by Gemma Files
Indeed, he had to rouse it somewhat to simply say, in return:
“Sheriff . . . I’ve been thinking on this a good long time. . . .”
“Do tell.”
“Rook did you wrong at Bewelcome, and I helped. That-all at Hoffstedt’s Hoard, though — that one’s on you.”
“I know it.”
“But half of it’s my fault, too. And I know it.”
“Well. You do surprise me, Mister Pargeter.”
“Nice to know it can be done.”
And here, there occurred something utterly unexpected, something so strange in even this hundred-Hells world that Chess could only blink dumbly at it. Love looked away, shook his head . . . and smiled. A worn look, its bitterness muted only by long weariness, yet honest in its mirth as in its rue — and that mirth self-mocking, too. Then the smile died, and Love’s eyes went bleak, looking off into the distance.
“Indeed,” he agreed. “I’ve been humbled here, in many ways. So any startlement brought my way by you is nowhere near the worst.”
Not much caring to think on Love’s purgatorial tribulations, Chess cleared his throat, looking ’round. “So — where exactly is ‘here,’ anyway, if I might wrangle you away from your penitences for a moment or two? And while we’re at it . . . don’t suppose you know a back way out?”
“Are you two pursued?”
Chess snorted. “Always, Sheriff.”
Love gave a nod, once more as grim as ever. “Others here have called this place the Anchorhold, after those Papist hermits who brick ’emselves into walls, to better serve God undistracted. Which fits, since from what I’ve gleaned, it’s for those who need to contemplate their sins — to think on what they’ve done, before going on. As for how one leaves, however — ” A shrug. “Might it be you’ve come bearing repentance in your heart for your crimes, Pargeter? All of them?”
“Fairly certain that’d take longer than we have to spare, even if I felt like tryin’.”
“At least you’re honest, in your fashion.”
Beside them, Oona hooted softly; Chess shot her a glare.
“I looked for a way out of the ’Hold at first, and never found one,” Love admitted. “Yet new souls do arrive — and some who were here when I arrived have gone, though none saw them go — ”
Chess cut him off with an impatient wave. “Yeah, yeah, suffer, be purified, get saved,” he spat. “No offence, Sheriff, but that’s for them’s been killed true and final. I still got a body up there, and I aim to get it back. And given who-all’s holding its reins right now, I was kinda hopin’ you’d have something a bit more helpful to offer me.”
“Who would it be you think I share your antipathy for, exactly?”
“Old friend to us both, I’ll wager he’d say; a certain big black motherfucker, got a mirror for a foot. Ring any fuckin’ bells, Sheriff?”
Love closed his eyes, breathing hard. “Do you have any idea, Pargeter,” he asked, after many moments, “how long I’ve prayed God to quench the hatred in my breast? And now you storm through, and blow all my heart’s ashes back to Hellfire in a second. For that alone, I’d have you gone — back home, to another suffering gallery, even Heaven itself, little as you merit it. But to tell me that creature, that — ”
“Enemy,” supplied Chess.
“ — that the Enemy still walks the world, using your flesh for his vessel? Where my Sophy and Gabriel dwell, and me powerless to help them . . . how can I forgive, or be forgiven, knowing that?”
“It’s a conundrum, for certain.”
Love shook his head. “You terrible little man,” he said, without rancour. “Is there any one place you’ve ever appeared, where trouble hasn’t followed?”
Now it was Chess’s turn to look down, own head shaking in response. Because, Goddamnit — he didn’t know.
The Anchorhold’s air had been so quiet thus far, but for their voices, that the sound which next intruded — a splintering crack, as of ram-smashed stone — made them all start, even Love. Oona yelped in fright, reeling away; Chess spun, just in time to see the wall at his back bulge out, white-edged fractures webbed all across the dark granite. Before he could react, the rest collapsed, pouring down ’cross the floor like sand from a cracked hourglass. Cold white light spilled in, glittering with windblown snow so white it burned blackly, reflected off of Love’s narrowed eyes.
