Chapter Text
Just the smell of dogwood and magnolia alone is enough to sour Jack's mood. It fuels him with an anger that’s as easy as drawing breath. He'd grown to despise the pale blooms, and he’d be glad if he never had to see them inside his home for as long as he lived.
Passing those same blooming magnolias several springs before, Jack had thought nothing of them, but, without fail, he’d make it home with the large cloying flowers in his arms for his wife.
When she complained of a cold that same spring, Jack had doted on her and thought nothing of it. But when Nina came by, week after week, sometimes for days at a time, he watched helplessly as his wife, always cold, began to wither. Her dark brown hair, held in unkempt plaits, had turned dull, and limp, and colorless.
Their Angel had been there, grown and slight, but fragile and always fretting. The unwatered magnolias shriveled up on the sill of their kitchen window, and when they’d died, Jack’s wife had gone with them.
For a while he went with Angel to live in town. She had grown into a kind, forgiving woman, and she did the best she could, but it was as if Jack lived those months with the devil always at his heels, whispering atrocities and regrets in his ear. Everything seemed to be something it wasn’t, even his daughter's grief, and the days melted into something of a waking nightmare.
He became bitter. Had spent most of his days being cantankerous in his daughter’s company, taking to fits before storming off to wander the little town. New Haven is not much to look at, with even less to do. Memorizing the trek down the handful of labeled streets was easy, some of the buildings bunched so close together it became an amorphous blur of sun-bleached clapboard and overgrown yards to his eyes.
In the months he spent in New Haven, grieving and hateful, he knew folks began to think ill of him. There were whispers that he’d been corrupted, and that his poor wife, who was as honest as the day is long, was the only thing keeping him on the straight and narrow.
It became another matter, however, when the murmurs turned to that of his Angel: scandalized whispers of secret rendezvous between his daughter and a boy the next town over. With Angel’s reputation now being put into question, Jack was certain that the gossip was getting out of hand, and when he confronted her on it, gentle yet stern, in her eyes was a look he’d secretly expected: a nervous, guilty expression.
Jack took her silence for the answer he was looking for: it was time for him to stop holding his daughter back, let her move on. He took it as a sign for him to pack up his things and go back home.
Angel had begged him to stay, and she promised that he would be allowed to return, should Jack find his stay at the farmhouse an uneasy one. It was a guarantee that, no matter what, there was a place for him in her home. But Jack could sense how relieved she was when he left in the morning a few days later.
He couldn’t blame her. For all the trouble he knew he was saddling her with in his grief, he was glad to go. Despite his apprehension, he missed the farm and the simple pleasure that came from caring for his ewes and being out on the range.
It was being left with his thoughts that worried them both.
Returning to the old farmhouse, Jack haunted its walls like he did the unpaved roads in New Haven. He had no neighbors for miles, and when particularly ornery, the photos lining the stairway walls would fly to the ground cracked and shattered. He'd leave the lights on overnight, and stare at old photographs, committing every blushing smile and strand of hair to memory. When that wasn't enough, he’d turn to the paltry bookcases, reading old tomes he knew his wife to love that he never took the time to peruse. If he let his attention turn inward, even for a second, he would begin to tremble, and by then nothing could hold the angry tears back. Toward dawn, on one of these restless nights, he’d taken her old tattered copy of Canterbury Tales and, tearing its pages out, burned the yellowed paper in the fireplace, one by one, until it was too hot to keep the fire going.
Angel would stop by, tending to the creeping ivy and black-eyed Susans in her mother’s absence. But her visits would slowly lessen, and Jack wouldn’t, couldn’t fault her for it. On the Sunday’s where he was left to his own devices, much like the days before, he cultivated the black-eyed Susans on his own.
As time passed, Jack settled into his new status as town nuisance and widowed bachelor, though a different picture of his situation persisted: he was well and truly on his own now; he did not know what to expect; and he was afraid to be alone, skin crawling and pricking from missed affection.
