Merkabah Rider: Have Glyphs Will Travel

by Edward M. Erdelac

  Josephine’s emerging features blew away, scattered into the chaos of the dreaming by the blazing light that exploded from within.

  She came on, still the figure of a pale woman, but now a woman of terrible light and fury. Her pale, white-gold hair was unbound, and whipped about like wheat stalks in a cyclone as she left the surface of the rutted street and massive elegant wings unfolded from her back. With one beat of those wings the half-formed backdrop of the town shattered and exploded into whirling chaos, and she propelled herself towards the Rider and Adon.

  Adon shrank before her.

  No parasol in her hand now, she bore a great drum, suspended by a golden harness.

  “You presume to encroach upon my domain, mortal?” she accused. Her voice and expression were tremendous and withering.

  Adon threw up his hands, his lips trembling.

  “Skulking, ghostly pissant,” Ragshiel bellowed as she came. “Long have I hunted you among the dreams of men. At last here you are. Acher! Dweller on The Threshold.”

  Adon regained himself long enough to stretch his hands in a weird pass and glare defiantly up at the terrible figure swooping down on him.

  Ragshiel beat a thunderous rhythm on the great drum. Each strike seemed to beat not only the drum, but the world itself. Adon himself shook to pieces, beginning with his hands and traveling down his arms to the elbow. Everything the sound touched seemed to simply crumble away. Then Adon vanished.

  Not only him, but the numberless dreams that surrounded them and filled the gulf began to burst and dissipate like bubbles.

  Ragshiel ceased beating the drum and looked down at the Rider.

  “I have wakened the world, Rider,” she said. “Acher is not dead. He has fled. Find him.”

  Where? He wanted to shout back. How?

  But then he was awake in his own body, and there was a violent hiss close in his ear. He turned his head and opened his mouth, remembering Adon’s words (and wishing just then that he could remember the name of that angel whose precinct was serpents), and caught the rattlesnake around the throat in his teeth. It thrashed and coiled about his fumbling hands, but he couldn’t imagine it was more terrified than he was.

  He staggered to his feet, wrestling with the thing in the dark, not daring to bite down or to sling it away for fear that it would slip from his jaws and kill him dead. He had heard a saying that the truly righteous were immune to snake bites, but he wasn’t about to test his own righteousness just then.

  Then the door to the Dark Cell opened and a huge form stalked into the doorway.

  Things seemed to align in that instant. The efforts of the snake shifted just so. The Rider opened his mouth and hurled the hissing, rattling thing straight at the figure in the doorway.

  O’Doyle shrieked once, but the sound died in his throat. The terrified rattler struck half a dozen times before he fell back against the rock wall, twice darting its snapping head into his gaping mouth.

  The Rider staggered toward the silvery light, pausing only to dip his hand down and snag O’Doyle’s Winchester.

  He left the man gagging and twitching on the floor and passed out into the darkened yard.

  Adon would be in Laird’s office. The Rider slid along the shadowed walls like a rat keeping to the dark.

  The Incorrigible guards were pointing their guns at the cages, hissing urgent enquiries at the two convicts who were sitting upright in their cots.

  “What’s the matter with you all?”

  “What happened?” one of the convicts asked as the Rider slipped behind them and made for the Yard Office.

  “You both woke up screamin’ like a couple of banshees,” said the other guard. “Scared the piss outta me.”

  “Had a nightmare. There was this…big sound. Noise. Like a…”

  “Like big goddamn drum,” finished the other.

  “Yeah,” said the first, staring at the other.

  The Rider slinked on.

  He heard hushed conversations similar to that one echoing in the stone chambers of the main cell block. All the prisoners had awoken at the same time. Ragshiel had roused the world to flush Adon out.

  The guards were unlocking the cell block gates to go in and see what the commotion was. A few others were walking dazed across the yard from their quarters, pulling up their britches and whispering to each other.

  No one noticed the Rider.

  No one but the thin figure who came out of the Yard Office unannounced as he was passing the door and collided with him.

