Set in Colonial New England, Slewfoot is a tale of magic and mystery, of triumph and terror as only dark fantasist Brom can tell it.
Connecticut, 1666.
An ancient spirit awakens in a dark wood. The wildfolk call him Father, slayer, protector.
The colonists call him Slewfoot, demon, devil.
To Abitha, a recently widowed outcast, alone and vulnerable in her pious village, he is the only one she can turn to for help.
Together, they ignite a battle between pagan and Puritan – one that threatens to destroy the entire village, leaving nothing but ashes and bloodshed in their wake.
“If it is a devil you seek, then it is a devil you shall have!”
A Macmillan Audio production from Tor Nightfire
Release date:
September 14, 2021
Publisher:
Tom Doherty Associates
Print pages:
320
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“I do not hear you … I cannot hear you. For the dead do not hear.”
A chorus of whispers.
“Leave me be.”
You must wake.
“No. I am dead. And dead I shall remain.”
You can hide no longer.
“There is nothing left for me out there.”
There is blood.
“No … no more. I am done.”
They come.
“For the sake of all, leave me be.”
They are here, at your very door.
“I care not.”
We have brought you a gift.
“I want nothing.”
Blood.… Smell it.
“No, I smell nothing. I am dead.”
But the shadow did smell the blood drifting around it, into it, becoming part of it, and with it came the hunger—but an itch at first, then, as the smell permeated the air, a painful clawing.
“Oh,” the shadow moaned. “Sweet blood.”
The shadow opened its eyes, shut them, then opened them again.
There, in the dirt, lay a four-legged beast, not a deer, not any animal it recognized, but a shaggy thing with split hooves and thick curling horns. It lay broken with its guts spilling from its belly, its eyes flickering and its breath fast and shallow.
The shadow drifted toward the animal. The beast fixed wild eyes on the shadow and began to quake, then bleat. The shadow fed on the fear, sliding closer, closer, pushing its smoky tendrils into the warm gore, drinking in both the terror and the blood.
The shadow began to find its shape, the blood forming arteries and veins, cartilage, bone, sinew and muscle. It began lapping the blood, then—realizing it now had teeth—tore into the animal, shoving its muzzle into the warm guts, devouring flesh and bone alike. The shadow felt a thump in its chest, another, convulsed, then a heartbeat, drumming faster, then faster. The shadow, which was no longer a shadow, lifted its head and let out a long howl.
Good, said the other.
“Good,” said the shadow, now a beast. And for the first time in ages heard its own voice echoing off the cave walls.
Are you still hungry?
“Yes.”
Would you like more blood?
“Yes.”
There is more above.
The beast looked up, spotted a sliver of light at the top of a long craggy shaft.
What is your name? asked the other.
“I do not remember,” replied the beast.
You will. Oh, but you will … and so will they.
* * *
“SAMSON!” Abitha called, trying to quell the rising panic in her voice.
She moved quickly, following the split-toe tracks as they wove through the shocks of dried cornstalks. She knew the goat couldn’t have gone far, as she’d just seen the beast not an hour before. She reached the edge of the field and stopped, scanning the dense Connecticut woods. The trees, even at the dead end of winter and with all their leaves shed upon the cold earth, swallowed the light, making it difficult to see more than a hundred paces forward.
“Samson,” she called again. “Sam!” The chill air made mist of her words.
She noted the heavy clouds above, could see dusk would be upon her soon. If she didn’t find Samson by dark, then the wolves, or one of the wild men, surely would. Yet she hesitated, knowing how easy it was for a soul to enter that wood and never come out. She looked back to the cabin, debated fetching the musket. Deciding there was no time, she sucked in a deep breath, hefted the hem of her gray woolen skirt, and forced herself into that murky maze of trees.
She followed the tracks around a knot of blackberry vines and down an embankment, doing her best not to slip in the half-thawed mud and leaves. The branches and brambles tugged at her coat and long skirt. A limb caught her bonnet, pulling it from her head, unbinding her long auburn hair. She reached for the bonnet and her foot slipped out from beneath her, sending her sliding down the slope and into a boggy ravine.
