by Weston Ochse
“Calamity told me. If I remember right, she once owned it. She used it against the Wic Wac Man, but that’s another story entirely. All I know is that if anyone would know where it is, she would.”
Matt sat up a little straighter. “Then we can go ask Calamity!”
“That’s not as easy as it sounds,” Jacket put in.
Matt looked over at the spirit. “Why not?”
The Christmas Witch placed one hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Calamity Jane’s been dead for more than a hundred years, Matt.”
His expression fell. “Then how—”
The Christmas Witch’s gaze cut toward Jacket. “I bet Jacket knows.”
“Whoa, there,” Jacket said. He held up a hand, like he could stop everything with that one simple gesture. “I am not involved in this. My vote was to get the little fella back to his mom, remember?”
“You’re more involved than you know,” the Christmas Witch told him smartly. “Do you want to end up like your friend, Mr. Petrovsky? His ward is falling into the hands of a bad man and nothing he does seems able to influence her.”
“But that’s totally different.” Jacket crossed his arms across his chest and seemed as immovable as a mountain. “That girl has lost all hope. Raisin’s tried hard as he could, but she just won’t listen.”
The Christmas Witch shook her head. “That doesn’t matter in the end, and you know it. When it’s all over, she’ll grow up with more problems than she can deal with, and your friend will lose his soul.”
“But—”
“But nothing. You are Guardian Spirits and your duty is to guard.” Her tone of voice made it clear there was no use arguing.
Jacket’s face contorted into a dozen emotions, each struggling to show the ire that he felt until his facial features finally melded into desperation. “But you said the boy needs a flesh and blood adult to watch out for him. Even if I do decide to help, you still need to find some other schmuck.”
“No. I think I’ll stick with the schmuck I have.”
“What?
“I’m not called the Christmas Witch for nothing,” she said, wiggling her fingers in the spirit’s direction. “I’ve been known to give a few presents throughout the years.”
“You mean that you could make me whole again?”
“Something like that.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I thought it was obvious.”
“Wait,” Matt interrupted. His voice was high-pitched and concerned. “What’s going on?”
Jacket ignored him. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, speculation seeping into the intelligence of his ghostly eyes, “I don’t know where Calamity is, but I saw Wild Bill this morning over in Deadwood. If there’s anyone who would know, Bill would.”
“Calamity?” Matt looked from Jacket to the Christmas Witch. “Wild Bill?”
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “he just might.”
“What kind of name is Calamity?” Matt asked.
The Christmas Witch grinned. “It’s not a name, it’s a condition.”
“More like an act of nature,” added Jacket.
Feeling chastised for his grammar, Matt rolled his eyes and sighed. “Then what does the word mean?”
Jacket only grinned. “Disaster,” he told Matt. “Calamity means disaster.”
XI
IT RISES FROM THE GRAVE
The sun had dropped below the lip of the canyon an hour before, making the temperature on the canyon floor considerably cooler. Shadows embraced the ridge, flowers closing for a cool night’s rest. Matt shivered, the goose bumps on his arms not entirely the result of the twilight.
Before him stood the Christmas Witch. She wore the same clothes she’d worn earlier, but she’d added a few things. A strip of red tinsel garland was wrapped around her neck like a scarf and perched atop her head was a black pointy hat. One hand held a long candy cane.
She noticed his wide eyes. “I am the Christmas Witch, after all,” she pointed out. “And if there’s one thing that us witches pay attention to, it’s tradition.”
Matt nodded and gulped.
“Now is the Twilight Time,” she said solemnly. “A time of change. Twilight is where the light of day shades to the darkness of night. It’s neither light nor dark. Neither good nor evil. Twilight Time is the perfect time for spelling.”
Spelling? thought Matt. As in M–O–U–S-E?
“No, spelling as in A–B–R–A-C-A-D-A-B-R-A.”
Matt jerked when the Christmas Witch answered his unspoken question. “And all spelling requires a promise and a sacrifice.”
“A promise?” Matt asked.
