Nothin’ she can do to me, now. Nothin’ she ever could.
“Go on, Kees,” Chess said, feeling an odd surge of affection toward them both. “Don’t mind her.”
The old Hollander sighed. “Missus Kloves says you’re t’go far as you can, climb up ’til you can’t see the top of things, and then she’ll find you.”
“We’ve already been climbing a while.”
A shrug. “Well, I can only suppose there’s more to go. But as to how much, damn if I know.”
“That’s . . . quite the riddle.”
“All you got, though, ain’t it? So I guess it’ll have to do.”
Once more, they walked on in silence, covering what seemed an interminable distance, ’til at last the way began to slope upward, first shallowly, then steeper. Dark peaks rose slowly, scoring the skyline ahead like teeth. The rocks grew craggier, crowding ’til they had no room to slip beneath either Chess’s boot-soles or Oona’s bleeding feet. Stepping wrong, she went down on one knee with a strangled groan, only to rise up again with Chess pulling on one wrist, Hosteen the other.
“Might be one of us should carry you,” Hosteen said, to which she shook her head and spat, not ungratefully.
“I’m in me prime, son,” she scoffed. “Back at the very ’eight of strength and ’ealth. Day I can’t stomach a trawl like this, you can lay me out an’ frow dirt in my face.”
“You promise?” Chess muttered.
For his jibe, Oona punched him in the biceps, knuckles twisting painful — after which they laughed, long and loud, while Hosteen stood there amazed.
“Jesus,” he said, at last. “You two.”
Aw, you love it, Chess was about to say — a mean little man and the bitch who made him; what’s better entertainment than that? Except it was that exact moment when the Dead Posse’s tumult rose up again, ululating hoarse and rage-filled from one compass-edge to another, causing Hosteen himself to flatten ’gainst the rising cliff face like it was a battlefield trench wall. “Shit’s that?” he hissed, feeling for his own no-longer-holstered gun.
Chess warned him silent with a headshake and a finger-corked shush, and was happy to see himself obeyed. He stared ’round, scanning what was left of the horizon, while Oona wrung his hand. “You see ’em?” she asked.
“Not yet . . . but they’re comin’. I feel it.”
“Me too, God piss on it,” she said, softly.
Those furious phantom hoofbeats rising up through the “earth,” rumbling like the Enemy’s Fifth World gone to quake and ruin. Following the sound’s echoes, Chess managed to sight in on what he thought might be their hunters, a blurred, shadow-black, vast roil of movement only barely perceptible by the shear and swirl of the dimly gleaming grass around it. And — something else as well, dragged twisting in their wake, a piece of snared prey scraped along the unforgiving terrain, twisting in its harness like a steer. Chess didn’t need a clear view to know who that probably was.
“Think they got the Sheriff with ’em,” he told Oona.
“What the ’ell for?”
“’Cause they ain’t got us, and that’s his fault, in their eyes. Now shut up, and let me — ”
“Gettin’ mighty tired of being told that, boy,” Oona growled. “You were the one said t’me, ‘You a ’ex, or ain’tcha?’ Never occurred to you I could back you up? Or is that only for when you got no other choice?”
Chess drew breath to shout, only to be interrupted yet again, this time by Hosteen. “Chess, if she’s anything like as strong as you were, or even the Rev — ”
“She ain’t,” Chess snarled back. “But then again, down here, neither am I. Nothing Goddamn takes in this place.” He kicked a rock in frustration, peevish. “Like goin’ fist to fist with Love all over again — everything I threw at him, he just soaked up. How the hell do you beat something you can’t hurt, Kees?”
“You never did like to deke around a fight, I recall. But we did it, sometimes, when the Lieut told us to — built blinds to hide in, took the bluebellies unawares. Ain’t there no way to do something like that?”
“Shit, I dunno. The one time I did try a glamour, the whole thing backfired on Ed’n me.”
“That’s why you need me, then,” Oona said. “’Cause if there’s one thing I ever ’ad any knack for, it was glamour.” As if to demonstrate the concept, she sidled up, toying with Chess’s top shirt button, fair cooing in one ear: “’Less the ’igh and mighty Private Pargeter’s too proud to take aid from ’is mother, that is. . . .”
