Of Plantings and Bitter Harvests

I will freely admit that I have been afraid on more than one occasion in my long life. I am a stubborn man, and I will push through the pain of bullet wounds and grapeshot. I have killed a man with his own knife after he buried it in my groin, and I have killed men, women, and children in my time.

This morning, I discovered a new fear, and it is one I am still not quite certain of.

We came upon the women shortly after sunrise as we continued our trek towards some sort of exit from Gods’ Hollow. Bram called to the women, but they did not answer. He and Aron advanced with their weapons at the ready, but the women still paid them no heed. Bram turned back to me, to see what he should do, and the women struck.

They lashed out with their tools and killed each man, and while each of my bullets found a mark, the women were unaffected. We watched in horror as the women dragged the corpses of our friends to them, dug a pair of graves faster than any I have seen dug before, and planted the men.

Within moments, the ground rumbled and roiled, as though the earth was boiling. Geysers of blood exploded from the ground and screams accompanied each eruption. The women’s clothes were doused as a pair of trees sprang forth.

In the pale, sickly bark, I saw first Bram’s face, then Aron’s, sockets empty of eyes, mouths empty of teeth. The shrieks which emanated from the mutations sent us staggering backward and the women launched themselves at the trees. They sank their teeth into the fleshy bark and ate and drank.

I shot each tree repeatedly, but whether the bullets or the voracious appetites of the women killed them, I do not know.

With the trees silent, the women continued to feed, and the Akatuyians and I sought a different path towards home.

The sucking sounds of the killers followed us as we fled, and it is a sound – like the screams of my friends – I shall never forget.

End Jan. 13, 1890

Begin Jan. 14, 1890

When the snow settled, we found ourselves in the midst of an abandoned town. Rocky hills surrounded the buildings and scrub trees grew between them. There was pure silence around us. A silence undisturbed by neither insects nor animals.

Some of my new friends were still shaken by what we had witnessed the day prior when Bram and Aron suffered their obscene fates.

We were not a curious group, not after what we had survived in the Hollow thus far, and so we set up a small camp in the center of the dirt and dust road. Our meager lunch was eaten in the oppressive silence, and we sat in what little shade we could find.

After a short time, I stood up and walked among the Akatuyians, seeing how they fared with the long traveling. I could feel the tug of home deep in my gut, yet I suspected we were some distance away.

It was as I thought of this that the first strains of music reached our ears.

The sound was high pitched, as though it came from some sort of flute, and a moment later, we saw that it was.

A musician walked out a slim alley up and to our left, a flute to what had once been his face. As he strolled towards us, he played a lilting tune, one which belied his ravaged flesh. When he was a short distance away, I drew my Colts and waited to see what horror he would attempt to visit upon us.

He came to a stop and lowered his flute.

“You’re a Duncan.” The man’s voice was as pleasant as the tune he had been playing.

“I am,” I replied. “Have you a message?”

The musician shook his head and laughed. “No. I am music, though your mother would have had it otherwise. She disagreed with my playing and sought to teach me a lesson.”

He gestured to his face.

“Did she?” I asked.

“No.” He raised the flute to his ruined mouth, turned, and left the way he had come, the music filling the air.

The Hollow is a hell of a place and the wreckage left by my mother is the saddest I have seen.