by Ben Galley
OF MURDER
23rd June, 1867
Cheyenne stank. Pure and simple. On any other day the desert town might have been pleasant, but on this particular day, with the war inching closer, with its streets swollen with townspeople, soldiers and sheriffsmen, it bordered on unbearable. Sweat, horse, dung, all mixed together into one nose-burning concoction, forced into their nostrils by the hot, dusty wind blowing in from the south.
Merion clamped his nostrils shut for the tenth time that morning as he wrestled through the throngs of people swarming around the railroad and the station. A trio of trains sat upon the tracks, hissing like tired beasts, vomiting their occupants onto the platform with a roar of voices, shouts, and blaring whistles. Sheriffsmen hollered and barked, but nobody seemed to be listening. Everybody was drowning in their own importance: whether they were escaping the war or heading towards it, they pushed and shoved, no matter who stood before them.
All around the edges of the chaos, the residents of Cheyenne looked on, their faces screwed up in confusion and bewilderment. This appeared to be a new state that they found themselves in. Wherever people are found in great quantity, there is always coin to be made. Here and there, stalls had been set up, selling dubious wares to customers too frantic and too short of time to care about prices or quality. Gunsmiths, farriers, leatherworkers, hat vendors, travelling waresmen—even the general stores and saloons had relocated to the railroad to make a few extra dimes and florins out of the maelstrom of people. Merion heard one man, his tall stovepipe hat reaching high above the crowds, braying over the cacophony.
‘Charms, potions, medicines, philtres, cure-alls! Get ’em here while they last. Don’t want to find yourself on the frontier without one of Doctor Jabber’s famous remedies! Step right up!’
Sometimes it helped being a thirteen-year-old boy amongst a crowd. Merion weaved his way between the people, still holding his nose, heading for the stall. He pushed his way to the front of the throng, where a kaleidoscope of bottles and vials lay on a crescent-shaped table. Doctor Jabber flashed him a silver-toothed grin and beckoned him forwards as he doled out wares, receipts, and raked in coins with his white-gloved hands.
‘What seems to be the malady, son? What do you need?’
Merion didn’t reply. His eyes flicked from one bottle to the next, flashing over the hand-written labels and spurious descriptions:
‘Wasp Juice: For all colics and coughs!’
‘Extract of Pig: Balding? Devoid of a beard? Rub on your face, head, and chest for a full growth of hair!’
‘Bison Bone Brew: Cures palsies, boils and all manner of rashes!’
‘Jabber’s Jamblay Tonic: For blind eyes and cataracts!’
‘Come on now, son, we ain’t got all day. We got sick people here in need of my remedies!’
Merion pointed to a bottle full of a thick, red liquid. ‘That, what’s in that?’
Doctor Jabber held the bottle aloft for all to see. ‘This, son, is Doctor Jabber’s famous Viper Oil, distilled from the skins of Kansas vipers, boot leather, and hawk feathers. Cures all sorts of deafness, son. Yours for just a handful of dimes!’
Merion scowled at the preposterous man and melted back into the crowds, his hope crushed like a viper under a heel. Others around him surged forward, eager for a taste of the magical remedy. Almighty’s sake!
The young Hark battled his way through the crowds and back into the town proper, where citizens stood idly by, unsure of what to do with themselves. Once he had escaped the throngs, Merion passed by a group of women standing under lace sunbrellas, their long, billowing dresses already dusty at the hems. Their heads bobbed like geese and their painted lips twitched with gossip as they stared and pointed at the newcomers. He followed their gaze, taking a moment to stare at the madness from its fringes.
Those that were heading towards the front were a strange mixture of people. Most were soldiers or workers, most likely headed for Kenaday or further west. They were dressed to match their weary, worried faces, the soldiers in blue uniforms that were almost grey with the dust. Every time a train hissed, or a whistle blew, or another young lad standing on a crate bleated out the news from the frontier, their heads sank a little lower.
The other sort of traveller held their heads high, turning this way and that with every noise. Some shouldered packs as big as themselves, while others battled to drag carts and baggage behind them. They looked dusty, rough at the edges, half-excited or half-scared, Merion couldn’t tell.
