Devil Leeds

By V. Scott Macom

Don't believe in monsters? In the southern portion of the State of New Jersey lies the desolate forest region known as the Pine Barrens. Dense woods, dark, stagnant pools of brown cedar water, oozing with leeches, and mossy ground fill an area forgotten from the rest of the world. Something horrible and evil exists in this place. That something, the half man - half beast, cast to the devil at its birth, was what the native Lenni Lenape Indians called Amangamek. It is known today as the Jersey Devil. If you think the legend of the Jersey Devil is is just another campfire story, then do this. Drive down Jimmy Leeds road in Galloway Township on a dark moonless night to its birthplace in Leeds Point. Park in that desolate corner of the Barrens and let the dust settle. Acclimate your eyes to the pitch black and listen. All at once you know that you are not alone. Your skin will crawl from the misty chill that hangs in the air like a spider's web across your face. The sickening presence of evil blankets your being. You’ll feel as if something is watching you from inside the cloister of the dark understory of the woods. It is.
Your heart pounds as unexplained sounds and heavy footsteps circle your position. You catch brief glimpses of its blazing red eyes that poke through the small holes in the forest as it moshes through the woods. The rotten smell of death hangs about you in the air like a thick smog. Suddenly, its ear-numbing shriek breaks the dead silence of the night. It crashes through the trees. It is too late to run.

• Language: English
• Publisher: V. Scott Macom
• Release date: May 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311070494

Book preview

DEVIL LEEDS

A Novel by

V. Scott Macom

Copyright © V SCOTT MACOM 2015

All rights reserved under protection of copyright.

PROLOGUE

In the southern portion of the State of New Jersey lies the desolate forest region known as the Pine Barrens. Dense woods, dark, stagnant pools of brown cedar water, oozing with leeches, and mossy ground fill an area forgotten from the rest of the world. Thick, hanging arms of foliage and smothering overgrowth cut off sight and sound. Distance and time meld, leaving anyone who enters these woods to pursue a directionless death march as the Barrens swallows them in its dark grasp. Wandering into this dark realm is a mistake.

Beyond the safety of the fringes, inside the murky Barrens a doomed victim will search futilely for a way out. It is hopeless. The yop of a crow laughing at the unfortunate soul’s isolation is the only solace where chilled pockets of frigid mist, sudden gusts of hot methane gas and ear-numbingly freakish sounds fill the air. Only something horrible and evil could thrive in such a place. That something, the half man - half beast, cast to the devil at its birth, was what the native Lenni Lenape Indians called Amangamek. It is known today as the Jersey Devil.

If you think the legend of the Jersey Devil is is just another campfire story, then do this; Drive down Jimmie Leeds Road in Galloway Township on a dark moonless night to its birthplace in Leeds Point. Park in that desolate corner of the Barrens and let the dust settle. Acclimate your eyes to the pitch black and listen. All at once you know that you are not alone.

Then, if you dare, cautiously, get out of the car. Your skin will crawl from the misty chill that hangs in the air like a spider’s web across your face. The sickening presence of evil blankets your being. You’ll feel as if something is watching you from inside the cloister of the dark understory of the woods. It is.

Your heart pounds as unexplained sounds and heavy footsteps circle your position. Something is coming closer to you. The forest falls silent as the small creatures watch timidly from above. Your neck tightens when you suddenly feel its presence, somewhere. Look right, then left. You catch brief glimpses of its blazing red eyes that poke through the small holes in the forest as it mashes through the woods. A blanket of wet chill envelopes your helpless being. The rotten smell of death hangs about you in the air like thick smog. Suddenly, its ear-numbing shriek breaks the dead silence of the night. The laughing crows flee the treetops knowing what comes next. You can feel it hovering about you, but where? Just beyond you in the heavy undergrowth, pinecones crunch beneath its cloven hooves in the sugar sand, startled birds scatter from the trees next to you, you tremble as the buzzing and clucking gets so loud your eardrums throb, your skin is as tight as a funeral drum, the adrenaline-soaked taste of blood fills your mouth and then, right before your swollen eyes, it crashes through the trees.

