The Rail Specter

by Vennessa Robertson

  I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry. Geiger had died on the path beyond the stars, and still that wasn’t enough to stop evil. Here he was, standing before us. I felt cold and every bit of me ached.

  The Cheyenne warriors were not about to listen to me. They had no reason to. They knew what traveled their lands.

  The men were ready for battle.

  Haimovi carried a spear heavily decorated with fur and feathers. He led a group of warriors ready to stand against this demon. He hadn’t been able to see the wendigo before because he lacked a connection to the magical and spiritual realm, but the wendigo now occupied a man’s body; at least for now.

  Nacto held a club with a heavy, shiny head. Beads and shells rattled with every step he took. Several warriors followed him.

  Tahopa carried two hatchets, each with long shafts and ax heads the size of a man’s hand. They were painted with ashy paint and the hafts had been wrapped with leather, which had been cut into a long fringe that swayed as he walked.

  My hand flew to my pocket, searching for the ruby that was no longer there. I was willing to burn away more symbols to banish this monster yet again. Even though it would not grant us a permanent victory, it would buy us time. Fighting him here would guarantee death. Nacto, Haimovi, Tahopa, even Meturato bearing a spear like his father—men would bleed, men would die. I looked at my husband. He rolled his shoulders, readying himself to rush into battle in his canithrope form.

  If God and dog are both opposite sides of man, then Nate was firmly between them, a man of power and loyalty ready to protect those he loved by virtue of a noble heart. Or die trying.

  Nate snarled a challenge. The other men let out whoops. The wendigo watched us unconcerned, waiting.

  My husband ran forward, his face contorted with pain, his jaw stretching and lengthening, his teeth turning into fierce, canine fangs.

  There was a flash of recognition in the wendigo’s face. Did he remember us from the path above? Did he recognize what could harm him?

  The wendigo grabbed Nate’s throat. My husband made a strangled sound, but kept driving forward. They pushed against one another, neither giving ground.

  Nacto’s club slammed into the back of the wendigo’s knee. Haimovi’s spear punched into its chest, jutting out the back and breaking the monster’s hold, but the wendigo’s spell had already affected Nate, and his transformation had been incomplete. His face returned to its normal color, his skull returned to normal human dimensions, his ears shifted back down, his shoulders shrank to a human width, and his jaw receded. Nate collapsed, panting.

  It slammed its fist into Nate, two punishing blows that left Nate gasping for breath. There was no way I was about to let the wendigo continue to harm him. I grabbed the nearest thing I could find, a burning log from a fire under meat set to dry, and swung it with all my might. It connected with the monster at the waist, just above the hips, sending up a shower of sparks and knocking him to one knee. Nate took the opportunity to roll backward and out of reach.

  Though my blow with the firebrand was well-placed, it was hardly effective. It turned and growled at me, showing teeth yellowed with tobacco and tea stains. I realized Geiger, intentionally or no, had transfigured himself into a pyromancer when he meddled with the leymagic at the factory in Sterling’s Emporium. He had become a master of fire. Through my own skill with the Tarot, and the manipulation of it from a symbolic to a very literal form, I had been quite impressive in combating this magical monster in the realm of the unliving. With Geiger and his monster fused into a single, deadly form, Nate and I were grossly outmatched here.

  It glared, eyes wide, as fierce and pale as the moon, as it reached for the firebrand. No matter that it was out of reach, it was the fire itself it called. It manipulated the fire, causing the embers to burst into a leaping, crackling, hungry monster, intent upon my flesh. I dropped my burning club.

  The monster took on a ruddy glow, the flesh had a wet sheen, then it began to darken and peel. Geiger’s face began to peel from the edge of the wendigo’s skull.

  The Cheyenne warriors were more than ready to fight this evil. They stood with grim faces, prepared to meet Geiger’s men and the demon they had brought. Tahopa slashed the wendigo twice with his hatchets. I waited for the blood to flow and stain the earth.

