Alexa stared up at the Morning Star. "I see it. "
"I think you're going to be right next to her. And the beauty of Alexa will burn so brightly no one will ever be able to see Venus again."
"You're sweet to say that," she said in a tiny voice.
"I only say it because I mean it."
She shivered, from silent pleasure more than from the cold. He felt the tremble run through her, and his arm tightened around her. He cupped her body against his, protecting it, warming it.
"Ummm, this is nice, isn't it?" she murmured, almost to herself.
"Well, except for one thing...." Adam extracted one hand from around her waist and reached under the blanket. He removed a stone that had been digging into his leg and held it in the beam of the flashlight to show it to her. "That's better."
Alexa reached out and took the stone. "That's one of Mary Crow's fetish stones," she said as she rubbed the dirt off the smoky-red rock. "She gave me a doll carved from this. She says it brings luck to young couples."
"Well, we'll definitely hang on to it, then. You and I need all the luck we can get, don't we?"
After a long pause, she asked him a question that took him totally off guard. "Adam... are we married?"
"What?"
"Mary Crow seems to think we're married. Do you think we're married?"
He thought back on their marriage bed. Yes, even though he'd made a botch of it in the end, he believed they were married. But he was sure it was not the kind of marriage Alexa had in mind. "Why? Do you want to be? We're not that far from Vegas. We could be there tomorrow afternoon. If that's what would make you happy, I'm sure there's an Elvis impersonator who'd love to perform any ceremony you want."
Alexa shook her head, ignoring the feeble joke, seeing through to the genuine offer underneath. "No, that's not what I meant."
It wasn't? He nearly held his breath, waiting for her to continue.
"I mean, you know, this sounds silly but, our souls... our spirits— are they married?"
"I don't know," he said cautiously. "Do you love me?" She looked away at the mention of the word. He tenderly turned her face toward his and looked intently into her eyes. "I love you desperately, Alexa. Do you love me?"
The silence nearly killed him. Then her lower lip started to quiver. "Yes," she whispered, barely daring to speak it, "Desperately." He took the quartz from her and stood. He held out a hand and pulled her to her feet beside him.
"Alexa Bond," he began, "in this sacred place and in front of the witness of those who have gone on before us, with this rock, I thee wed. I vow to honor and cherish and above all love you with all my heart, in health and in sickness, until death takes you from me, and beyond."
Alexa's heart was breaking with joy. She took the rock from him and began, "Adam Pierson...." Her words cut through him like an angry knife—a reminder that he could never be truly married to Alexa, that their souls could never really join. There was so much he was forced to withhold from her. She could never know Methos, only Adam Pierson. Only a shell of all he truly was. "... until death takes me from you." He reached down and found his wine glass in the dark, offered it to her. She drank and then gave it to him to drink. Then, placing the empty glass on the ground, he broke it with his foot.
"I always wanted to do that," Adam said with a little laugh. Alexa cleared her throat. "What, did I forget something?"
"‘You may kiss the bride'?"
"Oh, right."
She leaned against him, prolonging their kiss, pressing him down onto the blanket. "I hope this is what Garrett meant by sacred stuff," she whispered. She used both hands to comb his hair away from his face, studying the planes of his face, every curve and point, the way the muscles of his neck angled down to join his collarbone. Making them part of her, part of this canyon, part of this night, forever.
He reached up to stroke her face, and her eyes slid closed as his fingertips played over her jawline, her lips, her eyelids. Even without Frankincense, warmth permeated her skin everywhere he touched. Sensation dancing in places he had not touched, her whole body responding to his concentrated touch on her face.
"Look," he whispered. His left hand slipped down her back, and in one smooth move flipped them over so that she was lying on the rough blanket, gazing up at the starlit sky, pinpricks of light filling her sight, her senses, so much so that she would almost have sworn she could feel die stars on her skin, tiny goosebumps running over her body.
