by Alan Baxter
Graham Masters stands beside me, unseen by the others. He tilts his head at the barman. Impatient fucking ghost. “I’m looking for a fella goes by several names. Mind if I run ’em by you?”
The barman shrugs.
“All right then. Danny Calhoun?”
He shakes his head.
“Seth Cooper?”
Shake.
“Frank Gates?”
This time there’s a slight pause, and his eyes narrow just a bit before he shakes his head.
“Frank Gates?” I ask again, one eyebrow raised.
“I said no, dammit. I ain’t ever heard of no Frank Gates.”
The pretty young girl has stopped sweeping, watches us with a strange expression. Masters is virtually dancing on the spot. “He’s lying!” he says to me, like it ain’t obvious, even to the tables and chairs. Truth be told, I’m getting damned tired of this game, but my excitement rises too at this reaction.
I nod and stand up, tip my hat. “Much obliged, sir. Guess I’ll move along and keep looking.”
The barman seems relieved and smiles at me. “Good luck finding him.”
I turn to leave and walk slowly to the door, giving the barman plenty of time to pluck up the courage to ask the question that must be burning his lips to get out.
“Say, stranger.”
There it is. I turn back. “Yeah?”
“Why you looking for this fella anyway? You mean him harm?”
I laugh. “Shit, no. We have history. We go way back. I’m just looking up an old friend.”
His brow creases, eyes narrowed again. He doesn’t know what to make of that. I’m too young to be a pal of someone my daddy’s age. Eventually he shrugs once more. “Well, like I said, good luck.”
“Thanks.”
The sun is beating down outside, making me squint. “Back door or front?” I ask Masters, almost invisible in the brightness.
“Surely the back,” he says, vengeance clear in his tone. He’s at least as hungry for that now as he was for money in his life, I reckon.
“That’s what I thought.”
We stroll casually around the saloon, keeping to the shadows near the building walls, and peek around behind. Sure enough, the fat barkeep comes hurrying out, rolling up his apron and dropping it by the door as he waddles behind the other shops and slips away between them. I’m sure we’re close. I’m so near the quarry I think I can almost smell the bastard.
“Don’t lose him!” Masters barks.
I trot back around the front and turn the corner. It’s easy to see the fat barman, hurrying up the street. There’s not that many people yet in a frontier town like this, but you can see the potential of the place. It’s only going to get bigger, like so many others we’ve seen. Masters says San Francisco is a city that takes hours to walk across, with huge buildings of rock and brick. I can’t imagine a place like that.
The barman shouts and waves and a young boy runs across the street to him. There’s some frantic chatter and something changes hands, probably a coin, and the boy takes off north out of town like a rabbit running from a gunshot.
*
Old Jack trots along happily and I can see the young boy up ahead. There’s a property on the hill, just a small farmhouse, and I think that’s where he’s headed until he jumps bareback onto a horse out front and takes off again. He gallops north and I keep Old Jack in check, tailing him at a distance. There’s no point in giving myself away now I’m this close.
The kid rides hard for a good hour, grubby white shirt billowing in the wind of his gallop as his bare feet swing at the horse’s flanks. He heads into the hills and down a ravine with a river running along it. Masters is getting more agitated all the time, popping up and shouting at me about losing the kid, but it’s hard to keep up and not give myself away when there’s fuck-all but the two of us out here.
Sure enough, before we’re a half-mile into the narrow valley, I’ve lost all sight of the boy and his horse. I sit on Old Jack and curse. Masters is furious.
“You are one useless fucking idiot!” he yells. “What now?”
“I don’t know,” I say in a broken voice. It’s going to be dark soon, and the ghosts are coming back. Masters is getting worse at holding them away, and I can’t see the fucking point any more.
“Don’t you sink into some useless funk, you prissy child,” Masters says, his face an inch from mine even though I’m on horseback. “You start searching.”
The ravine doesn’t branch out, and it’s getting deeper. If the kid came through, it’s likely I can carry on and hopefully stumble across wherever he was headed. Follow the river and pray I find something before dark.