It is too late to run.

CHAPTER ONE

Near Smithville, NJ

August 19, 1879

Evil surrounds all of us. And we avoid it. And we pray. And we ask God for mercy and thank that God that we are not evil, more so that evil has not touched us. But some people are evil, dedicating themselves to tainting the lives of the innocent and pure. When evil wins out over the weak, the manner in which that battle unfolds is not only striking and unfair but also absolutely horrifying. Once the seed of evil is sewn, its progeny is deadly fruit. Such is this story.

Mary Shourds walked quietly along the sugar sand path at the edge of the south Jersey Pine Barrens known as Hog Wallow slowly making her way toward the town of Smithville. In her delicate right hand she carried a basket of fresh berries for sale there. It was a brilliant morning in the Pine Barrens and she was glad to be alive. The sun hung just above the tall pine trees heating the ground to burn off the mist of the night dew that covered the pine needled forest floor. She took a deep breath. The air was sweet, tinged with the fresh aroma of evergreen and moss. It was an hour past dawn. The forest was so thick and dense that only now, after the sun rose high above the trees, did its long, hazy arms of light penetrate all the way to the forest floor where the insect inhabitants of the moss beds eagerly drank the precious gift of night dew. Peaceful as the scene seemed, the deep of the Pine Barrens is a very lonely, ominous place.

The Pine Barrens cover an area of seventeen thousand square miles in the deeply remote southern region of New Jersey. It is situated midway between Philadelphia and the Atlantic Ocean. While close in proximity to both it is a thousand lifetimes away from either for the inhabitants of the Barrens region. The Barrens are barely populated by other than wildlife; comprised mostly of deer, small game and crows. People live mainly along the forest’s fringes since the wild of the Barrens is totally inhospitable. Those unnamed few who do live within the Barrens are known as Pineys; a secretive, reclusive people rumored to be mostly mute albinos who live on snakes and possum. No one knows for sure, since sighting one is a rarity. Getting near one is impossible.

Walking within the Barrens is an intimidating experience. Sight and sound are immediately muffled by the dense pine and oak forest. There are no landmarks. Travel is made along white sugar sand paths and trails. The wildlife uses these same ancient sand pathways. Confusing the wildlife paths for the human made footpaths leads one to nowhere in endless circles. Dwarf pines, blueberry bushes and thorny blackberry thickets make up the understory of the forest. This is the only welcoming aspect of the Barrens as the rest is infected with mud bogs and swamps filled with stagnant orange-brown cedar water and leeches. Wandering off a dedicated path into these dank woods alone is a grave mistake.

Mary picked up her pace as she approached the big oak tree with wooden planks nailed to it marking the way into town. Beneath the sign designating the Ong’s Hat path sat little Christie with her pile of pinecones for sale. A wooden shingle, a price sticker of sorts, stood in the middle of them. It was marked with a backwards three in charcoal. No one knew the little girl’s last name. For that matter, she probably didn’t have one. Her purported father had only been seen once in these parts and the little girl lived with a person whom everyone presumed was her grandmother or aunt. No one was quite sure about that either. But she was healthy and that was important. In these parts, medical care was either nonexistent or totally unreliable. There was only one doctor in the area that came to town on Tuesdays. But the Tuesday visits were an anomaly since he spent the better part of his time drinking hard cider and trading ribald stories with the illiterate, toothless natives who would wander into town on the knowledge of his arrival. This camaraderie, and not medical care, was the real reason for his coming there. No one really cared if you died, anyway. No one had any money. No one had a job. There was no industry. Life in the Barrens was a series of mistakes, the first of which is having been born there.