He kneeled over her, a dark silhouette against the star-filled sky, as awesome and implacable as a constellation. And it was as though the sky, the stone, the whole earth had entered her, sending river and wind and stars shooting through her body. In that moment she would gladly have rolled with him over the edge, falling into forever, ending both their lives in this moment of perfect ecstasy, perfect unity.
And then they were back on earth, arms around each other, hearts beating hard and fast, a sheen of shared sweat drying quickly in the canyon wind. Alexa was panting and crying with exertion and joy. "Adam... I'll remember this... forever."
He pulled another blanket over them, clutched her closer. "So will I, Alexa. I swear. As long as I live."
Postcards From Alexa
The Man With No Name
by Donna Lettow
The sound of hoofbeats was all around him. He bent low over the pommel of his saddle, heels and spurs viciously grazing the sides of the chestnut mare who'd given him her all, demanding she give still more. She whinnied in pain and continued her headlong charge across the dusty flats toward the forest in the distance.
Crack! He heard the sharp report of a Winchester behind him. He turned in his saddle to see that Sheriff Bruton and his men, thundering behind him, were still out of range but gaining steadily as his brave little mare began to flag. He counted eight, plus the Sheriff.
Damn them.
He and the McQuarrie brothers had split up when they heard the posse coming, hoping to raise the odds. There couldn't have been more than 15 of them to start, why did he still have nine? God dammit, someone must have talked. Someone must have told them he'd be the one with the gold. He looked ahead. The forest was getting nearer, but still not close enough. He bent down lower, stroking the foam-flecked head of the exhausted mare, then raked his spurs across her tender ribs. The horse screamed but was able to respond with a short burst of speed. But it didn't last.
The posse rode into range as he reached the treeline. A bullet whizzed past his head and he pulled on the reins, steering the mare in and among the trees. He wove headlong through the forest as bullets zinged around him, trying to keep the trees between himself and the main body of the posse. But Bruton and his men, though hampered in speed by the trees, made up for it in sheer numbers as they began to fan out through the woods. He couldn't hide from all of them.
When the bullet tore through his right arm, shattering the humerus, he was nearly thrown from the saddle. He howled in pain as he struggled to stay mounted, grabbing the reins one-handed, urging the mare on. He heard one of Bruton's deputies whoop in triumph.
The next shot slammed into the mare's flank, driving her to her knees.
He scrambled to get out of the stirrups before she pitched to her side, dead, and he narrowly avoided being pinned beneath her. He tugged desperately on her saddlebags but, one arm still useless, he knew he'd never free the loot.
Grasping his arm to him, wishing he could will it to heal even faster, he took off running. He dodged through the trees, scrambling through the underbrush, all the time hearing the galloping horses and the shouts of Bruton and his men coming closer as bullets found their marks in the trees all around him. All the time waiting for a bullet with his name on it to come crashing through the back of his skull.
He ran with all his strength. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd been hunted like an animal, by an angry mob or a troop of soldiers, many with much more unpleasant designs on his person than a public lynching in Fraziers Well. But he couldn't let th
em take him back for a trial. Not even the sham mockery of justice he could expect in a backwater mining town dominated by Sheriff Willy Bruton. A trial might expose Veronica's complicity in the scam, and he couldn't allow Veronica to swing with him—she wouldn't come back.
Unless it was Veronica who tipped off Bruton. The revelation hit him harder than a bullet and he nearly tripped over his own running feet. Of course. Veronica. It had to be. What could he expect from a whore? Even one who'd sworn she loved him. She'd be one dead whore if he ever saw her again.
His anger lent power to his legs and he ran for all he was worth, lungs screaming, legs screaming, arm screaming, but it wasn't enough. His path was cut off by the horses of the Sheriff and one of his men. He pulled up and turned around, running in the opposite direction, but was met by more men and more horses. He was trapped, a lone fox ringed by a pack of snarling hounds. He stopped and turned back to the Sheriff, slowly raising his good arm in surrender, his wounded gun arm hanging bloody and useless at his side.
