Lawless Lands: Tales from the Weird Frontier

by Emily Lavin Leverett

  Once seen, it could not be unseen: too many parts to be even three or five men. Seven at least, perhaps more.

  Ham gagged, bile rising and splattering on the ground as though he’d never seen dead flesh before. Abner muttered at him, shoving a kerchief at his mouth, then looked to Old Yosef, whose expression had not changed.

  Old Yosef had served in the army when he was young; he had seen men die before.

  “We heard them come, and we readied our arrows and our staffs. If this was to be a raid, we would meet it as warriors. But they did not enter the village. And then the screaming began.” Sweeps Water looked at him then, and rather than the fear or rage he had expected, Gershon saw only exhaustion and sorrow.

  Something acrid burned in Gershon’s stomach. “Your village was not harmed?”

  “None within came to harm,” Strong Knee agreed, but his voice did not say this was a good thing.

  “There is blood in the bones now,” the young man said, and Sweeps Water shot him a glance that clearly told him he spoke out of turn. The young man did not care. “Spirits linger where the bones are blooded. And we do not know their families, to bind and release them.”

  “A thing destroyed them,” Sweeps Water said to the men of Shaaré Tikvah. “You know of this thing.”

  Gershon forced himself to look at the remains of what had been men, once. “I do not know for certain.” He had seen nothing, could say nothing for certain. The figure had been gone, but that did not mean it had walked on its own. “I asked our god for aid, to protect us. And our neighbors.”

  They had asked before. Endlessly, before, and the only answer had been in broken bones and burnt homes, in suspicion in the eyes of neighbors.

  A muscle jerked in Sweeps Water’s jaw, and something in his eyes changed. Gershon did not look away. “If in doing so, we have given offense in some way…”

  The air stilled between them. He could offer no more chickens, no more calves, reminded once again how precarious their lives were, even here. Forever at the mercy of those who had no reason to choose mercy. Strong Knee had allowed them to build here, but Gershon had done more.

  Would this home, too, be taken from them?

  “The thing of clay you shaped. The creature of the bones and dirt.”

  Gershon swallowed, feeling the men behind him still once again, for different reasons this time. “Yes.”

  Sweeps Water studied him. “You worked medicine for us.”

  He had not; he had only petitioned HaShem. But Gershon merely nodded. What did the details matter? They had meant to help, had meant to share what little they had with those who had given them everything. He had not thought it would be unwelcome.

  “This one was correct: the bones are blooded, and we do not know their names.”

  Gershon heard what was said: They could not honor those who had come against them. This land was beautiful, but it was strange, the people it made were strange, and his fingers touched the fringe under his vest, his lips moving in silent prayer that he might be given better understanding.

  “This is gratitude?” Ham burst out, and Gershon turned to snap at him to be silent, but old Yosef’s elbow landed in Ham’s ribs first.

  “Be silent, fool,” Old Yosef told him in the language they no longer used in this place, the syllables odd under the weight of open sky and heavy pine, and as though summoned by it, Gershon felt the regard of something silent, measuring and thoughtful.

  “It watches us,” Sweeps Water said, and both Strong Knee and the young man at his side tensed: they had not felt it, either. Gershon did not look at the men behind him, afraid to break Sweeps Water’s gaze, afraid to see what watched them from the shadow of the pines, hands wet with the blood of men.

  “It is a guardian,” Gershon said, searching for a word that would explain and finding none. “It will not harm you.”

  The other man’s eyes narrowed, the dark markings around them only emphasizing his expression of—not doubt, but consideration. “So long as we do not harm you.”

  To live unharmed, unmolested, unthreatened. All they had looked for, coming to this new land. So many times before, they had called for help and been unanswered. Here, in this place, HaShem had answered. Gershon felt the weight of what watched on his skin, and his fingers fell away from his fringe. “I think… it did not see a difference between us.”

  But there was. A vast gap, that all the good will in the world could not bridge.

  Sweeps Water closed his eyes, his stern expression not slackening, but softening, slightly. As though he also felt what Gershon felt, both the weight and the gap.

