the bones in his face as the muscles relaxed. The front of his shirt was soaked in blood courteous of the gaping slice in his throat.

Gideon patted the pockets of the man’s ragged pants but found no billfold or anything else for that matter. He flipped the body over but the single back pocket was torn, the flap bunched up.

“Well damn it all.” He used a finger to push the brim of his hat up his forehead. “Just who the hell were you mister? For that matter, what were you?” Knowing no answer was coming, he rose and stepped back over to his horse. He made to leave, his boot in the stirrup, but paused. Stepping back out, he unfastened his waterskin and carried it over to the remains of the campfire. He poured water over the bottle and the cold liquid caused the hot glass to contract then shatter. Just a precaution really.

A quick refill from the creek and Gideon was on his way. He enjoyed the quiet of the woods. The branches, heavy with leaves, rustled an ancient tune as the wind blew through them. Sunlight danced with shadows caused by the swaying trees. Animal life rustled in the underbrush and thick foliage hidden from human eyes. The solitude made him smile. He was never comfortable around people. They offered too many distractions for his liking. A melody he’d once heard came to mind and it wasn’t long before he was whistling the tune, his horse carrying him far away from last night’s campsite.

Dusk was descending by the time the trees began thinning out. Old and fresh stumps marked the end of the woods and the beginning of the plains. Several hundred yards ahead a small farmstead could be seen. As he rode towards it he noticed the ground where the crops should be. The earth was dry and whatever had tried to grow up through the soil had died quickly, the remains of some crop withered and brown. He spied a scarecrow strapped to a rotted piece of lumber and paused. Though silhouetted against the fading light, Gideon could see that it was in poor shape. The burlap clothing was torn, straw spilling from the gaps and piercing the cloth all over. Its arms were outstretched ending in spindly sticks for hands that were open wide as if proudly displaying the dead earth it ruled over. A rotting pumpkin with a torn and weathered hat was perched atop its shoulders, the eyes seemingly aglow from the last of the sunlight behind it. A small black bird slowly walked along its left arm making no sound and staring at the rider. Gideon felt a cold shudder run through him. He nudged his horse to move on.

A pen had been built next to the field. It was empty though tracks in the dirt hinted that something had once lived there. He spotted a large dark shape laying on the ground on the far end of the pen. The sun was too low to cast enough light to see but he was certain of two things. The first certainty was that the tracks had been made by whatever the shape was. The second certainty was that it was dead. He looked back at the bird which was still staring at him. The horse kept moving along.

The home was a log cabin. Gideon had seen plenty of these through his treks across the mountains but it was rare to see on on the plains. The homesteader had picked a good spot close to the woods. A doorway and single window had been crudely cut out, a torn length of tarp tangling uselessly as a door. No one came out and no light came from inside. As he moved past the cabin he was surprised to find another field. This one was overgrown with wheat, healthy and ready for the harvest. Across from the field was the remains of a wagon. He led his horse over and climbed down. He wrapped the reins once around the rotting wood but didn’t secure them. He had a bad feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

He crossed over to the cabin. “Hello inside! Is there anyone home?” No answer. Not good. He reached down to his holster and pulled the strap off his Dragoon. He gave a slight tug on the grip make sure the pistol would slide out quickly if needed. Taking a deep breath he stepped up to the side of the door. “I’m asking again if anyone is inside. Make a noise if you are unable to speak”. Nothing. He grabbed the tarp and pulled hard. It came down easily and he tossed it out and away. Still nothing happened. “Shit”, he muttered before ducking his head in for a fast look. He tilted his head up and rolled his eyes. “Damn, damn damn…”

