by Don P. Bick
Chapter 6
The afternoon sun shines warmly down on me, sparkling off of the twisting river which runs merrily along to my left. I am heading upstream, along a narrow deer-path edging the running water, skirting the occasional bramble bush or washed out gulley. I move my hand occasionally to the leather pouch hanging around my neck, to the wealth nestled between my breasts. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel hope.
A smile comes to my lips. As long as I can remember. The feat is probably less impressive than it might be for most people.
My stomach rumbles, and I spot a flat slab of granite up ahead, slightly overhanging the water, with a blackberry bush up alongside it. I amble over and sit on the smooth stone, tugging off first one boot, then the other, then both pairs of socks. I stretch my toes in bliss, enjoying the warm breeze that tickles through them, before setting up a stick and a line with a fat, juicy worm on a hook. Then I lean back to start picking through the berries while I wait.
Time seems suspended. The clouds drift overhead, long, stretched-out sheets which could be pulled wool waiting to be twined into thread. They are translucent white against a shimmering cerulean blue sky. The water ripples and turns, ever changing, and my mind fades from view. There is nothing but now.
A tug, and the stick spins as something catches on the line. I swipe at it, hauling in, carefully guiding the fish in to shore. It’s a catfish, maybe twice the length of my hand, and I smoothly gut it before setting up a small fire on the center of the rock. A few small starter sticks, a larger branch or two, and the blaze is soon sizzling away at its flesh. The rich aroma sets my mouth watering, but I wait patiently until it is cooked all the way through before starting the feast.
As I eat, I give some thought to all that has come until now. This seems to be the first time I have had the luxury to give thought to my experiences - to seek some order in the chaos which has been my short stretch of memory-held life.
My skill set does not point to a quiet, studious college student. In the chute, I knew the gun’s feel when it was handed to me. When that metal door had slid open, I understood what was required to stay alive. I had felt no compunction in killing those who had fired on me.
I roll that thought around in my mind as I take a bite of the catfish’s meat. Was I an assassin of some sort? A gun for hire? Is that why I had been caught, bundled, processed, and spit into this wilderness prison?
The hit man image doesn’t seem to fit. In the tire-fire clearing I had done what was necessary, certainly, but I felt no joy in it. There had been no sense that I would seek out that task again.
And when Ragnor had been killed …
I pause for a moment, my mouth in half-chew.
Ragnor had been taken down just when he was about to stab me in the back.
A succulent dead bird had arrived on my doorstep just when I desperately needed a meal.
I had come across a stash of silver just when my journey might get more challenging.
I shake my head and swallow the bite. I seem to believe in fate, certainly, and in a sense that those who strive hard for a goal are more likely to reach it than those who passively wait. And yet, there comes a point where random chance seems a less likely scenario.
Was someone lending me assistance?
I give thought to the pine-green eyes which shine in my dreams, to the rich, resonant voice that even now I can hear tumbling in the water. To the sense of soul-deep comfort that comes with them.
I put the fish down and stand, turning slowly in place. My eyes scan the streaming river, the grassy banks, and the long stretch of undulating wilderness which extends to the far horizon.
There is not one sign of humanity.
Is he out there?
If he is, he certainly does not seem an enemy. He has, if my guesses are accurate, helped ensure that I remain healthy and whole. But why would he not make himself known to me? Is he waiting for something? And, if so, what?
A crow caws out, long, rich, echoing in the quiet.
I run a hand through my thick hair, a smile easing on my face. Whoever he is, if he even exists, I will simply keep moving forward. I will hold my mind as open as possible – welcoming, expansive, and free. I have a sense that this is my best possible chance for my memories to return - for me to regain my sense of self that seems all but lost.
Content, I sit down to finish my meal.
At last it is time to move on. I kick the remnants of the fire and fish into the water. I erase any evidence of my presence here, then push into motion.
As I crest a rise, I can see a walled village on the horizon. My hand moves automatically to my chest, but the necklace is no longer there. Instead, my hidden wealth is beneath my fingers, reassuring, solid. The edges of my mouth curve into a smile.
Everything will be all right.
I stay alert as I approach the town, aware of the many eyes watching from the wall. The front gates stand open, and I can see the tunnel within, the closed doors at the far end. A gnarled man with the face of a rotting peach looks down at me from above the main gates as I draw close, his gaze neither welcoming nor hostile. He eyes me as if I were a strange sort of beetle, and he’s curious what I might do.
