The Eater is Coming
“It said, ‘The eater is coming,” Swaine’s voice broke with emotion as tears streamed down his cheeks. “Over and over again, it said, ‘The eater is coming.’
The full moon illuminated the Swaine farm as Reverend Smith hitched his horse to the wooden rail beside the cabin. The branches of the nearby forest cast long shadows along the ground, like thousands of clawed fingers reaching for the Puritan minister of Wethersfield.
The weather was unnaturally cold for late April in the Connecticut River Valley, bad for the spring planting and, indeed, the hand of the Devil as far as the Reverend was concerned.
One of the Swaine’s hunting dogs sniffed intently at the floorboards of a nearby wagon, ignoring the tall, lanky minister as he passed by. The Reverend cast a sidelong look into the back of the cart, where a huddled form lay covered by burlap. Something dark and wet seeped through the burlap and pooled along the floorboards. He shoed the dog away with a kick of his foot, and the dog scampered off into the darkness.
Reverend Smith brushed the dust from the ride off his dark doublet and breeches, noting with annoyance that mud hat splattered onto his stockings. He removed his wide-brimmed, black felt hat and opened the cabin door.
Inside, two men seated around the oak table stood expectantly. A white-haired man, heavy-set with a wide bulbous nose, rushed forward to meet him.
“Reverend Smith, thank you for coming so quickly,” the man looked relieved to see the minister. “I am confident the Devil’s work is afoot in the Great Meadow, and all the souls of Wethersfield may be in danger this night.”
“Yes, Reverend,” a dark-bearded man with red-rimmed eyes and a face tight with tension nervously tugged at the white cuffs of his doublet as he slowly stood. “God bless you for coming.”
“If what you say is true, the Lord has called me here to be his vessel of salvation,” the Reverend nodded to the bearded man before turning his attention to the other. “Clement, whose body is in the cart?”
“It’s the body of the witch’s consort,” Clement spoke with evident distaste. “A Pequot sorcerer, he was killed when the men seized her this afternoon.”
“I see, “ Revered smith folded his arms across his chest and pursed his lips. “William Swaine, how did the witch come to infect a Christian household?”
“Reverend,” the bearded man’s voice quavered, and he looked at his feet. “It’s all my fault.”
A great wracking sob shook the man’s body, and he collapsed back into the chair as he covered his face with shaking hands.
The Reverend and Clement exchanged glances; the heavy-set man placed his hand on Swaine’s shoulder, “William, why don’t you tell Reverend Smith everything from the beginning?”
“Five days ago,” Swaine looked at them with tear-filled eyes, his face a mask of anguish. “Some Dutch fur trappers came out of the forest to barter for cattle. They had some spices and furs to trade for one of my cows.”
The Reverend looked contemplative, then his face registered shock and disapproval, “William, five days ago was Sunday. Are you saying you conducted business on the Lord’s Day?”
A fresh wave of sobs wracked Swaine’s body, “I’m sorry, Reverend, I knew it was wrong. Now God is punishing me.”
“Tell him about the witch, William,” Clement gently urged.
William sniffed deeply and tried to wipe away his tears, “There was a woman with them, a Dutch woman. She gave my daughters, Mary and Rose, each a doll. I thought they were hideous things made of straw and leather ties, but the girls wanted them so badly, so I allowed it.”
“She gave them to your daughters freely, without trade or barter?” Clement looked genuinely surprised as William nodded.
“The Devil gives away his gifts freely,” Reverend Smith sighed and shook his head dourly.
“Everything seemed fine until last night. The girls had been playing out behind the barn,” Swaine’s eyes looked far off in memory, and he shook his head disbelievingly. “We sat down to dinner and our thanks to the Lord for his bounty, and that’s when it happened.”
“That’s when what happened?” the Reverend eyed the man inquisitively.
“Mary’s doll,” Swaine looked at the men with sheer terror in his expression. “It…it spoke. We were sitting at the dinner table, and this small, high-pitched voice called from the girl’s room.”
“What did it say?
“It said, ‘The eater is coming,” Swaine’s voice broke with emotion as tears streamed down his cheeks. “Over and over again, it said, ‘The eater is coming.’