"You win, Bruton, you got me."
"I should just shoot you where you stand, Adams," the Sheriff hissed.
An excellent suggestion. "Go ahead," he goaded, "I dare you. Or maybe you're just too yellow-bellied?"
"Of some fancy-pants foreigner?" Bruton cocked his revolver and aimed. His target braced himself for the impact and the two men stared each other down. Then Bruton holstered his gun. "You got balls for a foreigner, but I won't deprive the people back home of the pleasure of seein' you swing." The Sheriff indicated to two of his men. "Tie him to a horse. Let's get him outta here. And you two—pointing to two more deputies—"go back to his horse. Make sure the gold's all there."
As they rode off, the first two men dismounted. Their prisoner looked around as they approached him, assessing everyone's position, looking for any means of escape. Then, as they tried to grab him, his "useless" right hand suddenly slung the gun from his holster, shooting one man in the chest, the other in the gut.
He whirled before the other men had a chance to react, shot one in the shoulder, knocking him from his horse. He shot two more as they cocked their rifles, then turned and fired at the Sheriff, missing him but hitting his horse in the withers, throwing the Sheriff to the ground.
He tried firing again at the Sheriff, but the gun clicked uselessly, empty. He quickly shoved it back into his holster. Seven men, six bullets—he'd never liked math. He tried grabbing a gun from one of the two men at his feet, but one of the men still mounted got off a shot, winging him in the left shoulder. He took off running again amid more rifle fire.
Up ahead he could see where the forest ended and he made for it as fast as he could. As he approached the end of the treeline, he looked back over his shoulder again—Bruton, mounted on one of the dead men's horses, and two of his deputies were gaining fast. He looked ahead again and stopped dead in his tracks.
In front of him the forest floor dropped away into nothing and before him stretched the largest canyon he had ever seen. He'd heard locals tell of the great canyon, but he'd thought they were exaggerating—nothing could be that vast. Another two steps and he would have been over the side. He looked over the rim—it was a mighty long way clown,
The hoofbeats behind him reminded him it was no time for sight- seeing. His eyes desperately searched the rim for a path or another way down into the canyon. They would have an advantage over him down there, because he could sense it was a holy place and rules much older than the Law of the West would prevent him from fighting here, but he was counting on the fact that most White men wouldn't enter the canyon at all, whether from fear of the Indian spirits or the actual Indians who lived within it.
But there was no path. No way down. He could hear the lawmen rein in their horses behind him.
There was one way down. He turned to them.
"Say goodbye, Sheriff," he bluffed and pulled his empty gun. One of the deputies caught him square in the chest with a round from a Winchester rifle and the impact knocked him off the rim of the canyon.
Bruton and his men watched him fall, his body bouncing off a rocky ledge far below to land, a broken heap, nearly a mile below.
"Shit," the Sheriff said, and motioned for his men to follow him back to Fraziers Well, empty handed.
* * *
He was pain. A ball of pain. A throbbing mass of pain. Pain was his entire existence. Pain was his awareness. He could not see or hear or even feel, but he knew the pain. It was in him and through him and around him. He gasped for air and it seared down his throat like molten lava.
Hearing returned first. He could hear a great rushing, like a mighty ocean or a river. A river... a canyon... suddenly he remembered. He remembered the canyon, the lawmen, he remembered Immortality, he remembered so many, so many years. He was no longer pain. He was Methos.
But he was still in pain. He heard a sound like a silent footstep off to his right and he struggled to force his eyes open. He looked up into the sky pure and blue high above him and on either side of him walls of impossible colors jutted up to touch the sky. The feeling of vertigo was so intense he closed his eyes again. A twig snapped, like the passing of a small animal, and he turned his head toward it. Muscles and bones alike protested as he moved. There, behind a bush, he saw a boy not much more than 10. An Indian boy. He locked eyes with the boy for a moment until the boy ran off. He tried to call out to him, but speech had not yet returned.