His voice is low and flat. “Into the tunnel with ‘ye. Hands clear of your weapons.”
I nod, taking in a deep breath, feeling each footfall as it lands in the soft dirt, dirt churned by countless feet and hooves. My heart pounds against my ribs, and with each contact of sole on earth I wait for the flashing lights, the blaring alarm, the whirl as every gun aims for my head. Any second now …
My foot lands before the far gate, and the pock-marked wood swings open before me. I am through.
The town is livelier than I would have thought. The main street is fairly crowded with people of all shapes and sizes. A pair of women are laughing, heading towards a general store. Three men, two tall and lean, the third shorter and stout, are pushing through the swinging doors of the tavern. An elderly man is sitting on a bench before a Sheriff’s office, smoking a pipe. A gaggle of children run screeching through the crowd, waving sticks in the air.
The first building on the left is a large stable, and I walk through the open doors, letting my eyes adjust to the relative darkness within. There are perhaps twelve stalls, each holding an emaciated representation of a horse.
A portly man with an orange handlebar moustache comes rolling over to me, wiping his hands down on his dark blue shirt. “Greetings, miss. How might I help you?”
I look down the row of stalls. “Any of these for sale?”
His eyes light up with interest. “Of course, of course. The four on the back right are mine, but I’m sure I could negotiate a sale for any of these fine animals, if the price is right.”
I follow behind him and start in the back corner, listening as he describes each horse. There’s an appaloosa with leopard spots tracing over visible ribs, which he claims is only seven years old. I put the poor thing more at fifteen. The next is a stocky Clydesdale with a lame right leg. Then a white highland pony which he assures me is a young colt which will grow into an Arabian. Finally a palomino whose golden coat has faded to a dull brown with lack of care.
The remaining horses in the stables are in far worse shape. Scars on their legs, skittish natures, and a dullness to the eyes. The man pats an emaciated Percheron on its shuddering flank and assures me, “this is the best you’ll see in town. And it’s a bargain at only twenty ounces.”
“Twenty ounces,” I repeat. I estimate I have nearly two hundred hanging around my neck, but no animal in the stables would be worth even one piece of that. I would have to buy a wagon to carry the poor steed in, if it were to accompany me on my journey.
I give a neutral nod to the man. “I’ll give it some thought,” I assure him.
“Come by any time; I sleep in the loft. I take the care of my steeds seriously,” he assures me. He draws his eyes down my body, and they take on a shine. “Any time.”
I step
back from him, turning and moving out into the sunlight. My shoulders slump. If that is the type of horse available here, I might do better walking to the next town.
My feet kick up small clouds of dust as I make my way down the street, feeling strangely comforted by the babble of voices and laughter around me. For so long I have been alone, and while it is peaceful, there is also something to be said for the presence of humanity.
Down an alley to the right I spot a sign with a horse on it, and I head down to take a look. Indeed, it’s another stables, slightly smaller than the first, with eight stalls and a low roof. The owner here is reedy, tall, in a mustard yellow top and boots halfway up his legs. His face is wan and stretched.
He glances at me with half-hearted interest. “Look but don’t touch,” he warns me, then goes back to mucking out an empty stall.
I move along the line of half-height gates, looking over each one to the horse within. There’s a Shetland pony with stringy hair that has almost gone to white. A black steed which might have once been a Tennessee Walking Horse, but now can barely stand. A pair of Clydesdales, their heads hanging low.
The man’s voice cuts through the air. “Those are each twenty-five ounces,” he states. “I see the silver weighed and in my hands before one leaves his stall.”
I run a hand through my hair, shaking my head at the selection. Then I turn and head back out to the main street.
The hotel has a restaurant on its ground floor, doing a good business, and across the street a gun and knife shop has two clerks both helping customers. Then the town proper seems to devolve into a collection of residences and garden patches. The mob of children tumbles past me, eagerly shouting about hide-and-seek. It almost seems normal.
There’s one remaining barn on the left, before the smaller domiciles begin, and I walk toward it out of curiosity. I hear the nickers within before I see the stalls, and it seems this might be the location used by the locals. There are only six stalls here, each holding a steed, and they seem at least a few years from the grave, rather than a few hours.
A middle-aged man with a dark beard and curly hair steps into view, his red-checked shirt tucked neatly into dark jeans. “Can I help you?”