Once again, Chilicothe was the first man to step through — lurching stiff-legged, punctured hamstring braced with the stock of his own useless rifle, strapped to fashion a crude splint. For all that the morbid lack of expression on his face did not change, Chess yet felt the lifeless gaze transfix him, a lamprey-like force locking on.
What is it you think you’re fixing to do to me, you dead-ass motherfucker? Don’t even recall your first name, if I ever knew it.
He drew in a slow illusion of breath, wondering in turn what tricks he had left to work which might throw the dead man back — ’til, without warning, a long, tall back transposed between. Chess jolted awake once more, catching Oona by the arm; Love looked back over his shoulder, head jerking sideways to indicate a potential path of escape, even as he brought fists up pugilist-style.
“Go,” the Sheriff ordered. “If this is truly not your time, Pargeter, then there may be an exit for you, and the lady — find it, while you can. These, on the other hand . . . being damned like myself, they hold no terrors for me. I doubt I can hold them for long, though, without aid.”
“But — ”
Love squinted down at him, fiercely. “No buts. Do you swear you’ll oppose him, up top, with whatever might you can lay hand to? The Enemy?”
“He’s mine as well as yours, and everybody’s, so . . .”
“Don’t equivocate, fornicator. Swear.”
Oona was tugging at his arm once more, while Chilicothe grinned both their ways over Love’s dusty shoulder. Around them, the retreating rows of devotees sat frozen as ever in their cabinets, seemingly unaware of what further hell might be about to rain down. Then again, Chess guessed, they were probably used to blocking such distractions out; so engrossed were they in chasing after their penance, they were determined to let nothing intrude. Love had been one of their number, but he’d broken his vows — put out a hand to help Chess, help Oona. Now he was back to square one, on their account.
“I swear,” Chess told him, voice gone dry, as understanding of what Love had given up on his and Oona’s behalf made something at his vision’s limits pulse and throb. Feeling it deep-set, whatever it might be and no matter how little he wanted to; unable to ignore it, as he once would have, without thinking twice.
Because I’ve changed too, I s’pose. Little as I ever wanted to.
“Then go; take your dam. I will block their way, so long as God allows me.”
Love spread his arms, and when he spoke again, his growl held a thunder beyond anything Ash Rook had ever produced. “How is the faithful city become an harlot! it was full of judgement; righteousness lodged in it; but now murderers!” More stone fell from the edges of the breach. Chilicothe leaned into the words as into a harsh wind; behind him, the rest of the Dead Posse screamed, imprecations dissolving into one frustrated wail, over which the blast of Love’s voice lifted like a cyclone. “Therefore saieth the LORD, the LORD of hosts, the mighty One of Israel, ‘Ah, I will ease me of mine adversaries, and avenge me of mine enemies’!”
Oona grabbed Chess’s shoulder and shrieked something at him which he couldn’t hear; didn’t take much thought to guess the meaning, though. He nodded, scrambling back as Love threw the weight of his voice against the Posse, holding them out.
“Are you not ashamed of these oaks ye have desired?” Love bellowed at them, over the tumult. “Are you not confounded by this, your chosen garden? Vengeance is God’s alone, lost souls!”
But despite initial balking, those set against him had rallied already, their din only growing louder, as they listened. So, turning tail — and God Almighty, was he ever getti
ng sick of that particular manoeuvre — Chess broke into a lope, chasing after Oona while she scarpered up the passageway, away from the breach.
The ’Hold’s corridor turned, crossed over another (equally endless, from what Chess could glimpse), then another, and so on. Every wall stood studded with alcoves, figures hung blind and motionless, faces abstract as masks, like those paintings on arroyo cave walls he’d rode under; the smooth-polished stone itself gave back their pursuers’ racket, shaking each coffin-cabinet visibly, without ever once rousing those pinned inside.
As they chose turn after turn at random, none leading anywhere useful, Oona cursed. “Place is a maze, worse’n bloody Whitechapel! Christ, to get all this way and stopped here — ”
“Some damn navigator you are! What happened, you lose track of that thread you been clingin’ to all this time?”
