The Comfort Shack (3 page)

The fetid air of the Comfort Shack stunk of
smoke and sex. Libby led Rebecca to a bedroom furnished with three
small beds. Sleeping women occupied two. The third, beside the
window, sat empty with the blankets drawn back. Libby seized
Rebecca by the shoulders and pulled her tight. She leaned in and
Rebecca felt frozen in place, powerless. Libby’s lips touched hers,
soft and wet, caressing. Her breath was hot and sweet. Her tongue
hungrily probed Rebecca’s mouth. Rebecca’s knees trembled. Libby
lowered her into bed.

Libby’s weight pressed down on her. She
kissed Rebecca’s cheek and then her neck. She puddled her long,
black hair on Rebecca’s chest and, as Libby shimmied back toward
Rebecca’s feet, slid her heavy mane down Rebecca’s stomach. She
straddled Rebecca’s ankles and took the hem of her nightdress in
her hands. In one smooth motion, she pushed the nightdress up over
Rebecca’s hips. She glided her hands over the tops of Rebecca’s
thighs, grasped her knees, and pressed them apart. Gentle kisses
danced in slow procession up Rebecca’s thigh.

Rebecca wanted to scream, “Stop,” but nothing
came out. She gazed at the mirror still clutched in her hand. She
could end this with one good blow except that she felt paralyzed
and unable to move. As Libby’s warm mouth advanced, Rebecca felt a
heat growing within. Her breathing came fast and shallow. Her chest
fluttered. Her head felt light, overwhelmed with conflicting
feelings of anticipation and dread, excitement and shame. It was
then that she noticed the image in the mirror. She could see her
hips and nightdress, and nothing else but the far wall. She looked
at Libby’s head between her legs and glanced back at the mirror.
Libby’s image was not there.

Libby’s lips found their mark. Rebecca
moaned. Rebecca’s eyes darted to the girls in their beds.
Please
don’t wake up. For the love of God, don’t wake up.
No one
can know
. Libby’s lips caressed. Her tongue stroked coarse and
hot. The warmth of Libby's mouth melded with the heat between
Rebecca's thighs. Languid strokes increased in tempo. Libby's
tongue flicked and darted, circled and strummed. Something swelled
inside Rebecca. Her pulse quickened. Her breathing became ragged.
She wrapped a hand in Libby's hair and instead of pushing her away,
pulled her closer. Blood surged to her head and between her thighs.
She inhaled and held her breath. Her scalp began to tingle. The
feeling spread down her neck into her chest. She trembled. A
shudder bolted through her. It felt as though her head was
exploding. The breath she held so tight came out in a long, low
moan. She jerked and twitched. Instead of stopping, Libby picked up
the pace. Rebecca's body shuddered again. Her legs shot out
straight and her back arched. Libby teased with her tongue. Another
jolt coursed through Rebecca. Her toes curled until they
cramped.

Libby pulled away and Rebecca collapsed into
the mattress sweaty and panting. She felt spent and weak. She still
clung to her broken mirror. She glanced into the glass and again
there was no reflection of Libby. She peered over her stomach.
Libby's face was poised between her legs. From her angle she
couldn't see the lower portion of Libby's face but she saw her
eyes, wide and staring back at her. And from the set of her brows,
Rebecca knew Libby was gloating. She'd won. Libby rose up onto her
knees with a smug grin on her face and lowered Rebecca's nightdress
over her legs.

“I'm done with you now,” Libby said. “Go back
to your house. Back to your bed and back to your husband. Just
remember one thing; you have no power. The power lies with the men,
and the men belong to me.” She raised an eyebrow and curled her
lips into a malicious grin. “And now, so do you.”

Rebecca stood on trembling legs. She felt
ashamed and angry. But she was so drained that what emotion she
felt, she felt at a distance. There wasn't much fight or emotion
left in her. Rebecca did as she was told. She wandered to the door
and let herself out. As she approached her cottage, she began to
cry. She stood sobbing in the snow shivering, her feet burning with
cold, until she was finally cried out.

Rebecca awoke the next day to a layer of low
clouds that obscured the sun. She felt as dreary as the weather.
Jonathon was already up and gone. She lingered in bed wishing the
previous night had been a nightmare. When she moved, the twinge in
her groin told her it hadn't been. She sat up and realized she
still had the mirror clutched in her hand. The clock read almost
four. She'd slept most of the day away.

