Devil's Call

by J Danielle Dorn

  I touched the injured hand, which was holding the jail keys. He stopped and met my gaze.

  “They’ll come after you,” I said. “Ness and his men. Once they catch up to us, they’ll hang you right along next to me.”

  He found the key that fit the lock, fumbled it home, and swung the cell door open.

  Now, Hawking was right. I could not sit in a jail cell while those men roamed free. But I had to know that the determination I heard in his voice was not courage on loan from a bottle.

  “What are you waiting for?” he asked.

  “Tell me why you’re doing this.”

  “Doing what?” he asked, playing innocent.

  “This. Breaking me out. Risking your own neck.”

  “Honest,” said Hawking, “I don’t know what happened to Matt, but I know you didn’t kill him. I also know they’re going to have me testify, and it won’t matter what I say, or how many Bibles I swear on. The jury knows I’m a no-account drunk. They’ll paint you out to be a filthy baby-eating witch, and nothing nobody says is going to do a thing to keep them from hanging you. Except for this. Except for breaking you out of here.”

  “Well,” I said after a long pause, “you are a drunk.”

  That tickled him into laughing and shaking his head. He went on, “I may be a drunk, but I know a giant from a windmill. All I ever seen you do is sprout flowers and patch folks up, including the likes of me, for which, might I add, the distillers of this fine town owe you a considerable debt.”

  The sad frankness in his eyes ran at odds with his jest, but I did not interrupt him.

  “You stay here, they’re going to hang you, Lilian. And there ain’t enough whiskey in Nebraska to let me sleep with that.”

  I relented, and in stepping out of the cell became a fugitive.

  “You got a plan?” I asked.

  “Course I got a plan,” he said. “The first part is don’t get caught.”

  “Do I even want to know what the second part is?”

  “Here,” he said, removing a folded sarape from beneath his overcoat. “Wear this to hide that belly of yours.”

  I did as I was told.

  “Good,” said Hawking, rubbing his bruised hand. “That’s good. But we really should get gone before the jailer wakes up from his nap.”

  He held the door open with a flourish, a half-sauced imitation of an upper-class stagecoach driver. Though I shook my head at his foolishness, he did not have to tell me again that it was time to go.

  8

  THE BUTCHER AND I ARGUED over how long I would have to sneak off into the dark, who Ness would suspect of releasing me, and which direction he would send his men on horseback to search for me. In the end we agreed to meet at the Missouri River crossing fourteen miles to the south, Hawking by cart and I by foot. Once we were certain Ness was not following us, we would cross the river and head south, and we would question people in the towns we came upon if I could not find the bastards by other means.

  If I had had my medicine bag with me, I would have been able to construct a charm to dispel suspicion from the butcher, or cast a spell to conceal my footprints or eliminate my scent. As we traveled in pursuit of the three men, I would gather the herbs and stones I needed, but in the meantime all I had at my disposal were my Will and a wild thing’s fear of capture.

  Our plan, such as it was, hinged on Hawking’s ability to gather supplies without drawing attention to himself, and my ability to get out of town without anyone seeing me. It was not arrogance that convinced me the butcher presented a greater danger to our clandestine escape. The man had whiskey on his breath, and I had lived in De Soto long enough to state with certainty that folks on the frontier value routine. It was the only way to survive when everything else lay outside of our control. For Hawking, alcohol was the only thing he could rely on.

  Before we parted ways I said, “You stand me up, you’re gonna wish you’d left me to rot in that cell.”

  He said, “Relax, I ain’t gonna stand you up.”

  I crept into the farrier’s while the weekend poker game was starting up at the saloon and saddled up your father’s horses. Then I led them back to the butchery, where I lashed them to the post outside.

  It was in the midst of my work that I heard a whistling and a jangling of spurs. My eyes ripped from the post to spot one of the local merchants swaying out of the saloon a hundred feet or so away. He undid the buttons of his trousers in preparation to mark the side of the saloon, and though I did not doubt he was feeling no pain after the evening’s libations, I felt a stab of warning in my gut and ducked behind a horse’s flank.