  In Strong Knee’s face there was no suspicion, no anger; only sadness, and waiting.

  “These grounds will need be cleansed.” There was a command in those words, and a request, and Gershon bowed his head before them both, the acrid taste in his mouth softened by the faint mint of hope.

  Two days later, Gershon returned to the creek bed. His shoulders and elbows ached, and his skin was bruised from kneeling, his tālēt fringe smudged with ash and soot from the offerings they had burned. It had been a small satisfaction when he saw how certain things rested comfortably against each other as they burned, rather than knocking each other aside.

  Perhaps he was wishful; perhaps it was a sign. He was no mystic, to tell such things. But he clung to it, nonetheless.

  Ashes into the ground and ashes into the wind. He would not compare it to the burnt offerings made at the Temple, in better days of better men, and yet he could not help but remember how the wind had swirled, dust sparkling in the morning light. Strong Knee’s people were satisfied, Sweeps Water’s eyes less shadowed.

  But there was one thing left yet to be done. A thing only he could do.

  “Bo elaiki anokhi yatzartikha. Come to the one who shaped you.”

  He waited, and it came to him, shoulders rounded by weight, hands restless, but face implacably still, eyes dull and feet a dry shuffle. It came to him, misshapen by man’s hands but glorious within. “Thank you,” Gershon said, then reached into its hollow pit of a mouth, and with two fingers removed the scrap of paper from within.

  The youngest son of Deer Walking found him there, hours later. The boy dropped to a crouch, small hands touching the lumps of clay where they had dried and cracked on the riverbank, as though something sloughed them off on its way back into the water.

  “They argue, over the fire,” the boy said. “Over what you did.”

  “I know.” Gershon had not gone to the village; none of Shaaré Tikvah had, waiting once more to be welcomed, before they would presume.

  “Sweeps Water spoke with the winds. For three nights. He has never spent that long with the winds before, and when he came out, his eyes were like an eagle’s.”

  Gershon had no idea what that meant.

  “It’s gone now, isn’t it? The thing you called.”

  The clay seemed to mock him, inert in a child’s hands. “Yes.”

  “Many are angry. But Sweeps Water said that,” and he was clearly repeating words he had overheard, “only fools refuse a hand that lifts them from the ground, or shields them from a blow. And that this guardian… we might have need of it, again.”

  Gershon cast his eyes down, a prayer of relief releasing from his heart. “Then we will ask, again.”

  The boy considered that, thoughtful. “And if the answer is not yes?”

  Gershon could only shrug, helpless before the Power that shaped them as the clay was helpless before him. “As HaShem and the winds will it,” he said.

  7

  Trickster’s Choice

  Jo Gerrard

  "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, come and feast your eyes on the doubly unbelievable! Not just a beast in human form, but a li-ving, brea-thing, double myth. Just two bits and you can step inside to see this horr-i-fy-ing crea-ture with your very own eyes!"

  They shuffle in, wide-eyed rubes clutching each other or the toys they've won at the games, those lucky enough to be
so favored by fate or an easy carnie. I can see them through the sheers, carrying dust along with their curiosity. Rhianne hustles them in; she'll hustle them out. I sit on the converted workbench, nearly as naked as the day I was born, a fine piece of sheer over my crossed legs, and wait for Rhianne to finish the familiar spiel, for the drapery serving as curtains to fall. And then sit there for several heartbeats longer. Got to give them what they paid for, after all, a look at my tits before my little trick.

  The change is simple at first. My ears elongate toward the top of my head. Antlers break through my skin with a fine mist of blood as the crowd gasps, and my jaw begins to shrink toward my neck and narrow. The distance between my eyes widens; dun and white fur sprouts all over my body.

  I grab the sheer when the pain rises from zero to "the gods aren't listening" and flip it up to cover me from antler-tips to mid-thigh. I never quite black out, but I never remember the change.

