Aeon Nine

by Aeon Authors

And I won’t say we kicked the dog by the time another Friday night rolled around again. But we nudged him a good one.

  We’re going out. Her hands shake and she jabs us in the eye with the mascara wand.

  We’re back at the club. She must have concentrated on the road the entire drive here because I missed all of it. I have two seconds to get my bearings before—

  Ava freezes.

  My gaze is hers, and it’s on Jarett. And Jarett is plastered against Michelle. He catches sight of us and the eyes on Ava widen. The eyes on me are full of misery but their lips are on someone else and my hand is clenching.

  Ava flees to the bar, but I stay quite still.

  She orders a drink, but I circle the room.

  Behind the bar, along the dance floor, over the disco ball.

  This is against the rules.

  To hell with the rules.

  My fist plows into Michelle’s reflection and both of them double over. She vomits tequila and her double goes for my eyes. He tries to get between us even as Jarett backs away from the mess. The strobe lights and throbbing bass line cover the chaos.

  He holds me around the waist and I’m a little conflicted. I want to kiss him, kick him in the nuts and run away all at the same time.

  Michelle drags herself away, gagging and screaming. Her reflection hesitates. All around us, other mirror images notice the commotion and then join the fray. They howl and dance on tables, tear off their clothes and screw in corners. It’s a little scary, because someone is going to look in the mirrors and see us misbehaving.

  Ava is at the bar, sobbing into her drink. I should go to her, but—

  “There’s going to be hell to pay,” he says to me. Then his lips are on mine and I couldn’t care less if the world implodes and takes Ava with it.

  The mirrors begin to splinter. Cracks run along every surface and break us into pieces.

  “Hold on to me!” he yells as the lights flare and explode. Everyone in the bar is plunged into darkness. We’re all lost.

  But he’s got me around the waist and I hold on to him. I think I can hear Ava calling, but she’s on her own.

  Remember

  Josh Rountree

  “I’m a lifelong Texan, and my writing is heavily influenced by the state’s unique mythology. When I decided to write a story about how people might find hope in a hopeless situation, I knew I had to set it during the siege of the Alamo. The rest, of course, is history.”

  “I SHALL HAVE TO FIGHT the enemy on his own terms, yet I am ready to do it, and if my countrymen do not rally to my relief, I am determined to perish in the defense of this place, and my bones shall reproach my country for her neglect.”

  —Lieutenant Colonel William Barret Travis, March 3, 1836

  A lone horse thundered across the plain, flanks lathered in sweat, a low-bent rider urging her toward the old mission. Lieutenant Colonel Travis tore his gaze away from the Mexican forces congregating near La Villita and followed the rider’s progress. He grew anxious when he realized it was Bonham returning. Possibilities battled in his heart; fear, hope, cynicism all firing volleys in the war for his soul. Whatever word Bonham carried would decide their fate. He was certain. They’d managed to hold the mission for over a week, but if the Mexican army decided to attack in earnest, the scattering of men at his command would fall in a matter of hours.

  Travis ordered open the gate and climbed down from the wall, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that Bonham carried bad news. Yet, did it really matter? With or without reinforcements, he intended to lead his men in defense of this place. Bonham wouldn’t be the first courier to return with word that no help was coming.

  Travis exercised every bit of restraint he possessed in allowing Bonham to dismount before asking his question. “What news, James?”

  Chest heaving, riding coat layered with dirt, James Bonham shoved a letter into Travis’s hand. How long had Bonham ridden to bring this dispatch, and what caliber of man was he to return to near-certain death? “Three-Legged Williamson. He says he’s pulling men together to send this way.”

  “How many?”

  “Not sure. But he says to hold out. They’re coming.”

  How many could Williamson muster? Two hundred, maybe three? Counting the enemy forces was difficult—reinforcements continued to arrive every day and they’d begun to fan out around the mission—but they numbered at least fifteen hundred. On his less optimistic days, Travis estimated closer to six thousand.

