Book Of Tongues

by Gemma Files

  “How could you even say such a thing? Look what-all I just done for you, Chess Pargeter.” He hugged Chess to him in a way designed to make anyone’s head swim, and growled, into his open mouth, “I’ll damn my own soul for you, gladly, and that’s a fact. Now — what’ll you do for me?”

  “Anything. Like you already know, you king-size bastard. . . .”

  “Oh, yes. I surely do.”

  Now’s another good time, Morrow thought, and hauled the Manifold out into the light — to find it still spinning with a horrid rattlesnake chatter, teeth shook in a box. To find himself simultaneously caught up and shook alongside: transfixed, unable even to cry out in agony. As though one long javelin made from glass barbs and Jericho thorns had entered through his mouth and bisected his tongue, plunging straight through his trunk and out between his shaking feet to pin him to the floor where he stood.

  Don’t anybody ever think to creep up on ’em when they’re . . . engaged? he heard his own voice ask Hosteen.

  Saw the old man shake his head, cheerfully: One fool did, sure — planned on turnin’ ’em in to the Pinks, and gettin’ hold of that reward they was offering. But he run ’cross some mojo the Rev laid down all around the room him and Chess were stayin’ in, instead, and it stuck that fucker right to the spot. We found him still there come mornin’, after a whole damn night of hurtin’ too bad to scream. Probably didn’t even feel it, when Chess blew his brains out.

  That’ll be me, Morrow thought, helpless. Oh Jesus, what an idiot. I am so damn screwed.

  He met his own eyes in the cheval-glass, searching for something to take his mind off his current situation . . . ’cause when it stung this awful, any port in a storm would do, in terms of distraction. And there Rook lay on his belly, down between Chess’s wide-spread legs, working away throat-first to the very red-gold roots of Chess’s cock, so his spine jack-knifed with pleasure, while reaching up to cover Chess’s face with one huge hand, at the same time — spreading it over him, like a blindfold. Morrow could see him kissing Rook’s palm as Rook did it, licking at those long fingers and moaning gutturally, his eyes squeezed tight-closed.

  Sighing out: “Oh Ash, oh God, oh Jesus — oh, God fucking damn, that’s good — ”

  Rook gave a rumble of laughter, right into Chess’s privatest spots. “Sssh,” he managed, mouth too full for anything else.

  Bad enough, but not the worst. Because even as Morrow trembled in the grip of Rook’s spell, rigid with pain, he understood — with sick certainty — that his own drained-white face had always been visible in the mirror, from some angles. For example, the one Rook was looking up at Morrow from, right damn now —

  Yes, it’s true, a voice — not his own — said, inside of Morrow’s head. I see you, Ed; know why you’re here, and what for. But, that said . . . watch this.

  Well, it wasn’t like Morrow could do anything else.

  Dimly, Morrow began to perceive a weird light forming around Chess’s ecstatic, prisoned face, some ectoplasmic substance flowing off of him in a fluid, rotten caul up along Rook’s arm, illuminating veins and muscles as it sunk beneath the skin, vampiristically absorbed.

  What the Hell? Morrow wondered. Thinking, at the same time: Bot-flies, and knowing how “Hell” might be the exact correct word, given.

  I said to watch this, Edward, Rook’s mind-voice repeated — as, simultaneously, the Rook right in front of Morrow cupped his other hand beneath Chess’s ass, two fingers teasing him open again so they could drive up high inside, feeling for that magic button. Chess’s flat stomach knotted, heels kicking, and a fresh blush blazed up toward his throat; he gave a hoarse half-yell, flailing, while Rook sucked even harder, draining him dry.

  The phosphorescence hooding Chess’s head flickered once and went out, a doused lucifer.

  Rook grinned at Morrow, licking his lips. Then rose up, naked and dripping as some well-fucked ogre, palming Chess’s lids delicately shut as he went, like he was blessing some corpse he’d just defiled. Didn’t even bother to put on a pair of pants before he crossed back over to where Morrow stood, wavering in the magic circle’s barbedwire net, and pulled him bodily in through the Bridal Suite’s door, kicking it closed behind them.

  “So you’re a Pink,” the Rev said. “So what? That wasn’t exactly hard to figure, even without my skills. Most men who’ll go out of their way to join up with me got to have somethin’ really, truly wrong with ’em, so the fact that you’re a good man, let alone good at your job too? Dead giveaway, I’m afraid.”

