Rebel Heart

by Moira Young

  As he walks towards the door, the tavern sign creaks in the rising wind. The paint’s flaking and faded, but he can just make out the tiny boat foundering on an angry sea, about to be swamped by a huge wave. Every time he’s been here, he’s half-expected to find that boat gone. Sunk to the bottom of the sea.

  The Lost Cause. Never was a name more suited to a place. A pile of Wrecker junk a rat wouldn’t sniff at. Tattered shreds of who-knows-what. Battered bits of this and that. It looks like a heavy sigh would do for it. But it’s been here forever. Long years. Way before the weather changed and the storms moved in. When this was a grassy, green plain with life in plenty.

  Even then, it was a well-known hooch and whores joint. But once Molly’s family became landlords, it became notorious. Four generations of Pratts made it the only stop in this part of the world. Famous brawls, rogues plotting mischief in corners, the hectic jangle of music, drink rough enough to numb your hair and bad girls of all persuasions. He wonders if Lilith’s still working the room. She must be knocking on a bit.

  He’s never known the Lost Cause to be closed, day or night. Molly’s likely to be awake, even at this hour. She’s an early riser. Gets by on four hours of sleep with a catnap in the afternoon. She might even be working the bar.

  Jack pauses outside the door. His stomach’s jittery with nerves. He’s pondered, over and over again, what he’s going to say to her. How he’s going to tell her about Ike. And he still doesn’t know. He’s never had to do this before. He’ll just have to hope the right words come to him.

  To buy himself a moment or two, he knocks the dust from his hat. Flicks the pigeon feather stuck in the band. A little smile quirks his lips as he remembers the fuss Emmi made, choosing the perfect feather to beautify his battered old hat. He puts it back on. Tilts it to a jaunty angle.

  He takes a deep breath. He opens the door. He goes in.

  Molly’s behind the bar. She’s drying hoochers. The rusty, dented drinking tins and pots look even more harmful than the last time he was here. She’s working her way through a stack of them, like she’s got a crowd of thirsty drinkers waiting. He’s the only punter.

  She looks up. She can’t hide the little start of surprise. The quick flash of joy that chases over her face. And something else, too. Relief. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. The mask’s back in place. The heard-it-all smile. The seen-it-all eyes.

  They’ve got history together, he and Molly. And it goes deep. But that joy wasn’t for him. Never for him the wild, hot joy he caught a glimpse of just now. No. She thinks Ike’s with him. He swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat.

  Well, well, she drawls, look what the wind blew in.

  She goes back to her work. Her long tangle of blonde curly hair’s tied back in a tail. She’s got distracting lips. Dangerous curves. Direct eyes. Travelling men make wide detours just to be in the same room as her. That’s the most that even the best of them can hope for.

  Molly Pratt, he says. Remind me, what’s a heavenly creature like you doin in a dump like this?

  Servin rotgut to scoundrels like you, she says. An if you call my place a dump agin, I’ll bar you.

  You barred me the last time, he says, an the time before that, an the time before the time before that. Remember?

  Oh, I remember, she says. Well, step in, don’t be shy. Yer hangin back like a virgin on her weddin night. Siddown, have a drink, pull up a stool fer Ike. Where is he? Settlin the horses?

  He doesn’t answer. He’ll work his way up to what he’s got to say. Have a drink or three first. Wait for the right moment. He goes to the bar, grabbing a couple of stick stools on the way. He settles himself, slinging his bark saddlesack on the floor, dumping his weapons belt on the bar. There’s sand everywhere. Piled in the corners. Drifting around his feet in the draughts from the door.

  There’s bad stuff goin on out there, Molly, he says.

  Welcome to New Eden, she says. It’s a brand new shiny world.

  A bloody world, you mean, he says.

  It’s always bin a bloody world, she says. Only nowadays, some people’s blood is better than others.

  What’s the news? he says. The Tonton sure ain’t what they was. What about the man in charge? You ever hear the name DeMalo?

  She shakes her head. He’s called the Pathfinder, she says. The landgrabbers – pardon me, Stewards of the Earth – they breathe his name like he ain’t even human. They say he makes miracles. That he’s here to heal the earth.

