Merkabah Rider: Have Glyphs Will Travel

by Edward M. Erdelac

  Belden came behind.

  “If you ain’t gonna use that gun, give it to me.”

  “It won’t work for you,” the Rider said, peering at the dark ground, kicking aside the empty scroll case, seeing the candle, the spice box…where was it?

  Belden tore a wooden cross out of the ground and hefted it like a club.

  “Get back you goddamned spawns of hell! Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be they name…” he gibbered, swinging at the dark, smoking shapes crawling across the ground at them.

  The Rider saw it. The thing DeKorte had been sucking on constantly, talking around. Or talking through. Not a root, a bone. Maybe a human finger.

  He lifted it to his eyes, turned it over, and felt the tiny symbol carved into it. The same as on the parchment in the dead woman’s mouth.

  He grimaced, and stuck it between his own teeth, mentally asking forgiveness for having to resort to this.

  He turned and faced the things.

  “Stop!”

  The liquid sound of their movement ceased. The hulking wreck of Gershom froze. Even the commotion at the post, which had been constant in the background, the hammering of hands on barricaded doors, the plaintive moans. It all ceased.

  He worked the bone about in his mouth, thinking. It was awful. It tasted of dust and was still wet and smooth from DeKorte’s saliva.

  “What’d you do, Joe?” Belden said, incredulous. “Why ain’t they killin’ us?”

  The Rider stooped and retrieved the spice box and the candle.

  “Have you got a match?”

  Belden shook his head.

  “No.”

  “Never mind,” said the Rider. He went to a nearby grave marker that had caught the brunt of one of the blasts and held the wick of the candle against a small flame still clinging to life there.

  It caught, and he set the candle aright in the soft earth.

  There was no wine. It would have to do.

  He put the box under his nose and inhaled the scent of the cloves within. “Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha-olam, bo’re minei b’samim,” he intoned. It was the Havdala blessing over the spices.

  He lay the box aside and stared at the light of the braided Havdala candle.

  “Blessed are you, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, Creator of the fire’s light.”

  Then he knelt before the sputtering candle, and turned his hands, staring at the light in his fingernails. Satisfied that he could tell nail from flesh, he reflected on the Midrash which told how Adam had lamented being expelled from the Garden, and saw that he was in darkness. The Lord had caused life-giving fire to spring from his fingernails.

  “Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, Who distinguishes between the sacred and the profane, between light and dark, between Israel and the nations, between the seventh day and the six days of labor. Blessed are You, Lord, Who distinguishes between the sacred and the profane.”

  As he finished the words of the final blessing, he saw the light flare upon his fingernails, as if ten stars had come to rest there.

  Belden took a step back.

  The finger bone in the Rider’s mouth turned to ash and crumbled from his lips, leaving a bitter taste. He spat.

  The remains of Gershom sagged, slumped, and finally fell to the ground.

  On the parade ground, Kabede had been fighting his way through the dead with Hale clinging to his side, dropping the creatures with every touch of the Rod until suddenly they had all of them stopped in place. Moments later they fell in unison like an army of marionettes whose disgusted puppeteer had cut their strings and left them.

  The staff throbbed in Kabede’s fist momentarily, and he turned toward the cemetery where he observed a flash of brief, brilliant light in the night.

  Then all was quiet, but for the last of the soldiers cautiously emerging from where they’d barricaded themselves in.

  The garrison of Camp Eckfeldt now consisted of exactly five enlisted men, leaving the farrier, Hale, the senior-most private, in command.

  In the light of day, at first sight of the potpourri of dead littering the post, he promptly decided to abandon the post.

  Already vultures from all around the valley had descended on the place, and it seemed as if they would make a home here.

  The Rider and Kabede resolved to remain behind and bury as many of the dead as they could identify. It was a thankless and disgusting labor that would take days.

  For their part however, they felt the burden of obligation to every corpse on the ground. Had they not steered through this valley, none of them would have been there.

  “I’ll help,” Belden sighed, though it pained him to say, more even than the grazed shoulder. “As much as you figure you owe them, I guess I owe you. For savin’ us and more.”

