The Severing Blade
The Myths of Roscoe Kelly | Chapter IV - The Severing Blade | Story 7
>AUTHORIAL STYLE AUDIT PENDING<
CURATOR’S NOTE:
We end Chapter IV at the precise moment the United States fractured: April 12, 1861. While history books focus on Fort Sumter and the political dissolution of the Union, the recovered histories of the Florida panhandle suggest a parallel severing was happening in the swamp. The Fellowship that had worked against the growing hum of hate was systematically dismantled in a single night.
This account comes from the pages of Mama Elara’s 1861 journal. It is written quickly, in a shaky hand.
The cat came back, but my girl did not. She paced the porch for three days, refusing to change into a peaceful shape. Her mind was a storm of anger and blood. On the fourth day, when she finally let me in, the images were jagged, like broken glass. I saw Elias on the floor. I saw the net that burned with cold fire. I saw Thorne’s mocking laughter. I saw the casual cruelty of man.
Then I saw Roscoe ride away. I felt her shame that the wildness had taken her again. I felt her heart long as he looked back. So desperately she wanted to be seen, but she was so frightened that he would see her like this.
He only saw the war.
He rode off alone.
The thread didn’t snap. It was severed.
Roscoe stood at the edge of the clearing, the argument with Lani still ringing in his ears. She had projected her raw feelings into his soul. “They no longer hear music. Their minds are obsessed with murder.”
He wanted to be angry at her for it. He wanted to be angry at the blood on her claws. He wanted to be angry that she showed him the necessity of the beast. But as he walked back toward Elias’s cabin, the anger wept out of him, leaving only an aching silence.
He stopped. This silence wasn’t right. The cicadas had stopped their eternal symphony.
From the shadows an orange blur of panic bolted past him. Lani didn’t project an image; she projected a smell: Iron and copper.
Blood.
Roscoe ran.
They burst into the cabin together. The door was hanging off its hinges. The lantern inside had been knocked over, catching a curtain on fire. The flames cast frantic shadows on the pine walls.
Elias lay on the floor in a pool of vermilion.
Roscoe slid in the blood as he fell to his knees. He pulled the old man into his lap. Elias was still breathing, but it was a wet, rattling sound. A dagger was buried to the hilt in his chest.
Lani hissed, her hackles rising. She stepped toward the body, sniffing the air. She looked at the dagger’s handle. It was ivory, carved with intricate rose vines intertwining the monogram “J.T.” She snarled, a sound of pure unadulterated hate, and bolted out the door to chase the scent of Jasper Thorne into the night.
Roscoe reached for the knife, his hand trembling.
“Don’t . . . ” Elias wheezed, his hand covering Roscoe’s. His grip was surprisingly strong. “Don’t . . . let the hate . . . take you.”
“He came here for me,” Roscoe whispered as tears fell from his face, “but you suffer the fate of my failure.”
Elias smiled; bright red blood coated his teeth. “Not . . . for you. For . . . hope. He wants . . . to kill . . . hope. Not failure . . . as long as . . . hope.” He coughed, a violent spasm that brought up more blood. He lifted a shaking hand to his breast pocket. “Read . . . it.”
Roscoe reached into the pocket, pulled out the carefully folded letter, and scanned it quickly.
Dearest Grandfather,
I hope this letter finds you well. I wish you would reconsider Father’s offer and move up here. I read stories every day about the violence of the Fire Eaters. I fear Florida is no longer safe for you.
There is excitement here in Philadelphia. My friends all talk of coming war. The boys in town are organizing a volunteer regiment, and I have put my name on the roll. They say we shall march toward Washington soon.
Do not fear for me. I don’t believe it will come to bloodshed. We are all Americans, after all. Surely, our bonds of loyalty are stronger than this slavery question.
Your loving grandson, Julian
Roscoe looked up, tears blurring his vision. “He’s just a boy,” he said.
“Save . . . him,” Elias choked. The light was fading from his eyes. “Hate . . . ravenous beast. Don’t let it . . . eat him.”
Elias’s hand went slack. The rattling breath stopped.
Roscoe sat there, smoke building as the fire spread, his grief held him in place.
Then, the Swamp Dog howled.
It wasn’t his usual sharp warning. It was a sound of terror. A yodeling scream. Roscoe scrambled into the night.
A mile down the road, the fog had thickened into a wall. Roscoe slowed and approached the pacing Swamp Dog.
The road was blocked. Jasper Thorne sat in a gilded carriage, flanked by a dozen irregulars with torches.
Roscoe’s eyes weren’t on Thorne. They were focused on the ground.
A net of crackling silver mesh pinned Lani to the mud. She thrashed, hissing and snarling. Blue sparks arced through her fur, holding her down.
Next to the net, examining the sparks with detached curiosity, stood Thomas Wilde. His grey wool suit was immaculate. He held a ledger in his left hand; his withered right arm was tucked into his coat pocket.
“Well, well,” Jasper Thorne boomed, his face flush with victory. “The whole family is here. We got the witch’s cat. Now, we got the ghost and his dog. Too bad Elias won’t be joining us.” He drew in a long whiff of the smoky air. “Once that black priestess comes looking for y’all, we’ll remove the last piece from the board, won’t we Thomas?”
Wilde did not answer. He appeared to be doing math in his head.
Roscoe stepped forward into the torchlight. “Let her go, Thorne.”