Nothing salable grew in the Barrens. All the way back to the beginning of the colonial days, farmers had tried to cultivate the area. But the sandy, acidic soil, dense with horticulturally dominant pine, oak and cedar, prevented anything from surviving their dominance. The iron industry once had a start in these parts during the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812, serving a short-lived but vital role in the munitions needs of the country. However, with the discovery of higher-grade ore deposits in the west, the area fell back into its eternal desolate isolation. Even with the abundance of white sand, glass-making furnaces sprouted but died out when the costs of transportation ate up any small profits to be made. Since then the area hadn’t had a breath of life.

Mary moved up the path closer to where Christie perched herself day after day, alone, hoping someone would take interest in her near worthless wares. Hi, Christie, Mary said. She glanced down at the little girl whose shoes were a full size too small for her feet. Her clothing hadn’t been changed or washed in a long time and her hair was a tangled mass of knots. Mary sighed at the hopelessness the scene evoked. All of her people looked this way. Despite this, Christie was cute as a button. She had bold, brown eyes and thick, curly auburn hair. The little girl looked up at her slowly. She was a shy, diminutive girl, probably six years old. No one knew her age either.

Hello, ma’am, she said quietly managing a smile. Then she immediately averted her eyes and stared down at her crossed hands.

Mary looked down at the little girl affectionately. It was obvious from her gaunt stare that she surely hadn’t eaten anything that morning, possibly in a day or two. That’s how it was, though, mere subsistence. Mary offered her basket toward the child. I got some berries here. Care fer some? The little girl looked at the offering wide-eyed yet said nothing. Mary knew what to do. The girl was not a beggar, hungry as she had to be. She sat down on the ground and placed the basket between them. Mary stroked Christy softly on the back.

Hey, I’ll make you a deal. If I can have one of your beautiful pinecones, then maybe you’ll take some of my berries in exchange. Whaddaya think? The little girl’s eyes exploded with opportunity. She sat up quickly, grabbed her basket and dug her hand into the bottom of it. Pinecones spilled over the sides as her determined little hand fished through them. I have a really pretty one that I been savin’. Here! Look! she said holding out a large cone for Mary. Mary took it and put her hand to her chest, feigning a gasp. Now that’s the prettiest cone I have ever seen in my whole life! You’ll have to take lots of berries if I am to pay you right for that, Mary said in an astonished voice. She held the berries in front of the starving little girl and nodded.

Thanks, ma’am, she said as she grabbed a whole handful of berries and eagerly gobbled them down while she took another bunch with her free hand. Mary sat there quietly looking around them as Christie took handful after handful of berries grinning and eating as her chin and dress became stained with the dark purple juice. Before long, the contents of the basket were quickly reduced by half. But Mary wasn’t concerned. Nowadays, her walks into town held more significance than just selling fruit. Her fiancé lived there. Once having met him, her dismal life had blossomed from the mud of her gloomy existence and now held the potential to shine as bright as the North Star.

She and John Baxter were to be married early the next year. John was the son of the only man in town with money. Serious money. Though the family owned nearly everything in the small community, John’s father rarely came to town. Their home, really a mansion of great proportions, was a gleaming remnant of his family’s proud past that dated back to the Revolutionary War. His great-great grandfather had won it in battle from the English who were then using it as Officer’s quarters after the nearby Battle of Chestnut Creek. Despite its isolated and distant location from the Baxter compound in Philadelphia, it remained in the family. Baxter resided in Philadelphia where he owned a shipping company. Sir Baxter, as he demanded to be referred to, made only infrequent obligatory visits to town. John and his mother, however, enjoyed summering in their Smithville mansion that sat on the Great Cranberry Bog. Unsophisticated in its surroundings, this place was cooler and quieter than the city.

Young John Baxter was a reflective, quiet, yet poignant man. Educated at the University in Philadelphia, he wrote a great deal and was influential in modern political thought, at least so much as his age would allow in Philadelphia’s high society. He had aspirations of becoming a doctor but was in no rush to attain that title. In that vein, Smithville provided him with the perfect escape from his father’s overzealous intentions for pursuing his life’s calling. At least that was how John’s father referred to it. Being a doctor was important work. Not like his trade, shipping, he insisted. But medicine meant being in the city and John was more suited to a pastoral lifestyle. He abhorred the clamor of the urban backdrop and the unbridled desires that festered there. Simplistic beauty was what he yearned for. And that was exactly what had attracted him to Mary.

