The Butcher's Tale

The Butcher’s Tale

         When Sami and I were boys, Mama used to tell us not to stay out too late, or the Butcher would come after us. The stories Mama told, and the way she would tell them always made sure we were home a half-hour before we’d ever planned to be.

         Mama was the best storyteller I think I’ve ever met in my life, and I’ve made it a point to meet just about as many as I can, but Mama was special about it. When she would tell a story, her eyes would get real dark and set, and her voice would drop to the strangest whisper; the kind that’s so hushed and quiet that you think she’s talking to just you, but if she needs to, she can fill a room with the words. You knew the story wasn’t true most of the time, and you could tell yourself that for hours, but to Mama, they were true. That’s what made her stories so special. Everyone else who I’ve ever heard tell a story told it just like it was a story, and they knew it. But even if you didn’t believe her stories, Mama did, and that made them real.

         The first time Sami and I heard the story of the Butcher was the first day I felt truly paralyzing fear. It was also the first time we met Mama. We were playing Cops and Robbers with some friends of ours who lived down by the river, and Sami volunteered us both to be robbers. He was only one year older than me, but even then he liked to be in control and remind everyone that he was older. And too often, he had to remind them that he was braver and stronger, too. So we were running from Tommy and Jamie, our next-door neighbors who got picked as cops last, but had to be on the same side, or they’d cry, and we ran into a dead end. We had a pretty good lead on them, since they were slow runners, and Sami pointed at a real old abandoned-looking stone cottage on the other side of the river. He said it would be a good hiding spot and started walking towards it while I followed him. As we walked toward the place, I kept getting blackberry juice on my clothes, and once we could see the place clearly and we were out of the bushes, I started to get worried. I was going to tell him that it was a Witch’s cottage and some kids in school had talked about bad things happening to kids there, but he told me to shut up. Sami was like that sometimes. All I could think of was a story that a little girl from school had told me, though. She said that one time, some of the older boys went out to the Witch’s Cottage and tried to scare her off with a Bible and some prayers, but she just turned herself into a mad wolf and bit at them. They got so scared, she told me, they ran off into the woods, but one of them stayed behind. I knew him, and he told me it was true what happened, and back then, that was all the proof I ever needed. He said he tried to convince the wolf that he was harmless, and he begged for his life until it turned away. But when he got up to run away, the wolf ran after him and he threw the cross he had ‘round his neck at it and it howled in pain. The boy, Terry, he swore that he was the cross burn into the wolf’s face as he turned to see if it was chasing him, and from that day, every time he looked into the woods, just where the trees ended, he would see the wolf, with the cross burned into the left side of its face. And then one time, he told me, he got up the courage to ask it what it was doing there. He asked it a few times, he said, and every time he did, it would answer the same way.

         “Six weeks.” It would growl, sounding like it had come straight from the flames of Hell. “Six weeks from when I first suffered this cross, I will return the favor to you.”

         Well, what happened six weeks later, the little girl told me, was that Terry got so worried about what the wolf would do to him, he stopped leaving his house. After a while, his parents couldn’t even get him out of his room. Sami told me that it was just a story, and I should stop whining about it, then he said that nothing bad ever ended up happening to Terry, and that he was getting taught at home instead of leaving to go to school, so even if there was a witch, she wasn’t a very good one. But I felt as if she was already turning my blood into ice-water.

         As we moved toward the cottage, I would have sworn that a wolf was pacing behind us, and in my young mind’s eye, a cross-shaped patch of burnt fur marred its face. That paranoia kept me going, till Sami put his hand on the doorknob, and then I panicked. I tried to get him to let go, to go back and play and that it was okay if they tagged us, but he kept turning the knob anyway, and as he did, the door swung in violently, as if a big gust of wind had been trying to knock it down the whole time. We couldn’t see anything, it was so dark inside, and even though it was a warm summer’s day, I started shivering. But Sami wasn’t afraid. Not in the least.

         “Come on in.” A raspy voice croaked from inside. I still remember how it sounded like creaking door hinges, and how I imagined it belonging to some wicked, wart-ridden crone, complete with a black cat and an appetite for small children. But Sami just walked in like it was his business. He stepped through the threshold, and then, everything changed. It changed when I followed him over, tentatively letting my muddy sole touch the rough welcome mat before fully crossing, palms slick with the cold sweat of fear that children should never have to experience. Then, she lit the candle, and we both froze. I saw Sami freeze first, and then I shifted my gaze from him to her, and I froze, too.

