Over the Darkened Landscape

by Derryl Murphy

  Finally, in the distance he could make out the flickering of a campfire, the sky beyond it now a dark blue deepening to black. Overhead, stars began to fade into existence, twinkling through the frozen air.

  Robert squatted on the ground and pulled off his pack, opened it to inspect his belongings in the failing light. The talisman had saved him twice this past week, but he was afraid the cold iron would stink with the effort of so much magic. If he tried to use it now he could be sure it would light up the night sky, alerting any sensitive quarry to his presence.

  He thought about his cards, given to him by Paul Christian himself years ago in Paris before he’d gone on to India, but ruled out any overt use of them so close to the camp. Instead, he quickly separated the conventional cards from the Clavicles, dealt off the four aces and tucked them in his jacket pocket. For use if he needed to hide himself later.

  Finally, and more than hesitantly, he pulled the Métis Hand of Glory from the pack. It was a little larger than his own hand, a dried and pickled hand cut from the body of some poor unfortunate hanged soul. He rested it on his lap and laid a candle beside it, then struck a lucifer from his pocket, careful to hide the flare with his body. He then lit the candle afire and dripped some wax into the space between two fingers, then embedded the candle; a slight breeze blew up for a second, then died away and everything was still. The flame stayed lit.

  The less chances he took, the better off he’d be. This would hopefully guarantee the men at the fire would stay asleep or be stupefied if awake.

  There were three horses standing off to the right side from where he approached, tethered to stakes in the ground. Robert carefully steered clear and downwind of them, not wanting them spooked and spoiling his cover. There were two men at the campfire, one asleep in a bedroll, the other sitting up and staring into the flames. Robert sneaked up behind the awake one, raising his blade.

  The flame on the Hand sputtered and died. The man at the fire turned and rolled at the same time, Robert’s knife swinging through empty air. The other man, the sleeping one, sat up in his bedroll with a start, reaching for a rifle lying on the ground beside him. Robert flung his knife in desperation; it found its mark, embedding in the man’s left eye. He collapsed with a grunt.

  There was a blinding flash of pain, and then things went black.

  When he came back to, the sun was up again, low in the east. The fire had been reduced to red and black coals, casting almost no heat to make up for the cold earth pressing into Robert’s cheek. He tried to sit up, groaned as pain shot through the back of his skull, then groaned again when he tried to put his hands to it and discovered they were tied together.

  He was lifted from behind and roughly set in a sitting position. “You should not try to use a Hand of Glory on the person who made it, my friend.” And then his captor stepped round into his view. Robert gasped.

  “Ah, you recognize me,” said the man, his accent thick behind the heavy beard, balding forehead, large nose and buckskin jacket that helped identify him. Gabriel Dumont.

  “Coming back from your coward’s flight?” Robert winced at this; even talking hurt his head.

  Dumont grinned. “I ran in May, against my better judgement, because Louis asked me to.”

  Robert snorted. “Of course. And he chose to stay behind to lose the battle.”

  Dumont sat on his haunches, across from Robert on the opposite side of the remains of the fire. “The battle was already lost. Middleton must have had almost a thousand men, too many for us to handle with our depleted supplies and with someone on their side preparing wards.” He stirred at the coals with his knife. “That was you?”

  “Indeed. Although I can hardly say I was needed. You were weak then, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. We were. The battles had been many and hard. We needed something to prove to our possible allies that we were on the side of God.” He crossed himself and then spit in the fire.

  “The blood,” said Robert.

  “Yes,” replied Dumont, smiling. “The blood was a brilliant stroke, do you not think? Louis planned it, and set me off to do the work.”

  “And? What gave the blood?”

  “An elephant, my friend. A giant beast from darkest Africa, brought large to our own land, and sacrificed using the very tool that the British had used to subjugate my Cree cousins. The rails.”

  “What are you talking about?” This turn of conversation had Robert very confused.

