Wanderers

Subscriber-only episode

A chance encounter in a small Western town on All Hallows' Eve, 1873 proves that nothing stays buried.

***Content warning: This episode deals with themes of alcoholism, murder, and exploitation of minors. Listener discretion is advised.***

Thank you for listening! If you have any feedback or inquiries regarding the show, please feel free to drop me a line at darkerpasturespodcast@gmail.com.

You can also support the show at patreon.com/DarkerPastures or at darkerpastures.buzzsprout.com, and beginning in late October 2024, receive special bonus content!

Transcript

NARRATOR

Halloween Special: Wanderers.

(Sound of wailing wind)

NARRATOR

Lemuel Corwin raises his head from the dusty bar countertop and gestures to the saloonkeeper for another whiskey. The balding, heavyset man behind the counter glowers at him disapprovingly, but pours another drink all the same after Lem flashes another quarter – his last, in fact.

Lem downs the shot, grimacing, then turns and stumbles out of the unusually muted saloon into the chilly October night. With a bellyful of sour liquor, he has all but forgotten that it is a holiday, and even in which state this dreary little town lies. He has forgotten so many things with the aid of drink, but never the things which he tries to erase from his memory.

He staggers down the dusty street, past the stables that smell in dire need of a good mucking. Everything here seems poorly kept, neglected, but it is not the first frontier town he has passed through, and he has found that many are crude and unwholesome places.

When he reaches the little church at the edge of town, the sun has just slipped under the horizon, leaving a dimming glow of ethereal pink and violet in the west while inky blue night creeps in from the east. It is a strangely beautiful sight, the small white church on its hillock, limned against the last rays of daylight, and yet it also fills Lem with an unaccountable sense of disquiet. And no matter how he tries to quell that feeling, it rises up his gorge with every step up the gentle rise, and he recalls another hill and another church, the deafening roar of many rifles.

At the door, he pauses for a moment. He has always been ambivalent toward religion, only attending church on Sundays because his father insisted, and not having set foot in one since the last family funeral years ago. But something has drawn him toward this church since he first arrived three days past, and that pull has felt stronger each evening.

Taking a deep breath, he pushes the door open, and steps through to the dim interior.

As he thought it might at this hour, the church sits empty. His paces slow and long, Lem moves down the aisle between the rough-hewn pews, feeling at once very out of his element and destined to be where he is now.

There is a movement in the shadows, and Lem jumps, his hand moving reflexively toward the 1860 Colt Army on his belt. But in a moment, he recognizes the pastor, a thin and smallish man he has seen a few times on his walks around the town, but with whom he has never yet spoken.

The pastor greets him, in a voice that seems far too deep and resonant to emanate from such a diminutive figure. The few words of welcome that the man offers seem genuine enough, but there is something mingled with the kindly hospitality, something that seems more belonging in the gloomy murk of the unlit church interior.

Lemuel stumbles through his own polite reply, consciously moving his hand away from the revolver and then clasping both behind his back.

The pastor gives his name as Malachi Marsh, and now Lem perceives the traces of lower New England in the man’s speech. Malachi asks what has brought him to the church at such an odd hour.

Lem answers honestly, and says that he doesn’t know exactly, just that he felt drawn.

Malachi smiles in answer, and there is something in that smile, or in the way that the deepening shadows play across it, that makes Lem feel ill at ease.

The hand of God moves in subtle and mysterious ways, His wonders to perform, the pastor says softly, but the words hang upon the air as though he had proclaimed them from the pulpit.

The haze of drunkenness is beginning to lift from Lem, and suddenly aware of the date, he asks if there will be no evening service for All Hallows.

No, Pastor Marsh shakes his head, but does not elaborate. A moment of silence passes between them. It is now so dark inside the church that Lemuel can only just make out the silhouette of the other man, and can no longer discern the features of his face. He wonders that the man has not lit any light, nor suggested they move elsewhere, but reminds himself that a poor country pastor may not have candles or lantern oil to spare.

Marsh repeats his earlier statement about God’s subtle works, then asks Lemuel why he thinks this night, of all nights, he might have finally come to the house of God, which he has passed by so many times before.

Lem says nothing. He feels a little self-conscious that the pastor has noticed him on his walks, those aimless wanderings which are the only way, other than drink, to dull the razorlike edges of his thoughts.

Just felt like time, Lem says slowly.

The pastor sits silently, and though the drifter cannot see the man’s face, he can feel the expectation. It needles him, and his thoughts take a darkly sanguine turn before he masters his rising temper. And when he has, all of the energy that had momentarily coursed through him disappears, and he feels sapped, utterly spent and empty.