“A sacrifice?” Jacket asked.
“Yes, “she said, walking over to Jacket. “A promise. Now, I have a promise to make to you, Mr. Johnson. Through the spelling of the Christmas Witch of Cleghorn Canyon, you will become flesh and blood once again, and for a period of twenty-four hours you will be a solid guardian to Matt Cady. At the end of that period, you will die once more and be judged.” She moved her hand and the flesh seemed to fade a little. When she placed it atop Jacket’s forehead, he gasped. “This I promise,” she said, her head down.
Several seconds passed. Finally she raised her head and turned. Matt realized he’d been holding his breath the entire time, and he let it out through clenched teeth. This was it—she was about to cast the spell.
“Almost,” she murmured. “First there must be a sacrifice.”
“About this sacrifice,” Jacket said. He took a nervous step toward Matt. “I don’t think it’s a goo—”
His words were cut off as the Christmas Witch suddenly shouted a word and twisted her candy cane. Jacket froze in mid-stride, unable to move.
“This is not about Mr. Johnson,” the Christmas Witch said sternly. “This is about you, Matt Cady. This sacrifice is to be your decision, not your guardian’s.” Seeing Matt’s terrified expression, she added, “And don’t go worrying about him. He’s perfectly fine. I’ll be returning him to normal as soon as we’re done.”
“So he’s not…?”
“What? Dead? Mr. Johnson’s been dead for more then twenty years. But he’s perfectly fine as a spirit. I just froze him with a spirit spelling. Spirits are much easier to affect than people, you know. Not as much to deal with.”
“So he’s okay?”
“Yes, Matt. Your guardian’s okay. Now, on to your sacrifice. This will be the fuel for the spelling. And for a spelling of this type we’ll need a powerful sacrifice. Give me your hands.”
Matt stared at his fingers and imagined her removing them one at a time and adding it to a witch’s pot. He clenched them to fists and hid them behind his back.
She smiled slightly. “No, Matt, I don’t want your fingers. I want your memories. I want you to give me the most important memory you have.”
Matt’s fear switched to relief and he even managed a smile of his own. “All you want is a memory?”
“Yep. That’s all.”
“It doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“What doesn’t hurt?”
“Taking it out. I mean—”
“No,” chuckled the Christmas Witch. “We don’t use any knives or saws or power tools of any kind. In fact, not only will you not feel a thing, when I’m all done, you won’t even know what I did. All we’re going to do is hold hands while you think of your happiest moment.”
“And then you take it?”
“And then I take it.”
“And then I can go find the War Shirt?”
“Yes, then you can go find the War Shirt.”
“Okay,” Matt said, pulling his hands from behind his back. He opened them, palms facing upward.
The Christmas Witch slid her candy cane through a loop in her pants and placed her hands atop his. She squeezed gently and stared into his eyes.
“Now, think of the thing you love the most. Take us to the place where you were the happiest.”
Matt thought about bir
thday parties and swimming pools. He thought about cakes and ice cream. He thought about the time he’d come out of his bedroom to find his parents drinking hot chocolate beside the Christmas tree, under which a shiny new Big Wheel had been waiting for him to climb aboard.
None of these were his favorite memory, though. Suddenly his mind crystallized upon a single event. He stood on a baseball field, a bat in his hands. His father stood atop the pitcher’s mound. Matt replayed the memory and watched as he closed his eyes, afraid to get hit by the ball. Again and again, he flinched in fear.
His father did another Dizzy Dean wind-up and threw the ball in a looping arch directly toward him. Matt’s eyes widened, then slammed shut as the ball crossed the plate untouched.
His father sighed audibly, and that small exhalation of breath hurt Matt more than any slap. He couldn’t stand it when his dad got frustrated with him. Matt so much wanted to impress his dad, show him that he was the best son in the universe. His eyes found the ball as it once again rolled to a stop at his feet.
