“I’m better at killing than dying. Not sure if that’s lucky or not, but it seems to be the way of things.”
The old man watched Hank’s gaze shift to the burning body of his father’s killer sticking out from the stove. He snapped his fingers, hoping to call the boy’s attention back to him.
“No need to be looking at that. You’ve had enough unpleasantness.”
“Ain’t unpleasant. It’s right. Like that witch in Hansel and Gretel getting stuffed in the oven.”
They both paused for a moment, the only sound being the popping and sizzling of the cannibal’s searing flesh.
“It’s kind of beautiful, actually.”
The old man frowned.
CHAPTER TEN
Two weeks had passed since Emmett crushed the trachea of his part-time employer, Harvey Mackum. Roughly three weeks had gone by since his hateful, dying grandfather had directed him to the Cavern of The First Breath. Even for a sixteen-year-old boy, this was no great amount of time. In that short window amazing things had happened, however. Magical things, one might say. Emmett, for one, had no doubt that magic was the right word. It could be nothing else, after all.
"Be a dear Emmett, and pass me another plantain," his mother asked in a pleasant and musical voice that seemed almost strong. The sickness had robbed her voice of its natural, strong, and beautiful tone, and Emmett had believed he'd never hear that voice again. But here it was, taking back its rightful place and exorcising the tired, breathless croak that had come to be associated with his mother in recent months.
The sickness had taken a toll on her. Far more gray was visible in her hair, and her face had aged. But the disease, whatever it had been, was gone now. The healthy, olive color of her skin had returned, washing away the ashen complexion she had worn while death was knocking. She was putting on weight, shrugging off the emaciated, mummified appearance that had marked her in recent weeks. It was in her eyes that Emmett saw the biggest change. Just a week ago she was ready to die. It had been clear in those brown pools where her soul danced. She had given up. Now there was hope in her eyes. Something else too—desire. Desire to live and breathe. Desire to taste, and touch, and feel, and smell. Desire to love and dance and sing. And is desire not the secret elixir of life? Emmett mused.
Emmett watched his mother shovel down fried plantains, and could not help but smile at his work. It was he who had saved her, trading life for life. He was proud of this. He was proud of the fact that he had sought out his grandfather and the secrets that the old man held. He was proud of himself for descending into the dark, cold wetness that was the Cavern of the First Breath. Despite not remembering how he had done so, Emmett was even proud of making it back home. Most of all, he was proud of squeezing the very life force out of Harvey Mackum and trading that life force with the lady of the pit, like a pile of ethereal greenbacks.
Emmett stabbed a piece of plantain, and looked deep into his mother's hopeful eyes. He, too, felt hope. Death had been staved off. If that could be done, everything else would surely go back to normal soon. The war would end, and his father would come home. People would buy guns, beautiful one-of-a-kind guns like only his pa could build, and there would never again be a question about where dinner was coming from.
"Now that my appetite's coming back, I'm afraid I'll eat us out of house and home," Emmett's mother said with a laugh. Though she had not meant anything by it, other than to point out how healthy her appetite was becoming, it made Emmett think of one single fact. His father wasn't home yet, and even if the war ended tomorrow morning, he wouldn't be home for some time. This meant that no one would be shelling out a hundred bucks for a fancy new revolver just yet. This, in turn, meant that what little money Emmett had was about to dry up. With Mackum dead and buried in his own orange grove, the fair wages that the bastard had paid were now gone as well.
For the first time it occurred to Emmett that he had not only bitten the hand that fed, but had torn it off. A fear welled up in the pit of his stomach, as heavy and as hot as molten lead. It was a fear that he'd not be able to feed him and his mother, and a fear that such knowledge might send her back over the edge and into the sickness. She was just starting to get better and he was not about to let stress undo the magic he had weaved with Mackum's blood.
"Don't you worry, Ma," Emmett said with a faux smile. "I've been working hard and saving hard."
