Steven E. Wedel is a Ponca City, OK, writer whose fiction has appeared in Midnight Zoo, Mausoleum, Frightnet, DeathGrip, and The Ultimate Unknown. He works as a journalist.
"A Drink From the Springs" first appeared in Terminal Fright in 1993.
Dark Planet is designed and edited by Lucy A. Snyder. If you spot any errors, or if you have any comments, please contact her at lusnyde@cyberus.ca.
All materials copyright 1996-2001 by their respective creators. No stories, articles, poems or images from this webzine may be posted or published without the written consent of their creator(s).
A Drink From the Springs
by Steven E. Wedel
Ben Redding leaned forward in his saddle and spat over the bank of Black Bear Creek. The dusty spittle was the only moisture covering the sun-cracked bed of the small, winding waterway. He lifted his stained hat and swiped a sleeve across his sweaty brow as a gust of dry, dirty wind swept through the tall prairie grass.
"Reckon Bogey Creek an Skel'ton Creek'll be bone dry, too," said Franky, the younger of the two cowhands.
"Likely," Ben answered. He looked toward the sun. "'Bout four hours of good light left. You better head on back and tell the boss the creeks are dry. I'm going on ahead to see if the Salt Fork River has any water."
"That's a good forty miles," Franky announced.
"Yep. The herd'll probably still be close to the Cimmaron. You can get there in time for supper."
"The Cimmaron," Franky snorted. "Nothin' but a damn mudhole."
"Tell Will I'll be back late tomorrow. He might want to move the herd a little to the west, try to hit the lake in the salt plains. We'll lose a lot of beef if we have to do that." There was a moment of silence as the two men looked at the dry creek bed one more time. "Better go now," Ben said, then urged his horse down the bank and across the bottom of Black Bear Creek. He heard Franky turn around and start back the way they had come.
"Kid talks too much," Ben told his mare as they climbed the opposite bank. He pushed her into a trot and began covering ground on the parched earth of the Indian Nation, heading north.
He found Skeleton Creek just as the sun was leaving the sky. Except for a very few stagnant, shallow puddles, the creek was dry. Ben made camp for the night, keeping his rifle tucked up close to his body in case the redskins came to investigate him. He knew it wasn't likely; this was Cherokee country, but there had been bands of marauding Comanches reported back at the fort.
At daybreak he was back in the saddle and moving steadily across the changeless countryside. His throat begged for the last drops stored in his canteen, but he ignored it. His bowels, however, couldn't be put off any longer. At the closest growth of brush, he slid off the mare's back and hurriedly dropped his trousers.
When he emerged from the bushes, he was momentarily stunned to find he was alone. He looked around frantically, and soon saw the backend of his horse jogging away toward the north. Ben shouted at her, cursed her, and finally pleaded, but the mare never glanced back at him.
He started walking, going just fast enough to keep the horse in sight. He didn't dare go faster; it was far too hot to run. His canteen was strapped to his saddle, as was his rifle and most of his food. The mare never wavered, but kept moving at a steady, almost leisurely pace, as if she knew where she was going.
The sun reached its zenith and hovered, staring down at the stumbling, cussing man on the prairie. A stray cloud floated into the blazing blue of the sky, but the angry sun burned it to vapor before its shadow could touch the man.
Ben fell to his knees, staggered back to his feet and pushed himself forward. The mare's ass seemed to shimmer ahead of him as the heat rose in waves from the ground. Then she disappeared into a valley and Ben was forced to look at nothing but the motionless grass that waited for his dusty boots to trample it down on his way to a thirsty death.
After an eternity, he reached the crest of the valley and looked down into it.
WATER! his mind screamed. A small lake lay winking up at him, the surface silvery in the bright afternoon sun. Trees, evergreens and maple mostly, stood sentinel around the edges of the water. The prairie sloped gently down toward the shore, and Ben tried to walk, but soon found himself rolling and sliding through the brittle grass toward the blessed water that awaited him. At the floor of the valley he regained his footing and ran as fast as he could make himself go.
Then he stopped dead, his feet suddenly as heavy as if they had taken root in the soil. Ben saw his mare lying on her side next to the water's edge. His nostrils filled with the coppery smell of fresh blood and his eyes widened as he watched a strange woman who was standing in the water bend forward and bury her face in the wound on the horse's throat. A sickening, sucking sound carried across to him and Ben felt his stomach roll over.
The woman looked up and her colorless eyes locked with those of Ben Redding. They studied one another; Ben confused over the long white hair and pale flesh of the beautiful, morbid woman. Her skin and hair were smeared with bright blood, which only served to highlight her severe whiteness all the more. Her shoulders were bare, and Ben wondered about the rest of her, but could not pull his gaze from the colorless depths of her eyes.
"I haven't eaten in weeks," the woman said. Her voice was like water lapping stones on a lake shore.
"My horse ...." Ben faltered.