Jack wipes his brow with a groan, leaning back to stretch. It’s only just turned the hour, if his old watch is anything to go by, and the barn is beginning to get hot with his work for the morning only half done. Using the last bit of strength he has left, he lifts the stack of bedding by his side. It sails into the pens, fluttering apart upon impact. For how rough the hit looks, the sheep blink balefully at Jack in return.
Wiping bits of hay from his arms, he leans forward against the open pen, taking a deep breath as he watches the small herd mill about. A few sheep have already wandered out of the open doors, Jack opting to let them mill and graze to their hearts content while he replaces the bedding inside.
He sighs from the welcomed draft that breezes through, then frowns at the sight of Bessie. She’s one of the few suffolk sheep he owns, and it’s easy to pick her out of the herd. As it is now, she remains curled up in one corner of the large pen, and it makes her look smaller than her similarly shorn counterparts. She’d barely left that spot the last couple of days, only getting up for food and water before lying back down.
Nudging other ewes and lambs out of the way, he slowly makes his way towards her. She lifts her head as he thumbs gently against an ear. Her lethargy had even stumped Zed when he’d stopped by to take a look at her. There’d not been much to recommend except to keep an eye on her, let her rest, and to call back if her condition worsens.
It was only after Zed left that Jack noticed the faint marks dotting her skin, spreading past her neck and shoulders. He thumbs at the same marks now, wouldn't have thought anything of them, if not for the pink discoloration of freshly healed skin.
A flash of fear goes through Jack at the thought of stable flies or something wild getting into the barn when he’s not tending to the herd, but the marks are peculiar. They look nothing like what you’d typically see from a swarm or a fox or coyote. Bessie stays placid and demure as Jack runs a hand down her face, plucking at hay and dirt. In return, she presses her nose against his palm. The pair of lambs beside her are thankfully in better condition, though Jack feels a twinge of sympathy as they hop around him.
There’s relief, at least, that he sees none of the telltale behavior of bites. No rubbing against fencing and posts, and the marks are neat and closed, not oozing with puss or other signs of infection.
Content to let her be for now, Jack trudges out of the barn, wiping down his face as he squints from the glare of the sun. Desolate miles of field and forest stretch in either direction, unbroken except for the roaming herds of sheep.
Fretting over the sluggish ewe, dreading the possibility of having to wean her lambs earlier than he’d want if her condition continues to worsen; Jack groans in frustration, dizzy with heat as he pulls at graying locks. The sheep bay in response.
“You’re pretty sweaty and nasty-lookin’ today.”
Nisha swaggers into the barn, and stops dead still beside the rickety ladder Jack is standing on, hands cocked on her hips.
“As opposed to what?” Jack snorts, and then grimaces at the strip of fly paper that sticks to the front of his shirt.
“Drunk and miserable.”
“Look, did you come all this way to berate me or to help me?”
“What’s it matter if I’m in the mood for both?” Chickens peck and warble around her plowman's boots, and she waves her hands, shooing them out of the way. Her dutiful shepherd dog herds them out of the barn.
“You’re doin’ it all wrong, y’know.” Giving her pants a brusque hitch, she gestures for Jack to come down the ladder. Jack huffs, watching as she quickly steps up to further judge the progress he’d been making with the hanging strips of fly paper.
New Haven’s Sheriff, Nisha Kadam, is a sharp-tongued no-good, prone to taking pleasure in bar fights and a bottle of liquor, and Jack enjoys her company immensely. While in his daughter’s care, he’d developed a habit of sharing coffee and cigarettes with her, and later, drinks in evenings. A strong willed gunslinger, she would spin tales and recount stories of worlds unlike the only one he's known.
Jack considered them to be lies.
Half-truths.
But as he spent hours watching the Sheriff drink her tablemates under, words slurred in another language he couldn’t understand, he’d catch himself believing her. The pair would plot imaginary courses to Tantalus and Promethea and Athenas; a voyage to exotic worlds, for he was certain that in some foreign city, on an equally foreign planet, he could land a good-paying job and become someone new.
