“For ten years he’s been out killing.”
The old man’s face was dead serious.
“Just a little ways up the road lies Gadara. He’s come home, and the power of the Beast is with him.”
The Rider picked a portrait off the mantelpiece. It was a tintype of a younger Tooms, garbed in the gray of a Georgia infantryman, his wife, a blonde haired, freckled girl with happy eyes and a hoop skirt standing at his side, one porcelain white hand poised daintily on his arm.
“It may be he ain’t too far gone, Gawd willing,” Japheth said, mildly. “I am going to do all I can to win him back, to save his soul.” He clutched The Rider’s elbow firmly. “But if he can’t be saved....my son, will you help me?”
The Rider looked at the writing on the wall, touched the gilded Volcanic pistol at his hip. It was primarily designed for fighting on the astral and ethereal planes, though it could fire lead if he so wished it. He had used it to kill men, but he was far from an expert, and far from eager.
“I’ll help you,” The Rider said, placing the picture back on the mantle. “But you should know. When a man gives himself up to a dybbuk—to an evil spirit, like I suspect this one is—all that he was is consumed. The man who killed all those people is an agent of darkness, not the man you knew.”
“No man is beyond redemption,” Japheth intoned.
“Some men are,” The Rider said, “because they choose to be.”
Outside, the mule in the traces gave a strangled bray as Medgar Tooms cut its throat.
He stood there beside the old preacher’s buggy with the bloody bayonet in his hand, watching the sighing animal sag to its knees. The pigs were already swarming around it, loath to wait for its death. Its kicking hooves caught one young shoat and sent it flopping brokenly against the dead oak, while three others buried their snouts under the mule’s jaw in the wide wound made by Medgar’s blade.
Tooms saw this place in another time, when the grasses swayed in the spring breeze, and the hawks lit on the fence posts as though a reassurance of protection. He saw a woman as though she had been painted into the picture, a woman with hay golden hair through which the afternoon sun shined, and a flushed face indicative of daily toils. She bore slop buckets for the pigs, her thin arms tense with the weight. Then he saw the two blue green eyes, dreamy like far off misty ridges he had seen before the slaughter and the fury. They peered at him and the smile opened up like a June blossom, all sign of hardship melted away. She had loved him, this woman, and he had loved her more than life. Anyone’s life.
Lost in his mind, he leaned briefly to the side, and his hand brushed the plank that stood in the snow like a petrified tree trunk. More images came to him. Of the woman’s swollen belly, full of a mysterious, fluttering life. It wasn’t life in the end, but the stirrings of death. The woman, frail and crying, her dove skin taut with pain, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her white knees exposed and quivering. The small, bloody form quiet and still in his arms. The ragged sound of her last breath hissing like a snake from her chapped and bleeding lips.
The hate came back like a sharp spur to his ribs. Medgar fixed the bayonet to his rifle. He got down on one knee, lifted the rifle to his shoulder, and fired at the pale face that gawked at him through the window of the house.
The huge .450 caliber bullet smashed through the front windowpane like a freight train, sending powdered glass sprinkling through the air to intermingle with the sunlit dust. The Rider barely got out of the way, and fell to the floor with a burning crease in his right shoulder.
He rolled across the floor and put his back to the wall. The Volcanic rasped from his holster.
He checked his loads, and listened to Japheth rustle the pages of his Bible. The old man was huddled behind the corner of the mantle.
A second shot boomed and a heavy ball punched through the wood wall in a scattering of slivers. The bullet burst the floorboard at Japtheth’s right foot and buried itself in a shallow grave beneath the house.
“Blessed be the Lord, my strength, which teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight,” murmured Japheth, opening his Bible, ignoring the crater and brushing away the splinters which had painted little red slashes across his face.
A third bullet screamed in through the open doorway and swept the knickknacks and portraits off the mantelpiece like a raging, angry arm. Their remnants rained down on the old man, and he had to shake broken glass from the pages of his Bible before continuing.
“My goodness and my fortress; my high tower, and my deliverer; my shield, and He whom I trust.”