Thorne laughed. “Let her go? Boy, I’m gonna skin her and wear her hide for a coat. And then I’m gonna hang you from that tree right there. Leave you there. Let people know what happens when you stand in the way of progress.”
Wilde looked up at Roscoe from his ledger. He smiled warmly.
“Hello, Brother.”
Roscoe’s vision twisted as his thoughts swirled. Wilde’s thoughts echoed deafeningly in his mind. Roscoe clapped his hands to his head and collapsed to his knees.
I watched him stumble. The word “Brother” hit him harder than a musket ball.
My right arm throbbed. It was a phantom ache where the beast had chewed the meat. The bone, though, the bone hummed. It felt alive in a way it never had before. I flexed the stiff fingers inside my pocket. The connection was undeniable. The closer he was, the stronger I felt.
I could sense his confusion. It radiated off him like heat. The dog’s bite hadn’t just infused me with the Weaver’s magic; it had opened a door. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t just observing the narrative. I was controlling it.
Thorne was laughing. A wet, sickening sound. “We got ‘em both, Mr. Wilde! Skin the cat and hang the man!”
I sighed. The noise was unbearable. Thorne was a sabre in a world that required a scalpel. He was messy. He was chaos.
I looked at Mr. Kelly, on his knees in the mud. I looked at the panther, thrashing in the electric weave. I looked at Thorne, sweating and gloating, ready to destroy something he didn’t understand.
Something inside me clicked. A decision made not out of malice, but out of necessity.
“Jasper,” I said, drawing the pistol from my coat. “You are inefficient.”
Crack.
The shot took Thorne in the temple. He didn’t even have time to look surprised. He just slumped, dead before he hit the mud.
The torchbearers shouted in confusion then ran. I dropped the gun. My hand was shaking. Was it fear? Or was it just the surge of power?
“He . . . he would never stop,” I stammered, looking at Roscoe. The words felt true as I said them. “He was going to kill you all. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t watch it again. I couldn’t let him control me anymore.”
Roscoe stared at me. He did not want to believe. He did not want to trust.
But staring at a man trembling in the rain, his essential nature took over.
“Thomas?” he whispered.
“Yes. Thomas. Like my mother named me.” I flicked my right wrist, cutting the power to the net. The sparks died. “I’m sorry, Wild One. I could not let him know my allegiance had changed until the perfect moment.”
Lani didn’t acknowledge the apology. She didn’t look at Roscoe. She scrambled up, a blur of panic and instinct, and bolted for the tree line. Her eyes were devoid of human comprehension.
Roscoe reached out to her but grasped empty air. His eyes unfocused, and I felt him try to touch the woman inside the beast.
He flinched. “She’s gone,” he whispered.
The Swamp Dog didn’t wait. He barked once and tore into the shadows in protective pursuit of the cat.
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking at my withered arm. “The dog . . . the bite . . . it changed me, Roscoe. It connected us. I felt your pain. I felt Elias die.” I looked him in the eye. “I felt the horrors of Thorne’s perversions. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be this anymore.”
Roscoe stood up. He wanted to believe me. He needed to believe me. “You saved us?”
“There is still time,” I said, urgency creeping into my voice. “The armies are only gathering. There is still time to avert war. You must ride North.”
Roscoe looked at the letter in his hand. “But the Dog . . . Lani . . .”
“I will wait for the beast,” I promised. “He knows my scent now. I will bring him to you. And Lani . . .” I looked at the shadows where the panther had vanished. “She needs time to recover. Elara will keep her safe. Go, Roscoe. Go now!”
Roscoe hesitated. He looked at me. He saw a brother-in-arms.
“Thank you, Thomas,” he said. “I am forever in your debt.”
“Not forever,” I said softly. “Just until the books are balanced. Now go!”
Roscoe mounted one of Thorne’s horses. He cast one last look at the swamp and then kicked the horse into a gallop, riding hard for the North.
I watched him go. I waited until the hoofbeats faded completely.
I smiled.
The silence returned to the swamp. It was heavy. It was clean.
I wiped the rain from my face. I straightened my cuff. The chaos was gone. The board was clear. I calculated how many stones it would take to sink Thorne’s body to the bottom of the river.
I waited.
The Swamp Dog trotted into the clearing, nose low to the ground. He had followed the earthy ozone of Roscoe’s magic. He expected to find his friend. Instead, he found me. I felt his confusion as the scent hit him. It smelled familiar, yes, but decayed, like a corpse decomposing in the mire.
“Hello, old friend.”
He snarled.
I watched through his eyes:
The air was sliced open by a thin blade of blue sparkling magic. The humming wound widened into a circular portal, revealing a room of impossible whiteness. Through the tear, the Swamp Dog saw men sitting in rows, looking up from boxes of flickering light. Their faces were pale and bored.
One of the men looked at a glowing slate in his hand, checked a number, and then pointed a finger at the Swamp Dog.
I did not speak. I projected the command line.
> EXECUTE SANITATION PROTOCOL <
Before the dog could react, three entities of steel and static stepped through the hole in the sky. They moved with a stutter, flickering like a candle in a draft. One thrust a sparkling baton into the Swamp Dog’s ribs. There was no pain, only a sudden, overwhelming silence.
His world went dark.
> ASSET [SWAMP DOG] NEUTRALIZED.
> UPLOADING TO ARCHIVE...
> PURGE CREATIVITY <
> PURGE GRIEF <
> PURGE HUMANITY <
. . . .