“This?” The girl shook her head, braids loose-swinging. “Naw, don’t nobody live here, not anymore. But as for me, my folk come over from France, though we been here a spell since—root ourselves jest up that-a-way, past the swamp, on close-set to Pin-Road Hillock. Feeley Chatwin’s my name, for Felice. You?”
“. . . Chess Pargeter.”
“Oh ho. Now, is that so?”
“It is.”
“Well, then. Near ever’body’s heard tell of you.”
Considering the smile she gave as she said it—her teeth yellow-grey as fine scrimshaw, and uncomfortably pointed—this last struck Chess as neither as flattering as it might once have been nor as deceptively comforting as she maybe meant it to. Besides which, the heat was rising yet and the ghosts massing still closer, threateningly; even Charlie could see the one now, if not the other.
“You’re a hex,” Chess said, to which Feeley shrugged, raising both hands, while the ghost-boy gave a nasty grin.
“My kin, they call it the grammarye, not hexation,” she replied. “Say how we’s all bred up from evil angels and such, way back before th’ Flood. How we was set out runnin’ one step ahead’ve the burnin’ judges, for dancin’ on hills of nights and kissin’ the Devil’s hindparts. But from what-all I’ve seen it’s jest six o’ one, half-dozen o’ neither no matter what you call it, if ya take my meanin’.”
Chess nodded. “Words don’t mean that much, all told, when it comes to magic. These dead fuckers roundabouts, though, quick as they are to set fire to any unfortunate don’t cut this place a wide berth—this’d be your doing, right?”
“More or less. This place was always gonna be full up with haints, after what them Bluebellies did on their way through. But when they sent Ham Jensen here t’me, a-petitionin’ on their behalf—” Here she nodded at the ghost-boy behind, who fair puffed up peacock-proud, gifting Chess with a nasty Ain’t my gal somethin’?-type grin. “—well, even a poor holler-witch such as myself couldn’t he’p but be moved. ’Sides which, maybe it really is that demon blood o’ mine callin’ out, jest the way my Momma claimed, or maybe it’s somethin’ else entire . . . but th’ plain truth is, I shore do like t’see thangs git hot.”
At this, the overall temperature spiked, as though for counterpoint; Charlie cursed and peeled his jacket free, buttons starting to smoke, while his spider danced an unsteady, painful jig on the too-parched ground. To which sight Feeley Chatwin only laughed outright, grin sliding to titter, like the spectacle was better than a hundred jokes.
“Ain’t much of a one for our work, is he, even given that thang he rides?” she asked Chess. “Though that’s prob’ly jest as well, seein’ how the two o’ you’s sly with each other, like them who wanted the angels t’dance with, in Sodom-town—not the sort I can work my wiles on, more’s the pity.”
“You’re right about that,” Chess agreed. And felt something else coming off of her now, boxing him at both ends, as what he could only assume was the phantom pain of Burnt Bowl’s destruction mounted up far enough his hair started to crisp at the ends: that all-too-familiar other-hex pull like a sucking at his soul’s marrow, babyish now, but gaining strength. Right at this instant it was more a leech than a lamprey, but pulling her free would only make the blood flow faster, as he well knew.
Being him, however, his first impulse was to strike a pose, and keep to it. So he turned the jet up on his hands as though he was fooling with one of those newfangled gaslight sconces, letting the threat of such display leak out all around him like a violent gangrene reek; the ghosts rippled and bent away from it, mind-whispering to each other in their scratchy no-voices.
“Better tell them chain-rattlers of yours to hang further back, Miss,” he warned Feeley, “and turn the heat down, while they’re at it. That’s ’less you want to see ’em all blown away like chaff in wind, one at your back very much included—since I can only assume you mean somethin’ to him, if not the other way ’round.”
Though she didn’t even look ’round, if that hurt the ghost-boy’s feelings, he didn’t let it show. “Oh, Ham an’ me wasn’t never together, as such, not like you’n that’n. But we both know the value of blood and the dirt it spills on—this place, Peaty Holler that was, Burnt Bowl what is. So when he come t’me seekin’ a means t’lay his and his kin’s vengeance ever on any strangers took a notion t’wander in here, no matter the colour of their jackets . . . not blue, nor grey, nor even purple . . .”
