by Gemma Files
Thus far, that second life had been much less joyous than the first. She had buried herself in labour, overseeing Bewelcome’s recovery, then integrating the town into Pinkerton’s war against Hex City even while doing her best to keep Gabriel fed and healthy. True, his beauty (particularly as he grew, so sunny, so smart) provided some small annealment to her grief, but never anything near completely, and the secret hope which lay hidden beneath her maternal dedication — that she might one day become a casualty of war herself, liberated without guilt to thus rejoin her Mesach — was a shameful consolation.
And even so, it had still taken months before she could pass a single night without weeping, wrapping her head in blankets to keep her muffled sobs from waking Gabe.
God’s strength was bottomless; that was what Mesach had preached, what she herself had seen proven, over and over. Yet what Sophy knew now, most dreadfully, was that hers was not — that when a second shattering blow cut her life apart again, her faith alone might not see her through the pain of rebuilding a third new one. And for the one soul she still truly loved, the only purpose left worth suffering for, to be himself the cause of that inevitable blow . . .
What did it say of her, that she was grateful another woman had her son — and that woman her own husband’s murderer — because she feared being tempted to smother him, the first time an opportunity presented itself? That she could no longer give her baby the untainted love of days before, could barely stand even to look at him, because the forces he’d used to save them from death were drawn of the same darkness his sainted father had died fighting against?
Give him over to her, to them — his own kind. The words dinned in Sophy’s head, barely recognizable as her own. Then walk away into the desert, let the thirst and the cold take me, if some savage doesn’t slay me for trespassing, first. It is the only answer. And I could still do it, I swear; I can do anything, for him. Maybe . . . it would be better, that way.
“Perhaps, yes.”
So quiet was this new voice that the start Sophy gave on realizing she’d actually heard it was far more muted than she would’ve expected it to be, had she been watching herself do so. She looked up, blinked watering eyes at the figure silhouetted against the sunset; it tilted its head her way like some watchful bird, apparently nothing but honestly curious.
“But could you, in truth, do such a thing?” it asked. “Are you really so desperate, salt-man’s wife?”
I am interested, you see. For, even as your husband did — you interest me.
Sophy stood, shading her eyes, able to make out more of the thing only as her vision cleared. The fear which pierced her struck an oddly welcome note, driving home a simple truth: No, she thought, I do not want to die, not yet. And not at this creature’s hands.
“Despair is an affront to the living God,” she said out loud, voice hoarse, but unflinching.
The being who wore Chess Pargeter’s mostly naked flesh gave a black-toothed smile, almost cruel as Pargeter’s own. And for just a half-instant, she could hear him in her head once more, screaming into the sandstorm as Mesach went white, froze in place, began to crumble under the wind’s incessant howl: Yeah, go ahead on and cry, little boy — your Daddy ain’t comin’ home anytime soon, not now, not ever.
That wasn’t this man, though, for this wasn’t a man, at all; not even the negotiable sort Pargeter claimed to be, with all his perverse appetites, his “love” that’d set Reverend Rook on her path, in the first place. You only had to look in its eyes the once, and not for long, to know that it had already far outstripped its Hell-bound original a thousandfold, in terms of being evil.
“This God of yours,” this awful thing — “the Enemy,” Missus Kloves and her savages had called it — mused, examining one claw-nailed hand, as though admiring the way the sunset painted it red. “Quetzalcoatl-Love spoke of him too, and frequently. What he said sometimes reminded me of the Duality Above All, first of our kind, who made this world — perhaps as a joke, or for some sort of wager with each other — and then retreated to the sky’s palace, to let it work out its own damnation. But I have yet to hear one word thus far, for yea or nay, from that particular direction.”
“Might be you’re not fit to. I have.”
“Ah. But then, your man ‘knew’ the same — did he not? And was mistaken, for what he heard was me. What makes you think otherwise?”
“Faith, monster. Faith.”
Sophy folded her hands before her, a gesture this thing would be foolish indeed to read as demure. Fear she had, in plenty; she wouldn’t bother to deny it, even if she could. But reverence, respect, or even the appearance of such? Not for something like this, ever, no matter how deeply it might cost her.
