What Dread Hand

Alt History / Horror / Fantasy

Bodie, California. 1879.

When I was a boy, my mother, God rest her soul, spoke in a quiet, reverent voice, as if telling the secret of life, about the first time she saw a redwood tree and how it filled her with dread. Most people, my father and brothers included, laughed at her when she told this story, but I did not; I understood the oppression of majesty. I, too, felt that dread, as a child, and to a lesser extent, as a man of nineteen, when out beneath the grand plumes which slide sideways across the vast blue, or at the foot of a mountain. But in this house I’d built with my own hands, out of the trees that so filled my mother with dread, I realized the majesty was not the redwood, the big sky, or the towering mountain, but the perspective granted: we are small, fragile creatures. 

Before the town of Bodie awoke or had gone to bed, depending on ambition or profession, I walked to the only brick building in town, the mortuary, to assist the mortician, my uncle Johnathan.

The summer mornings were as cold as the winters in Bodie. I stuffed my hands deep into my coat pockets. A man approached, stopping six feet in front of me. He stared at my face as if contemplating a complex riddle. 

“Hands,” the man squawked. 

I removed my hands from my pockets, showing him the fronts, and then the backs. 

“Carry on.” 

I made my way to the back entrance of the red-brick building and opened the door.

“I hope you have coffee for me,” I said. 

“I do,” said my uncle Johnathan. His dark hair made his face all the more pale, but his eyes were full of vitality. He was a sharp man, not just in mind but his features; his nose was like a saber, and his fingertips like pikes. He spat out the window. 

“Uncle, how do you live like this? It’s freezing. Can we close that?” 

“No. My throat is phlegmy, and I don’t want to open and close it all day. It’ll warm up soon enough. Your generation—it’s a miracle that we get you out of your cozy bed at all.” 

I laughed. 

He believed what he said, yet I never took offense; I knew where we stood, and at the end of the day, that was the best one could hope for in a relationship. I watched him prepare the body for burial. 

He moved about like an elk that caught a bullet, erratic movements that seemed motivated by pain or nerves, but when he touched the corpse, his hands were gentle, and the way he moved its wrists and tilted its head was filled with respect, as if this stranger were kin. “Did you see the paper?” 

“No. I came right over. All good news, I assume?” I smiled.

“President Hayes is dead.” 

I don’t know why this news shocked me. I suppose there is an unconscious tendency to believe that with power comes immortality, and even though this notion should have been extinguished with the death of men like Lincoln and Cornelius Vanderbilt, I was left speechless. 

“Why?” I managed to whisper. But I knew the answer: it started with a body found floating in the San Francisco bay. Dockworkers had pulled him out and, thinking it was a practical joke, nearly threw him right back in. He looked like a log dressed in a frock coat, but the sea-green, lifeless eyes staring back at them told another story. The man was later identified by his wife as Jon Acho, a businessman who had recently arrived from Scandinavia. All five dockworkers caught the Treefolk plague that day, and soon after, it spread from the docks to the alehouse, and from the alehouse to the brothels—and from there, it cared not about class nor creed. Men and women stumbled about the city, their faces resembling the bark of a tree, their arms and legs like knotted branches. 

The first to unintentionally wrought massive destruction was James Kelly, a resident of New York City, ironworker, and father of three. He was hammering rivets like he had done a hundred times before, only on that morning, when he placed his hand on the steel cable responsible for suspending the western half of the great East River bridge, it turned to wood, most of it falling to the river below. Hundreds of men lost their lives, and unfortunately for James Kelly, he survived to be killed by the state. 

“Hayes didn’t stand a chance.” My uncle wiped the face of the corpse with a wet cloth. “It’s like our good Pastor Edwards says, ‘Treefolk are Godless.’ But more than this, men and women who turn metal to wood with a touch of the hand can end progress—and with it fortunes.” 

I helped my uncle move the body into the alcohol and arsenic mix for embalming. The flesh was hard, and the grooves in its arms were so much like wood that it seemed impossible. I could see the poor man’s brain, as pink as a child’s cheeks on a cold day, snuggled within the husk of a felled tree. I wondered what offense this man caused to warrant such brutality. 

“Uncle, please look at it from the pastor’s perspective. He needs to maintain control of the hearts and minds of his flock. He’s asked that all infected leave our town, which might seem cruel, but I think he does this for their safety. Now that Hayes has been—”

“Murdered?” 