Nisha had about her a fearless self-assurance that set her apart, and while it created respect, it also limited the affections of folks in this otherwise no-name town.
“Didn’t see you at Moxxi’s the other night, what gives?”
Jack has to roll his eyes. “C’mon, we both know it would’ve been the worst. Don’t need those chain-smoking biddy’s talking shit to my face as opposed to behind my back.” He takes a swallow from a canteen he’d brought out earlier, watching as Nisha makes quick work of the streamers. The water is lukewarm, and he’s unable to get the dirt taste that sticks in his mouth, mourning the lack of gin that had been promised to him had he shown up the night before.
Despite Jack’s anger in mourning waning, transforming into a more manageable, low-bubbling simmer as the years passed, his reputation was as good as ruined to the town. He did well to avoid them as much as possible.
Ain’t worth it.
A fat horse fly dives towards Nisha and she swats at it, slamming her open palm onto the barn walls. The doors rattle.
“Anyway…” Jack offers a dazzling grin that she doesn’t see. “Coffee, darlin?”
Nisha grunts in response, expression hard as she works.
Jack knows it’s best to leave her to it, and he steps back into his house from a side door on the barn. Having anticipated Nisha’s arrival, he’d propped the screen door open, made sure the coffee was brewed and hot before she got there. Walking out of the front of the house, he leans against the porch banister, placing Nisha’s mug beside his elbow. There’s the metal creaking of the old ladder, and Nisha turns the corner soon after, tromping up the porch steps before throwing herself into the seat across from him.
“What’s this nonsense you were trying to tell me on the telephone earlier?” Nisha pulls a pack of Fyrestone branded cigarettes from her breast pocket, lighting and drawing from the smoke in quick succession.
“It’s Bessie. Something’s got to her, but I can’t make sense of the markings. Figured you could do me a solid and take a look.”
Sipping and smoking, she studies the crude drawing Jack had made on a loose napkin, swiping it from his hands to take a closer look. Jack is quick to accept the half drawn cigarette between his lips as he pulls his previously ignored glasses from the depths of his shirt collar.
“It’s like I’d said: small, round marks in a cluster around her neck—” He points to the drawing, tapping around with his index and middle fingers. “—in pairs, about an inch or two apart. I can try and grab her from the yard, that way you can take a look for yourself.”
“Nah, let the oldbag relax.” Nisha shakes her head, and Jack turns back to what he’d come to the porch for: more rolls of fly paper, large boughs of lemongrass and rosemary to hang over the doors, and, per Nisha’s recommendation, a 25-pound sack of salt. Janey had given an odd look when he’d gone into town to buy these supplies, but he was steadfast to ignore it. If there was anyone that was knowledgeable in the creatures and vermin on this planet and beyond, as well as how to eradicate them, it would be Nisha. He’d done well to trust her judgment in the past and wouldn’t start to question it now.
Hauling his goods back to the barn, he nudges a couple of chickens and lambs out of the way before dropping everything at the foot of the ladder. He’s about to climb back up when Nisha trails in, chipped mug in hand.
“Well—“ she plucks the cigarette from Jack’s lips before finishing it off in one long draw. “— can’t say i've seen anything like it. It ain’t horse flies, at least. you said Zed’s already taken a look?”
Jack nods.
“From your description, it sounds like something in one of them old pulp magazines.” Then she snorts, her grin sharp. “You sure Moxx hasn’t cursed you, or something?”
Jack groans, rolling his eyes. “Come on, Nish! My livelihood is at stake here.”
“There’s some merit to be had, at least.”
Jack leans forward against the ladder as Nisha peruses his supplies. She hefts the large bag of salt into her arms, dropping it closer to the barn entrance. When she starts to blandly recite, her free hand resting purposefully over the slouching bag, Jack has to shake his head at whatever mumbo jumbo is coming out of her mouth.
