Merkabah Rider: High Planes Drifter

by Edward M. Erdelac

  He stood and raised the knife defiantly, shrieking out a spell that made the blade blaze with celestial light. The things balked from the brilliant balefire in his hand, but only briefly, and the braver, eager ones behind, scrambled past the cowards in front.

  Something long and pale slashed a talon through his good arm, rending the fabric of his rekel coat. Something else latched onto his leg and bit him six times in the calf in the time it took for him to hack it away with the shining knife. The rest swarmed over him, and he crouched over the baby, struggling to keep himself between the cackling, yammering phantasms and the wailing infant, still shouting prayers and hoping that somewhere among the strings of amulets about his person there was something with the power to protect them. They poured over him, staggering him, worming into his ears and up his nostrils, pulling even at his clenched eyelids with clawed little feet, nearly lifting him from his knees, seeking to pull him into the air and tear him apart, to peel away his body and bones to get at his quaking soul.

  He struck out with the blazing knife, but there were too many. He stuck his hand in his pocket, hoping he could load the Derringer. His hand closed on something else, something small and round. He pulled it out in desperation. Angry exclamations in every pitch and tone filled his bleeding ears, and in an instant, every claw, every tooth, every invasion was abruptly ripped away. Without their support, he slumped face first into the dark earth over the baby and knew nothing more.

  When he could open his eyes next, The Rider found that he had kept his word to Johnny Behan. He did not know how long he lay on his back staring at the stone ceiling before he realized it was not a tomb or some grotto of Hell that he was in, but the cell in the Tip Top jailhouse. It was cool, and with relief, when he turned his head, he saw the sun lighting the drifting dust particles in the open doorway.

  Henry Wager was at his desk and as before, silhouetted and limned in light, almost an angel himself. The Rider’s pistols lay before him. He thought perhaps he had dreamed The Bird Nest, but when he moved, his pervading aches were proof enough it had been real.

  His arm was bandaged and tied in a sling. He found that he could move his fingers, even make a fist.

  Constable Wager saw the movement and shifted in his seat to stare at him.

  “You been layin’ there for near two days,” Wager said. “You want something to eat?”

  The Rider shook his head and struggled to sit up. They had afforded him a pallet on the floor this time, and a blanket. When he shifted the coverlet, he caught sight of his hands. They were covered from fingertips to wrists in tiny hairs-breadth cuts, scabbed over black, even his palms and the webbing between his fingers. He touched his face, and felt the grooves that had not been there before. Every inch of his skin that had been exposed was so marked.

  “Don’t know how all that’s gonna heal up,” Wager murmured. “Sadie said you busted outta there through a whole mess of glass. She’s the one brought you two back to the No. 2 and took care of you till we came lookin.’ Can you tell me what happened?”

  The Rider shrugged.

  “Would you believe anything I said?”

  “That house burned so hot the fire brigade couldn’t do nothing but keep it where it was. Like a goddamned oven. It finally went out this morning.”

  “Did you…did you find any bodies?”

  “Two. One was a fat bastard of a cardsharp called Big Poppa Seabert.”

  “The other is Alph Gersten,” The Rider said. “He broke in there yelling about his sister, shot up the place with a shotgun. The lamps. That’s what started the fire.”

  “What were you doing in there?”

  “The baby. Hetta’s baby?”

  “Safe with Hetta at the No. 2. You gonna tell me you busted outta my jail to get that colored woman’s baby? Why?”

  “It wasn’t a good place for a baby.”

  Wager stared at him.

  “So Hetta’s the one cold cocked Johnny Behan and let you out?”

  “Are you asking me as a lawman?”

  Wager stood up and came to stand at the bars.

  “As a lawman, I’m s’posed to take you to the court in Prescott. You shot a man, busted outta jail, and you might could’ve burnt out a place of business. Maybe you killed some people too.”

  “And so, you’ll take me to Prescott?”

  Wager reached into his pocket and took out the keys to the cell. He fit them in the lock and swung the door open.

  “Maybe I’ll let you take yourself on your own recognizance.”

  Standing was hell, but The Rider did.

  Wager produced The Rider’s hat and held it out to him.

  The Rider took it.

  “Maybe?”

  “You won’t never tell me what happened in there will you?” Wager said. “You won’t never tell me what them women were.”

  “It’s better if you don’t know.”

  “Are they dead?”

  “No.”

  The Rider closed his eyes. It would be simpler if they were.

  “Will they be back?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Not here, anyway.”

  The Rider felt in his pockets, and came away with three pieces of metal. Two he gave to Wager.

  They were the talismans he had engraved himself.

  “Here. In case I’m wrong.”

  The Rider gathered up his guns and limped painfully outside, turning over the third amulet in his hands. It was the rosette pass coin Nehema had given him. It had been the thing he’d brought out of his pocket in lieu of the Derringer. Why had it protected him? Had the ruhin recognized it? Did it afford him some unknown protection? It was a simple copper coin worn from use and greening on the edges. On the back it was engraved with the same fanciful image of a nesting bird that had been on The Bird Nest sign. Why had Nehema given this to him?

