After The Flood

His hands and arms look like meat butchered for dogs. A combination of stings, scratches and splinters run from the tips of his fingers to the tops of his shoulders with barely any untarnished skin in between. Who knows what the rest of him looks like underneath his cloth coverings.
He seems to have finished his rant, and is just standing in front of me repeating the same numbers again and again: 300, 50, 30. 300, 50, 30. 300, 50, 30. Over and over he mutters them under his breath, as if it was as natural as breathing.
“You need to leave now and you are never to come back to my home or near my family again.”
I try to keep the quiver out of my voice
“Do you understand?”
He smirks revealing his awful teeth, it makes me feel ill. To the left side of his face all the teeth are missing, leaving behind just pits of red gum. A stiff punch or a kick from a mule could’ve done it. He makes one final remark, which I choose not to hear before he hobbles away. Whoever he's been in a brawl with must've gone close to breaking his leg.
A heaving sigh escapes from my lungs, I think I've been holding my breath the whole time. He's moved far enough from the house so I start to close the door. But not before noticing that he's left behind a reminder. Two bleeding hand prints on the front of the door from when he arrived with the noise of a hurricane. Relentlessly knocking and yelling until he could no longer be ignored.
I shut the door and lock it before turning back towards the kitchen. My wife has emerged shakily from inside.
“Was that him?”
“Yes, but there is nothing to fear. He is just a confused old man.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Nothing worth hearing”
Carefully I take the knife hidden in my robes and slip it back into its rightful place on the table. She doesn’t need to hear that talk or see my worry. But from her face I can tell I won’t be able to shelter her much longer, she’s heard the rumours.
That’s the thing about evil, once you indulge it and invite it into your home it spreads like a sickness. First it transfers within the family then to the neighbours, and to the neighbours of their neighbours and before long the whole town is unwell. But I fear it is already too late. People panic in times of doubt. And dread is sitting heavy over the town, like the gathering storm clouds threatening to explode. It all stems from the hovel out of town. It’s taken on a sort of mythos. Parents telling their children that if they don't behave the man from behind the hill will come and get them. Whilst all the while parents are the ones most afraid of what lives just out of town. No one quite knows for sure what happens there, because nobody has been brave enough to visit. But stories move quickly, delivered mostly by passing travelers. Some have described all sorts of desperate cries coming from the vicinity. Sounds that weren't human. A wolf, a lion, perhaps a half man, half ape depending on who is telling the tale. One man even suggesting it’s the work of one thousand beasts combined together into one horrible creation. Some have simply described an endless sawing and pounding. The changes to the story has slowed of late as the merchants and transients have taken to different routes to avoid what’s coming to be known as the dark place.
Everyone says they don’t believe a line of it, but alone and when you close your eyes at night you can't help thinking about his words.
“Great trees have disappeared. The children’s favourite Cypress up by the creek vanished overnight.” Her voice quivers.
I want to discourage this talk but I have no answer that can dismiss the question. No mortal man could have moved a tree like that, it was as tall as twenty men and thicker than almost as many. She doesn't let my silence excuse me.
“People are missing livestock, the Millers have lost their prize bull, and best breeding cow. The Carpenters are missing their bitch that gave the record litter. The merchant who sells the exotic animals in town was robbed and completely cleared out. It just goes on. What is happening, what did he say to you?”
I can’t answer so I turn to look outside. The dark clouds that have settled over us rumble with weight.
The man he was, used to go by Peter a kind and elderly man. The town rumor was that he was close to six hundred years old. I suppose that’s lifetime enough to be several different people, and this is just the latest incarnation. One must get tired after so long in their skin. And this new man goes by a different name that I refuse to speak. He became angry when I spoke to him as Peter. It was as if I was bringing up his most shameful moment. A suppressed memory of doubt and pain.
I recall also when the change came over him. He returned from his daily work looking shaken, he would only say that he had spoken to God. Before anyone could attempt to talk to him into reason, he took his sons and their wives and moved away from the city. Only to return some time later as he is now.
“I want to know what Noah said!”
“Do not call him that”
But the fight in me is gone. I let Noah’s words in, where I chose not to hear I listen.
“After the flood there will only be believers. Creation. Un-creation. Recreation. There will be forty days and forty nights of flooding. Everything on earth will perish. For the violence in the hearts of men, God will strip the world clean."
My wife begins to cry, I go to her and embrace her tightly. Outside it's starting to rain. Big fat drops that you could walk between. Noah’s words echo loud through the town.