The Trials of Solomon Parker

by Eric Scott Fischl

  It takes long, long moments for Sol’s laughter to stop. He leans back, wiping his eyes, giving Connor what he knows is a ghastly grin. The grin of a dead man. Damned. “Did what you told me to do, Mark, that’s all. 2500. Like you said. New technology. Bolsheviks, though, fucking Bolsheviks, hey?” He clamps his teeth down over the laugh he can feel trying to claw out from his throat, again, scraping up out of his belly. “I did like you said.”

  “I never said any of that, Sol. I never fucking said that.” The damage control is beginning already, before responsibility can come to squat like a vulture on a carcass. “We never talked about this. You understand? Sol! You understand?”

  Sol closes his eyes, so he doesn’t have to see Mark Connor, and leans further back in his chair. Oh, he understands. Wasn’t no way that any Company man would wind up with a smear on him, because of this. Tragedy and all, but the ACM had done everything they could to prevent this kind of thing. New fire safety system, after all! Sure, it needed some work, maybe. But those anarchists! Terrorists! They’re the real enemy here. The Company would make some sad statements, pay off some families – cheaply as possible, of course – talk about further safety concerns but it’s best for all of Butte – all! – if we get back on production footing, soon as we can. The whole town benefits from Company productivity; we all benefit. We all suffer when work slows.

  Surely you can see that?

  Connor would come out of this wary but untouched. Never mind his masters; they were never at any risk to begin with. Hell, even Sol was clear of danger. Probably come out of this to the better, even, if only to ensure his silence. Although, really, what could he ever say?

  “Oh, yeah, Mark,” Sol says now, eyes still closed. “You bet I understand you.” He opens the desk drawer, starts to pull out a bottle. “Drink?”

  “Drink? Now? Come on, Sol, you’re not serious. Listen, I shouldn’t even be here. Best we don’t see one another for a while, right? Let the dust settle–”

  “Smoke.”

  “What?”

  “Let the smoke settle. Maybe a bit more apt, phrase-wise.”

  “Jesus, Sol, really? Whatever you want to call it, we need to stay away from one another for a bit, couple few months maybe. We’ll make this good for you, don’t worry. The Company looks out for its own, and you’ve been a good man for us to know. Done good work. This is a shame, what happened, but we’ll get past it, all right? We’ll get past it.”

  Sol smiles a lazy, crazy smile at that. The Company looks out for its own.

  “Sol, are we good here? Look at me. We good?”

  He nods. Oh, we’re good. Never better, Mark, never better.

  “Course we are.”

  Sol reaches into the drawer again. Connor has his hand on the office door when Sol pulls out Sean’s pistol and shoots him in the back. He gets up, walking over, and shoots him in the head. Keeps shooting and, by the time Mickey comes bursting in again, the pistol is empty, smoking in his hand.

  – Listen, Solomon Parker.

  He remembers the dream, then. It comes to him, echoing like gunfire, rattling like dice on the floor.

  He understands, now, sees what the old Indian had showed him in the night. Sol knows what he has to do, where he needs to go, to finally make this right.

  He’s damned, but there’s always a choice.

  There’s always a choice. Right, Frank?

  Take the bet or not. The price, he’ll pay it whatever it is. One last wager, then, for the sad remnant of his soul. It might be a case of too little, too late but, for the first time in many years, he feels his luck coming back.

  “Mickey,” he says. “Get Faraday. I need him to find someone for me.”

  8.

  The wind is sharp in Billy’s face when the hood is finally pulled off. It’s dusk, by the looks of things; there’s a low bonfire kindled and Sol drops the burlap sack down into it. It flares up after a moment, washing his face with light. Sol squats down, slowly, taking a seat on a low, flat rock. He uncorks a bottle, drinks a long swallow and then silently extends it, eyes still on the fire.