“You used my husband’s pain against him,” she told it, steadily. “Tempted him sure as any devil with what he most wanted, at the moment of his worst weakness. But know this: though you may have secured torment for him through lies and trickery, you nevertheless betrayed your own true nature, in the doing so. Which means, having already shown me what you are, you have nothing to offer . . .
nothing I would accept, anyhow.”
“Do not be so sure of that, salt-widow.”
Though the Enemy took barely a step, it abruptly stood face to face with her, as if the space between them had briefly ceased to exist altogether. Sophy recoiled, tripped over her dress’s fraying hem, and sat down hard. Before she could move further away, however, the Enemy had already dropped to one knee, other equal-taloned hand palm-spread over her breastbone; not gripping, so much, as simply holding her down, its strength effortless.
Then leaned in to murmur: “So I cannot bargain, then . . . not even with your life?”
Though the ground drew heat out straight through Sophy’s back, quick as draining blood, her only answer was a weary sigh. To which the creature merely snorted, and took the prisoning hand away once more. “Yes, of course — you care nothing for that, expecting this Heaven of yours, no matter the way you may die in order to get there. A foolish question.” It sat, hunkered low on its calves, offering no help as Sophy pushed herself back up. “Still, if you will take nothing for yourself, you may at least wish news of interest to your colleagues here,” it nodded at the butte, “and at home. News of the War.”
Sophy sat still, examining it closely, for — whether pagan god or demonic visitor — the single thing she knew for sure about it by now was that (like so many things in a man’s shapes) it truly did love to hear itself talk.
Just as she’d suspected, she did not have long to wait.
“After much study, and my sister’s example as my guide,” the Enemy announced, “I decided it was past due time for me to take a hand in fate’s design; really, I flatter myself to think I can do no worse. And so, on the night your son removed you from the battle, I chose to protect Bewelcome-town from Ixchel’s wrath, raising walls of Weed to break her flood. Later, I told Allan Pinkerton that three nights hence — nightfall tomorrow, as you reckon time — I will challenge her to open battle, a test she can neither refuse nor accept, without vulnerability. If there is still any desire left in you to see justice done on what you call ‘Hex City,’ therefore, tomorrow night may be the best — and last — opportunity for that to be accomplished.”
Sophy stared. “Why . . . would you care?”
The Enemy’s grin widened. “Why not? It will be a great jest on someone, no matter who. Perhaps that is enough, for me.”
Inside her head, meanwhile, its voice vised down yet further: resonant, bone-deep. Adding, Or then again, perhaps you should consider it simply — providence.
Above, the sun squeezed out, a shaken coal. And a second later, without noise or light, Sophy stood alone; the Enemy was gone, leaving not even mist behind. Night fell with desert speed to show the stars ablaze, diamond-hard and cold, in the sky above.
Sophy sat a few minutes more, lips moving. Praying, she hoped. Cursing, she suspected.
But the blood-din in her ears was far too l
oud for her to hear either way, and that, in itself, was occasion enough to give thanks, however hollow. So she waited until it dimmed, then regained her feet, and began trudging back northeast toward the butte.
On the chill night air, sound carried well, and far. Which was how Sophy came to hear the argument already in progress long before she crested the last sloping turn in the path ’round the butte that hid the war party’s cave. The brave standing guard didn’t make any sort of stab at greeting her at all, merely turning a pair of expressionless black eyes her way, a sight which might’ve unnerved her, once. But not just now, seeing her last conversation had been with something far more terrifying than either of them was ever likely to be, to the other.
So she simply nodded at him and passed by, skirts in hand. Kept on climbing, ’til at last she found her way to the small, smokeless fire ’round which the others sat gathered.
That ill-cobbled rock-creature — “Grandma,” Yancey Kloves called her, a Hell-bound ghost recalled only momentarily from God’s judgement by her feud with Lady Rainbow — squatted motionless at the cave’s back like some ancient idol. Across from her, the heathen Chinee witch-girl sat blanket-wrapped and shivering, with only one slant eye peeping out from under a snowy fall of hair; an exhausted-looking Missus Kloves sat between with Gabe, trying unsuccessfully to soothe him, while he fussed and wriggled.