  The wendigo may be a new-world monster, but now the demon and Geiger were one. Geiger’s flesh grew hot, deforming around the edges and splitting from the temple to the jaw. The flesh slid and fell, bouncing to the ground. The lupine skull was revealed beneath, and white, bleached bone and fleshless sockets glared at us. The body was still that of a man, with long, muscular limbs, one natural and one metal, with the entire form smoldering as though it would burst into flames at any moment. The metal arm glowed hotly, nearly molten.

  He’heeno stepped out of her home, carrying an arrow. Tattered, ancient feathers floated in the waves of heat. Painted and decorated, she carried it aloft like a sacred object. She called to it in Cheyenne, raising it above her head, rallying her people. She was their medicine woman, their spiritual center, and they looked to her for guidance.

  I did not understand the language, but the meaning was clear. Stand, stand strong! This monster means us harm. Stand brothers, stand sisters. We are stronger than this evil!

  I stood with them. One of the warriors darted in with a spear, slamming it into the wendigo’s knee. The monster’s blood did not flow. Black smoke billowed from the wounds, gaping like mouths that screamed obscenely, longing to bite us.

  The demon wheeled, and a gout of flame shot out from its upraised fist into the crowd. People shrieked and tried to run away. One man’s clothes burst into flames. He dove at the monster with his knife, stabbing as he fell. He gasped and cried as the unnatural flames stole his voice, leaving him smoking and still. One of his friends grabbed his arm and jerked him free. A woman smothered the flames with a woven blanket of blue and yellow.

  The Cheyenne set upon the monster, battering and slamming the great demon with their weapons as one great army, jabbing with their spears and smashing with their clubs. For a moment, I thought I saw Meturato slashing and crying out against the monster with his father and the other warriors, but then I lost sight of him. He was nearly a man, not quite a boy any longer, but I offered maternal prayers for his safety.

  Still, the monster fought on, his metal fist burning and beating, the warriors’ blood hissing like grease in a skillet wherever it touched.

  Recovered, Nate joined them. I quickly lost track of him in the great orgy of violence before me.

  The scream of the horses startled me, drawing my attention from the splatters of blood, the cries, the burning. A flash of motion off to one side made me turn around, my pistol in my hand.

  Mr. Massey was having none of this. With wide, terrified eyes, he had sprinted for the nearest horse and vaulted himself into the saddle. The Cheyenne were unwilling to let even one of their foes escape. Two men fired arrows at Mr. Massey. The first shot went wide but the second struck home. Massey rocked violently in the saddle, but managed to retain his seat as he galloped away. He leaned low over the horse’s neck, an arrow jutting from his right side, and quickly faded into the distance.

  Several of Geiger’s other men also used the chaos of the moment to cover their own escape. The Cheyenne called to their people. Mr. Massey was beyond their reach, but his fellows were not. One man managed to escape, but two others fell from their saddles while one never made it to his mount.

  Warriors gathered to pursue the strangers who had fled.

  The wendigo shattered the Cheyenne with his molten metal arm, cutting through them with a firebrand in the other hand. He grabbed one Cheyenne to toss him into his fellows. The man’s eyes dulled. Would he start turning against the others like outside the Carey house?

  The warrior’s friends helped him up and they again set against the monster.

  I blinked hard. How had they withstood the monster’s corruption? Was it because th
ey were Cheyenne? Was it because the monster was within Geiger rather than just the wendigo spirit? Was it something else? I had no time to ponder it. I needed to help them now. Men lay mangled in pools of blood, bleeding and dying.

  We all needed help. We needed more help than I could provide with any Tarot spell I could envision. We needed more help than anybody here could provide.

  He’heeno and I locked eyes from across the fray. We ran toward one another. Her people needed help. My husband needed help. Our presence had brought this monster here, as well as the man that had called it. Her arms locked around mine. Chelan appeared with her. He’heeno glowed with earned wisdom. She could lead us through this ancient moment, a cry to something greater than ourselves, our counsel, their counsel in this moment of need. She raised her voice in wordless song. Chelan, a mother who did everything out of love for her children and those children in in her care, raised her voice in pure harmony.