  He didn’t know why he was alive. Had Lilith called her children off? Did she know he hadn’t intended to break his word to her? Was anything she’d told him even true? Yes. He had a feeling that at least was so.

  He knew.

  Somehow he knew he was the last Merkabah Rider.

  He was turning the coin in his hands and thinking when a familiar pair came down the street towards him. It was Sadie, leading the white onager, loaded up for travel.

  She smiled when she caught sight of him, and gestured to the onager. It was trotting now at the sight of him, nearly leading her.

  “I think he knew you were up and around. He fussed like hell till I unhitched him.”

  “Thanks for taking care of him.”

  Her smile faded somewhat as she got closer.

  “I’m a mess,” he said, touching his nose and feeling self-conscious about his appearance for the first time in his life.

  “I packed you some salve,” she said as she got close enough to pass him the onager’s lead. “It’s in the right hand pack. If you use it, maybe you won’t scar too bad.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s kosher.”

  He smiled.

  “Wager said you found us and took us in.”

  “Hetta and me both. When we heard the shots I went out to see and Hetta wouldn’t stay behind.”

  “What did you see, when you found us?” The Rider asked, curious.

  She pursed her lips.

  “Nightjars. You were on your knees, and you were covered with nightjars. They were going crazy, pecking at you, scratching. Then, they all just took off. I guess we scared them. They flew…right into the fire.”

  He nodded.

  “Rider, I don’t understand…”

  “You saved me,” he said, cutting her off. “Thank you. And thank Hetta.”

  She shrugged.

  “You could return the favor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Johnny’s gonna sell the bar. He wants to head to Tombstone. Try his luck at sheriff in Cochise County.”

  “You’re going with?”

&
nbsp; “Unless you got a better idea.”

  They stared at each other, until The Rider looked away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not the angel you’re looking for.”

  “I know.” She shrugged. “I’m beginning to disbelieve in angels.”

  “You shouldn’t,” he said quickly.

  He went to his saddlebags and after a moment’s fishing, brought out his cleaning kit and drew out a small driver. He took the glittering silver and gold Derringer out of his pocket. In less than thirty seconds he had taken the little gun apart.

  “What are you doing?”

  He pushed the components into her hands.

  “Have the pieces melted down. They’re real gold, real silver. Give some of it to Hetta and her son. Take the rest for yourself. You go to Tombstone, but get your own place. Start fresh. Find somebody.”

  He had been looking at the pieces of the pistol in her white hands as he spoke. Now he looked up. There were tears brimming in her eyes, but they would not fall.

  “Josie,” she said. “My name is Josephine. Josephine Marcus.”

  “I’m Manasseh Maizel,” said The Rider.

  He gently pushed her fingers shut over the metal pieces with his hand. He held it there for a second.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

  She smiled, and brushed at her eyes.

  “Now goodbye.”

  Her face darted in quickly. Their lips touched, and she turned and walked away.

  He watched her pass down the street. She never looked back.

  The onager nudged his shoulder.

  “Ow,” he said. “Alright, let’s go.”

  Remember the song of the Order Of Nehemoth, Nehema had said. Remember the angels of prostitution.

  He felt the rosette pass coin in his coat pocket as he walked out of town, more afraid and alone than he had been in many long years.

  The Shomer Express

  The Merkabah Rider had managed to doze through the rocking and squealing of the wooden passenger car as the train groaned slowly across the desert. He had managed to ignore the stifling heat of the day, in spite of his black wool rekel coat and the tallit katan apron wound around his torso beneath his shirt. He had slept through the commotion of the oily brakeman charging up and down the aisle to twist the iron wheels and slow the train at the lonely desert watering tank. He had even successfully dozed through the complaints of his fellow passengers as the hissing train had suffered through an inordinately long delay until dusk before chugging off at last again into the darkening west.

  The complaints had probably been warranted. This was supposed to be an express after all, and they’d lost a good hour and a half idling by that water tank.

  But now, though the sky was black outside the yellowed window and the air had cooled, he found himself unable to ignore the insistent jostling of the tearful man who crouched before him, a shaky hand on his shoulder.

  “Mister,” the man huskily whispered in Yiddish. “Mister. Please.”

  The Rider rubbed his eyes and sat up in his seat. It was late. Perhaps so late it was early. He couldn’t tell.

  “What’s the matter?” he answered in kind.

  He had seen this man come through the car earlier in the day and marked him for a Jew. He had stood out as sorely as The Rider himself did, in his kippa skullcap and the tallit prayer fringes dangling from beneath his shirt, though he did not cultivate the payot curls as The Rider did.

  It should have been comforting to speak with another of his kind. He had not encountered a fellow Jew for months now.

  But this man looked to be offering anything but comfort. His thin lips trembled like something about to shatter, and his green eyes were red as if he had been crying and would do so again if he didn’t get some good news soon.

  “I need help. I don’t know who else to ask. Please, you are a Hasid are you not?”

  The Rider nodded.

  “Will you come with me to the baggage car?”