“Hell and hell!” Abitha cried, then glanced furtively about. There was no one out here, but being careful had become habit, as she well knew the price should one of the sect hear her curse so.
She grabbed a branch and made to stand, but the branch snapped, sending her over onto her hands and knees, the muck sucking the boots from her feet. “Son of a whore!” she cried, this time not caring who heard.
Abitha spat out a speck of mud and began digging for her boots, found them, and tugged them from the bog. She tried shaking out the mud. When that didn’t work, she began raking out the muck, the hard leather biting into her half-frozen fingers. When the pain became too much, she stopped, clutching her numb hands to her chest, trying to regain some warmth.
“Samson,” she called, searching the soggy bog, scanning the endless wilderness, wondering how a girl from London ever ended up in such a brutal, unforgiving land. She felt the sting of tears and wiped at the corners of her eyes with the backs of her wrists, smearing mud across her cheeks. “Stop with the tears. You’re not a child anymore.”
She let that sink in for a moment.
Nay, be twenty come spring. A woman now … and a married one at that. Her brow tightened as she tried to count the months, realizing she’d been married nearly two years, found it all so hard to accept—a husband, a farm, the Puritans, especially the Puritans and their austere way of life. And all her days she’d been led to believe she’d be a maid to some lord or lady. Not much of a life to be sure, but at least she’d not fear starving come each winter. Did not turn out so, did it, Abi? Nay, Father certainly saw to that.
Her father had heard about the king’s bounty for brides to the colonies, selling her off to the government for a handful of coins. She’d been promised to her husband, Edward Williams, before she’d even left the shores of England, a girl of only seventeen.
Being a teacher, Abitha’s father had insisted she learn her letters right along with her two younger brothers. Thus, Abitha had no problem reading her promissory note, pulling it out during the long voyage over whenever she needed a good laugh, or a good cry.
Virtuous, obedient young woman, fair of face and complexion, shapely figure, good upbringing from pious, well-mannered house.
Pious indeed, she’d thought, if having a father who put more money to drink than bread and a mother who’d used cursing as a form of poetry counted. And calling her virtuous? Well, if you ignored the outbursts of profanity, occasional thievery, and a propensity for brawling, then perhaps she was just the candidate to marry into a Puritan village. As to “fair of face,” well, no one had ever told her that one before, not with her impish nose, not with a complexion that bloomed red with her temper and ruddy with the cold. And she guessed “shapely” meant something else to the man who’d penned this ditty, because her scrappy figure had rarely turned the head of any man she’d noticed. But it all lost its humor as the ship entered New Haven harbor. As it became real, she found herself sure her new husband would turn her away on sight. But if Edward had been surprised, so had she, as Edward wasn’t all she’d hoped. He was a fair-looking man, maybe even handsome, about ten years her senior, with a full head of dark wavy hair, but he had a swayback, a hunch, that caused him to walk with a stoop.
And what he might think of her, she couldn’t tell, at least not then, because if Edward had been disappointed, he never let on—greeting her upon arrival with a timid smile. Then, after an awkward handshake and a brief, businesslike introduction, he plucked up her only bag and led her to his mule-drawn wagon, taking her away to her new life.
And here I be, she thought, digging frozen mud out from my boots and chasing a stupid goat into the deep, dark wilderness.
A distant howl snapped Abitha from her thoughts. She gave up trying to empty the muck from her boots and just shoved them back on, struggling up. Her long skirt was now covered in mud and soaked through, weighing her down, making the going even more difficult. She plucked a stout stick from the muck for balance and searched for the tracks, quickly picking them up again. They led her to the far side of the ravine, to a clump of boulders jutting out from the hillside.
Abitha studied the dark stones, was struck by how similar they looked to a giant crumbling stump, wondered if it might be the petrified remains of some ancient tree, tried to imagine just how huge such a tree would need to be to leave behind such an immense relic. She noticed something else, smaller boulders, upright and evenly spaced in a broad circle around the stump; she counted twelve of them. There was something peculiar to the way they were set, as though placed there by some bygone giant.
