Scott Purdy brings us another character from The Old God, my work in progress. Meet Sam, an old wizard who channels death warrants to Jacob, servant to the mysterious dark force that rules the salt marshes.

Sam was there, sitting on his crate beside a struggling fire in the entrance of his cave. One black tooth, scars across a broken nose, the beard of a crazed prophet—still, Sam’s eyes were keen. He already had the smooth plank over his lap, waiting for Jacob. The old wizard smiled and laughed. His fetid breath through the rot of his gums made Jacob’s stomach turn. It was a horrible smell, as if everything below the old man’s gullet had dissolved into decay. 

Two short women stood behind him. They had rough faces and dark hair. They were thick, mountain women from some deep Eastern European fog. They must have fed on gruel and pork fat, and a healthy dose of folklore. Their eyes sat slightly too far apart. Blotches blossomed on their cheeks in some strange pattern. They moved in jerky fits, as if they were uncomfortable with their own joints. They answered to Sam’s barks, which were not English but shot in a language that banged rough on the back of his tongue. One of these women brought the beaten leather bag.

Just inside the cave, two men cut fish and chopped wood. Jacob could only see them in shadows. Hoarse cries of invisible children bounced from deep within the cavern.

Sam reached into the bag and lifted the cards. He placed these on the board and presented his palms.

“You know what to do,” he said. His accent was thick. Russian, or something like it.

Jacob reached for the deck. It was warm, soft with wear. He cut the deck into two piles. Sam lifted the first card of the lower pile. He held it in front of him, looking at it, before lowering it. A man sat upon a throne between two pillars. The man was kingly, wearing blue robes with red trim.

“Interesting,” Sam said.

He paused for a moment. Jacob raised an eyebrow. It was always interesting, but Sam would eventually tell him the name. That would be the end of that man sitting between the pillars.

“This card,” Sam said. “He is a guide, a leader, a teacher. He is a most important man, but he, like the others, has tread where he should not. So, you must do what you do. You must bring me proof of your deed.”

Jacob nodded. The whole transaction wanted to be a ritualistic, responsorial thing. Jacob had no patience this morning. He did not feel jaded. He knew that he had important work to do, and that he would receive a handsome reward. But, the pomp, the script—why these cards and this old man? Why Papaya’s bird bones? Could there be no better way for the Old God to communicate with Jacob?

Sam cleared his throat and continued.

“This card typically refers to someone who gives advice. Someone who answers questions. This is a scholar and a professor at the college for women.”

“Right here in Jamesport,” Jacob said. This was a pleasant turn. “Who is it?”

“A man who can answer questions that most have not yet considered. He is a man who has seen things in Africa and South America. I am beginning to see his name.”

“Tell me.”

Sam shot him a harsh look. Jacob stumbled back a step and straightened his coat. He took a deep breath.

“Patience,” Sam said. “It is coming.”

The old man closed his eyes and hummed.

“Thomas,” he said. His eyes snapped open. “Dr. Thomas … Rutledge. He is noteworthy in his field. He must be stopped. It should be easy to find him. Bring me his black notebook.”

Jacob nodded.

“Thomas Rutledge.”

“Yes,” Sam said. “This one is most important. Make haste.”

Jacob turned and walked from the old man, back toward M’Lass and the wharf. He wondered, if he were to turn again, if Sam would still be there. Would the women be there? The cave? No matter. Sam had named the victim. That name filled Jacob with a purpose, at least for this day.

Scott Purdy is at it it again! Meet The Historian, a character from my work in progress, The Old God.

Here’s more about The Old God:

Jamesport, Rhode Island, 1895: listen in the alleys and you will hear whispers of the city’s mysteries. Strange beings slumber in the salt marshes. Viking runes, sigils of some forgotten magic, appear at low tide near the wharf. A ruined stone tower of unknown age and purpose stands in the city square. Do not speak too loudly of these mysteries, lest the Old God send his servants to silence you. Fear Jacob, the most loyal and gifted of these assassins. Peer into his eyes, however, and you may see a hint of doubt. You may sense in those eyes what you have known all along—that the world is about to turn itself upside down.

The Historian squats in the abandoned marketplace, across from Jamesport’s wharf. His insanity keeps him occupied. He speaks as three people, each with a different voice. But he knows everything. His voices tell stories from before the millionaires came, before even the Portuguese and, it seems, the original settlers ejected from Massachusetts Bay in the 17th century. The Historian has encyclopedic knowledge of the region’s oddities—the strange Viking writings near the wharf, the mysterious ruined tower in the center of Jamesport, the skeleton in medieval armor that emerged from the muck of the salt marshes, and much more.

The Historian sat atop a mound of fish skeletons, each perfectly cleaned of meat by vermin. He hissed and leaned into a shaft of light. Jacob rarely saw that face, and shuddered whenever he did. The Historian had been burned, once. His skin was stretched and splotched, as if it had melted. He had no eyes, no nose, no hair. He was a mouth and empty sockets wearing burlap sacks. His arms and legs twisted in strange directions, like one of Ida’s tortured dolls. The limbs had all fallen off and young Ida had sewn them back on herself, though in the completely wrong positions.

(Image ©2011 by Scott Purdy. All rights reserved. Used here with permission.)

When the Hero Comes Home is now available! Featuring “His Last Monster,” a new short story by J. P. Moore. Grab the print or ebook edition on Amazon now!

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