by Andy Monk
“Where did you come from?” He decided to ask.
“Mississauga.”
“Huh?”
“Ontario.”
Mr Wizzle didn’t know what those words meant; he assumed they must be the places she came from, though he’d never heard of them. He decided to try again.
“I meant, where did you come from out here?” He swept his egg free hand out over the grass, “you with a wagon train?”
Amelia just smiled, “Never mind all that, you just help me with my sitting down. My legs ain’t much good for standing on these days…”
Despite her age Amelia seemed sprightly enough and she was soon hunkered down next to him, still clutching her peculiar bottle, which was bright pink and appeared to be made out of rubber.
She took a deep breath of air and lifted her face towards the sun, “God, everything smells so clean out here.”
Mr Wizzle followed suit, Amelia was absolutely right of course, it was always good to start the day with a prayer.
“God, everything is so beautiful out here, and we thank you for your infinite bounty.”
Amelia laughed and looked away. Mr Wizzle couldn’t quite see what the joke was, but it was a kind laugh, not like the nasty little sniggers he got back in Hawker’s Drift when people shouted bad names at him.
The smile slowly faded and Amelia turned her bright chestnut eyes on him, “Am I dead Mr Wizzle? Is that why I’m here, having this dream?”
“You’re not having a dream,” Mr Wizzle frowned, “well, not unless I’m having a dream too of course.”
“Not sure we can both be dreaming hun?”
Mr Wizzle agreed, that didn’t seem entirely likely.
“Sure you don’t want a pickled egg?” Mr Wizzle rustled the bag in Amelia’s direction.
“No, they give me wind dear.”
“Me too,” he replied with a shrug as he fished another egg out.
They sat in silence for a while. Mr Wizzle still didn’t have a clue who Amelia was, but she seemed like a nice old lady, even if she didn’t like his eggs, so he was happy to sit with her and watch the grass swaying all the way to the edge of the world.
After a while, when he’d eaten enough eggs, he looked over at Amelia; two fat silent tears were running down her hollow cheeks.
When she noticed him looking at her, she wiped a hand across her face and smiled, “Look at me, crazy old bird, crying over silliness.”
Mr Wizzle didn’t know why Amelia was crying, but he held up his hand and snapped his fingers in front of her nose and as she blinked a paper flower appeared in his hand, which he handed to her with a little nod of his head as she squealed and clapped her hands in delight.
“Thank you… it’s beautiful” she declared. Mr Wizzle knew it wasn’t, it was just an old and faded paper rose like the one he wore in the lapel of his jacket. But it was kind of her to say all the same.
She played with the flower, twisting in back and forth in her hand, “I was just thinking how much I wish I could have brought my Frank here, he so would have loved these big clean skies.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Cos I grew up and stopped believing in this place. I stopped believing in the angels Mr Wizzle…” she looked up from the paper rose and stared at him with big wet eyes “…and the Devil. I stopped believing in him too…”
The Gunslinger
He didn’t see her until he’d rounded the remnants of the old homestead; she was sitting on an upturned timeworn bucket, her attention flicking back and forth between a book in her lap and the flat distant horizon.
She was so engrossed in what she was doing that she didn’t notice him until his horse whinnied and shook her head.
“Afternoon,” Amos said, dismounting at the same moment Cece shot up from her improvised seat, her eyes widening in alarm. Amos got an image of the ball of her palm connecting with the bridge of his nose. He didn’t come any closer.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he said, nodding at the thin little book that she was clutching to her chest.
“That’s ok…” she glanced down before quickly stuffing it into the satchel that was slung over her shoulder “…I was just drawing the view...”
“Not much to see,” Amos replied.
“Oh… the sky is beautiful.”
Amos looked up; there were a handful of small cotton wool clouds scattered across an otherwise blue sky. There didn’t seem much for someone to draw, especially when they weren’t holding a pencil…
“Sure is…”
Her horse was tethered to the remains of a fence post that poked above the grass twenty feet or so further on. She was munching on the long green grass and seemed much less bothered about his appearance than her rider.
Amos patted the neck of his own mount, but made no move to approach the girl. He could understand her skittishness, they were a couple of hours ride west of Hawker’s Drift and there wasn’t a soul to be seen.
“Your horse is going lame,” he said, nodding towards the animal.
“It is?”
He led his own horse over and tethered it next to Cece’s, “Hope you didn’t pay much for her?”
“Just hired her for a few days.”
Amos ran a hand across the animal’s haunch, she was a docile old thing, “She’ll get you back to Hawker’s Drift so long as you don’t ride her hard, but get another horse the next time you want to come out here. Sorry old girl.”
“I’m neither old, nor a girl,” Cece said, her mouth hardening.
“I wasn’t referring to you,” Amos patted the mare’s neck, “she prefers being out here in the fresh air and the grass to being cooped up in the stables where it’s hot and dusty, but she’s way too old for anything but walks round the town with a little kiddy on her back. Or the glue pot. How much they make you pay for her?”
“I got a deal…”
“I bet.”