He startles when she pulls the bowie knife from her hip, ripping the top open. Flypaper traps momentarily forgotten, he watches as Nisha tastes the salt with a quick dip of her thumb, then stumbles back when she swings the blade in his direction, pointing the tip in his face like an ornery school teacher would to a disruptive student.
“It ain’t gonna make a lick of sense now, but listen closely,” she barks, and Jack stands rod still, laser focused on what knowledge she has decided to bestow upon his listening ears.
“What you’ll wanna do is line the doorway, like so…” Nisha dips a hand into the bag, trailing salt as she walks across the open barn doors, spilling a generous line from end to end. “When it’s lost its taste, or becomes too muddied to see, change the salt. Probably a good idea to do it once in the morning, and again before the day ends.”
Jack nods, but already he’s skeptical. “What would this even do?”
Nisha slaps her palms against her trousers, dusting her hands off. “Can’t say I know for sure, just a superstition. They’ve been doin’ it at my family’s ranch for generations and never had an issue. Something about it must be special enough.”
Jack hums, crossing his arms as he looks between the row of salt, the fly traps, and his boughs of lemongrass and rosemary. Recalls Angel doing something similar with the same herbs, only hanging them over her kitchen window to keep mosquitos out.
“‘You are the salt of the earth, but if the salt has lost its flavor, with what will it be salted?—“
Jack blinks, startled out of his thoughts as Nisha intones in a low, grave tone.
“—It is then good for nothing, but to be cast out and trodden under the feet of men.’”
She waves her hand in the air with a flourish and then turns to regard Jack, her expression dour and stormy.
They’re quiet for a beat, before Jack snorts, laughter bursting past his lips before he could even think of containing it. The two are quick to devolve into chuckling and snickers, Nisha dropping her serious expression just as quickly.
“Well I'll be damned.” Jack’s cheeks sting from grinning. “Is this the shit you were going on about earlier?” Jack imitates her previously serious expression, waving his hands in the air. He stumbles back with a squawk when she lunges with her bowie knife.
“This shit is gonna protect your drunk miserable ass—“
“I thought it was a sweaty drunk miserable ass—“
“Stop splitting hairs. Now—“ Nisha crosses her arms, “I think it’s a load of garbage too, but—“
An incredulous laugh bursts past Jack’s lips. “Why even try it, then? To waste my money and time—!”
She groans and takes a step towards him, and the rest of Jack’s sentence dies on his lips when she pulls the glasses off his face. The sharp cold of the metal frames makes him hiss as she dips a leg to hang on the collar of his shirt. Dragging him into a stoop, she plants a kiss square on Jack’s forehead.
“Stop whining. Sorry it ain’t something more fantastic like magic ginger powder or mysterious runes,” Nisha hums.
Jack rolls his eyes, hands automatically coming to rest on her hips. “It might not be that, but it’s lookin’ to be a close runner up.”
Nisha has to stand on her toes to wrap her arms around his shoulders, pressing their cheeks together. “I’m sure what you've got will work just fine, but if it doesn’t, we can always figure something else out.”
Jack takes a deep breath, struggling to let his worries about Bessie and the rest of the flock take the backburner. He brings his arms around Nisha’s waist and squeezes, the flyaway strands of her hair tickling his nose.
“‘Preciate it.”
Stepping back, he thumbs against one of her hands in his sweating palm, wiping his brow with free arm. With the sun this high in the sky, it’s become unbearable in the barn, and Jack leads Nisha out. Jack delights in making her snicker when he opts to jump over the salt she’d spread out.
They alternate between going into the old house for supplies and drinks, and back to the barn to finish hanging up the sticky sheets of flypaper between boughs of dried herbs. As the sun begins to set, Jack shepherds his small flock back inside, watching in amusement when Nisha’s dog circles a lamb that refuses to be herded in. As he stoops to lift the lamb into his arms, he’s certain the smell of rosemary will never leave his palms. As they’re walking towards the front of the house, he contemplates making another pot of coffee, maybe sending Nisha off with something from the icebox for the trouble.
