The River of Souls

by Robert McCammon

  “Excellent work!” Matthew had said when he’d found his voice. “How did you learn to do this?”

  “My Pap was a glass-blower. He taught me. Then…I reckon…after he passed on, I decided to make some bottles that were in my head, but that hadn’t come out yet. He sold a few to stores in Charles Town. I’ve been sellin’ to the Kincannons. Miss Sarah’s got nine or ten of ’em.”

  “I’ve never seen bottles like these,” Matthew had said. “Not even in New York. You could make a lot of money there, I’d think.”

  “Don’t do it for a lot of money,” Magnus had said, as he’d lowered himself into a chair made of stretched cowhide. “Do it ’cause I enjoy it, and when I look at ’em…makes me feel good, like I’ve made somethin’ worth the time and the heat.” He put his dirty boots up onto a square piece of unpolished wood that served as a table. Upon entering the house he had deposited the musket in a rack on the wall, much to Matthew’s relief. “Now,” said Magnus, with a harsh note returning to his voice, “what’s all this jollywhomp you’ve come here to tell me?”

  Matthew had already noted the lack of bear-grease in Magnus’ hair. In fact, it was still wild and uncombed but at least looked as if it had been lately washed and de-fleaed. Matthew reasoned Magnus had greased his hair for the occasion of seeing Pandora at the ball, as if that might help the mountainous one’s chances to open a locked and rather cruel heart.

  “Firstly,” said Matthew as he stood at the center of the room, “never attempt to meet, see or speak to the Lady Prisskitt again. I can tell you that she is not worth the effort, and that any man you have killed in regards to her died a saint. Secondly, keep your hair washed. Bear-grease is not a suitable ointment. I can suggest something lighter in nature that you can procure in Charles Town. The idea is to attract, not to repel. Thirdly—and this may be a bit tough for you to take—I am going to also suggest that you shave off your beard.”

  Magnus had been staring at the floor during the beginning of Matthew’s statements, but now the iron-gray eyes came up and stared holes through the problem-solver. “What?”

  “Your beard,” Matthew said. “Off with it.”

  “I’ve had a beard ever since I was a baby, seems like!”

  “That may be true,” Matthew admitted. “But now is the time is put it away with the toys and the rattles. How old are you, anyway?”

  Magnus spent a moment counting on his dirty fingers. “Twenty-six years.”

  “Only two years older than me? Your beard ages you by many more.”

  “Not cuttin’ the beard,” came the defiant response. “My Pap and Mam thought it made me handsome. Told me so many times.”

  Matthew had the feeling that Pap and Mam had not necessarily wished their overgrown son to venture very far into the world beyond their guiding hands. He had no desire to criticize the dead, and felt that criticism here would result in a bootkick out the front door at the least. “You might then consider a trimming,” he offered.

  “The beard is left be, sir. And I’m listenin’ but I ain’t hearin’ nothin’. I figure I’m good enough as I sit. What do I need anythin’ else for?” He shrugged and settled deeper into his cowhide. “Damn me for a fool, chasin’ a woman like that. And me thinkin’ that she would make me better than I am. And damn me for pushin’ those men into duels, and puttin’ ’em under easy as eatin’ sugar cake. Well, I wanted ’em to run! I just wanted ’em to get out of my way, so Pandora would see me.” He looked up imploringly at Matthew and asked quietly, “Am I goin’ to Hell?”

  “I don’t think so,” Matthew answered. “I can tell you that many have done worse than you, and for worse reasons. Now: you say you wished the Lady Prisskitt to make you better than you are? Meaning you wish to advance in the world? My suggestions stand. Clean yourself up, cut—or at least trim—your beard, get yourself a new suit and take your craftwork to town. I’m sure you’ll find an interested buyer in one of the shops on Front Street, who will likely ask for more. You may also find yourself with a sudden abundance of money, and though you may not create your work for that reason, money does help one advance in the world. Let me ask you this: why did your father and mother settle way out here? Why didn’t they live in town?”

