by Lila Bowen
He just hoped Sam would see it that way, too.
“Will they remember anything?” he asked Dan, tossing his chin at his still-sleeping friends.
“Do you think remembering would be a good thing or a bad thing for them?”
Rhett frowned. “I reckon they’d rather forget.”
“Then we could make it easier for them.”
Rhett nodded. “Let’s do that.”
When Sam blinked awake, grinning, the grove was changed and Rhett was wearing a fine buffalo coat. He’d smudged out the cloven hoofprints with a boot and dabbed blood off cheeks and eyelashes with a wet kerchief. Whatever had woken him at dawn, everyone else had remained in a deep sleep as if drugged, unmoving and insensate, and Rhett and Dan had used that time to erase all evidence of the god. Cleaning and dressing Sam’s heavy, lovely limbs while the feller slept had possibly been the most strangely intimate thing Rhett had ever done, and that included what had happened last night.
“We outside?” Sam asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
“The Buck’s Head didn’t have any rooms to let,” Rhett answered, slicing off a piece of apple with his knife and holding it out. Sam took it with thanks and popped it in his mouth, sending a shot of memory and desire through Rhett’s nethers.
Yes, well, and so that memory was his own. Sam showed evidence of no such recollection and merely chomped agreeably.
“Damn, that’s a good apple. We got more?”
Rhett pointed at the grove, heavy with fruit. “As much as you can eat, Sam. I reckon you’ve earned it.”
Sam’s eyebrows drew down. “Earned it?”
Rhett looked away, hiding a smile. “Blood watered these trees, and Bandera Pass owes you, Sam.”
“Owing or not, I’ll take it.”
Winifred and Earl woke just after that, their memories likewise blank. Rhett and Sam had moved Earl away from the girl to save them any awkwardness. Everyone seemed, as Rhett did, refreshed and sluggish after their heavy sleep. They stuffed themselves with fresh fruit and drank the cool, clean water. Aside from the blood-soaked debauchery of the night before, Rhett had to admit it was a perfectly pleasant morning. The only dark smudge on the interlude came from one mouthy crow that sat in the limbs of the apple tree and watched them with beady eyes, cawing a rude laugh from time to time.
Finally, Rhett couldn’t take it any longer. He picked up an apple core and lobbed it at the oily black bastard. The crow rose from the tree, squawking with affront and flapping off into the morning sun. Rhett felt better once it was gone and had the most peculiar feeling that the bird knew exactly what had happened here last night. Probably waiting for them to leave so it could dig up the fresh bones he and Dan had hidden upon the ridge.
“I should’ve shot that crow,” he muttered.
“Bad luck to shoot it,” Winifred said. “Crows are wise. And anyway, it was a raven.”
“Bad luck? Bullshit,” Earl said, chewing happily. “The Morrigan takes the form of a raven. Brings war and pestilence and death. I’ll side with Rhett on this one. Shoot it, next time. The bastards follow the railroad tracks, hungry for blood. Creepy little buggers.”
“He’s gone, in any case,” Sam said, hopping to his feet and dusting off his hands. “And I’m hungry for more than fruit. Let’s go find some meat.”
Rhett’s stomach turned at the thought of killing, at the memory of chewing bloody, undercooked muscle. It would’ve been a joy, having completely forgotten what it was they’d done last night, the four of them. He wasn’t going to want pork for a while, he knew that much. Hunching his new coat around his shoulders, he stood and felt a rush of heat and damp as his body did what he’d been dreading and started his damn courses. He’d tried keeping count once so that he’d know when to expect this unpleasant surprise, but it came and went like a cat, as it pleased and with no regard for Rhett’s feelings.
“I hate bodies,” he muttered, hurrying to a patch of brush to staunch what he could with his spare kerchief and tie on a new set of rags.
Rhett Walker had had more than enough of blood, then and forever.
Just as a precaution, Dan went into town alone for their horses. Although the others didn’t recollect what had happened last night, they knew well enough that if you started drinking in a saloon and woke up outside, you might’ve gotten tossed out for being unruly, and you might’ve damn well deserved it. Some small amount of embarrassment was discussed, although no one was willing to hazard a guess regarding what had happened after that first shot of liquor. Dan walked out and shortly returned on his chestnut gelding with his own little herd trailing behind like baby ducks.
