Mazy is sat at the brow of Jensen, dabbing his head with a wet rag, to cool his burning fever. Jensen's mass is awash in shivers, as if on the throes of hypothermia.
In the corner of the wagon, dressed in shadow, sits a cross legged figure, who mumbles simple prayers, in a deep, diaphragmic, undulating tone. This is a battle ground of the spirit, with Jensen’s soul as the prize.
Marujo has set his fire, which scars orange the black of night. In his hand a guinea fowl, who drips blood from the slit in its throat.
He circles the flames.
He draws shapes in the air.
Grabs his hex bag, with Jensen’s hair in and forces it into a small hessian doll, like putting its insides back. With the image of Jensen in his thoughts, Marujo slices his hand squeezes a fist and allows the red droplet of his fluid to crash into the hex doll.
Marujo grabs the doll and begins to dance around the fire, with dark, throaty sounds, punched from his gullet.
His shuffling and stamping feet, kick up little dust devils.
His arms thrust and grab the air.
Jensen is locked into a spazm; his body is in an electric shock.
Mazy begins to panic, Little Sparrow signals to her - it will be okay.
The figure in the corner begins a deep bellowing chant, a battle cry to an opponent who cannot hear him.
Marujo’s dance stamps to a stop, a morbid grin cracks across his scarred tattooed visage.
He chants over the hex doll, then spits on it, then chants more.
Marujo suspends the doll over the fire. Its dry fibres begin to singe and quickly burns.
Marujo smiles with a wicked glee as the doll instantaneously WOOFFS up in flames.
It's no longer the doll; it has become the fire itself.
Marujo stares into the flames and allows his hypnotic state to broaden.
The intensity of will in the wagon is a heavy fabric that rests across its inhabitants. It can be felt, tasted, almost seen. Jensen, Mazy, Little Sparrow, and the figure in the corner, all sweat bullets, and breathe thick hampered breaths.
The chanting becomes more intense, quicker, like a horse breaking into a gallop.
The heartbeat of the wagon races to a th-thump, th-thump, th-thump - They’re pushing their limits.
Marujo stares at the fire; he watches the heat buckle the air around the invisible tips of its licking flames.
The bright burning centre leads to a hidden hot boundary. But in this living mass, of a devouring element, is something that catches Marujo’s eye.
He snatches out quickly into the flames, to claim the prize.
He pulls away, cradling his hand.
Opening his palm Marujo sees the source of his distraction, which danced within the fire, unwilling to be consumed by the beast. Marujo plucks it from his palm and holds it up; he glowers in a fury, it's Jensen's single strand of hair.
Jensen’s protected.
Jensen has stirred from a violent nightmare, into a waking peace. His eyes flutter open as if testing their purpose. His blurred vision attunes to his surroundings; he sees Mazy's soft, smiling face looking down on him.
She attentively strokes his head.
“Hush, it’s okay. I’m watching you.”
Jensen falls straight back into a willing slumber.
Perhaps better dreams await him.
33
JENSEN JOLTS AWAKE, partly by the morning Sun crashing into the back of the canvas wagon, partly to do with the rocking on the road and a lot to do with the pain in his back.
He winces some and twists to look over his left shoulder.
A fresh bandage rests upon the wound, it smells of various earthy herbs.
Jensen peers around the wagon, his clothes are laid out to the side.
Next to them are his holstered pistols, an empty holster, where the Comanche took one. He reaches over and slides a Colt out.
He checks it.
Mazy clambers into the back of the wagon, she's a feisty firebrand of a girl, yet the image of Jensen holding a pistol puts her off her stride. Jensen holds his arms up, to show he means no harm, he looks as though he's being held up at gunpoint himself.
Mazy calls out, never taking her eyes off of Jensen.
“Pa, Pa, that corpulent fella we fished from the river. He’s awake.”
Mazy then directs her words to Jensen, the spray like a pistol hammer being fanned, at rat-a-tat-tat speed.