  Though mortified by his own weakness, Morrow couldn’t quite stop himself from making noise at that — a shameful sort of squeak — as the Rev looked back over at Chess, now fast asleep and snoring. “Oh yeah, that’s right — Chess does hate Pinkertons, that’s for damn sure. But that’s how I knew I could trust you, Ed, if things came down to it — ’cause since I could always give Chess good reason to kill you, I figured you’d probably do whatever it took for me not to.”

  Then: “But pardon me. I’m afraid I clean forgot you were still in . . . difficulty.”

  Rook made a sign in Morrow’s direction, and the pain took flight all at once — such a relief, he all but collapsed into the Rev’s ploughhorse arms. Instead, he stumbled backward, almost flopping down on the bed with Chess before he realized his mistake.

  “Naw, don’t want to do that,” the Rev pointed out, mildly. “Try over on that chair, instead.”

  Morrow did, straining not to sprawl every which-way. His joints burned like he’d been wrung out, heart tripping clog-step, bowels full of cholera-water.

  “. . . thank you,” he said, at last.

  “Not so fast,” Rook said, rummaging in the pile of clothes flung together by the bed’s side. Then re-emerged, with Chess’s knife at the ready.

  “Aw look, hey, now — ”

  “Calm the fuck down, Ed, it ain’t what you think. Hold still.”

  Spent as he was, Morrow sat there dumbfaced while Rook sawed a chunk of his hair away, sheep-shearing-quick, then touched the raw spot lightly, a soothing balm spreading briskly out wherever his fingers lighted. The tuft itself he tucked away in a small leather pouch he kept on his gun-belt.

  “All right,” he said. “Now we’re done.”

  “The shit was that?” Morrow demanded, hoarsely.

  The Rev shrugged. “Insurance, mainly. Know what a mojo is?” Morrow shook his head. “Well, the dolly-bag I’m gonna make from this hair says you’re gonna do what I want, whenever and however I want it — or I’ll throw it right in the fire, see what happens when it starts to burn. And you really don’t want that, believe you me.”

  “I believe you,” Morrow replied, his voice gone almost completely juiceless.

  Rook nodded. “Here’s the deal, then. I have to go somewhere, try out this mirror of Songbird’s. Gotta talk to my Rainbow Lady, and I need to do it alone; she’s gonna tell me things I don’t want Chess tryin’ to talk me out of. I need him kept away.”

  “All right. But he won’t listen to me — not like he does to you.”

  Another grim grin. “Oh, I don’t need him listenin’ that hard. Just tell him I told you he has to take the rest of the gang to Splitfoot Joe’s, lay low, and wait. That’s where I’ll meet back up with everybody.”

  “He won’t believe — ”

  Brooking no opposition: “Convince him, then.”

  Rook turned his back, arrogant in his utter lack of wariness. And if Morrow hadn’t been so damn drained, that alone might have been enough to make him try something anyways, just on principle.

  But instead, he simply looked back down at his hands, still trembling in his lap, and asked: “Okay, well — what were you doin’ back there — with Chess? I mean . . . I know what some of it was, obviously. But — ”

  “Show me that ‘timepiece’ of yours, will you, Ed?”

  Reluctantly, Morrow passed the Manifold over, as Rook stood waiting with one hand out. Rook took it, studying it from all directions.
/>   “Very pretty,” he said, finally, and passed it back. “Might come in useful, eventually.”

  “You gonna answer my question, or what?”

  The Rev turned once more, finally rummaging for his small-clothes, and tucked himself safely away. “Oh, I think you’ll figure it out, soon enough. If you just keep your eyes open.”

  Next morning, Chess came clattering down while Morrow was checking his ammunition, immaculate from head to toe, like he hadn’t spent half the night taking it from behind — his bright hair combed and gleaming extra-sharp with fresh pomade, purple coat brushed out ’til it shone, and in about as foul a mood as Morrow’d ever seen him.

  “How long that sumbitch been gone?” he demanded. “Since ’fore dawn,” Morrow said, counting shells. Then, like he’d just thought of it: “Yeah, he said you was to go to Splitfoot Joe’s, and then he’d meet you there after.”