The Rider watched the old man, his mind racing. If what he had said were true, that Tooms could not be hurt by mortal means, what option was left to them? The Volcanic was only an ordinary pistol on the physical plane. He had no special means with which to kill men; he had never needed any. Had they time, he could have prepared, he could have engaged the dybbukim in the Yenne Velt, maybe drawn it out of Tooms. There was no time to prepare for that now.
Blood coursed down his quivering shoulder. It was the most shallow of wounds, but it bled fiercely.
The Rider risked a glance out the smashed window above his head and saw Tooms crouched by the grave. His pigs were all around him, up to their snouts in the now dead mule. With his pistol he could never hope to hit Tooms at this range, and even if he did, it would do no good.
Again Tooms fired, and the shot blew through the wall beside The Rider and sent the table with the woman’s hairbrush tumbling end over end till it struck the back wall.
The power of Tooms’ rifle was unnatural. No musket made that The Rider had ever seen could retain its power after passing through so many obstacles at such a distance. He was lucky the bullet had only creased his shoulder, else it might have blown his heart clean out into the backyard.
He glanced down at the hole made in the floor and saw that the ball had burrowed relatively deep down into the dark ground beneath the house.
He brought his foot up and down, and the heel of his shoe crashed through the weakened board. He set to work prying aside the adjoining wood and breaking open a hole big enough for a man to fit through.
By Gawd, Japheth thought, why had he brought this poor man into this fight? It was evident that no force of man was going to stop Medgar Tooms.
He had prayed to the Lord after the healing touch had left him, that it be made known to him whether the end of Medgar Tooms’ reign of terror would come about by way of the Bible or by way of the sword. Surely it was evident now that the sword had not been made that could slay Medgar Tooms. Already this Hebrew, who he had felt sure would stand against Tooms, was attempting to flee. But Japheth knew there would be no escape. He had seen the dozens of bodies of those who had tried to escape Medgar Tooms. They lay only yards from the few who had tried to fight him.
Part of Japheth Tubal Lessmoor, the part that contained his body and mind, whispered that there was no defying the infernal power of Medgar Tooms. These were the parts that had shaken and been cowed at the sight he had seen on this property years ago. But another part of him, the part of him that contained his spirit, told him that the Lord would prevail. His Faith had been shaken, and he had hidden from God in his locked church. Because he had shirked his duty as a man of God, so many had lost their lives to the vengeful hand of Medgar.
What it would take to stop him, he did not know, but he felt confident this would be the last day of Medgar Tooms’ murderous career. The killings and the wickedness would end here where it had begun, even if it had to end with his own death.
If he had been an Indian, J.T. Lessmoor might have sung his death song. As it was, he began to read from his Bible, from the Lord of the Thunderstorms, and as he did, he slowly stood.
“The glory of Gawd thundereth. The voice of the Lord is in power. The voice of the Lord is in majesty.”
The Rider kicked off the last bit of splintered board and glanced up at Japheth, who was slowly getting up from behind cover.
“The v
oice of the Lord breaketh the cedars,” the old preacher was saying, and as he did so he was beginning to tremble, and his voice was taking on a queer power.
“Get down, you damn fool!” The Rider hissed.
A bullet came buzzing through the doorway and flew right by the preacher’s face, destroying an old lantern sitting on a shelf only inches behind him. Japheth did not flinch, but began to walk toward the front door, his eyes glazed.
“The voice of the Lord cutteth out the flames of fire!” Japheth intoned.
On the rise, Medgar Tooms saw the old preacher step out onto the porch in plain view. He recognized him as the two-faced sonofabitch who had barked from the pulpit of the church in Gadara so many years ago, yet wouldn’t crack the doors for man, woman, or child when he’d swooped down on the town.
He finished priming his Whitworth and raised it to his shoulder again. The hogs stopped and swiveled their heads simultaneously to peer at the old man on the porch. Medgar Tooms pulled back the hammer of the Whitworth and lined up the little wedge on the end of the muzzle with the old man’s chest.