So wrong, on every level. But Chess was used to her tricks, even if Hosteen wasn’t. He caught her wrist and smiled back at her, their lips furling just alike, grim and charmless.
“Hell, I’ll take it, all right,” he replied. “But it ain’t gonna be no one-way thoroughfare. I ask and you give, on damn command. Fair enough, Ma?”
“Fair enough.”
If Ash Rook had been there, he’d’ve had a whole page of Holy Writ to trot out, quoting high and low ’til the dim air sparkled with hanging print, and reality itself warped to fit his words’ likeness. For Chess, however — and Oona too, assuming she’d kept hold of her hexation long enough to develop such technique — the mechanics were far rougher, silent and deep, wrenched up from within like the bloody flux.
Acting on impulse, they found an accord so quickly it seemed choreographed: knit right hand to left, then threw opposite arms ’round Hosteen before the old Hollander could even think to extricate himself, and knit those ten clawed fingers like-a-wise. Over Hosteen’s shoulder, Chess could already see dust kicking up in front of the Dead Posse like an evil cloud, rushing toward them with all the fell force of its transit. So he shut his eyes tight ’gainst the grit and laid his cheek to Oona’s, beard-rough to reborn-smooth, folding tight together to poor Kees — while, at the very same time, the oldest tune he knew came pouring out through his mouth all unsummoned, a flood of bile and honey borne on somebody else’s breath.
As they walked down to the water’s brim,
Bow we down —
As they walked down to the water’s brim,
Bow and balance to me;
As they walked down to the water’s brim,
the oldest pushed the youngest in.
For I’ll be true to my love,
If my love will be true to me.
And here he heard Oona’s voice in his ear again, murmuring, without her even opening her mouth. Saying: My own Ma used to sing it different, though — in more of a country way, p’raps, ’stead’a the tune I always ’eard from those in the Clock-’ouse. Or maybe ’cause she died well content wiv what she ’ad, little as that might’ve been; us kids, ’er man, my useless Pa wiv ’is tricks, drinkin’ all she worked for away at the week’s end, and never fankin’ ’er for the use of it, neither.
Always wantin’ t’make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, was my Ma. Just like that ’arper in the song . . .
Her father’s knight came riding by
And this maid’s body chanced to spy.
Oh he took three locks of her yellow hair
And with them strung a bow so fair.
And what did he do with her breast-bone?
He made it a fiddle to play upon.
And what did he do with her veins so blue?
He made fiddle strings to play a tune.
And what did he do with her fingers slight?
He made little pegs to hold them tight.
And the only tune that the fiddle would play
Was oh, oh, the wind and rain —
And the only tune that the fiddle would play
Was oh, the dreadful wind and rain.
Make a corpse into music, a mermaid, a swan. Make your ’eart’s desire into your own death. Make your sister’s love into your husband. Make her grave your marriage bed.
Make —
— two men and an old/young woman into one more shadow on a heap of shadows, a blan
k spot blending into the outcropping, livid grey on grey. Nothing that would stand out far enough to be seen, even as the Dead Posse howled by and Hosteen trembled between them.
The Posse’s train tore up and down, back and forth, with Love staggering headlong after at the point of a rope. Sometimes he tripped, fell and was pulled, scraping himself on the stony soil, only to rise up once more covered with fresh wounds, his mouth set; though they offered no quarter, he asked none. Sometimes Chess thought he saw his bitter lips move, as if he might be praying.
And that procession went on a while, far longer than Chess had thought it would — Chilicothe and the rest, the Lieut, the bluebellies; Sadie and her beau riding two to a mount, him firm-set, her hugging him side-saddle. Yet more followed after, like every man or woman killed within Chess’s eyeshot these last three years was making up the bulk, called to follow after by the promise of whatever impermanent vengeance ghosts might wreak on ghosts.
Oona pressed closer still, so she could say — voice dropping to a cautious whisper, as she did — “Damn, son. You really ’ave killed a lot of men, just like you said. But not more’n I’ve fucked, as it ’appens.”