Rebecca had no desire to move and found it
hard to think. She remembered the vision of the footprints leading
from her cabin to the Comfort Shack; her husband in Libby's arms.
She knew that if she did nothing, she would lose him. She went to
the armoire and dressed. She stuffed the mirror into the pocket of
her coat and draped it over her shoulders.

Outside, day was fast becoming night. Rebecca
asked the first soldier she saw where to find her husband. He was
with Dr. Harker. She slogged through the snow to the infirmary.
Jonathon and Dr. Harker stood over a table. Their backs blocked
most of her view. Beyond them, a bare foot pointed skyward, its
flesh beyond white. It was tinged blue like glacier ice. She moved
closer. They didn't hear her come in. A man lay on the table naked
and dead. It was the first corpse she'd ever seen. Doctor Harker’s
hands danced and pointed as he tried to explain something to
Jonathon.

“I don't know why I didn't see it before.
When someone dies and the heart stops, blood sinks to the lowest
levels of the body. It's the nature of any liquid. Where the blood
pools the skin turns purple. You will notice that that has not
happened here. In fact, I found no signs of it on any of the
victims. It started me thinking. What happened to all that blood? I
started searching for it. There wasn't a drop of it in this man.
And there was none where he died. Where did it go?”

“What could do such a thing?” Jonathon
asked.

“I don't know. I've never seen a disease do
anything like this. There is a legend from Eastern Europe of a
monster that drains its victims of blood. It's said to leave neck
wounds like those on this man. But the scientific community has
dismissed it as a wives tale.”

“It's the Indian whore,” Rebecca said, “she's
a witch.”

Jonathon and the doctor startled. Rage
contorted her husband's face. She’d never seen him so angry. “Go
home, Rebecca. We've been over this. You don't belong here.” He
took her by the shoulders, spun her toward the door, and gave her a
shove. She checked her momentum within a couple steps. The strain
of holding back what she begged to say left her quaking. If she
revealed she knew he'd slept with Libby, she'd lose him. She left
before the temptation grew too great, slamming the door behind
her.

From the doorway of the infirmary, she saw
Beatrice Bennett hauling water from the well to her cottage. She
intercepted her and took one of the buckets. Beatrice was a broad
shouldered woman of full proportions, fully capable of bucking her
own water, and certainly more capable than Rebecca, yet she freely
yielded. Rebecca supposed Beatrice understood the gesture was a
ploy to stop and visit. She imagined the awkwardness the other
wives felt toward Beatrice with the knowledge of her husband's
infidelity had left the woman craving company.

Rebecca waited until they were inside and
seated at the table before she told her what she'd witnessed at the
Comfort Shack. Beatrice stared at her slack-jawed, her eyes riddled
with doubt. Rebecca realized it was easier for Beatrice to dismiss
what she said than believe it.

“I saw it with my own eyes. She slept with
Millicent's husband too. And last night…” Rebecca hesitated. She
tilted her head down in shame. A pair of tears fell leaving dark
spots on the tablecloth. Rebecca cleared her throat and continued.
“She slept with my Jonathan.”

Her admission tipped the scales. Beatrice
knew it was true, it was in her eyes. She began to crumble like a
dam giving way. Her lips quivered, then her shoulders. Rebecca put
an arm around her. “It's all right,” Rebecca said. “She's got most
of the men under her spell. She's a witch, and I can prove it. I
tried to get the men to act, but they won't for obvious reasons. We
wives must do something. It's up to us, and I need your help. I
need to talk to Millicent Potter. You round up the rest of the
wives and meet me at the chapel.”

It was dark by the time Rebecca led a
puffy-eyed Millicent Potter into the nave. Pungent traces of
incense lingered in the air from that day’s services. The rest of
the wives huddled around the votive candles trying to keep warm,
their breath coming out in white plumes. A light shone from beneath
Reverend Jones' door. He was in his room, but not yet asleep.
Rebecca kept her voice low. “Do we all know what we must do?”

The women nodded.

“We will drag her out to make them see. We
must draw as large a crowd as possible. But we can not let them
stop us, and they will try. She has her hooks in them. They will
not give her up willingly. Be strong and stand your ground.”

The ladies marched out of the chapel toward
the Comfort Shack. A line of men waited patiently outside in the
snow, hopping up and down and jogging in place to stay warm. Some
tipped their hats as the wives approached. Most turned away,
embarrassed. The ladies assembled on the porch. When the door
opened, Rebecca pounced and dragged Libby out by the hair.