  Dumont stood and spread his arms wide, fierce grin showing yellowing, crooked teeth under the cover of his beard and moustache. “Jumbo, the world’s greatest beast, and the very personification of the demon Behemoth! That fool Barnum was easily persuaded to bring the creature across the border, although he would allow his show to go no further than Ontario. So we had men there who made sure Jumbo was on the tracks, and another to make sure the train would run the elephant down.”

  He paced about momentarily, then returned to finish the story. “September 15, a great day for us. Oh, the newspapers were so upset over the death of one simple beast! The train crashed into the elephant, and then myself and three others, all men trusted not to make use of it themselves, hurried in to collect blood as it spilled from the creature’s trunk and mouth onto the rails, the keeper Scott wailing and crying so much that no one noticed what was being done. And then the blood was rushed west across the Prairies, packed in ice to keep the power strong.

  “We had a man, a priest, inside at the jail, he got it to Louis with two whole days to spare. The results, as I am sure you remember, were spectacular.”

  “A lot of people died that day. Were slaughtered.”

  Dumont frowned. “Soldiers, police, politicians. We were to let the people of the town leave if they desired. We have no desire to subjugate a people, unlike the government of this so-called Canada.”

  With that, Dumont turned away and began to load up the horses. Robert noted that there was a pile of loose earth just past the animals, presumably the burial site for the man he had killed. “What will you do with me?”

  Dumont cinched tight a strap, grunted. “I will bring you to Regina where Louis Riel awaits my return. Then he will decide if you are to be returned for a ransom, or perhaps executed as a murderer.” He turned and grinned, fiercely and without any sign of humour. “You killed one, probably two of my friends here, but Louis has taught me as much as I have taught him. I will respect his decision, even though I know what I would like to do. Now get up.”

  Robert struggled to his knees, hands no help at all tied behind his back. He knelt there for a full minute, breathing hard at the labour and the pain of his head. Dumont, impatient, came over then and grabbed him roughly by the arms, pulled him up and pushed him over to the horses, then paradoxically gently helped him get up on one, the reins of which he took and tied to the saddle of his own horse.

  “Why do you fight for a land that isn’t your own?” asked Dumont, perhaps an hour after they had broken camp.

  Robert gazed at his captor for a second before answering. “Her Majesty is represented within the government here. Canada was a loyal colony and is now a valued ally.”

  Dumont grinned, then spit on the ground. “Why do you still fight?”

  “I was fighting to save my life,” said Robert.

  “Ah. Now that I can understand. Running to save your hide, to live and perhaps go home to sire children and tell them tales of your close call in a far-off land.”

  “I was not running to save my hide,” said Robert, teeth gritted. “I knew I would stand no chance by myself, but felt if I could rejoin with the army I might be able to do some good.”

  “And so you ride south, to America?”

  “Faster. Safer, too, I would have thought.”

  “By now, word of our victory will have made it to our brothers and cousins south of the border,” said Dumont. “I expect the American Cavalry will be even more nervous than they were after that foul pig Custer met his death. And with good reason. Our p
eople will support the plains tribes, even as we negotiate peace with the Macdonald and his government.”

  “The Americans are more ruthless, Dumont. I don’t see them standing idly by.”

  “Then we will offer a new homeland. Perhaps the Americans would like their problem to just disappear. It certainly would be easier for them.”

  Robert shook his head. “Unlikely. You fool yourself. I venture to say that if this rebellion really is successful, you will soon find yourselves defending against attacks from the south as well as from the east.”

  Dumont took a bite of venison, put the remainder in Robert’s mouth. “There,” he said. “Chew, and stop arguing with me.”

  They rode north all through the day, mostly now in silence, through the open prairie and into sparse farmlands. Although Dumont was careful to steer clear of settlements, Robert could see no sign that anyone was inhabiting any he could see in the distance. No smoke from distant chimneys, no farm animals wandering about or making noises that might carry across the open fields. It appeared that word had got out, and that the locals had fled rather than exist under the new provisional government. Indeed, the only signs of life Robert saw all day were three pronghorns in the distance, a coyote, and one distant hawk, riding high in the immense cold blue sky.