  “No one would’ve needed saving if not for us,” said the Rider. For him the heavy regret of Varruga Tanks was compounded now.

  “That’s just one way of thinking, Joe,” Belden said.

  “What other way do you see it?”

  “These people died, sure. But we got two of those bastards. And if only three of ‘em can do this kinda damage then two out of three ain’t bad. Not even half.”

  Gans and Jacobi were dead, yes. But DeKorte, possibly the worst of them, had escaped. Probably Weeks’ dynamite had caused him to inadvertently lose his magic bone in the dark. Fearing a loss of control, he had fled into the dark, likely back to Adon with the news of their failure.

  The Rider’s immediate instinct was to track DeKorte, follow him to Adon, but he was tired. So tired. He couldn’t bring himself to suggest it.

  First they caught as many of the horses as they could. Not surprisingly, the Rider found his onager lingering very near the stables, the ancient scroll still secure in the parfleche on its saddle.

  “That mule of yours is loyal as a dog,” Belden exclaimed, when he saw the Rider leading the shaggy animal back.

  “It’s an onager, Dick,” the Rider answered. “We’ve been through a lot together.” He scratched between the beast’s ears and it nickered appreciatively. “Haven’t we?”

  “Well I don’t guess anybody else would want it,” Belden muttered, curling his lip at the shabby looking monstrosity with the mostly missing ear.

  Hale and the other troopers cut a few ponies out for themselves, packed them with provisions, and said their goodbyes.

  “Looks like we got the run of this place for awhile now,” Belden observed as they watched Hale and the others make their way down the trail. “I don’t think any of those boys’ll be reporting this.”

  “What about you?” the Rider asked. “No evidence of a court martial now. That means you’re still a sergeant major. You could report it all yourself.”

  “I don’t guess I want to be the one doing that either,” Belden admitted. “No, I think the Army and me are through.”

  “So, now what will you do with the rest of your life?” Kabede asked.

  “That’s a good question,” was all Belden said.

  They reburied Gershom’s remains first in the post cemetery, and this time Kabede said the Kaddish over the grave.

  “If this boy’s body was used by the Creed, then that proves that Adon is in league with Lilith and her shedim,” Kabede observed.

  “Yes,” the Rider agreed. “Lucifer didn’t lie.”

  “Not about that at least,” Kabede said cautiously.

  They worked through the days, digging and toting corpses, scraping remains into shallow holes and beating back buzzards. At the end of it, it would take more than a mikvah to cleanse the dirt of it all from their souls.

  Kabede realized this when the time came to bury Gans.

  “I’ll take care of it,” the Rider volunteered.

  He went to the guardhouse where Gans had been left suspended in the congealed insect guts. He took no shovel or tools.

  “Let us help you!” Belden called. “You’re gonna need somethin’ to get him off the ceiling.”<
br />
  But the Rider waved them both off.

  “He’s punishing himself pretty hard, ain’t he?” Belden said to Kabede, as they watched him go inside. By now they had broken up the wood of the collapsed buildings and were busy fashioning markers for the men of the garrison. The zombie fragments they had pushed into a mass grave and marked as ‘Unknown Civilians.’

  “Yes,” Kabede said. “He blames himself for a great deal.”

  “This Adon fella he’s after. It sounds like killin’ him’s the right thing to do. But do you think it’ll be enough to put it all right for Joe?”

  Kabede looked at Belden. “I don’t know.”

  Moments later, the Rider came out of the guardhouse, Gans’ repeating rifle in his hand.

  He tossed it to Kabede as he got close.

  “We’re going to teach you to shoot,” he said, and walked past them to the barracks without another word.

  “What about Gans?” Kabede asked.

  Then he saw the smoke billowing from the open doorway, and the first of the tongues of fire stretching out of the barred windows, lapping thirstily at the cool morning air.

  Episode Ten - The War Shaman

  Crack-crack-crack-crack went the chain rifle in Kabede’s hands, and three of the four empty DuPont tins arranged on the rocks jumped in the air and clattered to the ground.