  Billy’s wrists are sore and chafed from the scratchy jute rope that had bound them. He has bruises and scrapes on knees and elbows from where he’d fallen as he’d been dragged on the long, steep, wordless walk to wherever he is now. The end, he guesses, one way or another. Sol’s man hadn’t been any more gentle when he’d scooped him up this time and, drunk as he was, still, Billy hadn’t put up much of a fight. A couple of jabs to his broken ribs had folded him over like a jackknife; he’d been tossed into the back of an auto, his wrists efficiently tied, head bagged. Sol’s employees were good at what they did.

  He looks around. They’re up high somewhere and, near as he can tell, he and Sol are alone, Mickey and Faraday nowhere to be seen. He steps forward, taking the bottle from Sol, and drinks. It’s good whiskey, smooth and hot. Billy sits down on the other side of the fire and, for a long time, neither of them speak, just stare into the flames. The summer night sags to an end and the darkness wraps tight around their little circle of light. There’s just a sliver of moon but the stars are strangely absent, although, as far as Billy can see, the sky is clear and cloudless.

  They pass the bottle back and forth and Billy finds himself getting sleepy, even though he knows that this is likely his last night on this Earth and, as such, he should try to savor it. Take a memory of it with him if, wherever he’s going, such things can follow. He’s oddly calm, content. The thought of escape, of cracking this bottle over Sol’s head and running down the hill and away somewhere, anywhere, doesn’t even really register as an option. Billy feels more peaceful than he has for years. Maybe it’s because his choices, such as they ever were, have been taken away.

  Whatever happens will happen. It’s liberating, really.

  “Been thinking a lot about what you said, Bill.” Sol speaks, abruptly. “About taking it all back. Trying again.”

  “Yeah?” Billy drinks, passes the bottle back. It’s almost empty.

  “You think we just never made the right choices?”

  A long pause, and then Billy sighs. He picks up a little stick, scratching it in the dirt between his feet. “I don’t think it matters, Sol.”

  “Of course it matters.”

  “No, I don’t mean it like that. I mean that it was always going to wind up like this, one way or another. Stories get twisted together, my uncle told me once, and I think he’s right. You maybe just got caught up and pulled into mine somehow. I don’t know.”

  “Your uncle, hey? That sorcerer, or whatever he is, is the reason we’re here.”

  “Shit, Sol. He’s no sorcerer. He’s just an old man, nothing more than that. Just an old man. I don’t understand any of it, but none of that other stuff ever happened. I know you think it did, but all of that bullshit, it never happened. I told you, you just got caught up.” Billy pauses, drops the little stick. “There’s something wrong with me, Sol. I think I’m sick, like my dad. I need help.” He looks around. “Although, I suppose this is good enough. Whatever you’re going to do, let’s just make an end to it, all right? I’m tired.”

  Sol looks up, fixes Billy with a sharp eye. “You really think that? After everything.”

  “Sol, I don’t have the answers.”

  A short bark of a laugh. “Shared crazy, hey? And stories getting twisted, is that how you put it? Now, that would be a thing. That would be a thing indeed. You reckon we should both be down at that hospital, then, with my brother?”

  “I don’t have the answers.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  They’re quiet again as the night pulls onward.

  Billy’s dreaming of a bird, huge and black, almost the size of the sky itself. Or maybe he himself has become small, like an ant. He feels no fear, though, only a soft contentment that’s washed with sadness. It’s peaceful, lying here, watching this beautiful black thing on the air. The bird soars above him, fixing him with one dark eye that begins to glow red, be
coming almost unbearably luminous, so much that Billy has to look away.

  The raven speaks, then.

  The perspective shifts and he sees himself, lying by a dying fire, atop a mountain shaped like an ear. Low voices bring him awake.

  The dawn sun is bright, glowing orange, looking up at the mountain. Billy isn’t surprised to see his father and his uncle squatting in the dirt, next to Sol. They’re staring at one another, intently, and then Sol nods. He picks up the marked bones that lay where he tossed them, hands them back. “All right,” he says. “I will, then.”

  The three old men turn to look at Billy as he pulls himself upright and, for one odd moment, it’s difficult to tell them apart.

