by Nancy Holder
Claire pressed a hand tight against her stomach. Tonight when Peter arrived home she would have another surprise for him. She smiled as she prayed that God would give her a son. The local midwife had given her some herbs to put under her bed, that she might have a boy. Claire protested that she didn’t believe in such superstitions. She had put the herbs under her bed, anyway, though, she wanted a son so badly. God willing, maybe I will have one.
The skies opened up and the rain began again. Claire, having swept the debris and excess water from her porch, hurried back inside. She added more wood to the fire in an effort to battle the chill damp in the air. The streets were flooding, an annual occurrence in Johnstown.
Everywhere businessmen were transporting their wares to the second stories of their buildings. Husbands and wives were carting furniture and food upstairs in their homes. Claire had already moved upstairs everything they would need earlier that day.
She glanced back outside at the sheets of rain pelting the street and for a moment felt uneasy. Something didn’t feel quite right, as though there was a strange energy in the air. She shrugged it off with a whispered prayer for the safety of Peter and her little girl. She began to wonder if she would see them both within the hour or if they had stopped along the road, seeking shelter.
Then two young men ran down the street, shouting, “Dam’s breaking! The dam’s breaking!”
The taller of the two ran into the blacksmith, who threw up his hands and said, “Heard that before, young feller!”
“It’s true, it’s happening!” the shorter lad said. Then they raced on, bellowing at the top of their lungs, “Dam’s breaking!”
“Must be foreigners,” the blacksmith said to Claire. “Crazy boys.”
She nodded vaguely, not really listening. Her ears were attuned to another sound: a strange, distant roar, like that of …
… of what? An ocean?
Then she saw the wall of water raging down the hillside. Its immensity shocked her into incomprehension; she had never imagined such a flood in her life; never seen such a thing as the vast, churning waters as they mowed down trees as if they were dandelions. For a moment the sight made no sense to her; she stood in her everyday gingham dress and her second-best white apron, staring. “My God!” she screamed, and she began to run.
She raced past houses where families were scrambling to their second stories; a tree shot through the gully to her left, bounding through a gush of water. She heard the flood behind her, and directly before her stood a house with an open door. She headed toward it, not sure why she did; in her panic she could no longer think clearly.
From behind her she heard screams, heard thunder, and then …
“My God, no!” Peter Cathers cried.
He stood at the rim of the canyon, looking down on the destruction of Johnstown. Swaying with disbelief, he held his child in his arms and screamed for his wife as the waters engulfed everything in their path, then spread out in all directions with grasping, merciless tentacles. Rooftops poked above the raging waters, then disappeared. Whole tracts of trees shot down the hills and slammed straight through buildings.
Bodies of people and animals floated like corks.
“Claire! Claire!”
* * *
He was unaware that as his little daughter closed her eyes to the horrors, her world within telescoped into a strange world of gray mist, rolling across an image: a sailing ship, sails bursting with wind, and a little girl—
—She looks like me!
—tumbling over the side into the ocean.
And a woman on deck shrieking, held back by sailors, as she struggled to free herself and leap into the sea after the girl.
The mists roiled and thickened, then rolled away, and Ginny heard the thoughts of that woman, as if she were standing next to her, speaking directly to her:
Now we are three, we “Cathers.” I have no daughter to carry on the family line, but the boys have at least some magic. Mayhap ’tis just as well. Perhaps it is a sign from the Goddess that House Cahors is truly dead … and that the magick should die with me.
Then two little boys rushed up to her, shouting and throwing their arms around her knees and her waist. The smaller of the two stared straight at Ginny; in her mind, he opened his mouth and, in an eerie, otherworldly voice, said directly to her, “Virginia, I am your ancestor.”
Then Ginny’s eyes snapped open and her small child’s hands grabbed up lanks of her father’s hair as she buried her face against his shoulder and sobbed, “Papa, Papa, the lady is scaring me!”