It’s slow going, picking along through the rock and scrub. Often we have to climb a steep bank and keep the river in mind by listening more than watching. We could go right by wherever the kid was headed and not even know it, but I don’t tell Masters that. He’s irate as hell all the time and only getting madder.
I’m tired, hungry and kinda scared, sagging in the saddle, when something pulls me up. Voices, drifting from somewhere. I hold Jack in a clump of trees and let him drink at the river. Once he’s safely tied, I have a drink myself. It’s at least as cold and fresh as it looks. Going quiet and careful on foot, it’s not long before a crackle of fire and the smell of cooking rumbles my stomach. There are men talking, not far away.
I can see down into the camp, six canvas tents and a big cookfire. Somewhere in here is Frank Gates. AKA Danny Calhoun and Seth Cooper. I settle down to wait for night. Time to finish this.
*
It’s nice to sit by the river until the dusk turns dark. Graham Masters is impatient to get moving. But it’s taken this long, so it can wait a little longer. Caution is the key here, or I’m liable to blow it and waste everything. Masters has ever been eager to get on with it and, if I’m honest, he’s often been a fairly unreliable companion. He’s caused me trouble more than once.
But it’s night, and I have a job to do. My heart’s beating fast at the thought. I could finally be here, at that point in my life where I can make my bastard of a father pay and shuck this burden from my shoulders. Tell my Momma he’s dead and buried; let her find some peace. Then maybe I’ll go back to that last town and talk to the pretty girl in the bar.
I creep down towards the tents. All prospector camps are like this; I’ve seen a few before. I hide in the shadows and watch as the men sit around the fire, eating and drinking and laughing too loud. I wonder if it’s to stem the disappointment of turning up nothing, or in celebration of the fact they’ve struck yella and know they’re going to be rich. Either way doesn’t bother me. I’m going to kill my daddy whether he’s rich or poor. Although pulling a few nuggets from the pockets of his corpse wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
The kid is curled up asleep under a big coat near the fire. There are four men, so I need to be careful. I don’t want to end up in a fight with them all. I’ve honed some skills these recent years, but even I can’t be sure I’d manage four on one.
Masters is clear beside me in the darkness. He squints into the gloom and a smile splits his face. “There he is!” He points to one fella and my chest tightens.
“You sure,” I ask.
Masters nods without looking at me. “Oh yeah.”
“Really sure?” I ask again, staring hard at him.
He turns his glare to me. “That’s Frank Gates.”
We watch a while longer. Nothing happens except more eating and drinking and then the men start heading for their tents, to bed early to get up with the dawn.
I keep an eye on Gates, staring hard at the man who seeded me for this world, who ruined my Momma’s life. He’s a rangy bastard, tall and skinny like me, but his hair is dark black where mine is sandy brown. He’s got a nose like an eagle’s beak, and that ain’t nothing like mine either. Nice to know I take after my Momma more than this sack of shit. He wears good clothes, though they’re dirty from prospecting, and his boots are finer
than any I’ve ever owned. Son of a bitch. I start preparing for what I’m going to say to him, and I brace myself for the possibility that I won’t have a chance to say anything. Ending him is the only important part of this.
And he starts heading straight for us. I catch my breath, shuffle back against the rocks and scrub where I’m hiding. No time to move anywhere else. He walks right past me in the shadows and I see his mean face, eyes set close together, black stubble making his cheeks dark in the night. He seems in decent shape, but I don’t reckon he’s close to as strong as I am. He walks between some trees into the gloom, and I can’t believe my luck.
Creeping like a cat, I follow. Franks Gates, as he’s calling himself, grunts and undoes his braces. He kicks a hole in the sandy ground, drops his britches, and squats, elbows on his knees.
“Don’t make a sound,” I whisper, as the cold steel of that Sheriff’s Colt presses against the skin of his neck.
He stiffens, but doesn’t move. A muffled cry of fright escapes his lips, bitten off as soon as it starts.