This was a lie. Emmett had used almost all of the money he'd earned from picking oranges to pay back Mary for watching his ma while he had been off chasing magic. He hadn't dared to steal from Mackum. Somehow he knew that would weaken the power of the sacrifice.
Magic. Maybe that was the answer. The spells that had been burned into his mind by the hides in the cavern were powered by desire and sacrifice. To save his mother's life, the young man had channeled his heart and soul through Mackum's death, striking a deal with death herself. But there were other beings in that icy hell. Dwarfish beings, clad in riches, who no doubt could be bargained with more easily than the hell queen. And if Emmett could wield the power to stave off the disease that had ravaged his mother, could he not call upon magic that would bring him wealth? Surely summoning cash must be simpler than sidestepping oblivion, or so Emmett thought.
With this idea in his mind, Emmett found that the burning fear in his stomach, that molten lead, had seemed to melt away. His mother was alive and well, and now he had the answer to his financial problems—if he could find a suitable trade.
***
Elvis was something of a wanderer. He'd enjoyed playing harmonica, seeing new sights, and the warm feeling brought on by a stiff drink, but not much else. He was dirty and unkempt and cared little what folk thought of him. He had little interest in women and no desire to start a family. His own parents had died when he was but a boy, leaving him without any roots. This left him to follow the good weather, drink beneath the stars, find work where he could, and enjoy the freedom of an unfettered life. If he had lived a few more years, he might have pioneered the railway hobo way of life. This was not to be Elvis's lot. Instead he would die in Affirmation, California, on a night when the stars were right, years before the Central and Union railways would meet and truly unify the continent.
Elvis was not privy to the knowledge of his impending death this night. All he knew was that some easy money had been offered to him. Enough money to keep him in whiskey for the next two months. All he had to do was help some kid rip off his old man's shop. Normally he wouldn't be up for anything risky, but this sounded too easy to pass up. The kid's dad was off fighting in the war between the States, and the kid was left to take care of the gun shop. Evidently the little bastard (well not really little, a moose of a kid, truth be told), couldn't smith a decent piece if his life depended on it. There was some sort of big insurance policy on the equipment there though. The big moosey kid figured that his dad's gun making gear was worth more to him stolen than it was intact.
So the job was like this: Elvis got to move the stolen goods—machinery, guns, ammo—and keep the profit. In return, the kid got his insurance payoff. It was an everybody wins kind of job, and a well-paying one at that. Elvis liked it when everybody won. Things always went smoother when everybody stood to make a profit.
It was well past midnight in Affirmation, and no folks were walking the streets, despite the unusually bright starlight. The shine of the stars made Elvis nervous that he'd be seen by some old biddy who was looking out the window because she couldn't sleep. He was right to be nervous of the stars, even if his reasoning was off.
Elvis walked around the gun shop on Palomar Street, trying to be as nonchalant as he could. Stopping in the back of the building, Elvis opened the back door, which was already jimmied ajar as part of the narrative that he and the boy had constructed. Having the kid break it earlier in the night saved Elvis from making noise and attracting unwanted attention.
Elvis stepped through the door. Inside was blackness. The brightness of the night sky threw only slivers of silver light h
ere and there. Elvis stepped inside and stopped, afraid he might trip over something unseen. Instead of stepping further in, Elvis shuffled forward, hoping to bump into any unforeseen obstacles and not tumble over them.
Once he was inside and the door was closed behind him, Elvis fished through his pockets for a box of matches. The kid was supposed to have put all the good stuff, anything worth a damn and easy to sell, into a sack in the middle of the room. All Elvis would have to do was grab it and leave without catching anyone's attention. One match would give him the light he needed to find the sack, and hopefully the brief flicker of light wouldn't be seen by anyone outside.
Elvis pulled out a match and placed the head against the box. Just before he struck the match, less than a second before flame erupted with a tiny pop, Elvis heard a not so tiny click. His mind told him what it was before the light of the match confirmed it, illuminating the gun pointed at his face.
