Pathspace

by Matthew Kennedy

He was halfway to the kitchen when the front door opened and the men came in. There were four of them, and he would have known they were soldiers even without the dark blue uniforms. For a second he stiffened, thinking they were an advance scouting party from Texas, but then he saw the red C enclosing a circle of yellow on the outside of their upper arms, and knew them for Rado men.

  One of them glanced at him. “Have you seen an old man with a staff, dressed in gray?”

  He turned to the corner, but the stranger was no longer there, it seemed. “He was in here just a minute ago. But I don't see him now.” He set the tray down on the kitchen counter. “Who is he?”

  The man didn't answer him, but turned back to the others instead. “Jefferson, Morgan, you check the rooms. We'll try the street.”

  The two he indicated bounded up the stairs like dogs after a rabbit. Lester watched them curiously, then went back to the common room to collect dishes. He had nursed the faint hope for the past hour that Burton would be on some trip further south, but there was scant hope of that. Burton was escorting Nellie out the front door, no doubt to prolong the pleasure of her company walking her back to her mother's, when the soldiers came back down the stairs.

  They spared a moment to glance into the common room again, then followed Burton and Nellie outside.

  “Here,” said Preacher, waving for his attention. “Can I get a refill?”

  Lester nodded, collected his empty bowl and headed back into the kitchen. Descending the stairs to the basement again, he was reminded about what the old man had said about the coldbox working. Working on him. He had never thought about it in that way before. All a coldbox did was, well, keep things cold. And he only reached into it for a second or two to put things in or take them out again. But according to the old man, it was affecting his hearing.

  As he swung the lid up again to pull out another bottle for Preacher, he realized that he had never wondered about exactly how the box kept things cold. It just did, was all. But how did it work? Ordinarily, cold things always warmed up, and hot things cooled down, once you fetched them from a coldbox or the stove.

  He inspected it. It was just a wooden box, after all, the wood now dried to a strength like iron the way most wood did after a while. Thick wood, anyway. The coldbox was as thick as the four fingers of his hand, though the lid was a trifle thinner.

  The outside of it was neither hot nor cold. The metal hinges on the lid, of course, were cool to the touch, but that was the way metal was, unless it was warmed by a fire or the smith's forge. He thrust his hand back down into the interior, disturbing the layer of fog that always appeared when it was open. The air inside was as chilly as a breeze in January, and the inside surface of the wood was also cold, which of course made sense, because it was in contact with all that cold air. But what made the air cold?

  Frowning, he closed the lid and took the bottle back up the stairs.

  His mother was ladling out their dinner when he passed through the kitchen. He watched her stroke the tip of a finger around the edge of the everflame, turning down the heat until the flame hovering in the air above the old bronze disk was only a tiny red dot, barely visible under the stubby tripod legs of the iron cauldron.

  Satisfied, she replaced the cauldron's lid and handed him his bowl. “We'll finish the rest for breakfast,” she said.

  He nodded agreement and took Preacher's refill out to him and brought his coin back before settling himself down at the table in the corner where the old man had been. His mind couldn't stop thinking about what the stranger had said about the coldbox working on him. Was the everflame working on Mary, too? And now that he thought about it, how did the everflame work? He'd always taken it and the coldbox for granted, he realized.

  “You're a quiet one,” said the old man from the other side of the table.

  Lester nearly jumped out of his skin. There he was, as if he never left. How did the guy move so silently? “Where did you go? There were soldiers here looking for you.”

  The other just smiled. “I never left.” He glanced at Lester's bowl. “You've barely touched your stew. Better finish it before it goes cold on you.”

  He grimaced at that, but the old man was right. He picked up his spoon again.

  “Leave him alone and leg it while you can, Xander,” advised Preacher from across the room. “You know they'll be back for you.”

  The old man's bushy eyebrows lowered. “Mind your own business, Carl. I know what I'm about. Go drink yourself to sleep like always.”

  Preacher scowled at that but picked up his Bible and stood to leave. As he trudged toward the door, no doubt on his way back to the little chapel down the road, he paused to give Lester a piece of advice. “Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas,” he said. “I'd stay away from old Xander if I were you. Otherwise, you'll be itchin and scratchin the rest of your life.”

  Lester watched him go as he finished his bowl of stew. When the front door closed behind Preacher, he turned back to the old man. “You two know each other?”

  “We've crossed paths. There's some wisdom in the Book he carries, but he hasn't absorbed much of it.” Xander met his gaze. “But he's right about one thing. They will be back for me.”

  “Why do they want you?” Lester asked him, curious. “What did you do?”

  “You've been thinking about what I said earlier about the coldbox, haven't you?” said Xander, ignoring the question.

  Lester decided the man was used to doing what suited him, and answering questions, apparently, didn't always fall into that category. “A little,” he admitted. “What do you know about them, coldboxes and everflames?”

  “Oh, I know a lot more than that,” said Xander, leaning his chair back against the wall. “About the Tourists and what they did to us with their Gifts from beyond the sky. About a lot of things that aren't in the preacher's Book. Or in other books.”

  “We've got a few books,” Lester said. “Sometimes travelers barter them for a few days of room and board. My Ma lets me keep them in my room.”

  “You can read, can you? Precious things, books.”

  “Better than Gerrold can. There's not much else to do in winter, when the snows are deep and almost nobody travels. She taught me. Gerrold thought it was a waste of time.”

  Xander glanced toward the front door. He appeared to be listening to it rather than Lester. “What kind of books?”

  “Stories, mostly. Why are those soldiers looking for you?”

  Xander grinned. “Because I ran away. She wants me back, because I'm useful.”

  And then he vanished! This time Lester saw it happen. The old man grabbed his staff and then he just … faded away. How did he do that?

  Right after that the front door banged open again and the leader of the soldiers strode in and scanned the room. Gerrold was behind them.

  “Lester!” Gerrold barked. “Governor's men are looking for an old man in gray with a staff. Have you seen him?”

  “I saw him a while ago,” Lester answered, truthfully. A very short while. “Why are they looking for him? What's he done?”

  “Never you mind, boy.” Gerrold reached for the bowl Mary had set on the counter for him. “Make yourself useful. Go refill the watering trough. Their horses must've been thirsty.”

  Lester managed not to smile as he grabbed a bucket and brushed past the men. There were four horses hitched to the front porch. They eyed him curiously, and one of them seemed to snicker as he ambled to the pump by the side of the inn. He ignored that and began filling the bucket. While he pumped, he thought about what the old man, Xander, had told him. Everything the bearded geezer said seemed to invite more questions. Gifts from beyond the sky? What could that possible mean? And what, pray tell, were these 'tourists' he had mentioned?