by Rob DeBorde
“You think she’ll twist her bits for you after you steal from her boss?”
Charlie hesitated. “She might if I paid her.”
Mason rubbed his temples with both hands. “Screw this up and I’ll gut you, Charlie.”
Charlie looked to Hugh, who quietly shook his head. Based on the brothers’ expressions, Henry suspected Mason had never seriously threatened either man, but he was now, of that there was no doubt.
Mason turned to Hugh. “That little one-armed freak, she was still collecting when we came back tonight, right?”
“Had a lockbox and big, dumb-lookin’ rube by her side.”
“Find ’em. That’s where the cash’ll be.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Henry asked.
Mason pointed in the direction of the Hanged Man’s tent. “You’re gonna walk back in there and light the dead man on fire.”
Henry shuddered. “What?”
Mason forced a smile. “Said it wasn’t right what they done to him, didn’t ya?”
Had he said that? Henry couldn’t remember.
“Here’s your chance to set things right. Ought to make for quite a distraction, eh?”
It would. Mason’s plan was simple enough. Henry would cause a ruckus, draw as many of the circus folk to him as possible, while Mason, Hugh, and Charlie collected the cash. The weakest part of the plan—as far as Henry was concerned—was how he would make his escape.
“And I’m supposed to just slip away after starting a fire in front of a tent full of people?”
“Once the fire gets rolling, ain’t nobody gonna stick around to point fingers,” Mason said. “You’ll be fine.”
Henry had his doubts, but said nothing more.
* * *
Hugh and Charlie found the one-armed girl floating above the crowd, riding the shoulders of an enormous brute whose smile was almost as big as her own. The front gate was closed, the cash box tucked under the brute’s arm. As the odd couple strolled the midway, they collected the evening’s receipts from the shows that charged additional admission. Their last stop was the Hanged Man’s tent, where they received a hefty pouch from Garibaldi.
Mason watched the giant and his rider exchange a few words with their boss and then disappear behind a tent.
“All right, crowd’s starting to thin out. Let’s make this fast. Hit ’em while there’s still some cover.”
Mason led the way between a pair of tents to the sparsely lit area just beyond the midway. A young couple strolled past and beyond them, slipping behind a row of wagons, their target.
“Five minutes,” Mason said, eyeing Henry. “Then I want to see smoke.”
Henry nodded. He watched the three men draw their weapons and cautiously move into the shadows, before turning back toward the main thoroughfare. The crowd was thinner, with most headed for the exit. Henry made his way to the Hanged Man’s tent, where the line was only a few people deep at the entrance.
Henry took his place at the end of the queue, paid his dime, and passed through the flap, which was soon closed behind him. There were fewer people inside than earlier, but Henry kept his place rather than cut ahead.
He was in no hurry.
Why should he be? He was in control now. It had been his idea to rob the circus, after all. Certainly, his and Mason’s visions of what they were stealing differed slightly, but when all the shouting was done, Henry was convinced Mason would see it his way.
The Hanged Man would make sure of that.
The idea of resurrection first occurred to Henry in a dream. He didn’t realize it at the time, but that was only because he didn’t understand. He did now. It was no coincidence that he skipped ahead in his reading to the passage detailing the returning of life to the nonliving. He was drawn there as clearly as he’d been to the Hanged Man’s grave. The fact that the words were easier to decipher, much more so than any other passages, served only to confirm his course of action. It was obvious. He was meant to bring the Hanged Man back to this world, to give him back his life.
And Henry would be his master.
That was how it worked. The book was very clear that a body returned to this world would be indebted to the living, specifically the one who did the deed. That would be Henry. The Hanged Man would be under his control and together they would … what?
Henry hadn’t worked that part out yet. In fact, as he stepped closer to the body, he found his determination slipping, ever so slightly. He’d felt that way all day—confident but confused. Had he really found a spell that would bring the dead man back to life? Was that really what he was supposed to do? And then he heard his answer.