  “You’re getting better,” Dick Belden said to the Ethiopian as he set the French repeater down.

  Since their encounter with three of Adon’s Creed, the Rider had taken the time to tutor Kabede in extraplanar fighting, both of them attempting the same three dimensional movements in the Yenne Velt Jacobi had used. Those lessons were mainly exercises in willpower. It was Dick Belden who had been giving him a foundation in actual physical marksmanship. He had never even held a rifle prior to his instruction.

  “Stones?” Kabede asked with a bright grin.

  “Awright, sure,” Belden said. He reached down and picked up a wedge-shaped stone. He was a champion rock thrower. Kabede much admired his prowess. In fact, he was a decent man for a dohone.

  Belden tossed the stone in the air a few times, watching it turn end over end, then hurled it without warning. The stone smashed with pinpoint accuracy into the base of the can and sent it flipping three times up in the air. It landed miraculously aright on the rock, dented, but otherwise as if it hadn’t been touched.

  “Shiiit,” Belden chuckled.

  Kabede laughed.

  “Let me show you how we do that back in my country,” Kabede said. He picked up the Rod of Aaron which had been stuck point down in the dirt beside him, and fished in his robes for something.

  “Where’s your country again, Kabede? Africa?”

  “In Africa, yes. Ethiopia.”

  “But you’re a Jew.”

  “My people are Bet Y’srael, descended from King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.”

  He produced a braided sling and leather pocket, ran it through a small hole in the head of the staff and tied it off.

  “Does that make you some kinda royalty?”

  “No,” Kabede laughed.

  The sling affixed to the staff, he scanned the ground, found a rock about the size of his fist, and cradled it in the sling pocket.

  He took the staff in both hands, put it to his shoulder, and lunged.

  The big rock arced high into the air. When it came down, it smashed the can flat.

  Belden whistled.

  “Well you’re sure a prince at that. Hey let me try.!”

  He reached for the staff, but Kabede frowned and held it from him.

  “What’s the idea?” Belden scowled. “I only wanna try it.”

  “Forgive me please, Dick,” Kabede said. “But this staff is not for you.”

  “Not for me? That old ju-ju stick?”

  “Please. You don’t understand,” Kabede said. He drove the pointed end of the staff into the dirt and stepped back. “Go ahead. Take it.”

  Belden eyed Kabede weirdly, then reached out to pluck the staff out of the earth. It didn’t budge. He grunted with effort, tried two hands. Nothing.

  “I don’t get it,” Belden said.

  “I told you,” Kabede said.

  “Jewish hoodoo,” Belden scoffed, shaking his head, but eyeing the strangely carved staff with new respect.

  “Hoodoo?” came the Rider’s voice.

  He was walking over in his white shirtsleeves, the gaggle of medallions and wards draped around his neck twinkling in the noonday sun, a rifle boot under his arm. His black trousers were tucked into a pair of brand new cavalry boots taken from the stores. He wasn’t the pale scarecrow he had been when he’d first arrived at Camp Eckfeldt. Four weeks in the sun with all the provisions he wanted had done him good, filled out the hollow spaces on his cheeks.

  “Yeah,” Belden said grinning at the sight of his old friend. “I call it Jewdoo.”

  The Rider smiled. Belden was recovering too. His shoulder was unbound, and his hair and beard, shorn in preparation for a military discharge that had never happened, had begun to grow back. It was not the wild bushy growth it had been in their days with the 2nd Colorado Cavalry, but he no longer looked like a criminal. He had taken his pick of civilian clothes from what had been left behind at the post, as well. His red and white striped blouse had belonged to the late Lieutenant Colonel Manx. His nankeen trousers had been a private’s. Only the light colored planter’s hat and the blue wool sack coat, now stripped of its sergeant major’s chevrons, were his.

  “How’s your marksmanship coming?” the Rider asked Kabede.

  “Fairly well,” Kabede said, picking up his Guycot rifle again.

  “With the amount of rounds in that contraption, he can afford to miss once or twice,” said Belden.