  Camp that night was in an abandoned sod farmhouse, part of the roof caved in. Dumont had carefully scouted it out after tying Robert to a tree. “This would be less of a concern if I still had my travelling companions,” he had said, glaring at Robert, who carefully looked another way, not wanting to incite him to any violence.

  The horses were tied to an old chicken pen outside, left to graze. Dumont had pressed hard all day to learn his name, but Robert would have none of that, and for the most part kept silent.

  In the old house he had briefly untied Robert’s hands to allow him to relieve himself, and then was tied back up for a short moment, sat roughly on the dirt floor with a small bag beside him. Then Dumont very quickly sketched a warding circle around Robert. Some figures were recognizable to him, others weren’t.

  Before he closed the circle, Dumont reached across and cut the ropes, and then hurried to finish the signs. A quick push at the border proved to Robert that he was trapped.

  “There’s food and water in the bag,” said the Métis. “Your own talisman is safe with me, as are the cards from your jacket pocket. I have taken care to make sure you have no tools with you to effect an escape.”

  Dumont grabbed some old boards from a stack that was leaning vertically against the wall a few feet behind Robert. He piled a few of them under the hole in the roof, grabbed some kindling and his sparker. A few tries had the flint light up the kindling, and soon a small fire was burning. Robert watched with exhausted eyes as he tamped tobacco into a hand-carved pipe, then pull a burning stick from the fire and light it with a few puffs.

  He couldn’t put off the hunger any more. An inspection of the bag provided an overly-dry piece of venison and, if lucky, a swallow of water. He downed both, then put his mind to planning an escape.

  The warding circle was imperfect, but strong enough to hold him in. That first abortive test was all he needed to be assured of that.

  So he sat, and watched, and waited. Finally, it seemed that Dumont had faded off to sleep. Kneeling, Robert scratched at the dirt. A circle was more powerful than a square, but it was the only incantation he could think of that might work. He hoped the imperfections in the circle were loud enough that his own spell’s imperfections would not show through.

  He started with the square, to keep his boundaries. Then, row by row, he carefully etched the letters needed for the palindrome:

  R O L O R

  O B U F O

  L U A U L

  O F U B O

  R O L O

  “Stop!” A stone bounced painfully off his shoulder.

  Dumont ran over, stood at the edge of the circle and mumbled something. A breeze came up, blew soil around, obscured the letters and the square. The circle remained untouched.

  “Idiot!” grunted Dumont. “If that worked, at best you would have died. At worst . . .” he shuddered.

  “Why?” asked Robert, glaring at the Métis. He rubbed his shoulder. Another spot to add to the list of pains.

  “You were calling for Air using Earth. Not easy to do, to control both at the same time, especially when you are under another’s wards. And I have heard about that spell you were trying. Even if it did work, did you think that turning yourself into a crow in a land where many consider the crow sacred would get you anywhere?” He spit on the ground. “My Cree cousins have not had time to teach me everything, but I do know how Crow would take to being usurped by a British.”

  He walked back to the fire, turned and looked back. “Try nothing else. I’ll know if you try to break the circle with magic.”

  Robert sat and watched Dumont, thinking. Dumont settled back into the rhythmic breathing of sleep. Outside, the horses muttered and shuffled, then settled back down as well, the brief stink of magic having only momentarily touched their nostrils.

  I’ll know if you try to break the circle with magic.

  The stone that had bounced off his shoulder had shown that the circle was open to inanimate objects. So perhaps . . .

  Robert checked his pocket, found his packet of lucifers still there. Next, as quietly as possible, he tore a strip of cloth from his undershirt, rolled it into a ball. The first two didn’t light, and then the third one flared to life. He paused, watching carefully for a sign that Dumont had heard. Nothing. Hopefully the stink of sulphur would be covered by the smell of Dumont’s own fire, even if only briefly.