“Murdered. Yes. The division will widen.” 

“Robert, I have something that I must confess. You must keep it to yourself, swear to me?” 

“I swear it, Uncle.” 

“I’ve contracted it.”

My uncle rolled his sleeve up. His arm, resembling tree bark, was etched with burls and deep grooves; some ran parallel, while others diverged, swirling around warts and knots. The skin around this newly grown shell sagged; his entire arm would soon resemble wood. 

“I am destined for Boot Hill.” 

I knew this day would come. We worked closely with the bodies of those inflicted with Treefolk. My heart sank; this man who reminded me often of stone would soon turn to wood. I embraced him, and he stiffened, unaccustomed to physical displays of affection. 

“Ok. That’s enough—I’m not dead yet. Let’s finish this body and move on to the next.”

“You need not die at all. We should leave town at once.” 

“Fearful men are everywhere. Are you going to help me with this body or not?”

I found Pastor Edwards at the church, working on his sermon. It was a moving plea for civility and love, and I could not help being swept up by his words. He looked around the room as if it were Sunday morning and the room was full of worshipers. His chocolate mop flung about as his passion took hold, and his dark eyes swallowed up the congregation that was not there. After he had finished, he stood there with his head bowed in silent prayer. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I watched you practice your sermon. This town is lucky to have such guidance,” I said. 

He motioned me to join him at the podium with broad, exaggerated hand movements, as if his imagined Sunday worshipers still looked on.  

“You are too kind. How are you, Robert?” 

“I’ve brought you a gift.”  

He kept his eyes on me while he unwrapped the package. His smile was wide, and his teeth were whiter than I knew teeth could be. 

I closed my mouth in shame. 

He put the gift down on the pulpit and, clasping his hands in joy, gave me a deep nod. 

“This is beautiful. Where did you get it?” 

“Aunt Mary picked it up for me in San Francisco. I requested a Bible that would make your face light up, and I see she has not failed.” 

“The binding is wonderful. I’ll use it during my sermon tomorrow. Thank you, Robert. And please, thank your good aunt.”  

“Pastor, there is something that I wish to speak with you about. If you have time?” 

“‘Every man is a friend to him that giveth gifts.’” 

He smiled and waved me on. I followed him to his office, a small room in the back of the church that smelled of dust, leather, and wet wool. There were books of all kinds and not just religious texts. 

“Quite the library you have here. Have you read all of these?” 

“I have, many times over. What did you want to talk about?” 

The room was warm from the day’s heat, and I watched a bead of sweat fall from the pastor’s brow to a paper on his desk. I considered retreating, making up some innocuous reason for speaking with him, but his kind face drew me in; he seemed a reasonable man, so I did not mince words. 

“The world is against those inflicted with Treefolk.” 

The pastor raised a brow and nodded in agreement. 

“I’ve been thinking about why these God-fearing people, these children of the Lord, would be ravaged this way. And do you know what I came up with?”

The pastor’s face did not alter. 

“Well, I believe that this is a test. Not just a test for the individuals inflicted, but for the world.”

The pastor placed his elbows on the desk. It was so quiet in the room I could hear the breath entering and retreating from his nostrils. 

“Like the parable of Job but for the world? Interesting.” 

“Yes—yes, Pastor—like Job. God is testing us to see if we are worthy. How we treat these poor souls will be a testament to our love for God almighty.” 

The pastor arose from his desk and walked to a small window that looked out onto the main road. He watched the townsfolk come and go from their jobs and daily errands. He lowered his head and did not speak for several minutes, then he turned to face me, and his demeanor had changed; a new man stood before me, his top lip quivering like a leaf caught on a rock in a stream. His hands were balled into fists. 

“When I look out across the congregation, do you know what I see?” 

He waited until I answered him. 

“What do you see?” 

“I see fear. I see hatred. But we should not be afraid of these poor wretches, no, but we should pity them. For when they get to those pearly gates, clutching their hats in their splintery palms, they shall be refused entry.” 

He walked over and stood with his nose inches from mine. His breath was sour like buttermilk. 

“They have given their soul to the devil—it’s clear as day to me. Not to you, though, is it? That’s alright. So now, what shall we do here? Pity them, sure, but we cannot let them overcome our town. No. We cannot.” 