“Strong man, Joseph Joseph, mischiefed his back hoisting you in here. I said we could just drag you behind the wagon. Father said ‘em Cherokee would take potshots, fixing on you as a target.”
She motions to leave and turns back just as quick, still with a galloping mouth.
“Thanks for the mule, she just eats grass and breaks gas, but it’s about the best gift I ever been gifted.”
She climbs out the back of the wagon and turns back one last time.
“I’m Mazy.”
She’s gone.
Jensen’s words come too late.
“I’m Jensen… we met before.”
Lord Louis sticks his head into the Wagon from the other end.
“Mister Hills, you all right?” Jensen nods in reply. “Get your Clobber on, an' come and sit by me."
“Your accent.”
"Oh, it changes after the carny season is over." Before Lord Louis's affected accent was a mix of French, German anything that sounded from a far off land. Now he sounds like he's from the East Coast.
Jensen puts on his cleaned clothes and makes his way out to sit by Lord Louis. He feels the sting of pain from his numbed wound. Jensen's bulky frame, makes Louis look even smaller. The dwarf, hands Jensen some bread, with dried meat on. Jensen takes it. They sit quietly, slowly grazing on thick bread and meat.
Jensen breaks the silence.
“How long was I laid out for?”
“A few days.”
“I appreciate your people saving me.”
“Don’t mention it.”
They sit in silence again. Jensen glances back to the wagon.
“Your daughter, Mazy, she’s normal size.”
“She’s not a dwarf, no. My condition isn’t hereditary, thankfully.”
The silence wafts away any more words and sits for a while. Louis is happy sitting in quiet, so is Jensen.
They chew their provisions.
“She said I was… corpulent.” Jensen mutters, with a mouth filled with churned meat and bread.
Jensen spots mounted Comanche on the horizon; he reaches for his pistol.
The Dwarf stays Jensen’s arm.
“It's okay. They're just bemused, by our presence. A curse in one world can be a blessing in another. I endeavour to suggest that the Savage Lands, really aren’t as savage as white folk make it out to be.”
“Well, I reckon I ain’t so sure ‘bout that.”
"A corpulent man like yourself probably knows more than I do about that anyhow."
Jensen eyes the smiling dwarf. Jensen just wished he knew what corpulent meant.
“I’m obliged to you and your… compadres here.”
The dwarf reaches over and pats Jensen’s forearm, an unusually warm gesture in the frontiers; yet Jensen knows its origin and intent. Louis has courage that belies his size.
The caravan travelled in the day and night, they settled for food and to rest the horses. Louis explained to Jensen that it is probably safer to stay a moving spectacle across the Indian Nation, and not let them think they were staying anywhere too long. They took it in turns to drive the wagons, or sleep in them. The Pawnee Mound Range, run parallel with them until they hit The Great Plains. They are watched as they leave the nation, the cloak of the night has settled, yet they decided to keep travelling until morning.
Jensen, in the back of the wagon, is gently rocked by the movement, his back is sore yet manageable, even as he got older he was a quick healer, all but the pain in his gut.
The rocking lantern light casts breathing shadows, which exp
and and constrict with each sway.
Jensen glances to his satchel; he salivates with a need, he reaches in and pulls out Opium resin. He stares at the dark tar, its glistening quality, its moist, tacky texture and sweet scent.
Jensen decides just to have one draw, to help him sleep.
Jensen, lost in ritual, scrapes burnt residue from his pipe, gently pinches a small amount of resin and sprinkles it into the waiting pipe’s mouth.
He’s silent, methodical.
Jensen prepares himself, lays on his side as he lights the tar and breathes the flames across it. They lick and burn the resin to smoke, a smoke that passages up the pipe into the waiting lungs that crave that connection.
The sweet intoxication is first smelt, then a numbness, like the ripples in water, cascade over the body.
All things, become… Perfect.