“We’re in it!” Oona screamed back, waving at the walls. “Woven into this ’ole place, it is — warp and woof! Can’t even see a direction to it, now — like this ’ere ain’t even part of the rest of things, like — ”
She stopped; but the same thought had occurred to Chess, wildfire sparking from mind to mind: Like maybe we’re already outside. Chess turned to the wall and, without even taking a second to think or doubt, punched it as hard as he could. It shattered under his fist, no more substantial than hollow plaster, powdering away — yet nothing emerged; no crack, nothing beyond. His hand sunk deeper on the next few punches, to wrist, to elbow, ’til he reared back, and started kicking.
Ankle. Calf. Fucking . . . knee, Goddamnit. Like sinking into custard, or quicksand.
Not enough.
“Gettin’ closer — we want t’leg it, so’s we don’t end up trapped!” Oona yelled, from behind. “Come on, you bloody tosser! ’Ow many times you need t’go at it, ’fore you figure out you’re done?”
“Speak for yourself, woman! I done enough running for today — don’t aim to do more, if I can help it.”
“Fine words. ’Cept you can’t, can ya?”
Chess pivoted, locking eyes with her — green to green, equally sharp,. “Well, if you want it to go faster, maybe you should put your own shoulder to the wheel, ’stead’a just standin’ there yapping!”
Scoffing: “Oh, cert. As though that’d do anyfing — ”
“Just help me, Ma, for the love of Christ Almighty! Thought you said you was a hex!”
He’d shouted it without forethought, almost in her face. And while the shame of showing such weakness swept him in a stove-blast, it still gave him a pleasurable little twist to see her wince, almost taken aback . . . hell, was that shame of a sort he saw echoing through her as well, disguised though it might be?
Whoever would’ve thought such a thing likely to happen, in Hell, or out of it?
I’ve asked you for so little, he thought, knowing it for simple truth. Less and less, as time went on; nothin’, after a point, if I could help it. And you — fact is, you owe me this. At the very least.
“English” Oona shook her head, as if trying to block the knowledge out; raked her hair back with both hands, eyes shut, letting Chess’s coat gap immodestly. Then hissed yet again, and shouldered her way in under his arm, knitting one hand in his: so small, yet so damn strong, too. Five fingers knit with five, to make a fist of ten.
“Let’s do it, then,” she said.
Two turns back, or maybe only one, the Dead Posse swept on, bellowing its hatred. But Chess Pargeter and his mother’s ghost struck hard together, up to the shoulder, backs wrenching — threw their free hands up at the same time, clawed spade-like, to tear great chunks of apparently solid granite away like old sugar, collapsing a support column they hadn’t known was there. The aftershock rippled from floor to ceiling; dusty plumes kicked up, making Chess’s eyes water. And through that haze, that widening crevice, he became almost positive that — the more he blinked — he could almost glimpse a dim array of stars shining down.
“Keep goin’,” he told her; Oona panted, and did. Once more. Twice. Dust like a storm. Feeling his own marrow shiver, arm all one ache, and knowing it must be twice as bad for her. The thought made him feel bad and good at once, like so much else.
A hoarse, hacking cough: “Don’t see — ”
“I can. Keep on.”
“Bloody am, but where? I don’t — ”
“Damnit, Ma, stop arguing with me, and keep ON!”
So close, Jesus, behind and in front; he could almost feel that bastard Chilicothe’s breath on his nape — cold-stinking, where once it’d been hot. And with that, the last of Chess’s patience (never in great supply) snapped like a shot horse’s legs. One step back, and he simply flung them both headlong at the wall, crashing their combined full body weights through it like some luckless pair of drunks through a saloon window. He felt her skull smack against something as they went — one of the displaced blocks, maybe.
Passing through one more membrane, they fell soft on cold earth, dry and thick with sere, sharp grass, then rolled twice and came up gasping — Oona with her hair all in disarray, a bruise big as his palm coming up on her forehead. With a wordless scream, she slapped him ’cross the face, hard enough to rattle his teeth; he shrugged the pain off, then glanced past her back the way they’d come, and laughed out loud.