  You shouldn’t be here, he says. It ain’t safe.

  Well, it’s true, she says, the Tonton don’t like hooch an they don’t like whores. My, how times’ve changed. But them bastards got bigger things on their mind than this place. Storm belt land’s no good to ’em. I let Lilith an th’other girls go an, as you can see, I ain’t ezzackly overrun with customers. No whores, not much hooch, they ain’t gonna bother with me.

  You don’t know that, he says. You need to leave, Molly.

  This is my home, Jack, she says. My business. I had it since I was fifteen. My father had it before me an he got it from his father. I bin dealin with hard-nosed sonsabitches my whole life.

  I seen ’em, Molly, I seen ’em in action, he says. Are you willin to give yer life fer this place? Fer this?

  It’ll never come to that, she says. An if it does, I can take care of myself.

  Well, you shouldn’t be here by yerself, he says. When did the girls go?

  A while back, she says. It’s fine, me takin chances on my own account, but not them.

  Something about the way she says it makes his eyes narrow. What’re you up to? he says.

  Leave it, she says. This line of conversation is now closed. She shoves an overflowing, rusty tin at him. There’s a dead beetle floating on top.

  Drink up, she says. No charge fer the bug. I better pour one fer Ike. You boys must be parched.

  While she fills another hoocher and he fishes out the beetle, she glances towards the door. What’s keepin him? Oh, don’t tell me, I know. Hidin behind his horse. Ain’t it jest like him, sendin you ahead to scout out the enemy while he waits fer the all clear. I’ll be back in three months, he tells me, three months, Molly, I give you my word, an then I ain’t never gonna leave yer side agin. Three months, my aunt patootie. Try three years, ten months an six days. I said it to you then, Jack, an I’ll say it to you now: do not step through my door agin unless yer bringin Ike back to make a honest woman of me, ferever an ever amen. If you do, I’ll shove you in the still an boil you into bad likker. Did I say that to you or did I not?

  You did, he says.

  An ain’t I a woman who keeps her word?

  You are.

  Well then, she says.

  He throws down his drink. Gasps as it hits his throat. That’s unspeakable, he says, when he can speak. What is it?

  Wormwood whisky, she says. Brewed last Tuesday. It keeps off bedbugs, lice an flies. Good fer saddle itch too. The last man to try it ran outta here on all fours, howlin like a wolfdog.

  Yer gonna kill somebody one of these days, he says.

  Who says I didn’t already? What the hell’s keepin that man? She asks like she couldn’t care less. But her eyes say different.

  One more drink, then he’ll tell her. He shoves the hoocher at her. Keep it comin, he says.

  Help yerself, she says.

  She’s busy checking her reflection in the shard of looking glass she keeps behind the bar. She pinches her cheeks, bites her lips, and fiddles with her hair, all the while shooting little looks towards the door. Twenty nine, but like a nervous girl, waiting for the one who makes her heart beat faster. To see her so makes his own heart squeeze tight.

  He drinks. Nerves twist his stomach. Go on, he tells himself, do it. Tell her now. But he finds himself saying, I swear, Molly, every time I see you, yer more beautiful than the last time
. How many hearts you broke today?

  Shut up, she says, I know I’m a hag. He snorts with disbelief and she smiles at herself in the glass, pleased. Livin in this dump is playin merry hell with my looks, she says. I’ve grown old, waitin on Ike. The Lost Cause. That’s me all right, Jack, the biggest lost cause ever lived. An you know why? Fer thinkin that man might ever mean what he says. Ike Twelvetrees settle down? You might as well ask the sun to stop shinin.

  Now. Tell her now. Molly, says Jack, there’s somethin I—

  Oh, enough about Ike. He’ll show his face when he’s worked up his nerve. She leans her elbows on the bar. What’s this sorry-lookin object? She flicks the brim of his hat. It tumbles to the floor. That’s better, she says. Damn you, Jack, yer a handsome devil an no mistake. You an them moonlight eyes of yers.

  Listen. Molly. I, uh—

  D’you ever think about her? Molly says it abruptly.

  He doesn’t answer. He stares into his drink.