“. . . you bound ’em here, by gluing blood and soil together. Kept ’em from movin’ on, even when they should’ve; sowed hexation all up and down to help ’em burn whoever comes through and reaped a share of every kill in return, like they was praying murder at your altar.”
“They wanted it!”
“Sure they did—who wouldn’t? But that don’t mean you should’a given it to ’em, ’specially when you knew damn well it’d grow your own power at the cost of their soul-stuff.” Adding, as Feeley flushed, maybe angry to be so easily read: “Oh yeah, gal, it ain’t no secret: Hex City itself was built on the exact same principles, ’fore they threw off Ixchel Rainbow’s yoke. So believe you me, I know this story pretty well, forwards and back—which is why you should listen when I tell you how I don’t think you’re gonna get exactly what you want out of the bargain after all, ’less you’re willing to lay down a trifle more of yourself in return.”
She studied him a while, quizzically, through narrowed eyes of no particular colour, as the haze mounted fast towards a boil. Replying, eventually:
“Well, maybe so; that’s the nature of such deals, Devil-bought or elsewise—so I reckon I’ll take my chances, gladly, like the rest’ve all my name. But still, ain’t really you these folk have t’strike at, in order to make their point . . . now, is it?”
Chess shot a glance over at Charlie—sweat a-flash at both his temples, face shamefully red and his already-high half-Mex colour mounting steady, no matter how much coolth Chess tried to throw his way—and cursed whatever personal glamour kept on drawing foolish boys to him like flies, let alone this stupid change of heart rendering him no longer capable of not caring whether or not his lure might put ’em in danger. “You lay off him,” was all he said.
“Aw, but what else I got t’harry you with, Mister Red-Head Pistoleer? First I seen you comin’ through them trees, I thought: Here’s one got it in ’em, jest like me . . . one I could suck off’ve ’til he fair run dry, if only I could stop him from doin’ the same ’fore I got my fill. But then I saw how you was the stronger—couldn’t’ve even come this close, I didn’t have that boy o’ yourn t’use for leverage.”
Charlie spat, then goggled a bit how it jumped and popped on the ground below, same as water on a skillet; Feeley saw and laughed yet louder, which really put the blood in young Alarid’s eyes. And for all Chess hissed teakettle-loud, gesturing him to keep calm, the kid had always had had more balls than brains; it was what Chess liked best about him, most-times.
Though not right now.
“Charlie—” he began, warningly.
But: “I ain’t nobody’s damn—” Charlie snarled back, jerking his piece from its holster, only to yell in pain as its grip burnt his hand like a brand. The gun fell, bounced, discharging a red-hot ball straight through the ghost-boy at Feeley’s back’s spectral head, splitting his half-there face in two; insulted, the boy gave a roar and took off, blown up immediately twister-wide, with all his extremities ablaze. And as Chess and Feeley started forward at the same time, both bent on keeping him and Charlie separate, the arachnorse—all but forgotten, its sheer size and weirdness aside—suddenly lunged, settling the bet Chess and Charlie’d never quite made with each other as to where its (her) loyalties lay: chomped down hard onto Feeley Chatwin’s shoulder with its mandibles and dumped every jot of poison it had into her, like some eight-legged stepped-on snake.
Charlie, bucked free, went flying; Chess had to conjure a break from thin air to catch him, sliding him
down slick as grease to where he could grab him ’round the waist and raise a bell of pure frost to cradle them both. Feeley, meanwhile, shrieked long and loud, batting at the spider helplessly, ’til she finally popped out a pulse of something that ripped it free of its own deep-set fangs and set it on its back, torn and twitching, with half its awful face gone.
Feeley fell to her knees, vomiting copiously, ’til she was too slack to do so. That the venom-dose itself didn’t seem like to kill her Chess put down to every hex he’d ever met’s unnatural toughness, but it sure wasn’t doing her any favours—already, she was swole up twice her original size, with every limb bruised so blue it was almost black. As the ghost-crowd clustered near with a collective thunderclap groan, trying their desperate best to “help” her—and letting the heat drop accordingly, as Chess had somewhat hoped they would—she spasmed on the ground a moment, then rolled and set in to crawling like a slug, caterpillar-humping weakly away back through the brush towards that swamp of hers, where her witch-kin family might be able to set her right.
