Nester Pewce

Amongst the gentry, there is some discussion about what exactly happened.

Colored pencil on an index card

Nester Pewce’s skin was paper-thin. Not just metaphorically but literally. In a certain light, you could see his entire vascular system pumping away. If anyone were pressed on the subject, the only color they could attribute to his pale epidermis would be red.

Sometimes it was red from blushing.

Sometimes it was red from the light reflecting off his thin copper-colored hair.

Sometimes it was red for all the right reasons, and sometimes it was red for all the wrong reasons.

He was a sensitive child, but despite—or maybe because of this—he was constantly being abused in one way or another. He was not innocent and got up to his fair share of monkeyshines, but the environment he grew up in was harsh beyond reason, and he reacted in turn.

Nester was the runt of the litter. He had four older brothers and no father.

Papa Pewce just up and disappeared one spring day.

Amongst the gentry, there is some discussion about what exactly happened, but ultimately, whether Papa ran off with Natalia Primm or found his way to the bottom of the swamp was of little concern to young Nester. All he knew was that he was fatherless. His brothers were cruel as brothers often are, but their real cruelty was not in the attention they paid to him; it was in the carelessness they showed toward his existence.

The older Pewce boys had jobs, hobbies, and girlfriends, and because of this, young Nester was forced to raise himself. The swamp surrounding the Pewce hovel was where Nester got his real education.

Nester was isolated and fragile. His weak constitution was plainly visible, and the ecosystem that sludged through his veins needed to maintain a delicate balance. Whether he knew it or not, he had a lot in common with the swamp where he grew up.

Nester would spend three quarters of the year in that swamp. He learned where to go, what to avoid, and which parts of his surroundings welcomed him. If anyone had cared to inquire, they would have learned that Nester knew that swamp better than most—maybe better than anyone.

Nester made fast friends with tadpoles, frogs, leeches, fish, and flies.

Nester could spot a gator from a safe distance, and although he was curious, he knew enough to be afraid.

The snapping turtles never bothered him—their lot kept to themselves. Regardless, this wasn’t a swimming hole; it was only slightly damper than a marsh.

Mudskippers kept Nester amused, darting about in the brackish water. The mosquitoes kept him busy, whether with swatting or with scratching.

Nester knew better than to be caught out after dark; his mother told him all about the willow-o-wisps, and his brothers drove that point home whenever they were bored and wanted to torment their brother.

Nester’s Mother was named Nancy. After Papa Pewce vanished, she kept his surname; she said it suited her. She was a healer by some accounts, and although the term ill repute was bandied about from time to time, most of the women in the area would—pay her a visit—a few times a year.

One such woman was the wife of the local bank owner. This couple had a daughter named Nelly Preston. Nelly was everything Nester wasn’t. Anyone who knew any better would have kept the two apart, but when Nelly’s mother paid a visit to Nancy, Nester was there to keep the young girl entertained.

Nelly would stand on the edge of the swamp.

She was always sure to keep her shiny shoes and white dress clean. Nelly loved to see the frogs, and she would instruct Nester to go out and find the biggest ones he could scoop up. Nester thrived on the attention and would abandon caution to please Nelly. The balance of class might seem a bit loaded in Nelly’s favor, but these were some of Nester’s fondest memories.

He liked that he could offer a service, and the joyous shrieks and giggles from the young girl livened his often stagnant blood.

These little visits continued, sometimes twice a year, sometimes only once. They stopped abruptly when Nester was about fifteen.

Nelly was murdered.

People around town had some idea of what happened.

The person responsible was arrested.

Nester didn’t hold a grudge. He really didn’t even know what that would mean. He was sad, and the weight of this sadness forced his bent posture one additional notch lower.

He didn’t really put the pieces together. All he knew was that Nelly was dead, and her body was somewhere in this swamp. The murderer cooperated with the police, but there is only so much that can be done. There was a vague idea about where the killer dumped the body, but sometimes what the swamp takes—it keeps.

Nester knew this, but he also knew he didn’t want the swamp to keep Nelly. He knew Nelly didn’t fancy mucky shoes or a dirty dress.

Nester never paid much attention to what his mother got up to. He was aware she was something special, and that she offered certain rites and incantations to her various visitors, but all those potions, books, and charms were a mystery to him.

Nester could read just well enough to get by. It would be a stretch to call him literate, but he could string a few things together—especially when something was important.

Right now, to Nester, the most important thing in the world was Nelly’s body.

