Sabine’s ghostly form stood before Porter, her face folded revealing a puffball top. Spores rose like smoke and Porter knew he could read her thoughts, “More,” she said “have more.”
Porter reached for the brimming vessel of sloshing green ichor.
Silas taunted, “Yes, yes, have more you fool. Do you enjoy being driven insane?”
Dead friends reached across the divide and through the veil.
“Don’t you get the joke? My soma was made from the destroying angel mushroom and you, the man called the destroying angel, is felled by such a simple thing.”
Porter drank another ocean of soma and made peace with all the dead. All the bandits and mobsters, all the ignorant and overly educated, all the horse thieves and foul souls that had crossed his bloody path. Even all the friends and loved one he had failed.
“No more! No more!” cried the demon-toad. “Stop, you’re taking too much.”
Porter shook the dead hands and despite the differences he knew he was forgiven, that no one on the other side held a grudge. He saw Sabine, Juma and even Bockkor and beyond reason knew it was all good. And he drank another ocean of soma.
“Impossible! Still he stands!” gasped the demon-toad. “Fetch my rifle, Joshua!”
Porter blinked, his stomach growled, agitated and erupted like the fountains of the deep.
Doctor Silas took but a mouthful of the ejected brew and promptly collapsed in convulsions.
Porter blinked and the room stopped warping long enough for him to draw his Navy Colt on Joshua and put him down like the dog he was. Doc Silas writhed one last time, twitched and went still.
Out the back door Porter found the Tonic wagon, still loaded with bottles of soma. He rode the horses hard around the block and cut the team loose at the last possible moment, letting the momentum carry the gaudy wagon through the doors of the saloon. He lit a cigar and threw the match inside. Flames licked over the wagon and bodies.
Porter puffed once and turned away. “Lord, I’m thirsty.”
Rolling in the Deep
San Francisco, 1855
A sharp hard rap at the door made the girl jump. She left her dutiful spot at the piano and crossed the parlor to peek out the window. A burly man stood there, not particularly tall but broad shouldered, very rough looking. His clothing was coarse. A gun was visible, its worn wooden handle leering from his woolen jacket. His hair was very long and dark, as was the beard. Glancing into the window he locked eyes with the girl. Volcanic blue, they seemed the eyes of a killer. Eyes that bore into her soul. She involuntarily gasped.
“What is it Ina?” her sickly mother asked, only looking up from her stitching because of the girl’s gasp.
Ina backed away from the window as another knock struck the door.
“Well, who is it?”
“A murderous looking gunslinger. He has long hair and terrible eyes.”
“Answer the door for him Ina.”
“Mother?”
“Answer the door.”
“Mother!”
“Answer the door.”
Ina went to the door and without looking at the strange man, opened it to him.
“Agnes?” he asked.
“Come in Porter. I’m afraid you scared my daughter. It’s been too long since she saw you last.”
He entered, watching the young girl who still wouldn’t meet his gaze. As he crossed the threshold, she disappeared down the hallway. “My apologies, Agnes. I just led a party through the Sierra’s and thought I would drop by and pay my respects.” Porter paused as he got his first gaze of Agnes.
She was wretchedly thin and bundled in the parlor with a scarf despite the relative outside heat. A bonnet upon her head did not conceal that the sickness had made her bald as an egg.
“What happened?”
“Typhoid. I lost my hair,” she said, running a hand across the phantom locks.
Porter sat across from her, removing his hat. He blushed, knowing it only magnified his own lustrous head of hair. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Doctor Howard said I was recovering well, but . . .”
Porter stood, putting his hat back on. “Where is a barber?”
“I can’t ask you to do that for me,” she protested.
“You didn’t ask Agnes.” He smiled like a grizzly bear, “I’m offering you a gift. I ain’t got any real money or gold dust yet, but I do have something else of value for you.”
She shook her head slowly, “No, if your hair be cut, you’ll be weak as a shorn Samson. Think of the promise you were given. Remember?”
