Title: The Tending of Monsters
Author: Maria Nicole
e-mail: marianicole29@yahoo.com
Distribution: Sure. I'd appreciate an e-mail letting me know
where it's going.
Classification: SA
Spoilers: The Gift
Rating: PG
Summary: Post-ep for The Gift. "They'll put a watch on you, and 
cut your phone lines, and take away your car--but they'll let you 
near him, because they don't want to take care of him themselves."




She buries him herself this time, and does not mark his grave.

They do not believe her when she tells them that he is dead, of 
course. She has lied before. She lied, tried to smuggle him out, 
tried to hide him--she tried every way she knew to help him 
escape. They remember this, and they do not believe her, and they 
stand outside her cottage night after night, waiting. They stand 
outside with guns and shout at her, threatening to set the dogs at 
her.

In the end, they overcome their fear of her to batter her door down, 
sweeping through her house, breaking things in their rage. 

*Cowards,* she thinks, then whispers, then shouts. "You shot a man in 
the back," she yells at them. 

"It belongs to us," the sheriff growls at her. "It belongs to us. He 
was a thief."

"Coward," she whispers to him, seeing it strike deep.

They leave her alone in the end, although they set a watch. She sees 
one of the men standing near the edges of the wood sometimes. And 
sometimes a woman will come to her door, pleading and persuasion on 
her lips. For my child, they always say, asking for pity. Not for 
myself, for my child. If you had children, you would understand. They 
go away calling her a witch under their breath, and the pleading in 
their eyes is stripped away to reveal the contempt and fear.

She runs out of food and has to walk to the store, and they spit on 
the sidewalk when they see her pass. She stocks up on staples, only 
enough food for one this time. It nearly breaks her; she wants to 
weep as she stands in front of the flour.

As she walks back home, she sees the woman across the street. Marie
Hangemuhl is almost unrecognizable, flush with health and glowing 
with pregnancy. No one would suspect that she had once suffered from a
fatal kidney disease.

Marie is another of the type the older woman hates, who used 
him and hated him at the same time. But because of this woman, the 
FBI had come, eventually releasing him. For that, she crosses the 
street to intercept Marie, seeing fear and disgust settle into the 
younger woman's face, and her hand hover protectively over her 
abdomen. "You should leave this town," she tells her. 

Marie disguises fear with anger. "Don't tell me what to do."

"Leave this town. Leave while you still can, before your child is 
born. Leave your husband if he won't go with you. This town has no 
compassion or pity or shame, and you should get out."

The other woman shakes her head. "And if this child gets sick? Or I 
get sick again? You won't be able to hide it forever--"

"He's dead."

"They tell me it can't die," Marie says. "And maybe you don't 
know what it's like, to be dying, but if you did, you would go to it 
too."

"I did," she says, and the words come out scraped raw. "I did go, 
once, and I learned to regret it. Leave this town while you can."

But the other woman's eyes are stubborn, and her face is closed. 
Instead of arguing further with Marie, she goes home and waits in 
silence and grief.

She waits.

She waits.

She waits.

She waits for three years. The men stop the watch after the first 
year, but the women still come to beg for its help every so often. 
Both men and women spit at her feet when she goes into town. 

And then, after three years, the car comes, driving fast and 
recklessly. Marie almost tumbles out, pulling her son from the 
car seat into her arms and running towards the door. 

He is a pretty child, towheaded and almost perfect.

She opens the door before Marie can knock. The younger woman's eyes 
are wild and terrified as she holds her son against her; he plays 
with her long hair with one arm. The other is held stiffly at his 
side; it is red and looks strangely misshapen. "Go," she says, before 
Marie can say anything. "Get in that car and get out of this town."

"He...he...there was an accident at the playground, a girl fell, and 
he--" She is gasping, terrified.

"You have to leave now, before everyone finds out."

But it is too late already. The trucks are coming; the men are 
coming, surrounding them. The men are stepping out, guns in hand. 
Their eyes fix on the child, and Marie gasps and holds him 
tighter.

"Hand it over," says the sheriff.

"It's not--" Marie shakes her head. "He's *not*--"

"It's how it's meant to be," says another of the men. "There's always 
been one, and it belongs to all of us."

"But my son...my *son.*"

They crowd closer, tearing the child from his mother's grasp, and his 
thin, high wail splits the air.

"Cowards," she calls after them as they lead Marie away, as they take 
the child away.

Marie comes by herself two days later, lost and bewildered. She 
makes them both tea, and Marie adds spoonful after spoonful of 
sugar while tears run down her face.

"I wasn't even born here. I'm not part of this town," she 
says. "How could this happen to me? How could it be him?"

"You became part of this town when you chose to share in its 
secrets." This is said bitterly, and she regrets it when she sees the 
pain on the other woman's face. She sits down and stirs sugar into 
her own tea. "There's always been one, but they can die. They're 
human. They grow old, as we do. And then another one is born. The 
last one was born twenty-eight years ago, to a woman who was saved 
from fever by the one that died shortly after that..."

"What can I do?"

"If you tell them you won't try to escape, they'll let you near him, 
let you care for him. They'll put a watch on you, and cut your phone 
lines, and take away your car--but they'll let you near him, because 
they don't want to take care of him themselves."

Marie's eyes widen. "The last one, were you its--were you his--"

"Yes. And I watched while he..." Her throat clogs up. "I watched what 
they did to him, and I knew it was my fault for going to the one 
before him to be healed," she finishes bitterly. "I tried to escape, 
but I never could. But he found his death after all."

"I can't let him die," the younger woman vows. "And I'll get him away 
from here, before he...before they use him like this. Before he--" 
She stops herself, but the words seem to linger between them anyway. 
Before he becomes ugly; before he becomes an animal; before he 
becomes like your son.


 

She goes into town more often after that. Instead of spitting at her, 
they ignore her completely. She calls the men who were there the 
night they shot the FBI agent cowards when she sees them, spitting at 
their feet. They seem meaner these days. Although they are healthy, 
their faces have become pinched and feral.

Although she could leave now--there is no one keeping watch on her 
place anymore, and they would be happy not to have a reminder of 
their guilt--she does not. Her son's grave is here, and there is 
nothing for her elsewhere. And there needs to be someone who sees 
them clearly, to keep their unease fresh in their minds. 

Sometimes she sees the sign painted in blood on a house. Sometimes at 
night she hears wailing in the woods. Sometimes she hears the baying 
of hunting dogs.

She never sees the woman or the child again. 

End (1/1)

Author's notes: Thanks for cofax and SE Parsons for beta and pronoun-
correction, and mel and Magdelaine for encouragement. 

Feedback always appreciated at marianicole29@yahoo.com