Softly, he says that he is tired, so very tired, and that there is nowhere he can find rest.

Rest and restoration, the pastor replies, comes with unburdening.

Lem slides into the foremost right pew, and the creaking of the timbers beneath his weight seems to echo in the little hall. With a ragged exhalation, Lem begins to speak. He tells how he fought under the white cross upon its blood-bordered field of blue, not because he held any true conviction in the Confederate cause, but because his three elder brothers had been among the first in their home county to join the secessionist forces, and Lem could not bear the thought of facing his father, always so stern and quick to see fault in his youngest living son anyway, if he alone never took up arms. He describes the three men he knows he killed in battle, the four more he left wounded, the dozens he might have maimed or killed but will never know for certain. Most of them were so young, mere boys really, except for the one he left wheezing and clutching his chest in that ditch outside of Sedalia – that man had seemed far too old to be carrying a rifle, or even a hoe. Lem speaks too of the friends he saw, scrabbling upon the earth and tearing at their ragged uniforms to find where they had been shot as they bled out, or desperately clutching at the bowels a saber had freed, or torn into fragments by cannon shot. Or even those lost long after the roar of musket volleys had faded into silence, screaming in the night from fever and dysentery and from putrefying wounds.

Yes, the pastor says slowly, after Lem has finished and a momentary silence has elapsed, war is terrible. The Red Horseman rides across every land, never tiring, and shatters so many lives.

But, Marsh says slowly, he does not believe that is all that has brought Lemuel to him.

Bitterly, Lemuel asks if killing is not sin enough.

Surely, the pastor intones, killing unjustly is a great sin. But even this is not beyond forgiveness, and many have shed innocent blood and yet been redeemed.

Lem shifts uncomfortably in the pew. Full night has fallen outside, and the two men sit blindly in the dark.

Once more, the preacher prods Lem to tell him what else has brought him tonight, what iniquities still gnaw at his soul.

Still, Lem hesitates, and after a few moments, Marsh begins to speak of something strange. He asks Lem if he knows that the tradition of wearing disguises on All Hallows’ Eve, such a popular tradition in some parts of the country, comes down from medieval Christians, who believed that it was the last evening of the year that the souls of the dead could wander the world of the living before being swept into the afterlife. This meant that any souls who still held grievances against the living had a final chance at vengeance, and so people would disguise themselves in the hopes of confusing such wrathful spirits.

Another pause, and then the preacher offers a wan little laugh, and says that it is of course all superstitious nonsense, a holdover from a pagan past.

The numbing hold of the whiskey has now almost wholly faded from Lem’s mind, leaving behind, as it always does, a bitter and hopeless weariness. He is about to make his excuses and go, now doubting he will find any solace here and feeling a fool for thinking it might be otherwise, when Marsh suggests they move their conversation to his little parsonage behind the church, where there is a little more light and a simmering stew awaiting his attention. When he adds that they might enjoy a stiff drink – only to fortify themselves against the chill night, naturally, and in the Christian spirit of moderation – Lem’s reserve dissolves, and he agrees.

The parsonage proves to be nothing more than two cramped rooms adjoining the rear of the church, one with a desk and bookshelves and another with a stove, a small table with two rude stools tucked underneath, and a tiny cot. As promised, when they enter the little home, the smell of bubbling stew greets them, pleasant to Lem’s nose and his neglected stomach.

Marsh lights a little kerosene lamp, and they sit to a modest supper, but a refreshing one, and then Marsh pulls out a bottle of whiskey from under the bed and pours a little into two small tin cups. It seems a paltry excuse for a drink to Lem, barely enough to swallow, and he at once feels ashamed of his churlishness.

After the meal and the drink, Lem does feel a little less uncharitable toward the pastor. Malachi has a thin and bookish face, with round spectacles and receding dark hair, but beneath the dim glow of the lamplight, any sense of strangeness or unwholesomeness about the man is completely erased, and he seems more pitiful and lonely than anything.

Malachi looks at him, and smiles, and says gently that perhaps now he will fully unburden himself, assuring him that nothing he says will ever leave these walls. He is no Papist priest, he admits, but he takes his confidences every bit as seriously as the Roman confessors do.

Lem clears his throat and shifts in his seat, staring at the floor. It takes him a moment to find his words and his voice.

