The Valley of the Shadow of Death by Rachel Harbaugh and Sarah Hurd
Silas sat on the rotting porch steps and waited. It seemed he’d been waiting all his life—for the sun to come up, for his Pa to pick him up from school, for the lone plum tree out back to bear fruit, red and sticky-sweet inside. He’d waited for his Ma to love him, to forgive him for being alive while his brother was laid in the churchyard. Now, Silas waited for the Doc to come by, bare toes scratching gibberish in the dirt.
Ma’d never once been sick with anything but grief, yet her face had grown sallow and yellower than sun-bleached hay over the last month. Late the night before, Silas held her hand, her papered skin glowing pale in the moonlight.
“You know the Psalms, boy?” Her voice was thin as moth-ate lace.
“Which one, Ma?” Silas savored her touch, weak as it was.
Ma sighed, her breath rattling out like her lungs were pockets stuffed with stones.
“The shepherd one.”
“I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.” He stroked the back of her hand.
“Won’t be for much longer.”
Doc rolled up to the house alongside the midday sun, both tall and scorching. Passing Silas with little more than a nod, Doc disappeared inside. Silas followed slowly, letting his shadow lead.
“You should’ve called sooner.” Doc didn’t turn from Ma’s skeletal form in bed.
Silas staunched his tears on the crook of his elbow. Ma hated letting folks see the house unkempt. He’d struggled to keep up with things these last few weeks once she was bedridden. Flies circled still water in the sink, ‘round and ‘round like the hands of a clock. After Pa died the tiny, silent drunkards lazed over the soured remnants of a buttermilk pie. Ma turned inwards after that, some sort of fallen angel stuck on earth while her beloveds all left her for Jesus. For all her sad indifference, Ma was the last thing Silas had left—even if she longed for Glory.
“How long’s she been like this?” Doc turned to the boy at last.
“Just a few days,” Silas lied—it’d been weeks of decline. The flies had come around early this time, first to the sink, then the bedpan, and now they buzzed lazily around the entire bedroom. Ma couldn’t stand the filth and Silas knew it.
“She said she could feel her strength comin’ back last night.”
Ma’d looked peaceful when he recited the part about dwelling in the Lord’s house forever.
Surely His house doesn’t have flies.
Doc stared at the young man hunched in the door frame—shoulders curved in, eyes gray like the ash of a cigarette. For a moment, he swore he caught the red glow from a deep drag reflected in the gravel pits of the boy’s eyes. He shook his head.
Rachel Harbaugh is an oversized hobbit who lives in a kudzu-choked crevice of North Carolina. Her stories tend to lean towards the Southern and strange. When she’s not wrangling her offspring or unearthing animal bones in the garden, you’re likely to find her curled up with a horror novel or some literary fiction.
Sarah Hurd is a literary fiction writer and poet living in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Her writing appears or is forthcoming in Creation Literary Magazine, Thimble Literary Magazine, and others. Her work often explores grief, sexuality, womanhood, and self-perception. She has a BA in creative writing and English literature from Grand Valley State University.