  “He needs to make them all count,” said the Rider.

  “If he can’t bring something down with eighty bullets he’s got no business shooting at it.”

  The Rider snapped his arm down and the rifle boot fell away, revealing a lever-action Henry ‘Yellow Boy’ Rifle, its brass finish glittering. Like the Rider’s Volcanic pistol, it was covered in Solomonic seals and Hebrew inscriptions, newly etched with meticulous care.

  “You’ve got a fondness for antiques,” Belden remarked. “Why’d you do up that old Henry so pretty? There were Spencers in the armory, maybe even a couple Winchesters that might’ve taken your embellishments more handsomely.”

  “Winchesters have those wood forends. No good for etching. The Henry has more surface area.” He flipped the rifle over and pointed out one of the larger sigils to Kabede. “I didn’t have room for this on my pistol, so I added it here with the twenty two seals.”

  Kabede peered at the Elder Sign glyph, prominent on the side of the rifle. His eyes flitted to the Rider’s chest, where a new talisman rode, bearing the same star and eye design.

  “Take it,” said the Rider. “It’s yours.”

  He held the rifle out.

  Kabede stiffened, looking at the painstaking workmanship. The Rider had been holed up for weeks in the blacksmith’s with his tools. He slowly shook his head.

  “I’ll keep this one,” he said, hefting the rifle that had once belonged to Gans of Owernah, one of Adon’s renegade Creed.

  “If we’re going to beat Adon and the Creed, we’ve got to use everything available to us,” the Rider said.

  “If we are to save this world from the Great Old Ones, I believe it will be by the Lord’s works alone,” Kabede said firmly.

  “Now you sound like my teachers,” the Rider said, pushing a bullet into the Henry’s breech.

  “Was it not your trust in infidel trappings that turned them against you? That put this flaw in your faith to begin with?”

  “I did only what I was taught,” the Rider reminded him, levering the cartridge into the chamber.

  “Taught by the man who is now our enemy,” Kabede said.

  The Rider brought the rifle up to his cheek and fired at the stone on th
e flat can on the rock.

  He missed.

  “The sights need adjusting,” he said, excusing himself. He walked back to the blacksmith’s.

  In a few moments the door was shut behind him.

  “His head doesn’t cast a shadow,” Belden observed, when he was gone.

  Kabede looked at Belden sharply.

  “Neither does yours,” Belden continued.

  Kabede looked down at his own shadow. Sure enough, there was no head on its shoulders.

  “I know,” said Kabede.

  “Wanna explain that?” Belden asked.

  “We’re doomed,” said Kabede. “Both of us. In a matter of months, we’ll be dead. But we must see our doom through to the end.”

  “That’s it? You’re just…doomed?”

  “The Rider thinks if we can find ten Jews and a Torah scroll, there might be a chance to avert it.”

  “Ten Jews and Torah? Sounds like a party. Any ideas?”

  “One,” said Kabede. “Tombstone.”

  The Rider emerged for dinner later that night.

  They could have used the mess hall, but Kabede had opted to cook out under the stars, which were very bright in the dark sky this night.

  Over the stew, Belden said, “The supply wagon from Fort Whipple ought to be here any day now. I don’t guess we should be here when they arrive.”

  “I thought maybe the Creed would make another grab at us,” the Rider said, “and I wanted to be as far away from anybody as we could be if they did. But we’ve been here awhile now. I guess we’ll pull out in the morning.”

  “So, I guess we’ll be heading to Tombstone,” Belden said.

  Kabede looked up from his stew and caught the Rider’s eyes.

  “You’re not going with us, Dick,” the Rider said quietly.

  “That’s how you feel about it?”

  “You shouldn’t be involved in this,” Kabede said.

  “Is this a Jew thing?” he snarled, slamming down his tin plate. “By God, Joe, when you and me were in the army, I never tolerated nobody taking you to task for your religion.”

  “I know it,” the Rider said. “It’s not that.”

  “There are very dark forces at work in the universe, Dick,” Kabede said.