A politician’s voice would always overrule the wishes of the clergy when it came to matters of the state. Being a patrolman didn’t sound that bad compared to a life of self-mutilation for the sake of the rites, a ritual most citizens viewed as antiquated and barbaric. Still, Samuel knew that nothing was guaranteed. He knew better than to assume his patrolman position would become permanent. To keep his job, he would have to work hard to fulfill the mayor’s wishes. No matter what it took.
Samuel retrieved the knife. He twirled the handle around and between his fingers in a rhythmic motion. He tried imagining himself as a patrolman working alongside the sheriff and his underlings, standing aside while his father performed the rites alone. But mostly, he thought about the girl in the jailhouse. His chest grew tight as he imagined her red hair and her green eyes and her scarred body. When nighttime came, he went inside the cabin. His father sat beside the fireplace, stabbing the coals with an iron poker. Samuel took off his coat and laid the hunting knife on the counter.
“You don’t have to do this,” his father said.
Samuel washed his arms in the sink, drying them with a filthy towel. It had been three days since their visit to the mayor’s estate. They still hadn’t spoken with each other since their fight, the silence an invisible but strong presence. It was strange for Samuel to imagine life outside the cabin: the handmade furniture and utensils, the deer and hare skins mounted to the walls, the large bucket in the bottom-left corner that they used for baths, the desk with the picture of his mother. Everything was changing so fast.
“You know I do.”
His father stepped forward, the floors creaking.
“You’re wrong, Son. You have a choice. We all have a choice.”
“I know. And … I want to do it.”
“The mayor is a wicked man,” his father said with an anger Samuel was unaccustomed to seeing. “He is solely driven by his greed. He and that tormented child have nothing but darkness to offer you. Nothing.”
Samuel wasn’t sure what to make of his father’s protest. The man couldn’t simply say that he would miss him or that he loved him. It always had to be about light and darkness. “You don’t even know her.”
“She is bound by something sinister, a force not to be manipulated or played with. The child needs deliverance, not vain attempts at control! I can’t bear the weight of another soul being kept in torment. And I can’t bear for you—” His father grabbed him, his hold pinning Samuel in place. “I am a flawed man, and I have sinned greatly. But I cannot stand back as you are led astray by false promises. You can leave. Tonight.”
“What?”
His father released his hold and dashed across the room, grabbing the backpack from underneath the ladder.
“We’ve made these trails, you and I.” He threw the bag at Samuel. “Go. Go past the lake and keep going west. Move through the forest until you hit the mountains. You’ll have to go through them. I know a cleric on the other side. Ulysses. He’s in Kurset. He isn’t the holiest of men, but he has no love for politicians. He would take you in. Grant you sanctuary.”
Samuel didn’t want to argue with his father, but he was being irrational. Desperate. It was unlike him. “What would you do?”
“I will find a way to perform the exorcism, and I will buy you as much time as I can afford.”
“How do you know she’s possessed?” Samuel probed. “Can that explain her body? What if she’s something else? You said you want to do an exorcism. Do you even know how? What if it does nothing?”
“I have faith,” his father said with confidence. “I don’t know what the mayor’s intentions are, but I’m almost certain he wants to harness the child’s darkness for his own strength. The roots would never permit this.”
Samuel put the bag down, propping it on the side of his leg.
“If a storm hits, especially in the mountains, I’ll be as good as dead.”
“No. You could ride it out. You’re stronger than you think. There are caverns all along the mountains. Azhuel would protect you.”
“Azhuel’s roots won’t keep me warm, Father. Or alive. I don’t want to leave Haid as a fugitive. I want to do this. What do you think the mayor will do if you show up at the jailhouse and I’m—”
“We all deserve death,” he father retorted. “I deserve death.”
Samuel clenched his fists. His father always interrupted him. He never listened.
“You’ll make a martyr of me like you did to my mother?” His eyes burned. “You’re wrong. No one deserves to die. Not for faith or sin or anything!”
Samuel walked to the cabinets and poured himself a cup of tea while his father continued on about humankind’s dark nature and Azhuel’s merciful roots, his voice so loud it nearly shook the walls. Samuel found the strength to ignore him. Their last night together went on like that until his father tired out. When Samuel was sure his father had fallen asleep, he crawled into the bed they shared. His heart raced as he thought about his new life. For some reason, however, the skin on his right arm kept tingling uncomfortably, and he couldn’t get it to stop itching.
“Don’t stand there like a moron,” the sheriff grunted, his breath burning with alcohol. “Get in. And wipe your feet.”
Samuel dusted the white powder from his boots. The sheriff’s house was near the east side of the town square, about a kilometer from most of the neighborhoods and right beside the railroad tracks. Samuel fiddled with the straps of the backpack. The home was a little bigger than his father’s cabin, but not by much. The kitchen counter was littered with half-eaten bread and moldy cheese, and empty glass bottles of liquor decorated a tiny white table next to the front window. The sheriff pulled out a cushioned cot from behind the closet, unrolling it in front of the fireplace. He tossed a feather pillow and some cotton sheets near the foot of the portable bed. Samuel laid the backpack on top of the cot.
“I got food in the kitchen pantry,” the sheriff said as he reached down and grabbed a mostly empty bottle of booze, taking a swig. “My food. If you want something, buy it yourself. Salary’s not much, but it’s enough to feed yourself.” The bottle bounced across the sheriff’s thigh, and he flagged him through the narrow hallway to the two doors facing opposite each other. “It’s simple. If you didn’t pay for it, don’t eat it. Pissing pot’s on the right, my room’s on the left. Stay out of my room. Don’t touch my things. Or I will break you.”
“Okay.”
The sheriff slipped his thumbs into his belt loops as they went back into the living room. He held his arms together as the sheriff nodded toward the dresser. “Use the last shelf, but don’t put too much in it or it gets jammed. You can borrow one of my shirts for now, but go to the tailor’s today and have him make you a few. Got it?”
Samuel nodded. “Okay.”
The sheriff took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t want you here. But I may have pushed my luck a little hard with that … individual, and now I’m pretty sure he’s got you here to keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t go near that monster. I won’t. We clear on that? So long as that thing is in my jailhouse, I’m not going inside. Neither will any of my men. Not even if you’re in there screaming or begging or crying for help. If you get your guts ripped up, it’s your own damn fault. I won’t waste another good man on that monster.”