  “After what?”

  “Fuck if I know, Chess. He don’t make such as me privy to his thoughts.”

  “Well, why the hell wouldn’t he tell me that his own damn self?”

  “Uh . . . ’cause you was asleep, I guess.”

  “Oh, that Goddamn man!” Chess grabbed the bottle Morrow already had going, and flopped down in the chair opposite him to take a long drink. “Bible-beltin’ son-of-abitch got business somewheres he thinks he don’t need me for; thinks he can stick his dick in my ass to keep me quiet, then run the hell off on me.”

  Morrow squirmed, uncomfortably. “Aw, Chess, c’mon. I don’t need to know — ”

  “Well shit, Morrow, what was it you thought we was doin’ up there? Playin’ Goddamn canasta?”

  “Hardly. Ain’t stupid, you know.”

  “I do know, so don’t act it. Oh, that damn man!”

  “He’s a hex. They ain’t like other people.”

  Chess gave a bitter little laugh, then chased it with an even longer swig. “Oh no, they sure ain’t, and neither is he — ’cept from the waist down. ’Cause that part of him’s pretty much like every other motherfucker I ever met.”

  Morrow didn’t know what-all to say to that, so he just kept quiet. They sat together an interminable minute, locked back into a strange parody of companionability — Chess looking off, eyes narrowed, with Morrow too het up to do much more than keep his own breath steady. ’Til both of them were finally interrupted by a noise — all too familiar to Morrow — which grew ever more insistent.

  Eventually Chess snapped out, “Just what the hell is that?”

  “My . . . timepiece, I think,” Morrow said, at last.

  “You need to do somethin’ about it, then, real damn fast. Thing’s ’bout to give me a headache. Jesus Christ!”

  Reluctantly, Morrow drew out the Manifold, popped its lid — and gaped, as both spinning needles instantly resolved, a set trap snapping: red on red, upper part of the scale, same as Asbury’d always claimed they would. Pointing, for all the Goddamn world . . . straight at Chess.

  Morrow heard Rook’s velvet rasp pick at his brain’s folds: Thing’ll come in handy, eventually — you’ll figure out why. Soon enough.

  That’s why I could never get a clear reading, Morrow thought, helpless to not complete the equation, even when it’d already been made so mocking-clear. ’Cause Chess is always standing there, right beside Rook. And Chess . . . vicious little Chess Goddamn Pargeter, who used to suck cock for bullets, and’ll shoot you just for standin’ still if he don’t like the look on your face while you’re doin’ it . . . Chess is a hex, too.

  The start of one, anyhow, seeing how true “grievous bodily harm” hadn’t had its way with him. But more than enough for Rook to siphon a bit of it off whenever he’d been preyed on, and needed to do some preyin’ of his own, in return.

  All I need to trust about you, Ed, Rook’s ghost-voice told him, is that you at least know to do what I tell you. So . . . do you? We good?

  “Yes sir,” Morrow muttered, out loud — then rose in one heave and walked away fast, while he could still be fairly sure Chess thought he was talking to him.

  BOOK TWO: SKULL FLOWER

  California, Arizona, New Mexico — Beginning April 9, 1865

  Month Three, Day Seven Reed

  Festival: Xochimanaloya, or Presentation of Flowers

  Today’s Lord of Night (Number Six) is Chalchiuhtlicue, “She of the Jade Serpent-Skirt” or “She whose Night-robe of Jewel-stars Whirls Above.” Chalchiuhtlicue was the ruler over the Fourth Sun, the world immediately previous to our own. That world was destroyed by flooding.

  The Aztec trecena Mazatl (“Deer”) is ruled by Tepeyollotl — Heart of the Mountain, the Jaguar of Night, lord of darkened caves. Tepeyollotl is Tezcatlipoaca disguised in a jaguar hide, whose voice is the echo in the wilderness and whose word is the darkness itself.

  By the Mayan Long Count calendar, the protector of day Acatl (“Reed”) is also Tezcatlipoaca, who provides the days’ shadow soul. Acatl is the sceptre of authority which is, paradoxically, hollow.