“How could I forget? But a man has got to think of others, or what good is any talent he is given?”
“No, you can’t.”
He opened the door, looking back at the fragile woman. “Wheat! What kind of man would I be, to not help a widow in distress? I’ll be back shortly.”
Agnes argued again but he was already gone.
Only after his heavy jingling boot steps faded from the porch did Ina venture into the parlor. “Who was that terrible looking man?”
“He was a close friend of your late fathers. Appearances can be deceiving. As dark as he may appear, his heart is indeed golden.”
Porter returned not an hour later with a wig made from his own once flowing black locks. He placed it like a crown upon Agnes head.
She wept.
He rubbed the short bristling top of his own head, he had even allowed the barber to trim his beard to match.
“You look like a Caesar now,” said Agnes.
“And you look like a queen,” he said, giving her a lopsided grin.
“I cannot thank you enough. But now I’ll worry for your own well-being.”
“Don’t. Ain’t nothing gonna lay this old wolf low,” he laughed. “I’m gonna head on out now. There’s some other folks to give greeting too, maybe catch a drink.”
She frowned, “Porter, you really should abstain in your condition. I don’t want you slipping back into any bad habits.”
He smiled at her concern, “You take care. I’ll be heading out soon enough.”
“Porter, thank you. And take care, you hear?” With that he was gone and Ina returned again. A flash of realization crossed Agnes’s face. “Ina! He is going to the saloons. Follow him and tell him I said to stay away from any of them on Davis Street. Hurry child!”
Ina nodded and rushed out the door and down the porch. She could still see Porter as he strode up to Portsmith Square. She could catch him, if she wanted too. But she didn’t. She let him walk on and disappear into the swarming crowd. She went back inside and told her mother she had warned him.
Porter found himself on the corner of Davis Street and Chamber streets right near the water front. A sparkling newly painted sign advertising the Boston House saloon seemed inviting. He had avoided strong drink of late, but the temptation was overwhelming now, it uncoiled in his brain like a slow fire catching hold of oil. He went inside and ordered a whiskey.
A jovial red bearded man joined Porter at the bar. “Howdy friend, what brings you to town? You ain’t from around here are ya?”
“Nope.”
“I could tell. The haircut,” laughed red beard.
Porter rubbed a hand over his head again.
“You just do that?”
“Yeah.”
“I could tell. You a sailor?”
“Nope.”
“Name’s Kelly. This is my place and I like talking to everyone that comes in. I like getting the news of the world that way.”
Porter grunted and took another swallow of his whiskey.
“Allow me to buy you another round and tell me something interesting about yourself,” said Kelly, signaling to his barkeep.
“Now you’re talking,” said Porter. “What do you want to hear about? Crossing the Sierra’s?”
“Naw. How’s about that haircut? You got a pale neck, must have been pretty long before huh? Like an Indians.”
“Yeah sup
pose so.”
Kelly sneered, “Now why would a civilized man do a thing like that?”
Porter stared Kelly dead in the face and said coldly, “Whoever said I was civilized?”
Kelly gave a nervous grin.
“I cut it off for the Coolbrith widow. Had typhoid fever and needed a wig.”
Kelly slapped Porter across the shoulder, “We got us a real saint here. Another round on the house.”
Port grew more irritated by the moment at the boorish Kelly but found it hard to argue with free drinks. Soon enough he wasn’t really hearing Kelly anymore just a buzzing coming out of the ginger haired man’s mouth. But the free drinks kept coming and Porter indulged and indulged. He enjoyed himself winning a game of poker, then an arm wrestling match and finally a show with a fan dancer. He knew he had had too much but it was so hard to say no to free drinks. And they kept coming.
Until darkness took him.
A splash and mouthful of stinging seawater roused Porter from a throbbing headache. He knew in an instant it wasn’t the whiskey. It was the back of his head. A goose threatened to emerge full grown from the egg centered on the back of the skull.
