Lightfall One: Clock, Cloak, Candle (Lightfall, Book 1)

by Jordan Taylor

  Melchior, who has been amusing himself with a variety of knots on Billy’s wrists, looks around. “Had us run scared over nothing?”

  “Not nothing.” Her voice is angry once more. “You all would have been killed if you kept on that trail.”

  All. All would have been killed.... Strange, silent, pale men. But she speaks of another kind, the kind who shoot back.

  Grip’s fist trembles with his rigid hold on a twist of rope. Is it her imagination, or does he only use his left hand? Even saddling his horse in the mornings ... has he ever used his right? What ails it?

  Ivy holds cold, wet cloths over her face.

  Angry words below. Spanish again. That young woman and Grip seem to be shouting at one another. Sister? Did he say she was his sister? How is that possible? He looks Anglo to her. Dark complexioned, though much of that could be suntan and lack of bathing.

  “¿Así que prefieres suicidarte? ¿Con ellos?”

  “¡Tu no decides que hago!”

  Her head throbs worse with the noise and she feels unexpected relief as Melchior’s voice cuts in: “Se acabo. ¿Verdad? Take it easy.”

  She has seldom heard him use his Spanish. It makes her wish more that she could do the same. If only she spent all those years on Spanish instead of French. Why couldn’t she have been sent to France? If only Uncle Charles returned there after his marriage ... yet, she could not have gone there instead ... no official sailings to the Old World for ... has it been years? Not allowed....

  “Can we move this along?” Still Melchior. “Or you aim to go back in after him?”

  Ivy re-soaks her cloth. This sudden view of the world about her makes her so dizzy she would fall over if not already prone.

  Grip stalks away with his mount. Rosalía also turns, leading the seal brown horse up the trail and across the flat where the top of the waterfall forms and Ivy lies along the stream, her elbow still in frigid water.

  The woman’s gaze falls on Luck, then Ivy as she pulls the bit from her horse’s mouth for him to drink. “What happened to you back there?”

  Ivy blinks.

  The woman kneels by her, brows creased. The satin brown eyes no longer glare daggers. She appears troubled. Ivy cannot help staring at the dark trousers and overcoat. She seems to feel no shame in exposing herself like this.

  Finally able to avert her stinging eyes, Ivy looks instead to Luck, who has eaten half the leaves off this side of the poplar. Is it all right for horses to live on leaves?

  “What’s your name? Rosalía and this is Volar.” She jerks her thumb at her horse in a dreadfully masculine gesture.

  The face blurs. The woman pulls off a worn leather glove and reaches out with a light, delicate hand to hold Ivy’s shoulder.

  “What happened to your arm? Can you hear me? ¿Puedes oírme?”

  Ivy shakes her head. She feels strangely aware of tears on her face, blood on her dress, cold stream tugging at her, while this woman seems dreadfully far away, as if reaching to grab her from across a field. She should say the woman’s name back, acknowledge the introduction, but she is not sure she can. That rolling R and the accent of it ... she may need coaching.

  “You,” Rosalía snaps, her tone changing, no longer looking at Ivy. “Is this girl with you?”

  “My cousin.” Melchior’s voice. He does not sound upset, as Rosalía does.

  Sam says something, but she cannot make out the words. A hulking, red animal shifts above her. Water sparkles.

  The overcoated woman leans forward, pressing the backs of her fingers to Ivy’s forehead, frowning, though she does not appear angry. She looks ... worried. And sad.

  Ivy opens her mouth to say she is all right. But there’s blood. Blood on her tongue, perhaps running down her chin like tears running down her cheeks. The world glows, dims, twisting away. She drops with an icy splash into the stream, feeling a moment of hands on her face, her arm, her back, two voices over her, before she is gone.

  Eleventh

  Removal of Bones

  Ivy inhales, feeling pain of bruises and cuts, shifting of her own light body. Mostly, she feels an endless expansion of lungs and ribs. Another breath. Deep. So much air in the world. Sweet smells of wood smoke, something cooking, sap, pine trees, fresh vegetation enfolding her. Ivy smiles.