And then little Ginny saw another thing: a letter, and it read:
Know this then, Hannah, my darling wife, we did not hang them all in Salem. Some—and I am so ashamed to say this—we ducked some, as they did in the Olde World. That is to say, we tied these poor women to stools, and put them in the river. And if they sank, we declared them innocent. Aye, if they drowned, I mean to say, we consigned their souls to God… .
Then Abigail Cathers showed us true witchr’y, and I knew we had murdered innocent women who had no more knowledge of witchcraft than you or I
God have mercy on me, I cannot bear this guilt any longer.
Adieu.
Jonathan Corwin
Then in her mind she saw her own mother bobbing in a room with many chairs, and a table, all underwater. Her mother’s eyes were open, and her hair blossomed around her head like a halo.
Ginny burst into tears and moaned to her father, “Mama has drowned, Daddy. She has drowned!”
At Johnstown, ten thousand were said to have lost their lives. Though Claire Cathers’s corpse was never found, she was declared dead, and Peter Cathers decided to go West, to take his daughter from that place of watery death and find the driest country that he could.
The things that Ginny had seen, she never spoke of again, and in due time, she forgot.
California proved not to be the place for fortune; Cathers father and daughter determined to go north, to Seattle, a place said to be rich in everything but men.
They loaded a wagon with their belongings, mostly mining equipment they no longer needed, for there had been no gold for them in California, and began a long journey toward the Pacific Northwest. Ginny was almost nine then, and considered by all who knew her to be of keen intellect, and a beauty to boot.
Stopping one evening in an encampment, where there was beef stew with real beef and potatoes and onions and carrots, the rough men there spoke of Dr. Deveroo, a seller of patent medicines that could cure what ailed a man.
“He’s comin’ tonight with his travelin’ show,” one of the miners told Peter while Ginny scooped up the last of her beef stew with a hardtack biscuit. They sat side by side on long trestle tables beneath a canvas canopy strung above their heads. The place was lit with lamps, and Ginny thought it looked like a fairy land. “First there’s fine entertainment, and then he sells his patent medicines.” He gestured to Ginny. “She looks a bit peaked. She might could use a few spoonfuls.”
Peter shrugged. “We’ll see.”
“Oh, Papa, can we see the fine entertainment?” Ginny begged.
Peter smiled indulgently. “I suppose, Ginny.” He picked up his tin cup of coffee and sipped it appreciatively. “There’s no charge for the entertainment, I take it?” he asked the miner.
“None, sir,” the man replied. “Deveroo sells his elixir; that’s how he affords the rest.”
About an hour later, as two brightly painted wagons pulled into the encampment, a cheer rose up around the camp. Peter put Ginny on his shoulders so she could see.
“He’s got black hair and black eyes,” she reported.
“Black hair and brown eyes, I reckon,” her father corrected her.
“No, Papa. They are black as coal. And he’s staring right at me.”
Peter felt a little chill; he didn’t know why. He said, “I’m here, Ginny.”
“I know. Oh, and now he’s smiling at everyone.”
“Please, f
riends!” boomed a voice. “Esteemed and illustrious gentlemen! Please have a seat so that all may see our most amazing presentation! My companions and I have traveled the length and breadth of this great land, and we have seen many remarkable sights, some of which we will present to you this very night!”
Everyone settled back onto their seats at the trestle table, affording Peter a look at Deveroo as the man stood up on the buckboard of his wagon. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black suit of clothes with a black waistcoat and a white shirt. He wore a top hat, which he doffed, and his curly hair brushed his shoulders. He wore a drooping mustache … and indeed, his eyes were very black. Peter had never seen the like in his entire life.
The wagon itself was decorated with faces of a strange man made of leaves. The grotesque faces were strangely contorted, appearing rather evil, and Peter wasn’t certain that this “fine entertainment” would prove to be something his daughter should see.
The other wagon was painted with wild swirls of green and red, in no discernible pattern. A very muscular bald man dressed in a leopard skin held the reins, which he put down with a flourish, rose, and picked up a concertina, which he began to play. The squeeze box looked like a toy in contrast with his massive stature.