(always)
Henry laid a hand over his chest, felt the square shape beneath his jacket beat in time with his heart, and knew it was true. He’d been meant to read those words today, just as he was meant to use them, here and now.
The resurrection curse was a lengthy one requiring elaborate preparation, hours of chanting, and numerous organic and inorganic items, some of which were completely foreign to Henry. Fortunately, there was a shortcut. When the living body had been prepared for death—such as when the living chose to curse themselves prior to death in order to preserve their remains, as the Hanged Man had obviously done—resurrection required only three things: the curse words, a belief in them, and blood.
Henry was in possession of all three. He would speak the words, believe them, and, since he was unlikely to put his knife to another man, he would bleed. It would hurt only a little.
The tent was nearly empty. Henry kept his head down, his eyes otherwise occupied, not wanting to see the dead man before he was ready. He made the last turn in the line and moved to the center of the display.
An old woman stood in front of him, staring up at the body. She murmured something under her breath, made the sign of the cross, and then moved away. Henry stepped into the vacant space and slowly let his gaze rise to meet the Hanged Man’s.
Garibaldi’s hand fell on Henry’s shoulder at the exact moment he locked stares with the dead man.
“Can’t keep your eyes off him, eh?”
Henry didn’t respond—he couldn’t. Every one of his senses was focused on the propped-up corpse. The world around him passed into a fog and all he knew was the depth of the black-eyed stare. There was only himself and the Hanged Man, standing before him, standing beside him. When he finally did feel Garibaldi’s touch, it wasn’t the carnival master’s hand he imagined on his shoulder.
“Tried to stare him down myself once we got his eyes propped open,” Garibaldi said. “Had to put a bit of face paint on him, too, make him look more the part of the deceased. Didn’t figure he’d mind.”
Henry saw the carnival boss, saw him lying on the ground bleeding, the knife that had stuck him held firmly in Henry’s hand. He saw this clearly and then it was gone.
Garibaldi stood at his side, his hand on Henry’s shoulder. Henry blinked, surprised to be staring into the eyes of a living man.
Garibaldi smiled and shook his head. “Intense feller, ain’t ya?”
The knife was in Henry’s pocket. He’d plucked it from his saddle pouch without thinking just prior to returning to the carnival. Its purpose now known, Henry chose not to use it. He spoke quickly before his mind could be changed.
“You’re being robbed,” he said, returning his gaze to the Hanged Man. “My acquaintances are, as we speak, trying to decide the best way to separate that large feeb from his diminutive charge and, more importantly, the small treasure chest he carries.”
Garibaldi looked at Henry, searching for some sign that his words were for amusement. He found none.
“I daresay someone might get shot.”
Garibaldi pointed a finger at Henry. “Stay here,” he said, and ran for the exit.
“No place I’d rather be.”
Two men who had been watching over the display trailed after their boss as he ran out of the tent. With no one to stop him, Henry stepped over the rope and approac
hed the Hanged Man’s body. Up close, he could easily make out the ashen makeup applied to the dead man’s face.
“They’ve tried to make you a clown.”
“Looks more like a scarecrow,” said a young voice behind Henry.
Henry didn’t have to turn to know it was the boy he’d stood behind in line.
“Does he frighten you?” Henry asked.
“Course not.”
“He will,” Henry said, drawing the revolver from the dead man’s belt. A moment later, he was alone.
Henry closed his eyes. Upon opening them, his gaze once again fell on the Hanged Man, and this time he met the dead man’s stare without succumbing to it. Let him look at me awhile, he thought.
Henry studied the pistol in his hand. It was the same weapon that had come out of the ground with the dead man, albeit with a fresh coat of paint. He checked the cylinder and was surprised to find it loaded.
“Nice of them to arm you,” he said, and slipped the gun into the holster on the right side of the dead man’s body.