The hoofprints disappeared into a hollow at the base of the petrified stump. Abitha could see it was the entrance to a den or small cave and approached cautiously, scanning for signs of bears or wolves. But the only disturbance to the wet leaves was that of the goat.
She stepped closer and, setting a hand on the overhang and peering into the cave, found only darkness and shadow within. Yet, still she felt uneasy, as though eyes were on her, and regretted not bringing the musket.
“Samson?”
No response, nothing but that unsettling darkness.
“Damnable beast, why would you wander into such a hole?” And it struck her as odd how the tracks had been so direct, almost a beeline from the barn, as though the goat knew about the cave.
“Samson,” she called again.
Nothing.
“Samson! Get out here … now! Do not make me come in after you.” And in a soft whisper, “Please do not make me go in there.” She contemplated going back to the cabin and returning with Edward, but she didn’t know when he’d be home—could be hours. We cannot lose the goat, she fretted, knowing the beast had cost them dearly, another debt atop all their mounting debts. But it was more than that, it was knowing this was her fault, as she’d been the only one in the goat pen today, discovering the errant goat only when she’d come out to milk the two nannies for supper. But what she most dreaded was seeing Edward’s face when she told him what she’d done, of having to bear his defeat at the loss. No, that she couldn’t take.
“Samson,” she pleaded. “Please.”
She set her teeth, stooped, and stuck her head into the opening, waiting as her eyes slowly adjusted. The cave was larger than she’d expected, about the size of a wagon, with a low-hanging roof. She probed ahead with her stick, finding the floor, and slid in.
“Samson,” she called, her words echoing off the back of the cave. Her eyes continued to adjust and she could see another chamber. Nay, she thought. I’ll not go in there. Naught can make me go back there.
A slight rustle came from farther within, followed by a snort, like that of a goat. Abitha tensed, readied to flee. “Who’s there?” she called, wielding the stick like a spear. “Samson? Pray tell, is that you?” She waited, clutching the stick so hard her hands hurt. When a full minute crawled by without another sound, she slowly let out her breath. Stop being such a frightened goose. She bit her lip and took a cautious step forward, another, and suddenly she was falling.
She landed on her side, flailing for purchase as she slid downward, clawing at the loose dirt seeking something, anything, to stop her descent. She caught hold of a protruding rock with one hand, then the other, and held tight as she tried to find purchase with her feet, gasping when she realized there was no ground beneath her, just a dark hole.
Abitha hung there breathing hard and fast, listening as the loose rocks tumbled down the shaft, seeming to fall forever, and that was when she heard it again, the rustling. This time she had no trouble locating its source—it was coming from the pit below her. Then she understood what had happened, that the goat had fallen in the pit.
“Oh, you stupid beast,” she said. “You stupid, stupid blunderhead.” She felt sure the goat’s neck must be broken, or its back, and if so, the beast would no longer be any good for breeding, and you couldn’t milk a billy goat the last she’d checked. “Oh, you’re stew now, you fool of a beast. When I get—”
She fell quiet.
Another sound came from below.
She stared down the dark shaft.
Again, the sound, and she knew with absolute certainty it wasn’t the goat, but whispering. It sounded like children. She couldn’t understand the words—it seemed some other language. The natives, she thought, but no, this was something else, because she didn’t just hear the words, she felt them, as though they were crawling beneath her skin. A chill raked her body and suddenly she did understand.
Let go. We will catch you.
Abitha redoubled her efforts to escape, struggling against the weight of her muddy skirt.
Again, the voice—closer now. She spared a glance downward, could see nothing, her feet disappearing into that terrible darkness. She got an elbow over, then managed to swing up a leg, hooking it on the lip of the pit. She rolled away from the hole, made it to her knees, scrambling as fast as she could for the entrance, toward daylight, lost her footing, stumbled—and that’s when something touched her! She screamed, but nothing was there.
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