Nancy left the property once a month to buy provisions, and her journey this month afforded Nester some time to snoop around. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, and maybe it was pure luck that led to his discovery.

More likely, though, it was that his “discovery” was looking for him.

A simple slim-bound book found its way into Nester’s crusty hand. The book cover was dark purple, almost black. The material that comprised this cover was soft and yielding like powdery velvet. It smelled of lilacs and perfume.

Scratched on the binding where the letters “lanmò ak renmen.” Nester’s skin went flush just from touching this book. Tiny hives started to appear on his forehead, and he grew dizzy and nauseous as sweat beaded on his upper lip. These sensations led him to the conclusion that this book was the key. He quickly scurried away from the family home.

He ran on all fours, like a rat.

He didn’t stop until he was deep in the swamp.

Using his front appendages, he repeatedly dug into the muck at the edge of one of the deeper pools of water. He wanted to lay his new book on top of a flat section. The water filled the hole faster than he could dig. Realizing that this effort was futile, he snuffled with his upturned nose, pushing it further into the air.

Nester was looking for a big flat stone.

Eventually, he homed in on a particularly dense mineral scent and loped in its direction. He found a perfect rock resting against a large and decayed sycamore. He dragged the stone over towards the water’s edge. Once it was in place, he gathered some weeds and sticks. He smashed them together with some muck.

He was careful and delicate as everything started to come together. Gingerly, he patted it down as flat as he could.

Nester, with an uncharacteristic flourish, added a decorative element to his altar. He plucked a violet hyacinth from the water and placed it near the upper right corner of the stone.

The velvety book Nester plundered floated in a pool of filth behind him. The mistaken placement was made in haste, but the damage was done. He picked it up, leaving muddy fingerprints on the dark purple skin. He shook it a bit to remove some of the excess water. Realizing this, too, was futile, Nester began rifling through the pages. He did not stop to read the words, but was looking for any clues, symbols, or pictures to guide his broken heart. Near the center of the runny ink rag was a lone image. This image was of a young girl rising from a lake. It was drawn with simple lines and very little attention to detail, but this lack of specificity was helpful in Nester’s mind.

He knew this was what he was looking for.

Through harelip and jagged yellow teeth, he began to sound out some of the words below this picture phonetically. With each phrase, a new pustule or hive would form on his face.

His intentions were obscure, and the direction in which he was focusing those obscure intentions was also unclear.

Nelly’s body was miles away. Well outside the range of this spell.

Nester was attempting a resurrection spell over a murky pool of swamp water.

He wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

With the final phrase mumbled, Nester sat cross-legged and waited for any response.

Since the resurrection was not aimed in any particular direction, the ritual spread out over the entirety of the murky water.

The deepest recesses of the muck were revived first.

Remnants of bone and other partially decomposed viscera began to crawl towards their former wholeness. As the sun dipped below the tree line, bubbles began to rise. Nester remained seated as the mockeries crawled from the depths and breached the surface.

The flies and mosquitoes were frightened silent.

The first rotted reanimated carcass touched the big toe of Nester’s foot right as the pink dusk bruised purple.

His vision was always poor, and the nocturnal nature of the landscape facing him added to this seeming blindness. It appeared to Nester that the turgid waters themself slithered to meet him. He attempted to crabwalk backwards, but his fingernails could not find purchase, and he kept slipping. If he had thought to rise, turn, and run—he thought these things too late.

The menagerie of slimy undeath was upon him.

Nothing in all those thousands of soft corpses was sharp enough to pierce even his thin skin, but the sheer volume of the creatures overwhelmed him as he whimpered and sputtered in the mud.

He was smothered under a blanket of unliving decay.

Every single creature found a small patch on Nester’s wiry frame to rest what remained of their heads.

The swamp kept lanmò ak renmen, but as it was unreadable, the loss was already complete.

In a strange turn of events, Nester was now together with Nelly, in a way. If they ever find each other, I am sure both will be amused.

Nester’s brothers eventually came across their brother's death. They kicked Nester’s body into the water. It eventually sank.

The oldest one mentioned to a few people that, when he first looked at the corpse, he saw tadpoles and other creatures wriggling beneath Nester’s paper-thin skin.

No one was sure exactly what transpired, but Nancy was aware that her book was gone. A facade of normalcy would return following the two deaths, but from that point on, the swamp was—changed. Anyone wandering around that area would swear that there was something not quite right. Some of the critters seemed different, partially formed, sick, or mutated.

Pen, crayon, and colored pencil on an index card.

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