Two ladies in elaborate golden dresses appeared from the back of the same wagon, lightly tripping down a set of wooden stairs until they alighted on the earth. They began to dance, and Ginny caught her breath, enchanted.
After their dance was concluded, the man in the leopard skin performed many amazing feats of strength, including hoisting two miners seated in chairs over his head. He bent a man’s shovel and twisted a bar of steel into a knot.
“Sandor the Strong Man drinks three tablespoons of my patented life elixir every morning, noon, and night!” Dr. Deveroo proclaimed. “Such a bottle can be yours for only one paltry dollar!”
“Papa, you should buy some,” Ginny told her father.
“Perhaps another time. A dollar is a lot of money,” Peter told her.
Many of the miners did purchase bottles, and some proceeded to begin their three-tablespoon regimen immediately upon receipt.
“And now, watch, my friends, as I amaze and astonish you with feats of magic!” Dr. Deveroo exclaimed.
He clapped his hands and snapped his fingers, then flicked them three times. Flames formed along his fingertips, outlining his hands with fire.
The crowd gasped.
Then he raised his hands above his head and waved them, and the flames extended upward, shooting into the sky.
Peter blinked, astonished. Ginny sucked in her breath again and said, “Papa, how did he do that?”
The flames extinguished, and the man bowed at the audience as the miners broke into wild applause. Then he extended his hands toward the two beautiful ladies, who twirled and curtsied, both smiling so prettily at him.
Slowly, the two rose into the air, still twirling, until they hung high above the wagons, bobbing like golden butterflies.
The crowd fell silent, each man thunderstruck.
“It’s wires,” Peter murmured.
Ginny leaned down to hear him. “Not magic, Papa?”
“Of course not.” But his voice was shaky, as if he didn’t believe what he was saying.
Slowly the ladies floated toward the ground. The men began to applaud, then to hoot and holler. They stamped their feet. They whistled.
“Gentlemen, I thank you!” Dr. Deveroo said, sweeping off his top hat and laying it over his chest. “Now, please lend me your ears as I tell you of the wonders of my patented elixir, which will cure all your ailments like magic. But science is at work here, my friends, not pixies and elves! Science, which paves the new frontier with wonders like my Patented Elixir of Life!”
One of the two women glided toward him carrying a green glass bottle topped with a cork. She handed it to Dr. Deveroo as if it were a precious gem.
He pulled the cork off the top and put the bottle to his lips. “This will make you stronger than ten men! It’ll put hair on your head and a shine in your eye!”
He took a gulp of the liquid. Then he reached forward and put his hand around the woman’s waist. As the crowd watched, he easily lifted her up and held her above his head while he took another swallow of the elixir.
“Yes, gentlemen!” he cried. “Dr. Deveroo’s Patented Elixir of Life will fill you with life!”
He put the lady down and jumped off his wagon. Then he made a show of walking to the back of it. He put both his hands beneath the end of it, squatted, and lifted it up off the ground.
“Papa,” Ginny breathed. “Papa, how can it be?”
Peter guffawed. “It’s all tricks,” he said uncertainly.
“Take me off your shoulders,” she begged. “I don’t want him to see me.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Ginny,” he assured her.
She hesitated, and then she said, “Papa, he’s so strong, he could make the dam break.”
“Oh, Ginny,” Peter said softly. “Oh, my girl.”
Then Dr. Deveroo’s gazed swiveled toward her. He gazed directly at her; she felt his dark stare as if it were a slap across her cheek. His eyes narrowed, and his heavy brows met above his nose. He looked like a devil just waiting to grab her and eat her up.
She clung to her father and wailed, “Papa, get me out of here!”
Heads turned in their direction; a few men smirked, amused by the little girl’s terror as if they, rational men all, had not gaped in silence at the astonishing feats of prestidigitation of Dr. Deveroo mere seconds before.
