Molech stepped wholly from the statue and dangled The Rider like a morsel high over its head, the hot, fell breath wafting up around him like a volcanic updraft.
Its baying voice took on a mocking tone, like the high pitched bellows of a pack of hyenas. What it said The Rider couldn’t catch, but its intent was clear.
The Rider stared down into the widening jaws of Molech and imagined the slivered bones of infants jammed between its teeth. There was a hope his wards would make his soul indigestible. If they didn’t, despite all his training, he truly had no idea of what awaited him in the demon’s belly. He imagined the shriveled infant souls that already passed through its fires and began to rapidly utter the ninety-first Psalm as he reached to free his pistol, hoping its Solomonic attributes would be enough to expel the evil spirit.
“Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night…”
That was when his ethereal hand closed on the empty space where the butt of his pistol should have been.
The demon seemed to notice his distress and elicited a shrieking crone-like laugh that shook its thick shoulders, causing its vile body, made hermaphroditic by its brushy haired, sagging, atrophied chest and disproportionate nether regions, dance revoltingly. That terrible sound threatened to drown out The Rider’s recitation.
“Thou shalt tread upon the lion and asp, the young lion and the dragon shalt thou trample...”
Molech continued to laugh. The Rider saw the girl in the arms of the robed figures again. Two were righting the ladder and struggling to secure her bonds and reset her in the arms of the idol. The rest were puzzling over their leader.
With a jolt, Molech lowered The Rider towards its jaws and seemed to address him, its voice taking on a more human aspect, but uttering guttural words of a language that could not have been a far cry from the animal grunts of the first stooping men. Men who made war with fists full of rock and broken tree limbs, and who drove the sharpened ends of animal bones into the bellies of their enemies, then described their conquests on the cold, hidden walls of caves in crude paintings of blood and berries far beneath the earth.
It mocked him again, this eater of stolen babes, this bather in blood and fire. It seemed that The Rider could almost understand its speech, could almost hear it asking how he could have expected to come into its presence for a second time and live.
The Rider paused in his incantation and stared at the incomprehensible visage.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, the alchemically enchanted silver Derringer strapped to the inside of his left forearm, slipped into his hand. It was a minor tool compared to the more powerful Volcanic, but it was inscribed with strong offensive runes This was one of the tools his teachers would have dismissed him for. Now it, and his faith in the Most High, were all he had.
He jammed it into Molech’s eye and fired, resuming his recitation, his own voice ringing above Molech’s laughter as the explosion of mystical force cut short the demon’s mirth.
“With long life will I satisfy him, and show him my salvation!”
Blue-white fire, from the muzzle of the little silver pistol, flared and filled the eye of the raging bull god. A stream of murky black ichor spilled from the wound, which continued to burn and flare like a live firework.
Molech let out a scream and released The Rider, clapping its hand to the spurting wound.
Its cry of pain manifested in a clamorous noise that was like the lowing of bulls being slaughtered, the howl of lions ripped asunder.
The Rider hovered for a moment between the arm of the statue and the flailing, wounded god. Down below, amid a mass of blood, he was amazed to see Hayim Cardin stir and slowly turn at the call of his master.
But Cardin was a shattered vessel. No good to anyone. His warnings went unheeded by the distrustful brethren, who were returning to their murderous ceremony, drawing away the ladder from the idol and ignoring the bubbles of blood that frothed at Cardin’s lips.
The Rider sought his only avenue and dove for the top of the girl’s head.
It was not as easy as possessing Cardin had been. The girl’s spirit was strong and in distress, and it took a maximum effort to drive her hyper-aware consciousness to the background. But then in a rush, the unearthly roaring of Molech was gone, replaced by the chanting of the Canaanites and the booming of their great drum as he descended once more into the physical world. Hot, sulfur laced air filled the girl’s aching lungs and the smells of the temple were all around. The arms of the idol were searing to the touch, and the heat coming off it was not unlike the oppressive air of the demon itself.