  She’d be six by now, she says. I know it’s stupid, but . . . I like to imagine how she’d be. What kind of character, y’know. Who she might take after. She had eyes jest like yers. She was beautiful, wasn’t she?

  Yeah, he says. She sure was.

  He takes her hand in both of his. Holds it tight and kisses it. They look at each other. The air between them lies heavy with what was. With what had never really been, but still would always bind them together.

  Jack? She’s peering at him closely, searchingly. She draws back to stare at him, like something about him’s suddenly struck her. Ohmigawd, Jack. You got somethin to tell me.

  He breathes out. Yeah, he says. Yeah, I do. The thing is, Molly . . . I, uh—

  Well, I’ll be damned! she says. There’s a slow smile creeping across her face.

  He frowns. Molly?

  Ha ha! I don’t believe it! She slaps her hand on the bar. Gawdammit an hallelujah, Jack, who is she?

  What? What’re you talkin about?

  Don’t gimme the run around, I know you too well. Who is she? Who’s the girl? Molly spots the leather string hanging around his neck. An what’s this? She gives a tug and pulls out the heartstone, hidden inside his shirt.

  Molly gazes at it. A heartstone, she says. She looks at him with wondering eyes. She gave you a heartstone.

  Maybe I found it, he says.

  Oh no, she says. I can see her in yer face, Jack. I can see her in yer eyes.

  I dunno what yer talkin about, he says.

  Hey, she says, it’s me, remember? You an me don’t pretend. We’re past that. All the time I’ve knowed you, Jack, you kept the door to that heart of yers locked up tight an the key hid away. Looks like she found it.

  He says nothing. Molly waits. Then,

  Keys ain’t her style, he says. She kicked the door down.

  You love her, says Molly.

  Oh, I dunno about that, he says. I, uh . . . huh. That sounds too safe. This don’t feel safe.

  Oh. Like that, is it?

  I don’t want this, Molly, he says. I . . . whatever it is, I sure didn’t go lookin fer it.

  You don’t hafta, she says. If it’s meant to be, it’ll find you. We like to think we’re in charge of our own lives, but we ain’t. Not really. You should know that by now.

  You couldn’t find nobody more pig-headed if you tried, he says. An she’s always thinkin she knows best, even when she don’t, especially when she don’t. She’s prickly an stubborn an everythin you’d put at the bottom of a list if you was makin a . . . a list of that kind. Which I ain’t. I didn’t.

  But? says Molly.

  But ohmigawd Molly, she shines so bright, he says. The fire of life burns so strong in her. I never realized till I met her . . . I bin cold my whole life, Moll.

  I know, she says softly.

  It’s jest that . . . aw, hell. She thinks I’m a better man than I really am.

  Well, yer a better man than you think you are, she says.

  She’s too young, he says. Eighteen.

  Scandalous! she says. Cuz yer so old.

  Age ain’t about years an you know it, he says. Anyways, settin so much store in one person . . . it’s dangerous.

  Don’t you dare walk away from this, Jack, don’t you dare, Molly says fiercely. Most people don’t ever feel what yer feelin. Be with her. An if it lasts one hour, one night, a week, a month, it don’t matter. Be with her, burn with her, shine with her . . . fer whatever time’s given to you. Now. Tell me her name. Tell me.

  He takes a deep breath. Saba, he says. Her name’s Saba.

  Molly rests a hand on his face. Oh, my darlin Jack, she says. This . . . this is what I wanted fer you. All I ever wanted fer you. How could she resist them eyes?

  She tried, says Jack. Man, did she try. But . . . listen, Molly, that ain’t why I—

  A celebration! she cries. This calls fer some serious drinkin! An I mean serious!

  She laughs as she slams hoochers down, setting them out in a long line across the bar. Where the hell is Ike? Ike! she hollers. Gawdammit, man, git yer hairy hide in here this minute! We’re drinkin to Jack an Saba! She starts to pour, splashing and spilling everywhere. I tell you, Jack, yer a inspiration. I’m gonna rename this place. No more Lost Cause, oh no. Not this place an sure as hell not me. From this moment on, it’s gonna be called The Hope Springs Eternal! An when Ike walks through that door – after I finish kissin him to death – I’m gonna tie him to that chair an never let him go, cuz life’s too gawdamn short an it’s about time I started takin my own advice. I might need yer help, of course, but I’m sure you won’t mind, seein how—

  Molly! Jack grabs her hand. Stop, Molly, please. Dammit, Moll. Ike ain’t gonna walk through the door.