  “Still no word from General Houston,” Travis said. “I’ll send out more pleas today. Though I can’t say what good it will do.”

  “It depends on how long it takes for the Mexicans to work up the nerve to storm the walls.” Bonham flinched as a cannonball exploded near the chapel doors. Travis and the rest of the defenders were so accustomed to cannon fire that the impact hardly registered. Bonham would have to re-acclimate himself to the onslaught. He made his way to the well as bits of broken earth rained down around them.

  “What’s he doing?” Bonham pointed to a bent old man, kneeling before a mostly-intact barracks wall that faced the mission’s main courtyard. He worked the tip of a horsehair paintbrush in neat, delicate strokes, and much of the wall had already been transformed into a breathtaking mural.

  “Painting.” Travis said, retrieving a bucket of water for his friend. “He’s been at it for a few days now. Half the walls on the north end are covered, and so is the entire inside of the chapel. He works fast.”

  Bonham drank his fill before responding. “Why is he doing that? Hasn’t anyone told him those walls are coming down soon?” Bonham attempted a grin, but another cannonball dissolved his gallows humor.

  “As far as I can tell, he’s insane. Never talks, never eats, just paints all day and night. He’s not harming anyone, so I haven’t tried to stop him. The man’s not a bad artist. He painted a forest of pines on the north wall. They remind me of the ones that grow up around Mine Creek back in Carolina. Remember?”

  Bonham nodded, the memory of pine cones and high summer mornings in his eyes.

  “So real you’d swear you could walk right between the trunks and take a stroll. Although Crockett seems to think they’re mountains or something.”

  “Well, crazy or not, I sure hope he can fire a gun.”

  “Do me a favor and spread the word to Crockett and the volunteers. I’ll address the regulars. After that, try to get some sleep.”

  “I will.” Bonham turned away and headed toward a gang of shabbily dressed men with mismatched rifles congregated near the stock pens. His pace was slow but deliberate. The man was bent by weariness but unwilling to show it in his stride.

  “James?” Travis called out as gunfire cracked in the distance. Bonham rounded back to face him.

  “Thank you,” Travis said.

  Bonham nodded, then turned back to his task.

  David Crockett held court near the chapel doors.

  His Tennessee boys had heard all his stories a thousand times, but Kimbell’s men had arrived only two days ago, and they’d yet to hear the entirety of his legend. They clustered around him, leaning on rifles and clapping one another on the back when Crockett relayed a far-fetched tale about a Creek Indian, a grizzly bear, and the Vice-President’s daughter. It wasn’t that Crockett had a particularly high opinion of himself, but he understood men. Give them the idea that great things were possible, and they just might believe it.

  “So when the idiots decided they didn’t want me any more, I told them ‘You may all go to hell, and I will go to Texas.’”

  This drew a whoop of appreciation from the assembled soldiers. Crockett answered them with a crooked smile, grasped his long lapels with both hands and pushed out his chest. “And I’m still glad I came. Damn that army out there and damn their red flag.” He pointed out beyond the walls, in the direction of San Antonio de Béxar. The twin towers of the San Fernando cathedral reached heavenward, and a red flag billowed overhead. “Santa Anna ordered that flag flown
. Do you know why?”

  Many nodded their heads, but the newcomers simply stared expectantly.

  “It signifies no quarter. He’s demanded unconditional surrender. There will be no survivors if we lose this battle. Any living men will be put to the sword. Incidentally, those of you who rode in with Captain Kimbell are to be commended. You’re either fools or patriots, and I love both.”

  This drew a scattering of nervous laughter, but none could shake the specter of the red flag bleeding across the sky like Hell’s own standard.

  “First thing you should learn is that Mr. Travis is the latter. And he will not fail in his command. When the Mexicans demanded our surrender, do you know how he answered them? With a cannonball. That’s the type of man Mr. Travis is, and that’s the type of men you must be.”