         Even at that young age, long before I would find myself engrossed in the nightmare of human attraction, I knew that her beauty alone was a force to be reckoned with. She wore a long nightgown that encompassed the entire length of her body, which was a deep hazel in color. Against this, her eyes especially stood out, vibrant green and alert, watching hawkishly from the circle of light her candle emitted. I couldn’t help but think that those eyes had been fixed on us since we opened the door. Her hair, which partially covered her face, hiding her left cheek and sticking loosely to her full lips, was a lustrous black, shining in the dim candlelight. Her features were delicate, carved as if by the hand of a loving artist, stunning in the absolute perfection of the minor flaws. She looked up from the candle, and as the hair slid away from her face, I saw a scar in the shape of a cross on her left cheek, livid and white.

         I tried to run, but could only stare transfixed as she opened her mouth to speak, and the creaking voice of an old woman rolled out from between those youthful lips, originating somewhere deep within her and aging as it went.

         “Closer.” She commanded. Sami obeyed. I didn’t even realize it, but I was following right behind him. Something about her just… Made you want to obey her. We stopped within the flickering circle of candlelight, just close enough for her to see our faces. Her viridian eyes scanned each of our faces inquisitively, as if they could read out whole life just from the matching fearful expressions we wore.

         “Don’t you know?” She croaked, looking into each of our eyes in turn, “You shouldn’t cross the river alone. The Butcher’ll find you.” Her eyes took on such a startling intensity that I stepped out of the circle and tripped over some kind of farming tool. In the dim light, I couldn’t tell what it was, but it had some kind of iron or steel fixture and a wooden handle.

         “The b-b-butcher?” Sami stammered. He hadn’t ever stammered before that day, and hasn’t stammered since. The young woman looked him dead in the eye and continued.

         “Yes, the Butcher. He and I share these woods, as we have for years.”

         “W-wh-who are you?” Sami managed to choke out through his stutter.

         “I am the keeper of Stories. I am the Bard of Souls. You may call me whatever you wish.”

         Sami couldn’t say anything, and I was rooted dead to the spot. I thought for sure she was going to kill us, but not even that thought could get me to move.

         “Why are you out here?” She asked, after what felt like hours. I tried to say something, but it felt like there was an iron brace holding my jaw down. “Doesn’t your mother worry that you’re out here alone?”

         Finally, Sami gathered up the courage to speak. “Our mama’s dead. Only Papa’s still alive, and he likes us being outside.” As he spoke, the young woman’s eyes filled with a deep sadness; one that rivaled even the despondent look my father carried with him to the grave after my mother died. Regaining her composure, she drew a shaky breath before speaking again.

         “It wouldn’t be the first time I have been a mother. Nor do I suspect it will be the last.” She sighed in her leaves-on-October-ground voice as a knowing, vacant smile crossed her face. “Sit down, children.”

         I felt my throat tighten as I moved into the stone cottage, sweating despite the cold. I found a spot on the rug and silently obeyed. Sami did the same. Like I said before, she just had a presence about her. A palpable aura that commanded your attention. It just radiated from where she sat.

Somehow, and I don’t know how exactly, the words burst out of my chest as I stared at the scar from such a short distance away. The question plagued me, and I couldn’t help myself. Her reaction was the last thing I would have expected in response to my inquiry. A smile crept across her face and her eyes scintillated as she repeated my question back to me.

              “How did I get this scar?” Her smile disturbed me as her eyes burned into mine. Before long I felt a cold sweat breaking out all over my body. She beckoned us closer, and her voice dropped down to that now-familiar whisper.

              “That would be the story of the Butcher. Of the first time I laid eyes on him, though he wouldn’t come to see me for years later.” She began, as her green eyes darkened. “It was several decades ago, and I was much younger than I am now, but by no means was I child. Back then, I had a teacher, a wonderful old woman who taught me everything I know about surviving on my own. At the time, however, like so many young folk, I thought myself above her, and disobeyed at every turn.” She paused for a moment, catching her breath. “But I would learn eventually that the judgment of our elders is not always so flawed, and they should be trusted more often than not.