  “My Pap was huntin’ gold,” said Magnus. “Heard before we came across the water that the gold was just layin’ on the ground ready to be found. This place suited him, ’cause he and my Mam never did take to havin’ close neighbors. He dug and dug for that gold, had me diggin’ for it with him, but we never found a speck of it. I still dig for it once in awhile, just to please his memory.” He motioned toward a wooden bucket on the floor in a corner. “Been findin’ some of that hereabouts. Save it ’cause it’s pretty. Tryin’ to catch that color green in my bottlework.”

  Matthew walked over to look into the bucket. In it were twenty or so green stones of various sizes, the smallest a mere sliver and the largest maybe the size of Matthew’s thumbnail.

  “Dug those out of a hollow not too far from here. They cleaned up nice and bright,” Magnus said, with a shrug. “No gold up there, though. Poor Pap, diggin’ and diggin’ as he did. And all for nothin’.”

  “May I ask a question?” Matthew bent down to have a closer look at the bucket’s contents. He picked up the largest stone and turned it into the light that streamed through the nearest window. A streak of vivid green lay across the floor.

  “Go on.”

  “Have you ever heard of something called an emerald?”

  “A what?”

  “Oh, mercy,” said Matthew, who had to stifle a laugh. He had no idea of the quality of these gemstones, for some had black spots embedded in them and so were less than ideal, but it seemed to him that Magnus Muldoon’s own shop on Front Street might already be paid for. Possibly a nice house in Charles Town lay in this bucket, as well. “These are valuable. How much they could be worth, I don’t know…but you need to take these to town and show a jeweller. I think at least two or three of these are high quality stones.”

  “Valuable? Those little green rocks?”

  “Raw emeralds,” Matthew corrected. He put the gemstone back among its fellows, and he thought that if Pandora Prisskitt could see what lay inside this bucket she would be insisting she comb Magnus’ hair and brush his beard herself. He stood up. “Yes, valuable. Maybe a hundred pounds’ worth.”

  Magnus’ eyes widened just for a second or two, and he frowned and scratched his beard as if it truly itched. “Have to think on that one. Never found any more, but figure if those are valuable as you say, and I take ’em to town to show somebody, then he’s gonna want to know where I found ’em, and even if I tell him there likely ain’t no more he’ll tell somebody else and pretty soon I got strangers out here all over the place. Not sure I want that, now that I’m settled in my bottle-makin’.”

  “If you wish to be a hermit and continue the life you lead, then go right ahead,” said Matthew, aware that he might well be talking to the wall. “If, however, you wish to—as you stated to the Lady Prisskitt—have things change for you, then you’re standing on the threshold.”

  “The what?”

  “Standing at the crossroads,” Matthew amended. “I say remake yourself, beginning with a bath and clean clothes. Wash and trim your hair and your beard, take your emeralds and bottles to town and see what can be done. You might find your craft much in demand, and yourself as well by several ladies who are worth much more attention than Pandora Prisskitt. But…if you prefer this solitary life way out here, then by all means sink your roots deeper. Sink them until you disappear, if you choose. It’s your life, isn’t it?”

  Magnus didn’t answer. He was staring into space with the blank expression of a mountainous enigma.

  “I’ve spoken my piece,” Matthew said at last. “It would give me some satisfaction to know I had urged you out of this solitude and into a more congenial and gentlemanly role, if just to sprinkle a little pepper into the Lady Prisskitt’s nose. But the rest is up to you, t
o decide or not, to act or not.”

  “You talk in riddles, don’t you?”

  “My talking is done. Good day to you, sir, and I hope you find great opportunity in whatever path you choose.” Matthew started toward the door.

  “Where are you goin’?” Magnus asked.

  “Back to Charles Town, of course. I’d like to get there before dark.”

  “Hold on a minute. I was thinkin’…maybe…I want to hear more about these ideas. Maybe they make sense, even though I don’t want ’em to.” Magnus looked around the little room for a moment, as if measuring its space as a prisoner might measure a cell. “I’m goin’ out to hunt some supper,” he told Matthew, as he stood up and reached for the musket from the wallrack. A powderhorn hung nearby, and also a well-used brown leather bag that likely held the shot and other necessaries for use of the musket. “You want to come along, you’re welcome. Shoot you some supper too, if you please.”