The strange albino woman looked at him for a moment, as if she didn't understand, then smiled and reached into the mare's neck. She tore off a piece of flesh and extended the dripping offering to Ben.
"No," he said, turning away, sure he was going to cover the grass with his breakfast. "That ain't what I meant. I was gonna ride her, not eat her."
"Are you thirsty?" the woman asked. Ben's burning throat forced him to look back at her. He nodded. "Then come and drink," she waved a bloody hand over the surface of the water.
"Why is there water here?" Ben asked as he edged closer. "Creeks are all dry. Rivers are mostly dry."
"This lake is spring-fed," the woman answered in her weird, soft voice. "There are five springs here that bubble up from the dark places in the center of the world."
"How'd you kill her?" Ben asked, seeing no weapon the woman could have used to open the horse's throat.
"It wasn't hard," the woman laughed. "I was hungry."
"Aren't there any fish in there?"
"No, no fish."
"It's not poison, is it?" She laughed again, but gave no answer.
"Maybe you'll swim with me?" she asked. She raised herself in the water, revealing her ample, snowy breasts. Ben stared in fascination at the round, pale nipples, and couldn't help but let his eyes travel down her belly to where the water licked at her navel. He loved a woman with good legs and tried to take advantage of the crystal-clear water to catch a glimpse of what waited below her waist, but curiously, he saw nothing at all.
"Come closer, come into the water," she said in a seductive whisper.
Ben's eyes slid from her beckoning, bloody hand to the corpse of his horse. He broke from his position so suddenly he startled himself. He snatched the canteen from his saddle and ran for a stand of thicker trees, his free hand gripping the butt of the revolver at his hip. He heard the woman's eerie laugh ring out behind him as he entered the shade of maples.
He tried to slow himself. Ben Redding was a man accustomed to the dry plains. He knew how to ration a small portion of water to last himself for days and days. But the canteen was soon empty and he found himself running his tongue around the inside of the opening to catch the last hint of moisture. Finally he dropped the container and peered out of the trees.
The woman was gone. Only the leaking body of his horse remained by the shore of the lake.
Ben waited in the trees until nightfall, arguing with himself about the grounds for his irrational fear. His mind knew that the woman in the lake had just been a little "touched" as the Indians said. But his heart insisted she was something more, and that she was waiting for him, eager to taste him the way she had his horse.
When the sun had fallen from the sky and only the stars and a sliver of moon shown down on him, Ben moved quietly from the cover of the trees and edged toward the water. He dipped his canteen into the cool lake and heard it gurgle as it filled. His eyes roved the woods and grass around the shore, one hand always near his pistol. When the canteen had filled, he pulled it from the water and reached down to screw on the cap.
His muscles suddenly loosened. He felt dizzy and swayed on his heels. He knew he was going to fall forward, and it was the thought, the horror of the thought, of falling into the polluted water that anchored his brain and allowed him to regain control of his body.
The bottom of the lake was carpeted with bloated bodies. Whites, Indians, a few Negroes. Mostly men, but also women and children lay entombed below the glassy surface.
Eyes round with terror and a choking sound coming from his gaping mouth, Ben turned quickly and ran. His open canteen, still clutched in a taut hand, sloshed liquid over his fingers as he pounded across the floor of the valley.
By dawn, the lake and all its strangeness was far behind. He had convinced himself the woman was only a lost crazy, and the bodies only visions brought on by his fear, hunger, and intense thirst. In his hurry to leave, he had lost nearly half the precious water from his canteen.
He was once more the calm, level-headed cattleman, second in command under Will Bond. He had a duty to perform. The herd of cattle was somewhere behind him on the plains of the Indian Nation, and it was up to him to find the water needed to make Dodge City, Kansas.
Soon the sun made it too hot to move, so Ben lay down in the shade of some brush to rest for a few hours before getting his bearings and trying to figure out how to get back to the herd.
He unslung the canteen from his shoulder and unscrewed the cap, forcing all images of the lake, the woman, and the bloated bodies from his mind. He lifted the container, tipping the opening toward his mouth, eager for the clear, cold water to splash the back of his throat.
"Yeessss ... "
Ben froze. His eyes fixed on the small opening of the canteen. He could see the water rolling and sloshing within. His hand was steady; the canteen was not moving, and yet the water inside was active, as if eager to come out.
Slowly, Ben opened his hand and let the canteen fall to the ground. It made a solid thunk as it hit, then fell over. Water came rushing out to cover the hard earth of the prairie.
Ben stepped back, his mouth shaping inarticulate words as he watched every drop of water pull itself out of the canteen and onto the ground. Then the puddle shaped itself and stood to face him. He gaped at the two-foot tall miniature of the albino woman from the lake. She extended her arms to him and smiled.
"Drink me," her tiny voice whispered. She advanced a step. Ben staggered back a step. The woman advanced two steps, then a third, moving faster. She came to within a few inches of Ben's dusty boots and prepared to pounce on him.