They met one fortunate day on the street only two months previously. Mary was standing behind her little pile of berries on the corner next to the small building that doubled as a tavern during the week and a church on Sundays. He was immediately smitten by her beauty and simple charm. She was indeed the most beautiful girl he had ever seen - a beauty that this area would undoubtedly never see again. She stuck out at him on that day like a brilliant diamond in the rough. She had long, beautiful blonde hair, a petite body, soft hands and blue eyes that sparkled like stars in the night sky. Her face shone like an angel from across the square. Her repose was peacefully graceful, like a crystal glass with its gentle curves. As an excuse to get nearer her, he purchased the entire basket of berries on that and each successive day she came to town. Their conversations soon went from the shy formal to the acquainted informal. Once that happened, they quickly fell in love. Unable to contain his desire for her, he proposed marriage without the knowledge or blessing of his family. This slight omission in protocol caused quite a stir among the esteemed Baxter household. So much so, that his father was dispatched immediately back to Smithville to discuss what the paternal master referred to as a misguided turn of events fostered by a blind, unchecked desire.

Sir Baxter demanded that John marry into a respectable family and take an educated and well-spoken woman for a bride. Frank Baxter was a stern man - and a snob. What he really meant was that his son should marry a girl from a wealthy family, the ill effects of a bad relationship from a mismatch of course being inconsequential. It was really only about money. His father had argued against the perils of seeking love for his entire life, declaring the pursuit a wasted expenditure of energy that was better spent on magnifying and enhancing one’s own station in life. Marriage in his vernacular was to be treated merely as an efficient means of transfer of property between two adults, copulation for procreation to perpetuate the family name and nothing more. The thought of his son marrying a gummy, as he frequently referred to the predominantly toothless inhabitants of the area, reviled him. He was so disconsolate at his son’s decision that he threatened John with disinheritance if he didn’t accede to his wishes. But John was as stubborn as his father in personal matters and prevailed upon him to reserve judgment until after meeting his bride-to-be.

A meeting was scheduled. In preparation for the seemingly do-or-die confrontation, John instructed Mary expertly for an entire month on how to speak correctly, curtsy, and smile without showing her teeth. No matter what Mary’s social downfalls, she had a natural talent for being coy yet engaging at the same time. Her spirit was exuberant and infectious. Her laughter was as soft as goose down and her look was all consuming. The meeting with his father, in which his mother was conspicuously absent, soon came and went without a hitch. Never admitting it, Frank Baxter was taken with Mary’s personality, too, and John Baxter finally received his father’s reluctant blessing and the wedding was scheduled.

Mary glanced over at the little girl, patted her head softly, stood and brushed the sand from her dress. The basket of berries was nearly finished and the little girl cautiously slowed her eating, like a dog over a bone, to watch Mary stand. Mary smiled down at her. Christie. You finish those berries and leave my basket next to the tree, okay? I’ll pick it up on my way back from town. And thank you for my beautiful pinecone, she added as she cradled it delicately in her hands in front of her.

Thank you, ma’am, was all that the tot said as she busied herself with the berries again. Mary strolled off down the path. As the heat of the early morning dried the ground, a faint grayish-blue haze hung in the air, tracing everything in the forest with ghostly fuzz. The still silence of the woods was shattered by the yoppish squawk of a crow from the top of a pine next to the path. It spread its purple-sheened black wings and flew off leaving behind the deadly quiet. Even the breeze made no sound as it moved through the web of pine branches that spiked their fingers into one another like an impenetrable net.