I glance at the horses. “Are these for sale?”
He gives a shrug. “Anything is possible. Take a look if you’d like. Any but the one in the back left. That one is mine.”
I move my way down the stalls. The first two are both mustangs, chestnut brown in color, so alike they might be brothers. They are not young, but they seem healthy enough, steady and quiet. The third might be a Mongolian, with a sturdy build and a coat the soft brown color of autumn oak leaves. The fourth, with an alabaster coat and high, proud head, could be an Andalusian. He is alongside a stocky Belgian.
The man leans against a support pole. “Thirty for him, if you’re interested,” he comments evenly. “The farmer’s looking to marry off his daughter, and he could use some extra funds.”
I look again at the Belgian, shaking my head. He seems in good enough shape, but that isn’t the type of steed I would find useful.
I come to the last stall and stop. The horse is beautiful. A perfect, dappled camouflage pattern of deep chocolate brown against creamy white, with a mane of ivory. His ears perk forward as I approach the stall door, and his eyes shine with intelligence, their large, brown depths staring into mine. A delicate white blaze traces down his forehead.
Blaze.
I put out a hand, and Blaze takes a step toward me, nuzzling his soft, rubbery nose into my fingers.
The man’s voice comes from behind me, holding a trace of amusement. “He’s not for sale.”
Blaze gives a soft nicker, and my heart eases. “Forty silver.”
The man leans against the stall door at my side, gently shaking his head. “Not for sale,” he repeats. “If I gave him to you, half the town would have my hide for turning them away first.”
I run my hand down the white blaze, scratching tenderly at the velvety skin. “Fifty.”
The corners of the man’s mouth turn up. “He’s quite an animal, isn’t he,” he agrees.
Blaze nickers again, taking another step forward, leaning his head over the gate. I run my hand along his neck, twining my fingers into the silken strands of mane. His musky aroma comes up around me, lacing into my world.
“A hundred.”
The man glances at me with interest. “You really are smitten, aren’t you,” he says with a smile. “This horse is going to a friend of mine. I’m afraid I can’t just sell it from under him.”
I think again of the silver at my breast, and how yesterday I had been doing well enough without it. If I had this horse, and nothing else, I would be content.
“Two hundred silver, and that includes his saddle, blanket, and other tack.”
His eyes narrow, and he looks at me full on. “You have two hundred silver on you?”
I hold still, my hand still twined in the horse’s mane, suddenly realizing that I am alone in a secluded shed with a strange man. He seems friendly enough, but that is no guarantee of my safety.
I keep my voice steady. “Of course not,” I reply evenly. “It is where I can get a hold of it, should there be a reason.”
His eyes narrow in consideration, and there is a long moment of silence. I carefully untwine my fingers from the mane, readying myself to draw and fire.
Then he blows out his breath, looking again at the horse. “You must really want him,” he states, shaking his head. “For that kind of money I can find my friend something else suitable and still have a tidy profit. It’s a deal.”
He glances past me to where the sky is tingeing tangerine and crimson. “Are you staying the night? I’ll throw in dinner, as part of the bargain. The hotel makes a nice veal stew. Then in the morning we can meet by the Sheriff’s office – you with your silver, me with the horse and gear. That way everything is nice and public, and both our interests are protected.
I look into the large, luminous eyes, and contentment eases through me. “Sounds good,” I sigh, giving the horse’s neck a pat.
The man puts out his hand. “My name’s Chisholm.”
Blankness descends over my mind, and my fingers twine again into the mane. It comes over me suddenly, confusingly, that I have no idea what my name is.
The image of a pair of young eyes staring up at me flashes through my thoughts, and his high, clear voice calling out, “Hawk”.
“Hawk,” I repeat out loud, putting my hand into his.
Chisholm nods, giving me a warm smile. “Well, then, Hawk, you have made yourself quite a purchase here. You won’t find his like for hundreds of miles.”
He looks fondly at the horse, then out toward the street again. “You go on to the hotel, and I’ll be there in a moment. Just have to clean up a few things here. Out the door, hard right, and it’s just a ways down on the right. Can’t miss it.”
I give a last look at Blaze, then turn and walk through the main doors into the soft glow of sunset. The street is a steady flow of people heading back to their homes for supper. A young girl races past me, her blonde hair streaming out behind her like a banner. I turn left to watch her go.