  I stood with them. I was not a mother, or a woman of age and experience. I was a huntress, a woman of sensuality and power, something I never believed I could become. I blocked the battle from my ears and recalled the one Tarot card that might help us: The Hierophant, leader of the church, spiritual guide, and uniter. I surrendered to the deep community here. I let the voice in my throat, in my heart, come from deep within me, surrounded by my sisters. In this moment, we were all sisters and brothers facing a terrible evil.

  And, from within us, our song transformed into something else. It was a cry, a trumpet, an eagle, a thunderbird. I became blind to the battle around me. The sounds of men fighting, the cries of pain, the thuds of flesh on flesh, the snap of bones, the slice of skin and muscle, all faded away. I was surrounded by wings, soft and gentle. A powerful bird with lustrous dark brown wings, a radiant white head, and a shining golden beak stood over us. A spider enveloped us with her web. A snake wound herself around our feet. A wolf trotted around us, her tail gently tickling the backs of our thighs. The scent of sage and sweetgrass overtook the scent of blood and fire. The circle we created extended to the land we watched over, so everyone and everything was strong and safe.

  We were united and strong. The wendigo was weak. It would fall. Our song prayers raised their spirits. The people—the Cheyenne and my husband—battled this monster with renewed vigor.

  Geiger had tried to make this circle when he called the monster. His circle had been smoky, salty, and incomplete. He had used charms to defend against the evil he called. We needed no such clumsy magic. Chelan and He’heeno chanted. I knew no such words. I breathed in the sweetgrass and sage. My body transformed it with all the Tarot magic I still contained, and I breathed out the magic, strengthening their prayer. Nate and I were not one of them, but we were welcomed as worthy allies. The Tarot symbols did not burn away, but instead glowed within me, gently enveloping me with a warm, golden sacred light like a blanket. I wept with joy.

  I fell to my knees, and the sounds of battle came rushing back. Grunts and cries, the meaty sound of flesh on flesh as men and monster battled in the dirt. He’heeno and Chelan were beside me, our hands still joined. Our breathing was heavy, we were exhausted, but our job was done, we had bolstered our people.

  The wendigo was on its knees, smoldering in a heap of half-melted flesh and bone. The man or the monster could take no more. Great gouts of smoke billowed from it and the Geiger-wendigo collapsed. Blood suddenly gushed from the ruined mass. The melted face was now a heap of ruined muscle and exposed bone. The tears in his flesh made by spears and knives leaked blood and were no longer gaping mouths of horrible black, but terrible wounds in very human muscle. Bones that had been shattered by clubs were now the pulpy remains of pulverized skeleton and flesh.

  The Cheyenne, who had battled so bravely, darted in and out, challenging their fallen foe. Panting, Nacto and Haimovi waved them back.

  Nate took one step forward. His hand shook as he pressed his fingers into Geiger’s shattered neck. He looked over to me.

  There was only one force on earth that could make me touch that thing again: Nate. I shook as I got closer.

  Geiger stunk like rotten meat.

  I turned and retched. Being dead, really and truly dead, had not improved the man one whit.

  Chapter Thirty

  THE WOUNDED WERE a horrific sight to see. So many had been burned, battered, crushed, and mangled. Too many had been hurt. The Cheyenne would take a long time to recover from this tragedy.

  Men lay on makeshift beds and spread out blankets, crying in pain. Their wounds were something I had never seen before. They were foul and rotten, deep and sharp, as if from a razor, but the edges were burned and dark like old wounds left to fester. These were caused not by a man but a demon. They needed a form of healing that was beyond my skill. Their bodies needed healing, but so did their souls. It would take medicines I did not possess to help everyone here.

  I set to work doing what I could, while Chelan and He’heeno moved among them, saying prayers and wafting fragrant smoke, touching them with feathers and rattles and blessing their spirits to keep them strong. I did my best to treat their physical bodies, all wounded by the monster and by the hate it brought. I wished I could do more. My presence caused alarm in some of those I tried to treat. I was just as pale as those who had brought the devil to their peaceful home. I looked just like those who had forced them to live here. More than once, Chelan or He’heeno had to calm my patient.