The ghastly yop sent a chill up her spine and she walked more briskly. She hated the crows. For her, the grotesque sound they emanated was like a death knell. It reminded her of that terrible day when, at seven years old, she stood at her mother’s graveside fighting back tears during the funeral. The only sounds to be heard in the woods that day were the minister and the crows. It was as if the dirty birds were waiting to plop down on the casket to make a meal of whatever was left. The yop of the crows made her tremble despite her years of walking in these woods among the messengers of death. She brushed the chill from her arms, cast her fears aside and stared up at the sun. Given its position, she was more than a little behind schedule and it was a big day in town. John was expecting her. This day wasn’t like any during the rest of the year.

Each year in the town of Smithville the Baxters held a festival. This year, instead of his father, John was to be the master of ceremonies. The assignment to take over the adult functions of schmoozing with the general populace as the host of a party in Philadelphia was considered a veritable coming of age in the social circles. Not so in the Barrens. It was really meant more as a punishment than anything. Accepting the marriage but inconsolably spiteful over John’s impetuous decision to remain in Smithville and thus forestall what could only be a brilliant career as a surgeon, Mr. Baxter ordained that if John really wanted to be a part of the community, then he would be a part of the community by taking the lead in the festival. It wasn’t the promotion into his father’s affairs he had hoped for, but John accepted the duty gracefully. His cheerful acceptance of said duty, however, irked Frank Baxter to no end. The patriarch’s intentions were that his son would receive a whopping eyeful of the local cretins that inhabited the area. Not so, as John was truly looking forward to the event. Subsequently, all plans for the festival were left to him, including the purchase and transport of a ton of provisions from Philadelphia - himself – an arduous and expensive four-day effort.

Mary hated the festival. To her it was nothing more than a drunken brawl. It followed the same pattern every year, starting out fine and ending badly. John’s family would donate their servants, food and drink. The townspeople would remain civil to one another for a while. Games were played. A hog was cooked over an open pit. One year, there was even a magician. The children of the town would run amok and the locals would forget their burdens for a spell. The atmosphere remained polite in a strained balance between the civil and the uncultured. That was until Mrs. Baxter exited the festival. Then all hell would break loose as the hot sun and alcohol fueled the inbred anticks of those who remained to swill the barrels of booze long into the night.

It had never made any sense to Mary why the Baxters would put this thing on for the community, putting their time and money out like that. She had always wondered what it would be like to have enough money to spend in a day what her father couldn’t make in an entire year. Through her relationship with John she got an explaNation but still couldn’t understand. It was explained to her that Mrs. Baxter saw it as her civic duty, a way to give back to the people of the community. What she was giving back exactly was a mystery to Mary since they took nothing from the community, did nothing business-wise in the community and only lived there for a few months out of each year.

John explained his father’s intentions to Mary in more banal terms than his mother had chosen. His father’s philosophy was that the festival kept the have-nots at bay and out of his backyard. Mr. Baxter was an extremely paranoid man, like the rich tended to be, he explained further. Mr. Baxter’s rationale for why someone would say hello to him or knock on the door of his home was only because they required something; money, clothes, advice. In this vein, Mr. Baxter enforced a self-induced compromise between what he perceived to be their intentions and his own greed by throwing the community a bone rather than the local inhabitants taking the entire cow. This particular rendition of the facts made more sense to Mary. While she didn’t understand even the rudimentary basics of charity or civic duty, she understood all too well the rooted jealous disposition that coursed unabated through the veins of the community. The Baxters were rich. Everyone else had nothing. For the most part though, the festival worked to temporarily salve the wounds of the deprived and keep them at bay. But jealous eyes returned immediately the day after the festival. Sometimes it seemed to her that the festival actually enhanced the depth of the Baxters’ wealth in the green eyes of the Smithville populace instead of appreciating their generosity.

Mary walked along the sugar sand path and soon found herself at the edge of the old town of Smithville. From here she could see the main building at the square with its high white spire. That was where the lawyers met to talk of serious things. She had never been inside it despite her eighteen years of life. Mary walked quickly across the first street of Smithville. She loved this town. It was quaint and modest but magic to her. It was an escape from the deeps of the forest. Anywhere outside the Barrens was magical. The trees did not encapsulate it and there was an unobstructed view of the sky. She could breathe, out from the claustrophobic clutch of the Barrens. And getting out of them was something she wanted more than anything. No one she knew had ever made it out. Everyone who was born there lived there and was then unceremoniously buried there in the sugar sand beneath the pine needles. The thought of it made her quiver with desperation. She didn’t want her life to end that way.

