When finally the dusk had come, the younger kids fell asleep and were brought upstairs by Ida, Giulia and Teresa. Paolo had vanished as always. He was probably at the tavern, totally drunk. When only Ida and Giulia were still awake, Jolanda eventually burst into tears. She couldn’t believe her mother was gone in such a crazy way. The two daughters made a chamomile tea for their mother and, together, they went to sleep.
Only Ida knew that nothing, from then on, would be the same. The Elves used to kill ten humans for each one of their soldiers who were murdered. Retaliation, they called it. Even if nobody knew Ida was the one who could use the power of nature, her very presence would endanger her loved ones. So, alone in the kitchen, she cooked herself an egg like her grandmother used to do. She ate it voraciously, thinking about how much Maria would forever be with her, like her dad and her other grandmother.
Ida put a headscarf on her head, some food in the basket and headed outside. In a quiet night, brightened a full moon, she gave a silent farewell to her childhood and her family. The freedom fighters would soon have a new member.
~***~
Fulvio Gatti is an Italian journalist, writer and global geek, author of graphic novels, nonfiction books and short stories published in Italy and France. As you read, he is taking his first steps as a writer into the English-speaking market. In the northwestern part of Italy where he lives he works as an event organizer, translator, radio speaker, and even deputy mayor of his town. Low is the Land is set in a fantasy version the real history struggle for freedom that happened in the wine hills of Piemonte during the late World War Two.
CALAMITY
EDWARD J. KNIGHT
Beth nearly dropped the water pitcher. The long-haired man at the parlor’s back table—it had to be him!
Fortunately, the pewter pitcher just slipped in her hand and she only sloshed water over her faded gingham dress. It’d dry fine, and if she held the pitcher just so, she could block anyone from seeing the wet splotch.
But no one else in the Astor’s crowded parlor, the finest boarding house in Golden City, Colorado Territory, had even noticed. The teamsters and traders and miners all ignored her and the other serving staff as if they were part of the decor. Which they were, she thought with a grimace.
So, since no one was watching, she took a longer look.
Yes! It was Wild Bill Hickok himself!
He had to be fresh from the front, fighting the giants, but it couldn’t be anyone else. His long brown hair curled about his shoulders, just like in the pictures. His eyes twinkled as he spoke with his companion, a plain-looking man in brown—
—no, a woman in brown.
Beth sucked in her breath and trembled. The woman wore a man’s white shirt with silver buttons under a brown buckskin coat. She’d tied her chestnut brown hair up into a small bun and she smiled at whatever Hickok had said. A Colt .45 rested on the wooden table near her elbow.
A woman! In man’s clothes!
The flush of imagined impropriety began to fill her cheeks, but Beth forced it down by looking away. Not that a woman in man’s clothes was really improper here in Golden City. There were too many war widows just struggling to make it on their own for there to be a good sense of what was improper.
But none wore men’s clothes. Well, Widow Genovese did when she was planting, but never when she came to town.
Beth steadied her nerves and looked back at Wild Bill and his companion.
And found them looking at her. The woman smiled, held up a glass, and gave Beth a meaningful look.
She took a deep breath and wound her way past the other tables of drinkers to them.
“More water, Ma’am?” she asked once she’d arrive.
“Beer,” the woman said. “I understand Mr. Lake received a shipment from Mr. Coors earlier this evening...?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Beth said, eagerly nodding her head. “I’ll fetch it for you immediately.”
“And ask Mr. Lake if he still has some of those raspberry muffins from this morning,” Hickok added.
“Yes, Sir.” Beth nodded once again and quickly headed for the kitchen.
Once through the door, she relayed the order to the cook and forced herself to take a deep breath. She had to talk to the woman. Had to!
She continued to calm herself until the cook gave her the muffins and traded her pitcher of water for beer. When she returned to the parlor she moved slowly so as not to spill a drop.
They smiled when they saw her approach. She carefully set the muffins down.