“You son of a bitch!” she raved at him, all uncaring how she was mainly insulting herself. “Piss-poor spawn of a clap-rid Lime’ouse gin-doll!”
“So you’ve told me, yeah. Want to see something?”
“I’ll give you ‘somefing,’ you bloody ball-less pillow-biter — ”
“Oona, Christ. Turn ’round, ’fore you give yourself a conniption.”
He could see her fairly strain not to, just to spite him. But temptation was far too strong — and when at last her head swung the way he’d indicated, he found himself at just the right angle to admire the way her jaw dropped.
Nothing there, no matter which way you looked: No wall, no rubble, no crack. Only empty air. Like none of it had ever even been.
The breach must’ve closed almost fast as they’d flown through it,. And maybe it was that realization which sent Oona wobbling back, forcing Chess to catch her — no great task, for she’d always been a tiny thing. He held her up a moment ’til her breathing slowed, faces pressed so uncomfortably close he could see her too-wide pupils start to contract once more, before carefully letting her back down again.
“Sorry for that,” he found he’d somehow already let slip, before he could think better.
“Don’t do it again,” was all she said in return, eventually. “Not wivout you bloody well warn me, first.”
“All right.”
He stood still a moment, trying to decide as he did if he found this odd protective urge toward her welling up inside him gratifying, or infuriating. Might be she felt the same, though; she sure was quick enough to pull away, twitching his coat yet closer.
“Cold,” she muttered, shuffling her bare feet.
“It is that,” Chess agreed — and shivered, barely resisting the urge to hug himself. Wondering, as he did: Where to now?
The ice plain War-Heaven they’d passed through had been more frigid, but there, they’d been driven by fear and amazement, like cattle before dogs. Here, however — in the empty silence of this dry flatland, everything dusk-coloured for ash, or stone, or coal — their travels’ exhaustion was suddenly that much harder to stave off, dull wind-chill leaching heat straight through the illusion of clothing. And for all the stars overhead were those Chess knew, their unnatural brightness and colourless light betrayed the truth. This was not the real world, still.
Jesus. How much further, exactly?
All directions looked alike, from where they stood. The grass was silver-grey, motionless even under a steady breeze, the soil it grew from black; Chess raised one hand to shade his eyes and scowled at his flesh’s flinty hue, far too much like a (truly) dead man’s for comfort.
“So now what?” he asked Oona, who shook he
r head.
“Still can’t see the trail — can’t see nothin’ else, neither, for that matter. You?”
Shrugging, he squinted hard into that bleak wind, felt it draw phantom tears. ’Til, vision clearing, he finally caught sight of a slight variance in the general scheme of grey on black. Saw how, though the light in the distance had much the same washed-out pallor as everything else, its wavering movement identified it as — a campfire, by Christ, flames shimmering pearlescent and oily black by turns, coldly insubstantial. A second later, Chess could just make out the black silhouette of a man sitting just before it, and tensed as that same man — square-set, face hidden by darkness and distance alike, yet with something distinctly familiar to his whole bearing — twisted in his seat to look back at them.
Who . . . ?
He knew far too many of this underworld’s denizens, it occurred to him, and not for the first time. Probably shouldn’t’ve gotten so damn many people killed, while Up Top.
As if cued by that thought, the man raised one arm and swept it back and forth, impatiently, the gesture plainly beckoning — like he knew full well who Chess was, and wasn’t too pleased by his tardiness.
Chess made a half-step forward, stumbling at first, then striding; Oona took off likewise, scrambling to keep up. “Where we goin’? ’Oo is that?”
“Friend, I think — close enough, anyhow. C’mon, woman.”
“Sure? You ain’t got all too many friends, from what I’ve
observed. . . .”
“You should talk. C’mon!”
He grabbed for her hand, and she came — learning to trust him, for once, or could be she was just too damn tired to fight. And thus they pulled up fireside, where the man was already getting to his feet, turning his bearded face Chess’s way, still seamed and burnt with weather that’d never touch him further. And grinning just a little bit, cheeks creasing further. “So there you are,” he said. “Took long enough.”
Kees Hosteen, as Chess didn’t live or breathe.