“Listen. Even if you do get hit by the ball, the pain won’t last.” At Matt’s dubious look, his father continued. “Really—you aren’t gonna die playing baseball, son.” His dad strode from the mound and came to him. He put an arm around Matt’s shoulder. “Let me tell you what my father told me. In fact, his father told him the same thing. You can think of this as our family secret, okay?”
Matt nodded but couldn’t meet his dad’s eyes.
“This is the truth passed down three generations to you. You never know what life is gonna throw at you. You just need to be brave enough to step up to the plate and take the pitch. If life throws you a beaner, just get back up, wipe your tears, dust yourself off, and swing at it again.”
“You mean get hit?”
“Sure? Why not? Heck, I’ve been hit dozens of times and look at me. Still standing, still breathing, still smiling.”
Matt really wanted to hit the ball. Even a foul into the third-base bleachers would be better than nothing.
“So, you ready to try again?”
Matt nodded. He ground his teeth and tightened his grip on the bat once more as his father returned to the pitcher’s mound, then prepared for his wind-up.
Hit the ball. Hit the ball. Hit the ball.
The chant filled his head, displacing all of his fears as his dad pitched the ball.
Take the pitch. Take the pitch. Take the pitch.
When the ball crossed the plate this time, he didn’t close his eyes. He didn’t flinch. With a stopped heart, he lowered the bat. It wasn’t a real swing, but that didn’t matter. What did matter was the gratifying sound of the ball meeting wood, followed almost immediately by a whoop of joy as his father leapt out of the way of a worm-burner that shot through his legs.
Joy replaced fear. The thrill of hitting the ball dismantled his terror. Matt couldn’t help giggle as he watched his dad do a little jig on the pitcher’s mound, his laughter proud and loud—
Then it was gone.
The Christmas Witch released Matt’s hands and, once again, pulled out her candy cane.
“There. Now, we’re ready.”
“Do you mean it’s over? You took the memory?”
“Yes. It’s over, Matt Cady.”
She’d been right. Matt didn’t feel anything. No pain. Nothing.
He tried to remember what she took, but there was nothing there to remember. He did feel something, though.
He felt scared.
PHANTOM INTERLUDE
Finally the creature was alone, sitting upon its spectral motorcycle in the shadow of great trees. The coolness of the dark was refreshing after a day filled with the pain of light, light that forced it to skulk along the bottoms of things.
Black Jack would feed now.
The creature slid from its hiding place behind the spare tire and stalked over the dozing bodies of the living. Where it stepped, nightmares formed, rough men in denim crying out in their sleep from the phantom-inspired interlocutors.
Suddenly the creature paused as a memory surfaced. At first it came slowly, bobbing from the quagmire of a thousand murders. The memory of another murder—the first murder. The revenge murder that had created it.
Then it came quickly, fully-formed and inspiring rage. During the day’s painful journey he had passed the place where he’d been made, the crucible of hatred that had allowed one man to murder and punished another for the same.
This was a memory he hadn’t thought of in decades. It was a memory that desired attention.
Stepping back the way he came, he left shouts and cries and whines behind him. He folded himself beneath the great vehicle, finding a snug space between strange lengths of metal.
He hissed once, then merged with the darkness.
“Deadwood,” he whispered, drawing the word out into a long, long sigh.
XII
TO LIVE AGAIN
“You shouldn’t have done it,” Jacket said, the wind blowing through his hair as he burned up the road on his ’52 Harley-Davidson FL.
“It was my memory and my decision.” Matt had to scream to be heard into the wind from where he sat behind Jacket, his arms wrapped tightly around the biker’s middle.
“You have to wonder why she wouldn’t let me be there. I knew she was up to no good. If I had been there, then she would have never taken a memory.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“Not so bad? Memories make us who we are. They’re like warnings. Without them, we don’t know what to do.”
“I can’t tell any difference.”
“That’s my point exactly.”
They rode in silence for a while, with Jacket giving an occasional exclamation as insects bounced off his head at sixty miles an hour. It was a little thing, but never something he’d had to worry much about as a spirit.