  The Rider threw him against the wall and drew him down into a dark shadow cast by the door, one hand clamped over the interloper’s mouth.

  It was Jethro Auspitz. The man with Adon’s face.

  The Rider put a finger to his lips until Auspitz stopped struggling, then slowly moved his hand enough for the man to speak.

  “Oh God,” Auspitz whispered, eyes bugging. “Don’t kill me. Please…please I…I don’t even know you…”

  “I know,” the Rider whispered back. “I know, and I’m sorry. It was a mistake. What are you doing out here?”

  “Darning stockings,” Auspitz said. “They…they let me walk back to the cell block on my own.”

  “You’ve got to come with me.”

  “What? No! Please…I thought you said…”

  “I won’t hurt you again. But listen to me. You have to come with me. I can’t let you go back there.”

  “Are you…escaping?” he said in an even lower voice.

  The Rider opened his mouth, and Auspitz grabbed hold of his arms.

  “Please take me with you. I don’t belong here. I don’t even know how I got here. I didn’t do anything. I can’t take it. I can’t live like this.”

  “Alright,” the Rider said. He wasn’t exactly planning to escape, but alright. “Just stay close. Come on.”

  The Rider released his hold on the man, and true to form, he ducked down and followed the Rider along the wall.

  They reached the superintendant’s office undetected, and for a moment the Rider was sure he and Adon would move into the shadows and find mud-crusted LaChappa laying in wait there, springing out of the black with that stubby, painted club to bash their skulls to pieces. But the Indian was nowhere to be seen. It would be moments before one or more of the guards went pounding on the door to alert Laird about the weird ruckus going on all over the prison.

  The Rider paused only for a moment and gestured for Auspitz to stay close and keep quiet.

  Then he kicked open the office door.

  Adon was seated at the desk, groggily rubbing his temples with the knuckles of either hand. He half leapt from the chair as the Rider and Auspitz barged in. He lunged for the desk drawer, but the Rider lurched across the room and swung the barrel of the rifle out, catching the man’s jaw and putting him to the floor.

  Except it wasn’t Adon anymore. It was just Laird.

  The Rider knew, standing over the groaning acting superintendant. Something in his eyes. The Rider didn’t know this man at all.

  Still, the Rider levered the Winchester and put the barrel against his forehead.

  “Whoo…whoo…tha…hell’re uuu?” Laird mumbled over his sagging, broken jaw.

  The man didn’t even know him. They had never met.

  Adon was gone.

  He had come in here to kill Adon, though come to think of it, that would have meant murdering the acting superintendant, an innocent man for all he knew. But Adon had leapt away into another body. He could be a guard, one of the Quechans, a convict even.

  He hadn’t really planned to live through this.

  “Now what?” Auspitz said excitedly.

  “There’s a pistol in the desk drawer,” the Rider said. “Get it.”

  “I didn’t know it would be like this,” Auspitz stammered, putting up his hands. “I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

  “You won’t. It’s not loaded. Hurry up.”

  Auspitz went behind the desk and began rummaging through the dr
awers. In a moment he had the revolver.

  “Get up,” the Rider said to Laird.

  Laird got up.

  The Rider spun him around and put the barrel of the rifle against the base of his skull.

  “Get behind me,” the Rider yelled to Auspitz as the first guard burst into the room and stopped dead.

  He could feel Auspitz pressed close behind him, keeping low. Good.

  Another guard ran in behind the first and nearly bowled him over.

  “Guns down,” the Rider hollered at them.

  The guards unbuckled their belts and let their rigs drop to the floor.

  “Kick ‘em over here!”

  They did.

  “Shut that door.”

  The second guard booted the door closed behind him.

  He glanced back at Auspitz.

  “Take one of the rigs and buckle it on.”

  “I don’t want to…”

  “Do it!”

  He felt Auspitz crouch down, heard the rasp of one of the gunbelts being scooped up, the clink of the buckle.