“Where’d that extra horse come from?” Rhett asked, tossing his head at a gorgeous little dun paint mare he didn’t recognize but quite liked the look of.
“She was tied to the draft,” Dan said, one hand on the pretty thing’s neck. Her eyes were gentle, her mane and tail long and black. The saddle on her back was new and well-made, the saddlebags over her rump bulging. Rhett moved to Ragdoll and offered her an apple, supposing that even a horse knew when she was outclassed and wanting the mare to know she was loved, anyway, ugly or not.
Winifred hobbled up on her crutch to inspect the mare and gasped. When Rhett moved around to the animal’s other side, he saw Winifred’s hand fitting perfectly over a bloody handprint planted there. Green vines tangled in the mare’s mane, and she turned soft eyes to blink at Winifred, nuzzling the girl gently.
“I reckon that means she’s yours,” he said roughly.
In the saddlebags, they found cheese and fruit and a jar of honey, and Rhett’s memory told him exactly what this meant, exactly who was thanking or reminding them through such a gift. When Winifred pulled out a sharp stone knife with an antler handle and a tiny rim of red along the blade, Rhett had to look away.
“What does this mean?” Winifred asked, her voice low and troubled. “What really happened?”
Dan touched his sister’s shoulder, caught her eyes. “You know better than to question the gods, especially when they’re still listening. Say your thanks for this gift, and let’s put this town far behind us.”
“I hate it when you’re right,” she muttered. But she repacked the saddlebags, checked the mare’s girth, and put the reins over her head. Much to everyone’s surprise, the horse folded to her knees and looked up to Winifred, blinking her long eyelashes with more intelligence and patience than a beast had any right to possess. Winifred straddled the saddle and sat, and the mare gracefully stood.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Sam said, scratching his neck.
“Me, neither.” Dan’s eyes were narrow as he watched his sister stroke the mare’s neck, and Rhett wanted to know what he was thinking but wasn’t willing to ask. Whatever Dan thought, staring at his hurt sister on that too-pretty trick horse decorated with Winifred’s bloody handprint…well, Dan wasn’t sharing it. And that gave Rhett pause.
“Her name is Kachina,” Winifred said.
“What the hell’s that mean?” Rhett asked.
There was a peculiar look on Winifred’s face. “It means hope, Rhett,” she said softly.
But Rhett wasn’t about to ask what she was hoping for. A sensible creature would hope to have their foot healed, hope to stay alive in a world that seemed hell-bent on killing anybody who wasn’t cut of stern cloth. Yet Winifred sat her fancy new horse like a queen, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun, staring off at the horizon with a strange smile. Rhett had no idea what the girl might be thinking, and he reckoned he’d never, not a day in his life, understand women.
Before he mounted up on Puddin’, he took his saddlebags into the brush and arranged his rags for a long, uncomfortable day in the saddle under the horned god’s mocking blue sky.
The rest of the day was blessedly normal. Earl stayed a donkey, which meant he was quiet and didn’t ask any uncomfortable questions. Sam was his usual cheerful self. Winifred was lost in her own thoughts, and her new horse
behaved like a dream. Even Coyote Dan wasn’t too vexful. The heavy clouds that had dogged them yesterday had burned off to a fine, clear sky, and the plains remained obliging and free of further troublesome towns ruled over by hungry gods. The entire situation seemed, for lack of a better word, charmed. Grudgingly, Rhett was forced to admit to himself that Buck Greenwood, or the horned god, whatever his true name was…well, he was a fair sort of feller, for a god.
That night over a supper of jackrabbit and cheese, Rhett couldn’t stand the polite silence and empty small talk for a second longer.
“Coyote Dan, did you at least learn anything while you were off scouting?”
Dan looked up from the fire. “Nothing useful. Nothing you haven’t already seen. Coyotes can’t range as far and fast as horses, really, so all I saw was that the road ahead was clear and nothing too dastardly was going on. When I came back and found the grove…” He grinned at Rhett alone and shook his head. “Well, I figured you were in good enough hands and just needed to sleep it off. A little sip now and then can be quite restorative. Although I wouldn’t drink too deep of whatever bottles you find in those saddlebags.”
