Book Of Tongues

by Gemma Files

  Rook paused, finally, and sighed. Then asked: “Is any of this getting through to you?”

  Chess shrugged. “Not much. But feel free to keep on talkin’, anyhow, ’cause I sure do admire how your lips move.”

  “What do you mean by — ”

  “Oh, Rev. Just what in the hell d’you think I mean?”

  For a second, Rook almost convinced himself he didn’t understand.

  “I’m . . . flattered, Private Pargeter,” he said, at length. “But even leaving the strictures of my calling aside, I’m really not that way inclined.”

  Chess shrugged again. “Oh no, course not. Man of God, and all — what was I thinkin’.”

  “I very much hope you’re not mocking my faith, Private, because . . .” Rook trailed away. “Have you even read the Bible?”

  “Enough to know it ain’t got too much to do with me, or them that’s like me. I’m a bad man, Rev — that ain’t debatable. So I don’t aim to debate it.”

  “Leviticus, then — how ’bout that. Ever heard of it?”

  “That’s the part of your Book says all queers should die, ain’t it?”

  “Essentially. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Seein’ how I’m funny as Union script?” Chess snorted. “Look, Reverend. Anyone wants to string me up just for who I’m drawn to dance with, I invite them to go ahead and try. If I can see them comin’ and they still manage it, then it was probably my time. ’Til then . . .” Another thin grin. “Well, you’ve seen me at my exercise. What’s your opinion?”

  “I think you’re the best pistoleer I’ve ever come across, though I’m sure the Lieutenant’d say your soldiering leaves a bit to be desired. What I don’t understand is why pursuing this line of . . . abomination means so much to you, ’specially at the risk of your immortal soul.”

  “Where I’m from, we’re all born bound for the Hot Country. I ain’t lookin’ for no chariot to Glory, not even if you’re offerin’.”

  “What about those others you’re pullin’ down, though? Can’t you see you’re draggin’ any man you let take advantage of you straight into the fire along with you? Hosteen, for example. You seem to care — ”

  “I don’t ‘care’ ’bout shit but me, myself and I, thank you kindly. As for the rest — I never put a damn gun to anybody’s head to get them near me, and they sure weren’t complainin’, either.” He turned back. “Oh, and speakin’ of which: God’s the one made me this way in the first place, Reverend. Maybe you should just take it up with him.”

  Rook sighed. “Hell doesn’t have to be a foregone conclusion, Chess, that’s my point. Salvation — that’s God’s promise, open to all who want it, no matter what they may have done beforehand. There’s no sin so black it can’t be washed away, if you only ask for it to be.”

  “Yeah? Thanks for that, anyhow.”

  “The option to be redeemed? That’s God’s, not mine.”

  “Naw, that you can keep — probably wouldn’t take, anyhow. But thanks for callin’ me by my given name, Reverend. Maybe you’ll even let me return the favour, one of these days.”

  Flirting with him, still. The man was damn well incorrigible. Yet Rook found himself smiling back, all the same.

  “Maybe,” he heard himself say.

  Things continued bad, shading fast toward worst. There were rumours everywhere — that recent action at Five Forks and Sayler’s Creek had left the Confederacy crippled, that General Lee himself was on the verge of surrendering to that drunken farm-burner Ulysses S. Grant. That Lincoln had been either assassinated or elected king by popular acclaim.

  That afternoon, the Lieut received one last message, read it, then broke the pigeon’s neck, before crumpling the offensive cipher up and throwing it into the fire.

  “It’s official,” he told Rook, a tic in his brow fluttering wildly. “The rats have infiltrated. All further communiqués must from now on be reckoned a mere tissue of Abolitionist lies.”

  “Yes sir,” Rook said. “I’m very sure that you’re right.”

  That night, he dozed off, then came to, to find himself restrained by a hard little set of limbs, as somebody hissed: “Sssh!” in his ear.

  “Damn, Rev,” Chess Pargeter said, shifting to pin him closer. “You want to get us both swung?”

  Rook breathed out through his nose, slow, while simultaneously struggling to resist the urge to see exactly how far he could kick the smaller man, if he only gave it a good enough try.

  “Get off of me, Private,” he replied, finally.