              “The afternoon in question, I had been out picking blackberries, a food I once had a great love for, but can now barely stand the sight of, and I heard a sound coming from deeper in the woods. My teacher had told me to be careful, especially as the sun went down, but I had already learned that the darkness is no different than the day. I thought I had, at least. You see, my children, the shadows don’t only hide those things we should learn to fear the most, but they feed them as well. Nurture them and help them to grow strong. And yet those treacherous shadows saved my life that day.

              “I heard a sound coming from deeper in the woods, and went off to investigate it, thinking I may find a fellow wanderer like my teacher; another soul alone in these vast woods. The sound was a song of some kind; a haunting melody being whistled to some inhuman ear. It must have been so, because no sane mind would consider that music pleasing. As I approached that sound, I travelled in the shade of one of the many great oaks, and came upon a clearing. Still concealed in the canopy of my tree’s shade, I watched as a man sauntered out into the clearing, staying where the rays of the sun dared not go.

              “I never saw his face, which was hidden at all times by impenetrable shadows, but I know that his eyes were cruel and dark. They shone through the blackness about his face and scanned the forest for his prey. For a moment, I considered greeting him, but upon my second glance, I froze. Not because of his eyes, or his queer face, or even the way he was dressed, shabby and grime-stained, but rather because of the large, bloodied cleaver he carried in his left hand, which dripped blood that evaporated as it struck the floor of the forest. My breath caught in my throat as he stepped further into the clearing, and I was sure that he would find and kill me in only moments, but just as my heart was about to plunge out of my chest from fear, his eyes turned. A rustling in the bushes brought to his attention a young doe calmly walking through the forest, likely looking for food. I did not see, but rather felt some inhuman grin cross his face, because those shadows never once lifted. In a moment, he was on the doe, and the next it was strewn across the clearing, and he descended upon it with the fervor of a starved beast.

            “Even as he did, I could not find the strength to turn away, and when he arose from his crouch, his clothes were further soiled with blood that slowly evaporated, as did the fresh stains on the cleaver. I shut my eyes tightly, hoping that somehow he would not see me if I did so, but I felt that gaze round on me. Terrified, I turned and ran, giving only a single glance back to the clearing, and in doing so, witnessed the strangest sight. The deer, which I had seen with certainty mutilated before my eyes, was lying peacefully on the ground as if it were merely sleeping. The only evidence of death was the telltale emptiness in its eyes. I hurried back to my teacher, but as I approached this very house, I fell, and he came down on me with that dreadful blade. I managed, with the grace of the Fates, to turn, and he slashed across my cheek with an unnatural fervor, marking me so forever.

            “The Butcher, was his name, my teacher later told me, and in time, I discovered that he would haunt me forever, until it was finally his time to claim me, as he should have in those woods that fateful day. As of yet, he has not done so, but still he persists. Every third week, he assaults this house, and every time finds no way in. Such is his way, though.” She looked out the open door and paused to breathe. “And that, my children, is why you should never stay out past the sun’s setting.”

            We stayed at Mama’s until the sun began to go down, and then hurried home as fast as we could manage. We would go back there frequently, if only to visit for a few hours, and always do our best to hurry home before dark. There was one time, though, when I was fourteen, when Sami wanted to stay out a little later than usual, just because he was starting to doubt Mama’s story, so we sat by the blackberry bushes and watched the sun go down. Sami said he didn’t see anyone and that Mama was just a crazy woman who lived out in the woods, but all the way back, at the very edge of the tree-line on the opposite side of the clearing where Mama’s house was, I saw a big man standing there, holding something in his left hand. I heard a strange whistling start to fill the air around us, and then I grabbed Sami’s hand and ran. What worries me to this day is that I saw his eyes. Those cold, evil eyes, made only for killing without compassion or wantonness. The Butcher’s were eyes of calculated, truly divine purpose. Mama told me how to keep him away until it was really my time, and she told me that if you saw his eyes that he would come for you early, and I was in danger, just like her. It’s been decades since that day, and Mama died five years ago. No one really remembered her except for me and Sami, though. As I write this, though, my fingertips fill with the same fear I felt that first day I met Mama. The same fear I felt when I looked into the Butcher’s eyes. There’s a strange melody in the air tonight, and someone is walking these wards in the night. I know it’s him. And more importantly, I know that it’s my time.