“Got any idea what this Trevisan feller is?”
Dan swung his gaze to Earl. “That’s where you come in. We need to know everything you can tell us. Where he’s from, what kind of accent he has, what he looks like, what he wears, what he does. His habits. His ways.”
Earl did his best to swallow an overlarge mouthful of food and managed to choke. With a snort of derision, Rhett got up to fetch the Captain’s book from his saddlebags, taking brief respite among the warm, sleepy horses. Horses made so much more sense than people. It had to be right nice for Earl, to be something close enough to horses that he could move among them without spooking them. If Rhett became the bird this close to the docile beasts, he reckoned the poor creatures would stampede, screaming, into the night. At least Sam wasn’t scared of him in that form, whatever it was.
“We should look through this book,” he said as everyone turned from watching Earl splutter to stare at him. “Captain said it might help, whatever it is.”
Dan took it with reverence and cracked the spine. “It’s a grimoire.”
“I know that.”
“But you can’t read it.”
“Hellfire, Dan. I know that, too.”
Rhett sat down, wishing he’d just thrown the damn thing in the fire, for all that it made Coyote Dan even more bothersome than usual. Back at the Ranger outpost, Rhett had spent several stolen moments flipping through the book as if perhaps his recently gained powers might magically include reading. Much to his consternation, the little black squiggles still made no damn sense, although the book was riddled with fabulous drawings of beasts and almost-men that drew his eye like the candy display in a general store. He’d found pictures of something like the siren he’d killed in Reveille as well as harpies, werewolves, and shapeshifters. The biggest bird among them was a vulture, though, and everybody who had seen him change said he wasn’t one of those. He’d slammed the book shut, then, assuming whatever secrets it held were for another man to decode.
“I didn’t get much of a chance to look at it before, but it’s useful,” Dan murmured.
Rhett spat into the darkness. “Further information of which we are already aware.”
Dan ignored that. “Earl? Are you recovered enough to tell us what we’re facing?”
Earl’s ruddy face was redder than usual. “Don’t know how useful I can be, but I’ll try. A shot of something to loosen me tongue would not go amiss.”
Sam fetched a dark green bottle from Winifred’s saddlebag and handed it over. Earl pulled the cork out with his teeth and took a deep swig. As he wiped the bottle’s lip and set it down, he grinned and said, “Not to reinforce the common slurs against my people, which are many. But delving back into that dark place requires a bit of liquid courage, lads.” He burped softly and stared into the fire as if seeking further fortitude.
“I came from Galway. I told you that much, did I not?” Seeing Rhett scoff, Earl wagged a finger in admonishment. “None of that, now. We’re a people of storytellers, the Irish, and I’ve been sorely lonely, so you’ll listen and listen well. The famine back home was hell, and the boat that brought us over was hell, and then landing in New Amsterdam was hell. Me and Shaunie and some lads from back home figured we’d make enough money to send on, maybe even enough to bring our families over, if the Federal Republic of America was the land of milk and honey we’d been promised. Jobs aplenty, they told us. Gold running down the middle of the street and fruited plains abounding.” He spit into the fire and laughed darkly. “What a load of shite. The labor gangs were waiting for us, but we were too smart for that, see. The railroad was where the money was, plus travel out of the crowded cities back east. Rooms stacked like crates, people sleeping twelve to a room. No green, anywhere.”
“What-all cities did you see?” Sam asked.
Rhett stifled a grin. Wasn’t that just like Sam, to focus on the wonder?
“Just the two biggest ones. New Amsterdam and Checagou, where we signed on with the Checagou and Galena Railroad. Rough work but honest. At least we were out of doors, Shaunie and me. Then one day, a feller came through in a fine black suit, no coal under his fingernails, claiming he was hiring for a new railroad headed west to Calafia. Pay rate he offered was triple what we were drawing, so when they chose us both, I expected it was on account of my being sober and ready and keepin’ Shaunie on the straight and narrow like I’d promised our mam. We said good-bye to our mates from back home and headed on for greener pastures, which was really more a field of bones.”
Shaking his head, he took another swig from the bottle.