  She opens her eyes. Long shadows and green, glowing, vibrant leaves shift overhead. Each branch stretches out like spiders’ legs. Each leaf twitches in mountain air.

  “Ivy? How do you feel?”

  Startled—for half a second feeling the tree is speaking to her—Ivy turns her head.

  A stranger sits cross-legged beside her, something gleaming metallic on a blanket in her lap. A rifle—no, carbine—the chamber open for cleaning.

  “Who are you?” Ivy whispers, barely stopping herself from asking, “Who am I?”

  The woman smiles: smooth, youthful face, not many years beyond Ivy’s, thick, black hair cascading past her shoulders. “Rosalía. We made acquaintance previously. How are you?”

  Ivy still smiles. Surely not the same woman in the Stetson and bandana and stained leather gloves who has yelled at them every time Ivy has seen her. She looks so young, almost angelic, the bedroll covering her lower extremities like a skirt, and her shirt, though a boy’s, looks soft and delicate compared to the former overcoat.

  “Fine,” Ivy says, keeping still as her sore body warns her movement could break the spell. “I feel ... light.”

  “Little wonder.” The woman draws a cord and cotton through the barrel. “I expect you can finally breathe.”

  “Yes.” How does she know? “Where is everyone?”

  Rosalía jerks her head. “Making themselves useful. I told them to steer clear for a spell, though they have their merits. Would you like something to eat?”

  “I cannot,” Ivy says, feeling her cheeks heat. “We have almost nothing left and there is the journey back.”

  “You’re behind the times.” Rosalía grins. “Your ... cousin? The hubristic cowboy shot a mule deer three hours since with the Englishman’s rifle. It’s been a bloodbath ever since.”

  “Has it? My apologies—I should sit up. How long was I ... asleep?”

  “The sun’s on its way down. You look as if you could use some venison and hot broth after you lost so much blood. Stay here. I’ll fetch a plate if the fearsome hunters can part with it.”

  “Where are we? Not still in the woods by the waterfall?”

  Rosalía puts the carbine back together with deft movements. “We found an out of the way spot, kept Grip from riding after Everette, and the horses needed rest. No one griped about stopping over for the afternoon.”

  “What about the ... prisoners? Shouldn’t we be hurrying back to Santa Fé?”

  “Don’t worry about them. Too scared of Grip to do something silly. All that old dog is good for is tracking.”

  “Are you referring to Grip or the actual dog?”

  Rosalía laughs as she stands, shaking out her blanket. “Yap-Rat. He sniffs trouble and vanishes, sniffs cooking and shows up again. Grip won’t feed him—lets him take care of himself. But he can track.” She starts away.

  Ivy feels cold at the idea of lying here like a wounded animal, alone in this wood with the sun nearly setting. Even if food and fire are a short distance off.

  “Rosalía—I beg pardon ... I do not believe I can pronounce your name properly. Would you be so kind? I’m not sure I can sit up on my own.” But why is she using the woman’s first name? And why does she use Ivy’s?

  Rosalía cocks her head, looking down at Ivy. “Where’d you learn to speak like that?”

  “I am from Boston.”

  “Ahh.... Your cousin said you were from the Big City. But that could mean Denver or San Francisco or Wichita.”

  “Boston,” Ivy says again, closing her eyes. “I am attempting to get home.”

  “Not at this rate.”

  “No ... not at this rate.”

  She feels Rosalía’s hand on
her shoulder and helps push herself up, looking around for the men and fire, though they remain out of sight. And she sits ... smoothly, easily. Her waist bends, her lungs expand, her back feels loose and soft as fresh jam. Her spine feels ... wrinkly, as if she may fold up like an accordion....

  Ivy clutches her sternum, ignoring pain in her left arm. “Where is my corset?”

  Rosalía snorts, a derisive sound reminding Ivy of the shouting woman she first saw on horseback in the mist. “That contraption almost killed you; broken to pieces, sticking in your ribs. I don’t know how you could draw breath.”

  Ivy stares at her in horror, feeling sick, even more afraid. “One cannot be seen without it. It can be mended—”

  “It’s gone,” Rosalía says. “I threw it away. You cannot wear that beastly instrument and ride and live out here. Have you truly been sleeping in the thing? I’d rather be flogged.”