Across the center of the square lay a large patch of grass where the huge oak tree stood in the center. Everyone met under the oak that lent a welcome shade of relief in the suffocating dog days of August’s heat. This was where they roasted the pig for the festival. A few eager locals had already gathered near the hog, hoping to get the lion’s share of the animal that was baking and crisping over the log fire tended by two black men dressed in white clothes with tall, funny-looking hats on their heads. One cook turned the beast and brushed something on it with a mop-like rag while the other poked the embers with a long steel rod. Sweet cherry smoke wafted slowly into the air. Mary didn’t really care for pig, but the smell was enticing and made her mouth water.

She walked past the group gathered next to the cooking swine. Jimmy Peck was there among them with his disheveled gang of miscreants. Mary saw them first and ignored them, tucking her chin into her neck so as not to be noticed. Peck was a grotesque, ugly and dirty young man with green teeth, forever drunk. This morning was no exception. Peck caught sight of Mary as she attempted to sidestep the group, looking away as she passed. Peck nudged one of his pals. Hey guys, look over there, here comes Mary. Some took only quick notice not wanting to let the pig out of their sight or allow someone to get ahead of them in line. A couple of them made muffled comments and jostled themselves in their balls and started to laugh. Hey, Mary, why don’t you come over here and have some of this hooch, Peck laughed. You’ll never want to go back across town with that little rich boy after you’ve had a good old taste of Jimmy here, ya hear? She ignored the cretins and quickened her pace. Feeling vulnerable, she looked for John.

John was waiting for her and spotted her immediately when she emerged from the other side of the pig onlookers. Mary! Over here! he yelled from across the street. She turned to see him as he half-ran to greet her.

John, she yelled back, waving, glancing quickly back over her shoulder at the men she had just passed. They were no longer a threat having lost interest in her to the pig and the drink. She breathed deeply and smiled broadly as she watched John. Her pulse quickened as he approached. She was madly in love. The sight of him sent her senses reeling. It was more than the money. As a matter of fact, it was nothing about the money. She imagined she would love him the same even if he were one of her people. But then again if he were one of her people, there was a good chance he would have turned out much differently. And that wouldn’t work.

He picked her up in his arms and squeezed her tight to his chest. He kissed her on the mouth deeply. She felt the tingles inside her womanly shape that told her he was the one. My dear, how are you. I was getting worried that something had happened to you, he said, looking deep into her eyes.

I’m fine, she said softly, now that I’m here with you. They kissed again briefly and he put her down slowly. With purpose in his eyes, he took her by the hand and led her briskly across the square to the large table set up next to the saloon. I am so excited today, he said grinning broadly. This is going to be so much fun. The pig’s cookin’ slow and this whole day is going to be one they will never forget. I’ll show Sir Baxter. He has been way too hard on these people. I don’t know why he distrusts them so much, he said, shaking his head. Mary smiled at him knowingly. He was really trying to understand his surroundings and maybe even fit in. But she knew something he didn’t. He would always be an outsider and that was fine with her. The less he fit in, the less he would be apt to stay in the area she had grown to despise.

Hey, guess what! he said with a boyish grin.

What? she said looking up at him bright-eyed, absorbing his excitement making it her own.

There is to be a contest today. A contest with a prize! One hundred dollars is to be awarded to the winner. I thought of it myself, he proclaimed.

Mary creased her brow. That was a lot of money -- a lifetime of money for her people. A hundred dollars, she said in an unsteady voice. That’s a lot of money, I don’t know, she said slowly.

I know! That’s just the thing. The contest will be especially good. The people will really try. There’s something in it for them. What do you think?

Well, I think it is a grand idea. But a hundred dollars, she said slowly again.