  Though I had experienced this before, being a woman in a field where men were more respected, I had never experienced fear and hate because of the color of my skin. My cheeks burned with shame. This was how they were treated. I would cry for them later, but for now I had to harden my heart. I was busy doing battle against the wounds the wendigo had caused.

  The medicines I had at my disposal were woefully inadequate. The body was so strong, but the spirit was where the worth of the man was measured.

  I recalled the conversations He’heeno and I had had over the herbs. She and had I sprinted to her home, where the bundles hung, waiting to be used. We snatched them up by the handful and threw them into my long coat, using it as a makeshift blanket to bring back a load.

  She talked me through their application as we worked, and I learned as quickly as I could. It was both humbling and exciting to be an apprentice again. Prickly pear pads split open could make poultices to clean wounds, and so would yarrow, wild garlic, and piñon pine sap. Stiff goldenrod would control bleeding when bound to the wounds, with devil’s claw for numbing and willow for pain. At least I knew about willow bark on my own.

  I cleaned wounds and tried to neaten up the edges as best I could before sewing them shut. There was no shortage of clean water and garlic and goldenseal to boil for a paste, but I would have given anything for laudanum and carbolic soap.

  Nate held hands for support and held men down when needed. His gift for languages allowed him to quickly pick up bolstering words of encouragement. He hauled water for us and ground herbs.

  Soon, my eyes ached from the pain of battling death for the young men and women over the lives of these people. The smoke from the fires made my eyes sting, the steam from the boiling water I doused my needles in again and again before sewing wounds closed made my hands clumsy. Still, I worked.

  The Geiger-wendigo was an evil monster. It had harmed and murdered so many. He’heeno and Chelan sang and touched the victims. They blew holy smoke into faces and waved smoldering fumes of sage and sweetgrass over their wounds. When their time passed, they had Haimovi, Nacto and Nate help lay out the dead.

  The funeral was the following day.

  He’heeno raised the sacred arrow above her head, facing the structures, invoking a blessing to the homes that were missing beloved occupants. She turned to the bodies lying before her, stretched out in two neat rows, all dressed in their finest clothes, beautiful combinations of leather, decorated with beads and shells and paint, feathers and fur and clean, modern clothing from stores.

  Great care had be
en taken to cover the wounds that had caused their deaths. I knew because I had covered many of them myself, binding them in linen, snugly, but not too tightly. I knew they were beyond caring but, for the living, comforting the dead still mattered. They almost appeared to be sleeping.

  He’heeno said a prayer over the dead, and the arrow she held over her head shook from the effort. Nate’s hand touched my back in mute support. His touch released something in me. Geiger was dead. The monster he had summoned was gone. I felt the true absence of it as surely as I knew the people lying before me were really gone. But the cost was high and I was so tired. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks.

  I would have given so much to do more. I thought of The Four of Swords, where the knight slept below the earth in healing repose, attended by the four queens waiting to recover from great wounds until they were ready to rise again. I would gladly burn the Tarot mark away to give such peace to these people, and return them to their loved ones.

  Nate’s hand found mine, calloused and bruised, nails torn, and knuckles bloodied from battle and from moving the dead. Nothing felt more comforting. And still, my heart bled.

  To all who called those people uncivilized or inhuman, I would challenge them to attend a village in mourning that has lost people to violent battle. The warriors valiantly rallied around the monster in their midst and bravely battled, striking it away.

  The women who lost loved ones wailed their grief, crying to the sky. They cut their hair short and gashed their legs with sharpened stones until the blood ran down their calves and they walked barefoot through the center of their village where their beloved dead were laid out in neat rows.

  The men unbound their hair, taking out their long, beautiful braids and leaving their hair loose around their shoulders, tangled seas of midnight, quiet, stoic, and falling down to proclaim their grief.