The inside of the cabin was one large room. Two windows had been cut out on the opposite wall most likely to take advantage of as much sun as possible. A small table and two chairs stood in the south corner next to a small fireplace. A makeshift bed of straw and piles of blankets was against the north wall. The two bodies were laying in the middle. It took several long minutes for Gideon to get a fire going. He didn’t see any candles or anything else that could be used for lighting. There was enough glow from the fireplace to let him see there was blood everywhere. He gingerly stepped around the scene to get to the bed. He used his knife to cut one of the blankets into thick strips. Breaking one of the chairs he was able to wrap some of the cloth around a wood leg and ignite it. The torch burned bright. It lit the room wall to wall and allowed him to view the horror that had taken place. Where once there had been a man and woman now lay only tattered raw remains. Someone or something had attacked both of them with a great amount of rage and fury. Whatever had killed these two hadn’t stopped once the bodies had been ravaged. The walls were covered in scratches and deep gouges, bits and pieces of the victims smeared and painted across every surface. There was something familiar about some of the scratches. He moved closer for a better look. His eyes opened wide as he realized they weren’t scratches but words. Writing in a language he recognized. He read aloud, the thick sounds coming easily from him. His mother and father had made him learn gaelic along with english. They told him it would be a sin if he didn’t learn the language of his people. Apparently the British had tried to outlaw it a long time ago; tried to drive it into extinction. But trust the Irish to not do what the British demanded. So he had learned both languages like a dutiful son. And now, years later, it finally paid off…sort of.

“I don’t get it”, he mumbled, “none of it makes sense”. The laughter of a small child erupted behind him. He spun, the Colt Dragoon already raised in his hand. The scarecrow stood in the doorway laughing at him.

The black bird was no longer perched on it. Gideon could hear wood scraping on wood as it shuffled into the room. The burlap hung to the floor hiding whatever legs the thing had. Gideon was not upset about that. It couldn’t have been more than four feet in height but what it lacked in size it made up for by being terrifyingly real. To make matters worse, it decided to speak. Gideon could hear the pumpkin flesh split and tear as it opened its jagged mouth.

“Hello boy-o”. The accent was a heavy brogue mixed with aa sucking sound as if a boot was being pulled from thick muck. “Didn’t think I’d see another human again”.

Gideon kept the gun pointed, his hand steady and unwavering. “I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you. I think we both know the winner of pumpkin versus gun.”

Again the scarecrow laughed its childish laugh.

“Now that’s fucking unnerving”, hissed Gideon through clenched teeth.

“Foolish human. Always you are fools. You’ve forgotten so much. Guns can’t hurt us. Lead can’t defeat us! Only iron is our bane!” It stepped forward raising it stick claws towards him.

Gideon dipped the Colt and pulled the trigger. The Dragoon is a heavy pistol. It fires a .44 caliber round going 850-1000 feet per second with an accuracy up to eighty yards. The scarecrow was only six feet away.

The round caught the creature low, where one of its legs might be. The impact spun the scarecrow against the wall. It howled in pain as splintered wood dropped to the floor and a deep red spread across the burlap. Gideon walked over and fired another round. Its left “hand” shattered apart sending a spray of blood across the wall. He drew his knife and knelt down. Without much force, he plunged the blade into the scarecrows remaining hand, pinning it to the dirt floor.

It flailed uselessly, its screams of pain and anger bouncing around the room.

“Feel free to laugh now.”

“How? How are you doing this? Its not possible!”

Gideon pressed a knee down on its chest holding it steady. “We didn’t forget as much as you thought asshole. I’ll tell you a secret. It isn’t lead that hurts you. It can be anything if we want it to be.”

“No, not true. How…?”

“Your kind is attuned to nature. Hell, you guys live it and love it. You ask permission to use it for crying out loud. We humans don’t ask. We take. We pull it from the ground and bend it to our will. We shape it against it will to do our bidding. Doing this taints it, corrupts it. It becomes poison to your kind. It may have started wit iron but lead and steel are the same. Shit, I could cut down a branch and stab you with it and you’d bleed. I know how to kill you. I know everything about you tatty bogle.”

The scarecrow looked up with hatred in its eyes. “Its been a long time since I’ve been called that. Not since the old country. Long before the great move across the waters.”

“Your kind isn’t welcome here bogle. The old ways don’t apply in the new world.”

“My kind will thrive wherever! You cannot escape us. We are forever!”

“Well, that may be true for some but not you.” Gideon pressed the Colt against the bogle’s neck and shot its head from its shoulders. “You got off easy boy-o.”

Gideon buried the bodies in the morning; two unmarked mounds of earth next to the remains of an old wagon . He set the cabin on fire, destroying any evidence of the horrors that happened there. By mid afternoon he was riding north, the smoke from the fire far behind him.