Tasmanian Devil
A Short Story
First set furth in Lallans, 93. (2018).
This storie haes been lichtlie eeditit frae the oreeginal and is mint tae eik oot this craft artikle.
For the English translation of “Tasmanian Devil,” click here.
Infeor Vaarin:1
Dear Sir,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. I wish this in part for it bears tidings of the gravest import and utmost gravity. I fear in my explanations that I would digress or muddle such details as I possess so I shall scrawl no further; the materials I have included shall speak for themselves, though it is a gruesome account I feel bound that the law must hear it. Know that these are the words of John Murdoch and that, though he writes as he speaks, he is a most honourable and pious man. He resides only a little to the east; it is a place of loneliness and mist and I fear it now plays host to more than grouse and crow.
*
I await her, I ken her scent an the air. This hoose is besiegit by the blackest o souls. I am compellit tae scrive this accoont lest the truth o the matter be kent only tae God as I am his honest witness. The deil conspires tae ruin this ferm an in his fashion he sends his servands as the unassumin an the obedient – that is hoo foolness cams an lives ithin the walls. She took ma bairn frae me.
The day the deil cam tae me – it wis a wretchit day o smirr an I wis crabbit frae saddle-soreness gien me by the ride tae Perth. In ma weakness, I took on that wretchit maid. The feein day hadna faurt me weell an Mrs. McNab naggit at a need tae fill the place o the Kyles lass, pregnant hoor. I gid ma nod for the hire just tae steel away that hoosekeeper’s lurid tongue. Sicna insidious exchange, tae tak advantage o ma distraction, I did nae fash tae see the girl for whit she was; no maid, no even just furrin scuff. Ay, she wis the only lass for feein that day an in ma haste I broucht Beelzebub into ma hame.
Twis nae lang afore ma dauchter lay, back archit, aneath the black alder. It wis me who heftit ma poor gilpey frae a gate post, impalit like the son o God himsel, tho it wisna a roman who drove iron through ma bairn’s fair flesh. It wis the fa frae her chamber windae – a fa is whit McNab widha haed me believe.
Ma bairn wis pusht frae the sill by that blackguard maid. As I stand crustit wi the blood o ma kin that accursit hoosekeeper spake in defense o the maid! She wid hae me ken that ma dauchter wis a cheap hoor, vaultin frae the sill tae lie wi the stable hand as I lay sleepin in ignorance – she in a bed o hay, moontit like the horses! I struck McNab tae the dirt for all her insolence, an sic did she deser it.
I should hae seen it, it wis lang by the first sign.
That kitchie-dame wis walcome frae the start; a maid rarely took sae weell tae a hoosehold as she. McNab treatit her weell for a petty servand, far mair weell as whit she deserved as a peasant, an mair still for a negress.
All but Lithgow took curiosity in her exotic features, that sicna markit body could work an speak our tongue in civil Scotland. I suppose the civil are taen by a seek fascination tae look upon the savage, all the easier a savage richt dressed an donnin our customs. Ay but Lithgow saw her for whit she wis, a wolf clothit in wool. Ever a ghillie, a richteous man, he saw her as a bitch tae cuddum. That’s why he wis first tae go.
I draggit that soulless thicklip tae the hitchin post an beat her wi all the ire o holy vengeance, wi the micht o God I broucht her tae the gates o hell an near enouch sent her tae her maker. It wis Lithgow that haltit me. The murderer haed said nethin, no confession, the same seelence o that smirr ridden day that she daurkent ma door. I saw Lithgow’s look an kent tae let it live. Even nou she hid the real malevolent beast ithin an sae I haed the whimperin McNab make sure she wid nae bleed tae death an left the savage tied tae yon post.
I haed done richt, even the waifish scullery maid at the door held a look o satisfaction, she see’d the corruption oozin frae the negress. Do nae heed McNab’s prattle aboot maid’s jealousy; she an all ken I did richt by ma bairn an richt by God. I did sae for three days an nichts. Each nicht, come nichtfa, I took the duty upon masel tae compel her confession an drove ma knuckles raw but she gid noucht. I said plain, if the deil holds yer tongue then show me ye’re a murderer.
It wis only time atween me an truith; the cauld November air presst in on the yard and I took a dram kenning I haed done richt.
The third nicht cam an I stood wi McNab in ma study, watchin as an unholy fog descendit. I wis strang in ma conviction, I haed seen the first sign, the wretch in the yard haed been compellt tae speak: you want, you shall have.
As the mist tak her, I kent by morn I’d hae ma confession. Like the guid old days o King James, lash the witch tae the post an you shall hae yer justice. Sae confident a fool I wis that I held the deil at ma mercy but whan the sun rose an fog brent awa the post stood tuim.
Naen o ma hoose wid betray me so, McNab assertit as much frae her stammerin gob, naen but her, but I haed her by ma side all nicht tae be siccar. Her wirds were pathetic, she said it wis no fault o the servands an ma clingin tae superstition wis condemnable an weak.
Only a gowk wid misken piety for superstition. I hatit her but by the grace o God I haed tae forgive her as she wis a woman an couldna be held tae sicna standard o reserve whan the deil roamed. The Tasman savage haed win frae through deilry, it wis certaint.
Lithgow tak tae the chase as a loyal man at arms, he drove the hoonds on the hunt but the search wis tae no avail. He never cam back. That nicht, piteuch were heard aboot the shaw on the river but cam mornin anely ane wretchit mongrel cam agin tae ma kennel.