The first soldier in line rushed up the steps
and pulled at Rebecca’s arms. “I'm next. Be on your way.”

Beatrice charged and caught the private from
the side. He tumbled across the porch like he'd been hit by a bull.
He scrambled to his feet with his fists raised. “Do you know who
this is?” Beatrice said, pointing at Rebecca. “Are you willing to
threaten the Commandant's wife?”

The private backed off. The line started to
disperse. Libby stopped struggling. This wasn’t what Rebecca wanted
at all. She needed a crowd. Her plan was falling apart. “She's a
witch!” she screamed. “A witch!” Some of the men stopped. Rebecca
started chanting, “Kill the witch. Kill the witch. Kill the witch.”
The wives joined in. “Kill the witch. Kill the witch.”

Sentries rushed from their posts, muskets
drawn. Men trotted from the barracks across the parade ground
toward the commotion. The door to the Commandant's cabin opened.
Rebecca fixed her gaze on her husband. Jonathon strode toward her,
buttoning his coat, his jaw set. “Rebecca, what are you doing?
Release that girl.”

“She's a witch,” Rebecca insisted.

“Stop now. Don't force me to have these
sentries take you away.”

Rebecca pulled Libby toward the door and
jammed her head close to the lantern. She tugged the mirror from
her coat and held it to Libby's face.

“She has no reflection,” she yelled. “No
reflection. She's a witch.”

The men gasped. Murmuring swept through the
ranks. Jonathon's mouth hung open in disbelief. He pushed through
the crowd and stared at the mirror. He passed his hand in front of
it and looked again. He pulled Libby from his wife's grip and
shoved her toward a sentry. “Put the witch in chains.” He searched
the crowd and called out for Reverend Jones. The minister stepped
forward. “What do we do in a case such as this?”

“She should be marked and then either burned
or drowned,” Jones advised.

Jonathon gazed at Libby and swallowed. He
looked like a man tasked with destroying a precious work of art.
“Take her to my quarters.”

“What are you doing?” Rebecca begged. “Please
no. Don’t protect her, she’s a witch.”

The sentry dragged Libby across the corner of
the parade ground to the door of Rebecca's cottage.

“Place her on the table,” Jonathon ordered.
Two soldiers lifted Libby and pinned her down. Jonathon ripped open
her blouse. He stepped to the fireplace and pulled the andiron from
the fire.

“Don't,” Libby begged. “It's not my fault. A
white man made me this way.” Jonathon hesitated. She continued,
“Don't do something you'll regret. Let me go and I'll be yours and
yours alone. Please, Jonathon.”

Jonathon lowered the iron and pressed it to
her flesh. Her skin bubbled and smoked. The smell of seared meat
filled the room. Libby thrashed and bucked. She bared a pair of
inch-long fangs. Jonathon scrambled back in shock. Terror
registered on the faces of the soldiers holding Libby down. She
snarled, “I will never forget. I will hunt you till the end of
time.”

Jonathon turned the andiron and pressed down
again to form an 'X' on her chest. Libby's eyes narrowed with
hatred.

“Take her down to the bay,” he ordered.

The sentries loaded Libby on a buckboard and
drove her through the gates. The crowd followed on foot carrying
torches and lanterns. They unloaded Libby at the beach, chained her
hands behind her back, and filled her pockets with stones. They
dragged her into the surf and sat her down. Waves crested over her
head. In the troughs between, she screamed and cursed.

“I will come for you, all of you.” Libby
denigrated every man she'd slept with by name, shouting details of
their personal shortcomings, the stream of bile interrupted only
when waves crashed over her head. According to Libby, a child’s
thumb was bigger than Howard Leeds. And Benjamin Cooper was done
before he began, and so it went. The officers remained motionless,
eyes looking straight ahead as their names were called.

Some of the enlisted men turned to stare,
grins on their faces as weaknesses of the officers were revealed.
Some snickered. The wives took their lead from their husbands,
pretending they’d heard nothing. But of course they did hear. They
heard every word. And from the intimate details the Indian girl
spewed, they knew it was all true. Rebecca waited for her name to
be added to the list with her head tipped down and her eyes closed.
She dreaded the moment the crowd would shift its attention toward
her. She would be a social leper afterward.