Jensen foregoes the will to move, all he can do is draw upon the pipe to let his body and mind sink further into oblivion. Laying on his side, staring into the lantern; its captive flame dancing and groping for air. He sups more on the fumes of poppy tears, his body breaths it in. The veil lifts, he can see the flourish of the canvas, catching the wind. The iridescent aura of the flame and its fine particles that punctuate the air.
Jensen looks to the end of the wagon; there's a figure in white by the canvass opening; that waves in the wind. Jensen strains to look down; he has to remember how to focus, how to move his head. He can see it is a female. His lips gently play off each other as he endeavours to conjure words.
“S-sp-arrow?”
“What are you doing my love?” It isn’t Little Sparrow; it was Her.
She had haunted his dreams, haunted his thoughts, and had pursued him until he could no longer turn anywhere for peace. He thought he could find it in brutalised murdering revenge, or the bottle and pipe, maybe even Lotus could have given him a harbour of solace, but peace never came.
And now, he was back here again trying to find it.
Her face is hidden.
“Why can’t I see your face?” He struggles to focus, all he can make out is her white frock, that is dressed in blood. He feels an emotion that quivers him to a tear.
“I’m trying to remember how ya looked.”
“You’re keeping me hidden.”
“How?”
The answer never comes; a person can never identify their own blind spot.
She continues.
“Tell me, are you doing this for the boy?”
A stabbing chill lances through Jensen’s sinew, a burning cold that bites.
Next, to him, a bloody, broken William, snarls accusingly into Jensen's face.
“…Or yourself?”
Jensen wrenches awake, he sits upright, cold pallid flesh, hot sweat dripping on cool skin. Jensen was used to the nightmares, but they’re happening more regularly. He glances around the room, the lantern flickers to its last, the pipe is laid out by the bed, next to it is William’s closed bible.
The shadows merge more into the black canvas.
The bullet wound is more an irritant than anything now.
Jensen is rested yet tired; his mind churns over this apparition, the thought of William in a box encased by earth, chimes a raw nerve. His anger flares then subsides at William’s remembered words. Jensen ponders, like a man at a crossroads, is he doing this for the boy, or… Himself?
He watches out the back of the moving wagon, at the Indian Nation behind him that wanes with perspective’s lens. He decides he’s not going to know any answers till it's over. Maybe in that answer, he will salvage the nugget of peace, that will fill the empty in his chest.
34
VEINS STAND PROUD, jutting from flesh. The grizzled groans of effort accompany quivering fibres. Sweat beads funnel down ravines of sinew. Blue eyes bulge, rimmed by red.
“Is the Chief still in?”
Joseph Joseph, has his hands hooked under Chief Running Cloud’s wagon, his hulking strength hoists its wheel of the turf. Next to him is Lynn and Little Sparrow; they struggle to remove a broken wheel.
"He's hard to wake; he's still tired from the ceremony." Grunts Sparrow.
"Pull harder, to the left," Louis shouts instructions.
“O’ yea, why didn’t we think of that?” Lynn shares sarcasm with Little Sparrow as they tug at the wheel.
“I am an engineer… by trade.”
Two large hands clasp the wheel, and with a ka-klunk, it comes off.
Louis props the wagon up, with a log. Joseph Joseph lowers the cart, with a resounding thunk.
Knock knock from inside, on the wagon wall.
“Now he decides to wake.” Little Sparrow, shakes her head.
They turn to Jensen who has the wheel in hand. Lynn curtsies to Jensen.
Joseph Joseph whisks Lynn up in his arms and nods to Jensen – Thanks.
Little Sparrow marches past Jensen, her face flat, emotionless.
“Careful, your wound could split.” Jensen understands that’s caring words from her.
"Mister Hills… That's just her way of being grateful… Thank you.”
“It's Jensen… An' if anyone's gotta be giving thanks ‘round here. It shoulda been me.” Jensen nods. “I’m much obliged.”
Louis makes light. “Well, we were all wondering, as you lay there. Isn’t that there Mister Hills, the one who warned us about the Savage Land?” Louis gestures to each beat of his narrative. “Yet, here he is… …You see Mister H-… Jensen. We are suckers for a hootin' story, and we decided, as you'se was laying there, that this must be one… So there youse have it.”
