The Ten Thousand Things

by Tim Marquitz

  Father Mathias gazed eastward along the tracks, hand rubbing at his chin. “Might not be necessary. The Truckee River runs along the tracks, no? I believe their paths cross at certain points. Perhaps we could put together a flotation device of some kind, load up our supplies, and simply float into Reno. Town that cosmopolitan’s bound to have a doctor or two.”

  “If we were going to Reno, that would be an option,” Pa said. “But none of us are keen on precipitating headlong into a thousand more deaduns, Father.”

  “Yes. It seems the Reno option is lacking sufficient backing.”

  Nina decided she wanted to hear more about whatever the Sam Hill their Indian friend was talking about. “This true? You heal folks?”

  Father Mathias looked tentative, then sighed. “For it became Him, for whom are all things—”

  Strobridge hawked phlegm to the side and said, “Here we go again.”

  Mathias continued nonplussed, “…and by whom are all things, in bringing many sons unto glory, to make the captain of their salvation perfect through sufferings.” The priest paused, allowing his words to sink in. “That's from the Book of Hebrews, my good people. It describes Jesus's suffering for our salvation. And God means for us to understand this suffering…”

  “Even if it means suffering ourselves?” Nina asked.

  “Precisely so. If I went around healing everyone, then everyone would be—”

  “They'd all be healed!” Strobridge interrupted, seeming to enjoy putting Father Mathias over the philosophical barrel. “Why, we’d be out of this fix and already cuttin’ a path east without anymore goddamn dickering about.” The railroad boss shook his head. “Here’s the honest truth. He’s a pretender. He likes to put the screws to folks, pull the wool over everyone’s eyes, don’t you, Thomas? See, I’m a man who speaks plain. I don’t climb up on a pulpit and sell lies wrapped in missionary trappings and saintly paraphernalia. The good father here doesn’t have the power in him to heal anyone! He’s a charlatan. A sanctimonious, ostentatious—yeah, see, I know them big words too, Thomas—ostentatious, malingering sham!”

  Manning put a hand on Strobridge’s shoulder, but the boss man didn’t miss a beat. He pointed at the priest. “And Christianity is just one heaping, steaming crock of bullshit, pardon my lassitude. Bull. Shit.” By the end, Strobridge had worked himself up so much he batted Manning’s hand away and wiped a string of dark spittle from his scraggly salt-and-pepper whiskers.

  Nina looked at the wild-eyed boss with her brows lowered and a sick feeling in her gut. Strobridge glared back, then took off his hat and stepped away. He bent and coughed a few times, his hand going to his sternum. He hawked another thick bit of sputum and straightened.

  Father Mathias shook his head. “That isn't how it works,” he said to Strobridge. “Make your blasphemies. Regard me with contempt. It doesn't diminish the Lord's word or his will. Not at all. Not even for one-thousandth of a malignant blow for air in those befouled lungs.”

  They all stood quiet until the railroad boss huffed, stalked over to the liquor crate, and snatched up a bottle. Nina was none too sure if he was gonna drink it or throw it at the priest. The man opted the former.

  Pa went forward in subdued tones. “If it’s God's will we all suffer while a plague of deaduns runs rampant across His green earth, so be it. I've managed to make it this far. Can't be so sure about everyone else, though.”

  Father Mathias smiled at Pa, his eyes taking on genuine warmth. He covered his mouth with his hand as if stifling a chuckle and shook his head. The priest sighed. “Perhaps now is that sparing moment when I address our burdens, if only to ultimately serve Him. Lincoln, I apologize. Everyone!” Mathias did chuckle then, and he put his hand on Red Thunder’s shoulder. “Sometimes I'm blinded by my vows, my friend. You are right,” he said, then addressed them all. “My willingness to suffer while lifting the Lord high in my heart sometimes causes me to be blind to the subtle messages he sends, and how brilliantly he does so. Let the words of my mouth and the thoughts of my heart be pleasing in your eyes, O Lord, my strength and my salvation. Thank you, Red Thunder, and thank you, Lincoln. I will heal us, God willing.”

  “Praise the Lord,” Pa added with a huff.

  Jasmine held up her hands and shook them. “Thank you, Jesus.”