But when they step onto the porch, Jack knows something is wrong. Nisha’s grin vanishes. She stares at something beyond them. Jack turns, and a sick feeling settles in his stomach. The pair are already running for Nisha’s truck, and she floors it out of the driveway before Jack can yank the passenger door open.
Kicking up dust and dirt, Nisha makes quick work of the unpaved road, towards town. Jack turns back to what they’d seen; no matter the distance, the smoke seems to bloom for miles, the black ichor staining an otherwise perfect view of the range, and just as relentless as the pressing humid that surrounds them.
Jack opens his eyes and looks around dazedly. Nisha’s border collie is barking so loudly he’s of the mind to take it out back and put it out of its, and his, misery. He’d tried staying up, waiting for her to come get her dog, but she never turned up. The brief hope that she’s possibly the reason the dog is barking now quickly vanishes as the seconds tick by. She would’ve snapped at the poor thing by now, and he doesn’t hear the usual crunch of gravel from when a car pulls into his driveway.
With a groan, he probes around the bedside table littered with a collection of yellowed photographs, old coins, pieces of a broken ashtray, a flashlight… His fingers skim across the junk there before falling on what he was looking for.
A pistol.
And alongside the pistol, an open carton of ammunition; bullets the bright copper of fresh pennies. The gun weighs heavy in his hand, and he takes comfort in knowing it's loaded as he slowly slips out of bed.
Look sharp now.
The lumpy outline of the bullets in his pocket keep him company as he quietly makes his way downstairs and towards the front door. The lock is well oiled and unlatches without a sound. Despite the regular sounds of screaming cicadas and chirping crickets, a chill runs down Jack’s spine as he peeks his head out the door. The front porch is empty, and his and Nisha’s coffee mugs from the day before remain on the banister, untouched and unbothered.
Back inside, he slips through the narrow kitchen, towards the door that connects the house to the barn. Making sure to skip over the step he knows would creak, he creeps past sleeping lambs and drowsy ewes. Dry hay bedding crunches underfoot. Dragging fingers against the metal pens, he stops.
Nisha’s dog is barking, backing up against the lambing pens, teeth bared, and Jack swallows, hair on the back of his neck standing on end when he sees why: one of the barn doors is wide open, shoved to the side as if pushed open in a rush.
He remembers latching them closed.
All pretense of quiet forgotten, he rushes towards the open door, looking around him frantically. A figure steps into view. Jack lets out a string of curses, startled as he shuffles back.
“Wh— What the hell…?” Jack raises his gun, eyeing the boy crouched on the ground outside. The boy jolts and Jack sees him go rigid at his approach. Jack has his notions of what most of the young adults in town looked like, even in passing glances, and this kid is entirely unfamiliar to him. “Who the hell are you?”
He’s a tall youth, but too pretty, too delicate, in a way that is almost offensive to Jack. Even in the pale moonlight, Jack could tell that the boy is fair, and an odd tenderness softens almond shaped eyes. A tired, imploring expression masks his face, and there’s a nervous inward sag to his shoulders, no doubt to Jack’s cautious approach. He wears a long, wrinkled linen shirt, the collar open at the throat; and breeches, whose ankles are stained with mud and dirt, his feet bare.
Is he a vagabond? Someone passing through? What…
“I am but a child of God,” the boy murmurs absently, as if to himself, looking every which way except at Jack and the gun pointed in his direction. “Much like yourself, perhaps.”
Jack blinks at the warm timber in his voice. It’s a voice almost incongruous with his sensitive features, though there is a listless softness to it.
The boy shifts, and Jack gasps. The silver, mirror-like glow to his pupils is unmistakable, like pinpricks of light in the dark, and it’s something that set Jack on edge despite the boy’s otherwise tender youth. It’s unnerving, reminding Jack of a wild animal in the woods, of something feral and monstrous, and his skin prickles, breaking out in a cold sweat despite the warmth in the barn.