They headed up into the mountains on Highway 44. The road wound upward with tall pine trees and a surging creek trading places on their left and right as the creek meandered along with the road. Here and there an occasional home, log cabin or trailer squatted in a copse of quartzy rock and pine.
The sun had set an hour earlier, right after the Christmas Witch had sent them away. Initially, Jacket had reveled in his newfound flesh. The biker had danced and pirouetted until he’d fallen in a gasping, laughing heap on the gravel next to his motorcycle. He alternated between groans and grins as the muscles in his back spasmed, reminding him of an old Korean War injury he’d forgotten about after he’d died. Still, Jacket was happy to have the pain back now, enjoying it as proof he was back in the land of the living.
Then Jacket had noticed his bike, and how it was now as whole as he was. He’d run his hand lovingly along its sleek lines, tracing the pattern of letters on the gas tank. His fingers lingered on the rhinestones of the sweeping leather seat and slid along the lengths of the fringe that hung from the tops of the saddlebags. On his knees, he’d turned and grinned at Matt, grown child to true child, and they understood each other.
Without a sidecar, there was no room for Kubla. Even with Matt’s protestations and ideas about new uses for Bungee cords, he wasn’t able to talk Jacket into letting him bring his dog. In the end, Matt had to agree to let the Christmas Witch take care of him.
Now on the road, Matt was beginning to feel the effects of the day. His eyes closed and he slept for a time despite the wind pulling at his hair, lulled by the deep vibrations of the Harley’s big twin 458 cam. He didn’t wake until he felt the motorcycle coast to a stop.
Matt opened his eyes to find they were in a roadside picnic area, with the light of the Harley illuminating an overturned garbage can and rustling bushes. They’d probably interrupted a raccoon.
“What’s going on?” Matt asked groggily.
“Strangest thing. I don’t remember drinking anything since I had that last Pabst Blue Ribbon for the road that night in 1957, but sure as I’m a solidified guardian spirit in search of the war shirt of a long-dead Injun chief in
order to bring together the parents of my ward, I have to take a pee.”
Matt chuckled. “You don’t need—”
“No, I don’t,” Jacket interrupted hastily. “There are some things a person never forgets.” Noticing Matt’s raised eyebrow as he got off the bike, Jacket added, “Even when you’ve been dead for thirty years.”
Matt laughed harder as Jacket strode off into the brush. He pushed himself off the bike and stretched his legs and arms. He wasn’t used to motorcycle riding. It wasn’t so bad, not really, although with his face planted in Jacket’s back, he couldn’t see much. Oh—and he didn’t much care for the smell. Leather and gasoline and the stink of Jacket’s sweat had assailed him mile after mile. Matt had never noticed that the spirit had any smell before, but now it was like the man’s armpits had been saving up stink for thirty years. Matt was definitely going to have to teach Jacket about the invention called deodorant. If they couldn’t get some soon, he thought the blue cake in the bottoms of the urinals might help.
The sound of other motorcycles thundering up the mountain road replaced the night calls of the crickets. Soon headlights lit up the bend in the road and four motorcycles roared past. Then, after no more than fifty feet, the red of brake lights blazed and the motorcycles turned around.
They approached slowly. Matt glanced into the woods, but it seemed that Jacket still wasn’t finished. He stepped over to the motorcycle and placed it between him and the four intruders.
The gravel of the roadside turnoff crackled like a hyper-speed popcorn machine. Matt’s stomach twisted with shock as he recognized the first biker as the guy who’d threatened Kubla at the Buffalo Chip Campground just last night. With everything that had happened, that night felt like a week ago.
But this was now, and now Bovine Mack was as large as Matt remembered. He still wore the twin-horned Viking helmet. The night shadows and the reflection of the lights in his eyes made Bovine Mack seem even more bull-like. If he’d had four legs instead of two … ah-ha! What had been bothering Matt about the biker fell into place: Bovine Mack didn’t remind him of a bull. No—he was more like a minotaur, the one Perseus had defeated in Greek mythology.