“Relax, girlie, it’s just for show,” a well-meaning man ventured. He was gray and leathery and had no teeth. He reached out a hand and patted Ginny’s leg, and she writhed as if she had been burned.
“Papa, please, Papa.” She scrambled to the ground, landing hard, and raced into the crowd of men.
“Ginny!” Peter shouted after her. He broke into a run, muttering, “Excuse me, ’scuse me, please, pardon,” as he eased men out of his path. “Ginny!”
How could he have lost her so quickly? But no one could tell him where she had gone. He looked everywhere, all over the camp; and as the show went on and most of the miners lined up to purchase a bottle or two of Dr. Deveroo’s elixir, Peter became more and more frantic.
“Might I help?” Deveroo asked finally, once the last bottle had been sold and the ladies had disappeared back inside their wagon. The man in the leopard skin sat on the buckboard, wolfing down some beef stew.
“I’ve looked everywhere,” Peter confessed, wiping his face.
Then he looked into the eyes of the man. Peter’s lips parted; he felt dizzy all over. Not just dizzy, but rather ill. The man’s eyes … they were completely black. There was no color to them. And if one gazed into them long enough … one would … would …
Peter shook himself. He tipped his hat and said brusquely, “Thank you, sir, but this is a family matter. I’ll find my girl myself.”
Dr. Deveroo inclined his head like a king. He said, “As you wish, Mr… . ?”
And to his dying day, Peter had no idea why he said, “Cavendish. Martin Cavendish.”
“Cavendish,” Deveroo said slowly. “Nice to make your acquaintance, sir.” Deveroo doffed his hat once more. “Well, if I may be of service, please don’t hesitate to call on me. My troupe and I will be camping not far from here.”
“Thank you kindly, sir.” Peter inclined his head and moved away. He was uneasy in his skin; he could barely stand to look at the man, though he had no idea why. He turned his back and quickly strode away.
Ginny. She’s hiding in our wagon.
Suddenly he knew it as certainly as he knew that she was right to be afraid of Deveroo.
Something is amiss here. We are in danger.
Without another look back, he hurried to the wagon, got in, and picked up the reins. Luckily he had not unharnassed the horses. He called over his shoulder, “Ginny? You in there?”
“Papa, ssh,” she hissed back. “He’ll hear you!”
“It’s all right, girl. We’re getting out of here.”
He flicked the reins, and the horses began to move. As they galloped away from the encampment, he saw Deveroo in the process of climbing into his own wagon. The man took off his hat and stared after Peter’s wagon; in the darkness, Peter could not see his face, but he imagined him fiercely glaring at him. A shiver ran up Peter’s spine; he didn’t know why. But he flicked his reins and called, “Hee-yah!” to the horses, and they escaped into the night.
And I’m not stopping until we get to Seattle.
Dr. Deveroo, whose name was actually Paul Deveraux, narrowed his eyes as the Cavendish wagon raced down the trail. Silhouetted by the black night, its plain wooden sides illuminated by stars, it carried interesting cargo: a man and his little girl tetched with witchblood. He could feel it on them, practically smell it on the girl.
Cavendish, he thought. That’s a name I’ll have to remember.
In the ensuing months he traveled the land, performing his magic and selling his elixir. In San Francisco, he received a letter from friends within the Supreme Coven, loyal to the House of Deveraux and eager to dethrone the Moores. The Moores were still running things, still boasting how they could use the Nightmare Dreamtime that old Sir Richard Moore had learned about down in Van Diemen’s Land to get rid of their enemies.
What the Moores did not realize was that through their friends, the Deveraux now possessed the secret of the Nightmare Dreamtime as well.
All we need is the Black Fire, and we’ll be on the throne again, Paul Deveraux reminded himself as he read the letter by the light of a campfire.
His confederate, one Edward Monroe, wrote: We have heard stories of a medicine man in the timberland, who claims to know how to conjure something his people call the Dark Cloud Fire. Perhaps this might prove of interest. The place is called Seattle.”
“Seattle,” Paul Deveraux mused. “Sounds interesting.”