Rhett opened his mouth to tell him to get the hell on with it, but Dan held out a hand. “In his own time,” he said. “Storytelling is sacred. Every detail will help.”
When Earl had drunk his fill, he looked up, eyes hard and determined. “The camp divides itself by origin, as men tend to work best and argue less among their own kind. The Chine are the largest group, in part due to numbers and in part due to the power of their magic. They handle the blasting and tunnels, far ahead of the train, mostly, where we rarely saw ’em. We Irish—well, we’re mostly shapeshifters and a few hedge witches, see? Only good for running rails and smoothing things out. Not specialty work.”
He spit a glob of his disgust in the fire. “I heard there was a big crew from Afrika, all from different regions but banded together by brown skin and anger at being brought here in chains. They’re mostly stuck with grading. There’s a team of Injuns and mixed-blood lads like you. Some quiet folk from the old Crusade lands, maybe, clad in robes and wearing towels on their heads and streaks of black under their eyes. Dunno what their magic is, but it must’ve been useful, as they were the most likely to disappear with Mr. Trevisan. Most all the bosses, scouts, guards, and gangers are white and wear bits of faded Confederate uniforms. If any of the groups could speak together and band against Trevisan, they might yet overthrow him and destroy the railroad, but as it is, they’re distrustful of one another and fractured in their power. Can’t even talk to conspire.”
“Does Trevisan push this fracture?” Winifred asked.
Earl nodded thoughtfully. “Oh, to be sure. Shows favor to whichever group is doing the best work, punishes groups for the individual’s failings. Pulls out one lad as his valet or offers promotions to likely bodies. Thus are quotas kept: through fear and the censure of comrades.”
“Who are his lieutenants?” Dan asked. “His friends?”
Earl barked a laugh. “Friends? Trevisan? No one, I reckon. He’s got a second, the feller who scouted me. Big lad, name’s Adolphus. He can sniff out the magic—and trouble, too. Handy with a whip. Knows just where to cut you to cause pain and keep you working. Other than that, it’s rotating toadies. Grandpa Z is the Chine doc that keeps the laborers healthy enough to labor, but I don’t believe he has any love for Trevisan—just
looking to keep his people safe and in favor.”
“And what does Trevisan look like?”
“Handsome son of a bitch,” Earl spat. “Pale and blond and shiny and clean. Sharp as fresh-cut ice. A dandy. Can’t reckon his place of origin, though. Somewhere in Europa, maybe. The snow lands or Italia. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a blade in his hand, accustomed to being in charge and listened to. Fine clothes, all perfectly matched with his gloves and carefully tied cravats. You’d think he was a weak thing, easily broken as a flower stem.” He paused to take another drink. “But you’d be wrong. When his fingers wrap around your bones, you feel the bruise. Like touching cold, hard ground.”
“What of his magic?”
Earl threw a handful of dirt in the fire, making it spark. His words slurred with rage as he spoke. “Hellfire with your questions! If I knew his magic, I’d know how to fight it, wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t be dragging me sorry self across the damn desert on half a hoof, begging strangers for help. Save me own brother and kill me own monster, wouldn’t I? I’ve never seen Trevisan brought to pain. He didn’t sweat in the sun nor shiver in the rain. Never showed a cut from shaving or a bruise from dropping his teakettle. Any man who stood up to him was cut down by Adolphus, slish slash. Whatever magic he has, he does it in that personal train car of his. No windows, no door that I’ve seen. He’s untouchable. Hence the problem.”
“But you were in there…” Rhett trailed off.
Earl’s frantic eyes looked like they wanted to pop out of his head. “Would you remember every detail of a place where you was strapped down and tortured? I was in a tent, and then I was in the room, and then I was in a tent again. I know what the chair feels like, what the charred air smells like in that damned box of a room, and I know that I lived to see the sun again, but that’s the only memory I have of it.”
The only sound, for a moment, was the crackling of the fire and the soft stamping of horses. Earl picked up the bottle and drank, long, deep, and defiant. Dan nodded thoughtfully and picked up the book, flipping through it with his lips pursed. Winifred pulled her blankets down and lay on her side, her dark, wide eyes reflecting the fire.