  Matthew’s first response was to say no, that he had to get back to Charles Town, but something in Magnus’ offer stayed his answer. It seemed to him that this was a rare and possibly first occasion, that Magnus had ever wanted anyone to share a meal with him. Matthew thought that the road to civilization might start here. He decided, in light of this, that it was worth staying for another couple of hours or so.

  “All right,” he agreed. “What’re you hunting?”

  “Squirrels,” was the reply. “They fry up real good. Get four of ’em, you got yourself a feast.”

  Matthew nodded, thinking that this was the kind of feast Hudson Greathouse would heartily approve of. He followed Muldoon out the door, and in another few minutes was wandering through the forest alert for any sign or sound of their supper.

  Thus it was, when the four squirrels had been skinned and cleaned and fried in a pan over a fire in the hearth, and Matthew had eaten this dish along with a roasted ear of corn and a piece of cornbread and the sun was starting to sink outside and the shadows lengthen, that Magnus got up, left the room into the next room beyond and returned with the bottle as red as holy fire. He was carrying two wooden cups, which he set down upon the table.

  He wiped the squirrel grease from his mouth with his forearm, pulled the cork from the bottle and said, “This is my own brew a’ likker.” He poured some—just a small taste, really—into one of the cups for Matthew, who was sitting in a chair made from treebranches. “Have a swig.”

  “I’d best pass on that,” said Matthew, as Magnus poured a drink for himself. “I think it’s time I’m getting back.”

  “One swig won’t harm you. Besides, I’ll guide you back to town if you need guidin’, I can ride that road in the dark. Go ahead, Matthew.” He gave a sly smile. “Fella ain’t feared of a deadly comb, shouldn’t be feared of a little mild corn likker.”

  Matthew picked up the cup. The liquid was colorless. He sniffed it. It did have a strong aroma that promised a kick, but…he felt the challenge of another duel slapping his face, and it had been a good dinner and a good day and he really was in no hurry. All his concerns about Professor Fell seemed very far away, out here in these woods on the edge of the Solstice River. The same also about his concerns for Berry Grigsby, and his own future. He put the cup to his mouth and downed the liquor with a single swallow.

  Muldoon had been correct. No harm was done, except for perhaps the instant watering of the eyes, a feeling of a flashfire searing down the throat and the speculation that a few hundred tastebuds had been burned off the tongue, but otherwise…no harm.

  “Whew!” Matthew said when he’d gotten his eyes cleared and his throat working. “Quite potent!”

  Magnus had taken his own drink down with seemingly no ill effect. He poured again into Matthew’s cup and then his own. “Lemme tell you my story,” he offered. “How we came across from Wales. Came through storms and seas as high as houses. How we got settled in here…and then, how I happened to see Pandora—I mean, Lady Prisskitt—on the street one day. You up for the hearin’?”

  Matthew took a more careful sip of the liquor this time. Still, it went down the throat like a flaming torch down a well. “I am,” he rasped, thinking that Muldoon was probably starved for company, and a couple of squirrels did not exactly fill the belly for that.

  Sometime in the next hour, as the contents of the red bottle dwindled, the fire burned low in the hearth, the blue of evening claimed the world and Magnus’ story began to go in circles, Matthew remembered the room starting to spin. He reached to finish off the last of his drink with an arm that seemed to grow ten feet long. He was sliding off his chair onto the floor. He thought he was falling out of a tree, therefore he grabbed at the branches and he and the chair fell together. He recalling hearing Magnus laugh, as if declaring himself the victor in this particular duel. Matthew tried to say something suitably witty for the occasion but all that came out was a frogcroak; he was well and truly stewed by Magnus’ brew, and as he lost consciousness he realized he was not going anywhere anytime soon.

  From the darkness he came to, groggily, with a boot prodding him in the ribs.

  “Matthew! Wake up!” Magnus was standing over him, holding a lantern in which the stubs of two candles burned.

  “Whazzit?” Matthew managed to say, just barely.

  “Listen! Hear that?”