A gun was fired somewhere outside the tent, startling Henry, and for a moment he was free. There was no book, no body, no resurrection—all he had to do was turn and run.
(stay)
Henry closed his eyes and let the warm words fill his body. He would be a captive, but the words would keep him safe. At that moment, Henry thought it a fair trade.
Several more gunshots rang out, but Henry didn’t flinch. Carefully, he retrieved the black book from his inside coat pocket, opened it to a page covered with rough notes and scribbles, and began to read.
* * *
Sixty-seven miles to the south, a rogue swell struck the Año Nuevo broadside, tilting the vessel hard to starboard.
Andre rode the wave from the edge of his bed as it tilted the room past twenty degrees, enough to send his suitcase sliding across the floor. The world hung at odds with gravity for a moment longer, then rolled back to right and the otherwise calm waters of the Oregon coast.
Andre received no such reprieve.
“No, no, no,” he said, although there was no one in the room to hear him. His world had been dealt an even more powerful blow moments before the wave struck. He would later decide the two events were connected, but for now he knew only that the worst had occurred. His connection to the book had been severed. It had a new master.
And he was using it.
* * *
Mason ducked as a bullet blistered the corner of the flatbed wagon, filling the air with splinters. Second and third shots whizzed past overhead, and then he popped up long enough to return fire, before another volley answered his own.
“Where’s my fire!” he screamed at no one in particular.
Mason ejected the spent cartridges from his pistol and quickly reloaded. At his feet, a bag lay torn open, its cache of coins and a few government notes spilled onto the dirt. There was no lockbox. At the first sign of trouble, the brute had tossed the box and the tiny, one-armed woman on top of a trailer, out of sight and out of reach. That left the take from the Hanged Man’s tent and little else. Charlie had snatched the money bag from the brute’s belt, but it had cost him.
“How is he?”
Hugh shook his head. “Shoulder’s busted. Some ribs, too.”
“I’m fine!” Charlie said and then sucked in a gulp of air. “Hurts like a bitch, though.”
“Good,” Mason said. “Pain means you ain’t dyin’.”
Mason scanned the area around them. They were at the south end of the camp, farthest from the entrance, and on the opposite side of the big top from the Hanged Man’s tent. Garibaldi and half-dozen carnival folks had them pinned down on two sides. From here, they could cut back to the midway or take their chances on the steep western slope behind the camp, which in the dark would likely be suicide.
A few stragglers remained on the midway, apparently not alarmed at the sound of gunshots, or the flames that should have been lighting up the night sky.
“Where’s my g’damn fire!”
* * *
Henry held the knife firmly against his thumb, waiting for the blood to come. It didn’t. It wouldn’t, until he broke the skin. This was proving more of a problem than he’d anticipated.
“Come on,” he whispered to himself. “Just a little slice. Won’t hurt a bit.”
Henry didn’t believe it.
He believed what he read. The words on the page had flowed into his eyes, through his mind, and out of his mouth. They were resurrection, life, and redemption (vengeance), for himself and the dead man to whom they were directed. They were true.
The condensed version of the spell was only a dozen lines long and Henry had spoken them clearly and correctly, he was sure. There was only one line left.
But first there was blood.
“Don’t think about it, do it.”
Henry closed his eyes and pressed the knife against his flesh. Still no blood. There wouldn’t be until he pulled the blade across his skin and he knew it. For all the strength given him by the book, it had somehow failed him on this one thing. He was afraid of the pain.
(coward)
Henry opened his eyes. “I’m not a coward.”
The knife slipped easily across Henry’s thumb, cutting deeper than he’d intended. It was cold and painless. He stared at the red, inch-long line crossing his fingerprint as it swelled and overflowed with blood. And then the pain came.
“Ouch.”
Henry waited for the fear to return, but the stinging in his thumb had the opposite effect. His head was clear, his path laid bare before him. He would share his blood with the dead man and …
“Make him my own.”