War or no war, the wild west still gleamed with opportunity for the taking. Homesteaders. He heard the word on the women’s lips, along with others such as ‘madness’, ‘fools’, and affirmations such as ‘They won’t get far’. Merion wondered what that meant. He thought about asking, but in truth he did not care that much. He put the yelling crowds at his back.
Cheyenne was older than Fell Falls, but only by a few years. The railroad had quickly left it in the dust of its search for the Last Ocean. It looked startlingly similar, but then again, to Merion, so did everything out west. The streets were lined with box-shaped, flat-roofed wooden buildings, the big painted boards above their doors long-faded by the hot sun. There was a saloon of course—the prerequisite of any frontier town—a general store or two, and a few houses with curtains drawn tight across their windows. Several horses stood outside, tethered to stakes. They whinnied at the sand. It was odd to find this quiet a stone’s throw from such chaos. Merion did not mind one bit.
The boy wandered along the street, eyeing signs and hoping to find at least one of the things he was looking for. If he couldn’t find any blood, then he would at least send a letter. It took him a few minutes to find the postal office, squeezed in between two other buildings. A queue stood outside it, idly shuffling forward. Merion joined it and tapped his feet impatiently.
Inside, the air was hot and stuffy. Instead of the stench of horse dung and sweat, he was greeted with the smell of old paper and ink, and something about it calmed him. Perhaps it reminded him of his father’s study. There was a dog-eared poster pasted on the wall, half-torn away as if somebody had tried, and failed, to remove it. Merion squinted at its ripped lettering. It said something about a circus.
‘Next, please,’ called a young woman from behind the desk. She looked tired, as if she’d already had enough of letters for one day, though it was only a few hours into the morning. With one elbow propped up on the desk, she stared blankly at the boy stepping forward. ‘Yes?’ she asked, in a monotone. Her hair was a jet black, and hung in sweaty curls against her forehead.
‘I would like to send a wiregram to London,’ Merion told her. The woman nodded, obviously bored, and slid a piece of paper across the desk with lines printed on it.
‘Do you have a pencil?’ he asked, and there was another sigh. A pencil followed the paper, rolling across the desk. Merion thanked her and went to pen his wiregram. He did so with great deliberation, taking his time over his words.
His message finished, Merion went back to the desk and returned the wiregram and the pencil.
‘Two sil’erbits,’ she said, half-yawning. Merion paid her, and she turned the paper over and made the necessary marks and signatures. ‘And the recipient?’ she asked.
Merion leant closer. ‘Mr Witchazel.’
*
It was noon by the time he made it back to the edge of town, where his aunt and Lurker were waiting. Rhin was nowhere to be seen—as expected. Cheyenne was still in the grip of its madness, and behind Merion, the crowds still ebbed and flowed, waiting for trains.
‘Any luck?’ he asked Lilain. She knew exactly what he meant.
‘Nothing,’ she replied, and beside her, Lurker muttered something. His eyes were bloodshot, and his shoulders more hunched than usual. He did not look happy, not in the slightest.
‘What about you?’ Lilain asked, and Merion shook his head.
‘All I managed to find was some of Doctor Jabber’s viper oil, which sounded about as useful as a chocolate teapot.�
��
‘That con artist?’ Lilain looked back towards the town. ‘I ought to give him a piece of my mind.’
‘I think it might be a waste of your breath,’ Merion sighed. ‘What of the trains?’
‘That’s what the crowd is all about,’ Lurker grunted. ‘ ’Parently there’s a war on. Most of the trains comin’ in or goin’ out are full, and those that ain’t are too expensive, even with what we have left from Fell Falls. Damn Fae, hiding that Hoard Rhin stole ‘em.’
Merion kicked the dust. ‘Right, well. What’s next? Horses?’
‘All bought up by these homesteaders and soldiers,’ Lurker replied.
‘Ponies?’
‘Them too.’
‘Carriages?’
‘None to be found.’
‘Taken by all the rich folks of the town, most likely. Don’t want to wait around for the Buffalo Snake to get ‘ere,’ Lurker grumbled.
‘Well, that’s just great,’ Merion hissed. ‘Looks like we’re walking, then.’
