Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes

by Rob DeBorde

“With curses and such?” Charlie asked.

  “Spells,” said Henry. “Maybe curses, too.” Henry honestly didn’t know the difference, but he understood that the book held both. He didn’t know why.

  Mason tried to read a passage but quickly gave up. He closed the book.

  “You can read this?” he said, holding it up.

  “Yes,” Henry said. “Enough of it.”

  “Enough for what?”

  “Enough to know that book is what made the Hanged Man the most dangerous son of a bitch to ever draw breath.”

  Mason stared at Henry. From inside the hole, Henry’s eyes barely made it to boot level, but Mason was impressed by their intensity. The life he’d seen in the store was even more eager to live now that it had tasted the fear of death. Mason felt proud for giving the young man such an important life experience. Perhaps he would offer him more.

  Mason held out a hand, which Henry grasped after a barely noticeable hesitation. Back on equal footing, Henry reached for the book before it was offered. This Mason noticed, but he still gave the man what he wanted.

  “Still want to ride with us?”

  “Yes,” Henry said, clutching the book tightly to his chest.

  Mason grinned, put an arm around Henry, and then turned to Charlie and Hugh. “Boys, what do you say? We got room for one more?”

  “You got a horse?” asked Hugh.

  “I can get one.”

  Hugh shrugged. “Fine by me.”

  Charlie didn’t care for Mason’s sudden show of affection but doubted his opinion would matter one way or another. He smiled, more genuinely than he’d intended.

  “Can you cook?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’ll fit right in.”

  “It’s settled then.” Mason gave Henry a hard slap on the back, then turned his attention to the dead man lying on the ground at their feet.

  “Sorry about the gun,” Henry said.

  “Don’t be,” Mason said, pulling the pistol from his belt. “It’s a nice gun. Worth more than anything back in that shop of yours.”

  Henry nodded.

  “Besides, we got another prize, too.”

  Henry tightened his grip on the book. “Oh?”

  Mason motioned to the Hanged Man.

  “Got us a famous dead man,” Mason said. “That’s worth something, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I don’t know, maybe,” said Henry. “But who would you sell it to?”

  “The who I already know,” Mason said. “It’s the how much I’m interested in.”

  4

  The taste of blood lingered in the creature’s mouth, metallic and bitter. This was not the sweet nectar that had sustained it so many nights past. This claret flowed from within, bringing pain and the cold realization that death would come soon.

  Beneath the city, away from the men and the stinging light they worshipped, the creature should have been safe. It knew this place, every twist and turn, every sunken alcove and watery passage. From here the creature could stalk its prey, strike quickly, and retreat to feed at its leisure. Any man who dared follow would never see his precious sunshine again.

  “William Jacoby!”

  The creature hissed as the words bounced off brick and stone, crowding the dark. The name was a lie, a thief of the mind, feeble and small, but always gnawing, biting. Many times the creature had feasted on the weak, but this one—this name—would not succumb. A dozen times devoured, but still it persisted.

  And now it was given voice.

  “Lieutenant Jacoby, I know you are hurt.”

  The African was strong. Alone in the dark sanctuary of the underground, the man was nearly the creature’s equal. But he was not alone. A demon served at his side, quick and vicious. Twice it had bitten and both times the creature could not fight back—could not even see the demon. Hurt and afraid, it had fled.

  No more.

  The creature longed to feed, to taste fear that was not its own and swallow it like the rest. This man must fear. All men do.

  “Please, William, I only wish to help.”

  Lies! Devious, delicious lies …

  * * *

  “Jacoby is gone!”

  The voice was wet and ragged. Andre Labeau tilted his head, listening for more. He didn’t wait long.

  “I swallowed him whole!”

  The creature cackled, no doubt hoping to cover the pain in its voice.

  Andre dimmed the lantern in his hand and whispered to the darkness beside him, “Tunnel on the left. Hurt, but still dangerous.”