Probably want to revenge her, too, once they figure out who’s responsible, Chess thought, distractedly, but she won’t be able to tell them much ’til the sting wears off, and Charlie and me’ll be long gone, by then. Still, I should tell the Hexicas Council about her—she’ll be their business, they care to make it so. . . .
Though literally deflated by his worry over Feeley, grim Ham Jensen’s phantom turned on Chess with his own flame still bright, husking internally: Your boy’s thang tetched my gal, ya frilly sumbitch! I’ll boil them eyes in their sockets!
“Boy,” Chess snapped back, “she ain’t yours, and you well know it. Now douse that blaze, or I’ll blow your dead ass to smithereens!”
Git out my way, ya runty piece o’ piss!
“Last chance, Wailin’ Johnny.”
I ain’t—you’re the—
Chess sighed. “Aw, hell with this crap,” he said, mainly to himself. And dug his left hand into that same blood-soaked holler earth wrist-deep while his right kept up the shield, as the storm raged fierce all about them: Ham Jensen’s fire, the ghost-crowd’s rout, what little was left of Peaty Hollow cracking ’neath the strain, torn greenery and charcoal-stained brick flying everywhere. Because this was the logic his travels had taught him, from Hex City to Hell and back again—that whatever was done by one hex might be undone by another, if only that second magic-wrangler took time to parse the first spell’s parts down like any campfire riddle.
I bound ’em t’the same earth they died on, by the blood they shed; that had been Feeley Chatwin’s boast, in fine. So what struck Chess as smartest was to simply separate blood from earth entirely, making the whole mess spin ’til murder’s red dust broke free in a cloud and the rest fell back down, clean and black, rendered nothing but soil fit to till once more. The ghosts, thrown up likewise, grew thin and silent, floating away—tumbleweeds made from dandelion fluff, spraying apart on the wind. And though Ham Jensen struggled to go last, clawing at the blood-cloud even as it dissipated, the turned ground below afforded him no purchase; he gave up, finally, with one last gasp of hatred, and guttered out completely: snuffed candleflame-fast, leaving not even smoke behind.
Vaguely, Chess wondered if Feeley would miss him, she happened to come back this way and find him gone. But given the dealings he’d had with her thus far, he somehow doubted Miss Chatwin might be described as anything like sentimental.
In this haint-cleansing process’s wake, Charlie stood up slow, panting, while Chess drifted down; hadn’t realized he’d gone up in the first place, though it wasn’t as though the sensation was unfamiliar. For magic and levitation did seem to just go together, same as gunpowder to spark.
“That was some good work,” Charlie allowed, looking ’round—then gave out with a disconsolate yell, like he’d gone to groom himself only to suddenly realize his supply of pommade was exhausted. Bemused, Chess turned to find him standing over the crispy remains of his faithful arachnorse, seemingly genuinely bereft by its self-sacrifice in his service.
“You let that happen a-purpose!” Charlie accused, which Chess was quick to deny, though he couldn’t say its demise gave him any great sorrow, even on Charlie’s behalf.
“Seems how you must’ve been right ’bout whether or not it wished you well, after all,” he pointed out. “Maybe you got a way with the damn things.”
“Or maybe she was just special. And now—”
“—now it’s . . . she’s . . . passed on, to someplace where sugar grows up outta the ground like rocks, and the flies are big as birds. Not much to be done right now, otherwise.”
“Should we bury it, or somethin’?”
“Welcome to, I guess. But I can think of better ways to work up a sweat.”
Charlie pouted, an expression which—especially on someone his size—looked frankly ridiculous.
“Can I at least hitch a ride with you?” he asked, as they headed back towards where Chess had tied his mare, who seemed thankfully unsinged, though no less spooked than before.
“Big as you are?” Chess laughed, and shook his head, mounting up. “She’s a tough one, but she ain’t made for two.”
“You do all right, when I’m in the saddle.”
“Well, I’m tougher. Been-a-god tough. That’s known.”
“Hey! I ain’t no lightweight myself, hex or god or no—”
Charlie’s current position put him at a good height for kissing, so Chess hove in and did it, shutting him up—for now, if not for ever. Which was good enough, considering.