***
Flame popped into existence, almost like an answer to the click of Emmett's revolver. The orange light of the tiny match flame danced eerily across the vagrant's face. Emmett felt this made it harder to see his quarry. The fire had crippled his night vision, replacing it with shaky inconsistent illumination. Even as such, Emmett doubted there would be any problem.
The poor, filthy bastard looked more confused than frightened, like he couldn't quite figure out why there was a change in plans.
No change in plans, partner, Emmett thought, It's simply time for full disclosure.
This was wrong, though. The simple sight of the revolver was not full disclosure. There was more to this story than the vagrant would ever know. Symbols, ancient and forgotten runes, older than the memory of any god, were drawn upon the ground with metal shavings. The stars above were aligned in such a way that any other night this year, his eminent death would have been moot.
Emmett pulled the trigger of his revolver, a custom-made piece, modeled after the Dragoon pistol. The bark of lightning filled the night air, and a lead slug cut through the vagrant's neck. He fell to the ground gurgling and choking as blood pooled in his throat. The match fell with him and extinguished. All was darkness now, save for the strands of starlight that could sneak in through the windows and cracks.
While Emmett would need to make a sacrifice tonight, it would not be the vagrant's meager and insignificant life. What use would the denizens of the icy pit have for such a shabby soul? No, the vagrant was not the sacrifice. He had been the key.
The gods of Hell could only be reached by opening the gate between the land of the living and the realm of the dead. Such a gate could be opened solely through death, as a soul travelled from this world to the next. As consciousness drained from the vagrant's mind and lifeblood drained from his throat, the veil between worlds crumbled within the circle of metal shavings. The unimaginable cold of death's realm—that place outside of man's world—blew up from the rough wooden planks that made up the floor of the gun shop (although Emmett was not convinced that the floor of his father's workshop was even there any longer). The hot California air crashed against the cold winds of Hell, creating a white mist that swirled like some tornado of fog.
Emmett felt as if he were floating in the darkness. He could not see his hands, nor the gun in them, nor any part of himself. The dead man in front of him was lost in the shadows as well. For all Emmett knew, his corpse had fallen into the source of the frigid current emanating beneath them. Such a turn of events would prove fortuitous. He would have no body to dispose of and no narrative to spin for the sheriff.
The blood had been spilled and the key turned. Now Emmett needed to speak the words and call upon the being he wished to barter with. Its name had been whispered in his blood. It was a secret knowledge that he thought was passed on surely through the blood of his mother's people.
"Nibelung," Emmett invoked the name in a whisper that held more power than the loudest war cry.
The slivers of starlight that had managed to force their way into the building now began to change direction. Several different beams met within the center of Emmett's circle. At the point where each beam of light departed its natural course, they had transformed into tight rays of brilliant shifting colors. Tiny, terrifying rainbows in the darkness, they illuminated the icy void beneath the circle and drew out the thing that Emmett had summoned.
And so Nibelung rose from the circle, pulled up by prismatic bonds. Its body was humanoid, enormous but stout. Its ten-foot height was matched by the width of its shoulders. The creature’s nightmare features and frostbitten skin were only partially illuminated by the shifting axis of light. Still Emmett knew it was the creature from his dream—the dwarf who had beckoned him greedily while he thrashed in the river of slush. The light reflected off of the riches worked into the dwarf's beard and the gaudy rings that bit into its meaty, calloused fingers.
Incomprehensible words, the sounds of breaking ice and something being dragged through gravel, erupted from the lips of the thing that Emmett knew as Nibelung. Sane words—words in Emmett's own tongue of Americanized English—echoed through the circle, following the dwarf's guttural barks like some sort of audial Rosetta Stone.
"He who summons Nibelung the betrayer best do so with good reason." The speech had a metallic quality to it, as if the metal shavings that made up the circle had affected the tone.
More barking leapt from the dwarf's mouth—cracking ice and breaking glass and gravel crunching under foot. The alien words were followed immediately by the metallic voice of the circle.