Clement held the lantern high, leading the Reverend and Swaine behind the barn. Before them, torchlight burned around the large tree stump that Swaine used for chopping wood. The shadow of a man in the dark attire and wide-brimmed felt hat of the Puritan settlers stood guard with a long smooth-bored musket. The fire of the torches glinted off the large hunting knife belted to his waist.
As the men approached, they saw a small doll nailed to the top of the stump. It was a crude thing with a body and limbs of straw and branches bound together with thin leather strands. The head was rough-hewn fabric with dark sewn dots for eyes and a nose, a thin mouth, and similarly tied over the straw body with leather. It lay spread across the stump, held in place by an iron nail driven through each limb.
“It’s hideous,” Clement winced in disgust.
“Reverend,” the man on guard nodded. “It’s good to see you.”
“The Lord is blessed to have men like you on guard against evil, John Finch,” the Reverend nodded in return. “Which doll is this?”
“It’s Rose’s doll,” Swaine answered quietly.
“And this is not the one that has spoken?” the Reverend inspected the doll closely, careful not to touch it.
“No, Reverend, only Mary’s doll has spoken,” Swaine averted his eyes from the doll.
“Has this doll been examined thoroughly?” Reverend Smith looked at Clement, who shook his head. “Brother Finch, please check the doll with your knife.”
“What are you looking for?” Swaine peered over Clement’s shoulder as Finch drew his hunting knife and moved guardedly toward the doll as if approaching a snared wolf.
“Witches are known to hide evil eyes within objects to spy on Christian homes for the Devil,” Reverend Smith watched Finch intently as the man poked at the doll with the tip of his knife.
The blade sunk easily into the head of the doll and the limbs; however, the knife his some resistance in the center. Finch looked questioningly at the Reverend, who nodded for him to continue. The man picked at the center of the doll, cutting through the straw and thin branches. Finch stopped and peered closely at the doll before stepping back aghast. Clement gasped in horror as Finch moved backward, and the torchlight danced off a mass uncovered in the center of the doll. It was something dark and meaty, wrapped in tendon and ligament.
“What is that?” Clement’s eyes stared in horror.
“I believe it’s a chicken heart or maybe a rooster,” Finch nodded with certainty as he resumed poking at the mass.
“What does this mean, Reverend?” Swaine’s voice quivered. “What has it done to my daughters?”
“You have brought a great evil into your house William Swaine,” the Reverend’s eyes blazed in the torchlight as Swaine groaned miserably. “Where are the girls now?”
“They are with their mother and aunt at John Plumb’s farm,” Clement tore his eyes away from the mangled doll to look at the Reverend.
“Good, it’s best to keep them away from here until we sort this out,” the Reverend nodded contemplatively. “Where are the witch and the other doll?”
“They are in the barn,” Finch re-sheathed his knife. “John Plumb and William’s brother Abraham are guarding them.”
“Take me to them,” Reverend Smith looked sidelong at Clement and nodded. “You were correct in calling for me; this is surely the Devil’s handiwork!”
The Reverend stared intently at the woman as she sputtered and gasped into wakefulness, rivulets of water running down her face and long, unkempt blonde hair. Her hands were tied behind her to the thick center pole of the barn with a length of rope that chaffed and reddened her wrists. The woman wore no shoes, and her feet were similarly tied at the ankles.
“She’s awake now,” John Plumb placed the empty bucket beside his feet.
The shock of the cold water had startled the woman from her slumber; however, now she studied them warily as she struggled to catch her breath. One eye had swollen shut from a blow to the face, but her one good eye darted nervously from face to face. The Reverend noted fear in that blue eye, a sign he took that he had the Devil on the run. He looked disapprovingly at her dirty bare feet and homespun dress that revealed too much skin at the low neckline.
“Why have you done this to me?” the woman’s thick Dutch accent slipped between purpled lips, split and swollen from a recent beating. “I have never done your people any harm.”
“The witch speaks lies, Reverend,” Abraham Swaine kept his mucket pointed at the woman.
“Why is she in this condition?” the Reverend’s voice was dispassionate as he eyed her bruised face, displaying little concern for her condition.