Doesn’t know a thing about babies, Sophy found herself thinking, scornfully. And before she could reconsider, her arms were already out, fingers on one hand snapping impatiently. “Give him me,” she heard herself tell Missus Kloves. “You change him already?”
“Half-hour back.”
“Then he’s hungry, so pass him over.” At the other woman’s look: “Really, ma’am, just what is it you think I’m likely to do to him, exactly? He’s still my son, no matter his — state, and unless there’s something going on here I’m not privy to, you won’t be able to feed him. He can’t even take mash, as yet.”
Still, Missus Kloves hesitated. In the end, it was that Apache man-woman, The Night Has Passed — half-clad and rude in her breeches and shirtless vest, yet whose restless energy reminded Sophy, in a strange way, of Mesach himself — who leaned in and plucked Gabe from her, to plop him down into Sophy’s grasp. “She talks sense, dead-speaker — for the first time in a full day and night, as well. I would listen, if only so we may return to what we speak of.”
“Grandma” nodded, the move itself one dusty grunt, like the puff from a smallish rockslide, then shot a question in that shirr-clicking tongue of hers Missus Kloves’ way. Who answered, in English, “Sure as I can be, given the limits of this particular method. And speaking of limits . . .” Here she gave another quick, furtive glance Sophy’s way, before continuing: “. . . since not all of us have the — knack — I do for understanding you, Spinner, if Missus Love’s going to sit in, then I’m sure she’d take it as a courtesy if you tried your best to use our own tongue.”
“We would have no need for courtesy at all,” Songbird muttered, “could she simply surpass her own blind fear of the ch’i’s effects, and allow us one simple translation spell.”
Yiska — that was the other way her name might be said, Sophy now remembered — clicked tongue against teeth, warningly. “Enough, White Shell Girl. The salt-widow is our guest.”
Petulant as the child she sometimes still looked like, Songbird complained: “Not my guest, or my hearth. Not my camp.”
“Not if you do not wish it so. But seeing you have nowhere else to go, in safety — it would please me greatly, if you would stay.”
Anyone else might have tried to touch her, then — but Yiska just stood there, allowing the Chinese witch to settle back, almost too slowly to be observed, against the shelter of one long leg. Once again, Sophy was struck by a reminder of Mesach, who had often chosen to deal with dissent the same way: step back and let the Spirit work on them how it might, leaving room for them to approach him again at their own pace. For they came, every one whose heart stirred him up, and every one whom his spirit made willing, and they brought the LORD’s offering to the work of the tabernacle of the congregation, and for all his service. . . .
Exodus, 35:21.
“You can just go on and call me Missus Love, Miss Yiska, if you want,” Sophy surprised herself once more by offering, as she felt Gabe latch on, swaddled snugly beneath the tail of her shawl. “Or . . .
if you wish, even, by my given name, Sophronia.”
At this, the squaw’s already narrow eyes slitted further. “An interesting offer,” she said, finally, “from the once-wife of a blackrobe bilagaana.”
“My Mesach was a preacher, ma’am, not a priest. Our Church has no patience for Papistry.”
From the shadows, “Grandma” spoke once more, and in response, Yiska peered closer at Sophy; Sophy sat still and straight, allowing it.
“So, then,” Yiska said, at last. “I see that the Spinner is right: You are like me, marked for vision from the earth itself, and elsewhere. Bound to the diyí — what is the bilagaana word I want?” she demanded, of Missus Kloves, who shook her head.
“‘Spirits’?” she suggested. Then, seeing Sophy grimace, at the very thought: “‘Angels,’ then; caretakers of creation, powers and principalities. The Holy Ghost.”
“Ohé,” Yiska said, approvingly. “You are bound to this Ghost by choice, sureness of belief, and thus it gives you protection from Hataalii, for good and bad. But it is caution you feel, respect, not fear. And such feeling is not a tool only, to take up or put away, like bow or spear.” Though Yiska’s eyes stayed intent on hers, somehow Sophy could tell that the words seemed meant for all to hear: a reproof for Songbird, a reminder to Yancey. And something else entirely — perhaps even both — for that rumbling thing whose insights she praised. “Guided, we may command, but only by obeying; we speak truth, but only having listened. Do you see?”
