The Other Country

A short story

Image made using NightCafe

The sun was low in the sky when the farmhouse first came into view. We were still a little ways off, but this was a low, flat country where nothing could truly hide. It stood black and unyielding against the snow, the only thing of its kind for miles in any direction. No curl of woodsmoke rose from its chimney, nor was there any other movement. The scene was as still as a painting, and there was no sound beyond the tramp of our horse’s hooves or the swish of the old-fashioned sleigh drawn behind her.

“Would you look at that,” said Paul. “Maybe Old Gallagher’s flown the coop after all.”

“That’s rather–”

Insensitive, I was going to say, but I wisely chose not to scold him. After all, he was doing me a great favor just by driving me out here, and he was a grown man by then, if barely. 

“Well, at any rate, I highly doubt he’s a fugitive, whatever the rumors say. For one thing, he has a young child.”

“It’s not as if I think he’s the Villisca murderer, you know,” he said defensively. “I just think he’s suspicious. You heard about what he said to Sheriff Young, didn’t you? It’s awful strange for an innocent man to make threats like that.”

“Awfully,” I corrected, and then added. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Yes, teacher,” he laughed. “I’ll write it on my slate fifty times when I get home.”

“Oh come now, I’d only make you write it twenty times at most. But at any rate, we don’t know exactly what was said between them. There’s some bad blood there, to be sure, but not necessarily any threats.”

“It might explain why we’re the ones who drove all this way, not the man who’s paid to do this kind of thing.”

My brother had a point, albeit not one I liked. At the time, I still thought the fugitive theory was probably nonsense, but I suspected our man wasn’t one to make threats idly.

“Still, he has no quarrel with either of us. There should be no danger there.”

“Even if there was, I’m more than a match for a grumpy old Irishman, don’t you think?”

“That’s hardly an accomplishment,” I laughed. “Just remember, I’ll do the talking. Michael is my student, after all.”

“That is, if anybody’s here to talk to. We may have come all this way for nothing.”

Image made using Midjourney, with some help from my friend Flatline

Paul brought the sleigh to a stop just outside the house. It was two stories, weathered gray where it had once been white. No lamps had been lit in the windows, despite the evening fast approaching. Nearby was an equally weathered  barn and a small farmyard with a chicken coop in one corner. There was no sign of the chickens. Or of any livestock, for that matter. The whole place was as silent as snowfall.

“No footprints,” said Paul. “Nobody’s been here since at least last night.”

“Maybe they’ve gone to visit family.”

“Maybe,” said Paul, in a tone that implied he very much doubted it.

I thought of Michael then. Such a strange little boy, with his inside-out shirts and oddly grim expression, like a small parody of his father. A remarkably good child, though. In the two years he’d been a part of my class, he had never required punishment or even chastisement. He was exceptionally clever as well. It was a pity that most of the other children disliked him, but he held himself equally aloof from them as well. Perhaps they sensed that he fundamentally differed from them in some way.

“I’m going to knock on the door,” I said, pulling myself up out of the sleigh. The snow was deep enough to cover my boots and would have clung to the hem of my skirt too if I hadn’t held it aloft.

The front porch creaked underfoot as I made my way across, but something made me pause there. There were several small holes in the center of the door, surrounded by jagged scratches that exposed the inner wood. It was as if something nailed there had been violently torn off and cast aside. There were a few fresh splinters strewn across the porch, but no sign of the object itself. Pushing aside my increasing trepidation, I knocked on the door.

Nothing stirred within the house. At my back, Nutmeg snorted and shifted in her harness, but no other sound broke the stillness of the fast-approaching night. I knocked again, this time so loudly that each blow echoed like the report of a rifle. Still nothing, not even after several minutes of waiting. My hand at last went to the door knob, but then I thought better of it. Even if the door was unlocked, I doubted my intrusion would be taken kindly.

“Mr. Gallagher?” I called. “It’s Miss Smithson. I’m Michael’s teacher. Please, could you open the door?”

“I don’t think anybody’s there,” said Paul, from over by the barn. He had found a hitching post and was in the process of securing our horse.

“No,” I conceded. “You’re probably right. But let’s check the barn first, just to be sure.”

What precisely I was searching for I don’t think I knew, but there was something in that enduring stillness that begged an explanation. If they had truly left without telling anyone, I wanted to know. I disliked uncertainty, especially where my students were concerned. This was not the first time I had been left with unanswered questions.

