What Kind of Name is Nuckelavee?

Smoke had been hanging over the town since June; the fires up in the hills were bad that summer, and the rough edge on the air made throats raw, eyes red, and set nerves on edge. Everyone had a feeling of apprehension that Friday, when Mrs Kenney, the town busybody, claimed she was the first to see the Stranger. He was lounging by the old abandoned honky-tonk, out on the outskirts of town.

Preacher saw him, too. The Stranger was riding down the street ahead of him when he went to pay Ellen Crawford a social call. Preacher was sure the man knew what Ellen and he did, those Friday afternoons when Cole Crawford went up to the country seat. The Stranger turned right round in his saddle and fixed him with his stare. But Preacher never told a soul but Ellen.

Ellen was hanging her wash out, the clothespins in her mouth and her old cotton dress in her hands. The Stranger's gaze drifted over her, as he rode by, and she felt her nipples stiffen. It made her want to fall on her knees and pray, in a way Preacher’s sermons never did. If Ellen knew why the Stranger had come to town, she kept that secret quiet.

It happened that Sheriff Cumins was talking to Ellen at that moment, and he noticed her lick her lips slowly, before he turned and caught a glimpse of the Stranger disappearing round a corner. He was there to ask if the Crawford’s were missing a rooster; someone had killed a black rooster out at the crossroads, east of Sedan, and smeared the bird’s blood in a circle across the road. The Crawfords were the only people around who had black chickens but, somehow, the Sheriff forgot to ask her about it.

If it was never clear who had first seen the Stranger, everyone was certain why he was in Sedan: he was searching for someone. There was something troubling in the way he looked at them, as if he was weighing them in the balance. They only saw him far off, down the ends of the town’s streets, or turning a corner, but that was close enough. All felt relieved when he moved on: a tall thin man in a gambler’s hat, clean shaven, wearing a long, black coat and riding a black horse.

Old Lou said the Stranger rode by him at Midnight, just as the twelfth toll of the courthouse bell ushered in the Thirteenth. Of course, everyone knew why Lou was out, sleeping in the town square at night – he’d had a few too many to drink. That was the case most Friday nights, so his testimony might not stand up, but he swore he saw the Stranger taking Pat Finn up Cemetery Road at gunpoint. Pat Finn, an ornery cuss who never did a thing that anyone told him to without a fight, was going along as meek as a lamb.

That wouldn’t have seemed credible at all, if Pat hadn’t been found dead the next day. He was lying on the grave of that young woman the Sheriff had fished out of the ox-bow last year. Caleb Keene found him, and even though it was the unmarked grave of a nameless girl, he knew who lay there; he’d dug the hole, after all. He sent for the Sheriff straight away, but by the time he got there, there was a bit of a crowd standing around.

The Sheriff couldn’t see a bullet hole, and Pat didn’t look like he’d been beaten, but Riley the undertaker took the body in, and called Doc to do an autopsy.

“As far as I can see,” Doc Curran said, “There’s not a thing wrong with him. He looks as healthy a cuss as ever he was.”

“What killed him?” asked the Sheriff.

“I can’t rule out poison, not until I get the report,” Doc said. “But I’d say he was frightened to death, if that look on his face is anything to go by.” Pat had never been handsome, but his dead face was terrible to see.

Maybe nothing more would have come from it if, the next Friday, the Stranger hadn’t come back. He rode through the streets of Sedan, and people withdrew from his gaze as he passed.

“It felt like his eyes would peel the skin right off of you,” Caleb said. No one disagreed, but no one got a good look at him, either. One of the Andersen kids said she heard the Stranger call his horse “Nuckelavee.” Still, those Andersen kids would do anything for attention; the girl swore the Stranger was the devil himself.

And, as Caleb said, when he heard, “What kind of a name is 'Nuckelavee?’”

A dozen people hounded the Sheriff, telling him that the Stranger was back, demanding he do something about it. But the Sheriff never caught sight of him.

In the evening, when he dropped round Casey’s saloon, Katie the barmaid told him the Stranger had been in.

“Did you get a look at him?” asked the Sheriff.

“Sure did,” said Katie. “I asked him to dance, you know? Like I do when it’s slow.” The Sheriff nodded; he knew exactly what Katie did when it was slow round the saloon. It was, as they say, a bone of contention between them.

“And did he?” he asked her.

“No, sir,” Katie replied. “He just asked if I seen John Howard.”

“Had you?” The Sheriff looked hard into Katie’s eyes; that always made her squirm, but he enjoyed that.

“Not since May,” Katie said. “If he’s been round, he didn't come in here.”