  Nina shouldn't have been surprised at Jasmine's devotion to the white man's God. She'd seen conviction in the woman’s eyes before, and her singing had evoked powerful images of divine things. It was a conviction she herself was beginning to understand.

  “You religious freaks make me sick.” Strobridge walked off with his open bottle. The group ignored him.

  “There is one catch,” Father Mathias said, his finger raised to the sky. “In order to receive the Lord's healing touch, one must have faith. You have to believe to receive.” He chuckled, clearly pleased with his ability to rhyme. “I don't doubt your faith, Lincoln, but George...”

  Mason Daggett's eyes narrowed, his body going stiff. “Just do what you're gonna do, Padre.”

  “Very well. Stand back and pray the Lord finds something redeemable within your brother.”

  “Don't you hurt him. Otherwise, you'll be eatin' out of your backside for the rest of your life.”

  Mathias bent over George. “Sounds like an unpleasant experience, Mister Daggett. Not to worry.”

  Mason had positioned his brother on a folded coverlet, softening up his position some. George’s head and neck was damp with whiskey and a slow trickle of red ran from his ear. In Nina’s approximation, he seemed to be giving his best presentation of a door nail—all limp, skin pale and lifeless, with his arms hanging at his sides. Scant movements beneath his closed lids and the gentle rise of his chest were the only indications he weren’t dead just yet.

  Father Mathias pulled a simple black stole and a small vial of clear liquid—which Nina assumed to be holy water—from an inner pocket. The stole had a single golden cross stitched into each end. He sprinkled it with a few drops of water and placed it directly on George's head so that the ends hung over his ears.

  George sighed, his head turning up as if to greet the priest's touch.

  Father Mathias spread his hand on George's crown, pulled his Bible out and began fingering through the marked sections. “Ah,” he said, finding his place. He cleared his throat, and then began: “And Jesus went about all Galilee, teaching in their synagogues, and preaching the gospel of the Kingdom, and healing all manner of sickness and all manner of disease among the people.”

  George Daggett murmured in an oddly peaceable way.

  “That's right, George. That's what Our Lord and Savior did. For even He understood there was a time for healing. And it took these fine folks here to make me realize it was my time, too. That's why I got my hand on your head, trying to infuse some of the Christ’s healing into you.”

  “Unh,” George replied. He whistled lightly between his teeth, turning his head to the left where a thin line of drool spilled down his chin.

  Father Mathias dug into his Bible again. “And the people, when they knew it, followed him; and he received them, and spake unto them of the Kingdom of God, and healed them that had need of healing.”

  George's chest surged, as if a sudden jolt had gone through him. His mouth popped open, “Ahhh,” he groaned before he settled back, murmuring to someone named Cap, and then telling his Ma it was Mason's turn to feed the pigs.

  Father Mathias pressed hard on the stole, squinting his eyes shut and pursing his lips. “George Daggett, if you have any faith in God, let it be known now, as that wound of yours is naught compared to the deep pain inside of you. By Christ’s wounds then, I implore you, O Lord, let this man be healed!”

  George jerked awake, his eyes spinning in their sockets for a moment then focused on Father Mathias. “Who fucked me in the ear?” he asked, before falling unconscious again. Only this time, color rushed to George Daggett's skin. His breathing steadied, and his eyes calmed beneath his lids.

&nbs
p; Father Mathias removed the stole to reveal the head wound was gone, the blood already dried up. It fell away in dark flakes.

  “That’s…why, that’s amazing, Father,” Pa said, his voice filled with wonder.

  The rest of them ranged from speechless to dubious. Nina felt more curious than anything else. In the past three days she had witnessed all kinds of amazing things: a heavy dose of deaduns; witnessing the Black Robe’s miracles and yellow-hooded Liao Xu’s terrible magic back at the fort and again on the train; and especially discovering the strange powers within herself. All of the above affirmed her need to follow Mathias wherever he may roam.

  Mason Daggett, rather than be grateful, scowled and stood face to face with the priest. “You question my brother’s faith, you question mine. Guess we're just a couple of dirt-worshipin’ heathens to you, Padre…” He emphasized the P with a spray of spittle. “Like your pet Injun there.”

  Father Mathias didn’t meet Mason's glare.