  Ivy recoils, clutching herself. “That was not your right.”

  This woman must have opened her dress, perhaps cut through layers to slice off the corset itself. Her chemise would still be below that, yet she may as well be in bare skin. Hardly even another woman. Certainly no lady. Not someone who can understand.

  Tears burn her eyes, leaning away as Rosalía tries to rest a hand on her shoulder.

  “You needed those bones removed. You were killing yourself,” Rosalía says. “I’m sorry.”

  “I was making my own choices.” Nearly the only thing she has—had—left to her name: free will.

  Rosalía walks away, returning in moments with a tin plate, cup, and fork. Ivy longs to refuse, but she trembles, body crying out for the food and warmth. Rosalía wraps her blanket around Ivy’s shoulders and sits down beside her.

  Tears run silently down Ivy’s cheeks as she eats, growing aware of her throbbing head, aching ribs, burning arm, sore back, hurt knee, as hunger pains in her stomach recede.

  “I am sorry,” she manages at last, staring at her plate as pink and violet light fades in the western sky. She is not sorry. She wants to shake the woman and scream. But her mother and father would be ashamed to think she could sit in silence and not acknowledge someone trying to help her.

  With her plate empty and the burning tin cup held through folds of blanket, Ivy goes on. “I appreciate your kindness, I am sure. I should not be cross with you, but I do not appreciate my personal belongings and myself being mauled without my consent or knowledge.”

  “No,” Rosalía says softly, watching her. “I don’t expect any of us appreciate that. Your friends, and myself, were worried about you. If I put a gun to my own head, I like to think there’d be someone around to pull it away. Even if it belonged to me. And they had to break a few fingers to get it.”

  Ivy says nothing, wondering if Melchior and Sam, her “friends,” know what has happened to her. Melchior certainly was not worried.

  Where is Luck? How can she be seen by anyone until she is able to obtain proper undergarments? Where can she even purchase them? She cannot walk into a shop in her current attire, even if one stood around the corner.

  Light fades. Ivy clutches the cooling tin cup as a chill smothers the air, making tears on her cheeks feel icy.

  She sits upon one wool blanket from a bedroll, another draped across her shoulders. Her green cloak covers her to the waist. She remains in dress, chemise, petticoat—what she had before, it seems. Except she feels nothing touches her. As if her garments hover around her skin. And the damage. Her left sleeve is ripped almost to her shoulder. Bloody strips of this sleeve have gone to binding a cotton cloth about her wounded elbow. Her skirts were already torn and damaged. Now there are cuts and loose lacing.

  Tears drying on her face, she regards her left arm in failing light, bending it gingerly. It will not extend well, nor be drawn up all the way, but the pain is only a sharp sting now, the arm swollen.

  Rosalía still watches her. “It’s a savage wound with the grit driven in. We cleaned it in the stream, then poured alcohol over. You must see a doctor the moment you’re back to town so fragments can be removed.”

  “One more event to which I may look forward,” Ivy mutters.

  Rosalía sits with her knees drawn up to her face, resting her chin on them, arms around her shins. When she does not speak, Ivy glances at her and sees she is smiling.

  “I am sorry for trouble I have caused,” Ivy says, hardly able to see any faint light in the sky now. Yet, there is a glow, just down the slope, through pines to the west and south. The men’s fire she has been smelling.

  “Everyone deserves the chance to cause some trouble now and then,” Rosalía says, stretching out her booted feet.

  “Here.” Ivy tries to press the extra bedroll on her. “Is this yours?”

  “You keep that. I ride with all the blankets I can carry. The other’s by the fire to warm up. Besides, I have this overcoat.”

  Ivy sips the last of her broth. It might be nice to be down there, warm blankets by the fire. But she cannot see the men in her current state.

  She sets cup and plate and fork together, now by touch as much as sight.

  “The Englishman was worried when you collapsed,” Rosalía says. “He anyone special?”

  Face flushed, Ivy shakes her head, as much shocked as embarrassed by the inappropriateness of this casual question. “Of course not. I barely know him. He only worked with my cousin on ... some sort of stock drive.”