  A shadow passed through a sliver of light and vanished into the black. Andre followed, moving as silently through the muck as his oversize frame would allow.

  It’d been an hour since they followed Lieutenant Jacoby into the foul-smelling labyrinth beneath San Francisco, ten minutes since Andre had tussled with the creature the officer had become. He’d gotten the better of the beast, a murderous fiend responsible for the deaths of five men and seven women. Andre also knew the lieutenant to be a kind and generous man, one who was horrified by the monster he had become. This was why his onetime instructor had asked Andre to do what the man could not.

  William Jacoby wanted to die.

  Andre had resisted, arguing against such a cure until he could witness the transformation with his own eyes. Two nights ago he had and as a result a child nearly died. Tonight he would fulfill his old friend’s wishes.

  Heavy, labored breathing came to Andre from the darkness ahead. A chest full of broken ribs might be enough to end the creature, but he would not allow the man trapped inside to suffer such an agonizing death. Andre believed Lieutenant Jacoby to be still alive, buried beneath the rage of his darker half. Each time he succumbed, his mind grew weaker. The physical transformation was traumatic, but it was madness that finally doomed the man.

  “I can smell you, dark man.”

  Andre stopped. The voice was close, barely ten feet ahead of him. There would be no retreat this time.

  Andre brought the lantern to life, revealing the creature before him. It was shirtless, pale, and thin, its skin drawn tightly over sinewy muscle and bone. William Jacoby was not a small man, but, transformed, his features were unnaturally long, adding height and length, though not mass. Were it not for the low ceiling, the creature would have stood eight feet at least, its hands dragging on the ground.

  The eyes, yellowed from the poison injected into them, protested the light, but soon found Andre. The creature smiled, revealing two rows of tall, bloodied teeth.

  “Your friend is dead, voodoo man.”

  Andre’s heart sank. If the creature could call upon the lieutenant’s knowledge, it had broken the man. Jacoby was gone.

  “Goodbye, William,” he said, pushing his words through the mortal veil as he had been taught many years ago. The echo of his voice floated briefly in the air before abruptly vanishing with a pop. Andre brought his will to the creature.

  “Prepare yourself, demon.”

  The creature flinched back, its eyes darting about, searching for something in the black.

  “You will not see her,” Andre said, moving forward. “She is too fast for you.”

  “Lies!”

  Andre lunged at the creature, driving his shoulder into a chest full of broken bones. The beast gasped in pain, but slipped free before being overcome. Andre struck again, this time with fists against the monster’s lower back, forcing it upright until its head struck the bricks embedded in the ceiling.

  A wild swing knocked Andre back, giving the creature time to find its fighting stance. Rivulets of blood rolled down its cheeks as the beast turned to face the man who would surely kill it.

  “All men are afraid,” it hissed.

  Andre slid sideways, stalking the edge of the light.

  “As are you.”

  The creature lunged, but Andre was ready. He spun to his left, grabbing an outstretched arm and twisting until the creature’s shoulder dislocated. The beast howled and l
ashed out with its good arm, raking its claws across Andre’s neck, finally drawing the blood that propelled so much of its desire.

  Overwhelmed by the scent, it couldn’t resist sliding a finger into its mouth.

  “So sweet, so—”

  Pain abruptly exploded across the back of the creature’s skull. It blinked back the light, trying to stay conscious, knowing the demon would come again. When it did, the creature’s right knee gave way, crippled by a foe it could not see or hear. The beast lashed out, flailing at the darkness in all directions.

  “Show yourself!”

  “I am here.”

  The creature spun to see a young woman standing before it, a tiny thing, no larger than a child. She stood perfectly still and yet it could not see her clearly. Only her eyes revealed themselves, glowing brightly in the dark, beckoning the beast forward. They would keep it safe.

  The creature reached out a bony hand, only to find the vision gone, evaporated, as if it had never been there.