  The animal nickered, and the man peered over his shoulder. Our distance was great enough that the darkness and his inebriation provided ample cover, yet I remained unmoving, holding my breath, until he stumbled off again. I looked up and down the street to confirm its emptiness before hurrying down the alleyway leading away from the main street, to the east.

  I did not follow a path any sane person would have taken, even in broad daylight. Picking through underbrush and tramping across unkempt fields brought me closer to the river, but it took much longer than I had anticipated.

  Over five hours had passed since the butcher and I left each other—and I found it difficult to keep my mind in the present rather than back to the night of your father’s death—when I walked through the darkened streets to fetch Hawking, and only the heartless night served as my witness. It would have been easy to let the black memories wash over me as I lay numb, but so is death easy. So was surrendering to Ness’s shackles easy. Pursuing the men who killed your father, dragging them back to the Nebraska Territory that they would answer to for their crimes, would not be easy. What is right is not always easy, my dear, but it makes the world a less repugnant place.

  I was beginning to doubt I would ever reach the river when I encountered a steep hill and the beginnings of a footpath. I took it back to the main road, and was ready to collapse when I heard hooves behind me.

  It was a single rider, a stranger with a lamp in one hand and reins in the other, headed north. I almost dove off the path, but he canted his head and called out to me.

  Our kin consider influencing another’s life, let alone another’s mind, to be dark magick. I did not care. That stranger stood between me and freedom. Between me and justice.

  So I asked him what his name was.

  He told me his entire name, Thomas Underwood, and once he had done so I thanked him and darted off the path again. My departure startled him, and though he called after me he did not pursue me. Not right away, at least. I used his momentary confusion to crouch in the brush and release a whispered incantation:

  Clear water, water clear,

  Cleanse Thomas Underwood’s mind of my fear

  If I had had a white candle, or the appropriate stones, I could have focused my energy and taken less time. As it was, I had only my voice and my Will, and so I repeated the incantation four more times. Then I held my breath and strained to hear the horse and the rider. For a time I could hear only the horse snort and paw the dirt, impatient to get moving again. Seconds passed, the longest seconds of the night, and then the man said, “Huh.”

  I stayed where I was until I could no longer hear the horse’s hooves in the distance, and then I climbed out of the darkness again. With only my filthy shawl around my shoulders, I had grown acclimated to the chill of the night. It was a different sort of breeze that set my flesh to crawling. Worrying Hawking was waiting and wondering where I was, I kept moving.

  Dawn was still several hours off, but the eastern horizon was beginning to lighten, and I was alone at the river crossing. I gathered the hour was three, closing in on four, which I took to mean either Hawking had not yet left town, or he had been taken into custody. We had not discussed what I would do if he did not show up, or if he showed up with a small band of men hell-bent on hanging me. I was beginning to curse myself for having trusted him in the first place, let alone having trusted him
with my life and yours, when I heard hooves and cart wheels approaching from the north. I recognized your father’s horses at once. In the cart’s driver’s seat was Hawking, singing an old saloon song.

  “Where the hell have you been?” I asked.

  He slurred something about making sure we had enough supplies. As your father’s horses came to a stop, liquor bottles clinked in the bed of the cart. A cruel toast.

  “What,” I said, “making sure we don’t run out of whiskey before we leave the territory?”

  “Or gin,” he said as he tried to step down from the cart. Though I warned him not to move, he did not heed me. So I blocked his way down from the driver’s seat by anchoring a foot in the wheel’s spoke and hoisting myself up.

  “Sit down, Hawking, before you break your damned neck.” For reasons beyond my comprehension, Hawking started laughing. Before I could ask him what was so funny, he stepped off the front seat and toppled over into the cart, his fall broken by gunnysacks and trunks and rope. All the things we would need for an unseen journey south, fourteen miles of which were covered and a thousand more ahead of us.