“Ah, good!” Hickok said as he eyed the muffins. He rubbed his hands together and slid his glass over towards Beth.
She poured slowly and glanced at the woman again. Her warm smile led Beth to steel herself.
“Uh, excuse me Ma’am,” she said. “Is that your gun?”
“Why yes,” the woman said. “Why do you ask?”
“They let you— I mean, you can...” Beth stopped herself and took a deep breath. “How’d you learn to shoot?”
“Practice,” the woman said with a chuckle. “Like anything.”
“But now you’re good, right?”
Hickok leaned over. “You’re what, young lady? Twelve?”
“Thirteen,” Beth said. “But that’s old enough!”
“That it is,” said the woman. She looked at Hickok. “I was fourteen.” She reached out and fingered the ivory handle of her pistol. Then she extended a hand to Beth.
“Calamity Jane,” the woman said as they shook. “And you are...?”
Beth started in surprise. Her too!
“Beth Armstrong,” she said. “My ma’s the laundress for Mr. Lake.”
“Ah,” Hickok said. “No pa?”
Beth shook her head and the familiar pang of grief grabbed her heart for a moment.
“But you want to shoot,” Hickok continued. “Let me guess, you want to be a gunfighter.”
Beth couldn’t hide her blush. She focused on filling their glasses and not spilling a drop.
“Why don’t you stop by my room upstairs later,” Jane said. “We’ll talk then.”
Beth nodded as the giddy smile drove her blush to an even deeper shade of pink.
~*~
Beth tried not to bound up the narrow stairs to the Astor’s second floor. Given the hour, it just wouldn’t do to wake any of the other guests, though she suspected few were yet asleep. The faint sound of Mr. Lake playing Chopin on the parlor piano followed her up the stairs and mixed with the coughing and snorting of the guest in Room 2. Foul tobacco smoke wafted out of the cracks around the door to Room 3, which she thought was Hickok’s. Beth trod carefully, avoiding the squeaky planks in the floor, as she made her way to Room 4.
Calamity Jane’s.
Beth’s heart raced as she lifted her fist to knock. She hesitated for just a long breath, and then rapped the door.
Instead of calling out, Calamity Jane opened the door.
“Why Miss Armstrong,” she said. “How do you do?”
“Well. And you, Miss... Jane?”
“Miss Jane will do fine. And I am fine, considering the circumstances. Do come in.” She stepped back to allow Beth to enter.
The room was well lit from an oil lamp on the short dresser. Like all the Astor rooms, the small space contained only a straw mattress bed, a dresser, and a simple chair. Most guests used hooks on the wall for their clothes and on one, hung a frilly pale blue dress.
A gorgeous dress. With white lace and silver stitches all down the sleeves.
“You like it?” Jane asked. “I don’t normally carry on with such impractical attire, but Bill says it will be good when we meet with the President.”
“You’re going to meet the President?” Beth asked, her eyes wide. “Oh, my.”
“We are,” Jane said with an exasperated sigh. “Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. We have to show him something.”
“You don’t like him?”
“I don’t like most politicians. But as I said, it can’t
be helped.” Jane sat on the bed and gestured toward the chair. “Now Miss Armstrong, what do you wish to know about gunfighting?”
“So much,” Beth gushed. “So much I don’t know where to begin.”
“Then one beginning’s as good as the next.” Jane smiled indulgently and tilted her head, waiting.
“What’s it like?” Beth asked eagerly. “Holding a gun? Shooting? Or fighting? How do you do it? It’s not like I don’t have some idea, but—”
“Now hold on,” Jane said with a chuckle. “One question at a time.” She rubbed her chin. “Have you ever even held a gun?”
“Only once,” Beth said, “when I was ten. But I didn’t have a chance to fire it. I was just keeping it safe for a minute.”
Jane chuckled again. “Well, then that’s the first step.” She pulled her Colt out, checked it, and passed it handle first over to Beth.