Sliding back to their final living conversation, in the “hospital” under Selina Ah Toy’s, as though all the intervening incidence counted for nothing.
Chess snorted, and shook his head. “Boast on, why don’t you,” he replied.
’Round and ’round, in and about and out once more, cutting patterns in the desolate waste with their hooves, ’til eventually the Posse drew to a shuddering stop, apparently stymied. The Lieut leaned to cut Love free and kick him sidelong in almost the same motion, while the rest looped back, turning their rides for the ’Hold, the crossroads, War-Heaven, Gehenna . . . anywhere but here.
You can walk back, preacher, Chess thought he heard the dead man say, into his high-muffled shell-coat’s collar. I’ll count it as toll for slowing us down, since we might’ve caught him yet, were it not for your interference.
Love stood up slow and dignified, re-ordering his bloody rags while the Posse gave one shared, heaving sigh and dispersed with a moan of hungry hate unfulfilled, leaving nothing behind but ache.
Turning his back on their trail — even the part of it he’d contributed to, just as it began to fade — Love said: “You may safely reveal yourselves now, I believe — Pargeter, ma’am. Since I can tell you’re here.”
“Funny, that,” Chess replied, letting slip his mother’s grip, so’s to make himself take shape once more. “How you can but they couldn’t, is what I mean.”
“No great trick to it. It’s like you said, before — ”
“God told you?”
“Indirectly, yes, through simple intuition — God-given, like all other things. Yet I live . . . subsist, rather . . . in hope.”
So easy to mock Love’s ridiculous gimcrack faith, his sideshow humbleness. Once again, however, an unwanted sympathy scoured Chess’s insides, making him feel small, raw. Almost as skin-bare as Love looked, at least for now.
“Well . . .” he said, at last, “fun as it’s been, we’d better be movin’ on. Good luck with your penitence, Sheriff.”
He went to turn, only to see Love raise a hand, less in command than entreaty. “Wait but one moment more. I — there’s something I’d say, if you’ll hear it.”
Chess scowled. “Like what?”
Love hesitated, studying the dirt below as though he hoped it’d give him clues, advice on how best to phrase what he so didn’t want to say. “You’ve done wrong all your days, I know you won’t deny it; that you take a certain perverse pride in the truth of it, even. But Mister Pargeter — Chess — your due fall’s already done with, deservedly harsh, and sudden. Which means now you’ve been weighed, you have another chance, as I do.” His nod took in Oona, even Hosteen, whom he seemed to recognize, perhaps from the first face-off at Bewelcome. “Remember what I told your Reverend, once? How grace is resistible, yet available for all? What I’m saying is, Chess — forgiveness isn’t an impossibility, even for such as you. And much as you like a fight, perhaps it’s time you ceased resisting.”
Chess drew a long breath, oddly ragged; felt his own eyes slide to Oona, who stood there hugging herself again. “Does like to ’ear ’imself talk, don’t ’e?” she asked, of no one in particular.
Chess shrugged. “They all do, the preachers. Or so’s I’ve noticed.”
“You may mock,” Love told them. “But believe me when I say that God withholds nothing from the truly contrite, no matter who they may be.”
“Even if what they ‘be’ goes against Bible itself, at least according to one particular part? ’Cause forgiven or not, I ain’t never gonna lay down with a woman like I do with a man, Sheriff — be unnatural to my person, like it’d be unnatural to you to do the opposite, what with that gal of yours waiting for you.”
“Sophy, you mean.”
“Yeah, her. Granted, I used to think I hated all females, and that turned out t’be tripe — but I ain’t about to change my habits now, even so. Not after all this.”
“You already have, though, where it matters. I was there, at Bewelcome — saw first-hand how you saved me, my boy, my wife and all the rest, at the cost of your own skin. That you are capable of great good, no matter your inclinations . . . or how fervently you may claim the opposite, either.”
“Oh, that was just for pique, to fox Rook’s plans — to stick my dick in that infernal Machine of his wife’s, and see what-all popped off.”
“Yet you ended up doing the Lord’s work nonetheless, if unintentionally; that counts for something.”
“Does it?”