  “Don’t leave me!” it cried before a pair of massive hands cut off what little air still flowed to the creature’s crippled lungs.

  Andre drove the beast into the shallow water, pressing both knees into its back. The creature struggled violently, but Andre held fast, letting his weight drown the abomination. In thirty seconds it was over. The creature was dead.

  Andre stood over the body, waiting to see if Lieutenant Jacoby would reappear. He was glad when his friend did not.

  * * *

  Andre emerged from the sewer to see the sun setting and a young Indian woman with long black hair waiting for him. Naira offered a hand, which completely disappeared into her partner’s when taken.

  “You’re going to be late,” she said.

  “Perhaps, but I would rather not arrive at the gala stinking of a bog.”

  Andre peered into the darkness at his feet. He could just make out a trickle of water running at the base of the tunnel.

  “You will see to William?”

  Naira nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  Andre stood for a moment, listing to the city exhale after what must have been a very long, deep breath. It was a sound he’d become familiar with over the years, one he never tired of hearing. The healing would begin soon.

  In the calm, Andre became aware of something else: a distant pounding, steady, and coming closer. It, too, was familiar, but from where Andre could not recall.

  “What is it?” Naira asked.

  “I am not sure. Do you not hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  Andre raised a hand as the drum beat thrice more—and then it was gone. He waited, but it did not return.

  “Well?”

  Andre shrugged.

  “Echoes, nothing more.”

  * * *

  Andre splashed water onto his cheeks and opened his eyes to the mirror. Nothing had changed. He still saw the same fear staring back at him, the same truth.

  The damned thing was in this world again.

  Andre knew it was true. He should have suspected as much after the first wave struck him in the street, but the thought had never occurred to him. After a third pounding brought him to his knees while speaking to a group of civic leaders in the Palace Hotel’s Grand Ballroom, he had been able to think of nothing else. He must have looked a sight, because their initial reaction had been to hail one of the many doctors in attendance, thinking Andre had taken ill. He’d played along for a time, hoping a fever would rise to lay claim to his affliction, but it never came. He would not escape so easily.

  Andre used a hotel washcloth to dry his face and then carefully folded and placed it on the small dressing table next to the sink. Once more he took stock of the man hunched over in the mirror. The patches of gray above his ears were nothing new, but he was sure they’d been smaller when last he checked. He tilted his head forward and was pleased to discover no discernible change in the thickness or color of the hair on top of his head. It was a small victory, but he would take it.

  Standing up straight, Andre felt each vertebra snap into place as his spine realigned itself. At six feet eight inches tall, he often had to bend at the waist to clear a doorway, duck into a carriage, or descend into the flooded underground. Such height, along with a startlingly muscular frame, had proven useful in certain situations, particularly those involving conflict. After forty-eight years, forty of them above six feet, Andre had participated in few physical altercations, despite his penchant for “rilin’ up the locals,” as his mother was fond of saying. He’d walked away victorious from every one.

  Andre preferred to match his less obvious but perhaps more impressive wits against anyone foolish enough to challenge him intellectually. Though he’d had no formal education—not a surprise given the color of his skin—Andre had learned to read at the age of five, a talent he used to devour every book, paper, and periodical that crossed his path. This included all subjects scientific, mathematical, historical, cultural, and mythological. That there was so much conflict to be found in the interpretation of the written word came as no surprise to Andre. Still, after four decades of bending, Andre was regularly thankful for high ceilings and low expectations.

  It was his intellectual pursuits that had initially brought him to San Francisco, specifically his time spent studying and living with the Indian tribes of California, Oregon, and the Washington Territory. Andre was fascinated by the myriad of cultures and customs and had made it his mission to share his findings with a populace largely ignorant of the people he considered the original Americans. Accepting Lieutenant Jacoby’s invitation to speak on the effects of Western expansion before the U.S. Pacific Railway Commission had provided just such an opportunity. The lieutenant’s true motivations had not become clear until after Andre arrived.