"NO!" Ben's revolver jumped from the worn leather holster and began spitting burning lead at the small figure. The pale miniature woman jerked when the first bullet hit her, but the missile simply passed through her body with nothing more than a splash and a small gout of steam. The bullets came so rapidly, however, that the form finally broke apart and fell to the ground where it spread out in a glittering puddle.
Ben continued to stand, watching, his empty six-gun still pointed at the ground. When the water began to move and come together again, he broke and ran.
He ran until his legs ached and his sides were sending sharp jabs of pain throughout his body. Ben finally slowed, but only long enough to catch his breath and let the pain ease before resuming his former, frantic pace. He felt certain that somewhere behind him the small, white-haired figure of a woman was running through prairie grass taller than herself, trying to catch him.
Ben continued to run until the world swam in his vision, then he paused and jogged awhile. He heard a rustling noise behind him, and immediately broke into a run again. Within a few paces he stumbled and crashed to the ground. His eyes rolled up and he knew nothing for a long while.
When he awoke, it was to the sound of cattle lowing and shuffling somewhere close by. Ben heard a horse snort and stamp less than ten feet from where he lay in the shade of a covered wagon. A shape bent over him, blocking out the noon sun, and Ben shrank away.
"You awake, Ben?" The voice belonging to the shape was one he recognized. A male voice. The cook.
"Zeb?" he croaked.
"That's right," the black-bearded cook grinned, then straightened. "Will! He's awake now." Zeb leaned back down and offered a dipper full of water.
Ben hesitantly took the dipper in a trembling hand. "From the barrel?" he asked, his eyes flicking to the container fastened to the side of the wagon. Zeb nodded.
"It's gettin' mighty low. Men don't get no more'n a dipperfull a day." Ben drank, the whole while listening for a voice in the water.
"Ben? You okay?" The tall, lean form of Will Bond stood before him. The trail boss hunkered down to a squatting position and studied Ben with his sun-faded blue eyes.
"I guess I've been better," Ben tried to grin. Will only nodded.
"Did you find any water? We need it bad."
Ben couldn't answer at first. Finally he turned his face away and said, "No, I didn't find any water."
"Ben, what is it?" Will always knew when he wasn't being straight with him.
"I found water." Ben looked at his boss. "But ... but we can't go there."
"Why not?"
"It ... it," Ben looked into the weathered face and knew he couldn't explain the woman. "It's poison, Will. It killed my horse." The trail boss looked at him for a long while, then finally nodded.
"Okay. I'm gonna have to ride out. I sent Franky looking for water again when we found you yesterday evening. If there's a poisoned pond out there, he won't know it's bad till he drinks it."
"I'm going with you." Ben forced himself to his feet. Both Zeb and Will protested, but Ben insisted. "If I hadn't been asleep, I could have warned him. And, I know where it is. I can tell you if it's the right place. You can't drink that water. You can't."
"You can't be going off in the sun again," Zeb argued. Ben ignored him and went to the horses. He picked one out and borrowed a saddle. He was ready to ride when Will was.
"He started back up the trail you left." Will said, spurring his mount out of camp. Ben followed.
The heat was incredible and soon Ben found himself licking his swollen tongue across cracked lips as he swayed in the saddle. Only his determination to keep anyone from finding and drinking from the spring-fed lake kept him going.
They found Franky near dusk. What was left of the young cowhand was lying face down in the sod. He was nothing but a broken skeleton, recognizable only by the torn clothes he wore. Both men bent over the heap, Will lifting a dusty, broken rib bone.
"Morrow's gone right out of the bones," he said in an awed voice. "I've never seen anything strip the flesh off a man like this, and then break the bones to get to the morrow." He dropped the bone back onto the skeleton, where it crumbled and turned to dust. He stood and glanced around, as if looking for the killer but not expecting to see anything.
"Ain't that your canteen?" Slowly, Ben turned and looked into the grass behind him. His canteen lay uncapped and empty, but not in the same position he had left it. He had a sickening image of the water-woman crawling back into the container and waiting until some poor fool found it and took a cool drink. Ben looked back to the skeleton.
Where is she now? he wondered.
"Something's moving over there," Will announced. He started forward, his pistol in hand. Ben followed, his own gun drawn, though he had doubts about its effectiveness against what they would find.
The two men moved cautiously toward where the tall grass was rapidly parting as something moved away from them. They separated and advanced quickly on the thing, one on each side, until they were level with the shifting grass, then they closed on it.
Ben shrieked like a woman when he saw the long, narrow puddle stretching before him, cutting through the prairie grass like a fish through the ocean. The amount of water had increased greatly from what he had held in his canteen, and Ben could still see streaks of pale red as the puddle shifted and flowed forward with the fluid of Franky's body added to it.
Ben turned and ran, jumping back into the saddle and setting spur to the horse. He heard Will slapping the rump of his own gelding as he tried to catch up in the mad dash away from the mysterious puddle that was moving quickly to the northwest, back to the spring-fed lake where dark things bubble up from the center of the world.
THE END