“Pull up your britches and move forward.”
He complies. I can see his hands shaking as he buttons his fly. He stumbles ahead of me, my gun barrel pressed to the middle of his spine.
“What do you want?” he whispers, his voice trembling with fear. “You want money? Gold?”
“Shut the fuck up, Frank Gates,” I say quietly, pushing him away from the camp. “That’s what you’re calling yourself now, right?”
“That . . . that’s my name, right enough. Who are you?”
“I’m the son you abandoned, you slimy piece of shit.”
“What?”
“The son of the woman you left, pregnant, poverty-stricken and a pariah. She couldn’t take it, the ridicule, the rejection. She’s a fragile bird, and you broke her mind, Frank Gates! Our lives, too!”
His shaking is visible all over, his knees knocking together, hands flapping by his sides. “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have a son. I have a wife and two daughters in San Francisco!”
That just makes me furious. “Is that right?” I almost yell. “Treat them a lot better than you did Momma and me, do you?”
His voice is hitched with tears, sobbing like a little girl. “I don’t know what you mean!”
“Turn around and face me, Gates.”
He stands there, back to me, shaking and sobbing.
“Turn your face to me, Pa!”
He turns slowly, hands raised. His face is twisted in fear, tears and snot shining in the darkness. I look around for Graham Masters, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Surely he wants to see this. My own hand starts to shake, the excitement of the situation is getting to me. Fuck it, I can’t put this off.
“Here and now you pay for what you did to us!” The flash and bark of the pistol is massive in the silent darkness, and a rush rips through me.
Franks Gates’ chest gouts blood as he staggers over backwards, my shot right through his heart. He’s dead before he hits the ground, and Masters comes running.
“Stop!” he cries. “It ain’t him!”
I can’t believe it. “Not again!”
“I lost you in the trees,” Masters says. “I tried to catch up, but I couldn’t find you. It ain’t him.”
My euphoria drains away like rainwater on sun-parched earth. I’m shaking all over. “I killed the wrong man!” I yell at Graham Masters. “Again!”
“I’m sorry, it’s so hard to tell. I’m a ghost, I don’t see real things as well as you do.” He sounds altogether too relaxed for my liking.
“You said you were sure. Just like you did when we found Danny Calhoun, and Seth Cooper!”
Something like a smile glimmers across Masters’ face, but it’s hard to see in the shadows.
I can hear voices shouting and people crashing through the brush. Those gossamer spectral haunts that dog me every night are lurking, reaching, groaning mouths wide in supplication. Are there three now?
“You have to go!” Masters says.
Confusion fogs my brain. “I killed another innocent man!”
Masters’ sudden grin is feral. “Part of you likes it!”
“What?”
He grabs at my shirt, dragging icily at my flesh as his hand passes right through me. “Come on! Don’t let them catch you.”
Is he laughing? I stumble over rough ground, heading back to where Old Jack is tethered. My mind reels, my heart hammers.
“Keep looking,” Graham Masters says. “It’s your turn now. You’ll find him next time, I’m sure.” There’s no sincerity in his tone.
I look at the ghost of my mentor in the darkness, and his expression is hard to read. “My turn? Next time?”
He nods as I untie Jack and swing up into the saddle. There’s a self-satisfied look about him, like a man who’s enjoyed his fill of a good meal. His eyes sparkle, and there are creases at the corners as he grins.
“It’s your time, boy,” Masters says. “Now you get to keep moving, keep looking for your damn pa, free as you like! Vengeance is a selfish business. And you better stay ahead of those night-time ghouls.”
“You sound like you ain’t coming,” I say, shivers wracking through me.
Masters just stands in the night, smiling at me. I can hear the other prospectors crashing closer.
“I need you to identify him!” I say, and curse how scared my voice sounds.
Masters leans his head back and laughs. “Boy, I have no fucking idea who your daddy is. Never did.”
His words echo in my mind and his laughter rings through the valley as I gallop away from the river and into the night.