  The same snicker again. “That an order? Hell, Rev, you’re three times my size, at least. What is it you’re ’fraid of, exactly?”

  “Of . . . hurting you, mainly.”

  “Uh huh? Well, that’s nice, but don’t worry yourself overmuch — it’s been tried.”

  “You want to talk? Then let me up.”

  Chess shrugged. “Okay,” he said, and moved back.

  “So,” Rook said, once he’d regained his dignity. “What was it you had in mind, Mister Pargeter? Besides the obvious.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t even thinkin’ of that,” Chess lied. “All seriousness, though . . . you do know the Lieut’s gone stark starin’ crazy, right? How he’s probably right now dreamin’ on the best way t’get himself killed for the honour of the South, and take us all along with him?”

  “I don’t see what either of us can do about it, saving desertion . . . or worse.”

  “Like blowin’ his brains out in his sleep? Yeah, I’ve thought ’bout cuttin’ his throat, too — or maybe smotherin’ him, since that wouldn’t leave much of a trace. But I ain’t got anything on me exactly suitable to the purpose, more’s the pity.”

  “Private!”

  “Aw, Rev, I was ‘Chess’ just a week back. Can’t we try for that again?”

  “Not if you’re counselling murder, we can’t — ’cause I won’t stand for that sort of cold-blooded mortal sin, not even as a joke.”

  Chess sighed. “Desertion it is, then.” Continuing, as Rook’s heart rose in his throat: “Listen — I’ve done most’ve these boys a service here and there, as you know, but they won’t listen to me, ’specially not shit-scared of the Lieut the way they are. Not like they would to you.”

  “You want me to — incite a mutiny.”

  “I want you to tell them it’s all right to leave while they still can, given the circumstances. You got that Book on your side; tell them God told you special. For all we’re privy, the damn War’s been over a sight longer than it took that bird to reach camp, and throwin’ yourself in the cannon’s mouth after Lee’s already kissed Grant’s ass ain’t honourable, just stupid.”

  “So?” Rook shot back. “Best go on, then, if you’re goin’ — which I’m sure you aim to, considerin’ that’s how you feel. Go on, and good riddance.”

  Yet here he saw Chess was biting his lip, a flush beginning to pink his face, for once.

  “You really do care,” Rook realized, aloud. “Chess Pargeter actually cares what might happen to somebody, other than him — on occasion, anyhow.”

  “You need to maybe just shut up with that Do-As-You-Would-Be-Done-By charity-school crap, Rev,” Chess said, between his teeth. “I really do mean it. ’Fore — ”

  “’Fore what, little man?”

  Chess looked up at him. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, Goddamnit, Asher Rook,” he said, low — then hove in and kissed him, same’s he’d kissed Hosteen.

  Except this time it was Rook’s mouth that pink tongue was hard at work in, all rough and hot and silky. Rook’s lap taking Chess’s full weight, the delectable print of Chess’s ass cupping him through two pairs of pants at once, rendering him instantaneously hard. Before he quite knew what had happened, Rook had both hands dug deep in Chess’s fiery curls, just letting Chess keep on kissing him with never a word of protest, ’til they were both left gasping.

  “Oh my,” Chess said at length, emerging, that devilish smile of his already back full force. “Oh my,
Reverend. Sure you don’t need some of my more — specialized — help? ’Cause from where I sit — ” (and here he ground his hips just a bit for emphasis, half trick-rider, half gaiety-hall girl) “ — it pretty much feels like you could pound nails with that thing.”

  “Never said I didn’t want none of your stock in trade, you contentious tease,” Rook replied, hoarsely. “Just how I at least know that wanting it — let alone doin’ anything to get it — is wrong.”

  Chess smirked.

  “Wrong, huh? Well, let’s try it one more time, to be sure — maybe I ain’t brung out all my best tricks, just as yet.”

  Now it was Rook’s turn to grind his teeth, ’til they fairly squeaked.

  “I can’t,” was all he said.

  Unconvinced, Chess went to kiss him again, but Rook grabbed him by both his wrists and bent them behind his back — not in a nasty way, not calculated to hurt, just to immobilize. Still, Chess must’ve felt the emotion that drove it, ’cause he slumped forward, suddenly boneless, to lay his passion-flushed brow against the hollow of Rook’s equally feverish throat.