“She put up a struggle when we seized her,” Plumb raised his musket. “I struck her with the butt of my musket before she could invoke the Devil against us.”
“The witch and her Pequot demon cavorted in a wigwam in the woods,” Abraham sneered. “No doubt rutting like pigs.”
“We caught them both together,” Plumb nodded. “Conspiring with the Devil to cast their witchcraft on Wethersfield.”
“No, Sassakusu and I are healers,” the woman shook her head vehemently. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”
“Your demon lover will be dancing with the Devil under the moonlight no more,” Abraham smiled maliciously as he patted the side of his musket.
The woman’s shoulders slumped as tears ran done her cheeks, and a moan of grief escaped her lips. “Sassakusu was a healer among his people. He sought only to teach me of this land’s healing herbs and remedies. He was no witch, nor am I.”
“Then how do you explain that vile thing?” the Reverend pointed to the far end of the barn, where the other straw doll, a replica of the one on the stump, was tied around the waist to a support pole.
“You gave those Devil toys to my girls,” Swaine pointed an accusatory finger at the woman. “It spoke with the voice of Hell.”
“It spoke?” the woman became suddenly very still, her voice hushed. “What did it say?”
“Reverend, she admits her witchcraft on the child’s toy,” Clement took an involuntary step backward.
“We found your witch seed in the other doll,” Finch slid his hunting knife from its sheath. “I am certain we will find one in this doll as well, witch.”
“No, you don’t understand. The dolls were given as wards against evil,” the woman eyed the doll and then turned her bruised face to Swaine. “You say it spoke; what did it say?”
“She admits her witchcraft, Reverend,” Abraham raised his rifle and pointed it at the woman. “We should kill her now before she calls her Pequot demons to free her.”
“You are all in great danger,” the woman looked beseeching at each of her captors and then again at Swaine. “You must tell me what it said.”
“We will not repeat the words of the Devil,” the Reverend held up his hand to prevent Swaine from answering.
“Reverend,” the woman stared at the minister’s grim countenance. “What you found in the doll, Sassakusu gave me a protection charm to put in the dolls to protect the girls because I feared for their safety.”
“To bewitch them and steal their souls,” Plumb spat on the floor.
“Why? Why do this to my beautiful little angels,” Swaine moaned as he raised his hand to hide his tears.
“Because they are the light of Christ,” Reverend Smith put a consoling hand on Swaine’s shoulder as the man sobbed. “We will save their souls, William.”
“You don’t understand,” the woman shook her head sadly. “We sought only to help you, and you killed poor Sassakusu for his kindness.”
“Hush your witch’s mouth,” Abraham slid his finger over the trigger of his musket.
“Your god cannot save you from what is in these woods,” the woman stared at them remorsefully. “You will die. Your families will die. Your children will die.”
“Our Lord is all-powerful,” the Reverend’s eyes blazed fervently as he took a menacing step toward the woman. “He will protect us from your witchery!”
“The Dutch fur trappers that found it were Christians, too,” the woman laughed mirthlessly and shook her head. “Your god’s protection did them no good.”
“What is this evil she speaks of?” Clement’s eyes opened wide with fear.
“I have hunted these woods since we came to the river valley,” Finch shook his head and laughed. “There is nothing that walks these woods that a musket ball cannot kill.”
“Then you are as big a fool as those fur trappers,” the woman glared at Finch, then turned to the minister. “They encountered a cleft in an ancient oak that ran into the earth. The trappers thought it might be a rabbit warren or fox’s den, but foul air blew up from it, and the men feared going into the dark. One among them laughed at their fear and climbed into the hole.”
The men stared at her as she looked at each of them, her unswollen eye unflinching from their gaze. “When he came back up, he was changed.”
“Changed how?” Clement swallowed hard.
“There was something inside him. Something ancient and evil,” her eyes fell upon the stern face of Reverend Smith. “Something hungry. It fell upon the trappers, ripping and tearing them. The one that escaped and reached my home was holding his innards inside with his own hands. He lived long enough to tell me what I have told you. No longer.”
Silence fell over the barn as the men looked at each other uneasily. Then the Reverend clapped his hands so hard that several men jumped. He clapped his hands and laughed as his dark eyes stared at the woman.