He lay where he had fallen for a while without moving, feeling the healing, feeling the pain slowly start to recede. He knew he had to get up, to move away before the boy returned, but his spine and his legs could not bear his weight. Finally, still on the ground, he tested each appendage—head, arms, legs—to make sure they worked, then climbed to his knees. The effort exhausted him. He waited a minute and then, feeling stronger, was able to stand.
He looked down at himself, covered head to toe in blood, clothes twisted and torn, and made his way to the river. Removing his boots and duster, his vest, shirt and belt, he waded into the Colorado. The bone-chilling cold of the river recharged him and he fell to his knees, dunking under the water repeatedly to get the blood and the taste of death off of his body.
As he came up out of the river, wiping the water from his eyes, he realized the river bank was lined with Indians. The small boy, his eyes wide, silently pointed him out to one of the men of the tribe. Then the Indian man and boy entered the water and walked out to him. The Indian spoke to him, but in a language he could not understand.
"Sorry," the white man said with a shrug. "¿Español? English?"
The Indian nodded. "I am Crow's Feather and this is my son, Little Crow." "Pleased to meet you. I'm...." Who was he in this situation? He certainly didn't want word getting around that Ben Adams was still alive, "...lost. Can we go ashore? It's a little cold out here."
The Indian and his son escorted him to the river bank, where all the other Indians, twenty or more, gathered around him. Some reached out to touch his smooth chest, his unblemished shoulders. Crow's Feather said a word and all the Indians stepped back, giving them room.
"Little Crow says he saw you fall from the Eagle's Nest. Some of the women saw it, too, from our village."
"I'm afraid that's true. Always been a little clumsy." He tried to read the Indian, but couldn't.
"Little Crow also says he came to see where you had fallen and you were like a snake trampled by horses. You were dead. And then he watched you come back to life." The Indian looked at him, searchingly. He just laughed it off. "You know how boys are, always exaggerating things."
"My son does not lie," Crow's Feather said solemnly. "And he is more than old enough to know when someone is dead and someone is alive."
The two men looked into each other's eyes, each surprised at the honesty and wisdom they glimpsed there. Crow's Feather went on.
"There are stories handed down from our fathers of beings who live far beyond the life granted ordinary men. Beings who can only be killed among lightning and
fire. Little Crow tells me you are such a being. Are you?"
He did not know whether these people would consider him an agent of good or a demon spirit to be cast out and destroyed, but he felt he owed them no less than the truth. "Yes, I guess I am."
"Our ancestors say these beings are messengers of the Great Spirit who created these lands and should be treated with honor."
This particular "messenger of the Great Spirit" was sure his great relief could be seen by everyone present.
"Come, Eagle's Flight, we will give you food and warm clothes. We have much to learn from each other."
Postcards From Alexa
Postcards From Athens
by Gillian Horvath
Alexa sat on the little balcony overlooking the old square and tried to write her postcards. She was woefully behind on her correspondence, she knew. There'd been so much to see, so much to do, since she had left home with Adam. Was it only three months? It felt like a lifetime... and of course, it was, near enough.
She'd grown to know Adam well enough that his little moods no longer fazed her. Usually when his eyes got that faraway look she could joke him out of it... or try kissing it away, that usually worked, even when it took a lot of kissing. Once or twice he'd gone so far into whatever place in his head his mystery was, there'd been nothing for it but to leave him alone for a day or two. He'd scared her the last time—he was so distant and distracted, she was sure he was trying to figure out a way to tell her he'd had enough, it was time for her to go home. They'd been in Cairo and he'd disappeared at midnight, sneaking out of the room while she pretended sleep, and she'd lain there for four long hours, huddled in her half of the bed, wondering if he would come back at all or if she would find herself in the morning abandoned in a foreign country on the other side of the world.
An Evening at Joe's Page 14