  “Maybe not,” he replied, quietly, right into Rook’s clavicle-skin, like he was trying to reach the Rev’s heart by sheer osmosis. “But you do know there’s nothin’ good gonna come of lettin’ the Lieut have his way, and that’s a damn fact. You know it, Ash.”

  “No. I don’t.” Adding, as he shifted to deposit Chess safely back on the ground, with far more gentleness than many might have thought the situation merited: “And I never yet said you could use my Christian name, either. Did I?”

  Chess turned his head away, and replied: “You did not.”

  “You’re a dangerous man, Chess Pargeter.”

  Another snort. “Bad, too. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  To which Rook simply shut his eyes and commenced to pray, not quitting ’til he finally heard Chess move away. Then opened them again, only to find himself once more alone.

  The Lieut came out of the bushes, tucking himself away, just as Hosteen was pouring Rook a tin mug of coffee. He had a wilder look than usual in his eyes, and Rook perceived that both his pupils seemed blown, as pin-prick as any concussion case’s. Hell, he even had his hat on backwards.

  “All right, boys!” he announced. “Due time for a last hurrah, don’t you think?”

  “Sir?” Rook asked.

  “I have received fresh intelligence, Reverend, and sent for reinforcements accordingly. We, along with Captain Coulson’s troop, are to immediately assault the local township of Farnham Ridge. We must then burn it to the ground and kill all within, so that the pernicious seeds of kiting Abolitionism shall flourish no more unchecked. Hallelujah!”

  Hosteen spoke up: “But — that’s over the border, ain’t it?”

  “What matter, if it is?”

  “Well . . . sir . . . that’s what direction the bird come from, yesterday. So . . . I’m thinkin’ it’s probably all already been took by Union forces, and . . .”

  A bit further back, Rook could spot more soldiers nodding. He didn’t glimpse Chess amongst them, for which he was thankful.

  Cut and run, he thought. Practical as the very Fiend himself, is our little Mister Pargeter. Well, good. I should’ve too, and that’s the truth. We all should.

  Too late now, though. As demonstrated.

  “Plus, how’d you get new word so fast, anyhow,” someone else called out, “considerin’ you killed that damn pigeon? Let alone call in Coulson, on top — ”

  The Lieut drew and shot him while he was still speaking, cleaving his jaw like a split log — then waved the gun’s barrel slightly to dispel the smoke, and told the rest of the company, “I will brook no opposition, gentlemen. We are come at last to the moment of Apocalypse, where each must make his choice. Stand together, or fall forever. Are you rabble? What say you?”

  Rook caught Hosteen’s eyes, widening further than their orbits seemed made for, and shook his head just slightly, wondering: Will Bible-quoting even work here, or is the Lieut far too gone for even God’s word to resonate? Think fast, damnit: false revelation, uh — dreams sent by Satan, not by the Almighty — Daniel versus the Babylonians, Joseph in Egypt?

  Before Rook could choose, however, one more shot rang out, cracking the Lieut’s head apart like a blood-orange set up for target practice. He gave a little spasmic shiver, then fell without complaint.

  Behind him stood Chess, who’d simply walked up in the Lieut’s blind spot as he blathered on, clapped gun to skull, and pulled the trigger. He gave the corpse a single sharp kick and reholstered, asking it: “That do, for an answer? Sir.”

  Rook felt something on his face, and found on closer inspection that it was the Lieut’s blood, already a little tacky to the touch. By mere trick of proximity, more had sprayed on him than had ever touched Chess, who looked immaculate by comparison.

  “I do wish you hadn’t done that,” Rook said.

  Chess shrugged. “Somebody had to.”

  Then Hosteen stepped in, suggesting: “Better get goin’. We wanna be elsewheres when they find this fool’s body. Which way, Reverend?”

  Chess looked to Rook, lifting a brow. Rook swallowed hard, and pointed. “That-a-way, I guess,” he said, at random.

  Which did seem a good enough route, to be sure — in those few minutes before they met Captain Coulson’s boys coming back over the very same ridge, to rendezvous with the Lieut before that fabled final charge.