In his absence days past and the hoose quietit aneath ma rage, till the true horrors began.
First that scullery maid wis taen ill, I can nae mind the lass’ name but I mind the strushie she made while I waitit tae sup. McNab said she haed hawstit an taen a fever afore spewin vilely oot in the kale yard. It wis nae illness, it wis possession – she burst intae ma study in the dead o nicht, eyes athoot colour, all pupil an whites, ravin an assailit by demon unseen. McNab an Masters haed stormit after her, blatherin o illness an apologies. Tak her tae the kirk wi haste I thoucht but it wis too ahint; the lass fell tae the grund an convulsed wi muckle violence. Failed in her mynt tae murder me, the poor lass’ soul wis taen as she grew still an wis deid soon after possession endit.
The next wis the stable hand, a murder that no even McNab could claim wis a mishanter. Steps frae ma door, wis whaur we foond him. He wis strung frae the stable rachters, floatin in the reek, haulit abune by a span o iron weir broucht aboot his thrapple some number o times. The wiers – deeply they haed cut frae his hingin weicht an sae emergit frae a black chasm aneath his vein ridden coontenance; like the shanks o some muckle spider wrenchin ootward frae ithin his gullet.
McNab widna cross the threshold, naen wid! This gore still hings spectral frae ma stable rachters at the nou! I kent it wis the she-deil tho; the deid youth haed said he kent nethin o the foulest murder but he haed been at his duties that nicht, the very youth McNab wid hae haed me believe wis tuppin ma sweet lass. This evidencit he kent an feart the savage as she wis fautit; he held his tongue but it wis nae a true enouch seelence for that murderer. As he wis a witness tae savagery he hae becam its effigy.
It wis a watherfu nicht wan Masters came tae me in ma chambers. In the flurry o wind an rain the soond distortit in ma hoose an Masters stood close tae me that I micht hear him over the din. He telt me that the cook wis vanisht, the ither stable hands haed flewn, the horses let loose, an all at the will o McNab.
It wis then I saw the paintin frae the frame; that pestilent besom haed made her final act tae strip all ma defenses frae me! I rewardit Masters – dismissin him tae whauriver he thoucht tae go. I leapt frae ma place an burst through the hoose. Each creek o bauk an fluirboard sang treachery, soucht o hidden malice.
The first door I sprung wi poust an scaitert whit lay beyond me; a mess o furnishin, left by man an maid wi haste, no mind for the free movement ithin a place besiegit. In ma anger I haed strack a chair frae ma path, athort the table, takin flagon an food tae the fluir as it flew. As I looked at the greyin meat, cast frae the platter an dousit in the filth o the hearth, I kent tae caum masel, let quate soothe ma beatin heart, tae hark tae paddit foot an stone, tae find the draft at ma neck – sae if door or windae swung I wid o kent.
That damned woman must’ve creepit in witch-made seelence.
I harkit nocht an haed trod the length o the hoose; it wisna till in the kitchens, I saw the print o a sole among the grush strawn aboot the plainstane. I follit – ma mettle steelit by the callor taste o judas’ kiss – an there she wis. Harkenin.
McNab sat in the kitchen passage wi the gall o a dutifu woman, nae the Satan-sure wench she was. Her haurd-neckit guise o innocence stoked a fire aneath me an afore she could make tae stand I caucht her by the hair an wrenchit her frae her seat. It wis a ricket o scrabblin that follit me doon the passage but it wisna until I casten her frae the door that she began her heathen cruin. She could nae stop me wi sic skirlin, nae wi her fause tears, draigelt wi the rain an clabber, wrechit as she wis.
I kent nae rue an her.
It wis on the great stone step o ma hoose, in the wailin tempest, I rairt oot into the nicht, tae the she-deil: your friend is gane, you’ll nae possess anither… hoor o satan! I pecht a lungful o jaggit air an I drew ma jockteleg. Swith an shuir, I bled McNab upon the stone.
Nae noo is there a deil in these walls.
That’s aw as it bides. I’m sairy for the spairge an the ink – I’ve haed the last o ma whiskey an the gun ower ma knee makes for an encumbert hand. I am here, forhoued, alane in the face o ill. Ye must cairy the justice o ma actions further afield. The negress cams an at her heel Lucifer himsel, I’m sure o it. You wee English bastard may nae hae the stamack for sic thins – I ken it’ll be you who finds this, Abney, should the she-deil tak me – but you must tell that I unkivert the monster that wis in that damned transportit youth. If shot does nae tak her I’ll set on her wi ma dirk an the fury for ma slain Bairn. I’m lauchin at the thoucht o it, that bitch’ll see her handiwork, step ower the corpse o her thrall, McNab; I’ll hae justice for ma
*
It ends abrupt. I have contained this by my best efforts but rumour is surely rife in the village. I fear that were we to allow these writings to go out into the world that this she-devil may become a terrible figure, martyred in the mists about Murdoch’s lands. I defer to your good judgement. As for the provenance of this letter please know it is exactly as I found it, I will say no more of where and how it was retrieved. I cannot bring myself to record the scene I came upon in word and ink for I fear that the very spirit of it should creep through the blotter and wreak havoc upon those I hold close – I shall say only this of that house; it was a painting in entrails.
Yours truly,
Simeon Abney
This short storie hauds leed o colonial, patriarchal, and racialized violeor; child daeth; ill-gabbit leed; bluid; and dule; it michtna suit aw readers.