  With an effort, Matthew sat up. His stomach lurched. For a few seconds he feared he was going to spew an awful mess of fried squirrels and fiery liquor everywhere. His head pounded as if being beaten by an insane drummer. The room was still spinning, slower now but enough to make him wish to lie back and enter again into the silent land of drunken sleepers.

  And then he heard what Magnus was hearing, because Magnus had opened the door to let the sound in: the tolling of an iron bell in the distance, both mournful and frantic.

  “Alarm bell’s bein’ rung from the Green Sea!” Magnus said, his voice husky with tension.

  “Alarm bell? What? Why?”

  “Callin’ for help from Jubilee! Last time that happened there was a fire broke out over there!”

  “A fire? On the plantation?” Matthew still couldn’t get the liquor-sodden gears meshing in his brain.

  “Sayin’ that was last time I heard the bell ring! They’re needin’ some help! Come on, haul yourself up and I’ll get the horses ready!” Magnus left the room, his boots making the floorboards whine.

  Matthew had no idea what time it might be. Full dark had fallen, but how long the potent brew had laid him low was a question mark. In any case, his head was killing him. He tried to stand, staggered and fell back on his rear. Then he sat there for awhile trying to make the room further slow its spinning. What a laugh Hudson would be having at this moment, if the Great One could see him fighting gravity and heavy drink. One cup had become two, then three and four and that had likely been when he’d found the floor. Now it seemed the alarm bell was being rung with more force and frenzy, and though Magnus was revealing himself to be a good neighbor to the Green Sea’s call for help, in truth Matthew wanted only to sit here until morning light.

  But that was not to be, for Magnus had brought Dolly and his own black horse around to the front, and he called out, “Matthew! Come on, man, no time to waste!”

  Matthew was able to get to his feet on the next try. Where were his coat and his tricorn? He found the hat, half-crushed where he must’ve landed on it when he slid to the floor, but his blurred vision couldn’t find the coat in the gloom of the low firelight. He put the tricorn on as best he could, staggered out of the room to the porch and under the canopy of stars pulled himself up onto Dolly. The horse must’ve feared for her life with such a rider, for she rumbled and tried to sidle away from him, but he got situated and firmly took hold of the reins.

  Magnus set off at a fast clip, Matthew following at a slower pace. He had to trust that Dolly would not break a leg between here and the Green Sea. The bell was still ringing, but there was no glow of a fire in the sky. The night was warm and humid, the forest al
ive with the whirrs and chitters and crick-cracks of a legion of insects. Now that he was directed somewhere, Matthew’s head was clearing a little bit. The pounding had become an erratic drumbeat. He picked up Dolly’s pace to stay closer behind Magnus. It occurred to him that Magnus’ haste to get to the aid of the Green Sea Plantation might have more to do with Sarah Kincannon, and that turning his eyes away from the Lady Prisskitt had focused them on Miss Sarah. Whatever, Magnus was a man on a mission.

  The bearded mountain and the young problem-solver wearing a half-crushed and lopsided tricorn turned their horses onto the road that entered the Green Sea. The dust of other hoofbeats hung in the air. The bell had been silenced, yet a feeling of chaos—or danger—lingered. Soon Matthew caught sight of many lights through the willows, and then rounding a bend he and Magnus came upon the plantation house and what appeared to be a mob of thirty or more men brandishing torches and lanterns. It appeared that some of the men had arrived on horses, in wagons and some on foot. Rising from the trampled grass like small flickering candles were dozens of fireflies, lured by the illuminations.

  The plantation house was two-storied, fashioned of red bricks with four white columns standing out in front. Lights showed in most of the windows. The mob was milling about the house as if waiting for someone to emerge.

  Magnus reined his horse in and swung himself off, and Matthew did the same though much less gracefully, for upon hitting the ground his knees crumpled and he nearly fell flat. He was composed enough to hear the response when Magnus clapped his hand on a man’s shoulder and asked, “What’s the commotion?”

  “Sarah Kincannon,” the man answered, as he held his torch aloft and sparks swirled above them. “She’s been murdered.”