“She tell you all that then?” Cece nodded towards the horse.
Amos just smiled.
“I’m Cece,” she said, still looking skittish.
“I know.”
“You do?”
“You sing at Jack’s, I’m staying there too.”
“Oh… I thought you looked familiar,” she lied. She didn’t know him from Adam, but then why should she? He was just another rough-handed stranger.
“Amos.”
“Pleasure.”
“You mind if I take a quick look round?” he nodded towards the shell of the old homestead behind her.
“You thinking of buying it? Needs a bit of work, nice view though…”
“If you like grass,” Amos grinned and took a wide berth around her to the ruin, she still wasn’t entirely convinced he wasn’t going to rape and kill her. Even if she didn’t have a gun it was probably best to get out of her way as quickly as possible. He didn’t like making women nervous.
The homestead was just a burnt out shell, a stone chimney surrounded by charred timbers poking out of the grass like a pile of blackened matchsticks.
He’d spent the day following the road west out of town, checking the farms and homesteads, but none of the residents knew anything about Tom McCrea or his dynamite. He’d spotted the ruin from the road, and had made his way across the fields that had been all but washed away by the grass that had flowed back over them after the farm had been abandoned.
Cece and her old horse had been on the far side and he’d gotten no sense of her till he’d rounded the remains of the farmstead.
He poked through the timbers, looking for signs of disturbance. Why Tom would have wanted to bury his provisions out here he couldn’t imagine, but in the featureless landscape of the vast grass plains that surrounded the town, if he had wanted to hide them – and presumably find them again – then the abandoned farm would be a good choice.
It took Amos only a few minutes to work out it was another dead end. The grass was growing through the charred wood; there was nothing to suggest anybody had been around in
a long time.
“What are you looking for?” Cece asked, standing in the doorway, but not venturing inside, one hand clutching the strap of her satchel.
Amos looked at her, then shrugged. There seemed little reason to lie to her; word that he was helping Molly would get back to the Mayor soon enough anyway.
“Dynamite.”
Cece raised her eyebrow, which Amos noticed had been plucked into a perfect arch.
“Other stuff too…”
“What makes you think it’d be here?”
Amos crouched down to peer beneath some charred roof beams.
“Just a guess…” he straightened up and winced slightly at the sound of his knees clicking “…and not a very good one it seems.”
“Is there a lot of missing dynamite in Hawker’s Drift?”
Amos tipped back his hat, it was cool in the shade of the farm’s remaining walls and there was a faint smell of damp decay in the air. Sadness too, like the echo of broken dreams. “I wouldn’t know, I’m not a local. Just passing through.”
“Me too.”
“You gonna be riding round much in the next few days?” Amos asked, figuring two sets of eyes were better than one.
“Planning to, I only sing in the evenings… the days are mine.”
“If you happen to notice anything odd…”
“Like a box of dynamite?”
“Provisions. Anything that looks like it might have been hidden. Or abandoned… forgotten… could you let me know?”
“Sure…” Cece shrugged “…why you looking for this stuff?”
Amos went back to poking about with the toe of his boot, but only unearthed the fire-cracked head of a wooden doll, “Helping out a… friend. Her husband died without paying his bills, the Mayor’s trying to collect off of her. If I can find the stuff he bought, it’ll make life easier for her.”
“If I see anything I’ll let you know,” Cece nodded, her brow creasing into a frown before she turned and wandered back outside.
Amos didn’t expect to find anything, but he poked around for a few minutes more before following Cece. She was leaning on the remains of a fence, her chin in her hands as she stared out over the swaying heads of grass.
“Have you met the Mayor?” She asked, without turning back to him.
“Briefly.”
“What do you think of him?”
Amos stood beside her; though not close enough to unnerve her. She was wearing riding pants, a too large shirt and a wide brimmed hat tied under her chin. She also had a long thin blade held in a wrist sheath that wasn’t particularly well hidden beneath her baggy sleeve.
“Not sure…”
“I’ve got to go and sing for him tonight, in his monstrous pile across the square.”
“On your own?”
“You want to chaperone me?”
Amos glanced at her wrist, “Oh, I think you’re capable of looking after yourself.” She followed his gaze and quickly lowered her arm to her side.
“I find him… creepy.”
Amos nodded, he’d gotten no read off the man at all when he’d looked into his eye, but he had heard something, or thought he had. The sound of screaming or at least something like screaming, though he was starting to think he might have imagined it, it wasn’t at all how he usually picked things up about people.
“I wouldn’t trust him.”
“I don’t,” Cece glanced at him and smiled, “he’s a man…”
Amos smiled back and hitched his boot up on the first bar of the fence. They stood for a while in silence, just watching the grass and the clouds. He felt comfortable with Cece, she was young and beautiful; too young and too beautiful to be interested in him thankfully. He also knew if he put a finger on her she would try and slice him open with the blade she had strapped to her wrist. Which made her more comfortable company than Molly.
That and the fact that Cece looked absolutely nothing like his dead wife.