The Old Magic
My youngest daughter never wanted to learn the way. Her daughter doesn’t even believe in it. What kind of world is it where a child doesn’t believe in magic? Though Claire is hardly a child any more, grown and beautiful. I remember her, last Beltane, shaking her head, Grandma, how are you seventy? You don’t look fifty!
It’s the old magic, I’d answered, and she’d laughed and swept away. Susan shook her head, my daughter altogether more sad in the face of her child’s innocence. Was it fear of the way that stayed her hand? Fear for her child? Her father’s words?
I reach out my hand to touch Gareth’s stone, caress the carved letters of his name. He reached a mortal seventy, then seventy-five. Then time took him in its embrace and carried him away, like so many before. The way is only so strong. Gareth had accepted that, enjoyed it. He would smile as I lay beside him, no need for pretence or disguise. How can you still love me, wrinkled and worn like I am. Look at you!
I would look into those moss green eyes and tell him the truth. It’s love, my sweet. The most powerful spell of all.
But it’s hard to be part of a world where enchantments are locked in electronic devices and everyone talks to each other all at once. After forty-five years with Gareth, I feel time like an anchor on my heart. There with all the others. Did Gareth’s love for Susan come to outweigh his love for me?
The grass under me is soft and fragrant, spongy to the touch. A gentle breeze drifts by, carrying the scent of honeysuckle and hope. I can hear and smell the ocean, out beyond the cemetery. It calms me as I recline against the sunlit trunk of a blue gum. How many have I loved and lost?
*
“You’re a special girl, Erin.” My mother stroked my hair, smiling at me with deep affection.
“Am I?” Five years old and full of love.
“Certainly. But I have to teach you, and you have to understand that your power is dangerous.”
The way was strong in those days. But it was fear and ignorance that made it dangerous, then, now and always. Those happy years while my mother taught me spells and potions, incantations and enduring days. Our tiny one-room wooden shack, a smoky fire always crackling in the hearth, was my world. Our scrubby herb garden behind it my playground. As I grew I ventured further afield, began to ply my mother’s trade. She healed with a master’s touch I tried to e
mulate, but back then I hadn’t understood. So many times since I’ve wondered, How old was she when the people turned on her? How many daughters were there before me?
When I was fourteen, my mother smiled as she stood tied to the stake, with the pyre stacked below. Her voice floated through my mind as I scowled, defiant in the crowd. Away now, Erin, before they realise you’re the same as me.
Our village elder had stood tall, official and superior, his voice ringing as clearly in my memory now as it did through that cold winter air. In this year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and eighty eight, despite the rulings of the modern world, this woman before you has been declared and proven a witch. We will not bear the Devil’s children among us.
More than sixty years since the last official Trial, supposedly protected by law instead of persecuted by it, yet these scared and superstitious fools acted as though they were the very hand of God. As the flames of their hatred touched the dry kindling beneath my mother, I ran, tears blurring my eyes. She was right, they would surely come for me next. I was old enough to be considered a woman. My mother’s lessons were deeply ingrained. I could only leave. So many times since then I’ve turned and left so much behind me.
I went south, across the border into England, claimed to be the orphan of a midwife and my path was carved.
*
I tip my face up to the summer breeze, let the aroma of life sooth me. Something that has never become stale, the pure scent of spring, life renewed. Life brand new. Gareth’s stone is warm against my back. I let the sun drench my closed eyes for a long time before turning my attention to the treasures before me.
I pour a generous dram of the single malt I’ve saved for so long. There comes a time when saving things becomes pointless, especially as they’re made to be enjoyed. The smoky liquor is bliss on my tongue. I pick up the expensive chocolate and take a bite, revelling in its creamy smoothness. The first time I married, solid chocolate had yet to be invented. I’m sure Barnaby would have been appalled at the idea. A gentle smile tugs at one side of my mouth as I imagine his disdain. Whisky and chocolate, woman! You spoil them both by combination. But it’s a special indulgence for me.
