A Natural History of Hell: Stories by Jeffrey Ford Read Free Book Online Page A

gathering the harvest that sixth year, they set about creating a banquet for Alfrod Seems that they hoped he would find satisfactory. Even the baker, whose wife never returned, gave in and joined the effort.
    When a distant curl of red smoke was sighted above the treetops of the forest, his signal to them that he was coming, the village readied itself. Pine garland fringed windows and doorways, and every dark space had a candle burning in it. In the village square there were two enormous black cauldrons, simmering mucine and glifero, spices from the Far Islands. The feast was laid on long tables in the street as there was no building that could contain it. When his sleigh came to a halt, all were seated but for the new leader of the council, who went to serve as escort to the angel.
    In the back of the sled sat a figure wrapped in black. The council leader barely recognized her as Anamita Beruk, who’d left the previous year. Set into her forehead was a window with a glass pane. Through it he could see the stars. The woman was haggard, her complexion a pale gray. Pitiful whimpers escaped her, and the angel nodded and said to the council leader, “She’s had a little too much of the Holy Ghost. You know how it is.”
    “What shall I do with her?” asked the leader.
    Seems shrugged. “I’d drop her in an old well.”
    The angel smiled and nodded at the sight of the table and all gathered at it. He sat at the head and gazed up and down each side. No one returned his look for fear he might be deciding on his next servant. Then he clapped his hands, making some jump in their seats, and said, “Eat and talk.” He lifted the top loaf from a basket next to his arm and added, “Let me hear laughter.” There was a round of pathetic laughter, but it pleased him greatly. He broke the loaf in two and took a bite.
    A moment later, he was on his feet, leaning over the table, choking. Something brown fell from his mouth onto his plate. The angel spit profusely and seized up the wine goblet of the frightened woman next to him. “Shit in the bread?” he screamed. The baker was lifted by invisible means out of his seat and floated down the length of the table in a sitting position toward Alford Seems. The angel lifted his walking stick and, with a distinct crack, thrust it through the baker’s forehead. The poor man remained floating above the table. People pushed away from the blood that rained down. Seems twisted the end of the cane, as if tuning the man’s skull, and the baker let out a scream that split the sky.
    A heartbeat, and then the air was filled with the screech and flap of starlings, pecking and clawing at the assembled. The dark birds were so thick, each breath was a breath through feathers, impossible to see or even scream. A few moments later, when the flock suddenly vanished in a flutter of smoke, three eyes and three tongues were missing, as was Alford Seems and his sled. Also gone was the Kremply girl.
    Needless to say, the loaves held no surprises the following year. Still, the tale of the baker’s turd was told and retold, whispered into the ears of tired children as they lay in bed, the candle out. There were disagreements as to what message it taught, but it was dangerous to discuss the theories aloud. And the days passed. The crops grew. Occasionally a child’s head would burst into flame.
    In the twelfth year of the angel’s protection, during the harvest time, a young woman, Mira Doune, had a dream. The next day she pulled her husband, Jon, into the closet and shut the door behind them. She whispered her dream to him in the dark. When she finished, he promised to help her. No more was said. He went to slaughter a lamb while she got the fire ready. Hours later, when the animal was roasted, Jon cut a huge slab of meat off it and set it on a plate for his wife. Working in silence, by candlelight, Mira used a knife and a cleaver to shape the mutton into a small hand. When it was complete it was put into a