For some years after, rumours bred and travelled of some massive, many-legged ghost which crept its silent way through the underbrush of what had once been Peaty Hollow, then Burnt Bowl. The place’s inhabitants occasionally found great weavings amongst the trees, silky notions that trapped birds and smaller animals only briefly, before fading away under the light of dawn. Its rows of eyes might be glimpsed at night, while it sat just outside the rebuilt gaggle of houses—still too small to call itself a town, yet slightly larger than a mere collation—and watched over their comings and goings as though lonely for the company of men, or perhaps just one man in particular, long-gone from those demesnes.
Stranger things’ve happened, in this hex-rid world of ours, Chess thought, when he heard the tale. And do seem to keep on happenin’, at least wherever I go.
He never told Charlie, though; the boy had gotten himself another spider soon enough, which seemed to love him just as well. No point in making anyone jealous.
THE END
IN SCARLET TOWN (TODAY)
A Hexslinger Tale
1874:
Come and find us, red boy, the message from Hex City said. Or so Chess Pargeter told Charlemagne Alarid that same morning, when the latter inquired as to why he’d woken up looking like he had the mother of all hangovers, for all they hadn’t shared even a single drink the night before. “Had Yancey Kloves make one of her ghosts send it on, right into my dreams,” Chess complained, scowling, shrugging off Charlie’s hand like a buzz-fly, for the grand sin of trying to lay it gently on one hiked shoulder. “And now here I am, summoned—called for, like a damn dog. Motherless passel of bitches!”
“That’s hard, sure enough. Ain’t like you have to go, though, is it?”
“Ain’t it?” Chess hissed through his nose, then sighed, gustily. “It’s Hexicas, fool; I don’t, they’re like enough t’put a geas on me, and that’ll take ten times longer to lift than it would’ve to just come running in the first place—cost more, too, by the end. Besides which . . . well, they’re my kind, which does make it my business, I guess. More mine than yours, anyhow.”
The last might not’ve been meant for a challenge, but Charlie found he wanted to take it as such, nonetheless. “So there’s no call for me to come, I s’pose, if I don’t want to—that it? But what if I do?”
Thinking, at the same time, and knowing damn well how Chess could probably hear:
That’s unless what you’re sayin’ is you don’t need me along on this one, Chess. Or would it be want me? For things had cooled somewhat between ’em recently, as they both well knew, though Chess was still happy enough to regularly drift off to sleep wrapped up snug in Charlie’s arms, and swift enough to show his gratitude, on wakening. Five years was a sizable length to stay hitched up, Charlie suspected, for men such as they. Sometimes, in their travels, he’d thought he caught Chess’s green eyes roving behind his back and felt a twinge of jealousy, knowing there was little to nothing he could do about it even if his suspicions proved true—or cast his own stare ’round in turn, only to feel a very different sort of twinge indeed, once he realized Chess wasn’t even paying enough attention to notice.
But Chess, for all his fire, would not be thus drawn. He was an older creature now, matured in his ways, if not exactly settled; older than Charlie, any road, from the very start. And finally beginning to act like it.
“Then you’ll do what you want, I reckon,” was all he said. “Like you always do, whether or no I tell you different.”
True to rumour, Hex City came up of a sudden, all around them—blooming the way some desert night-flower would, ’cept furled tight with streets and buildings instead of petals and shining all over, icy-pale: like a harvest moon but closer, horribly so. Charlie’s arachnorse shied beneath him, all its legs scrabbling for purchase at once; he calmed it with a stroke even as he watched Chess set up a little straighter in his own saddle, reaching for as much extra height as the gesture might afford. Saw him square his shoulders and set his teeth, raking one hand back through his unruly, silver-touched red hair, grooming himself like the spry little cat he most resembled.
“Well, I’m here,” Chess called out, apparently to the air. “Now . . . what was so all-fired important, exactly, you couldn’t tell Missus Kloves anything better’n have him be such a place at such a time, and have her whistle me up for y’all? ’Cause I don’t much care to be ordered, case you forgot: wanted to run my life by someone else’s ifs, ands and buts, I’d’ve stayed in the damn army.”
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