Ellen Datlow - The Beastly Bride

“She had tears on her face, but she nodded and did as I told her. The camisole she had on was worse than the dress. Fairly striped with blood, it was. I saw clear enough that the plow horse wasn’t the only thing Creegus had beaten that morning. Mary, that brave girl, had gotten between the poor horse and her crazy father and Creegus had kept right on going. Terrible welts. The camisole was stuck to her, so I had to peel it off. She near fainted from that, and then she hugged herself to me and cried her heart out. Creegus’d whipped her all the way to her legs. I cannot imagine how she’d driven the buckboard into town. And you just imagine, you boys — she’d had to change clothes first, to hide what he’d done before she brought him in to me. Well, I dressed her wounds and let her rest awhile, but when I tell you she’s a strong young woman, I mean she’s stronger than most of the men hereabouts to take what she did.”

He didn’t have to convince any of us how tough she was, and I think in some way he was speaking more to the men.

“When her father woke up, I loaded him none too gently in the back of his wagon, helped her up onto the seat, and off they went. I gave it a full day, and then I went out there.

“I’d told him to stay off the foot, and he took to that as you would expect. Had himself propped up in the front room in the rocker with his foot up on a keg, like some grand old king. The place reeked on account of him using his chamber pot that she had to empty whenever he gave a holler. The foot was still ugly and dark, but the swelling had gone down. Since he couldn’t follow us anyhow, I had Mary take me out to the barn so I could look at her back once more. It was bruised all over, but the wounds had responded to the salve and were healing. I’m certain she has scars from it to this day. I applied more salve to her, and then I looked in on the horse. Poor old thing had done nothing to deserve the beating he’d taken — across his flanks, throat, even his muzzle. Insects crawled all over him, feeding off his open sores. They rose up like a cloud when I stepped into the stall. He was lucky he hadn’t lost an eye. I spent some time on cleaning his wounds, too, and I feared for him.

“I walked Mary back inside, where Creegus demanded to know what I was doing. ‘Fixing your damage,’ I told him, and he snarled back at me, ‘Who told you to fix anything?’ Now, you know, for an ailing patient to ask you that, they just aren’t right in the head.

“People do rarely appreciate hearing about their own shortcomings, but I couldn’t hold my tongue. ‘You know,’ I said, ‘for a man who can’t afford a pair of boots, you’ve maybe killed your plow horse. You going to strap that plow to yourself come spring?’ He laughed and said he’d strap it onto Mary if that horse died, and just maybe he’d nail some shoes onto her feet if he felt the urge. I told him then he had no business beating animals and children for his mistakes.

“He tried to shoot straight out of that rocker, but all he managed to do was knock over the keg. It rolled aside and his heel hit the floor so hard you could hear his teeth creak with the pain. ‘She’s my property , same as that dray. I got the right to treat her howsoever I like, and nothin’ wrong about it. I go to church same as you, Doc, same as any. I’m as God-fearing as the whole damned town put together.’

“‘Yes, you are,’ I replied, ‘on account of you have a lot more cause to fear Him than any of your neighbors do.’ We both knew what I knew then, and there was no reason pretending otherwise. He told me to leave and not return. He’d have his foot rot and kill him before he’d let me in his house again. I tell you, the thing I wonder most about Mary’s mother is that she survived with that bastard long enough to deliver a child.”

He paused then. His pipe had gone out. He’d been so intent, telling us boys this story, that now he took stock, as if surprised by the audience he’d acquired: maybe a dozen adults, and all of them solemn and a little shy, embarrassed by the things they knew about Maxin, things they’d let be. And all of them, I suspect, knew there were no secrets from Doc MacPhellimey.

He knocked his pipe and lit it again, then continued.

“I had Mary come by my house whenever she went to town, or my office if I wasn’t at home. She healed up fast, but the dray died and there was nothing to be done. She couldn’t drag him out of the stall, either, so she covered him up there and left him. Her daddy’s foot ought to have healed, but that fool just couldn’t stay off it. He’d get liquored, tell her what she cooked was no good, and throw the plate at the fireplace, and then try to grab her, so blind in his fury that he forgot he couldn’t stand. I told her to tell him we’d have to cut that foot off if he didn’t take better care. I should have known better, because when he learned that I’d spoken to her, he just got up on that foot again and tried to thrash her. There are some people, boys, who are just too stupid. Don’t ever be one of them.”

Doc smoked awhile in silence then. Finally, I had to ask. “Well, what happened?”

Doc pointed that pipe at me. “Well, Thomas, come November first, Creegus Maxin himself rolled up to my house on his buckboard. All alone he was. Had a shotgun next to him on the seat. He got down out of that wagon and he was truly what you’d call hopping mad. He’d cut himself a kind of crutch out of some branch, or maybe Mary had done it for him, and he limped about on that with his shotgun tucked up under his arm. I could see his toes, which were pinkish from the cold but otherwise down to normal size. He was healing in spite of himself. He glared at me with those bloodshot eyes, jerked that shotgun around, and told me I wasn’t caring for him properly. And he accused his daughter of trying to poison him.”

McClendon’s pa was the sheriff, and all steely-eyed he said, “You think she did, Doc? You think that young woman poisoned her father?”

Doc blinked, as if the idea astonished him. “Why, Rory,” he said, “that’s ridiculous. Not that I’d blame her if she’d put an ax through his skull, but fact is, I know what happened to him, as I was after telling these boys here. That’s where this story’s heading.”

The sheriff said, “Wait now. You’ve known all this time and you never said a thing? We’ve ridden the countryside this winter looking for him. He left debts he’s run away from. Why do you think she’s selling off most of the house?”

“I never said a thing because it has no bearing. The man is gone, the farm belongs to his daughter, and there’s no one going to dispute it. The debts were there no matter what, and she’s paying them off, after which she’ll own the farm free and clear if she wants it.”

McClendon huffed but said, “All right, what did happen to him?”

Doc said, “Well, I’m coming to it.” He picked up the Mason jar and had another sweet long pull on that clear liquor before setting it down. “I intended to tell these boys, but now you’re here, I guess you’ll hear it, too, and be remanding me over soon enough.”

The men exchanged startled glances, and we boys did likewise. Was our decent, kind Doc MacPhellimey confessing to a murder?

“I said to Creegus, ‘I want to show you something down in the stable.’ He demanded to know what it was. ‘Well,’ I told him, ‘you killed off your horse, and I’ve got a special one to take his place.’ He wanted me to bring the horse up to the house, but I refused, and he grumbled and cursed all the way down there. We reached the shadows of the stable and I asked him, ‘Do you know what day this is?’ Sure he did, it was November the first. ‘That’s so,’ I agreed. ‘And did you know, also, that my people come from Ireland?’ Well, sure, he thought he knew that and what difference did it make anyway? I said, ‘The thing of it is, in Ireland, there’s a fella called a poukha . He’s a fine feller all in all. And every year on November the first he receives the gift of prognostication. That is, he can look into the future and see how things will go, and if you catch the poukha in the mood, he’ll share what he knows with you.’