"It was I who first betrayed this world for the lords of Utgard. For that treachery I have eternity at my fingertips and riches more vast than all of the gold created from every star that has ever died."
The barking paused first, then the echoed speech.
After the space of ten seconds the dwarf croaked his inarticulate voice once more, and the surrounding voice followed suit.
"What could one such as you possibly offer one such as me?"
Emmett closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to banish the fear that was clawing its way up his belly. The sterile smell of eternal cold—the smell of fimblewinter—flooded his nostrils and made him feel even more panicked.
"I offer this," Emmett spoke in a shaky voice. With a trembling hand he extended the pistol toward Nibelung, with the business end pointed down so as not to threaten or offend the dwarf. The maddening rainbow light bounced off of the gun's chrome barrel and tumblers. The silver inlay of the walnut grip sparkled in the darkness, shifting tone along with the shifting illumination. In the strange light, the acid etched name on the barrel, Blitzen, seemed to float above the actual weapon, lending it a phantasmal quality.
"The most finely crafted weapon on this continent," Emmett gulped, noting the thing's head tilt to the side. He prayed that the minimal light would not reveal Nibelung’s grotesque face in greater detail. If he were forced to look upon the dwarf in its terrible wholeness he would surely lose his nerve. If that were to happen, Emmett was quite sure he would be joining the vagrant and the dwarf for all time in that arctic nightmare world just beneath his feet.
The shifting light was kind. Nibelung’s features, most of them at least, remained veiled in darkness.
"Nothing quite like it in the world," Emmett continued, albeit a bit shakily. "No cocking the hammer. Just pull the trigger and the bullets fly as fast as you can squeeze. Makes the Winston repeater look like a musket."
Nibelung clenched its fist. Sparks lit up the darkness as its ten rings ground against one another. Its barking voice began once more, this time seeming angrier.
The circle translated Nibelung's words in its metallic voice.
"What use have I with such a crude trinket?"
"This pistol is not crude, great Nibelung. Nor is it a trinket."
Emmett placed the gun across his open palms, grimacing at the heat that was still retained in the barrel after shooting the vagrant.
"This is a tool of death, capable of taking six liv
es in less than that many seconds. It is crafted from the finest steel, finished with a walnut grip, and inlaid with the purest silver. Its name is Blitzen, for all great weapons deserve a name, and it was crafted by my father's hands."
Nibelung leaned forward, the cracks in its necrotized face shining with frozen ooze. Its coal black eyes jumped back and forth between the pistol and Emmett's own eyes. Emmett held the creature’s gaze, even as he felt the madness in its mind transferring to his own.
"It's the greatest treasure I have to give. A one-of-a-kind gift from my pa. The most advanced pistol on earth, so far as I know."
Nibelung reached out its massive hand and took the pistol from Emmett's outstretched palms. Blitzen disappeared into the dwarf's grip.
With its other hand, the creature called Nibelung, amongst other names, ran four thick fingers through its course beard. Coins and rings of gold rained from the dwarf's face and clattered upon the floor that seemed not to be there.
The creature croaked one final word in that terrible voice. This time the circle did not translate. Emmett was sure that this alien word meant their business was concluded.
Confirming Emmett's thoughts, the beams of prismatic light exploded into a brilliant flash. He was left momentarily blind from the intensity of the light. When the world began to reform before his eyes, it had lost the eldritch elements that had dominated it only moments ago. The arctic chill was gone, along with the yawning hell-mouth from which it had erupted. The terrible rainbow lights had vanished, or perhaps simply reverted into the slivers of silver moonlight. Through one sliver of moonlight, Emmett could see that seals that marked his circle were now scorched, but intact. All else was darkness.
"The circle is opened," Emmett muttered, "but never broken."
He stumbled through the darkness and beyond the diameter of his place of summoning. He blindly searched for the oil lamp that he had earlier placed on the shop's counter. Finally finding it, Emmett struck a match and set flame to the oil-soaked wick. It caught fire and filled the room with a soft yellow radiance.
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