He envied his brothers, he says at last. He envied the approval their father showed them, and denied him. And then two of them never came back from the war, likely buried in unmarked graves, or perhaps even left as fodder for vultures and coyotes. The brother who did return, Martin, had lost his left hand and the whole of his left leg to a cannon blast and the amputation it necessitated, half of his teeth and the vision in his right eye to a blow from the butt of a rifle. The eldest and always the boldest and most loquacious of the Corwin boys, Martin never spoke after his return, but only sat in a chair and half-heartedly ate the thin soup their mother fed to him, his speech and his will stolen by some wound either of body or spirit.

Lem has always wondered if he and his ill will toward his siblings is somehow to blame for their misfortune. He alone came home whole, at least physically, and he wonders also if that is his own punishment for his sin of covetousness.

Instead of immediately denying it, or offering words of solace as Lem expected, Pastor Marsh stares into the lamp thoughtfully for a while before he speaks.

The Lord’s hand is indeed subtle, he repeats simply.

There is a soft knocking at the door, and both men start. Lemuel asks the pastor if he is expecting anybody, and Marsh gives no reply, only gazes wide-eyed at the door. The knock is repeated, but the pastor makes no move to open it. Lem opens his mouth with the beginnings of a question, but Marsh waves him to silence.

The knock does not come a third time. Both men alert now and straining their ears to hear any sound from without, they perceive no sign of anyone moving away from the door either.

For perhaps five full minutes they sit that way. Each time Lemuel looks like he is about to speak, Marsh motions him to remain quiet. Then, at last, the pastor rises and, taking the lamp with him, moves toward the door and opens it. Only darkness lies beyond. Raising the lamp and peering out only a few moments longer, Marsh closes the door and returns to the table.

Lemuel asks if the pastor is in some sort of trouble, and the pastor again does not answer, but sets the lamp down again upon the tabletop and stares at his hands, rubbing at them as though trying to remove something from them.

Slowly, the pastor tells Lem that there is no running from oneself, that a man’s memories and his shame are never more than half a day behind him. Lem is not certain if that is meant as advice to him or mere spoken reflection on Marsh’s part, but he absorbs the words all the same. And yes, he thinks, he has been trying to outrun his memory and the shame it carries, wandering across the wide country and working where he could, but never for longer than needed to lose himself in drink and the occasional company of painted ladies. And he has never been able to truly lose himself for more than a few hours at a time, before the old and monstrous thoughts come creeping back, driving him ever onward toward some unknown and unattainable destination.

Lem says aloud that he hated his father, perhaps even more than he loved him. He hated the man’s cold disdain, his high-minded pride, his subtle cruelties. And his mother, he abandoned her to that man, and to the thankless duty of caring for poor, maimed Martin, a hardship she could hardly shoulder along with her many other cares as a poor Missouri farmwife.

Lem says that he is a killer and coward, the worst of men.

The pastor looks up, as though only now returning from whatever darkling corridors of thought he wandered, and shakes his head, saying softly that, no, Lem is not the worst of men. Not the best, certainly, but far from the worst.

Marsh’s eyes flick back toward the door, and he rubs his hands a little more furiously for a moment. And it is only now that Lem realizes the other man is as troubled as he is, perhaps more so, and has been throughout their long conversation.

He asks, softly, who was knocking at the door.

Marsh’s gaze jumps back to him, eyes white and wide.

No one, he insists, voice cracking. Only the wind.

Lem frowns skeptically, but says nothing. They sit in silence, and Lem is sure that there is no sound of wind from outside, certainly none strong enough to make the sounds they heard.

They believed that the powers of evil, of the Devil, were strongest during the dark hours, Marsh suddenly says, disjointedly picking up an earlier string of the conversation. The Church denied it, but the common folk believed that all manner of evil beings moved in the night, when decent Christians slept.

Like we two, Lem smiles wryly, but when the pastor looks at him, it is without hint of amusement, instead a mingling of alarm and despair, and he nods slightly.

At long last, a third knock comes.

(Sounds of rapping at door, whispering wind)

[Long pause]

NARRATOR

Lem leaps to his feet and moves to the door before Marsh can stop him, flings it wide open. Only the night hovers above the threshold, black and mocking. Fingering the grip of his revolver, he cries a challenge out into the darkness, for whoever might be playing this game to have a little courage and show themselves.

There is no one, the pastor says behind him.

Lem turns to find the man has soundlessly risen from his seat and moved to stand just behind him. With his back to the lamp, the man’s face is thrown into shadow, but even so Lem can see that the face seems more haggard than when he first looked upon it.

Lem begins to close the door, but pauses, noticing something on the outside. Upon the rough grains of the weathered wood is a mark, darker than the timber. Lightly, he runs his fingertips over it, finding it slightly damp to his touch. For a moment he thinks it is blood, but it is too dark to still be wet, and when he rubs it between his fingers, he realizes it is soil from several feet below the surface.