  “The baggage car?”

  “Please, mister. I need….I need some sort of help.”

  The man looked desperate, and it was a mitzvah after all that he could not refuse a fellow Jew assistance.

  “Alright,” The Rider sighed.

  The man was already at the front of the carriage by the time The Rider had risen stiffly from the green upholstered wood bench. He navigated the dim aisle using the brass handrails overhead, disrupting a woman’s feathery hat and whispering an apology, skirting the hot iron stove in the center which heated the low lit car against the desert coolness.

  When he reached him, the man’s eyes were regarding him suspiciously.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in Yiddish, in a low tone so as not to disturb the sleeping passengers. “Didn’t you say you were a Hasid?”

  “I am.”

  “I never saw a Hasid carrying one of those,” the man said, gesturing to The Rider’s waist.

  The Rider looked down. In lifting his arms to grip the rail, his coat had come undone, and the black leather belt with its gold and silver plated Volcanic pistol was exposed, as was the big iron Bowie knife sheathed on his other hip.

  “Isn’t it written in the Talmud, ‘when a man comes to kill you, rise up and kill him first?’” The Rider said.

  “What? What kind of a Hasid are you?” the man asked, wrinkling his brow.

  “The impatient kind,” The Rider said. “Do you need my help or not?”

  The man nodded slowly.

  “Alright. Alright, come on.”

  He pulled open the door and they gradually made their way forward through the head end cars, passing through the livestock car, where the horses and The Rider’s own pale onager were kept in stalls, and coming at last to the baggage.

  As they reached the end of the car and prepared to leave the animals behind, the man turned and spoke to him in a voice which could be heard above the clanking rails beneath their feet, but not so loud as to disturb the horses.

  “My name is Noah Leitner.”

  “Rider.”

  “Rider? That’s it?”

  It was an old problem in making introductions. The Rider had given up his true name and assumed a title as part of his initiation into his secret mystic sect, The Sons of The Essenes. Name substitution provided basic protection from the influence of malevolent forces. But Noah Leitner hardly needed to know all that.

  “That’s it.”

  “I noticed, you clink when you walk,” said Noah. “Are you a jeweler? You’d better be careful. If I can hear your money, it’s a good bet other people can too. Maybe you think that gun’s enough to keep the goniffim off you….”

  “Tachliss!” The Rider hissed. “Are you going to tell me what you want, or give me advice about money I don’t have?”

  The truth was the clinking was the myriad of talismans he kept strung about his person under his vest. In his line of work, such as it was, bodyguards came in handy. He had amassed quite a collection, beyond even the forty four coin-sized Solomonic wards he had made himself as part of his training; enough to make him clink when he walked anyway.

  “Alright, alright,” said Noah. “You know your business. Back in Tuscon I’m a bank teller. I’m used to telling people how to keep their money about them.”

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” The Rider said impatiently. Why didn’t the man get to the point, so he could go back to sleep?

  “My papa….died yesterday. My mother followed him,” Noah said, dabbing at his eyes. “They were old. They were glad to go together. It was my papa’s last wish that he be buried next to his brother in San Francisco. So I bathed them and dressed them, and had their coffins loaded.”

  The Rider nodded slowly. What was this about?

  Noah balled his fist and pressed it to his lips, asking for a moment with his other hand as he squeezed his eyes to keep the tears from falling.

  “It’s better if I just show you,” he blurted at last, turning quickly and exiting the car.

/>   They stepped gingerly across the gap over the banging coupling and the rushing land, through the iron rail and onto the little platform outside the baggage car.

  Noah wrenched open the door and held it open. The Rider stepped inside.

  The stacks of baggage and piles of twine-wrapped mail gently rocked on the swaying shelve. The light was dim and mostly intermittent. The moon flashing through the ventilation slats above was the only illumination.

  The Rider stepped inside and let the door slam. He expected a protesting train employee or mail guard to accost them any moment, but no such encounter came.

  Noah turned and took a trainman’s lantern from a hook and lit it, casting a warm glow about the car.

  “There, toward the front,” he said, and moved ahead of The Rider.

  The Rider followed, and stiffened as he saw the light shine on a pair of plain wood coffins side by side. Dealing with the dead was a spiritually unclean practice, but it wasn’t the presence of corpses that put him at unease. It was the condition of the left hand container and presumably its occupant.

  The lid was ajar, showing gaps at the head and foot where it had been moved aside. The nails securing it to the box had been wrenched from the wood, the twisted points glinting, the lid splintered and broken, not as though it had been pried loose with a hammer, but physically torn free in one effort.

  Noah sobbed.

  “My mother….she….I came to say tehillim over them….”

  The Rider patted Noah’s shoulder and took the lantern from him, moving past him toward the defiled coffin. The law dictated that a body waiting to be buried should be watched over, the Psalms recited over it at least every twenty minutes. Normally this was done by a shomer, a watcher, who volunteered or was paid to sit by the corpse and keep it safe. He remembered he had seen Noah pass through the car more than a few times earlier today. He must have been performing the duty himself.