  I know you must think I did not have you in mind when I set out in pursuit of those bastards. I know you will be angry when you are old enough to think on what happened and why, and I cannot tell you what will happen after I set down this pen. I cannot even tell you I will keep you at my breast until the time comes to pass you off to your gran. But I can tell you I have loved you since before you were born, and I will love you until my bones are dust.

  Now that we were moving I did not so much feel peace as a sense of purpose. Having had only my grief for company the past day, to be able to move again felt to me the most natural and welcomed thing in the world.

  Riding as fast as I could urge the horses on and still tolerate the jostling, we could not cover more than thirty miles in a day. Keeping to the wagon trails meant we could not cut across the land in hopes of gaining ground, either. If I were not carrying you, I could have taken the one horse and been hot on the bandits’ trail, left the butcher behind and pursued them on my own. That is not a wishing thought. I had not been willing to risk you to save your father, nor was I willing to risk losing you on the road, and so I did not push myself to pursue the men as I would have pursued them were my body my own.

  Traveling during the day was unwise, we being still so close to De Soto and our going being so slow. Though the butcher felt the effects of his intemperance in the morning and complained about the day’s brightness, he was able to move when I stopped the cart. I watered and set the horses up with their oat bags while he cooked a skillet of eggs and potatoes. I had figured with the two of us we would be able to travel at a steady pace, breaking only for meals and to allow the horses to rest, but I had also figured Hawking would abstain from drinking so as not to make a nuisance of himself. Seeing as that was not the case, I was beginning to believe I would be the one doing all the driving, and it would take us twice as long to catch up with the bastards as I had originally planned.

  I returned from the river without cheer, and Hawking looked me over while he pushed the food around the hot pan with a stick. He took a slug from a tin cup and swallowed whatever smart-assed comment he was about to make in favor of returning to the cart. He rummaged around for a moment, then returned carrying an armful of clothes from his wardrobe.

  “Go change,” he said. “You look like hell.”

  While the butcher piled food onto plates and began breaking down the cook fire, I took up the armful of articles and disappeared into the trees. I stripped off my bloody gown and washed my body and hair with none but the river for company. The water was cold, but I welcomed its chill after so many days of hot rage and numb denial. I had no mirror to judge whether my appearance was suitable. For the moment, at least, I could button the trousers Hawking had lent me, and though he was not a large man, his shirt would afford my belly room to grow until I found more suitable garments. I wrangled my hair into a braid and pulled my boots back on and stuffed my ruined clothing into an empty gunnysack in the back of the cart.

  “There’s my favorite witch,” said Hawking, surveying me with an approving grin. He attempted a formal bow I have no doubt upset his equilibrium, and presented a plate of what looked to be food. “You ain’t never had eggs like these.”

  “Thanks.” And he was right. I waited for him to turn around before removing a piece of bark from my plate. “Mmm,” I said, crunching on a forkful. “Earthy.”

  “Yep,” he said, and drained what was left in his cup before belching and returning to the cart for a refill.

  Later, as we packed up and returned to the trail, he asked, “How do you know where they’re at?”

  “One of them stole your rifle,” I said. “I’ve seen where he’s keeping it.”

  “Uh-huh. That all you’re saying on the matter?”

  I looked at him sidelong, but did not answer. He flicked his eyebrows and I flicked the horses’ reins.

  Another ten miles passed without a word from either of us, and the evening sun was sinking low in the sky before Hawking asked if I wanted to switch.

  “You gotta rest sometime,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know I do.”

  “Well, then, gimme here.”

  “Why?” I asked. “So you can run us into a ditch?”

  “All I’m saying,” he said, “is it’s easier to keep moving than it is to stop and make camp for the night, and quicker besides.”