  The novelty of a Negro man speaking on behalf of the American Indian was not lost on Andre. He had encountered more than a few freemen living in the West who found it odd that his considerable gifts of persuasion were being put to use for a people who were not his own. Andre rejected such arguments. His cause was to educate, enlighten, and hopefully pass on something about the nature of mankind. That he chose to stand up for another race of people reinforced the fact that a dark-skinned man could be on equal footing with other scholars.

  Andre’s prior pursuits, those that had dominated three-quarters of his life, rarely came up now in casual conversation.

  Andre exited the washroom, ignoring the unpacked trunk beside the door. The preceding day’s edition of the San Francisco Examiner lay on the bed, the front page dominated by the latest “sewer beast” sightings. A few pages in was an article about the expansion hearings that described a “giant redwood of a man with bark as black as night.” The story also made reference to Andre’s “eloquent and educated articulation,” as well as the nickname first bestowed upon him by Chief Joseph of the Nez Percé Indians, the Voodoo Cowboy. It was silly, but Andre rather liked it, even if it wasn’t particularly accurate.

  Was it ever? Andre thought not. There wasn’t an ounce of voodoo in him and there never had been—he believed that. Unfortunately, a few more of his mother’s words chose that moment to refresh his memory:

  “Go on an’ tell yo’self whatever you needs,” she’d said. “Gawd, he know inna end.”

  Andre had his suspicions about God, but his mother was rarely off target. What did his intentions matter if the end result was the unleashing of so much evil? He’d wrestled with this line of thinking before and, as a result, had sacrificed much of who he’d been to make amends. On his darkest days, he knew his best efforts would never be enough. How could they?

  Andre slapped his hands to his face sharply, breaking the spell before it could steal another moment. He was shocked by the strength of it, the bleakness, and how quickly it had filled him with despair. It wasn’t a true spell, not by half, but rather the memory of the thing calling to him from across a great distance. It had been so long and yet it felt as if it was in the room
with him.

  That would at least make the damned thing easier to find.

  Andre decided to pack, regardless of how he felt. He’d barely unlatched the trunk when the door to the suite opened. Naira strode into the room and stopped in front of him. Both her wide-brimmed hat and worn leather coat were damp, though not overly so. At first glance, she looked more like a teenage boy than the twenty-one-year-old woman Andre knew her to be. He thought it might be the pants.

  “Did you find passage?”

  Naira nodded. “Seven A.M., pier seventeen.”

  “Good.”

  Andre turned back to his trunk. Naira stood her ground, never taking her eyes off the much larger man.

  “No trouble with the arrangements, I assume.”

  “None.”

  Andre smiled. There wouldn’t have been any trouble, of course. In their seven years together, Naira had never failed a task he’d given her, regardless of the situation. She had a way about her that simply put folks at ease. It was her eyes. They were larger than any Andre had ever seen, and when a man looked into them, he couldn’t help but feel comfortable, trusting. It wasn’t magic but rather a kind of ocular hypnosis that Naira claimed was a common trait among her people.

  Andre had long ago learned there was more to see in Naira than what her eyes revealed, but to him she’d offered the information freely. He had been decidedly slower in sharing his secrets in return.

  “I am fine,” he said, folding a shirt and placing it in his trunk.

  Naira sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in her lap. She said nothing.

  “You can sit there and stare at me as long as you want, but there is nothing wrong with me.”

  “Can you still feel it?”

  Andre didn’t answer right away. He slid open the bottom drawer of the armoire to retrieve a pair of neatly folded shirts. When he turned back to the trunk, Naira leaned in, making her stare even more obvious.

  “Yes, I can still feel it. It will not go away, not by itself.”

  Naira leaned back on the bed and pulled off her hat. A wave of long, black hair rolled down her back, making it much harder to mistake her for a boy.

  “I don’t like it,” she said.