What the hell is wrong with him?
“Are you the one who’s been breaking into my barn?” Jack accuses. He has no time for games. Better to accuse the boy of a crime, reminded of the strange marks that have appeared on his sheep overnight.
The boy doesn’t answer, but his expression warps into distasteful sneer as he eyes the salt at his feet.
“I-it’s only for a moment,” the boy murmurs, reaching out with an open palm. “Can I come in? Please?” His lips quirk into a bashful smile. The odd glow to his eyes intensifies. It’s like a veil descending over Jack’s mind, muddying his thoughts, and the only thing he can truly focus on is the youth at the threshold.
“I…” Jack blinks, trying to will the haze over his mind away, slow to drop his hand to his waist. Why was he raising the gun at him? Did he just need a place to stay for the night? He’s completely harmless. Right?
He frowns, disoriented, and has to rub his brow in an attempt to clear his thoughts. Beside him, the border collie’s barking peters out into a whimper. Jack growls to himself.
What the hell is happening?
“Please, Jack…”
Jack’s frown deepens. His eyes wander to salt on the threshold. It remains undisturbed, the boy’s bare feet just beyond. Like a clap of thunder, the haze is gone, replaced with instant clarity. Jack snaps his head up in alarm.
Jack shakes his head, and he shuffles back, gun raised. “No.”
The reaction is immediate. The boy’s sweet smile fades, and he slams his hands against the barn door, sneering at Jack. “Why not?!”
Jack wills his hands to not shake when the boy’s eyes flash dangerously in the dark.
“What the hell are you?” Jack asks.
The youth groans in frustration, mumbling to himself, and shakes his head in response to Jack’s question. He begins to pace along the threshold.
“Please,” he tries again, and desperation tinges his voice. He tries for another smile, but it only infuriates Jack, hackles raised. “Let me in.”
“I don’t know what the hell you are, but you get the hell off my property now.” Jack hisses, and behind him, the sheep bray. “I’m not afraid to shoot you!”
“Jack—”
“I never told you my name—!” Jack feels the last of his resolve slipping, giving way for terror fueled anger. “Go away you stupid little sheep stealer! Devil!”
The youth— the sheep stealer— visibly flinches, and an odd look passes his face before being carefully concealed with a glower, one not as effective if it weren't for the soft pout of his lips.
“That's what you are, isn’t it?” Jack laughs, incredulous. “Oh my god! You’re a goddamned devil—“
“I’m not anything!“ The sheep-stealer’s voice carries through the roof of the barn.
“Go back to whatever god forsaken hole you crawled out of, because like hell am I putting up with you,” Jack hisses.
Sheep Stealer scrambles for something in his pocket and for one dreadful moment, Jack expects it to be a weapon. Instead, he pulls out a thin handkerchief and wraps it around his hand, attempting to brush away the salted ground. His brief moment of ingenuity is short-lived, however. Jack watches, eyes wide when Sheep Stealer hisses, snapping his hand back when it inevitably comes in contact with the salted ground.
“Goddamn you!” The boy’s expression is that of righteous outrage, a look that so frightens and angers Jack that he raises the gun again, hands trembling.
He shoots.
The shot misses its target, though Jack can’t be certain that he was aiming for anything, only to somehow make the other man stop, and the bullet wedges a splintered hole into the barn door. It’s enough to make the boy flinch, kicking up dirt as he crawls back hastily. The second shot, closer this time, flushes the righteousness off Sheep Stealer’s face, and Jack is met with wide eyes and fearful, trembling lips.
Good.
In a burst of energy Jack strides over, eyes boring into the distressing glow of the Sheep Stealer’s before shoving the barn door shut. If the salt line is anything to go by, he need not fear about latching it closed from the inside.
It’s only when he’s back inside, back upstairs in the safety of his bedroom, does he let out the breath he’s been holding.