Oh, you are like him. He never cared much to lead for its own sake, either — only that people understood him true, saw what he saw.
And hadn’t that been why people followed him in the first place? Wasn’t that why Yiska’s own men shed their blood so gladly, for her? Because only one who swore service to something beyond themselves could be worth serving, in turn?
Her eyes blurred. This time, Yiska did reach out, squeezing her arm softly as she swiped at them, reassuringly. To Missus Kloves, she said: “Tell Sophy Love your dream, dead-speaker.”
Missus Kloves — Yancey — let her eyes drift shut. “Last few nights, I’ve been too wrung out studying on the Underneath to dream much of anything else at all,” she began. “But when I lay down this evening, I finally dreamed of Edward Morrow, who told me things have changed. That his boss, Pinkerton, has found himself a dark new ally — ”
“ — that Enemy of all of ours? I know.” A general look of startlement whipped her way, from everywhere at once. “It came to me in the desert just now wearing Chess Pargeter’s skin, told me it’d saved Bewelcome from Lady Rainbow’s might, supposedly on my account, and was off to challenge her one on one, with Pinkerton for backup. Said this might be the last chance any of us had to see justice done.”
Yancey stared. “But — why come out here to tell us personally, if he knew Ed would tell me — ?” She stopped, then, answering her own question: “Because he knew Ed hadn’t reached me yet, ’course; wanted to make sure we knew in time to act, if we could.”
“What profit to him, though, if we do act?” Songbird asked. “Or cost, if we don’t? Does he look to join with us, or use us? For we are toys to them, these gods — insects to be flicked away, if noticed.” Glancing at Sophy: “Most of all, why tell you?”
Sophy girded herself, not allowing her own eyes to flick back down to Gabe, now thankfully asleep, toothless mouth yet a-work on her breast. “He knew I was in despair,” she told them, unhesitating. “That I had it in mind to cut and run, just leave Gabe here with you, to live or die with those most like him. That I was putting my own words in
the Lord’s mouth, weak and prideful, and trying to tell myself what I dreamt on was His will, just because I wanted it so.”
“And . . . he lied to you further? Tried to trick you, as he did your dead man?”
“No, he told me the truth. I don’t know why; don’t even know how I know he wasn’t lying, when he did. I believed him, is all. I think he wants us there. That he’s counting on it.”
Songbird snorted. Yiska opened her mouth, then closed it, stumped. Above them, Grandma grated out something more, her crushed-rock voice bruising the air. Yancey blinked up at her, then translated for Sophy.
“She says it pleases the Enemy to dangle what you most want before you, so your own desires drive you into folly. Yet hearing this, she finds she believes you as well, much as she wants not to.” Listening again: “Our task here’s only half done, because we’ve been counting on Chess Pargeter’s ghost to pull himself up single-handed . . .
save himself, and us as well. Since the Enemy needs us on that battleground, though, we need to make sure that happens.” Yancey took a deep breath as Grandma finished. “Meet Chess halfway, and bring him out ourselves.”
“How’re you supposed to do that, Missus Kloves? You’ve got but two hexes to draw on, one a ghost — no offence, ma’am,” Sophy offered, to “Grandma,” who nodded again. “ — and the three of us, you, me and Yiska here, whatever we are. Seems unlikely to me it’s God he means for us to call upon, to raise those odds, but I can tell you this: I won’t make heathen sacrifice, no matter if the sky itself begins to fall. So . . .”
“Grandma” leaned forward into this pause, horridly quick for all her decaying bulk, and spoke again, faster, clearer. Yancey listened.
“There’s another hex in the mix, she points out,” the girl told Sophy, at last. “And one more thing we could try, too . . . but only with your help.”
This time, it was her eyes which went to Gabe’s hidden form. And understanding fell at last on Sophy Love, like the proverbial tonne of rocks.