  “English worked a drive? Doing what? Singing steers to sleep? He does not behave much like a cowpuncher.” She chuckles.

  Ivy feels even hotter, angry now, biting back a retort that Sam did a swell job. But how does she know? More importantly, why should she care?

  “Anyway, English asked after you—”

  “Sam—” Ivy says before she can catch herself. “Samuelson. That’s his name. Conrad Samuelson.” More burning face, grateful for darkness.

  “Mr. Samuelson asked after you, I meant.” Almost laughing. “I’m going to gather my blanket and turn in. Any message for the boys?”

  Ivy shakes her head.

  Rosalía stands, taking Ivy’s dishes, and starts down the little slope toward skipping firelight. Light. Moving to light....

  As if something solid hits her over the head, Ivy feels panic burst through her. What is she thinking? Why didn’t she say something? Why hasn’t Melchior stopped them? He knows. They should all know by now.

  “Rosalía!” Ivy shouts with her heart in her throat. “The fire! Make them put out the fire! Hide the light!”

  “What?” Rosalía turns, an outline in darkness, but the terror in Ivy’s tone, or wild urgency, silences any further questions. She hurries out of sight and Ivy hears her call, “Kill the fire!”

  Men’s voices, indistinct, then light disappears. Ivy is plunged into darkness broken by stars and moon through shimmering leaves and pine needles.

  Stupid. What is she out here for if not to protect them from this kind of blunder? One which even now could be leading to their deaths.

  Ivy sits and shivers, listening for Rosalía’s return. So dark. And still. She shudders, looks about, feeling dark presences through the trees like a pack of phantom wolves. Yet far, far worse.

  A shadow moves, approaching, stepping through trees. Upright, nearly silent. Heart pounding, palms sweating, skin clammy. It must be Rosalía. It must. But it says nothing. Ivy cannot call out, cannot scream, the dread, dark figure moving closer. She has no gun, no flame. Closer, breath catching in her throat.

  “Ivy?”

  “Rosalía?”

  “I nearly stepped past you. Are you all right? Your cousin told me these Plague-sick follow fire like moths. Is it true?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I never heard such an oddity. They say you’re an expert. Are they really starting into these parts? You think they could notice our fire?”

  “It’s not worth the risk.” It is never, never, never worth the risk.

  Rosalía settles beside Ivy with her
second bedroll, pulling her overcoat tight.

  Ivy curls up inside blankets, the cloak pulled to her head. She lies on her side, drawing up her aching legs, curving her spine, longing to cry again with the simple, amazing comfort of such free, warming movements.

  “I’m sorry, Ivy,” Rosalía whispers. “This must be terribly difficult for you.”

  Ivy says nothing, swallows, grateful Rosalía said “must be” rather than “I know” or “I understand.” As if anyone out here can understand.

  Finally she says, “Thank you again for your kindness.”

  “Buenas noches.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  “It means, good night.”

  “Good night.”

  She lies awake, almost warm enough in the wool and the ball she makes of her aching body. The warmest she has been in five nights. Listening to soft, sliding, rustling, blowing, calling night sounds. An owl. A mouse. A breeze.

  Then something brushing, tickling, touches Ivy’s brow. Like spider legs. She recoils, lifting her hand from blankets to brush at ... something. In the same moment, another touch: a cold, wet touch. Like the tip of a clammy, dead finger.

  Ivy screams, throwing herself backward in blankets, lashing out with both hands, kicking, thrashing, shouting with the newfound strength of lungs inflating fully for the first time in many days.

  Beside her, Rosalía is up in a second, her carbine in her hands.

  “What?” Rosalía gasps, looking in all directions as Ivy thrashes herself back into a sitting position, also looking every way. “What happened?”

  Frantic, choking. Nothing. Nothing but trees and moon shadows.

  “Ivy?”

  “I felt something. Something cold and wet.”

  Rosalía lowers the weapon. “A snail?”

  Men’s voices call from down the slope.

  “No es nada,” Rosalía shouts back to be heard.

  Ivy trembles, desperate for a light, even a wall to lean back and face darkness. She feels a sneaking suspicion Rosalía just told them nothing was wrong. But how does she know that?