  Sol stands up, slow and wobbly on tired knees. He walks over, looking at Billy. His eyes are wet and, without saying anything, he takes Billy in his arms, pulling him tight to his chest. “I’m sorry, Bill,” he whispers. “I’m sorry for all of it. I didn’t understand, but you were right.” He holds him for a long time and then takes a deep, shaky breath. Releasing his arms, he puts a hand to the side of Billy’s face. “Always loved you like a son, boy,” he says, softly. “Always did. Even as I was fucking things all up for you, I loved you like a son.”

  Sol turns and walks off before Billy can respond, heading down from the little clearing, away from the sun. Billy tries to speak but his throat is tight shut, aching. Even now, beat to hell, ribs aching, and with everything that’s come to pass, he still loves Sol, too. He wants to say it, but he can’t.

  Before Sol drops below the crest of the hill, he turns. “There’s always a choice, Bill,” he shouts, “and you’re a good man. A better man than I ever was.” He smiles, and then with another step he’s gone.

  It takes Billy a long moment to collect himself. He dries his eyes, then, and crosses the little clearing to stand before his family.

  “Behold Siinatssi,” he says, in the old tongue, the language of truth and substance, remembering the words of the raven. Somehow, it’s not even surprising to Billy, finally seeing his family as they are. Maybe the great bird in his dream has brought him understanding or maybe, finally, he truly is seeing the world as it really exists. The thought doesn’t worry him now. Crazy or not, this is his world.

  “Behold Siinatssi, Sagiistoo,” his uncle says, “but you will learn that a name isn’t important.” He looks weary, sad. “I am sorry for the tricks, for causing you pain and doubt, but things must pass as they do. From chaos our true nature is shown. That is ever the way of the Above Ones.”

  “They are a hard people,” Maatakssi, his father, says. “Sometimes a thing must first be nearly broken, before it can find its strength. For my part, I am sorry I was not stronger for you. I was never strong enough.”

  Siinatssi and Maatakssi close their eyes, remembering long-ago things, and tears run down their cheeks. For a moment, the water shines in the sun, although their faces are dark, shadowed.

  “Sagiistoo, my son,” Maatakssi whispers, “it has been so many years. So many terrible things we have done, so many wrong choices. But, perhaps now, with your help, we can make them right again, at least for a time.”

  “Take our hands, Sagiistoo,” Siinatssi says, his eyes open. “You must see a thing, and then you must decide. It is time for this to end, in one way or another. The People are waiting.”

  “So the Above Ones have decreed,” Maatakssi says. “They await your choosing. No doubt they have long ago made their wagers. Would that this thing had not passed to you. I am so sorry, for everything.”

  Billy steps forward and takes each man’s hand with one of his own, feeling the dry, heavy solidity, the sharp bones and stony knuckles. He looks into the black pits of their eyes, and then he sees it. Holding tightly, he falls forward into the vision of what could be, if he chooses to make it so. It’s only their grip that keeps him upright as he sags against the weight of it.

  He watches himself shovel cowshit in the hospital barn. Sitting with Dr Rideout, of an evening, smoking a cigarette and sipping mediocre whiskey, watching the sun sink and listening to the soft cries of hunting owls. He sees himself, older, taking a girl in his arms. The cry of an infant. The smell of cooking dinner. A little boy plays in the yard. The sun rising and setting, rising again. Fights with the woman, making up. The boy, older now, helping him fix a sagging barn door. Grey in the woman’s hair, smile lines around her eyes. A small house on the hospital grounds, paint peeling, window out of true, but warm inside. Bread baking, the glow of soft lights. A bed that sags in the middle, pulling him towards her. Arm around her hip, nose at the nape of her neck, breathing in. The sun rises, sets, rises again, over and over. Scraping for money, tired of working over-hard for too little pay. On the porch with a boy become a man, a baby on his knee. A funeral, the house empty again. A sore back, and knees that crack, needing to get up and piss three times in the night. Whiskey and a cigarette during the evenings, mostly alone, visited by his family at times.

  It’s not a bad life, not at all. Maybe not the one that he would have picked for himself, not exactly, had he been able to choose from all the particulars, but one that would fit him. A life that he knows he’d never want to change.

  A good life.

