The Ghoul

by Devon E. Hayes

They came again, the men with their fire and their beasts. They burned the forest down. He wished that they would go away, far from his home, back to whatever horrid place that they had come from. He grumbled as he dragged his broad-ax behind him.

“No matter” He thought. “More for me to eat.”

Ash and ember, the crumbling pieces of his forest falling all around him. Stumps burnt black and molehills rendered flat. Bodies strewn across the field, men and beast and women and children. He counted them out individually.

“Twenty, Twenty-one, Twenty-two...” he recognized some of these bodies. They were not his friends. They had driven him out a long time ago. Flashes of torches and hoes shining in the dark. He remembers their screams.

“Monster! Monster! Leave! Leave!” Echoes of hatred falling ringing in his young ears. He left. Cold, alone, hungry.

“No matter.” He thought. “Less for me to fight with.”

He checked each body, poking and prodding. Mangled flesh and bones. He found a nice fat pony its thick legs bent in unnatural angles. He grabbed a juicy hock, slashing quickly, sharp ax severing it cleanly at the joint. He had done this countless times. Whenever they returned and left, he came and collected. Tying the hock behind he dragged it around as he moved from body to body, mound to mound. Fingers, arms, necks, anything that bore gold he cut from their masters, treasures to add to his hoard. He never used these collected goods; they were merely his for no reason other than he could have them.

He smiled at this and this smile lingered until he reached a great mound.

This was not an old mound, not a vestige of the forest, nor an edifice of great maker’s design. It was a new mound, a great heap of mass that once wriggled and writhed. All the savagery of Din-Ili, represented in a single monument dedicated to the god of suffering.

There was nothing to smile about here. He muttered a prayer under his breath, but he would not be stopped or abated, as he began to rifle through the mass. He moved efficiently, body down and body apart, separating each into small pieces that the forest can digest. He had his meat; now the trees and the beasts would have theirs. This kept his mind moving, selecting each morsel for the creatures that he knew intimately. Every few bodies he would stop, recognizing a face, a scar, an arm, or a leg. The baker, the miller, the priest. Some had wrinkles and creases, others were fatter or thinner. Memories flooded back. A mother? A father? Were any of these people his? He could not remember that, but he could remember the pain of the whip, and the rock, and the unkind word that branded his soul. This fueled him, moved his body quicker, moving to the rhythm of the mind.

Until he found her.

He dragged out the pile, having grabbed her foot without realizing its size. She was small enough to hold in the air with one arm. Her arm dangled, softly swaying with her hair. His mind stopped.

She couldn’t have been any older than he was.

He dropped his axe and placed his hand underneath her head, bringing her down softly. Her arm rested in the muck and the mire. He gently laid her foot upon the ground. Her clothes had been torn from her body.

“No good.” He whispered to himself. “No good.”

He hobbled over to another body and tore away the bloody dress that clung to its back. He felt the cloth between his fingers.

“No good.” He searched until he found a clean bit of linen, a small white token from some lady love, wasted on a knight-errant who would never return. He walked back over to her. She looked cold. He fell to his knees and covered her. He did not touch her. He did not pray or weep. He merely sat there by her body. He closed his eyes. He heard the wind in the leaves and the distant falling of fawn-hoof.

And then he heard a breath.

A gasp. A spittle-choke that broke him from his meditation. Underneath that piece of linen, he saw her little chest move.

He undid the hocks from his belt. He needed to move quickly. He lifted her from the dirt into his arm, cradling her. The linen fell from her eyes.

There was a spark.

He grabbed his ax and ran. Ill gained gold jangling on his side. Musty breath escaped from crooked teeth as he heaved.

“Soon. Soon” He did not look at her. He did not want to frighten her. He dashed between the trees, leaves rustling behind.

“Faster. Faster.” His large frame barreled through the forest.

He needed to get home. The last safe place he knew. Ash gave way to twig, as twig gave way to rocky soil. He was almost there; he could see the hide-door that marked the threshold. He raised a hand to cover her eyes as he tore it open. The hearth was still lit. He smiled at this as he set her down in a nest of fur. The flickering light of the fire illuminated her as he worked. He started with her skin, scrubbing away the dirt and blood from her wounds. The water hissed as it hit the rocks and embers of the fire. She winced slightly, the corners of her mouth curling as he touched her wounds.

But rough spun cloth on her tender skin was not as bad as the liquor poured onto the nub that was her arm. Her neck tightened and tears fell from her eyes. She did not scream, she had lost that skill the night before, but every nerve in her body could still tremble in agony as he worked.

“So..” He forgot the word that was needed so he gently rubbed her forehead. She tried to grab his hand, but he pulled away quickly. He needed both hands as he held what was left of her arm in one and the knife in the other. He cleaned around the bone, severing tendon and fascia as her good leg spasmed. He could not stop to comfort her as he pushed back the flesh as far as it could go. He grabbed his axe, holding the head in his thick fingers. He held it to the bone and quickly sliced, pressing hard as he did so.

She shook and then stopped moving.

This made things easier as he let go, allowing the flesh to contract over the empty space. He slowed his breath. Slow was smooth and smooth was fast as he threaded a needle and closed the wound. He doused it with hard liquor but then quickly dried it.

“Clean.”

He remembered something, a warm smile, his own wounds dressed, golden curls that fell down her face. He closed his eyes and breathed.

It was time to clean the other stump.

She was his guest for a while. He refused the calling wolves who smelled her blood. He cleaned her wounds daily, watching for the dreaded human-lichen that consumed flesh, living or dead. But it never grew. Instead the wounds went from swollen red to soft pink. When she could sit upright on her own he washed her and clothed her in a handmade dress. She never said a word. Never smiled, barely even blinked. She stared for hours beyond the walls of the cave. She opened her mouth only to eat or drink. One day he wrapped her up and put her on his back, slinging her like caught game. They walked through the forest together as he foraged or pillaged.

“This is black-table, don’t eat. This is beef-wood, very tasty. Horse is good too.”

The forest began to grow. The first soft shoots of green underneath what was once ash. They watched in silence as the fox chased the game-bird. As the tender buds of leaves emerged from charred bark, he grabbed her hand to reach for them. The cold was leaving, and soon the warm would come with flowers following behind. He looked at her. She was no longer his guest.

Behind her eyes there was now a warmth.

But the men returned. And the beasts returned. And the forest burned again. Every warm season, this time before even the frogs had returned. There were no more tender shoots, no more fawn or dog-cats. He grew skinny, saving what he had for her. But when the men came close to the cave he knew they could no longer stay. He packed his gold and his meat. He slung her on his back.

He emerged from the dark into the light of the sun. He smiled and pointed to the east.

“Let us go, little one.”

BIO: Devon E. Hayes is a master’s candidate in History at California State University, Sacramento. His writing is focused on myth and narrative, and has appeared in NonBinary Review, with work forthcoming in New Plains Review.