  At last I shake off the sheer, still sitting on top of the workbench, my long ears on either side of a four-point rack, of which I'm rather proud. Scattered chuckles or outright thunderstorms of laughter follow. On rare occasions someone faints, though I blame the heat trapped in the tent from the sun and the dozens of bodies passing through rather than overexcitement or fear. I'm not exactly threatening. I use my powerful hind legs to hop from one end of the table to the other before jumping off and darting through the gap in the rear curtain.

  No one ever complains they didn't get their money's worth. I'm the double unbelievable all right: were-jackalope. And I play this show three times a night, except during full moons, wherever we're stopped.

  What can I say? It's a living.

  Rhianne counted the night's take, her deft hands half a shade darker than the copper coins she moved in arcane patterns. I burnished my nails, watching her. Pedro's sharp knock on our wagon door announced him like a desert squall. Which was good, because he never waited for an invitation to enter; I half-figured he hoped to catch us canoodling one of these days.

  "A good night, then?" I asked, watching the reflection of his florid face in the piece of silver-lined glass serving as my mirror, worried his scowl might shatter the glass. Silver-inflicted wounds take forever to heal.

  He grunted. "Not so good," he said, with a glare for Rhianne, who kept counting, undisturbed by the interruption. "The police just left the box office. There are complaints against you."

  He leaned against Rhianne's table. She subtly moved our funds away from his hands; he already had his share of our take, but no sense taking chances. She wouldn't have worried about any of the other freaks.

  "Their preacher swears we've a Wilding among us. Namely, you."

  He watched my reaction, hard eyes narrowed. I rolled my eyes, shifted away from him in my chair.

  "That's ridiculous and you know it," I said, fully aware he knew no such thing. "But we don't want to bring you no trouble. We can scout ahead while the rest of you stay."

  I heard Rhianne's soft sigh. Pedro shook his head. I closed my eyes and counted while he spoke.

  "We hain't enough food or water to move on, and we've got three wagons down thanks to that last river crossing." Two axles to be repaired and a cracked wheel. Rhianne was an occasional strong woman and all-time wainwright. "So either you show them how ‘the trick' is done or they take our goods and only run us out of town if we're lucky. Or we give you over to be strung up and hope they don't burn down the show to be sure they've got 'the wickedness' out." He leaned over my shoulder, leered at my reflection. "I suggest you show them ‘the trick.'"

  He left, slamming the wagon door behind him before I had a chance to answer. I scrubbed my hands over my face like I could wash away the sick flash of panic his words carried. Fear, like fleas on a dog.

  "We've been in Bluestown before, haven't we?" Pedro was a lecher, but the life I had now was miles and away better than anything I'd known since...well, since ever, really.

  "Places change," Rhianne said, pushing a stack of bits my way and leaning back to light a cigarillo. "What are we going to do?"

  "I don't know." Some places, the preacher wasn't so honest and could be bought off with coin or flesh. I'd heard talk around the chuck wagon, though, and this town had a woman with hellfire and brimstone right up to her eyeballs and the determination to drive out sin. Pedro had got us a pass from her because we were a mid-winter show and the people were gasping for entertainment like a fish on land gasps for water. I couldn't slip away in the night and leave Rhianne alone with Pedro, neither. Couldn't leave Rhianne, period.

  But revealing myself as a Wilding, even here in the western desert I'd always called home, was beyond foolish. Nobody'd forgot the way the forty-niners woke the mountains, sent magic tearing through the world, ripping everything open like the end of days. We Wildings had been here before and since, but there was no telling history to people who'd decided different was dangerous. And dangerous had to be cut, hanged, or burned out, full stop.

  Rhianne's work-callused hand covered mine, warm copper over cool sunstone. I looked up at her, though I felt like my throat was stoppered up good and solid with a cork.

  "We'll work something out."

  I nodded, sure she could see the turmoil in my eyes. Feeling the cork sink deeper because I could see love and confidence in hers. A thought occurred to me, a tale of star-crossed lovers and an oddly detailed ritual whispered among my mother's people after the children were abed. A might-be, a could-be, a devastating possibility.

  A way out. A way to stay with Rhianne, to stay in Pedro's good graces, to stay alive. But mostly not to lose Rhianne, the one truly good thing I'd ever found in almost thirty years of living.