In the body of the girl The Rider twisted with new vigor, the acolytes put their weight into the chains that draped from the idol and its arms jerked upwards. He rolled, straight for the open mouth, but turned and stopped, bracing her bare feet against the scalding iron jaws.
The girl’s terror had leant her body strength, and The Rider’s resolve doubled that. They had repaired her shredded linen wrap with silken cords taken from the waists of their robes. Now the flames that licked from the aperture caught the cord between her ankles.
The Rider prayed for an infinitesimal measure of the strength God had granted Samson in the temple of Dagon.
It was enough.
The Canaanites watched awestruck as the slip of a girl disrupted their most sacred ceremony for the second time and scrambled to her badly scorched feet, pulling her hands free with her teeth and clinging like a white monkey to their god’s upraised arm. She sprung from the statue and seemed to float suspended for a half a moment in the acrid air above the congregation, her broken fetters whipping wildly about her, the torn linen filling with air, almost angelic. Then she landed full with her heels on the crumpled form of Cardin as he fought to rise, gripping the robe of one of the worshipers and gesticulating desperately at empty air. There was a final crack that was audible even above the enraged exclamations of the worshipers and the faltering beat of the drum.
The tarnished soul of Hayim Cardin fled its broken shell.
The Rider/girl spared no time, but fell to her hands and scurried like an animal through the legs of the men who lined up to recapture her. Breaking through the other side of the congregation, she plunged out into the relative cool of the ossuary. She scrambled over scattered bones, and bounded up the hewn stairs that led to the stinking cemetery.
The Rider was forced to contend with the terrified girl’s limitations. The stairs had been a negligible thing in ethereal form, but encased within this small and exhausted body, it was rigor. The cool steps were no relief to her scalded bare feet. Every step was a newborn hell coursing up her burned legs, singing an endless ballad of pain whose purpose was to sway her wavering fortitude and make her to pause. To rest. To sit.
The clamor of the Canaanites echoed up the rock passage from below, and grew louder. There could be no rest. No respite, without death.
Then, something happened somewhere down below in the belly of the sanctum. The Rider could only surmise it was the departure of Molech. An earth shaking tremor and clamor of sound like two steam engines colliding, followed by an explosion of fire and heat and screams, belched up the passage, almost knocking the fleeing girl to her hands.
It was the statue, The Rider knew. The symbol of Molech’s influence and power had toppled like the one in Nebuchednazzer’s dream. What had physically occurred hardly mattered. The defeat of Molech in the Yenne Velt required a corresponding action in the physical world. Or perhaps the indelicate treatment of the arm mechanism had caused some imbalance when the girl had jumped.
Whatever it was, he heard the screams of the stragglers in the temple and knew the fire that had kindled in the guts of the idol had vomited forth when it cracked, engulfing those who had strayed too far behind. The drum had ceased. Now there were only the curses of the pursuers as they renewed their chase.
The girl emerged from the passage coughing and stumbling, blinking at the bluing predawn sky. Inky smoke flowed from the passage, joining
the foul smelling vapors that swirled on the ground from the temple vents. The angry shouts of the Canaanites had become cries of fear and desperation as their lair filled with wafting death.
Down below, they scrabbled like rats, pulling at each other to escape, trampling, catching handfuls of their fellows’ robes and jerking them down the stone steps in their haste to ascend. Some collapsed from exertion, thirsty lungs gulping oily, poisonous smoke. They died clawing at their hot throats, faces purpling. Some crashed down the stairs, killed as if by a beating, or survived the lengthy tumble only to land paralyzed in the lake of fire that had spilled from the idol and was chewing at the blackened bones of the ossuary, still eager for new fuel.
There was a final tremor and the graveyard collapsed in upon itself in a cloud of dust and a belch of smoke.
Of the two dozen The Rider had estimated in the flock of Molech, only six emerged, faces blackened, robes singed, their eyes filled with a burning not from the fumes alone. They fanned out from the opening and hunted through the toppled tombstones like questing wolves, till one of them sounded a cry and pointed to the fleeting bright figure stumbling through the cemetery gate and toward the dwellings.