Stop going on about the money. It’s nothing. He waved his hand in a flourish and looked over toward the barbecue pit to check on the progress of the cooks with the enormous pig.

Something was bothering her. Normally not taken back by much, really not having enough experience to be taken back by much, his comment had an insulting ring to her suddenly. It was as if she had been summarily dismissed by some picquant sense of superiority on his part. To you, maybe, she added listlessly, careful not to insult him.

He rubbed his hands together in a summarily cleansing manner. Well, it is already done. I had Charley over at the tavern construct a sign to tell everyone of the prize. Baxter stared in the region of the store. He raised his hand and pointed his index finger in the direction of a short, bald man struggling with a wooden sign. A giant grin came across Baxter’s lips. Oh, yes, there he is now, he’s putting it up. What a marvelous day this is going to be, John said, brimming with anticipation.

Mary couldn’t put her finger on what was bothering her most. It wasn’t the money, not really, well maybe. John’s family could afford that amount a thousand times over. It was about the money, though. A hundred dollars was more money than most of them would see in half a lifetime. Money in her people’s hands was not a good thing. The prospect of it would bring out the larceny in their hearts. She was sure of it. While it sounded like a good idea, John’s attempt to get closer to the people that he knew nothing of was fraught with intricacies. The person who won the money would become a target. The people that didn’t would be taking aim. It was just the way of the Barrens. But she dare not say anything to John to diminish his day. He was, after all, to be her husband and she was to stand behind him through thick and thin. She would say nothing more, no matter how much the prospect disturbed her.

I think it is a wonderful idea, John, she said affirmatively. The folks will really be playing the contest today, that’s for sure, she said, taking his hand firmly in hers.

Thank you, dear. I love you so much. I can’t get over what a perfect day it is today. It’s much cooler than usual. It’s glorious and I have you and that makes it incredible, he said clutching the back of her blonde hair as he kissed her softly on the lips again. She closed her eyes as he did. It felt good. His lips were soft and his arms were strong around her. She felt secure. He was the only man she had ever kissed, except for that one stolen kiss at the pond that Sammy Stevers had stolen from her many years ago when they were kids.

John pushed her away softly when he heard a voice he recognized from across the square. Come on, let’s go, Mom’s coming, and we don’t want her to see us kissing in the square, he said smiling broadly at her. The two bounded together hand in hand across the lawn past the corner of the tavern building. Sitting prominently in the window was the announcement of the prize money for the contest. Gasps of excitement could be heard among the small group gathered there. By midday, news of the prize had spread to the surrounding areas up the Mullica River from as far away as Atsion and Shamong, causing a mad rush on the town. By noon, the normal attendance at the small festival had tripled. The day was no longer only about alcohol and revelry. It was about the money.

Mary watched in dismay from behind a tree next to Lawyer Corson’s office. She had been right and grew more uncomfortable by the minute as the time approached for the contest to begin. Wild whoops and hollers filled the quiet little town. People she had never seen before milled around the square. The provisions that had been supplied for the Smithville citizens were quickly being consumed. It was not their town’s festival anymore. Bleary-eyed drunks awoke from their noon slumber to take part in the contest. From the looks of the strangers milling around the square, news of the contest caused the proverbial bottom of the barrel to be scraped onto the festival.

No one knew what the contest was going to be. In fact, neither did John. He had not really given it that much thought. In his world, such a prize would not be cause for too much concern. But as he watched the gathering crowd and heard the expectation in their voices, he decided that his original plans for something simple were not going to fit the bill. He began to think hard about it. There was not much time as the contest was set to start at three o’clock.

The festival officially started on time at twelve. John ceremoniously handled the carving of the pig and gave the first bite to Mary. This caused a few anguished cries to go up from the crowd until they got their portions. With the size of the crowd, it took less than twenty minutes for the entire pig to be consumed. Nothing was left. Two drunkards had even eaten the eyes of the beast causing two onlookers to vomit. The drinking started immediately. Strong corn liquor was the staple. Cider was served with it to cut its enormous