  Today is a day when the arrows of fate fall from the sky like lightning bolts. A good day to seek justice, a bad day to act against others.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Two Years Earlier

  Once, the Rainbow Lady had told Asher Rook, in dreams, a human ball-player was enticed by owls to pit his skills against the lords of death, and made a descent into what was then called Xibalba. He swam the river of blood, yet did not become drunk with it. He reached the crossroads, the Place of All Winds, where he took not the red road, nor the white, nor the yellow, but the black. He entered the bone canoe, piloted by spiders and bats. He sank downwards, through cold water, to the whole world’s bottom.

  Xibalba, as it was called then. Mictlan, as it became. Mictlan-Xibalba, as it is now, and will be, forever more.

  When he arrived, however, he was met only with mockery and betrayal. The Sunken Ball-Court’s kings set him impossible tasks, then cheated the rules to make sure he would fail, and sent him to be executed, decreeing that his severed head should be set in a tree by the wayside, as a warning to other travellers.

  Promptly, the tree flowered all over, producing a hundred succulent calabash melons that attracted the attention of Blood Maiden, the Blood Gatherer’s beautiful daughter. She reached up to pick one, only to discover she held the ball-player’s skull instead. The skull spat in her hand, and told her: Though my face is gone, it will soon return, in the face of my son. And she found herself pregnant.

  Because this is how things begin, always, little king: in darkness, in chaos. In blood.

  The world we know, a child conceived in death, a saviour made from bones. The flower from the skull.

  This is what I want you to understand, as you already should. You died in my way, after all — a valid sacrifice, whether ordained or not. And ignorance is no excuse.

  Think of it, now, she had ordered him, the black rainbow snapping around her like storm-clouds across a nervish, lowering sky. When the rope tightened around your neck. That moment of flowering, when your skull cracked open, the seed inside you began to bloom. . . .

  Her words in his ears, ringing. Followed closely, as dream gave way to memory, by God Almighty’s:

  . . . and they four had one likeness: and their appearance . . . was as it were a wheel in the middle of a wheel. . . .

  As for their rings, they were so high that they were dreadful. And their rings were full of eyes . . . and when the living creatures were lifted up from the earth, the wheels were lifted up. . . .

  The verses were so familiar through long study — and equally long hours spent quoting them out loud, to prove one point or another — that he could no longer recall if he’d screamed them, moaned them, whispered them, in his hour of ultimate need. Only that they’d been on his lips when the rope finally snapped taut and the trap beneath him opened, plummeting him feet-first into night —

  The drop wasn’t long enough: inexperience on his killers’ part, or maybe a sublimated urge to punish him further. So h
e slammed up hard against gravity itself, every inch of him instantly bruised, drowning in air. His heart stuttered, his own body’s weight a millstone, spirits violently pressing upwards ’til they forced their way to his head. Where he saw a glaring light which seemed to vomit from his eyes with a flash so bright, so deep, it scarred the entire universe —

  — and then, exactly as sudden, he’d lost all sense of pain. A glacial calm descended.

  Rook looked up, saw planks and dust, the gallows’ underside. A square of blue sky through the trap. His former brothers on the field of war looking down, some faces frowning, some blank. Some even, in a bitter way, amused.

  Bastards, he thought. You know not the day, nor the hour. . . .

  Then over further, to where Chess Pargeter still fought with his captors, next in line for the noose. Which somehow rubbed Rook rawer than the sight of his own death approaching — the idea of Chess pissing himself at the end of some rope, all that energy gone, without a final chance to redeem itself.

  Chess, who was burning up with fever ever since he took that ball in the shoulder — probably turning gangrenous, not that that’d matter, in a minute or so. Chess, who snarled, and spat: “You motherless bitches! The Rev’s worth a hundred of you, you slugs! He’s worth ten thousand!”

  “Goddamn queerboy camp-follower sure got a mouth on him, dirty as one of Hooker’s gals,” the soldier with Chess’s right arm pinned back told his partner, who had Chess in a headlock. To which the other soldier just grinned, and tightened up his grip.

  “He didn’t even do it, either!” Chess screamed, twisting and kicking. “I was the one killed the Lieut, you morons! Good Christ, no wonder we lost the Goddamn war!”

  Turned out there really was a bone in the throat, just as Chess had always claimed. Rook felt it go, and felt all the darkness inside him snap shut again, percolating, a stoppered steam-kettle. Heard his thunderous preach-voice shrink and grind, as everything went red.