May was when the bank was robbed, over in Livonia. The Sheriff wondered if Howard had been involved in that job. He’d get a description of the suspects from the Sheriff there, later. In the meantime, this Stranger had everyone jumpy, so he’d better deal with that.

“So what did he look like?” he asked.

“His face was funny. Like it didn’t move at all, not even when he spoke,” said Katie. “It was like he was wearing a mask or something.”

“But he wasn’t wearing a mask?”

“No sir,” said Katie. “I know ’cuz I kissed him on the lips. That wasn’t no mask.” Katie told him that the Stranger was tall, about 6’, but lots of men were that height. His hair was dark and his eyes were too. He was still wearing that long black duster, and black hat.

“Well, thank you Katie,” the Sheriff said. “You let me know if he comes back, hear?” He got up and started to leave and Katie looked disappointed.

“Oh, there’s one more thing, Chris,” said Katie. “He smelled like matches.”

“Like matches?” The Sheriff stopped and turned back.

“Yes, like – what's that stuff called? Sulphur?” Katie said. “Like matches, or the water down in the bottom land, over east.” The Sheriff thanked Katie and wondered if the Stranger was camped out east of Sedan.

He planned on going the next morning to check, but he’d barely arrived at the office when the call came in. Caleb let him know another body had been found in the cemetery. When he hung up, the Sheriff could still hear breathing on the line.

“Carla! Is that you?” the Sheriff asked.

“Yes, Sheriff Cummins,” a voice replied. Listening in on calls was Carla’s favourite part of her switchboard job.

“Well, you may as well tell me. Has anyone said anything about this body?” the Sheriff asked.

“They're all saying the Stranger done it,” Carla replied.

“That’s just a rumour, Carla,” said the Sheriff. “Don’t you go spreading that around.” Carla agreed she would not, but told him there were two more calls waiting for him. He told her to let them know he was out on official business, and went up north to the cemetery.

Caleb had closed the gate but, of course, that didn’t stop anyone from hopping over the low fence and crowding around the grave. It was the same as last time. There were no marks on the body, nothing obviously wrong with the dead man, just a look of horror on the body’s face. Whatever John Howard had seen, it wasn’t anything he wanted to see.

Riley the undertaker came by and picked up the body, and the Sheriff started asking around, trying to determine who had seen the dead man last. That was trickier than it had been with Finn; Howard had certainly been laying low. No one at the depot had seen him for weeks. The Sheriff already knew he hadn’t been to the saloon and there seemed little chance he'd been to the church.

He asked Caleb, first; after all, two dead men had been found and he was the man who found them. The Sheriff doubted he was behind it, but it would have been a mistake not to ask.

“When’s the last time you seen Howard?”

“Not for some time,” replied Caleb. “Not since last year.” There was something that told the Sheriff that was a lie.

“That so?” he asked, looking Caleb up and down, suspiciously. But there was no way his twisted back and legs ever took out two tough men like Howard and Finn, not even with a six-shooter to back him up. Caleb met his gaze, and didn’t say yes or no.

That was the start of a fruitless afternoon. In a town full of rumours, no one had much to say. When the Sheriff went back to the office, there was a message from Doc pinned to the door; he made his way over to the surgery.

“Pretty much the same as last time,” Doc Curran told him. “No bullet wound, no stab wound, no bruising or contusions. Howard wasn’t a healthy man, not the way he drank. But my best guess is he was frightened to death.”

“Did you ever hear back about Finn?” the Sheriff asked.

“No trace of poison, if that’s what you mean,” Doc answered. “There was a lot of lead in him, but that’s true of half the men in town, and it didn’t kill him. Not like that, anyway.” The Sheriff mulled the facts over.

“I can’t go arresting a man because those two got scared to death,” he said. “Even if I took that to court, it would get laughed out.”

“I don’t envy you,” Doc said. The Sheriff was leaving when Doc added, “There’s just one thing more, I might mention.” The Sheriff turned back from the door.

“I was out last night, just shy of midnight. I’d delivered another Anderson baby and was on my way home when I saw John Howard walking north, out of town.”

The Sheriff nodded. “And?” he asked.

“That Stranger was riding right behind him, up Cemetery Road,” said Doc Curran. “Now, I didn't see a gun or anything that would have given me a reason to interrupt their private business, or wake you up right then, but a man walking and another man behind him on horseback seems, unusual.” He heard the slight emphasis in Doc’s words.

“Unusual enough,” said the Sheriff. He thanked Doc and asked him to get the samples sent off, just to be sure.

