The Devil and Ingrid Walker

Two hands are clutched together-a gesture of sweet affection. The young couple-man and wife, newly wedded at the mere age of seventeen-gaze into each other’s eyes:  gray into indecisive hazel. Words can be seen in those depths:  declarations of affection, love, and forever. Four lips meet on the altar, satisfied and full of life. Forever, those eyes whisper, for the rest of our lives-then we’ll die together…

            The two are content together-happy, even. As the daughter of a former slave trader who moved north, and the son of an impoverished woodsman whose name goes unspoken, the pair seemed as repelling as oil and water to those around them. Nevertheless, the two are pleased with their meager lifestyle; Ingrid is trying to adjust to her new social status, but she is happy with Tom. In her mind, Tom is as central a point in her life as her welfare.

***

            Five years and absolutely no children later, Ingrid and Tom are as close to each other as the distant stars. But still close enough to annoy each other more than ever. Groping over shiny gold coins and things of value:  pride. They seem to have only one thing in common:  hating the other.

            “Lord, Tom! You’re home late again! Supper’s gone cold and the fat is swimming on top! Why can’t you be a good man and bring home a single nice stag for supper?” Ingrid sat in bed all day writing letters she could not afford to send.

            “Well, Madame Ingrid Walker! Madame Ingrid Walker has to have her nice stag and a hearty beef stew for supper every single night or she will surely die starving for nourishment!”

            “So, what have you been doing all day, if you can’t even bring me one meal?”

            “I was out doing errands in town! I looked for a job doing miscellany! No one has the money to pay me, anyhow!”

            “You’re not looking close enough! You’re not sleeping in my bed until I see gold on your ugly dining table!” Evil grey eyes pierce through ever-changing hazel ones; they see the soul behind them, making it cry for mercy. “Leave my sight!”

            Tom exits the meek little shanty they called home, to chop wood. Ingrid returns to her stove where said supper is still sitting on the black iron stove. It is only a pot of boiling water, for Ingrid had not the ingredients necessary for anything, really.

            Under the shroud of twilight, Tom is dozing steadily on a log under the saddest excuse for a blanket, and Ingrid slips quietly out of their shack wearing a black velvet robe, the tattered remains of her wealthy past, and carrying a silver knife (for protection). I can only escape now, thinks she, for only tonight is the moon hidden behind her cloak and the stars winking quietly. I must get away, before I see the day I die with this horrible man by my side.

While travelling through the woods, Ingrid hears the leaves crackle with age and the boughs creak with their weight. Until there is a large snap. Her heart palpitates with the urgency that a meek gray  rabbit’s would at the same sound. Ahead is a dilapidated old Indian fort, one that had been abandoned by the savages when the Anglican race had set foot there. It loomed over the moss and toadstools with an eerie tune that could only be found in the woods, sung by the wood nymphs and faeries. There are dead trees, some still standing, some lying inert on the forest floor. There are names engraved in them as if by lovers, yet the names stand alone, one on each tree.

“I see you’ve decided to run away, my fair lady.” There is a black man standing by one of the trees. Not black as the men from Africa and the slaves that toiled on Daddy’s farm in Jamestown. He is the color black of a chimminey-sweep, of a man that works in the boiler-rooms. His eyes glow the red of hot coals and the passion of infinite wisdom. His hair is black and sooty, and it is more like the fur of a wildebeast then the hair of a mortal man. Where did he come from?

“Wha-?”

“Don’t fret, my darling; you’ll only die faster.”

“By what name are you called?”

“I’m glad you ask. I am the one whose eyew have watched over the burning of witches in
Europe. The man who employs his minions to buy and sell other men in the human world. I enjoy watching the hands of great men falter as they write the words that will destroy a race. There are those young and innocent that try and try and try, desperately; when they fail, they try, try, try again, and I weep with joy when they fall down again. I am the man who feels no pit y for any mortal soul. But you, my dear, you can call me Lucifer.”

As if under a spell, Ingrid answers:  “I have heard of you. I hear you have great power.”

“Well, then, what service may I do for thee?

“I would like that my husband die.”

“I think I can fit that into my schedule. It may take a few years.”

“What may be the cost? I have no money or gold with which to pay you.” A lie. There were several things of value hidden in various places in the house, only, there had been no chance opportunity to redeem them for the money Ingrid so desperately desired.

“I only ask that you do one thing:  you must never show your face to any human, disgraceful and honorable alike. You will live alone in the forest for forty years and never enter the village, and you shall never write to any friend of yours. Not for anything. You may return to your home one more time, see your husband for one last time.  You might actually miss him some day. Tom has an interesting future ahead of him.”

“That will be easy, Sir Lucifer,” says Ingrid.

“So, my dear, agreed?”

“Yes, Lucifer.”

            The sun is just peeping over the magnificent oaks and maples when Ingrid arrives home; it paints the sky vivid colors of rose, cerulean, and golden yellow. The birds are twittering amok, the geese are announcing the grand approach of vacation season, and squirrels are busily gathering supply for winter, a supply that most likely will not be found easily when needed.What Ingrid does not expect is that Tom is awake and stirring busily in the house. What is he looking for?

            “Good morning, my fair vulture! Where in this pitiful forest were you all morning?”

            “I was picking wild berries, but a flock of ravens accosted me and ate all that I had produced. What in good God’s name are you doing hurrying about the house in such a scurry?”

            “Why, I was looking for a pair of trousers I though I might have, but Alas! I have none, because we have no money!”

            “And why might that be, Tom Walker?” Ingrid has become infuriated. How dare he insult my poverty!

            “Hush up, Mrs. Ingrid Walker! I have glorious news for you, then. Just yesterday, I have found the Devil. Says he wants to strike up a deal. Tells me there’s a stash of gold beneath an oak tree by the swamp. Says, ‘If you only become a ruthless usurer, I can make you a rich man! ’ And you know what I said? I said I’d think about it!”

            “You worthless piece of rubbage! Why didn’t you make the deal? We could be rich, this moment, here and now!”

            “Hush, hush! I can go back, you know! But I don’t think it’s such a great idea. He might take both of our souls. We’ll go to Hell!”

            “That’s none of my worries! You’ll be going whatever happens!”

            “Well, then, that’s just glorious! Go get your blessed gold if you want it, then!”

            “Then I will!”

            Ingrid storms off into the kitchen, simply put, the area behind the house where cooking and eating are done. That evil son of a whore! The Devil had cheated Ingrid, of all people! Tom has already sold his soul, and I have now sold mine for his death! The wind howls with the fury of the wolf struck by an arrow. Leaves swirl tumultuously about Ingrid’s head in deep confusion. The ground shudders indecisively beneath running feet. I am going to make that sooty mongrel pay!

***

I know you can't wait until next Sunday... enjoy the story! -Lisa Marie (and Jia, too!)