Those six ran after her.
* * * *
Joseph nearly leapt from his skin as his front door sounded with insistent pounding. So The Rider was too late. The posse from town had come, or else the Canaanites had finally broken their bargain, as he had suspected they would.
Rebech gripped his shoulders, and in his arms, Eli stirred awake.
“Joseph!” came the small, hoarse voice of a child from outside. “Joseph hurry!”
Joseph moved. He thrust his blinking son into Rebech’s arms and ran to the door, throwing up the bar and wrenching it open.
A haggard looking yellow haired girl leaned out of breath in the doorway, clothed in ragged strips of dirty linen, her thin, trembling legs covered in scrapes and cuts. Her bare, burned feet were swollen and filthy.
She looked up at him with exhausted eyes.
“Joseph…”
She fell forward. Joseph caught her, drew her up into his arms. She weighed almost nothing. As he straightened, he saw the six men—Cardin’s—come running around the corner, filthy red robes billowing about them.
“Klein!” shouted one he knew, by face but not by name, as one who had come from the mountains with Cardin.
“Rebech!” he called, retreating into the house with the girl. “Shut the door!”
Rebech lunged forward and pushed the door shut and threw the bar down in time for the door to bang hard against it.
Twice more it shuddered from the impact of a heavy shoulder, but the thick bar did not give. Y’shmael had fashioned it. It would hold.
“Klein!” screamed the man outside like a rabid animal. “Open this door!”
Joseph set the girl on the table. She was weaker than ever, her head lolling in fatigue.
“God,” said Rebech. “God.”
“Draw water for this child,” Joseph called, trying to keep the panic from his voice, trying to sound strong as he had never been, trying to drown out the violent calls of the men outside. He held the waifish girl’s hollow cheeks between his hands. “Are you alright?” he said, in Aramaic.
The girl shook her head tiredly, a fear in her brimming eyes that was not there when he’d opened the door.
“Who are you?” she bawled in English.
* * * *
They had finally gotten Clubber’s goddamned horse under control, but it had taken a lot of wind out of the proceedings. The animal had balked every time they’d lifted the Jew onto it, and once it had broken free and they’d had to chase it down. Finally Tom threatened to shoot the jugheaded animal, which almost caused a fight with the Lazy S boys.
Dan cooled them down and reminded them why they were all there, to see the Jew priest swing. Clubber coaxed the horse into finally sitting still, and at last Bull had lifted the unconscious Jew into the saddle and cinched the noose around his neck.
Stupid Jew luck had caused this party to carry on way too long.
Now, Bull raised one huge hand to finally do the honors.
“See you in hell,” said Cut Tom. “Finally.”
He thought he saw the Jew’s eyes fly open, but it must have been a trick of the predawn light.
Bull’s hand slapped down on the horse’s rump and it bolted out from under the Jew. The rope pulled tight and he swung from the arm of the newspaper office sign—
—for about the time it took a flea to fart.
Then the Jew’s hands (which they hadn’t bound because they hadn’t bothered to rustle up the extra rope) flew up and grabbed the noose. With a hard tug, he drew it open and dropped to the boards free and clear, right in front of Dan, who looked about fit to go running after Clubber’s horse.
It was like seeing a dead man come back to life. Tom shook off the surprise and wiped away the blood that spilled from the fresh hole he’d bit in his own lip.
“Playin’ possum, huh?” he quipped, and pulled his pistol.
When the Jew turned, he had already yanked his own weapon out of the lip of a stupefied Dan’s trousers. So what? Fast or no, that twenty dollar shoehorn of flashy tin wasn’t going to do anything. Hadn’t Dan tried it? Hadn’t he said it was just for show, some cowardly Jew bastard’s notion of safety? It wasn’t going to blow and spit a blue pill into him.
But it did.