When Japheth saw Medgar Tooms standing near the old tree with his rifle aimed at him, he pointed one violently trembling finger at Tooms and his voice sang out like a clarion;
“The voice of the Lord shaketh the wilderness!”
Medgar’s finger pulled the trigger just as a thundering chain blue whip of lightning struck the tree at its base, an explosion like dynamite going off in his ears. The young hogs who had been gathered around the dead mule were thrown every which way and lay still, smoke curling off their black bodies. Medgar himself lay face down and he heard the wounded, lingering cries of the hogs that had not been killed instantly.
The blackened tree curled with tongues of flickering flame. Medgar shook his head to rid himself of the ringing, and to calm his crackling, excited hair, which stood on end.
Medgar glared angrily up at the old man, who still stood untouched on the porch, his Bible in hand.
He packed and primed his rifle and sorely brought himself up to one knee, acrid smoke curling off his shoulders.
The six old hogs rose smoking, and gathered around him excitedly, as if urging him on.
Japheth trembled, his breathing excited and his eyes wide with revelation, his very veins aquiver like humming telegraph wires.
Beneath the house, The Rider crouched in the cold dark, which was lined with streaks of sunlight coming through the overhead floorboards. He had heard the loud rumble of thunder and the tremendous crash. He was at a loss as to what it might have been, as he had jumped through the hole just before the clamorous sound. However, he heard the old man’s weight on the porch, and could see his shadow. Through the lattice of crisscrossed wood beneath the porch facing out into the white yard, he saw Medgar Tooms raising his rifle for another shot. Had he missed?
He crawled over to the front and began to kick savagely at the boards blocking his way.
“The Lord sitteth upon the flood; yea, the Lord sitteth the King forever!” called Japheth.
As if on cue, the great black oak gave a sudden twisting groan and fell forward. Medgar Tooms barely sidestepped it, and one of the old hogs was crushed flat.
Medgar’s shot again went wild, and he cursed and stumbled, catching himself with his musket like a crutch.
He did not reload again, but instead took up his rifle and began to stride deliberately towards the house, bayonet first, in the old marching step of the soldier. His face was twisted with hate, and he hastened into the quick step as he got closer.
The pigs, like fellow troops eager to engage the enemy, scurried behind him.
Japheth came down the porch steps, into the yard, to meet him.
“The Lord will give strength unto his people; the Lord will bless his people with peace,” he called to the heavens, voice trembling.
“Gonna kill you, sky pilot,” Medgar Tooms called out, his voice a harsh drawl.
“The Lord will give strength unto his people; the Lord will bless his people with peace,” Japheth repeated, his face surprisingly calm.
“I’d run if I was you,” Tooms drawled a little louder, getting closer. “Like you done that day. Remember?”
“The Lord will give strength unto his people,” Japheth said again, a little less sure.
“When you locked yourself in your goddamned church house and listened to them all poundin’ and scratchin’ and screamin’ at the door...remember that? Where were you and God that day, preacher? That day when they were callin’ and beggin’ for you both?” Medgar went on.
Japheth faltered now, taking one hesitant step back. He shook his head.
“The Lord will bless his people...” he stammered.
“Not you, preacher. Gonna stick you like a hog.”
“...with peace.”
At six yards, Medgar brought up his musket like a spear and gave a fearsome cry—the fabled Rebel Yell tempered in the flames of perdition. He ran full on, coat billowing behind him, bayonet tip red with blood, hogs pealing in hungry ecstasy and joining in his charge. His eyes were mad with bloodlust and his teeth drawn back like the maw of a black wolf bearing down on its prey.
The Rider levered four shots rapidly up through the lattice under the porch, and caught Medgar in the chest and legs. One of the hogs skidded to tumbling a stop, a bright red blossom bursting open in its thick pink forehead.
The bullets took Medgar Tooms by surprise, and he was blown back, his boots sliding out from under him in the snow. He landed on his back, the musket still clenched in his hand. He did not stir.
The hogs snuffled at the body of their master.