Henry raised his now-dripping left thumb to the Hanged Man’s forehead. He pressed it there, letting the blood flow onto the face of the dead man. A single drop rolled across the bridge of the nose, cutting a crimson line through the pale makeup before slipping into the right eye. Henry watched as his blood spread across the yellowed white, tinting it orange and then red.
Henry drew back and admired his handiwork. Was it enough? The book was vague on the amount of blood needed for resurrection, as well as where to apply it. It referred only to “wetting the flesh.” He glanced at the cut on his thumb, where fluid continued to seep, and thought it best not to be stingy.
Henry traced the faint scar across the Hanged Man’s neck with his thumb, leaving a fresh trail of blood. He half expected the scar to open and swallow the red line, but it did not. Henry considered touching each of the bullet scars on the dead man’s chest, but held back. Had they always been scars? When would he have had time to heal before dying?
“That’s enough,” he said, cutting off the questions. Henry backed away a few steps and waited.
A fresh volley of gunfire erupted outside the tent, followed by men yelling and then more shooting. Henry barely heard it. The shooting was someplace else, somewhere that couldn’t touch him, not now, not ever again.
“Rise, my friend.”
Nothing happened.
Henry blinked. His thumb hurt. What had he done wrong? A moment of panic faded away almost immediately and Henry smiled.
“Not done yet,” he said, pulling the black book from his pocket. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Henry was surprised that he’d lost track of the book, even though it now pulsed in his hands. It had left him, but only for a moment.
Henry started to open the book, but caught site of his bloody thumb and stopped. He didn’t know why, but getting his blood on the pages would be bad. He slipped the book under his arm and then tore a strip of cloth off the sheet that hung beside the Hanged Man listing his crimes. Henry wrapped the fabric around his injury, seeing the word murder roll about his thumb and then disappear beneath the next wrapping. When it was done, he took the book in his left hand and let it fall open, finding the point where he’d left off immediately. Henry read:
“Blood given, bloed reduco, vita captus, mortuus haud magis. Thou art risen, élévation et co
me forth. Sto in nex umbra and wag vir niks. I call to thee…”
Henry stopped reading. He stared at the text, not sure what to say. He’d read over the spell several times, had practiced the foreign words until sure he was speaking them correctly, but somehow he’d missed this before.
I call to thee, (nom).
He’d read it before as it was written, but now understood he was not supposed to say the word but rather to insert a name—the name of the dead man.
What name?
Hugh and Charlie had argued this topic repeatedly before concluding the man didn’t have a name. He might have at some point, but it had been long forgotten, if it had ever been known. His name was the Hanged Man.
Henry wasn’t so sure. That name was his, but was it the man’s true name? Would it speak to whatever power was to bring him back to the land of the living? Henry stumbled over the question in his head several times before coming to the obvious answer. There wasn’t another name to use.
Henry looked at the Hanged Man’s face. Thin streaks of blood ran down either side of the nose, turning to black tears in the ashen makeup. Without thinking, Henry reached up and drew down the eyelids. The right one refused to close completely. It would have to do.
Henry looked to the book, but he already knew the words to speak. He never got the chance to say them.
Mason’s gun pressed against Henry’s temple made sure of it.
“Where’s my fire, Henry?”
Henry’s eyes flicked to his right. Mason was only a few feet away, his face bloodied in much the same way as the Hanged Man’s. Henry was so engrossed in his task, he’d missed the man’s approach entirely.
Mason sniffed the air. “I don’t smell smoke. I should smell smoke,” he said, and pressed his gun harder against Henry’s temple. “Where’s my g’damm fire, Henry!”
Henry opened his mouth but said nothing. He wasn’t afraid. He wouldn’t make an excuse, he wouldn’t lie. He didn’t have to.
“I’m lighting it right now,” he said.
Henry turned back the corpse, closed his eyes, and spoke:
“I call to thee, Hanged Man, forever sent, never to return; I call to thee, return to me.”