  She cocked her head, studied me. "You've thought of something?"

  "Maybe. I need some herbs from Cook, though. Some of those nails you bought at the last stop." I hesitated. "Sharpened silver. A snare rigged to catch, not kill. And your drum. I'll need to dance."

  Wheedling the necessary herbs from Luis, the cook, wasn't too difficult. He came from bayou country, and I’d figured correctly that he'd spent most of his take on spices from home. The nails weren't too tough, either; Rhianne had stored them with the rest of her kit in the heavy trunk in our wagon. She was good with snares, too, I knew that much, good with her hands in trapping as she was in so many other things.

  The problem was the silver. I didn't need much, just a coin would do, as long as it was sharp enough to break skin. Rhianne recalled the way a train’s rolling wheel could crush a penny, which gave me the idea of a brick and one of Giselle the stunt rider's still-shod horses. We lost three silver to the effort, but the fourth nicked Rhianne's thumb when she went to pick it up.

  None of us were much pleased at the ruination of silver coins, but needs must when the devil drives.

  We thanked Giselle and went back to our quarters to wait for full moonset, which wasn't going to happen for another three or four hours. We filled the time with each other, and then Rhianne napped.

  I couldn't sleep, but I kept her company on our narrow bed anyway.

  Just like I knew when the full moon was about to rise, I knew when the thumbnail-waning moon had set; I nudged Rhianne. She sat up.

  "We need whiskey."

  I grimaced. "You know I won't touch the stuff." Old stories about the best way to catch the jackalope side of me. Nonsense tales at best, though alcohol calls who it catches.

  "Okay, then I need whiskey." Rhianne hardly drank, and I couldn't begrudge her. So I pulled myself out of bed and let her fetch her drink while I carefully wrapped my supplies in the bit of sheer from the act. Rhianne was going to have to support us both for a little while, until I felt up to joining the dance again.

  If this worked. If I didn't kill myself trying.

  We walked out into the desert a ways, through scrub and across stone. Our hands bent toward each other, not actually touching, not even out here where only the stars and the sagebrush and any passing animals could see us.

  When
I was satisfied we were far enough away, but not so far I couldn't see the dark bulk of the Big Top blocking the stars on the horizon, I spread out the sheer and its contents while Rhianne set three snares before unwrapping her drum and smoothing her hand over its skin the way I always imagined she'd caress a fussy infant. She started to tap the thin horsehide with her thumb and pinkie, her broad palm initially muffling the sound.

  Like a heartbeat rising up in the dark womb of the desert.

  I let my hips sway, my feet take measured steps on the sheer, and wound two of the nails into my hair so they stood up right where my antlers would have been. The iron scratched at my scalp but didn't quite pierce the skin, even as my movements shifted broader and my feet led me in a circle.

  The silver coin with its fierce edge rested inside a bowl with Luis' spices and some flash paper I'd tried using in the act once, until I’d decided singed whiskers weren't a good look.

  Fire and fatal silver would be at the heart of my salvation. Or undoing.

  Rhianne's fingers picked up a quicker rhythm. My feet carried me along the edge of the sheer, faster now over the coarse fabric and the uneven ground, the scent of crushed sage rising each time I set a foot down. The stars were a thousand scattered mirrors above, reflecting my own light back at me.

  I whipped around like old Haku, Pedro's dervish, a prayer to the Mothers and any other god who might hear me in my heart and radiating off my skin like sweat, my feet moving in evermore intricate steps and the only clear word in my head a please.

  Please.

  The head of one of the nails bound in my lashing hair caught me just below my eye, drawing a crescent of blood. I pulled out the match, struck it across the tip of my thumbnail and tossed it into the bowl.

  Everything stopped.

  Rhianne's drumming, the scent of the sage, the stars suddenly frozen without a twinkle in the deep distant sky. Even the plume of smoke from the paper, normally as there-and-gone-again as the nitrocellulose itself, lingered heavy and gray just inside the rim of the bowl.