His senses reeled and he sat up blindly looking about at the dark form before him. Struggling to his knees, he thought to pitch over one way then the other.
“Well, get up you scallywag!” ordered a shrill voice. “We’ll have no loafers on the Dagon, I can tell you that.”
“Dagon?” Port wrestled with his senses. With the cry of the gulls, he thought for a moment was still on the waterfront. But the heaving twist to and fro told him otherwise.
He was at sea!
“Up! You lubber, afore Captain Quinn takes the lash to ya!”
Grasping a solid rope that dangled near his swollen hand, Port pulled himself erect, still blinking like a newborn pup.
“You look to have a strong back. Get sobered up and we’ll have you assist with the rigging first. We’ll be coming about soon,” shouted the shrill voice. A bell rang out from somewhere behind and men’s voices chanted a gloomy sea shanty as they worked.
Daylight crept into Port’s eyes and looking in every direction, he saw naught but varying shades of blue as his eyes adjusted.
“I don’t belong here. I signed up for no ship. Let alone one with a godforsaken pagan moniker,” snarled Porter, toward the coming shadow he deemed must be the first mate.
It was not.
The butt end of a whip struck Port across the face. Uncoiling, the whip then struck his back, shredding his woolen jacket in three stinging bursts.
Porter felt for his guns and bowie knife but they were gone.
“I tell my men that we have the title of the original sea god Dagon. He even before Neptune,” said the captain. “It is an honor to serve his namesake.”
Porter thought that a truly bizarre thing to say, but kept it to himself.
“So I’ll not have sacrilege mocking my ship. As to your duty . . . I am afraid you have already been paid for your contract and services. And I can’t have you thieving.”
Porter retorted, “I signed no contract.”
“I have the document. Your X is here. Your beneficiary, a widow in San Francisco has been given your stipend. Overseen and witnessed by a Mr. Kelly. You now serve my ship for the duration of its voyage.”
Kelly! fumed Porter. He would revenge himself on that ginger headed devil. “I signed no such thing! I’ll have your stipend returned, but I serve no ship! And you will owe me for the whipping!”
Two towering sailors grabbed Port’s arms and held him fast. He remembered a time he could have easily thrown off the louts, but now he was weak as a kitten. The strength he had counted on had all dried out and he was at the mercy of Quinn’s cruelty.
The whip cracked and met Porter across bare flesh.
“You have no choice. We set sail at dawn, hours ago. We are bound for China, then Africa, England and finally New York. Then . . . we return to California. It will be two years. In the meanwhile, you serve my ship like every other man here. Or I, Captain Quinn, will shoot you like the dog you are. Men who shirk their duties don’t last long aboard the Dagon. Mr. Bolan!”
“Aye captain!”
“Show him to his duties.”
The first mate, Bolan helped tear off Porters ruined coat and shirt. “May as well throw those boots overboard, you shan’t use them here.”
Porter looked and near every other man was barefoot. But if he cast the boots aside it would be the same as giving up and accepting this dreadful turn of events and he couldn’t do that.
Bolan shrugged and showed Porter to his duties, and directed him in several demeaning yet necessary shipward tasks.
Cursing, Porter set about them as he studied and plotted how he would revenge himself and escape. There were several life boats, but Porter knew nothing of sailing, nor even how far he was from land any longer.
He learned that the Dagon was a clipper ship, bound for China to trade opium for tea. The crew were either aloof or cruel, three times he fought them that first night. He grimly had to accept he was the lowest man aboard the cursed vessel.
Over the course of the next few days, he typically found his meager amount of food tainted. Twice, men tried to knock him overboard and each time he fought back, he was given the lash. No amount of explaining would ease Captain Quinn’s whip. The man enjoyed inflicting tortures on the crewmen he disliked and Porter was foremost among them.
Porter lamented that he was in bondage like the Israelites of old and he too needed a deliverer. Being that there was no one he could expect to help him, he repeated inwardly 'Lord helps those who help themselves'. He learned all he could and after a couple of weeks he was assigned to be among the night watch for the pilot.