  He moved out from behind the bleeding Laird and glanced about the office. There was a storeroom adjoining. He walked over to it, still covering the guards, and peeked inside.

  There were boxes of soap among other things, and a rack dangling with restraints. He took three sets of wrist shackles and draped them over his arm.

  “Take it easy, 1748,” warned the first guard.

  “Yeah,” said the second. “There ain’t no way outta here.”

  “Take off your coats, your hats, and your pants,” the Rider said, popping open his dirty, bloodied prison shirt.

  He looked at Auspitz, still covering Laird with a shaky hand.

  “You do the same.”

  “We’re not going to hurt anybody?” Auspitz asked.

  “Not if we can avoid it,” the Rider promised.

  When they had switched clothes and shackled the guards, the Rider looked back at the desk and moved behind it. He pulled all the drawers open, coming at last to the bottom-most on the left hand side.

  There, all in a jumble, were his belt, eyeglass case, and talismans.

  He pulled out the drawer and dumped the contents on the desk. He threw the gunbelt with the Volcanic pistol and knife over his shoulder. He scooped the talismans into a handkerchief he found in the guard’s coat, tied a knot in it, and shoved it too in his pocket.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  In a matter of moments the group was crossing the yard, headed for the Sallyport and the stable outside. It looked like Acting Superintendant Laird was accompanying a pair of guards escorting two prisoners.

  The two guards in question were the doorkeepers of the main cell block, but in the dimness no one could see much of their features beyond their uniforms. It was strange to the Sallyport guard that Laird was not with his right hand man O’Doyle, who, uniform or no, could be picked out of a crowd by his sheer size. But the fact that two prisoners were being led out in the middle of the night wasn’t too out of the ordinary. It was known that the Acting Superintendant had all kinds of double-dealings going which Superintendant Meder would never stand for. Sometimes he loaned the convicts out under guard for labor in Yuma, or met with rafts or riverboats down by the river, unloading secret packages or selling off what he deemed surplus goods.

  The Sallyport guard turned away as they passed. He had always told himself that if he didn’t know everything that was going on then he couldn’t be blamed for it later.

  The two middle shift sharpshooters in the wooden guard tower that night were a bit more on edge, having not only heard and observed the ruckus of all the prisoners awaking at the same time over the wall, but also having experienced it personally, since they had long ago agreed to take turns sleeping (and had craftily dozed on their watches as well).

  However, they were too caught up in incredulity at having shared a dream of tremendous drums and the heated philosophical discussion that resulted to notice the acting superintendant, two guards, and two shackled prisoners rig up a buckboard and go rumbling down Prison Hill.

  The only one who did notice was LaChappa, the kwoxot of the Quechan trackers. He had just returned from calming his own subordinates, who had apparently all dreamed of a woman with a drum. He was not prone to superstitions, but the strangeness of the happening was undeniable. He was settling down to a bottle of mescal to contemplate the portent of this weird event when he observed Laird and two guards he didn’t recognize go off in a buckboard, with two prisoners he did. The shackled convicts were Blaylock and Ames, and they were not convicts at all, but guards.

  LaChappa realized what was happening right away, but he did not rouse his rattled fellows or give any alarm. The white guards would only slow him down and he didn’t feel like listening to the womanly talk of ill omens that would likely issue from the other Quechans if he gathered them for a hunt.

  He took one sip of his mescal and went and got his horse.

  Auspitz drove, apparently glad not to be the one to have to point a pistol at two law officers and the Acting Superintendant of the prison.

  The Rider sat in back with their hostages, covering them. He knew they would be extremely lucky if no one came after them before daybreak, but he had counted on Laird’s reputation for under the table dealings and unapproved convict labor to keep them safe through the Sallyport. No doubt Ragshiel’s doings in the dreaming world had also been sufficient cover for their escape.

  But they were far from safe. Headed east along the Devil’s Highway in the pitch black desert, the Rider had no idea where they were going. There were settlements along the way, sure, but what would they find when they stopped at one? Plus, the horse pulling the buckboard wouldn’t last till morning, and he had to let his hostages go eventually of course.