The mark upon the door looks vaguely like a handprint, but unclear, as though only some parts left the dark earth behind – or, like some parts were missing, Lemuel thinks with a shudder.

He points it out to the pastor, who pretends unconvincingly to think nothing of it, saying that perhaps he himself left it after working in his little garden that afternoon. Yet his hands quiver as he says it.

Subtle hands, Lem remarks absently, and the pastor recoils as if from a blow. Then, recovering himself, the smaller man’s face regains some of its composure, and becomes a little stern. He says that he is grateful that Lem has chosen to share his troubles, and that should Lem continue on his path of repentance, he believes he will someday find his way into the Lord’s grace. But, he adds, it is growing very late, and he must take his rest soon, so he must regretfully ask his guest to leave.

Lem nods, both slightly offended by the man’s sudden coldness and a little relieved at the chance to leave this strange little house and its occupant, and turns to go. But even as he reaches the door, the pastor calls him back, and begs his forgiveness for his rudeness. He is very tired, Malachi explains, but it is not Christian to turn away a soul in need, and he has been unkind.

Lem, wholly sober now and made wary by the uncanniness of the evening, does not believe a word of the apology. He is increasingly sure that the only reason Marsh has entertained him so long is because the man is afraid to be alone this evening. Clearly, Marsh has offended someone with a mean streak, and perhaps worse.

Who is it, Lem asks bluntly, abandoning all diplomacy, that keeps knocking at the door?

Marsh insists again that it is no one, that the door is crudely constructed and often rattles and bangs with the wind.

The knocking comes a fourth time, louder and more insistent now.

It is not the wind, Lem says flatly.

There is now a rapping on the walls, on all three sides of the parsonage exposed to the outside world.

So many, Marsh murmurs, they cannot all be for me.

Who are they? Lem says, his voice loud and harsh now.

The little man looks at him, terrified and seeming to grow somehow even smaller.

She would have ruined me, he says. She led me astray! We were both punished for it. But I have been rectified!

The door quivers now under many heavy blows.

You are a killer, Lem ventures.

No, the pastor cries, eyes wild. I am rectified!

The door shatters, and a cold wind blows through the parsonage, reeking of wood rot and damp decay. And for a moment, Lem thinks he sees a young girl of maybe fourteen or fifteen standing without, pale as moonlight, save where the old dark blood has stained her throat and her chest, even running down onto her slightly distended abdomen.

Then the lamp gutters and dies, and someone begins screaming.

(Bleak music)

[Short pause]

NARRATOR

How he gets out of the dark little parsonage, Lem is not sure, but he finds himself running back into town, past the stinking stables, toward the grungy saloon. There has been no sign of Pastor Marsh since the light died in that dreary home, and Lem feels no compunction about leaving him behind.

When he reaches the saloon, he staggers in and throws himself upon the bar, feeling faint and trying to calm the quivering of his hands. He orders a whiskey, not even thinking that he has no more money to pay for it, but the keeper seems to sense something of his terror and pours one on the house. Lem downs it greedily, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and looks back through the door into the dark night.

There was a moment, somewhere between his leaving the parsonage and his reaching the street, where he dared to look back, only once. Around the little addition to the back of the church, many figures stood gathered, indistinct in the gloom. And yet, somehow, he is sure that he recognized at least one of the faces turned toward him, though his brother Levi was much changed by the ruin that had been wrought upon him. And he was sure, too, that some of the figures still wore their uniforms of Union blue, and that one looked to be no older than the girl who stood in Marsh’s home.

The saloonkeeper, kindlier than his gruff exterior evinces, leaves him the remainder of the bottle free of charge. It is not good whiskey, but it seems the sweetest thing in the world to Lem, even as he knows that its dubious powers will fade all too soon, and that by morning, he will be riding still farther away from Missouri and what he left behind there. And he swears he will never again visit lonely little prairie churches, certainly not on All Hallows’ Eve, nor will he look again into the dark corners of men’s souls, either his own or others. He will keep moving forever, never looking back, never thinking about what might be following him, always and everywhere, for the remainder of his days.

But, he decides, he will leave thinking about all of that until tomorrow, and he drinks from the bottle, long and deep. The saloonkeeper looks at him sadly, thinking that the man looks like he is marked with the stamp of Death’s subtle hand.

[Darker Pastures Theme - Outro]

NARRATOR

Thank you for listening, and have a happy Halloween.

[Darker Pastures Theme - Outro - Continues]