“But Pastor, do you not—” 

“We cannot let them destroy Bodie, and it’s God-fearing men and women! We must drive them and their wickedness from our home! We must drive the devil from our home! We must do God’s will! And we must drive the devil from Bodie!” 

Spittle flew onto my cheeks, but I did not flinch. There was no love of God filling this house of worship. My stomach churned, and my body felt weak. I thanked the pastor for his time and left. 

Uncle Johnathan did not leave the mortuary. He slept there, took his meals among the corpses, and, knowing that death was near, told me story upon story of his life. 

I asked him why he had became a mortician. 

He lowered his head and talked in a low voice. “Whether they had money, power, or generosity of spirit, their bodies eventually ended up in front of me, and their souls in front of God. In some ways, I felt closer to God because of that—partners in the business of death.” 

We had tea, and I witnessed my uncle turn from stone to something softer. Then, as night descended and our breath rolled out to meet our words, a crowd clamored outside. My uncle ran to bolt the door, but when he touched the metal, it turned to wood, and the mob had broken through within minutes. 

We leaped out the window and ran toward Boot Hill, but it was not long before they caught up, forming a circle around us, their eyes wild and full of an evil togetherness. Through the mob, which swayed back and forth, drunk with bloodlust, emerged Pastor Edwards, brandishing an axe; a lumberjack in a dusty suit; a pious madman intoxicated with ordained power.   

“You two—hold the young one,” said the pastor, pointing at two men who eagerly obeyed his command. 

One of the men smelled of whisky and vomit, the other of soap and coffee. No matter how I struggled, I could not break free from them. Uncle Johnathan stood perfectly still in the middle of the mob; he looked taller than usual to me—a cousin of the redwood.   

“I have been thinking about our conversation, Robert,” said the pastor.  

My uncle did not look at me.  

“You helped me. I dug deep—I prayed to God! Do you know what he told me? The Lord God Almighty said, ‘This is a test!’ Just like you said, Robert, this here is a test. I prayed, and God responded—the test is this, He said to me, ‘What will you do to save this town?’ And I’ll tell you, Robert, the question scared me. But I said I will do whatever I must.” 

Before I could respond to him, he lifted his axe and brought it down swiftly between my uncle’s shoulder and neck, where the Treefolk had yet to spread. He was killed instantly. I was silent because it didn’t seem real. It was if I were reading it in a story. 

“Let us pray together.” 

My blood boiled. I wanted to take that axe and strike him down, but I knew the pastor was but a hair on the head of the monster.

“Heavenly Father, we beseech you to continue your guidance and shelter us from the evil men of this world. We do your bidding. And Heavenly Father, please watch over Robert Nell and help him understand the sacrifice we made here today—under Your command. Bless this town, Father. In Jesus’ name, we pray. Amen.”

“Amen.” the men around me mumbled. 

“Let him go, he’s our brother.” 

The pastor tossed the axe to the ground. 

Tears let loose and streamed down my face, but no sound escaped my lips. I looked at my uncle’s body, coiled like a snake where he had fallen, a pool of black expanding slowly in the dirt below him like a large black period on a sentence. I brushed my hands over his eyes, and with them closed he looked like a felled tree in dusk’s dim light. 

In the distance, I could see the miners pouring from the mines on their way home for supper, the lifeblood of Bodie, the boomtown—a golden vein feeding this corrupted city of false worshipers. I picked up the axe the pastor had discarded, his work for the day done. My body was shaking with rage. I hoisted the axe over my shoulder and brought it down hard just below the joint at the elbow, severing my uncle’s arm from his lifeless body. 

I took a gold dollar from my trousers and placed it on the ground before me. Then, I picked up my uncle’s arm, the white sleeve bathed in blood, and touched the coin with his sharp, sticklike fingers. The coin immediately turned to wood. It was then that I knew I was right; it was a test. I threw the axe into the tall grass and walked toward the mines. 

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If you’ve made it this far down the page, you’ve earned a holiday treat. Go to the kitchen and grab something fun!

Love - Shony

About “What Dread Hand” - This was originally submitted in the Genre Smash competition held by Globe Soup. The town of Bodie is real, and so was the brick building, but all of the characters are fictional.