The barn door was not only unlocked, but slightly ajar as well. I pulled it the rest of the way open and peered inside while Paul got our lantern. It was not a large structure, but the sun was quickly setting now and it was hard to make out more than rough shapes in the gloom. There was something else as well; the faint but unmistakable odor of rotting flesh. It was probably a rat or some other vermin that had died in an inaccessible place. At least, that was what the reasonable part of me wanted to believe. It was a comforting fiction, even if fiction was all it was.

“Watch out,” I said as he returned. “It smells as if something died in there.”

“It’s alright,” he replied. “I’m sure it’s just a–”

He broke off mid-sentence as he saw what the lantern light had revealed. A horse was sprawled across the dirt floor, unmoving. Its head was twisted back towards us at an unnatural angle, its mouth lolling open. I’d seen dead livestock before, of course. However, there was something tortured in the poor creature’s expression, as if it cried out for aid that would never come.

“You better stay back here, Rosa,” said Paul, holding the lantern before him as he took a few steps inside. “Someone could still be hiding in here.”

“Then you probably shouldn’t go in by yourself.”

He frowned at this, probably thinking I didn’t trust him to protect me. But tall and strong though he was, I didn’t want him risking himself unnecessarily. Especially not when he was here at my request.

“Let me at least hold the lantern,” I said, conciliatory. 

He nodded and handed it to me.

The barn had only two stalls. The one nearest to us was where the tack was kept, while the horse had clearly been stabled in the other. It had not been mucked out for a day or two, but was clean enough to indicate this was not its usual state. The splintered door hung lopsided from the latch.

When it was clear that we were quite alone, Paul knelt down to examine the horse. In the meantime, I looked out across the farmyard, keeping watch for any movement against the snow. It was a gesture probably as pointless as it was absurd, but it made me feel safer all the same.

“I don’t understand what happened here,” he said, calling my attention back. “The leg joints are all swollen, but the only broken leg is the one she fell on. She looks a bit underfed, but otherwise pretty healthy. Not more than maybe three or four years old either, poor girl.”

“She seems to have kicked her way out of her stall,” I pointed out.

“Awful strange,” he murmured. I didn’t correct him.

Inspecting the ground for any further clues, I saw something glinting dully in the lamplight. I reached down and picked it up. It was an arrowhead, pale gray and not much bigger than the first digit of my thumb.

“Look at this,” I said, handing it over.

Holding it up to the light, he turned it over several times. It was polished and perfectly clean. No trace of blood.

“Does Michael collect arrowheads?” he asked after a moment. “Maybe he dropped one.”

For a child, Michael was remarkably private, resisting any attempt on my part to learn his interests or inclinations. That said, it made more sense than anything else I could come up with.

“Probably,” I replied. “Some of my other children do.”

“Then I’ll keep it for now,” he said, putting it in his pocket. “He’ll probably want it back.”

I nodded, not relishing what I knew I had to say next.

“We need to check the house.”

I thought I saw a twitch at the corner of his mouth as he got to his feet. Something like a grimace.

“Yes,” he said. And then, after a moment, “Did you try the door already?”

“No, I didn’t feel right just walking in. I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

—

He strode past me and back across the farmyard, his bearing just a little too confident to be fully genuine. I wanted to tell him he didn’t have to put on a brave face for me, but somehow that seemed crueler than allowing this well-intentioned charade. Still holding the lantern, I followed him back up onto the porch. He reached towards the door–then stopped.

“Strange…” he murmured.

“What is?”

“These marks. They’re shaped a lot like a horseshoe, don’t you think?”

He stood aside slightly so I could see and I realized he was right. I hadn’t noticed before, but the pattern of holes in the wood made a perfect horseshoe shape. All of the nails were missing.

“Must have wanted it gone in a hurry.”

Or his luck ran out, I thought grimly.

Paul turned the knob and pushed inward. Much to my surprise, the door opened easily. Inside was an untidy front room that was likely used as an informal parlor. The house was not large, and the clutter made it appear even smaller. It bore the scent of mildew and old sweat, which was tempered only by the all-pervading cold. Both of us stood in the doorway, listening for any signs of life within. Again, there was nothing.

“Wait here– I’ll go in, Rosa.”

He smiled, but the fear was all too evident in his expression. I thought of our father’s old hunting rifle, still mounted on the wall at home. Paul had wanted to bring it along, but I had thought it would give the wrong impression. 

“No, we need to stay together,” I said. ‘It’s safer that way.”

“We don’t know what’s in there.”

“No, we don’t. But for all we know, someone could be lurking around the back of the house, waiting to take us–take me unaware.”

This seemed to convince him, as he let me join him inside without protest.