*
Amos had been surprised when Cece asked if he would ride back to town with her. He’d been planning to turn back soon anyway so agreed with a curt little nod.
“Be glad of the company,” he lied.
“Just in case this old beast keels over on me… I don’t want to keep the Mayor waiting.”
“We’ll be back in town well before dark… plenty of time to make yourself beautiful.”
“Fat chance,” Cece snorted, vaulting effortlessly into her saddle. She didn’t know much about horses, but the girl seemed comfortable in the saddle. Athletic to boot.
“Not going to dress to impress?”
“Not something I do…” she muttered, wheeling her mount around to come alongside Amos. Her skin was flawless and her eyebrows carefully plucked, for someone who didn’t care about her appearance…
The horses plodded through the grass towards what passed for the road. Amos looked back to the farm once they were on the packed earth.
“Fertile soil here…” he muttered, “…but it’s been a good few years since that farm burnt down.”
“You’d think there would be plenty of people in town looking to take it on.”
Amos nodded, another year or so and they’d be nothing poking up above the grass save the stone chimney breast, a marker for the death of someone’s dreams.
There were a few other buildings scattered about down little tracks that splintered off the main road, but not many. Even so the distances involved meant it would take a long time to check all of them. How long did he want to stay in Hawker’s Drift? He knew the answer to that, but he had the nagging feeling he might be around a lot longer.
“What brought you out here… to Hawker’s Drift?” Cece asked after a while.
“Nothing, just looking for work.”
“Out here?”
Amos shrugged, “As good a place as any. If there’s none I’ll just move on. It’s what I do.”
“Just a drifter, huh?”
“I guess.”
“Don’t want to put down any roots?”
Amos glanced back over his shoulder before answering her, “Did once… not again.”
“Married?”
“I was.”
“Kids?”
“You ask a lot more questions now you’d don’t think I’m going to jump you.”
“Well, if you were going to you would have done already, so I might as well make the most of your honourable nature.”
Amos smiled at that, “Honourable? I don’t think so.”
“You’re helping a woman in distress; you didn’t try to rape me. Makes you a saint around here.”
“You haven’t got much of a regard for men have you?”
“Just speaking from experience.”
Amos wondered how much experience this young slip of a thing could have. Cece could be no more than twenty, possibly younger. Then again the world had fallen to pieces.
“Anyway, you didn’t answer my question?” Cece said, watching him from the corner of her eye as they rode side by side.
“What question?”
“Kids?”
“Oh, that question.”
“Something you don’t want to talk about, huh?”
Amos shook his head and swivelled in his saddle again.
“So, what happened? With your wife and kids?”
“I think I preferred you when you thought I might be trying to jump you.”
Cece smiled, sweetly. She had a bright infectious smile that was hard to resist. It was the kind of smile that could open a lot of doors for a girl; or get one into a helluva lot of trouble…
“My wife’s dead. No kids.”
“Oh…” Cece’s smile faltered to a grimace, “…I’m sorry.”
Amos shrugged, “It was a long time ago.”
“It can help to talk about these things… if you want?”
“I don’t,” he shot her a look that was probably colder than she deserved, “…and it doesn’t.”
“Of course… I didn’t mean to
pry.”
Of course, she meant to pry. It was human nature after all. Generally he didn’t have to ask too much to find out about a person, but most folk weren’t like him. Which was probably for the best.
“What about you?” Amos decided counter-prying was the best way of deflecting her questions.
“Me?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Much the same as you,” she lied. Again.
Amos kept his gaze forward; he didn’t want to look into her eyes in case he saw something he didn’t like.
“Just drifting huh?”
“Yep.”
“Aren’t you a little young for the road… not to mention too pretty.”
“It is a knife I have up my sleeve, by the way.”
“Just a compliment… and a question.”
Cece tipped her hat back and stared out over the grass towards another homestead, this one not burnt to the ground.
“Just seeing the world,” she said finally. Amos had to stop himself frowning. That didn’t sound like a lie.
“Where you from?”
“Back east. You?”
“Down south, by the border, originally.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Little spit of a town, nothing but dust and heat, wouldn’t be surprised if it’s shrivelled up to nothing now. Like a cow shit left in the sun.”
“Sounds like a nice place.”
“Yeah. Regular little Eden. Running away or looking for something?”
“Sorry?”
“Everyone who’s out drifting along the road, they’re either running away from something or looking for something. At least to begin with. Eventually it just becomes a way of life and you drift along because you don’t know what else to do. But you’re too young to have gotten into that sorry state yet; so running or looking?”
Cece pursed her lips before replying, “Looking…”
“For what?”
“For the end of the world…” she winked at him, then kicked her old mount into a surprised trot.
He kept his own steady pace, glad that she’d moved ahead so he could look back along the road again, which ran, more or less, in a straight line. He could just about make out the chimney top of the ruined farmhouse. There were two specks at the far end of the road, a pair of riders, dark in the afternoon sunlight. He’d half expected Blane or some of the other deputies to have followed him out of town, but his tail had been empty all day. Now, after meeting Cece, there were other riders on the road.