Lilain grimaced ever so slightly, but held her tongue. Though Merion had already noticed her expression. ‘Are you struggling?’
His aunt almost managed to look offended. ‘I’ve been worse, Nephew. Don’t you worry about me.’
‘Lurker?’
‘Mmm,’ was all he got in the way of an answer. Merion nodded towards the eastern horizon, and readjusted his hat over his sweaty head. He relished the idea of walking about as much as the next, but his stubbornness was already pulling at his tired feet, urging them onwards. The east called to him.
‘Walking it is then,’ he said, and started walking. His aunt and the prospector followed, but at a slower pace. Before long he was several yards ahead, as if he were leading a pair of recalcitrant goats through the wilderness.
They reached the outskirts of Cheyenne in no time at all, and were faced with yet another stretch of empty desert reaching towards the horizon. A few distant mountains shivered in the heat haze, but apart from those, and the few patches of prairie clinging to life here and there, their world was as barren as ever. Merion held back a sigh, picturing the spires of London in his head.
A single building sat between them and the wilds, as though it had been shunned by the town. It was a small church with a half-finished steeple, clad in white wood panels and thick with sand. A few gravestones sat in the dirt around it like broken teeth. An odd welcome indeed.
When Merion turned back to check on the others, he found Lilain was squinting at the church, obviously curious. She started walking towards it, and Merion followed, his own curiosity simmering away.
The path led them on a curving route past the church’s door before wandering off into the wilds. They stared down at the gravestones as they passed each one. Only when they reached the final gravestone did Lilain stop in her tracks, lean on her crutch and point at its gnarled face, where a strange yet familiar shape had been carved into it. ‘Recognise that?’ she asked her nephew. Merion’s heart performed a somersault.
‘The Scarlet Star.’
He moved in close to get a better look at the symbol on the stone. He was right: carved into the face of the gravestone was the six-pointed star of bloodrushing.
‘What on earth? Does that mean …?’
‘It may just do.’ Lilain was already walking towards the door. If Merion had followed any closer he might as well have sat on her bony shoulders.
Inside, the air was cool. Sunlight streamed in from the gaps in the roof and the high windows, catching dust motes in the air, stealing form and flesh from them. There were three rows of benches before them, attentively facing a pulpit marked with the hammer of the Maker.
‘Would a bloodletter really live in a church?’ he whispered, not wanting to break the silence of the place. Lurker lingered in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the bright light of noon.
‘I’ve known stranger,’ muttered Lilain.
‘Stranger than what, may I ask?’ a voice piped up, startling them. An elderly woman stepped out from beside the pulpit and walked forwards. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and she wore a long brown robe with a purple cord holding it together at the waist. Her hair was thin, finer than cobweb, and white as milk. It was tied back and fell in a ponytail down her back. Her face seemed kind enough, littered as it was with deep pox scars from years long forgotten.
‘Stranger places for churches,’ Lilain told her, and stuck out a hand. The woman raised an eyebrow and moved to clasp it. Merion watched on, confused.
Whatever happened when they touched hands, it caused the old woman’s eyebrow to climb higher. ‘What colour is blood?’ she asked, quietly.
Lilain smiled. ‘There are many shades.’
Merion had removed his hat, and was busy scratching his head. ‘Would anybody like to tell me what exactly is going on, please?’
The old woman beat his aunt to the answer. ‘Secret handshakes and riddles, my boy. It’s how bloodrushing stays alive,’ she said.
Merion rolled his eyes. Yet another person in this godforsaken country that had a penchant for calling him ‘boy’.
‘I see. So you’re a letter as well?’
The woman shook her head. ‘Oh my, no,’ she replied. ‘I’ve never had the stomach for it.’
Lilain might have stood a little straighter, it was hard to tell. ‘A fixer then,’ she stated. The old woman nodded.
‘A fixer, and what is that?’ Merion asked. He heard boots behind him. It was Lurker, who stared at his surroundings with a wrinkle on his brow. He was not a fan of the Maker’s churches. Suffice to say, he was not a fan of the Maker at all.
‘A fixer. One that sells, instead of lets. Have any magpie blood, Ma’am?’ Lurker got straight to the point.