He is standing there.
He leans against a single-story log home, the dusk adding a golden glow to his leather coat, his green eyes shining in the evening light. His gaze is full on me, his focus serious, almost searching.
A pair of teenage boys race between us, tossing a ball as they go, and when they are past, he is gone.
I take a step forward, blinking, swinging my head from left to right, but there is no trace of him anywhere. It was as if he has dissolved into the mist.
Shaking my head, I turn right, moving down the shadowed street to the hotel.
As Chisholm has promised, the hotel is only a block or so down, with a pair of well-polished windows on either side of the mahogany swinging main doors. The room within is well kept, with clean white cloths on the tables, a polished ma
hogany bar, and oil lamps on the walls which hold off the approaching gloom. One wall holds a large, framed map of the area, done on hide of some sort, and I examine it with interest, making note of the surrounding landmarks.
A heavy-set man behind the bar looks me over, then turns to call to a back room.
“Tilda, we have a customer.”
A stocky woman with greying hair neatly braided down her back, wearing a chocolate brown dress with a row of black buttons down the front, comes bustling out with a calm expression. “One for tonight?”
“Two,” I correct her with a smile. “Chisholm will be joining me in a moment.”
Her eyes light up with interest, but she nods without comment, directing me over to a table in the front window. A short candle is glowing at its center, and it is set with simple but clean plateware. She fetches a plate of fresh rolls from the bar and sets it by the candle. “To drink?”
“Ale is fine, thank you.”
“I recommend the veal stew; we just made it this morning.” She looks up as Chisholm steps into the room and moves back as he comes to the table and takes his seat. “Ale and veal stew for you?”
He gives her a broad smile. “Absolutely.”
I nod. “For me as well.”
She bustles off into the back room, and I pick up one of the warm rolls. There is a small tub of butter tucked into the wicker basket, and I spread some onto my roll. The golden butter melts into the nooks of the roll, and my mouth is watering before I take my first bite. It’s as good as it looks.
Chisholm rips a corner off a roll and pops it into his mouth. “So, heading north?”
I nod as I swallow. “To the gate.”
He gives a soft shake of his head. “That’s what they all say,” he murmurs. “You know, that outside world really doesn’t offer you much. Rules, dictates, a sterility of organization. Here you’re free. No one to tell you what to do. No one to mark lines that you have to stay within.”
“No lines except those walls which surround us,” I point out.
He glances out the window. “And we have walls around this town. We don’t mind them.”
“But you can go outside those walls when you wish,” I remind him. “You aren’t stuck with them as a permanent border. We’re trapped in a fish bowl.”
Tilde comes back with our ales, placing them down on the table before us. “Veal will be just a few minutes.” She heads back toward the kitchen.
Chisholm glances around at the other patrons in the dining room before returning his gaze to me. “You say we’re goldfish in a tiny fish bowl. But I say we’re out in the wide ocean. We are dolphins, and tuna, and sharks, and whales. Those sea creatures have borders, just as anyone else does. They have walls of coastline which they cannot cross. But that does not concern them. They have ample space in their world to live, to love, and to breathe in serenity.”
I give thought to what he has said. It was true, after all, that even the swordfish flashing through the deep waters has edges to their world. They do not moan about the presence of the cliffs of Dover.
Chisholm takes another bite of his bread. “Is there something about the outside world that calls to you so strongly?”
I shake my head. There isn’t any sense at all that something beyond the wall is important in any way. No longing to return to a distant home. No drive to reconnect with a family on the other side.
Again the image of a gate comes to mind, and with it a strong sense of imperative. “I have to get to the gate,” I murmur.
Tilde arrives with a pottery bowl in each hand, laying them down before us. “Enjoy. Anything else you need?”
Chisholm shakes his head. “No, Tilde, thanks for everything.” She nods before turning.
Chisholm takes a taste of his veal, smiling at its flavor, before looking back at me. “So, no man waiting for you to return?”
The image of the soul-deep green eyes blaze in my mind, and I take a spoonful of my own stew to hold off on answering. The meal is everything Chisholm had said it would be – rich, flavorful, full of hearty chunks of meat along with carrot, potato, and turnip.
I take a sip of my ale. I try to keep my tone as nonchalant as possible. “Do you know a man, about six feet, with dark hair to his shoulders and dark green eyes?”
He puts down his spoon, and his gaze is steady on me. “I know many men,” he states mildly.