As Cut Tom flew backwards, propelled by the bullet in his chest, Bull Bannock moved. The hammer of his horse pistol caught on the edge of his pants pocket with a rip. Tom had always told him he needed to invest in a belt and holster or else put the thing in the front of his pants where he could get at it. But Bull had always been afraid he would blow his pecker off. It was such a big target, he used to laugh and say. Then the Jew’s bullet smacked dead center into his forehead and he briefly conceded that Tom had been right.
The crowd stood stock still. Clubber and Heck made no move for their guns. Alvin took a step back, and Burly was way ahead of him, trotting back to the Moderado as if he’d just remembered he’d left a pot of beans on the stove.
Dan Spector stared at the bodies of Tom and Bull, at the smoke curling from their wounds. He’d tried that pistol himself. He’d tried it. It hadn’t worked. It hadn’t.
“How?” he stammered.
The Jew just put the pistol back where it belonged.
Then he turned, and where his eyes fell the mob cleared a respectful path. That path led straight to his mule, dozing at the trough in front of the Moderado.
The Rider walked down the silent aisle of staring eyes. The pistol was primarily a correspondence ward for use on the ethereal plane, but it was also a deadly weapon. Of course, it wouldn’t fire for any man who didn’t wear the little silver ring embossed with the seal of Solomon, to which it had been married by ancient alchemical rites. That ring flashed on The Rider’s hand, catching the lamplight. To any other, the pistol was a pretty trinket.
Trujillo started to walk after The Rider, squeezing his fist. He stopped short, Dan’s fingers on his sleeve.
“Best not, amigo,” Dan mumbled.
* * * *
The hour had come, though Shallbetter and the other men had been saddled and ready before the first hint of blue had crept into the night sky. That group of clean, quiet men had been waiting already when the others stirred, as if they hadn’t even slept.
Now they rode, and hell went before them.
Billy Shivers had no doubt every Jew in Little Jerusalem would be dead before the sun was yellow. It was behind their backs, and when they galloped as one body into the town with the rest of the posse heading in blind from the west, he figured they must look like the avenging army of fiery angels Shallbetter wanted them to be.
That little girl was dead for sure by now, and Cardin, and every other damn Jew in the settlement was going to go with her. Why the hell hadn’t Cardin negotiated? Was he really in on it somehow?
&nbs
p; They tore through the center of town, the men squeezing off a few shots into empty cabins, killing nothing but glass and ammo—all except for the clean, quiet riders, who seemed to pull ahead as if they knew where they were going.
Then they saw six men in red robes outside one of the cabins in the middle of the street. When these men saw them coming, they spread out in every direction, hollering and screaming in fear.
Shallbetter was set to join the others in riding them down, but Billy pulled up alongside him and grabbed his reins.
“Get out of my way!” Shallbetter snarled.
“You want blood, or you want your daughter?” Billy shouted. “You ride in with that lot and you’re gonna put a bullet in her before you even see her.”
Shallbetter soured, pale.
“What do you intend?”
Billy pointed again to the cabin, and steered his horse that way.
“Looked like they were tryin’ to get in there, to me.”
The bullets started flying. The whooping of the rough men followed, but the only sounds the clean, quiet men made came from their shining pistols. Somewhere on the other side of the settlement, he noticed a pillar of black smoke rising against the lightening sky. How had they fired the place so fast? He hadn’t even seen them light any torches.
When they reached the little cabin, the door flew open. Billy hadn’t expected that, and thought ironically for all the discretion he’d imposed upon the preacher, now they were both dead.
And then, a Jew stepped out with the pale girl wrapped in a blanket in his arms.
Shallbetter pointed his gun.
“Papa!” the girl shrieked.
The Jew on the porch hesitated. He stared at the preacher’s gun, then glanced over his shoulder. Out of nowhere, there was a boy, maybe nine or ten hugging his leg with both arms. The Jew looked fearfully at Shallbetter.
“Put her down,” Shallbetter said, his voice as cold as the morning. “Put her down and step aside.”
Merkabah Rider: Tales of a High Planes Drifter Page 6