  There was a small town called Coffin coming up, which he had passed through on the way here from Mexico. It was possible he could stop there, switch out the horses, and head off into the desert, but where? Back to Mexico? The Quechans would be on his trail in the morning, and if their reputation held even an iota of truth, then he had to find a way to make a great deal of ground, and quickly.

  The train was his best bet. Somehow hopping on the train and riding it to Phoenix.

  He had no idea when the next one was due.

  He had kept the tracks in sight on his left as best he could, but they were veering away from the road now and he had to make a decision. Risk stopping in Coffin, or follow the tracks and chance being caught by the Quechans before a train showed up.

  He prayed for guidance silently.

  Then of course, there was Auspitz, and what to do with him.

  That decision at least, had to be made. And now.

  He readied himself, then patted the driver on the shoulder and called to him.

  “Stop the wagon.”

  “What? Here?” Auspitz asked in confusion.

  “Here.”

  The rattling buckboard drew to a halt in the dark, and the only sound was the horses panting.

  Laird and the two guards looked at each other and then at the Rider, fearful. They thought their time was at hand.

  The Rider drew the revolver from his pants and stood up.

  “Everybody out.”

  “Nuh…liffen, miftuh…iffayou…” Laird began.

  The Rider cocked the pistol.

  “Get down.”

  Laird and the guards slowly clambered out of the buckboard, chains jingling.

  Then the Rider turned and pointed the pistol at Auspitz.

  “You too.”

  Auspitz looked back in surprise.

  “What’s this?” he spluttered.

  “Down,” the Rider repeated.

  Auspitz jumped down into the road alongside the others. When he turned, there was a revolver in his hand. He aimed it up at the Rider and pulled the trigger.

  The hammer snapped on an empty chamber.

  “You don’t have much regard for my intelligence,
Adon,” said the Rider.

  It was not the guard’s pistol that had been in the holster. While Adon had driven the wagon, The Rider had slipped that out and replaced it with the one from Laird’s desk, which he knew the acting superintendant had kept unloaded, even when possessed.

  Adon dropped the useless revolver in the road and raised his hands, saying nothing.

  “I’ve experienced a lot more coincidences than I believed in before recently,” said the Rider. “But running into you on the way to kill the acting superintendant wasn’t one of them. I wasn’t sure till after we left the prison, but you’re a bad actor. You don’t sound a thing like Auspitz.”

  “But kill me, and you kill an innocent man, Rider,” said Adon, “in front of witnesses.”

  “To kill you, I would do it,” the Rider said, looking down the pistol at him. Besides, he had already murdered a woman in front of a marshal.

  “Will it work?” Adon said, smiling confidently. “Do you think I’ve survived thousands of years from body to body without learning how to avoid the sinkhole of death?”

  This was what had given the Rider pause since he’d realized Auspitz was Adon once again. Jacobi had demonstrated the ability to possess a body, commit suicide, and survive. There was no doubt now that it was Adon who had taught him that reckless skill. It was very likely that killing Adon in the body of Auspitz wouldn’t do a thing. Why didn’t Adon come out and say that? Why did he leave it ambiguous?

  Because he wanted the Rider to kill Auspitz. He wanted more innocent blood on his hands. He wanted to drive the Rider to his side of the conflict.

  The Rider hesitated, staring down at the man in the road. The man who was his greatest enemy, and yet was also just a bewildered tailor who had done some innocuous forgery in his time.

  He wanted dearly to pull the trigger and end it. But nagging in his mind was the notion that it wouldn’t be the end, coupled with a terrifying thought that there could be no end, except the return of the Great Old Ones. The only way for Adon to die was for him to get what he wanted, for him to burn the entire universe down.

  What could he do then? He couldn’t even keep Adon with him in Auspitz’s body, because Adon could just vacate it and escape whenever he wanted.