  The men erupted, raising their rifles in the air and cheering an improbable victory. Crockett broke away from the group, his thinning face split with a grin, and he didn’t allow his smile to falter until he’d retired to the relative privacy of his sleeping chamber. Here he sat on his cot, head in hands, wishing he were half as confident as he led the men to believe. Cannons roared in the distance and Crockett wilted beneath the Mexican army’s incessant, mocking bugle music.

  They blew El Degüello. And he knew what that meant.

  Death was a foregone conclusion.

  And yet, he still felt the need to lead these doomed men. Travis might be in charge of the soldiers, and Bowie had fancied himself in charge before taking ill, but Crockett knew he alone commanded the men’s fighting spirit, and without his constant reinforcement, morale would crumble. They would all die here, but they would do so standing tall.

  Crockett sipped a cup of water and attempted to shake his melancholy. A cool breeze crept into the room, smelling of gunpowder, and it reminded him of his days in the Tennessee mountains with Jackson’s outfit. This in turn reminded him of the astonishing painting on the barracks wall—huge sloping hills, jagged with pines, wide blue skies with low-hanging clouds creeping in from beyond the horizon. For whatever reason, someone had been painting murals all over the place, but this particular one called to Crockett, and he found himself stopping to admire it on numerous occasions, even going so far as to take the roundabout route from one place to another so he might catch a passing glimpse. It was so lifelike, it seemed possible to step out onto that mountain ridge and take a deep breath of Tennessee air.

  Part of him wished he could, wished he’d never come to this place. But he knew even if such an escape was possible, he’d never take it. Such a thing was outside the realm of his character.

  Still, it was a lovely thought.

  James Bowie lay on his cot, fearing his own delusions. He knew no other way to describe them. He shivered beneath a filthy wool blanket, coughing up blood, sticky with sweat. Alligators swam in the sky while gnarled tree limbs reached down from the ceiling and threatened to pull him into the swamp.

  He closed his eyes, trying to convince himself it was just the sickness, a byproduct of his fever. What else could it be? Even in his compromised state, James Bowie was smart enough to realize he hadn’t really seen a feeble looking man take to the air and paint a living swamp on the ceiling. Yet when he opened his eyes, the flicker of the oil lamp burning at his bedside still breathed motion into the impossible scene. The odor of mud and mold was redolent in his death chamber.

  It would be an inauspicious death for a man of his legend, but Bowie was certain the fever would take him before the Mexicans could. Every cough felt like a knife blade parting his throat, and the appearance of these delusions could not be a positive sign. He tried to sit up, but fell back against the cot, once again besieged by hacking coughs.

  He didn’t understand what was happening, but when his coughing finally subsided and he resigned himself to the surreal circumstances, the swamp lost its sense of menace and provided an odd sort of comfort. Overhead, a fat water moccasin lounged in the crook of a cypress tree, peering out from a nest of Spanish moss. Silver light danced across the midnight waters and insects buzzed through wispy fog. The scene put Bowie in mind of his grandfather’s house outside Opelousas, the place where he’d spent much of his young life and a place he dearly loved. Somewhere logs popped in an old stone fireplace and he could smell the wood smoke drifting like memory through the stale room.

  He recalled casting his line in murky waters, digging in the mud for crawfish, listening to the distant call of wolves late into the night. Finding himself once again surrounded by this world of permanent twilight, he wondered why he’d ever left someplace so flush with magic. He’d often considered abandoning his new life and returning to the place he’d been happiest. But there was always some cause to claim his whim; Louisiana would be there when he was ready. And so would all the ghosts of his past.

  They watched him now, his grandfather a solemn figure in homespun clothes, his mother and father gathered beside him, welcoming their son him home with smiles that forgave his every sin, and best of all his Cecilia, walking toward him in the wedding dress she’d never had the opportunity to wear. His beautiful fiancé, gone these many years and never a day had passed that she hadn’t haunted his memory. She held her hand out to him, pale and delicate as a field of daisies.