“Now unless you’re planning to use it soon,” Jane said, “you should leave one chamber empty and lower the hammer on that empty chamber. That way you can’t accidentally shoot your foot off.”
Beth carefully wrapped her hands around the revolver. She ran one finger down the cool barrel and hefted it slowly, feeling its unexpected weight.
“Flip the barrel out,” Jane said. “Here.” She took the gun briefly, demonstrated the flip, and passed it back to Beth. “See how that chamber is empty?”
Beth nodded and ran her thumb over the empty hole, and then over the backs of the other bullets. A small shiver ran up her spine. The room felt cool, despite the warm flickers from the lamp. She pushed the cylinder back into place and then wrapped her hand around the grip, with her index finger just to the side of the trigger.
“Now you want to sight down the barrel,” Jane said. “Don’t aim at me! Point it at the wall.”
Beth nodded and raised the gun. Her wrist trembled under the weight, but it was a good weight—a weight that felt right.
“Now—”
The door burst open.
A burly cowboy rushed in. He pointed a fat revolver at Jane.
“Don’t move!” he growled, surprisingly soft.
Jane and Beth both froze.
The cowboy stepped in and closed the door behind him. He glared at them. A jagged scar ran along his cheek and disappeared into his scruffy beard. He looked fierce and serious.
Beth’s pulse raced. She fought to keep her breathing calm, to not start panting or crying.
“Hand it over,” he said. With the barrel of his gun, he gestured toward the Colt in Beth’s hand.
Beth glanced at Jane, who calmly nodded. Reluctantly, she passed the gun to the cowboy, who jammed it in his belt.
Jane cleared her throat. “And what might we do for you, Mr...?”
“Smith,” he said reflexively, and then scowled when he’d realized what he’d done. “Just give me the Governor’s ledger.”
“Hickok has it,” Jane said calmly.
He grunted, and his eyes darted from Jane to Beth and back again. His gun wavered and sweat beaded on his forehead.
A quick knock sounded on the door before it opened an inch. Smith moved away and another cowboy with curly black hair poked his head in.
“Hickok’s gone!” Curly said, as Beth immediately thought of him. “Jumped out the window and took off!”
“Probably took the ledger with him,” Jane said. Her hands stayed firmly in her lap.
“Might’ve,” Curly said.
“Let’s go!” Smith said. He waved his gun at Jane. “You too. Move slow and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
“Leave the girl,” Jane said as she stood. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“She knows my name,” Smith growled. “She comes too.”
Jane carefully stood and gestured for Beth to do the same. Smith stepped to the side and indicated for them to lead the way.
~*~
They walked down the stairs without encountering anyone, to Beth’s surprise. It was almost a shuffle, with Curly looking around wild-eyed in front and Smith bringing up the rear with his gun pressed into the small of Jane’s back.
Beth couldn’t hear the piano, which unnerved her as much as the men did. Had something happened to her boss? They didn’t go into the parlor though—just hustled right by it and out the door. Wherever Mr. Lake was, she hoped he was safe.
Outside, the cold night air stung Beth’s cheeks and bare arms. Only a few lights spilled from the Astor, and the nearby buildings were dark. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the bright moonlight as the cowboys pushed them along, up the road, into the mountains.
Beth stumbled on a half-buried stone, but Smith pushed them on. He cursed and slapped the back of Jane’s head. She started to swing back with her elbow but cut it short when he pressed the gun firmly into her back.
Ahead of them Curly hustled up the street, his head darting side to side. He looked back.
“Keep up, will ya?”
Smith shoved Jane and growled at Beth. “You heard ’em.”
They left the last building behind and the road meandered around a curve in the hill. The night wind picked up, and Beth shivered.
Don’t give into fear, she thought. Don’t give in.
She’d survived worse, when the giants collapsed the cabin on her and killed her Pa. She could survive this. She just needed to keep her head.
But her heart still threatened to pound so hard as to leap out of her chest.
Curly froze. His head popped up like a prairie dog and then he yelled. “I see him!” He took off running up the road.