“The witch weaves a tale to deceive us and save her life,” the Reverend’s face became impassive, and his voice steely. “You have been judged. You have condemned yourself before the Lord and these god-fearing men. You will burn at the stake before this night is done.”
The eater is coming.
The voice was high and shrill and spoke in a sing-song tune.
The eater is coming.
All eyes in the room turned toward the small straw doll tied to the pole. Its black sewn eyes stared sightlessly at the horrified faces of the assembled men.
“Lord protect us,” Clement whispered in terror.
The eater is coming.
The woman looked up into the night sky and she said a whispered prayer to the old gods of her ancestors to take her quickly from this world as the men stacked wood about her feet. The ropes binding her hands and feet to the six-foot length of wood pole driven upright into the ground was so tight she could not feel her fingers and toes. Beside her, the men stacked wood around a second pole that held fast the bound form of the small doll. William Swaine deposited the last of the wood at her feet, keeping his eyes averted from the woman.
As tears flowed down her bruised cheeks, the woman shook her head, “I was only trying to protect your girls.”
When he met her gaze, hatred blazed in Swaine’s eyes, and he spoke through gritted teeth, “You tried to consign their souls to hellfire for all eternity.”
He turned his back on her and stalked back to the men waiting with their torches held high. The burning fires of the torches sent wisps of smoke into the night sky and illuminated the men’s faces in an eerie glow. Three women and two young girls approached and joined the men as the Reverend stepped out from the assembled group.
“On this day, the twenty-third of April, in the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and thirty-seven, the good people of Wethersfield have found you guilty of witchcraft,” Reverend Smith clutched his bible against his heart with one hand and raised his other arm skyward. “It is the law of God as written in Exodus twenty-two, eighteen, that though shalt not suffer a witch to live.”
“You fear what you do not understand, and you have blinded yourselves to the world around you,” the woman scanned the faces of the assembled men and women. “You should run from this place and seek the help of the Pequots; only they understand what roams these woods.”
Only dispassionate faces and hateful stares looked back at her. She gave a joyless laugh, “but you won’t do that. You are too ignorant and hateful of anyone not like you to accept help from the only people who could save you and your families.”
“Burn her,” Agatha Swaine, the girls’ mother, shouted.
“Burn her!” Other voices among the assembled crowd joined until it became a chant on the night air. The Reverend nodded curtly, and Abraham Swaine and John Finch moved forward and lowered their torches to the pyres. The wood began to crackle and pop as the flame quickly spread through the kindling, billowing smoke as the men and women continued to chant and jeer.
Through the darkening smoke, the woman could see the two young girls; their faces contorted with malice, chanting to burn her. She could feel the heat of the fire growing in intensity as the smoke made her eyes sting. John Plumb rushed forward, the remains of the dissected doll impaled on a pitchfork. He tossed the straw doll into the fire, and the flames quickly consumed the dry straw and branches. The woman watched with morbid fascination as the cloth face of the doll burned to ember and the chicken heart sizzled to char.
The eater is here.
The woman looked over at the doll bound to the pole beside her as the small, high voice called out again.
The eater is here.
The doll began to smoke as the flames of the pyre reached the small straw form. As the fire quickly engulfed the doll and swirled around the pole, the woman heard the voice one last time.
The eater is here.
As the flames began to climb up her dress and lick at the skin beneath, the woman stared out at the chanting figures. Their eyes looked excited and expectant as the flames finally reached their victim. All eyes except that of Mary Swaine, the little girl backed away from her mother and sister to stand behind the crowd. Her eyes lay riveted on the woman, and a wicked grin crossed her face.
Through the dark smoke that made her eyes water and her throat burn, the woman saw the dark of Mary’s eyes grow until it consumed the white of her eyes. Round black orbs, so dark they did not even reflect the firelight, stared back at the woman.
The little girl’s grin grew wide, spreading from ear to ear to reveal a wide maw of jagged teeth. Her arms and legs lengthened into long limbs with patches of thick back hair. The woman could see Mary’s hands elongate into sharp black claws as the girl grew to a size that towered over the men and women before her.
As the flames reached the woman, her screams mingled with those of the assembled men and women as the eater began to feed.