“Why would it not?” A pause, as Chess felt the exhaustion of the last few . . . days, hours, who the hell knew . . . wash up over him in a single flood, high enough to choke on. But the Sheriff went on, unabashed. “Though once I might have believed differently, I no longer consider your proclivities, your upbringing, the source of your truly sinful behaviour, since I know all too well that I too was guilty of real sin, before and after death — the sins of pride, of wrath, of despair. At the War’s end, when I vowed to hammer my sword into ploughshares, but did not; when I judged myself fit to pass judgement on Reverend Rook and you, along with all your fellows; when I blamed you for your part in Bewelcome’s fall, but took no responsibility for my own. Yet this is the charge God laid upon us all when first he gifted us free will, bittersweet fruit of that fateful Eden-tree, and I take it up happily now, in my time of need — bite down and swallow gladly, to its veriest dregs, regardless of the taste.”
Jesus, Chess thought, this really is some sermon. Too bad I ain’t got a watch to set.
The Sheriff went on, fervently unaware of his audience’s growing restlessness. “I eat of the tree, and true knowledge at last is mine — I feel His grace falling down on us, like sunlight: even here, even me, even you. These others too, if they’re amenable. All we ever have to do is accept it.”
Oona was outright staring at him now, red brows knit; Chess wasn’t sure if she was stuck between a gawp and snort, too dazed by Love’s oddity to quite let loose with either. One way or the other, he didn’t care to argue the point.
“Listen,” he said, finally, “I do see that woman of yours, what d’you want me to tell her?”
“Tell her I’ve seen her already, in dreams. That I look to see her hereafter, once I’ve done my time.”
“No reason to stay on in Hell if you don’t need to, Sheriff.”
Love shook his head, smiling. He was almost healed now — back to the way he’d been when they first found him. “Oh, but I do,” he said, gently enough. “And besides — all places alike are Hell, without my Lord. Or Sophy.”
He turned on his heel, then, and left them, retreating into the distance ’til he was only a line bisecting the horizon, a mere speck. Then gone, as though he’d never been at all.
Chess, Oona and Hosteen walked on, in the opposite direct
ion.
The crags became steeper, a mountain range, then one particular mountain, vertiginously high. Eventually, it all ran out — there was nowhere left to climb. Only a sawbacked ridge, flint-sharp, curving ’round a small dip of frost-cracked stone and pebbles just big enough for all three to stand in. Beyond, merely black sky, with one sharp spike of grey rock thrusting rudely starward.
“Now what?” Oona demanded.
Chess was Christ Almighty tired of shaking his head. “Wait?” He took a deep breath, trying to think. “Hey, Kees — considering how high up we are, why is it we ain’t havin’ any trouble breathin’?”
“We’re dead,” Oona reminded him. “Breathing’s nought but a mind-trick any’ow, so what’s ’at prove?”
“Proves what we should’ve kept in mind, all along — ” Chess grabbed two spars of rock and hauled himself up, balancing precariously. “It’s all tricks. Don’t take nothin’ for what it looks like.” He licked one finger and held it up. “I got a breeze here, from the east — Kees, check the other side, see if it keeps goin’.”
Hosteen’s upward scramble took longer, but at length he balanced opposite Chess, testing the wind the same way. “I got it comin’ in from the west.” Looking to Oona: “Ma’am — if you don’t mind?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Oona muttered — then wet her finger and simply stuck it straight up, reaching high as she could. “All right, I feel it. Comin’ from . . .” She trailed off as she turned, tracing its path from south to north, ’til she ended up pointing straight at the spike itself.
“Not comin’ from,” said Chess, voice tight with excitement. “Goin’ to.” Swinging from spar to spar along the ridge ’til his boots were braced on the ridge, he wound up holding onto the spike with one hand. His other slid to where jagged point ran out — and beyond, curving ’round a column of pure blackness, hitherto invisible against the sky, that gave back the tactile sensation of rock.
And something more, now that he concentrated — a faint thrum, like he’d grabbed hold of a telegraph cable in mid-send; a feeling of pulling, as though the column had hold of him, too. His throat went dry, voice hoarse. “Think I found our next thread, Ma — the thread of all threads.”
The Hexslinger Omnibus Page 90