  “Now get the fuck away.” Mason gave the priest a hard shove in the chest, making him stumble to keep his balance.

  Red Thunder pulled his tomahawk free, but Father Mathias stopped him with a casual wave. “It's all right. Having one's faith questioned can stir up emotions, no doubt.” He smiled weakly. “Let’s see to Mister Patterson.”

  “You’re a bully!” Rachel suddenly shouted, and Jasmine grabbed her arm to keep her from approaching Mason. “You’re a brute!”

  “Shut up, little girl.” Mason said dismissively, bending to check his sleeping brother. “Know your place, like that wag-tail coon who thinks she’s your adop—”

  Nina saw red. She didn’t know what she was doing until she was on top of Mason, pummeling down with closed fists. She struck him at least three good ones before someone pulled her off the mouthy bastard. Mason sprung up, stumbled, fell down, then got back up. He started forward.

  “Don’t,” Manning said, not to Nina but to Mason. He had a tight grip on both her arms, but let go of one and placed himself between them. “You’re sauced and you’ve got too much Rebel soldier in you, Mason. That’s what? Your third bottle?”

  “Rein in that bitch squaw of yourn…or I swear…”

  “You won’t do a blamed thing, son,” her Pa said. “Go see to your brother and when you dry up everyone can make nice again.”

  Mason panted, his face covered in coal dirt, bruises, scrapes, and spit. His gaze roved over them, and she reckoned he was weighing the situation in his own roostered estimation, seeing it was pretty much him against everyone else.

  Strobridge came striding out from behind some scrub, adjusting his trousers. “I’d do as he says, Mason. No sense stirring more shit up than we need.” Nina wondered if Strobridge was parodying Pa or being serious.

  “Listen to you,” Mason groused. “Got no place to fuckin’ talk.”

  “The difference is I’m sober and still spewed my ungenerous shit. Learn a lesson from your elders, especially when they go off half-cocked like a deuced-up fool.”

  “Fine,” Mason said. He dusted grass off his coat and headed back to his brother, but as he passed Nina, she felt Manning’s grip tighten on her arm. “Don’t you touch me again,” Mason said, pointing a finger. “Ever.”

  Pa’s dark look kept her from unleashing any kind of rejoinder.

  PA ROTATED HIS ANKLE. He beamed at Nina, eyes bulging with joy. “Right as a trivet,” he said and laughed.

  Jasmine, sitting nearby—and keeping Rachel close—spouted amen and smiled, while Father Mathias, sweating and noticeably tired, tucked his implements away. The priest’s eyes were more sunken, crow’s feet scratching at the edges. “Go easy though, Lincoln. That foot was badly turned. Give it time. Make sure it will support your weight before you go high-stepping with the lassies at the next dance house.”

  Nina snickered.

  “You have my word, Father. And my thanks.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Father,” Buck echoed the sentiments, now standing and testing his leg, the wound nothing more than a dark smudge against his white skin. He had one of the Army blankets wrapped around “Little Buck” and the rest of his midriff, and Nina was amused by his pale legs. “I feel like dancing. Any takers?”

  “You could use some fresh drawers first,” Jasmine said, laughing.

  “I reckon I could.”

  “And I happen to have some,” said Pa.

  Father Mathias put a hand on Nina’s shoulder, drawing her attention. “You can do it too, you know. Alignalghi.”

  Before Nina could ask what he meant by that, Strobridge wandered back to the group, scratching at his beard. “Healed everyone up, I see.” He spread his hands. “Praise Jesus.”

  Pa stood, scowling along with Nina, Buck, Manning, Red, Jasmine, and Rachel at the railroad boss. “Amen,” Pa said.

  “Amen,” Strobridge returned. “Look, I…”

  Mathias raised his hand. “Let’s not rehash.”

  The railroad boss sniffed and nodded. “Off to Galena then?”

  “Red and I will abide by that decision for now.”

  “Me, too,” Buck cut in. “Reckon it best we stay together for the time bein’.”

  Manning turned to Nina. “Let's get some things together and figure out how we can carry it all.”