  “Who did this?” Coulson demanded, staring right at Chess, who bared his teeth, shifting both hands to his gun-butts. But there were twenty of them, all armed, to maybe twelve of the Lieut’s ragged Irregulars, too ground down by fatigue and shock to offer much response beyond a general gasp. And Rook knew what he had to do.

  “I did,” he said, at last, stepping forward.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Even long after the twister’d moved on, Rook could remember with exquisite urgency how it’d felt when Chess first knelt down in front of him in its wake and brought him to absolute ruin. How he’d fetched himself so hard he’d seen genuine stars flare like Pit-bound souls in the redness behind his eyes, then hauled Chess up by both shoulders and told him, hoarsely, “I don’t want you doin’ that with anyone else again, not ever. Hear me, Private?”

  “Or what?”

  “Or — I’ll find them. And I’ll kill them.”

  Chess just grinned, like this threat was the best compliment anybody’d ever given him.

  “Suits me,” he said, and let Rook lift him further — kissed him with the taste of Rook’s own seed sour on his breath, wound his legs around Rook’s waist, and gave him his sin again.

  The decision to become outlaws proved a surprisingly practical one, in the end. By limiting Chess’s choice of partners, Rook found, he’d unwittingly created a situation of scarcity which began to wear on the gang’s remaining members, as the camp and its horrors fell steadily behind.

  “Find them whores,” was Chess’s sage advice — but whores meant money, of which they currently had none.

  They’d already crossed into Arizona almost by instinct, making for the empty places, and spent a length of time wandering amongst the stones there, like Legion. Occasionally, they saw what they took for Apaches off in the distance, and Rook wondered if any of these could be numbered amongst those myriad spectral intelligences he now felt crowding in on him whenever he closed his eyes — as he had almost since that first morning he woke up sprawled next to Chess, sore with love-wounds, his head already a-ring with other people’s voices.

  Chess stirred and murmured, sleepily. Rook hugged him a bit closer, and knew himself reborn, in far more ways than the not-so-simple fact of having merely fucked another man could ever explain.

  “Hey,” he asked Chess, poking him lightly. “You think they heard us?”

  “What, Hosteen and the rest?” Chess replied, muffled, into the broad expanse of Rook’s chest. “I think dogs for a mile ’round could probably hear us, if I was doin�
�� my job right. Why — prospect of bein’ known as queer make you antsy, Reverend?”

  “Not . . . as such, surprisingly.”

  “Well, ain’t you sweet.” With a smirk, Chess sat up, right into a particularly luxuriant stretch — stark naked, and not seeming to give much of a damn who might be watching. Rook saw scars on him, both old and fresh, which hadn’t been quite so obvious in the hours before: a pink curlicue tracing one rib, the pale flowery knot of a plugged bullet hole punctuating one shoulder blade.

  Chess turned back to catch Rook gaping at the fierce white slash that hooked from right-hand sideburn to just under his jaw — suddenly visible, even beneath the red — and said, airily: “Yeah, that’s where my Ma stuck me with her yen hock, same night I told her I was signin’ up. Stung like a bitch, the whole time I was growin’ out my beard to cover it.”

  “My God!”

  Chess shrugged. “Suited me fine; I’m prettier shaved, which gave her the grand idea she might rig me up as some she-he, sell me that-a-way to fools who crave somethin’ extra up under the skirts. But I ain’t fit to be no girl, much less a poor jest of one — while I may not be the sorta man most think they are, I’m a man, just the same. Made to ride and fight, take what I want or swing tryin’, not die on my back or live on my knees. Knew that the minute I first touched a gun.”

  “Colonel Colt, et cetera.”

  “Exactly so.” He cast Rook a sidelong glance. “Think you’d like me better if I was a gal, Ash Rook?”

  The Rev looked him up and down, and answered, without a hint of equivocation, “I don’t really see how I could, Chess Pargeter. Seein’ how you already move me absolute best of any damn thing I’ve come across, thus far.”

  He got to his own feet then, towering over Chess, and smiled at the way his shadow seemed to knit them both together, long before he gathered him fiercely back in. They collided, mouths open, tongues working sweetly.

  When he pulled away, at last, he was equally pleased to see how Chess’s pale eyes seemed all but dazed with arousal. And then something entirely brand new came into his look, an angry sort of hope.