The Rider kicked aside the broken lattice and crawled out from under the porch
“Praise Gawd,” the old preacher said, closing his Bible and blinking his eyes as if to reassure himself that what he saw was still this world. “I thought you had abandoned me.”
The Rider grinned up at the old man and pulled himself up over the porch rail.
Suddenly, Tooms’ bayonet was up to the muzzle in Japheth’s dog-eared Bible, pinning it to his frail chest.
Japheth wheezed and doubled over.
Medgar Tooms drove the old man up the steps and down to the floor of the porch like a skewered varmint. He gave the musket a merciless twist that crackled with the sound of breaking bone and the rasp of torn cloth.
The Rider dropped to the porch. As he cocked his pistol, he saw the five ugly old hogs standing on their hind legs, snorting hotly at the frigid air.
Tooms wrenched the musket out of the old man and slammed the butt of the heavy rifle into The Rider’s waist, knocking all the wind out of him and flipping him back over the porch rail, putting him flat on his back on the ground. The hogs fell to their four feet and tramped up the steps onto the porch, oblivious to the scuffle. They swarmed over the old man, who managed to expel one blood-curdling scream before being drowned out by the gleeful, grunting exclamations of the porcine ravagers.
Tooms vaulted the rail musket first, intending to pin the Rider to the snowy ground, but he rolled and kicked out with both feet, separating the dark man from his Whitworth, which remained quivering, upright in the ground.
Tooms jerked a Remington pistol from his waistband and thumbed back the trigger as The Rider lost his last shot, shooting wildly and accidentally blowing one of the feasting hogs off the porch.
Tooms stumbled slightly as the hog tumbled down the front steps and fell heavily at his feet. The Rider seized the opportunity to jerk the stout barreled Derringer from under his arm and point it up at Tooms.
Tooms was faster. His Remington cracked once and struck The Rider’s Derringer, blowing it away and tearing off the tip of The Rider’s middle finger.
The Rider rolled forward on his knees, gripping his bleeding hand and staring at the bright red blots on the disturbed snow, sure it would be the last thing he saw of the mortal world before Tooms’ next shot blasted him out of his body for good.
But it didn’t
come.
Instead, Tooms’ tall, horseman’s boots crunched backwards in the snow, and when The Rider glanced up, the gunman regarded him thoughtfully.
“We know you,” Tooms said. But it wasn’t Tooms. His voice was there, yes, but another, deeper, spoke in conjunction with his, and another past that, high and tinny, and the effect was sonorous and disjointed all at once. “We have seen you. You are The Rider who was turned away from the Holy Presence.”
The Rider did not answer. He noticed the blackened tip of his finger lying nearby in the snow. As he watched, one of the pigs clattered off the porch and with one dip of its jaws, gobbled it up.
“Who are you?” he panted, tucking his hand under his arm to staunch the blood.
“Oh, we are Gestas and Nahash, Lamech and Zuleika....we are many,” came the answer, and it seemed to come from all around, in voices of various tones and pitch. The Rider shuddered, realizing some of the voices were coming from where the swine surrounded Japheth, and these spoke as through mouthfuls of food.
“Call us Legion,” said the pig who had swallowed his fingertip, in a mocking, child’s voice. “The reverend thought he could rebuke us.”
The Rider refused to look at the animal, but addressed the man.
“You’re a bunch of dybbukim,” he said. As he had thought. Criminal souls escaped from their sentence in the fires of Gehenna, come to join with a like-minded mortal to continue their ill will in the physical world.
“What of it?” said Tooms, in a discordant chorus. “Without your prayer quorum and your ram’s horn what can you do to us? Like the old man, alone, you have not the faith to cast us out and we will not leave.” He cocked his pistol and aimed at The Rider’s head. “We could kill you here and now, as we have so many others.”
“What stays your hand?”
“We will tell you,” they said to him. “You are right, Rider. We are dybbukim, sentenced for our sins after death to suffer the same fate as Haman for all eternity. But we dragged ourselves out of our damnable prison by a line woven from the hatred of this mortal and the will of....well, friends, let us say.”
Merkabah Rider: High Planes Drifter Page 18