  Nina nodded and looked eastward and then to the south. The sun had warmed things up as it rode high in the sky now. These foothills were mostly scree and scrub, and she knew the footing would be unreliable at best. They'd be traveling through gulches, barrens, shrubland, and ravines. She peered southwest. The mountains from which they'd just come loomed, peaks jutting into the clouds like god killers, hills hiding what Nina worried might be an infestation of deaduns.

  They'd be skirting those monstrosities in order to reach Galena—if they didn't kill one another first. Either way, they’d be hoofing it, and the way things had been going of late, she figured it was gonna be a hell of an expedition.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THEY'D SPENT THE NEXT COUPLE HOURS gearing up, putting together makeshift backpacks brimming with food and ammo, even gathering a rucksack of coal for campfires. Pa passed along most the duties, all of which were carried out urgently. Jasmine and Rachel remained inseparable throughout, wrestling over chores and fussing in a jocular way that Nina found a tad bit irksome. It weren't that she felt jealous or nothing. It just seemed out of place somehow, she reckoned. Maybe that’s how they were dealing, though.

  Or maybe what was getting to her was this thing she'd inherited, this power coming to life within her. A few days ago, she would have scoffed at such a thing, but now all she heard were the sounds of the People, their drums and flutes, their whispers, words which began making sense on the fringes of her thoughts. All accept one. Alignalghi.

  Nina was changing inside. The very thought rattled her soul.

  On top of it all, the engine continued letting off smoke, reminding them that deaduns could turn up any moment. So they skinned out soon as possible, and the trip was made a little easier with Pa and Buck able to walk unassisted, even though George shuffled more than stepped, and Mason had to hang back and hold his brother’s arm to keep him steady.

  Nina walked alongside Manning most of the way, stealing glances, their hands touching on occasion. Strobridge and Father Mathias kept to opposite sides of the group, and Red Thunder scouted ahead. Buck and Pa didn't need help getting around anymore, but neither one could shoulder too much gear—two sacks each, lightly loaded with canned vittles and meat were all they managed.

  A few hours in they had to descend a gully that ran more east-west against their general course, and then clamber up the far side, using their hands to ascend the steeper parts. Nina’s legs burned and the day had turned warmer than expected, so she tied her shirt up to keep cool. She crested the top and sighed as a welcome breeze fluffed her hair and licked the sweat from her face.

  Nina looked back at Manning and Red Thunder helping Rachel and Jasmine up, then she faced the sun, watched it dipping low,
dying, painting the mountains blood-red and turning the clouds into strips of puffy, pink flesh.

  “We gotta stop soon,” Mason called out. He and his brother were the last to ascend, and they both looked done in.

  No one argued. They were all dog-tired from the climb and another near-sleepless night. Even so, Nina felt reluctant to make camp. What then? Sleep? Dream about Liao's hell-fired devil train?

  She glanced at her pa's makeshift boot as he and Buck conversed. Red Thunder had fashioned pieces of rawhide leather and canvas into a nifty piece of footwear, complete with eyelets for strings to draw the sides closed. It wasn’t a boot, but Pa seemed to handle the hills and even the pointy rocks just fine.

  “All right, we’ll find somewhere suitable,” Pa said, and he led them east, picking a path through slopes thick with mahogany and pines, so think in fact the shadows played tricks. Everyone was edgy and Nina’s head ached from being all dried out and from eyeing every dad gum shadow for the least bit of movement. Several deer jumped up from the brush and she just about pissed herself. They were long gone before anyone moved again.

  Pa finally found a creek bed and picked a secluded spot hemmed in by countless brown rocks that ranged in size from boulders to grit and some small pine trees. “Tricky terrain for any of them deaduns to cross without raising an alarm,” Pa explained after Strobridge groused about “blasted rocks everywhere.”

  Coyotes began barking and yipping in the hills as Red Thunder built another one of his Dakota fires, this time letting Manning do some of the digging. The Indian worked untiringly with the kindling and wood until the deep bed of coal caught, producing a pleasant but intense heat.

  “Gather around, ya’ll,” Pa called them in close. “Red’s got a daisy of an idea.” The Indian then went over a series of whistles, teaching everyone signals so they wouldn't mistake each other for deaduns in the dark of night.

  “Not sure how we'd get along without you,” Pa said, shaking the Indian's hand. Nina saw even Mason Daggett giving a nod of respect at the native's skills.