  Things shift, and he sees himself, a boy again, hiding from the fists of his father and his uncle, those madmen or sorcerers or whoever, whatever, they are. Cruel, hard, full of anger at this world the gods have made, that they themselves have brought to pass. Broken from what they’ve seen, what they’ve done, the weight of their endless lives. Memories cracking them apart. Cursed, damned by the Above Ones, against whom they’d sinned, long ago.

  Billy sees the sorrows of the People, the whites covering the land. He watches the last remnants of the tribes pass into nothingness.

  But the stories roll backwards, then. He sees his father, sitting on this mountain, surrounded by whiskey barrels. His uncle dancing, making a feeble medicine song. He watches the history of Maatakssi, of Siinatssi. All those that came and went. The history of the People, his people, his family. That thing that tethers him to this life across a thousand thousand years, roots him, although this is a bitter fate to share.

  He hears the laughter of the Above Ones, the rattle of dice.

  In his mind, Billy can still see the bird in his dream, soaring over him, brushed with a sadness as big as this mountain, eye red like the sun.

  His self drops away, then, into someone else, caught up and twisted into the story he watches.

  A spear, in his own hand now. He feels the roughness of the shaft, the weight of it. He’s running, this person he’s become. Another man, faceless, runs with him; they’re sprinting towards the wives in the long-ago, before the People. The breath rasping in his chest, the pounding of his heart. The other man begins to pull ahead, and Billy feels the anger, from which he suffers at times, growing.

  He sits on the porch, smoking, listening to hunting owls.

  He runs, raising the spear.

  Choices, forking.

  The tapping of a beak on a branch, the wood fissuring.

  Tapping, banging, booming.

  Booming.

  THE NIGHT ANNOUNCER

  – 1900 –

  Stevensville, Montana / Warm Springs, Montana

  Flame and smoke.

  Once again.

  The room is hot and close, smoke from the wildfires to the west floats lazily in air that feels like treacle in his lungs. With the back of his sleeve he rubs the sweat from his forehead, blinking in the dim light that seeps under and between the curtains. He always hated that she kept the room so dark, the drapes shut, but that won’t matter for much longer.

  The lantern’s weight stretches at the ends of his fingers, as if seeking release.

  Elizabeth won’t be home for hours yet. She and the baby are where he left them, with his brother and Sara, visiting in town, doing the shopping. It will be hard for her, but it’s the right thing to do and Ag will take care of them. His brother is a good man. Maybe t
he way Sol was, once, before he fucked it all up. He’d like to think so.

  But you can always change who you are.

  Lizzie will get help, and Owen will be safe. Let them start over. He won’t be there with them, but they’ll be all right. That was the wager, this time; that was the price. Nothing is ever free and no life is without consequence, not even one like Sol’s. Regardless of what he may have thought before, he knows the truth of that, now. Perhaps the last game was something of an apology, a reward, maybe, for his part in Billy’s story, that life twisted with his own. Whatever the reason, Sol knows that, this time, when he’d handed the marked bones back to the old Indian, he’d finally, truly won.

  His luck has finally come home, at last.

  He swings the lantern and lets it go. There’s the crack of glass and the bite of kerosene. A thin puddle slops across the dry wooden floor toward his feet, pooling around the leg of the empty crib. Hazy waves shimmer in the air, climbing up his legs. He takes the matches from his pocket, scratches them alight.

  Sol Parker takes a deep breath, tasting the smell of warm bedsheets and the powdery sweetness of a baby’s crib, the sharp tang of wildfire smoke. The smell of a life.

  He drops the burning matches at his feet.

  The flames rise around him and he smiles to hear the raven at the window, calling his name.

  Listen.

  I remember the East Wind was howling, pushing Maatakssi and his brother Siinatssi across the great water on a skin boat.

  I remember the wind and the raging water. I remember crying and praying to the Above Ones for succor; we cried and prayed to Old Man for forgiveness. “Let us come home,” we cried, “Take us from these waters.”

  Old Man turned his ears from his sons and instead we came to the place of the People, battered and wet, tired and sore. We pulled our boat to shore and kissed the land; we gave thanks to the Above Ones for saving us.