The old woman smacked her gums, which Merion was not surprised to see were missing a few teeth. ‘Averine,’ she said, introducing herself. ‘Averine Vermillion. And I’ll have to take a look, Mister, if that’s what you’re after.’
‘Others as well,’ Merion butted in.
Averine squinted at him. ‘For you, boy?’
‘For both of us,’ Merion replied, smiling politely.
Averine hummed. ‘If you have the coins, I have the shades.’ She bent a finger towards them and led them down the aisle. She clicked her fingers, and a small boy, a few years younger than Merion and skinnier than a sapling, stepped out from a hidden alcove with a rifle. His freckled face was pale and unsure. ‘It’s fine, Rump, they’re friends. Put it down, for Maker’s sake,’ Averine told him, and the boy did as he was told, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes flicked to Merion, and stuck there.
Averine was already fiddling with something beneath the seat of the front bench. It sounded like a latch or a lock. With a little grunt, she lifted up the seat top and gestured for Lilain and Lurker to have a look.
‘Here we are, this is all I have in,’ she said, almost apologetic. She retreated, gesturing for Rump to come and stand by her side.
Merion stared down into the hollow bench, where little bottles rubbed shoulders, the colours masked by a thin film of dust. Some sported labels whilst others had a word or two scratched into the glass. Merion’s heart was not sure whether it wanted to sink or soar. This was certainly no hidden room in a Fell Falls basement. Maybe a score and a half of shades at the most.
‘And nobody in your congregation suspects you’re hiding blood in the benches?’ he queried.
‘They might if’n I had one, young man,’ she said finally. ‘I get the occasional wanderer, comin’ in to relieve their guilt. Couple of words here and there, that’s all the religion this town needs.’
‘That’s all it should ever be,’ muttered Lurker, as he rifled through the bottles. Merion and Lilain stood a little further back, letting the prospector look first. His hands were shaking ever so slightly. There might have been more sweat on his brow than usual. His leather coat creaked as he moved back and forth.
‘What’s that say?’ he held up a bottle w
ith a label written in a strange script.
‘Slow-worm,’ Lilain informed him.
Averine picked at her nails. ‘Sanguine. Never been able to read it.’
‘Hmph,’ Lurker grunted.
It took him several minutes to find it: a small fat-bottomed bottle with the word “MAGPIE” scratched into its dark green glass. Lurker uncorked it and sniffed it. ‘Smells fine.’
Lilain took it from him and checked herself. ‘Fine enough.’
Averine blinked owlishly. ‘I take pride in what I do,’ she stated.
It was Merion’s turn. Lurker was digging coins out of his pockets and handing them over to Averine. Blood was not cheap, and Merion bit his lip as he pictured the few coins that lingered in his own pocket. He removed his hat and began to pick through the bench’s offerings. His aunt did the same beside him. Every now and again he would show her a bottle, and she would shake her head or nod. Once she even glared at him, as if he should know better.
Three bottles, that was it: the fine line between what he could drink and what he could afford. Merion was not exactly thrilled with his glamorous options: chipmunk, mule, armadillo. He stared down at the three bottles sitting in his upturned hat, a brief spectrum of brown and red. ‘Well, then,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. He grabbed all he had save for one coin, a heavy gold florin, and handed them over. Averine bit each one, and once she was happy, she ferreted them away in her long robe.
‘Lot of blood for one boy,’ she commented, conversationally.
Rump had been sidling forward, his eyes still locked on Merion. The boy piped up, his voice loud and his words slightly muddled at the edges. ‘Are you a leech, mister?’
Merion glanced at his aunt, and she shrugged. Averine and the boy seemed harmless enough. ‘Yes, I am,’ he said.
‘ ’Fraid Rump here is deaf. Got caught on the wrong side of the railroad blasting one day. Can’t hear a thing,’ Averine told them. Merion nodded and smiled at the boy. Rump grinned in return. He could not help but swell with a touch of pride.
‘Lucky,’ Rump said.
Merion nodded again and then bowed to the pair of them. ‘Thank you kindly, for your help. However I’m afraid we must be going.’
