Tom Piccirilli - Emerald Hell

"He's got gifts. He's been blessed by the archangels. They haven't turned their backs on him just because he went crazy and became a killer. That's not their way. If they done that to everyone in the Bible who'd done lost their grace, there'd be no heroes at all. Sinning and redemption are at least as important as purity. They're fated to be with him no matter what evil he might do. They bear witness and whisper truths in his ear that no man should hear. Their shadows drop favors at his feet. They're just children lost without a heavenly father, searching for an earthly one. It's no wonder the prophets were all mad."

Angels. You just couldn't trust them. "Granny Lewt said you had a history with the walking darkness."

"Oh fer sure," Lament said, breaking camp, gathering up his provisions and repacking them. "I known him for a good long while now. Lot of rumors follow that old boy 'round."

"Granny said the same thing of you."

Lament nodded. "She's right on both counts."

"Who is he to you?"

"When I was a child, he was the man I wanted to grow up to be. Righteous, strong, full of God's word and a need to bring comfort and blessing to those who hurt. A man, I'm inclined to believe, much like yourself."

"And then he found out Bliss Nail was fooling around with his wife."

"That's right. And he went insane. Killed his own wife. Almost murdered Sarah in her crib."

"What stopped him?"

A gliding shadow moved out across the tree line and cut across the bright blue sky. Hellboy looked up and reached for his pistol, but it was only a white egret sailing through the air, its bill filled with squirming worms as it headed for its nest.

Lament was staring into space, lost in thought. His eyes cleared and his brow furrowed with the intensity of his memories.

"I did," he said. "I wasn't hardly eight years old, but I'd been singing gospel since I was old enough to speak. He had another name then. He come to town… this was up in the Appalachians, way back in the mountain woods… and he found me preachin'. He was famous by then, and I was but an orphan looked after by the whole town. Good God-lovin' folk, well, they wanted him to teach me in the ways of a travellin' pastor. So together we went off, and eventually come back to Enigma together. We preached in the swamps for a while 'fore he even set foot in his own house again. He loved the Word that much."

"It doesn't take much to derail a good man."

"That's the truth. He found his wife holding a newborn wasn't his own. Took no time at all for his heart to turn stone hateful. He run for the hatchet and I tried to stop him, but couldn't do much."

"You were only a kid," Hellboy said.

"And didn't fare so well. He brained me pretty good, ole Jester did. Then he went and murdered his wife, a kind and generous lady by all accounts. I prayed with the blood running out of me, and managed to stumble to where he was plannin' on stranglin' Sarah in her crib. And I prayed. A part of him that hadn't gone crazy and evil yet heard me. Anyway, he didn't get to kill her."

They finished packing up the goods together and Hellboy helped Lament load everything into the skiff. They both looked around one last time to make sure nothing had been left behind. Before they started off, Hellboy had one last thing he wanted to know.

"Are you the father of Sarah's baby?"

Lament glanced up, genuine shock and appall written into his features. "Considering we just met a few hours ago, and we haven't so much as shared a sip of moonshine yet, or even bad a bite of gray squirrel or possum together, or passed a corncob pipe back and forth, and you done spit out the eggs I made, I reckon I don't see how it's any of your damn business, friend."

Hellboy shrugged. Jeez, these people were sensitive. "Okay. So where are we going?"

"Other side of the basin breaks up into more inlets that flush back into the marshes. The shanty town's in that direction."

"You've been there?"

"Not since I was a child. Me and Jester preached there once. But I recollect that's the way to go. The blackwater has a way of letting you know if you're aimin' right or wrong."

"How's that?"

"It either kills you or it don't."

Hellboy thought, That's what I get for asking. "Will we catch up to them today?"

"I reckon so. Sarah can move through the swamp with ease, but them other girls swole with chile have to be slowing her down some. Come on and help me with the skiff."

The keel of the boat had sunk a foot into the mud and they both had to grip an end and work it hard side to side before they could lift it to clear the rut. With a loud gurgle the drying muck gave way and the skiff came free.

"Hey," Hellboy said. "Something's been on my mind. Why'd you call me princely?" It had been a damn strange thing to hear.

Lament stared at Hellboy's head, or perhaps at the spot in the air just above his head, and his eyes gleamed with what could be a sad and distant knowledge he couldn't fully understand himself.

"Seems to me you're someone destined to wear a crown, tha's all."

They carried the skiff down the shore's incline back to the stale waters and stobpoled out of the mired shallows. They made their way through the curving narrows out into the lake. There, Lament boated the pole, slotted two oars into metal rings, and rowed them across the basin.

When they reached the other side Lament appeared to be unsure of which direction to go. Stunted dead sycamores lined the shore of another dark inlet, thick with hummock islands, matted with roots and silt. He rowed as long as he could, until the oars were stirring up deposits of sediment, then groaned and wiped his brow.

"Hell, boy!" Lament said.

"What?"

"What?"

"Oh, I thought you were calling me," Hellboy told him.

"I'm calling you a damn heavy heifer. Come spell me for a while."

It took Hellboy a second to figure out what Lament meant, but once he understood he moved up in the boat and took a turn at the oars. They started going around in circles. After a minute he realized he had to ease up on drawing too hard with his right hand, and finally got a good rhythm going.

Lament played the mouth-harp and then started to quietly sing. The song sounded vaguely religious and a little silly, but Hellboy enjoyed the sound of Lament's vibrant voice and even found himself humming along. When he realized what he was doing he frowned, shut the hell up, and rowed harder.

Broken tupelo spotted the area, the earth heavy with a peaty loam smell. They were entering a bog of maiden cane and wide draperies of hanging moss. Hellboy had a difficult time imagining people living out here. It had its own beauty but he just couldn't picture church folk coming out so far into the morass to hold revivals. Parents bringing their children this far for baptism and confession and gospel singing. All this green would have to drive a normal person out of his mind.

The oars struck root and the water churned with silt. The prow of the boat got trapped in log litter and mounds of slough as the small hummock islands thickened and their passage tightened.

"We have to row through all that?" Hellboy asked.

"Too shallow to stob," Lament told him. "I got to admit to my quandary though." He pointed at a trampled mud bank nearby. "That's gator ground for sure. They're everywhere. Watch that next log comin' up."

"I see it."

"It ain't no log. He's a big ole boy. Ding him and he'll chew the skiff to pieces. Skirt right."

"You sure the girls came this way?"

"No," Lament said, and left it at that.

Struggling with the oars, Hellboy put some more muscle into it and got the boat moving at a fair clip despite the thick grass and jetsam.