Back at the office, he asked the deputy what he remembered about the girl that was buried in the unmarked grave at the cemetery. There wasn’t much to tell, really. Her description wasn’t remarkable: blonde, blue-eyed, pretty, about 19. All their inquiries had run into dead ends quickly. It was doubtful they’d ever know who she was or where she came from.

“One thing, though,” said the deputy. “I remember the inquest. There was a good crowd in the courthouse; you’d expect that of course. But I noticed three men sitting in the back, keeping to themselves, and talking under their breath the whole time.”

“Who were they? the Sheriff asked.

“That’s what makes it interesting,” the deputy replied. “Pat Finn, John Howard, and Billy Antrim.”

“Did you look into it at all?” the Sheriff asked.

“Shit, this isn’t a hard job,” the deputy replied. “Of course I did. Naturally they all had alibis: they were never near the oxbow, they weren’t even in town, they didn’t know the girl, the usual stuff. There was nothing else to go on, just a dumb hunch. I let it go.”

“Now two of the three are dead,” said the Sheriff. “Still think it’s a dumb hunch?” The deputy just shrugged. The Sheriff thought for a moment.

“They didn’t talk to anyone else?” he asked.

“Well, Ellen and Cole Crawford were sitting back there, too, but it didn’t look like they were all together,” the deputy said. The Sheriff couldn’t imagine Cole having anything to do with men like that; likely those were the only seats still left when they got there.

"You better bring in Billy Antrim, see what he knows,” the Sheriff said, at last.

Of course, Billy Antrim knew nothing: not about the girl, not about the deaths of his two cronies, and certainly not about the bank job in Livonia. He was utterly ignorant of anything that might be of interest to the Law. The Sheriff briefly considered putting him under arrest for his own good, but it was an election year, and he didn’t need anyone accusing him of abusing his powers; Billy Antrim had some powerful friends.

So Antrim walked out of there, whistling a tune, as carefree a hoodlum as ever you saw. But that was the last time either the Sheriff or the deputy saw him alive.

The next Friday had blown a storm like you seldom see. Barns and roofs up and down the county suffered. The winds had bent the trees right the way over, like there had been an ice storm, but it was just the wind. A government fellow who came through later, taking damage reports, told the Sheriff that it had blown as strong as a hurricane.

That Saturday morning, the Sheriff was run off his feet; he didn’t have much time to think about the unexplained deaths. When he got into the office though, he saw there was a message from Caleb on the spike. He went straight to the cemetery.

“I was cleaning up, Sheriff,” Caleb told him. “Lots of branches down from that storm; it’s a right mess.”

“I'm sure,” the Sheriff said. “Is that why you called me?”

“Oh no, heh-heh. No sir!” Caleb said. “There’s another body. Same place as before.” There was no crowd, this time. Maybe some phone lines were down, or maybe people were just too busy. Or maybe they were getting scared.

The Sheriff went over and bent down, but he could tell it was Billy Antrim before he turned him over; his cauliflower ear was easy to spot. His face was contorted; the Sheriff had almost come to expect that. Once again he could see nothing else wrong with the body; if it wasn’t for the look on Antrim’s face, he might have been convinced he’d died in the storm.

“What’s that?” asked Caleb, who’d tagged along to avoid doing clean-up. The Sheriff looked where he was pointing. Tucked under Billy Antrim was a red leather wallet, a woman’s wallet. He teased it out from underneath the corpse and looked inside.

There wasn’t much in it: a couple of dollars, the unused half of a train ticket, and a photograph. He took it out and looked at it; the face was familiar. He’d check with the deputy, but he was pretty sure it was the girl they’d been pulled out of the ox-bow. On the back was written ‘Theresa Doyle’, in a girlish script.

“Looks like she's not nameless, now,” said the Sheriff. Caleb didn’t say a thing, he just pulled out his pocket knife and started to carve the girl’s name into the weathered wood of the cross.

The next Friday folk saw the Stranger, again. Everybody forgot the big storm they’d been talking about for a week, and Carla at the switchboard was kept busy listening-in to all the calls. But despite the spreading trepidation, Billy Antrim was the last of the deaths.

There never was much explanation for it all. Maybe it was just coincidence, and nothing more. But old Lou swore up and down he’d seen Ellen Crawford riding behind the Stranger on his horse, and heading out of town.

Mrs Kenney said she left without telling a soul. She didn’t even leave a note for Cole, or Preacher. Caleb was the only person who didn’t seem surprised.

***

Eolas Pellor recently retired after teaching History, World Religions, Philosophy and Visual Art for nearly 30 years. Before becoming a teacher, he was a journalist, and later the editor of professional publications for the Ontario Library Association. He has a B.A. in History and Politics, a B.A. and and M.A. in the History of Art, and a B. Ed.