“Well, it’s a kindness I’ll not forget.” Jensen is serious.
“That’s okay. We have short memories, but I’ll not forget you saving Mazy, she’s all I’ve left, trouble as she may be.”
Mazy's legs are pumping hard; she's passaging in a full gallop. She crashes through the knee high grass that carpets the prairie. Her lungs punch with a phosphorus like burn. She's giving no quarter to her physical limits.
“Come on, come one.” She calls out.
Her teeth grit in determined resolve, as she drags a kite in her wake.
The kite skids and twists as it surfs the grass; like a fish skimming the water.
Smack - Mazy crashes into the back of Jensen's legs, she's knocked on her butt and gives him an incredulous look as he turns round.
The kite and tail have all put shuffled their mortal coils and spiral into the grass.
Mazy huffs in disappointment.
“Mister Hills, I mistook you for a bear for an instant. You got in my way Bear; I was about to fly my kite."
“Princess, you’d be running down to Texas before that thing flew.”
Mazy crosses her arms to feigned annoyance, though she did like to be called princess. She waggles her finger at Jensen, and peers at him through fisted eyes.
“You speak funny and … you snore.”
“Oh, is that so…?” Jensen acts surprised.
“Uh hu… like a bear.”
Jensen nods, and start to walk off. The verbal jousting hasn’t stopped, as Mazy calls out.
“An’ sure as an English man drinks tea, that you’re just a big meany.”
Jensen stops, he turns to Mazy and shrugs.
“Well, princess, you gots me there.”
Jensen walks past Mazy, she’s still on her rump, watching him stride past.
She turns to watch the corpulent fella pick up the kite. Jensen and Mazy swap a look. Jensen holds the kite above his head.
“Well?”
Mazy beams like sunshine, she grabs the kite string and makes it taut. Jensen gives her instructions and makes a game of it.
“Let’s give it room to soar.” The string’s tight, Mazy has a look of excited hope, and Jensen adds to the fun. "Are you ready?" She nods in reply. "Cause you better run faster this time."
“Oh yea, I can run plenty fast.” She calls out defiantly.
“Cause this time a bear’s chasing
you’se.”
Mazy feels the thrill of fear and whispers under her breath
“Excellent.”
Mazy turns from Jensen.
Kite flying and scary games, it doesn’t get better than this.
“Three.” Jensen starts.
“Two.”
“One.”
“Run!”
It begins… Mazy starts to run, Jensen strides behind her, shouting.
“Faster, the Bear’s coming.” Then he roars. Mazy is giddy with joy, she giggles as she sprints. The kite tugs at Jensen’s hand, it wants to break to the skies. With a final fight for freedom, the kite snatches against the wind and sails.
Mazy’s face, fisted in concentration she chews her lip as if she's willing the kite higher and higher. Jensen stands next to her, they both look up to the skies.
“You think it’s as high as a bird?” Mazy enquires.
Jensen takes a wad of tobacco out from his pocket; he cuts some off.
“Reckin’ it is.” He jaws the brown tar.
..
“You think it’s as high as the clouds?”
“Near as a whisker.”
..
..
“Why is the sky blue, Bear?”
Jensen chews his tobacco, trying to recollect if someone ever told him.
“I don’t rightly know.”
Mazy reaches out and pats Jensen’s arm.
“That’s okay.” She goes back to focusing. “Bears aren’t privy to such things, just eating, sleeping… snoring.”
"Kite flying," Jensen adds.
Mazy gets excited and starts to ramble about an idea.
“You and me Bear, you and me. We make a good kite flyin’ team. If Pa don’t get the money for my schooling, I’ll take you, me and that there kite on tour.”
Schooling – Jensen glances to Mazy. She’s feisty, yet vulnerable. She has a burning for better things, things that maybe out of reach for her. Jensen feels a pang of discomfort; he too feels powerless about her future.
Redemption's Blood Page 14