  She goes still. Very still. Her smile fades. Please don’t say it, she whispers.

  He can’t bear to. But he has to.

  Ike’s dead, he says. He’s dead, Molly. I’m sorry.

  Tear flood her eyes. Spill silently down her face. She looks at him straight.

  It was a month ago, he says. No . . . a bit more. There was a . . . it was a big fight. A real one this time, not jest some tavern brawl. The Tonton.

  The Tonton, she says.

  We went back to Freedom Fields, he says. We burned the chaal fields. They came after us an . . . not jest me an Ike, but Saba too, an some others. We fought ’em, Molly. We beat ’em. An fer a time, fer . . . a little while, the good guys was on top. Me an Ike, the good guys. Who’d of thought it?

  Me, she says. I would. I know.

  He was with friends, Moll, says Jack. I was with him. I was right there an . . . he died in my arms. He died well. He went out big. The way he would of wanted to. The last thing I said to him, I . . . whispered in his ear. Molly loves you, Ike. That was the last thing he heard.

  She stands there a moment. She nods once. Slides her hand free of his. I’m glad it was you told me, she says. Don’t waste no more time, Jack. Go to her. Be with her. Burn bright. Promise me.

  Leave here, he says. Come with me. Please.

  Promise me, she says.

  I promise, he says.

  G’bye, Jack. She kisses him on the cheek. Then she slips through the door into the back room and closes it behind her.

  Silence. She must be holding something over her mouth so’s not to make any noise. She might as well let go and have a good howl. He’s the only one here. He goes around the bar and knocks on the door.

  Molly? No answer. He was comin back to you, Molly, he says. He loved you.

  Go away, she says.

  I cain’t leave you like this, he says. Let me in.

  Fergawdsake, jest do what I say! she cries.

  He goes back to his stool. He looks at the full hoochers lined up along the bar and starts on the first one. He knows how Molly grieves. Once he’s gone, she’ll lock the p
lace up. Then she’ll cry some and drink some. And she’ll do that, over and over again, until the skin over this latest wound has grown tough enough for her to carry on.

  He’ll wait till the storm passes. Then he’ll go. He pulls the heartstone out again. Rubs it between his fingers. It’s cool, even though it’s been next to his skin. That’s the way of a heartstone. Cool until you get close to your heart’s desire. The closer you get, the hotter it burns. The last time he saw Saba, she put it around his neck. It was hot.

  It’ll help you to find me, she’d said.

  I don’t need no stone to find you, he’d said. I’d find you anywhere.

  Then she’d kissed him. Till he couldn’t think. Till he was dizzy with wanting her.

  He slips the stone back into his shirt.

  The storm hits. He hears the sudden, dull thunder of sulphate raining down on the Lost Cause. Soon enough, the rain will follow and wash it away.

  The door slams open. The wind wails inside, rattling the rafters, stirring the sand on the floor, plucking at his coat. He gets up to close it.

  Two men walk in. They’re spattered with sulphate. Leather body armour. Crossbows. Bolt shooters. Long black robes. Long hair. Beards.

  Tonton. Old-style. Danger.

  Every nerve, every muscle in Jack’s body snaps tight and starts to fizz. But he keeps his voice casual as he says, The place is empty, fellas. Looks like everybody cleared off.

  I come to see that Lilith, says one. Where is she?

  Gone, says Jack, like I said. Check fer yerself.

  The Tonton stares at him a moment. He crosses to a door in the corner. It leads to a hallway with four small rooms off it, where the girls used to do business. He goes through, yelling, Lilith! Hey, Lilith! Git on out here! There’s the sound of doors being slammed open, one after another.

  One Tonton out of the way. Jack’s eyes flick to the bar. His weapons belt lies there.