  I hated to agree with him, but he was right, and I figured he was used to staying awake most of the night pouring liquor down his throat anyway. Mourning was a heavy cloak, and I confess I was feeling its weight at that moment, particularly since Hawking had stopped trying to make conversation. So long as he was present, I might as well make use of the fact that he was feeling better. Even if I did not need rest, you did.

  During the thirty or so days the butcher and I traveled alongside each other, we fell into a routine. It was not comfortable, but it enabled us to keep moving at a steady pace even if, at times, we did not follow the most direct route in pursuit of the three men.

  Each time we stopped at a town, we did so under the auspices of being ordinary travelers, weary from the road and expecting nothing from the townspeople. The butcher would go off in pursuit of information and alcohol both while I either procured what I needed from the general store or found a quiet place to Work the spell that kept our prey’s trail illuminated.

  I would picture the men, the pale young man with the dark eyes and the short yet powerful Mexican capable of carrying him, and introduce a flame to a length of white ribbon. Though I imagined also the man in black, I had not had a clear view of his face and so I could not rely on his image, seared into my mind though it was, to lead me to him. As the ribbon burned I would hold it aloft that the wind would take its ashes, and when the burning was finished, I would be able to see a smoky trail betraying the path they had taken. Sometimes the ritual would finish by the time Hawking returned from the nearest tavern. Many times it would not. He never interrupted me, but only packed up the cart and saw to the horses while I completed my Work. Then we would confer, and we would continue on again.

  One day, as we were traveling along a long stretch of empty road, the butcher turned to me and asked how old I was when I knew I was a witch.

  I asked him, “How old were you when you knew you were a drunk?”

  He laughed and shook his head and kept right on drinking. That was, I suppose, the best answer I could hope to receive for some time. But drunks are doomed to repeat the past for not keeping hold of their memories, and whether he forgot having asked me the first time or whether he asked me again thinking he would produce a different outcome, he did ask me again.

  We rode on for a time and then I told him, “I was born a witch. Wasn’t until I commenced to conversate with others my own age that I knew what it meant.”

  “Was your momma a witch too?”

  “Still is,” I said. />
  “What about your daddy?”

  “Never knew my daddy.”

  “Your momma cook you up in a cauldron or what?”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t have a daddy. I said I never knew him.”

  “Shit,” he said, and turned to face me more fully. “Where were you born?”

  “Missouri.”

  “Oh,” he said, and relaxed. “I ain’t ever been to Missouri.”

  “Wouldn’t matter if you had. You ain’t my ma’s type.”

  “What’s her type, then?”

  I shrugged and said, “Seems to me she likes men that don’t stick around.”

  This struck Hawking as so humorous that his laughter brought on a coughing fit. I walloped him on the back to help clear the tar from his lungs and told him it served him right.

  He let the matter lie for a few days afterwards, a rainy spell and our concern for the trail washing us away keeping us from conversation. But when the sun returned, so did Hawking’s curiosity.

  “Y’all do use cauldrons, though, don’t you?”

  “What?” I said, for the question had come out of nowhere and startled me. “No, we don’t use cauldrons. Well, none of my kin do, at any rate.”

  “How many of there are you?”

  “Not as many as there used to be. Too many for the church’s liking.”

  “Which church?”

  I shrugged and said, “Any of ’em. Ma and my aunts used to tell us girls stories when we were growing up, how our ancestors left Scotland on account of the witch hunters. We had to behave as if we were no different than anyone else, or the hunters would get us.”

  He considered this in silence for a time. Finally he said, “I ain’t been a drunk my whole life.”

  “I figured not,” I said.

  He took another pull off his flask.

  “So what all can you do,” he asked, “besides heal folks and give me a hard time?”

  I shrugged. Truth was I could do anything I put my mind to, so long as I devoted my time and attention to mastering its application, and I told him so. As a young girl I could cause objects to levitate, and move from one end of the house to the other without walking or using doors. Life among mundane folks had replaced my changefulness with caution.