“Go on ahead,” Jane said to Beth. She nodded up the road.
Beth took a deep breath. There was something in Jane’s eyes, something she wanted to say. She couldn’t, though, not with Smith pushing the gun in her back.
Beth ran.
Her legs wobbled like rubber. They held, though.
She kept her eyes on the road, making sure each step was sound so she wouldn’t fall. The dirt crunched under her steps.
Behind her, Smith shouted and cursed. Jane yelled. Beth lowered her head and forced her legs to move faster.
And then the gunshot.
She skidded to a stop and turned.
Jane and Smith seemed to be in a clench, almost an obscene dance in the moonlight, distant town lights silhouetting them against the sky.
But then Jane slid to her knees and toppled to her face.
Smith jumped back, a gun still in each hand, a look of shock on his face. His own was held high. Jane’s—pulled from his belt—still pointed at the fallen woman.
He recovered quickly. With a jerk, he leveled both guns at Beth. “Come back here, girlie.”
Eyes wide, Beth just stood, until he growled and cocked the guns. Slowly, she trudged back toward the killer.
He glared at her, but then looked down at Jane’s body. “Killed with her own gun,” he said with a smirk. He shoved the Colt back into his waistband but kept his own revolver pointed at Beth. He gave her an evil, wolfish grin.
Beth froze. Her knees locked. She struggled to breathe.
“C’mon,” he said. He waved his gun. “I won’t hurt ya if you do as you’re told.”
He’s lying, Beth thought. She glanced around—the few scraggly pine trees near the road stood too far back. He’d shoot her down if she ran.
She took a deep breath and took a step toward him. Then another. Then another. Slowly, as her legs failed to collapse, she made her way forward.
Near Jane’s body, a small fog formed. Grey, and almost transparent, it slowly stretched up and solidified.
Beth’s eyes went wide.
The fog took the form of a person, with arms and legs and a head. Slowly the features filled in, becoming a face.
Beth gasped.
Calamity Jane.
Her ghost, actually.
The ghost stared down at her body. She put her hands on her hips and frowned.
“C’mon!” Smith called. He didn’t seem to notice t
he ghost standing right next to him.
He can’t see it, Beth realized. He doesn’t know.
To her surprise, she felt calmer. She picked up her pace but paused about three feet from the body and the ghost.
Smith sneered at Beth. “Search the body,” he said. “Make sure she doesn’t have any pages of the ledger on her.” He stepped back, out of reach, to give her room.
Beth knelt. Her heart still pounded. Her eyes darted from Smith to the ghost to the body. She gently put on hand on the corpse’s back and checked on Smith. He was watching the road ahead more than her.
She looked questioningly at the ghost. It pointed urgently toward the body’s right boot.
Beth nodded. Smith’s eyes were on her again, so she made a show of patting down the corpse’s back and sides. She tried not to vomit—the body was still warm, but the smell of the released bowels stank up the air.
She inched her hand down, slowly, over the hip, down the thigh. She took deep breaths to suppress the trembles in her arms. When she glanced at the ghost, it still pointed at the boot.
They heard yells from up the road and Smith’s head jerked that direction. Shots followed.
Beth jammed her hand into the boot. Her fingers wrapped around the handle of a small derringer.
She yanked it out and pointed it at Smith. She squeezed the trigger.
It clicked on an empty chamber.
Smith had been looking down the road, his revolver pointed in that direction, but he instantly snapped his eyes down and pointed his own gun at her.
“Well,” he drawled. “It looks like the girl’s got some spirit. Too bad.”
Beth pulled the trigger again.
The bang surprised her. The kick of the gun, too. Her arm flew back and, startled, she fell.
Smith’s eyes went wide. His gun slipped from his fingers and clattered to the dirt. Crimson red blood soaked his shirt.
He collapsed into a lifeless pile.
Swords, Sorcery, & Self-Rescuing Damsels Page 20