It was difficult to tell if there had been a struggle, since everything was already strewn with dirty clothing or various other detritus. Michael’s slate and lunch pail were propped up against a far wall. A cheap card table without chairs had been dragged to the center of the room. A pair of dirty plates had been left there; one clearly made for a child. A sheet of folded paper poked out from under the smaller one. Something had been written on it in large block letters, but I couldn’t quite make out what it said. It struck me as an odd detail in such a house. The old man was rumored to be functionally illiterate, unable to do more than sign his own name with an “X”. If true, that left only one other person who could have written it–Michael himself.

I gingerly slid the papers out from under the plate. “TO WHOEVER FINDS US” was hastily scrawled across it in Michael’s handwriting. The other side was written in neat and careful script. Clearly, he had spent some time on it.

“Finds us?” There was something ominous in how this was phrased, something I wasn’t quite prepared to deal with. All the same, I started to read.

I’m writing this now so I can already have it ready when the time comes. I think they will find us again soon. The Fair Folk have servants even in this place, and even all we’ve done won’t keep them out forever. If one of them finds this, it won’t matter. But there are good people here too, and I want them to know what happened here. It wasn’t my Da’s idea. I was the one who asked him. He is old and I am tired of running.

“What is it?” asked Paul. The expression on my face must have told him a great deal.

“I… I don’t know. It’s from Michael, though.”

I held the papers out a bit so he could read over my shoulder.

They want to make me serve again, but I won’t go with them. They’ve already had so many years from me. My Da was a young man when they took me away. Time is different in their land. I spent all those years there but am still a child. Maybe I’d always be one. It’s been three years and I haven’t grown at all. I know you probably won’t believe me. People don’t believe things like that here. But there’s only one place we can go now, where they can’t take me again. Da says he can make it quick, like putting down a horse. I won’t suffer–

“Oh God–”

That was when I became aware of another, fainter scent, one that was sweet and horrible and far too familiar.

“We need to get the sheriff,” said Paul. “Something terrible’s happened here.”

 I clutched my hand to my mouth, unsure if I meant to weep or to simply gag.

“I should have known better. If we’d gotten here earlier–”

It was a foolish thing to say, but I couldn’t help it. It was all I could do not to lose control completely, and then I would be no use to anyone. Paul grasped my arm, turning me to face him. His features looked oddly stern in the lamplight, but his voice was gentle.

“It wasn’t your job to look in on them, or mine either. And even if it was, you couldn’t’ve known. You’re the only one in this whole damned town who cared enough to come out here. I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t asked me. You have nothing to blame yourself for. Nothing.”

I choked back a sob, determined not to let myself give into grief. Not yet.

“I need to be sure,” I said. “Before we… head back.”

He considered this a moment, finally nodding agreement.

“You’re right. But I’ll go. You shouldn’t have to–”

“Neither should you.” I protested.

“Whatever’s up there, you’ll probably carry it around in your head for the rest of your life.”

“I know that. But you’re only here because of me. You said that yourself. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

He turned from me, towards the staircase at the far end of the room. I put my hand on his arm and tried to hold him back.

“He’s my student, Paul. You may be a man, but it still wouldn’t be right–”

“Just… let me do this for you, Rosalind. Please.”

I stared at him, strangely affected by his use of my full Christian name. He had never called me that before, and never would again. His expression was resolute and I could see he could not be swayed. In the end, I handed him the lantern without a word.

It was a terrible kindness for him to take on such a burden. I nearly told him to turn back, but I knew he wouldn’t. He would be the one to talk to the sheriff; he would have had to explain why he wasn’t brave enough to see things through. I couldn’t begrudge his protecting his honor, even if the price for it was far too great.

Several minutes later, he slowly made his way downstairs again. His features looked older somehow, and the lantern trembled slightly in his hand.

“I’m sorry,” was all he said.

—

It was a long time before I could make myself read the rest of that letter. Paul had given it to the sheriff first thing, but it had been quickly deemed irrelevant–the fantasies of a precocious but disturbed child. And so it was returned to him, and then to me. For several years it lay untouched among my other personal letters, carefully preserved and never forgotten. It was only that feeling of unresolved tragedy that impelled me to finish out those last few lines; a sense that by letting Michael say his piece, I would finally be laying him to rest.

–It’s Da that you should pity, not me. He’s the one who must act when the time comes. I don’t want you to think he’s a monster. Not after everything he has done for me. And not when there are true monsters in this world.

The letter wasn’t signed. It didn’t need to be. His voice was as clear to me then as it had been when he had recited his lessons. I sat silent for a long time afterwards before I put the letter away.