  Bowie reached toward the ceiling, desperate to feel her touch, but the coughing returned. He doubled over in pain and released a silent scream, unable to breath. Cecilia moved closer, stepping out of the swamp and reaching for him, so close he could smell the flowers in her hair. The coughing spell would not relent and tears welled in his eyes.

  “Marry me?” asked Cecilia, her voice delicate as crystal.

  Bowie nodded, unable to speak. He stretched both arms skyward, coughing, fighting his own mortality for one last second with his love. When her fingers found his at last, the coughing stopped. The death chamber was gone, and only swampland remained. Bowie clasped her in his arms, afraid he might lose her again, and together they returned to the realm of sweet memory.

  “Bowie is dead. We found him in his cot this morning.” Travis delivered the news to Crockett, unsure what kind of reaction to expect. Crockett considered the matter for a few seconds in silence before nodding his head.

  “Unfortunate, but not unexpected. I’m surprised he lasted this long. This is your command, but if you’d be willing to accept my advice—”

  “I would.” Travis had never felt like less of a leader. Despair continued to build like ominous clouds overhead, and it was only a matter of time before the storm hit. Travis was more than willing to share his portion of responsibility.

  “Don’t speak to the men about this.” Crockett wore a serious expression, quite the opposite of the laughing frontiersman persona he used to bolster the troops. His sideburns were ragged and unkempt, and the beginnings of a patchy beard shadowed his face. Crockett was letting himself go, and something that looked suspiciously like fear dwelled in his eyes.

  “You think it will be bad for morale.”

  “Yes I do. If a man like that dies before the battle even starts, what chance do the rest of us have against an unbeatable army?”

  Travis and Crockett exchanged a silent stare, twin pillars of resignation with a single unspoken sentiment between them.

  We are going to die.

  There was little doubting it. Bonham had been back more than a day and still there was no sign of help coming. Santa Anna wouldn’t wait much longer. Sensing the storm’s approach, Travis had written one final letter making provisions for his son in the event of his death. This letter had been included with another batch of messages begging for aid, but any help they could summon would likely be too late in coming. He couldn’t imagine the Mexican army waiting longer than another few days before bringing the full weight of their forces to bear.

  Travis broke eye contact, not wishing to find any more weakness in Crockett’s stare.

  By late afternoon, Travis deduced that the attack was coming soon. The sounds of celebration and random
gunfire had disappeared, replaced by an interminable silence that proved far worse than the constant bleating of El Degüello. The Mexican army seemed to have grown more serious, filing back and forth in the streets of San Antonio de Béxar to the West, tightening around the North, South and East sides of the mission, all escape and messenger routes effectively cut off. The men sensed it too. And despite Crockett’s constant efforts to keep them laughing and confident, a patina of dread dulled their features.

  Those not staring at the Mexican forces, contemplating their end, studied the endless vista rendered in paint on the courtyard walls. It seemed impossible that one man had painted it in only a few days, and yet it must be the case. The old painter toiled on the last remaining bit of broken wall not yet covered with paint, and Crockett stood at his side, mouth in motion, hands emphasizing whatever point he was trying to make. Travis walked toward them, still awestruck by the lifelike quality of the man’s art. Sun poured from the sky, causing him to squint, and in that moment it seemed there were no walls remaining, just a never-ending forest of pine and spruce. A deer advanced cautiously toward a bubbling river, then bolted for thicker woods when it spotted Travis. He shook his head clear and the world returned to normal. He wondered for a second if his mind was cracking under the strain.

  Crockett saw Travis approaching and waved him over. “Tell me what you see when you look at that painting.”

  “A forest of pine trees. It actually looks a bit like the place where I was born.”

  “Then you don’t see the horsemen?”

  Travis studied the painting, but saw nothing more than trees split by a winding river. He shook his head.

  “That’s what I thought!” Crockett returned his attention to the kneeling painter and tapped him on the shoulder. “Talk to me, sir! Why are you here? How are you doing that?”

  The painter continued his work as if he didn’t notice the red-faced former congressman looming in his peripheral vision.