“I saw him outside your stable,” I continue. “I thought he might live in or around the town.”
He shakes his head. “No one like that lives around this area.”
I purse my lips. “I thought I saw him this morning, as I was waking up.”
His brows crease slightly. “Do you think he is following you?”
“Maybe, I’m not sure.” I take another spoonful of my veal. “I might have imagined him. But maybe he is keeping an eye on me.”
He takes a taste of his ale. “Do you think he is planning on harming you?”
I give that some thought. “I don’t think so,” I state at last. “He seems more curious than anything else.” I ponder that for a few moments. “Well, not curious. Maybe cautious is a better word. Like he is waiting to see what I will do.”
He tilts his head to one side, looking at me. He examines me for a long minute, then asks in a low tone, “Are you a red?”
I flush, looking down into my bowl. I do not want to lie, but the town has the detector at its gates. If I admit I deliberately circumvented it, I might be tossed out into the falling night – or worse.
I hedge. “There is no tracker in me. Your tunnel proved that.”
His eyes light up with interest, but his face remains calm as he nods in understanding. “So, then, maybe this man is a watcher.”
I blink in confusion. “A watcher?”
He takes another bite of his stew. “Most of the government agents, they’re content to sit in their control room and watch the dots drift around on their large map. But a few of them, they want a closer eye on what the reds are doing. Say a red is a serial killer, for example. The agents don’t want him going from town to town wiping out all the locals. So they send along a watcher to keep an eye on him. To ensure he acclimatizes to his new environment properly.”
“Sort of like a guard dog?”
The corner of his mouth turns up. “Something like that,” he agrees. “If the red gets out of line, the watcher can take action.”
“So you think his green-eyed man is one of these watchers, and he is keeping an eye on me?”
He gives a soft shrug. “Have you done something that would warrant that kind of attention?”
I ponder the thought. I have no memory at all of what I had done, or been like, before my awakening in the chute. For all I know, I could indeed be dangerous and worth this extra level of caution on the part of the jailers.
“I don’t know,” I admit truthfully. “I am hoping that when I get to the gate, I will find that out.”
He nods in understanding. “Chute blindness. The trauma of the chute can make the mind snap and lose its hold on reality. For most it wears off after a while. For some it never does. Guess you’ll find out eventually which camp you fall into.”
The doors push open, and a slender, handsome, middle-aged man in deep burgundy robes steps into the room. I sense the chill pass through the patrons, the way the talk hushes and eyes glance over in his direction. He stands for a moment by the doors, his eyes moving across the customers, before they come to meet mine. He smiles, walking directly to stand by our table.
“Good evening, traveler,” he greets me. “I do not recognize you. New to our area?”
“Just passing through,” I answer noncommittally. I bring my eyes to my stew, taking a fresh bite.
“My name is Jebediah, and I am a member of the Order of Truth. If you have a few moments, I’d like to tell you what we are all about.”
I finish up the last of my stew and shake my head. “I’m afraid it’s been a long day, and I’ll be heading up to bed now.
”
Chisholm makes a calling motion with his hand, and Tilde comes over with a key. She hands it to me. “Third door on the left, dear. Let me know if you need anything.”
Chisholm stands, ignoring Jebediah. “Meet me by the Sheriff’s office when you’re ready tomorrow, and we’ll take care of our transaction.”
“Will do. Thank you for dinner.”
He smiles. “My pleasure.”
I turn and head up the stairs. The room is small but neat, with a single bed. A dresser holds a pitcher of water and a ceramic bowl. The window is shut and locked.
I put the pitcher and bowl on the plank floor, then heft the dresser with my hip until it is blocking the door. I pull the curtains closed over the window, then strip off my boots and gun belt. I leave the pouch of silver where it is on my chest and lay the gun on top of the blankets, its barrel pointing at the door.
In only moments I am asleep.
Blaze is standing alongside me in a grassy valley, his large, brown eyes staring at me in contentment. I run my hand through his silvery mane, drawing comfort from his presence. He dips his head down to the stream which dances at our feet.
There’s a motion on the ridge above us, and a man rides into view on a matching pinto. Even at this distance I know his eyes are forest green, that he carries a rifle slung over his back, and that he could shoot the ace out of a card at five hundred feet.
His gaze swings down to meet mine, and I feel its protective warmth, its steady assurance.
Ishtato.