  He set the ball alight. When the flame seemed steady, he tossed it across the edge of the circle. It came to rest against the rotted wood of an old pile of planks, guttered for a few seconds, and then lit with new force. The wood then seemed to all light up at once; Robert quickly untied the laces of his boots, used a square knot on them to form a short rope. What had kept his hands tied was next to useless, cut short and stinking of magic.

  So far the wind seemed to be with him. The smoke was blowing away from Dumont. Flames continued to lick at the boards, and finally one of them burned down enough to begin to shift. He took the stone that Dumont had thrown and, knowing he would have no second chance, tossed the stone at the bottom of the plank.

  The throw was accurate. It broke the burned portion of the wood, and the plank leaned back and completed what seemed an agonizingly slow fall towards Robert, finally falling across the circle and obliterating several of the wards.

  It was broken! He jumped and ran across the boundary, careful to step on the wood as he crossed over, watched as Dumont awoke and groggily reached for his knife. He jumped the last few feet with arms outstretched, and grabbed Dumont’s head, wrenching the man to the ground. Dumont, awake now, swung his blade in a desperate flash, but Robert had his makeshift rope around Dumont’s throat, pulling as tight as he could as he dodged the knife.

  Dumont flung his head back now, anxious to make contact, but Robert danced to the side, still holding the rope tight. As the knife came up for another swing Robert kicked at it, knocked it skittering across the dirt floor. Then, with a grunt accompanied by a weak cough from Dumont, he pulled the Métis man off his feet and slammed his skull against the stone base of the wall.

  Dumont lay still, blood seeping from beneath his unruly hair, but still breathing. A raw angry ring peeked out from beneath his beard, bruises turning blue from red even as Robert watched. Robert leaned over, catching his breath, noticed that his hand was bleeding; the knife must have scored.

  But that could be worried about later. He had to get going now. It made no sense to arrest Dumont and take him to America, not with either one of them in such bad condition. But he couldn’t very well kill Dumont, either, not in cold blood while he laid there injured. He was no one’s executioner.

  Dumont would stay unconscious for a while, he decided. Long enough to no
t worry about having to use magic here to keep him in place, but rather lay some simpler spells of confusion along the way. He grabbed the supplies, left Dumont his knife, a little water, and two small pieces of venison.

  Then he saddled up the horse he had ridden on and sent the other two running. It was time to ride south now. And pray he ran into no one else.

  Over the Darkened Landscape

  The train whistle blew three times, a harsh sound that sat me up and made me perk up my ears. Mac turned over in the rolling darkness, the only sound now the steady clickety-clack of wheels on the steel tracks.

  He put his hand on my back and let it rest there for a moment. “Anything wrong?” His voice was groggy and his lips smacked loudly as he searched for spit for a too-dry mouth.

  I shook my head and then nosed at his arm. Mac lifted it away and I licked his palm twice, then rolled up against him and fell asleep to the easy, pleasant sensation of Mac’s fingers scratching me behind the ears and underneath my collar.

  Next morning there was a quiet rap on the door and then it opened. Simon, our car’s attendant, stepped in carrying a pot of coffee. “Good morning, Mr. King,” he sang, cheerful as ever. “I trust your sleep went well.” He opened the blinds to a pale blue sky and a never-ending march of trees as we wended our way through the northern woods.

  He poured a cup for Mac, who was now up and blinking away the gumminess of sleep. After Mac took the cup Simon leaned down and scratched me under the chin. “And how’s Pat this bright and cheery morning?” he asked in his best baby talk voice. I could put up with that, though, because he produced a napkin from his pocket and slowly unfolded it, revealing a scrumptious piece of bacon staining its pristine white surface.

  I stood on the bed and shook myself in excitement, the smell almost a feast in and of itself. Simon dangled the strip of bacon above my nose, and after a couple more moments of olfactory ecstasy, I wolfed it down.