Hobbs, the old pilot, who was also new from California, took a shine to Porter. “I never heard you cry out when the captain whipped you.”
“Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But my teeth sure hurt from clamping them so hard,” Port answered, with a chuckle.
“Here’s the trick, Porter. You got to enjoy the sea, enjoy that you are here. Soon enough the captain will forget his displeasure with you. You’ll become one of the crew fully and someone else will be his whipping boy.”
Porter snarled, “I don’t live for someone else to be at the end of his whip.”
The old man shrugged, “I’m just saying make the best of the situation. You can’t change anything, so be happy with what you got. Learn from every heartache and bruise. Your time is gonna come. You are here for a reason. It’s fate.”
“I don’t believe in fate, but I appreciate a friend.”
Hobbs taught Porter to reckon the ships bearings by the stars and to use the compass. In time, Porter divined their course on his own and planned his escape into the busier sea lanes. He would find a way to return home.
Weeks passed and each day Hobbs taught Porter a little more, even giving him his old sextant. Being his only friend made the old man all the more precious to Porter. So when he didn’t see the old pilot on the twenty eighth morning of the voyage, he went looking.
A crowd was gathered about the bunkhouse. Porter pressed in.
“Hobbs’s is dead,” someone said.
Captain Quinn smirked as he looked Porter in the eye. “The ruler of the deeps claims another soul. Eventually, all of us will be in his watery thrall.”
Alone again, Porter went to the stern and contributed a single drop to the salt of the sea.
That night, Porter stood upon the heaving deck. Clouds roiling into a storm about to burst, seemed alive and malevolent. Darkness etched with lightning’s like a chalkboard, seemed to write his destiny with undecipherable glyphs.
Then Porter realized he was not alone upon the forecastle.
A cloaked figure stood, oblivious to the rolling of the ship upon chaotic waves as light rains fell. Surely this was not one of the Dagon’s sailors.
“Who are you?” Porter asked the darkly garbed fi
gure.
“The god of the waters,” came the ominous reply.
Furrowing his brow, Porter challenged, “What do you here upon this wicked ship?”
The cloaked man laughed, though Porter could not see his face. “Whose ship would this be, but mine if it is as wicked as you say?”
Unsure what the figure meant Porter inquired, “Are you . . .?”
“Perhaps,” interrupted the cloaked man.
“What do you want then?”
He laughed again, “I speak through this vessel. I was told I will not be allowed to claim your soul. But I prefer to test my boundaries and sure enough, every time I do, they expand. So despite you’re being a favored soul, I will take you here in the deepest parts of my dominion.”
Porter wondered at who could have said he was favored? Who would say such at his current condition? Why would this bizarre being want him? “You are but a vessel?”
“You are confused, good. To have knowledge would give you no comfort, only terror. Know this, I take what I wish. This is my world, my dominion. You have skated the line for too long and I lay claim to your soul.”
Lightning flashed and Porter thought he detected something physically familiar about the cloaked man, his gait and build. “You!”
“Take him!” ordered the cloaked man, as he threw back his hood. Captain Quinn’s cruel features became apparent, though there was glossy mad look to his eyes.
A score of blank-eyed crewman rushed from shadowy hiding places and struggled to take hold of Porter.
Porter grabbed the first thing at hand, Hobbs’s old sextant. With a firm grip, Porter swung the device, smashing jawbones and breaking free of their onslaught. He pushed them back, holding them at the forecastle steps for a mad and bloody minute.
It seemed the entire crew was now in the fray and would soon overwhelm his blows. Roaring his fury, Porter jumped to the deck and made his way toward the shroud lines. His fists never stopped slamming the sextant into his tenacious doglike foes. He felt a man’s skull crack as he punched and passed the skids reaching the shrouds. Porter leapt up the lines, but was pulled back before he made it more than three steps up.
Cold Slither: and other horrors of the weird west (Dark Trails Saga) Page 9
